Better Than a Dragon
Where Fairy Tales Fall Short, Love Steps In
When I was a kid, my father was a mystery—real in theory, but invisible in practice. Kind of like the dragons in the storybooks. (Thank you, Don Miller for this idea).
I knew fathers were real. I saw them in my neighborhood. At school events. Sitting in the stands. Telling bad jokes over dinner at my friends’ houses. I just didn’t see one in my own home. And for a long time, I assumed that meant there was something wrong with me.
I’ve written before about my biological father and the worn leather baseball glove he left behind. How that glove held more than its shape—how it held absence, too. A reminder of what wasn’t there.
That glove sat packed away in a box for years. Not flashy. Not mysterious. But quietly full of memory. It didn’t hold answers. Just questions.
Who was he? Did he ever think of me? Would we have tossed this ball around, had things been different?
Looking back now, I realize that old glove was the first thing that hinted at something bigger—something sacred hidden in the ordinary. Maybe that’s what theology really is. It taught me that absence can be tangible. That love, even when missing, can still leave a trace. That longing is its own kind of prayer.
But this story isn’t only about what wasn’t there. It’s about what came to take its place.
One day, my mom brought home a man who seemed enormous. Over six feet tall, driving a Chevy station wagon that felt like a spaceship to a kid who had only known a one-parent universe. I remember looking up at him and thinking, Is this what it feels like to stand next to a mountain?
At the time, I didn’t know how to name it. But something began to shift.
He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t make promises or declarations. He just… stayed. Through the slammed doors, the smart mouth, the years when I gave him every reason to walk away, he didn’t.
He never wore a cape. Never rode a dragon. But he showed up with groceries and grace. With quiet patience and fierce loyalty. And he caught more than baseballs—he caught my older brother and little sister.
His name was Warren. He never asked to be anyone’s hero. But as I think about it he was mine.
He passed away a few years ago. And while I told him thank you in a hundred little ways over the years, I don’t know if I ever said all of this. I hope he knew. I think he did.
Because love like his doesn’t go unnoticed. It sinks in. It stays. It shapes the life it touches - - just like that glove shaped a hand that once wore it.
And now I have two boys of my own. Connor. Zach. They are both dads themselves.
You didn’t come with instruction manuals. You didn’t ask for me to carry all my old questions into fatherhood. But you gave me the gift of becoming a dad—not in theory, not in longing, but in full, beautiful reality.
And I want you to know this: Being your father has been the greatest grace of my life. I hope you know. I think you do.
Because that’s how love works. Passed down not just through blood, but through presence. Through staying. Through choosing. Through gloves handed down and hands held on the hardest days.
This Father’s Day, I’m thinking of the man who stepped into the gap for me—
And the sons who have filled my life with more joy than I could have imagined.
None of it is a fairy tale.
It’s better.
It’s real.
And it’s sacred.
I have always been passionate about the game of baseball. Not just the big-league games on TV or those legendary October moments, but the small stuff too - - the sandlots, the cracked bats, the smell of leather gloves. Baseball has this rhythm that feels like life: long stretches of waiting, bursts of action, moments of joy, and the occasional heartbreak. I never played T-ball or coach-pitch ( neither were available for me ), but I remember vividly the first time I stood at home plate in a real Little League game. I stood in the batter's box with a bat in my hands and a pitcher staring me down. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my knees felt like rubber, and I had no idea what I was doing-not really. I didn't strike out, but not because of anything I did. The pitcher wasn't the best, and I was too scared to swing. Eventually, I walked. My big debut was nothing heroic, but I made it to first base. And I learned something that day: showing up is half the battle, even when you're scared out of your mind. I didn't know it then, but there's something deeply sacred about those shaky-knee moments - - the ones where fear doesn't disappear, but you move forward anyway. Throughout Scripture, it's often in moments of trembling - - burning bushes, angel visitations, storm-tossed boats-that people encounter the presence of God. Holiness isn't always calm and serene; sometimes it arrives with a pounding heart and a lump in your throat. Sacred and scared share all the same letters-just arranged a little differently. And maybe that's the point. Sometimes, all that stands between fear and holiness is a shift in perspective, a reordering of what we thought we knew. In my