The Sagewood Wind- Colorado 2026

The recent trip to visit our daughter and son-in-law in Hayden, Colorado, was full of adventure, laughter, and the kind of memories that stay with you long after you've unpacked your bags.

It began with a challenge. Storms in Denver forced our flight to divert to Omaha, Nebraska, of all places. For a while it looked as though we might miss our connecting flight to Hayden altogether. More than six hours after we had expected to arrive, we finally landed—tired, relieved, and simply thankful to be there.

Our first full day (Thursday) was an easy one while our hosts were at work. We wandered through the small town of Hayden, stopped by the local library to pick up a few free books, and enjoyed coffee at the neighborhood coffee shop. That afternoon we hiked around Elkhead Reservoir, where the wide-open beauty reminded us once again why Colorado has such a hold on those who love the outdoors.

But something unexpected captured my attention even more than the scenery.

It was the wind.

Before the week was over, I had started calling it the Sagewood Wind. It seemed to have a personality all its own—sometimes cool, sometimes warm, always moving. It carried the scents of sage, dry earth, wildflowers, and distant rain. It swept across a landscape that felt almost like a desert tucked into the mountains. There were few trees of any size, yet the hills were alive with shades of green, brown, and gold, dotted with blooms that swayed together as if the wind itself were conducting them.

When I hike, my mind has a habit of turning over ideas, names, and stories. As the miles passed, I kept coming back to that phrase: Sagewood Wind. I had come to Colorado expecting the mountains to be the highlight, but somehow the breeze stole the show.

After months of Alabama's heavy summer humidity, that dry mountain wind felt almost restorative. It cooled the sweat on my back, filled the air with surprising fragrances, and tugged gently at my shirt as I walked through a landscape of sage, water, distant peaks, and endless sky. There was something quietly healing about it.

The wildlife only added to the experience. Looking back, I'm not sure there was a Colorado animal we didn't see. During the week we watched a bear cross the highway, had two close encounters with moose, spotted antelope, deer—including several impressive bucks—hawks, cattle, sheep, goats, ground squirrels, and even a few snakes. Everywhere we went, the land seemed full of life.

As always, we were wonderfully cared for with home-cooked meals and some excellent restaurants in nearby Steamboat Springs. After long hikes, hard climbs, and afternoons spent in the Colorado sun, every meal felt earned. Good food has a way of becoming even better when it follows honest effort, and we enjoyed each one with genuine gratitude.

We finished our first day wandering through Hayden's town market, where I happily contributed to the local economy by buying a tie-dye shirt made by friends of Conner and Melissa. It wasn't my usual style, but it turned out to be one of the most comfortable shirts I own and became my hiking shirt for the rest of the trip.

The next morning (Friday), the adventure truly began.

Conner and Melissa experience Colorado at full throttle. They graciously tone it down for the parents, but we still know we're going to be pushed. In fact, we start "training" weeks before the trip, though there's really no way to prepare for hiking above 10,000 feet except to show up and start climbing.

We packed our gear and headed for the Skinny Fish Trail in the White River National Forest. By the end of the hike we had covered 5.16 miles, climbed 1,132 feet, and spent over two hours making our way through one of the most beautiful landscapes in northwest Colorado.

One of the most striking sights along the trail was the mountainside itself. At first glance, it looked as though thousands of giant matchsticks had been scattered across the landscape—gray trunks standing where a dense forest once grew. I later learned we were walking through the aftermath of the Big Fish Fire, a lightning-caused wildfire that burned more than 17,000 acres of the Flat Tops Wilderness in 2002. Because it occurred in designated wilderness, much of the fire was allowed to burn naturally. More than two decades later, the skeletons of the old forest still stand while aspens, grasses, wildflowers, sage, and young conifers slowly reclaim the mountain. It wasn't a picture of death so much as a picture of recovery.

It was a normal Colorado hike—breathing hard, adjusting to the thin air, and settling into the steady rhythm of climbing. We had just entered a patch of timber between two open switchbacks when the silence exploded. Branches snapped. Heavy footsteps crashed through the trees.

"Moose!"

They were only about thirty feet away.

Before we could fully process what was happening, an enormous bull moved uphill with a cow and two calves close behind. For several long seconds, all four stopped and looked back at us while we stood perfectly still, hoping we had not wandered too close. Thankfully, they continued over the ridge and disappeared into the timber.

Having recently watched the viral Yellowstone bison attack videos, I was keenly aware of how quickly a beautiful wildlife encounter can become something much more dangerous. We had been fortunate.

By the time we reached Skinny Fish Lake, the scenery almost felt like a bonus. The moose encounter had already made the day unforgettable. Still, the crystal-clear water, surrounding peaks, and peaceful setting made for a perfect place to catch our breath before beginning the descent.

As we left the woods, I caught one last glimpse of those small oval aspen leaves trembling in the Sagewood Wind. I have always loved aspens. Someday I'd like to return when the mountains are covered in their brilliant gold.

