SLGG

The night sky has been exceptionally beautiful, clear, and cold the last few nights.  With the “short” days of the December and January calendar, I find myself outside more during the dark night.  And how majestic and beautiful it is.

I’m not alone in this assessment…for 10s of thousands of years, people have looked up to the sky in amazement and wonder.  I was reminded in church this weekend of the Magi following the star during the Epiphany.  The night sky is a connection with the vastness and grandeur of our God’s creation.

Our family is a bunch of space nerds.  We love to look up and see the moon, planets, constellations, satellites, and the occasional SpaceX launch.  One of our most used apps on our iPhone is the Skyview Free app…it settles our many disagreements about what we are really looking at quickly.  By far my favorite thing to see in the night sky is Orion’s Belt, not only because it is relatively easy to find and identify, but I will always hold a personal memory of it.  

After doing a little research on Orion’s Belt, the 3 stars that make up this mini-constellation are 900-1800 light years away…an incomprehensible distance for someone like me.  The center star in the Belt is named Alnilam…astronomers tell us that it burns with an intensity of 800,000x of our own sun!  What?!?!   For centuries, cultures have looked to Orion and his belt for stories, strength, and the stability of a constant in the night sky.

While amazing and incredible as that is, my reasons for admiring Orion’s Belt is sentimental.  When our family was stationed in Hawaii (2008/2009 timeframe), we took a brief vacation over the holidays to Kaanapali Beach, Maui.  My parents came out to visit, and after a rough ferry ride over to Maui from Honolulu, we were ready to relax.  The kids were little, so little that Mary Caroline was in pigtails, Adele was in diapers, and Charlotte wasn’t even thought of yet.  We decided to take a beach walk one beautiful clear night—-it was a fantastic, clear Hawaiian moonless night where you could almost hear the slack-string guitar of “Mele Kalikimaka” playing thru the palms.  Walking south along the beach, I was holding little Nolin’s hand, and he was age 4 or 5.  Remembering correctly now, I was probably grasping his hand trying to restrain him from plunging headfirst into the dangerous surf, because well, that would be a Nolin thing to do.  He was and still is a bit of a mischievous hellion, and all boy.

At one point on the walk, our little boy looked up, stuck out his index finger, and said “Look, Orion’s Belt!”  He had read about it somewhere, or our awesome neighbor Bob Kesler had taught him that at some point (Bob is a highly skilled amateur astronomer).  We certainly hadn’t taught him that, and he was trying to show us how smart he was.  But for us, it was more than intelligence, it was also a symbol of his wonder and awe at the heavens, and it was a good sign.

Fast forward to just last week, we were on a night walk, near the coast.  20 year old Nolin saw those same stars and pointed them out to me once again.  I was waiting for it, because I always think of him when I see Orion’s Belt.  I am so grateful to now have that connection to him, even when he is far away.

He tells us now at school, on dark, clear, Colorado nights he will take his telescope with him, drive up in the hills to the darkest place he can find, and stare up into the heavens.  Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, but we love that he is enjoying this ancient quest to appreciate and try to understand God’s magnificent creation.  And we get to see the same above us.  Shauna used to sing the kids a song with the line “Lord let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love.”  Maybe they hear that when they look up too.

God gave us these amazing natural wonders for stability, awe, and admiration.  Ancient cultures, the Magi, our little family, and all of us get to watch it in awe.  Thank you Lord—-Indeed, How Great Thou Art!

(When the kids post things to instagram, they only do it in stories, so it goes away…but the old man tries to get a screenshot when I can to remember it…that’s what the picture is. A screenshot from a recent story of Nolin’s)

Had some PIO the other day.  For those that dont know, PIO is “Pilot Induced Oscillation”.  Usually, PIO occurs when the aircraft is disrupted by turbulence or something minor, and the pilot reacts to it.  Or rather they overreact to it.  Then the yoyo begins where the aircraft searches for stability, but the pilot continues to overreact to the initial upset and their inputs are counterproductive.  Basically, as the pilot you are fighting against yourself.  It’s akin to when you are driving a car, reach for your coffee, and swerve onto the shoulder…then overcorrect and nearly get hit by somebody in the oncoming lane.  It’s not a great situation.

When flying, to stop PIO, the best thing you can do is nothing.  Jesus take the wheel, or as we used to say in the C-17 “Let go of the stick”.  If you try to handle it and force the aircraft back to a stable situation, it might get worse.  Just like Maverick, you might be holding on a little too tight.

