Gosger

We watched the Preakness this past Saturday. We didn’t throw a full-on party like we did for the Derby—no fancy hats, no fun foods. But we still honored tradition in our own small way: not with a Mint Julep, but with a Black-Eyed Susan, the official drink of the Preakness. Just a quiet afternoon, and a drink in hand. A little ritual. A little altar, in its own unlikely way.

The weather in Baltimore was perfect—a sharp contrast to the mud-soaked chaos of the Derby a few weeks earlier. And while no one sang “Run for the Roses,” I still found myself humming it—because honestly, what’s a springtime horse race without a little Dan Fogelberg in the background?

One horse in particular caught my attention—Gosger. He was the one I was pulling for. Not because he was flashy, but precisely because he wasn’t. At 20:1 odds, he was the forgotten one—overlooked and underestimated.

But what really made me root for him was his name. One of his owners, a woman named Donna Clarke, chose “Gosger” not for flair or branding, but in honor of a Facebook friend, Jim Gosger. A name I should have recognized—but didn’t.

I’ve been a Mets fan for as long as I can remember. The 1969 Miracle Mets are etched into my memory like sacred scripture—Seaver, Grote, Koosman, Swoboda. But Jim Gosger? Honestly, I had to look him up. He played in 39 games that year. I didn’t remember him—but Donna Clarke did.

And that horse—like his namesake, nearly forgotten—almost made history. He ran his heart out, finishing just a half-length behind the favorite.

It felt right that it happened at the Preakness—the middle child of the Triple Crown. Not the glamorous Derby with its roses and celebrities. Not the Belmont with its history-making potential. Just the Preakness: scrappy, quieter, easy to forget.

And to be honest, the whole story reminds me of my beloved Mets. The Yankees are more like Churchill Downs—steeped in legacy and pageantry. The Mets? They’re more like Pimlico. Gritty. Quirky. Prone to chaos. And yet, every so often, capable of something miraculous.

You don’t root for the Mets because it’s fashionable. You root for them because they make you believe anything is possible. That the overlooked and underestimated still have a shot. That long shots can still run the race of their lives. And sometimes, even when they fall short, they remind you what heart looks like.

There’s something quietly beautiful about that. Because Gosger the horse didn’t run in the Derby. He didn’t get the spotlight. He just showed up at the Preakness—the middle space—and gave it everything he had.

And Gosger the Met? He wasn’t the star. He was one of the many in the background who helped hold the miracle together.

So, where’s the unlikely altar?

It’s in the choosing. In the small but defiant act of remembering someone who could have been forgotten. Donna Clarke didn’t pick a name to impress the crowd. She picked a name that mattered. And in doing so, she built an altar—not out of stone or stained glass, but out of memory and meaning.

Altars don’t always stand in cathedrals. Sometimes, they show up in a name, in a race, in a drink raised quietly on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, they run.

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This Is Still Holy Ground

By A Pride Month reflection from Texas—where love is louder than legislation. • June 3, 2025

To my LGBTQ+ siblings and neighbors, whose courage humbles me— Happy Pride Month. I want to say something that should’ve been said a long time ago, and said more often: You are loved. Fully. No exceptions. Not in spite of who you are, not as a “God-loves-you-but…” kind of thing. Just… loved. Period. And while I say this with my whole heart, I’m also carrying sorrow—and yes, heartbreak—again this year. Because in Texas, where I live, lawmakers have passed Senate Bill 12, a law passed earlier this year, set to take effect September 1, 2025. It bans school-sponsored LGBTQ+ clubs—stripping away vital spaces where queer students could gather, be seen, be safe, and know they belong. My heart is broken. Again. As an ally. As a person of faith. As someone who believes school should be a place for growth, not shame. Let’s be clear: this isn’t about protecting children. It’s about erasing the ones who don’t fit someone else’s definition of “acceptable.” And as someone who follows Jesus—the Jesus who welcomed the outcast, who defended the excluded, who never once asked someone to shrink to be loved—I can’t stay quiet. I won’t. We were called to be people of love and instead, far too often, we’ve chosen fear dressed up in religion. We’ve preached inclusion and practiced exclusion. We’ve claimed grace for ourselves and forgotten to offer it freely. There are so many ways we’ve gotten it wrong. And if you’ve been hurt—by a church, by a Christian, by a culture shaped by both—I just want you to hear: you did not deserve that. You are not a mistake. You are not a disruption. You are not someone God is disappointed in. You are a gift. Pride is about joy. About presence. About refusing to apologize for being beautifully, wonderfully, unapologetically you. It’s about surviving when the world said you shouldn’t. It’s about taking up your space in the world—and in the pews, and at the communion table, and under the stars where God saw you and said, “This is very good.” If the Church or the state has made you feel like there’s no room for you—I want you to know: that wasn’t Jesus. That was us, missing the mark. Again. Pride Month gives me a chance to say what I should say all year: You are beloved. You are sacred. You belong. And if no one’s ever said it to you from a pulpit or a pew or a prayer—hear it here, now, from me: I see the holy in you. And I’m standing with you. Maybe this is the Unlikely Altar: a broken heart that refuses to give up on love. So, to every LGBTQ+ person— To those in Texas and beyond… To those who’ve been made to feel like your existence is “too controversial” To the ones who wonder if it’s safer not to be yourself at all, To the ones who’ve lost a safe space but haven’t lost your spirit— Here is my prayer for you: May you find allies in unexpected places. May you never believe the lie that your life is less than sacred. May your identity never be a source of shame—only of strength. May you be met with fierce kindness, quiet solidarity, and loud joy. And may you never, ever forget: There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s so much right with you. With love, An ally, A Christian, And a work in progress