Back at the house, we cleaned up and headed to one of our favorite summer traditions—the Steamboat Rodeo. After a tremendous dinner at Cypress, we walked over to the arena. The rodeo is wonderfully attended, and with the Steamboat mountains glowing in the fading evening light, it felt like one of those perfect Colorado nights that you wish could last just a little longer.

The following day (Saturday) was reserved for the real test.

Years ago, we rode sixty miles with Conner and Melissa, but the forecast was calling for extreme heat—one Garmin would eventually register 104 degrees—so we wisely settled for a "shorter" 38-mile gravel loop around the Steamboat area.

Of course, "shorter" is a relative term.

Lisa and I ride e-bikes while Conner and Melissa power through on nothing but strong legs and stronger lungs. Even with a little battery assistance, it was a demanding ride. Three long climbs were followed by a thrilling descent down Cow Creek Trail, where your bike, your bones, and your teeth all rattled together like a rattlesnake's tail.

An early mechanical problem delayed us just enough to push much of the ride into the hottest part of the day. Thankfully, our batteries lasted this year, but by the final two miles everyone was running on fumes.

When we finally rolled back into town, our computers read 38.92 miles, 2,192 feet of climbing, and 3 hours and 20 minutes in the saddle. We were completely spent.

I shuffled into the nearby store for recovery drinks feeling more like a zombie than a cyclist. Thankfully, recovery in Steamboat has its rewards. We finished the evening with what I still believe may be the greatest pizza ever made during Mambo Italiano's happy hour, while watching England defeat Norway on the big screen in the Men's World Cup.

Later that evening we took the dogs for one last walk before turning in.

That evening, as the sun settled behind the mountains, the furnace of the day finally gave way to Colorado's remarkable cool. The Sagewood Wind returned, gentle now, carrying the familiar fragrance of sage and dry earth as though the land itself were breathing again. During our walk I looked toward a small church on the edge of town where three simple crosses stood silhouetted against the glowing western sky. It was one of those moments that asks nothing of you except to stop and take it in. The week had been full of steep climbs, aching legs, wildlife encounters, laughter around the table, and memories with family. But standing there beneath that evening sky, with the wind quietly moving through the valley and the crosses watching over it all, I was reminded that some places do more than challenge us—they restore us. And sometimes the greatest gift a journey gives is not the miles we've covered, but the quiet it leaves behind in our souls.

It had simply been one of those perfect Colorado summer days.

Sunday

Sunday is always special. It is the Lord's Day, and it's hard not to worship when surrounded by a place that so effortlessly declares His glory.

We packed up and drove toward Rabbit Ears Pass to hike a section of the famed Continental Divide Trail. Like the Appalachian Trail in the East, the CDT stretches thousands of miles, from Canada to Mexico through the spine of the Rockies.

Conner decided to turn the hike into a training run, disappearing up the trail while the rest of us settled into a slower pace. We kept in touch with satellite radios, which somehow made the whole experience even more enjoyable. At nearly 10,000 feet, the elevation took a little edge off the summer heat, and the morning couldn't have been more beautiful.

About two miles into the hike, Melissa stopped and pointed toward the horizon.

Four miles away, a narrow column of smoke was rising above the treeline like a chimney.

This wasn't yesterday's smoke drifting on the wind.

We were watching a wildfire begin.

Melissa immediately reported it, only to learn that authorities had just become aware of it themselves. We continued a little farther, but as the plume widened and darkened, we all agreed it was time to head back. It proved to be a wise decision. By the time we returned to the trailhead, a second fire had appeared in the distance.

As I write this, both fires are still burning. Thankfully, no homes have been lost, though evacuations have begun. One report suggested that one fire may have started from a tractor baling hay—a sobering reminder of how easily disaster can begin when heat, drought, and wind come together.

Driving back toward Hayden, I couldn't stop thinking about what we had just witnessed. Looking through the photos and videos on my phone, a song title suddenly appeared in my mind.

Colorado Furnace.

The fire...
The relentless sun...
The dry wind...
The long climbs...

It all fit together.

I'm back in the Colorado furnace,
Where the mountains test your soul.
Where beauty waits beyond the struggle,
And the fire makes you whole.

That evening we took the dogs on another walk, and once again I noticed something remarkable about Colorado.

The furnace never wins.

No matter how fiercely the sun burns all afternoon, the evening always comes. Without Alabama's heavy humidity to trap the heat, the cool mountain air quietly returns. The Sagewood Wind begins to move again. The day's harshness simply lets go.

Back at the house, I rewrote the ending of the song.

The furnace keeps no final word...
The evening does, every time.

That line stayed with me long after I wrote it.

It struck me that the mountains preach a quiet sermon every single day. Heat is real. Fire is real. Hard climbs are real. But none of them have the last word. Mercy arrives with the evening breeze.

Monday

I woke Monday morning already feeling the sadness that comes with the last full day of a trip.

