Wayne's World

Wayne’s World

Adventures in Curiosity, Humility, and Life Well-Lived

Some people are interesting. Others are interested. And every once in a while, you meet someone who is both—and your life gets better simply by paying attention.

Wayne was one of those people for me for decades. He challenged my thinking more than any college class, workshop, or conference I ever attended. Learning was his primary hobby, second only to his love of sharing it—knowledge both world-changing and delightfully trivial. Time with Wayne was never wasted; it was collected. He was a joy to be with and a memory always in the making.

If you need evidence for my introduction, it begins with two articles—long ones—from educational and leadership journals. Wayne passed them along to me with a grin and called them required reading.

The first was about how to pack a suitcase efficiently. The second was about how to interview people on stage.

Perfect.

Wayne was part of our ministry, and we traveled constantly—taking teens and adults on adventures across the country and around the globe—so you can imagine how timely those articles were. And you can probably understand why I counted my blessings every time I found myself learning, laughing, and thinking alongside Wayne.

By day, Wayne was an aeronautical engineer—or something close enough that I never pressed him on the title. His humility wouldn’t let him linger on the fact that he worked with plutonium, the material used to power spacecraft, or that he and his team were responsible for advancing much of our nation’s space exploration. By night and weekends, he was teaching people like me how to pack a suitcase and ask better questions.

One of my favorite—and funniest—memories of Wayne came during one of our adventures. We had refurbished a big, old yellow school bus, notorious for no-frills, mission-style trips. Wayne had orchestrated a journey to Canada, with a quick stop at Niagara Falls, determined to squeeze every possible ounce of adventure—and acceptable risk—out of the route.

When we finally arrived at the Falls after the long haul from Ohio, Wayne pulled me aside for what he clearly intended to be a serious conversation. He looked at his watch, then showed it to me. We were fifteen minutes behind his planned arrival time.

We were about to spend an entire long weekend on the road, and he was concerned about fifteen minutes. My first response was laughter—until I remembered his day job, where seconds actually mattered.

Beyond the countless bus adventures was Wayne’s deeper, quieter quest for learning. At one of our nearly weekly lunch outings, he arrived buzzing with excitement about his weekend.

I went to meet the author of one of my favorite books, he said, casually. The author, it turned out, lived in the mountains of nearby Kentucky. Wayne had driven up, unannounced, knocked on the door, and introduced himself—not for an autograph, but simply to say thank you and to ask questions. He wanted the backstory. The thinking behind the thinking.

We laughed as he told it, especially when he explained that his reward for the effort wasn’t a signed book, but a photograph together. Which, somehow, felt exactly right.

And then there was the practical side of Wayne.

Our ministry gathered weekly for what we called Evening Zoo—a lively mix of teaching, fun, and a lot of teenagers in one place. Wayne noticed something no one else had bothered to consider. If we sold cans of soda during the evening—with just a small markup—it could help fund future mission adventures.

It didn’t stop there. While most youth groups tried to lure teens in with free food and giveaways, Wayne suggested something different. What if they ordered pizza as they walked in the door? They were happy. We covered the cost. And, once again, we quietly made a little money for the bigger mission. And yes, Wayne owned the project – from keeping us supplied with pop an pizza as often as needed.

It wasn’t about profit. It was about stewardship. About doing ordinary things with intention. For a long season, that mindset shaped how we operated—an approach that may have seemed like it came from another planet, a thing Wayne happened to know well.

Sharon—Wayne’s wife—was deeply involved in the ministry in her own right, bringing ideas, leadership, and a steady presence. She led a small group of high school girls who were serious about their faith, but just as serious about having fun along the way.

Wayne supported all of it quietly, faithfully, and without needing credit. I never knew the full backstory, but I did know this: he was also an avid high school girls’ basketball fan, the kind who followed teams all season and showed up when it mattered.

So when one of the girls in Sharon’s group made it to the State Championships, Wayne did what Wayne always did. He made sure the girls got there too. He helped orchestrate the weekend, turning a big moment for one student into an unforgettable shared adventure for the whole group.

Partnering with Wayne for more than twenty years was always an adventure. I often encouraged him to lead a small group of guys, something parallel to what Sharon did so naturally. He always declined, usually with a gentle hesitation and a comment about not being confident working one-on-one.

What he never seemed to realize was that this was exactly what he did best.

On trips and in ordinary moments, Wayne had an unforced way of sitting with teenagers, listening without rushing, talking without impressing. He was as interested in their questions and stories as he was interesting in his own quiet, curious way. And that combination—rare and powerful—was magnetic.

Wayne never tried to teach me nearly as much as he modeled for me. He lived out a simple truth: that showing up with curiosity, humility, and genuine interest in others matters far more than programs, credentials, or carefully crafted plans. Share what you love. Pay attention to people. Stay humble. That’s the work.

And sometimes, when we were together, I’d look up at the sky and wonder out loud if any of the satellites quietly circling the earth had something to do with him. He’d smile—just slightly—and say, Maybe.

When Snow Slows Everything Down

Ordinary Snow Stories That Refused to Melt

I’ve always been fascinated by the human brain—especially mine, which appears to have been manufactured without an off switch. Ideas, memories, half-finished thoughts, old conversations, and brand-new worries all run on a continuous loop. Even at three in the morning, it hums along faithfully, offering unsolicited reflections I didn’t request before going to bed.

One of the stranger things about memory is how neatly it files itself away. There are compartments for adventure, embarrassment, danger, near-death experiences, and—apparently—weather. Because the moment snow starts falling, my mind opens a dusty cabinet labeled Blizzards, and out they come without permission.

I would be remiss if I missed a story that began when I was about eleven or twelve years old—long before anyone worried much about child labor laws, and when parents believed their kids would survive quite nicely outside, far away from phones and video games. We had a four‑party phone line back then, and my parents were strong believers in fresh air. If I didn’t go outside willingly, they were more than happy to invent a chore.

