Today I had the privilege of attending the topping out ceremony for the new Midland High School. It is a simple tradition, really. The final structural beam is placed atop a building, marking the completion of one phase and the beginning of another. Yet, like so many rituals, its meaning reaches far beyond steel and concrete.
As I stood there watching the ceremony, I found myself thinking less about the building and more about the journey that had brought me to this moment.
Life rarely unfolds according to the plans we make.
If someone had told my younger self that one day I would be standing here as an Episcopal priest, serving in West Texas, surrounded by educators, community leaders, students, and friends, I would have found it almost impossible to believe. The road here has not been straight. It has wound through moments of joy and disappointment, certainty and doubt, endings that felt unbearable and beginnings I never could have imagined.
There have been seasons when I believed a closed door meant the end of a dream, only to discover years later that it had quietly become the entrance to something far more beautiful. There have been relationships that shaped me, losses that humbled me, communities that welcomed me, and unexpected companions who reminded me that grace often arrives wearing ordinary clothes.
Looking back, I realize that the most meaningful chapters of my life were never the ones I planned.
They were the ones I received.
Standing beneath that unfinished roof, I found myself grateful—not because life has been easy, but because it has been rich. Rich with people who have loved me, challenged me, forgiven me, and believed in me. Rich with opportunities to serve, to grow, to fail, to begin again, and to discover that God’s faithfulness is often easier to recognize in the rearview mirror than through the windshield.
Perhaps that is why ceremonies like today’s matter.
They remind us that every great building begins with foundations hidden beneath the surface. Before anyone admires the finished work, countless hands have labored in ways that few people will ever see. The same is true of our lives. Much of what has shaped us happened quietly—in ordinary conversations, difficult decisions, acts of kindness, moments of healing, and the slow, patient work of becoming who we are.
The future standing before those students is filled with possibilities they cannot yet imagine. They will walk hallways that today exist only as framing and beams. They will celebrate victories, endure disappointments, make lifelong friends, and slowly discover who they are becoming.
In many ways, so will the rest of us.
No matter our age, we are all still under construction.
I do not know exactly what the next chapter of my own life will hold. There are dreams I still carry, places I hope to go, people I have yet to meet, and ways I still hope to grow. But standing there today reminded me that I do not need to know every detail of the blueprint.
It is enough to be grateful for where I have been, attentive to where I am, and hopeful for what lies ahead.
The topping out ceremony celebrates a milestone, not a completion. There is still much work to be done before the doors open and life fills those halls.
The same is true for all of us.
And perhaps that is the greatest gift of all: to discover that we are never finished, that grace is still building something beautiful within us, and that every new season offers another opportunity to become more fully the people God has always dreamed we could be.
Today, I left with a grateful heart.
Grateful for the road behind me.
Grateful for the people who have walked it with me.
And grateful that, even now, there are still new beams to raise and new horizons waiting just beyond the next turn.
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