I am a big fan of cognitive offloading. It’s the act of using an external tool to reduce the amount of effort my brain has to put in to remember things. Calendars. Lists. Reminders. Bookmarks. Phone contacts. I even think writing has become cognitive offloading for me in a way. With all these ideas, worries, thoughts, and beliefs swirling in my head at a rapid pace, having a place to keep a living version of what I think and value frees up a bit of RAM in my head.

I am, however, a big hater of cognitive surrender. This phrase has become popular as of late in describing people who blindly follow whatever output AI gives them without actually thinking through it critically. The AI’s output becomes their output.

But I don’t really want to talk about AI. I think the hype around artificial intelligence and our insistence on utilizing it in unproductive ways is a symptom of cognitive surrender, not the actual disease.

There are studies that indicate utilizing external tools to hold memory can help us achieve our intentions, that the exercise of storing what we want to remember somewhere else can provide protection from our thoughts running amuck in our brain. Now, listen, I’m not a scholar, or a scientist, or even all that smart. So don’t take my word as fact. I’m just a nerd trying to figure out my life! But the anecdotal and scientific data I can find leads me to believe that external tools can make my ever overworked brain a little more efficient. So, to me, cognitive offloading gets a hearty thumbs up.

But at some point a line exists. I don’t quite know where this line is positioned. Maybe it depends on the type of tasks. But it’s the line where cognitive offloading becomes cognitive surrender. Where we’re no longer using external tools just to help us remember and be more efficient. It’s when we outsource all of our thinking to the machine or the tool. Where we let the tool do our thinking for us. This isn’t just about AI. We’re constantly looking for something, or someone, to hand the keys to our thinking to.

We outsource our worldview to the pundits, to preachers, gurus and philosophies. We look to a chatbot or self-help article to tell us our next steps. We want to fast forward through the thinking and arrive at the conclusion without going through the journey of wrestling with the ideas. We do this with our work and with our lives. Instead of freeing up our RAM, we leave our CPU on idle.

Efficiency is good.
But insight is better.

When we outsource our thinking to tools, we sacrifice our own insight on the altar of efficiency.

No one warns you that getting older is pretty much one little life crisis after another. You wrestle with aging, with death, with purpose, with mattering. We never run out of things to wrestle with. Life is like a Royal Rumble in that way. There’s always something new running into the ring ready to throw us over the top rope.

One of the toughest opponents you face when you age is the narrowing of possibility. When you’re young, life is all potential. But the older you get, your options dwindle. I’ll never get to be an astronaut. Or a weather man. Or an NBA player. Or a Ninja Turtle. All things I once thought I’d be. With any luck, I have a lot of living left to do. But that living won’t be done in space or fighting foot soldiers in the sewers.

I’ve never been one to get too concerned about age. It’s just a number after all. So when I turned 40 last year, I honestly didn’t think much of it. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that hitting the next decade hasn’t at least nudged me to think about my mortality. How much time I have left. And, yes, have mini anxiety attacks over what I’m going to do…or not be able to do to be more accurate…for the rest of my life.

But a thought hit me one morning. If I live and keep working until I’m 65, I still have more career left in front of me than I do behind me. I’m sure I’ll blink and we’ll have gone over the hill. While one can think about growing older as the narrowing of possibility in their life, I find it more helpful to think of it as a narrowing of focus.

We like to feel in control. We worry about getting bored. We come up with all kinds of reasons for hitting the eject button on some version of ourselves. Getting older feels restrictive, the options dwindle, but it’s a gift too. It makes us spend our time more wisely, focused in on what actually matters.

Maybe it takes a lifetime of wrestling to figure out what you want to be when you grow up.

I’ve long considered myself a reader.
I like to read. I like to go to bookstores. I like buying books.
But, in previous years, I’ve really struggled to read.
So I said I was a reader,
But I think I mostly just like the idea of having read,
I like the thought of being a reader.

I think leadership is similar.
We like to lead. We like the reputation. We like being in charge.
We think we want to be leaders.
But we struggle to actually lead.
I wonder if sometimes we mostly just like the idea of having led,
Maybe we just like the thought of being a leader.

I believe I was born to be a shepherd. Not the actual sheep type of shepherd. I don’t think I have the proper work ethic for farm work.