A couple of life lessons for me here.

I’m a complete type A.  I want to fix things and make them right.  “I can do it, and all it depends on is how hard I want to try and force it to happen.”  90% of time, I end up with a bigger problem than where I began.  My “fixing” things end up with more collateral brokenness.  What I should do is take a deep breath, say a prayer, LISTEN, and think, rather than react.

Rage against change and upsets?  We have to take the good and bad together, that’s called life.

Thinking for a while on this, seems our country has been in PIO for quite a while.  “Political induced oscillation”.  And we didn’t let go of the stick, and didn’t trust Jesus to take the wheel, and we are at a rather precarious point in history.  Our choices are “Very VERY Bad” and “ALOT WORSE”.  There are many reasons why we are here, but that isn’t forward looking.  With 4 weeks to go before an election, people are stressed and worried.

There really isn’t a solution to be found in these words, other than it’s gonna be ok.  We are gonna be fine.  It might be a bumpy ride, but pretty soon America will find its way back to a known attitude and power setting.  Y’all, things are gonna be fine.  My advice—Turn off the news, hug your fam, and go do something good with your life.

“Welcome to America”
Said the kid sitting on a beach chair, who was working as the pseudo bouncer to the “public beach”. He said this cynically and sarcastically to my daughter and I after I protested the $20 admission fee to watch the sunset over beautiful Lake Tahoe. Apparently, the beach has been claimed as someone’s property and they can now charge heftily for entry. After my repudiation that this fee was indeed ridiculous, the kid again smarmily said with a smile “welcome to America.” You could almost hear the bully’s “ha-ha” laugh from the Simpsons in the background.

It was at this point where I got a little upset with his cynicism, and feeling like Officer Rodney Farva ordering a liter of Cola, I muttered something to him that I know all about America and that I served over 20 years to hopefully protect her. My daughter could see my “irish” coming out and said “hey Dad, this looks great, let’s go get a good table over there. Thanks dad.” (Time and again lately this young lady has shown me that she is a much more mature and calming influence on the world than her dad)

I have been stewing on what this kid said. His twice proclaimed dissing of my beloved country as a punchline hurt. And it wasn’t just an ill-mannered kid hurting a boomer-type like me, but it hurt because this was the stock answer he gave for explaining when things are wrong. To this kid and probably many in his generation, “welcome to America” could replace some expletives. The cynicism and sarcasm replaces hope, belief, and a desire to make things better for everybody. This is the antithesis of what I hope for our future as a country.

I have travelled all over the world, some places are definitely alot bettter than others, but can guarantee you that there is nowhere better in so many aspects than the USA. It isn’t bragging, it is a fact. While we have many hapless politicians and “leaders”, and the news is incessant in trying to relay how bad things are, I can assure you that that the United States of America is THE BEST place. It is the best for many reasons, some accidental based on geography, but the biggest reason is the people. Our hope, optimism, diversity of thought/belief, and opportunity is unmatched anywhere else in the world.

And on this Memorial Day weekend, it is more appropriate than ever to acknowledge the many that gave everything so that we can maintain our hope, optimism, and opportunity to lead in what can be a dark world. They didn’t sacrifice everything so some kid could have a snarky remark to a fat old guy.

So I hope that “welcome to America” becomes “WELCOME TO AMERICA!!!” for that punky kid and those with a pessimistic view. I think it is on us that are older and experienced to example that behavior of optimism and not be cynics ourselves. We as Americans have so many blessings, it’s hard to be continually cognizant of that.

So, WELCOME TO AMERICA!!!🇺🇸

(Quick observation—after going to many of our amazing National Parks, it is evident that many visiting foreigners really love our country and its treasures…they are everywhere and enjoying it immensely…I think we should be too).

My cousin Brian King was a big man…in fact, I’m told that most of his friends referred to Brian as “Moose”

Brian was a couple of years older than me…I looked up to him, and probably got some of his hand-me-down husky-sized pants to wear as a kid. Big Brian King was a large man, had huge hands, a big toothy grin, and when he gave you a hug it was literally a bear hug—-but the biggest thing on Brian King was his big heart.

Brian’s big heart drove him to tirelessly volunteer at his kid’s schools and sporting events. His big heart lead him to be a “momma’s boy” to my Aunt Barbara Ann…(we shared that in common because I am a momma’s boy too). Now I’m also finding out through Facebook comments that Big Brian King was the ultimate neighbor and friend to so many.