Conner headed to work while Melissa, Lisa, and I squeezed every remaining drop out of Colorado. Because of the wildfire smoke, we chose a trail near Steamboat Lake, hoping to find clearer air.

The Prospector Trail stretched 8.38 miles with another 1,070 feet of climbing. By then my legs were tired, but my heart certainly wasn't.

The trail wound through forests, meadows, ponds, and open ridges, each mile seeming to offer another postcard view. Melissa had to keep us moving because she was scheduled to teach an exercise class back in Hayden that evening. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to admire every overlook a little longer than necessary.

Eventually she smiled and asked,

"Can you make it one more mile to the fire road?"

I perked up immediately.

The narrow trail wasn't exactly built for a guy my size, and the thought of stretching my stride on a wide road sounded wonderful.

When we stepped out into the open, beside a beautiful meadow and a quiet pond...

...there they were.

Two young moose.

We froze.

Melissa quietly asked,

"Uh-oh...where's Mama?"

It was exactly the right question.

A few days earlier we had encountered an entire moose family, so I knew these calves almost certainly weren't alone. We slowly backed away, but I couldn't help laughing to myself.

"But this is the ROAD..."

It's amazing how differently a tired brain thinks.

Melissa finally suggested we ease along the far edge, single file.

We took perhaps fifteen careful steps.

Then Mama stood up.

She had been lying in the pond the entire time.

At that point the decision was made for us.

We backed away slowly until, after what felt like a very long standoff, she calmly led the calves into the timber.

I wasn't tired anymore.

Adrenaline is a wonderful thing.

As if one wildlife encounter weren't enough, a mile farther down the road we walked into the middle of hundreds of free-ranging sheep. The sheep themselves weren't the concern.

The Great Pyrenees guarding them were.

We soon realized we had one sheep dog ahead of us...and another behind us.

There wasn't much to do except keep walking.

I removed my sunglasses and hat, wanting the dogs to clearly see my face, and we spoke calmly as we passed. Thankfully, they decided we weren't a threat.

The sheep, however, never stopped complaining.

With one final mile remaining, I slowed down once again. The breeze carried the scent of sage through the trees. We caught one last view of Steamboat Lake, saw smoke from the Rabbit Ears Fire hanging in the distance, and watched the aspen leaves shimmer in the afternoon light.

When we reached the trailhead, I knew another song had been born.

I hadn't planned to write One More Trail but Colorado had other ideas.

The next morning, saying goodbye was every bit as hard as I expected. The flight home was easy enough, but part of me was still somewhere along those trails, listening to the wind move through the sage.

I came to Colorado expecting the mountains to leave the deepest impression.

Instead, it was the wind.

The Sagewood Wind carried the scent of sage, the memory of family, the challenge of steep climbs, the reminder that beauty often waits beyond effort, and perhaps most importantly, the quiet assurance that the furnace never has the final word.

The evening does.

Every time.

Note: I did read the Crime/mystery novel “A Murder of Quality” by John Le Carre that I picked up from the free book stand at the Hayden Library on day 1. It was OK, there were some interesting parallels of that setting - An elite private school named “The Carne School” and my work environment of the last 36 years!

Anyway- that’s a wrap- I love visiting Colorado no matter the season!

Three Videos:

Sagewood Wind

Colorado Furnace

One Last Trail

And you can listen to these songs as well:

Sagewood Wind

Colorado Furnace

One More Trail

Rain on Me

Don't Let Goodbye Get the Final Say

How Nations Flourish – Post 3 (Compassion)

Do They Care for the Weak and Vulnerable?

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

When I taught American Literature, I found myself especially drawn to the Modernist Movement.

For me, it was the first literary era that truly felt as though American literature had found its own unmistakable voice. It wasn't merely borrowing from the great traditions of Europe or Britain—it was contributing something uniquely American to the world's literary conversation.

The questions became deeper. The characters more complex. The settings more authentic. Writers like John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and T.S. Eliot wrestled with questions of identity, loss, justice, faith, ambition, and the human condition in ways that still resonate today.

Perhaps that's why I continue returning to these books. They don't simply tell American stories; they ask timeless questions.

The Grapes of Wrath is one of those books.

Steinbeck's classic was always one of the books I hoped students would read—not because everyone would enjoy it, but because everyone would be forced to think.

Published in 1939, the novel follows the Joad family as they are driven from their Oklahoma farm during the Dust Bowl and travel west to California in search of work, dignity, and a better life. It is a story of hardship, family, perseverance, and the struggle to retain one's humanity when everything familiar has been stripped away.

Like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, it was also made into a remarkable black-and-white film. John Ford's 1940 adaptation, starring Henry Fonda as Tom Joad, captures the emotional weight of Steinbeck's story with extraordinary simplicity. There is something about those classic films—their deliberate pace, unforgettable performances, and quiet moments—that allows the story to breathe. If you've never watched it, it's well worth your time.

So why include The Grapes of Wrath in a series called How Nations Flourish?

Because every flourishing nation must answer an uncomfortable question:

What do we owe one another when our neighbors fall on hard times?

Steinbeck has often been pulled into political debates. Some celebrate the novel because they see it as an indictment of capitalism. Others dismiss it because they disagree with Steinbeck's economic conclusions.

Steinbeck was not a communist (he explicitly disliked them as people and rejected rigid ideology). He distrusted big business and favored humanistic reforms, community, and New Deal-style interventions more than revolutionary overthrow. Some scholars argue he attacked "proto-fascist" agribusiness and unchecked greed rather than capitalism as such. His views blended individualism, sympathy for the common man, and skepticism of both mob rule and concentrated power

But I believe trying to boil this down to arguments over systems, is missing the point....

Steinbeck reminds us that before we argue about economic systems, we should learn to see people. Behind every statistic is a family- poverty impacts children as much as anyone-  Behind every policy debate is someone trying to make it through another day.

Whether one leans toward free markets or greater government involvement, that truth remains. The measure of a civilization is not simply how much wealth it creates. It is also how it treats those who struggle to share in that prosperity.

As a Christian, I can't read The Grapes of Wrath without hearing echoes of Scripture. Again and again, the Bible reminds us to care for the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and the poor—not because hardship is always caused by injustice, nor because prosperity is always deserved, but because compassion is one of the defining marks of a healthy people.

A flourishing nation will always debate the best way to create opportunity. But it should never stop caring for those who have lost it.

Steinbeck's voice as well as the other American Modernists ask us to see and car for others.... to love our neighbors- and that appears to be lacking in this current polarized culture.

And civilizations that stop seeing the weak and vulnerable eventually lose something far more valuable than wealth—they lose part of their soul.

When I taught the book in class, I never showed the entire film adaptation of The Grapes of Wrath. There simply wasn't time. Just a few clips here and there. But there was one scene I showed every semester.

It's the moment when a poor Oakie dad breaks down as he realizes he cannot provide enough food for his family. Five classes a day- that same heartbreaking scene

And almost every time, I would quietly slip to the back of the classroom, sit in the darkness, and wipe away tears. That scene has stayed with me for years because it forces a question that every flourishing society must answer:

What do we do when our neighbors are in genuine need? I don't pretend to have a simple answer.

How much belongs to families?

How much belongs to churches and local communities?

How much belongs to charitable organizations?

How much belongs to government?

Those are difficult questions, and thoughtful people have wrestled with them for generations.

But perhaps there is a prior question that comes before all of those.

Do we still have hearts that are moved by another person's suffering?

If we lose that, it hardly matters what policies we adopt.

Steinbeck's greatest achievement wasn't convincing people to support a particular economic system. It was reminding us that before we debate solutions, we must first see the people who are hurting.

Perhaps that's why The Grapes of Wrath still matters.

Do any of our politicians see it that way?

How Nations Flourish – Post 2 (Character)

Can They Endure Hardship Without Losing Their Humanity?

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

"If a man does not master his circumstances, then he is bound to be mastered by them." Count Alexander Rostov 

After some rather heavy reading - someone suggested -A Gentleman in Moscow - and I found it so delightful but thought provoking as well. I just finished it this past weekend.

And it sparked this series as I thought about it more.

The premise of the novel is almost unbelievable and to be honest- absurd. Count Alexander Rostov, an aristocrat in post-Revolutionary Russia, is sentenced to spend the rest of his life under house arrest in Moscow's luxurious Metropol Hotel. He can never leave its doors. If he does, he will be executed.

From that unlikely setting, Amor Towles tells such a simple tale (which made me link it to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn).

At first glance, the novel appears to be about politics. It certainly has much to say about revolutions, totalitarianism, and the rise of Soviet Russia. But the deeper story isn't political at all.

It's about character.

As the Count loses everything that once defined him—his title, his wealth, his home, his freedom—he discovers all the things that cannot be confiscated. Grace. Curiosity. Friendship. Purpose. Love.

He also has acquired talents and tastes that he uses with great skill to carve out a life that works despite his circumstances. Life is more of what we bring than what we take.

Towles never suggests that institutions don't matter. They matter profoundly. Tyranny leaves real scars. Freedom is precious.

Yet he also reminds us that there remains a part of every human being that no government can fully possess. And with great character- they never will.

One thought has stayed with me since I finished the novel:

Markets generate prosperity, but they don't generate virtue. Governments can regulate behavior, but they cannot manufacture character.

That work belongs elsewhere—to families, schools, churches, friendships, literature, and the quiet daily habits that shape the human soul.

Rostov's greatest achievement isn't escaping the Metropol. It's refusing to let the Metropol become a prison for his spirit.

As our nation reflects on 250 years of history, I find myself wondering whether flourishing depends as much upon the character of its citizens as it does upon the wisdom of its institutions.

Constitutions, Laws, Markets ..... of course they matter.

But in the end, every society depends upon ordinary men and women who choose honesty over deceit, service over selfishness, courage over fear, and hope over despair.

