I love insider information.

I think the desire to feel unique is why so many of us want special messages—from God, from fortune cookies, or from strangers. It adds mystique. And if you can say, “God told me . . .” then you have a whole new type of gravitas.

“God told me I needed to break up with my boyfriend.”

“God told me it was time to change jobs.”

“God told me to talk to that stranger.”

I get the feeling and the desire to add a special authority to life decisions—even mundane ones. Such a stamp feels like unlocking a new level of maturity. There’s such amazement in feeling like you got a unique message.

I remember being in college and meeting a guy whose name I think was Daniel (not the Bible one). He told me about his dreams. If I recall, he told me about a time he heard a song in heaven and it was told to him in that dream that it was the best worship song to ever be written. (He did not mention whether it was Elevation Worship.)

I remember how I responded: This is amazing. What might he know about me?

So I asked Daniel what message he got for me. At that time he didn’t have one (I appreciated the honesty). However, a while later he came by with a piece of paper and some thoughts written down, which he read to me. I wish I still had them—they were kind words, and maybe even accurate.

But that was in college—almost 25 years ago. My approach has changed since then. I don’t think it has mellowed. I think it has deepened.

I’ve found saying “God told me . . . ” is an unnecessary statement. When used, it can make maturity out to be something it’s not—receiving and delivering special messages. It can also lose out on what maturity is—growing up in such a way that my daily actions reflect Jesus.

In fact, I think it takes more faith to simply act on what gets borne out over time reading Scripture, praying, and talking with those in my life who love me.

What do I mean? We walk by faith and not by sight (2 Cor 5:7). If I have to “God told me” my way into things, I’m adding sight where there should likely be none.

First, I have so much at my disposal already—an entire Bible to read, know, study, meditate on, and pray over. If it says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” then I don’t need to tell you that “God told me to go talk to my neighbor last Tuesday.” If it says, “Love your wife as Christ loved the church,” I don’t need to say, “God told me I needed to stop playing video games so I can be more present with my wife.” I just apply what I’ve read—it’s already speaking.

Second, I have prayer. This is, for me, where the magic happens (“magic” is the wrong word to use here, but go with me). The dynamic of consistently praying for all kinds of things (from the hope of the eventual mortgage being paid off to the transformation of friends and family to the plans we have for Summer 2027) grows my faith. Prayer humbles me, creates watchfulness, and puts me in a position where I am both sifting and being sifted. When it is time to move, you move.

Third, I have my community. When declaring “God told me,” I can become unchallengeable—a law onto myself. What if we went to one another and said, “This is what I believe is important for me to handle next in life. What do you think?” Or, “I believe God wants me to ________. What am I missing?” That simple change puts the accountability where it belongs: with my God-given church family or community that loves me and wants the best for me.

But that isn’t to say I think one’s relationship with God should be static, robotic, or boring. For my readers who walk by faith and not sight, I hope that your relationship with God is thriving. And that comes through daily intimacy.

A time I screwed this up . . .

If you were to ask me what my wife, Courtney, liked, I would not need to tell you, “Well, she told me she liked . . . .” I would just say, “She likes cash.” She’d rather have $20 in her wallet than $100 more in her bank account. More importantly, I also know she likes to bake—especially for others. She likes to find ways to serve her friends and, when she can, watch their kids. She likes reading. She likes the Cabo Salad at Gringo’s. So do I. (It’s good.)

I was recently in the dining car on a train ride. I sent Courtney a photo of my booth. Having just spent five days in Philadelphia, two days at home, and then three days in Louisiana, my diet was a mess.

“My guess is you got the salad.”

I didn’t ask her to guess anything, but she likes to zoom in on photos people send her and make comments. Courtney and I talk daily. We pray daily. She knew I’d been feeling off and had been eating too much. So she guessed my order for me without ever asking.

You walk, you talk, you live, and—over time—you learn at a much deeper level what the other person cares about. You become that person’s advocate without realizing it. In a sense, when you enjoy all that relationship has for you, you don’t need as many words.

For the Christian today, our old roads of Scripture and prayer are well-worn and provide a powerful dynamic. You don’t need to declare. You need to abide.

What’s your next step?

