Just as it does for the sea turtles, Bald Head claims us, and it claims us so completely that no matter where our lives may take us, and no matter the many miles we surely will roam, we will always hear its call to return.

A love letter to our favorite island, where time moves so slowly.

Our youngest child, you must know that when I hold you, for what may seem too long to you or your siblings, that I am holding all of you.

(as featured in The Huffington Post)

I almost became a beautician.

This is a true story. Come for the Space Camp picture. Stay for the punchline.

I think about my father a lot, and there’s so much I wish I could have asked him.

This poem tries to capture some of that feeling.

The authoritative history of Street Golf, a tradition unlike any other.

Born from humble beginnings more than twenty years ago.

Whenever I see this picture, Facebook, I smile. Our youngest brings so much joy to us, and here he is doing it again. But I also remember what happened next

(As featured in The Huffington Post)

What it’s like to be the public address announcer at Cameron Indoor Stadium on the night of the biggest game of the year: Carolina versus Duke.

Oh, and that announcer? He’s also my older brother.

At my father’s funeral, I spoke of Dad's great love for the coast. It was more than just love, I said. It was a part of who he was. I told those in attendance that day that Dad's ashes would find as their final resting place a spot somewhere along North Carolina's Crystal Coast.

Nearly two years later, we made good on that promise.

This is one of the last pictures I have of my father. And I found it online, thanks to Google Street View.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was dining at the Capital Grille in Manhattan. Tonight, I am serving as an overnight host at our church, welcoming twelve of our homeless neighbors.

I am moved by the juxtaposition of it all.

No more does she cry in the night and need me to hold her closely, rocking her gently while walking back and forth across this floor. Gone are the days and nights when she needed me for everything.

As Father's Day approaches this year, the first one since losing my dad, I have concluded that despite what commercials and newspaper circulars push, fathers do not want more stuff. We treasure not things like grills or tools or golf clubs. We crave but one thing, and it is this: to know that we matter.

As I picked out a book and walked toward his bed, I hoped he realized that because of the way he had been acting he did not deserve this. I hoped he might sense grace at work in that very moment.

As I walked down the hospital hall to share with loved ones that we had a daughter, I thought briefly of the dreams I once had for myself and began to smile widely. I knew that if I did no other great thing in life, it would be okay, for I had done this.

I started this the night we began to lose our father.

And I finished it the following morning.

Dostoevsky said that one good memory from childhood may one’s instrument of salvation. I wrote this piece while watching my children play in the rain, hoping that the memory would be salvation for me.

What I remember clearly, though, is standing in the Unitas home, and Johnny U’s throwing open the doors to his trophy room. Inside were trophies, ribbons, and newspaper clippings too numerous to count. There was even a bust of the man himself. My ten-year-old eyes were overwhelmed by the attempt to take it all in.

Soon to turn five, he continues to hold on to his afternoon naps, not because he really wants to, but because, I suspect, my wife needs him to. With the daily demands inherent in raising three children, keeping our household going, and serving at our church, I imagine having the youngest asleep for ninety minutes each afternoon is a blessing. To be honest, it’s a blessing for me, too.

When I saw the news from Boston I thought about my seven-year-old. I thought about his standing alone at a finish line, how what happened in Boston could happen here, and how, whether we are ready or not, all of our kids will someday run on ahead without us.