Gosger

A Long Shot Worth Remembering

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.

The Case: Die Hard as a Christmas Movie

By Where Christmas Shows Up After the Work is Done. • December 20, 2025
Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥

The Letter I Never Meant to Send

By Written for Anyone Who Meant to Come Back to the Conversation • December 19, 2025
I don’t know your name, but I know this moment. You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think. I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair. This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back. I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet. Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss. But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. That’s why this matters to me. Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance. If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand. If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too. If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love. Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will. Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on. If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open. Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up. And that is no small gift.

The Day After

By Because Grief is Heavy Enough… • December 16, 2025
The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape. This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next. Because grief is heavy enough. Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you. Who do we call now? What needs to be paid? Is there insurance? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming. I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion. I’ve also seen something else. I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today. Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it. When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human. Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there. Because grief is heavy enough on its own. Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension. If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving. Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy. Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess. And that is no small gift. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty