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Every day when I fetch my kids from school, I ask them the same questions: How was your day? What did you guys do?And every day, I hear the same vague, distant replies: I don’t know. I can’t remember. I don’t want to tell you.

At first, I thought maybe they were just tired. Maybe they genuinely didn’t remember. Maybe it wasn’t worth prying. But then I realized something—something that struck deep in my heart as an INFP, as an Enneagram 4, as a father who wants his children to grow up with full access to their emotions.

In a world that tells boys to be strong and hide their tears, and tells girls to smile and keep the peace, my kids are already learning to shrink their feelings into the smallest, most acceptable answers. Fine. Okay. Normal.

And I can’t let that happen.

The Language of Emotion

I want my children to feel their feelings—to know that every sensation, every thought, every spark of joy or pang of sadness is worth acknowledging. That feelings are what feelings are, and that it’s totally OK to feel them, for what they are. But I also realize that maybe I’m asking the wrong questions. Maybe How was your day? is too big. Maybe Was it good or bad? is too binary. So I’ve started experimenting with a new way of uncovering their emotions—one that invites them to reflect without forcing them to expose more than they’re ready for. Cause maybe our feelings are way more colourful than simple yes or no answers give them credit for. Maybe our feelings require a song, or a painting, or a walk.

Instead of asking if their day was good or bad, I ask:

• Was your teacher laughing today or shouting today?
• Was your day fast or slow?
• Was today full of laughter with your friends or full of tears?
• Did your heart beat faster or slower today?
• Did today feel like a sunny day or a cloudy day, even if the sun was shining?
• If your day was a color, what color would it be?
• Was there a moment today that made you feel big, or a moment that made you feel small?

And something beautiful has been happening.

Finding the Truth Beneath the Surface

When I ask my kids if their teacher was laughing or shouting, I don’t just learn about their teacher—I learn about their classroom environment, their comfort level, their sense of belonging.

When I ask if their day was fast or slow, I can usually guess whether they felt engaged or bored, excited or restless. I’ve learned that for my son, fast usually means good—it means soccer at break, a fun art project, or a new game with his friends. For my daughter, fast sometimes means overwhelming—too much stimulation, too many changes, too many people.

When I ask if their heart beat faster or slower, I start to see where excitement and anxiety blur together. My heart beat fast when we had a surprise test, my son once told me. My heart beat fast when I ran with my friends, my daughter said another day. Same sensation, different emotions.

And when I ask about colors, I glimpse their inner world in ways words sometimes fail to capture. It was a green day, my son once said. And when I asked what that meant, he shrugged, I don’t know. Just green.

I let that be enough. Because naming a feeling—even in color—is still naming it.

Teaching My Kids (And Myself) That Feelings Matter

One of the hardest things about being an Enneagram 4 is feeling so deeply in a world that often dismisses deep feelings. I see it already in my kids. My son, who is full of energy, has already been told that boys should be tough, that showing emotions makes him weak. My daughter, who is sensitive and observant, has already learned that girls should be sweet, that being too expressive might be seen as dramatic or overwhelming. But emotions are not burdens; they are bridges—ways we connect deeply with ourselves and others.

Empathy begins with allowing ourselves and those around us to feel without judgment. When we create space for emotions, we cultivate an understanding that stretches beyond words. True connection comes from being seen and heard in our most vulnerable moments, and I want my children to know that their emotions—whether joy, sadness, frustration, or fear—are valid. I want them to learn that deep feeling is not just a part of life but a strength, one that allows them to love, to create, to stand up for what matters, and to build relationships rooted in authenticity and compassion.

But I want them to know this: Your feelings matter. All of them.

I want them to know that feeling sad is as important as feeling happy. That excitement and fear can coexist. That emotions don’t have to be justified to be real.

As Brené Brown says, “We cannot selectively numb emotions. When we numb the painful emotions, we also numb the positive emotions.” If I teach my kids to ignore their sadness, they will also lose touch with their joy. If I teach them to brush off anger, they will struggle to feel true passion.

Susan Cain, in her book Bittersweet, writes, “The secret that our poets and philosophers have been trying to tell us for centuries, is that our longing and our sorrow are not only necessary but also the gateway to joy and love.” I want my children to understand that feeling deeply is not a flaw, but a gift—a path toward richer connections, toward a world that feels alive and meaningful. Cain also says, “If we could honor sadness a little more, maybe we could transform it into something beautiful.” I want my children to know that sadness is not something to escape, but something to honor, because it, too, shapes who we are and how we love.

So, I tell them: Feel everything. The good, the bad, the confusing, the weird. Feel it all. And when you’re ready, tell me about it.

Creating a Safe Space for Emotion

Of course, even with all these new questions and insights, some days my kids still answer, I don’t know. And that’s okay.

Because my job isn’t to force them to talk. My job is to make sure they know they can talk when they’re ready.

So I create space.

Sometimes, instead of asking questions in the car right after school, I wait until bedtime, when the lights are low and their guards are down. Or Daniel will just randomly start talking while we’re playing cricket outside, answering a question I asked him 2 hours ago…

Sometimes, instead of words, we use other ways of expressing emotions. We draw. We play. We listen to music and talk about how it makes us feel.

And sometimes, when words feel impossible, we just sit together in silence. Because even silence, when it’s safe and understood, can be its own kind of conversation.

The World Will Try to Silence Them—But I Won’t

I know that as they grow, the world will keep trying to flatten their emotions into fine and okay.

The world will tell my son that boys don’t cry. The world will tell my daughter that anger isn’t pretty.

But in our home, in our car rides, in our bedtime talks, on the cricket filed, in the dance studio, they will always have a place where their emotions—every messy, vibrant, complex emotion—are welcome.

I will keep asking new questions. I will keep giving them space. I will keep teaching them, every single day, that their hearts and minds are worth knowing.

And maybe, just maybe, when they grow up, they won’t need to unlearn the things the world tried to erase.

Because they will already know: Their feelings were always meant to be felt.

We wait. We prepare. We gather all the right things, check our lists twice, pack our bags with the perfect tools, and tell ourselves— Just a little more time. Just one more thing. And then I’ll be ready.

We do this with everything.

Before we begin the journey, we convince ourselves we need the perfect backpack, the best shoes, the right map, the assurance of a clear and certain path. Before we create, we tell ourselves we need the best equipment, the right degree, the validation from someone wiser, older, more experienced. Before we speak, we believe we need the right words, the right audience, the confidence that no one will misunderstand or reject us. Before we live, we wait—thinking we need just one more thing before we can begin.

But the great secret, the quiet whisper hidden behind all our worries, is this:

You don’t need all the things you think you need to do all the things you feel called to do.

Read that again.

You don’t need permission. You don’t need perfection. You don’t need every answer before you start.

You are not a project waiting for completion. You are not an empty vessel waiting to be filled. You are not behind, and you are not lacking.

You are already in motion. The road is beneath your feet, and the breath in your lungs is proof you are meant to move, meant to create, meant to step into this moment, exactly as you are.

The degrees, the certificates, the gear, the green lights—those are extras, not requirements. They may make the path smoother, but they are not what make the path possible.

You don’t need every answer. You don’t need certainty. You don’t need a fully packed bag.

You have all you need. Right here. Right now.

So go.

Write the book. Start the business. Sing the song. Take the trip. Speak the words. Walk the road.

Stop waiting for an invitation. Stop waiting for proof. Stop waiting for something outside of yourself to tell you it’s okay to begin.

You are enough. And life is waiting.

Go make it beautiful.

The Illusion of Killing Time

We often talk about killing time—waiting for the next thing, the real thing, the moment that actually matters. We scroll through our phones, rush through tasks, fill space with distractions just to get through the day. But in doing so, we are not just passing time—we are wasting something sacred.

What if, instead, we saw all time as sacred? What if, rather than moving from one moment to the next, we learned to fully inhabit each moment as it unfolds? What if, instead of killing time, we let time live in us?

Moses and the Burning Bush: An Ordinary Moment Turned Sacred

Moses was not in a temple. He was not praying or seeking revelation. He was simply doing his daily work, working for his father-in-law actually—tending sheep—when he saw a bush on fire, yet not consumed. And in that moment, something shifted. The ground he stood on was declared holy.

God spoke, not in some distant, ethereal realm, but in the middle of Moses’ ordinary routine. This was a burning bush moment—one that had always been there, waiting to be noticed. The grass didn’t change all of a sudden. It was rather that Moses started to pay attention, this moment elevates his attention. So the question rather maybe, what changes the quality of my attention?

How many burning bushes do we walk past every day, too caught up in our rush to the next thing to see them? How many holy moments do we ignore because we are too busy killing time?

The Sacred in the Ordinary

A house is not just walls and a roof—it is a home, a place where laughter echoes, where love is exchanged, where small, seemingly mundane moments shape us.

A meal is not just food on a plate—it is nourishment, not just for the body but for the soul, a time to slow down, connect, and be present.

A conversation is not just words—it is the meeting of two lives, a sacred exchange of stories, thoughts, and emotions.

What if we saw every moment through this lens? What if, instead of rushing through life, we looked for the burning bushes?

How to Find the Burning Bush in Your Own Life

The Mishkan, the sacred dwelling place of God in the desert, was not just an assembly of gold, silver, and wood. It was built with commitment, generosity, and intention. It transformed the ordinary into something transcendent.

Likewise, your life is filled with sacred spaces—if only you learn to see them.

Here’s how:

1. Be Present – Stop looking at your watch, your phone, the next task. Engage fully in what is happening now.
2. Infuse Intention – Whether you are making dinner, answering emails, or tucking your kids into bed, bring presence and meaning into each action.
3. Look for the Unexpected – Moses didn’t expect a burning bush. He was just doing his job. Be open to the divine interruptions in your life.
4. Elevate the Ordinary – Turn simple tasks into acts of connection, gratitude, and joy. A routine grocery trip can become an opportunity to appreciate life.
5. Practice Sacred Time – Instead of rushing, slow down. Notice the beauty in a moment, the laughter of a child, the rhythm of your own breath. This is time well spent.

Tikkun Olam: Repairing the World One Moment at a Time

The Jewish mystical tradition of tikkun olam teaches that divine sparks are scattered throughout the world, embedded in ordinary, physical things. Our task is to gather them through mindful, intentional living.

Every time we recognize a burning bush moment, we participate in this sacred work. Every time we see time as holy rather than something to kill, we restore the world a little more to its divine wholeness.

Stop Killing Time—Start Living It

Instead of waiting for the real moments, the big moments, the life-changing moments, what if we embraced each moment as holy?

What if we treated the act of driving our kids to school, having coffee with a friend, cooking dinner, or even answering an email as a burning bush opportunity?

Because the truth is, sacred moments are not rare. They are everywhere.

The question is: Are you paying attention?

“To be happy at home,” said Samuel Johnson, “is the end of all human endeavour.” There is a quiet, unmistakable truth in that statement—one that reverberates through the centuries and into the simple, sacred moments of our own lives. As long as we are thinking only of natural values, as C.S. Lewis suggests, we must conclude that there is nothing under the sun quite as good as a household laughing together over a meal, two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone, lost in the pages of a book that truly grips him. If this is true, then all economics, politics, laws, armies, and institutions—everything the world fights over—matter only to the extent that they allow such moments to flourish. Otherwise, they are little more than ploughing the sand and sowing the ocean—a vanity, a vexation of spirit.

I have spent a lifetime chasing meaning in different ways, but I keep finding it in the same places: at my own dining table, in the sound of my children’s laughter, in the arms of my wife, and in the small but profound joys of everyday life. These are the things that make a life worth living.

Sixteen Years with My Best Friend

It’s hard to believe that I have been married to my best friend for sixteen years now. In many ways, it feels like no time at all, yet in others, it feels like we have lived a thousand lives together. We have built a home, raised children, carried each other through loss and hardship, and celebrated victories both great and small, Elzaan studied, then I studied, she changed careers, I got fired a couple times. And through it all, love has remained—not the fleeting, romanticized version the world sells, but the deep, steady, and abiding love that grows stronger with time.

There is something profoundly good about sharing your life with someone who truly knows you, even more than you know yourself at times—the good, the bad, and the unfinished parts—and chooses to stay. There is a Sacredness in the way we move through life together, from morning cups of coffee, and tea that she doesn’t finish, to late-night talks, as I’m trying to fall asleep, when the house is finally still.

We have built a home together—not just a house, but a home, where laughter is common, where books are stacked in corners, where music plays, and where even silence feels warm. The world outside can be chaotic and uncertain, but here, in the place we have built, there is peace.

We will call this place our home
The dirt in which our roots may grow
Though the storms will push and pull
We will call this place our home

We’ll tell our stories on these walls
Every year, measure how tall
And just like a work of art
We’ll tell our stories on these walls

Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind

Ryan O’Neal – North

A R2 Man in the Valley

There are few things in life as restorative as a good beer, shared in good company, in a place that feels like home. For me, that’s a R2 Man—a deep, amber-hued Irish ale from Richmond Hill Brewing Company. There’s something about holding that cold pint in my hands, feeling the weight of the glass, watching the micro bubbles settle, and taking that first sip that reminds me that life is not meant to be rushed. It’s meant to be savored.

In the valley, where the air is thick with the scent of the ocean, where conversation drifts between the walls of the brewery, the sound of barbells hitting the floor at Valley Road and the pizza from downstairs and lingers in the warm evening air, I find a kind of joy that is both simple and profound. To sit with a friend, to talk about life, to let time slip away unnoticed—these are the moments that make life rich. It is in these spaces, where nothing particularly “productive” happens, that we are most alive.

We spend so much of our lives striving for things that do not last — “success”, money, recognition — but the greatest moments, the ones that truly matter, are often the ones that require no striving at all.

Playing Cricket in the Yard with Daniel

There is a timeless kind of magic in playing cricket in the yard with my son, Daniel. The way he grips the bat, the determination in his eyes as he watches the ball, the joy when he makes a good hit, the bowling, the catching, the running up and down the pitch, the ruining the grass and Guinness chasing the ball.

Daniel is eight now, and he loves sports the way I did when I was his age. He dreams big, plays hard, and throws himself fully into the moment. When we are out there in the yard, the rest of the world fades away. There are no deadlines, no worries—just the rhythm of the game, the laughter, and the shared joy of a father and son.

One day, he will be grown. One day, the yard will be empty, the bat and ball put away, and these moments will be only memories. But for now, we play. And that is enough.

Swimming with Lizzy

Lizzy, my five-year-old, has a love for water that is unmatched. She dives in fearlessly, her laughter echoing off the walls at Virgin, her little hands splashing wildly. There is no hesitation, no doubt—just pure, unfiltered joy.

Swimming with her is like stepping into a world where nothing else matters. The worries of the day are washed away, and all that remains is the feeling of weightlessness, the coolness of the water, and the sound of her giggles as she clings to my back, kicking furiously.

There is something sacred about these moments, something Holy in the way she trusts the water, in the way she trusts me to hold her, to keep her safe. I know these years are fleeting, that she will not always need me in the same way she does now. But today, she does. And I do not take that for granted.

The Meaning of It All

If happiness at home is the end of all human endeavor, then the things we spend our lives chasing must ultimately serve that purpose. If they do not—if they take us away from these moments rather than enriching them—then what are they really worth?

Too often, we measure success in ways that do not account for the things that matter most. We chase careers, accolades, wealth, and status, believing that if we can just achieve more, we will finally be content. But contentment is not found in the pursuit of more. It is found in the moments we pause, in the spaces we create, in the love we nurture.

A world that does not protect these things—a world that does not fight to preserve the laughter of families, the camaraderie of friends, the quiet joys of a good book, or the sacred ordinary moments of a life well-lived—is a world that has lost sight of what truly matters.

And so, my prayer, my hope, my guiding principle is this: that my life would be shaped not by what the world calls success, but by the laughter of my children, the love of my wife, the joy of a simple pint, and the peace of a home filled with warmth and light.

Because in the end, that is all that matters. And that is enough.

Opinions shape how we navigate the world. They influence our choices, our relationships, and the way we see ourselves. But where do opinions come from? Are they innate, or are they constructed over time? The truth is, our opinions are constantly evolving, shaped by a dynamic interaction between our lived experiences, our community, and our Traditions—three essential elements that function like the wheels of a tricycle.

Before diving into these three elements, it’s important to introduce the concept of a worldview—the framework through which we interpret reality. Your worldview is a lens, an internal compass that guides how you perceive and engage with the world. It is not static; it develops and shifts based on your exposure to new experiences, ideas, and relationships.

