She knew

She knew. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t know when—but she knew.

On my birthday, several months prior, we were sitting outside talking one evening and she said, “I cleaned the house today and got rid of some things from my past I wouldn’t want my family to see, just so you know.”

When I asked her why, she said, “I won’t be around much longer. I don’t know how; I just know I can’t see my future anymore. It’s just blank. I used to see us, old with kids, but something has changed. It’s just black now.”

Over the next few months, she reached out to people she hadn’t talked to in a long time. She asked if I would still keep up with her family. She made me promise to cut ties with certain people because she didn’t like who I was around them. She was “cleaning the lines.”

And for the last two weeks, so was I. I dreamed about her funeral every night. Yet, when it happened, I was still so utterly, amazingly shocked. I still didn’t see it coming.

I adamantly oppose the idea of predestination. My heart says existentialism is the way—that we are the architects of our own existence. My mind, however, is a “determinism” type of guy; it sees the tracks laid out long before the train arrives. But then, I think of retrocausality.

In the quantum world, the future isn’t just a destination; it’s a participant. If two particles are entangled, an action on one instantly affects the other, regardless of distance. I wonder if lives can be entangled with their own endings—if death is a “fixed point” in the architecture of time. Perhaps the shockwave of that event didn’t just travel forward into my grief; it traveled backward into her vision. She felt the ripples before the stone even hit the water.

She knew something had changed because she had previously seen a different outcome. It wasn’t just a feeling; it was a paradigm shift. It was as if a switch had been flipped, collapsing all the beautiful possibilities into a single, inevitable point of blackness. She wasn’t guessing. She was responding to an echo from a future that had yet to happen.

I’ve spent hours turning over the concept of quantum entanglement, trying to find a name for the tether that stayed taut between us even as she began to drift. Physics says that two entities can become so inextricably linked that they can no longer be described independently—two particles vibrating at the same frequency, governed by the same wave function.

She was the primary particle, colliding with an unavoidable end. Because we were entangled, I felt the rotation of my own world shift to match hers. I didn’t see the “blackness,” but my subconscious was receiving the information nonetheless. My dreams were a reflection of a state-change that had already occurred in her.

It makes me think that “grief” is just the name we give to the violent snapping of that entanglement. Or perhaps it’s darker: perhaps we remain entangled, forever linked to the void. I am still reacting to her, still spinning in alignment with a particle that has disappeared from the visible spectrum, governed by a “knowing” that defies every law of logic I try to hide behind.

We aren’t just moving toward the future. Sometimes, the future is reaching back, grabbing us by the hand, and telling us exactly where we’re going.

Look Up, It’s Not Okay

Why does no one really talk about this? These stories have become background noise in a world too busy to be troubled by tragedy. Sure, our thoughts and prayers go out to the families—but what about the prayers of the kids who were kneeling when the shooting started? Where was their God then?

If you were an outsider looking in on a “Christian nation,” with no prior knowledge of its beliefs, you would expect the breaking point to be when someone harmed its children in a place of sanctuary. In any other story, this would be the moment where the citizens rallied to make an effective change.

Sadly, this is where we turn away. A nation of people who vehemently cling to the right to be “happy” cannot openly discuss things this raw. We keep staring at our phones, pressing the dopamine button. Make me happy! As far as I’m concerned, silence is complicity.

This can happen anywhere, but this is the only “developed” country where it happens on a regular basis. If you’ve dropped your kids off at school anytime over the past twenty years and haven’t felt a flicker of fear, I don’t know where you live. Personally, I’m tired of feeling like I’ve dropped my kids off in a war zone when they’re just excited to go play.

The Data of the “Sanctuary”:

The Frequency: Between 2013 and 2022, there were 720 incidents of gunfire on the grounds of U.S. preschools or K-12 schools.
The Human Cost: From 2000 to 2022, there were 328 casualties in active shooter incidents at U.S. elementary and secondary schools. In the 2020-21 school year alone, there were 41 school-associated violent deaths.
The Global Outlier: A 2024 report noted that the U.S. had 109 public mass shootings compared to a combined total of 35 across 35 other comparable countries between 2000 and 2022.

Be angry. Cry if you need to. But do something—speak up, do something tangible. Since Columbine in 1999, we’ve offered “thoughts and prayers.” I’m not going to tell you what to believe or argue about your faith, but wisdom says you’d better bring a shovel if you want to move a mountain.

Guidepost

“The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians: who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.” — Brennan Manning

I am not a Christian; however, I was raised by one to be one. I’m not exactly an atheist, but I do not believe in a god personal to me—that feels like the height of arrogance. I don’t hate Christians or any other group; in fact, I’d bet I’ve read their Bible more than most of them ever will. It’s an interesting read, and I’m particularly fond of Jesus’s teachings—they are solid principles to live by. It isn’t original writing; you can find the same message repeated throughout history, pre-dating Christ by millennia. But it stands the test of time.

It is probably why I’m so drawn to John 1:1: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” This verse introduces the concept of the “Word,” emphasizing eternal existence and divine nature. Maybe the message is so old because the message has always been.

