Monthly Archives: November 2025

Can I Be Broccoli?

My frequent critique of social media (and repeated reference to the dire predictions of Jacques Ellul) often feel justified when examining my Facebook feed, but I also try to admit the irony that I bemoan social media on social media, which just feels wrong. 

As is typical, others say what I hope to say better, and I recently stumbled across a YouTube video from author John Green titled, Am I Cigarettes?

Am I Cigarettes? – YouTube

Green had the courage to ask whether the content he posts contributes to societal demise in a similar way that cigarettes served as a pathway to cancer. Am I cigarettes? he asked.

His brother took the bait and countered with a separate video and different metaphor, arguing that those that contribute content, including he and his brother, are more like food than cigarettes, with food possessing the potential to be good or bad, while cigarettes are always bad. As Green described to the New York Times, his brother argued, “We’re food, and there’s a lot of bad food, but hopefully we’re good food.”

You’re Not Addicted to Content, You’re Starving for Information – YouTube

I found their exchange interesting and now ask about my use of social media: Can I be broccoli?

Once upon a time in my twenties, in a decade far, far away, a biographical sketch of Abraham Lincoln argued that Lincoln had a “passion for distinction.” That phrase had a major impact on me because I thought that maybe I did, too. The author proposed that Lincoln used his personal passion for noble purposes, and I wondered at the time if others would look back at the life in front of me with similar positive reviews.

Now, playing the back nine of life, it seems rather obvious that no one is going to name the capital of Nebraska after me. And I figured out a long time ago that this was a good thing. I recently watched the new Charlie Sheen biopic and remembered that fame would have gone poorly for me, too.

I grew up naive. I guess everyone does to some extent, but I grew up extra naive. I was raised in a small town in a family with little money that kept to ourselves. My Dad was a provider but also a shelterer and reclusive. My Mom successfully taught me to be a good boy and raised me in a religious environment with the stated goal to protect us from a scary world. All that to say it took me a long, long time to grow up, to use that tired phrase, but as an adult, moving to new places, reading a lot of books, and the introduction of the internet combined to procure a long, slow education. My life turned out okay, and I cannot complain, but it is now abundantly clear that any acceleration that would have come with fame would have been disastrous.

So while the desire to produce something significant on a major scale still pokes its head up periodically, I now tend to play whack-a-mole with it more often than not. I may be a slow learner, but I want to remain a learner.

Which brings me back to my little blog and personal social media presence. What I write and share does not attract high-profile attention, and not only am I okay with that (now), what I do does not fit the popularity profile anyway.

But I hope it is good. I hope it is not part of the destructive side of social media. To return to the metaphor, if what I do is a bit of food, can it be broccoli? Something not very popular, but healthy?

Should I get to retire someday, I plan to have already done all the traveling that I want to do. Should I get to retire someday, my plan does not involve golf or fishing. Instead, should I get to retire someday, if my mind and health permits, I want to write.

And I have come to terms with the fact that it is not to write the great American novel or a blockbuster movie screenplay. If you can believe it, I am not even that invested in writing to be remembered. No, if I get the privilege of looking back and sharing my thoughts in written form, it would primarily be for my daughters, should they be interested, and whether they are or not, I want whatever I leave behind to be healthy and good. 

In the meantime, for now at least, I plan to keep contributing to the produce aisle of the world and go to sleep at night hoping that my meager contributions produce more good than bad.

Although to be transparent, I’m not 100% convinced that the cigarettes idea is entirely wrong.

Embrace the Coming Winter

If we never deny / the inevitable end / of the story, / we will write it / more beautiful / while we’re alive.

– Andrea Gibson, from Time Piece, in You Better Be Lightning (page 21)

I saw clouds the specific color of antifreeze as I jogged into the woods this morning, which confirmed that despite the calendar, today is our first taste of winter. Temperature in the upper twenties, which equaled the wind’s miles per hour, so the math equation determined that it felt like thirteen outdoors. I went out overdressed but unashamed.

When we first considered Wisconsin, I heard that the people here tend to embrace the winter rather than simply endure it, which I later discovered to be true. Instead of hunkering down for survival, Wisconsinites engage in winter festivals, winter sports, and carry on age-old winter traditions. I like the entire idea, especially as I grow older.

I am fifty-five years old now and wondering how that happened. Age is relative, of course, but my parents passed in their seventies, so it isn’t crazy to guess about twenty years remaining in this hotel stay called life.

Until recently, I had generally been the youngest person in a room. I was a late-in-life child and the youngest in my family. My birthday fell so that I was always the youngest in my class, starting kindergarten at age four and college at seventeen, and I was still twenty-one when I became a high school coach and teacher.

I married at twenty-three and with it had the crazy-cool (but still crazy) opportunity to be a parent for the sweetest little seven-year-old, and to make it even more outrageous, a year or so later my wife and I became full-time “houseparents” for courageous teenagers overcoming troubled pasts. We were always the “young” parents for all of the people we have considered “our kids” regardless of where their lives started.

Over and over and over again, I felt young for fill-in-the blank. I was in my late twenties when I completely switched careers to lead an entire church. To just be gross, I had a colonoscopy in my thirties, one thing I wished had been more age appropriate. My dad died when I was twenty-four, and my mom died when I was forty-one, which to me surely felt too young to be the top branch on a family tree.

The first chink in my youthful armor came when I went to law school in my late thirties, but even then, although I joked about being old all the time, the truth was that going to school in sweatshirts and blue jeans with a group of generous young folks who treated me as a colleague made me feel like a kid again.

I guess it was about three years ago when the shift happened. I was a member of a college president’s cabinet at the time, and I recall the day that I looked around the room and noticed that I was one of the oldest there. That felt so bizarre, but that feeling has happened so often since that it is now familiar.

Recently, Jody and I started talking a bit about retirement. You have no idea how unusual that is for us. My standing joke is that one thing we have always agreed on in our marriage is making poor financial choices for our future. But, truth be told, my approach to my own faith never made the words “wealth accumulation” super interesting, and I actually like to work. Add in my suspicion that I won’t live forever, and the idea of retirement never garnered much attention. But suddenly, we find ourselves talking about it some. Maybe in ten or fifteen years if all goes well…

All this has me thinking about embracing the coming winter.

I do love the fall season, but there is a reason that the leaves transform in blazing beauty and then fall to the earth en masse. The trees lose energy and nutrients, which produces gorgeous colors and signals that the leaves won’t survive. Those brilliant colors soon fade, and the trees are laid bare for the dark, cold winter.

So what posture should we adopt for the winter that approaches in our own lives? Not a popular conversation opener for a cocktail party, I suppose, but since I have never been a fan of living in denial, I choose to consider it anyway.

I like the idea of embracing it. Not hunkering down and withering away. Well, withering away may not be optional, but I like the idea of somehow withering with one’s head held high (as possible).

Bears hibernate in winter, but everyone here in Packer Country hates (the Chicago) bears anyway, so I am in friendly territory to adopt a different approach. I am grateful to my friend Mikey for introducing me to the incredible poetry of Andrea Gibson recently, and her conclusion to Time Piece encapsulates what I want to say—and do: “If we never deny the inevitable end of the story, we will write it more beautiful while we’re alive.”

Yes, that’s it. Seeing the coming winter with clear eyes creates space for something more beautiful. Winter approaches, and that is okay.