Hope is a journey, not a destination

The headline on www.cnn.com seemed earnest enough yesterday when I logged onto my computer. 

And, as I scanned my Facebook page and Twitter feeds it became more and more obvious to me the answer to the question.

Me.

And, you.                                               

Long gone are the days – if ever there we such a day – when a single person could bring America together. 

The acts of many have often found us working together as the United States of America even if we weren’t always the United People of America.

Throughout our nation’s relatively short 240 years of existence there have been moments in time when enough of us were united together to achieve a common goal.

But, rarely, if ever, was there a single “Who” that brought “We” together as “One”.

Which is the most important number of all:  One.

If we want what we see in the world around us as bad to stop.  If we hope to see the hurt, pain, anger and division of America begin to heal. 

It’s not going to be a politician.  Or a celebrity. 

It must start with one. 

Ourselves.

I have stopped reading social media comments from those who hate cops.  Or Black Lives Matter.  My mind can no longer tolerate the viciousness that is so easily written and posted.

One blames one and another blames the other.

All of the hurt.  The anger.  The pain.  It is someone’s fault.

Ours.

It always has been.  It always will be.

 

So, when the question is asked:  Who can make it stop?  Who can heal America?”

The answer always has been.  It always will be.

Me. 

And, you.

I find myself careening between being reasonably confident that I have solutions for it all.  To finding myself having not a clue about how to solve any of it.

I feel guilty.  Then angry.  Sad. Mad.  And, then I find myself feeling hopeless.

And, then when I feel hopeless, the cycle of feelings start all over again.

Yet, amidst that hopelessness there is faith.

I call it my belief in God.  Others may call their faith something else.

But, I do believe all humans have some form of faith.

It is born into us. 

Some of us hold onto it until the day we die.  Some of us lose it – only to find it again. 

Others lose it – and it is gone forever.

There are, though, I believe enough of us who have faith that there are, can, should be and will be better days ahead for this country.

Which, in my mind, has always been the cornerstone of what I believe to be the greatness of America.

We want things to get better.  We want America to be better.

It won’t, though, waiting for someone who can make it stop. It won’t get better waiting for someone who can heal America.

It won’t by trying to point fingers on Facebook – or hurling a stream of consciousness commentary on Twitter.

The “facts” that everyone wants to use to prove their point – refute the point of someone else – are useless. 

We believe what we want to believe. 

Even this blog post underscores that reality. 

I believe what I want to believe.

And, what I want to believe is that we have it in ourselves to make America better.  We.  Me and you.

Not some unknown and unfamiliar “Who”.

We can make it stop.

We can heal America.

Me.

And, you.

That’s “Who”.

Each time I drive to cabin, affectionately called “The Northern Lights Lodge” – with its accompanying bunkhouse that has been dubbed “Cranberry Cottage” – I am filled with gratitude that my family has this place that is our sanctuary.

I’ve often had to stop myself from describing it as a place that is neither “fancy or special” because that is only half accurate.

It’s not fancy.  It’s a one-bedroom log cabin that was built years ago by a guy who kept most of its features pretty sparse.  The family we purchased it from nearly 10 years ago upped its features with carpet, hardwood pine walls and a bathroom (um, that has no ceiling, I might add) so it no longer resembled a hunting cabin. 

The upper bunkhouse – called “Scorpion Headquarters” by my then six-year-old son, Owen – is a classic kids get-away.  Shag carpeting, bunkbeds, a t.v. and a small dorm fridge with a balcony off the front makes the Scorpion Headquarters a favorite hiding place for young boys and girls who are on their own personal adventure.

Except, of course, when they radio over for popcorn, soda, pizza or snacks of any persuasion.

It’s on about 3 acres of land – with about 1/3 of it under water – and sits feet away from a 25 acres spring fed lake.  We are fortunate that the only full-time inhabitants (other than the creatures) are our wonderful neighbors who keep an eye on things while we are away – and are always happy (except when we bring the rain!) to see us.

It’s not fancy.

But, it is special.

It’s the place where my son stood on the dock with his fishing pole bent over while I assured his Mom that it was a snag.

