“I am because we are.” — *Ubuntu proverb*

I’m grateful for many things in my life, but my community has become one of the richest gifts.

I’ve lived in Glenview, a suburb on the North Shore of Chicago, for 13 years now.

That’s over a quarter of my years—by far the longest I’ve ever lived in one place. It’s been the richest chapter of my life.

My three children have grown into teenagers and are on their way to becoming young adults. My wife and I have experienced some of our happiest moments here—and also some of the hardest.

And through it all, our roots have grown deeper into the fabric of this place.

That fabric—the quiet, often invisible web of community—has become something sacred to me.

It’s not a form of wealth that can measured like money. It’s far more meaningful and, therefore, harder to describe.

It is felt. An intangible sense of connection, support, and presence.

Tuesday Nights

This Tuesday, I helped lead my softball team to a championship. The league is special to me—it was born during the pandemic, when we were all forced into isolation.

A pickup game at the local sandlot in August 2020 proved the perfect antidote. Twenty guys showed up, and as we played, the stress of everything that was happening in the world disappeared for a bit.

Five years later, that spark has grown into a nine-team league made up entirely of middle aged Glenview residents. We play from April through October and call ourselves the League of Very Ordinary Gentlemen—LVOG.

LVOG is rooted in community, competition, and camaraderie. And while the action on the field is a gift—because for a few hours nothing exists but the next pitch or at-bat—the deeper power lies in what happens around the game.

At a time in life when many men find themselves increasingly isolated—so much so that “male loneliness” is considered a social crisis—this league creates something rare: dozens of new friendships every year among the players, their wives and families.

This spring, I knew a few guys on the team well—including one of my best friends, Aaron—but five I barely knew.

Yet ten weeks later, when we recorded that final out Tuesday night, we were all bound by a memory I’ll smile about for the rest of my life.

This Tuesday, the weather was perfect—warm and humid after a passing rain. The stands were full of parents, kids, aunts, uncles, and grandparents—all out to cheer for people they love.

Grown men playing like boys again.

Before the last inning, I paused to take it all in—the sounds, the energy, the joy. I stepped out of my thoughts and into something deeper: the heartbeat of my community.

That moment was a snapshot of what life is about. Simple joy. Presence. Shared energy.

You could almost feel the fabric of the community strengthening.

Off the Field

The bonds from the softball field extended even further last year, when seven of the players joined me in the Chicago Triathlon to raise money for epilepsy research in honor of my son, Silas.

It became one of the most soul-nourishing experiences of my life. The physical burden of training was lightened by the support of a team beside me. Together, we celebrated the remarkable accomplishment of raising over $80,000.

This year, the team has grown fivefold—and with it, the sense of community.

We hold each other accountable. We trade ideas. We inspire one another. We crack a lot of jokes.

We show up for each other’s fundraisers—whether it’s a workout class or a smoothie shop donating a percentage of sales.

This past Saturday, dozens of families from our community stopped by to support our cause.

The energy keeps expanding.

It’s becoming a living, breathing network—strengthening thread by thread, connection by connection.

As in Nature

There’s an incredible phenomenon that occurs in forests I only recently learned about.

The roots of all the individual trees are connected through a vast network of roots and mycelia underground.

Through this invisible network, they nourish each other, share nutrients, and communicate in ways science is only beginning to understand.

From above, each tree stands alone. But beneath the surface, they thrive through connection.

That’s us. That’s this.

We’re not separate from nature—we’re a different expression of the same divine and myterious design.

Our community works in much the same way. Each of us seemingly living individual lives, but sustained by invisible threads we often can’t see.

And when one member suffers, like a tree under attack, the rest of the forest responds. The system reroutes energy. It shows up.

When the Music Stops

Life knocks us off our feet when we least expect it.

It happened Tuesday night. In the middle of competing for the championship , as the music played, kids laughed, and fans cheered — one of our teammates suddenly collapsed on the bench.

Everything shifted. The music stopped.

The energy turned instantly toward our friend. As he came to and was taken to the ambulance, we all exhaled together.

After hoisting the trophy, the entire team planned to head to the hospital to celebrate with him—until we learned he would need major surgery.

That’s when the real strength of this community showed up.

Messages of love and support. Financial and Logistical help. Hugs. Presence. Tears.

In moments like this, the deeper truth is revealed.

Community isn’t just BBQs and block parties—though those matter too.

It’s about caring deeply. Showing up. Being seen.

And letting yourself be carried when you can’t stand on your own.

A Balm to Heal

Community isn’t something we just happen to be a part of.

It’s something we actively shape—moment by moment, gesture by gesture.

We’re living in a time where technology isolates us, and differences of opinion drive a wedge through the heart of this shared experience.

The world often feels like it’s spinning toward something unrecognizable.

But this week, in a small town on the North Shore of Chicago—on a softball field, in a smoothie shop, and at the doorstep of a family in need—I saw something else.

I saw love. Joy. Connection. Support.

We strengthened the fabric of our own backyard.

And like all meaningful change, it happened in small moments.

But I believe the energy of community is what ripples outward to heal the world.

We don’t need to measure the impact. We just need to live with the awareness that we are all connected.

And that our small acts of kindness, support, and generosity are not small at all.

They are the thread that connects us to something larger than we can comprehend.

—Coach Kris

P.S. I came across the beautiful sentiment below from Ram Dass this week and it inspired the metaphor in this essay of how, like trees, we’re supported and nourished by our community.

I’m also sharing a few pics from this incredible week of community. And if you’d like to donate to our triathlon team, you can do so here!

Community

Flow

Intimacy