While other kids probably had an altar set up in their bedrooms praying for school to be cancelled, I stayed awake hoping it would snow. Not because I loved missing school, but because snow meant opportunity—specifically, the chance to make money shoveling driveways. And I mean big money.

Even at that age, I had a respectable client base: my grandparents, aunts and uncles down the street, lawn‑mowing customers, and, if time allowed, a few favorites from my newspaper route. There were no set prices, just the generosity of regulars. My parents had only one rule—wait until the sun was up before knocking on doors.

I don’t remember stopping for lunch. I do remember hot chocolate, gloves drying in neighbors’ dryers, and kind reminders to warm up before heading back out. Looking back, it may have been one of those unwritten community rules—keep an eye on the neighbor kid who’s stubborn enough to work all day in the cold.

The pay felt unbelievable. Not pockets of change like my other jobs, but dollar bills that seemed to multiply by the hour. There were only a few good snow days each winter, but the anticipation—the weather reports, the conversations, the counting—was intoxicating. I still don’t know where the energy came from. The snow eventually melted, but something else stuck. The work ethic. Not for shoveling snow anymore, but for pursuing whatever dream came next.

Maybe that’s why, even now, snow never just falls—it arrives with stories.

Say the word blizzard in a room full of people and you’re almost guaranteed a story. Someone will lean back and say, “This reminds me of ’78…” or “You think this is bad? You should’ve seen…” And if they’re from a warmer state, they’ll contribute anyway—usually something about the one time it dipped below freezing and the whole town shut down.

Today, it’s snowing. Which means my brain is busy.

The weather service, doing its civic duty, has spent the past few days joyfully reminding Ohio—yes, the state people move to because they proudly claim they can experience all four seasons in a single month—that something dramatic is on the way. Schools close. Milk disappears from grocery shelves. Everyone suddenly becomes a meteorologist.

And with the snow comes memory.

When our kids were little, snow meant something entirely different. I was a schoolteacher then, which meant snow days weren’t an inconvenience—they were permission slips. No bells. No schedules. Just the quiet announcement that today would belong to us.

We’d bundle everyone up like we were preparing for an expedition—boots that never quite stayed dry, mittens clipped together, coats puffed out and stiff with newness. The sled came out of the garage, scraped along the concrete, and suddenly we had a destination: McDonald’s. Hot chocolate. About a mile away.

It wasn’t sidewalks we walked on, but snow‑covered roads—because in our minds, that’s what explorers did. You would’ve thought we were headed to Mount Rainier on a rescue mission, not crossing town for paper cups of cocoa with peeling lids. Every step mattered. Every breath came out white and important.

It’s funny how on ordinary days we resist the cold just to take out the trash or walk to the mailbox. But snow changes the rules. There’s magic in it—enough magic to ignore frozen fingers and numb toes, enough to make the journey feel worth it.

The reward wasn’t just the hot chocolate—it was the rosy cheeks, the laughter, the way everyone talked louder than necessary. And then the real ending: back home, coats piled by the door, a fire lit, wet boots lined up like trophies, and the quiet settling in that comes when you realize you’ve just made a memory you didn’t know you’d keep.

And to be a responsible storyteller, I suppose I have to mention the blizzard story—the one every Midwesterner eventually tells whether asked or not.

The Blizzard of ’78.

Yes, that one. The storm of the century. Or at least our century.

It officially went by names like The Great Blizzard of 1978 or The Cleveland Superbomb. Weather people still talk about it in reverent tones—snowdrifts reported up to twenty‑five feet, highways shut down, cars abandoned, the region paralyzed, and a federal disaster declared. It sounds terrifying now. Apocalyptic, even.

But memory has a funny way of sanding down the sharp edges.

What we remember… is the fun.

The storm really began for us when the interstate—just a mile from our house—closed completely. Somewhere along the way, word spread that stranded motorists needed places to stay. Travelers heading north from southern states had nowhere to go. And somehow, without much discussion, we said yes.

Our small home filled up with a husband, a wife, a young child—and suddenly, we had guests for three days.

These were the days before grocery stores were stripped bare in advance of every snowflake, so we became creative. We made meals out of whatever was left in cupboards and freezers. We stretched things. Shared things. Laughed a lot. The inconvenience became community.

And then there was Pastor Jim.

He didn’t stop by to check on us—he stopped by to recruit me. Since he and I were among the younger ones in the congregation (a title that ages poorly over time), he handed me my coat and told me to get in the car. We were going door to door, checking on the elderly—making sure furnaces were running, food was available, and no one had been forgotten under all that snow.

No sermon. No announcement. Just showing up.

That blizzard shut everything down—but somehow, it opened people up. Homes. Tables. Conversations. It turned neighbors into hosts, strangers into family, and a snowstorm into something we still smile about decades later.

We managed to make it to the grocery store—though “shopping” might be generous. The shelves were nearly bare, but anti‑freeze was plentiful, so naturally we cleared it out. And with the confidence of people who clearly remembered a different miracle, we headed home with our loaves and fishes—oops, wrong story—and began plowing through unplowed roads and driveways.

Somewhere along the way, we decided there was still room in the inn—yes, wrong story again—and invited a grandmother and her granddaughter to join our growing, makeshift blizzard party. Blankets appeared. Space was made.

And just so you know, it probably wasn’t coincidence—but divine intervention—that our Michigan houseguest turned out to be a plumber by trade. On the morning of the third day, Bill ventured out to the local hardware store, gathered supplies, and quietly fixed the long‑neglected plumbing issues we had accumulated over the years. To this day, I’m not sure who was happier—Bill, grateful for the chance to give back, or us, stunned by the gift of his talent.

