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Grief Coaching

July 1, 2026

“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35)

My coaching buddy and friend, Joe Miller, passed away about a week and a half ago. I wrote about it in my last blog post.

Briefly summarizing, he collapsed at the end of the kids’ basketball camp session we were doing at the high school, and he could not be revived. We did CPR, got the paddles of the AED device ready, but he was gone.

Our high school girls’ basketball players were there helping with the camp for young kids. For most of them, before they were quickly ushered out of the gym, the last scene they unfortunately had to take with them of their coach was him laying on the gym floor. It’s a memory that will be difficult to heal from.

So, the last few days have had me coaching them, not in basketball, but in dealing with their grief. Grief coaching is similar to basketball coaching in that the person never reaches a point where you don’t have to work on it. Like practicing your jump shot, it’s a constant journey, an ongoing part of the game of basketball that must be worked on.

Grief is like that. It is a continuing journey that will never reach a point of finality. There will always be moments of reflecting, struggles with keeping emotions under control, and battles of isolation and inappropriate behavior. It’s a journey, a hard journey, peppered from time to time with laughter and storytelling.

Sometimes in coaching, the coach has to let the team, or an individual, work through it. He figures out when to get involved and when to sit outside the goings-on. My grief coaching mirrors that. Sometimes I need to explain, and sometimes the grievers must be allowed to go through the fires. Since grief is different for each person, as a coach, my sensitivity to the situation dictates my response. I look for the one who pulls to the side because the moment is too painful, and I look for the one who dominates conversations instead of being part of them.

Honestly, my soul is weary, and I recognize my need to grieve as part of them, but also by myself… quiet moments in the steps of long walks.

But, like with my players, it’s a journey.

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Missing Joe

June 21, 2026

My friend and coaching buddy, Joe Miller, had a medical emergency at our kids’ basketball camp Friday morning, and, despite giving him CPR and having the EMT’s come and continue working on him, he could not be revived.

Two days later, I’m just beginning to come out of “crisis mode”, where your focus is on the situation, and then our players and Joe’s family, figuring out who needs to be contacted next. Coming out of crisis mode means the impact of the loss hits you in the gut and your emotions play havoc with your reactions that usually don’t cause a reaction, your need for alone time that, at a moment’s notice transitions to a need for together time, and also your own mortality that you realize is as fragile as that glass vase you’ve been afraid will be accidentally knocked off the counter and shatter into a thousand pieces.

This was my third year as an assistant for Joe on the Liberty High School girls’ basketball staff. We worked well together, enjoyed the humor of situations, shook our heads at the weird things that happened, and the out-of-control people we would sometimes encounter at games. When you’ve shared history, you cherish the retelling of shared experiences.

Both of us were from southern Ohio, he from Lucasville and I from Ironton, two towns less than an hour’s drive apart. We knew similar stories from our neck of the woods. I bought him a book last year about the professional football days of Southern Ohio, when Portsmouth had a team, and Ironton had the Ironton Tanks. Those were pre-NFL days, and we enjoyed the history of the ancient past.

For me to write this blog about Joe is part of my dealing with the grief. I needed to put it into words. It may not be read by many folk, but the “number of readers” has no connection to my walk with his loss.

Pray for the Liberty Lancer girls who were there when he collapsed. The painful ache they are experiencing reveals the specialness of their relationships with their coach. Pray for his family, his wife and three children who are in their young adulthood.

What drew me to join Joe in coaching the Lancers was his character and integrity. I had coached his son back in middle school, so we had a long history of knowing each other and respecting each other. There are coaches who know the game but are tyrants to their players, and there are coaches who have solid relationships with their players but can’t teach the game to save their players. Joe knew the games, loved his players, and was loved by his players. That’s why I said yes when he asked me to join him. And it’s why the pain is intense right now. I don’t have my friend to retell the shared stories with. He’s not there for me to say, “Remember when…”

He will, however, always be remembered.

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Settling

May 25, 2026


“He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (Psalm 46:10)

How much can you put on your plate? If you’ve ever been to a buffet, you know there is the temptation to overload your meal plate with more food than you’ll need, and so much food that you won’t really enjoy it. What you thought was going to be a delectable, taste-satisfying experience becomes more of a drudgery. The smile has disappeared as you hoist one more bite of the mashed potatoes and gravy that now feels like a lump sliding down to your stomach.