Perhaps that's why A Gentleman in Moscow lingers long after the final page. It reminds us that while ideas and institutions shape a nation - it takes character  to sustain one.

SO that has to be a big part of a flourishing civilization: people who can endure hardship without losing their humanity.

SO like yesterday- I grieve over those who have been robbed by a lack of this instruction.... this discipline which is the root of discipleship.

If you are led to believe your circumstance is some else's fault- what incentive do you have to persevere and make the best of what you have?

A Parable:

Two men inherit neighboring farms. Neither farm is perfect. Both houses leak. Both fences lean. Both fields are overgrown.

The first man spends his days cataloging everything that is wrong. He blames his father for leaving him such a burden. He blames the weather. He blames his neighbors, who seem to have better land. He even blames the birds! He dreams constantly of what someone else should do for him, but he rarely lifts a finger.

The second man also sees the broken roof. He simply climbs the ladder. One shingle today. A fence post tomorrow. A window next week.

The second man lives by simple creeds- "do it now",  "a stich in time saves nine" and other lessons of delayed gratification.   The first man has no creed... "just live for the moment".

Life is not easy for the second man- some seasons are discouraging. Storms undo months of work. Yet he keeps repairing, planting, building, and thanking God for another day to labor.

Neither man becomes wealthy.

But after forty years, one farmhouse has become a warm home filled with laughter, grandchildren, fruit trees, and well-worn paths. The other has become more broken than when it was inherited.

Eventually their children inherit both places.

The children from the neglected farm look across the fence. "It isn't fair," they say.

"They have so much more than we do."

So they seize the neighboring farm.

But within a generation, the same roof leaks. The same fences collapse. The same weeds return.

Just because you inherited a house doesn't mean you inherited the habits that built it.

That is what the Count taught me... he took a prison and made it marquee.....

Civilizations are sustained less by what they possess than by the virtues that created those possessions.

Post-script: One last note about perseverence/grit/guts:

When I was a freshman at Alabama in 1982—Coach Bryant's final season—I remember hearing several of the senior players talk about something they simply called "toughness." They wondered whether our team had been hardened enough to win a championship the way Bryant's earlier teams had. As a freshman, I had no basis for comparison, but the conversation stayed with me. They weren't talking about talent or size. They were talking about grit—the kind that is forged through hardship, discipline, shared sacrifice, and the confidence that comes from having endured difficult things together.

I sometimes wonder the same thing about our country. I have little doubt that our military possesses that kind of grit, but what about us as a society? When I rewatched Apocalypse Now, I was reminded of Colonel Kurtz's unsettling observation that victory in a difficult struggle requires an unshakable resolve. While the film explores that idea in the darkest possible way, it raises a question worth asking: Have comfort, convenience, and ease made us less resilient? True grit isn't cruelty or bravado. It's the quiet ability to persevere, to sacrifice, to remain steadfast when circumstances become painful, and to hold fast to what is right even when doing so comes at a cost. Championship teams—and enduring nations—are rarely defined by talent alone. More often, they are defined by the character they have forged long before the crisis arrives.

Religio peperit divitias, et filia devoravit matrem.
Religion gave birth to riches, and the daughter devoured the mother.

_ quoted by Cotton Mather in Magnalia Christi Americana (1702). Mather explicitly says he is quoting an older Latin proverb, suggesting it was already well known before his time. 

I will be out of town for a bit and when I return, I plan on finishing the How Nations Flourish- 5 Books series (God willing)  before the end of July.

How Nations Flourish – Post 1 (Hope)

Do People Have Hope for a Better Future?

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

When I taught American Literature, one of my favorite summer reading options was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Every year, a handful of students would choose it, and almost every one of them came back surprised.

At first glance, it seems like such a simple novel. There are no great battles, no sweeping political movements, no famous historical figures. It's the story of Francie Nolan, a young girl growing up in poverty in Brooklyn during the early 1900s.

But like so many great books, its simplicity is deceptive. It is a novel about family, education, dreams, disappointment, sacrifice, dignity, and hope. Betty Smith reminds us that extraordinary lives are often built through ordinary faithfulness.

The 1945 black-and-white film adaptation is equally remarkable. Directed by Elia Kazan in his first feature film, it captures the warmth, heartbreak, and quiet beauty of the novel with remarkable restraint. There is something about those old black-and-white films—their slower pace, expressive performances, and willingness to linger—that draws you into the story. I don’t know if black and white movies work anymore- but this one is worth a try!

So why begin a series called How Nations Flourish with this novel?

Because Betty Smith asks a question that every civilization must answer:

Can ordinary people believe tomorrow can be better than today?

One of my favorite ideas in the novel comes from Francie's grandmother, Mary Rommely. Having immigrated from the "Old Country," she reflects on the difference she found in America as they came from Europe.

From the movie-

"In that old country, a child can rise no higher than his father's state. But here, in this place, each one is free to go as far as he's good to make of himself..." — Grandma Rommely

From the novel-

"There is here, what is not in the old country... Here he belongs to the future. In this land, he may be what he will, if he has the good heart and the way of working honestly at the right things."