Only to find out that he had caught a three pound northern!

The place where he grabbed a snake by the tail and lifted it up triumphantly for his terrified mother to view and his squeamish father lightly giggled as he captured a photo of the vent.

The special place we call The Lodge is where my daughter and her friends have spent hours in the hot tub – and she has spent longer hours out on our little boat…on our little lake…catching little fish…in front of our little lodge.

I cannot imagine more precious – special – moments in my life that I have had than those with my Daughter as she and I sat in our little boat for hours – and making small talk about everything and anything and nothing.

The first night we spent in The Lodge my wife and I sat on the floor of the unfurnished cabin and marveled at what an amazing place we were fortunate to have had come into our life. 

Since then we’ve had the honor and privilege of friends and family join us for holidays – for runs – ski races – and no reasons at all – and created hours and days of memories forever.

Anybody who knows me also knows that The Lodge is where I flee to regain my sense of balance, scope and perspective in life.

There’s always something new I learn about The Lodge – and its land – and the nature and wilderness around it.

And, nearly every time, I learn something new about me – and most assuredly remember things about me I have either forgotten or ignored.

As well as things I have always known about myself.

I’m afraid of bats – and most critters, to be honest.  Yes, it is true, there are more of all of them to count at The Lodge.  I would be lying if I told you that I am braver here than I am somewhere else where they are.  Generally, I try to ignore the fact they are here – and sometimes simply convince myself that they are really fast birds flying at night.

I don’t like the dark.  Never have.  Never will.  When I used to travel extensively I would leave all the lights on in the hotel room – t.v. on – in order to fall asleep.

And, while I don’t much like the dark at The Lodge, either, I find that a nightlight with a movie making noise in the background can usually get me to sleep through the night.

Most importantly about all of my trips to The Lodge is my understanding each time I drive into the yard – and drive away back home – is that my liberty and my freedom is reflected in everything about my cabin.

Without either there is no Lodge.  Without my liberty and freedom there is no little lodge – little boat – little lake – or little fish.  Or those moments with my family that I wish I could bottle and stow away for all time.

That’s the beauty of this great nation I am proud to call home – warts and all – imperfections and perfections – failures and successes.

My not fancy cabin is special.  It’s special because without my freedom and liberty there is no Owen and me falling asleep – he in my lap – in the middle of a soft, gentle snow while we looked up at the starts.

Without my freedom and liberty there is no Maisie steering our little boat with a trolling motor to that place where we know we’re going to catch a big Bass.

No freedom and liberty means my wife and I don’t get those hours in the hot tub marveling at the stars – appreciating the solitude – having the gratitude that where we are at in the world is some place we want to be.

For the nearly 10 years we have owned this cabin I never leave it without saying “See you, Cabin.”

Unspoken, but understood every single time I come – and every time I go – is that “See you, Cabin” also means “Thank you, America.”

Thank you, America – land of the free – home of the brave – and where I am honored, privileged and grateful to celebrate my independence this 4^th of July.

 

I want my children to not live my life.

But, I want them to never forget that is what they are doing during their time on this planet:  Living.

It is what we do, we humans.  We are here to live.

Until we die.

 

Today, I turn 53 years old.

Given that life expectancy for men in 1915 was roughly 53 years of age I consider myself remarkably fortunate for having made it this far!

Many of you who know me understand that I’m intending to live to be 100 years old.

This leaves me with about 47 years remaining on this planet – give or take a few years – and assuming God agrees with my life endurance plan.

I have come to a lot of conclusions at this stage of my life.  Some of those conclusions will likely stay with me through the rest of my life – others I suspect will become less black and white closer to the end of my life.

One conclusion I have reached – one I hope I never find myself doubting – is that I believe there are far more kind and good people on this planet than there are rough and evil people.

But, even as a few clouds can temporarily block the warmth and beauty of the sun, the actions of the rough and evil people can temporarily shield the kind and good people from our lives.

It’s easy in this world of the internet to convince ourselves that the world is fast coming to an end.

I don’t think it is.  I hope it isn’t.

