One Story to Tell: The Hour That Mattered

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.

NOT A RESOLUTION

I wrote this in January of 2012, back when Lincoln was a newborn and I was still learning important things—like the fact that dads don’t babysit. I still don’t make New Year’s resolutions, and as January rolls around again, I’ll be sharing a few more “Not a Resolution” posts from different seasons along the way.

One of the reasons I’ve never been much for New Year’s resolutions is because some of the things I want to accomplish don’t fit neatly into a single year. Some goals take longer. Some take a lifetime. Writing a book has always felt like one of those things for me.

Part of the problem is that I still don’t know what kind of book I’d want to write. For years, I toyed with the idea of writing a children’s book. That sounded fun—until I realized I’d need to hire an illustrator and also accept the very real possibility that I don’t actually think the way children think. I once considered writing a book about boogers. Kids might like that. I imagined it closing with the line, “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you cannot wipe your friends under the couch.”
Still think that one has potential.

Around the time Lincoln was a baby, another idea came to me: a book called Things NOT to Say. It would basically be a collection of things I had already said to Amy during our dating life and early years of marriage—things that, in hindsight, should not have been said out loud.

For example, I learned very early on that dads do not “babysit.” I remember telling Amy that if she wanted to run to the store, I wouldn’t mind babysitting Lincoln while she was gone. Apparently, dads parent. They do not babysit. That was an educational moment for me.

There was also the time Amy got genuinely offended when I used the word puke in front of her. In my defense, she’s a medical professional and very familiar with the term. Also, that’s what her supper tasted like. A friend of mine once told me that the fact I’m still married is proof that any marriage can make it. I’m still not entirely sure what he meant by that — but I do think I had enough material back then for at least one bestseller.

Another book idea came from becoming a parent—specifically, all the things I learned and all the things that suddenly terrified me.

My dad has one of the loudest, most obnoxious sneezes of anyone I know. Growing up, it never bothered me. I never flinched. Never jumped. Then Lincoln was born.

About thirty seconds out of the womb, he was crying—and then he sneezed. It wasn’t loud, but his entire body flopped around like it was auditioning for a stunt double. I was convinced something was terribly wrong. I asked the doctor if that was normal. He looked at me like I was the dumbest person in the room and answered my question with a question — a practice I have never appreciated.

“Well,” he said, “do you sneeze?”

I nodded, but what I was thinking was: Yes, but my whole body doesn’t convulse when I do. That was the day I learned that parenting makes you afraid of things like sneezes.

Another fear I developed back then was that I might start crying for no apparent reason. This felt like a legitimate concern. I rarely cried, and I was fairly certain Amy might have a panic attack if I ever did. Still, becoming a dad softened me. I noticed I was more sensitive to things than I used to be, which made absolutely no sense to me at the time.

So there I was — with three solid book ideas. And, of course, the option of an autobiography: I Eat Yellow Snow: The Life of Michael Lynn James Williams.

Will I ever write a book? I honestly don’t know. It still feels like a good idea — just not a resolution.

And for the record… I still don’t cry.

46 years ago- January 6, 1979 – Randy and Cindy Williams wed

My dad’s nickname is Banny. In fact, my mom didn’t know his real name was Randy until they were typing up their wedding announcement for the newspaper and he asked if she thought they should use his “real name.” She didn’t believe him. He had to show her his driver’s license.

That probably should have been a clue to how their marriage would go.

My dad has thoroughly enjoyed jokes and stories at my mom’s expense for the last 46 years. And while most people describe my mom as a saint for putting up with him, I’m not convinced she’d know what to do if he wasn’t pulling some kind of prank on her all the time.

What mattered most, though—and what shaped my sister and me more than anything—was that faith was non-negotiable in our home. Skipping church was never an option (even on the Sundays I really wanted it to be). They didn’t just talk about faith; they ordered their lives around it.

They also modeled consistency. Reliable isn’t flashy, but it’s powerful—and it fits them perfectly. Mom is often asked to pray for people, sometimes with very little explanation. Dad was always involved too—youth trips, church camp, cooking for school events—whatever season we were in became their priority.

