A few hundred church bulletins had to be perforated each week when I served as a pastor.
I HATED it.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it.
Or that I thought the task was beneath me.
I’m just not wired for that kind of work.

Tedious tasks drain me.
Some people find that kind of repetitive grind energizing.
“It’s kind of relaxing,” they say.
My brain can’t comprehend that absurdity.

I was blessed with a tenacious coworker.
He was one of those sadists who enjoy such things.
I never simply asked the man to help me out.
Young Jimmy didn’t have that kind of self-awareness.

Each week I’d sit the bulletins on the white plastic banquet table that doubled as our weekday workspace. “I’ll get to these this afternoon” I would say to no one in particular...but always within earshot of my coworker. I’d then scurry off to some task more palatable to my underdeveloped attention span.

Coming back to perfectly perforated bulletins always felt like Christmas morning to me. “No worries at all” he would say. “Happy to help.”
I’m sure he was on to my deceit, but that was okay with me.
At least I didn’t have to sit there for an hour bashing my head against the table.

Brian, if you read this…
I’m sorry for the manipulation,
Thank you for saving my sanity,
And maybe you’re welcome? Since you always enjoyed doing such things. 😂

I’m learning through The Six Types of Working Genius that I don’t typically get burned out just because I’m trying to do too much. I get burned out when I’m doing too much of the wrong type of work.

Now I just have to fix the problem without tricking my coworkers!

Can anyone else relate?

Found what I thought was a note in my suit jacket at the gala this past weekend.
Turns out it wasn’t as fun as a secret handwritten letter,
Just something I had jotted down for a speech last year…quoting myself 🤪🤦‍♂️

“The best people I know are serious about what they do, but they don’t take themselves too seriously.”

Turns out I still agree with last year’s me.
You always want people to take things with just the right amount of seriousness.​

Take pickup basketball…it’s zero fun if no one cares enough to compete.
But if we’re recreating the Malace in the Palace on the church playground,
Well, that’s no fun either.​

I’m still very much a work in progress over here.
Turns out there’s some tension between self-awareness and self-improvement.

Drop me a note if you can relate.
Handwritten and sneakily dropped into my jacket pocket is preferred,
But in the comments works, too!

I scrambled to open my notes app when Amy Panzarella, SPHR, SCP, ACC shared this during a Leadership West Virginia Session last week.

“Everyone knows something that I don’t” has long been a core value for me.

And I truly believe that asking a good question is basically a super power.

I’d never thought of curiosity as a gift you give to someone else, though.

But, if you think about it, attention and consideration really are profound acts of generosity. 

And here’s the thing about gift giving:

A wise dude named Jesus once said.

“It’s more blessed to give than to receive.”

When it comes to curiosity, that’s certainly true.

Because when I truly listen to someone,

they give me a little glimpse into *their* world.

And every time they do, my world gets bigger, too.

---

This is what LEADERSHIP WEST VIRGINIA INC has been for me so far.

One meaningful conversation at a time.

One question that led somewhere unexpected.

One story that changed how I see the state, the people in it…and even myself.

Curiosity doesn’t have to be heavy to matter.

Sometimes it’s listening to what someone is passionate about.

Or hearing them talk shop with words you’re not sure you understand.

Other times it’s talking about that poop cruise documentary they watched on Netflix.

Or even just letting someone vent about their tire that shredded seven minutes before reaching the hotel.

(Okay, yeah, that last one was me.)

---

Experiencing Leadership West Virginia has truly been a gift.

Experiencing it with a group of such curious people has already made it great.

Every time I see the New River Gorge Bridge, I’m in awe.
Pictures just don’t do it justice.
Last week, our Leadership West Virginia class stood there taking it all in.
Learning about the park.
Admiring the view.
Dreading walking back up the steps.

A young couple walked by and posed for a few photos with the bridge behind them.
Then the girl flipped through their pictures and asked,
“What’s so special about this bridge anyway?”
The guy just shrugged.

I didn’t say anything, but I could have!
“You know it was the longest single-span arch bridge in the world when it opened, right?”
“It’s still the fifth longest in the world. Still the longest outside China.”
“It’s an engineering marvel nestled right here in West Virginia!”