Now, let’s break down the three key elements—your lived experience, your community, and your Traditions—and how they contribute to your developing worldview and, ultimately, your opinions.

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1. The Front Wheel: Lived Experience

The front wheel of the tricycle—the one that steers—is your lived experience. This is your personal journey through life: the things you’ve seen, the challenges you’ve faced, the lessons you’ve learned, and the places you’ve been. Your lived experience is uniquely yours, and it plays a critical role in shaping how you view the world.

How Lived Experience Shapes Your Worldview

• The country, culture, and family you are born into significantly impact your foundational beliefs.
• Personal hardships, victories, and struggles refine how you see justice, fairness, and human nature.
• The work you do, the places you visit, and the relationships you build all contribute to your perception of reality.
• Major life transitions—such as becoming a parent, losing a loved one, changing careers—can challenge and reshape your opinions.

Developing Your Lived Experience

• Travel, if possible. Seeing different parts of the world (or even your own city) exposes you to new perspectives.
• Read widely—memoirs, history, and fiction from different cultures can help expand your understanding.
• Engage in self-reflection. Journaling, meditation, or simply taking time to process your experiences can help clarify your evolving worldview.
• Be open to change. Recognize that what you believe today may evolve as new experiences shape your perspective.

Your lived experience is a powerful guide, but it doesn’t function in isolation. Without the stabilizing force of the other two wheels—community and Tradition—your worldview risks becoming narrow or one-dimensional.

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2. The Left Wheel: Community

The left wheel represents community—the people you surround yourself with. These are the voices you listen to, the relationships you invest in, and the groups you identify with. Your community can be made up of your family, friends, religious group, professional circle, online networks, or social clubs.

How Community Shapes Your Worldview

• Your cultural background, language, and upbringing are largely shaped by the people around you.
• The groups you belong to (e.g., church, book clubs, sports teams, activism groups) influence what you prioritize and value.
• The voices you listen to—mentors, podcasts, social media figures—can reinforce or challenge your existing beliefs.
• If you are religious, you may believe that your community includes spiritual voices—God, the Holy Spirit, nature, or an inner guiding presence.

Expanding Your Community’s Influence

• Seek diverse perspectives. Engage with people who have different backgrounds, beliefs, and life experiences.
• Be intentional about who influences you. Are you in an echo chamber, or do you allow for challenges to your thinking?
• Reflect on how your environment has shaped you. If you had been born somewhere else or surrounded by different influences, how different might your opinions be?

Community provides stability and accountability. However, without the final wheel—Traditions—you might lose sight of the broader wisdom that transcends individual relationships.

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3. The Right Wheel: Traditions (Capital T)

The right wheel represents Traditions—the accumulated wisdom of the past. Traditions provide a foundation for understanding the world beyond just your personal experience or current community. They connect you to something larger than yourself—whether religious teachings, philosophical movements, or cultural heritage.

How Traditions Shape Your Worldview

• Religious traditions (Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, etc.) provide centuries of collective wisdom on morality, meaning, and purpose.
• Philosophical and literary traditions shape how societies have historically grappled with big questions.
• Cultural and family traditions instill a sense of identity, responsibility, and belonging.

Engaging With Tradition

• Read the foundational texts of different traditions—scriptures, classical literature, and historical works.
• Learn about the historical context of your own beliefs—why do you think the way you do?
• Be open to challenging traditions while still respecting their wisdom.
• Recognize that your tradition is one among many—other cultures and civilizations have rich histories worth exploring.

Traditions provide depth to your worldview. However, they must work alongside lived experience and community to create a well-rounded opinion.

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Putting It All Together: The Developing Worldview

Your worldview emerges at the intersection of these three wheels. Like a tricycle, you need all three working togetherfor a balanced and forward-moving perspective.

It’s important to emphasize developing—your worldview isn’t static. It grows, evolves, and shifts based on new experiences, different communities, and deeper engagement with tradition.

Why This Matters for Developing an Opinion

• Your opinion is not the truth. It may contain truths, but it is still just one perspective among many.
• Recognizing biases helps you engage in better conversations and avoid dogmatism.
• Humility allows you to hold strong convictions while still being open to growth.
• Understanding different perspectives fosters empathy and deeper dialogue.

