“Are you hungry?”

“Are you hungry?” He asked. I heard his words faintly – carried in my open window by a breeze on a surprisingly warm January day.

I turned to discover it was the voice of the young man who had walked in front of my car just moments earlier. Clad in a black Nike pullover with matching joggers and shoes, his companions were two dogs that pulled him along as if they had something important to show him.

“Typical millennial,” I thought when I saw him then. It was a sight I’ve seen many times. A well-coordinated young professional walking his dogs as the sun peaked through high-rise buildings in the downtown of some Midwestern city. From Chicago to Indianapolis to Columbus to today in Cincinnati, millennials – and I count myself among them – seem to have a love affair with four paws traipsing across concrete jungles.

“Are you hungry?” he asked again, my eyes resting on the woman he questioned. She was enveloped in a coat three times her size with matted hair and dirty pants holding a cardboard sign I couldn’t read but could guess what it said.

My infant son was squeaking in the back seat as music from the car behind us poured into my open window. A pleasant looking older man in a North Face walked briskly past our car carrying a white pastry bag from Starbucks, the kind that is typically filled with those sweetbreads I eat too many of. Maybe it was a breakfast sandwich or a cake pop. The latter would have been daring for this early in the morning, but I can’t say it’s something I’ve never done before.

“Are you hungry?” He asked a third time. I think she answered him, but I couldn’t hear what she said.

The night before our priest preached a beautiful sermon about what it means to follow Jesus. It was a familiar Gospel, the one where Jesus walks by and calls Simon, Andrew, John and James to be his disciples. “Come after me,” Jesus said. “And I will make you fishers of men.”

“Little did they know what was to come,” I thought then. But that wasn’t the point, as our priest pointed out. They dropped everything and followed. That also meant they put everything on the shoulders of Jesus. What would they eat? What would they wear? Where would they sleep? “Do not worry about those things,” Jesus said later on, “learn from the way the wildflowers grow.”

Jesus was a father, brother, provider, teacher, and friend to his disciples. He asked the question, “Will you follow me?” which in my mind, on that day, as I stared at the man in the Nike pullover and the woman with dirty pants, sounded a lot like the question, “Are you hungry?”

The traffic light turned green, I heard the radio again, the chatter of my son and the voice of my wife asking, “What did he say?” as we drove away.

“He asked her if she was hungry,” I responded.

“What did she say?’ My wife asked.

“I hope she said yes,” I said, hoping I would say the same.






It’s late. Well, it’s 10:00 p.m. and I’m 25 years old with a son, a wife, a house, and a full-time job that supports all three. I wake up at 4 a.m. to pull my son out of his crib because he doesn’t like to sleep alone and every morning I think, “I should stay up and write and pray and not crawl back into bed,” but I crawl back into bed anyway.

Sometimes my son wakes me up to say, “Hi dad” in a soft, scratchy, high-pitched voice that I wish he would keep forever. Sometimes I press the sleep button on my alarm so I can lay next to him longer, my hand on his stomach, his body close to mine.

Love is a tree that climbs tall and roots deep.

Love is a little boy and a wife and a home and waking up at 4 a.m. and realizing how lucky you are. Even though you are just 25 and life just started.

3-13-2017, A Lesson about Giving Grace (to myself)

Days can be full of the most mundane things. More often than not, we let the mundane become our focus and lose focus on the extraordinary things that exist around us. For example, doing laundry = mundane. Allowing your baby son to destroy your perfectly sorted laundry pile = extraordinary.

Why is that extraordinary? Because it breaks up the mundane. We need both. If we didn’t have the mundane we wouldn’t know about the extraordinary. But if we lose sight of the extraordinary, we will never find lessons in the mundane.

I think Gillian shares that so beautifully below. Grace can be found in both the mundane and the extraordinary. But we need to open our hearts to both so that we can find it.


The to-do list is long and the done list feels very short.

I reflect on my day and wonder how late I can stay up…
…to switch the laundry (but the shirts in the dryer are wrinkly again)
…and fold the towels
…I should pump and study.
…Help jumpstart tomorrow. Prep lunch. Make coffee.

I think about all of these things and about how much I stressed today,
and how I didn’t just take a deep breath and find joy in the moment,
and how much I fretted about being too tired and was too impatient,
and how often I cursed the time change.

I think about how my day needed a little bit more love and grace,
because I think when I talk to Jesus about my day, he doesn’t see my to-do list,
He sees my done list, but it looks very different from my own.

He sees how I loved my child and gently washed his hands after each meal.
He sees how we clapped hands a million times today,
and that we laid down and took a nap together.
He sees that I called my friend just to see if she was okay,
and spent a little extra time listening to a new game invented by a most creative 8-year-old.

So maybe my lesson for today isn’t what I did or didn’t do,
(yes, maybe I looked away too long when Simon spilled coffee on the carpet)
but that I tried to love today – that’s the takeaway.
I hope tomorrow I can give a lot more grace to myself and just as many kisses to Simon.


Blessed Are Those

In prayer, we ask, plead with and talk to what we have never seen. And to all of us doubting, Jesus only answers: “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed” (John 20:29).

“How do you know that God answers prayers if you have never seen His face?” asked the man in old jeans and a tattered sweater standing in the food line at the homeless mission. “I mean, I go to church and I believe in God, but how do you know?”

Clammed up, nervous and inarticulate, the volunteer answered, but only to a barrage of other questions pertaining to faith and the presence of God.  I was glad I was just watching and listening. Thankfully, he was not asking me.