School remained closed for days. I was a committed road runner back then, which meant snow wasn’t an obstacle—it was an invitation. I laced up and headed out, discovering a landscape transformed. My favorite memory was a stretch of road near the airport where fifteen‑foot walls of snow rose on both sides, creating a passageway that felt more like the Rockies than Ohio.

Which is probably why, even now, when snow starts falling and the world slows down just enough…the stories come rushing back.

A while back, our grandson Hayden wrote down some of his childhood memories from traveling with Grandma and Grandpa—words we saved without hesitation. Not because they were polished or profound, but because they were his. A snapshot from the other side of the story.

Another time we drove from Ohio to New York City. The roads were really pretty good all the way—until we got near the George Washington Bridge. There, we met up with the worst part of the blizzard. The snow was so high my grandma fell into a pile of snow when she was crossing the street! And believe it or not, a man was still playing his saxophone in Central Park while everyone else was sledding! We had a blast walking everywhere because even the taxi cabs were not running.

That’s how memories work, I suppose. They don’t organize themselves around dates or headlines or record‑breaking snowfall totals. They lodge themselves instead in small, human details—a fall into a snowbank, a saxophone echoing through Central Park, the strange joy of walking when nothing else moves.

This essay was never really about weather, or blizzards, or even snow. It’s about how ordinary moments slow us down just enough to become permanent. How the world, when briefly disrupted, makes room for connection, laughter, hospitality, and stories that quietly follow us for the rest of our lives.

And maybe that’s why, when the snow starts falling and everything softens, the brain—at least mine—doesn’t shut off at all.

It remembers.

Are New Year's Resolutions Really Necessary?

Are New Year Resolutions really necessary?

Some say yes. Some say no. Some don’t care.

I’m laughing as I write this because the second Friday of January passed last week—the unofficial day when people who once sort of committed to New Year’s resolutions quietly let them go.

Why am I laughing? Because it was fifty years ago that I first got serious about goal setting—often confused with resolutions. It wasn’t January. It wasn’t symbolic. It was a fall day when I sat in an all-day conference designed to inspire and motivate thousands of people to think differently about their lives.

And I took that day seriously—probably more seriously than it deserved. I didn’t know then that the thousands of people in that room were all hearing the same speakers through completely different filters. It didn’t take me long to figure out what some of my filters were: my personality, my ADHD, my introverted tendencies, being adopted, growing up in Brooklyn and on the East Coast, being married with two kids, and my impressive lack of musical or athletic coordination.

Add in a life devoted to teaching and coaching, and suddenly it made sense—whatever I became was always going to sound like me, move like me, and probably trip over itself once in a while too.

That day left me with three ideas that never really let go of me:
• One, only a small slice of people—maybe three percent—take goal setting seriously.
• Two, real goal setting isn’t about one thing, but about many parts of life.
• And three, I should never take myself too seriously.

Not because I lacked confidence, but because my brain never shuts up—always inventing, imagining, planning—and if that made me part of the three percent they talked about that day, I was going to enjoy the membership.

As teaching and coaching filled my life, I tried to give those ideas a shape people could see. I started teaching, in classrooms and small groups, the idea of picturing life as ten balloons—each one an area of living—and we get to decide how much air goes into each balloon. Some get fuller. Some stay small. And sometimes, just by living, one of them pops.

The more I paid attention to my own balloons, the more awake I felt. Not impressive—just awake. I noticed that most of the choices I made weren’t really about me anyway; they were about the people who happened to be near me—what the people at the conference called my sphere of influence. And somewhere along the way I realized I was wired for caring, giving, sharing, teaching, and coaching. Not heroically—just naturally. And one day I made a quiet promise to myself.

I wasn’t going to try to change the world.

I didn’t want a legacy, a spotlight, or a headline. I just wanted to look for the three percent—the people who were already paying attention to their balloons—and share what I’d stumbled into. Not as an expert. Not as someone to follow. Just as a regular person with no trophies, no dazzling résumé, no big money, and no special wisdom—just a life that kept handing me things worth passing along.

And that idea kept growing. I met all kinds of people—some I admired, some I didn’t; some I wanted to be like, some I didn’t—and each one quietly shaped how I saw myself.

That journey forced me to look inward. I realized I’m a risk-taker by nature, probably wired that way since my paper route and selling garden seeds door-to-door in the 1950s. But more than that, I discovered what really fascinates me: helping people become more interesting—and more interested—by widening their world, physically, mentally, and socially.

In my years of teaching and coaching, people often asked which of the Ten Balloons mattered most. Which one should they fill? Which one should they let shrink a little? I never had a clean answer. All I could ever say was, It depends.

It depends on the season you’re in.
It depends on the people around you.
It depends on what your life is asking of you right now.

It probably sounded like I was dodging the question, but the truth was I was still working it out in my own life. What once felt urgent sometimes faded. What once felt small sometimes grew.

I usually tell my running story to explain it.

For a season, I was a running coach and a road-running enthusiast. Sherri and the kids would travel with me to races in cities all over. One day Sherri said, kindly and clearly, that she loved being there, loved cheering, loved holding my sweat suit at the finish line—but she had no interest in running a marathon. Not soon. Not later. Probably not ever.

And that was the day it clicked for me. Some balloons matter deeply to me. They don’t have to matter to everyone. Owning that—without trying to sell it or defend it—made me better. Not faster. Not wiser. Just more honest about what fits me, and what doesn’t have to fit anyone else.

And so, whether it was New Year’s resolutions or goal setting, I knew my life would probably land somewhere on the Road Less Traveled—which meant I had to look at some of my balloons and just laugh.