Thanks for reading. One of the best ways you can support the work is by engaging. Do one: hit the like button, comment, or share with a friend. It’s a simple way to grow the community.

Courtney stocks the kitchen, figures out meals (though we’re happy to pivot to a restaurant), keeps up with the boys’ schedule, and makes sure the house runs. The boys find her when they want to be comforted.

Though for about nine of our 21 years Courtney had a full-time job, I think some modern influencers might call her a “trad wife.”

We are fine with this life—more than that, we welcome it. Every marriage needs clear expectations on more than just household duties. Our division need not be your division. Expectations that are stated, agreed to, and lived out are a special kindness.

But, I’m prone to ruin that kindness. Maybe you are, too.

Good Changes . . .

For over the past two years I’ve been on a bit of a marital reclamation journey. Though I’ve been grateful for every year of marriage, I’ve only over the last few seen how much I contributed to our problems. As newlyweds, Courtney would be depressed and asleep under her desk at the school where she taught and I’d say, “Just feel better.” Early in marriage we had a lot of fights—about expectations, about diabetes, about whether we were right for each other.

I could be through and through rude. Who can relate?

But 2024 is when some more decisive shifts were made. I began to take on a little more work. I had a specific goal: earn enough additional income that Courtney could reduce or remove the hours at her job if she wanted. She loved the job (working at the boys’ school) and the people. She still loves the people, but doesn’t miss some of the actual work as much.

However, by God’s grace, we were able to make the change. She just finished her first school year not working at the school. Her energy was higher and she was spending more time on things she was great at. The plan was working.

And yet there was a specific morning where I wanted to ruin it.

. . . Same Me

During the school year the alarm goes off about 5:30. Kids get up over the next 45 minutes—usually in birth order—and prepare for the day. One of those mornings after the boys left, I surveyed the kitchen. I noticed the dishes from the night prior hadn’t been done. I don’t know if it is a global thing or not, but waking up to dishes in the sink is less cool than waking up to no dishes in the sink.

So I sauntered over to Courtney, who was on the couch enjoying her morning.

“Hey, I am totally fine working more. I’m happy to do it. The one thing I ask is that the dishes get done.”

Imagine two doors—one door says “say that thing” and the other one says “don’t say that thing.” Given one million chances to walk through one of those doors and receive the outcome on the other side, there would be zero of those million where I should walk through the “say that thing” door.

“EXCUSE ME?!? When don’t the dishes get done? They always get done. If you don’t like when they get done you can do them.”

Whoops.

While I didn’t like being yelled at (who does?), I deserved the rebuke. Something I’ve learned about navigating depression in marriage is that a response like Courtney’s was quite healthy. When she’s depressed she’ll quietly go, “Okay” and move on. When she’s in a good place, she’ll tell me I’m being an idiot and stand her ground.

If You Don’t Like It, Do It

I’m not sure the motivation for my idiocy in the moment. I’m sure, at its core, there was pride. “I’m just working sooooooooo haarrrrdddddddd, can you at least do the dishes at night?” Like I somehow deserved it? I didn’t deserve it.

But I kept thinking about her callout: if you don’t like it, you can do it. This is the advice I give to almost any person who has a problem in a relationship. I just missed it for my own. Do the thing that bugs you. Nobody is stopping you.

So, as dumb as it might sound, I set a daily reminder to check the dishes (and do them if I needed to). I couldn’t be a squeaky wheel about it anymore. I can either do the dishes or not care about the dishes. What was no longer allowed was caring about someone else doing the dishes on my timeline.

After weeks (or months), I didn’t need the reminder anymore and deleted it from my phone. I could help out, the kids could help out, or we could leave the dishes piled high. It was no longer an issue because I realized that I was the problem. And once you realize you’re the problem, things can get better much more quickly.

But that’s me.

Thanks for reading. One of the best ways you can support the work is by engaging. Do one: hit the like button, comment, or share with a friend. It’s a simple way to grow the community.

A note to subscribers: This week I bring something different to your inboxes: a book review. While not my normal post, I know all of you are readers (or listeners). If I can serve you by giving you exposure to different ideas, I’m glad to. While a little longer than my normal posts (you can always listen to the voiceover), I hope you enjoy this review of To Live Well.

