I know Valentine’s day is February 14 but since Saturdays are the worst days to post a blog, I thought I would post it today. Granted, I don’t know if it matters or not… it’s not like I have a large readership.

Valentine’s Day and I Go Way Back

Valentine’s Day and I go way back. For years, I bought into the hype—chocolates, cards, flowers, stuffed animals, the whole nine yards. I still buy those things… just not on Valentine’s Day anymore. Amy may actually prefer it that way. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

One year, I snapped a picture of some flowers and sent it to Amy with the message: “These flowers will die, but this picture will last forever.”

She replied with a picture of a T-bone steak:
“This steak will be gone in five minutes, but this picture will last forever. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It only took her ten years, but she’s finally catching on to my humor.

Side note: February 14, 2005 (Valentine’s Day), I proposed. I did it then because it was the last thing she’d expect. I usually go for something more… creative.

Our very first Valentine’s Day, I bought a giant box of Britney Spears Valentine cards. I signed every single one and gave them all to her. She was thrilled.

A year later, I told her to wear the fancy silk dress that I bought her on a trip to China — and the look on her face said she was expecting the date of a lifetime. She was sure we were heading to some upscale restaurant.
We were not.

I took her to Mandarin Express on 23rd and Rockwell — and the confused look on her face was absolutely priceless. A magnificent Chinese dinner for under $7! And since it was opening night of Shanghai Knights at Quail Springs Mall… well, how could I pass that up? It’s one of the few times in our relationship when I don’t think Amy was very impressed with me. She hasn’t worn that dress since.

I’m pretty sure the next year I proposed.

Our first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife, she got a dozen roses. She was ecstatic. Two years later she learned a vital detail: the flowers were actually intended for the receptionist. they were originally delivered to the office for the receptionist by her boyfriend. When the receptionist left for the day, I took them home for Amy. When Amy saw me bring them back to the office the next morning, I told her I wanted everyone to see the “nice flowers she received.” I did this for several days until the roses died.

Another year— I bought a huge box of chocolates, wrote a heartfelt mushy card… and secretly replaced every piece of chocolate with carrots and celery. I learned later that this was not, in fact, funny.

My Valentine’s Day antics used to irritate Amy. But eventually she realized: this is a family tradition. My dad did the same thing for my mom. One year he gave her twelve sandwich bags full of flour arranged in a vase. A fourth-grader thought she’d received crack. Another year he gave her an actual cow heart.

Now, when I do things like that — carrying on the same Valentine mischief my dad perfected — Amy knows it’s because I love her. And I like to think I am setting a great example of spoiling and loving my wife for my boys to experience and repeat for their own wives one day. 

Ok… enough randomness for today. Happy Valentine’s Day.

(A very clean parody inspired by Song of Solomon)

I’ve never been subtle about my admiration for my wife, and I don’t plan to start now. I’ve watched Amy care for people quietly, consistently, and without drawing attention to herself. I’ve also heard many others say what I’ve thought for a long time—she deserves Okeene Citizen of the Year.

She’s cared for people at their best, their worst, and—on occasion—when they probably wished she wasn’t there at all. She does this work with skill, compassion, and humility, all while loving our boys well and being married to me, which many have assured me is no small act of service.

So this isn’t a serious theological exercise, and it’s definitely not Scripture. But it is a lighthearted, very clean, slightly tongue-in-cheek love letter written in the style of Song of Solomon—because if Solomon could write poetry about his beloved, I can at least attempt a parody for Sugar Booger.

The Song of Sugar Booger

(The Book of Mike, Chapter 1)

1. Behold, how wonderful you are, my beloved,
how steady and wise beyond measure.
You are known in the town for your care and patience,
while I am mostly known
for colorful shoes and sarcasm.

2. Your short hair is confidence itself—
ready for the day,
unbothered by the wind,
and far more practical
than anything Solomon ever described.

3. Your hands bring calm to anxious hearts
and reassurance to worried minds.
You speak comfort with wisdom
and compassion with clarity,
and still return home
with grace left to spare.

4. Your voice is gentle yet firm.
You have said,
“Mike, no,”
and I have learned
this is both loving and correct.

5. Your patience is well known.
Many have called you a saint,
a hero,
and the most patient person they know—
largely because you are married to me.
I find no fault in their assessment.

6. You keep our household running smoothly.
You remember appointments.
I ask what we’re already late for.
You maintain the budget.
I ask, “How bad would it be if I bought this?”
You bring order.
I keep things… interesting.

7. Your laughter fills our home with joy.
It lightens long days
and steadies heavy moments.
It reminds me that love is not loud,
but faithful.

8. Many waters cannot quench your grace,
nor can floods drown your kindness—
not even the weekly rising of the laundry,
which multiplies without explanation.

9. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine—
for many years and counting.
Together we walk forward,
raising boys,
serving others,
and trusting the Lord
who knew exactly what He was doing
when He placed us together.

I will continue to say it plainly: Sugar Booger, you are a gift—to our family, to this town, and to me.

I wrote years ago that giving should be fun. At the time, I don’t think I fully understood why that idea mattered to me — I just knew it did. The older I get, the more convinced I am that generosity was never meant to feel heavy.

My perspective on giving started early. I’ve tithed to my local church since I first had a job at age twelve. Not because anyone forced me to. Not because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. It was modeled for me — by my parents and by both sets of grandparents. None of them had a great deal of wealth, but they were always generous with what they had. Giving was normal. It was simply part of life. Somewhere along the way, it became part of how I understood gratitude.

Over time, I noticed something else: people smile when they give.

I’ve seen it again and again. Whether the gift is large or small, planned or spontaneous, there’s often a smile that comes with it. Sometimes relief. Sometimes quiet joy. Sometimes excitement. People smile when they’re having fun. If giving makes people smile, maybe it really is supposed to be fun.

That’s been true in my own life. When Amy and I give, it’s not about recognition or formulas. It’s about gratitude. We give because we’re able to, because we want to, and because we believe in supporting things that matter. That includes money, but it also includes time.

One of the most meaningful — and honestly, most fun — ways I give is through something I do every Christmas Day. Instead of a quiet holiday at home, I host a dinner. It takes planning, time, and money. It’s work. But it’s also joyful. I wrote about it in a post last December called The Table We Keep, because that’s exactly what it feels like — an open table, shared with others. It’s one of the clearest reminders for me that generosity doesn’t drain joy; it often multiplies it.

The Bible has shaped how I think about giving, even if I don’t always quote chapter and verse. Scripture talks a lot about generosity, but rarely in a transactional way. It focuses more on the heart behind the gift than the size of it. That framing stuck with me. Giving isn’t about proving something. It’s about participating in something.

Over the years—both personally and professionally — I’ve learned that having some personal guidelines around giving helps keep it grounded. Not rigid rules. Just anchors. For me, that’s meant starting with the local church and then supporting other causes that align with my values. Not everything. Not impulsively. Intentionally. Doing a little homework. Asking whether an organization’s mission matches what I care about most.

Another thing I’ve learned is that meaningful generosity takes time. Trust takes time. Sustained giving doesn’t usually happen overnight. It grows through consistency, confidence, and relationship — whether someone is giving ten dollars or ten thousand.

I don’t think it’s my place to tell anyone how much to give. I do think it’s fair to ask whether we have a plan — even a simple one. A plan brings clarity, and clarity often brings freedom.

So here’s the gentle challenge. If you’re already giving, keep going — and pay attention to what it does in you, not just where it goes. If you’re not, start somewhere. Find something you believe in. Learn about it. Support it. Watch what happens.

Giving was never meant to feel heavy. Sometimes, it’s meant to feel like joy.

Fifteen years ago, I wrote about a book that unsettled me. The Other Wes Moore tells the story of two boys with the same name, growing up in the same city, under similar circumstances — yet ending up in radically different places. One became a scholar, veteran, and leader. The other is serving a life sentence for felony murder.

At the time, I read the book like a puzzle. I wanted to understand why.

I leaned on things I still believe deeply today — family matters, community matters, church matters. I still believe it takes a village to raise a child. When a community invests in its youth through education, sports, clubs, and churches, kids are better for it. Accountability matters. Presence matters. Modeling matters.

I’m still convinced of all that.

What has changed is my confidence that any of it guarantees an outcome.

Over the years, I’ve seen good parents do everything “right” and still experience deep heartache. I’ve also seen kids come from chaotic, unstable homes and somehow grow into steady, faithful adults. I’ve watched families quietly blame themselves for choices their children made — choices they did not endorse, encourage, or model.

And that weight is crushing.

Parents often carry guilt they were never meant to carry. They replay conversations, decisions, seasons, and wonder where they went wrong. They absorb responsibility for choices that were ultimately not theirs to make.

Here’s the hard truth I’ve come to believe: a parent can love deeply, show up faithfully, and plant good seeds — and a child can still rebel. Free will is real. And it hurts.

That doesn’t mean effort didn’t matter. It doesn’t mean the seeds won’t grow. It means parents are not sovereign over outcomes.

I had a great family growing up. They loved me, supported me, and set expectations. But I also had people outside my family who invested in me — Sunday School teachers, coaches, mentors, neighbors. They didn’t have to care, but they did. That mattered more than I realized at the time.

Family is essential. Community reinforces it. Church extends it. None of those replace one another — and none of them eliminate risk.

What complicates this reflection even more is that the “other” Wes Moore story didn’t end with the book. Wes Moore is now the Governor of Maryland. His life kept unfolding. That alone is a reminder we often decide a story is finished far too early.