Take hobbies. For some people, that means sports—playing them, watching them, planning life around them. I tried. But when the Brooklyn Dodgers left New York, they also took a piece of my childhood with them—Ebbets Field, hot dogs, and the idea that teams were loyal. Later, I sat in Yankee Stadium and watched Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle chase history. That should have sealed the deal. It didn’t.

Then I moved to Ohio, where choosing between the Cincinnati Bengals and the Cleveland Browns can determine your social life. I learned that allegiance matters. I also learned that mine just isn’t very strong. Professional sports became something I respect deeply in other people. If you love a team, I’ll cheer with you, complain about the refs, and celebrate the win. I just won’t build my future around it.

Politics turned out much the same. One day I looked myself up online and discovered I’d been labeled as belonging to a party I never joined. I was briefly offended—almost called someone official and indignant—then remembered I’ve always voted more for people and issues than banners. Friends have tried to recruit me for years. I disappoint them regularly. That balloon doesn’t get much air either.

Another area is faith. Although I grew up in one tradition, we’ve been part of several denominations over the years. I thought I had a pretty good grip on what faith looked like—until a sixteen-year-old girl quietly taught me more about faith and the Ten Balloons than anyone ever had.

I was coaching a group of Student Ambassadors at a career center, helping them prepare to visit local high schools and talk about the courses offered there. One day at lunch, I told her I had a question. I asked why, in all our time working together, she had never once suggested that I—or anyone else—consider joining her denomination, which was very different from my own background.

She smiled and said, “It’s simple, Coach. My dad taught me that I never need to worry about learning how to share my faith through speeches or testimonies. He always told me to worry about my actions. If people see something different in me, they’ll ask. And then I can tell them what they want to know.”

Those words, spoken twenty years ago, still feel fresh. They landed hard—in the best way. They reminded me that how I live matters more than how I explain how I live. And suddenly, the Ten Balloons made even more sense.

So why do I still set goals? Why do I keep talking about the Ten Balloons? Why do I write essays about them? Why do I invite people to join me in the pursuit of their own goals?

It’s simple. I like being around interesting people—people who are different from me, people who shine in areas I don’t, people I can learn from just by watching how they live.

And I like being around interested people—people who have a life beyond themselves, who are curious about new ideas, new beliefs, new ways of living.

That’s what New Year’s resolutions and goal setting offer me—not a system, not a sermon, but a pause. Time to dream. Time to notice. Time to celebrate what’s working, let go of what isn’t, and maybe—just one balloon at a time—decide whether it’s time to add some air, let some out, or finally, gently, let it pop.

And luckily, I don’t live by the world’s standard of the second Friday in January.

A Birthday Journey Across New York City That Defied All Logic

A Birthday Journey Across New York City That Defied All Logic

This essay is a blend of every part of me—my childhood love of drawing, the New York moments I collected with my grandmother, my hunger for adventure, my willingness to take a risk, and the Thanksgiving traditions that anchor our family.

We had all gathered in Manhattan to celebrate the holiday—and my birthday. The forecast promised cold and rain as Sherri and I stepped out of our hotel, flagged down a cab, and started what we believed would be a simple forty-block trip.

Sometimes the Road Less Traveled starts with something small—like a rising sense of fear over something that should have been simple. All we wanted was a traditional yellow cab with a meter, not an unmarked car with a vague promise of  about twenty dollars. So when a real cab pulled up within minutes, we relaxed. For about ten seconds.

Then I noticed we were headed the wrong way.

I know that part of Manhattan by heart, and within a few blocks my internal compass started shouting. I finally asked the driver why we were going downtown when we should’ve been going uptown. He assured me—cheerfully—that his GPS said the destination was three miles.
Three miles? The entire island is about ten miles long, and our destination was half a mile from the hotel. That’s when the mental anguish kicked in.

He offered to let us out. He offered to follow our directions. But the language barrier was working against us, so in a moment of panic and politeness we said the fateful words:
Just listen to Siri.

And with that, every block felt wrong. The street names weren’t familiar, the landmarks refused to appear, and the city outside the window started to look less like Midtown and more like a scavenger hunt we hadn’t signed up for. By the time we realized we were nowhere heading toward Central Park—one place every taxi driver should be able to find—we knew this ride was turning into something entirely different than a routine cab trip.

Forty blocks later, the situation went from confusing to disastrous. That’s when we finally realized why the city felt so unfamiliar: every street around us was barricaded for the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Overnight crews had already sealed off entire avenues, and one by one, each turn we attempted was met with a uniformed arm waving us away. Every denial added another ten blocks to this increasingly absurd detour.

The driver kept glancing back at us in the mirror with a look that hovered somewhere between apology and total bewilderment. And at that point, we did what any sane people would do—cut our losses. Let us out here, we said, almost in unison.

We paid the ridiculous fare—at this point it felt like a ransom—but stepping onto the sidewalk felt like freedom. Fifteen blocks still separated us from our destination, but at least now we were the ones choosing the direction.

Manhattan has a population of about 1.6 million people, and I was fairly certain we were about to meet at least half of them—their children, their dogs, their strollers, and their full-throttle New York attitudes. As we headed toward our destination, we were denied once again. This time the officers blocking the streets offered warm smiles and polite apologies, but absolutely no grace. The barricades might as well have been stone walls.

Earlier that week I’d read an essay by Andy Rooney, who joked that New Yorkers don’t just like to win—they have to win. At everything. Growing up in Brooklyn, I knew that truth by heart. And as Sherri and I stood at yet another closed street, scanning for the slightest weakness in the parade barricades, we realized this was our moment. If New Yorkers had to win, then so did we. It was time for Mike and Sherri to put that mindset into action.

And so we pushed toward the narrow opening in the barricade, police posted on both sides, hoping our determination might somehow count as permission. No such luck. We were told—firmly—that you needed an invitation to enter the viewing area where the giant Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons had been inflated throughout the day and were now on display.