I’m not one for random Twitter/X challenges, but I just got back on the platform and needed to make some friends. So when author, English professor, and bearded man Alan Noble threw this out:

I felt like it was my responsibility to take on the challenge.

And I know what you’re thinking. “What the heck does the ‘O’ stand for?” Honestly, I didn’t try that hard to figure it out, so I don’t know. It could mean a lot of things—ornery, Oscar, Oliver, Owen. Pick one. What do you think fits a guy like this?

Luckily, you don’t need to know what the first initial stands for (I coached a kid named Oaklen one time), nor do you even need to know this guy is an ENGLISH PROFESSOR to know that he writes books.

He (or his publisher) titled his recent book To Live Well: Practical Wisdom for Moving Through Chaotic Times (IVP, 2026, 200pp). You can find it wherever good books are sold. There might be bad books mixed in but that isn’t Alan’s fault.

Get Ready for Virtue

Noble writes out of a concern—and it is one many share, regardless of faith tradition. “My fear,” he states, “is that modern society has conditioned us to be full of ‘morality’—albeit shifting and ambiguous morality—but lacking any virtues because it denies we have a telos [a defined end]. As a result, we are anxiously striving to do the right thing but never sure what the right thing is” (7). (Also, this fear certainly sounds a lot like a dad who is raising a family while simultaneously teaching young minds in a university setting. He has a front row seat to how things are going in an up-and-coming generation.)

Noble devotes seven chapters to seven virtues: prudence, justice, fortitude, temperance, faith, hope, and love. He uses Thomas Aquinas’ categories of cardinal virtues (the first four big words) along with the theological virtues (the last three easier words). And, no, he doesn’t directly address patience—which is the one virtue probably anyone can name. The reason for this is intentional because, for Noble, those Big 7 cover the rest.

For the Christian in the room, I can sense what you’re thinking, “Great, another book about slowing down, focusing on good things, being a better person, and feeling bad that I’m not enough of those things. Isn’t that what John Mark Comer is for? Or let’s just go to OG Dallas Willard. And can’t I Atomic Habits myself into a better person?”

I think we need to give Noble a fair shake here. While you’ll see overlap, those authors aren’t going after the same thing (or telos).

Unpacking the Virtues

Let’s start with the definition, so we don’t get lost in the shuffle of big words.

For the backbone of the book, Noble leans on noted Aquinas Scholar Josef Pieper (d. 1997). (This is not noted modern day pastor and scholar John Piper, who I am confident someone, somewhere assumed was who he was talking about.)

This is Josef Pieper:

What Noble wants to do is align a deeper desire for the virtue with specific ways to apply those virtues in the real world. Think of the book as accessible-yet-practical philosophy—a virtue primer. You’ll be introduced to ideas you are familiar with but said in ways you might feel are unfamiliar. Then, Noble brings it back down to earth with simple areas of life in which we can apply them.

The Cardinal Virtues

In looking at prudence (Chapter 1’s “Choosing Decisively”) Noble encourages “(1) seeing the reality of a situation, (2) recognizing and desiring what is good, (3) deliberating, (4) making a judgment, and (5) resolutely acting on that judgment” (18). Prudence is not just deciding, but deciding based upon the good of a situation. As he closes the chapter out, he urges us to remember there is not usually only one right decision (our career, our choice of spouse), but that what must happen is, after all is considered, to choose and remain resolved. (And I speak for many husbands, we are glad our wives are stuck with us.)

Prudence rolls into justice (Chapter 2’s “Acting Justly”), which is every man being given his due (46). He speaks of legal justice (our response to governing authorities), distributive justice (the government’s obligations to us), and commutative justice (what we owe to one another) (48-52). I found myself stuck more on this final version—between us and another. Noble speaks of our debt to our parents, and even to our city, for forming us. We cannot pay such debts, but our posture toward those people can be one of gratitude and charity. In other words, specifically as Christians, we have an obligation to give beyond what is due (grace) in personal and societal situations.

