Seasons and Horizons

This is not a travel story, though travel runs through it. It’s a reflection on love, loss, friendship, faith, and the quiet ways God shapes us over time — often without our realizing it. Looking back now, I’ve come to believe that God begins far more in our lives than we understand at the time, and He is faithful to finish what He starts.

“Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 1:6

Some journeys teach us where we’re going. Others teach us who will walk beside us —. and who was walking with us all along.

The Long View

Through the struggles of life, we spend our days searching — for meaning, for joy, for the things that make us feel most alive. Along the way, many of us hope to find someone to share that journey with — not just a partner, but a best friend — someone who sees us fully and walks beside us.

I’ve spent much of my life searching for that kind of love. More than once, I believed I had found it. And over time, I came to understand something important: love carries risk. We don’t always see the struggles another person carries, and often they don’t surface until much later. Marriage, like love itself, reveals what was hidden — and that vulnerability is both its beauty and its challenge.

Often, we move through life carrying wounds we didn’t even realize we had. Childhood traumas, quiet fears, unspoken beliefs that shape our relationships without our knowing. It can take years — sometimes decades — of struggle before we begin to understand who we truly are and who we are meant to become.

I’ve come to believe that God uses these seasons — the wilderness journeys, the hard chapters, the long waits — to shape us. Each struggle, each moment of uncertainty, carries us closer to what truly matters. And looking back now, I can see something I didn’t always recognize in the moment: God was walking with me the entire time, even when I didn’t yet realize it.

Along the way, I’ve also discovered something unexpected and deeply meaningful: the gift of friendship. I have a few people I consider best friends — some here in the Midwest where I live now, some on the West Coast where I was born, and even a few scattered across the world. These weren’t relationships I went searching for. They formed quietly, naturally, and became anchors I could rely on.

Some of the most meaningful friendships in my life came from places I never expected. Over the years, I’ve met close friends from Canada — including a few I met on my first cruise — people who became far more than travel companions. When I faced one of the hardest seasons of my life, when I lost my daughter, those friends were there. They showed up with love, strength, and quiet presence, offering hope when I needed it most. Their kindness reminded me that God often places the right people in our lives long before we understand why.

In the same way, some of the most impactful churches and communities I’ve been part of were found in the smallest, most unexpected places. I never planned for them, yet they shaped my life profoundly. I’m deeply thankful to God for those people and places — reminders that we are never meant to walk alone.

In the search for love over the past few years, I also discovered something else unexpected: a deep enjoyment of travel. I’ve spent time in places like Armenia, Georgia, Turkey, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Costa Rica, Panama, Belize, the Philippines, and Seychelles — with brief layovers in places like England, Poland, Japan, and Qatar along the way. Each journey revealed something essential, not just about the world, but about myself.

In Turkey, I spent weeks along the Mediterranean — swimming, slowing down, and learning what it feels like to let life unfold without urgency. Later, in Florida — in Pensacola, visiting my brother while he lived there — I experienced the sea in a quieter way. I fished from piers, docks, and along the shoreline, and somewhere in the stillness of that time, I realized how deeply I enjoyed it. I remember thinking, I could do this often. I could live like this.

My time in places like Belize and the Caribbean deepened that understanding. The water there was calm in a way the Pacific rarely is — gentle, clear, and unhurried. It felt peaceful, as though the ocean itself was teaching me how to slow down.

In Seychelles, the water was different again — crisp, clean, and strikingly clear. Though rocky in places, it carried a beauty that felt almost unreal, like the images you imagine when you think of places such as the Maldives. Standing there, I felt a quiet peace that didn’t demand anything from me.

Seychelles also gave me something I didn’t expect. While I was there with my wife at the time, during what was meant to be a honeymoon that carried its own quiet struggles, I met a family who would become dear friends. Meeting her — and her daughter — brought clarity and kindness into a season that was not easy, even in a place as beautiful as that. That friendship became something lasting and meaningful to me, and I hope to return to Seychelles one day to see them again.

Last fall, I took my first cruise — an experience that surprised me in its own way. Being on the open water, watching a massive ship move effortlessly through the sea, visiting ports like St. Thomas, St. Croix, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic — it all left an impression. St. Thomas stood out most, but what stayed with me just as deeply were the nights at sea. Looking up at the stars — countless, familiar, placed with intention — I was reminded of how great God is, and how He orders creation in ways we can recognize and stand in awe of.

I was born on the West Coast, near the Pacific Ocean. Over time, I’ve returned to it — and to many others — the Indian Ocean, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, and the Pacific again through Panama and Costa Rica. Somewhere between the sound of the waves and the softening of time, I realized something simple and honest: this is how I want to live.

I want my days shaped by the sea — by its rhythm, its quiet power, its reminder that life does not need to rush to be meaningful. I want to share that life with the love of my life, yes — but also to remain rooted in friendship, community, faith, and gratitude. I want to live where the rat race fades away, where peace and laughter come easily, where anxiety loosens its grip and no longer defines the path forward.

This is the long view — a life lived with intention, presence, and grace.