An invitation? After all we’d been through? My heart didn’t stop, but it certainly tripped. We hadn’t traveled all the way from Ohio to be turned away by a technicality the size of a postcard. No paper, no balloons—simple as that.

We stepped closer anyway, just to hear the bad news straight from the source. And that’s when it happened. A man in front of us cheerfully presented his pass to the officer. In the swirl of pushing, shoving, and good-natured New York chaos, the officer asked him, Who else is with you?

Before the poor man could even inhale, I shouted, We are!

Pressed against his back like long-lost cousins, we followed him through. Somehow, miraculously, the officer let us pass.

We had made it. Or at least we thought we had.

Because just a few yards later—same street, same poor man leading the way—we ran into yet another barricade. Another officer. Another checkpoint. A full repeat of the entire New York performance.

This time, when the woman asked, Who’s with you? the man turned, looked right at us, smiled, and said, They are.

If we’ve ever had a God moment in our lives, this was it. It felt as if the gates of heaven had opened just wide enough to let this determined, slightly worn-out couple stumble through—two people who believed, against all evidence, that the impossible just might be possible.

And there they were—balloons lined up in the street straight out of my childhood memories with Nana fifty years ago. Smokey the Bear led the parade, followed by new favorites: SpongeBob, the Pillsbury Doughboy, Snoopy—and some characters we didn’t even recognize.

Then, as if fate itself had guided us, we arrived at the one balloon I had been waiting for: Spider-Man. I had studied him endlessly in my art room in anticipation of this parade, imagining this very moment. To many, it might have seemed a ridiculous dream—especially for a 78-year-old on his birthday—but there he was, larger than life, hovering in the street – awaiting morning. Spiderman. What a gift.

We wandered the avenue, back and forth, stopping for pictures, then stopping again just to take it all in. It felt like a private backstage pass to Disney World, or a VIP tour of the Super Bowl—magical, improbable, unforgettable. And as we finally stepped away, still smiling, hand in hand, it was time to hail a cab, head to dinner, and join our family. The adventure had reached its perfect, improbable ending—another memory on the Road Less Traveled, proof that life, even at this age, could still surprise, delight, and reward the willing.

To the men within 30 minutes of Tipp City, Ohio:

To the men within 30 minutes of Tipp City, Ohio:

Some of you may be wondering whatever happened to Mike after he quietly slipped into the “retirement season” of life a few years ago. The simple answer is this: I didn’t retire from caring—I just stopped wearing a name tag.

I still spend my time investing in things that matter. And right now, that includes a small group of men who are willing to pause once in a while and ask better questions about their lives.

We have two seats left.

It’s free.
It’s early (but not cruel). And you’ll still have about 357 days a year to sleep in.

This is not a program. It’s not therapy. It’s not a Bible study with fill-in-the-blanks. It’s just a group of men choosing to take time seriously.

I call the idea The Ten Balloons—a simple way of looking at the different areas of life and asking: What am I paying attention to? What have I ignored? What might need to change?

You don’t need to agree with anyone.
You don’t need to be “spiritual enough.”
You don’t need to have life figured out.

You just need to be honest, curious, and willing to show up.

No book to read. No curriculum to follow. No expert in the room (especially me).The conversation comes from whoever shows up.

We’ll meet early, one meeting in January (the 20th), two meetings each month: February, March, April and one closing meeting in May What’s expected (eventually): Beyond showing up, within the first month each of us will write a short mission statement for our own “Ten Balloons” and share it by email with the group.

This isn’t about fixing your life.
It’s about noticing it.

If you’ve felt the nudge to slow down, take stock, or begin again—this might be for you.

And if not? No pressure. No guilt. No awkward follow-up. Just an open door.

Logistics (for those still reading):
• First and Third Tuesday of the month
• 6:30–8:00 AM
• At my house in historic Tipp City.
• Bring your own coffee; refills and juice provided.

Email me mike@tenballoons.com to save a seat!

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For those considering joining this group - here is an essay about it!

More Like You. Less Not Normal

An Invitation to Breathe, Notice, and Begin Again

I recently invited a small group of men to share in something I’ve done many times before—a simple kind of gathering for people who sense it might be time for a fresh start. Sometimes that start comes with a new year. Sometimes it comes with a new season of life. Sometimes it follows something harder: a career change, retirement, divorce, a health scare. And sometimes it comes for no clear reason at all—just the quiet feeling that you don’t want to walk the next stretch of life alone.

I began doing this kind of work back in the 1970s. I called it The Ten Balloons—not because it was complicated, but because it wasn’t. At its heart, it was a commitment to pause. To stop long enough to notice the habits you’ve been carrying, the routines you’ve been repeating, and the excuses you may have outgrown.

Not to judge them.
Not to fix everything at once.
Just to see them clearly.

Some people arrive because they want to change their lives. Others come because they want to understand the one they’re already living. Both reasons matter. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do isn’t move forward—it’s stop long enough to take a breath, look around, and say, “This is where I am.”

That pause has become rare. We live in a world that celebrates motion, productivity, and noise. But very little honors reflection. Very little gives permission to rest, reset, or simply say, I’m doing the best I can—and I’d like to do a little better.

When I first began this work nearly fifty years ago, it felt risky. Motivational speaker Zig Ziglar used to say that only three percent of people set goals in multiple areas of life—and are willing to talk about them. At the time, I didn’t believe that number. It felt too small, too pessimistic. But over the decades, I’ve come to think he may have been closer to the truth than I wanted to admit.

That’s what these small groups have always been for. Not a program. Not a performance. Just a space where people can take time seriously—time to listen, time to speak honestly, time to notice what still matters and what might be ready to change.

And over the years, the pattern has stayed mostly the same. Good groups. Honest effort. Real connection. But this year, I’m seeing it with new eyes—and noticing something else quietly rising to the surface, almost like a subtheme:

More like you. Less not normal.