Beyond the fact that it screws up my plan to live to 100 years old it, more importantly, deprives my children of the opportunity to clean up the mess that generations before them have created as obstacles to their own future.

I am reminded of the power of the future of this country every time my children talk to me.  Every time they raise a question, or an issue or express an opinion about the world around them.

It may be on a morning drive to take The Daughter to camp where she deliberately raises the question of gun control.  Seeking my opinion is her respectful approach to the conversation.  But, I am more eager and impressed to listen to her perspective and views on the matter.

Or, it may be on a bike ride around Mackinac Island with The Dude who has clear, well-thought out opinions about Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.  Perhaps more importantly, he has a remarkable sense of his own beliefs that are molded by his own research and conversations with others.

My wife and I have deliberately encouraged our children to be aware of the world around them and to engage in it.

She and I both have opinions about the world around us.  We don’t always agree and our own life experiences are different which have resulted in differing takes on how to solve the challenges and face the opportunities we confront.

Yet, we both share a vision for a better world for everyone.

Including our own children.

I don’t find living to be 53 years old to be the biggest and best accomplishment of my life so far.

No election I’ve ever won, race I’ve ever run, bill I’ve ever passed, place I’ve ever visited or victory I have  achieved in any walk of life compares to the most critical accomplishment I have achieved so far:  Raising two children who see the world as a place filled with more good people than bad.

I say “so far” because my job is not yet done.  I hope it is never done when it comes to raising children who I pray every day for their safety in the world around them.

We do live in dangerous times.  Whether it is real or perceived, I believe the world to be a more treacherous place for our children today than it was when I was a child.

Treacherous doesn’t mean there are more bad people.  It just means there are more ways for bad people to do bad things to good people.

My instinct is to protect my kids from the world and the treachery I see that can all too often threaten them.  I work hard every day – sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully – to loosen the leash and give them the freedom to choose their own path.

I want my children to be leaders in the world around them.

I want them to collaborate.  I want them to find and build coalitions.  I want them to be welcoming to listen to all people, ideas, opinions and beliefs.

I want them to argue.  Disagree.  Be kind.  Speak firmly.  Talk gently. Walk away.  Be angry.  Find common ground.  Reject hatred.

I want them to take risks.  To challenge themselves.  To fail.  To work hard.  Play hard.  Love hard.  To have a broken heart.

Be afraid.  Be bold.  Be joyous.  Find sadness and feel shame.  Rise above adversity.  Discover happiness.

Embrace solitude and be peaceful.  Believe in God.  Have faith.  Lose it.  And, find it again.

Surround themselves with people they agree with – and disagree with – like a lot – and not like so much.

I want my children to not live my life.

But, I want them to never forget that is what they are doing during their time on this planet:  Living.

It is what we do, we humans.  We are here to live.

Until we die.

Some of us, for reasons known only to God, live longer or less long.  It doesn’t matter whether it is fair or not fair.  It has been like this since the beginning of time.  I suspect it will remain so until God decides otherwise.

I look back on my 53 years of life and, like a computer, have restore points that I go to when I feel as though I have to get my life working as well as it was designed to do.

Unlike my computer, though, I find the older I get the more restore points I have that sustain me through each year of my life.

It can seem as though 53 years has gone by in the blink of an eye.

Gretchen Rubin has said, “The days are long but the years are short.”

I am mindful of her words.  I choose more and more each day of my life to embrace their length – good, bad or indifferent – knowing that next 47 years will be shorter than the first 53 years.

It’s what I have chosen to do.  As a human.

I am here to live.

Until I die.

 

My love affair with the bicycle began somewhere around 1973 when my parents moved our family from a suburb of Minneapolis to a suburb of Wahpeton.  A town of barely 400 residents Fairmount, North Dakota was a far cry from the burgeoning community of Burnsville which had a population of about 20,000 residents.

Today, Burnsville has over 60,000 residents and Fairmount has about 359 residents.

At the age of 10 I had yet to own my own bicycle.  In a family of nine children it was a luxury we couldn’t afford.

