Mr. Sunshine Smiles

Hi folks!

Oh my goodness gracious–how is it already almost the end of September?!

The time is flying by way too fast.

But, let’s get down to business and dive right in.

There is something about the arrival of fall that feels like an invitation to slow down. The air becomes cooler, the evenings arrive a little earlier, and the world begins to trade its bright summer colors for something warmer and softer.

Even though this season is often filled with full calendars and new responsibilities, it also reminds me that change does not always need to be rushed. Sometimes, change can simply mean taking a breath, noticing what is around us, and allowing ourselves to settle into a new rhythm.

I recently returned home from a long weekend in Rehoboth, where I had the chance to spend meaningful time with friends. There were conversations, lots of laughter, good food, incredibly fun games, and those wonderfully ordinary moments that somehow become the ones we remember most.

Getting away reminded me that quality time is not measured by how much we accomplish together. It is found in being fully present—with people who make us feel safe, understood, and free to be ourselves.

Life will always have its stressors. There will always be another task to complete, another concern demanding attention, or another voice suggesting that we should be doing more.

Lately, I have been working on staying focused and centered on the people, places, and experiences that genuinely bring me joy. That does not mean ignoring reality or pretending difficult things do not exist. It means refusing to let those things occupy every corner of my life and remembering that protecting my peace is not selfish—it is necessary.

As the leaves begin to change, I hope to follow their example by releasing some of what has been weighing me down. This fall, I want to make room for friendship, quiet moments, laughter, creativity, and the things that make me feel most like myself.

I cannot control every stressor that enters my life, but I can choose where I place my energy.

For now, I am choosing gratitude, connection, and joy—and trusting that they will help keep me grounded throughout the season ahead.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi folks!

Today’s post is a bit more heart tugging, so just be prepared.

Over the past month, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about loss—and about the people who somehow become part of our lives without ever technically being “family.”

We tend to reserve words like grief and heartbreak for those closest to us by blood, but sometimes there are people who enter our story in much quieter ways. They’re teachers, customers, coworkers, neighbors, friends, or simply familiar faces we look forward to seeing.

Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, they carve out a little space in our hearts. And when they’re suddenly no longer there, we realize just how much that space meant to us.

Recently, I’ve experienced that feeling with the passing of two customers I came to know through my time working at the pharmacy. They weren’t relatives. We didn’t spend holidays together or have years of family photographs tucked away in albums.

But whenever they walked through those doors—or whenever I happened to see them out and about—there was a hug waiting. There was a smile, a conversation, and that simple feeling of being genuinely happy to see one another.

Those interactions may have seemed small to anyone watching, but to me, they mattered. And now, knowing there won’t be another unexpected encounter or one more hug makes me realize just how precious those seemingly ordinary moments really were.

Catherine and Susan–I’m talking about you. And I thank you for all of those lovely moments that I’ll be able to keep with me.

That same feeling hit differently with the loss of my high school choir teacher, DAKS (Debra Kline Smith). Teachers have this incredible ability to enter our lives for only a chapter and somehow leave fingerprints on the rest of the book. She believed in me, challenged me, encouraged me, and helped nurture a love of music that continues to be such an important part of who I am today.

Years can pass, life can take us in completely different directions, and yet the impact someone made during those formative years never really disappears. Losing her was another reminder that some of the people who shape us most profoundly may never share our last name.

Maybe that’s one of the beautiful and heartbreaking things about life: we get to choose a much bigger definition of family.

Family can be the person whose face lights up when they see you. It can be the teacher who saw something in you before you saw it in yourself.

It can be the customer who became a friend, the coworker who became a confidant, or the person you always made sure to hug because somehow a handshake simply wasn’t enough.

We never really know which ordinary interaction will eventually become a treasured memory.

We don’t know when “See you next time” might quietly become the last goodbye.

So hug people. Tell them you’re happy to see them. Stop for the conversation even when you’re busy. Say the kind thing you’re thinking instead of assuming there will be another opportunity.