I believe I was born to be a shepherd in the pastoral sense. A shepherd of people. Sure, involved in a church, my faith requires that. But mostly in the general sense. I find myself most fulfilled when I’m helping others find their way. Not in a bossy way or know-it-all way, but in a caring and guiding sort of way. This, at least for me, is what it means to lead.

There are many ways to lead. We shouldn’t let a silly thing like our personalities stop us from serving others by leading. Leadership is less a trait and more of a posture. You can be a visionary leader, or a tough leader, or a great communicating leader, or a detail-oriented operational leader, or any number of different type of leader. But I believe to my core that a leader must be a servant leader.

Peter was referencing church pastors in these verses. But, if you’re like me and believe that God is the one who created all of this (gesturing generally toward all of this), it only makes sense that the principles He gave for leading His church would be principles applicable to all walks of leadership life.

We don’t have to be leaders. But if we are willing, it means we watch over those we’ve been entrusted to lead. We don’t lead to pursue selfish gain (well, we shouldn’t anyway). We lead to serve. It’s not about bossing people around. It’s about being who people need to get to where they want to be.

Leadership can look many different ways in many different contexts. But leadership is leadership at its core. The basics stay the same whether you’re Ted Lasso or Ted in accounting.

Because no matter where you happen to be leading,
People don’t belong to you.
Your staff isn’t yours.
Your influence isn’t yours.
Leadership is stewardship.
It’s about guiding and providing for the people who trust you.

Wanting to have read isn’t the same as reading.
Wanting to have led isn’t the same as leading.

Many of us have long said we are leaders.
We like to lead. We like the reputation. We like being in charge.
We think we want to be leaders.
But we struggle to actually lead.
Maybe we mostly just like the idea of having led.
Maybe the real question is: do we really want to lead?

People are complicated.
Strange even.

We all have our quirks.
The things that make us tick.
And the things that drive us nuts.
But as odd as people are,
They’re often quite great when you take the time to look.

Some humans are funny,
and some not so much.
Some create.
Some tinker.
Some organize.
Some strategize.
Some are aloof,
and others are always alert.

The things that make people great,
can also be the things that grate on other people’s nerves.
Someone’s spontaneity may be exhilarating,
But it can also be exhausting.
Attention to detail is a gift,
But it can also feel like hell.

Truth is, our greatest strengths and our greatest weaknesses are merely two sides of the same coin. Our kryptonite is often our superpower left unchecked. The best of me is often all tied up with the worst of me. It’s a cruel dance, but the best among us have learned it well.

So when people frustrate us, it’s good to remember,
To experience the best of people,
you have to take the worst of them, too.

Isaac and I have put our tent up in the backyard every year since he started kindergarten. The tent was my Father’s Day gift that year. Our little tradition started out with just me and Ike. He invited a couple of friends the next year and then a few more. Eventually little brother joined us…although this year he decided to sleep inside with mommy right as I stretched out on the air mattress I’m way too old to sleep on.

It’s a simple little ritual. Throw up the tent, get a few games, and provide plenty of snacks. But I hope it becomes one of those big bedrock type memories my boys carry with them into adulthood. The memory of their dad and their mom taking the time for the little things.

With any luck, they'll one day realize these little things really are the big things.

As the campout has grown, dad’s role has shrunk. It was just a boy and his father our first year. Then I became the activity mastermind, there to keep the little minds entertained for a few iterations. Now I mostly just get popcorn and yell to shut the door or zip up the tent when they go in and out. Time is such a funny thing.

I guess that’s parenting, though. The little devils will drive you mad. You’re all they need in the world when they start out. Then, slowly, other people begin to matter more in this particular moment. And while I still have a few (hopefully) good years left before mine start out on their own, you definitely start to feel the shift. Subtly at first, but then more and more. I suppose you’re still always there as an anchor, always a beacon toward home. But they venture a little farther out as each year ticks by.

I try to think about what I needed when I was my boys’ age. What I thought I needed back then, and what I believe I really did need with the benefit of hindsight. It’s all I know to do. I don’t think many of us parents feel like we know what the heck we’re doing.

When I was my boys’ age, I think I just needed to know that someone was in my corner. That there was someone I could rely on. That no matter what happened, there’d be someone there to catch me if I fell.

