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.

I like to feel needed. I suppose in some weird way it makes me feel like I’m wanted. But we’ll save that particular line of thinking for my therapist.

But I do like when people rely on me. When they ask me for help. One of my Working Geniuses is enablement. This means I get energy from supporting and helping others. When you ask me to help you, you’re giving me a gift.

But I’ve noticed something in my life and leadership.
Being needed isn’t always the same thing as being helpful.

My 5-year-old started kindergarten this year. Getting him ready for school is always an adventure. My little guy is more than capable of getting himself dressed. He may get his shorts a little wobberjawed at times or get stuck with his shirt on backwards, but, for the most part, he can get dressed all by himself.

But most 5-year-olds I know can ramp up their whining from 0 to 60 pretty quickly. My dude cries and whines every day because he wants me or his mom to dress him. I do push myself to appreciate these little moments while he’s still little. But let’s be honest. It’s also real annoying. And doing it for him isn’t actually helping him grow into his own.

It’s an interesting tension.
The more we help someone grow, the less they need us.

A good parent wants to help their child rely less on them.
A good teacher wants to help students thrive even when they are on their own.
A good manager wants their team to succeed without always needing direction.

This can be tough for those of us who love to feel needed. Being truly helpful may mean we make ourselves feel less valuable. But sometimes the greatest evidence of our value is that someone no longer needs us in the same old ways. After all, the point of helping someone isn’t to make ourselves feel good. It’s about helping people grow.

Is my leadership about the people I lead? Or is it more about me?

Do you want people to need you?
Or do you want people to be better because of you?

It feels good to be the hero.
To be the one with a solution when someone we care about has a problem.
It feels good to be a fixer. It feels good to be helpful.

But what if our heroics inadvertently hold some people back? What if we become so good at helping that we never give others a chance to figure things out on their own?

We get the problem solved. The work is done. Everyone moves on.
Until next time.

I came across a book called Building a StoryBrand several years ago. The StoryBrand marketing framework gave me a simple shift in my perspective. One that has changed my career and my leadership.

According to StoryBrand, your organization should NOT be the hero of your marketing. Your organization is the guide. Your customer is the hero.

Marketing’s primary role is to tell a compelling story of how the organization can help its customers overcome a problem and move toward their goal.

Almost all the stories we love have a guide that moves the hero along. It’s Mick, the trainer in Rocky. It’s Yoda in Star Wars. It’s even Timon, Pumbaa, and Nala in The Lion King. The guide has something to offer our hero. But the hero still has to play their part.

I try to keep this idea top of mind when I’m writing or communicating. It’s tempting to want to talk about how awesome I am. I want to talk about my experience. My ideas.

I want to share all the reasons I can think of to show you that you can trust me. Those things may very well have a place. But what people typically want is a little help understanding how to get where they want to go.

This changes the questions we ask. What does this person want? What’s standing in their way? What can we offer that helps them take the next step?

If you haven’t caught on, I believe this holds true in most areas of our lives.

As a leader, that might mean walking someone through how to approach a problem and then giving them room to work on it. It takes time; sometimes it takes even more time than if I just did it myself. But when the next problem comes along, they’ll have some experience to draw from.

As a dad, it means remembering that my boys are learning. Taking over might get us out the door faster, but they still need opportunities to practice. Unfortunately for my patience, becoming capable at something usually involves being pretty bad at it first.

In friendship, it might mean asking a few more questions before offering my very obvious and clearly brilliant solution. Giving someone space to think can be more helpful than telling them exactly what I would do in their shoes.

There will always be moments when people need us to carry something for them. I hope I’m always ready and willing to do just that when the time comes. But, more than anything, I want the people I lead to grow. I want them to feel that they can trust their own judgment. I want them to discover that they can do things that used to feel beyond them.

And that means leaving them room to try.

As leaders, we don’t need to be the hero of everyone else’s story.
We need to give them the care and space they need to become one.