It wasn’t accidental that our house became the hangout house. They wanted it that way. Their logic was simple: they always knew where we were, and everyone there was safe. We felt so safe, in fact, that my sister and I once unintentionally hosted a co-ed sleepover weekend with no parents… which sounds far more scandalous than it actually was—and is probably a blog for another day.

Happy Anniversary to Randy and Cindy—Banny and the saint who loves him anyway.
Thank you for the faith you lived, the consistency you modeled, and the home you made safe for so many.

My 2025 Bookshelf:

A Little Leadership, A Little Narnia, and a Surprising Amount of Time Travel

I enjoy reading. It’s something I think everyone ought to enjoy, but I also understand not everyone does. I like TV and movies too—probably more people identify with that than my enjoyment of books. But reading has become one of my favorite parts of life, and 2025 turned out to be a pretty full bookshelf year.

A quick confession: I wasn’t a strong reader in elementary or high school. Not even close. But somewhere in college something clicked, and ever since then I’ve genuinely loved books. Some years I read 10; other years I make it past 24. It just depends on life.

And yes, I consider audiobooks real reading. When you drive 180 miles a day, you either learn to appreciate audiobooks or you end up talking to yourself in the car. I’ve done both.

This year my reading list spread across more genres than usual. I read more leadership books than normal—no idea why. Someone probably recommended them, and I thought, “Why not?” I also dove into historical fiction, suspense, fantasy, and, of course, my guilty-pleasure category: sci-fi and time travel. (Another guilty pleasure is poetry, though I can’t remember the last time I read a poem on purpose.)

Before I get to the list, let me say this:
Wild Goose Chase should be on everyone’s reading list for 2026. It’s short, challenging, and one of those books that makes you think about how you’re actually living your life—not just how you wish you were living it.

The Books I Read in 2025

(Grouped so this looks like I planned it this way.)

Leadership & Faith

Wild Goose Chase — Mark Batterson

One of my favorite reads of the year. Batterson has a way of making you feel inspired and convicted in the same breath. It’s a short book, but it sticks with you.

The Unexhausted Leader – Lisa Hosler

A thoughtful reminder that leaders don’t have to run on fumes to be effective. It pushed me to look at my habits a little closer. I didn’t always like what I saw.

Embracing Rhythms of Work and Rest — Ruth Haley Barton

Rebekah gave me this book because, in her words, my rhythm is “absolutely horrible.” She wasn’t hinting—she was diagnosing. And she’s always right. I’m trying to read it… but ironically, I haven’t found the rhythm for this book yet.

Family Driven Faith — Voddie Baucham

A strong call to intentional Christian parenting. It’s a book that makes you think about the long game—what really matters and what doesn’t.

Extreme Ownership — Jocko Willink & Leif Babin

A leadership book that wastes no time reminding you how many things you complain about that might actually be your fault. Challenging, practical, and the kind of book that makes you want to sit up straighter.

Thriller / Suspense

The Beijing Betrayal — Joel Rosenberg

I’ve followed the Marcus Ryker series for years, and Book 6 didn’t disappoint. Rosenberg knows how to keep a plot moving without losing the heart of the story. A great companion for long drives.

Fool Me Once — Harlan Coben

This was my first Harlan Coben novel, and apparently everyone else already knew how addictive his books are. I started it thinking I’d read a chapter or two… and suddenly an hour disappeared. If the rest of his books read like this, I may have accidentally discovered a new hobby.

Historical Fiction / WWII

The Goddess of Warsaw — Lisa Barr

A powerful story with vivid characters and strong emotional pull. Barr writes in a way that makes you feel the weight—and courage—of the era.

The Huntress — Kate Quinn

My mom recommended this one, and her track record with WWII and Holocaust-related thrillers is pretty solid. I picked it up out of curiosity and ended up fully invested before I realized it. If Mom keeps recommending books like this, I may never catch up on my reading list.

Sarah’s Key — Tatiana de Rosnay

A heartbreaking and beautifully written novel. It lingers with you long after you finish, in all the best ways.

