Stranger than fiction

I was stuck in my office on a lonely day and going through my old DVD collection. Like most people in 2026, I haven't watched an actual DVD in a very long time, but I am also sentimental and I keep all my old collection. Fumbling through them I came across the case for one of my absolute favorite Will Ferrell movies. 

Sandwiched between the release of Old School and Talladega Nights was one of Will Ferrell's best movies. What kind of movie is this, you might wonder. The name of the movie is "Stranger than fiction." A beautiful little dramatic comedy that was released in 2006, staring (besides himself): Maggie Gyllenhaal, Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson. This was an odd film that released during the peak of Will Ferrell's career. People were quoting his movies and he was a movie icon of the era. This is a movie that grossed $53 million on a budget of $30 million. Clearly, not a epic film. I love this film because its unusual premise.

Spoilers

The movie is about an IRS auditor named Harold Crick, who finds himself experiencing a disembodied voice of a narrator that he can actively hear. The narrator predicts his death and this leads to a selection of events where he has to reconcile the life he lived, as well as what he considers a life worth living. It is a beautiful story because it focuses on how the simple aspects of life can serve to create the most amazing stories. 

I grew up in a town, which grew into a small city in Manitoba. Manitoba- very flat, with extreme winters. This is where my town is located. The historical background of it is Mennonite. A religious group, who had pacifism as driving piece of their identity. They were also farmers and sometimes merchants. This is not the stuff of grand tales. They isolated themselves and tended to be a little more inward focus. This is my town. These are my people. 

When I was a boy, I wanted to be a fighter pilot. When I was in my 20's I wanted to be a Bible professor. When I was in my 30's I wanted to be a school teacher. I have spent my working life in retail. 

February 28, May 13, June 4, July 2, July 5, July 8, July 14, August 23, September 1, September 15, and November 19. These days probably have no meaning for you. These are the dates of anniversaries, birthdays and deaths of very important people in my life. They represent the pivotal moments of that my life orbits around. Yet, they likely mean nothing to you. 

“Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true.”
― Zach Helm, Stranger Than Fiction: The Shooting Script

 When I think about the perspective of my life, I am fully aware of the mundane. I am aware that living in Manitoba can be dreary in the winter, but it can also have amazing summers and killer sunsets. Coming from Mennonite stalk doesnt really come with a great deal of amazing stories, but I am also conscious that it is a very generous and gracious community that has deep feeling built into its foundations. I can look at my career trajectory and see failure, but I am also conscious of a litany of people I have done my absolute best to help and to teach them not to be so afraid. Finally, the dates of my life. These dates mean nothing, only if I allow it. If I can draw you in and share my life with you, you can know that my birthday is on July 2, my anniversary is on February 28 and my nephew was born on August 23-to name a few. The really brilliant thing about the movie "Stranger than Fiction" is that it left my with the distinct lesson that you really do need to enjoy your life. The miniscule, the mundane and the routine are often treasures in jars of clay that we carry and we rarely take the time to stop and take it all in. 

Following Paths of Failure

I have recently been re-reading my books from seminary. This was a unique part of my life. I met deeply unique creatures and was steeped in a culture that reveled in the Scriptures. From as young as I can remember, I loved the Bible—Old Testament and New. I loved the wisdom of Jesus, the emotions of the Psalms, the justice of the Judges. It all shone with brilliance to me, and still does, if I am honest.

I remember weeping to my mother about how I wanted to be a Bible professor. I set off to Providence in search of that dream. I completed my three-year degree in two years. This elevated track of study was exhausting, but it allowed me to enjoy languages—another passion—and to steep myself in wisdom. I continued on my track to seminary.

Seminary was decidedly different. Graduate studies had far less structure. Looking back now, I was ill-suited for it and treated it like a truant boy hoping to glide through. I did earn a master’s degree from Providence, but it was not what I had wanted. I earned a degree in Christian Studies rather than Biblical Studies because my teachers felt I was not taking my work seriously. They were, of course, correct.