But she didn’t need a history lesson.
She can ask ChatGPT herself.
She needed to open her eyes.
I wanted to yell,
TURN AROUND AND LOOK!!

We do this all the time.
We become blind to what’s right in front of us.
We overlook wonder because it’s familiar.
We miss what’s beautiful because it’s ours.

But the bridge? Still there.
The view? Still breathtaking.
So are the local shops.
The family-run businesses.
The people showing up every day to build something beautiful in this place we call home.

We say we love this place.
Sometimes we have a funny way of showing it.
But we can change the narrative.
By supporting ourselves and each other.
By choosing local when we can.
And recognizing the value that’s already here.
We can change the story we tell (and believe) about ourselves.

If I’ve taken anything from these first few sessions of Leadership West Virginia, it’s this:
West Virginia is stunning.
But its people? Even more beautiful.

There are incredible things happening, led by neighbors, friends, and folks who care deeply.
We don’t need someone to come in and save us.
We just need to start believing in what we already have.

I’ve had the privilege to meet so many incredibly kind, brilliant, and passionate people over the last couple of years.
Thank you all for inspiring me to be a better version of myself.
Thank you for helping make our home the best it can be.

Let’s stop tearing ourselves down.
Let’s start seeing the good.
Supporting the good.
Celebrating the good.

Because it’s here.
And it’s ours.

We just have to turn around and look.

Five years ago today, I posted my reflections on Psalm 23 in the midst of Covid. In reading the Facebook post again, it still hits close to home. Maybe it will for you too.

I’ve taken the opportunity to rewrite it a bit as well.

A few years ago, I heard a pastor point out that there are zero sheep mentioned in Psalm 23, and yet… we can’t help but picture sheep when we read it.

Why do we immediately picture sheep when we talk about Psalm 23?
Because the Psalm talks about a shepherd.

His point stuck with me: You learn who you are when you learn who your shepherd is.

When I taught through Psalm 23 several years ago, the theme I kept coming back to was: don’t base your identity on something that can be taken away.

We base our identities on everything that can be taken away.

Our job titles. Our talents. Our bank accounts.

Try this sometime: answer the question “Tell me about yourself” without mentioning what you do for a living. It’s weirdly hard.

Back in 2020, a lot of what we do got stripped away. For many of us, so did our sense of who we are.

So here’s the question I had to wrestle with…and maybe it’s worth revisiting today:

Who are you?

Not “what do you want to accomplish?”

Just… who are you?

I started journaling my prayers for a while around that time. It was basically free-writing what I was thinking and working through it with God. One day I wrote this:

“I often greatly overestimate my ability while I greatly underestimate my worth.”

Oof.

The truth is, I think I’m good at a lot of things.
But if I’m being honest with myself,
I’m probably just average at most of them.
Below average at some.

And that’s okay.
Because my worth was never supposed to come from what I do.

Every skill or talent I have could disappear tomorrow.
I’d still be just as valuable in God’s eyes.

The Lord is my shepherd.
When I really know Him,
that’s when I start to really know me.

If you’re feeling lost. If you feel like you’re not sure who you are without the classroom, the business, the stage, the sermons, the coaching, the field, the followers, or the memes (okay, we can always share memes ), you are not alone.

Those things might be part of your purpose,
but they have nothing to do with your value.

You are worthy of being loved and accepted.
Jesus proved that on the cross.

So maybe, just maybe, the best thing you could do this week is pause
and ask yourself,

“How does my Shepherd see me?”

You might be surprised by the answer.

My three-year-old had a full-on meltdown a few days ago. All because his banana broke in half.

I was already mid-scramble trying to get everyone out the door for the day.

Slinging backpacks over tiny shoulders,
stressing over an already overflowing email inbox,
staring at an early morning text that kicked me square in the teeth…

All this while now managing a tiny demon child who just became emotionally unglued over fruit.

Chaos.

I stopped,
took a deep breath,
and whispered to myself:
“Bird by Bird, buddy. Bird by Bird.”