This is most evident when I’ve decided on how to improve something. It doesn’t matter if it’s professionally or personally. When I see something that could be different at work, I want to see it be made brand new overnight. When I finally get serious about my health, I want to lose all the weight in a week.

But that’s just not how things work.

There’s rarely one magic bullet that immediately makes everything better. The only way to truly improve is little by little.

So the best way to improve, especially if you’re already “good,” is by making a thousand little improvements consistently.

Sometimes the hardest thing for impatient people like me is seeing what something could become and not being able to skip all the steps it takes to get there.

I’m a rambler at heart. I think with words…so many words. When I try to explain my thoughts, I can often see my listener’s mind start wandering in real time. I’ve learned the hard way that I communicate better when I cut about a third of what I think I need to say.

I get tempted to add content hoping to be more persuasive. But my point is rarely more compelling because I’ve added to it. Real improvement usually comes from chiseling away at the nonessential.

Graphic designers know that adding another element doesn’t make a cluttered design any better. A writer elevates their prose by removing what’s unnecessary. The best sermons I’ve preached were around 20-25 minutes long. The bad ones were much longer.

The phrase “less is more” is a cliché for a reason. Removing fluff leads to stronger communication. It gives the main idea the space it needs to be heard.

I wonder how often we’re tempted to make the same mistake with our time and attention. Most of us are already overwhelmed, but we’re still convinced that we’ll improve our lives by adding more. Our culture loves to point out what we might be missing, trying to convince us that what we already have isn’t enough.

But we’ll never make the most of our lives by focusing only on what we can add. What we really need is the space to enjoy the precious things we already have.

And that means being willing to put everything else on the chopping block.

This is day 74 of a 100 Day Writing Challenge.
And I’ve wanted to give up this week.

I’ve been grasping at straws for personal essay ideas. I’m tired, and I’ve felt like I was trying to pour out of an empty creative cup. It felt like I had nothing left after 70 days of writing in just a few short months.

But yesterday I gave myself some creative space (and a little bit of grace).
I spent some time in deeper conversation with a couple of friends.
I played with my boys a little longer than typical.
I took a morning walk through downtown.
I finished a book and started a new one.
I began to let my wonder wander a bit.

When I sat down to write yesterday, a rush of creativity struck me. My daily essay wasn’t especially novel. But it came from a deep conviction and years of learning (and relearning) the concept. For whatever reason, the idea crystallized quickly.

I decided to start writing down some other ideas that had begun swirling around in my head. I jotted down a few big ideas, gave my future self a little context, and prepared drafts to get me started when I sit down to write in the upcoming days.

It took me less than 10 minutes to create 14 ideas I can’t wait to unravel through writing. And you know what? As I explore those ideas, they will spawn others. Each one is a little creative detour. You never know what’s there until you start exploring.

I’m still tired. I may have bitten off more than I could realistically chew trying to write an essay for 100 weekdays straight. But here’s what I’ve learned:

• For me, nothing helps me gain clarity of thought quite like writing.

• Creativity can feel finite, but it really is infinite. The trouble is that you can only get out what you put in.

• I can go much further than I can imagine with a little determination and a whole bunch of discipline.

• There are all sorts of things to ponder about this mysterious life we live.

I’m reminded of the Biblical story of Elijah and the Widow at Zarephath, whose jar of flour and oil never ran empty while following the Lord’s leading.

When you give of yourself creatively and feed your soul adequately, the creative juices tend not to run dry.

The most powerful tool in a communicator’s tool belt is tension.

When I first started preaching as a young guy, I was bad. I got lots of “bless your hearts” at first. Lucky for me, everyone around me was supportive, encouraging, and maybe a little too patient. Unlucky for them, I kept trying.

Without tension, even the most important messages can fall flat. We don’t typically fail in our communication because we don’t have anything worthwhile to say. It’s often because we haven’t given anyone a real reason to listen.

My early sermons lacked tension. I was so focused on communicating information or pushing some application that I never took the time to answer the most important question: “So what?”

