Really, what’s more exciting than the World Cup? Oh I’ve anticipated your canned answers. Promotions. Weddings. Babies. The Super Bowl.

But does the whole world care about your career? Think about the stress of planning a nuptial, the responsibility of caring for a helpless human. And we all know the Super Bowl is merely a side dish to your gormandizing 18-layer bean dips.

This November and December (really?) the world tuned in to watch the World Cup. That’s right, not just America, but every continent—probably even Antarctica—was watching. Yeah. If I lived in a glacier and waited around all day for a penguin to walk by I’d be sure to find a satellite TV and beam up that footy.

The whole world. People of every tribe and tongue. Even countries that suck at football. (I’m not going to desecrate this post by calling the world’s game “soccer,” because most of the world got it right when they noticed it’s a game where the foot kicks the ball and that’s about it.)

As I was saying, even countries that are crappy at football watch. Including America! Every nation cares, and that’s a beautiful thing.

The problem with exciting things is people can’t help but talk about them and need to share the news as quickly as possible. That’s fine when the game is in the North American Eastern time zone and the big matches are played at prime time.

But when the Cup is 7,000 miles and 8 hours away, the games come on in the morning and middle of the day. That’s just bad for people who before the Cup had things going on, like employment. Because folks like me have to record the games and watch them at night. By then all the beans are spilled like a busted Moe’s burrito. Friends and family have all texted me results and I might as well skip to the goals because that’s the extent of my drama.

To be fair, people weren’t texting me like a sports ticker and saying “Brazil 1 – Germany 0, goal by Neymar in the 80th minute.” That would just be cruel and unnecessary. But I did get results in a matter of words. “Viva la France!” Sounds like they won. Au revoir, drama. “Go USA!” Did they lose? Nope, no lucid chap would say that after a loss. “What a game!” I’d have settled for 90 minutes of crumpling thespians inhaling magic spray. At least then, I still don’t know what happens. No one says “what a game” to 0-0 or 1-0 or 1-1. So as long as that’s the score while I’m watching the replay, I mostly know what happens.

Or perhaps you sought to do me a solid and not reveal anything, with a simple “Did you see the game?” Even then you texted at 4:00 for a 2:00 game, which given the standard two hour matches means there was no extra time, which means I will know the result as the game nears the end of my recording. If I had a VCR I would beat it with a Nike boot. And not really because I’m mad at you but because it seems like the best use of a VCR at this point.

Anyway, I’m kidding about all the lovely souls who shared the World Cup with me over texts. But I’m not kidding about me turning off my phone for the month in the 2026 edition.

Now the World Cup is over just in time for the Christmas season. Many of us can add this time of year to our “excited list.” Just as the Cup is seen by many as worthy of urgent news sharing, we’re quick—and often unconsciously so—to extend a “Merry Christmas” to others. Yet I wonder if it’s lost it’s luster.

After all, this recent Cup feels like the biggest deal in the world to us football fans. Argentina and Messi have achieved their glory (if that was a spoiler then somehow you’ve eclipsed me as slowest recording watcher.) And while it’s top of mind now, what will we say in 4 years? Or 5 World Cups from now? Does anyone fondly reminisce about the 1934 World Cup and Oldrich Nejedly’s goal-scoring prowess?

Likewise, when we speak of Christmas’ origins, can we even remotely relate to the story of an ancient Israeli virgin who had a baby in the presence of shepherds, wisemen, and angels? It can sound and feel like a fairy tale. Perhaps nice to tell as a story, but not more than something for the kids to believe.

It might only be a story worth retelling if its believers made it a story worth reliving. I confess as someone who actually believes this story, my life is too often too pedestrian to remind anyone of the story’s meaning. You may know others like this, “followers” as bland as shepherds’ cloaks and failing to produce the miraculous, or even magnanimous, like their savior.

But maybe there is someone who takes their “Merry Christmas” to heart, who goes forth from the story and loves the poor, sits with the sick, invites in the lonely, and gives generously to the needy, like the stories of their Christ. If you find this person, and they happen to wish you a Merry Christmas, they probably mean it from the deepest part of their being. That to them, there would be no greater joy to have Christmas—”Christ’s Mass”—find its way into someone else’s heart.

What else is there to say, then Merry Christmas!

Who goes on a hot air balloon ride?

Other aviary options are more accessible, predictable, efficient, practical, and thrilling. We don’t often see hot air balloons and usually we have to go looking for them. They don’t really get you anywhere, which makes you think twice about the expense of taking one.

