I’m a big words-of-affirmation guy. I’m not above fishing for a compliment. If you send me a nice message, I’ll probably screenshot it for my future enjoyment. I have a drawer full of old thank-you notes sitting 18” away from me in my desk at this very moment.

I’ve noticed that when someone compliments me around a value I have, I tend to double down on it. Once, someone told me they appreciated how I engage with cashiers, waiters, and other service industry workers. I’m a big believer that how you treat people matters. Honestly, I’ve been even more intentional about it ever since.

I suppose you could make the case that this can very easily veer into people-pleasing. And that kind of performative behavior is definitely something I need to look out for in myself. But I think it goes deeper than just the surface level. Because I didn’t just start being nice to the person in the checkout lane at Walmart because of something someone said. It’s something I already care about. It didn’t change me. It affirmed something about me.

A compliment is kind of like a story someone tells about you. And one thing I believe with every fiber of my being is that we are formed by the stories we believe.

The stories I believe about myself…who I am, why I do what I do, what matters to me…these form who I am and what I do.

It matters what stories we believe about ourselves.
So it matters what stories we share with each other.
Our communities are formed by the stories we share.

I’ve been trying to be more intentional about the stories I believe about myself. I try to analyze those thoughts. I try to see if they are true. If they are helpful.

But I’m also trying to be more intentional about the stories I share with others.
Because I doubt I’m the only one who doubles down on a compliment or a little encouragement.

Maybe someone in my life needs to hear a different story.
They might keep screenshots on their phone, too.
Or possibly a drawer full of encouraging notes.
What an honor to help someone believe a better story about themselves.

The most powerful way I’ve found to build trust is to share a time I’ve struggled, tell a story about a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, or tangibly show people the real me. Vulnerability, it turns out, is the secret sauce of trust.

There’s more that goes into the recipe, for sure.
And everyone will have a slightly different flavor.
Yes, you have to be dependable.
You need to be trustworthy.
You have to at least know a bit of what you’re talking about.
Consistency, integrity, competency. All those ingredients matter.
Some add in a dash of things like optimism or candor, depending on personality and taste.
But the whole thing really comes together when you add in a heap of vulnerability.

Trust itself is an act of vulnerability.
It’s always a risk to put faith in something or someone.

I’ve learned this is why choosing to be vulnerable is one of the most important things we can do as leaders. Because our willingness to put our real selves out there, no matter how imperfect, makes it feel safer to trust us. For trust to happen, someone has to choose to be vulnerable first.

I’ve seen this at home with my son. He’s 10, and he’s smart.
He’s also 10, which means he’s very much a pre-teen with all the attitude that entails.

I’ve intentionally let him see me grow this past year. I’ve apologized when I’ve gotten things wrong. His mother and I have let him see us when we’re sad and even when we’re frustrated. I’ve shared with him things I’m learning, and I’ve not shied away from answering questions by saying, “I don’t know about that one, buddy.”

Now, he still doesn’t listen super well. Remember, he’s 10. But there’s been a definite change. More awareness. More understanding. He trusts his parents more. Not because we’re perfect. Because he sees that we’re humans, too.

I don’t think we really trust people who seem too perfect.
We might admire people who seem to have it all together.
And we’re definitely a little (okay, a lot) jealous at times.

But there’s something about people who insist on only showing the perfect version of themselves that keeps the rest of us at a distance.

It’s hard to put your faith in something that doesn’t seem like it’s ever been tested. You don’t really know how they’ll hold up when things get tough.

I made Megan a cookbook for her birthday a few years ago. I filled it with recipes from dozens of people who love and care for her. There are elaborate dishes and a few “here’s how to boil water” submissions.

The recipes Megan comes back to most aren’t the ones that sound fancy.
They’re the tried and true ones.
The ones her grandmother made and her mother after her.
The ones she grew up with.
The ones she’s made dozens of times.