The older I get, the less confident I am in explanations — and the more confident I am in God’s grace.

Grace doesn’t erase consequences. It doesn’t excuse poor choices. But it does something else that parents desperately need: it lifts a burden they were never meant to carry.

Grace says you are not a failure because your child made choices you would not have chosen.
Grace says guilt does not belong to you.
Grace says hope is still allowed.

There’s a father in Scripture who never stopped looking down the road. There may have been days he questioned himself. Days he replayed decisions. Days he wondered if he had failed. But what defined him wasn’t self-condemnation — it was hope. He kept watching. And when his son returned, he celebrated.

That story doesn’t promise quick endings or tidy resolutions. It promises something better: that God’s grace is big enough for wandering children — and weary parents.

To parents who are hurting: you are not alone. You have not failed. You are allowed to let go of guilt that does not belong to you. Keep loving. Keep hoping. Keep watching down the road.

And to the church — teachers, mentors, leaders, and ordinary people who show up — your presence matters more than you may ever know. Sometimes grace looks like consistency, patience, and compassion offered again and again without knowing how the story will end.

Same name. Same city. Still no formula.

But grace — more than I understood back then.

I haven’t really watched Sesame Street since about 1987.
Well — that’s not entirely true. I know I watched a few episodes when the boys were younger.

And here’s the funny thing: it only took about ten minutes to pick right back up where I had left off more than thirty years earlier.

Same street. Same rhythm. Same format. Familiar characters doing familiar things.

That’s not accidental.

People were trained — from a very early age — to enter long-running stories midstream. We learned how to listen for context. We learned how to catch up without everything being explained to us. We learned that you don’t have to start at the beginning to belong to a story.

Which is why I don’t think the problem with soaps was ever the story itself.

That doesn’t mean every storyline worked. It doesn’t mean soaps were immune to creative missteps. One Life to Live included its share — especially toward the end, when it felt like the show was trying to engage a younger audience by speeding things up, sometimes at the expense of patient character development. That shift mattered.

But those flaws weren’t unique to soaps. Other genres are allowed time to course-correct. Soaps rarely were.

Given enough time, One Life to Live might have found its footing again. Historically, soaps always did.

The larger issue, in my opinion, was the avenue.

Middle-of-the-day television. One hour. Endless commercials. Five days a week.

Who has time for that now?

But take the exact same format — long arcs, familiar characters, slow-burn storytelling — and put it on a streaming platform. Let me watch after the kids are in bed. After the chores are done. When my brain is ready for something familiar and absorbing before sleep — something that engages without demanding.

You’ll have a loyal viewer until two or three in the morning.

The problem was never the story.

It was how — and when — we were asked to watch it.

Part Two: Soaps — The Original Binge

Other than sports, I can’t remember the last time I watched a television show in real time.

Streaming has trained me well. I watch when I want, which is usually sometime between 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. I am, without apology, a binge-watcher. If a story has its hooks in me, I don’t want to stop — even if it’s 3:34 a.m. and I need to leave for work at 6:30. Closure matters more than sleep.

Recently, I finished two seasons of the Quantum Leap reboot. I liked it. Season two ended in a way that could have worked as either a series finale or a setup for another season. The network chose to end it. Honestly, I thought it landed better than the original, which famously ended as if there would surely be more story to tell.

Streaming services have built an entire ecosystem around people like me — people who want to live inside a story for a while, not just visit it once a week.

Here’s the thing: soaps did this first.

Long before “binge-watching” was a term, soaps understood how to keep viewers coming back. Every episode ended with just enough tension to make you want one more. Not full closure — partial closure. Enough resolution to breathe, but never enough to walk away.

Soaps weren’t designed for marathons in one sitting. They were designed for attachment. Five days a week. Fifty weeks a year. Year after year.

That’s not a flaw. That’s a feature.

Think about it. At the end of most soap episodes, very little was actually resolved. The story moved inches, not miles. But those inches mattered because they stacked up over time. Networks needed viewers to return the next day, and the next day, and the next.

In other words, soaps trained an audience to tolerate — even enjoy — delayed gratification.

That’s the same muscle binge-watchers use today.

This is the part where I pretend this might land in front of the right people.

ABC–Disney executives, if you’re reading this — and I assume you are, because clearly all major corporate decisions begin with a personal blog — you already own One Life to Live. That means you own one of the deepest serialized story libraries ever created for television. Thousands of episodes. Forty-five years of characters, relationships, and long-form storytelling. And right now, most of it is inaccessible.

I understand the objections. Restoration costs money. Music rights are complicated. Contracts are messy. But streaming platforms already spend enormous resources trying to create exactly what OLTL already did naturally: viewer loyalty, emotional investment, and long-term attachment. This story was built to keep people coming back — not for weeks, but for decades.