Like the hand me down clothes, skates, baseball gloves and everything else owned by another brother or sister before me, any bike I had the joy of pedaling was well ridden before me.

Arriving in Fairmount it was apparent that a new life awaited five Mische boys and one Mische sister.

It became obvious that the world was a different place than we were used to when I began my first day of school in 5^th Grade.  As my new teacher, Mrs. Baumann, attempted to gently integrate me into my new surroundings – complete with an entire 5^th grade of barely a dozen students—she suggested I share something about my life with my new classmates.

Sensing I needed to say something that would both impress the young faces before me, as well as send a warning shot across the bow that I was not to be trifled with, I lead with what I thought was my strongest asset:  The fact there were 9 Mische children available for whatever action was needed in this new and remote rural community.

Puffing up my chest I announced that I, Erich Mische, was the 6^th child of 9 children – in fact there were 6 boys and 3 girls.

Yet, my boasting didn’t seem to have much impact on the kids staring impassively back at me.

I was soon to be given a sibling superior smack down I would not soon forget.

The first to deliver the blow was a young girl who informed me that there were 12 kids in her family.  Followed by another sweet young thing telling me about the 13 kids in her family.

On and on it went as one kid after another raised the stakes on the numerical advantage they held over me thanks to the higher level of productivity of their parents.

Finally, the coup de grace was delivered by a meek blonde little girl who stood up and said, without boastfulness but obviously proud that she was going to bring me to my knees, that her family had 18 children.

Two times more of their kids than Mische kids.

All I could think of that moment was how long it would take to even the odds and whether or not my folks were up to the task.

Sadly, they were not, and not long after this fateful class show and tell, the number 18 ballooned to something like 20 kids.

Over time the disappointment that my family would not win the war of superiority over the number of children in a household would wane.

In its place would be two significant events that would change my life forever.

The first began when my Grandpa Paul provided a new bicycle to my brother, Hans.

It’s important that I point out that my brother, Hans, in addition to having the “cool” name in our family, was – and remains – the sibling who is better at everything without really trying.

He’s generally funnier than most of us, better looking, cleverer, casually cool and in public has the demeanor that makes one believe that Brad Pitt probably studied him before portraying his character in Ocean’s Eleven.

We would play football in the yard of the school across the street from us and Hans would always score the touchdown.  But, he wouldn’t just score a touchdown.  He would first run past you – around you – back past you – around you again – and then within inches of going across the goal line – do it all over again before he ultimately scored.

Surprisingly, I never hated him for that.  I just wanted to be like him.

But, I digress.  Hans got this great bike from our Grandpa.  I don’t remember why.  In fact, I can’t tell you much about that bike.  It might have been red.  It could have been glitter.  Who knows.

This much I know:  I wanted that bike.  I wanted to get on it and ride it and go fast and go far.

So, not long after he received this wonderful gift from one of the kindest men I have ever known, I took the bike.

I wouldn’t characterize it as stealing.  After all, there wasn’t anywhere for me to really go with the bike.

I couldn’t hide it.  Hell, in Fairmount you couldn’t even hide your breath it was so small.

So, rather than indict me at such a young age let’s call it “borrowing” his bike.

Sadly, my career as a borrower was short-lived as I ended up crashing the bike, bending the rim, and otherwise wrecking the bike.

It’s at this point I have to admit that I don’t know what else happened with this story.  Perhaps I was so traumatized I blocked it from my memory.  I am sure there was some crying on my part.  Expression of sorrow.  Stuff like that.

But, I imagine Hans accepted my apologies for breaking his bike the same way he accepted my apologies for wetting the bed – and him – when we slept together as young boys.

I presume he punched me.   Held me down.  Did something gross thing with spit.  Who knows.

This much I know.  His bike was wrecked.

And, I didn’t have a bike of my own.

Around this time, I met Barney.

Barney was, as there is in every town, a man with demons. I know about many of Barney’s demons.  But, I also don’t wish to dwell on them anymore than I wish to dwell on wrecking my brother’s bike.

I know that Barney fixed bikes.  He made bikes from other bikes.