Brian’s big heart led him to April—his devoted, beautiful and “partner-in-crime” wife. Brian’s big heart was never more full than when he was with his 3 kids, his 3 siblings, or around our huge family with an inordinate amount of Harris cousins. He was the ultimate family man of epic and lengthy road trips, dad jokes, the family’s genealogy expert to know where and who we came from, advice that I’m sure his kids never wanted to hear, and his big Dad heart just caring for his family.

Brian had a heart for aviation too…he LOVED it, and we could both get real nerdy talking about airplanes. I doubt he ever let an opportunity pass to watch a plane go by in the sky and know what it was. Brian King’s soft big heart loved good times, and Robert Earl Keen’s song “The Road Goes on Forever” seemed to be a personal anthem of sorts….a rolling, rocking, fun, and somewhat outlaw song…like my cousin, I love that song and Robert Earl Keen. We bonded over that too.

Big Brian King’s big heart gave out just over a week or so. It was fittingly and painfully at the end of another family vacation for the Kings. It was a shock, and I’ve personally been trying to process it and make sense of it since it happened. He is the first Harris cousin to pass away, and I think we all thought that wouldn’t happen to any of us. But it has. Big Brian King and his big heart brought so much joy to the world in his time here on earth, and I know he is having THE best time swapping stories and corny jokes with his dad, my uncle Bill, and our granddad, Papa.

It is sad for us left here without his big presence, but infinitely harder on April, Ashley, Harris, Amelia, his siblings Billy, Barry, and Beth, and his sweet momma, my Aunt Barbara. But boy are we are all so much better off for Brian’s life and the selfless way that he lead it—Big Brian King and his big heart made a BIG difference in the world. Miss you cousin.

I’m hardly a right-brained art guy. Pretty sure that wouldn’t be in the first 500 adjectives people might use about me. But I had the opportunity on a layover this week to visit the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in Manhattan. It was a cold rainy morning, and only cost $25, so why not? Inside were a few tour groups of adults and kids, but pretty sparse crowd on a Wednesday morning. Some folks were really looking in depth at the immense amount of art—Monet, Munch, Van Gogh, and tons of others that I had no idea who they were—but it was art I’m told. The serious (or tired) patrons were sitting on couches without backs (I’m sure there is a name for the benches) staring and interpreting something that may or may not be there. Like how snobby wine people talk about “hints of apricot and hickory” when it is just squashed grapes.

Honestly, I had no idea what was gonna be in the museum, and was pretty sure I would be dissatisfied with the weirdness and haughtiness of it all. And then in a corner of the museum on the 5th floor, I saw a painting that I had seen countless times—“Starry Night” by Vincent Van Gogh. It was the original, and I was the only person looking at it. For about a second, and then a huge crowd of people swarmed around taking selfies with the pic to memorialize the moment—and pretty much destroyed the mood. But I had a second.

I didn’t know the story behind Starry Night. Long story short, it was mostly the view out the window from his insane asylum room after our man Van went berserk and cut off his ear. The asylum is where he did some of his most incredible work.

(If you want to nerd out on the background, here is the Wikipedia article https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Starry_Night?wprov=sfti1)

It is common belief that many artists and musicians are usually haunted and tortured by something unseen—depression, despair, addiction, mental illness, etc.. And it isn’t just them, it is all of us from time to time, but they get the notoriety of it. But the reason I am writing it is thinking about how God usually brings beauty and revelation from some of our darkest times.

Obviously Vincent wasn’t in a good place, and the sky and views inspired him…and the result is one of his greatest contributions to the world, allowing us to be inspired with the beauty. It is truly a gift from God, emerging from the worst of times. I’ve read that Van wasn’t religious, but I do notice that he included a church in his apparent Magnum Opus—and it lies beneath the beauty of a night sky. There is light in the “Starry Night”, and I think that light is hope, and I’m so glad that Vincent Van Gogh shared the light with the world through and in spite of his darkness. Well done!

When I’m on layovers with work, I like to walk around, workout, eat some good food and when needed, get a haircut. It keeps me from wasting time when I am home with my family and I sometimes get some local flavor for the city.

