Keepin' It Real Commentaries by Cam Marston

I’ve just completed a goal setting webinar. It was thought provoking and well run. Two things stood out. First – we are halfway through 2026. The webinar host adjusted the what was supposed to be a goal setting workshop with a one-year timeline to half a year to account for the date and though I have a calendar in front of me every day, it still shocked me that this year is half gone. Though factually I know it’s early June, hearing him say that the year is half over startled me.

Next, I’m not sure I’m a goal setting type of guy. The speaker said that unless a goal is written down it doesn’t exist. I’m not so sure that’s applicable for me. There are plenty of goals that I replay in my head each day, none of which are written down. They range from trivial – I want my young and tender potted lemon tree to eventually fruit so I’m giving it lots of time and attention – to larger things – I want to celebrate my thirtieth wedding anniversary in an exotic destination somewhere very far from here. I’m not sure writing that down does anything more to cement it - it’s already in my head and replaying frequently.

But how about this: what happens if my goal is to be more flexible? What happens if my goal is to not get so anchored in my goals that I miss opportunities that are outside my goals?

Which brings me to graduation speakers. There seems to be two types – the ones who encourage the graduates to set goals for their lives and dedicate their waking moments to achieving those goals. These speakers are often corporate types who climbed ladders and knocked down walls and stayed up late and studied hard to get where they are.

The second type seem to be the ones who encourage the graduates to search for opportunity and be ready to shift and pivot as life presents new paths forward. These are usually the entrepreneurs. They’ve shifted and pivoted and shucked and jived all the way. They seem less wed to firm, concrete goals. What if Orville and Wilbur had only wanted to create a massive bike company and never pivoted to see if their contraption would fly. What if Christopher Columbus had intended to find India and when his ship made landfall said, “No. This is the wrong place. Let’s keep looking.” What if Michelangelo had seen the block of marble that became the David and said “I can’t use it. It has a hole in it. Find something else.” Our world would be dramatically different.

So, setting goals is good and powerful stuff. But so is having the will and courage to abandon goals when it appears to be the right thing to do. And to abandon them without remorse. I find when I dig into goals too far, \ I can’t identify when it’s time to abandon them and I hold on to them to my detriment. It’s happened too many times before.

So, at the end of the webinar, I was left with this: to goal or not to goal. That’s the question.

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

Many years ago, my wife and I made a commitment to our kids that I thought would probably go in one ear and out the other. It was a commitment that was easy to make because it was so far off that I was sure no one would remember it and they certainly wouldn't enforce it. "When the twins graduate from high school," my wife and I announced one night at dinner, "we'll take a big family trip." The twins were in grade school when we said it. It was a long time ago. They'd certainly forget.

Well, I was wrong.

The twins graduate Saturday and on Monday, we leave for a big family trip to Greece. For ten years I collected points and miles from hotels, credit cards, and airlines and quickly learned they were more akin to Monopoly money than anything of value. Hotels and airlines will take points, but they love taking cash. We've been squirreling away for this trip for years — which, it turns out, is exactly how long it takes to save for six people in Greece.

While the trip begins next week, in many ways it's already started. Last night at dinner my wife went over the itinerary. She's worked hard to put this together, and as she read about the different sights we'd see, some of the kids were online looking at the hotels, the historical sites, even checking the weather for each city. We talked about what clothes we'd need, sleeping arrangements for the six of us, how to handle the jet lag, how much Greek we'd need to know. My contribution to the planning was asking how early I could get my first cup of coffee each day. Like I've learned many times, big trips begin with heightened and excited anticipation which is as much a part of the trip as the journey itself. There's a lot of energy around the house right now. A promise made long ago is about to be kept — assuming the credit card goes through.

In August, my wife and I will become empty nesters when the twins leave for college. My oldest two, already away at school, may live at home this summer — which means we could go from a full house of six to just the two of us in a matter of weeks. From a constant thrum of activity and wondering who just came through the front door, to knowing that any sound from the other room is just each other. I've said many times that I'll enjoy the empty nest, but as it looms, I'm less certain. Like so many other big boasts I've made, I may have to walk that one back too.

Until then, a summer of memories are on tap: two final high school graduations, a big trip promised long ago, a full house all summer, and a puppy who demands every bit of attention we can spare.

I made that promise years ago, certain they'd forget. They didn't forget. Apparently kids are better at remembering the promises that cost you money than the ones that don't.

I'm Cam Marston, and I'm Keepin' It Real — from Greece, starting Monday.

