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.

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.

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.

Well… I’ve gone and done it.
I hired a trainer. Which basically means I’m now paying someone to hurt me.

Apparently, “dad bod” is not a legitimate long-term health plan. Who knew?

Don’t worry — pie and ice cream will still have visitation rights. But for now, protein has lawyered up and is winning more custody battles than I expected.

This isn’t just about abs (though let’s be honest, I wouldn’t mind meeting mine again someday). It’s about being around for more birthdays, more bike rides, and more bad dad jokes with my boys. Stewardship of my health is stewardship of my fatherhood.

So, welcome to Father Figure 2.0. A little sweat, a lot of laughter, and hopefully a stronger figure — both in muscles and in fatherhood.

Leave any and all advice in the comment section! Encouraging words are nice too.

Father Figure 2.0: Powered by pie and protein.