Month: June 2026

Every now and then I pen a post that feels like a home run. When all is said and done, blog is loaded, picture looks ok, I do my mental trot around the bases, sitting back, satisfied, feeling as if I’ve done my job well, communicating meaningfully what I most wanted to say.

One of our most recent posts — entitled “What Changes My Opinion” — was one of those moments.

Pointing out the significant difference between argument and persuasion, we discussed only one is rooted in humility. And it’s the humility of another that changes opinion, as opposed to the refining of any talking points.

Perhaps precisely because I was enjoying the duration of that mental trot, I landed on a related question. It went something like this…

“So how long do I have to be humble?”

Help me understand.

“So I get this idea — that humility is what convinces people that there’s reason to listen to me. The slams on social media, to your face or elsewhere, lack integrity and are totally unproductive; they don’t do what I want them to anyway; they change no one’s opinion. If anything, it makes the other person want to think less like me.

So you’re saying I engage, stay humble, and really listen to the other person.

How long do I have to stay that way?

I mean, doesn’t there come a time, when I can say: I’ve been humble long enough? I’ve listened long enough. You’re not worth my time nor energy at this point. Just come back when you’ve seen things differently, figured out that you’re wrong, and finally think correctly and think like me.”

So you’re asking is there a statute of limitations on humility?

What a great question!

Is there an expiration date?

Is there a time when it no longer pays to be humble? … that it’s no longer good nor right nor true.

Part of what makes the question difficult is that humility can feel costly. It takes time. It requires patience. It asks us to keep listening when we are convinced we already understand the issue and know the answer. At some point, nearly all of us begin to suspect that continued humility is simply enabling someone else’s stubbornness.

But perhaps that’s where the real test lies.

Humility is easy when the other person is thoughtful, reasonable, and open-minded. Humility becomes a virtue when they are not. The value of humility was never that it guarantees agreement; its value is that it keeps us teachable, charitable, and honest. It reminds us that even when we’re right, we don’t possess all wisdom, all perspective, or all understanding.

I suppose there could be. But the moment when we let the humility go is the moment neither we nor our perspective is winsome or attractive.

Respectfully…
AR

A little over a year ago, we wrote the following:

The track meet… Memorial High School junior Austin Metcalf and Centennial High School junior Karmelo Anthony were competing in a morning track meet in Frisco, Texas. It was raining, and Anthony had thus taken cover under the other team’s canopy. A witness told police that Metcalf told Anthony to move. They argued. Anthony reportedly said, “Touch me and see what happens.” Metcalf touched him. The argument rapidly escalated. Metcalf touched him again, presumably more aggressively, and Anthony pulled a knife out of his bag, fatally stabbing Metcalf in the chest. Anthony has been charged with first-degree murder, with bond set at $1 million. According to an arrest report, he said, “I was protecting myself.”

In the days since, there has been much conversation, noting too, that they were students of varied race … How does this happen? … Can it be self-defense? … Can we please not politicize it? … 

We politicize way too many things. The bottom line is this is sad. Two young men have had their lives forever altered in awful ways. God be with them and their families.

* * * * *

What a sad situation.

Last week, in a Collin County courtroom, Anthony was found guilty of first-degree felony murder. He was sentenced to 35 years in prison.

Unfortunately, some have rushed to politicize or demonize one side or the other. Others have framed and reframed the incident to fit a preferred narrative. Even now, many seem more interested in determining who best serves their worldview than in confronting the human tragedy itself.

As one who wasn’t there, let me say again what struck me then and still strikes me now: this is an incredibly sad situation.

Two young men who had their whole lives ahead of them saw those futures violently altered in an instant. One lost his life. The other will spend decades behind bars. Two families will carry the weight of that day for the rest of their lives.

Seeking always to be respectful and to learn from the experiences of others, I was struck most by the reaction of Jeff Metcalf, the father of the deceased:

“… The moral decay of society today is rampant. And the only people that can fix it are us, the ones who exist at this very moment. To make sure you teach your kids right from wrong and guide them and give them love and guidance and let them grow and become a contributing factor of a member of society…

It’s been a long time since my son was murdered and not being able to speak. Why my dead son’s being drug through the mud, memes, pictures. But let me make one thing clear. That has went on from both sides and I don’t condone any of it. I’ve seen the things that they’ve made about Karmelo and it’s disgusting. It’s just as vile as the things that are done about my son.

Those people that are so far left or so far right, that has the need to attack a dead child or a child that’s going to prison, or any child, it doesn’t sit well with me. He’s going to have to take the consequences for his actions, but we don’t need piling on. I mean, this has been a tragedy for both families…”

Metcalf continues with further pleas: to “deal with facts and truth,” to refrain from spinning “webs to create narratives that benefit you,” and to choose love over hate.