What Does It Mean to Have a Witness to Your Life?

Strange question, I know. But it surfaced at my mother-in-law's funeral this past Monday in Raleigh, and I haven't been able to shake it.

A childhood friend of my wife's pulled her aside. "I'm sorry," she said. "Your mother was a witness to your life. Losing her is hard."

I had never heard that expression before. And the weight of it hit me somewhere I wasn't prepared for.

If we're lucky, we have two witnesses to our life — our parents. They see everything. More than our spouse. More than our closest friends. More, even, than our siblings. A witness to your life doesn't just observe — they hold it all. Every dream you floated and forgot. Every version of you that didn't survive into adulthood. Every embarrassing, earnest, unguarded moment. They're a repository of who you were before you decided who you wanted to be. And then, one day, they're gone — and they take all of that with them.

Maybe that's where much of the grief comes from. Not just the loss of a person, but the loss of a record. A living memory that held you before you knew yourself.

Most of us spend considerable energy managing how we're perceived. We curate ourselves — what we say, what we wear, what we let slip about our lives. We've been doing it since middle school and most of us never really stop. But the witnesses to our lives are immune to all of it. They knew us before the performance began. They can see behind the façade, recognize the architecture underneath, and — if they're good ones — they cherish what they find there. They're the ones who say I knew you when. There are so few of them. And being with them feels like taking off armor you forgot you were wearing.

I am the witness to my children's lives. I knew them before they knew themselves. And I believe a good witness guides without directing. Observes without interfering. Because here's the hard truth about helicopter parents, snowplow parents, drone parents — the ones who manage every moment of their children's lives: they're not witnesses. They're directors. And I've been that, more than once. I've crossed the line from watching to controlling. The difference matters. When controlling parents die, their children don't always grieve. They exhale. A burden has lifted. That's a devastating legacy to leave.

A witness to your life can't be hired or requested or manufactured. It accumulates. Quietly, over decades, mostly in the background — someone taking note, savoring what they see, asking nothing in return. You rarely think about what they mean to you while they're there.

You only understand it fully when they're gone.

I'm Cam Marston, and that's Keepin' It Real.

Busy hands surround my wife and me these days. Recent bad news has brought the need for friends to reach out and want to help us get through it. “I’m so sorry,” they say. “What can I do?” Our reply, just like most people’s is “Nothing. Thank you. We’re all set.” And they reply with, “Well, let me at least bring dinner.” The need to do something to feel helpful. The need for busy hands. Which means we’re evaluating casseroles right now. And different grilled meats. We joke that we’ll rate the best online.

You see my mother-in-law died last week. Lee Nowell Radford. She was born and raised in Georgia and moved to North Carolina as a young married woman with her husband of what would have been 65 years in June. He worked for IBM and Lee kept busy at many important things throughout those years, not the least was raising three wonderful children. Her middle child caught my attention many years ago and I remember returning an umbrella that my now wife left in my car on one of our first dates. I was hoping to see her when I returned the umbrella, but Lee answered the front door, told me her daughter was not there, and she and I talked on the front porch for a long long while. I remember being impressed by her, her worldly knowledge, her thoughts on the various things we chatted about, and her ability to simply talk. She was quite good at it. Her husband often said that he was hard of hearing because his ears had simply worn out.

Lee had been struggling with cancer for a while and it recently it became clear the end was near. My wife travelled to and from Raleigh many times over the past six months and when the doctors said they’d done all they could, my wife headed up to Raleigh for longer visits. Even though the end was foretold, standing bedside over a mother who has just died is difficult. I remember this well from my own mother’s death a few years ago. You can anticipate the end many times over but the finality of it in that moment is, well, devastating. It was for me and it was for my wife. You ache when you see loved ones deep in grief, wishing you could do something to take that grief from them and bear it yourself. You can’t, of course, so you do what seems to come next – busy hands. You clean, cook, arrange for support, walk their dog. Anything to feel helpful.