There is an important distinction when we compare the past and future of Europe and the past and future of America. Where a person is born often determines in MOST countries where they will remain. Class is largely inherited. Opportunity can be severely limited. But America offers something different—not a guarantee of success, but the possibility of becoming something more than your circumstances.

Hope- Not wishful thinking. Not entitlement. Hope rooted in the belief that effort, education, perseverance, and character can open doors that had been closed for centuries.

It strikes me that flourishing nations are built on more than economic strength or military power. They are built on the conviction that children can dream, families can sacrifice, and ordinary people can improve their lives without abandoning their dignity.

Of course, not every dream is fulfilled. Betty Smith is too honest a writer to suggest otherwise. Poverty, Loss, Injustice is real. Yet hope persists.

Or does it? Hope and faith are very closely intertwined.

As I reflected on this novel, I was reminded of Langston Hughes's haunting question:

"What happens to a dream deferred?"

Perhaps every nation should ask a related question:

What happens when an entire people no longer believe tomorrow can be better than today?

History suggests that when hope disappears, something essential begins to unravel.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is a novel about poverty but it is also a novel about possibility.

And maybe that's where every flourishing nation begins.

I’m embarrassed to admit that much of our education and media centers in America today have perversely twisted this hope into a hopeless, excuse making, victimhood. It sows the seeds of discord but offers no real solution except violence.

I was not brought up in that America- In my school- we recited the pledge, learned about the Constitution, read the Declaration of Independence- my teachers did not shy away from patriotism. I feel sorry if your teachers were not the same. As a boy, my parents switched to Rush Limbaugh radio and instantly my media training was gratitude for the U.S.A. I hurt for those whose daily diet of news is fed through negative, progressive bias.

When you can add a mixture of  faith, hard work, godly contentment, gratitude........ hope grows exponentially.

You try and grow hope through negativity, handouts, identity politics, and theft…. Well… read Langston Hughes for yourself.

This is only one part of a complex issue…. BTW- don’t let ‘simple fixes’ sway you. 

As I write these posts I do want everyone to understand that God's kingdom exists in ALL lands and faith changes everything no matter the circumstance. We often confuse economic prosperity for flourishing, and that is not necessarily so.

Our home was blue collar, hard working, enjoying life simply without a lot of extra- we trusted God for daily bread and found peace in His care.

I think what we miss from the American experiment was that the world view, the ideals, that lead to the founding of our Nation were inherently Judeo-Christian ideals.... and that has made quite a difference.

How Nations Flourish: Five Books, Five Questions

That was one cool fireworks show last night! Wow!

As we celebrate the 250th anniversary of the birth of our nation, I've found myself asking a much older question:

How do nations flourish?

Not simply economically or politically, but as places where people, families, communities, and ideas can thrive over generations.

Oddly enough, I didn't arrive at this question through politics. I arrived at it through literature.

This all came together for me while reading A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles- a very unusual but delightful read! But when I looked back through my notes from this 1st half of 2026, I realized this conversation had been building for months. I've been reading C. S. Lewis, Tolkien, Jung, Solzhenitsyn, an anthology of classical poetry, and had just finished a deep study of Nietzsche. At first glance, those authors have very little in common. Yet they all seemed to be wrestling with the same fundamental questions about humanity, freedom, virtue, and civilization.

So I started drafting questions- thinking through books like A Gentleman in Moscow and how they stir the mind in subtle ways.

Reading books like this do a profound service, you became less interested in winning arguments and more interested in understanding the ideas and people beneath them.

So, for the rest of July, I'd like to explore one big question through five books. Along the way, we'll ask:

The big question- How Does a Nation Flourish?

and I think there are 5 sub-questions that help guide us in this discussion:

• Do people have hope for a better future? (Hope)

• Can they endure hardship without losing their humanity? (Character)

• Do they care for the weak and vulnerable? (Compassion/ Empathy)

• Can truth challenge the assumptions of a culture? (Freedom of thought)

• Are people free to worship God and live according to their faith? (Freedom of conscience)

And then I spent some time grabbing 5 books I have read that help explore these questions....

The five books may surprise you. They don't seem to belong together, but I think they're all part of the same conversation. Perhaps that's the literature teacher in me—I can't resist putting unlikely books into dialogue with one another.

I don't expect everyone to agree with my conclusions, and that's perfectly fine. My hope isn't to win an argument. It's to think more deeply about the ideas that shape nations, cultures, and ultimately, ourselves.

I hope you'll read along and join the conversation.

The first book study will be tomorrow, but I don't think I will get to all of them before the end of the month.

Happy July!

The Two Fathers at the Concert

Both fathers wanted excellence. Only one needed excellence.

The concert hall was unusually quiet.

Families filled the seats, programs folded neatly in their laps, waiting for the evening recital to begin. 