Fortitude comes next (Chapter 3’s “Suffering Steadfastly”) and is defined as “perseverance under suffering for the sake of a greater good” (68). There’s much to be said here, but you can see how the virtues necessarily interplay (thus, you can’t just pick one, you need to go all-in). Why would I suffer for something that isn’t good (needing prudence), and how could I endure if I were not thinking about how justice applies? And we all know what that sounds like, amiright?

Did you know you don’t have to pursue everything you want? Temperance is where we head next (Chapter 4’s “Living Moderately”). Quoting Pieper, we learn that temperance is how we “dispose various parts into one unified and ordered whole” (86). More than just moderation, temperance is a proper ordering of life to leave the capacity to serve others. “You owe it to God, others, and yourself to defend the inner order of your life through the practice of temperance, because it is through that inner order, through self-control, that you are able to have the base to move outward to help other people” (89).

The Theological Virtues

Noble ends with the theological virtues: faith, hope, and love (1 Cor 13:13). Using Hebrews 11 as a guide, Noble defines faith as both an assurance and conviction “about something which is not immediately evident” (Chapter 5’s “Believing Soundly”). Noble says “the virtue of faith allows us to know God and live more fully as human beings created by him” (112). This chapter had one of my favorite quotes.

The modern person can be into Roman Catholicism one year, MMA the next year, competitive fishing the next year, Islam the next, Taylor Swift, Pokémon, video games, ultramarathons, racial injustice, couponing, and so on. (116)

Many around us are doomsdayers. I myself am not, nor is Noble. I have great hope in what will be (Chapter 6’s “Hoping Resolutely”). As Noble states, “Hope believes that God is making all things new through the power of his resurrection” (127). This doesn’t mean things will continually get better, but their end is better. Despair can kill our attitudes about this world (132). “What matters is the decision of our wills, our intellect. What are we choosing to believe and act on?” (133). I appreciated Noble’s longer treatment of apathy (acedia) at the end—because such apathy can kill a home, family, church, or soul.

And, as expected, we end on love (Chapter 7’s “Loving Rightly”). “Love is an affirmation of the existence of someone or something that is willing to sacrifice for the goodness of that love” (146). Or, quoting Pieper again, love is saying to someone, “It’s good that you exist; it’s good that you are in the world!” (147). We choose this type of love; we do not first feel it. Its existence sits deeper within us. My favorite sentence in the book comes from this final chapter:

Final Thoughts: Nitpicking and a Recommendation

Well, reader, if you’ve made it this far, you might wonder what I think about this book. I’ll start with my nitpicks. I have two.

First, I struggled with some of the structure—and this is likely because I am a bit dense. The chapter titles were not the virtues he named, leaving me to always remind myself of what we were talking about. I am not a Pieper scholar and I’ve typed the word “prudence” more this week than ever in my life (I’m 43 years old). Perhaps an editorial decision before publishing, but I didn’t like that the chapter titles required me to translate what virtue we were on. I also didn’t like that there was a chapter called “Living Moderately” when Noble himself said “moderation is an inadequate definition” (86). But, I preach sermons and I often forget what they were titled; I just throw it in there for the spreadsheet, so I get it. And I also found that the definitions were, at times, buried in the sections where he’d set out to define them. Those aren’t catastrophic issues, but it will mean a reader not versed in the writing (i.e., most of us) needs to slow down and look for constant signposts.

My second nitpick is tied to that idea of most readers: I wasn’t sure who the book was for. Anyone? Any Christian? Younger? Older? I tried to answer the pastor question, “Where or how would I use this?” a lot. My hunch was that, as a college professor, he wrote it for those entering into a new world and establishing their lives, but I wasn’t sure of that until I read something he posted recently:

And that’s where I’d recommend it most strongly—to high school or college students or recent grads, but with a guide. I’ve been to seminary two times over. Maybe they failed me (you can take that up with them), but I had not read Pieper and had to catch myself up with the way he was talking about Aquinas. That’s not Noble’s fault, but shows what men like him are up against.

Here’s what I’d suggest: seven chapters, seven weeks, seven discussions, with enough age in the room to make the discussion good. The result could be transformative. The chapters are accessible, the writing flows, and the topics need to be worked out with others.