A Final Thought on Perspective

Where you are born, who you are surrounded by, and what traditions you engage with deeply influence the way you see the world. If you had been born in China, India, or Brazil, your worldview would likely be entirely different. If you had grown up in a different faith tradition or in a different socioeconomic environment, your opinions would reflect that.

The key takeaway? Hold your opinions with conviction, but also with openness. Be aware that they are shaped by a complex and ever-evolving interplay of experience, community, and tradition. And as you continue pedaling through life, be open to the ways your tricycle may lead you into new and unexpected terrain.

In a world that often feels fast-paced, overwhelming, and filled with uncertainty, the idea of cultivating loving-kindnessmight seem like a distant dream—something reserved for monks in mountain monasteries or those fortunate enough to have a personal retreat by the ocean. But for the rest of us—parents rushing to get kids ready for school, professionals drowning in deadlines, or just regular people desperately waiting for the Wi-Fi to work properly—how do we make space for kindness, for peace, for the gentle rhythms of connection?

Loving-kindness isn’t about escaping life’s chaos. It’s about bringing a deep breath into the middle of it. Rooted in Buddhist tradition, this practice revolves around four simple yet powerful phrases:

May I be free from danger.
May I be free from mental suffering.
May I be free from physical suffering.
May I have ease of well-being.

These words are not merely affirmations but an invitation to a deeper rhythm of life—one that fosters connection, healing, and kindness. The practice begins by offering these wishes to ourselves and then extends outward in widening circles: first to loved ones, then to acquaintances, then to those we find difficult, and finally, to all beings.

This blog will explore how we can integrate these four phrases into our daily rhythm, offering simple practices to help embody the essence of loving-kindness at every stage.

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Step One: Offering Loving-Kindness to Yourself

“May I be free from danger. May I be free from mental suffering. May I be free from physical suffering. May I have ease of well-being.”

We often neglect ourselves when it comes to kindness. We extend care to others but forget to offer the same compassion inward. Yet, the foundation of Loving-Kindness Meditation is recognizing that we, too, are worthy of love and well-being. I find it really easy to justify kindest and grace to other people, but find it so hard to extend that same energy to myself.

Guidelines for Self-Compassion

1. Begin with Stillness – Find a quiet space, sit comfortably, and take a few deep breaths. Notice how your body feels. Close your eyes and bring your attention inward.
2. Speak the Phrases with Intention – As you repeat each phrase, visualize yourself in a warm, comforting light. Feel the words gently settling into your heart.
3. Notice Resistance – If self-criticism arises, simply observe it without judgment. Acknowledge it and return to the phrases.
4. Use Gentle Touch – Place a hand over your heart or rest a palm on your cheek as a physical reminder of self-kindness.
5. Set a Daily Ritual – Repeat the phrases when you wake up or before bed. You can also write them in a journal or say them while looking in a mirror.

Simple Practices for Finding Rhythm

• Morning Practice: Begin your day by sitting in stillness for five minutes, repeating these phrases.
• Walking Meditation: As you walk, sync your steps with the words, feeling them settle into your being.
• Self-Kindness Check-In: Whenever you feel overwhelmed, pause and ask, Am I treating myself with kindness right now?

Cultivating loving-kindness for ourselves is not selfish; it is essential. Only when we are filled with compassion can we fully extend it to others. Like on an aircraft, the hosts always say, put on your own mask first, before helping other people.

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Step Two: Offering Loving-Kindness to Loved Ones

“May you be free from danger. May you be free from mental suffering. May you be free from physical suffering. May you have ease of well-being.”

Once we establish compassion for ourselves, we extend it to those we love. This includes family, friends, and mentors—people who naturally evoke warmth and gratitude.

Guidelines for Extending Kindness to Loved Ones

1. Visualize Them – Picture them in your mind, seeing them happy and healthy.
2. Feel Gratitude – Reflect on what you appreciate about them before offering the phrases.
3. Speak from the Heart – Whisper their names before saying the words or imagine their smiles as you send them well-wishes.
4. Use Everyday Moments – Say these phrases when thinking about a loved one, texting them, or looking at their photo.