You don’t trust a recipe because of how nice it might look. You trust the ones that have been tested. Mistakes have happened. Adjustments have been made. Those are the recipes worthy of being handed down. They are the ones you turn to when you need something you can count on.

We don’t necessarily trust the people who are the most put together.
We trust people who show us that they, too, are human.

There’s a difference in communicating something when you’re drawing from a deep well. Even if the words and presentation are similar, there’s a discernible energy and mass to communication that comes from a place of conviction.

I suppose this is called depth. But I think of it more like weight. A shot put and a softball are similar in size and shape. But I’d much rather you toss me a softball than hurl a shot put in my direction. They may look similar, but one is going to have far more opportunity for impact.

I am officially 95% of the way through my personal 100 Weekday Writing Challenge. I’ve written 95 little personal essays in the last 5 months or so. I can’t overstate how beneficial writing consistently has been for my mental health. But I’ve been more surprised by the significant professional benefits I’ve experienced.

I gave a presentation about influence to a group of leaders last week. I spent my normal amount of time preparing and came up with completely new content for the occasion. I pulled quite a bit from my own personal writings over the last several months. Sometimes it was concepts and principles I’ve clarified for myself through my own little essays. Other times, I straight lifted metaphors, illustrations, and even a turn of phrase or two to add to what I shared with the group.

My writing gave my presentation more substance.
More depth. More mass.
I felt more confident presenting.
I had more conviction in what I was sharing.

I don’t know if everyone’s thing is writing. Maybe yours is art or singing or talking things out or any number of other creative outlets. But my clarity of thought comes through words. Reading and writing. Pondering and discussing. The disciplines of improving my inputs and clarifying my thoughts with creative outlets have proved to be significantly helpful when I create things to communicate with others.

Hitting publish five days a week isn’t a pace that I’m going to be able to keep up with past finishing my personal challenge. And I think I’m ready to dive deeper into some of the concepts I’ve formed for myself.

But as I move beyond this experience, I’m convinced of the benefits of consistently learning, clarifying, and growing. The work I do to clarify my thinking today gives weight to what I communicate tomorrow.

I shared last week that Your Perspective + Your Platform = Your Influence. I don’t know how much I can grow my platform, but I know I can have more influence if I grow and go deeper with the perspectives I have about life and leadership.

White space is empty space in a design, and it is crucial in graphic design. It helps with hierarchy and, honestly, just how refined things look. White space isn’t wasted space. It serves its purpose precisely because it’s empty.

For some reason, people think adding more and more will make a design better.
It won’t.

Often, the biggest difference between professional, refined graphic design and amateur work is how effectively they use white space to establish hierarchy. Sometimes the difference between a great design and a subpar one is restraint.

I’ve learned this same truth in my life. A little margin can be one of the most precious gifts I can give myself.

There’s always so much going on, so much we need and want to do. It’s tempting to think we need to fill every square inch of our lives with things that feel important. But sooner or later, the design of our lives start falling apart if we keep trying to do more and more. Just like with designing a flyer, if everything is important, nothing is important.

I’ve tried to intentionally take time to slow down and take in moments this past year. I remind myself that nonproductive time is crucial and that a little white space in my schedule helps me keep the most important things a priority. When I feel the need to fill my schedule, a little restraint can make all the difference.

White space isn’t wasted space.

I’ve been intrigued lately by Adam Grant’s work in Give and Take. He argues that generosity at work can lead to great success when givers are thoughtful about who, when, and how they help, so they don’t burn out or get taken advantage of. He calls this “otherish” giving.

It reminds me of the mindset of Jesus that Christians are called to emulate in Philippians 2.

I’ve been trying to evaluate how I operate based on being a giver, taker, or matcher. For Grant, givers help others without keeping score. Takers want to make sure they get something out of every interaction. Matchers want to make sure things stay even.

What’s most interesting to me is that givers are at both the very top and the very bottom of the success ladder. The givers at the bottom aren’t less generous. They just give to everyone, all the time, until there’s nothing left for themselves.

