“In a noisy age, the man with rhythm lives untouched.”
There was a stretch of life when I felt like I was being slowly unraveled—nothing dramatic, just the slow erosion of center. I wasn’t scattered, not exactly. I still showed up, still performed, still smiled when I was supposed to. But I was no longer rooted. My mornings were inherited from the screen, my thoughts borrowed, my hours leaking. The world wasn’t attacking me. It didn’t need to. It was simply pulling—gently, constantly—on the thread.
And then one quiet Sunday, I started making coffee by hand again. Not with a machine. Not for efficiency. Just the old way. Kettle. Bloom. Press. Pour. Wait.
It felt foolish at first—an indulgence, even. But the ritual began to mark something: this moment is mine. I lit a candle before dawn the next day. Read a psalm before checking my phone. Walked the same loop through the pines without earbuds. These small acts—unseen, unshared—began to stitch something back together.
The world will not pause to ask who you are. It will simply tell you who to be. But a man with rhythm… he belongs to something older. Something unshakable.
“Stand at the crossroads and look… ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.”
—Jeremiah 6:16
Not every ritual is sacred. But every sacred life is patterned.
Build quietly. Arrive complete.
The Unofficial Ambassador for the State of Texas