Simple Practices for Finding Rhythm

• Daily Dedication: Dedicate a few minutes to a different loved one each day.
• Gratitude Notes: Write small loving-kindness notes and leave them where your loved ones will find them.
• Shared Breath: When sitting with someone you love, take a moment to breathe deeply and silently offer them these wishes.

Loving our close circle in a mindful way deepens our relationships and reminds us of our interconnectedness.

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Step Three: Offering Loving-Kindness to Acquaintances and Strangers

“May you be free from danger. May you be free from mental suffering. May you be free from physical suffering. May you have ease of well-being.”

This next step challenges us to move beyond personal attachments and extend kindness to people we barely know—co-workers, neighbors, cashiers, delivery drivers, and even those we pass on the street.

Guidelines for Widening the Circle

1. Notice the Unseen – Acknowledge people you might usually overlook.
2. Hold a Gentle Smile – A smile, even in thought, can create a sense of warmth as you send these phrases.
3. Embrace the Unknown – We may not know their struggles, but we can wish them ease.

Simple Practices for Finding Rhythm

• Silent Offering: While standing in line or commuting, mentally repeat the phrases for those around you.
• Handwritten Kindness: Leave anonymous notes of encouragement in public places.
• Acts of Service: When you open a door for someone, help a stranger, or tip generously, accompany the action with the phrases.

Acknowledging the humanity in those we don’t personally know fosters a spirit of universal kindness.

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Step Four: Offering Loving-Kindness to Difficult People

“May you be free from danger. May you be free from mental suffering. May you be free from physical suffering. May you have ease of well-being.”

Yes, we all have them. You’re thinking about that person right now. This is often the hardest part—offering goodwill to those who have hurt us or whom we struggle to understand. Yet, this step is where deep transformation happens.

Guidelines for Softening the Heart

1. Start Small – Choose someone who is only mildly difficult before moving to those who have deeply hurt you.
2. Recognize Shared Pain – Understand that all people suffer, and their actions often come from their own wounds.
3. Let Go of Expectation – This is not about reconciliation but about releasing negativity from your heart.

Simple Practices for Finding Rhythm

• Distant Offering: Say these phrases for them without forcing yourself to feel warmth yet.
• Reframe Perspective: Imagine them as a child, innocent and needing care.
• Use Writing: Journal about your feelings toward them before offering the phrases.

Holding space for difficult people with kindness doesn’t mean condoning harm—it means freeing ourselves from resentment.

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Step Five: Offering Loving-Kindness to All Beings

“May all beings be free from danger. May all beings be free from mental suffering. May all beings be free from physical suffering. May all beings have ease of well-being.”

The final expansion moves beyond individuals to include all life—humans, animals, and the earth itself. It is a recognition of our deep interconnection with the world.

Guidelines for Universal Compassion

1. Feel the Vastness – Picture the planet and its countless beings.
2. Embrace Diversity – Send kindness across borders, to different cultures, species, and ecosystems.
3. Trust the Ripple Effect – Small acts of kindness multiply, shaping a more compassionate world.

Simple Practices for Finding Rhythm

• Nighttime Reflection: End your day with a moment of stillness, sending kindness to all beings.
• Nature Connection: While in nature, extend kindness to the trees, the sky, and all creatures.
• Global Awareness: Read about different cultures with a heart of compassion, not judgment.

When we open our hearts to the world, we participate in a profound act of healing.

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A Rhythm of Loving-Kindness

Loving-kindness is not merely a practice,
but the steady pulse of the universe,
the hush of dawn spilling golden light on a quiet earth,
the breath between waves as they rise and retreat,
the unspoken knowing between old friends.

It is the hush of a mother’s voice
as she hums her child to sleep,
the warmth of a stranger’s smile
shared across the weary streets of the world,
the gentle unfolding of petals
as they stretch toward the sun,
never questioning whether they are worthy of its light.

Loving-kindness is the river that remembers
the shape of every stone it kisses,
the wind that carries whispered prayers
to lands unseen,
the silent benediction of the stars
watching over the restless and the lost.

It is the candle flickering in the window,
guiding home the wanderer.
It is the hand that does not hesitate to reach
across boundaries of sorrow and time,
knitting together the frayed edges of our humanity.