Today, in downtown Cleveland, Ohio at “Bobby C’s Classic Barber Shop”, I got a chance to sit in Mr. Bobby’s chair and meet a nice fella and get a haircut. I was able to just walk in, and step right up…well, almost, because turns out Mr. Bobby only accepts cash, and I don’t carry any on layovers. So back to the hotel to get some cash, and then finally to sit and talk with Mr. Bobby.

Mr. Bobby was positive about the Browns recent victory against the Bengals in the battle of Ohio, and also talked about how he had lost a lot of business during “the riots and the epidemic” since people were moving out of the city. Then the mail lady on her route swung by to drop off the mail. She reminded me of Carla from Cheers.

Mr. Bobby talked with his old friend the mail lady, and told her that she has to take care of herself. She looked rough. Big circles under her eyes, ragged uniform…The post office is short-manned and she is working double shifts. Sometimes until 9pm. She told Bobby that it isn’t that bad, because she has a good route now…the Indians (Guardians) and the Cavs office is on her route. While casually trying to cut the gray hairs out of my head of hair, he nicely but with a little force told her— “you gotta get out of there, it is killing you…you gotta take care of yourself. You know what I did.”

She nodded, gave an Ohio “oh yeah, sure will”, smiled, waved, kidded me that there was a huge mistake in my haircut, and was off on her way to finish her route. Mr. Bobby came around and looked at me— “I used to work for the post office, but it was rough, no time at home, but I also would cut hair on the side.” Then he told me “so my son started the law enforcement academy down in Columbus, and he would bring his buddies over for haircuts…they liked the haircuts I gave them—-good guys. After a while my son said ‘hey pops, the post office is no good for you and you should be a barber, it is something you would love and you do a great job.’” Mr. Bobby replied to his son that there were bills to be paid and it wasn’t that easy. His son told him “Dad, I’ve got your bills, I’ll take care of it, I want you to do this” and then between clips, Mr. Bobby’s voice dropped and he said “and that was a week before his accident”.

“So I do this for him and to honor him”

That’s when I noticed the wall, with the plaques, drawings, flags, and paintings with the face of a kid in a state trooper hat. Originally, I presumed when I walked in that it was just the flair of an old time barber shop. The kid on the wall looked like he was dressed for Halloween as a state trooper in these pictures. It wasnt any kid—it was Mr. Bobby’s kid. His son. His son that wanted him to be a full time barber. Ohio State Trooper Robert C. Perez, Jr. was killed in the line of duty on May 13, 2000 when an intoxicated driver ran into him while he was on a traffic stop. He was 24 years old. I had to look it up, I couldn’t ask Mr. Bobby about it (https://sanduskyregister.com/news/244902/patrol-remembers-local-state-trooper-killed-in-the-line-of-duty/). He would be 46 years old now.

A kid, a 24 year old kid, who offered to pay his dad’s bills so dad could go to pursue the job he wanted to do…I asked Mr Bobby if I could read his wall that was a tribute to his son. I couldn’t really read it because my eyes were a little blurry. I told Mr. Bobby thank you for raising a selfless hero…he proudly said “thanks…he was a good son” and I told him in now have a barber in Cleveland, Ohio. I got a pic of him to share with y’all.

On a personal level—I struggle with rationalizing the time away from home and my family with this job, and try to fill it up in positive ways. Mr. Bobby and the story of his son filled that void for me today. Mr. Bobby carried on and did what his son wanted him to do, and God continues to show his light in strange places sometimes.

If you are in Cleveland and in need of a haircut, or just want to meet a good man with a healing heart, sit down in Mr Bobby’s chair for a while. This haircut was worth the $27…CASH. I promise you Mr. Bobby got a good tip.

Bobby C’s Classic Barbershop
(216) 664-1030
https://maps.app.goo.gl/tUhWE7PiAtR7itFSA?g_st=ic

On a layover in Chicago this morning…walking along the lakeshore where it meets the Chicago River. If you are familiar there is a great hiking/biking path there, and it is packed with people getting exercise and enjoying the day.

I’m walking north on the path, and see this little ”old” lady riding her bike up the slope heading south. She has to be well north of 80 and about maybe 100 pounds if that. She is chugging along with her bike, looks over at me and grins, as if to say “check this out, I’m not too old for this!” And pedals away gleefully.

I’ve thought about her and her attitude for the last 2 hours since I saw her. She must have been hell as a kid. I hope that I can be just like her.

