There’s something about a baseball game that just feels right.

The crack of the bat, the hum of the crowd, and somewhere in the background

— that familiar call:

“Peanuts… popcorn…”

It’s so normal now we don’t even think about it.

But there was a time when none of it existed.

No hot dogs in your hand, no vendors weaving through the aisles, no rhythm to the experience outside the game itself.

And that’s where Harry M. Stevens quietly changed everything.

Picture this:

a minor league game in the early days, rough edges everywhere. Fans watching, but something was missing.

Not the game — the experience.

Stevens saw it, not as a spectator but as a builder.

He didn’t just watch the crowd, he listened to it.

And instead of waiting for people to come to the food, he flipped the entire idea.

Bring the food to the people.

Not with signs, not with stands, but with a voice

“Peanuts… popcorn…”

It sounds simple now, almost obvious, but at the time it was a shift — a moment where baseball stopped being just a game and became something more alive.

Then came the cold days, the kind where no one wanted cold soda or ice cream.

Sales dropped and the crowd pulled back.

Most people would have accepted it.

Stevens didn’t.

Instead, he adapted.

Warm sausages, fresh rolls, mustard, relish — something you could hold onto in the cold, something that felt like part of the game.

They called them “dachshund sandwiches” at first, a name that didn’t quite stick, until a cartoonist trying to spell it changed it forever: hot dogs.

Think about that. Every time you go to a ballpark, every time you grab a hot dog without thinking twice, you’re stepping into a moment that started over a century ago — built by someone who saw more than a game.

He saw people, he saw opportunity, he saw the details. And here’s the part that sticks with me.

This story doesn’t start in some massive city. It ties back to places like Niles, Ohio — the kind of town most people pass through without realizing what came from it.

That’s the thing about these places and these people.

They don’t always look like history when you’re standing in front of them.

Sometimes it takes a second look, a little curiosity, a willingness to ask, “Who was this?

” Because sometimes the biggest parts of our everyday lives — the things we never question — started with someone who simply paid attention when no one else did.

Sometimes you walk through a cemetery expecting quiet… and instead, you find history humming just beneath your feet.

We visited Niles Union Cemetery — just another stop on the map at first glance. Rows of stone. Names. Dates. The kind of place people pass by without a second thought.

But if you slow down… really slow down…
you start to see more.

One name stood out — Lynn Hargate Evans. Not a headline name today. Not someone most people would recognize. But dig a little — even something as simple as browsing Find a Grave — and suddenly a story unfolds.

Connections. Moments. Pieces of a life that brush up against something bigger.

And then you realize — this place isn’t just about endings.
It’s about echoes.

Echoes of a time when songs like “Mr. Sandman” ruled the airwaves… when voices carried through radios into living rooms… when people built lives that mattered, even if history didn’t hold onto their names the way it holds onto others.

That’s the thing about cemeteries.

They’re not just where people are buried —
they’re where stories are waiting.

Waiting for someone to notice.
Waiting for someone to care enough to ask, “Who were you?”

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you find a gem.

So next time you pass a cemetery — don’t just drive by.
Pull in. Walk a row. Look at a name.
Go home and look it up.

Because history isn’t just in books.
It’s right there in the ground beneath us.

There are places that whisper. Not loudly, not dramatically, just enough to make you stop and listen. Standing on a hill at Niles Union Cemetery, I found myself next to something that didn’t whisper—it stood. Solid, unmoving, bigger than anything around it. The name carved into it reads Vackey–Pritchard. And I’ll be honest, standing there at 5’9”, 320 pounds, I felt small. Not weak, not insignificant, just reminded.

That stone didn’t just happen. It wasn’t rushed, and it wasn’t ordered online and delivered in a week. It was chosen, designed, cut from the earth, moved with intention, and placed to last. You don’t build something like that for today. You build it for tomorrow, and the tomorrows after that.

We don’t know every detail about the Vackey or Pritchard families yet. Maybe they were business owners, maybe they were farmers, maybe they were just a family that believed their story mattered enough to be remembered in stone. But we do know this: they made a decision. A decision to leave something behind that would outlast them, something that would make a stranger years later stop walking, look up, and feel something.