When your bike was broken.  Or needed to be fine-tuned, there was nobody else but Barney to fix them.

I was 12 years old when I got my first bike that was my own bike.

It was a Barney Bike.  A steel framed behemoth with massive balloon tires.  It had a single speed.  And, probably weighed twice as much as me.

But, when I got on it and pedaled it I knew my life would never be the same again.

I rode that bike everywhere.  And, I rode it on everything.  Long before mountain bikes became the rage my Barney Bike flew down gravel roads – leapt through water filled ditches – and performed brilliantly running into trees.

It took a lot of effort to move that bike.  Moving massive pounds of American steel with rubber tires that were more at home on a small tank than a bicycle it took all my might to get this bike to speed.

And, once it got to speed it didn’t have a “coast” speed.  It just had Erich speed that required my legs and my lungs to keep it going at all times.

That Barney Bike didn’t last forever.  I remember one time riding down a ditch in high pursuit of a kid on another bike playing “Cops and Robbers” the frame simply exploded.

Thankfully, I avoided serious injury.  But, had to take the wrecked carcass of my steel bike to Zach’s and have them weld it back together.

It survived some number of miles but eventually had to be replaced by another Barney Bike.  Just as ugly.  Hideous.  And, heavy.

But that bike was freedom.  It was glory.  It was childhood.

Long before the bicycle became a political statement a bicycle became a metaphor for nearly everything about my life journey.

I thought about that this weekend when I went out on my 29er composite bicycle that possesses less steel than not gray hair I have on my head.

This lovely red bicycle needed a name.  In hindsight I could have called it Barney Bike 12 but I decided to modernize my ride and christened it Cherry Bomb.

With so many gears that I honestly don’t remember how many it has Cherry Bomb can cut through nearly anything.

Including the years.

Today, at 52, 40 years past the day of my first bicycle, I still climb on a bicycle for freedom.  Glory.  And, childhood.

The faster I pedal the younger I get.  The steeper the downhill – the steeper the uphill – the muddier the trail – the more I am convinced that I can ride faster and further than ever before.

Until I hit the deep sand and the bike twists and turns and my 52-year-old legs fail to turn the power of the pedals fast enough to cut through it.

Or, the effort to get up that steep hill fades three quarters of the way up and I can’t unlock my shoes from the pedals fast enough to prevent myself from simply – ungracefully – tipping over.

This weekend, somewhere between realizing I was going to hit the ground and hitting the ground I smiled.  Not because I enjoy wiping out.  I don’t.

From the moment I knew that my effort to crest that hill was going to fail and my desperate effort to release my shoes from the pedals I felt that feeling of what it was like to be that 12-year-old boy in Fairmount riding my Barney Bike.

Thousands of bicycle miles later.  Life success and failure and struggles and trials and tribulations throughout the years.  Joy.  Despair.  And everything in between.  My life has been one long wind in the face bike ride for more than 5 decades.

I’ve never been afraid to fall down.  Or fail.

But, I have always known it was going to hurt.

Yet, no matter how much it hurt I got back up.  And got back on.  And took that bike and continued forward on my journey.

This weekend before I hit the ground I knew it was going to hurt.  And, I wasn’t disappointed.

There were no broken bones.  No big gaping wounds or deep scratches or punctures.

Just the raw pain of a thud that comes when a middle age man body hits the million years old soil along the banks of the Mississippi River.

I laughed.  And groaned.  And laid there for a while.  I just wanted to be sure nothing felt broken.  Or that there was anything gushing out of my body other than my ego.

After determining I was going to survive I laughed again and slowly got up.  Readjusted both my parts and my bicycle parts.

At 52 years of age I got back on that bike.  Just like I have every time I have hit the ground since the day of my first bike crash.

And, while my body absorbs those confrontations with the Earth in a much different way at 52 then when it did at 12, my mind and memories haven’t changed at all.

My bike is freedom.

It is glory.

It is childhood.

My 15 year old son has decided who he will support this evening during Precinct Caucuses in Minnesota. He did so after spending weeks considering his options – reviewing the candidates’ positions – talking to others and gaining their perspectives – and weighing the relative strength of each candidates ability to get things done and lead America forward.

