Grant
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There are days when nothing goes as planned. And there are days when everything goes wrong at once—just to make sure you’re paying attention. Yesterday and today were that kind of day…
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I’ve been slicing meat with the sharpness of a tablespoon for nearly two decades. We still use the knife block we got as a wedding gift almost 20 years ago. Same knives. Never once professionally sharpened. Just dulled by years of roasts, sandwiches, and the occasional watermelon that mocked my effort. Until this Father’s Day…
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Eight weeks after my saw accident, I got suckered. Jason called me one Saturday morning and said, “Hey, I’m listening to the radio, and there’s a deal—20 ribeyes for $40. I’m headed somewhere so I can’t make it, but will you check it out? That’s a steal.” So I went…
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I saw a sign last week that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It wasn’t theological. Or poetic. Or even very original. But it said something that hit me in a place I didn’t know needed hitting…
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Today was one of those moments I won’t forget. Once a year, on Father’s Day, the men’s choir sings at church. There’s no audition. No soloists. Just a group of ordinary guys—farmers, accountants, business owners, grandpas, dads—stepping up to sing praises to God with one voice. I had the honor of standing shoulder to shoulder…
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We’re hosting a party today. Thanks to Talacey and her brother Brandon who are doing all the work while I “supervise” with one hand, tables are set. Chairs arranged. The backyard’s been scrubbed, swept, and decorated with banners. Because Nana is turning 95.
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It’s easy to measure the day by what you checked off. The boxes you marked. The tasks you tackled. The output you created. I’m the kind of guy who does something not on the list then adds it to the list—just so I can cross it off. And today—three days after surgery—my list doesn’t look…
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Yesterday, therapy hurt. Not the kind of hurt that fades with Advil. The kind that makes your stomach turn and your vision blur. The kind that leaves you wondering whether this is recovery… or regression.
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Yesterday was long. Four hours to San Francisco. Four hours in pre-op, surgery, and recovery. Four more hours to get back home. Today, it’s already time to start therapy. The kind that comes with cracking and bleeding. The kind they tell you will be “excruciating” like they’re forecasting the weather.
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At noon today, I go under the knife again. The setting is different this time—scheduled, prepped, expected—but the anxiety is familiar. I’m hoping for more mobility. Less pain. A stronger grip. But beneath it all, a deeper question still presses in…
