October 13th, 2025

 There are mornings when the chalk feels heavier than my coffee cup. When the words don’t chalk up and my head is foggy. The world feels like it is still stretching before the opening bell. I’ve had plenty of these kind of mornings, especially on Mondays. I stare at the chalkboard, waiting for something divine to land and all I get is silence.

Maybe that is the whole point of endurance. It isn’t about brilliance, but about showing up when the spirit is still asleep. Endurance is what keeps the farmer climbing into his combine before dawn. It is what makes the trader open his quotes even when the market has zero volatility. It is what gets a father out of bed when his kids still need breakfast, even though his own soul is running on fumes.

Dreams are nice.

Reality is hard.

The bridge between the two is built out of mornings like today. When there is nothing to say, nothing to prove, and nothing left but the choice to show up.

Just show up.

Maybe that is what the American story really is? Not the glory shots or the speeches, but the quiet mornings of endurance.

The grind.

The long haul.

The unromantic reality of men and women who just keep going, one more step, one more sunrise.

So today, even if the chalk doesn’t want to move, let’s write something anyway. Because standing still is part of moving forward…

…and sometimes, just holding your ground is the real work.

Keep crossing the bridge you Chalkheads.

October 12th, 2025

 There is no better embodiment of persistence than the American farmer. The quote on today’s Chalkboard isn’t just a motivational line; it is a truth that I see every day from my side of the trading desk. The American farmer has been the most consistent piece of Americana, longer than baseball...

...though baseball gets all the nostalgia credit thanks to James Earl Jones and his “Field of Dreams” speech.

People drive out to Iowa to watch ghosts play ball among the corn, but it is that same farmer who planted the corn in the first place, the one who puts food on our tables, pumpkins on our porches, and milk in our glasses.

There isn’t anything romantic about farming. It’s not a Norman Rockwell painting that has come to life. It is early mornings, late nights, weather forecasts, and bank notes. People think a farmer drops seeds in the ground in the spring and rolls a combine through in the fall. That is the storybook version. The real story is sweat, debt, and risk management. It is calculating hedges, fuel costs, and interest rates while praying for just enough rain, but not too much. It is a business and the American farmer is every bit the businessman as he is the producer of grain.

As a grain broker at the Chicago Board of Trade, I have seen it firsthand. Those market quotes flickering on my screen represent the lifeblood of America’s heartland. Behind every bushel traded is a man or woman who got up before dawn, checked the markets, checked the sky, and got to work. They don’t complain much, because they don’t have time to. The volatility we curse in the office is the same volatility they live under every single day.

And they keep showing up.

Year after year.

Cycle after cycle.

Jesus Christ and the American soldier might be willing to die for me, but the American farmer has kept me well fed and that is no small task to do. In a world obsessed with digital convenience, the farmer still works by the seasons. A rhythm older than our country itself and definitely older than a pitch count. That kind of consistency deserves reverence.

So when I think about persistence turning stumbling blocks into stepping stones, I think about a man in muddy boots walking his field at dawn, wondering if the rain will hold, if the market will rally, if his kids will want to take over the farm. He will keep going anyway. Because persistence isn’t a quote to him, it’s a way of life.

Have a glorious Sunday you Chalkheads. Go find astonishment and have time for some gusto.

The Next Shift

   

    I haven’t felt sorry for myself in a long time. That doesn’t mean the mystery of my faith won’t send a lesson in humility.

Many weekend mornings I see a man and his son walk past my balcony. The father’s gait has softened… knees bending, shoulders slumping just a touch more with every season.

His son, handicapped and dependent, walks beside him, always just a half-step behind.

It’s clear this father has built his life around the care of that boy. His devotion has been his calling, maybe even his purpose, long before he ever understood it.

One day, sooner than later, his shift will end. When it does, I pray someone just as devoted will take the next shift.

Because that’s the quiet truth of life. We are all just taking turns keeping each other upright.

October 11th, 2025

   At this age, I have figured out that the most important thing left for me to do is leave a wake of kindness behind me.

Not fake Hallmark kindness. I am talking about the kind that’s real. The kind that rolls up its sleeves and says, “Hey pal, get your shit together. You deserve to feel whole again.”

I have seen enough of the world to know it is a mess. There is too much anger, too many people walking around wounded, pretending they are fine. I can’t fix the whole damn planet, but I can fix what is within reach. If I can see it, touch it, hear it, or smell it… I’m going to do what I can to make it mo’ betta. Not “more better,” just plain old mo’ betta.

