Ken Fite

The year Harland Sanders turned sixty-five, he received his first social security check in the mail.

It was for a measly $105 dollars. But he was glad to get it because he was flat broke.

After spending the last twenty-five years running a gas station that happened to serve some of the best fried chicken in town, and then a stand-alone restaurant where he refined his eleven secret herbs and spices recipe, the newly-built Interstate 75 drastically reduced customer traffic to the restaurant. People stopped coming. Sales dried up. And Sanders wondered if his dream was dead.

It was like a real-life Radiator Springs.

Colonel Sanders, as we know him today, could have given up on his dream. He could have gone ahead and retired and found a way to live on his monthly checks. But that wasn’t his style.

The gentleman, in his signature white suit and black string tie, began traveling around the country to cook his chicken for restaurants to try. Many times Sanders had to sleep in his car, unable to afford a motel. Eventually, he began selling franchise rights when his fried chicken recipe took off.

We all know how the story ended. It only took seventy-four years for Sanders to become an overnight success. In 1964, he sold his Kentucky Fried Chicken corporation for two million dollars.

Doubling-down on your dream may seem crazy to others, but if you believe in your heart that it’s what you were really meant to do – then you must do it. When you don’t, you rob yourself of realizing your true potential and you cheat the world of experiencing what you could have offered.

Maybe that’s changing careers. Maybe it’s starting a business. For Sanders, it was selling chicken.

John A. Shedd once wrote that, “A ship in harbor is safe… but that is not what ships are built for.”

Before you can storm the island, you have to leave the harbor where you’re shielded from the criticism of others and possible failure. Trying something new, what you feel called to do, is risky.

Isn’t it riskier to not follow your calling? Isn’t it riskier to not become who you were meant to be?

I’m convinced that right now, the world’s greatest novel is sitting in someone’s drawer as a manuscript collecting dust, only to be found years later by their kids. Or worse, it’s stuck inside someone’s head, shielded from the criticism of others and safely docked away from the sea of failure. It will never see the light of day, bring a smile to someone’s face, or change anyone’s heart.

Only when we take the time to examine our lives and be brutally honest with ourselves to truly understand how our ship was uniquely built… only then can we set sail for the right adventure.

What was your ship built for? If you’re playing it safe, realize that the love of comfort is the enemy of greatness. And if you find yourself in the wrong place in life, if your ship is on the wrong path, you have to find the time in your busy day to do something about it and make a course-correction.

The morning he turned six years old, Glenn Buratti looked outside at the gigantic bounce house his parents had rented and couldn’t wait for his party so that he could play in it.

“How many minutes until my friends come over?” the little boy asked his mom and dad the moment he jumped out of bed and kept asking, “How many minutes now?” as the morning passed.

It’s a question I’m all too familiar with. My older son will constantly ask, “How many minutes until Mommy gets home? How many minutes until we can watch a movie? How many minutes until <insert random request here>?” It’s the kind of question that can drive a parent nuts.

But the countdown clock never ticks louder than on the morning of a little boy’s birthday.

Glenn, who has epilepsy and a mild form of autism, lives with his parents in a rural part of Saint Cloud, Florida. His mom invited her son’s 16 classmates to the party but none of the parents got back to her and she received no RSVPs. Still, Ashlee Buratti and her husband John held out hope that some of the kids would come to their house that morning to spend some time with Glenn.

But as the minutes turned into hours, the Buratti’s didn’t know how to answer the “How many minutes” question anymore. Glenn would be celebrating his birthday without any friends this year.

Because nobody showed up.

It was his mom’s worst nightmare and something that she worried about. Ashlee wasn’t sure if it was related to her little boy having some personal challenges. She hoped it wasn’t.

When Glenn saw that nobody was coming to his party, his eyes welled up. And mom’s heart broke.

Ashlee didn’t know what to do or where she could turn, so she decided to post her thoughts about what had happened to a community Facebook group called Osceola Rants, Raves, and Reviews. Buratti wrote, “I know this might be something silly to rant about, but my heart is breaking for my son. We invited his whole class (16 kids) over for his 6th birthday party today. Not one kid came.”