If you are over 40, Don’t “act your age”. Make every single day count and matter, and do things you enjoy. Defy the odds. Make the most of this life.

(Despite horrible, horrible political “leadership”, Chicago is by far my favorite American big city…and is uniquely American. I hope they can get control of the mess to save this city)

The other day I got a message from Marcy. She had seen an instagram pic of our son in a crowd of other basic cadets talking with LtGen Richard Clark. General Clark is the Air Force Academy Superintendent, and by all accounts a great leader. He is the boss at USAFA. Marcy’s message— “I used to feed Rich Clark when he was a lieutenant.”

No surprise at all. It seems almost everyone has been fortunate enough to feast on the meals at Marcy’s. Countless classmates, pilots, spouses, generals, athletes, Thunderbirds, Distinguished Flying Cross recipients, and at least one real life Astronaut have regularly dined with Marcy and John. In addition to the amazing food, we had a lot of laughter and some great advice. Wouldn’t surprise me if Pope Francis himself showed up at their table. He would definitely leave with an absurdly full belly.

You see, Marcy, and her husband John, are walking saints. Air Force saints. There isn’t anybody that they won’t help, listen to, feed, or care for. They were my sponsors when I was a Cadet at the Academy, nearly 30 years ago. And they have “sponsored” so many over the past 30 years, that the Air Force became a “6 degrees of John and Marcy”…but it was more like 3 degrees. They knew and had an impact on everyone they encountered.

I met them because my roommate Tom was from John’s hometown of Cedar Falls, Iowa. Half of the Air Force seems to be from the great state of Iowa. John, better known by his callsign Odie, is a 1986 USAFA grad. At the Academy, John was on the parachute team—the Wings of Blue—and he used to say he had one of the lowest GPA’s to ever graduate. But he graduated, and is one of the smartest and most sage people that I know. He married his long time girlfriend, Marcy (from Cedar Rapids, Iowa) sometime after graduation and they started their life together in Del Rio, Texas.

(A quick life learning point. If you meet somebody from Cedar (Anywhere), Iowa, chances are they are generous and outstanding human beings).

After several flying assignments and making friends all over the Air Force, they came back to USAFA for John to work as an officer with the Wings of Blue, the parachute program, and fly the Twin Otter. Tom and I did the jump program out senior year, and one time, and Odie worked it out to be our jumpmaster. On the way up in the airplane, he told us to be watching the door after we flung ourselves out the door. We did, and looked up to see Odie in the door smiling. I’ll never forget his “double birds” making me laugh while I was plummeting to earth.

We would all go over to their house on the weekends, hang out with them and their kids, do laundry, Marcy would fix an amazing meal, and we would be able to relax and be real people again away from the stress of the Hill. Marcy’s onion rings surpassed the Varsity, and I can offer no higher praise. We would sometimes try to bounce life advice off of them—

Odie would be quiet, smile with a little laugh and say something like “let’s see how that works out for you.” That’s Odie. Marcy couldn’t help herself and would give strong hints at what you should do, giggle a little, and say somewhat sarcastically “but what do I know.” Turns out, Marcy knows alot.

Later Odie became a legend in the C-17 community to expand the fleet’s combat capability—and he, along with Mr. Ralph Van Wagener, worked hard to create the modern SOLL II force. He retired after being an amazing Group Commander and “Full Bird” Colonel, and they went home to Iowa. He and Marcy raised a strong and loving family, and they continue to serve the homeless and their community in Iowa. Amazing people.

They were the first Air Force family that I found. They actually made the Air Force a family—they didn’t care where you were from (but bonus points if from Iowa), but they treated people like they belonged. They would do anything they could to help. Odie and Marcy (and their kids) welcomed us all into their family, and we are still family. They had no idea who they were helping at the time, nor what they might one day become, and they didn’t care. They were there just to help and be kind to the person in front of them. Thanks Odie and Marcy for showing us the way. We will never be able to repay you.

There are times when church isn’t in church.

A few Sundays back, Shauna and I found ourselves in one of the best churches I have ever seen…it was on a Marta train heading north, somewhere between East Point and Peachtree Center. (For those of y’all unfamiliar, Marta is Atlanta’s subway system).

Marta any day is about average, but this particular day it was hot, steamy, kinda cramped, and we had our luggage sitting on our laps coming in from the airport. We embraced the $2.50 ride north that beat the $100 Uber. Sometimes, you get what you pay for…sometimes you get so much more.