I didn’t need grand. I didn’t need over the top. I didn’t need anything showy. I just needed someone that I always knew loved me, that I always knew would show up for me. Someone consistent. Someone steady. For me it was my grandfather. I’m grateful that my boys have a whole list of people they can lean on. I will make for damn sure that I am counted among them.

So, as tempted as I was to slip into my activity director mode with the boys at this year’s campout, I stepped back. I let Ike do his thing…and barked at Ian when he would sabotage the big boys’ games because they weren’t doing what he wanted to do.

They used to need me to make the fun happen. And now I’m just there to make the space so they can bring their own fun. I stood back instead and watched my boys be kids with some of their buddies. And I let them know I was there if they needed anything.

I hope they always know I’ll be there.

Enough is enough is a funny phrase. We say it when we don’t want to hear anymore out of someone. Maybe they’re complaining. Or maybe they’re pushing something too far. Or maybe we’re just tired.

“Enough.” We say.
And if that doesn’t work:
“That’s Enough.”
Until we finally really mean it:
“Enough is enough!”

There’s a certain finality to it. There’s some line. Said line has been crossed, or about to be. But when do you decide that you’ve had enough? How do you decide when it’s been enough? When do you know that enough really is enough?

I find the Merriam-Webster entry for “enough is enough” rather amusing:

enough is enough → used to say that one wants something to stop because one can no longer accept or deal with it

In other words:
One wants you to stop.
One can no longer deal with this.
One is me!

Usually when we say to someone that enough is enough, we think we’re talking about them. Funny enough, I don’t think we’re talking about the other person at all.

When I say I’ve had enough, I’m actually saying something about myself. I’ve reached the end of my patience. Or I’ve run out of energy. Whatever capacity I had available before has now been exhausted. One has had enough. I have had enough.

Sometimes I think of life like a twisted version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. In some areas of my life, I don’t feel like I’m enough. I don’t feel like I measure up. But in others, I feel like I’m too much, like I overwhelm people.

Strangely enough, I always feel too hot or too cold, too big or too small. I never quite feel like I’m just right. Am I too much? Am I too little? Am I enough?

Am I doing enough as a father? Or am I trying to do too much?
Am I doing enough as a husband? Or am I trying to do too much?
Am I doing enough at work? Enough for the team? For the people who count on me?
Am I a good enough person?
A good enough friend?
A good enough Christian?
Am I good?
Am I enough?
Or am I too much?

Enough is a strange standard.
An invisible bar we measure ourselves against.
Something we stretch ourselves toward, or shrink ourselves into.

One knows obsessing over these things is enough to drive one crazy.
But one has never been good at leaving well enough alone.

Splat.
Right in a steamy pile of $#&!*.
I stepped in my dog’s poo as I got home from work.

My dog thinks it’s funny to do her business right beside our driveway, on the edge of the concrete and grass. At the exact same level as where my car door sits when I park.

This hasn’t been a one-time occurrence. It’s been a silent war between the ole’ girl and me. She peers at me when I walk in the door.

She knows. She smells the stench of victory on my shoes.

I stare back at her. She’s proud of herself. Like she’s saying to me, “What are you going to do, big guy? You don’t want me to go on the carpet, do you?”

She’s just bitter, that’s all. She often huffs and puffs as I demand she remove herself from my spot on the bed. She thinks the ownership of said spot is up for debate. But it’s mine. And I won’t give it up without a fight.

She lays claim to it each night as she snuggles up onto my pillow. When I’m ready to turn in, I direct her to the floor or to the foot of the bed. She just looks at me, unamused.

I snap my fingers. She gives out a big sigh…similar to the one my wife has been known to give me. She and the dog get similarly fed up with me at times. But Meg isn’t petty enough to leave landmines around the yard for me to step in.

But the dog moves eventually. Unhappily but obediently.
I’m sure that’s when she begins plotting her next move.

If it isn’t the poo piles, it’s waiting for the exact moment my butt hits our couch. It’s her cue to stomp around on our laminate flooring, letting out a bark, and staring me down as she stands near the front door. As if she’s taunting me, “I know you just sat down, but I need to go to the loo. You don’t want me to go on the carpet, do you?”

She may win these battles. Especially in the moments when I evict her from our bed, and Meg lifts her back up. Or when the boys leave their 17th snack of the evening unattended, and she manages to get a hold of it (I call her iron belly for this very reason).