I confess that I have a tendency to fill my plate to the point that some of my helpings are dangling over the side.

Except now I’m talking about the things that I keep putting on my plate: the tasks I heap onto the pile, the commitments I slide into a sudden opening, and the requests from people I know who trust that I’m capable. I confess that I have difficulty settling into a life that has some space on the plate. I suppose it hints more at my need to be needed than at my ability to get things done.

Of course, I can rationalize that the portions I pile on my plate are necessary, that they have purpose. I compare my plate with the plates of others who heap their lives with meaninglessness, wasted time doing things that have no benefit and purpose besides self-gratification and pleasure.

Geez! I sound arrogant and obnoxious in those words.

Lord, help me to trim down and settle into a rhythm with Your Spirit. Help me scrape a few things back to their origins. Help me give myself permission to create some space for breathing and meditating.

Amen!

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Scrolling Down

May 3, 2026

      “Now if we died to Christ, we believe we will also live with him…For sin shall no longer be your master, because you are not under the law, but under grace.” (Romans 6:8, 14)

Scrolling is this thing these days. People scroll through their phones to find relevance, meaning, and something that raises eyebrows. 

Driving my two oldest grandkids around could be described as a conversation punctuated with bouts of scrolling. I’ll be having a conversation with one of them about the importance of being grounded in the faith, and suddenly, a seizure of scrolling invades our space. 

Scrolling to find out which of their friends has posted a selfie that does not have any beneficial value to society as a whole or any individual purpose. Scrolling as a new form of twitching. Scrolling as a way to avoid having a mundane moment. Scrolling is the younger generation’s version of daydreaming— a spontaneous moment of withdrawal. Be a senior citizen among three young scrollers, and you may begin to question your value.

Of course, I realize that a few readers of this blog scrolled down to it! The “whiner” about scrolling isn’t helping his case. I’m also guilty of scrolling down the programming guide on TV to see what’s on. If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have found out about the recent Outhouse Sledding Championships on ESPN. (Yes, that’s a real event!)

Truth be known, I’ve encountered scrolling in another way, a more humbling way. I’m now having to do a lot of “age-scrolling.” That is, I’m filling in information on my cell phone or laptop for a new physician, specialist, driver’s license renewal, insurance information, school certification renewal, workshop sign-up…need I go on! And when I’m asked my age, I have to scroll down…and down…and down. The longer I scroll down, the closer to the deathly bottom I get. The year 2000 disappears from the screen as I continue to go down. My first child’s birth year, 1981, rises past me, and there goes my high school graduation, 1972) and I’m still sinking deeper. Scrolling down is a way of putting me in my place— close to the end of the road— and reminding me of the fact that most people are above me…scrolling-wise.

My scrolls are clarifications of my mortality. It’s the harsh truth of our deteriorating bodies. My prescription bottles, aching hips, and suspect hearing are also teammates of the downward scrolling to my demise.

I take comfort in the hope of Romans 6, where Paul says, “Now if we died to Christ, we believe we will also live with him…For sin shall no longer be your master, because you are not under the law, but under grace.” (Romans 6:8,14)

When one of my students or athletes…or even one of my granddaughters reminds me of how old I am, I am now prone to reply, “Yes, only by the grace of God am I still scrolling down.” Confusion surfaces on their faces. 

I just smile. 

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Use Words

April 1, 2026

“Laziness brings on deep sleep, and the shiftless go hungry.” (Proverbs 19:15)

Convenience is a big deal these days. Although my memory is suspect, I can’t think of a single invention in the past umpteen decades meant to slow the process of making, creating, or cooking something. By necessity, the latest-and-greatest has to be quick and painless, or it will be a bust.

How do you determine what is convenient versus what is laziness? That’s a toughie! I like my air fryer and microwave that cut cooking times dramatically. More than that, I like being able to buy an already-cooked meal at the store and heating it up for a minute. Is that convenience or laziness? Yes!

In recent times, with artificial intelligence, shortened to AI, so it doesn’t tax a person’s busy schedule or pronunciation deficiencies, the time it takes for a less-than-motivated student (who wants to get back to his video games) to write a school essay has dramatically dropped. He doesn’t even have to use words. AI does the “wording” for him.