She put her phone down, comforted her son, and wondered what she could do to cheer him up.

Then something amazing happened.

Perfect strangers reached out to Ashlee through Facebook to ask if they could bring their kids over to celebrate Glenn’s birthday. One by one, people began showing up to Glenn’s party. The boy who is usually shy played with his new friends as if they had been best friends forever.

In no time, 25 adults and 15 kids were at Glenn’s house, celebrating his sixth birthday, giving him gifts, and eating birthday cake. And making good use of the once empty bounce house in the yard.

Then the Osceola County Sheriff’s Office dispatched a helicopter to the boy’s house to do a flyover. Glenn ran outside, pointed at the sky with a big grin, and got to experience the rush of having a real life helicopter hover right over his house and wave hello to him for his birthday.

But the surprises didn’t end there.

Glenn yelled to his mom, “The fire truck’s at our house!” and Ashlee explained that they were there to wish him a happy birthday. The local Sheriff’s Office and Osceola County Fire Rescue sent crews over to surprise Glenn and parked their police cars, a SWAT vehicle, and a firetruck in front of Glenn’s house and gave the boy tours of their vehicles. They let him sit in the driver’s seat. They gave him a little red fire hat for him to wear. And they brought more gifts to Glenn for his birthday.

What strikes me most about this story is how all of these people, from moms and dads with their own to-do lists and things that they had to get done that day to the local law enforcement and fire fighters who could have spent their time doing more important things, realized that doing something about a little six-year-old kid all alone on his birthday was the most important thing.

Sometimes just showing up and being there for someone is all that’s required.

It makes me think that the next time I see someone in need, maybe I’ll take one more step and think about what I could do to make their situation a little better. It makes me want to show up, too.

Because of the support of the Buratti’s community, their little boy had the best birthday party, ever.

Glenn Buratti woke up thinking that his sixth birthday would be one he wouldn’t want to remember. But because of many kind people who made time for him, it became a birthday he’ll never forget.

When was the last time you felt invisible?

Maybe it was when you first started high school, when new clicks of friends started to be formed.
Maybe it was when you moved to a new city for college or a job where you didn’t know anyone.
Maybe it was when you experienced a breakup and you had to learn how to fly solo again.

For Richard Gere, it was during the filming of his new movie Time Out of Mind.

The film, released last month, is about a homeless man named George Hammond, portrayed by Gere. George navigates the streets of New York City, trying to make sense of the world of homelessness while attempting to repair the relationship with his estranged daughter.

The film was low budget and shot over the course of 21 days. At the beginning of the filming, Gere wasn’t sure if the movie could even be made. He was convinced that he would be recognized within a few minutes and getting enough footage to make the movie would be impossible.

But that’s not how things played out for the actor.

Gere, unshaven, and dressed in ratty clothes, walked the streets of Manhattan with the crew filming from a distance down the street. What happened next was completely unexpected.

Nobody recognized him.

At first, Gere just sat on a sidewalk, waiting for someone to walk up and ask for his autograph. He sat for a long time, waiting to be recognized at any moment. But nobody cared that he was there.

The actor got bolder and stood up and walked up to people, holding out a cup and asked for some change, thinking people would smile and say, “Hey, you’re Richard Gere!” But that didn’t happen.

People avoided him. They crossed the street. They didn’t make any eye contact.

One person, a French tourist, stopped and gave the actor some food.

Everyone else treated him like he was toxic.

When asked why in an interview, Gere explained how the homeless are invisible – they feel like they don’t exist. He said that he could sense people walking by projecting their assumptions on him: “He’s homeless, he wants something from me, he’s dirty, dangerous, probably mentally ill, I don’t want to give him any money, why would I give him any money?” Gere added, “I could see this on the faces of people up to two blocks away.” He could sense their guilt for avoiding him.

During the 21 days of filming, Richard Gere became invisible. A man used to being paid attention to and receiving the highest praise from Hollywood for over 40 years had the opportunity to experience first hand what it felt like to be rejected, avoided, and treated like he didn’t matter.

