These days, we’re settled in Central Texas, surrounded by grandchildren whose laughter and curiosity brighten every corner of our lives. They remind us daily that joy can be loud and a little messy, but it is always a gift best savored in the moment. Life has slowed down just enough to reflect, to give thanks, and to recognize how much of God’s goodness has been there all along, even when we didn’t see it at the time.

I’ve learned that the most lasting lessons often come without a schedule, and that grace—thankfully—tends to be a little more patient than I deserve.

Now that I’m retired, I write to honor the life lessons that continue to shape me: lessons of faith, character, perseverance, and the quiet kind of strength that doesn’t draw attention to itself but carries on anyway.

Along the way, certain words have stuck with me—phrases that have helped me frame what’s worth holding onto. One of those is the following quote, widely attributed to D.L. Moody.

“Our greatest fear should not be of failure, but of succeeding at something that doesn’t really matter.”

That said, the greatest privilege of my life has been walking alongside my amazing wife for more than 36 years as we have raised our six children. They’ve been full years—full of activity, laughter, hard conversations, mismatched socks, and a healthy dose of prayer.

We had our share of sleepless nights, makeshift meals, and moments when life felt like it was running ahead of us—but also moments of deep connection that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Some of the most sacred ground I’ve ever stood on wasn’t found in a church pew, but on the living room floor where prayers were whispered … or in the backyard where life lessons were taught between a swing on a tree and a makeshift fort.

We didn’t always get everything right. Woven through all of it though was grace—grace in the laughter around the dinner table, grace in the apologies and forgiveness shared, and grace in the quiet, stubborn love for one another that held the family close. Parenting didn’t come with a guidebook, but it came with purpose—and more than a little humor along the way.

Somehow, love kept showing up—steady and sure—right where it was needed most.

And now, my wife and I find ourselves looking at our grown children with gratitude and wonder, humbled by the privilege of watching them become strong, caring adults.

That line has stayed with me—because when it’s all said and done, I want to leave behind something that counts.

I don’t write as a man who’s arrived—I write as someone still learning. Still growing. Still trusting that a little encouragement, a bit of truth, and a touch of humor can make a difference.

Wyatt’s Trail was born out of that. You’ll find Cowboy reflections here—some lighthearted, some a little more pointed—and sermons from Charles Spurgeon, reworded just enough to speak to today’s reader without losing the power they were born with. And now and then, you’ll also find stories drawn from life with our four-legged friends—faithful companions who’ve walked beside us, taught us lessons in grace, and left their paw prints on our hearts.

Some stories might make you smile. Some might stir something deeper. My hope is that, either way, they offer you something steady for the road ahead.

So, thank you again for stopping by. I'm glad you did. And if something you read here settles into your heart—I’d be honored to walk a little farther with you.

– Wyatt

PS – When the end of the trail comes—as it surely does for all who walk this earth—my prayer is that each of us will be able to look back and say with confidence,

“But by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace toward me was not in vain.”
(1 Corinthians 15:10)