Blue Collar Beliefs

This past weekend, my family had one of those classic divide-and-conquer parenting situations. If you're a dad—or really, just a human being in a family—you know the kind: two kids, two tournaments, two cities. One in our hometown, and one in Bettendorf, Iowa. So we split up. My wife stayed back to hold it down locally, and I packed up with one of our boys and headed west. Now, before I go on, let me just say this: I'm not new to fatherhood, travel, or responsibility. I’ve changed diapers on park benches and assembled bunk beds with missing pieces. But traveling solo with a kid—without the glue of the operation, my wife—opened my eyes to a few things I often overlook. We got on the road later than planned (of course), which meant I was already playing catch-up before we even hit the interstate. Normally, my wife sits in the passenger seat, punching in directions, scouting food stops, and handling last-minute hotel details. This time? It was just me and my son—and my slightly ou...

Today, my 10-year-old son is heading out on a big adventure: a road trip to Michigan to see the Savannah Bananas with a family friend and her child. It should be exciting, right? A fun baseball game, goofy antics, memories to last a lifetime. And it is. But if I’m being completely honest, there’s a knot in my stomach that hasn’t loosened since we gave the green light. You see, I’ve known this family friend since high school. She's trustworthy, responsible, and a great mom. If I had to choose anyone outside our family to take my son on a trip, she’d be near the top of the list. This isn't about trust in her or even her kid. It’s about something deeper. Something harder to explain. It’s about the feeling of powerlessness . When you're a dad, especially one grounded in blue-collar values, you're used to being the fixer. If a tire goes flat, I’m there. Oil needs changing, I’m under the hood. If my kid forgets his glove, I’m the guy turning the car around. That’s the rhythm ...

Yesterday, my sister had her first baby—and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since. Watching her step into motherhood stirred something deep in me. There’s a beauty in beginnings. A holiness, really. It’s a miracle wrapped in soft cries and tiny hands. I’m so incredibly happy for her and for all the adventures ahead. Sleepless nights, yes—but also heart-bursting joy. The news took my wife and me down memory lane. We have two kids of our own—twelve and ten now. It feels like just yesterday we were pacing the floor with a fussy newborn at 3 a.m., wondering if sleep would ever return. It does, eventually. But while those nights were long, the years were short. Blink, and they’re not babies anymore. They’re full of personality and humor, testing boundaries, growing faster than our hearts can keep up. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s a lot of hats I wear—husband, teacher, coach, community guy, sometimes handyman (though that one's hit-or-miss). But out of everything I’ve ...

Last night, our house was full of noise, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of youth—my kids had a sleepover. It’s a tradition I both love and… well, let’s say “tolerate.” Don’t get me wrong—I love seeing my kids having fun, building memories that will outlast the pizza stains on the couch and the crushed chips in the carpet. But let’s be honest: sleepovers turn your home into a strange mix of joy and tension. You start to feel like a guest in your own house. At the heart of it, I think what I struggle with most is the sudden change in how we live our lives inside these walls. My home is usually a sanctuary for my boys and me. We’re comfortable—maybe too comfortable. When it’s just us guys, we’re a bit more casual. Bathroom doors are often left open. Conversations are light, sarcastic, sometimes a little weird, and very real. There’s an unspoken code that allows us to be ourselves completely—no need to walk on eggshells or filter every word. But when a sleepover rolls around, that al...

Yesterday was one of those days I’ll carry with me for a long time. I had the chance to attend the 2025 Hot Rod Power Tour with my brother, my dad, and a close friend. It wasn’t just a car show—it was a rolling tribute to horsepower, craftsmanship, and the American dream on four wheels. The sights, the sounds, the smells of burning rubber and polish—it was enough to make any car guy’s heart race. As we strolled through rows of muscle cars, hot rods, and souped-up classics, we found ourselves lost in conversation about dreams. We pointed out the cars we’d love to own. We imagined what it would be like to hop behind the wheel of a ’69 Camaro or a slammed Chevy C10 and tear down the drag strip. "Wouldn’t it be nice?" "How awesome would that be?" These were the questions we kept tossing back and forth like wrenches across a garage. It was all part of the fun—dreaming a little, letting the imagination idle freely for a while. And I’ll admit it: I was right there with the...