This was the season when I used my student loans to buy a sword and skipped classes to play Settlers of Catan with my friends. The result was failure—rather spectacular failure. I applied to McGill University and was promptly rejected for not being competitive. I had never heard of a professor without a PhD. I tried retaking a course, but the wheels had fallen off the car, and the professor advised me to withdraw. What a blow to my hopes and dreams—and to my ego.

What is Tyler if he is not a professor?
That question stayed with me for some time. In the light of my failures, was I too a failure?

At that point, I went and got myself married to a woman who casually suggested maybe we should have babies. So here I am, fifteen years later, still thinking about failure—the deep disappointment that comes with letting go of a dream. And yet, looking at where my life has gone, I do not think I would trade what I have for what I lost.

I have found meaning in caring for people, both personally and professionally. Fifteen years of toiling in retail, with the judgment of “you could have been something” hanging in the air, does give one perspective. My life, in some respects, has been a failure. I did not earn a PhD. I did not mentor young people in a classroom. I did not travel as much as I hoped.

And yet, I do not believe my life has been wasted. I worked to keep a wife and children stable. I endeavored to care about the people I served and refused to sell out my morality. That is not to say I always acted rightly, but I sought to be better—professionally and morally. I tried to grow, to change, to challenge myself. May it be said of Gerry and Irma’s youngest son that he did not give up, either in the face of time or adversity.

As with all of this, I am inclined to ask what lessons I am teaching my children. We live in a world where our desires are treated as the fullest expression of the human experience. For a long time, I believed the only thing I had to offer was my mind.

In the course of my work, I once had a customer tell me he needed to upgrade his phone because he was burying his sixteen-year-old son that weekend. He spoke quietly of a heart defect and of doctors who failed to save his life on the operating table. I have helped bear the burdens of countless others like him.

The common nature of my work may seem to lack purpose, yet it has offered innumerable chances to bring meaning into the lives of others. A life of service may not seem glamorous or song-worthy, but it represents some of the most genuine parts of the human experience. Going to work each day is not what they will write epics about, but it is the engine of humanity. In doing it faithfully, I have come to believe that treasure is often found in unexpected places.

The lesson for my children comes from Rudyard Kipling’s If:
to dream, but not make dreams your master.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

In continuing my series, I bring to you an amazing film: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Released in the mid-2000s, it stars Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey. While it need not be said, I’ll say it anyway—this piece contains spoilers.

Jim Carrey was largely known at the time for manic comedy, while Kate Winslet was still strongly associated with Titanic. I’ve always loved artsy films—those with a degree of abstraction that still tell a fundamentally human, realistic story. This film fits that description perfectly. At its heart, it asks a simple but unsettling question: If you could remove the memory of a broken heart, would that make you happy?

The film jumps around in its structure, but it essentially follows a man who has recently broken up with his girlfriend. When he unexpectedly encounters her again, he discovers that she doesn’t recognize him at all. Over time, he learns that she has undergone a procedure offered by a company that erases specific memories—namely, her memories of him.

Feeling wounded and spiteful, he decides to undergo the same procedure to rid himself of the corresponding pain. The doctor performing the procedure has a sycophantic nurse with whom he is having an affair—an important detail that pays off later. The man is sedated and put to sleep, and while he sleeps, technicians begin the process of erasing his memories.

As the procedure unfolds, the viewer is taken inside his mind. We watch him relive the moments of the relationship: the excitement, the flirtation, the boredom, the irritation. And as he experiences these memories one by one, he begins to understand something crucial—erasing the pain means erasing everything. He panics and begs for the process to stop, but it’s too late. The procedure completes.

He wakes the next morning with no memory of what has happened.

Later, we discover that the nurse—rejected by the doctor—decides to sabotage his work. She mails each former patient the recordings and documentation of their memory erasure. As the protagonist receives this information, he also happens to reacquaint himself with his former girlfriend. With no shared memory of their past, they begin to build a new dynamic.