My family of six will head to Raleigh Sunday for the Monday funeral. We’ll be coming from two different cities with five different flight itineraries. There, everyone will gather and grieve together: a widower, siblings, aunts, uncles, in-laws, first and second cousins, plus my mother in law’s friends and neighbors whose hands I’ve shaken many times over the years. There will be lots of tears, a few smiles, maybe a laugh, and lots of sad and busy hands.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

More often than not, when I ask someone who has retired in the past two years, their answer is nearly exactly the same. They say, “Well, retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Why? They worked so hard for it, now they have it. So, what’s missing? My work has steered me into retirement studies. Most people think about money when they think about retirement planning, but I’m learning money is not the only thing you need to plan for. There’s more. And it’s something seldom discussed

The greatest problems in retirement, I’m learning, the sudden loss of purpose. Work provided purpose. And even if you didn’t like the purpose or if the purpose weren’t compelling to you, it was something. Retirement means that that purpose suddenly disappears. It vanishes overnight. And people struggle when they have no purpose. Most retirees say they can’t wait to have more time to pursue their hobbies but, again, research shows that after about six months, the things people did as recreation while they were working loses its appeal when done too frequently. Playing golf, gardening, visiting kids and grandkids, playing cards, and taking cruises and whatever don’t constitute a purpose. Purpose is the fuel for a happy retirement. And the best retirements include new purposes that involve giving back in some way – like teaching or mentoring – and include learning something where advancing skill and advancing creativity is visible – like playing guitar, writing, learning to garden, even learning to play golf. It’s learning something that will take you from novice towards mastery. Not achieving mastery, just progressing towards it so that achievement is visible.

The greatest predictor of a long life plus a happy retirement are a meaningful purpose plus the social connections in retirement. Most people’s social connections while working are with the people they work with. Work friends. These relationships are generated by proximity – you’re near them and speak to them regularly – and shared mission- you’re working towards shared goals. Those two are both important. And as much as you may think your work friends and you may never not be friends, about 80% of work relationships quickly fade in retirement. Without the proximity or the shared mission of work, there’s little to keep you connected.

And there’s a lot more, like you sit for an average of two to three hours more each day in retirement.

I’m not ready to retire. I’ve got a good number of years yet. And I’m especially not ready after learning what I need to do to prepare for a happy retirement. I’m vulnerable to an unhappy one right now, and I need to get my act together. Retirement can easily be 20 years or more. It’s so long they call it a second adulthood, and I struggled, and continue to struggle, through my first adulthood. I need some time, some hobbies, some friends, and a plan for a new purpose if I want to get this next one right. I got a lot of work to do to get ready for work to be over.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

Imagine a Carnival Cruise ship out at sea and loaded with passengers headed full speed, for the coast of the Dominican Republic and crashing ashore not far from Punta Cana. Then, rather than clean up the mess, they turn wreckage into a hotel, add a bunch more swimming pools and put loud Bose speakers everywhere, and call it the Hard Rock All-Inclusive Sodom and Gomorrah Resort and Hotel Punta Cana. That’s where I was last week. That’s not the actual name, by the way.

Now, I know very clearly how I sound right now. All fleuf de fleuf and high and mighty and all that. Very snobby. Very nose in the air. I get it. But…have you been there? If your answers No, let me tell you.

It’s a tradition of my kid’s high school that the senior class gathers and heads to the Caribbean with their parents for Spring Break. I’ve conveniently excused myself from my two oldest kid’s trips but was urgently requested to go with my wife and our twins this last week. I was one of about 55 people that joined together for the trip. The resort boasts nearly 2000 rooms, a dozen or so pools, one casino, a waterpark, countless shops, a pile of restaurants, one umph umph umph night club and all the cheap alcohol you can possibly hold.

My kids ate whenever and wherever and whatever they wanted. They learned where the adults would be hanging out and found a different place far far away. They bathed late in the evening and then headed to the umph umph umph night club each night after it opened at 10pm and came home in the early hours laughing about what they had all done together. They were in heaven. My wife and I, sleeping together in a twin bed which was closer than the two of us had slept to one another in decades, asked few questions when they got in mainly because we were sunburned, tired, and begging to get back to a poor sleep knowing that the music outside our room would start very early.

And it did. The rock and roll music begins promptly at 7am and is played resort wide. We know this because we had one of those Bose speakers right outside our balcony. Each balcony, by the way, comes with a bathtub on it. After nightfall, everyone walking on the sidewalks looked at the heads of the people in their bathtubs up on their balconies wondering if anyone had any clothes on. We drew conclusions based on their giggles.

Saturday night we arrived back in Mobile. I can’t remember ever being so tired. My sunburn body looked like a bad Picasso painting where I missed with the suntan lotion all over my chest and back. From bed, I heard my wife ask my favorite youngest daughter her favorite part of the trip. She said it was dancing with Dad in the nightclub the night before we left.