About 2 stops north, a lady and her kinda pudgy son got on the train. They were dressed very nice. A security guard in uniform with hair 4 colors of the rainbow sat directly in front of us, talking very loudly through her Bluetooth to what I supposed was her beau. From her side of the conversation, I apprised she wasn’t happy with him. A man who appeared homeless, disheveled, smelly, and dirty bounced around the train looking for money. Everyone kept their eyes forward and low.

Another stop, and from the left a woman entered the train. She was wearing a ratty tank top with no bra—Her eyes were bloodshot, she was rubbing her arms intensely, her clothes were dirty…she was in trouble…and fighting demons. Some would say she was down on her luck, but it was apparent that this poor woman had no luck at all. She could not be ignored, and the Marta passengers moved away. Well, almost all of the passengers did.

The nicely-dressed lady looked at the woman and discreetly gave her some money. Then she scooched over in her seat and asked the woman to come sit with her. The distressed woman sat, and started crying. She got a gigantic hug from the nicely-dressed lady, and a talk about how she needs to eat and take care of herself better. The nicely-dressed lady’s pudgy kid pulled out his own thin wallet, and passed the woman a $5. She nodded and said thank you. The partial-rainbow tousled security guard reached into her own lunch box, and gave the woman her sandwich. The lady sheepishly took it, and cried some more. There was more counseling and comfort from the nicely-dressed woman.

I looked over at my huge-hearted wife next to me, and she was crying at the scene. We were a few rows back—we didn’t know what was the right thing to do. But we saw what was right.

It was a real life Sermon on the Mount. It was Matthew 25 and the beatitudes staring us in the face on the northbound Marta train. (Beatitudes are Matthew 5:1 if you want to look it up, I had to).

The woman and her closely-held demons left the train the next stop.

People moved around, equilibrium reestablished. But not mine. I had witnessed faith, charity, unselfish Love in that hot and sweaty northbound train. It was beautiful. I waited a few stops, and then I felt I had to talk to the nicely-dressed lady. I moved up a few seats, sat across from her and confessed “Ma’am, my wife and I usually go to church on Sunday, but we didn’t get a chance to this morning. That’s ok though, because I got to see Jesus today.”

She cried. I cried. She asked if we could hug…and we hugged it out right there with a few curious onlookers.

She told me that she was raised to love everyone with all she has, no matter what. And she did. She told me she was going to Lenox for a movie with her pudgy (and generous), son. They were trying to get to air condition and entertainment, but they had given up all comfort on that train. I asked the pudgy kid how old he was—“12”…he was a really big 12. His momma told me “he is a gentle giant with a soft heart”. I can see why. I told him “you’ve got an amazing mom, take care of her and do whatever she says.” My bet is that pudgy kid turns out to be a great man.

I think we hugged again, and they left the train at Lenox. We continued north through the trees and to the suburbs.

I was born in Piedmont Hospital on Peachtree Street. Growing up, Atlanta used to be known as “the city too busy to hate”, but unfortunately ridiculous politicians, greed, and I believe a distancing from religion has torn that moniker down. There is way too much hate in Atlanta and all across our country for that matter. But damn was it refreshing and inspiring to know that there are still people who love strangers with all their heart. Thank you ma’am and bless you and your pudgy son.

Spoke with my Dad this morning who is riding high from the Braves’ World Series win. In his recount of the game, series, and season, he said something that struck me. “this one is sweeter because this is a team, not a group of individuals.”

No truer words could be said. Teamwork is one of the most undeniable and powerful forces that exists (my kids would roll their eyes since I also tell them this applies to faith, water, and compounding interest).

I have been fortunate to be a part of a few great teams, and had some amazing coaches and mentors. Teams, powerful teams, are made up of certain vital parts—a common vision and goal, full effort by selfless team members, and humble but confident leadership. You can’t fake leadership.

It doesn’t necessarily take experience to be a good team—I heard on a podcast today that the average age of an engineer at Mission Control during the Apollo 11 mission was 27 years old! Hardly any current Braves players had been to a World Series before. Rather, Teamwork thrives on heart and smarts.

It doesn’t always work out, but when it does, it is a thing of beauty.

Being a team is what every family, community, state, and even this nation need desperately. It allows shortcomings of one to be eclipsed by the selfless work of others.

Congrats to our Braves, the fans, and a win for a team. Hopefully we can learn something from it.