She may win these battles, but I know that I’m the real winner.
Because it’s a blessing to have such a loyal hound to wage war with.

Apologizing to your kids is a funny thing. I mean, we know we’re going to mess up from time to time. We’re very aware, most of us at least, that we’re not perfect. Far from it. This whole parenting thing is hard, and I’ve yet to find any of us who really feel like we know what we’re doing. So, it’s no wonder I have as many opportunities to tell my kids I’m sorry as I do.

I haven’t had enough patience with my boys lately. And maybe not enough patience with myself, either. I’ve been quick to become frustrated and just as quick to express it. The ten year old is learning to anticipate when it comes. “Sorry. Sorry.” He’ll say when he knows I’m getting wound a little too tight.

It’s hard when you want to be a “good parent,” whatever that really means. Because you want to be your kids’ rock. You want them to count on you. At least I do. I think most of us do. Give me all the Danny Tanner dad moments with my guys.

We think we’re supposed to have all the answers, and be the perfect role model, and always do and say what’s best for our kids. But sometimes life gets in the way. Or our ego. Either way, there are things we say and do that don’t quite line up with who we want to be as parents, with who we know our children need us to be.

So, we have a choice. We either own up to it, apologize, and try to get a little better every day. Or we can put our foot down, pretend that we do no wrong, and hope the kid figures it out.

If I’m going to err with my boys, I’m going to err on the side of showing them that their dad loves them. And, even though he’s far from perfect, he’s always trying to grow, and be a bit better, and be the best dad he can be for them.

If that means apologizing every now and then, I suppose that’s exactly what I’ll do.

My shoes were gross and making that squishy sound shoes make after you’ve stepped in a puddle. My shirt felt heavy as it clung to my body. I used it to wipe the rain from my face, which, I admit, was pretty futile.

I’ve grown quite fond of my morning walks this summer. Getting up just a touch early. Bringing a book along as I walk the length of the little road in front of our home. Reading while walking is a weird thing, apparently, but it has become my favorite way to start the day.

I was busy trying to shield my Kindle from the raindrops as they poured down at a steady pace. I was annoyed. Mother Nature was ruining my morning routine.

But as I continued walking, I smiled and stomped into a puddle. I thought of my 5-year-old, who had jumped into one with all his might, splashing his brother in a parking lot a few weeks prior. It was just seconds after his mother said, “Ian, watch out for the puddle.” He immediately got that ornery look on his face, threw up his hands, and questioned her. “What?!”

Channeling my son’s ability to find a bit of joy in the midst of soggy circumstances, I decided to finish my walk. I continued on for another 15 minutes or so. Luckily, the rain lightened up, never going into a full squall but never quite dying out either. It wasn’t the most comfortable walk I had ever taken, but I made the most of it. I enjoyed it.

“Life can be a little like walking in the rain” was the thought that flooded my brain. It’s a bit annoying, but it’s also a bit sweet in a melancholy sort of way. It’s not ideal. You certainly wouldn’t choose to have rain on your morning walk. But, at the same time, it can be whimsical depending on your outlook and disposition.

Life is a bit like walking in the rain. It is what you make of it.

There’s a difference between advice and wisdom.

Anyone can offer advice. All you have to have is an opinion. Once you have that, you can go on giving all the advice you want.

It doesn’t even really matter if the advice is true or right or the best advice. Advice doesn’t have to be good to be advice. You just have to tell someone what you think they should do. It’s temporary, external, specific.

But wisdom is something fundamentally different. Wisdom is more broad. But it's hard-won. It’s deep. Internal. Often timeless. Wisdom has a price tag. It’s paid for in time and trials, mistakes and reflection.

We live in a world overflowing with advice. Everyone has a hack, a routine, or a quick fix for whatever you're going through. I deeply resonate with the lyrics to the song “Keep ’Em on They Toes” by Brent Cobb:

Wisdom isn’t just lots of advice stacked together. It’s not something you gain because you collected enough tips, life hacks, or hot takes.

Advice is someone’s opinion about what you should do. Wisdom is aligning your decisions with your values.

Advice is tactics. Wisdom is principles.

Wisdom doesn’t tell you exactly where to turn. It teaches you how to read the road you’ve found yourself on. Advice gets you through the next mile, but wisdom is what guides you from wherever you happen to be to where you ultimately want to go.