Kindness doesn’t mean soft. It means strong enough to care. It is holding the door, saying you are sorry first, forgiving faster, and checking in on the people who have been silent too long. It is using your scars to help someone else stop bleeding.

The world can stay a shitshow if it wants to. I’m not giving it permission to dull my shine. Like Sister Balthazar taught me in kindergarten — “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”

So root hard for your team today. Take a deep breath of that crisp fall air…

… And remember, if we all toss a little kindness in our wake, this world just might get a little mo’ betta.

October 10th, 2025

 The weather finally kicked into autumn this week. The Farmers’ Market had their last gathering in Riverside and George and I had our last Thursday ice cream together last night.

The last thing the Shepley guys need is a soft serve dipped cone or a chocolate malted. It became our thing to do after George’s hour-long therapy session this summer.

Between seeing a therapist and stopping at The Polar Bear, I have seen tremendous growth in my neurodivergent baby boy.

Our ice cream shop is closing for the winter this weekend. George and I are going to need to find a new post appointment activity.

George is wired to see things more clearly than I do. He pointed out as we sat at the bench slurping down ice cream, that he noticed the Chalkboard hasn’t changed since the beginning of the week.

He suggested I come back strong with a quote from someone that I admire. He picked Churchill, so that’s today’s quote. A quote by a strong leader suggested by my eldest son.

My favorite holiday is less than fifty days away and 24 hours of Christmas songs should be right around the corner.

I should also mention that the clock change is that first Saturday night in November….

Mother F…. F…..!

Let’s go out there and establish some astonishment and find glory in our routine.

October 7th, 2025

 Two years ago today, the world was reminded how quickly hatred can spill across borders and into our lives.

On October 7, 2023, Israel was attacked by Hamas in an act of pure terror. Innocent people were slaughtered, babies mutilated, families shattered, and the Jewish community around the world felt the chilling echo of antisemitism that has plagued them for centuries.

Today’s Chalkboard carries two anchors. The first comes from the New Testament: “Put on the full armor of God.” The second is the Latin phrase Nil desperandum... never despair.

Together they form a shield, not only for Christians but also for our Jewish brothers and sisters who continue to face threats simply because of their faith and identity.

I once thought I had a dear friend, someone who held me up when life weighed heavy. She hugged me the day my dad died. She baked cookies for Hazel during that summer of 2022 when Hazel's mom left her adrift. She reintroduced me to Khalil Gibran, whose words gave me comfort at a time when I needed it.

That friendship ended soon after October 7, 2023. It ended because I stood with Israel. It ended because I refused to accept antisemitism dressed up as politics.

That loss hurt, but two years later, I have come to see it clearly. A friend who abandons you because you reject hatred is not a friend at all. A friend worth keeping does not walk away when standing shoulder to shoulder with the Jewish people becomes inconvenient.

The bible verse tells us to put on God’s armor. Not halfway, not just the helmet or the shield, but the full armor.

Why?

Because the attacks that come against people of faith, whether Jewish or Christian, are relentless. Hatred does not rest. It finds new disguises, new justifications, new excuses. And yet, it is the same ancient evil that has haunted humanity since 600 A.D..

That is where Nil desperandum comes in.

Never despair.

The attacks are real, the losses cut deep, but despair is exactly what the enemy wants. The way to fight back is not with surrender, not with silence, and not with bitterness, but with faith, courage, and solidarity.

Today, we say to our Jewish friends, You are not alone.

The Christian community stands with you. Together, we will not bow to those who thrive on division and bloodshed. We will not let hatred dictate who is worthy of compassion.

The armor of God is not just for defense; it is for holding firm in the face of darkness and “never despair” is not blind optimism. It is the steady heartbeat of people who know that faith, memory, and love are stronger than any ideology of hate.

So, on this anniversary, let us remember.

Let us honor the lives lost.

Let us stand together, armored and unbroken, never despairing, never silent.

Because the world may tremble, but the light of God’s people, Jew and Christian alike, will not be extinguished.

October 6th, 2025

 I was driving home from the grocery store yesterday when Simply Red’s “Holding Back the Years” came on the radio. It came out in 1985, when I was nineteen, still shaking off an awkward childhood and trying to figure out what kind of man I was going to be. Back then, I thought it was a breakup song from some red-headed English kid who had his heart crushed. Today, I know better.