The Frozen River — Ariel Lawhon

A beautifully crafted historical novel with enough suspense to keep me engaged on long drives. Lawhon brings the time period to life in a way that made this one of my favorite historical reads of the year.

Sci-Fi & Time Travel (the guilty pleasure section)

Project Hail Mary — Andy Weir

Absolutely loved this one. It’s smart, fun, and had me trying to remember high school science I definitely did not learn the first time. Easily a top read of the year.

Time Lost — Elyse Douglas

A lighter, time-bending story that hit the spot when I wanted something different. Proof that not everything you read has to be serious to be meaningful.

Lost in Time — A.G. Riddle

A fast-paced sci-fi adventure that kept me interested all the way through. Riddle knows how to build a world without overwhelming the reader.

Fantasy (the comfort series)

The Harry Potter Series — J.K. Rowling

My third time through the series—once in college, once with Lincoln in third grade, and now with Andrew in third grade. Apparently, third grade is when the Williams boys become wizards. At this point, I could probably teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The Chronicles of Narnia — C.S. Lewis

Started in 2024 and finished in 2025. Lewis writes with a simplicity and depth that always feels refreshing. A good reset for the imagination.

A Few Final Thoughts

I don’t know if I’ll do this kind of post every year. Maybe I will. Maybe next year I’ll write 6th-grade-style book reports after finishing a good one—complete with the classic “My favorite part was…” section. Or maybe I’ll just do another end-of-year roundup.

I also hope in 2026 to dig deeper into two areas that interest me:

Holocaust survivor stories
Reading curriculum and AR systems in schools

My time allows for books. Research, however… that’s another story. But maybe.

More than anything, I hope my boys grow to enjoy reading someday. Right now they don’t, and that’s completely age-appropriate. School has to teach them the mechanics of reading, and sometimes that pressure can steal a little of the joy. There’s a balance to be found. I’m still looking for it.

For now, though, these are the books that filled my year—and I’m grateful for every mile, chapter, and story along the way.

I’m in the middle of a couple of books right now that will be finished in 2026. What should I add to my list? Leave a comment with your recommendations.

Ok, that’s enough.

The Table We Keep

For the last twelve years, our family has had a Christmas tradition that doesn’t involve matching pajamas, elaborate travel plans, or sleeping in on Christmas morning.

When Lincoln was two, Amy and I decided we wanted to create a family tradition—something that would matter, something Lincoln (and any future kids we might have) would grow up doing together. We landed on the idea of a community Christmas dinner.

The first year was… ambitious.

I wildly overestimated how many people would show up. We had an unbelievable amount of food left over. Tons. Enough that we started flipping through the phone book—yes, an actual phone book—and calling people to ask if they wanted meals.

One of those calls led us to a family that had moved to town just two days earlier. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember this: they didn’t have food, and the grocery store was closed. Because we had cooked too much, we were able to give them enough food to last a week.

That alone would have made the whole thing worth it.

A year or so later, the crowd grew. The fellowship was great. One of the reasons we started the dinner was to provide a Christmas meal for people who might not have the resources to do it themselves—and while there were certainly a few situations like that, I quickly learned something unexpected.

Most of the crowd was made up of empty nesters.

And honestly? The empty nester crowd is awesome.

For many of them, this dinner wasn’t really about the food. It was about sitting across the table from people they hadn’t seen in a long time. People they usually only ran into at the grocery store or passed in the hallway at church. One couple showed up every year about fifteen minutes before the meal started and left about fifteen minutes after it ended—just long enough to visit, laugh, and catch up.

That was the whole point for them.

It’s been fun watching the boys grow up with this, too.

I think the dinner has given Andrew a genuine heart for senior adults. This year, he made sure every person had a clean place to sit and a drink ready. He quietly bussed tables the entire time so no one would have to deal with trash. No one told him to do that. He just noticed and acted.

Lincoln loves the deliveries. He can’t drive yet, obviously, but he enjoys riding along and taking meals to people’s homes. It pushes him slightly out of his comfort zone. It requires conversation—though thankfully for him, the conversations are usually short because there are more deliveries to make. Not everyone is wired like Andrew and me, and that’s okay.