Somewhere along the way, the world got louder and more divided. The news changed. Conversations changed. Even friendships changed. I don’t belong to a political party. I’ve never wanted someone else to do my thinking for me. I’ve always tried to listen carefully, read widely, and figure things out for myself.

But that has gotten harder.

Last year, I made a deliberate decision to be more careful about what I read, what I listen to, and what I watch. Not because I wanted to hide from the world—but because the past decade has been costly. Friendships have been strained. Trust has thinned. Every day seems to bring a new version of truth, and it’s harder than ever to know who to believe.

I’ve watched people of deep faith drift from scripture to popular opinion without quite realizing when the shift happened. And on many days, I’ve felt strangely alone—not because I lacked people around me, but because it felt harder to find honest, thoughtful conversation that wasn’t trying to win something.

That’s part of why these pauses matter more now than ever. Not to fix the world. Not to argue it into shape. But to give people a place where they don’t have to perform, prove, or pretend—just breathe, reflect, and remember who they are beneath all the noise.

Taking time to examine your own Ten Balloons is the doorway into this mindset. Not arguing. Not performing. Just honest conversations with yourself about your future—who you want to be, how you want to live and influence, and, most of all, what God might be asking of you in this season of life for the people within your reach.

Amen.

The Night the Calendar Turns

New Year’s Eve Reflections on Faith, Crowds, and the Roads We Choose

Happy New Year. Yes, I’m writing this on New Year’s Eve. Retirement has a way of loosening one’s grip on the official holiday calendar.

New Year’s Eve has always carried a reflective weight for me. Even for those who claim not to care much about resolutions, there’s something about the calendar turning that invites a pause. I’ve always been inclined to look back before looking ahead—to take inventory of what changed, what stayed the same, and what quietly slipped away.

I didn’t think much about any of that in the 1960s when I graduated from high school. Life felt more linear then, less layered. Still, change was already at work. I went from an eighth-grade class of fewer than twenty students at a small Catholic school to a high school graduation of more than three hundred at Parsippany High School in New Jersey. It felt enormous at the time—a widening world.

Looking back now, that moment feels like an early hint of something I couldn’t yet name: that the way we mark time and celebrate beginnings keeps changing as we do. The calendar repeats itself, but we never quite meet it the same way twice.

On my mother’s side of the family, New Year’s Eve was always a genuine celebration. We’d travel to my aunt and uncle’s home in Pennsylvania—an adventure in itself, since my dad wasn’t especially fond of family gatherings. But Uncle Paul made it worth it. A local fireman, sharply dressed in his uniform, he carried himself with a quiet strength I admired.

Because of him, New Year’s felt like a party—not the adult kind, but the child-friendly version filled with food, laughter, and endless Coca-Cola in small glass bottles we treasured. There were paper hats, noisemakers, pots and pans at midnight, and a loud, joyful Happy New Year!—all before televised countdowns came to define the holiday.

High school graduation quietly changed the tradition. I don’t remember asking permission to take a date thirty miles away to Times Square, but that’s where we ended up. Surrounded by what felt like the entire country, I was overwhelmed—though not yet wise enough to know what we’d signed up for.

Times were different then. No cell phones. Few police barricades. No televised hosts. Just people, party hats, bottles tucked into winter coats, and a city humming with shared anticipation. For one brief hour, it felt like everyone was everyone else’s friend—or at least willing to pretend.

The official countdown was amazing through teenage eyes. Planning, however, was not my strength. We parked miles from the action—a distance that somehow doubled once it was over. With subways closed and crowds moving in the opposite direction, the walk back felt endless. By the time we reached the car, it seemed we’d hiked the Appalachian Trail.

Still, that walk was doing something important. It was creating a memory—one that would last forever, or at least long enough to be told decades later at a New Year’s Eve party.

Years later, during my season of youth ministry, I found myself invited to speak at a New Year’s Eve gathering for teens—a positive, faith-based alternative with pizza, loud music, and adults serving as chaperones. I agreed months in advance, unaware of the venue or the chaos to come.

These were good kids. But I hadn’t realized I’d be addressing hundreds of students packed into what might generously be called a restaurant. Students filled every seat, sat on the floor, and lined the walls. What they didn’t know was that the night would pause for a short spiritual reflection—delivered by a very small man, without a microphone, sound system, or much chance of being heard.

It was a formula for chaos. The organizers were as surprised as I was. They’d expected something smaller and more intimate. Instead, the room filled far beyond anything planned.

Quitting has never been part of my DNA. So I began.

With help from a few familiar students and the organizers, we cleared space and invited a core group to sit near the center. Some came willingly. Others stayed put, understandably skeptical.

That’s when my topic changed.

I told a story—my teenage New Year’s Eve story. It wasn’t polished or profound. I simply spoke louder. They listened more closely. And for about fifteen uncertain minutes, we all leaned into the moment together, wondering how the night might turn out.

And the story I told them was simple. I started by telling them how glad I was that they had chosen to be there that night. Then I talked about being a teenager—about how, sometimes, it can feel like everyone in the world is choosing a different direction, both in the moment and in life. I told them about my own New Year’s Eve years earlier, standing in Times Square, trying to make sense of where I was headed while the crowd surged in every other direction.

The point wasn’t that the journey would be easy. It rarely is. But I shared with them that a faith journey often begins the same way we parked the car that night—far from the destination, unsure of the route, but committed to moving forward anyway. And I reminded them that having others to walk with doesn’t shorten the distance, but it does make the journey richer and more bearable.

I told them that the chaos of that evening might just be a preview of what the coming year would hold—noise, uncertainty, unexpected turns. But sometimes faith means choosing to walk a different path, even when it’s crowded and unclear.