experience, the most sacred moments often begin in fear-not because fear is divine, but because that's where grace so often meets us. That's what this series is about: the space between scared and sacred. The ordinary moments that hold more meaning than we realize. Over the next few weeks, I'll share a few reflections from the ballfield and beyond. Not sermons-just stories. About showing up, falling down, stretching out, and holding onto hope when the game goes into extra innings. Because sometimes, the most sacred ground is dusty, unpredictable, and marked by chalk lines. Now, " sacred " is a word people usually save for stained glass and holy places, not outfield grass and dugouts. But here's what I've noticed: sacred moments don't just happen in quiet chapels or mountain sunsets. They sneak up on us in ordinary spaces-sometimes right where the dust rises, the lights hum, and the scoreboard blinks. Think about it: • The first time you step up to the plate in front of a crowd- - you're scared. • The moment you stop to breathe in a world that never slows down - - it feels like you're falling behind. • The day you drop the ball, and everyone sees - - it feels like failure will get the last word. • And when life goes off-script, and you're deep into extra innings - - you're not sure how much longer you can hold on. Sacred doesn't always feel safe. It often starts with that flutter in your stomach, that quickening heartbeat, that voice that says, "What if I strike out?" But if we never show up, we never get to swing. This series is called Sacred in the Sandlot: Finding Grace Between the Sacred and the Scared because I believe those two words belong together. Every holy, ordinary moment in life comes with a little risk. A little vulnerability. A little fear. That's what makes it beautiful. Over the next few weeks, I'll be sharing four reflections inspired by baseball and life: • Stepping Up to the Plate - The Fear of Showing Up • The 7th Inning Stretch - Sacred Pauses in a Fear-Driven World • The Error That Changed Everything - Failing into Grace • Extra Innings - When Life Goes Off Script These aren't sermons. They're stories. Little snapshots of where the sacred hides out-sometimes in plain sight, sometimes in the places that make us sweat a little. So grab your glove, or at least a good seat on the bleachers. And let's see what happens when we lean into the scared places long enough to find the sacred. Because sometimes the most holy ground is covered in dirt.
This past Tuesday was National Sjögren’s Awareness Day . For the record, it’s pronounced SHOW-grins - - like a cheerful facial expression, which is ironic since Sjögren’s is neither cheerful nor smile-inducing. And the color for the day (because every awareness day has a color) is blue, which is fitting, because some days with this disease, I feel pretty blue myself. Sjögren's is an autoimmune disease that quietly disrupts the body’s ability to produce moisture - - leaving eyes painfully dry, mouths uncomfortably parched, and joints stiff and sore. But it doesn’t stop there. Fatigue, a deep, dragging fatigue, becomes a daily companion. Brain fog moves in like a heavy mist. Muscles ache. Moods shift. And all the while, you still look fine. I have Sjögren’s . I was diagnosed just over two years ago, but looking back, I’ve been struggling with it far longer. I could never figure out why my mouth would go bone dry when I rode, ran, or preached. Or why my eyes were always red and irritated. And these days, it’s not just the dry mouth or eyes; the disease has changed so many aspects of my life. Take cycling, for example. It used to be my happy place - - my prayer-on-wheels. Now I have to give myself a full TED Talk just to get on the bike. Riding 20 miles feels like a cross-country trek. I’ve dreamed of running another half-marathon, but honestly? The thought alone exhausts me. Even typing that feels like remembering someone else’s life. And yes - - others have it worse. People face far more painful, devastating diseases. But still . It’s a quiet toll - - always running in the background. Not dramatic enough to draw attention, not urgent enough to explain why I’m not quite myself. But real enough to shape every single day. And here’s where it gets frustrating: even with a diagnosis, I’m not sure my rheumatologist fully understands the impact. We talk about dry eyes and dry mouth, sure, they’re part of it, but that barely scratches the surface. There’s also the unrelenting fatigue. The joint pain. The muscle aches. The brain fog. The poor sleep. The mood swings. And this general sense that my body just doesn’t bounce back anymore. Sometimes I try to explain how much my daily life has shifted - - how much effort even the “small” things take now. And I get the nod. You know the one. The polite, clinical nod. It’s hard to explain the grief of being diminished by something invisible. It’s hard to describe how lonely it feels when the world thinks you’re fine. It’s hard to keep pushing forward when your body keeps whispering, no, not today. And