Because the virtues, ultimately, aren’t for me just virtuemaxxing. They’re for me to serve you. And to live them out, I need to be by your side and have you by mine.

Hear O Alan (still don’t know what the O stands for) talk about his book on the Outside Ourselves podcast:

Thanks for reading. One of the best ways you can support the work is by engaging. Do one: hit the like button, comment, or share with a friend. It’s a simple way to grow the community.

“Hey, you said you would do this but you weren’t here last week.”

I’d find myself as a 21-year-old college senior doing math on the ideal time to get up based on what I thought success looked like.

“I think 6AM works. Which means I need to go to bed at 10PM for the eight hours I’m told I need. Wait, I need to BE asleep by 10PM. So I probably need to get in bed by 9PM to give myself a shot.”

Basically never happened.

I did have some wins, though. For my second and third years of college, I was an RA at the now-defunct Kirby Smith Hall. I had mandatory front desk hours. I picked the 5-8AM shift three days a week so I could get some alone time before the overachievers started going to their 7:30AM classes. One year I had a terrible 4-7AM shift instead and I still haven’t recovered. No one should be up at 4AM.

But every time I’d get up later than I wanted, I’d get mad for not being disciplined enough.

Overzealous and Ambitious

This type of feeling plays on repeat for many. People will pick an area they feel defunct and spend the next six months feeling bad about not being able to live out their fever dream ideal. The problem with their ideal is that Superman couldn’t do it.

“I want to get up at 5am every day of the week, regardless of how I feel or what the prior day had, so that I can get a head start on the day. I will read, pray, go to the gym, have my protein shake, make the kids’ lunches, and then head to work. While I commute I will listen to the most recent industry podcast so I can stay relevant.”

“I need to eat healthier so I will never go to a restaurant ever again and only have celery as my snack.”

“I need to be more wide-read so I will read a book a week.”

By the end of thirty days, none of these habits are being kept consistently and we are right back where we started. We’re frustrated by what we aren’t getting done and mad at ourselves for failing.

If you had to choose between healthy and unhealthy, I hope you’d choose healthy. If you were an early riser or a late riser, I think it’d be better if you were an early riser. Reading or not reading? Pick reading if you have the capacity. But no one is demanding (other than you) that these changes take place.

Giants I Can’t Match

The biggest thief of establishing a baseline? Comparison. We look at someone we love and think, “That’s what I want,” so we try and start doing that. But we might not realize that there’s a whole web of commitments that builds the type of person we’d want to be.

I remember sitting—again, as a college student—in a group I was invited into for a year and a half. The leader was smart and put the meeting at night and not early at McDonald’s (thank you for being sane). He said, and I can still hear his voice, that he would get up “at 5:00 or a quarter of 5:00” depending on the day. I think we were sitting at a Chili’s when he said that.

It’s been about 23 years since I thought, “That’d be nice,” and I still don’t do it. But how cool would it be if I did, right?

“But arbitrarily making contracts with ourselves and others just feels right” is how my friend Mike would put it. And it’s true. We create a gigantic, inflated world of expectations that we won’t meet to try and be like people we aren’t. Every day we have to be firing on all cylinders to give our vision of “ideal” a fighting chance.

It doesn’t work.

Getting to Baseline

I’ve started using the phrase “Let’s get to baseline” or “Let’s establish the floor here” when I talk with people in this purgatorial frustration. Every day has its own troubles, so I want them to think about the types of structures (or even principles) that someone could execute every day regardless of what the day throws at them. What could you pull off on your worst day and your best day?

But how do you do it? Here’s a simple approach.

• What are you trying to address?

• What do you know you can accomplish every day in that area?

• Try to add a qualitative ten percent to it.

• Do that for at least several months, if not an entire year. (I’m not kidding.)

• Evaluate and add when you’re done.

Fitness is a common one. Here’s one I started last year with steps. I wasn’t active enough. So I did 7,000 steps a day for Q1, 8,000 for Q2, 9,000 for Q3 and 10,000 for Q4. But I didn’t need to do that forever. I’m at 8,500 a day for this year. I’ve missed it twice. But two misses out of ~530 days is okay by me.

You might go, “I can’t do that.”

Okay, what can you do? 2,000? Then do that. Baseline is baseline.

