This is absolutely beautiful, @miketirico. Thank you, everyone, for all of your support and for fueling the dream. Like Mike said, sports mean so much to America, “they’re one of the few things that can still, truly, pull us together.” Thankful this Olympic Games did just that.🇺🇸
I love the Olympics. Winter, summer, every single games, I tune in.
I love it because we see how sports bring us together.
I love it because we are reminded that sports are the ultimate equalizer. Look at weightlifting in the summer Olympics or downhill skiing now. The weights and the mountain don’t care what country you come from, how much money you have, or what religion you are. The weights and the mountain are the same for every single competitor.
I love it, most of all, because the Olympics remind us of a core life lesson: greatness and heartbreak live right next door to each other.
You can’t find greatness without a few meetings with heartbreak and failure.
We saw this very clearly over the weekend.
Like many of you, I’ve been following my friend Lindsey Vonn’s inspirational comeback. She’s 41, one knee is completely rebuilt, and now she went into the Olympics with a freshly-torn ACL.
As storylines go, you can’t get any better. It is gutsy. It is brave. It is a little bit crazy.
And it brings out all of the losers to do their naysaying.
“Why would she do this?”
”She must be missing something in her life.”
“It’s irresponsible.”
What these people don’t understand, because they’ve never tried anything great, because they’ve never pushed themselves to the absolute edges of their limits, because they’ll never know their real potential, is that there is no such thing as risk-free greatness.
Yesterday, when her Olympic dreams ended in that horrible crash that left all of us praying for her in front of our televisions, the haters were out in full force.
I don’t need to repeat it. Twitter has given losers enough of a platform; I won’t be amplifying them in this newsletter.
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Every Christmas Eve, I think about George Bailey.
He dreamed of escaping Bedford Falls—of shaking off the dust of a small town, building skyscrapers, exploring the world. Instead, he stayed. He ran the Building & Loan his father left behind. He sacrificed his college money, his honeymoon savings, his chance to see the world, over and over, because people needed him.
By the time the crisis hits, George feels like a failure. His life looks like one long series of missed opportunities, thwarted ambitions, and quiet resentments. He stands on the bridge, convinced the world would be better without him.
Then Clarence shows him the truth: a Bedford Falls without George Bailey is a darker, meaner, hollowed-out place. The people he quietly helped, the small acts of integrity he performed without recognition, the risks he took to protect others—those weren’t detours. They were the substance of his life.
The film’s deepest insight isn’t just that “no man is a failure who has friends.” It’s that real impact is almost always invisible in the moment. The lives you steady, the small kindnesses you extend, the responsibilities you shoulder when no one else will—these things ripple outward in ways you may never see.
A strong sense of purpose doesn’t erase pain; it transforms it. It doesn’t merely explain why hard things happened. It asks: What are you now responsible for because they happened?
Faith, at its best, does the same. It doesn’t promise that everything was “meant to be” in order to make suffering palatable. It invites you to look at what has been entrusted to you in light of what you’ve endured.
George’s story reminds us that meaning is rarely found in the grand escape, but in the faithful presence. The dreams we surrender don’t always vanish—they often become the raw material for something more enduring than we imagined.
If you’re carrying the weight of roads not taken, of dreams deferred, of a life that feels smaller than you once hoped—watch It’s a Wonderful Life again tonight. Not as nostalgia, but as revelation.
You may not see the full difference you’ve made yet.
But it’s there.
And it matters more than you know.
Merry Christmas, friends.
🎄🇨🇽🎅🦌☃️⛪️✝️❤️
Friends-
This is a tough note to write, but since a bunch of you have started to suspect something, I’ll cut to the chase: Last week I was diagnosed with metastasized, stage-four pancreatic cancer, and am gonna die.
Advanced pancreatic is nasty stuff; it’s a death sentence. But I already had a death sentence before last week too — we all do.
I’m blessed with amazing siblings and half-a-dozen buddies that are genuinely brothers. As one of them put it, “Sure, you’re on the clock, but we’re all on the clock.” Death is a wicked thief, and the bastard pursues us all.