When I left, the first question stayed with me. I thought to myself: “I go to church and I believe in God, but, how do you know?”

I have always liked questions that can be answered. I love the dialogue, the process and, ultimately, the solution. It is exhilarating to discover, explore and solve questions.

The church-going man in his old jeans and tattered sweater shared something in common with me that night. We both loved questions that can be answered. Unfortunately for the both of us, I am not sure his question is one that can be.

In prayer, we ask, plead with and talk to what we have never seen. And to all of us doubting, Jesus only answers: “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed” (John 20:29).

That is not necessarily the kind of clear answer I love. But that is the problem all along. I too often love the answer to my question and forget to love the One who is the answer.

When I am struggling with something, I always turn to my wife and talk through it. Sometimes she responds with answers that I love, sometimes with ones I don’t like and other times with only a listening ear. Most of the time, it is not her answer that solves my problem, but her presence through my struggle.

And so it is with God. God, it may not be your face that I see, your hands that I feel or your voice that I hear. But by faith, I know your presence and I know you are near to me. Your answer to my prayers is your love for me. My answer to your nearness, your constant presence and your love – is my own.

Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.


This was originally published on Saint Meinrad Seminary and School of Theology’s blog, Echoes from the Bell Tower on January 5, 2017

A Thanksgiving Story

It may not be naïve after all to believe there are times in human history where we remember we belong to each other. It seems to me that when we forget that truth we should make time in our lives to come back together again and give thanks.

I feel somewhere along the way we have forgotten we belong to each other. But then again I wonder if that has always been the case. I am not sure there was any period in human history where there was not war, hunger, or someone seeking to harm the other. It is naïve to believe there ever was a golden age of togetherness, respect, and love? Is it naïve to believe one could come?

In 2016, I made my first thanksgiving dinner. I bought a turkey and roasted it. I mashed up potatoes, made green beans, made cornbread, and bought the pumpkin pie. Most of the essentials were there with the exception of sweet potato casserole. But I wasn’t bold enough to make that quite yet.

With all of the food on the table we sat down to eat. Before we started all of us went around the table and said one thing we were grateful for from the past year. To me, it is not thanksgiving unless you practice giving thanks. Without that it simply becomes another meal at the table – albeit a nice one.

Making the meal took a lot of work. One has to prep the turkey, season the turkey, pray and hope the turkey doesn’t burn or taste terrible once it is done cooking. One has to cook the potatoes, the green beans, the cornbread, and kill a few sticks of butter in the process. It is one big dance that needs to come together at just the right moment so nothing is left sitting too long to get cold. I cook often so even though I know my way around a kitchen this was still a formidable challenge.

However, even though cooking the food is a lot of work, Thanksgiving is not necessarily about eating the food one cooks. It is a holiday of being thankful we have the food to cook and people around us to share it with. At its core, Thanksgiving is a holiday to remember that we belong to each other. The Thanksgiving story of the pilgrims and the Native Americans gathering around a table to share their harvest reminds us of that truth.

I personally love stories. I love nestling up to my son and reading him the classics: Winne the Pooh, Sleeping Beauty, Little Red Riding Hood, Charlotte’s Web. I love their interesting plots and the meaningful lesson at the end. Jesus loved stories too, I think. He told them often and they always had a meaningful lesson – even if those listening did not always understand.

The course of human history is certainly a story and our lives are one small chapter or maybe just a few lines. Intertwined in our story, undoubtedly, are the holidays we come together and celebrate. I wonder if I opened that book to look back and see that a couple times a year groups of people came together from all over to share a meal, tell stories, laugh, and give thanks – if I might see that as a moment in time when the world remembered it belonged to each other.

It may not be naïve after all to believe there are times in human history where we remember we belong to each other. It seems to me that when we forget that truth we should make time in our lives to come back together again and give thanks. The story of human history is filled with chapters of war, hunger, and despair. Those are chapters we should read and continue to work toward resolving. That work never ends and because of that our coming together should never end.

So grab a seat at the table, place your napkin, and pick up a fork. I am grateful for you and most grateful for those times I remember we belong to each other.


This was originally published on Saint Meinrad Seminary and School of Theology’s blog, Echoes from the Bell Tower on November 23, 2016

7-22-16, Sounds of our New Home

The hum of the vacuum
The empty new home echo
You’re snuggled up to my breast
Lulling in and out of sleep
I’m feeding you in a lawn chair next to the window.

This is the place we will call home
Our future memories
Hope-full-y many things
Siblings, first steps, laughter and flowers
New pets, broken vases, and finished projects.

This is the place
Welcome home Simon Nicholas.


7-8-16, When Violence Happens in the Middle of the Night

4:30 a.m. the baby cries for food
Eyes stuck shut
I pry them open with the light of my phone
Yesterday, black men died.
Apparently today, 10 police officers.
I don’t read. I don’t click the details.
I don’t want to know.
My best friend sleeps over, she stirs.
I could wake her, tell her, not be alone
I think of my husband, tired too from the gore.
But I am so done.
So don’t want to know.
I want them to wake up and not have to deal with more casualties in this American war
We live in a war.
All of those men were innocent.
The black and the white.
Once they were babes in arms like my boy
Both tired and awake
In the middle of the night.
From their vaccine shots the day before.
An innocent smile dances on and off his face
He laughs only because he knows me
Nothing else
He knows not of the world tumbling around him.
Those men shot, black and white
Felt this innocence once before
Smiled at the one they recognized.
The world did this to them, taught them to hate and be hated.
Kill and be killed.

Tonight they are the same, innocent and free again.