The song is really about growing up in a broken home, about carrying scars from parents who couldn’t get it right. Pater is Latin for father. Mater for mother. That one line captures the pull of a strict upbringing under a dad who provided structure, and the ache of longing for a mom who wasn’t there. Mick Hucknall wrote it out of his own pain, but it speaks for anyone who has had to wrestle with the weight of family hurt while growing up.

It hit me harder today because it isn’t just my story, it’s the Shepkids’ story, too. It belongs to many of us who had a broken home. I gravitated toward my dad’s steadiness because my mom’s world was clouded by depression and alcoholism. George has already leaned that way, and I know Fritz and Hazel are walking the same road. Some of us never fully shake the tough start we were given. We carry it forward, trying not to let it strangle the rest of our years. I have been lucky to leave it in the past and now use it as a lesson in parenthood.

If you had a rough beginning, if you are still holding back tears or years, know this... you are not alone. The fact that you are still here, pushing forward means you have already beaten the odds.

Tonight, the Harvest Moon is at its peak... big, bright, impossible to ignore. Let it remind you that light still finds its way through the darkness.

October 5th, 2025

    David Bowie’s words are lean but heavy. He doesn’t offer a permanent crown, no lifelong badge of glory. Just a fleeting moment that lasts for one day and that is the power it needs. Most of us won’t topple empires or have our names carved into a marble pedestal. Who wants that anyway, look where it got Ozymandias.

All of us do get our shot at being heroic in the cracks of an ordinary life.

Heroes aren’t always the ones charging into burning buildings or standing before microphones. Sometimes it is the parent who works the late shift and still makes it to the Saturday morning game. The nurse who holds a hand in the last quiet hours. The kid who stands up to a bully on the playground, even if no one else notices. These aren’t permanent victories. They are brief and fragile, but they matter. They change something in the world, if only for a heartbeat.

That was what Bowie was singing about... defiance in the face of odds that seem impossible. The world can crush you, but for one day, you can rise above it, and sometimes that single day is enough to carry you through a lifetime.

Tonight, we get another reminder of the fleeting and the mighty. The Harvest Moon will climb into the October sky, glowing bigger and brighter than most. It is a supermoon, and the first full moon of autumn. Farmers once relied on its extra light to pull crops from the fields, working long into the night. A borrowed gift of time before the season’s cold set in.

Like Bowie’s line, the Harvest Moon won’t last. By Tuesday, its brilliance will start to fade, and it will return to its quiet cycle. But for these nights, from October 5th to 7th, it will stand as a beacon. A reminder that some moments are powerful not because they last forever, but because they don’t.

So if life hands you a chance today, take it. Stand taller, fight harder, love deeper. Be a hero, maybe not forever, maybe not in marble, but for one day.

Because sometimes, one day is all it takes.

October 4th, 2025

 In the early 1980s, the radio was filled with two songs about pressure. Billy Joel told us we had to answer to our own, not to look for help, because in the end, we are all alone with it. Freddie Mercury, in his unmistakable voice, warned us that life was terrifying because just when you think you’ve got it figured out, it never rains, but it pours.

Today’s quote lands on the same track, but it shifts the tone. Billie Jean King, one of the greatest champions in sports, didn’t view pressure as something to fear or avoid. She saw it as a privilege, a sign that you are in the arena where the stakes matter.

My gramma said it another way fifty years ago:

“God puts hard tasks in our lives because He knows we are strong enough to handle them.”

That’s the truth of it.

Pressure is not punishment... it is proof. Proof that we are trusted with moments that count. Pressure makes us sharper, tougher, more alive. It builds passion, strengthens compassion, and reveals to the world, and to ourselves, that we are exactly where we belong.

Think about it.

A brain surgeon removing cancer from a child. A fireman carrying an elderly woman out of her burning home. A trial lawyer fighting for the rights of a client. A police officer walking into an ambush. A commodity broker filling an order for a farmer in Dekalb. Each one of these people is living in the storm of pressure and each one proves, day after day, that pressure is what drives us to thrive.

On a lighter note, today is National Cinnamon Bun Day. Speaking of my gramma, she made the best breakfast rolls I have ever tasted, but she took them to heaven with her. So until I get up there to join her, RoughEdges in Elmhurst is my go-to spot for a bun that comes close.

Alright, Chalkheads, it’s Saturday. Step into the arena. Embrace the privilege. And yes... don’t forget that we are still in a GoldBond application period. Powder those nooks and crannies, keep those hip-hop thighs sliding friction-free, and give this day an astonishing chance.

