I don’t remember exactly when I first heard the word gridiron, but I’m pretty sure it was on a Sunday afternoon while playing tackle football with my nine rough and rowdy cousins.

I was probably barefoot. I always felt a little scrappier that way. I could dig my toes beneath those wiry Bermuda grass roots and into the sandy loam of central Louisiana. It was all about traction—or at least that’s what I told myself.

Mike and Gary talked of possibly getting an all-expenses-paid trip to Vietnam. Jimmy’s trunk lid was raised, providing the music and ambiance for the first weekend of fall, all synonymous with family football.  And, of course, there was smack-talk. That’s where the game really started.

Sauntering through a national park, I found myself drawn to an eagle’s cage—wide, tall, and protective.

Nevertheless, a cage.

Yeah, I know. That sounds misfitting and misspoken—a paradox, for sure. An eagle’s cage?

Freedom and bondage caught in one sobering portrait.

His head turned as I approached. His body still looked strong, but his eyes—his eyes had lost some of their piercing intensity. And his wings? Not even a ruffle. This magnificent creature, created to ride the wind, was now surrounded by wire. The sky remained above him, wide and blue, but beyond his reach. He could still see what he had once possessed. Perhaps that was the cruelest part.

Every grand hotel has a concierge.

I remember the first time I saw one. He was dressed in a tuxedo, looked like a refined human but moved like liquid with no wasted motion. From the questions he was asked and the answers he offered, he appeared to be an information machine. From my perspective as a kid, he had access to almost everything imaginable. He knew it all, had it all and somehow had already picked up on which baggage was mine.  

Sometimes the simplest moments carry the deepest reminders. Have you ever observed a dog shrewdly sneak beyond its own yard and then swiftly race back at the first sound of her master’s voice? This paints a picture of something we all know too well—the tendency we all have to drift and the grace that calls us home again.

My son and his family have a dog named Rooney.

Rooney is a lovable people-pleaser. She adores her family and genuinely wants to do the right thing. Yet every so often, something beyond the boundaries of the yard catches her attention—a squirrel, a scent, a passing distraction. Before long, Rooney has crossed the perimeter and wandered beyond the place she was never meant to be.

When my son realizes she has left the safety of the yard, he raises his voice and calls her back.

"Rooney! Get back in this yard!"

What's fascinating is what happens next.

Growing up in the backwoods of Louisiana, I’ve been fascinated by the Great Blue Heron. Maybe it started with my dad. Every time we spotted one standing motionless along a pond bank or lifting slow and steady from a bayou, he’d smile and say, “Look, Mark… there’s a Blue John.”

Even now, decades later, I still hear his voice when I see one.

Or maybe my fascination comes from the fact that the Blue Heron and I share a common affection: fishing. Though if I’m being honest, the heron is better at it than most folks I know.

What’s great about a fourteen mile hike is that once you’re halfway in, there’s no giving up, no wrapping up early. Once you’ve reached that seven mile mark, for better or worse, you’re in it.

I’d been hiking with my husband and my parents on a beautiful Montana summer day and within a few miles, we’d experienced every weather pattern available to the area. Clear sky and unrelenting heat, thunderous downpour, frigid wind. We even found ourselves trekking through the remnants of the previous winter’s snow.

Now, about seven miles in, the clouds had split and were scattering in watercolor patterns across the blue sky.

We’d been staring ahead as we went, chatting about everything and nothing, laughing at the mountain goats curiously wandering amongst the tourists and unintentionally scaring a few. We decided to break, and I turned my attention to the wide open valley around me.

The feeling that overwhelms me is…
I might throw up.