The latest stats on homelessness reveals that 45% of the homeless are under 30 years old and 37% are between 31 and 50. There are over 578,000 homeless people walking the streets of America right now. Many more are living just one paycheck away from being out on the streets.

That’s a lot of invisible people.

I realize it’s not always comfortable to approach someone who’s homeless. I’m not always prompted to give. The truth is, my first reaction is usually to lock my doors or cross the street.

But maybe what we see on the outside is just the result of a life that went wrong somewhere.

It could happen to any one of us.

If you can’t offer a buck, at least offer a smile. Show that you can see them, that they do exist.

The Cubmaster walked up to the front of the cafeteria which was packed with over a hundred kids and their parents. He asked one of the Tiger Cubs, a kid no older than my six-year-old son Kyle, to come up with him. That’s when I noticed a roll of paper leaning up against one of the walls.

The kid was decked out in full uniform from an overly enthusiastic parent, I assumed. He asked the kid to hold onto the paper and the Cubmaster walked away from the kid, unrolling it as he walked.

As he did, I could see that the paper had markings all over it, tick marks from zero to 100.

The two held up their ends of the paper which was about three feet high and over twenty feet long. With his right hand, the Cubmaster held up two fingers, the scout sign for shut your pie holes, kids.

After a few seconds, they did, and the Cubmaster started to speak. “With current advancements in technology, it’s very likely that your son will live about 100 years. This large piece of paper that we’re holding represents the timeline of a boy’s life.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in.

“As a parent, you will not be around for the last 40 to 50 years of their lives,” he said as he ripped off the part the kid was holding at the 50 year mark. Half of the paper, a huge piece, dropped to the floor. I’m convinced that every single person in that cafeteria heard the sound that it made as it fell.

We were at the edge of our seats.

“Who here is six or seven years old?” he asked and the group of new Tiger Cubs sitting at the table I was at raised their hands and giggled. “The youngest scouts here tonight are six years old, turning seven soon, so we’re going to tear my side of the paper off at the seven year mark.”

He ripped off a section from where he was holding the paper and dropped it to the floor, leaving years seven through 50 intact. I thought about the last six, almost seven years of Kyle’s life and how quickly it had gone by already. Kyle, who was sitting in front of me, turned around and smiled.

The two held their sides of the paper out again which had ages seven to 50 left. “This represents the remaining amount of time that you and your son have left to spend together here on Earth.”

I felt my heart drop as he said those words and then a lump formed in my throat. Is that really true? I thought to myself. He was right, that’s really all the time I have left with him… I couldn’t believe it.

“Your kids will hopefully leave the house at age 18,” the Cubmaster said as the adults laughed and then he ripped the sheet again at the 18 year mark. The long section from 18 to 50 fell to the floor.

The little kid, proudly wearing his brand new uniform with a neckerchief and little cap walked closer to the Cubmaster and they held the tiny piece remaining, representing years seven through 18.

“This is the amount of time that your son will be home with you. Just over 10 years before they’ll be out on their own. You have 10 more years where they will listen to you and what you have to say.” As the Cubmaster said those words, I told my son Kyle to stop talking to his friends and he would not listen to me, which I found to be funny but still, I knew what the Master of Cubs was getting at.

“Sometime after he starts going to middle school, at around age 13, his friends will start to become a bigger and maybe even the major influence in his life, more than you think you’re going to be.”

He ripped the paper at the mark representing age 13 and it fell to the floor. He thanked his little helper for doing such a good job and sent him back to his dad who I noticed was a bit choked up.

Just like the rest of us.

The Cubmaster held up the tiny sliver of paper remaining that represented ages seven through 13 as he stood around all of the ripped paper surrounding him on the floor. “This is the amount of time you have – right now – to be the major force in shaping the trajectory of your son’s life,” he said.

The room was silent. We all knew he was right. And this was our chance to do something about it.

Although I had driven to his elementary school to sign up my son so he could be a scout like I had been, I drove home that night with a different perspective on why I wanted Kyle to be in scouting.