This quick throwaway line from my beloved Ted Lasso has changed me. It’s been a seismic shift in how I approach each day. I had no clue what it meant the first time I watched. So, I did the only reasonable thing a millennial knows how to do.

I googled it.

I learned that “Bird by Bird” comes from Anne Lamott’s book of the same name. She tells a story about her brother who was overwhelmed by a school project on birds. She uses this memory to illustrate how big tasks are best handled one small piece at a time.

“Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother’s shoulder, and said, ‘Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.’”

— Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (pp. 17–18)

Megan and I have related to Lamott’s brother more often than we’d like to admit this past year.

Work stress,
family issues,
endless to-do lists,
strained relationships,
and, frankly, a never-ending pile of laundry.

It all left us feeling “immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead.”

I can’t tell you how many times Megan has chuckled sarcastically, looked at me, and asked, “What are we going to do?”

My answer is always the same: “Just take it bird by bird.”

Megan’s over it. Like eye-roll, deep sigh, walks away mid-sentence over it. But it’s still my go-to answer.

This mindset of doing the next small thing steadies me, even when the world feels like a slow-burning dumpster fire. It keeps me focused on what’s right in front of me and quiets the worries that often pile up and paralyze me.

One by one. Bit by bit. Bird by bird.

But Bird By Bird has done more than just help me manage my everyday chaos.

It has taught me that I can move forward. That I can make real progress. That I’m capable of accomplishing something meaningful even when the work is big and life feels heavy.

Bird by Bird is about breaking free from feeling like I’m stuck in neutral. It’s about believing that I can move forward even in the middle of the mess. It’s about realizing I may not be able to do everything, but I can do something.

I don’t have to have all the answers.
I just need to keep going.
Keep moving forward.
Day by day.
Bird by bird.

So if life feels heavy and you’re not sure where to start, in the spirit of Anne Lamott and Ted Lasso: “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

Maybe you’re tired.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of trying to hold it all together.
Tired of hoping for something you’re not even sure is real.

Maybe you prayed and didn’t hear back.
Maybe the people who talked about grace didn’t offer much of it.
Maybe church became the place where you had to smile and act fine, even when you weren’t.

Maybe no one ever showed you who Jesus really was.
Maybe they just gave you a list of rules.
Or a long silence.
Or a judgmental look.

So you stopped showing up.
Or maybe you still show up, but you’re not sure why.
Maybe you want to believe again, but you don’t know where to start.

I get that.

I’ve carried my own questions.
I’ve drifted.
I’ve been let down by people who claimed to speak for God.

I’ve come close to walking away.
But I keep coming back to Jesus.

Not the one from the headlines or hashtags.
Not the one used to push guilt or shame.
Not the one people use to get rich or get votes.

I’m talking about the real one.
The one who fed the hungry.
Who touched the sick.
Who wept for his friends.
Who bent low to wash feet.
Who stayed kind when the crowd turned.
Who told the truth, even when it cost him everything.
Who didn’t reach for power.
Who laid down his life.

The one who didn’t stay dead.

If that’s true, and I believe it with everything I have, then maybe the story isn’t over.
Maybe there’s still hope. Even now.

You don’t have to be sure.
You don’t need the right words.
You don’t have to clean yourself up.

You can just say, “Jesus, I want to know if you’re real.”
He can work with that.

And if you try church again this weekend, or sometime down the road,
Look for honesty.
Look for kindness.
Look for Jesus.

Not the show. Not the shame.

Just Jesus.

He will still meet you where you are.
He still sees you, even when you feel invisible.
He still calls you by name, even when you’ve forgotten who you really are.

Just Jesus.

That’s all I’ve got.
But it’s been enough for me.
Maybe you’ll find He’s enough for you, too.

I used to keep my thoughts to myself… and my Notes app.

I like writing.
I like sharing insights.
I like talking about what I’m learning.
And I like hearing and learning from others.

But you know what?
I don’t feel like an “expert.”
I don’t want to come off preachy.
And I definitely don’t want to sound like a know-it-all.

You may have noticed lately that I’ve been hitting publish way more than I used to.

I used to be the quintessential Facebook creeper:
Quietly scrolling, never posting, always judging.