Tension is created in a story when something stands in the way of a character getting what they want. It’s what makes stories worth telling. Star Wars without Darth Vader is boring. Rocky without being an underdog isn’t inspiring. A romcom where the guy doesn’t have to learn how not to be a doofus isn’t engaging. And communication without tension isn’t compelling.

I began improving my communication when I started asking, “What does my audience want?” Then following up with the all-important “What’s standing in their way from getting it?”

Establishing tension makes any form of communication more potent. This applies to preaching and presenting, copywriting and parenting. A fundamental part of communication is showing people why your topic should matter to them.

So, whenever you set out to communicate something, ask yourself these questions:

1. Who am I talking to?

2. What do they want?

3. What’s standing in their way?

4. How do they feel about it?

5. Why should they care?

Once you answer these questions, you are well on your way to effective communication. You give people a reason to listen when you've clearly answered the question, "So what?"

The first thing I realized when I got to my boy’s soccer practice was that I forgot a chair. And there wasn’t a bench close to his field. Luckily, there was a big tree sitting just beyond the goal line. I plopped myself down beside it.

About halfway through practice, I decided the tree roots digging into my tailbone wasn’t comfortable anymore. I attempted to get up. Key word here: attempted.

As I went to stand, I quickly realized that my leg was asleep. And not just the annoying little tingly feeling. My foot was numb. I stumbled a bit as I stood. I staggered around for several minutes. I tried to avoid eye contact with the other parents. I slowly regained control of my flailing leg. I decided to stand (well, pace) while my kiddo and his team were finishing up.

I don’t suppose there is anything wrong with trying to be comfortable…during your kid’s soccer practice or in life. And we certainly all need a little rest now and then.

But sometimes the comfort we seek can paralyze us when we’re ready to move. Maybe we decide to stay somewhere we’ve outgrown, or we avoid the risk we know we should take because we’re afraid we might fail. Maybe we’re stuck in a routine or avoiding the tough conversation.

Comfort isn’t our enemy. In fact, rest is our friend. Comfort becomes a problem when we get stuck there. The trouble is that many of us have become so settled in our status quo that we find ourselves unable to move.

Eventually it’s time to get up. We might have to shake off the pins and needles a bit. We might even stumble at times. But if you get up and start moving, eventually you’ll regain your footing.

From the time I became a Christian, I’ve always loved Joshua in the Old Testament. He was a man of faith that trusted God when others didn’t and bravely led a group of people in both battle and triumph. But as great of a leader as Joshua was, there’s one critical area where he might have fallen short.

I remember reading this passage during a church service right when I began serving as a youth pastor. That evening’s sermon was on the failure of the era of the Judges for the Israelites because none of their leaders followed and trusted God like Joshua had done and Moses before him. But something struck me when reading this passage.

Joshua had been trained, empowered, and commissioned by Moses. When Moses wasn’t allowed to go to the promised land, God used Moses to enable the next generation of leaders. Before Moses passed away, he confirmed Joshua’s leadership publicly.

I think it would be a mistake to say that Joshua wasn’t a great leader. He led his people well. And certainly succeeded in some areas where Moses struggled. And I suppose it’s not ever really fair to compare one leader to another.

But the fact remains: after Moses’ time at the helm of Israel, there was a competent and capable leader ready to take the reins. After Joshua, there was not.

When I was a youth pastor, I came across a book called Growing Young by Kara Powell and the Fuller Youth Institute. Keychain leadership was a key (pun intended) concept in the book. In this metaphor, keys on a keychain represent access, power, and responsibility. To “grow young” or intentionally raise up the next generation of leadership, you give away the keys you hold in order to intentionally trust a young leader.

Moses obviously didn’t have any clue what a keychain was, but this is how he led Joshua. Moses gave Joshua meaningful responsibility before Joshua was in charge. The young warrior was given real access, real authority, and real responsibility. The young man grew into the leader he became. And when the time came for him to take over, he already had the skills needed to lead. He was ready.