Advice is giving someone turn-by-turn directions.
Wisdom is giving someone a map and teaching them how to use it.

I’m surrounded by creativity. I work with 19 co-workers, most of whom are creatives at heart. The clients we work with are often creative. My profession, in all of its forms, has creativity at its heart. Even things I enjoy doing, my quasi-hobbies, like writing and reading, are at least creative-adjacent.

When most of us think of creativity, we think of cleverness:

• The clever way a designer incorporated a meaningful shape into the logo's negative space.

• The clever way an artist depicted a deeper truth with simple tools.

• The clever advertising slogan that is so brilliant it sticks with you for weeks.

• The clever turn of phrase in a song.

But the hard work of creativity isn’t in the cleverness. It’s in the clarity.

It takes real skill to craft a message so brilliantly clear that it is almost obvious. Or creating a shape so simple yet so obviously true. The masters know that true genius isn't in what you add. It's in what you remove.

I’m preaching for the first time in, like, 5 years in front of a church this weekend. I’ve done some public speaking lately, but it’ll be the first time in quite a while doing what I used to do so often. I keep fighting myself to simplify. To distill what I feel I need to say down to its simplest essence.

Do I hope to be clever?
Sure, because if you can combine cleverness with clarity, you get real magic.

But the cleverness isn’t the most important part.
The clarity is.
And it takes way more creativity to be clear than to be clever.

Nothing conjures up a wave of anxiety quite like a dying iPhone battery without a way to charge it. This probably says more about our all-consuming phone addiction than anything. But the point stands: ensuring our devices are charged at all times is a top priority for most of us.

My boys crack me up. They often run their iPads and other devices all the way to 0%, throwing a fit when the screen goes black. “Dad, why didn’t you charge it?!” Like it was my job to ensure their devices had enough juice. Besides, I can never find a charging brick for myself because all of mine get commandeered by the tiny humans living in our home.

While I have been trying to break my doomscrolling addiction, thinking about our reliance on cell phones has gotten me thinking about something different.

Energy.

We spend lots of time worrying about the battery level of our devices.
We don’t spend nearly enough time worrying about the energy levels we have ourselves.

Maybe you do. And that’s great.
But I know I don’t.
And I doubt most of you do.

It would be simple enough if it was just a matter of plugging ourselves into the wall for a few hours. But we have to have 7-9 hours of sleep. And we need to make sure we’re eating healthy. And staying hydrated. And, you know what, we need to reduce our stress levels and add mentally fulfilling activities, too, on top of it all.

The cares of life can drain us.
The busyness of our schedules, too.
And let’s not even get started on how work can affect our energy levels.

It’s no wonder so many of us feel exhausted all the time.

Problem is, most of us treat ourselves like the kids treat their iPads. We run ourselves straight to 0%, ignoring all the low battery warnings along the way.

But no one else is going to charge my battery for me. It’s on me to protect my energy before the screen goes black.

When Isaac was a baby, the kid would not go to sleep. We stuck to a schedule, we had a routine, we followed all the sleep advice. No luck. The only way we could get the little guy to nod off would be to push him around in his stroller or to take him for a car ride.

Unfortunately, baby boy got his momma’s brain. He quickly learned we were tricking him into falling asleep when we’d strap him into his car seat at night. He also got his sense of navigation from his mom. Whenever we didn’t take the right turns to get to our house, Isaac would immediately flip. He knew we were going in the wrong direction.

One such time when we were driving, Isaac got very angry with me for not turning toward our road. “Straight home!” he roared from the back seat. He didn’t appreciate it when I told him that we were going home…“We’re just taking the squiggly way.”

From then on, whenever I didn’t make the right turn, Isaac would cry out “No! No Squiggly!”

I’ve never been known to have lots of patience. I’ve always wanted to get to the next destination in my life as fast as possible… get through college, get married, have kids, get to the next milestone in my career, and on and on. Always rushing toward the next phase.

I’ve come to realize I’ve spent years hurrying my life away.

Life isn’t linear. It’s full of ups and downs, excitement and disappointments. Sometimes you’re so busy you feel like you can’t breathe. And sometimes you’re so bored you feel like you’re going to lose your mind.

With any luck, age brings wisdom. You learn the squiggly-ness in life isn't something to be scorned. It's something to be savored. It has taken me years to realize that the detours aren't interruptions. They're what the trip is all about.