Over the years, there have been other good options for how we could spend Christmas Day. And I’m grateful for that. Family matters. Time together matters. Those are gifts.

But what has surprised me is that this dinner has never felt like something we have to do. It’s something the boys want to do.

When I’ve asked if they’d rather skip it or do something else, the answer has always been the same. They look forward to it. They plan around it. For them, Christmas Day isn’t complete until the tables are set, the food is served, and the deliveries are made.

Another thing I didn’t anticipate when we started this twelve years ago is how much memory this meal would carry.

Those of us who have been around since the beginning find ourselves reminiscing—not just about past dinners, but about people. Families. Widows and widowers. Volunteers and regulars who showed up year after year. Some of them are no longer with us now. They’ve gone on to be with the Lord, and I miss them terribly.

There’s something sacred about remembering them together. About telling stories. About laughing at old moments and quietly acknowledging the empty chairs. Christmas has a way of doing that—it holds joy and loss at the same table.

This dinner has become a time of reflection and remembrance as much as service. A reminder that life is brief, relationships matter, and showing up counts more than we realize in the moment.

I do wonder what this will look like someday. Will the boys still live in Okeene? Will they want to help when they’re grown, or will this take a different shape entirely? Maybe they’ll start something like this in their own communities. That would be pretty incredible.

I wonder how their future families will feel about it. Will their spouses love it, tolerate it, or roll their eyes a little? Will this tradition carry into the next generation, or will it simply become a good memory—something that quietly helped shape who they became?

I don’t know the answers to any of that.

But I do know this: for twelve Christmases, they have chosen to show up. They’ve learned to serve. They’ve learned to notice people. And they’ve learned that some things are worth building your day—and maybe your life—around.

And maybe that’s how traditions last — not by being preserved, but by shaping the people who carry them.

The Christmas Story: Promise, Birth, and Hope to Come

On this Christmas Day, I simply want to share the story that never grows old. No commentary, no reflections — just the Word of God and the promise fulfilled. My prayer is that these familiar verses remind you of the hope, peace, and joy found only in Jesus.

Isaiah 9:2, 6–7 (ESV)

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone. For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

Luke 2:1–20 (ESV)

In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria. And all went to be registered, each to his own town.

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child. And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.

And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.”

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”

When the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go over to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has made known to us.” And they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby lying in a manger. And when they saw it, they made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child. And all who heard it wondered at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart. And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.

Revelation 22:12–13, 20 (ESV)

“Behold, I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me, to repay each one for what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.”
…
He who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.”
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

May the truth of Christ’s birth fill your heart today with wonder and gratitude. From my family to yours, Merry Christmas — may His peace rest on you and your home.

In Him,
Mike

My Sister the Daredevil

Growing up, my sister Julie was a full-time daredevil with a part-time interest in survival. Nothing ever phased her — cliff jumping, driving way too fast, trying things that had no business being tried. One time when we were very young, she climbed to the top of our fort, grabbed a bed sheet, and jumped, fully convinced it would act like a parachute. It didn’t. Not even close.

During the summer of 1998, my friend Mathu, Julie, and I headed to Red River, NM for a weekend. My parents had already been there a few days, but I had to work or something and couldn’t go until later. The plan was just Julie and me, but I decided to invite Mathu along too. That was probably a surprise to my parents, but he was always around our house in those days. They were used to seeing him all the time, even when I wasn’t home.

One day in Red River, we decided to rent mountain bikes. It was that day my dad likely saved Mathu’s life… or at least his brain. In 1998, you could still rent a bike without a helmet, and Mathu didn’t want one. “Who actually falls off a bike?” he said. My dad made him wear it anyway. Good thing — because everything after this moment goes downhill. Literally.

It was mid-afternoon. The daily Red River shower had cooled everything off, which was great for us… except it also made the trails muddy. We were taking easy switchbacks down a mountain — nothing dangerous — until Julie spotted a shortcut straight down to the next switchback. And let me tell you… this shortcut was steep and stupid. We all stared at it. I knew immediately I wasn’t doing it. Mathu looked tempted.