Who he has chosen to support is his business. Whether I agree with his choice or not is unimportant.

What is important is that my 15 year old son who is neither old enough to vote at a Precinct Caucus – nor in November’s General Election – felt strongly enough about his civic duty to his nation and his future to make the effort to understand his choices.

He will attend his first Precinct Caucus tonight, eager to learn what others have to say, to understand how the process works and, thanks to his local Caucus Convener, be able to help volunteer to register those who will be attending their Precinct Caucus.

As I was driving him to school this morning he asked me who I was going to support at the Precinct Caucus I am eligible to attend.

Without much more than a casual comment I told him I would be going to my cabin tonight and that I wasn’t likely to go to my Precinct Caucus because it wasn’t going to make any difference.

It was at that intersection of 15 year old boy and 52 year old Dad that I was immediately confronted by my hypocrisy.

For years I have told anyone who will listen, including my children that every vote counts. That it is the civic duty and responsibility of every American to get engaged in the process.  To make public service a part of their American life.

To me, voting is among the most sacred of rights and privileges as an American citizen. It is why I have supported requiring voter identification at the polls throughout my entire adult life as a way to ensure that those who are voting are actually who they say they are.  The grateful honor of being able to choose who our elected officials are is something I have never taken for granted.

So much so that when I have found myself confronted with a choice between voting for someone I truly cannot support or not voting at all I have made the choice to simply not vote at all.

I have to be honest. I would rather be at my cabin tonight.  I would rather be sitting in my hot tub, under the stars, listening to nothing at all.

Yet, when my son looked at me and reminded me that participation in the democratic process continues to decline – that voter participation in America is at some of the lowest levels in our history – and that isn’t it my civic duty to participate – I shamefully agreed that it was, and it is.

See, this year’s Precinct Caucus for me isn’t about my choice about who to support. It truly has come down to who I intend to oppose.

For no matter whether I choose to support Senator Marco Rubio or Governor John Kasich my decision will be weighted much more by my desire to stop Donald Trump.

Never, in my lifetime, have I ever found myself so repulsed by a public figure. Someone whose very essence defiles the principles of democracy that I find to be central to my existence as an American.

Donald Trump is the standard bearer for every American bigot, racist, misogynist, anti-Semite, anti-constitutionalist and anti-immigrant in this year’s 2016 Presidential Election.

I am, first and foremost, an American loyalist. I believe in American Exceptionalism.  I embrace our nation’s shortcomings as the first step towards us realizing our full potential for liberty and freedom for all people.

Is our nation still too racist? Still too sexist?  Still too unwilling to accept that every American has the right, under our laws and Constitution, to the absolute pursuit of life, liberty and happiness?

Yes.

Yet, knowing that Donald Trump threatens all that I love about America – that which exists and that for what we must strive to achieve – I would have glibly traded my place at a Precinct Caucus to someone else so I could rest comfortably at my cabin.

My son is not me, and I am not my son. He is not a miniature reflection of anything about his Dad.

There’s nothing “Junior” about Owen Francis Mische.

He and I find ourselves on different places when it comes to our politics – often times on our policies – and most certainly on what bands we both enjoy.

This morning my son reminded me of two things. My words have mattered. And, I have an obligation as an American.

They mattered enough to him to have cared enough about his future to focus on studying his choices for who will lead his country forward. They mattered enough to him to make the effort to attend an event where, while he cannot vote, he can have a voice and he will share it and he will make a difference.

I love my cabin.

I love America more.

My son reminded me of that this morning.

And, for that I love him the most.d

So begins my fourth year as Executive Director of Spare Key.

I write this in front of a fire at my home in St. Paul, drinking a cup of coffee and waiting for my 13-year-old Daughter to awaken so the two of us can head to Treasure Island Resort & Casino this morning.

Not to gamble.  Although, to be candid, the decision to become Spare Key’s Executive Director was perhaps the biggest gamble I’ve ever taken in my life.