It wasn’t just another activity to get him involved in. It was an opportunity, maybe the best one, to connect with my son to create a bond during that tiny sliver of time the Cubmaster held up in the air that Kyle will remember for the many years I won’t be a part of, scattered on the cafeteria floor.

Last Saturday morning at five o’clock, I woke up, made my coffee, and sat down to write. I do this every day but Saturdays are when I write for the blog. The other six days of the week I’m hacking away at the next book that I’m writing, so Saturdays are fun and are like a recess for the mind.

The topic I chose to write about last week was the power of prayer. My writing has veered into “religious” territory before, but something about last week’s post must have really struck a nerve.

Because as soon I hit publish, stuffed the kids in the car, and headed to Chick-fil-A for our weekly Saturday morning father/son smorgasbord breakfast ritual (and by smorgasbord, I mean I inhale all of my food plus their food after unsuccessfully convincing them to eat) I started getting feedback.

Someone unsubscribed from my blog’s mailing list. “No religious stuff.” was the reason given.

Fair enough. I get it and I totally understand, it’s not for everyone. Not a big deal, I thought. I get unsubscribes maybe once a month, it happens. Good luck in your future endeavors, as they say.

As I walked into the restaurant, my phone buzzed again. Unsubscribe. Another one? I thought.

Fifteen minutes later as I tried to convince my three-year-old to eat just one more hash brown if he wanted to wreak havoc in the playground with his brother, my phone buzzed again. Unsubscribe.

Forty-five minutes later, as we drove home and I questioned my writing ability and existence on this planet, I heard another buzz. I winced and looked at my iPhone. Two more unsubscribes!

And all for the same reason!

I drove in silence and started to wonder if I had been too over the top. That’s when I was reminded of a story I had once read about how the CEO of a major airline handled a complaining customer.

There was a woman who was a frequent flyer of one particular airline and wrote a letter to the company’s CEO about her experience after every single flight when she would return home.

She was completely disappointed with every aspect of the airline. She didn’t like how they boarded the plane and thought it could be done more efficiently than it was. So she wrote a letter. She didn’t like how they didn’t assign seats, she didn’t want to deal with finding one on her own, so she wrote another letter. She didn’t like how there wasn’t a section for first class. She didn’t like not being offered a meal mid-flight and hated peanuts, so she wrote a letter about those things, too. She didn’t like how casual the flight attendant uniforms were, and of course, she wrote a letter.

Each of the letters were responded to personally by the CEO, who dedicated time each week to read them and prided himself on acknowledging anyone who took the time to write to him.

But the lady – who started to be known as the airline’s “pen pal” – wrote one more letter, slamming them with a lengthy list of grievances and explaining once again everything she hated about them.

The airline CEO got the letter and sat for a moment, deciding how to respond.

He had spent so much time already, replying to her letters and explaining why they did things the way they did, trying to make the customer happy while simultaneously knowing he never would.

So he wrote the shortest response he had ever written to a customer. It contained only four words.

“We will miss you,” he wrote, signed his name, and mailed the letter. She never wrote him again.

I won’t always write about “religious stuff.” I’ll still write about my three and six-year-old boys and the shennanigans that they get into and my reaction to them. I’ll write about what I learned about life from the prior week and share any insights that I gained with you. That’s why I do this, after all.

But occasionally, I will write about “religious stuff.” It’s part of who I am. I can’t not write about it.

Sorry (not sorry).

I appreciate you being on my mailing list. The readership and number of subscribers has exploded over the last few months and I’m so thankful for that and for you. And I hope you’ll stick around. I have a blast writing this every week and based on the emails I get, I know you enjoy reading it, too.

But if not, thanks for the time that we did share together. I will miss you.

On the morning of December 8th, 1944, General Patton called Third Army Chaplain James O’Neill.

Terrible rains were keeping the United States Army General from defeating the Nazis. They were no match for the  U.S. and Allied forces, but unusually heavy rains bogged down Patton’s Third Army for two months leading up to the Battle of the Bulge. What the Nazis were unable to do on their own was taken care of by the weather – keeping the third Army and the Allied forces at bay.