Givers who are successful are still generous. They’ve just learned to pay attention to who they’re helping. They protect their own priorities. And they lean into the type of help that energizes them. Successful givers are intentional givers.

Philippians 2:4 says: “Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.”

Paul isn’t saying your own interests don’t matter. He’s saying to look out for other people’s interests in addition to your own.

But just before that, in verse 3, he says to count others as more significant than yourselves. And right after, he describes Jesus, who emptied himself and became a servant all the way to the cross.

If you read the gospels, you meet a leader who withdrew to pray when the crowds were looking for him. When his disciples told him everyone was searching for him, he led his small group somewhere else. He chose twelve people to pour his time and life into. He ate with his friends. He slept in a boat during a storm. He healed a lot of people, but he didn’t heal every single person in every little town.

I don’t think Jesus’ example fits neatly into any psychological framework. But reflecting on his life makes me think more carefully about Grant’s questions of who, when, and how we help:

• Who: Successful givers look at who they are helping, so they’re not as likely to be taken advantage of.

• When: Successful givers prioritize their own goals instead of dropping everything for every request for help.

• How: Successful givers focus on the type of helping they enjoy doing instead of trying to do it all.

I’ve been trying to figure out what this should look like for me. How do I show up consistently with a giver’s mindset without giving away too much of myself?

• Who do I consistently invest in?

• Am I making room for my own goals?

• How can I help in a way that 1) makes a difference, 2) is something I’m good at, and 3) energizes me?

I don’t think the answer for me is to be less generous.
I think it’s figuring out how I can give in a way that truly lasts.

Your reputation is a funny thing.

In many ways, it’s one of the most important things you have.
A strong reputation can give you opportunities you could never imagine.
A weak reputation can slam doors in your face before you even realize what’s happening.

A reputation can take a lifetime to build but be lost in seconds.
But you don’t have just one reputation.
You have as many reputations as there are people who know you.
Or think they do, anyway.

Some of these reputations were set in stone in an instant. Maybe it was one of your best days. Or maybe it was one of your worst.

Others were shaped over decades by people who have been around you and watched you through all the ups and downs of life.

But you can’t really control your reputation. It lives in the minds of other people. You can influence it. You can show up. Keep your word. Apologize when you’ve messed up. But you don’t get to decide how someone really views you.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what people think of me. Do they like me? Respect me? Do they understand me? I’ll never be someone who doesn’t care about other people’s opinions.

But lately, I’ve been asking a different question about my reputation:
How can I be generous with my influence?

I’m not saying I’m an influencer. And I’m not saying I have a lot of influence. But I do have some. And I’ve decided I want the story I share about myself to reflect a giver’s mindset.

This week I had the opportunity to talk about influence with a group of leaders. We talked about how we can be generous with the platform and perspective we’ve been given. Here are the values I shared about being a GIVER with my influence:

• Be Genuine: Try to be myself and show up as a real human, consistent with who I am as a person.

• Be Invested: Give my time and attention. Be invested in people. Be interested in people, not just pushing my own agenda.

• Be Vulnerable: Share where I’ve fallen short, where I’ve struggled, and how I’ve learned and grown.

• Be Encouraging: Nothing has changed me more than trying to be more encouraging to the people around me.

• Be Receptive: I don’t know everything. I need to listen. Be curious. Ask questions.

If I show up with a giver’s mindset consistently, I’m comfortable with wherever my reputation happens to land.

I can’t control what people think of me.
I can control the story I share.

Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.
The Bible says this.
It doesn’t seem like a suggestion.

Selfish ambition.
Does this mean I’m allowed to have ambition if it’s not selfish?
Is it the drive that’s dangerous?
Or just the destination?
I wonder…what might selfless ambition look like?

Vain conceit.
Do you have to think highly of yourself to have a hollow pride?
Is it just ego that gets me in trouble?
Or is it the self-absorption, too?
I wonder…what might humble confidence look like?

Paul says it this way:
Value others above yourself.
Don’t fixate on your own interests.
Focus instead on the interests of others.
And do all this with humility.