Months—indeed years—of lessons, rehearsals, early mornings, and late-night practice had led to this moment. Teachers had invested countless hours. Parents had rearranged schedules and made sacrifices that no one in the audience could fully appreciate.

Tonight, two gifted young violinists would perform.

The first stepped onto the stage, bowed politely, and raised her instrument. As the opening notes filled the hall, something extraordinary happened—not only on the stage, but in the audience.

One dad quietly began to weep.

His tears were not simply a response to technical brilliance. They came from somewhere deeper. He remembered the squeaky first lessons, the frustration of difficult passages, the moments when his daughter wanted to quit, and the patient encouragement of a wise teacher who believed in her before she believed in herself.

As he listened, he realized he was witnessing more than a performance. He was witnessing a person who had become something she could not have become alone.

How long had he loved this piece! Now to hear his daughter play- he was overcome with the beauty! It was a type of miracle... the character that had been formed through years of discipline, humility, perseverance, and grace. His daughter had become the kind of person who could bring such beauty into the world.

He wept because beauty always invites gratitude.

A few rows away sat another father........

Outwardly, he appeared just as attentive. He had also paid for lessons. He had also driven to rehearsals. He too had sacrificed evenings and weekends. Yet his inner experience could not have been more different.

Every note tightened the knot in his stomach. A missed shift felt like a personal failure. A hesitant entrance became an embarrassment.

The applause of the audience mattered because it measured something far beyond the music. It measured him.

Though he loved his daughter, somewhere along the journey her achievements had quietly become entangled with his own identity. Without ever intending it, he had begun looking to her success to answer questions she was never meant to answer.

Am I successful?

Have I done enough?

Will others admire me?

By the time the final note faded into silence, one father was overcome with gratitude.

The other was exhausted.

The difference was not in the music.

It was in what each father loved most.

The Difference

The difference between these two fathers is not found primarily in the amount of discipline they required, the standards they held, or the sacrifices they made. Both believed excellence was worth pursuing. Both invested years in their daughters.

The difference lies in the purpose of that pursuit.

One father wanted excellence because it helped his daughter flourish.

The other needed excellence because it helped him feel validated.

Flourishing asks, "What do I desire FOR you?"

Validation asks, "What do I need FROM you?"

Those questions may produce similar behavior for years. Both parents may insist on practice. Both may hire excellent teachers. Both may encourage perseverance instead of quitting when things become difficult.

Yet over time, the child's heart senses the difference.

In one home, discipline serves love.

In the other, love slowly becomes entangled with performance.

One child learns, "I am loved, therefore I can strive."

The other quietly concludes, "I must strive in order to remain lovable."

Perhaps the clearest test comes long after the concert has ended.

If the daughter one day decides that she no longer wishes to perform professionally, can her father rejoice simply because she is becoming a wise, generous, faithful woman?

Or does he feel as though something precious has been taken from him?

The answer reveals whether he has been raising a child—or managing an extension of himself.

Every child is entrusted to parents, not possessed by them.

The highest calling of a mother or father is not to produce impressive performances but to cultivate a human soul.

When excellence serves that purpose, it becomes a gift.

When the child serves the parent's need for significance, even excellence becomes a burden.

The tears of the first father were not tears of pride in himself.

They were tears of gratitude.

He was watching a human- created in the image of God -  flourish.

"A Gentleman in Moscow", America at 250, and the Ideas We Choose

“Thus, it is the opinion of this committee that you should be returned to that hotel of which you are so fond. But make no mistake: should you ever set foot outside of the Metropol again, you will be shot. Next matter.”- A Gentleman in Moscow

I've been slowly making my way through A Gentleman in Moscow, a beautifully crafted work of historical fiction by Amor Towles. Before writing novels, Towles spent more than twenty years in the world of finance, giving him a front-row seat to how systems and institutions influence human behavior. That background seems to lend a unique credibility to his exploration of another system altogether—the rise of Soviet socialism and its effects on ordinary lives.

It isn't a political book so much as it is a deeply human one—a story of dignity, resilience, friendship, and what remains when nearly everything else has been taken away.

Yet as I read, I can't help but notice how often this work of historical fiction intersects with conversations taking place in America today.

With the recent successes of candidates identifying with the Democratic Socialist movement and our nation approaching the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, I've found myself reflecting on the ideas that shape civilizations. Not merely the policies they produce, but the assumptions they make about human nature, freedom, and the role of government.

Towles tells his story through the eyes of Count Alexander Rostov, an aristocrat placed under permanent house arrest by the new Soviet government. The Count isn't a political activist, and Towles isn't writing a manifesto. Instead, he quietly allows readers to witness what happens when an ideology becomes the organizing principle of an entire society.

One passage especially caught my attention. Describing the drafting of the Soviet Constitution, Towles writes that it guaranteed:

"...freedom of conscience... freedom of expression... freedom of assembly... and freedom to have any of these rights revoked should they be 'utilized to the detriment of the socialist revolution.'"

I paused after reading that.