And that’s what hit me. Because most of what we do today doesn’t last. Bills get paid and come right back. Posts get written and disappear in a scroll. Days blur together in the grind of just trying to keep things moving forward. But that stone has been standing there for over a hundred years, through storms, through seasons, through generations of people walking past it without knowing the full story. Still standing.

It makes you ask a hard question. What are we building? Not just for this week, not just to survive the month, but something that stands. Something that says we were here, we worked, we mattered.

Maybe it’s not a monument. Maybe it’s your kids, your community, the work you put into something no one sees yet. Because legacy doesn’t have to be carved in granite, but it does have to be built with intention.

Standing there on that hill in Niles, Ohio, I didn’t just see a big stone. I saw time. I saw effort. I saw a family that refused to be forgotten. And for a moment, I was reminded how small we are—and how powerful it is to build something that isn’t.

Every year when winter starts to loosen its grip here in Western Pennsylvania, I find myself returning to a habit that has grown on me over time: wandering through old cemeteries.

Some people see them as quiet places of loss. I see them as outdoor history books.

When you slow down and really look, you start to notice things most people walk right past — symbols carved into stone, small details that carry meaning long after the people themselves are gone. These markings can tell us about the lives people lived, the groups they belonged to, and the values they carried.

Recently I came across a symbol that caught my attention.

Carved into the granite was a circular emblem with a torch crossed with a key, surrounded by letters that resemble D and C. After a little digging, it appears to be connected to Delta Chi, a fraternity founded in 1890 at Cornell University. The torch traditionally represents knowledge and enlightenment, while the key symbolizes trust, loyalty, and the bonds of brotherhood.

It’s a reminder that many people carry their affiliations and beliefs with them even into how they are remembered. Just like you’ll see Masonic symbols, Odd Fellows chains, military insignia, or church emblems, these markers tell a story about identity and community.

And that’s what fascinates me.

Every symbol is a clue.

A headstone might quietly reveal that someone was a teacher, a soldier, a member of a lodge, or part of a fraternity that meant something to them throughout their life. Sometimes these details are the only surviving hints of the communities that shaped them.

As the days get warmer, I plan to spend more time exploring these places again — camera in hand, curiosity leading the way.

When I come across something interesting, I’ll share it here.

Because cemeteries aren’t just about the past.

They’re about the stories we leave behind, the symbols that mattered to us, and the small pieces of history carved into stone that most people never stop to notice.

There are moments that stop you in your tracks. Not because they are loud. Not because they demand attention. But because they quietly reveal something deeper.

The other day I was walking through a building — the kind of building that took millions of dollars to build. Polished floors. Clean lines. Carefully designed spaces meant to represent professionalism and pride. The kind of place where every inch was planned and budgeted and approved.

And then I saw it.

A piece of duct tape holding something to the wall.

Not neatly. Not intentionally. Just stuck there. A quick fix. The kind of thing someone probably did thinking, “This will do for now.”

Maybe it had been there for a day. Maybe a week. Maybe longer.

But it stopped me in my tracks.

Because details matter.

They matter more than we sometimes realize. The little things tell the real story about how we operate. Not the speeches. Not the mission statements. Not the big announcements. The details.

People notice how we do things when no one is looking.

They notice when we take pride in the small things. They notice when we cut corners. They notice when we say something matters — but our actions say otherwise.

A piece of duct tape on a wall in a multimillion-dollar building may seem like nothing. But it speaks volumes.

It tells a story about standards.

It tells a story about whether we’re paying attention.

And it raises a quiet question we should all ask ourselves from time to time:

Are we taking care of the details?

Because the truth is, details compound. Good ones build trust. Sloppy ones chip away at it little by little.

In leadership, in advocacy, in community work — even in the everyday places we pass through — the details are often the difference between something being good and something being excellent.

It’s easy to overlook them. It’s easy to say they don’t matter.

But they do.

The details matter because they show who we are when no one is watching.

And sometimes, all it takes is one small piece of duct tape to remind you of that.