It’s interesting to me. There’s really no Greek word for “interests” found in Philippians 2. It just uses the definite article. And, yes, I did just read that on Google. And, no, I don’t really understand grammar either. But I think Paul’s just making the point:

Don’t make your life all about your things.
Make it about other people’s things.
Make others matter more.

“In your relationships with one another,” Paul says as he drives home his point, “have the same mindset as Christ Jesus.”

So, just in case you were thinking, “Surely the Apostle isn’t telling me to go that far,” he raises the bar all the way to Jesus.

The same dude who was God by His very nature.
But didn’t use His deity for His own benefit.
Instead, He took a lower position and became like us.
And He not only looked like us. He also died like us.

But Jesus didn’t live like us.
And He didn’t stay dead, either.

The Father exalted the Son because the Son lowered Himself.
What beautiful irony.

When Paul tells us to do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit…
to value others above ourselves…
to look to their interests and not just our own…
He’s not asking us to merely play nice with others.
He’s telling us to lower ourselves.
Our position.
Our need to come first.
Our constant focus on ourselves.

So, what would humble confidence look like?
What would selfless ambition look like?
Well, it looks a lot like Jesus.

You may not realize it, but you also have a platform.
And you have a perspective, too.
Everyone does.

Sure, some people have larger platforms with huge followings. But even those of us with fewer people interested in what we have to say (Hi, Mom!) still have people listening. Maybe it’s online. Maybe it’s family or neighbors or industry peers. Someone out there values our perspective.

You also may not realize there’s no one else who has your exact viewpoint.
You might need time to define it. Or maybe figure out how to share it creatively.
But you have a perspective.
And it’s uniquely yours.

Having a platform and a perspective means you have influence.
Having influence means you have a responsibility.
Not to merely build yourself up, but to help build up others, too.

You don’t need to shout your opinion on all things all the time. And maybe we could be a little less preachy when we do share our views. But when people value your perspective, what you say and share carries weight.

Influence is stewardship. It matters how you use it.
And it’s an invitation to speak up and share.

What have you learned the hard way that could help someone else? What has your experience helped you see that’s missing from a bigger conversation? What have you found words for that someone else is still struggling to explain?

Maybe what you can offer is a little joy.
Or something funny on a dreary Tuesday.
Maybe even a story that makes someone feel less alone.

Use your platform.
Share your perspective.
Be generous with your influence.

I have good intentions.
I get totes and shelving.
I even label boxes,
And try to make sure everything has a place.

But at the end of a random Tuesday evening, when I have to find a hiding place for yet another one of the boys’ ride-on vehicles or an inflatable waterslide, my motivation to keep things organized isn’t quite as high.

Instead of taking the two minutes to keep things tidy, I open the door and just shove the next item in. The job is done as long as the door stays closed.

I inevitably end up spending several hours pulling everything out and reorganizing. I curse myself the whole time. If only I had taken the few minutes up front to do things right, I wouldn’t be climbing over the mess in the first place.

My outbuilding isn’t the only place I let things pile up. Sure, I do the same with the dishes, laundry, and other household chores, too.

But I also let the clutter close in on me in more important areas of my life. I let things pile up at work, with my health, and even with my marriage and in my parenting. It’s so easy to let the mess grow instead of actually dealing with what needs to be dealt with up front.

I often sacrifice what’s best in the long run for what’s easier now.
It’s no wonder I always find myself stepping over my own messes.

I recently came across an interview with Tech Journalist Kara Swisher.
One of her quotes stopped me dead in my tracks.

“When I’m doing an interview with blank person from blank company, I always think ‘What lie are they telling me?’ The better question is what are they lying to themselves about? What do they need to believe to get through the day? And that to me is where I get the real insight.” - Kara Swisher, Tech Journalist

Kara Swisher seems divisive, but her career spans decades, and she's known for being a hard-hitting, outspoken media figure. She has made a name for herself by holding tech billionaires accountable.