Putting OLTL on Disney+ wouldn’t just serve longtime fans. It would introduce a new generation to a kind of storytelling they already enjoy, just delivered differently. Binge culture didn’t eliminate patience — it rewarded it. Soaps trained viewers to live with stories, not rush through them.

And if any former OLTL actors happen to read this — or share it — that wouldn’t surprise me either. You didn’t just play characters; you helped carry a story that still matters to a lot of people. There’s value here. Financial value. Cultural value. And an opportunity to test whether long-form, character-driven storytelling still belongs — not at 1:00 p.m. on network television, but exactly where modern audiences already are.

Soaps didn’t disappear because audiences stopped liking stories. They disappeared because the economics changed.

They were expensive to produce. Time-consuming. And daytime television could make more money with cheaper programming. At the same time, the traditional soap demographic — households where one spouse was home during the day — began to shrink.

Instead of asking how to introduce soaps to younger viewers where they already were, networks largely walked away from the format altogether.

That was a mistake.

Especially for a generation raised on streaming, playlists, and serialized content.

If soaps lived on a streaming platform — where viewers could go back, catch up, binge old arcs, and still follow the story forward in the present — the model works again.

The appetite for long stories didn’t disappear.

We just changed how we watch.

And that raises a bigger question, which I’ll get to next:

What if the problem wasn’t the story — but where we tried to tell it?

Part One: The Hour That Mattered

From 1:00 to 2:00 p.m., Monday through Friday, time stopped at my grandmother’s house.

Phones weren’t answered. Appointments weren’t scheduled. If you needed her, you waited. That hour was reserved for finding out whether Viki Buchanan and Clint Buchanan were getting divorced… again. For witnessing the shock of Tina Lord marrying Cord Roberts. For watching Bo Brady and Nora Hanen navigate yet another impossible situation. And for bracing ourselves as Todd Manning and Blair Cramer proved, once again, that chaos could masquerade as romance.

I learned about dissociative identity disorder, amnesia, kidnapping, poison, courtroom drama — and kissing. A lot of kissing.

An incredible amount happened in that hour. And yet, if we’re honest, not much happened at all. The stories moved slowly. Painfully slowly at times. But that was the magic. The show trusted patience. It trusted memory. It trusted the viewer.

If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, I’m talking about the greatest soap ever told: One Life to Live.

My grandma sat in her recliner. I laid on the couch. She had a Coke and a cookie. I probably did too, though I don’t really remember. What I do remember is that there was no talking. The volume was turned up high — higher than it needed to be. Grandma would never admit it, but she couldn’t hear thunder.

That hour wasn’t casual viewing. It was intentional.

One Life to Live was my grandmother’s favorite show. I called her nearly every day when I went off to college — right up until a few days before she died — but I never called between 1:00 and 2:00 p.m. That was forbidden.

And that was fine. Because by then, I was hooked too.

In fifth grade, I was diagnosed with migraines. I missed a lot of school. I spent a lot of time at home. And I spent a lot of that time with my grandma. Sleeping helped, but there’s only so much sleep an eleven-year-old boy can take. Eventually, I started watching One Life to Live with her.

That became our thing.

I watched during summers. I watched during school breaks. I watched when I was home sick. I didn’t record it and watch it later — that would have felt strange — but I never really stopped watching. The funny thing is, I could disappear for weeks, even months, and when I came back, within twenty minutes I knew exactly what was going on.

They don’t write like that anymore.

Why did One Life to Live appeal to me? There are probably several reasons. One is obvious: it was something my grandmother and I shared. But that’s not the whole story.

I love long stories — as long as they respect my attention. That’s why I tend to read series instead of standalone books. I want characters with history. I want backstory. I want consequences that linger.

One Life to Live began telling its story in 1968 and kept building it until 2013. Characters aged alongside the actors. Events from ten, fifteen, even twenty-five years earlier still mattered. History wasn’t a reference — it was a burden the characters carried.

That kind of storytelling matters more to me now than it did then, because back then I didn’t know any different.

Soaps told stories the way a crockpot works. The story cooked over time. Slowly. Patiently. And if you stayed with it, there was something rich to sit down to in the end.

Today, we’ve trained ourselves on the microwave. Instant payoff. Immediate resolution. Very little patience.

That kind of storytelling is common now. And I miss the other kind.

There are only a handful of soaps left today, and that disappoints me. Most people assume that if I loved One Life to Live, I must have loved Days of Our Lives or General Hospital too.

I didn’t.

I might have watched an episode here or there — just enough to keep my pop culture trivia skills sharp — but they never felt the same. This is going to sound ridiculous, but those shows didn’t feel real to me. For whatever reason, One Life to Live did.

I know. You’re judging me.

That’s fine.

And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if the problem wasn’t the stories — but where we tried to tell them.