Can a right truly be called a right if it exists only until the government determines it has become inconvenient?

That question seems as relevant today as it was a century ago.

Another observation from the novel lingers in my mind. After officials order an extraordinary wine collection 'reorganized' according to bureaucratic standards (they actually strip off the labels so that all the wines would be 'equal'), the Count reflects that each bottle had once represented "the ultimate distillation of time and place; a poetic expression of individuality itself," only to be cast back into "the sea of anonymity."

He's talking about wine, of course. But he's really talking about people.

Do we see individuals as unique persons with names, histories, gifts, and responsibilities? Or do we begin to see them primarily as members of a class, a group, or a collective?

Towles never lectures. He simply lets us watch a society wrestle with that question.

One of my favorite lines so far comes from the Count himself:

"If a man does not master his circumstances then he is bound to be mastered by them."

That sentiment reminds me that freedom is more than political. It is also moral and personal. Even when circumstances cannot be controlled, character still can be.

One concern I have is that many of our political conversations begin with slogans rather than history. We often debate ideas like capitalism, socialism, democracy, or freedom without taking the time to understand how those ideas have actually played out in different societies.

As we prepare to celebrate 250 years since the Declaration of Independence, I've been reminded that America's founding claim was not that government grants our rights. It was something far more revolutionary—that our rights are inherent because they come from our Creator, and that governments exist to secure them rather than bestow them.

Our history includes profound failures, contradictions, and injustices that deserve honest acknowledgment. But those failures have always been measured against principles that call us back to something higher. That, to me, is one of the enduring strengths of the American experiment.

For all of its imperfections, I still find our constitutional republic admirable and deeply worth preserving—not because America is flawless, but because its founding ideals recognize both the dignity and the limitations of humanity.

The constitution acknowledges that- "We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,"- not that we ARE perfect, we need to become MORE-

This was wonderfully pointed out by my U.S. Congressman, Gary Palmer of Alabama, as we toured the Capitol with him this past spring. It led to a song and video:

A More Perfect Union (Song)

A More Perfect Union (Video)

Gary loved it and has been playing it to a number of folks.....

Back to this discussion about 'systems':

History has shown that systems promising equality, security, or even utopia often sound compelling in theory. Yet when any political ideology begins to subordinate individual liberty to the demands of the collective—or assumes that the state can ultimately redefine rights for the sake of progress—it deserves careful scrutiny.

Perhaps that's one of the gifts of historical fiction. It allows us to examine ideas at a safe distance before we encounter them in our own time.

As I continue reading A Gentleman in Moscow, I'm less interested in winning political arguments than in asking better questions.

What kind of society best protects human dignity?

What vision of freedom allows people to flourish?

What ideas deserve to be preserved for the next 250 years?

And we know the answers.. my concern is, will we stand by with apathy and neglect to vote, neglect to serve, and neglect to contend for the principles of freedom?

Quotes: Here are some of my favorite Towles’ quotes so far:

“A king fortifies himself with a castle,” observed the Count, “a gentleman with a desk.”

For eventually, we come to hold our dearest possessions more closely than we hold our friends. We carry them from place to place, often at considerable expense and inconvenience; we dust and polish their surfaces and reprimand children for playing too roughly in their vicinity—all the while, allowing memories to invest them with greater and greater importance.

Thus did the typewriters clack through the night, until that historic document had been crafted which guaranteed for all Russians freedom of conscience (Article 13), freedom of expression (Article 14), freedom of assembly (Article 15), and freedom to have any of these rights revoked should they be “utilized to the detriment of the socialist revolution” (Article 23)!]

Given Russia’s long, heartless winters, its familiarity with famine, its rough sense of justice, and so on, and so on, it was perfectly natural for its gentry to adopt an act of definitive violence as the means of resolving disputes. But in the Count’s considered opinion, the reason that dueling prevailed among Russian gentlemen stemmed from nothing more than their passion for the glorious and grandiose.

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

In keeping with the fashion of the times, most of the Count’s schoolmates had turned their backs on the church; but they had only done so in favor of alternative consolations. Some who preferred the clarity of science adhered to the ideas of Darwin, seeing at every turn the mark of natural selection; while others opted for Nietzsche and his eternal recurrence or Hegel and his dialectic—each system quite sensible, no doubt, when one had finally arrived at the one-thousandth page.

“Young women only die of broken hearts in novels, Charles. She died of scarlet fever.”

“Ah. Well, I imagine that becomes rather easy to achieve when you place them under house arrest.” “Actually,” corrected Glebnikov, “it is easier to achieve when you place them in the ground. . . .” The Count conceded the point.

“And the second chime (of the Count’s fathers watch)? The Count’s father was of the mind that one should never hear it. If one had lived one’s day well—in the service of industry, liberty, and the Lord—one should be soundly asleep long before twelve. So the second chime of the twice-tolling clock was most definitely a remonstrance. What are you doing up? it was meant to say. Were you so profligate with your daylight that you must hunt about for things to do in the dark?”