Whether a fan of her approach and values or not, it’s easy to root for someone to hold the 1% accountable. But when I heard this quote, I was immediately convicted: “What lies am I telling myself to get through the day?”

It’s often so easy to see the flaws in others. It's typically really hard to see our own flaws. Jesus would call this removing the plank out of your eye before trying to remove the speck out of someone else’s.

I think many of us think we’re immune to this type of thing. Besides, we would say that we are very aware of our flaws. Our low self-confidence and self-deprecating sense of humor could even attest to this.

I’ve learned (the hard way) that being self-critical and self-aware aren’t always the same thing. Many times, my own negativity toward myself is a defense mechanism to protect me from confronting my true flaws.

It’s not that we go around purposefully holding bad takes about ourselves and the world. Sometimes we’ve convinced ourselves of certain lies so we can live with ourselves. These are the stories we tell ourselves.

So my question for today is “What lies am I telling myself?” What are the false stories I believe? What’s the plank in my own eye?

It’s likely no one will write a scathing exposé on my shortcomings.
But maybe I can grow a bit through understanding the truth about myself and the world.

Real insight comes from unearthing the lies we believe about ourselves.

I could hardly believe what I was hearing over the speakerphone.

Our client was frustrated with the progress of their website. And they weren’t holding back. We hadn’t worked with this group before, so I was unsure how to respond at first.

Everything in me wanted to defend myself and my team.
I could see the angst on my coworkers’ faces around the room.

Some of our client’s frustration was justified.
The project wasn’t as far along as we all hoped it would be.
Communication hadn’t been great.
There had been plenty of mistakes to go around.

In that moment, I wanted to explain myself. I wanted to explain my team’s side of the story. But I realized just in time that the human on the other end of the line wasn’t ready to hear it.

I swallowed my pride a bit.
I took responsibility for the delays.
I shared my full confidence in our team.
I laid out our path forward and plotted our next steps.

I even offered a way out of the project if they no longer wanted to continue.

By the end, the client had cooled off. I was able to share some of the issues on both sides. We agreed upon a way forward. We fixed what was broken on our end. The project went on pretty much without a hitch.

I learned something valuable in this interaction.
Sometimes you have to put out a fire before explaining how it started.

My natural reaction is often defensiveness. I want to take up for myself and for my team. There’s certainly a time for that as a leader.

But in situations like these, I’ve come to realize that the best way to move forward when things go sideways with other humans is to own your part in starting the fire first.

It’s hard to move forward after you’ve burned down the relationship.

A story doesn’t have to be true to move us. It doesn’t have to be good for us, either. If you can master words, you can master the world.

Humans are wired for story. The tension draws us in. The payoff moves us to action. We get sucked into a good story. Sometimes we’re not even aware of how a story has changed us.

I believe in the power of story to do tremendous good. I don’t think it’s an accident that so much of Christian Scripture takes the form of story. Or that Jesus himself so often taught through parables. Those stories have survived across generations and cultures. They’re still profoundly applicable even today.

Unfortunately, people use story for numerous nefarious purposes, too. They grift and manipulate. Con and swindle. All by wielding the power of story.

Story can change us for the good. But it can also deceive us.

How do we stay curious about the good stories while recognizing the stories being used against us?

When my son was a toddler, he loved M&M’s. One day at my in-laws’ house, he spotted what he was certain was his favorite snack.

I tried to tell the little guy the colorful candies on the counter weren’t M&M’s. But he wasn’t interested in what I had to say (which has become a theme in our lives). At his insistence, his grandmother gave him a handful of what were, in fact, Skittles.

The look of betrayal on his little face said it all.

I love telling this story. I like to poke fun at his stubbornness. And I consider it a useful reminder that he should occasionally listen to his dad.

But lately I’ve started to feel convicted by something else in this story: my own insistence on seeing what I want to see.