So, it was all worth it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

I got an ant farm for Christmas. My kids laughed and they told their friends and they laughed but my family came through and on Christmas morning I opened an ant farm. It has a main chamber and two auxiliary chambers. I set it up just like the pictures showed.

A few weeks ago, in March, I got the ants for my birthday. Apparently, the farm didn’t come with ants, a detail we overlooked. They are harvester ants and I worked with an ant guy in Raleigh to select the species. He wanted pictures of the farm and info on where the farm would be positioned in relation to lights and windows and such. He considered Mobile’s humidity and suggested harvester ants. I pretended like I gave his suggestion some thought and agreed. They are, right now, working diligently over my shoulder from their spot on the kitchen counter. Every day all of us stop in front of the farm to comment about the work they’ve done overnight. Last night my wife and I spent a while on my new favorite AI called Claude – I call him Claudius because he feels Roman to me – and learned that ants can go a month without food, they really need water, they nap for two minutes at a time, and their poop is microscopic. I’ve dropped hints about needing a big magnifying glass so we can see them up close, identify each of them and name them. Laugh all you want at my ant farm, but I’ve become very proud and protective of the health and vitality of my ants.

Last night as my wife was staring in at the ants, she made some thoughtful observations about them. Each of the things she said, grammatically speaking, ended with a period and not a question mark. I remained focused on whatever I was doing, and I noticed a sudden change in her body language as she quickly stood up and walked away. My inner alarms sounded. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. Well, apparently, in my house, my wife’s thoughtful observations about ants deserve acknowledgements from me. Some sort of something suggesting I heard her and am now also considering her shared observations. And that sound is, I think, this: Huh. For example, when my wife says ‘That ant, I think his name is Bruno, is carrying a grain of sand all the way from the main chamber to the little water chamber and found a perfect spot to put it.’ I should reply: Huh. Apparently, based on her tone and body language in the debriefing of my errant ways, that ‘Huh’ matters. A lot. So all last night I offered lots of Huhs. And gave some extras that I asked her to bank for when I forget to reply Huh to her future sentences that end in periods and not question marks. I was told, however, that Huhs don’t bank, which is a shame.

So, get an ant farm. Don’t forget the ants. Don’t forget to Huh after your wife says something about the ants and it gets uncomfortably quiet in the room.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

I’ve just come from my accountant’s office where I handed all my tax information to the lady at the front desk. The manilla envelope was much lighter this year than in years past.

Last week I had a long talk with an AI guy out of Houston. He said he loved to find people like me – content experts with books and videos and training programs and blogs and podcasts and such. He wants to take all content I’ve created over my thirty years in business and feed it into an AI thing he’s created and create an on-demand Cam Marston kind-of-app. He told me I can read a couple paragraphs into a recorder and the AI can duplicate my voice so very closely, no one will know the difference. Once all the content is fed in and I’ve read my paragraphs, my clients can come to my website and ask me a question, and the app can answer the question in my own voice. I can charge a monthly subscription for my expertise and reach out to my clients who’ve used me repeatedly and let them know I’m now open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Thirty years of work, thirty years of research, five books, two training programs, three hundred podcasts, as many blogs and three million airline miles used to get all of it all turned into an app. Now I can create content by simply asking myself questions using the app. And my answer can be turned into a video of me talking as well as an article, a blog and a full-length podcast. All I have to do is format the output and promote it. Promote artificial me. The AI guy really has no interest in whether anyone subscribes or how I use it, he simply wants the fee to set it up.

I’ve been thinking about this. There’s a lot that’s fascinating about all of it. And I can see the appeal. But I’m unsure if I want this. I’m unsure if I want to participate. I feels, for some reason that I can’t exactly explain, like a downward spiral. Ultimately, with the way things are going, it will become my client’s AI interacting with my AI – neither of us ever talking. I’m getting old and grumpy but I don’t believe another app is going to solve anything any more. More apps do not make life better. And so often when my clients ask me about their teams or employees, I learn that hidden in the heart of their question is a question about themselves. I don’t think an app can address this like eye contact and listening can.

Which may explain why my volume tax documents continue to get smaller. Where this is all heading leaves a distaste in my mouth. And rather than furiously try to keep up with this race to clone myself and quickly disgorge myself of my hard-won content through some app, I’m wondering if I’d rather not just walk away.