The Glove Left Behind

By On Baseball, Absence, and the Sacred Ache of What Never Was • May 28, 2025

I never had a catch with my dad. Not once. Not even close. He chose to leave pretty much, long before I knew what to do with a ball or how to spell “mitt.” One day he was there, the next—he wasn’t. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn’t come back. I didn’t even know what I was missing at the time. You can’t grieve what you don’t understand. But as I got older and saw other dads playing catch with their kids—heard the thump of leather in the air, saw the high-fives and the laughter—I started to understand exactly what I didn’t get. Then one day, years later, I was digging through an old box when I found it. Inside among papers, certificates and other stuff, was a baseball glove. His glove. It was worn and dusty, creased like it had lived a life. I slipped my hand inside. It didn’t fit quite right. No way it could fit, he was left-handed. He was a southpaw. And I never knew. It hit me, standing with his glove, that I didn’t even know what hand my father threw with. That glove had never been mine and never would be. It wasn’t a gift. It was just… something he left behind. I kept it. Tucked it back into the box. Closed the box and returned it to the shelf. Funny enough, there’s another box in the same closet. That one holds his ashes. So now I’ve got a box with his body, and a box with his glove. One for the man who left, one for the game he never played with me. Now, if you know me, you know I love baseball. For me it is the metaphor for life, The long season. The rhythm. The fact that you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great. That’s probably why Field of Dreams always hits me like a fastball to the chest. Especially the end—Costner turning to his dad, voice a little shaky, asking, “Hey Dad… wanna have a catch?” Every single time, I lose it. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it. That moment wrecks me. Because that was my dream. Always. That was the moment I never got. But here’s where the story turns. Not long ago, I was in the backyard with one of my sons. We were messing around; we grabbed gloves (both right-handed ones, thank you very much) and I him tossed a ball. He threw it back. And there it was. We were having a catch. Just like that. No soundtrack swelling. No ghosts in cornfields. Just a dad and his kid, throwing a ball back and forth. And I’ve gotta say—it was one of the best things ever. That backyard moment didn’t fix what I missed growing up. But it rewrote the story. It baptized the ache. It reminded me that I don’t have to pass down what was handed to me. I get to choose something different. I get to show up. That glove—the one that never quite fit—still sits in the box. But lately, I’ve thought about taking it out. Maybe even setting it on a shelf. Not because it’s sacred, but because it tells the truth. That even something left behind can hold a thread of redemption. It’s a reminder, of the father who disappeared, of the son who chose to stay, and the backyard catch that said, this story isn’t over. I never had a catch with my dad. But I get to have one with my boys. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s more than enough. Because I still believe in baseball. I believe in gloves that don’t fit and grace that does. I believe in showing up—even when it wasn’t shown to you. And I believe that when this life winds down, and the lights go soft, I’ll hear a voice—quiet, kind, and holy—“Hey kid… wanna have a catch?” And I’ll know exactly who it is.

If Love Had A Voice

By Whispers of memory on a day that holds more than we say • May 11, 2025

Mother’s Day is tender terrain. For some, it brings joy—a chance to celebrate the women who raised us, nurtured us, cheered us on. But for many, it’s more complicated. It can carry a quiet ache that sneaks up without warning. A scent. A song. A laugh that sounds too much like hers. Or simply the sharp truth: She’s not here. Some grieve mothers who were a steady presence. Others mourn the absence of that kind of love. Some carry the weight of children lost far too soon—or children who never came. Some made the brave, invisible decision not to become mothers. Others mother daily, without ever being called “Mom.” And all of it—every version of love and loss—is sacred. I was part of a gathering Friday evening at Kingwood Funeral Home, a quiet space for those holding heavy things on this weekend. We cried. We laughed. We remembered. And I was struck again by how love never really leaves. It just changes form. It shows up in the way we fold towels, the way we stir our tea, the way we still talk to the air like someone’s listening. Grief is just love that’s had to take a different shape. And it has a way of leaking out—through stories, songs, silent rituals no one sees. Two cups of coffee when there’s only one person. A contact still saved in the phone. A casserole made without a recipe, because you know it by heart. It’s funny how stitched into our lives someone can be—until they’re gone, and suddenly we notice everything. The phrases coming out of our own mouths. The craving for a dish we swore we’d never eat again. The way we hold others, the way we were once held. It’s in the towel folding and the soup stirring. In the way we carry their memory like a photo tucked in our chest pocket. And not every mother was gentle or safe. For some, “Mom” is a complicated word. Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe she hurt more than helped. Maybe she couldn’t show up the way you needed. If that’s your story, you belong in this reflection too. Your grief is no less sacred. Your truth, no less valid. And those who mothered without the title? They are the quiet heroes in the background. The aunts, teachers, neighbors, chosen family. The ones who packed lunches, listened without judgment, and brought snacks when everything felt like too much. Whether they were related by blood or not, they offered a kind of presence that shaped us. Mother’s Day is loud in the world—brunch specials and pastel greeting cards. But here, in this quiet corner, we make space for the full truth. The complicated stories. The holy ones. This is an Unlikely Altar A place to lay down grief and pick up memory. A place to let yourself feel what you’ve been holding in. To cry. To laugh. To remember. We remember the spicy moms, the loud ones, the unembarrassable ones. The ones who gave advice no one asked for, who made casseroles and life plans in the same breath. The ones with purses that could produce a Band-Aid, a pen, and a snack at a moment’s notice. The ones who stirred tea with a butter knife and never got names right, but made everyone feel like family. We say their names. We tell their stories. Because remembering is how we keep love alive. So if the tears come today, let them. If a memory makes you laugh out loud, don’t hold it back. If all you can do is sit quietly and breathe, that’s holy, too. Grief is not a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of great love. And those we love? They are not gone. You are not alone. Love stays. And so do they.