27 July, 2026 2 2 Comments

Faith Not Hope

July 27, 2026 By 2 Comments

 

I wasn’t expecting anything from the podcast.
I rarely do.  It was background noise  — something to fill the drive, maybe I could learn a thing or two.
And then Brian Quint said something that made me reach for the volume knob.
He runs a theater company in Canada called Nightswimming. Cool name. I’m thinking it may be named after one of my favorite REM songs. Quint never said.
But he did say he runs a theater of faith, not hope. He didn’t elaborate much, at least not right away. He didn’t need to. The distinction landed before the explanation did.
I’ve been turning it over ever since. I’m not sure why. These kinds of things have been happening to me lately. In a world of noise, I get signal. For just a moment.
I think the word hope was what landed for me.
Hope, I think, is what most of us run on. It’s the fuel of the aspiring playwright, the unfunded foundation initiative, the relationship that needs one more good year to find its footing. Hope is useful. It gets you out of bed. But there’s a fragility to it — hope depends on something coming through. Someone returning that email. Someone saying yes.
Hope is, at its core, a negotiation with the future.
Faith is something else. Faith doesn’t wait for the outcome to justify the act. Faith doesn’t need someone else to say yes.
It says: this is worth doing because I am doing it. Not because of what it might become. Not because someone decides to take a risk on your idea.  The doing is the arrival. The doing is the point.
I think I’ve spent most of my life working from hope when I thought I was working from faith. The difference turns out to matter.
I write. A lot. Plays, essays, a stray poem. I have screenplays in a drawer, book ideas in folders. I love writing. Even though it’s hard. Even though, at times, it has broken my heart.
These days I’m writing plays.
I have for three years now, with a seriousness that crept up on me slowly and then all at once. Most of them have not been produced. Some have had readings. A few have found small stages. One just got produced  Off Broadway, which still surprises me when I say it out loud.
But here’s what I know: I wrote them anyway. All of them. Not because I had a production lined up or an agent waiting or a theater that believed in me. I wrote them because not writing them felt like a kind of dishonesty. Like I was withholding something I owed — to the work, to myself, maybe to the people the plays were secretly about or the ones I long to touch with a story that may have  meaning.
That’s not hope. Hope would have quit by now. Hope would have done the math. Hope would have figured out that it is hard to make it. I started kind of late, I’m learning on the job. I have
a lot of ground to make up and a finite amount of fuel in the tank.
Yes, hope would have thrown in the towel. But I haven’t. And I won’t.
That’s faith.
I co-lead  a foundation. We try to put resources into communities and institutions and ideas that we believe can matter. A lot of that investment lands in uncertain soil. You make the gift, you trust the people, you let go. In many cases, you don’t get to know how it turns out, not really, not on any timeline that satisfies the part of you that wants proof. Philanthropy, done honestly, is an act of faith dressed up in spreadsheets.
When we started our philanthropic journey we made a pilgrimage to see David Odahowski. He runs the Edythe Bush Foundation in Winter Park.
Dave has been called the “Dean of Florida philanthropy “ a title he has earned.
We were the rookies coming to see the veteran. The first thing Mr. Odahowski said to us was that we would never solve any of the issues we were seeking to impact.
That diagnosis, struck me. I had hope we might solve a problem or two.
But I understand what he was saying. The message was delivered with care through the lens of experience.
But the more I sit with it (and it has been a year) the more faith I have that we will make an impact. We will change lives. We will help people and communities.
 We make a daily choice to keep showing up for the things and people we’ve  decided are worth showing up for don’t we?
Brian Quint probably wasn’t talking about any of that on that podcast. He was talking about theater. But faith, once you start pulling on it, doesn’t stay put. It led me down so many paths. Paths I happily walk.
I don’t know much about Nightswimming. Is it named after my favorite REM song?
 I looked them up after the podcast ended. A small company. Developmental work. The kind of theater that exists in the margins of the industry, which is often where the most honest work gets done. What struck me wasn’t their catalog. It was that they had named their posture. They had decided, out loud, what kind of company they were going to be — not in terms of genre or aesthetic, but in terms of orientation. Faith, not hope.
That takes courage. Hope is easier to defend. Hope sounds reasonable. Hope has a plan.
Faith sounds reckless until you realize it’s the only thing that was ever actually holding you up.
I’m not ready to abandon hope entirely. I don’t think that’s what Quint was suggesting either. But I want to be more honest about which one I’m operating from on any given day. Hope can masquerade as faith for a long time before you notice the difference. Hope says I’ll keep going as long as there’s a chance. Faith says I’ll keep going.
Full stop.
I write. At the foundation we give.
I’m someone who has chosen, over and over, to bet on people and places and ideas that don’t come with guarantees. I think I’ve been a person of faith longer than I’ve had the word for it.
Thank you, Brian Quint. I wasn’t expecting anything from that podcast.
Turns out I should have had more faith.
23 August, 2021 20 20 Comments