For whatever else the job of a leader is, one of the most important things we can do is prepare the next generation of leaders that will come behind us. It can be hard to hand over keys that we worked hard for or we’re proud of. Chances are they represent things that are deeply important to us.

There are many ways to measure the quality of a leader. But if we truly believe in the mission we’re fighting for, we should do everything in our power to make sure the next generation of leaders are ready when we hand them the keys.

Albert Einstein makes me sad.

I’ve long been fascinated by Einstein’s life and work. His name is synonymous with genius, which is impressive in its own right. His theories changed humanity's understanding of our universe and paved the way for technologies both great and grave. But Einstein wasn’t always right. And there are things that I read about the man that break my heart.

A passage from his essay, What I Believe, resonated deeply with me. After writing about the beauty of mystery, Einstein speaks of the importance of wonder.

My understanding of wonder is to be curious, to desire to know something. It’s about pondering and thinking, with a hint of the awe of it all. I’ve always been a wonderer. I have my 6 Types of Working Genius results as proof. Maybe this is why I’ve always been so fascinated by Einstein, because of his wonder and curiosity.

Einstein continues his thoughts on the mystery of life and his own religious convictions before drawing another conclusion. One that I actually agree with on a profound level. But it’s also a conclusion that grieves me, because the God he describes rejecting is a God I don’t believe in either.

Einstein concludes that he can’t believe in a God who is modeled after humanity. He rejects a God who is merely a reflection of human frailty.

You might be thinking, “I thought Jimmy was a Christian who believed in God? How can he agree with this quote from Einstein?”

I do believe in God. And I believe in Jesus. I believe this with every fiber of my being. Even in my doubts and struggles, my questions and hurts, I wholeheartedly agree with Peter that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God.

But I, along with Einstein, cannot imagine a God whose purposes are modeled after our own. And I reject a God who is but a reflection of human frailty. Because the God I believe in isn’t made in my image. The God I believe in is the God who created humanity in His own image. It is not God who is a mere reflection of me. It is me who is a poor reflection of Him.

I believe God created me with a sense of wonder. When I’m healthy (physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually…wholly), my heart and mind are filled with awe. My curiosity runs wild as I ponder this world that our Creator spoke into existence. When I read Christ’s words that we are to come to Him like little children, I believe, at least for me, part of that definition means approaching my life with a childlike sense of wonder in the world.

I do not believe that science and faith are at odds. Geniuses like Einstein don't threaten my faith. They feed my wonder and my curiosity. They actually deepen my faith. But I grieve that Einstein, for all his wonder, didn't seem to find the hope I've found in my Savior.

God is plenty big enough to handle our doubts and questions. So, just as Tolkien says that “Not all those who wander are lost,” neither are all who wonder.

For almost seventy weekdays in a row now, I’ve hit publish on a short personal essay or article. In July, I embarked on a 100 (week)day writing challenge inspired by Tiny Experiments by Anne-Laure Le Cunff.

I started with a list of topics I wanted to explore. As I've gone along, I've thrown out many of my initial prompts and burned through the rest fairly quickly. On days I didn’t know what I wanted to write about, I would sit with my thoughts for a few minutes and wait until something sprang up from within, trying to tune into what was occupying my mind or what I was feeling in my gut.

This approach has worked pretty well for me.
Until today.

Day sixty-nine (I know). As I reached for something within me to write about this evening, I came up empty.

I picked up my phone and scrolled a bit as I brainstormed. I tried to unearth what I’m feeling or what’s sitting in my subconscious. There’s been plenty swirling around my head as of late. Work stuff and spiritual stuff. I heard a thought-provoking presentation about wandering today at a luncheon. But nothing I feel quite ready to write about yet.

I’m not sure if this is what writers call writer’s block. Or maybe I’m just tired. I haven’t been able to feed my brain as much lately. I’ve had less time than I’d like to read, and I haven’t gone down as many interesting rabbit holes as I normally do. All I know is that I don’t feel like I have enough inspiration in reserve to write thoughtfully about anything.