One of life’s biggest discouragements for me has been experiencing firsthand how disappointing people can be. I know we all can be selfish, of course. I know that we can lie, manipulate, and hurt each other to get what we want. I’ve lived both sides of all of this myself.

But what’s harder for me to accept is the wisdom in Maya Angelou’s advice: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

People often show me who they are long before it harms me. And I just keep seeing the version of them I want to see, even when the evidence says otherwise. I’ve been trying to understand why I do this.

I believe in the inherent value of people. I truly want to see the good in everyone I meet. I agree with Ted Lasso that “I hope that either all of us or none of us are judged by the actions of our weakest moments, but rather by the strength we show when and if we’re ever given a second chance.”

I hope that’s true for all of us.
I need that to be true for me.

The tricky part is that I don’t know how to leave room for people to change without ignoring what they’ve already shown me about themselves.

I don’t want to be cynical. I don’t want to be sucked into being skeptical of every person I come across. I want to believe that people can grow. I want to see and nurture the good in them. I want to leave room to be surprised by kindness, mercy, and grace.

The Skittles didn’t do anything wrong to my son. They hadn’t promised to be chocolate. But my son knew what he wanted. So he looked at what was in front of him and decided that was what he saw.

People can deceive us. Some do it on purpose. But I often find myself disappointed because I decided someone was something they never gave me reason to believe they were. They are victims of my expectations for them.

Like my son and his candy, I keep seeing M&M’s when I’m actually looking at Skittles.

I still want to offer the kind of grace I hope other people will offer me.
I still want to leave room for second chances.
I just want to get better at knowing when I’m giving someone room to grow.
And when I’m waiting for them to be someone they’re not.

I’ve never been the type of person who seeks out conflict. I suppose you can blame my people-pleasing and abandonment issues for that. Sometimes I wish I were someone who doesn’t mind rocking the boat. I do come up with some real zingers when I replay conversations in my head.

But I’ve come to realize that peace isn’t just the absence of conflict. In fact, I’ve found that avoiding conflict has destroyed more peace in my life than it has given. Actual peace comes from repairing what created the conflict in the first place.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”
And there really is such a profound difference between peacemaking and peacekeeping.

Peacekeeping is like trying not to rock the boat when it has a hole in it.
You might feel at ease for a bit.
But the problem hasn’t gone anywhere.
If you don’t do the hard work of patching things up,
You’ll still be sunk no matter how calm the waters seem.

Making peace is about repairing what’s broken.
You look below the surface and face the damage head-on.
Even when you’ve had a hand in causing it.
You might make some waves in the process,
But that’s how we build relationships that can weather a storm.

You can’t keep real peace.
You have to make it.

My son passed me a basketball the other day. I immediately started playing 2-on-1 with him and his neighborhood buddy. I thoroughly enjoyed pretending to be Kyrie Irving as I teased the ten-year-olds with my dribbling skills. Now, let’s be honest, it doesn’t take much to impress the young fellas on the court. My son will be dominating me soon enough.

In that moment, I didn’t remember the hours upon hours I played basketball in my driveway as a kid. I didn’t bring back memories of practice drills in high school or the endless pickup games at the local courts. I was quite a bit slower than I used to be, and a little more clumsy, too. But I didn’t have to remember how to dribble. I just knew.

The thing about memories is that even the best ones fade over time.

Sometimes I try to think about my childhood or my days in school. The memories come almost like an old photo album, sporadic prints as I turn from page to page in my mind. There’s plenty of white space, too. Experiences whose memories I’ve misplaced.

These experiences have shaped me. Sure, there are certain aspects of who I am that are innate. But I’ve been formed by my experiences, all of them. The ones that seem large and the ones that seem small. The ones I think of often and the ones that sneak up on me out of nowhere.

The forgotten moments have shaped me, too. I don’t have to remember something to be molded by it. The kindness and struggles. The childhood moments and the random Tuesday evenings as a young man. Every person I’ve known, every moment I’ve lived, they’ve all made me into who I am.

