Doing this changed everything.

For years, I told Jessica I wanted to write a book. Soon. Eventually. Probably next week. But with young kids and the usual swirl of everyday life, I had a go-to excuse: There just isn’t time.

After hearing that on repeat, Jess finally looked at me and said, “If it really matters to you, why don’t you write early in the morning?”

I didn’t love the advice. First, because it made too much sense. Second, because it yanked my excuse away. And third, early morning?

Still, I set my wake-up call for 5:17AM — weirdly specific, I know (that’s another story). Enough time to roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and flop onto the couch with a laptop by 5:30.

Day after day, I got up. Sometimes groggy, sometimes motivated. But often staring at the blinking cursor with a blank mind. Some mornings proved productive, others were duds. But I kept showing up.

Since that first alarm, I’ve written five books and four short stories. Usually before breakfast. Now, whenever a project feels big or impossible, I go back to that habit. The “517 Rule.” There’s just something about a quiet morning and a snuggly Golden Retriever who thinks she’s my co-writer.

This week, I remembered a great thought: “Habits shape your life, not motivation.”

My habit started with a buzzing clock. And yes, I’m still ticked Jess was right.

What are the odds?

On a late summer night during college, my neighbor and I hung out in my living room. The TV played in the background as we chatted about high school buddies.

One friend came up… Mac. We hadn’t heard from him in years. In those days before social media, losing track of someone was a part of life. Without a phone number or address, people just disappeared.

As we talked, the Late Night with David Letterman show started. During the monologue, as Dave interacted with the audience, the camera panned across the crowd.

And there, clear as day, sat Mac. For a few seconds, he bantered back and forth with Letterman.

We froze, mouths open.

Only minutes after mentioning him, Mac appeared on national television. Think about the astronomical odds. Mind-bending.

Fast-forward to this week for another statistical absurdity. For my first 48 years on this planet, it never happened. But now, it’s been four times in the past seven.

Our mailbox, hit by a car again. Flattened to the ground.

There’s nothing unusual about the placement. Same spot as everyone else’s, right by the driveway. And yet, somehow, our box calls out like a beacon to bumpers.

Dave may be off the air, but our mailbox is still putting on a show.

Our great obsession.

Some of my earliest Easter memories take me back to the big park near my home.

Each year, the city scattered thousands of candies across the wooded area. Kids like me showed up clutching empty baskets, ready to scoop up as much sugar as possible.

But nothing rivaled the golden egg.

The legendary prize was hidden somewhere and stuffed with cash. This trophy dominated our imaginations. We strategized and searched, sprinting past jelly beans and plastic eggs in hopes of striking gold. But sadly, none of us ever found it.

These days, Easter looks a little different.

After church, we grabbed lunch with family, smiled for a photo with a costumed bunny, then enjoyed an evening walk. No hunts. No frantic dashes.

But there’s a truth I carry, better than any childhood thrill. A favorite quote puts it perfectly:

“If Christ is risen, nothing else matters. And if Christ is not risen, nothing else matters.”
-Jaroslav Pelikan

Back then, I chased treasure I couldn’t find. Now, I hold one I can’t lose.

They’re either loved or hated.

This time of year, I’m talking about Peeps. Yes, those neon marshmallow chicks and bunnies that dominate Easter shelves.

Growing up, they were a highlight of my holiday basket. Soft, squishy, sweet — and perfect for an 8-year-old with zero concerns about sugar intake or shelf life.

When I got older and moved away, my mom preserved the tradition by mailing me boxes of these candy grenades. All kinds. Every flavor and color.

One time, I mentioned Peeps during a talk at church, and suddenly, packages began arriving from all corners. People just kept sending them. I became an unofficial ambassador and fully embraced the honor.

Over two billion of these pastel puffs are sold each year, and they’re among the most popular non-chocolate candies in the U.S. But not everyone’s on board.

For every fan, there's someone who finds them a little terrifying. Especially when you realize they can probably survive a nuclear fallout.

I was surprised to learn how these bunny bombs are used without eating them:

• Elaborate diorama contests, recreating pop culture and historical scenes

• Classroom projects to test catapult launch distances

• Sticking toothpicks in two Peeps and watching them battle in the microwave as they puff up

• Using stale, hardened ones as doorstops

• Placing them along windows to block cold air

• Putting them in shoes as a deodorizer

These days, I don’t eat many. But when I do, it takes me back to a simpler time when you could sit on the porch with a sticky yellow chick and not question whether it doubled as home insulation.

Long live my Peeps, those beloved sugar rockets. The ultimate survivors.

There were no words.

Growing up, the city pool was the highlight of summer. A blue oasis, always packed with shrieking kids and ka-boomy cannonballs.

The diving boards towered like skyscrapers, and the waterslides were roller coasters. That special spot held years of sun-soaked memories.

The pool had been around for decades, even in my dad's school days. More than just a place to swim, it served as a rite of passage.

After college, I moved away from my hometown. Life went on, and I hadn’t seen it in many summers.

One afternoon, while visiting in town, I took my children for a stroll through the old neighborhood. My goal? Show them the famous swimming hole.

But when we got there… it was gone.

Demolished. Filled in. Covered with grass like it never existed. Just a quiet green space where people now walked their dogs.

I stood there, speechless. My son tugged on my sleeve. “Hey Dad… where’s the pool?”

I didn’t know what to say. It’s a strange feeling when an important piece of your past disappears without a trace.

Those memories resurfaced this week when I read the latest headline about Netflix.

In high school, weekends revolved around Blockbuster video stores. Grabbing a rental, running into friends, hanging out. But the company didn’t keep up as technology changed and eventually declared bankruptcy.

Netflix became the dominant player and is aiming for a $1 trillion valuation. Now, Blockbuster is a trivia question, and Netflix is chasing a fortune.

First the pool, then the video stores…

I’m scared to check on the skating rink.