But lately?
I’ve been more active online.
I’ve been blogging and writing on social media.
And I’m quicker to share when I find something interesting.

Am I suddenly way more confident?
Have I learned a bunch of new insights all of the sudden?

Nah, not really.
Sure, I’m always learning.
But the more I learn, the more I realize how little I really know.

So, what’s changed?
I’ve learned that we all have something to learn.
And we all have a story that can help someone else.

I don’t share about my life, my work, or my kids because I think I have it all together.
I share because I know I don’t.
And I know you don’t either.

So maybe you can learn a little something from my mistakes.

And if not, you’ll at least feel better about yours.

Hey buddy,

I know you’re scared.

Not of the dark. Not of monsters.

You’re scared of being abandoned.
Of being let down.
Of getting close and then getting left.
Of waiting for someone to show up and realizing they’re not coming.

You don’t say it this way yet, but that’s what it is.

So you try to be easy.
Easy to like. Easy to keep.
You pay attention.
You read the room.
You read people.
You adjust.
You go with the flow.

You learn to be what you think people want.
You learn to take up less space.
You’re afraid of what might happen if you show up as yourself.

Underneath it all, you’re bracing…

For the silence.
For the subtle shift.
For the moment when someone decides you’re too much.
Or not enough.

That fear doesn’t go away. It just gets better at hiding.

It shows up as anxiety.
As depression.
Overthinking.
Achieving.
Busyness.
Panic.

And the worst part is: you can’t explain it. You just feel it. Like a low hum in the background, always there, even when everything’s quiet.

This is what draws you to Jesus.

Not the rules or the rituals.
Not a perfect explanation of faith.

It’s the promise that He will never leave.
That He won’t walk away when you are sad.
That He won’t disappear when you don’t feel like you’re enough.

Jesus doesn’t make you feel like a burden.
He doesn’t get tired of your feelings.
He doesn’t flinch when you bring the version of yourself you think makes people leave.

It’s this faith that will shape who you become.
It still does.

Not because He fixes everything in your life.
But because He’s still here.

Always.

And you’re not alone.

Not now.
Not ever.

Love,
Jimmy

“Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

– Hebrews 13:

It was junior year, Mrs. Harmon’s class. I was hiding behind a worn out copy of Of Mice and Men, doing everything I could to hide the tears that were welling up. There was something about Lenny—big, gentle Lenny—that got to me as I read through the pages. I didn’t quite know why at the time. I just knew I understood him.

If you’ve not read it, Lenny is a gentle giant—a big man with an even bigger heart. But, his mind doesn’t quite match his strength. He has this intense desire to care for things, from soft animals to the people he loves, but his own strength and enthusiasm often work against him.

“I didn’t mean no harm, George.“

All Lenny wants is to hold things he loves close, but he doesn’t know his own strength. In one of the most well-known scenes, he kills a mouse he keeps in his pocket, holding it too tightly without realizing it. “I didn’t mean no harm, George,” he says to his friend. It’s Lenny’s constant reply. It cuts deep because he truly doesn’t mean any harm.

Lenny’s dreams are simple but profound, and they all hinge on a future where he can be close to things he loves without causing harm. He and his friend George talk about it endlessly: “An’ live off the fatta the lan’,” Lenny says, eyes bright with a childlike joy, picturing a life where he has space to love without hurting. But, Lenny doesn’t see his own impact. He doesn’t realize how his strength can overwhelm the things he most wants to love.

Being a “Gentle Giant”

I think what gets me is that Lenny doesn’t mean to cause pain; he’s just trying to show up in the best way he knows how. This image of Lenny holding too tight has stuck with me, resurfacing over the years as I’ve grown into my own version of a “gentle giant.” I’ve always been big—big frame, big heart, big feelings. When I care about someone, it shows.

My instincts are to dive right in. If something matters to someone I value, it matters to me, too. I want to be right there—helping out, making things happen, and being part of it all. But over the years, I’ve noticed that my way of showing up, much like Lenny’s, can sometimes be a bit too much. It’s like my presence alone has a weight I don’t always see, and in my eagerness, I end up bulldozing into situations where I only meant to lend a hand.

