What we carry

Three generations of hands and the legacy I'm choosing to build.

I can still smell the raw red oak lumber.

Stacks of rough-sawn boards towered beside the planer in my dad's cabinet shop. My job was to push them through, one by one—hour after hour. At the time, it felt boring. But now? I look back on those hours with a strange kind of gratitude.

As the sunlight poured through the windows, it illuminated the sawdust. The repetition and continuous hum of the planer motor grounded me in something ancient. Something passed down—father to son.

My grandfather, he was also a cabinet maker. A hard man from a small town. He didn't say much, didn't teach much. But he worked nonstop—trying to fill the hole in his heart with sweat and grit.

That never really works.

My dad followed in his footsteps—angry, guarded, always ready for a fight. He quit school at fifteen and went straight to work. He left us—my mom, my sister, and I when I was two.

Most my life, our relationship was fractured. Distant. But several years ago, I decided to reach out with a phone call—no expectations—just hope and love. One call a year became two. Then more. Over the course of seven years, his shell began to crack. And today, we talk. We laugh. We have something real.

It didn't happen by accident. It happened because I chose to stay. To keep showing up.

That's what defines my life now: intentionality.

I inherited their hands—their work ethic, their skill, their drive to build what lasts. But I also inherited the hole in their hearts. The fear. The anger. The inability to forgive. And I had to choose what to keep—and what to release.

These days, I strive to trade distance for closeness. Silence for conversation. Judgment for compassion. I let the softness in me grow.

I care how a home feels at sunrise.

I care about forgiveness.

I care about presence.

Now, as I build in the hills of Virginia, it's not just about wood and concrete. It's about creating spaces that hold life. That hold people. That hold soul.

The older I get, the more I realize that we all inherit something. The real work is choosing what to carry forward—and what to lay down.

That's the heart of the hand built life.

Not just a home—but wholeness.

Not just structure—but soul.

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Reflection for You:

What's been passed down to you?

What deserves to be carried forward?

And what might you need to lay down so something new and beautiful can begin?

—Mike