Before we could talk it through, Julie was already gone — halfway down the mountain. I rolled my eyes, grateful she didn’t wipe out because I had no idea how I’d explain that one to my parents.

Mathu, however, was not going to let my little sister show him up. He took off before Julie could warn him about a rock she barely missed… and he never saw it. When he hit it, he instinctively grabbed the front brake. For those who don’t bike much, that’s the equivalent of pressing the self-destruct button.

He was going fast enough that the momentum flipped the back wheel over his head — not once, but twice. He landed directly on the helmet he didn’t even want to wear. It’s a miracle he didn’t break anything. Honestly, the rental bike came out of it better than he did. (Always better to destroy a rental than your own stuff.)

After confirming that only his pride was injured, Julie couldn’t stop laughing. I couldn’t either, but I didn’t tease him nearly as much — mostly because I’m a visual learner. I learned right then to stay on the marked path. Some shortcuts aren’t shortcuts at all. Sometimes they’re life-threatening.

Some people are natural risk-takers. Some are not. My sister takes risks constantly. People often think I’m a risk-taker too, but if the risk involves physical pain? Absolutely not. I’ll take the switchbacks every time.

Thinking back on that muddy mountain, Julie flying down the hill, and Mathu flipping over the handlebars like a human boomerang, I’m reminded of how often Scripture warns us about shortcuts.

Proverbs 3:6 says, “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”
Not shortcuts — paths.

The path God lays out is usually steady, faithful, and step-by-step. It’s rarely dramatic… and almost never fast. But it’s always good. And most of the time, the shortcuts we’re tempted to take — the ones that look quicker, easier, or more exciting — are exactly the places where we end up face-first in the dirt wondering what just happened.

That mountain taught me something I’ve had to learn repeatedly in life: Not every shortcut is from God. Some of them cost far more than they save. Some hide dangers we can’t see yet. And some, like that rock Julie dodged and Mathu never saw, are only avoided by God’s grace and a very mandatory helmet.

The older I get, the more grateful I am for the “switchback seasons” in life — the times God kept me on the slower, wiser path because He knew what was waiting around the corner. His way isn’t always thrilling, but it keeps us upright. And it gets us exactly where we need to be.

Exercise is a Giant Pain in the Abs

Somewhere in this ongoing Father Figure 2.0 journey, I have discovered an unshakable truth: exercise is a giant pain in the abs. Literally.

My trainer keeps introducing me to movements I’m pretty sure were invented during the Middle Ages. Sit-ups, planks, and a few things that don’t even have names — probably because no one has survived long enough to label them. I’m also convinced he smiles more the worse I look.

Meanwhile, Flat Mike continues showing up to the gym looking fresh and photogenic, while I’m over here praying for the Rapture before the next plank starts.

And then there’s pie. Pie is always calling my name. December pie is practically shouting it from the fridge. But protein stands there like a bouncer at the door:
“Sorry, pie. He’s with me now.”

Here’s the part I remind myself of often: discipline usually feels like pain before it feels like progress. Whether it’s building muscle, raising boys, or following Jesus — the effort comes first, the fruit comes later.

So yes, exercise is a giant pain in the abs. But it’s also a reminder that the hard things are usually the best things… even when December keeps offering me dessert.

If this made you smile or wince in sympathy, leave a comment — and sign up to get future posts delivered straight to your inbox.

Father Figure 2.0: Powered by pie, protein, and holiday survival.

The Hardest Part of being a Fundraiser

My Friend Sue!

People often assume the hardest part of fundraising is asking for money.

It’s not.

Others think it’s hearing the word no.
Or waiting patiently while someone considers a gift.
Or cultivating a relationship for years with no guarantee of support.

Those things have their challenges. They require humility, patience, and persistence.

But they are not the hardest part.

The hardest part of being a fundraiser is when donors become close—like family—and then pass away.

Last week, my friend Sue passed away.