On This Train; Faith Will Be Rewarded

August 23, 2021 By 20 Comments

Historic and picturesque Newport, Rhode Island.

Happiness is found in life’s most ordinary moments. 
 
This week, I will be celebrating my 57th birthday.
And being in a reflective mood, I’m finding that as I get older I’m finally able to derive bliss from the simple things in life.
It has taken me awhile to get to this place.
But these days, these wonderful days, a beautiful sky, my wife’s laugh, a text from my sister, a call from a friend, a quick trip to  New England, watching my old dog sleep in his cozy bed, time with friends, a great book and the list goes on makes me happy to my very core.
 

Brené Brown once said, “We chase extraordinary moments instead of being grateful for ordinary moments until hard 💩happens. And then in the face of really hard stuff — illness, death, loss — the only thing we’re begging for is a normal moment.”

Ain’t that the truth!
Therein lies  the great irony of life — we are constantly pursuing the extraordinary yet when we lose someone, we’re willing to give anything to hear the sound of their voice even if it’s singing off-key in the shower just one more time. One more time.
In my case, Covid reminded me that each moment we’re alive is impossibly fragile.
I first learned that lesson when I lost my mother far too young to cancer. But I had forgotten that lesson.
 I was 34 and in a hurry in those days, consumed by ambition and anxious to make a mark. I lost sight of the beauty of the mundane. I was restless and impatient.
But the gift of some hard knocks and the passage of time is that we discover that simplicity has true meaning. 
When I came home from a 39 day stay at Bethesda Hospital this time  last year, my friend Connor Lynch called me. 
“Doesn’t the grass seem greener?” he asked. 
How did he know?
Yes, the grass seemed greener and the sky seemed bluer. I told Connor that during my trip home from the hospital, I never enjoyed seeing Lake Ida Road more.  Connor knew from experience so he wasn’t surprised. 
A road that I travel every day every day rushing around suddenly seemed grand, like a picturesque boulevard. 
I don’t want to lose that feeling. 
So when life gets me down, and of course it still does from time to time (that Old School Square lease termination really stinks my friends) I still get angry. But my pique is tempered by my appreciation for the good things in life. The simple pleasures. 
We went to New England last week for a long awaited vacation that happened to dovetail with my year anniversary of getting and ultimately surviving Covid and a wicked case of double pneumonia that still robs me of my wind. 
Through Facebook memories I was able to revisit the experience  through the kind comments of so many nice people. It was painful and interesting and touching to hear from so many people. And I felt blessed. Extraordinarily blessed. 
A kind word carries so much power and influence.
Kind words heal.
The opposite is true as well.
Harsh words wound. They leave marks. 
On my vacation, I soaked in the beauty of New England which is extraordinary. Everywhere you look is a postcard. 
My wife and I enjoyed the water views, we sailed, looked for puffins, explored charming villages and marveled at the history we found in every town. 
I’m drawn to New England for a lot of reasons, some mysterious to me. It does remind me of  my hometown Stony Brook, New York, so maybe that’s part of it. But there’s something intangible too that just calls to me. 
Of course, I love Florida too. My wife and I have given a lot of time and passion to Delray Beach and so have our friends who were hurting last week over the aforementioned decision regarding Old School Square.  
I felt compelled to listen to their hurt last week, to make calls I wouldn’t ordinarily make while  on vacation. 
I was calling and texting from various points in Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Rhode Island all of which felt like warm, inviting and friendly places even for this Yankee fan tooling around town with Florida plates on the rental car. 
My friends needed to be reminded that they mattered, that they did good things because they have been told the opposite.
 