That morning, General Patton knew what needed to be done to win the war – that’s why he called.

“Do you have a good prayer for weather? We must do something about those rains if we are to win the war,” he said to his Chaplain. O’Neill responded that he did not know but would look for one.

“How much praying is being done in the Third Army?” Patton pressed. O’Neill thought for a moment before asking, “By the chaplains or by the troops?” Patton responded, “By everybody?”

O’Neill paused before responding. “I am afraid to admit it, but I do not believe that much praying is going on. When there is fighting, everyone prays, but now with this constant rain – when things are quiet, dangerously quiet – men just sit and wait for things to happen. Prayer out here is difficult.”

General Patton took that opportunity to explain to his chaplain the power of prayer.

“Chaplain, I am a strong believer in Prayer. There are three ways that men get what they want; by planning, by working, and by praying. Any great military operation takes careful planning, or thinking. Then you must have well-trained troops to carry it out: that’s working. But between the plan and the operation there is always an unknown. That unknown spells defeat or victory, success or failure…some people call that getting the breaks; I call it God. God has His part in everything. That’s where prayer comes in.”

O’Neill understood. The chaplain had just been schooled by his general about the power of prayer.

When he couldn’t find a good prayer for weather in the prayer books that he thought would be acceptable for the task at hand, he decided to write one himself. Here’s what he wrote:

Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee, of Thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate rains with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for Battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call upon Thee that, armed with Thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies and establish Thy justice among men and nations. Amen.

The chaplain’s short and simple prayer was printed on small, wallet-sized cards and distributed to each of the 250,000 soldiers in the Third Army from December 12th through the 14th, 1944.

They were asked to spend the next two days reading the prayer and asking God to stop the rain.

And that’s when General Patton and the Allied forces got their breakthrough.

Two days later, they had six straight days of perfect weather. The entire battle was turned around.

Over the next few weeks, with the help of Allied troops to the north, the Nazis were pushed back. Close to the end of the battle, when the troops were on the offensive and victory was near, Patton saw the chaplain and smiled. “Well Padre, our prayers worked. I knew they would,” he said.

The general was right. We can plan. We can work. But between the plan and the work, there’s always the unknown. And the difference between defeat or victory, success or failure, is prayer.

Tom had just a few minutes to get some lunch in between conference calls.

His job is very close to a McDonald’s, which works out great most of the time. He just goes through the drive-thru, orders, and can get back to his desk in just a few minutes. It’s a very quick trip.

But it wasn’t yesterday.

Tom told me that when he pulled in, there was only one car in front of him. They took a while ordering and finally pulled up to pay. Tom ordered and drove up and waited to pay, too.

It usually only took a few seconds to pay, but the guy in the car in front of him was taking forever. Not only were they slow when ordering, now they were slow paying. Tom started to get angry.

He tried not to think about it. He fiddled with his phone but then started to think about being late.

The person in the car in front of him paying (or apparently not paying) was, in Tom’s mind, starting to become an idiot. What’s wrong with him? How hard is it to pay for food? Is this his first time in a drive-thru? Has he never been to a McDonald’s before? Does he not know how this thing works?

Tom rolled down his window. He thought about saying something but didn’t know what to say.

He decided that he would blow his horn. He put two hands in the middle of his steering wheel and slowly began applying pressure, hoping he wouldn’t have to express his frustration in such an obvious way but knowing he had to do something or he might be here all day. Just before he could press hard enough for it to sound, the car started moving, got their food, and drove off.

Tom was disgusted. What a jerk, he thought and pulled up to the first window to pay, ready to unload on the employee and ask what that idiot’s problem was for almost making him late to work.

His car window was still rolled down and he stopped to talk with the lady at the first window who spoke first. “I’m so sorry for the delay. The gentleman in the car in front of you wanted to pay for your lunch. I’m new and it took me a while to process everything. Have a blessed day,” she said.

That’s where Tom’s story ended.