Let people know when they’ve made an impression on your life. Because love doesn’t require shared DNA, and neither does grief.

Some people simply find their way into our hearts and make themselves at home there. And while losing them hurts, what a beautiful privilege it is that our paths crossed at all.

In the end, perhaps one of the greatest ways we can honor the people we’ve lost is to hold the people who are still here just a little closer—and never underestimate the power of one more hug.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hello and happy end of July 2026!

We are almost through the Summer, which is crazy!

Time to drive right in!

There are moments in life that quietly remind us who helped shape the people we’ve become. This week, I learned of the passing of my high school choir teacher, Mrs. Kline Smith, and I’ve found myself reflecting on just how much of my life and ministry still carries her fingerprints.

She was the kind of teacher who made music feel magical. Glitter wasn’t just a craft supply—it was practically a personality trait. Every production had a theme, every performance had intention, and every student was encouraged to believe they were capable of something greater than they imagined.

As a nervous freshman, she entrusted me with playing the Hallelujah Chorus on the piano alongside the choir and orchestra. Looking back, that was an incredible act of faith in a teenager who wasn’t quite sure he belonged behind those keys. She believed in me to play that wholeheartedly and that is something I’ve never forgotten.

The older I get, the more I realize that the traditions I love creating didn’t begin with me. The themed Christmas Eve services I enjoy planning, the carefully chosen choir anthems, and the desire to create worship experiences that people remember all trace back, in one way or another, to lessons I learned sitting in her classroom.

She taught me that music isn’t just something we perform—it’s something we experience together. It’s storytelling. It’s community. It’s joy wrapped in harmony. I don’t know that I ever properly thanked her for planting those seeds, but I hope she knew just how far they would grow.

Those thoughts have stayed with me as I’ve spent the past few weeks serving as Music Director for Center Stage Theater Camp at Ephrata Performing Arts Center. Working alongside Ms. Kim, Ms. Sarah, and an incredibly talented group of young performers on Mary Poppins Jr. has been one of the unexpected gifts of my summer.

Every rehearsal has been filled with laughter, curiosity, and those magical moments when a child suddenly discovers they can do something they never thought possible. Watching these young performers grow in confidence reminds me that the future is in remarkably good hands.

Their enthusiasm is contagious, their creativity is limitless, and their willingness to cheer one another on gives me hope.

In a world that often feels weighed down by discouraging headlines, financial pressures, and the endless list of things demanding our attention, these experiences have gently redirected my focus. It’s easy to become consumed by the “what ifs” and the worries that seem to multiply overnight.

I’ve certainly caught myself giving too much energy to things that, in the grand scheme of life, aren’t what truly sustain me. They aren’t the things that fill my heart or make me feel alive.

Instead, I’m reminded that joy has always been found in the simplest places: a choir rehearsal, a Christmas anthem, a theater full of children discovering their gifts, a mentor who believed in a freshman pianist, or a room full of people singing together.

Those are the moments that leave a lasting imprint. Those are the moments that remind me why I continue to say yes to music, to community, and to creating spaces where people can belong.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’ve needed all along. Life will always offer reasons to worry, but it also offers countless opportunities to notice the good. Sometimes the good sparkles a little—like glitter scattered across a stage. Sometimes it sounds like children singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

And sometimes it lives in the legacy of a teacher whose kindness and creativity continue to echo through the lives of her students long after the final curtain has closed.

For that reminder, and for all the people who continue to inspire me to choose joy, I am incredibly grateful.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi folks!

How are we almost halfway through 2026 already?!

YIKES!

That means…there is no time to lose. Let’s get right into it!

On March 28, during an in-person session with Ryan where we were catching up over coffee at Sunshine Studio, Ryan felt called to pull a few tarot cards. Whether you believe in tarot or simply appreciate the opportunity for reflection, the cards sparked a meaningful conversation.