Ironically, this is me writing what I feel. I suppose I can write about whatever I want. This is my own journal-ish endeavor, after all. And what I’m processing today is that I haven’t done the work up front to make sure I’m not trying to pour from an empty cup.

I’ve been circling this theme in 2026. I need to cultivate what kindles my curiosity and stirs my heart. I must invest in what fulfills me and gives me energy, so I can show up more fully, not just in my writing, but in my everyday world.

So much of what we read online wants us to believe we’re missing out. And every time I scroll, it works. I’m always left feeling like there’s something I should be doing, buying, or being. If I’m not, I worry I’m wasting my life away.

The fear of missing out is an old friend of mine. When I first heard the term FOMO in the early 2010s, it immediately resonated.

As a child, my parents’ divorce meant that being with one side of my family meant missing time with the other. I felt torn between two places. I didn’t feel like I belonged in either. As a teenager, every day brought something new that felt like the end of the world if I missed it. Fitting in felt so important in those formative years.

As I’ve grown older, the things are different. But those feelings haven’t gone anywhere. It seems like other people always have something figured out that I don’t. Or they get to have experiences in their lives that I don’t get to have. They have skills, or abilities, or knowledge, or any number of other things that feel just out of my reach.

The content knows we are terrified of missing out. It preys on that fear. It promises some secret key to life, our profession, or our health. It draws a direct line from our deepest fears to whatever it’s peddling. It wants us to believe that this one thing could be the difference in being successful, happy, or whatever else we fear we’re missing. And it works.

Here’s the truth: I know what I need to feel happy and fulfilled. And quite frankly, I already have it all. It’s not that everything will always be perfect. There will always be plenty out of my control.

But if I’ve learned anything in the past few years, it’s that the good life isn’t nearly as complicated as we sometimes think.

There’s always more to learn.
I’ll always have room to grow.
There will never be a shortage of things I should be doing.

But there’s also always more to appreciate.
I’ll always need to make room to slow down.
There will never be a shortage of things I should stop taking for granted.

The true secrets of life are all actually pretty simple.
The content just wants us to believe otherwise.

Our aversion to feeling helpless can rob people of the help they actually need from us.

We love to focus on fixing problems when what people really need is our presence. We fixate on solutions when the best thing we can offer is our support.

I spoke this past Sunday at my church about Moses in Exodus 17. It’s a story I first came across as a teenager. I had just become a follower of Jesus. I’ve always loved the passage, despite not fully understanding all the details, because I think it’s such a great picture of supporting one another.

During one of Israel’s battles, Moses is standing on a hill overlooking the fight. When he holds up his staff, the Israelites prevail. When Moses lets his arms drop, they start losing ground.

Inevitably, Moses gets tired. But his friends Aaron and Hur get him a rock to sit on. They stand on either side of him and hold his arms steady.

I’ve always loved that they don’t take the staff away from Moses. He’s still the one holding on. They are just there to support him and give him the extra help he needs to keep going.

Our lives are filled with ups and downs. The more people we care about, the more often we’ll find ourselves close to someone who is struggling. Difficult times are inevitable. They’re just part of life, both for us and the people we love.

But we can feel helpless when there’s nothing we can do about the struggles our loved ones are facing. We want to step in. We want to help. And it’s great when we can. More often than not, there aren’t easy solutions or quick fixes to the things life throws at us. Sometimes all we can do is be a listening ear, provide a little support, and maybe offer to say a prayer for them.

But these seemingly small acts are anything but insignificant. We remember the listening ear and the encouraging word. We remember the people who showed up. The people who were there for us and held us up. Maybe it doesn’t seem like we’ve done a lot, but sometimes it’s exactly enough. What can feel like helplessness can actually be the help someone needs.

One of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received was being called boring.

The person was around the corner. They didn’t know I was there. They mentioned my name and used the adjective “boring.” This person didn’t intend it as a compliment. I certainly didn’t hear anything positive in their tone. It was quite easy to be offended if I’m honest.