Those words are worth hearing.

In a culture that increasingly rewards outrage, certainty, and tribalism, it is tempting to turn every tragedy into a talking point. It is tempting to decide beforehand who must be the villain, who must be the victim, and which facts deserve attention. But tragedies do not exist to validate our narratives.

And lastly, in speaking of the perceived moral decay around us, Metcalf asks a question that should give all of us pause: “Are you part of the problem? Are you part of the solution?”

God be with the Anthony and Metcalf families.

What a sad situation.

For all.

Respectfully…

AR

What’s with all the bad candidates?

Sorry. That sounds harsher than I intend it to.

I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I simply don’t believe all people were created to do all things. Hence, not everyone is called to run for elected office. And judging by some of the candidates who continue to emerge, it seems clear that many people have never seriously contemplated that possibility.

An elected public servant should be humble and others-focused, guided by a genuine commitment to serve rather than to be served. They should be rational rather than erratic, able to separate facts from feelings so their decisions are grounded in reality rather than impulse. Strong communication skills matter — not necessarily eloquence — along with discernment, basic manners, and a consistently respectful approach to colleagues and constituents alike.

They should possess solid financial and business acumen, love the state or institution they represent, and understand both its needs and its limitations. A good leader knows when to speak and when to remain silent, is willing to admit what they do not know — recognizing they can’t know everything — and remains always open to learning. Above all, politically, they should strive to be nonpartisan in judgment, able to disagree without becoming disagreeable, and committed to the common good over personal, financial, political or political party gain.

Ok. Sure. That may sound idealistic, but my strong sense is these are reasonable expectations for people seeking positions of extraordinary responsibility.

And yet, as we review the resumes of candidates across the country — meaning these are not hypothetical — people currently seeking public office include persons who:

• Believe 9/11 attacks were an “inside job”
• Claim the existence of six biological sexes
• Did not disclose personal investments with government contracts
• Engaged in infidelity with no expressed remorse
• Follow porn stars and prostitutes on social media
• Have fired whistleblowers
• Have been charged with fraud
• Have been associated with Nazi symbolism
• Sent sexually explicit messages
• Were physically rough with women
• Were previously impeached
• Were absent during an ongoing emergency

Those same candidates have also been sadly frequent and fluent in their derogatory comments, specifically making disparaging remarks about LGBTQ+ individuals, rural residents, white Americans, and victims of sexual assault.

And, of course, derogatory comments about anyone who doesn’t support their candidacy.

Let me be clear: the above list is sadly an equal compilation of current Democrat and Republican behavior.

So let’s return to this idea of bad candidates. Again, my intent is not to be disrespectful. I simply think many of the wrong people are running for office. Perhaps more so, I think we’ve become far too willing to accept them.

It leaves me with three primary thoughts…

First, our recent presidents—regardless of party—have demonstrated significant deficiencies in either character, competence, or both. As a result, the bar has been obviously lowered. What once would have been disqualifying now barely registers. Behaviors that would have ended political careers a generation ago are excused, rationalized, or ignored so long as the candidate wears the right jersey.

Second, I wonder whether we—as voters, alongside the media and the money that fuels modern politics—have made public service so unattractive that many of the best candidates simply stay away. Why would a person of integrity, humility, and admirable selflessness willingly subject themselves and their family to the spectacle politics has become? The constant outrage, endless scrutiny, personal attacks, and tribal warfare often seem designed to repel exactly the kind of people we most need.

And third, a lot of people have yet to realize that they were not created to do all things. Ambition is not qualification. Desire is not calling. Confidence is not competence. Wanting power does not mean one should have it.

Perhaps the more troubling question is not why so many questionable candidates keep running, but rather: why do so many of us keep rewarding them?

Not being “the other guy” is not enough.

Until we start expecting more from our leaders — more character, competence, humility, and honesty — we are likely to continually find ourselves dissatisfied with the options available, as ultimately, politicians rise or fall to the level that we are willing to tolerate.

Respectfully,

AR

First, as reported by The New York Times: “For more than a decade, Jesse Ridgway has made a living posting YouTube videos, some personal, to millions of followers. It seemed natural, then, he said, to share that he and his wife, Ashley, had decided to terminate her pregnancy after a test revealed the presence of Trisomy 21, a form of Down syndrome.

‘This choice was not made lightly,’ Mr. Ridgway, 33, wrote in a lengthy post on X on Wednesday evening, two days after his wife underwent an abortion. ‘We made a difficult decision that we believe in the long run will be beneficial for our family,’ he added.”

Their announcement reached millions and quickly triggered a strong response. Much of it was harsh and unkind. I won’t add to that. But I do want to offer a perspective—one shaped by experience, and by a faith that has grown well beyond where it once was.