 You might think that after a few of those experiences I would have quietly retired from New Year’s Eve altogether—perhaps returning to something closer to Uncle Paul’s version. But instead, I convinced myself that maybe we could do it differently. Maybe we could create something back home that felt welcoming, safe, and just a little adventurous.

And so the madness began.

Year after year, New Year’s Eve became an invitation to imagine something new. Each time we tried to offer a unique experience—never polished, rarely predictable, and often accompanied by my private vow that this would probably be the last one. Many of those nights remain deeply imprinted in my memory, not because everything went as planned, but because so much didn’t.

One year, we rented a bus—something we had never done before—and headed toward Cincinnati for a Riverboat Dinner Cruise on the Ohio River. About fifty students signed up, and anticipation ran high until freeze warnings shut the river down and the cruise was canceled at the last minute. What followed was a scramble that somehow turned into an adventure: impromptu reservations at a fancy restaurant willing to take us in, a few hours of bowling, and an early-morning breakfast—all made possible by businesses willing to say yes to a group of tired teenagers and a hopeful youth leader with a bus full of Plan B.

Another year, creativity took a different turn. Our Sunday evening youth ministry—high-energy and well-attended—had earned the nickname The Evening Zoo. Somewhere along the way, we thought it would be a good idea to invite a local radio DJ from the actual Morning Zoo to join a New Year’s Eve celebration. Attendance doubled. The energy stayed high. And, as it turned out, the DJ was far more popular with students than with parents, who understandably worried about lyrics and conversation crossing invisible lines. I explained the expectations ahead of time, and the DJ laughed, confident he could make everyone happy. Somehow, he did. The night worked. The legacy lingered. And I was still employed when it was over.

What strikes me now isn’t the risk-taking or even the creativity, but the community that made it possible. Year after year, students kept showing up. Friends invited friends. Adults volunteered—late nights, long hours, little recognition—just to make sure no one got hurt and everyone felt welcome. Looking back, I feel more gratitude than pride. Gratitude that people trusted the idea. Gratitude that things mostly worked. Gratitude that even when they didn’t, something good still came of it.

And as legend would have it, there was at least one more New Year’s Eve when we decided to add something extra to our annual party.

At some point prior to our party, I told a story from my high school years—how I had once been part of the New Jersey State Wrestling Tournament. One of our students, John, happened to be on the local wrestling team, and before long he challenged me to a short match. The idea was simple: add a little spectacle, raise a few dollars for missions, and give everyone a reason to laugh at our upcoming New Year’s Eve party.

I explained to John that we would pass the hat, and if enough money came in, I would wrestle him—and, of course, beat him. The hat made its way around the room, and when it came back with about a hundred dollars, the deal was sealed.

Now, I knew there was no chance I was going to win. Somewhere between the challenge and the mat, my goal quietly shifted—from victory to dignity. If I could avoid making a complete fool of myself, I would count the night as a success.

John still remembers it as a victory, and to be fair, it was. But years later I finally confessed the fuller truth: my connection to the state tournament wasn’t as a competitor, but as a member of the team—there to offer moral support. The laughter that followed was worth far more than the money in the hat.

The Fake New Year

Not every story from our trips is about deep faith or transformation. Some are simply about joy—the kind that sneaks up on you and stays.

It was unusual for our team to be working over New Year’s Eve, but winter break and cheap airfare made it possible. After several long days of work and teaching at a church compound in Hopewell, Jamaica, a few students decided to organize a New Year’s Eve party for the whole team.

None of us knew what celebrating would look like locally, and most agreed it might be safer—and simpler—to stay inside the compound. So we let the students take the lead.

Normally, our trips honored strict lights-out rules, but for this one night we made an exception. The students planned everything: food, games, decorations. The only problem was timing. By 10:00 p.m., the snacks were gone, the energy had dipped, and the party was fading into something politely awkward. Still, no one wanted to hurt the planners’ feelings, so we stayed, smiled, and waited.

That’s when Gabe stepped in.

Gabe was our trip leader—dependable, thoughtful, and quietly mischievous. He came to me with an idea: a harmless deception to save the evening and protect the students’ pride.

This was the pre–cell phone era. No one had a clock or a watch—by design. We wanted students to disconnect from rigid schedules and settle into the slower rhythm of life around us. Gabe simply set his watch an hour ahead.

At 10:50 p.m., he announced that midnight was approaching. He led a song or two, began the countdown, wished everyone a heartfelt Happy New Year, and declared it time for bed. There was a tired cheer. Students hugged, laughed softly, and shuffled off without question. Within thirty minutes, lights were out and the compound was quiet, save for the familiar chorus of barking dogs outside.

Then—real midnight arrived.

The town erupted with music, fireworks, and celebration. Students sat up in bed. Laughter broke out. A few groaned. Others protested playfully. The realization spread quickly.

Gabe had pulled it off.

No one had questioned him—not because he was sneaky, but because they trusted him. That trust had been earned over a long week of shared work, listening, and presence. And in the end, no one was angry. They laughed. They still laugh.

Winter Wishes with Nana

How One Grandmother Shaped a Life of Tradition, Adventure, and Joy

Winter arrived right on schedule in 1957—just the way my grandmother liked it. Nana believed cold weather made the city honest. She bundled me up as if we were heading for the North Pole, though our adventure was just a half-hour subway ride from her Bay Ridge apartment in Brooklyn to Macy’s on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. But with Nana, even the simplest trips felt like expeditions.

For Nana, this day was a wish fulfilled. I was nine, a true New York boy, yet I had never seen the Thanksgiving Day Parade. My father wasn’t fond of crowds, but Nana refused to let that stop a tradition she believed every child should experience. She assured the family we’d be back in time for an early Thanksgiving dinner, issued a few instructions, and claimed the morning for just the two of us. Time together was her favorite gift.