He stopped talking and looked at me. I cringed and he told me that he had the same reaction. To think that he almost blew his horn at a guy that was just trying to pay for his meal. And he almost unloaded on this poor lady new to her job who just needed a little more time to process everything.

That’s the danger in believing the stories that we tell ourselves.

It feels good to fill in the gaps when we don’t know the whole story. It’s natural for us to make sense of the world around us by creating our own stories. But what we assume is happening usually isn’t the truth. A loved one gives us a stern look so we tell ourselves a story that we must have done something wrong when really they were just having a bad day. Or we text a friend who doesn’t reply quick enough and we create a story to explain why they never got back to us.

We do it all the time and vilify others instead of giving them the benefit of the doubt.

The next time I’m in a McDonald’s drive-thru and I’m stuck behind a “jerk” who’s taking a little bit longer than I’d like, I think I’ll tell myself a different story instead and try to be a little more patient.

I spent the last week with one goal: to outline my first novel from start to finish.

While I’ve written a number of nonfiction books over the past year and I’m close to releasing my latest book on how to wake up early in the next month or two, I decided to spend a week outlining my first novel to create a road map before I’d begin writing. I’ve been wanting to write a thriller for some time. I knew I’d need a week to have enough time to dream up and capture the story.

Whenever you set out on a new adventure, it’s best to understand the rules first. I’ve spent months learning how to write good fiction and what I’ve found is every story follows the same pattern:

-Movement 1: The gripping opening where a character finds themselves in terrible trouble.
-Movement 2: The evil plot gets underway and the hero, in trouble, fights a defensive battle.
-Movement 3: The turning point (a symbolic death and rebirth). The hero goes on the offensive.
-Movement 4: The hero confronts the villain in a slam-bang climax.
-Movement 5: Resolution. What happens to the characters due to the hero’s victory or defeat.

At the end of movement 2 is a critical part of a novel. It’s called “the dark moment.”

The dark moment is when the hero finds themselves up against the wall and running out of time. There’s a deadline, so the clock is ticking like mad. The hero has run out of leads and the trail has gone cold. In the dark moment, it feels absolutely impossible that the hero will be able to foil evil.

It wasn’t hard to write the dark moment while outlining my thriller yesterday as I sat in a Dunkin’ Donuts eating a double chocolate and chugging a hot latte with notes sprawled out on the table.

It was a little too easy. That’s because we find ourselves experiencing dark moments often in life.

The bills pile up. We lose our dream job. We lose someone we love.

In a dark moment, we reach rock bottom. All hope seems lost. We see absolutely no way out.

But the dark moment is necessary in every story. Without it, there’d be no wisdom or revelation. The hero wouldn’t be transformed. Their determination wouldn’t be redoubled.

The rest of the story, from the turning point when the hero experiences a symbolic death and rebirth and goes on the offensive, to the confrontation with the villain in the slam-bang climax, to the resolution comes from one thing: The hero’s decision while experiencing their dark moment.

Only the hero can decide to muster up the determination to do something about their situation.

You’re the hero in your story, the story of your life that you’ll tell your kids and grand kids one day.

If you’ve found yourself in a dark moment, know that it’s a necessary part of any good story. Understand that you’re not really at the end of the story, you’re actually in the middle of it.

But you do have a decision to make.

Is this where the story will end? Or will hitting rock bottom be your turning point, the very thing that encourages you to go on the offensive, redouble your efforts, confront your villain, foil evil and win?

As the hero, you’re the only one that can decide.

Benedict Arnold is a name synonymous with the word “traitor.”

If you’re a history buff (or if you just paid attention in high school), you’ll know that Arnold fought in the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War between Great Britain and the 13 colonies.

Over the years, Benedict Arnold had been given increasing levels of responsibility. He proved that he could be brave and skilled in battle, having helped with the capture of Fort Ticonderoga in 1775.

But like all villains, Arnold had a major flaw. His was jealousy.

Arnold was passed up for promotion and watched low-ranking men given opportunities that he felt should have been his. He became resentful that he wasn’t moving up the ranks as fast as others.

That’s why Benedict Arnold became a turncoat.