I worked with Sue for nearly 20 years, though her connection to Oklahoma Baptist Homes for Children stretches back much further than that. There is not a campus or ministry within OBHC that does not carry her influence in some way. Her encouragement, generosity, and unwavering passion for caring for children helped shape this ministry more than most people will ever realize.

Sue was steady.
She was genuine.
She was the definition of encouragement and conviction.

Nothing ever altered her passion for making sure children were cared for, supported, and loved.

Sue and her husband, Ken, shared that passion. Together, they have been faithful, generous supporters of OBHC for many years. Their legacy is not a moment—it is a lifetime of faithfulness that still matters deeply to this ministry.

One of the things Sue loved most was hosting the boys from Boys Ranch. She welcomed them into her home, fed them, laughed with them, and made them feel like they belonged.

And she made sloppy joes.

I don’t know how or why — but they were the best sloppy joes I have ever had in my entire life.

Maybe it was the recipe.
Maybe it was the way she cooked them.
Or maybe it was simply the love behind them.

What I do know is that moments like that matter. Meals matter. Presence matters. Faithfulness matters.

Sue never saw herself as “a donor.” She saw herself as part of the work—part of the family that surrounded and supported children who needed stability and care.

That’s what makes loss like this different in fundraising.

When someone like Sue passes away, you don’t just lose financial support for a ministry. You lose encouragement. You lose wisdom. You lose stories. You lose handwritten notes, familiar conversations, and steady prayers.

You lose a friend.

And yet — even in the grief — we rejoice.

Sue is completely healed and in the presence of the Lord. We mourn because we have lost someone incredibly special. I ask that you would join us in praying for Ken and the entire Fellers family as they grieve, remembering the faithfulness they have shown and the legacy that continues.

Scripture reminds us, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints” (Psalm 116:15). That truth doesn’t remove the sorrow, but it anchors it in hope.

Sue taught me — without ever trying — that fundraising at its best is not transactional. It is relational. It is sacred work built on trust, love, and shared mission.

I will miss her dearly.

And I am deeply grateful — for Ken, for their family, and for a legacy that continues.

Amy, Ike and the Gym Chronicles

Walking Into the Gym

When Amy and I walk into the gym, it looks like two completely different people showed up for the same class. She moves with confidence and grace—like someone who watched one YouTube tutorial and immediately mastered every lift. I, on the other hand, resemble a newborn giraffe trying to find its legs for the first time. Knees wobbling, arms flailing, eyes begging someone to call 911 just in case.

Ike, our trainer, sees it instantly. Amy stays laser-focused, barely speaking. Me? I talk through every single rep. Not because I’m doing well, but because talking is the only thing standing between me and the very real possibility of collapsing dramatically on the mat.

Sometimes Ike just shakes his head and grins. “Mike, you doing alright?” “No, Ike. But thanks for asking.”

Two Workout Styles, One Witness

Amy looks like she’s filming a fitness commercial—smooth, steady, form perfect. I look like the blooper reel at the end of the DVD.

Getting up and down from the mat is my personal Mount Everest. Amy drops to the floor and pops back up like it’s nothing. I, however, make noises that concern people in a three‑mile radius. Ike keeps asking if I’m okay, and honestly, some days I’m not sure.

Cardio? That’s a beast for both of us—but somehow she endures it with dignity while I look like I’m auditioning for a survival documentary. Ike tries not to laugh out loud.

And that’s the difference between us:

Amy suffers silently and nobly.
I suffer loudly and with commentary.

What We’re Learning (Besides Proper Form)

Amy joins because she wants to be strong and healthy for the years ahead too. Our reasons aren’t identical, our approaches are wildly different, and our styles don’t match at all.

But that’s the point—same destination, different paths.

The Real Marriage Lesson

Working out with Amy has reminded me of something true about marriage: God didn’t design us to mirror each other move for move. He designed us to complement one another—to step into the same goals with different strengths, perspectives, and personalities.

At the gym, Amy brings determination. I bring comic relief. In life, she brings steadiness. I bring… well, occasionally some chaos and a colorful pair of shoes.

But we’re in it together. Sweating. Laughing. Growing. One awkward squat at a time.