Lately I’ve been having some “if I” moments in my life. I love the TV show “The Biggest Loser” and wonder how, if I lost some weight, my knee might not hurt as much. But then I don’t change how I eat or exercise. Then I hear my friends talking about playing hoops on Saturday mornings and think that, if I try to play, I could get back into shape again. But then I never make the effort to try. My intentions are good, but my heart is not changing. What’s the deal?

It’s usually a good rule of thumb to stay away from stereotypes and cultural clichés in order to avoid potentially embarrassing confrontations with the obligatory “exception to the rule.” But in Curtis Brown’s case, even he admits that a predictable portion of life in Saskatchewan—his native Canadian province—can be described in two words: farming and hockey.

Born in the small rural town of Unity, Brown grew up on a farm where he instinctively fell in line with the majority of his young friends. “What Canadians do is hockey,” Brown says. “I was probably about four when I started skating. I was just like the other kids. If you didn’t play hockey, you were definitely an outsider.”

For four years I watched my little girl, Julianna, walk, run, and twirl her way through our church. For thirteen years I watched another girl in our church, Kindra, live her entire life confined to a wheelchair. One Sunday, Kindra’s mom brought her to church with a new spring outfit. I noticed that there were new shoes, but they sat in Kindra’s lap. After the service, Kindra’s mother gave the shoes to my wife with the request that our daughter wear them. For the next few services, I observed the mom watching Julianna move about the church property in the shoes that Kindra could not wear.

We all have seen the ads about the “Easy” button. Just hit the Easy button and things become easy. I actually have an Easy button on my desk that doesn’t work anymore, because I used it so much. I think the batteries died.

I love the “easy “button,” but I think a better button would be a “New” button — one that gives us a fresh start. We could hit it at the beginning of a year (or month or day) and start over with a clean slate. Wouldn’t that be great? We could hit the New button for lots of things: diet, workout routine, pets, schools, sports teams, coaches, friends or jobs. The list could go on and on.

I became a baseball fan during the magical season of 1961. I lived for the trek to the mailbox for the morning paper. Turning to the sports section, I would devour the scores, especially those of the New York Yankees, where the nation focused on the home run race between Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris. These two players fascinated me. Though Maris won the home run race that year, Mickey Mantle was my hero. He moved with grace and hit with power, and his statistics were incredibly impressive.

As I grew older, however, I learned of many poor choices made by Mantle. His decadent lifestyle and forty-year abuse of alcohol had shortened his career, prevented him from reaching his full potential, and clouded his mind.

Wendy Ward doesn’t know how it happened. All that matters is that she knows it did. She didn’t see her golf ball move, but when she realized that her putt no longer lined up, it was clear that the ball had rotated a mere “dimple or two.” Ward had already grounded her putter, and she immediately knew that the sometimes unforgiving rules of the game were about to cost her a stroke.

But this wasn’t just another average day at an average LPGA tournament. Ward was in the final group playing in the fourth and final round of the 2000 McDonald’s LPGA Championship at the DuPont Country Club in Wilmington, Delaware. She had entered the day in a tie for the lead with legendary golfer Juli Inkster.

Death is always a difficult topic to grasp. Whenever someone dies we always wonder, where was God when they died, and why did He let it happen to them? From movie stars, professional athletes, and other celebrities to firefighters, police officers, and loved ones; our hearts are filled with grief and for a while everything pales in comparison to our loss.

Once at a softball clinic for elementary-aged softball players, I shared how my accomplishments have not come because I was naturally great, but because I worked hard and didn’t give up. I implored them to do the same: Don’t give up. We shouted it a few times, then began working on skills. As I worked with the pitchers, one girl began complaining about the afternoon heat. I reminded her about our previous talk. She replied, “Yeah, but that was when I was sitting in the shade.” I humbly realized I was just like this little girl. How often do my intentions differ from my actions when things get difficult? We talk and believe big from the comfort of the shade; yet when things get hard, we retreat. That is not where our blessings and dreams are found.