But the more I’ve sat with this experience over the years, the more I’ve grown to wear “being boring” as a badge of honor.

Because I do think I am pretty boring.

I don’t do anything super exciting. My story isn’t especially unique. Married, two kids, a dog. We have decent jobs. We make enough money but not a ton. Pretty close to paycheck to paycheck, but we live a good life. I’ve never been super adventurous. I don’t have tons of stories or interesting tidbits. Overall, I would say I’m pretty average.

But you can depend on me. I’m reliable. I love my boys and take care of them. I’m consistently a decent husband. Or try to be. I believe I am kind. I love people. I try to be encouraging. I pay my bills and my taxes. Or at least I have a good wife who makes sure these things are taken care of!

If boring is just another word for steady, then I am proud to carry the label. Because that’s exactly who I want to be for the people who count on me.

The blank page is the creative person’s nemesis.

You’d think a creative would thrive without boundaries. That having the freedom to do anything would invite an explosion of ingenious ideas. Surely the mythical muse prefers to inspire without any pesky parameters spoiling the fun.

But limits don’t stifle creative work. Guidelines can actually catalyze our creativity. It feels counterintuitive, but guardrails are a gift to the creative mind.

As a graphic designer, having no direction and a blank artboard is debilitating. When I’ve preached, not having any guidelines for where to start my sermon prep is daunting. When I write, the hardest part for me is the blinking cursor on a blank page.

Constraints help creativity because they reduce the number of decisions you have to make. Too many possibilities can paralyze creatives. It’s true that few creative people love being micromanaged, but, for the most part, a few parameters can be helpful along the way.

Constraints don’t tell you exactly what to create, but they can provide a bit of direction and vision to help kickstart creativity.

When my wife and I first got married, the majority of our fights were over how we fought. Some minor squabble would balloon into something much bigger because we didn’t know how to argue. We weren’t quite sure how to communicate.

She is the type who goes quiet when she’s upset. She’d prefer to disappear when things get heated because she doesn’t want to say anything that she’ll regret. I want to yell at each other until we love each other again. Yes, I’m a verbal processor with abandonment issues.

We struggled early on because our communication styles kicked our relational fight-or-flight modes into red alert.

Communication is compromise. Megan and I have learned how to communicate better over the years. We’re still not perfect. But I’ve learned to give her space when she’s upset. She’s learned that sometimes I just have to get my thoughts out of my head. Everyone is different. You’re different than your spouse and your boss. Your kids are different. Your best friend and your coworker are different. There might be similarities in how you communicate with each of them, but it still takes compromise to learn how to communicate well with all the people in our lives.

Communication is complicated. Everyone has different preferences and different baggage they bring into a relationship. Communication doesn’t happen when I say something or share something. Communication happens when someone else hears what I am trying to say. Or when I hear what someone else is trying to say. For some reason we think communication should come most naturally in our most important relationships. In my experience, they can sometimes be the toughest. Maybe complicated isn’t a bug. It’s a feature to help us see and hear each other on a deeper level.

Communication is crucial. Being heard is one of our foundational needs as humans. It’s how we connect and feel like we belong. It helps us feel secure and helps us grow. With communication, there’s no limit to the beauty and joy we experience in the world. Without it, things can get bleak pretty quickly. Despite being more connected than ever, we’ve never been more lonely. We’ve gotten worse at communication, and connection is incomplete without communication.

Communication is kind. Clearly communicating is one of the greatest acts of kindness we can offer another person. That means sharing with clarity, authenticity, and empathy. It means listening in those ways, too.

I think with my words. Talking things out with another person or writing them down for someone else to read is how I make sense of the tangled mess in my head. Talking and writing. Listening and hearing. I’ve learned others process things differently than me. Learning to hear each other in all the ways we communicate is one of the great beauties of life.

Speaking is not the same thing as communicating. Communication requires being heard and truly hearing others. It takes work to help another human hear you while you also learn how to hear them. But whether by giving someone space to process or letting them yell at you in the kitchen, clearly communicating is some of the kindest work we can do.