For a long time, I didn’t question it. I thought if I meant well, if I had good intentions, that was all that mattered. But there was a moment—a quiet, almost unremarkable one—where I realized that my “help” was coming across as pressure. I could see it in someone’s face who I love dearly, and in that moment, it hit me: I was adding weight, not relief. Like Lenny, I just wanted to hold close what mattered to me, but my hands were too heavy. I wasn’t helping; I was smothering.

I’m still learning how to navigate this gentle giant dilemma. I’m trying to show up in ways that are meaningful without being overwhelming, finding that balance between being present and giving space. It’s a lesson Lenny never quite learned, and his story haunts me for that reason. His love and care were so big, but they didn’t always come across in the way he intended.

The truth is, being big-hearted can be complicated. Showing up doesn’t always mean taking the lead, nor does it mean being front and center. Sometimes, it means waiting in the wings, ready but not imposing. It means being there for the people you care about in a way that doesn’t overshadow or overburden. And maybe, sometimes, it means taking a step back, so they feel your presence without feeling your weight.

For anyone else who feels like they might be “too much” sometimes, maybe you’ll relate. Sometimes, showing love isn’t about doing everything; it’s about giving the people you’d do anything for room to breath and space to trust that you’re there for them no matter what.

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Go oft awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

— To A Mouse by Robert Burns

Earlier this year, I did something incredibly dumb.

I fell asleep at the wheel. While driving. With my 8-year-old son, Isaac, in the car.

We’re okay. He’s okay.
My truck… not okay.

We took out an old rusty fence post, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t doing much for curb appeal anyway. But it could have been so much worse. That thought haunts me.

I didn’t doze off because I was being careless. I wasn’t up bingeing TikToks or pulling an all-nighter on NBA 2K. I was just… exhausted.

The kind of tired that makes your eyelids feel like weighted blankets.

The kind that sneaks up at stoplights, in church, or in meetings where you’re the one talking.

And it turns out, I wasn’t just normal tired.

I was sleep-apnea-level tired.

Severe.

AHI score of 101, which I’ve been told the passing grade is under 5 and anything over 30 means “Please see a doctor yesterday.”

I quite simply wasn’t really sleeping. Ever.

I’d go to bed and wake up, but my body never clocked out. I have been running on fumes, and my family, especially my boys, have been riding shotgun with me through it all.

So, I started this week on a CPAP machine.

A little device that makes me look like a retired X-Wing pilot.

I didn’t love the idea at first. There’s something about needing a machine to sleep that makes you feel old… like really old.

But, it’s been a few nights, and I feel different.

Not perfect. But more like me.
A little less foggy.
Starting to be a little more present.
Hopefully a whole lot less likely to veer into shrubbery.

I’m excited for this newfound hope and energy.
The kind of energy that makes other hard things feel doable.
Like getting healthier.
Playing more. Laughing louder. Showing up.

This was a wake-up call for me. Literally. I can’t be there for the people I love if I’m not fully here.

Present.
Awake.
Alive.

So yeah, I’m sleeping with a machine now.

And honestly?

I’m pretty excited about it.

“I’ll start Monday.”

We’ve all said it. We’ve all meant it.

If you struggle with your weight and health like I do, you probably say it multiple times a week.

I’ve always been an “all-in or all-out” kind of guy. Either I’m in healthy mode—or I’m very much not. And let’s be honest: it’s way easier to be out than all-in. This has led to some wild fluctuations in my weight, my health, and—let’s just call it—my general sense of being a functioning adult.

Sure, health is the most obvious place where this shows up. But honestly, it’s true for most of the disciplines that matter to me:

• Reading, which keeps me inspired.

• Writing, which untangles my brain.

• Exercise, which clears my mind as much as it helps my body.

• Professional learning, which keeps me motivated.

• Spiritual practices, which ground me.

• Relationships, which are hands-down the most important piece of my personal well-being.

I like all of these things. They make my life better. So why is it so hard to do them consistently?

As Katy Perry once prophesied:

‘Cause you’re hot then you’re cold
You’re yes then you’re no
You’re in then you’re out
You’re up then you’re down

🎶 Amen.