I happen to believe that the truth matters.
And that even in a world filled with misinformation, propaganda and nastiness, the truth will eventually win out. 
It’s painful to wait, but you have to keep believing. 
In the past year, so many of my wishes have come true and so many of my prayers and the prayers of others have been answered. 
Amid the challenges, my faith has been cemented. 
I’m finally learning to be patient,  to be happy and to open my eyes to the beauty that surrounds us. Despite the noise, despite the nastiness, there is clarity, kindness and hope.
Always hope. Even in the darkest days. 

 

22 March, 2021 8 8 Comments

Thankful For The Vaccine

March 22, 2021 By 8 Comments

The Health Care District did a great job.

On the day I got my first vaccine, Florida reported 5,093 new Covid cases and 94 more deaths bringing the death toll to 33,219 and the total case count to almost 2 million.

By the time you read this, those numbers will have increased. But we know that the numbers only tell part of the Covid story.

Every “stat” is a person with a family, friends—a life. This virus is a beast—it is not the flu.

Covid can be lethal and for those who survive but suffer  from “long hauler” symptoms, it’s not something that you can just power past.

So when I got an appointment to get my first shot last week at the South County Civic Center in West Delray I was thrilled.

Sometimes you don’t realize how stressed you are until you experience relief. And truth be told, I’ve been worried about re-infection and anxious about the variants I’ve been reading about.

I was able to book an appointment with two of my co-workers so went together. Like most Americans—indeed most humans—they’ve been touched by Covid with family members suffering from the virus and with a few relatives dying as a result.

We talked about how lucky we were to be getting the vaccine and how sad it is for those who died before a vaccine was available.

I’m especially grateful because I thought this virus was it for me. So when I sat down, rolled up my sleeve and thanked the Palm Beach Fire Rescue “vaccinator” for giving me the shot, I got a little choked up.

He asked me if everything was OK and I said “oh yeah, I am so happy to be sitting here right now.”

He talked to me briefly about soreness and side effects and truth be told, I barely listened. Because a little soreness or a fever doesn’t compare with 39 days in the hospital wondering if I’d ever see my loved ones again. Bring it on, if it spares millions from the horrors of this disease I’m all in.

Yes, I’ve seen the anti-vaxxer screeds on the Internet and social media—isn’t the First Amendment grand? But I’m throwing my lot in with the scientists. I have faith in them. I am so grateful for their efforts.

These vaccines are modern day miracles, I believe they will save millions of lives.

That’s my  firm belief.

Everyone is entitled to their own views, but I’m rooting for people to take the vaccine and I’m rooting for herd immunity because I’ve felt the ferocity of this virus from inside the belly of the beast. It didn’t want to let me go and it has claimed a ridiculous amount of lives.

And every day…every single day… when I ache, experience headaches and feel some “brain fog” I am reminded that I had this thing.

I don’t say this to elicit sympathy, I know that I am a very lucky man.

I chose at the beginning of this experience to share with you the good, the bad and the ugly in the hope, that maybe my sharing would raise some awareness.

So we chronicled it all. I say we because I’ve had a lot of help all along the way.

We talked about long haul issues and the emotional aspects of Covid, because the pandemic has unleashed a lot of trauma on society.

To continue in that vein,  I wanted to come full circle and share about vaccines.

My belief: they are safe and effective.

My hope: you will get vaccinated.

After taking the shot, they ask you to stay 15 minutes to see if you have a reaction. I sat with a bunch of people who were just jubilant. You could sense the relief and the emotion in the room. A woman nearby cried softly and said she wished her mother had lived long enough to get the vaccine–Covid took her a few months before the shots were approved. Yet, amidst the sadness there was a lot of joy and a lot of relief too.

I sat there with a sense of hope and pride; hope for a better future and pride that we have the scientific chops to protect humanity. It was a very powerful moment.

Let’s do all we can to get our lives back.

Let’s do all we can to help our health care workers who have been through so much and let’s support our local businesses who have suffered mightily by doing what we can to venture out again.

That’s my hope, that’s my prayer. I hope you and your loved ones are spared now and forever.