A close friend of mine hates it when he sends a three-paragraph text filled with deep thoughts and compliments, only to get a thumbs-up emoji. I have to admit that I sometimes respond by sending him three to four emojis lined up in a row, just to irritate him (in a friendly way). His beef: Is it that hard to use words?

My beef: No wonder people can’t spell these days. Letters that form words are like a foreign language. For some people, it’s like learning Latin…and when you see how they spell words, you feel like you ARE reading Latin.

Laziness brings on future issues. In every area of our lives, there are fundamentals to learn. Like brushing my teeth so that some day in the future I don’t look like a cartoon character; or learning to add so I don’t stand before the register person at McDonald’s looking like a doofus because I couldn’t figure out that a Big Mac Meal plus a six-piece McNuggets cost more than the ten-dollar bill I’m holding. When you skip by the fundamentals and go directly to a nondescript thumbs-up emoji, you expose yourself to the crimes of apathy, sloth, and idiocy.

Bottom line: We tend to be in a hurry to avoid responsibilities and in no hurry to fulfill important courtesies. Can I get a thumbs-up followed by clapping hands?

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Playing Dead

February 13, 2026

When this perishable body puts on imperishability and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled:

“Death has been swallowed up in victory.”
55 “Where, O death, is your victory?
    Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Corinthians 15:54-55)

In my substitute teaching adventures, I am not adverse to the idea of facilitating the fun factor for the classroom. Although my days in the classroom are winding down, students at my middle school still seem to light up when they see I’m the guest teacher for the day. Oh, there are the warts who seem to enjoy being the cause of chaos. They are the ones who I believe have season tickets to the principal’s office, seats with their names on them.

For the most part, however, the students energize these old bones of mine. Last week, I played dead. They enticed me to lay on a classroom long table while they said kind words over me. It was the last of fiove days subbing in their sixth grade classroom. During the week, we had discussed “grandma candy”, buying their first car (Thankfully, a ways down the road!), the growing number of fidgets, and how short and unfair their lunch period is.

So playing dead was an appropriate way to end the week. Their words weren’t scripted by the students. They searched for nice-sounding adjectives that seemed complimentary to their short-lived instructor stretched out on a hard-surface tabletop.

Death has chummied up to me too frequently in the last few months. Old youth group members, college classmates, current and former church members, and, most recently, my college classmate, teammate, and wedding groomsman, Stan Brown. All have been officially laid out. It’s caused me to appreciate anew the awesomeness of the resurrection and the promise that eternity holds for us.

The only uncertainty that a Jesus-follower has about death is when its arrival has been determined. As I layed on that classroom table, I had about five seconds of resting in peace that comforted my tired feet. Then, with outstretched hands, I gather myself up and shouted to the wide-eyed students, “He rose again!”

I’m not sure many of them made the “Up from the grave, he arose” connection, but a few did, and they smiled and giggled in delight at the “conquering death” moment as they departed for life in their school hallways.

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Looking Like Carl

December 15, 2025

“ And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.” (2 Corinthians 3:18)

The Youth Sunday School Class I teach told me that I look like Carl Fredricksen from the movie “Up.” They even found a picture on the internet and displayed it on the screen in our classroom…with me standing beside a backgrounded Carl. Unfortunately, there was a resemblance. I’m a few years away from(hopefully) being a full-fledged member of the Carl Club, but he is leaking into me.

Most of us are hopeful that we resemble someone who is nice, or at least good-looking. A good friend of mine was compared to supervillain Gru from the “Despicable Me” film series. Funny how both of us have been compared to animated characters.

My hope is that, despite my similarities to Carl, minus the walking stick, I am resembling Jesus a little more each day, as opposed to being villainous and despicable. It’s a daily…no, I mean an ongoing moment-by-moment possibility. The closer I stay to Jesus the more I understand His mercy, compassion, forgiveness, and grace. When I talk about needing peace of mind, I need only to look in His direction and have a chat with Him about my troubled soul.

Our culture’s understanding of transformation is more instantaneous. You weren’t, and now you are. You didn’t have it, and now you do. My hunger was transformed in a few moments by the super-sized McDonald’s meal; and then shortly after that, my appeased appetite would be transformed into indigestion. Transformation is understood differently in the physical world.