Our experiences are still part of us even when they’ve been forgotten. The memories may fade, but their impact never does.

I clutched my steering wheel a little tighter as the butterflies were fluttering in my gut. I was driving to facilitate a workshop. I was about to spend a day standing in front of 20 strangers. I was nervous.

The familiar fears and questions welled up.
What am I doing?
Who do I think I am?
What if I don’t really know what I’m talking about?
What if they hate it?
What if they hate me?

I ran the gamut of feelings from imposter syndrome to existential dread. I was ready to call in and claim that a stomach bug had taken me out. No one ever questions a stomach bug.

It reminded me of when I first started public speaking.
I had just begun preaching at my church.
My nerves continually got the best of me back then.

In a cruel twist of irony, worrying about how I was doing made me worse. The more I focused on doing well, the more I struggled to string coherent sentences together. I was sabotaging myself before I ever opened my mouth.

Maybe it was experience or possibly maturity, but something shifted somewhere along the way. I realized I had something to say. There were things I wanted to share that I thought could help people.

Speaking became less about me and more about others.
Not that I had all the answers.
Or very many answers at all, really.
I just wanted to share things that I had learned.
And give people a different way to think about their lives.

I came to the same realization two decades later.
I told myself that the workshop wasn’t really about me.
It was about the people I was there to serve.
It didn’t matter if they liked me.
I mean, I still hoped they did.
But what really mattered was what I could give.

Maybe it would be an idea that would make a big impact.
Or even just something small and practical.
On my way to speak that day, I released the butterflies in my stomach.
My perspective shifted from anxiousness to excitement.

There are a million presentation tips and communication principles you can learn. But I’m convinced generosity is the key to communicating well. Simon Sinek calls it the giver’s mindset. I call it “This isn’t really about you, Jimmy.”

I still don’t think I’m a particularly gifted public speaker.
But I don’t get overrun with nervousness when I speak anymore.

So the best advice I can give you is to stop trying so hard to settle your nerves.
Instead, turn your attention to the people you’re there to serve.
Let your butterflies fly free.

The only cure for nervousness I’ve found is generosity.
It sure beats calling in with a stomach bug.

We learn through stories.

I communicate for a living, so I already know this. But after reading more books this year than I ever have, I’m finally internalizing it.

I’ve added fiction to my reading in the past 6 months. My favorites are the ones that actively try to ruin your emotional stability, but in a heartwarming way. Books like Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove or The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry. Patchett’s latest, Whistler, is my current emotional support novel.

Like many guys, I’m still reading plenty of nonfiction. And I’m grateful for the tips and principles I’ve pulled from those books this year. But fiction hits differently.

I’m able to feel the point while reading a novel without always being explicitly told the point. It causes me to reflect about the deeper principle before realizing how it might apply to me. That can make it easier to recognize something profound in my own life and leadership.

Haig’s The Midnight Library was the first fiction book I’d read in years. It hooked me. But it also showed me that the best version of my life is the one I’m living. It made me, even just by a little, choose to be more present rather than living in the past or stuck in the future.

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry stirred up a persistence to show up for those who have shown up for me. Theo of Golden inspired me to take a moment longer to recognize the inherent beauty and dignity in every human I come in contact with. The Correspondent made me want to write letters. It also made me cry. And it made me hug my boys a little tighter.

Actually, several of the books have challenged me to show up better for my little guys. Buckeye, My Friends, Britt Marie was Here, and Harold Fry all shone a different light on fatherhood that affected me in different ways.

Other books like The Authenticity Project, The Music Shop, and even When Lemons Give You Life challenged me to grow in some meaningful way in my life and leadership. I feel like I’ve shown up better as a husband, father, friend, and co-worker because of the gifts I’ve received from these books. Even my most beneficial nonfiction reads over the last several months have been books like Patrick Lencioni’s leadership fables.

Maybe it’s just me, but I sometimes try to move too quickly into application. I want to take a practical idea and apply it immediately. There’s certainly room for that. Books like Traction, The Campfire Method, and The Art of Gathering have certainly been gifts to me professionally.