There are seasons in life when you pray for peace.

And there are seasons when you pray for courage.

This is not a season for comfort.

It is a season for clarity.

So today my prayer sounds a little different.

A Prayer for This Season

Lord,
Make me a channel of necessary disruption.

Where there is apathy in systems that affect our children,
Let me refuse to sit quietly.

Where there is compliance because “that’s just how it’s done,”
Give me the backbone to ask why.

Where there is silence around suffering,
Let me be steady — not loud for attention,
But clear enough that the truth cannot be ignored.

Where comfort has replaced action,
Shake me before I grow too comfortable.

Where meetings multiply but outcomes stall,
Remind me that justice is not a discussion topic —
It is work.

When laws are quoted but pain is dismissed,
Keep my heart soft enough to see the child behind the policy.

When tradition speaks louder than need,
Help me choose people over process.

Disturb me, Lord —
Not so I become angry,
But so I remain awake.

Make me willing
To sit in hospital rooms without losing hope.
To sit in board rooms without losing conviction.
To sit at kitchen tables and still believe change is possible.

Teach me to be with the overwhelmed,
Not just advocate for them.

Teach me to love the exhausted,
The skeptical,
The ones who disagree,
And even the ones who misunderstand.

And when I feel stretched thin —
Between family and fight,
Between leadership and fatigue,
Between belief and burnout —

Anchor me.

Not in applause.
Not in outcomes.
But in purpose.

Lord,
Make me a channel of necessary disruption —
Grounded in love.
Focused on justice.
Unmoved by noise.

Amen.

There’s something unexpectedly profound about a chicken sticking its head out a window.

Feathers slightly ruffled. Eyes wide. Beak catching the breeze like it just discovered freedom for the first time.

And then there’s the quote from Ansel Adams:

“A photograph is usually looked at — seldom looked into.”

Now let’s be honest — when you first saw the chicken photo, you probably laughed. I did. It’s ridiculous. It’s light. It’s the kind of thing that makes you stop scrolling for half a second.

But here’s the twist.

If we actually look into it — really pause — there’s something more happening. The detail in the feathers. The curiosity in the eye. The wind shaping the moment. It’s not just a farm bird catching air. It’s motion. It’s perspective. It’s a reminder that even the most ordinary scene has layers if we’re willing to lean in.

We scroll past thousands of images a week. Most we “look at.” Very few we “look into.”

Sometimes it takes a chicken hanging out a window to remind us to slow down.

To notice texture.
To notice light.
To notice story.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Not every deep thought has to come from a mountain vista or black-and-white masterpiece. Sometimes wisdom shows up with feathers flapping in the breeze.

Look closer.

There’s always more there than we think.

When the wind is strong—when the windchill cuts you like a knife—those are the days that tell the truth.

It’s easy to romanticize the work during the dog days of summer. Blue skies. Long light. Energy everywhere. Everyone shows up when it’s warm, when momentum feels automatic, when effort blends into the background noise of a good day.

But that’s not when the real work gets done.

The work that matters happens when no one wants to be out and about. When the streets are quiet. When the air hurts your face. When every instinct says, not today. Those are the days that separate interest from commitment.

It’s almost impossible to explain this to someone who hasn’t felt it. You don’t think your way through those moments—you decide. You step forward anyway. You lean in when the wind pushes back harder. You keep moving even when progress feels invisible.

Because purpose doesn’t check the forecast. Advocacy doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. Change doesn’t arrive on warm breezes—it’s forged in headwinds.

You have to be ready to ride into the wind.
Even when it’s very, very cold.

Especially then.

There’s a kind of silence you only get on early morning drives.
Before the day has opinions.
Before the phone starts buzzing.
Before the world asks you to explain yourself.

The road rolls on for hours.
Fields pass by.
The sky slowly wakes up.
And somewhere between the horizon and the next turn, your thoughts finally catch up with you.

That’s where my mind always goes—to the kids.

Not just mine, but all of them.
The ones whose names never make it into reports.
The ones who are more than data points and budget lines.
The ones who deserve adults who actually stop long enough to think about them.