But I’m not here to argue why I think Christians are wrong. Honestly, if it works and gives you some peace in this life, I’m happy for you. I’m not interested in fighting; however, a rational, give-and-take conversation is always welcome. Feel free to reach out; I love a good talk.

So, why did I lead with Brennan Manning? I could have led with Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata—another writing that has had a profound impact on the kind of person I want to be. Not the person I’ve always been; I’ve fallen short of my ideals many times. But these ideals are my center. They are where I return when I find I’ve strayed.

This quote from Manning is one of those core guideposts. At its heart, it reminds me that I am always an example. What kind of example? That is up to me. If I claim to be a man of my word, I should probably keep it. If I claim to be loving and kind, I should be loving and kind. It’s okay to stray from the goal, but I need to be clear on what that goal is so I know where to return.

Most importantly: I need to spend a notable amount of time closer to achieving the goal than I do wandering away. If I’m a jerk 99% of the time, that 1% of kindness will never convince anyone of my character. It will only convince them that I’m a jerk.

I teach everyone around me how to perceive me, how to talk to me, and how to treat me. That is what I took away from this quote when I first heard it twenty-eight years ago. It has stuck in my head as a guidepost to be constant in both my words and my actions.

What does it say to you?

More Dangerous Than a Gun

The Matrix is one of my favorite movies, and I’m not entirely convinced that we don’t live in a simulation—though not quite the one the movie depicts. As much as I love that film, the premise is technically implausible for reasons I won’t get into today, mainly because humans consume more energy than we produce. But I digress.

I think the way AI will destroy us is much more insidious.

It starts with the device you’re probably reading this on. I’m sure you’ve seen ads for things you were just talking about; most people are now aware that your phone and your Alexa are listening to you all the time. Old news, right? But did you also know that your news feed—the ads, the posts from friends, the articles you see—is tailored exclusively to you? It’s based on the ads you pause on and the videos you watch. It is geared to show you things you already agree with. It is designed to feed you your own opinion.

This is public knowledge. There are increasing reports discussing the sycophantic nature of AI and the resulting “AI-induced psychosis.” What you’re reading here is no different; if you’re reading this at all, an algorithm decided you might want to.

So, how does this destroy us? It stops us from talking. It stops us from listening. It turns us into a world of people existing in individual echo chambers, seeking only the opinions that validate our preconceived ideas of right and wrong. It forces us to draw sharper lines of “us vs. them.” And when the talking stops, all that is left is war. We will destroy ourselves long before a physical enemy does.

I am pro-Second Amendment and yet somewhat anti-gun. I support the right to own one, and I emphatically believe people should be able to overthrow their government by force if necessary—and we may be close to that point. That being said, I haven’t owned a gun since I was old enough to live on my own. I grew up in Texas; I know how to build them from scratch and I’ve always been an amazing shot, whether with pistols or long-range rifles. But I gave them all back to my family. They are a thing I wish we could un-invent.

I bring up guns only to say this: I think cell phones are more dangerous. This constant barrage of information is robbing us of the ability to think for ourselves. Even worse, it is pointing us in the direction an algorithm thinks we should think. I cannot imagine anything more dangerous.

So, am I special? I hope you’re wondering that. I’m not. I’ve just never assumed I was right, despite what you may think of me. I question everything, including myself. I fact-check my own thoughts and have people proofread for me. I go out of my way to immerse myself in diametrical views, and even then, I am hesitant to speak.

When I do speak, you can be sure I’ve done my homework. Even then, I’m frequently wrong—and that’s okay. How else are we going to learn if we don’t stumble? And aside from using AI to edit my grammar and spelling, I try not to use it as a primary source. There is a well-documented bias in its architecture, and I’d rather do the thinking myself.

Gone

It’s always sudden in the end. They are here, then they’re gone. It doesn’t matter why, because it always boils down to “gone.”

I don’t know what happens after death. No one does, despite what they may tell you. If their faith helps them sleep at night, then far be it from me to argue with them. I however, I just don’t know but I think I’ll be back.

I think I’ll always be born Ryan Roberts on August 22, 1978. I think I’ll always make these same basic “choices.” I think I’ll always end up here.

I hope when I see you again, I’m kinder, no matter how we parted last. This time is too short. Fare thee well my friend, until we meet again.

Not a Cult

I’m thinking about starting a commune. It’s mainly for financial reasons—nothing too “cultish.”

I mean, you will have to call me “His Holiness,” but not because I’m morally pure; it’s just because my clothes have holes in them and I can’t afford new ones in this economy. There will be a “Donation Plate,” of course. It’s not a tithe; it’s a “Voluntary Contribution to His Holiness’s Garment Renovation Fund.” Also, it’s mandatory.

Yes, there will be communal chores. However, instead of farming, everyone will be tasked with coupon clipping, extreme bargain hunting, or perhaps dumpster diving for “reusable resources.”

All communication with me, His Holiness, will be strictly via “Sacred Text” messages during regular business hours. This may be a commune, but seriously: personal space.