No, this morning we head to Treasure Island Resort & Casino to sport a blaze orange vest with Spare Key’s logo on it and spend hours watching other people bowl and track their scores for a tournament.

It’s an interesting reflection on my life journey that I find the simple act of keeping other people’s scores as a way to raise funds and awareness for Spare Key both an enormous privilege and a gift of wonderful humility.

One of the first people I met with after becoming Spare Key’s Executive Director was Cindy Taube, Public Relations Manager for Treasure Island.  She and her organization had been supporters of Spare Key for years but if we were to grow our capacity to serve more families I needed Cindy and Treasure Island – and a lot more people and organizations like her – to believe in our vision to do just that.

Cindy had no reason to believe anything I told her.  I was just some middle-age guy who had never run a non-profit who was asking her to trust me when I told her that we were getting ready to build something pretty amazing at Spare Key.

After a couple of hours, lots of coffee and Diet Pepsi, Cindy looked at me and said she would take a chance that what we were going to do was something she wouldn’t regret supporting.

This month, at our 2016 Black Knight Financial Services Spare Key Groove Gala I am beyond proud and delighted that we will present to Treasure Island Resort & Casino and the Prairie Island Indian Community the 2016 Spare Key Derian Keech Parade of Kindness Award.

This award is the most important thing we do all year to recognize those who have given of themselves and their resources to help lead a “Parade of Kindness” for Spare Key – and more importantly, the thousands of families we’ve been able to serve.

Named after the son of our founders, Robb and Patsy Keech, the Derian Keech Parade of Kindness Award, is another symbol of the living legacy of Spare Key and a little boy named Derian who earned his Angel Wings before he grew to three years old.

Cindy’s willingness to take a chance on me and Spare Key is the story of my past four years at Spare Key.  Others took the same chance.  Cindy is and will always remain my touchstone where I knew, driving home from Treasure Island after that meeting, we were going to do amazing things for an amazing organization.

Cindy – and so many others like her – carried me throughout the past four years.  People willing to take a chance that I wouldn’t screw things up.  Who saw the value of an organization like Spare Key.

There are so many who I have met and learned from and benefitted from the past four years I know I would miss some who deserve recognition for their encouragement, investment, sacrifice and above all their steadfast support for when I succeeded – and most importantly when I did not.

Suffice to say that without each and every one of them someone other than me would be writing about their joyous journey as Spare Key’s Executive Director.

But, there is one person who does stand out, much like Cindy, in that journey.

As in Nikki Lignell, our Program Manager.  A former recipient of Spare Key, Nikki joined Spare Key in 2013.

The proud Mom of her daughter, Riley, Nikki experienced firsthand the kind grace of Spare Key’s mission long before I was around.  Thanks to the creation of Robb and Patsy Keech, and the leadership and generosity of thousands, Spare Key was able to provide Nikki and her family with a mortgage payment in March of 2011 so she could celebrate the last month of Riley’s life with her in the hospital.

I remember having a drink with Nikki and asking her what she planned to do when she grew up.  She laughed at my annoying question.

After a while of talking I told her I needed her to join Spare Key to do great things for a great many others.

Like Cindy, and hundreds of others, Nikki took a leap of faith that what I told her we could and would do would happen – but only if she and others like her were willing to take a risk.

She did.  And, where Spare Key is today, and where it will go tomorrow, is as much a testament to Nikki Lignell as it is to Robb and Patsy Keech’s decision to begin the organization 19 years ago.

Shortly, my Daughter will awaken and walk downstairs groggy and sleepy.  We will both get up and get ready for our drive down to Treasure Island to put on our orange vest with “Spare Key” imprinted on the back so we can volunteer by keeping score at a bowling tournament to help raise funds and awareness for Spare Key.

It’s a far cry from the days when I got to meet with heads of state, celebrated public officials, politicians and world leaders in Washington, D.C. and throughout the world.  And, attend events where there were countless numbers of powerful people with important jobs and important sounding titles.  Thousands of miles from a time when people called me because they wanted something from me, or reached out to me because they believed I had something important to say to them or others.

Yet, no matter how many miles away I get from those places in this journey I chose to take four years ago, I feel completely at home with where I have arrived.