Though probably in her sixties, I spent much of my childhood assuming all grandparents were at least ninety. Not Nana. She climbed four flights of stairs every day, still hoping someone might someday install an elevator. She moved with the steady spark of the Eveready Bunny—always in motion, always ready for the next memory she could create.

Looking back, I see how intentional she was—carefully shaping experiences she believed mattered, proud to guide me into a world she loved. Even then, I knew I was lucky. Not every child feels so fully seen and chosen.

As we headed toward the parade route, Nana detoured into what felt like a magical kingdom—Macy’s Department Store, proud sponsor of the festivities. Inside, I was swallowed by lights, color, and music. Santa’s elves hustled about, reminding us to return after the parade to welcome Santa and Mrs. Claus into their winter quarters. To my nine-year-old eyes, it was all perfectly real.

Outside, we joined the masses lining the streets. Nana had a knack for claiming the perfect spot—just enough space, just enough visibility, just enough magic. We weren’t only waiting for floats or marching bands. We were there for the balloons—the giants I had only ever seen in Sunday comics that I tried so hard to draw.

That year there were three: Mighty Mouse, Gorgeous Gobbler, and Spaceman. As a budding artist, seeing Mighty Mouse float above me—not sketched on paper but soaring in the sky—felt like a dream only Nana could have made possible.

Then the crowd shifted. Nana sensed it first. The noise softened, a hush moved forward like a wave, and then came the cheers—from both adults and children. She kept her eyes on me as Santa appeared, high above the crowd in his sleigh, waving as if he knew us personally.

In that moment, her wish was fulfilled. And for me, something clicked. I learned what every New York kid learned back then: Christmas didn’t begin when the calendar said so. It began the moment Santa reached Herald Square—like the ball dropping in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. It meant everything.

When Santa passed, we slipped back into our day as if nothing unusual had happened. On the subway headed back to 86th Street, I leaned into her warmth, tired in the best possible way. She bent down and whispered, Just wait until next year. It felt like a promise.

At home, the family was waiting—turkey on the table, dinner ready, questions ready, eager to hear every detail of our new tradition.

And Then… Christmas Break

True to her word, the next Christmas Break arrived with the same excitement. Nana packed fruit and sandwiches, bundled us even warmer, and led me back to the subway. But this time, our destination was completely new: Radio City Music Hall.

I had only heard whispers of its grandeur. The Christmas Spectacular with the 36 Rockettes was legendary, and somehow Nana decided it was time I experienced it.

Nana valued discipline. She always set high expectations for my behavior, especially on days like this. On the subway, she prepared me: there would be 5,000 people in line—stretching down the street—waiting for both the show and the movie afterward. (Ticketmaster hadn’t been invented yet.)

The barricades stretched endlessly. Thousands braved the bitter cold. Stepping into Radio City’s grand foyer left me speechless. Nicknamed the Showplace of the Nation and built in 1932, it was where I fell in love with Art Deco art and architecture—the stairways to four floors, the mirrors, the chrome and brass railings, the decorations, the music. The message was clear: when New York entertains, it does so with breathtaking generosity.

The show was spectacular. And afterward came Old Yeller, the timeless story of a dog who saves a boy’s life and becomes part of the family. But even more powerful was the realization that Nana had created something far bigger than a fun outing. She had planted a legacy—one that would ripple outward for decades.

Years later, reminiscing together, her smile carried all the joy of those early days. Traditions don’t just happen. They are intentional, purposeful, and—most of all—fun. That’s what she gave me.

Twenty-Five Years Later

Much later—sitting in our home in Ohio, in one of our last conversations—I thanked her properly. I told her how her high expectations shaped me into a better person, how her belief that I could go to college, succeed, and simply be a good human had carried me through life. We laughed, we cried.

Then I shared how her legacy continued through my children, grandchildren, and our many adventures and memories of New York City—the Thanksgiving Day Parade, Radio City, and beyond.

She had always been excited about my work as a youth leader. I told her about the groups of students I’d taken on Christmas-in-New-York trips—not just for the parade or the Rockettes, but for the Rockefeller Center tree, the lights, the food, the crowds—the culture. A culture that begins early, grows with experience, and continues through Winter Wishes for people of all ages.

Only then did I realize how many lives she had unknowingly touched.

Sixty-Eight Years of Legacy

Sixty-eight years later, Nana’s traditions and values continue to shape my life. Hundreds of teens and adults—and my own family—have traveled with us to experience New York. My unspoken goal has always been simple: that they fall in love with the city and its culture the way I did.

A postscript: This Thanksgiving in 2025, ten of our family members will return to New York City. We’ll watch the balloons inflate on Wednesday evening, wake up for the parade and the thousands joining us to welcome Santa, visit Radio City, enjoy favorite restaurants, ride the subway, walk and walk—and for a few days, reconnect with the memory of Nana.

This year, my personal artwork features Spider-Man (pictured below) —yes, we’ve come a long way from Mighty Mouse—but the heart of the tradition remains: embracing change while honoring what should never change.

Her Winter Wishes live on—carried forward in every laugh, every adventure, and every life she quietly touched.

Historic Doorways On Main

Historic Doorways of Main Street: A Sketch Series

This collection of nine doorway sketches captures the architectural character of my hometown’s Main Street—one drawing at a time. Each doorway tells a quiet story of design, function, and the people who built, owned, or passed through these spaces over the years. I chose not to include addresses or detailed descriptions, inviting viewers—especially those familiar with the community—to pause, look closer, and maybe notice what’s usually overlooked. These doors aren’t just entries into buildings—they're entries into our shared history. This series reflects my mission: bringing history to life through art, architecture, restoration, and storytelling—and reminding us that sometimes, the everyday structures around us are more extraordinary than we realize.