“In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.”
Theodore Roosevelt (1858 – 1919)
Germany developed a glass battery that could power cities for 100 years
In a high-voltage materials lab near Dresden, German scientists have crafted a revolutionary new battery design — made almost entirely from glass. This isn’t a metaphor. The battery’s solid-state electrolyte is based on crystallized glass infused with special conductive ceramics, offering unheard-of lifespan and stability. Early tests suggest the battery could function for a century — without significant degradation.
The core of the innovation is a glass-based lithium-sodium hybrid solid electrolyte, which is non-flammable, non-toxic, and resistant to both moisture and corrosion. Unlike traditional lithium-ion batteries that degrade after a few thousand cycles, this battery can recharge over 50,000 times — making it ideal for grid-scale storage and electric transportation.
Its internal chemistry avoids common failure modes like dendrite growth and thermal runaway, two issues that plague today’s lithium designs. The glass not only acts as a stabilizer but also enhances ion conductivity at room temperature, meaning no cooling or complex safety systems are required.
Germany’s Federal Energy Institute reports that when connected to solar or wind infrastructure, a single shipping-container-sized unit could store enough energy to power 1,000 homes for a week — and be reused for decades. Its long life and recyclability drastically reduce the environmental footprint of energy storage.
Researchers are now testing the battery in electric buses and rural microgrids. It operates safely in extreme temperatures, charges in under 10 minutes, and can be manufactured with abundant materials — no cobalt or rare earths required. Maintenance costs are nearly zero over its lifetime.
This glass battery may offer the final piece of the renewable energy puzzle — reliable, scalable, safe, and timeless. It doesn’t just beat lithium-ion. It buries it
Bloody Extremists
Future Greats
A GREAT rendition of a wonderful number!
Click to view the video:
A Not So Swift
If you ever see a swift lying on the ground, wings spread as if ready to fly…
don’t be afraid.
It doesn’t have to be injured.
It’s not dying.
It’s a creature of the sky that has accidentally found itself in a place where it’s very difficult for it to take off on its own.
The swift is not made to take flight from the ground.
Its short legs and long, slender wings make it extremely hard to lift off from a flat surface.
All it needs is for you to gently lift it.
Just a little, in an open palm…
And it will fly. On its own.
Just like some people.
Sometimes, it’s not courage we lack.
Sometimes… we just need someone’s hand.
Someone’s gaze.
A quiet “I’m here” to lift us up for a moment —
until we feel the wind beneath our wings again.
When Someone Gives You Love
SINGLE MOTHER OF FOUR LET A SOAKING WET STRANGER INTO HER TINY HOME—THE NEXT DAY, HE CHANGED HER LIFE FOREVER
It was pouring rain, and Angelina stood by the window of her tiny, worn-out home, tears mixing with the sound of thunder outside. Life as a single mother of four was never easy, but lately, it felt impossible. Bills stacked high on the counter, and dinner tonight would once again be whatever she could pull together from scraps.
Just as she was about to turn away from the window, something caught her eye.
A figure—an elderly man, soaked to the bone, standing at the edge of the street with a limp in his step and no umbrella. He looked lost. Forgotten.
Without hesitating, Angelina grabbed the only umbrella they owned, slipped on her sandals, and rushed outside into the downpour.
“Sir? Are you okay?” she asked gently.
He looked up, startled. “I… I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way.”
But Angelina shook her head. “You’ll get sick in this storm. Please, come inside. We don’t have much, but you’re welcome.”
He paused, visibly unsure, then nodded slowly.
Inside, her four children peered curiously at the stranger. Angelina handed him a towel and poured him a warm cup of tea. The old man, whose name was Mr. Arthur Callahan, was polite, quiet, and carried a sadness that didn’t need words.
He sat with the children that night, telling them stories about his childhood, about the trees he used to climb, and the tiny house he once built with his own two hands. The children laughed, and for the first time in a long while, the home felt full of warmth.
The next morning, Arthur stood by the kitchen window, sipping his tea.
“You know,” he said, “This house reminds me of the one I built sixty years ago. It’s small, but it’s alive. It has love in every corner.”
Angelina smiled shyly. “It’s not much. But it’s all we have.”
He turned to her with a quiet seriousness in his eyes. “That’s why I want to give you something.”
From his coat, he pulled out a folded envelope and placed it on the table. Angelina opened it slowly and gasped.
It was a property deed.
To a farmhouse and land on the outskirts of town. Worth hundreds of thousands. Paid off. Hers—if she wanted it.
“I was going to sell it,” Arthur said softly. “But I’ve lived alone for too long. And last night… You reminded me what home feels like. You sheltered me when no one else would. That kind of kindness deserves everything.”
Angelina covered her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. “I can’t accept this.”
“You must,” he said with a smile. “But on one condition.”
She looked up, stunned.
“Sell me this house for $1,” he said. “So I’ll always have a place to come back to when I miss the sound of laughter.”
And she did.
That very week, Angelina and her children moved into the beautiful farmhouse, complete with apple trees, a big red barn, and room to breathe.
The kids ran through the fields, screaming with joy. They finally had space, comfort, and a chance at a new life.
Arthur moved into the little house he’d “bought” for $1, visiting the children every weekend. They called him “Grandpa Art.” He built them toys from wood, taught them how to plant tomatoes, and read them stories under the stars.
And every time someone asked why he gave away everything, he simply smiled and said:
“Because when someone gives you love for free, it’s only right to return it tenfold.”
Katie – The Beer Angel
Ten years ago, I had this tiny old man who came through the liquor store drive-thru every other day. He wouldn’t even look at me—just handed over his money and said he wanted a six-pack of Natty. I spent so much time at the store, and all the regulars were like family to me. But not him. He was just… Pete.