Candy Apple comes to mind first.
Parents showing up—not because it’s easy, but because it matters.
Advocacy that isn’t loud for attention, but steady with purpose.

Then FCCA.
Community doesn’t just happen. It’s built. Brick by brick. Hour by hour. By people willing to show up when it would be easier not to.

And lately, Crawford Connects.
A new idea, still taking shape.
A reminder that connection isn’t automatic—it has to be intentional.
People helping people, not because they’re told to, but because they see each other.

Somewhere along these miles, I realize I miss The Malliard Report.
The live conversations.
The back-and-forth.
The unscripted moments where truth slips out because people feel heard.

Not everything meaningful needs a microphone.
But some things do need space to breathe.

These drives give me that space.
Time to remember why the work started in the first place.
Why it keeps going—even when it’s tiring.
Why the road is worth staying on.

The sun eventually climbs higher.
The day catches up.
But for a while, it’s just the road, the quiet, and the reminder that progress doesn’t always come from speed.

Sometimes it comes from thinking.
Sometimes it comes from listening.
Sometimes it comes from a long drive where the only thing moving fast is perspective

Bella and I made the drive and caught an Erie Otters game. Cold rink. Loud crowd. Fast ice. No agenda. No talking points. Just being there.

These are the nights that sneak up on you. Sitting side by side, watching the game unfold, laughing at the chaos, sharing a moment that doesn’t need to be explained or scheduled.

Life moves fast. Kids grow faster.

So when you get a night like this—you take it.

More photos than words for this one. 💙🏒

Some days we forget to notice the details.

They’re everywhere. Always have been. But we move fast — from one meeting to the next, one errand to the next, one screen to the next — and we fly right past them.

It’s a little like the old phrase “stop and smell the roses,” but this is different.

Because the details I’m talking about aren’t fleeting. They were meant to last.

They’re carved into stone above doorways we walk through every day. Etched into railings we grip without a thought. Painted into ceilings we never look up at. Built into buildings that were designed with intention, patience, and pride — long before “efficient” became the highest compliment.

At some point, in some places, a massive amount of craftsmanship was invested in spaces meant for everyone. Not to impress, not to trend, but to endure.

And we barely notice.

Until we do.

Usually when we walk into a modern building and feel… nothing. It works. It’s fine. It’s clean. But it could have been built yesterday — or tomorrow — or anywhere. There’s no story in the walls. No fingerprints of the people who imagined it. No sense that someone stood there decades ago and thought, This should matter.

What’s amazing isn’t just the beauty of the old details.

It’s how quickly we accept their absence.

We don’t realize what we’ve lost until everything starts to look the same. Until every building blurs together. Until the places we gather no longer ask us to slow down, look up, or feel connected to something bigger than the moment we’re rushing through.

Not every space needs to be ornate. Not everything has to be preserved exactly as it was.

But maybe — just maybe — we should pause long enough to notice what’s already around us. The craftsmanship we’ve taken for granted. The art hiding in plain sight. The quiet reminders that someone once cared deeply about doing something well, even if most people would never stop to look.

Because once those details are gone, we don’t just lose decoration.

We lose memory.
We lose character.
We lose a sense of place.

And that’s something worth noticing — before it flies by us too.

I took this photo years ago in Bob Casey Jr.’s office, during a trip to Washington, D.C. with the National Parents Union.

I was there as a parent.
Not as a donor.
Not as an insider.
Just a father who believed that showing up still mattered.

The quote on the wall stopped me cold:

“All public service is a trust given in faith and accepted in honor.”

It’s a powerful sentence.
Carefully framed.
Placed where visitors can’t miss it.

At the time, it felt reassuring—like a shared understanding between those who serve and those they’re meant to serve.

But over the years, that quote has stayed with me for a different reason.

It haunts me.

Not because it’s wrong.
But because I’ve watched how easy it is for that trust to be treated as conditional.

Public service is a trust.
It’s not a favor.
It’s not transactional.
And it’s not meant to be shaped by catering to a select few while the many quietly carry the consequences.