Years ago, halfway through the pregnancy of our third son, we were told he had a 50/50 chance of having Down syndrome. Josh had a particular heart defect that often appears alongside Trisomy 21.

I was young then—in life and in faith. I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

I remember two doctors looking at each other before asking if we wanted to consider terminating the pregnancy. The question felt clinical to them, but to me, this was already my child—fearfully and wonderfully made, known by God long before I would ever know and hold him.

For us, the answer was simple: no. But simple didn’t mean easy.

Over the next four and a half months, I prayed constantly. And if I’m honest, those prayers revealed how limited my trust really was. I asked God to let it “just” be the heart issue—something we could fix, something I could understand, and most of all, something that fit within my expectations of what was manageable.

I was trusting God… but only as far as I could see.

When Josh was born and his diagnosis was confirmed, I cried.

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I cried because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I cried because I was scared. Because my expectations were gone. Because I couldn’t yet see how this could ever be “good” or beneficial for my family.

I didn’t doubt God—but I didn’t yet understand Him either.

Now, 24 years later, let me say this with complete certainty: the only regret I have is that I cried that night.

Because what I could not see then, God already knew.

He knew the joy Josh would bring. He knew the ways our family would be shaped, softened, and strengthened. He knew that what I feared would limit us would actually become one of our greatest blessings.

Josh is an imperfectly amazing, joyful, kind, loving, funny, thoughtful, faithful young man. He connects with people in a way that is genuine and disarming. He brings light into our lives and into the lives of others. He is absolutely thriving.

And through him, I have seen more clearly what it means to love as God loves—without condition, without pretense, full of joy.

I am so grateful that God did not answer my prayers the way I prayed them. In His wisdom and mercy, He gave me something far better than what I was asking for. 

So when I hear the phrase “beneficial in the long run,” I understand the desire to make the best decision you can with the understanding you have.

But I also know this: sometimes our understanding is incomplete. Sometimes what we cannot yet see, God is already redeeming. Sometimes what feels like a disruption to our plans is actually an invitation into something deeper, richer, and more meaningful than we could have ever imagined.

I’m so grateful that my lack of understanding didn’t have the final say in our story.

God’s plan has been so much better than mine.

Love you, Josh… so proud of you.

Mom

There are a lot of things I believe but don’t always say.

For example, I’m a big believer in the First Amendment — in the essential freedoms each of us has to speak our mind, practice our faith, gather peacefully, report independently, and hold government accountable.

I struggle with our Presidents and also the elect, especially when their leadership has been marked by erraticism, narcissism, partisanship, and/or lack of mental acuity. 

I believe government is too big, too expensive, and significantly inefficient. Too often, it attempts to do things it was never designed to do. I believe, too, government is incapable of being the moral authority of the land.

And I believe loudly and clearly that no one is anyone else’s Holy Spirit. There’s only one of those, and we’re not it. That means it’s not our job to convict someone else of what is good, right, and true.

Let me be clear: I believe each of the above passionately, strongly, and deeply.

I am a fan, too, of the late Sen. Howard Baker and his keen, lasting wisdom.

Known as the “Great Conciliator,” Baker was deeply respected across party lines for his integrity, humility, and willingness to listen well. Part of that humility was captured in a phrase he oft repeated: “You know — the other fellow might be right.”

In other words: “I might be wrong.”

I have no doubt that some of my opinions are wrong. I’m certain there are issues and areas where I’m wrong and have absolutely no clue. And there have been multiple conversations and exchanges of ideas over time that have notably changed my perspective.

But there are also places where I have not changed. There’s a reason for that.

It lies in the difference between argument and persuasion.

An argument is an exchange of opposing views that often becomes heated. Worse, it usually becomes personal. We insult the person who thinks differently than we do, assuming the only reason they disagree is because they are ignorant, foolish, blind, or malicious.

Persuasion is different.

Persuasion actually moves someone toward a different belief or understanding, usually through reasoning, relationship, patience, and sustained trust. Consistent with my earlier point, persuasion is not playing the Holy Spirit in someone else’s life. It’s not forcing conviction upon them. It’s engaging in an honest exchange of ideas in a way that genuinely allows another person to consider their perspective.

Arguments rarely produce anything lasting. Persuasion often does. And the difference between the two is rooted in humility.

Rarely is my perspective changed by the argument of another. Often, though, it is changed by the humility of another.

Baker spoke often about humility, especially in how we listen and communicate. It’s not merely that another person feels heard; it’s that they actually are heard.

Want people to think more like you? I understand that. What we believe, we oft believe strongly.

But if I truly want my perspective to resonate with others, it’s not merely my arguments or talking points that need refining. It’s the humility within my own heart. That’s what people find convincing. That’s what people find attractive.

Respectfully…
AR