Our communal diet will consist of ramen noodles supplemented by “stuff we found on sale.” Once you grow accustomed to it, I think you will really enjoy it. Just remember: desperation is the best spice. Since His Holiness is a non-devout pescatarian, the ramen diet will not apply to him.

It’s important that you remember: this is Definitely-Not-A-Cult. You aren’t “broke”; you are depriving yourselves and mindfully minimizing. You’re reducing your carbon footprint and making the world a better place.

One ramen packet at a time.

Grace

It’s not dignified; it’s embarrassing, if I’m being honest—this business of growing old. It is one of the many reasons they say, “Growing old is not for the weak.” So, how do we do it with grace, and who is this measure of grace for?

When I was ten, maybe eleven, I came home one day and my dad was a wreck. He had just found out he was diabetic. My father was born with a physical handicap; he was missing his right hand. He was on disability due partially to injuries, but I suspect mainly to depression. He had lost a ten-month-old son twenty-five years earlier; he was divorced and, consequently, estranged from the church.

Food was my dad’s last refuge. It’s easy to look at it from the outside and see the fallacy in such a coping mechanism; it’s harder to consider that he never wanted to end up there, either. He was a kid once, one who smiled and was filled with hope and optimism—just like we all were.

He was already overweight and had high blood pressure, among other medical issues, and this diagnosis of diabetes seemed the cruelest cut of all. He was being told he had to give up his last bit of nostalgia and comfort in this world: the thing that reminded him of being that kid again—a candy bar.

He was distraught. He was angry and yelling—something my dad never did before or after that around me. I told him it was okay; I told him I would help him learn how to cook better meals and we could get through this. He yelled at me and said, “There’s no point. I’m dying. Just let me die.” I left and stayed gone the rest of the day, by myself, and just cried. At ten years old, I thought my dad was dying tomorrow. I had no idea how slow it would actually be.

He apologized to me when I came home. He wasn’t a monster; he was just a man trying to understand something that he couldn’t grasp. He couldn’t understand that his body was failing—that even if it would be slow, there was a finality to this thing. No matter how many people you bury along the way, you still can’t imagine that you’ll join them one day.

So, who is grace for?

Grace is for everyone. My dad needed grace in that moment and for years to come: grace to be human and to be afraid; grace to be slow to ask for help; grace to not have all the answers. I needed grace to be a kid, to be afraid of losing my dad, and to not have the answers, either. We both worked most of that out over the next seventeen years before he died.

It’s easy to analyze something from thirty-five years ago, but none of that really matters now; it’s over and done. The lesson it contains is valuable, however. Am I extending grace to those around me today? Am I letting them be where they are? Am I offering to help even when they are defiant about needing it? Am I accepting help when it’s offered to me?

I dreamed about my dad in his final days last night. I haven’t dreamed about that ever, but he was on my mind when I woke up. As I was getting ready for work, I mentioned to my wife that I still had a splinter in my finger. I didn’t say it was because I couldn’t see well enough to remove it, and she didn’t ask. She gave me the grace of not talking about it at all; she just offered to remove it, and I didn’t argue.

As she was digging it out, all I could think was that I’m grateful for her and that I hope to treat her and others the same way. I don’t need to know or point out why you need help. I just need to offer it.

The Stories We Tell

We tell stories. We tell stories about what happened at the grocery store. We tell stories about our kids, our parents, and our childhoods. We tell stories about wars and gods and creation; we tell stories to pass the time, to make a connection, and to try to find reason in the chaos. Everything we know and believe is a story someone told. We’ve done this since the dawn of time—and the “dawn of time” is a story we tell, too.

Then one day, we invented the camera, and we embraced it fully. We took pictures and incorporated them into our stories: “My mother was a beautiful woman; here is a photo of her.” Then we discovered we could make those pictures move, and the motion picture was born. Our hunger for a good story drove this innovation further and further.

I am no different than anyone else; I embrace these things as most do. I wonder about the cost, however.

The first time I saw a movie based on a book I had read, I was so disappointed. I already knew what the people looked like; I knew their world. I had lived with them and taken the same journey they did. Seeing it on screen made that world crumble. But it did something worse: it dulled my senses. It robbed me of the need to imagine.

The biggest challenge I face when communicating with my kids is encouraging them to express their thoughts. I struggle to get them to describe events or feelings in a meaningful way. I wonder if it’s because we’ve robbed them of the need to think—the need to explain. If so, we’ve robbed them of one of the most fundamental things that makes us human: the ability to tell a story, to paint a picture with words.

This present darkness

There is a deep and unshakable sadness in me. It’s there even though I’m happy, it’s there even though I’m in love. It’s there when I’m peaceful and awake and it visits me in my dreams. It’s warm like a blanket, the cloak of loss that hides me from you and you from me. It’s not my shadow, it is present in the dark, it’s part of who I am. It’s a deep and abiding knowledge that all things pass away, it’s my fear screaming, “Bring on the end I’m tired of looking for you.” It’s become my place of solace, something and someplace that exists only to me. It is my journey of grief.