That trust is given in faith—by parents who assume lawmakers will protect children even when it’s politically uncomfortable.
By families who don’t have lobbyists, donors, or influence—but believe the system will still hear them.
By people who show up once, twice, maybe only once, trusting that their voice mattered even if it wasn’t loud.

Honor isn’t the quote on the wall.
Honor shows up in choices.
In who gets listened to—and who doesn’t.
In whether access is real, or just symbolic.

What’s hardest to watch now isn’t disagreement.
It’s selective attention.

When lawmakers begin catering to the few instead of stewarding responsibility to the many, trust erodes.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Until one day, it’s gone.

Parents notice.
Families notice.
They start asking questions—not out of anger, but awareness.

Who is being heard?
Who is being ignored?
And why does it feel like faith is always required from families—but honor is optional for those in power?

The most dangerous thing in public service isn’t opposition.
It’s comfort.

Comfort makes it easier to forget who placed that trust in you.
Easier to mistake access for accountability.
Easier to believe that silence means satisfaction.

It doesn’t.

Silence often means people have stopped believing they’ll be heard.

That quote still lives in my mind.
Not as decoration.
As a standard.

One that parents are watching closely—across parties, across offices, across years—to see who still lives up to it.

Because public service isn’t about the few.
It’s about the many.

And stewardship, once broken, is very hard to earn back.

There are seasons in life where everything feels urgent.

Every email.
Every meeting.
Every crisis someone else hands you and expects you to carry.

And when that happens, it becomes harder to tell the difference between what’s loud and what’s important.

I’ve learned—sometimes the hard way—that confusion doesn’t come from having too many options. It comes from losing sight of your North Star.

The North Star doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t demand attention.
It doesn’t change based on who’s watching.

It’s steady. Quiet. Constant.

When you know what it is, decisions get clearer—not easier, but clearer.

You stop asking, “What will make this go away?”
And start asking, “What actually matters?”

That distinction changes everything.

In advocacy, in family, in leadership, and in life, there’s always pressure to chase the center of things. The meetings. The headlines. The arguments that feel urgent in the moment but fade just as quickly.

But Main Street isn’t always the center of town.

And the center of town isn’t always where you’re meant to be.

Sometimes the most important work happens a street over—out of frame, away from applause, focused on outcomes instead of optics.

For me, the North Star has never been complicated.

It’s always been about people.
About families.
About kids who deserve systems that work for them, not around them.

When I lose clarity, I don’t ask what’s trending.
I don’t ask who’s winning the argument.
I ask one simple question:

Does this move us closer to what matters most—or further away from it?

If the answer is no, it doesn’t matter how loud the noise is.
It doesn’t matter who’s upset.
It doesn’t matter how much pressure there is to respond.

Noise fades.
Principles don’t.

There’s a cost to living this way.

You disappoint people.
You miss opportunities that look good on paper.
You walk away from paths that would have been easier.

But there’s also a return.

You sleep better.
You lead steadier.
You build things that last longer than the moment.

When you choose a North Star, you stop reacting—and start navigating.

Not every turn is obvious.
Not every road is marked.
But you always know which direction you’re facing.

And in times like these—when everything feels divided, rushed, and overstimulated—that kind of clarity isn’t just helpful.

It’s necessary.

So if things feel hard to figure out right now, you’re not alone.

Pause.
Step back.
Look up.

The North Star is still there.

And once you lock onto it, the rest starts to fall into place.

Not because the world got quieter—
but because you got clearer.

For the last few years, my life — personally and professionally — has felt like a series of alarms.

Some were real emergencies.
Some were manufactured crises.
All of them demanded attention right now.

That pace teaches you how to react.
It does not teach you how to build.

So as I look toward 2026, the word that keeps coming back to me isn’t growth or expansion or momentum.
It’s management — not in the corporate sense, but in the human one.

Managing energy.
Managing expectations.
Managing systems so people don’t burn out just to keep them alive.

Goal One: Build systems that survive without me

Advocacy that depends on one voice eventually collapses.
Real movements don’t.

In 2026, my focus is on building structures — clear processes, repeatable actions, shared leadership — that allow parents and communities to participate without needing permission or constant direction.