And when we step into its rhythm,
when we weave its melody into our days,
we find that we no longer walk alone.
For every wish we whisper for another
is a light returned to our own hearts,
every kindness given
a thread in the great tapestry of grace.

May we all find freedom, like birds loosed from cages,
taking flight into the wide and boundless sky.
May we all know peace, like the hush of twilight
settling over fields of wildflowers.
May we all walk in love, barefoot on sacred ground,
leaving only the imprint of mercy in our wake.

Dean Cothill – 2025

How the Church Lost Its Way in the Name of Scale

Most pastors don’t enter ministry to build systems. They don’t do it to run organizations, oversee teams, or delegate responsibilities. They do it for people—to love, connect, and walk alongside them in the messy, beautiful, complicated reality of life.

But as soon as things start growing, the conversation shifts. We’re told we need to scale. We need to delegate. We need to create structures that ensure no one slips through the cracks. And delegation, we’re told, is leadership.

At first, it makes sense. We can’t do everything ourselves. We need small group leaders, volunteer coordinators, service teams, admin support, communications managers, worship directors—the list goes on. Each layer of delegation allows the system to function more efficiently. We’re told it allows us to focus on what really matters.

But what does that actually mean?

Because what starts as a way to serve more people often ends up creating distance from the very people we set out to serve.

With each system we implement, with each new tier of leadership we establish, we become further removed from the heart of the people. The ones we once pastored, we now oversee. The ones we once knew by name, we now refer to our team leaders. Instead of sitting with people in their grief, we schedule pastoral care meetings through an admin. Instead of knowing the struggles of the congregation firsthand, we hear about them secondhand through staff reports.

And slowly—subtly—we are no longer pastors. We are managers.

We don’t walk with the sheep; we manage the systems that manage the sheep.

And because the system needs to keep growing, we invest in leadership development, management strategies, efficiency models—anything to ensure the machine keeps running. We justify it, believing we are empowering people. But are we? Or are we just spreading the weight of administration across more shoulders, making everyone work harder while still remaining just as disconnected?

And maybe that’s the real question: Have we lost the heart of why we started?

But Isn’t This the Model of Jesus?

Here’s the counterargument: This is exactly how Jesus did it. Jesus had 12 disciples, and he sent them out two by two. Then there were 72 others. Then he fed 5,000. There was scale in Jesus’ ministry. There was delegation.

Yes. That’s true.

But look at what Jesus actually did.

How often did he preach?

In our modern evangelical system, we are attempting to preach fresh content every single week. New ideas, new sermon series, new branding, new themes. We’ve built an entire system around this weekly event.

But Jesus?

How many sermons do we actually know he preached?

Maybe one? The Sermon on the Mount?

And even then, we don’t see Jesus setting up a system to make sure people attended a sermon every single Sunday. We don’t see him building an organizational structure that ensured more people heard more content every week.

What do we see?

Jesus walking with people.
Jesus eating with people.
Jesus talking with people.
Jesus showing up in homes.
Jesus listening to people’s stories.
Jesus healing people—one by one, face to face.

His model wasn’t content delivery. It was relationship.

And even when we see the early church in Acts, it’s not built around a weekly service. It’s built around people meeting in homes, breaking bread together, sharing everything in common (Acts 2:42-47).

That’s the model. That’s the heartbeat.

So yes, Jesus scaled. But not in the way we think of scaling. He never created a system to manage people. He created disciples who did what he did—walked with people, ate with people, lived among people. The early church followed this model, not by building preaching platforms and leadership pipelines, but by embedding their lives into the daily realities of others.

Maybe We Need to Rethink It All

What if the problem isn’t just that we’ve become managers instead of pastors?

What if the entire way we think about church is flawed?

What if the weekly sermon isn’t the centerpiece of spiritual formation?

What if growth isn’t about numbers but about deep, relational discipleship?

What if, instead of scaling a system, we simply walked with people?

What if we stopped trying to build a brand and instead built a community?

What if, instead of focusing on content creation, we focused on living the kind of life Jesus modeled?

Because at the end of the day, the world doesn’t need more systems, sermons, or strategies.

It needs people willing to do what Jesus did.

To walk. To listen. To be present.

To be pastors.