I just finished The Rocking Chair Prophet. My mom gave it to me — and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Once I got into it, I realized it was exactly what I needed right now.
The whole story follows this guy Daniel, who, after major tragedy in his life, basically walks away from the rat race — from a successful, busy life — and ends up becoming this quiet, wise figure who people seek out for advice. He’s not perfect. He doesn’t preach. He just sits on his porch and tells the truth. It’s simple, but it’s powerful. And honestly, I felt like I was one of those people coming to sit with him — asking questions I haven’t been brave enough to face, looking for some kind of clarity in the mess I’ve made.
One thing that stood out right away was how much this book speaks to the experience of hitting bottom — or walking away from what’s not working — and then finally beginning the real work of transformation. I didn’t choose the quiet and stillness like Daniel did. Mine was forced on me: the indictment, the jail time, the fallout. But I’ve been sitting in it all the same. And reading this book made me think… maybe stillness is the only place we can really begin to hear God. And just this week my spiritual mentor was talking to me about sitting in silence, committing to hearing from God.
There were a few moments in the book that really touched me. One line especially: “You teach what you most need to learn.” Yes. That’s me. I’ve spent years in medicine, coaching people, teaching health and healing and transformation — while I was barely holding myself together inside. I think part of me was hoping if I could just help others enough or accomplish enough, it would fix whatever was broken inside me. But this book reminded me that healing doesn’t happen through performance. It happens through honesty. Through humility. Through surrender.
Another line: “The hardest person to forgive is yourself.” So true. I still feel that every day. There’s this deep shame I’ve carried — not just for what I did, but for the ways I let people down, especially my kids. Even when I believe God forgives me, it’s like I’ve still been holding myself hostage. This book didn’t give me an easy answer, but it offered a different kind of challenge — what if forgiveness is less about feeling good and more about choosing to live like grace is real? I need to receive God’s grace and mercy, and share it with others.
That’s what I keep coming back to with this book: it’s about choosing a new way. Not just talking about it. Not just journaling about it. But living it. Slower. More intentionally. More honestly. There’s this recurring idea in the story that real wisdom isn’t loud — it’s quiet. It lives on porches and in stillness and in showing up for people with love, not with solutions. I want to be that kind of man — not someone with all the answers, but someone others can trust to speak from truth and love.
It also got me thinking about legacy. About the story I’m writing now — and what kind of story my kids will one day tell about me. It won’t be perfect. They’ll know the worst parts. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll also say that their dad changed. That he fought to become someone better. That he didn’t give up when everything fell apart. That he found God again. That he sat still long enough to become someone worth sitting with.
This book felt like a quiet invitation: let go of trying to earn love. Let go of shame. Let life love you again. Let God love you — here and now. I’m not fully there yet. But I’m getting closer. And I think maybe, for the first time in a long time, I actually believe that’s possible.