It drove me nuts that he never acted like he knew me.
After about a year, I started telling him jokes from another regular. He didn’t say yes or no, just listened to me absolutely butcher the punchlines. I told him all I wanted in life was to catch him smiling as he drove away. He mostly shook his head and asked if I’d stop holding his beer hostage. I told him someday, *someday*, he’d stop hating me.
We played this game for two more years. Then, one day, after I lovingly slid his beer into his lap, he threw something at me. It was a shirt that said *BEER ANGEL.* My life was made.
After that, Pete started warming up to me. He’d bring little gifts—a figurine of a cow lifting weights, a candle he found near his trash can, and one time, a Playboy because “he liked the girl’s earrings.” His cackling when I saw it is something I’ll never forget.
Six years into our drive-thru friendship, Pete asked if I could run an errand for him. He handed me his debit card and a grocery list, telling me I could spend $20 on myself. I was over the moon. Then he asked if I could cut his hair. He was on oxygen and didn’t think he could make it to the barber anymore. I told him I’d drag him into the shop on a blanket if I had to, but when he declined, I promised to stop by after work.
He greeted my 3-year-old daughter, Violet, and me with chocolates filled with liquor. He laughed harder than anyone I’ve ever known. Over the next few years, I visited him regularly, cutting his hair, chatting while he did crosswords, and bringing him lottery tickets.
Pete was funny without trying and hilariously awful in the best way. One day, I mentioned something my dad had said and referred to myself as “Kate.” He looked at me and said, “Is your name Kate? I just thought it was ‘butthole.’” I laughed and told him my family calls me Kate, and it makes me feel loved.
A few visits later, he handed me a check, and when I got to the car, I saw it was made out to “Kate.” I cried.
The last time I saw him, he called me “sweetheart” as I left. I looked back at him—so tiny and frail—and said, “I prefer ‘butthole.’” He laughed, and I left smiling.
A couple of weeks later, I drove to Dexter for his funeral. There were only a few people there, and I stood off to the side, crying. After the service, they all came up to me and said, “You must be Kate! He talked about you all the time!”
It’s been a year since Pete passed, but Violet and I talk about him often. I sure miss him.
Please, be kind to people. Obnoxiously, annoyingly, insanely kind. You never know how much it might mean.
Credit: Katie Sawyer
Quote of the Day
“Strong minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, weak minds discuss people.” – Socrates, Philosopher (469 – 399 BC)
Michael Clarke Duncan
Before his Oscar nomination, before he moved the world with tear-filled eyes and healing hands, Michael Clarke Duncan dug trenches in the streets of Chicago.
He was massive, powerful… but painfully shy.
His mother, who raised him alone, always said:
“Your size is a gift, but your tenderness is your true power.”
For years, he worked nightclub doors, guarding celebrities.
He kept bodies safe—while dreaming of touching souls on a movie screen.
But no one believed in him.
“Too big,” they said.
“Too gentle,” they said.
Then one day, Bruce Willis saw him cry.
Not on cue. Not rehearsed. Just… truth.
And in that moment, he found his John Coffey—the gentle giant who looked like a monster, but only wanted to help.
Michael wept in every scene.
He wasn’t acting. He was remembering: his mother’s words, the judgment in strangers’ eyes, the weight of being misunderstood.
“Being strong doesn’t mean striking back.
Sometimes, it means standing tall without breaking.”
When he passed in 2012, the world mourned not his muscles, but his soul.
Because sometimes, the biggest men are the best listeners.
And sometimes, a giant doesn’t need to roar—he just needs someone to believe in him.
Harold
This is my friend Harold.
Not the guy in the man lift—but the man behind him, sitting quietly in his wheelchair on the sidewalk.
Harold lives in the nursing home just across the street from our job site.
Since day one, he’s been there.
Every morning at 7 a.m., like clockwork.
He takes lunch when we do.
And he doesn’t leave until I shut down the crane and head home.
At first, I thought,
“He’s just an old man enjoying the fresh air. Curious, maybe. Just passing time.”
But something about his consistency got me curious too.
So one day, I walked over and introduced myself.
That first conversation lasted over two and a half hours.
And it changed me.
Harold, it turns out, is nearing the end of his life.
He’s battling heart failure and a degenerative disease that’s been eating away at his health for years.
But before all that, Harold spent over 50 years doing exactly what I do now—operating cranes.
He told me he never imagined he’d get to see one up close again—let alone watch one in action, every day.
It’s not just a job to him. It’s his life. His pride. His story.
He has family. Two daughters. A son.
They haven’t visited in the seven years he’s been in that nursing home.
So I made Harold a deal.
He jokingly asked if I’d put him on payroll.
I told him I couldn’t swing that… but here’s what I could do:
Every morning, I bring him his favorite—a black coffee.
Twice a week, I grab him lunch from anywhere he wants.
And at the end of each day, I sit with him so he can critique my crane work and give me pointers.
Because no matter how good you think you are, there’s always more to learn.
And Harold?
He didn’t hesitate before saying,
“ABSOLUTELY!”
Now he’s not just watching.
He’s part of the crew.
He’s teaching again. Smiling again.
Living with purpose in his final days.
And I guess I’m sharing this to say:
Don’t overlook the quiet people in the background.
Don’t assume someone’s just “passing time.”
Walk over. Say hello.
You never know what kind of impact you might make—or what kind of soul you’ll meet.
I’m so thankful I took that step.
And when the day comes that God calls Harold home,
I’ll find peace in knowing he spent his final chapter surrounded by something he loved.
And by someone who cared enough to see him.
Be that someone. Make someone feel seen.
It might just be the most important thing you do today.