One of the cards pulled was the Death card. While the name itself can sound intimidating, the themes were anything but. The words that stood out were death and rebirth, big changes, and a time to move on from something that no longer serves you. At the time, I listened, nodded, and tucked those thoughts away. I had no idea how significant those words would become just a few weeks later.

Another card that he pulled was the Three of Cups. Friendship. Circle of support. Collaboration. Community. Creativity. Shared joy. As those themes were discussed, I found myself smiling because they already felt familiar. I’ve always believed that relationships are one of life’s greatest gifts, but I didn’t yet realize how much I would need those relationships in the weeks ahead.

Three short weeks later, on April 16, I was unexpectedly terminated from my full-time job. Suddenly, the messages from both cards felt less like coincidence and more like an invitation to pay attention.

The past two months have been an emotional whirlwind. (A HUGE shout out to Lititz Apothecary along with Barb and Pam who were so gracious to give me more hours during this period of transition).

There have been moments of uncertainty, disappointment, and questions about what comes next. But there have also been moments of incredible clarity.

When something you’ve known for years comes to an end, you’re forced to take a closer look at what remains.

What fills your soul?

What energizes you?

What brings genuine joy?

For me, the answer wasn’t found in a title, a paycheck, or a carefully planned career path. It was found in people. It was found in music ministry, community, friendships, creative projects, my podcast, writing, serving others, and the simple moments that make life meaningful.

The Three of Cups came to life in ways I never could have anticipated. Friends checked in. Family offered encouragement. Colleagues shared kind words. Members of my church community reminded me of my gifts. People showed up with support, opportunities, prayers, laughter, conversations, and reminders that my worth has never been tied to a job.

During a season that could have easily felt isolating, I was surrounded by a circle of people who refused to let me walk through it alone.

As I look back now, I can’t help but see the beauty in both cards appearing together. The Death card wasn’t about an ending—it was about making room for a new beginning. And the Three of Cups was a reminder that no rebirth happens alone.

I am incredibly grateful for the people who have helped carry me through this season. The last two months have been a powerful reminder that sometimes life’s greatest transformations aren’t found in what we lose, but in what we discover was there all along.

Death isn’t always the end of a life–it can be the end of a version of ourselves that no longer serves us. In that ending, I found the space to be reborn–not as someone new, but as someone more honest, more aware, and more grateful that I ever thought possible. None of this happened alone.

To the people who held hope for me when I couldn’t hold if for myself, who offered their strength when mine was gone, and who reminded me there was still light worth walking toward: thank you. You gave me the energy, the courage, and sometimes just the extra push to keep going.

Most importantly, you helped me find the strength that had been waiting inside me all long.

This isn’t the end of my story. It’s the beginning of a life I’m finally awake enough to truly appreciate.

And with that, keep eyes on my social media platforms for a VERY EXCITING announcement coming Friday, July 3rd!

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi folks!

Cheers to another month coming to an end. We are almost halfway through 2026.

That is CRAY.

Time to dive right in.

May has felt like a month of reflection for me—a quieter season filled with long thoughts, moments of solitude, and trying to better understand myself and the spaces I move through.

Sometimes life gets so loud that we don’t stop long enough to notice what is weighing on us until we finally have a moment to sit still. And in the stillness, old feelings have a funny way of resurfacing.

Lately, I’ve realized how many of my triggers still trace back to my younger years. That feeling of not being invited. Not being included. Watching others gather while wondering if there was something about me that made me less wanted or less enough.

It’s amazing how those emotions from high school can quietly follow us into adulthood, disguising themselves in new situations and relationships while still carrying the same sting underneath.

I think that feeling can become especially amplified within parts of gay culture at times. There are moments where it can feel incredibly exclusive—as though worth is tied to appearance, status, wealth, popularity, or being part of the “right” crowd.

If you aren’t pretty enough, connected enough, or socially polished enough, it can leave you feeling invisible. And the truth is, that kind of environment can be exhausting for the soul when all you really want is authentic connection and belonging.