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

Our new puppy continues to rule the house and my life. She was trained by the breeder to urinate on a pee pad which is exactly what it sounds like – an absorbent mat for dogs to urinate on indoors. At our house, that means the carpet. She’ll trot off the hardwood floors, pass the open back door to find the Persian rug and squat and look at me with an expression of “look how good I am!” Meanwhile the whole yard in available to her.

Making this a bit more challenging is, as I write this, my wife is in Raleigh with her parents, and my twins are in the throes of their senior year of high school which means friends are greater than puppies. That leaves me. I find myself explaining to the puppy why a yard is better than a rug to leave her mark. Her expression is, well, skeptical.

As I write this it is my deceased mother’s birthday, giving me a solemn feeling and I learned today that I had volunteered to spend the night with my father after his knee surgery helping him dress and get to the bathroom and all that.

All this leads me to this – apparently, I gave up happiness for Lent. I don’t remember choosing this. I think it was put upon me by the Almighty. And it has started out strong, I must say. I can only hope it’s easier from here on out.

I mentioned my Lenten happiness sacrifice to a friend and he paused and said, “Yeah, but Cam, is that truly a sacrifice for you? I mean, is that really much of a change?” which stung a bit and made me unhappy. However, considering that I’ve committed to unhappiness for lent, I thanked him.

In order to maintain my commitment, I plan to do the following until Easter:

First, I will read the headlines and scroll through social media within five minutes of opening my eyes each morning. This will set the unhappiness expectations for the rest of the day. If something that I’ve seen or read gives me lift, I’ll immediately add flavored creamer to my coffee which will return me to my targeted Lenten disposition.

Next, I’ll list all my unachievable goals and list everything I’ve ever wanted to own and don’t own. I’ll read the lists aloud each day.

Third, I’ll live in the past and recall my regrets and worry about the future and the bad things that will certainly befall me. That’s a good one. Happiness evaporates when you do that. Works every time.

Fourth, I’ll become an Auburn fan.

Fifth, I’ll beg my sons to get a haircut.

If I run out of ideas and find myself slipping into happiness, there are a few of you I know I can call to get me right. You seem to have mastered unhappiness. Not only are your cups half empty, your cups are full of holes. Normally I avoid you but until Easter, I’ll need your help.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

My eighty-nine-year-old father is scheduled to get a knee replacement next week. Let me say that again - he’s eighty-nine and getting a new knee and is eager to return to his very active life when the pain subsides. He’s done this once before and wants the same results.

People stop me nearly every day to ask about my father. They comment on how healthy he is and how he never slows down. This is true, though I can attest to him slowing a little over the past several years. He is eighty-nine, after all. Over Christmas holidays my brothers and I were with him at his property in Clarke County. We were all sawing on an oak tree that we were sectioning for firewood. We’ve done this nearly every Christmastime for about forty years now – felling the tree, cutting it into pieces and then splitting those pieces and stacking them in a rack near the camp. It will become the wood we’ll burn next Christmas, letting it age about a year before burning, and we cut a lot of it every year. Dad has always led the way on the firewood. He finds the tree and leads the way on the cutting. His use of a chainsaw on a tree is the equivalent of Michaelangelo’s use of a chisel on a block of marble – his dissection of the tree is a work of art. This past year, though, with four saws all buzzing at the same time, I heard one stop, saw dad put his saw down and step back and rest. “I’m going to let you all have at it,” he said over the noise of the saws. Good, I thought. My brothers and I are beyond capable. But it may have been the first time I ever saw him step back.

A story lives in the lore of that cabin in the woods. It comes from when I was a pre-teen and I had a friend there with me. Dad started cutting trees for firewood. Our job was to drag branches, do our best to split the logs, and put the split pieces in the trailer then unload and stack the wood in the rack. It was hard work and we were tired. We had gone through three trees and Dad stopped. My friend’s face showed relief – finally, he was saying. Enough. We had some water. Maybe a sandwich. Then Dad cranked his saw up again and said, “One more” and marched off towards another oak tree. My friend’s face fell and we all heard him say over of the noise of the saw, “Another tree??” That line lives on today when we’re cutting wood. Another tree? Yep. Another tree.

I don’t know of any other eighty-nine-year-olds getting knee replacements. It’s remarkable. He’s always been able to outwork me. And in a few weeks, he’ll be back to blaming his partners for losing at pickleball. He’ll be sharpening his chain saw. And he’ll be eyeing another tree.

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.

