The other night, while scrolling through the feed in the blue‑white glow that fills an empty Living Room at midnight, I kept coming across the same so‑called wisdom. The “last meeting theory” swears that the universe arranges one final good‑bye with the people who matter and then sweeps them off your path forever. Neat. Clean. Someone else closing the door on your story as if life were a script and you were a bit player.
But if you’ve been around long enough to nurse a broken heart and build a life, you know it’s never that simple. Men of faith aren’t in the business of tidy endings. We’re called to hammer and nail, to sweat, to pray, to build something that lasts. Memories are nice; legacies are what survive the storm.
This past week put that to the test. Our little grandson, Blake, decided he couldn’t wait to meet us. He showed up ten weeks early, skin like paper and weight measured in whispers. Many of you have flooded our messages with prayers, questions, and love. You should know his name—Blake—and that he and his mom are, by some miracle, doing well. My wife and son are sprinting across the map to be at his side. My girls and I? We’re juggling paychecks, airline schedules, and faith that the dominos will fall in our favor. Faith, when you strip away the Sunday‑school varnish, looks a lot like red‑eye flights, bank accounts, midnight phone calls, and whispered petitions. It’s not waiting on the universe; it’s getting up and moving because you believe there’s a reunion on the other side of this mess.
That’s the thing: Scripture never talks about last meetings. It talks about prodigal sons running into their fathers on dusty roads, not graves. It talks about fishermen finding their Lord on a beach at dawn, not in a courtroom after the story is over. God doesn’t run out of intersections. He delights in redemption, surprise, and unfinished business. If your heart is still beating, you’re not just here to process closure; you’re here to build—houses, altars, families—anything that points back to the One who put breath in your lungs.
I can’t say this loudly enough: the brotherhood you’ve shown us over the past few days—your notes, your prayers, your quiet acts of kindness—laughs in the face of the “last meeting” theory. Community isn’t fate; it’s choice. It’s deciding to show up again when the plane is late, the doors slam, and the details don’t make sense.
That’s why I poured my time into creating the Revelation Intensive. It isn’t another downloadable thing to forget in your inbox. It’s a field manual for men and women who want to carve out altars instead of just processing pain. It’s for those of us who know the answer isn’t tucked away in “closure,” but in conquest—learning to weather storms, redeem old regrets, and raise structures worthy of your name. If Blake’s story—or your own—has stirred something in you, if you’re tired of living like a spectator, the Intensive was built with you in mind.
So here’s my challenge: move from the bleachers to the jobsite. Lay aside the theories and pick up the tools. Join us. Lock arms with a handful of stubborn brothers and sisters who refuse to let fate write their endings, and let’s build altars that can’t be knocked down by circumstance.
Build your altar. Burn your excuses. The war room is open. Don’t let the world decide when your “last meeting” is.
(If you’re ready, grab your spot in the Intensive—$97 for lifetime access and some hard‑earned bonuses if you act this week.)
From the bottom of my heart: thank you for every prayer, every comment, every dollar, every minute. Blake is breathing because of a tribe like this. Let’s keep going—one reunion, one altar, one uncomfortable truth at a time.