Because at the end of the day, I’m learning that what matters most is keeping focused on what is good for your spirit. The people who make you feel safe. The conversations that leave you lighter instead of drained. The spaces where you can show up fully as yourself without feeling like you have to perform to earn your seat at the table.

I think this is why I can’t stop thinking about the therapist who stopped into the Apothecary recently and told me she would hire me simply because the name on my name tag read as “Mr. Sunshine.” She probably had no idea how deeply that moment would land with me. 

Just a few days ago, I watched a video from Simon Sinek where he shared an article discussing how human beings often only need eight minutes of time from another person during moments of stress to no longer feel alone.

Eight minutes.

There was something incredibly powerful and heartbreaking about that to me all at once.

Maybe that’s the reminder I needed this month though.

And maybe it’s the reminder that you need this month too.

That meaningful connection doesn’t have to be extravagant to matter.

Sometimes healing looks like someone checking in.

Someone listening.

Someone making space for you—whether that means a quick text, phone call, FaceTime, walk, or espresso martini complete with vulnerable and honest words from the heart.

And maybe growth is learning that while exclusion may leave scars, it does not get to define your worth.

There are still good people, good conversations, and good souls out there—and perhaps the most important thing we can do is continue becoming one of them for ourselves and for others.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi all!

It’s been a tough month to say the least. And the months ahead are going to be somewhat tough as well–but a humbling experience for myself awaits and continues to unfold.

Let’s dive right in.

Life has a way of shifting when you least expect it. One moment, everything feels steady and predictable, and the next, the ground beneath you changes at the drop of a hat. It’s in those moments that you realize how little control we truly have over timing, circumstances, and outcomes.

Some days feel light and hopeful, but others carry a weight that’s hard to explain—a heaviness that lingers in your chest and follows you through even the smallest tasks.

I’ve had days where that weight has turned into overwhelm. Days where my thoughts spiral and I start to question my worth, worrying that somehow the world will look at me and only see failure. It’s a quiet kind of fear, but a powerful one. The kind that makes you second-guess your path, your decisions, and even yourself.

And when you’re in it, it can feel incredibly isolating, like you’re the only one trying to hold everything together while it’s quietly falling apart.

Recently, I’ve been holding onto a quote that has both challenged and comforted me: “we all have to die a little to grow again.” At first, it felt heavy—almost too honest. But the more I sit with it, the more I understand.

Growth isn’t always beautiful or inspiring in the moment. Sometimes it looks like loss, like endings, like parts of your life falling away before you’re ready to let them go.

But maybe that’s where the transformation begins.

Losing a job unexpectedly is one of those moments that stings deeply. It can feel personal, even when you know it’s not entirely a reflection of your worth. There’s a grief in it—the loss of routine, identity, stability, and even confidence.

Picking up the pieces isn’t simple. It’s messy and uncomfortable, filled with doubt and questions. And yet, even in that discomfort, there is something quietly rebuilding beneath the surface.

Because as hard as it is to believe in those moments, things do have a way of working out. Not always in the way you planned, and not always on the timeline you hoped for—but often in a way that leads you somewhere more aligned, more honest, and more fulfilling.

I’m learning to be grateful for the people who have walked alongside me so far, offering love, support, and lessons that have shaped who I am.

For those who may not continue into the next chapter, I carry appreciation for what they’ve given me.

And for the people I haven’t met yet, I hold a quiet hope and openness, trusting that they, too, will play a part in the growth still to come.

Here’s to dying a little in order to grow again.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi everyone!

Happy almost April!

2026 is flying by! And Mother Nature is still CRAY.

Anyway, it’s time to dig right in, so here goes.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I spend my time—and more specifically, who I spend it with. It’s funny how something as intangible as time can start to feel incredibly tangible when you realize just how finite it is.

I’ve found myself taking quiet inventory:

Who leaves me feeling energized?

Who makes me laugh so hard I forget to check my phone?

Who helps me breathe a little deeper just by being around?

I’m learning that it’s not selfish to be intentional here—it’s necessary.