That’s when he plays a tape and hears himself listing all the things he finds annoying about her. Disturbed and hurt, she leaves. After a moment of reflection, he runs after her and says, “I don’t see anything I don’t like about you.” She replies, “But you will,” and begins listing the ways they will inevitably disappoint each other. He smiles, pauses, and simply says, “Okay.” The movie ends.

I love this movie—especially its innovative way of visualizing abstract ideas. What does a memory look like as it disappears from your mind? It’s not a particularly profound question, but it’s a fascinating exercise in shared experience. More than that, I love what the film says about pain.

There is a natural human instinct to avoid pain—to eliminate loss, grief, anger, and discomfort wherever possible. But in doing so, we often fail to realize that we may be discarding the most meaningful parts of ourselves. I don’t love my wife because she’s perfect. I have no illusion that her imperfections don’t exist, and I assume she would say the same about me.

I love her because my heart needs a home. I need her.

When she is open-hearted, funny, kind, and compassionate, the world feels bright and luminescent. When her less-than-fair qualities emerge, I would no more leave my house because a window leaks. I address the problem and carry on. To be clear, my world is far brighter than it is not.

When we are in a good place, I sometimes look at her and smile and say, “I don’t see anything I don’t like about you.” And somewhere, a voice answers, “But you will.”

The reality of love is that it is complicated and often painful. But those experiences shape us. The ability to taste that complexity—to live it rather than erase it—has far greater meaning than the eternal sunshine of a spotless mind.

The lessons of poetry

One of the intentions of this blog—among other things—is to produce something my children can look back on and glean why I did what I did in raising them, and what some of my broader goals were. A crucial element in a well-rounded human being is some education in art. This is not to say that art is necessary for survival, but it offers a quality of life insofar as it allows you to tap into emotions belonging to situations you may never personally encounter.

I believe art is the expression of the human experience. I believe good art reaches the largest number of people because it touches something genuinely true. Understanding art does not require a shared identity, politics, or history. The singular element it requires is empathy—not necessarily empathy for the artist, but empathy for the expression of the human condition itself.

One powerful tool for cultivating this is poetry. The modern world is more inclined to understand poetry when it is paired with melody, but a dynamic poem can carry tremendous power on its own. When I was about twenty years old, I inherited a book from my grandmother titled Best Loved Poems of the American People. I still hold it with great reverence, and its poetry has served me on many occasions.

One of my favorite poems in the collection is The Raven. My first experience with it did not come from the book itself. Like many kids in the 1990s, much of my early exposure to culture came through cartoons. In one of the early Halloween episodes of The Simpsons, they performed an abridged version of The Raven, narrated by the incomparable James Earl Jones. That was my first encounter with the poem.

At its core, it is the story of a man lamenting the loss of his wife, haunted by a bird he cannot rid himself of—a creature that continually repeats the word “nevermore.” Whether the raven represents a demon or serves as a metaphor for something else is outside my expertise. After my father died, I experienced many dreams in which I awoke and had to return to a dark reality. These were painful moments that felt very much like being haunted. While loss is experienced differently by everyone, I can understand the terror of wondering whether a deep wound will ever heal.

There are several other poems I love as well. One is A Shepherd to His Love, another She Walks in Beauty. I often reflected on these poems when I felt for the nearest crush in my younger years. They held something poetic and true—something I felt in my soul for these women. While that passion ultimately faded, it remains important to have a place where adoration can dwell.

A Shepherd to His Love includes the line, “Come live with me and be my love.” She Walks in Beauty opens with, “She walks in beauty, like the night.” Having access to such expressions gave me tools I still carry today. Understanding what you feel can be deeply challenging. Finding fragments of a kindred soul written on paper can be deeply rewarding, because it allows you to walk away with a clearer understanding of a complex feeling. The adoration you feel has words—and you are free to adapt them and carry them with you as your own.

In the truest sense, I am a collection of poems, songs, television quips, and other small tools I have shaped into a personality. My expression has been influenced by people like Shakespeare, who wrote the line I used when I first started dating my wife: “Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love.” I meant to tell her that everything else in the world could be questioned—but never my love for her. Seventeen years this February, and I have kept that promise.

