Yesterday morning, I sat in my creative studio reflecting on the last couple of years.
Several years earlier, I had a building designed by a local shed company. Once it was delivered, my best friend, Joe and I began transforming it into a place where we could hang out and create. A man cave, so to speak. We spent evenings after work building it out, installing insulation, paneling, recessed lighting, flooring, and painting the walls. All so we could have a place to hang out, talk about life, and work on projects. Sunday evenings became our regular hangouts. We'd unwind from the previous week and talk about life, future plans, adventures with our families, our kids, and just about anything else that came to mind. Then we learned he had cancer, and eventually, our Sunday evenings together came to an end.
Over time, that space became little more than storage. It grew so cluttered that I could barely move around inside. I'd open the door, put something in that needed a place to go, and close it again.
Joe died in December 2025. After his death, I began thinking about how short life really is. My wife and I had always talked about transforming our little backyard into an oasis, a place where we could relax and enjoy the outdoors. But that's mostly what we'd done. Talk about it.
Standing in the backyard one day after Joe's passing, I decided I wasn't going to just talk about it anymore. I was going to do something. My wife and I sat down and created a list of what we wanted to accomplish, how we wanted the space to look, and more importantly, how we wanted it to feel. Then we got to work.
Two paver patios, privacy panels, and countless trips to the local plant nursery later, we're almost there. We still have things we'd like to accomplish, but what a transformation we've made.
Recently, I was standing in the backyard admiring what my wife and I had created when my attention turned toward the studio. I started thinking about the time and effort we'd put into creating that space, those Sunday evenings with Joe, and how much I missed them. Looking at the building, I realized that a place once filled with friendship, conversation, and creativity had become nothing more than a storage shed. It shouldn't just be storage. It needed to become what we'd originally intended it to be. I felt an overwhelming urge to reclaim it.
Over the following days and weeks, I started going through everything inside. If something wasn't serving a purpose, I found it a new home. It took some work, but the clutter is gone. Now, once again, I can open the French doors, sit on a stool, and enjoy my morning coffee.
It was once a place where I recorded a podcast, read my morning Scripture, spent time with my buddy, and sat quietly with my ideas. For several years, that part of my life had been buried beneath things I didn't really need. But not anymore. I miss my buddy, but I'm grateful to have had his friendship.
Yesterday morning, I found myself sitting in the studio again, French doors open, drinking coffee and looking out over the beautiful space my wife and I have created.
While enjoying a morning phone conversation with my dad, I noticed the sunlight beginning to peek over our privacy panels, illuminating the foliage of a weeping elm and making its leaves appear almost translucent. I felt grateful.
My wife and I have some changes taking place in our lives, and as I sat there, I found myself reflecting on how we've arrived at this chapter. Most of all, I was grateful for what God has provided.
Several years ago, I remember thinking about how much I wanted something different in a home. I was focused on what I didn't have rather than appreciating what I did.
And in the middle of those thoughts, I heard God tell me:
"Why would I provide you with anything else if you're not being a good steward of what you have now?" That was an eye-opener. And ever since, I've tried to be a better steward of what He has provided our family.
Keep up with your family and friends. Be a good steward of the things God has provided you, and make it your Absolute Intent to be better today than you were yesterday.
— J.R.