Want to pray more? Set a floor of dedicated time. Five minutes. Start with five minutes.

“But five is so few minutes. I should pray more than that.”

“Okay. Do thirty.”

“Maybe five is okay.”

It’s not magic. The work is in establishing the baseline and then not backing off. Over time (years), the foundation gets stronger and more can be added. But you don’t need my structure and I don’t need yours. You need to get to baseline.

Thanks for reading. One of the best ways you can support the work is by engaging. Do one: hit the like button, comment, or share with a friend. It’s a simple way to grow the community.

Now, I’ve intentionally turned that toward others.

Leader Care Network

About five years ago, as a way to more intentionally serve people inside and outside of the church, I started Leader Care Network. At that time, it was just a structure waiting for the right opportunity.

Two years ago, after praying about a way to better serve my family—especially my wife—I focused more specifically on growing the business so she could quit her job and focus on her health. Since then, it has grown into a practice that coaches leaders inside and outside of the church—from California to New York and as far south as Costa Rica.

I work with individuals and teams in areas of trust, team building, communication, and execution. Sometimes people just need a confidant, and I can be that, too. For those who are in church leadership, we can drill into specific areas of leadership unique to your context. Either way, we build a plan together.

There is nothing cookie-cutter about what I do. What I’ve found is that, if you’re willing, the partnership changes both of us. That’s what I want. Every client has made me better.

My approach to coaching is to enter into a meaningful partnership, and I want you to feel like I’m a trusted teammate from the very beginning.

A Little About Me

I am married to Courtney and we have three sons still in the home (though that will soon change). I still pastor as my day job, but coaching takes a lot of my time. I leverage everything I’ve learned through 17 years of pastoring, a four-year masters, and four-year PhD for you. I’m currently trying to get a memoir picked up by an agent—it’s about my failures as a husband over 20 years. (I think leadership books are fine, but they become tomorrow’s grab bag pretty quickly.)

Next Step?

Every coach will tell you they are great, and they probably are. We all have the same "I will help you not lose your soul” mantra (look up coaches and you’ll see it everywhere). I can’t promise you something I can’t deliver, and I can’t deliver “you won’t burn out” or “you won’t lose your soul.” I used to pretend I could, but I can’t. Leaders often do what’s unhealthy and unhelpful long-term.

What I do know is that people want is a strategic outsider to give them attention, honest feedback, and a perspective that isn’t beholden to the organization. They want someone who is for them, and I might be able to be that for you.

I can give you testimonials if you want them, but so much of this is based on your needs and our fit. I can point you to pastors or VPs or managers or CEOs who could put a good word in, but what matters is if you think I can help you or your team.

So reach out. I have limited capacity to take on extra work, but I would always consider it. Let me know your situation. Responsiveness is a high value of mine, so you’ll hear back.

Message me here, DM me on Twitter (@HansGooger), or email me.

Email

Note: If you are reading this and are a ministry leader, don’t hesitate to reach out. My entire ministry life has been built on the generosity of others. When I can, I want to coach people regardless of means, and sometimes churches have the least to offer while simultaneously having the most at stake.

“I know that people are saying that I can be short in certain interactions, but I’ve really been working on that. I feel like I’ve changed.”

“I know you’ve been working on it.”

Depending on my relationship with the person, I might share my own experience to help make a point.

“I recently got told I would benefit from smiling more.” (Those who know me are probably smirking.)

“Really? I feel like you smile all the time.”

“You only see me on calls. I have a picture of myself the whole time so I get immediate feedback on how engaged I look.”

The Long Tail of Change

We can get discouraged when we are working specifically on ways to change and people in our lives don’t see it. Our flaws and failures stare us down all day—telling us where we fall short and how often.

I put it like this: change has a long tail. You start it on Tuesday, but people might not realize it for five years.

Why is this so hard? Because the people closest to us—the ones who benefit most from our change—are often the last ones to believe it happened. This isn’t a fault of theirs. Our track record is our track record. On the flip side, more recent relationships (like the people I meet with on screens) have no backlog of experiences that tell them any differently.