Still, I’ve got less time than I’d prefer. This is hard for someone wired to work and build, but harder still as a husband and a dad. I can’t begin to describe how great my people are. During the past year, as we’d temporarily stepped back from public life and built new family rhythms, Melissa and I have grown even closer — and that on top of three decades of the best friend a man could ever have. Seven months ago, Corrie was commissioned into the Air Force and she’s off at instrument and multi-engine rounds of flight school. Last week, Alex kicked butt graduating from college a semester early even while teaching gen chem, organic, and physics (she’s a freak). This summer, 14-year-old Breck started learning to drive. (Okay, we’ve been driving off-book for six years — but now we’ve got paper to make it street-legal.) I couldn’t be more grateful to constantly get to bear-hug this motley crew of sinners and saints.
There’s not a good time to tell your peeps you’re now marching to the beat of a faster drummer — but the season of advent isn’t the worst. As a Christian, the weeks running up to Christmas are a time to orient our hearts toward the hope of what’s to come.
Not an abstract hope in fanciful human goodness; not hope in vague hallmark-sappy spirituality; not a bootstrapped hope in our own strength (what foolishness is the evaporating-muscle I once prided myself in). Nope — often we lazily say “hope” when what we mean is “optimism.” To be clear, optimism is great, and it’s absolutely necessary, but it’s insufficient. It’s not the kinda thing that holds up when you tell your daughters you’re not going to walk them down the aisle. Nor telling your mom and pops they’re gonna bury their son.
A well-lived life demands more reality — stiffer stuff. That’s why, during advent, even while still walking in darkness, we shout our hope — often properly with a gravelly voice soldiering through tears.
Such is the calling of the pilgrim. Those who know ourselves to need a Physician should dang well look forward to enduring beauty and eventual fulfillment. That is, we hope in a real Deliverer — a rescuing God, born at a real time, in a real place. But the eternal city — with foundations and without cancer — is not yet.
Remembering Isaiah’s prophecies of what’s to come doesn’t dull the pain of current sufferings. But it does put it in eternity’s perspective:
“When we've been there 10,000 years…We've no less days to sing God's praise.”
I’ll have more to say. I’m not going down without a fight. One sub-part of God’s grace is found in the jawdropping advances science has made the past few years in immunotherapy and more. Death and dying aren’t the same — the process of dying is still something to be lived. We’re zealously embracing a lot of gallows humor in our house, and I’ve pledged to do my part to run through the irreverent tape.
But for now, as our family faces the reality of treatments, but more importantly as we celebrate Christmas, we wish you peace: “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned….For to us a son is given” (Isaiah 9).
With great gratitude, and with gravelly-but-hopeful voices,
Ben — and the Sasses
The Heisman Trophy has been presented since 1935. Vanderbilt has played football for much longer.
Tonight is the first time a Vanderbilt player has been up for the award. We can debate the stats all we want, but let’s not lose sight of the history that’s already been made.
Among other CFP moments of glory tonight: Vanderbilt beating Tennessee so badly in Neyland that it knocked the Vols out of the Top 25, thus negating any credit the Commodores could have gotten, is a chef's kiss of nonsense.
CONGRATULATIONS TO THE VANDERBILT COMMODORES FOOTBALL TEAM. 10-2! NEARLY WENT UP 14-0 AT BAMA. NEARLY CAME BACK TO WIN AT TEXAS. WHAT A BREAKTHROUGH SEASON FOR THE SEC'S PERENNIAL "DOORMAT." SO PROUD OF YOU GUYS.
HOW BOUT MY VANDERBILT COMMODORES RISING TO 8-2 AND KEEPING PLAYOFF HOPES ALIVE BY WINNING A 45-38 SHOOTOUT WITH AN EXTREMELY TALENTED AND REVITALIZED AUBURN TEAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Commodore Nation, THANK YOU for your support of @VandyFootball! It was a special season and you are an important part of our journey. We are proud but not satisfied - we’re just getting started! ⚓️⬇️