By 1780, Arnold was put in charge of the northern forts, including West Point. And that’s where he came up with a brilliant plan to take down George Washington and hand him over to the British.

Arnold would give detailed plans of West Point to the British so they would know the fort’s weak points. Arnold plotted with a man named John Andre. Andre hid the plans in his boot and set out to deliver them to the British while Arnold would move supplies out of the fort to make it weaker.

Benedict Arnold knew he had to act fast because George Washington would be arriving at West Point in just a few hours. Arnold planned to have Washington killed and America destroyed.

There was one problem – Benedict Arnold never expected to be taken down by ordinary citizens.

After John Andre left to deliver the plans to the British, he was stopped at a checkpoint that was set up by three Americans. They asked Andre for his papers and searched him. That’s when they found the plans for West Point hidden in his shoe and they knew they had discovered a spy.

When they reviewed the papers, they saw the signature of Benedict Arnold. At first they thought that Andre stole the papers and so they decided to turn him over to Arnold to deal with the spy.

But what the Americans didn’t realize was that Andre and Arnold had been working together. On the way to deliver Andre over to Arnold, the three Americans happened to run into Major Benjamin Tallmadge who was Washington’s chief intelligence officer. Tallmadge had intelligence that a high-ranking officer was planning on defecting to the British but didn’t know who it was. Tallmadge made the connection and intercepted Andre before he could be turned over to Benedict Arnold.

The men were experiencing divine providence.

George Washington arrived at West Point a few hours later and by then, Benedict Arnold had already escaped but Andre was in custody, the fort was secure, and the president was safe.

What stands out to me in this story is the three ordinary citizens who decided to set up a checkpoint in British territory. You may have never heard of John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams, but their decision to set up that unofficial checkpoint that nobody asked them to set up saved a president’s life and stopped what could have been a major turning point in the war.

What a small, simple role they played. It must have seemed inconsequential to them at the time.

But it ended up being the reason why America was saved from certain defeat that day in 1780.

The next time you think that you can’t make a difference, remember the story of the three ordinary citizens who did their part in faith and ended up saving George Washington’s life and America as we know it. You may not know how your actions and decisions fit in the bigger picture, but they do.

Play your part in what you feel called to do. Believe that divine providence will take care of the rest.

Author Loren Eiseley wrote in The Star Thrower the story of a boy who was walking along the beach after a storm had passed and found that thousands of starfish had washed ashore.

It was morning and the boy knew that soon, the sun would be coming up and the tide would be going out. If he didn’t act fast, the starfish would die. He knew he had to do something.

So the boy started to pick up the starfish and throw them back into the sea, one at a time.

After awhile, an old man, who had the habit of taking a walk on the beach before writing each day, walked up to the boy. He watched and then asked him why he was saving the starfish, because every time he threw one back into the ocean, another washed back onto the shore.

The boy said, “I’m saving them. If I don’t throw the starfish back into the ocean, they’ll die.”

The old man noticed that there were many miles of beach and starfish were scattered everywhere. “You can’t possibly make a difference. There’s too many of them. What does it matter?” he asked.

The boy picked up another starfish, held it for a few seconds, and threw it into the ocean.

“It mattered to that one,” he said to the old man.

We have so many demands on our time each day. Between the meetings, the never-ending email, and all of the people who need us, there’s just too much to do and not enough time to do it all.

Sometimes when I’m stressed and I feel like I can’t make a difference, I’ll think about the story of the star thrower. I might not be able to do it all, but I can give my all to a few things that matter.

Another way to put it is like this: Do for one person what you’d like to do for everyone.

When a coworker is overwhelmed, you can ask them what you can take off their plate to help out.

When a friend needs someone to talk to, you can clear your schedule and spend time with them.

When our kids ask us to play, we can say Yes, even though it may be inconvenient at the moment.

You can’t do it all – but you can give your all to a few.

Like the star thrower, the young boy who was determined to save as many starfish as he could, we can decide to make a difference for a few even though we know that we can’t help everyone.

And for those we do help, we can walk away at the end of the day knowing it mattered to that one.