Buns Up Chalkheads!

October 3rd, 2025

 Think about the temperature on October 3rd when February 15th rolls around next year. To me that is when we get over the hump of winter, the moment where it feels like the cold starts to lose it’s grip. Let’s look closer, by then, the days are already stretching longer and the darkness is losing its edge. When we are complaining about the frost and the wind, it will be worth remembering that just 135 days ago it was 86 degrees.

That is the rhyme.

The heat of summer echoes in the bite of winter, and both remind us we have walked this road before. Seasons shift, we endure and we carry forward.

Congratulations to the Cubs.

May the memories be a blessing to those massacred in Manchester yesterday on Yom Kippur.

Happy Friday Chalkheads

October 2nd, 2025

 I don’t have much to chalk about this morning. I don’t have an inspiration for this first Thursday in October.

I’m overpowered or as just suggested by the word/spelling line on this app, overwhelmed.

Overpowered and overwhelmed with frustration. I have this one person in my life that just won’t go away.

I just gotta keep praying for this douche bag and take it one day at a time.

We need a big win for my Northside friends today. We need to support our friends that are atoning and fasting today and we need to find astonishment in this early autumn day.

Go Cubs, Go Jews!

October 1st, 2025

 I participate in this group chat with some solid lads. Last night one of the boys texted, "What last long I'm there you have asked yourself." Which didn't make any f'ing sense to anyone. Quickly someone snapped, "Shakespeare?"

Was our buddy quoting Billy Shakes?

I took that text and made it today's Chalkboard quote and made it sound Shakespearean. I then wrote a Shakespearean short story based on this fake Shakespeare quote called "The Long Inquiry"

In the village of Riverside-upon-DesPlaines there dwelt six fellows of middle years, bound together not by tavern walls nor oak benches, but by a glowing scroll they passed between their hands. On a modern device that kept their words alight though they sat in separate houses. They called it their fellowship, though in truth it was a group text.

Their discourse was of many humors... the fortunes of the Chicago Bears, the latest souls to fall to drink upon that of Longcommon Road, the taste of bourbon, the crisps of pizza dough, the curling smoke of cigars, and on nights most reckless, the storms of politics.

First among them was Tiger, the jester with the sting of Don Rickles in his tongue. He made mock of both conservatives and liberals, then feigned himself one, until none knew his true station. Yet oft when the chat grew hot, Tiger would slam shut his part in it, declaring, “Enough, I am quit!” Only to be lured back anon with promises of fresh jest from Ramone.

There was Ramone, a lawyer sleek and sure, his hair and words equally groomed, who leaned firm upon the staff of conservatism. Petey, soft of speech, cared not for quarrels, preferring to weigh the Bears’ defense over the nation’s short falls. Declan, a democrat with libertine wit, struck sparks with epigrams sharper than daggers. Mickey, a people’s man, had barely slipped the gates of the local Catholic school, yet built himself anew; once he bore the swagger of the ’90s, a teener in his pocket and Pearl Jam in his ear, now he cloaked himself as lib-lab when the winds of fashion so demanded. And last, Jackie, the failure, divorced sire, half-priest, half-poet, who longed to be a herald in the press but was bound instead to the humble bread of a Cafeteria Catholic and a lost political party.

One night, when the moon was thin and the talk turned to whether the realm’s government should shutter its doors, the scroll grew heated. Ramone cast blame upon the democrats, Declan fired bolts in return, and Mickey wove half-truths in the denim of his memories. Petey spoke only of the Bears, yet even his mild words could not quench the blaze.

Then Tiger, summoning wisdom not his own, did write: “What lasteth long? In sooth, thou must inquire within thyself.”

The words fell like silence after thunder. All paused. But Tiger, ever the tempest, declared, “I am done!” and vanished from the scroll and off to the ultra comfort.

The fellowship sighed, for this was not the first time. “He will return,” said Petey. “Like the White Sox in spring,” quoth Mickey. “Like gout,” muttered Declan.

And return he did, drawn back by jest and friendship, as ever.

Thus, the six remained, bound not by agreement but by endurance, their quarrels outlasting the news, their brotherhood surviving each storm. For in the end, as Jackie mused, it was not the shutdowns nor the scores that endured, but the fellowship itself...

...foolish, fiery, and strangely unbreakable.

Happy Wednesday, Happy Black Dog Day, Go Molly! Happy second to last Riverside Farmers' Market of the summer. George Shep will need a job after next Wednesday, if anyone has any local leads.