Grown people acting like fools for a few days might very well be good for the soul. I’m not sure how large groups, primarily of men, agreeing to behave silly is therapeutic, but it is. I’ll leave it to some psychologist try to explain it. As a participant, though, I assure you, it’s good stuff. Over the top costumes, over the top floats, parading, parties, dancing. It’s not behavior most participate in unless it’s limited to a certain calendar window and amongst friends and neighbors.

My wife’s cousin visited over the holidays. She toured one of Mobile’s museums and saw the extraordinary displays of costumes and the photos of floats and our city’s royalty and their flamboyant, extravagant attire. It was all over the top, as it is intended to be. I told her that some people simply don’t get it and she summed it up perfectly – to enjoy it, you have to be in on the joke. And that’s it. I’ve not heard it said better.

You’ve seen skits on TV or pranks where one person is playing the fool but won’t let on that he’s doing it? His face and behavior are serious and intentional, but all the while, but his behavior is, well, foolish. The people around him play along and everyone enjoys the spoof. Well, what if a group of people are in on the joke, behaving ridiculously for a narrow window of time but not letting anyone know that they know it’s a spoof. In Mobile, Alabama, these groups are largely called Societies or Orders. In New Orleans they’re called Krewes. They’re all in on the joke.

And what is the joke? The joke is that this doesn’t matter but we act like it does. That our supposed kings and queens are kings and queens of nothing. Kings and queens of a type of Kabuki theater played out in front of the masses in elaborate, flamboyant costumes for their own entertainment and the enjoyment of their Societies, Orders, Krewes, their invited guests, their mothers and fathers, and, perhaps, their whole cities. There is no reason to do this. There are stories that tie these celebrations to preparations for lent, to Easter, even explaining the behavior away to the days before food could be refrigerated. But, underneath it all, there is no good reason to do this. And that’s why we do it. That’s part of the fun. We agree that for a while we look at each other out the side of our eye and for a few days and we’ll not hold each other accountable for the silly things we say, or do, or wear. All is understood, Ok’d and soon forgotten.

I have a ridiculous top hat that I’ll wear in the coming days with my Mardi Gras costume. People will tell me I look like a fool. They’re not in on the joke. They don’t get it. Of course I do. And my reply to them will be this – and it’s something they won’t understand. I’ll simply say, “Happy Mardi Gras.”

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

The Mayan god of rain was called Cha ac. When drought hit the jungles of Central America fifteen hundred years ago, Cha ac was called upon to send rain. So, the Mayans, led by their shaman, offered a child – children, actually. The archeologists who studied Bartlett Cave in Belize say they found the bones of eighteen children in one area alone, and there were many areas. None of the children were over four years old. The Mayans would not kill the child. They’d leave the child to die in the cave believing that the child’s crying and tears would evoke pity from Cha ac and he’d send rain. The child, in exchange for their sacrifice, would ascend straight to the afterlife.

It’s ghastly for us to think about today. Have you ever been deep in a cave and turned off the flashlight? It’s a pitch-black darkness that, unless you’ve done it, is impossible to imagine. The sound of every drop of water is magnified, and your brain begins playing tricks, imagining the dripping sounds are voices. And that was my experience in only five minutes of that darkness. Imagine that for days as the child slowly starved to death. Again, it’s ghastly.

The Mayans were utterly convinced their faith was right and correct and holy. That their communing with their gods and their interpretation of their god’s messages told them what their gods wanted and instructed them how to live in a holy way. They fought other tribes for their gods. They forced their captives to convert and worship Cha ac as well as the many other Mayan gods. And they did this for centuries. This was a religion with a theology and a practice and a hierarchy of men who claimed to know.

How different are we today? What’s changed? I listened this morning as the bishop of my church talked with certainty and confidence about our church, its lineage, and its strengths. He spoke with certainty about what God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit undoubtedly want from each of us. How the practice of our faith is a pathway to both the heaven of an afterlife and a heaven on here on earth right now. He’s a member of a very long tradition of shamans, medicine men, priests, rabbis, saints and others that commune with the invisible, telling us, with confidence, that he knows what god wants from and for us. That his reading of the sacred texts, his communing with his god, and his reading of the patterns of the earth say, with certainty, that he’s right. That he’s on to something. That he knows.

The shamans told the Mayans that Cha ac demanded the sacrifice of a child. How could a god ask for such a thing, we wonder? That’s insane. Well, my god walked on water and came back from the dead. And each Sunday we drop to our knees we partake in a ritual where he asks us to eat his flesh and drink his blood. And I do. Is this, too, not insane?

So, I ask again, are we really all that different?

I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.