If something only works when I’m in the room, it’s not finished yet.

That applies to advocacy, nonprofit work, community projects, and even how I manage my own time.

Goal Two: Trade urgency for durability

The last few years taught me how quickly everything can change — health, finances, plans, priorities.

2026 is about creating work that can absorb stress without breaking.

That means:

• Fewer last-minute scrambles

• Clearer timelines

• Saying “not yet” more often than “yes”

• Choosing impact over optics

Not everything needs to be loud to matter. Some things just need to last.

Goal Three: Keep parents at the center, not the margins

Parents don’t need to be “activated.”
They’re already carrying the weight.

In 2026, my goal is to continue shifting the conversation so parents are treated as partners, not props — especially in education policy and community decision-making.

That means listening more than broadcasting.
It means creating space for parents who don’t want a microphone but still deserve influence.
And it means pushing back when systems treat families as data points instead of people.

Goal Four: Lead in a way my kids can respect

This one is personal.

My kids are watching how I show up — how I handle conflict, how I treat people who disagree with me, how I balance conviction with compassion.

In 2026, leadership for me means:

• Being firm without being cruel

• Persistent without being consumed

• Honest about limits, not ashamed of them

If my work doesn’t align with the values I want them to carry forward, then it’s time to rethink the work.

The quiet goal underneath all of it

I want 2026 to feel sustainable.

Not perfect.
Not easy.
Just honest.

Honest about what matters.
Honest about what I can carry.
Honest about what kind of impact actually helps people instead of just proving a point.

If 2025 was about surviving and responding, then 2026 is about building something steady enough to stand on.

That’s the goal.

There’s a quote from Kobe Bryant that’s been sitting with me lately:

“The most important thing is to try and inspire people so that they can be great in whatever they want to do.”

That’s a simple idea—but not an easy one.

Inspiration doesn’t come from telling people what to do.
It doesn’t come from shouting louder, winning arguments, or collecting titles.
It comes from showing up. From doing the work. From letting people see what’s possible when someone refuses to quit.

The last few years have taught me that greatness doesn’t always look like trophies or headlines. Sometimes it looks like persistence. Sometimes it looks like growth that only a handful of people ever notice. Sometimes it’s just getting through another hard day and choosing to show up again tomorrow.

If there’s one thing I hope for as we head toward 2026, it’s this:
That we create more room for people to become who they’re meant to be.

Kids. Parents. Teachers. Caregivers. Community leaders.
Not by boxing them into someone else’s idea of success—but by encouraging them to find their own.

I’ve seen what happens when someone believes in a kid who’s struggling.
I’ve seen what happens when families are supported instead of dismissed.
I’ve seen how powerful it is when people are inspired instead of controlled.

Inspiration doesn’t guarantee success—but it makes greatness possible.

And greatness doesn’t have to mean famous or flashy.
Sometimes it means resilient.
Sometimes it means kind.
Sometimes it means steady when everything else feels uncertain.

So as we look ahead to 2026, my hope is pretty simple:

That we inspire more than we criticize.
That we build people up instead of sorting them out.
That we remember everyone’s path looks different—and that’s not a flaw, it’s the point.

If we can do that, I think great things are possible.
Not for a few—but for a lot more people than we realize.

It was one of the very first things she asked about while in rehab. We knew it was going to be an uphill battle to make it happen, but she kept pushing. Working. Refusing to quit. And somehow, she pulled it off.

She made it to Bitty & Beau’s Coffee in the Strip District in Pittsburgh. A simple stop for most people—but for us, it was a victory. One of those moments you don’t forget because of where you were, but because of what it took to get there.

February brought us to the CCA Waterfront, where Skyler spoke about his internships. Watching him talk about his future with confidence and purpose was one of those quiet moments that sticks with you. Around that same time, Vega came to her forever home. She’s been a great dog for our family—steady, loving, and exactly what we didn’t know we needed.

April took us to the state capitol, where Bella was honored on the floor. That day still doesn’t feel real when I think about it. Seeing her recognized in that space, after everything she’s been through, was overwhelming in the best possible way.