Ultimately, I want my children to possess personal depth. While I believe most people experience deep emotions, true depth comes from understanding those emotions—pulling at their strands, examining them, and expressing them intentionally. If you have met my children, you would likely find them to be verbose and colorful creatures. I am profoundly grateful for the personalities they bring into the world, and I hope that some of the fragments of human experience I absorbed through art have played a part in shaping them.

My hope is that they learn to engage fully in the range of the human experience—joy, sorrow, regret, lust, anger, jealousy. The fullest expression of humanity lies in our ability to share it. As people, we die alone, but we thrive in community. I simply want my children to find their place in the great village of the human experience.

This piece is the beginning of a series. In future entries, I want to return to specific poems, songs, films, books, and moments—some small, some defining—that helped me understand myself and others a little better. Not as prescriptions, but as offerings. These are the tools I found along the way.

If my children ever read this, my hope is not that they inherit my tastes, but that they inherit the habit of looking—of listening closely enough to recognize themselves in the experiences of others. Art taught me that we are never as alone as we feel, and never as separate as we imagine. If they can carry that with them into the village of the human experience, then this series will have done its work.

The Disappointments

 In reflecting on my 44 years of life, there are a great many things that were not as advertised. Ever since I was little the concept of a castle was a magical one-evoking images of fairy tales and heroes. When I was 16 I went to France on a school trip. I remembered how amazing the palace of the French kings (Versailles) was to me. I had never seen anything as beautiful and stunning. Then we saw another castle, it was nice, but not Versailles. Then we saw another one and another one and another one. In a 2 week trip I lost count of how many castles we went and saw. There is something decidedly less inspiring about seeing castle after castle. Much of the magic disappears. There are no heroes, no dragons and no kings. Just a bunch of people milling about doing the things they are supposed to do. 

Another thing that was set as an ideal in life was marriage and family. What an amazing thing it would be when I was married. We got married and whisked away to a beautiful holiday, where we promptly had several arguments. Honeymoons are just the perfect example of the juxtaposition of life. You are presented with an idea of the most exquisite and hedonistic time in your life and it can often end up devolving at times to something else. When you set a level of expectation, it can invariably come back and just simply say "no". You look down at your child, most exquisite example of God's creation, and smile the distinct smell of feces. 

When I was younger, I had a father. He was a man and so he was affected by the same struggles as all men. He lived with a sense of the expectation of his life was not the same as the reality he lived. He struggled with that. The fact that his choices and the resulting consequences didn't match with the reality that played out before him left him....sad, at least he always seemed a little sad. To master the events of your life, it is crucial to be able to deal with them head on. Ask questions, find wisdom, seek support would be example of getting ahead of your problems You need this, at least in part, to gain a level of confidence that you can be the master of your situation. I was with him a great deal of time and I saw him struggle with his sense of self-assuredness,  but he consistently carried with him a "lets try again." Even to the day he died he continued to show a desire to master his circumstance. 

Another father came along in my story. My step-father. He came from a world where a mans value was solely in his ability to be master of his circumstance. Yet there is a crucial element that one needs to face these challenges. That would be your mental faculties. Unfortunately, he experienced a medical episode that left him brain damaged. He faced a set of circumstances that, no matter how basic, he simply could not master. He needed help. This left him feeling deeply insecure while being keenly aware that the most basic social tasks were beyond him. He could see the awkwardness in the persons eyes when he started talking and all he could do was string together nonsense, with a tiny bit of substance thrown in the mix. 

I have been faced with my own disappointment. I loved the Bible and I got a masters degree in it so that I might one day get a PhD and so immerse myself in it. This was thwarted. Simply put, I was good but I wasnt good enough. Added to this fact the challenges of becoming good enough would limit my ability to raise my family and live my life. I gave up the joys of intellectual curiosity to sit across from old people who didnt know their email passwords. All the while, my friends who I went to school with established themselves as leaders in the intellectual elements of the Christian faith. I made a choice and, while I dont regret the outcome, its disappointing that I could not bring together those two elements that I loved. I traded my love of academics for the love of my children. For the record, totally worth it, but that trade came with a cost.

