The Between Place

From time to time, brothers reach out to me when they’re struggling—whether with one thing or another. I want to be clear about something: those conversations stay exactly where they belong—between us. They are not shared, no matter what.

Those conversations have made me reflect on something we often say in Masonry: that we take “good men and make them better.” In one sense, that’s absolutely true—we encourage each other to become the best versions of ourselves. But in another sense, it’s not quite accurate. I cannot make anyone do anything. Real growth has to come from within.

In Roman mythology, there was a god named Janus, a figure with two faces who could look both forward and backward. He was the god of beginnings and endings, presiding over transitions—what we might call “in-between spaces.” These spaces were considered sacred because they marked the passage from one state to another.

If you think about it, every moment we experience is one of these in-between spaces. Take a breath—the pause between inhale and exhale is a transition. Life itself is a constant movement between moments, never truly fixed, always shifting.

That brings to mind one of our tools: the 24-inch gauge. Its traditional meaning is well known, but consider another perspective. What if those 24 marks were a way to measure not time, but ourselves? Not in perfection, but in effort—how we show up as men and as human beings.

Do we ever reach a perfect “24”? Of course not. We’re human. We make mistakes, we fall short, we learn. Some days we do better than others, but the important thing is that we keep trying.

Interestingly, there’s something else divided into 24 parts: the day itself. And when our time runs out, that’s it. The glass doesn’t refill on its own. What we do with the time we’re given matters.

Day and night are also in-between spaces—one giving way to the other. We spend part of our time active, and part at rest. When we sleep, the past day is laid to rest as well, almost like placing it in a crypt. And when we wake, we begin again.

Yesterday is over. It’s finished. That doesn’t mean we escape the consequences of our actions—successes or failures—but it does mean we don’t have to stay buried in them. We can rise, leave them where they belong, and move forward. The past cannot be changed, but the present is always ours to shape.

There’s a song by Sixx:A.M. called “Accidents Can Happen,” written by Nikki Sixx about his struggles and recovery. It speaks to doing your best, slipping, and needing someone who understands—because a setback doesn’t mean everything is lost. It’s another in-between space: between who you were and who you’re becoming.

We are accountable for our actions, no question. I’ve made my share of mistakes—both long ago and more recently. I’ve stumbled, but I’ve also gotten back up. That’s the work: to keep moving forward, leaving yesterday where it belongs.

And for those who might look at someone else who is struggling—mentally, emotionally, physically, or spiritually—do me a favor. Go stand at the edge of a body of water and step in. Feel the coolness around your feet. Notice where you stand.

Then step out, dry off, and go offer that person your hand.

That moment—that choice—is another in-between space.

I love you and may we govern ourselves accordingly