I am not the perfect or best Executive Director of a non-profit in the world.  There’s a lot I have learned, but there’s a lot more I need to know and learn.  I smile, often, when I think of where I began and where I am today.

Four years ago I came back home to do what I finally know I was meant to do.

And, wearing an orange vest, keeping score at a bowling tournament, getting tips from bowlers as a way to help fund our mission, with my 13-year-old Daughter right next to me, is just one part of the very important responsibilities I have as Spare Key’s Executive Director.

I love it.

Ah, New Year’s Day!  After an evening of raucous celebration, I have awoken with a well-deserved and carefully constructed hangover.

Nope.  Not true.

New Year’s Eve was a lovely dinner of prime rib for my wife, my daughter and myself – New York Strip for The Dude – coconut shrimp, crab cakes and stuffed mushrooms.

We sat around our little table at our little cabin next to our little lake with a little boat gathering snow and laughed and giggled and argued a bit over whether or not there were deeper meanings to Star Wars – and whether or not the most recent movie is or is not better than previous ones.

Stuffed with steak The Dude crashed early – The Daughter snuggled in to watch Psych re-runs on Netflix and my wife and I went and sat in the hot tub and chatted about life and the New Year.

Before long there was a quiet cabin as we all slept our way into the New Year.

I woke up this morning and looked about the same.  I get older every night and it shows in the mirror.

The Dude, shockingly, slept in until about 7:45 and as I write this The Daughter and The Babe are sleeping (or, at least, still in bed!).

With my feet in front of our little gas stove at the cabin and with the sound of The Dude crunching cereal I have no New Year’s Resolution I’ve created or that I will struggle to honor.

With 52 years of life behind me and 48 years ahead of me I prefer to focus on goals and objectives that I hope will best define my 100 years on this planet.

I want my kids to continue to grow up to be kind, generous, gentle, inquisitive, funny, cranky and all the things my wife and I have come to appreciate from them.  I am okay with the teenage angst of my 15-year-old son – I suspect there are many more versions of it in the years to come – but I find it a duty as a Dad to learn how to appreciate him for who he is and will become rather than control the outcome.

For those of you who know me the phrase “Control Freak” is an apt description.  That I’ve learned to control the freak when it comes to the Dude would be an overstatement – I have, however, worked hard to contain it as often as possible.  Some days I am more successful than others.

The 13-year-old Daughter is changing and growing before my eyes.  She is larger than life every single day.  I can tell she is teetering on the verge of being that challenging teenager all of my friends and family who have gone before me assure me is coming.

I would be lying if I said I am not sad to see her grow from that cheerful, good natured, laughing and smiling baby and toddler to a more complex, often cheerful, sometimes good natured and much laughing and smiling teenager.

But, I welcome that next phase in her life as I should – as a proud Dad who is simply amazed at the great blessing I have to be the father of these two extraordinary human beings.

The past year wasn’t a bad year.  I learned a lot about a lot.  I always consider that a good year.

There were challenges, to be sure, but I also have noticed that with my advancing age I am more content with the outcome of some things than I may have been before in my relative days of youth.

There are still fights to pick that should be picked.  Still arguments to make that have to be made.  And, with my work there are more families that need the mission and mercy of Spare Key.

Life is a great thing.  Never easy.  Never the same thing.  But, it’s short.  My 100 years on Earth will be over in the relative blink of an eye.  I want those blinks to take longer and keep my eyes open more often.

I will run a couple of marathons this year.  Continue my never-ending quest to do things in my 50s that I didn’t or couldn’t do in my 20s and 30s because I was polluting my body with smoking and a host of other bad life choices.  I still plan on climbing a mountain – maybe this year – maybe next year.

There’s a couple of bike rides I want to do – trips I want to take – and things with my family I know we will devise along the way.

It may not be as exciting as curing a disease – solving the mystery of who was on the Grassy Knoll –lose 97 pounds – or a host of other amazing things that I know somebody somewhere in the world is going to do and accomplish.

More than anything else, though, I resolve to do what I have found I do best:  Live.