What Time Holds
- 1 day ago
- 3 min read
Saturday March 21, 2026~
"There’s a quote often attributed to Abraham Lincoln—
It’s not the years in your life…
it’s the life in your years.
We all get the same 24 hours.
What we choose to do with them—that’s on us.
And some things in life… are worth defending.
Both metaphorically… and literally.
That’s what these two pieces became."
Standing there that night… I wasn’t just talking.
Right behind me were two pieces I had just finished—
built for that room, for that moment, for that cause.
And for the first time… they weren’t just mine anymore.
Everything about that night…
everything about this build…
ties back to Marc.
Service.
Discipline.
Protection.
Legacy.
These weren’t built to sit quietly in a corner.
They were built to hold something that matters…
…and to remind us what time really is—
what it costs when we squander it,
what we have left,
and what’s worth defending.
Both literally… and metaphorically.
Two pieces came out of this build:
The Watchtower — a distressed beam, standing tall and raw, with time pulled forward through a minimalist dial.
Grounded, exposed, and unapologetically solid...
like it was pulled from something that's already carried real weight.
The Sentinel — a cleaner, more refined form wrapped in vertical lines, hiding its depth behind precision and restraint.
Quiet on the outside… deliberate in every inch...
as if it was built to stand watch long before anyone noticed it.
On the surface, they’re clocks.
But they’re really about time…
and what you choose to do with it.
There’s no keypad.
No handle.
No obvious way in.
Because some things aren’t meant to be obvious.
And if you spend a little time with it…
you start to notice the details.
The coins—tied to Marc, to service, to legacy—
they’re not just placed there for meaning.
They’re part of it.
Part of how it works.
Part of how you get in.
They’re designed to hold what protects your home…
without ever needing to announce it.
Every decision. Every detail.
With intention.
Not just to function…
but to mean something.
And when they hit the stage that night…
they stopped being mine.
They became a contribution.
Before the night ever started… I was already in it.
Not just the builds—
but helping lead a team of about 25 volunteers, coordinating speakers, shaping the flow of the night, and carrying over 130 silent auction items across the finish line.
There’s a different kind of tired that comes from that.
The kind you don’t shake off right away.
And when the doors opened… you could feel it.
About 100+ people in attendance.
Roughly 130 silent auction items lining the walls.
A red carpet laid out for the live pieces.
Everything came together the way it was supposed to.
You could feel it…
this wasn’t just an event—it was a room full of people who care.
By the end of the night, about $170,000 was raised.
For the families.
For the legacy.
For the ones who carried the weight so the rest of us could live freely.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that…
I was handed something I didn’t expect.
A challenge coin from Congressman Eli Crane.
Caught me completely off guard.
Not because of what it was…
but because of what it meant in that moment.
That was a first for me.
One of those moments where you don’t really know what to say…
you just take it in.
That’s one I’ll carry with me for a long time.
... and then there was the part no one sees.
I got home that night…
walked into the shop…
and it was just… quiet.
Tools still out.
Everything exactly how I left it.
The aftermath just sitting there…
like it was waiting for the next move.
I was completely spent.
The build was done.
But the second I opened that door…
I already missed it.
Deep in my bones—
almost like grief in its absence.
This was before any of it started.
Before the long days…
before the pressure…
before the room filled and the pieces left my hands.
Some builds you finish.
Some builds stay with you.
This one… did both.
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