So the question is, how do I prepare my children for disappointment. Jobs failed, illness, relationship disappointment. Life is filled to the brim with experiences that will bring you down. I am unclear as to how to bake resiliency into the mix. Self-sufficiency is fine, but remains slightly underwhelming in the face of catastrophic disappointment.  How do I help my oldest deal with the fact that his social quirks will make it difficult for him to make friends no matter how he feels. How do I deal with the fact that my younger sons lack of self-control will drive everyone from his life because at some point he will have to choose other people before himself. How do I deal with teaching my daughter that the ugliness of humanity is a real thing, while at the same time striving to instill hope. These are balancing acts I cannot square and I suppose it is the burden of parenting that I will send my children into the world to struggle through these questions and sit back and watch how they answer them.  

From The Office to Parenthood: Teaching the Usual in Unusual Times

I’ve always loved a really good story. Relationship stories especially—they have such a personal flair. The charming back-and-forth of uncertainty mixed with anticipation is so delicious when told well by a gifted storyteller. Listening to one of those stories, you don’t just hear it—you feel it.

I don’t know if I have that kind of story. While things have turned out well, I remain uncertain about the steps between the beginning and now. I don’t really know how I got here.

I’m married—happily so—to a woman who brings me a deep and profound sense of joy. And yet, I’ve always found relationships exceedingly strange. I never quite understood how a person goes from watching episodes of The Office to raising children together. The steps in that transformation have always felt unclear to me—despite having taken them.

Now, adding to that mystery, I find myself responsible for three souls who will one day walk that same bewildering road. Knowing how confusing life has been for me, I try to stay aware of the challenges of the modern world. I hope, in my own imperfect way, to offer some guidance as they embark—unknowingly—on a journey full of shifting expectations and uncertain rules.

More than anything, I want them to have a really good story of their own—the kind of romantic edifice they can build their lives around.

I think fondly of progressive ideas. Morality aside, I believe social conformity should be light. People should be free to diverge from what’s considered “normal.” And yet, we are bombarded with conflicting messages. Women are handed goals that often clash with their desires and priorities. Men are given a confusing palette of expectations, many of them contradictory. The result is often a kind of emotional tailspin—for someone who just wants to share a hamburger and watch a movie with someone they love.

There are basic truths about male and female character that we ought to acknowledge. When I had a daughter, I was determined not to shape her into something garishly feminine. And yet, for her first Christmas, my mother bought her a doll. I was bothered—until I reminded myself that she might one day give birth, and that some identification with children might serve her well. I’ve encouraged her to see the beauty in motherhood, but I’ve also made it clear: that road is hers to choose—or not.

Boys, on the other hand, tend toward violence. Also, the sky is blue—another observation of the obvious. When my second son was born, he and his brother took to wrestling constantly. My wife expressed concern. I told her, “That’s what boys do.” My daughter joins in now too, but their appetite for roughhousing far exceeds hers. So I’ve had to talk with my sons about violence—both the kind they might express and the kind they might encounter.

I take a passive stance on violence—meaning, it should be avoided vigorously. Still, I’ve watched both my sons surpass their mother in strength. I coach them constantly on the responsibility that comes with that power. My daughter, influenced by media, once told me she didn’t need a man to protect her. I gently reminded her that nature has made men, on average, bigger, stronger, and faster. She may not need a man—but ignoring the potential benefit of one is shortsighted.

I’ve tried to pass on the value of family—its importance, its messiness, and the hope that it might lead them one day to children of their own. I’ve offered them faith, hoping it will instill kindness, forgiveness, and universal compassion. I’ve emphasized the necessity of personal growth—and there’s no better crash course in growth than raising another human being.

I’ve tried to model humility—occasionally yielding my authority to affirm their agency. I’ve defended their mother when necessary, showing that a man’s first duty is to protect his partner. I’ve taught them that love begins, above all else, in friendship. They see my wife and me laugh, play, and giggle. I’ve offered myself as a guide—someone who understands people and wants to help them do the same.