No More Day Ones

Starting is exhausting.

You need motivation. Time. Energy. A plan.

And when you stop? You’ve got to start again.

Honestly, I’m tired of starting over. I’m tired of a thousand “Day Ones.” I’m tired of wasting days not becoming the version of me I know is possible. I’m tired of being tired.

The Big Squeeze

I thought I’d heard every Lemon joke by middle school.

Wrong.

Some coworkers at Bullseye (okay—just Heath now) started calling me The Big Squeeze after someone dropped an “Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy” in a meeting. Honestly? Could be worse.

I’ve always hated that “lemon” has a negative spin:

• sour

• broken cars

• unwanted gifts from life

But “The Big Squeeze”? That one feels fun. It leans into effort and joy. It reminds me that squeezing the most out of life is something worth doing.

Learning to Be Present

I’ve always struggled to live in the now. Maybe that’s why I’m more comfortable dreaming about “starting someday” than just being the person I want to be—today.

You know the sayings:

• Seize the day.

• Be where your feet are.

• Live in the moment.

I believe them. I just have to learn how.

I want to stop worrying about how many pounds I’ve gained or lost. I want to be the kind of person who lives with healthy habits and presence—today.

Squeeze the Day

I don’t know how many days I have with my wife, my kids, my friends, my team.

I don’t know how many mornings I’ll wake up and get to do work I love with people I love.

I don’t know how many chances I’ll get to make a positive mark.

But I want to squeeze the most I can out of every day.

Whether life hands me lemons—or an easy peasy moment—I want to be here for it. Awake to it. Grateful for it.

Some days I’ll crush it. Some days I’ll probably crush a sleeve of Oreos.

But either way—I’m showing up. I’m sharing the journey.

No more Day Ones.

Just this one.

Squeeze the Day.

I’ve wasted countless hours of my life hunting for missing socks. One minute, they’re happily tumbling around in the dryer. The next? They’ve pulled a classic absent-dad move: “I’m just going out to pick up some milk real quick.” Spoiler: They’re not coming back.

At first, I blamed the socks. “Why can’t you just be where you’re supposed to be?” I’d grumble, shaking a lone sock like a detective interrogating a suspect on Law & Order.

But socks don’t go missing because they’re reckless. They disappear because the system they’re in is broken.

Think about it. In our house, socks run a gauntlet of chaos: overflowing hampers, hungry couch cushions, and an 8-year-old who treats socks like half-empty water bottles at a kid’s birthday party—abandoned without a second thought. There’s no good system in place. It’s a miracle any of them make it to the dryer at all.

Yet every time a sock goes missing, I get frustrated—at the sock, at my kid, at those cursed laundry gods who clearly have it out for me. But the blame game never solves the problem. The issue isn’t with the sock. It’s with the system.
“Your system is perfectly designed to get the results you're getting.” - Andy Stanley

This principle applies at work, too. Deadlines get missed, or projects derail, and we’re quick to point fingers at people. “Why can’t you just do what you’re supposed to do?”

But these aren't usually people problems. They are system problems.
I once heard Andy Stanley say, “Your system is perfectly designed to get the results you're getting.” Sure, people make mistakes and accidents happen. But, if we’re consistently getting bad results, it’s not about finding someone to blame. It’s about asking, What’s going on here? How can this system be better? What am I missing here?

When things go wrong, I’m learning to step back and look at the bigger picture. Are deadlines consistently slipping? Are certain teams always struggling to deliver? Those aren’t coincidences—they’re symptoms. And like any good detective, our job isn’t to arrest the usual suspects; it’s to investigate the scene.

Broken processes, unclear communication, missing tools, or just bad leadership. These are the real culprits behind most of our professional problems. Fixing our systems doesn’t just solve today’s issues; it prevents tomorrow’s.

At home, I’m trying to step back from the sock drama and work on creating a better system for our laundry chaos. And at work, I’m learning to diagnose bad processes before I start pointing fingers. Because when it comes to solving problems, it’s not about assigning blame—it’s about building something better.

And if those missing socks ever do reappear? I hope they bring the milk

.