I’ve taken much from all the books I’ve read. I’ve learned and grown this year in profound ways because of the literature I’ve spent time with. I love my nonfiction books. The practical guides and leadership theories. The memoirs and field guides. But sometimes I need to experience a truth emotionally before I know how to act on it. It’s one thing to know something intellectually. It’s another to be moved to action.

And isn’t action the clearest sign that we’ve actually learned something?

So, yes, we learn through stories.
In all the forms they take.

Something in my grandfather’s struggled breathing suddenly shifted. It was almost as if he was counting down to his last breath. His body had begun shutting down.

I had been hovering over his hospice bed that afternoon, praying for him and whispering encouragement. His caretakers told us he likely had no more than two weeks to live.

He would be gone that day.

Pancreatic cancer had taken so much out of the vibrant 78-year-old man. It stole his lucidity, too. We had learned of his diagnosis less than two months prior. It was all so sudden. But the news that his struggle would soon be over was welcome. It destroyed me to see this giant of a man suffer so much pain and confusion.

My grandfather was my hero. Still is. He’s the greatest man I’ve ever known, the most consistent presence in my life. Whenever my whole world seemed to be falling apart, he was always there to help hold me together.

I watched him that day as the hospice staff and family members attended to him. It had been a long month. I could see the pain as his chest lifted and fell. I couldn’t bear to see the strongest man I knew hurting so much.

I held his hand and prayed. I combed his hair back a little. With tears streaming down my face, I told him I was there. I told him it was okay to go whenever he was ready.

I’ve never said anything more sincere in my life.

Over the next hour, the hospice room filled with family. My aunt and uncle, my sister, my mother, and cousins. In that moment, he was surrounded by so many of the people he loved.

We stood beside him and watched our hero turn into a memory.
It was exactly how he would have wanted to go.

For most of my life, my grandfather was the person who always showed up and fixed things. That afternoon, I couldn’t take away his pain. There was nothing I could do to fix what he was facing.

All I could do was be there for him at the end of his life, the way he had been there for me since the beginning of mine.

While a good book or a compelling film is nourishing for the soul,
I believe our consumption-to-creation ratio is a little out of whack.

Most of us consume far more than we put into the world. We scroll and stream and listen and read. Somewhere along the way, actually making something became an afterthought. Or worse, a side-hustle.

Don’t neglect creating just for creativity’s sake. I believe we are all creative beings in one way or another. So sketch, write, cook, bake, craft, or play. Create, whatever that looks like for you.

It’s not just about the output.
It doesn’t have to be for work.
You don’t have to monetize it.
You don’t even have to publish it.

The act of creating itself nourishes you... mind, body, and soul.

“My goal is to ask 50 questions if I can in a conversation.”
I laughed out loud. I thought the guy was joking.
He wasn’t.

I was talking to Doug Franklin, a student leadership expert. He was serving as our main church camp speaker that year. He used a flurry of questions to get young people comfortable enough to open up. His goal was to learn what mattered to each kid.

I thought it seemed excessive. But I tried it anyway. I started asking as many questions as I could throughout the week. I asked follow-up questions based on their answers. Crazy enough, they kept talking. It was remarkable how quickly those students began sharing what actually mattered to them.

Turns out this works really well with adults, too.
People love to talk about themselves.
Even more, they love talking about the things they care about.
Sometimes people are just waiting for permission to share.
Good questions can help people feel safe enough to open up.

I’ve become obsessed with asking good questions.
If you’ve been around me much, you’ve probably thought, “dude, chill.”
But I truly love chasing down what I find interesting in people.

I experienced the other side of this last week. A coworker started asking a few questions about my story. He asked follow-up questions and showed interest in how I’ve gotten to where I am. Before I knew it, I was sharing about some of the deeper things I’ve experienced and how they’ve shaped what matters to me.

My friend gave me permission to share by first showing he cared.