I’ve also been leaning into the moments that feel like small magic. The kind that sneak up on you make you pause in stillness—laughs at the family dinner table, cocktails with friends, game nights with people who make us laugh until our cheeks hurt.

Those moments used to feel like bonuses, but now they feel essential. They remind me that joy doesn’t always come in big, life-altering waves; sometimes it’s tucked into the quiet corners of ordinary days, waiting for you to notice.

Alongside that, I’ve been craving comfort in a way I never really have before. Soft blankets, familiar routines, evenings that don’t ask too much of me. There’s something powerful about choosing “comfy cozy” on purpose—about letting yourself rest without guilt, about not needing every moment to be productive or impressive.

It feels like a quiet rebellion against the constant push to do more, be more, prove more.

At the same time, I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy to stay positive. The world feels heavy lately—like there’s always something new to carry, something else to process. And I’m starting to realize that it’s okay to admit that.

It’s okay to feel sad, to feel overwhelmed, to not have a perfectly optimistic outlook all the time. There’s a strange kind of relief in allowing those feelings to exist without trying to immediately fix or reframe them.

Sometimes, just acknowledging the weight is enough.

And in the midst of all this reflection, somehow, I’ve also watched Zootopia 2 six times since it dropped on Disney+.

Six. Times.

At first, it felt like pure comfort watching, but somewhere along the way, it started to feel like a gentle reminder. Beneath the humor and the nostalgia, there’s this simple but profound message: we’re all different, and that’s not something to tolerate—it’s something to embrace.

Maybe that’s the thread tying everything together for me right now.

Being intentional with my time, holding space for both joy and heaviness, finding comfort where I can—and remembering that empathy isn’t just a nice idea, it’s something we have to actively practice if we want to make this fractured world feel a little more whole.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Well, hey there folks!

February is almost over and it has been just about a month since my last post!

Say WHAT?!?!

Where is the time going?! Goodness gracious me.

There is a kind of love that exists before romance, before friendship, before anyone else ever gets a say in who we are. It is the quiet, steady relationship we build with ourselves. Self-love is the most important love because it is the foundation every other connection stands on. The way we speak to ourselves becomes the way we allow others to speak to us. The way we value ourselves shapes what we believe we deserve.

The discovery of self-love is never finished. It isn’t a destination we arrive at, unpack, and stay forever. It is evolving, shifting as we grow, stumble, learn, and try again. Some seasons we feel strong and grounded, confident in our skin and certain of our worth. Other seasons feel foggy, like we’ve misplaced the map and can’t quite remember how to get back home to ourselves. Both are part of the journey.

In a world filled with highlight reels and polished images, it can be so easy to lose our footing. Comparison sneaks in quietly. We measure our bodies, our successes, our relationships, our timelines. We scroll and suddenly everyone else seems brighter, further ahead, more put together. In those moments, self-love can feel distant, like a language we used to know but can’t quite translate anymore.

But the beautiful thing about self-love is that it is patient. It waits for our return. We are allowed to wander and still come back. We can catch ourselves in the act of comparison, take a breath, and gently turn inward again. We can remember that someone else shining does not make us dim. There is room for all of us.

Coming back to ourselves means becoming our own biggest fan. It means cheering for our progress, forgiving our missteps, and choosing compassion over criticism. It means celebrating the small victories no one else sees. It means learning to sit with who we are today while still believing in who we are becoming.

Self-love asks us to participate in our own lives as allies rather than enemies. To speak kindly. To rest when we need it. To try again when we fail. To believe that we are worthy of the same tenderness we offer so freely to the people we love.

And maybe that’s the real practice: not perfection, but returning. Again and again, as many times as it takes, we come back home to ourselves.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP! 

Well, hi there folks!

It is officially 2026!

Am I the only one that feels like 2025 just flew by?

Actually, it FLEW by.

Yes, that is all caps.

Well, we are starting this January with some words for you enjoyment!

Well buckle up because here goes!

There’s no single photo that can hold an entire year.