In the spiritual world, it’s a journey, more like slowly turning a giant freighter in the midst of the vast sea. It’s a daily prayer of repentance and hope, thankfulness and praise.

I am thankful for others who have been on this journey before me and whom I can look to as reflections of Jesus. My dad was one of those. Some say I am a physical recreation of him. He was the Deacon Emeritus of his church, a man wise and grounded, kind and friendly, a listener and a doer. In his last couple of years of life, he had what was called a “hurry-cane,” like Carl’s, but he was never in a hurry when there was someone who needed a word of encouragement or redirection.

I may look like Carl Fredricksen, but I hope I reflect Laurence Wolfe.

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Slip Ons

December 11, 2025


“Diligent hands will rule, but laziness ends in forced labor.” (Proverbs 12:24)

I bought a pair of shoes that are “slip-ons.” They sit on the floor of my closet, and I effortlessly slide my feet into them. I’m not sure how I feel about it. There’s a slither of guilt as I slip into the slippers. Is it a sign of my laziness? As Proverbs hints, am I one of those slackers that thinks work is a four-letter word? Oh, that’s right. It is.

What are the limits of convenience? I have visions of Rosie the Robot from The Jetsons, running around and making life easy for George and company.

Slip-ons are nice. I don’t grunt when I slide into them. When I revert to a pair of shoes that have shoelaces that need to be tied, I grunt as I lean over to tie the knot. I never used to grunt like a pig when grabbing the laces, but it’s now come to that. Unfortunately, I don’t have slip-on socks, so Porky is still making sounds.

Which prompts the question? What’s the next invention that will lean me even more into being incapable of labor? A car that drives itself? (Oh, I guess technology is ahead of the game already on that one!) A business that allows me to order up a meal without having to cook it, and have it delivered to my residence? (Oh! I’m way behind on that one!) A buttoned-down shirt that doesn’t need to be buttoned, but just slides on (even over my mid-section)?

I know, I know, convenience has saturated my life for a long, long time. I’m now having a hard time even remembering the pre-microwave oven days, or the days when someone had to actually get out of their chair and walk to the TV to change the channel. In the distant memories of my mind are the days before my grandparents had indoor plumbing. (Yes, they had an outhouse…complete with spiders and other creepy things)

The bible seems to promote a work ethic that has now been redefined. When work ethic is discussed, it is usually equated with getting things done, rather than slouching in the recliner with a beer and a bag of chips close at hand.

Students with a solid work ethic are usually organized and complete their assignments on time… and well. True confession! I was a procrastinator who completed assignments at the last minute. In recent times (Maybe it’s a COVID thing), students don’t even do the assignments. Sloth has settled into the classroom.

Of course, our churches have “slip-ins.” They are people who slip in and slip out, like cars in a McDonald’s drive-thru. Slip in to get a nugget of spiritual direction and slip out to resume the other 99% of life. That is, unless there is a crisis that needs more than a moment. That sounds like a variation of laziness that results in “forced labor.” Forced labor being defined as “having to deal with what has been ignored.”

Back to my “slip-ons.” One remedy is to hide them in the closet and return to my days of grunting and bending over in discomfort. Or, maybe a better solution is to balance my convenience with another way of service and help, like emptying the dishwasher, shoveling the snow in the driveway of one of our neighbors up the street who is dealing with cancer, making myself available to help at school, or inviting the neighborhood to our house for hot chocolate, cookies, queso, and chips on a Sunday afternoon. (Actually, Carol orchestrated that last suggestion this past February, and 20 of our neighbors came and stayed…and stayed…and stayed, almost like they were cherishing the moments)

Every time I slip on my slip-ons, it is now a reminder that my life is filled…okay blessed with an easiness. I’m reminding myself that the easiness is also a path that frees me up to do harder things.

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Alan

October 22, 2025

“As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17)

As I flip through the chapters of my life, I have become ever increasingly grateful for the men with whom I’ve crossed paths. Not that there haven’t been some incredible women who have influenced me as well. After all, I am married to one of them.

Sometimes the male figures have joined me on my journey for a short time, while other guys have been along for the ride so much it’s like we’re grizzled cowboys sitting around the nightly campfire together. Short-timers and long-rangers have both been instrumental in my personal and spiritual development.