May reminded me I’m human. Literally. I found out I had a screw loose—embedded in my tire. We also found our way back to Harrisburg and got to take some really cool senior pictures with Skyler. Shortly after that, his graduation arrived, and I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder. Watching him walk across that stage was everything.

By the end of June, life shifted again. Tab had her first stroke.
At the start of August, she had a second one. Since then, we’ve been walking this battle with her—step by step, day by day, never quite knowing what the next turn will bring.

August also gave Bella and me a bit of a side quest—tracking down one of the coolest graves in the country: a pyramid. Because sometimes, when life is heavy, curiosity and history give you just enough oxygen to keep going.

September brought a powerful moment: Bella and I got to hear former President Obama speak. Whatever your politics, it was impactful. That same month, the three of us found ourselves in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, for the Mothman Festival—one of those strange, memorable weekends that somehow felt exactly right.

Early October? Someone decided lanes were optional and rear-ended me, totaling the car. Another reminder that plans are temporary.

November sent Bella and me to Johnstown, where we visited the dam site to learn some history. Bella loves photography, and that trip gave her plenty to capture—including a chicken in traffic after we visited Mom. You can’t make that stuff up.

And now here we are—at the holidays.

We’re not entirely sure what’s next. It looks like Tab may be heading to Cleveland for her next rehab stop, which means more tolls, more gas, more miles. But I’ll keep doing my best to do right by her. Always.

Soon it’ll be Bella’s birthday, then Skyler’s, and before we know it, spring will be back and we’ll be standing right here again—wondering how time moved so fast.

I can’t thank you enough for the support over the past year and then some. The check-ins. The messages. The quiet encouragement. Most of the moments above live not just in memory, but in photos—and each one tells a story of perseverance, love, and showing up even when it’s hard.

Thank you for walking this year with us.
It mattered. More than you know.

There’s a quote by Criss Jami that’s been sticking with me lately:

“Create with the heart; build with the mind.”

The older I get, the more I realize how much truth is packed into that one line.

Most of the things that matter in life don’t start with a spreadsheet. They start with a feeling. A need. A moment where something just doesn’t sit right in your gut. That’s the heart part. That’s where the why comes from.

But heart alone isn’t enough.

I’ve seen plenty of good intentions fall apart because nobody stopped to think through the how. Passion can light the fire, but without structure, it burns hot and fast—and then it’s gone.

On the flip side, I’ve also seen projects built perfectly on paper that never meant anything to anyone. They were efficient. Clean. Organized. And completely soulless. When there’s no heart behind the work, people feel it. Kids feel it. Families feel it. Communities feel it.

The work I care about—the work that keeps me up at night—has always lived somewhere in the middle.

You start with the heart:

• caring about your kids

• caring about your neighbors

• caring enough to say, “This isn’t working, and we can do better.”

Then you build with the mind:

• showing up

• learning the process

• doing the boring parts

• putting one brick on top of another, even on days when you’re tired

That balance matters.

Heart gives you the courage to start.
Mind gives you the discipline to keep going.

I’ve learned that you don’t have to choose between being passionate and being practical. The strongest things—the ones that last—are built by people who refuse to give up either.

So if you’re creating something right now—a family, a program, an idea, a future—don’t ignore what your heart is telling you. But don’t stop there either. Give it a foundation. Give it structure. Give it time.

Create with the heart.
Build with the mind.

That’s how real things get made.

There’s a John D. Rockefeller quote that stopped me in my tracks the other day:

“If you want to succeed you should strike out on new paths, rather than travel the worn paths of accepted success.”

Now, Rockefeller wasn’t talking about education reform or Pennsylvania politics—but the idea applies perfectly.

Most of us were raised to believe success looked a certain way:

• go to this school

• get this job

• follow this route

• check this box

It’s a formula… until it isn’t.

Because real life doesn’t always fit the blueprint.

Sometimes the “accepted” path doesn’t work for your child.
Sometimes the job you’re “supposed” to have isn’t the job that feels right.
Sometimes the safest road is actually the most limiting.