I still get a little impatient with life. But, in those moments, I remind myself that we’re just taking the squiggly way home.

Most mornings I don’t feel like getting out of bed. Or at least, if I want to get up, I certainly don’t want to do anything active. But over the past couple of months, I’ve been forcing myself to get up and go for a walk.

“Just do a mile,” I say to myself as I gather up my shoes. The weather has been beautiful lately, which helps. And I either walk with Meg or read a book on my morning stroll. People poke fun of me for reading while walking. And I probably will get run over, fall into a ditch, or break my ankle on a twig one day because of it. But I’ve found wanting to finish my latest Fredrik Backman obsession has been a tremendous motivator for getting started.

But a curious thing has happened by making myself walk a mile.
I usually walk more.

Sometimes I don’t have the time. But I typically want to keep walking. Maybe two miles. Sometimes up to three. I like to walk in the evenings with my wife and the neighbors. I’ll even take a little walk at lunch sometimes if the workday (and sweltering heat) permit it.

I’ve heard lots of people talk about this type of principle over the years. James Clear has the Two-Minute Rule. Shawn Achor talks about “activation energy.” And I just learned that Katy Milkman from Wharton calls something similar “temptation bundling.” She conducted a study that found people’s gym attendance increased when they were only permitted to listen to interesting audiobooks at the gym.

Google tells me this is related to behavioral activation. Back when I was a consistent runner, we just said the hardest part of running is putting on your shoes.

This principle has held in many areas of my life. When I wanted to start writing for my own mental health, I decided to start small. But once I got myself into the habit, I found myself wanting to do more. Same with reading. I started the year with a two-books-per-month goal. But once I really started reading (and working on improving my attention span), I found myself wanting to read more and more.

Our positive habits are fragile.

Life gets in the way sometimes. I stayed up way too late last night working on a sermon for this Sunday. I missed my morning routine because I didn’t peel myself out of bed in time to go for my walk. I’ve been dragging today. Not just from being sleepy, but I’ve felt generally sluggish. A stop at Starbucks certainly helped, but I’ve still felt off all day.

But the good news about a daily habit is that you get to start again tomorrow. All you have to do is go one measly mile.

Anyone can tell you anything they want in our culture. There’s no shortage of people around or online that will tell you exactly what you need to do.

We’re inundated with algorithms fine tuned to deliver us content that will capture our attention and drive us toward whatever call-to-action makes the most cash. We’re surrounded by so many voices. So many worldviews and opinions. Some are friendly and some want to destroy you. Most don’t really care about you either way. They just want your wallet.

In 1 Samuel 24, David was running for his life. King Saul was chasing him down. But, suddenly, something turned in David’s favor.

My middle school mind giggles every time I read this story of David having the opportunity to defeat Saul because the king had to relieve himself. The men with David saw this as the perfect opportunity.

David had people in his corner who cared about him. They wanted what’s best for him. They were risking their lives to be by his side. When Saul walked into that cave, David’s men didn’t think it was a coincidence. They saw God handing them an ending to the whole mess.

I love what happens next.

Notice what David didn’t do. He didn’t listen to the voices in the cave. Even though these guys loved David, even though they cared about him. Even though they were right…Saul wanted him dead. Even though sparing Saul made David’s own life harder, not easier.

David’s men weren’t con artists trying to trick David. They were good men who’d left everything to follow him. And they were still wrong. Wanting what’s best for someone isn’t the same as knowing what’s best for them. Even the people closest to us only ever have part of the picture.

For David, it was more important to stand true to his principles than to take advantage of the situation. No one would have blamed him for sparing his life at Saul’s expense. But he knew it wouldn’t be right. He knew it wasn’t what God had in mind.

So he asked Saul the question:
“Why do you listen when men say, ‘David is bent on harming you’?”

We are surrounded by so many voices. Some are strangers with something to sell. Some are people who love us and would sacrifice everything for us. But the difference between people and God isn’t how much they care. It’s what they know.

People WANT what’s best for us. God KNOWS what’s best for us. We can trust He’s moving even when we don’t understand what He’s doing.

It’s wise to listen to the counsel of others. To hear people out and take advice. But before you act on any voice, whether it’s a stranger’s algorithm or someone who loves you, ask David’s question first. Does it match up to what you know about God?