it’s not just Sjögren’s that is invisible on the outside. It’s the chronic migraines. The long-haul COVID. The autoimmune mystery that doesn’t even have a name yet. The mental illness that hides behind a practiced smile. The pain carried by people who look perfectly fine on the outside. The battles no one sees - - because on the outside, everything looks perfect. We are surrounded by people who are quietly struggling with things we cannot see. And that makes me wonder: what if these unseen battles are Unlikely Altars, too? Could this be what an Unlikely Altar looks like? Not a holy place we walk into. But one we carry around inside us. The altar where we lay down perfection and pick up grace. The altar where we learn to listen to our body instead of pushing through. The altar where we stop trying to keep up and start learning how to be kind—to ourselves and to others. The altar where the broken parts are still beloved. No, I wouldn’t choose this path. But I’m beginning to trust that even here - - even in the dryness, the fatigue, the quiet grief - - there is something sacred trying to emerge. So, here’s my quiet invitation: Let’s give each other more grace than we think is necessary. Let’s assume people are carrying more than they’re saying. Let’s practice kindness—not as sentiment, but as daily practice. You never know what invisible weight someone is bearing. And you never know when someone might look at you and think, Thank God, someone else understands. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Let’s just admit something up front: Asking for forgiveness feels like walking into a room naked, holding a plate of burnt cookies. You feel exposed. Awkward. Unsure if what you’re offering is enough—or even edible. It’s terrifying. It’s humbling. And yet, it might be one of the most sacred things we ever do. This is the final post in a four-part series shaped by a tender moment from the show THE PITT, and grounded in the wisdom of palliative care physician Dr. Ira Byock. In his book, The Four Things That Matter Most, he names four phrases we often wait too long to say: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. We’ve explored the first three—words that mend, release, and reconnect. But this last one? It’s the most vulnerable of all. “Please forgive me” places the power in someone else’s hands. And that’s exactly what makes it holy. It means admitting you’re not always the hero in someone else’s story. It’s saying, “ I messed up. I see it now. I wish I had done better. And I hope we can begin again .” To ask for forgiveness is to lay down your armor—your excuses, your good intentions, your pride. It’s not weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom. We lose our temper. We say the joke that cuts too deep. We go silent when someone needed our voice. We love poorly—or not at all. To say “Please forgive me” is to stop hiding and take ownership for our impact. It’s not self-hatred. It’s self-awareness. And it may be the first true step toward healing. I’ve made mistakes - - big ones and small ones. The kind that wakes you up at night. The kind you still defend in your head. The kind you wish more than anything you could undo. And somewhere along the way, I learned this: Guilt says, “You did wrong.” Shame says, “You are wrong.” Guilt can lead to growth. Shame just keeps you stuck. Grace, however, speaks a different word altogether: “Yes, you messed up. But that’s not all you are.” It tells you your failures don’t have the final word. That you're more than your worst moments. And that healing is still possible. You can’t change the past. But you can reshape the future. And sometimes all it takes… is a few brave words. Forgiveness doesn’t always look the same. Sometimes it’s a trembling phone call. Sometimes it’s a letter you never send. Sometimes it’s standing at a gravesite, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to someone who can no longer answer - - because you need to say it anyway. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s tears you didn’t expect. Sometimes it’s finally being able to exhale. “Please forgive me” isn’t etiquette. It’s a sacred act. It says, “I’m taking responsibility. I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing love over ego.” It might sound like: “I didn’t know how to love you back then. I’m sorry.” “I wish I had shown up better for you.” “I know I hurt you, and I want to own that.” “Please forgive me—not because I’ve earned it, but because I’m asking in love.” It won’t always be clean. Or poetic. But it might be real enough to begin again. This may be the most fragile altar we ever build. It doesn’t look like a church or a ceremony. It looks like a shaky voice at a kitchen table. A voicemail you almost didn’t leave. A tear-streaked prayer whispered into the quiet: “Please forgive me.” It’s an altar of humility. Of trying again. Of giving love another chance. It’s an Unlikely Altar—because it rises from our flaws, not our strengths. And still, somehow, it’s the very place grace loves to meet us.