I tried—scrolling through my camera roll, pausing on moments that made me smile, moments that made my chest ache a little, moments that felt like milestones. But the truth is, this year wasn’t about what I captured. It was about what quietly changed me.

This year was a collection of feelings more than events.

It sounded like singing my heart out at a Katy Perry concert with Devin and Karey and surrounded by strangers who somehow felt like friends for a few hours. It tasted like adult beverages shared over laughter—the kind that sneaks up on you and reminds you how good it feels to be fully present.

It looked like saying yes before I felt ready—starting a podcast with Karey, trusting that our conversations were worth sharing, and learning as we went–and laughing all the way. It looked like stepping into the role of Music Director at St. Luke with equal parts humility and awe, realizing how sacred it is to be trusted with something that touches people’s hearts.

It felt like beach trips that filled my cup in familiar ways—and one that changed me completely. My first solo beach trip taught me how to sit with myself, how to listen to the quiet, how to breathe without rushing to the next thing. The ocean didn’t ask anything of me. It simply reminded me that rest can be healing.

There were firsts that still make me smile: my first Market Days in Chicago with Devin, soaking in the energy, the joy, the freedom of it all. Casino trips with Marissa—late nights, bright lights, and memories that didn’t need photos to be permanent. Moments that live somewhere deeper than my phone.

This year was also about people—the kind who anchor you.

Quality time with friends and family grounded me more than I can fully put into words. Long conversations. Shared meals. Comfortable silences. Being reminded, again and again, who I am when I’m surrounded by the people who know me best.

It was walking into my first Hope Noted Summit carrying questions and quiet heaviness—and walking out carrying something lighter. Not answers necessarily, but hope. And sometimes, that’s enough.

If this year taught me anything, it’s that joy doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it shows up softly. Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it’s choosing presence over productivity. Sometimes it’s realizing that you don’t have to earn the right to slow down.

As I step into 2026—the year of the Horse—I’m choosing forward motion with softness.

This will be a year of tending to my mental health with intention. A year of reading more and cluttering less—both in my space and in my mind. A year of recharge, not rush. Of honoring my energy instead of draining it.

Here’s to the year that held me when I needed it most. And here’s to the year ahead—one I’m stepping into gently, bravely, and with an open heart.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!

Hi all!

Surprise! It’s me!

The week of Christmas and I’ve got some new words for you!

Yay!

Let’s get right down to it, shall we?!

The week of Christmas carries a unique kind of energy. It’s filled with lights, music, gatherings, traditions, and expectations—but also with exhaustion, reflection, and sometimes quiet heaviness. While the world feels loud with celebration, this week can be a reminder that joy doesn’t have to be rushed, forced, or perfect.

This season invites us to pause.

Protecting your peace during the week of Christmas isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. Between last-minute errands, family dynamics, social obligations, and the pressure to make everything “magical,” it’s easy to forget to check in with ourselves. But peace isn’t found in doing more; it’s often found in doing less.

Mental health matters just as much during the holidays as it does the rest of the year—maybe even more. It’s okay if this season brings mixed emotions. It’s okay if you feel joyful one moment and overwhelmed the next. Giving yourself permission to feel exactly where you are is a powerful form of self-care.

This week is also a reminder of the impact kindness has—especially the quiet kind. Kindness toward others looks like patience in conversations, grace in misunderstandings, and understanding that everyone is carrying something unseen. But kindness toward yourself is just as important. Rest when you need to. Step away when things feel heavy. Say no without guilt. Say yes to moments that fill your cup, even if they look simple or still.

As Christmas approaches, remember that presence matters more than perfection. The most meaningful moments often happen in the in-between: a shared laugh, a moment of silence, a deep breath taken before reacting. These are the moments that protect peace and nurture connection.

May this week be less about expectations and more about intention. Less about doing and more about being. And as the year winds down, may we all move through this season with softer hearts, steadier minds, and a little extra kindness—for others and for ourselves.

Sprinkle sunshine always,

JP!