Everyone has an opinion.
Only one voice actually knows what’s best.

We found out during the pandemic that we would be having our second child in 2021. We were ecstatic. We had been trying to have another kid for a few years after our first son, Isaac, was born.

But I was also, like, really tired.

The oldest boy was 4 at that point. We were finally out of diapers and just leaving that phase where kids are completely obsessed with things that can cause them mortal danger. All the high spots, sharp edges, pools of water, rusty pieces of metal, crazy looking bugs…you know the deal.

I was 30 when we had Isaac.
I would be 35 when we had Ian.

One of the first thoughts I had after the initial excitement died down?
“I’m going to have to learn how to drink coffee.”

I always hated coffee. I hated the smell, the taste, everything.

I even remember trying a White Chocolate Mocha on a field trip senior year because my friend Patrick wanted to try one. As peer pressure goes, I must admit that’s pretty mild. That drink was the second grossest thing I’d ever tasted…right behind a raw tomato.

I hated that I hated coffee. I thought coffee drinkers were so cool! I’m pretty basic at heart, so the idea of going to a coffee shop, grabbing some java, and hanging out with a book or doing work on my laptop seemed like the pinnacle of existence to my millennial soul.

Ordering a hot chocolate from Starbucks just isn’t the same!

But I knew I had 9 months or so to train myself to like coffee if I wanted to take advantage of the caffeine boost when the little one arrived. And that’s exactly what I did.

I started by ordering the sweetest drink I could find on the Starbucks app. And then I went to Old Village Roaster and got an iced coffee that was more like a milkshake. I continued just like that until I eventually made it to a blonde vanilla latte. Just like that, something shifted. I liked it!

Today my go-to drink is a Vanilla Cold Brew with no cream. But I’m not terribly picky. I’m far from a true javaphile, but I do love treating myself to a good coffee in the morning. Now and then I’ll even bring a book.

This makes my millennial soul happy… and keeps it well caffeinated.

I don’t have the best hearing. Maybe it’s from all the high school years listening to my portable CD player with maxed-out volume or completely ignoring the almost daily “loud environment” warnings from my Apple Watch. Whatever the culprit, my ears don’t work quite as well as they used to.

Just this evening, a neighbor I don’t know well was walking down the road. “How are you today?” “Good, you?” “Living the dream, ya know?”

All pretty common stuff.

Then he mumbled something. Or, to be honest, he probably spoke at a perfectly normal volume, and my ears are the problem. Either way, I had zero clue what he said.

I defaulted to my standard nod and smile. “You know it!”

I’m still not sure what the man said, but I’m quite sure from his reaction that “you know it” was the incorrect response.

There’s something inherently awkward for everyone involved when you can’t hear them. I don’t know why I don’t just say “I’m sorry, what was that?” and walk closer to lend my ear to them as they repeat the question or statement or rant…or to cuss me out.

I do this often…even when it doesn’t have anything to do with volume.

The meeting at work when I briefly lose focus and have to pretend to be caught up real quick. The friendly cashier at the store who says something I can’t quite decipher. Or, when the 5-year-old tells me an elaborate Minecraft story where the only real possible response is “Wow, really? That’s cool, buddy.” when I’m really not quite following him.

But I’m just choosing to fake understanding in those moments.
And I end up missing a little more true connection with another human.

I don’t know what my neighbor said last night. Maybe never will. He may be telling someone the story now of the neighbor who said “you know it” when he asked what my kid’s name was or if I knew how to make a cake.

I told you, I have ZERO clue what he said!

Old habits die hard, so I’ll probably still smile, nod, and say something agreeable when I don’t understand something. But hopefully I can learn. I’d rather be the guy who asks and actually knows, than the guy who nods and never does.

My hearing may not be as good as it once was, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still listen.

Before embarking on my 100 Day Writing Challenge, I asked my Facebook friends for writing prompt suggestions. Full disclosure: I haven’t used any of them yet. 🤪

But two of them stuck out to me:

“A time you failed miserably” and “A time you succeeded well.” I don’t know what this says about me, but I honestly can’t think of any truly strong examples of either one. This is funny to me because I wouldn’t consider myself an even-keeled person…at all.