But I’m also aware that my role in their lives must be permitted. It cannot be demanded. It must be earned.

So I try—daily—to earn their trust, in the hope that when they step out to stake their place in this world, they’ll do so with wisdom: the ability to recognize peace in others, and the discernment to choose partners worth working hard for.

There are no easy answers in life. But pretending I have nothing to offer would be a lie.

I’ve known them since they came screaming into this world. I’ve been present for every moment since. I am the proud owner of a healthy marriage.

Bring on the future.
My kids will be ready.
…I hope.

Teach them how to say goodbye

I remember telling him goodbye and that I loved him.
Hearing the screen door slam behind him, he walked out of my life forever.
That moment has always stayed with me.

---

Several years ago, the musical Hamilton took the world by storm. I’ve always loved music for its storytelling power, but this was something different. Not only did the show sell out almost instantly, but there was a ticket lottery just to get the chance to buy a seat. It wasn’t just a hit—it was a cultural moment.

Like so many others, I gave the music a listen. In the final days of the CD era, I bought the soundtrack and played it in my car. Hamilton tells the story of Alexander Hamilton, one of America’s founding fathers. I was smitten—not just by the music, but by the history, which has always felt to me like the most relatable and real kind of story.

I found myself drawn to George Washington. A man of great humility, he led the country through revolution and into its fragile beginnings. And then—remarkably—he stepped down. He gave up power. One line from the musical hit me hard:
“We’ll teach them how to say goodbye.”

Washington understood that knowing when to leave—and how—is its own kind of wisdom. One of the final paragraphs from his Farewell Address struck me as especially moving:

"Though in reviewing the incidents of my administration I am unconscious of intentional error, I am nevertheless too sensible of my defects not to think it probable that I may have committed many errors. Whatever they may be, I fervently beseech the Almighty to avert or mitigate the evils to which they may tend. I shall also carry with me the hope that my country will never cease to view them with indulgence and that, after forty-five years of my life dedicated to its service with an upright zeal, the faults of incompetent abilities will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest."

Ever since I first read those words, I’ve seen them as a lesson in parenting. Inevitably, we must say goodbye—and teach our children how to do the same. And when that time comes, we hope our flaws are overshadowed by our devotion, and that the burdens we’ve passed on are, by God’s grace, light enough for them to carry.

That story I began with—that was my final goodbye to my father. He was heading into surgery. Everyone around me said it was nothing serious. I treated it casually. I said goodbye lightly and coolly, without weight.
I go back to that moment often. I wonder what else I could’ve said. What would’ve lifted the burden I’ve carried since?

Life offered me a second chance to answer that question.

With my father gone, I clung to the only other man I had left in my life—my grandfather. He was sweet, intelligent, kind-hearted. We spent hours together, and he filled my heart with warmth. I gave that warmth back to him, and he understood fully what he meant to me. Yet when he passed, I wasn’t left with the comfort of closure. Instead, I felt the deep absence of the peaceful space he created for me with his presence.

So I’m left with this lingering question:
How do I teach my children how to say goodbye?

This thought lives with me every day. In parenting, I try to be deeply honest with my children. When I lead with a heavy hand, I explain myself—not to be excused, but so they don’t carry unnecessary resentment. When they hurt me, I tell them—not to guilt them, but to show myself humbled, trusting in their kind nature to redeem me from the pain.

In thought, word, and deed, I try to prepare them for the day I leave—when a slamming door might echo behind me.

This leaves me anchored in a quiet, persistent melancholy I can’t quite shake.

Still, in my devotion to them, I find hope. Like Washington, I pray that the “faults of incompetent ability will be consigned to oblivion, as I myself must soon be to the mansions of rest.”

But I am not George Washington.
I don’t know how to say goodbye.
That’s the truth.

What I do know is this: I have laid my heart bare. In the deepest places of love and devotion, I’ve never failed to let my children know what they mean to me. Other children may take better vacations, have better toys, live in nicer homes—but I take comfort in this:

No child will ever be more evidently, unmistakably loved.