There’s something deeply satisfying about fixing things with your own hands. It’s more than just a job or a task — it’s part of who we are as blue-collar folks. There’s pride in rolling up your sleeves, getting dirty, and figuring things out one bolt at a time. It’s how many of us were raised. If it’s broke, fix it. Don’t call someone else unless you absolutely have to. But every now and then, you hit a wall. That wall might look like a broken bolt, a stripped thread, or a seized part that won’t budge no matter how much penetrating oil you throw at it. For me, it came while working on my wife’s car — trying to fix her exhaust system. What should have been a routine repair turned into a long, frustrating mess. I went in confident. I had the tools, the parts, and the mindset. But things quickly unraveled. A few bolts snapped off. I tried everything to backtrack, fix it, or work around it — and nothing worked. I was lying on the cold garage floor, tools scattered, and my frustration boili...

I messed up my thumb the other day. No, it wasn’t anything dramatic—no hospital, no cast—just a jam that made every little thing more annoying than it needed to be. Buttoning a shirt. Grabbing a coffee cup. Twisting off a jar lid. You don’t realize how important a thumb is until it stops pulling its weight. And I’ll be honest—it wasn’t some freak accident. I was working on a project, trying to knock something out, but my head wasn’t in it. My wife started talking, and instead of stopping to listen or pausing the job, I tried to do both. I ended up doing neither well—and paid the price for it. That thumb became a lesson. Because what happened to my hand happens to my faith more often than I’d like to admit. I don’t walk away from God. I don’t abandon prayer or stop believing. But sometimes I drift. I get distracted. I try to handle everything—family, work, bills, politics, yardwork, life—while keeping faith somewhere in the background like it’s just one more thing on the list. But faith...

Let’s get something straight: God doesn’t have a gender. That might ruffle some feathers, but it shouldn’t. God is not a man in the clouds with a beard. God is not a woman sitting on a throne. God is not bound by our categories, because God created them. The Creator of time, space, and every living thing isn’t limited by the boxes we’ve built—boxes like “He” and “She.” So why do we call God “He”? Mostly? Simplicity. Tradition. Language. The Bible was written in a patriarchal time, in patriarchal cultures, and using “He” was the norm. It still is for many. But that doesn’t mean God is male. It means people used the language they had. Calling God “He” is a habit, not a fact. I remember a class I had to take in college—one of those core requirements I didn’t choose but ended up being glad I took. We read a book called She Who Is . The whole discussion centered on the idea of God as a mother figure: nurturing, compassionate, giving life. At first, I thought the goal was to make me see God...

Sometimes God moves in silence. You keep showing up, doing the work, walking in the dark, trusting that somehow, somewhere, He’s putting the pieces together. Most days, you don’t see it happening. You just hope you're not wasting your time. But every once in a while—just often enough to keep you going—God lets you peek behind the curtain. That happened to me recently. For a while now, I’ve been asking God what’s next. Where am I supposed to go? What role am I meant to play in my own community? I’ve had my fair share of doubts and quiet conversations with God that ended in more questions than answers. And then, out of the blue, I hear from a friend at the local school—the same school where I’ve poured time into substituting, showing up, and doing my best with the work in front of me. They tell me, “You’ve been hired.” Now, here’s the thing: no paperwork's been signed. No official call. Just a whisper from someone in the know. But somehow, it feels like one of those rare moments ...

I was standing in line at Chipotle the other day, just minding my own business, waiting for my burrito bowl, when I noticed the guy in front of me had a tattoo on his forearm. Nothing flashy—just simple black ink. It read: Luke 1:37 . I didn’t know the verse off the top of my head, so I did what anyone else would do—I looked it up on my phone while the guy was ordering extra guac. “For nothing will be impossible with God.” —Luke 1:37 It hit me. Not just the verse, but the way it was presented. No bold lettering. No cross and flames. Just quiet confidence, written on skin. No one else seemed to notice it. He wasn’t talking about it. He wasn’t preaching. He wasn’t even wearing a Christian t-shirt or handing out flyers. Just a guy, getting lunch, carrying a piece of scripture with him. And it reminded me of something I forget more often than I’d like to admit: Faith doesn’t always need a megaphone. We live in a time where it feels like everything’s about the broadcast—what you believe, ...

Faith is not a one-time decision. It’s not a box to check or a static label we wear. It is something far more alive than that—more like a garden than a trophy. And like any living thing, it needs to be revisited, worked on, and nurtured. There are days when faith feels easy—when we see the sunlight, when the soil feels rich, when everything is in bloom. But there are also seasons when it feels like all we’re doing is pulling weeds, waiting on rain, or staring at dry ground wondering if anything will ever grow again. And yet, the garden doesn’t stop being a garden just because it's out of season. It doesn't lose its identity just because it’s not blooming. In my own life, I’ve noticed that faith requires the same attention we give to a real garden. It needs daily checks—not always dramatic gestures, but quiet visits. A prayer. A pause. A moment of silence. A second look at something bigger than myself. Some days, it’s as small as the decision to show kindness when I’d rather not...