I am an emotional human.
I can get really positive and really negative.
I bounce between being super confident and thinking I’m the worst.
You’d think I’d be able to quickly identify my spectacular failures at least!

Maybe it has something to do with suppressing some feelings of failure trauma? 🤷‍♂️

Sure, I can recall moments I’m proud of. And I have books worth of examples of times I’ve really screwed up. But even the times I’ve $*!t the bed don’t really seem like failures. You learn and move on. And the successful times? I’ve definitely come to realize that the successes don’t stick with you very long.

Perhaps it’s just part of maturing…which I’m also not sure applies to me. But maybe you eventually start to understand that life is really about the journey. It’s less about winning and losing and more about learning and growing.

Maybe failure is only failure if you let it be. And success just is what it is.
So, I still don’t have a strong answer for either prompt.
Perhaps that’s really the true success?

Want to know the secret to being a great communicator?
Have something to say.

I don’t consider myself a particularly good communicator. I’m not a naturally gifted writer, and I was the kid who would pee down his leg if I had to get up and talk in front of the class. But I am a wonderer. I spend lots of my time thinking about life and people and all the things. The biggest change for me in how I communicate has been feeling a growing responsibility to share my reflections of the world with people I think it might help.

As I’ve grown, I’ve also come to appreciate great communication from great communicators. And the ones I admire most all have one thing in common: They all actually have something to say.

If you do not have something to say, it’s not time to talk or type yet.
It’s time to develop a point of view.

It’s tempting to feel like you need to add to the noise. We’re told we have to be consistent or feed the algorithm or any number of other tips we marketing people might share. But great communication requires patience. It takes wrestling with an idea until that something finally, and truly, takes shape.

The communicator’s job is to release an idea into the world. The best communicators aren’t communicating just so they can be heard. They communicate so the idea can be heard. Our job is to share the message the best we can. It’s then up to others whether the idea lands.

If we really want to communicate well, it’s about sharing something. It’s about wrestling an idea to the ground. It’s about becoming burdened with the obligation to get an idea out in the world.

The act of refining a message chisels it into your mind and heart. I rarely feel like I fully understand anything until I’ve put in the noble work of trying to communicate it well. I fight with the idea, so I can distill it down into its purest form.

When you have something to say, I don’t think you worry as much about being up in front of the class anymore. Because now it’s less about what people might think of you and more about helping people with how they might think about the world.

“Dad, I can’t believe your mom is so slow.”

I looked back at Isaac and squinted, trying to figure out where the conversation was going. My mom has had some poor health, so I was preparing for one of those talks when you have to explain the tough parts of life to your kid.

“Yeah, it took her 9 months to make a joke.” Isaac could hardly contain himself as he delivered the punchline perfectly. We both cackled.

I’m sure he lifted the joke straight from YouTube. It didn’t matter. Hearing your kid deliver a perfect dad joke is still a top proud parent moment.

One of our favorite pastimes is trying to catch each other off guard with a pun. And Ian likes to join in with knock knock jokes. He hasn’t quite caught on that he’s supposed to actually interrupt BEFORE I finish saying “interrupting cow who?” for the joke to work!

I’ve been trying to savor these goofy moments because, honestly, parenting has been hard the last little bit. The boys bicker nonstop. Ian may be five, but we’re still waiting for him to grow out of those terrible twos. Isaac is hurtling toward the teen years. His attitude is proof.

Truth is: I’ve been a little tired lately. And I’ve been a little too quick to snap at them when they haven’t gotten dressed after I’ve asked for the 47th time. And I’ve gotten a little short with my responses when the whining crashes in like a tsunami. And I’ve maybe allowed my eyes to roll and my head to shake in disappointment a little too quickly because of it all.

But I’m trying to remember that I only have a little more time left with my little boys while they’re little. They’re growing up, like little boys do.

The other day Isaac was away with some friends. Meg was driving and a literal chicken crossed the road right in front of us. “Oh man!” I said immediately. “I wish Ike was here. He would have thought that was hilarious.” And he did when I told him about it the next day.

I know my little dudes will be around less as they get older. I know I'll wish for far more of these little moments than I'll actually get. In the meantime, I want to catch all the little jokes and cherish my little guys for who they are now and for the men they’re growing into, little by little.

Maybe they’ll be dads one day, I don’t know.
But I do know they’ll be armed with plenty of dad jokes.