Blog Post: June 2, 2025 – From Creek to Road Trip

Blog Post: June 2, 2025 – From Creek to Road Trip

The day began with barefoot stillness.

Before the world stirred, I stepped down into Barton’s Creek.

The current was gentle, like grace in motion.

The birds were singing. The sun was climbing.

I could feel it all—on my skin, in my breath, in the ground beneath me.

I stood ankle-deep, not rushing, just receiving.

That moment was the reset. A holy silence I didn’t want to leave.

From the creek, I climbed back up and sat on the cement bench.

I opened my mastery journal. I wrote that my value comes not from what I do, but who I am.

I read Proverbs 2. I sat with my thoughts. And I prayed.

I read my lesson of the day:

“In my defenselessness my safety lies.”

I went back to the room to check in with Barbi and Bella. She and Bella were getting ready.

I said, “What’s the rush?”—and I chose to keep walking.

And I did.

I walked under the bridge. Then I crossed over it.

The same bridge I had stood beneath earlier, now rising beneath my feet.

From there, I entered Fredericksburg.

I strolled slowly through Main Street, passing one historical marker after another—plaques mounted to stone and brick, honoring names and dates and stories that shaped the town.

And I thought to myself:

This is where German roots live.

This is where history breathes.

After walking through town, I made my way back.

As I walked back over the bridge toward the hotel, I noticed something.

Below me, in Barton’s Creek, fish were swimming—graceful and undisturbed.

I raised my hand and cast a shadow over the water, just to see what would happen.

They didn’t flinch.

My shadow didn’t scare them.

And in that moment, I realized something:

What lives in the light doesn’t fear shadows.

Back at the room, Barbi went to get Bella breakfast.

Bella was watching Karate Kid Part 2.

When I walked in, it was a quiet scene where Daniel was talking to Mr. Miyagi about returning home.

Mr. Miyagi said something simple and wise:

“Sometimes it’s better to walk away from a fight. Even if you win, you still lose.”

Later, I told Barbi and Bella I had to return to the water one more time—to retrieve my rock.

I went back barefoot. Stepped into the creek again. Waded deeper.

I stumbled, stubbed my toe, grabbed a branch.

The water was cold but clear.

I looked for the right rock. I found five.

Each one symbolizing a piece of the journey:

Jagged. Smooth. Balanced. Unassuming. Complete.

Then I came back—still barefoot, grass on my skin from walking out of the creek.

We loaded the car and pulled up to the front desk for Barbi to check out.

I stepped inside and told the young man working there—his name was Dylan—

“This is a great place to write. I wrote twelve chapters while I was here.”

He smiled and said, “Next time you come to town, give me a call. I’ll get you a room and take you out for some good German food.”

I told him how the town’s flavors reminded me of my mom’s gravy and mushrooms when I was little.

Dylan handed me his card and said, “Seriously—call me when you’re back.”

As we drove out of Fredericksburg, heading down Main Street and past all the historical buildings, I pointed out more of the plaques and preserved homes.

And that’s when Barbi found something.

She had looked up the place we stayed and discovered it was part of Fredericksburg’s history, too.

We had eaten breakfast in the Mueller-Petmecky House, a historical home from the 1800s, complete with plaques from the Texas Historical Commission.

The small room we ate in—with six tables, warm light, and quiet air—was the original part of the house.

We hadn’t just stayed in Fredericksburg.

We had stayed inside its story.

Then we made our way to I-10.

At a gas station, we stopped to fuel up, grab a bathroom break, and stock up on snacks.

We decided Bella would drive the next leg of the trip.

I crossed the street real quick to Cooper’s BBQ in Junction.

Went in, grabbed a chopped brisket sandwich and a side of beans.

Barbi and Bella waited in the car.

Inside, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Yari.

I showed her the Kendama. We talked about Japan, world champions, and why I carry the toy around.

I told her, “Because it connects.”

And it did.

I stepped back into the car, sandwich and beans in hand.

Bella was in the driver’s seat.

Our daughter. Driving us home.

Now we’re rolling down the road.

Chips open. Pickles passed around.

Coconut water being rated like we’re judges on a food show.

And I’m sitting in the back, looking out the window, feeling full in more ways than one.

Not for the snacks.

Not even for the smooth ride.

But for the deep knowing:

Our family moves forward in rhythm.

Today was just one verse.

And we’re still singing.