They don’t seem safe. Our experience with balloons is they pop. Add to that what keeps the balloon moving is a massive propane flame, literally towering inside the balloon, its sheer heat sunburning bald spots. Mix in wind and bird beaks and if you thought about it long enough, you may conclude you’re effortlessly floating through the atmosphere on an imminent death machine.

Alas, the hot air balloon is no death machine. It’s a simple, yet well-constructed marvel that’s expertly guided by a pilot with only two propane torches at their disposal.

A couple of weeks ago in Asheville, NC, I went on a hot air balloon ride with my wife, a pilot, and four other people. Stuffed in the basket like picnic sandwiches, we took flight and rose to 3,000 feet.

In a balloon, I found there are two unique sensations that distinguish it from other experiences.

The first is the tiny amount of space you take up in the open sky. Unlike a large plane, observation deck, or helicopter, you’re floating in a little basket with nothing else around you. It’s eerie to be in the middle of the sky with such a small vessel holding you up there.

The second is the quiet stillness. When the flame isn’t burning and the people aren’t talking, the flight seems motionless and deaf. You’re literally standing still in the air.

The small area of quiet stillness allows one to reflect on a world without sound, or motion. Below you, chaos and cacophony are kings. Their throne is speeding cars, blaring sirens, flashing lights, walkers, runners, bikers, yard workers, bulldozers, tankers, and a thousand other comings and goings. Yet from above it’s imperceptible. If a village screamed you wouldn’t hear it, if the earth quaked you wouldn’t feel it.

On a day like this, autumn’s peak bursting with warm hues stretched to the horizon, it would seem there’s no better use of time then to cease one’s frenzy and be forced to look at it all, 3,000 feet up in mid-air, no less.

It was up there I realized—or was in a fresh way reminded—that resting in motionless awe is one of the deepest yet simplest of human experiences. Looking upon such beauty in such silence can only be explained as something we were meant for.

If only we could fly in a balloon so often.

“Dad, can we go in the water?”

Why do children pose this question in our most comfortable moment? Can’t they see we’ve finally made it to the site, erected all our crap, nestled into our chair, cracked a cold drink, and enjoyed a settling exhale?

No. They don’t see that. All they see is you’re not doing anything. To them you are free as a bird, or to be more precise a pelican, that is likely just eager to plunge into the cold, wet water.

“Maybe a little later, buddy. I just sat down.” The predictable, canned answer flows from my mouth without blinking. This is the retort that’s necessary to maintaining the present comfort. I’m not saying “no” and I’m sprinkling a seed of hope that sometime—later, maybe today or this week or lifetime—I’ll go in.

Ah but they have a favorite card to play, too. The shoulders slump, and head drops, and a disappointed “Okayyy” is dropped. It stings a little and we worry the moment could be missed.

Most of us parents know this scenario and feeling. Countless times we’re asked to do something that in the moment we’d rather not. My son asked me to go in the water this week at the beach. At the time I was trying to fish (trying, definitely not fishing) and I felt the tide wash in and cover my feet. Borderline icy, and a full-body immersion seemed outrageous.

My “maybe later” comeback wasn’t accepted. The boy was bored, the ocean beckoned, and a shared experience was possible. If by chance, Dad relented and was OK with getting cold for five minutes.

Deny yourself. A concept so simple to understand yet so hard, counter-cultural, and impractical to carry out. It defies natural instincts—comfort, success, even survival. To deny one’s self is to often deny common sense, to be willingly against me.

So why do it? If I lived in a world created for me, there’d be no reason. Yet I actually find myself in a world with others, a world made equally for everyone. In that sense self-denial is as practical as teeth brushing. Denying oneself is necessary for me, and others, to get by in this world.

I look back at my boy. The first denial will be going back on my word from ten seconds before. Am I the kind of Dad who doesn’t stick to his word? Yeah, might have to be.

We’ll go in, I tell him, but it’s my duty to forewarn the misery that will ensue. It might be too cold. We may not do it for long. He doesn’t care, his fresh smile tells me. Meanwhile I grumble through the self-denial and wade uncomfortably into the gelid breakers.

Then the last moment before the literal plunge, all instincts telling me this won’t be worth it. On “three” we go under the wave. My lungs contract and my body screams “why?” We both emerge with a holler, shaking.

And laughing.

We do it several more times. “It feels kind of good now, doesn’t it, Dad?” Yes, it kind of does.

We walk up the beach. He’s filled. And I find that I’m filled because he’s filled. Sometimes what’s on the other side of “deny yourself” is the moment that everyone needs. It’s the moment that will never be documented if missed, but will forever be remembered if made.

Again, the Teacher was right. He knew what we didn’t, that to deny yourself is the path that leads to life.

And a lesson with the endless opportunity of being retaught. If we let it.