A recent “cowpoke”, so to speak, is an older fella’ named Alan, who sits at the same Starbucks counter as I do. Alan is nearing eighty, drinks his coffee from an actual Starbucks mug (just like my parents did…minus the Starbucks label), and shares the same faith view of life as I do. We talk about chess, our health status, the latest class that he is auditing at the local university, and life. Our lives can not be separated from our faith.

Alan reads my blog and, no doubt, will be slightly embarrassed that he is the prime focus of this one, but it’s true. My life is a little better because of our early morning chats. He tells me about books that he has read, or is reading. John Mark Comer is one of his favorites, while I lean towards Philip Yancey.

Alan shares simple wisdom with me, not wisdom that requires a theological surgeon to decipher. Our wives have the same first name and he hails from my neck of the woods. As we talk, questions arise about the confusing situations of life and how we sometimes have learned what’s paramount in importance by walking through the fires.

We don’t go to the same church, eat at the same restaurants, or drive vehicles of similar models. In fact, I always know he’s at Starbucks by the fact that his anciet Jeep Cherokee is backed into a space. At 5:30 in the morning, it stands out in the midst of the near-empty lot. He’s absorbed in his reading, often his bible close at hand, and unaware of my entry until I say, “Good morning, Alan!” Sometimes he’s in mid-swig as I say it, but at 5:30 he’s usually ready for a refill.

In return, he greets me as I walk the ten more feet to the other end of the counter and deposit my backpack. After I get my Yeti mug of the Pike Place brew, he strolls down to my position, white mug in hand, and we update each other on the goings-on of yesterday and the hopes of the day we have begun.

In some ways, we walk another day together, two brothers privileged to have come together in a most unlikely place, simply because we like coffee.

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Speed Limit Therapy

September 22, 2025

   “He makes me lie down in green pastures;
he leads me beside still waters;
 he restores my soul.” (Psalm 23:2-3a)

I was annoyed!

The stoplight changed…kinda. It skipped me, and went back to cars going east-to-west, instead of my north-to-south direction. My knuckles went white as I gripped the steering wheel as if I was The Hulk.

A grandpa-style Buick turned from the east heading south just about the time my stoplight turned green. The LeSabre crept south at…the speed limit! I was in the vicinity of the speed limit as I quickly closed the distance between our two vehicles. And then I crept along behind Uncle Wilbur…and on…and on…and on.

I noticed my breathing quickened as impatience oozed from my body. Uncle Wilbur arrived at the next stoplight a mile down the road right about the time the light turned yellow…and then red. More east-to-west traffic.

And, seriously, it hit me…the dreaded question: Why am I in such a hurry? I wasn’t even going anywhere of importance. If I were on the way to the hospital (which was in the opposite direction) that would be one thing, but I was simply taking the car to the car wash. The car wash, where the attendant would have me pull into another line, almost bumper-to-bumper.

The light that Wilbur and I waited for gives preferential treatment to the east-west folk, so we waited. I think I needed the wait. I needed some therapy that smacked me square in the face about my speeding-though-life habit. I needed a Wilbur to be a driving force in communicating my urgent need to slow down. And not just while driving, but rather like the life zone version of a school zone, complete with flashing lights blaring at my insensitivity.

We have a new law in Colorado that allows motorcyclists to pull up to a red light between two lanes that are heading in the same direction. Invariably, when the light turns green the motorcycle acclerates to sixty before any of us vehicle-trapped people are even up to twenty. I hate the law, because it’s a reflection of our hurried-up culture, as well as a reminder to me that I’m utterly jealous. (Side note: Motorcyclists death are up sixty percent since 2018, and 2024 was the deadliest in Colorado history)

My speed symptoms are not a one-therapy-session situation. Like a dense sheep, I rush ahead with no thought about where I’m going or why I’m doing it. I need a couch in a counselor’s office that will force me to get off my feet.

Perhaps you’re more like me than you realize. Maybe we should pray that a LeSabre-driving Uncle Wilbur turns in front of us more often. It might be a case of, as Hebrews 13:2 says, “entertaining angels unaware.”

Slow angels, mind you. Real slow.

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