I’ve learned this (sometimes the hard way):
following the crowd rarely leads to new ideas—and never leads to new outcomes.

If I had stayed silent, stuck with what was comfortable, or kept trying to follow the path everyone else said we should walk, my family wouldn’t be where we are today. Bella wouldn’t be in a school that actually fits her needs. Tab wouldn’t have had some of the doors that opened because we pushed, questioned, and—honestly—refused to give up.

And here’s the truth most people won’t say out loud:
Sometimes the old path exists because it benefits the people already on it—not the ones trying to join it.

So what do you do?

You build something new.
You choose the harder road.
You take the side path that isn’t paved yet.
You trust your gut more than someone else’s map.

This isn’t about being rebellious—it’s about being purposeful.

If the old roads worked for everyone, nobody would need new ones.

So whatever you’re working toward—whether it’s raising a kid who thinks differently, starting something from scratch, or just trying to get through another day—don’t be afraid to step off the well-worn trail.

Sometimes the success you’re looking for isn’t ahead—it’s somewhere slightly left of the sign that says “This is how you’re supposed to do it.”

And honestly, that’s where most good things begin.

— Jim

Every once in a while, I have to remind myself not everything requires a 10-page policy memo, a Freedom of Information request, and a trip to Harrisburg. (Although some days it sure feels like all three.)

Some things, believe it or not, are simply… obvious.

Tonight?
It gets dark.

No drama.
No hearings.
No budget impasse.
No arguing over who controls the sunshine.

George Carlin had a way of saying what everybody already knew, but somehow forgot. “Weather forecast for tonight: dark.” Brilliant, sarcastic, and painfully accurate all at once.

And it made me think…

How many things in our lives are actually simple, but we make them complicated because the world around us prefers complicated?

Parents know this better than anyone.

• Kids need to feel safe

• Families need support

• People need each other

Not exactly earth-shattering revelations, but here we are, trying to prove these basic truths one meeting, one phone call, one day at a time.

And yet, even in all the heaviness, there’s still room for humor—and maybe that’s the point. Sometimes laughter is the easiest way to take a breath when life keeps throwing curveballs.

So tonight, when it gets dark (because spoiler alert: it will), I hope you take a minute to smile—maybe even laugh at something silly—and remember that life doesn’t always have to be complicated to count.

Sometimes the obvious answer is the right one.
Sometimes there’s nothing to fix.
And sometimes, the weather forecast really is exactly what it sounds like.

Forecast for tomorrow?
We’ll find out when we get there.

— Jim

Some days, life reminds you that plans are more like suggestions than guarantees. You think you’ve got the day mapped out, the week organized, the next step figured out — and then life taps you on the shoulder, flips the page, and hands you a brand-new script you never auditioned for.

It’s funny how we’re taught to believe that life is supposed to follow a straight line.
The truth?
Life’s never once cared about our timelines, our perfect order, or the version of the story we rehearsed in our heads.

Sometimes things don’t go right because it’s the wrong time.
Sometimes things don’t go right because the plan wasn’t actually the plan.
And sometimes… things don’t go right because life just throws in a twist or three for reasons we won’t understand until much later.

I’ve had plenty of those days lately — the ones where everything I wrote on my to-do list gets erased by something urgent, unexpected, or emotional. Days where the “plan” falls apart before I even get started. Days where all the strength I have is used just to keep the wheels turning. Days where doing is my best — and that has to be enough.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Our best isn’t always loud.
It isn’t always impressive.
It isn’t always productive or picture-perfect.
Sometimes our best looks like simply showing up, even when the world feels heavy.

Life doesn’t wait for us to be ready.
But we’re stronger than we think — and sometimes the twists and detours teach us things the smooth road never could.

So if you’re in one of those seasons where nothing seems to go the way you planned, let me say this as someone walking through my own share of surprises:
Your best is enough.
Even on the days you’re just holding it together.
Especially on those days.

Life rarely moves in a straight line.
But somehow, we keep moving with it.
Twist by twist, turn by turn — doing the best we can with the day in front of us.

And honestly?
There’s a quiet kind of strength in that.