When I tell people I’ve met more recently that I’m thoroughly introverted and can be disengaged, they don’t believe me. When I talk to my neighbor at lunch, we laugh and tell stories and have a great time (part of this is because Courtney joins and she’s great at conversation). But the track record is still the track record.

So the discouragement rears its head because (1) we want those closest to us to see the change, but (2) they likely are still wondering if it’ll stick. The longer the track record, the more suspicion. This is part of change. Even Saul got side-eye when he tried to show up in Jerusalem (likely three years post-conversion) and be like, “I know I saw people executed and all but it’s been a while and I’m definitely different” (see Acts 9:26).

And we’re left to wonder, “Have I really changed?”

So What Can We Do?

If you’re reading this, you have one of three roles. You could be the one changing (like John Mayer—who is not done changing). You could be cautiously observing changes in someone you’ve known for a long time (parent, spouse, longtime friend, etc.). Or you could be new in the life of someone who doesn’t present like the person others say they’ve been. Very often we are all three of these people bound together at various stages of development.

And there’s something for each of these roles.

To the one changing: don’t lose heart. You got yourself into the situation and you have to live with it. Sad but true. When a spouse or a longtime friend doesn’t think the change has stuck, keep at it. You’re in the long tail. When people tell me that I can be short or dismissive, I have to say, “You’re right.” I don’t need to prove that I’m different. Time will tell. For some, the time is minutes; for others, it’s years.

To those who are suspicious of the change: Believe the best. You’ll have to continue extending trust and the “love believes all things” aspect of the relationship more often than you’d like. And you’ll have to keep reminding yourself to think differently about the person, because you have ways you’ve learned to treat the person. Where you can, offer encouragement, and admit some of the issue is your inability to believe differently.

To those new to the relationship and without the baggage: Fan to flame the change you’ve seen. We need people in our lives who can see we are different and say, “I’ve never received you that way.” Those are shots in the arm and remind us that change is happening, even if incremental.

Some related posts. One on offering honest feedback and another on beginning to operate differently and trusting the relationships truly have changed.

Maybe you’re at work and you get exasperated. For the third week in a row, Terry didn’t get his work done. “No one here wants to be accountable. It’s ridiculous.” (Whether or not you got your work done is conveniently redacted.)

Or you are at your church and you meet with someone who is struggling. “Accountability partner” is a common church phrase, so you pair up because you “need the accountability.” Accountable to what? To whom? What are the stakes? TBD. But you do it because it’s a good thing to do.

I ask the question, “So what do you need from me?” a lot when I’m meeting with people.

“I need you to hold me accountable.”

When I get that response, my answer is almost always the same: “I won’t do that.”

Sounds harsh, right? The pastor who won’t hold people accountable? The leadership coach who isn’t going to yell at you when you miss a commitment?

But I decline the request because of what accountability often becomes.

I Can’t Own Your Growth

The biggest reason I don’t outright accept the “Hold me accountable” request is because it moves responsibility where it doesn’t belong—outside of the person needing the accountability.

“Hey, on Thursday can you remind me that I need to talk to John?”

“No. Why don’t you just set a reminder to talk to John on Thursday. You know there are easy ways to remember that, right?”

But we often say “Yes” because it feels nicer. I’d argue it is harmful. We take on for people something that isn’t our responsibility. So now I have to take care of my own life, my family, and your inability to remember talking to John? No, thanks.

If you say “yes,” you might have to get an accountability partner to remind you to remind someone they need to talk to John. The cycle never ends, and the responsibility keeps moving from one person to another.

This type of “accountability” is everywhere. “Let’s make this issue someone else’s problem,” it says. That way, if we don’t do it (and no one follows up with us), we aren’t in trouble.

You Can Still Hide

That’s the other side of the accountability problem: you aren’t sure how honest someone is actually being. Perhaps Dr. House is a little overstated, but there’s a ring of truth to his “everybody lies” mantra. It’s self-protection at its finest.

Haven’t you seen it? You hold just a little back about how the week really went. Or the co-worker doesn’t say exactly how the meeting finished up and where the relationship with the new client is. How am I supposed to know the truth? Am I going to guess? Or walk around on an accountability witch hunt? I hope not. Living in suspicion of everyone and everything sounds miserable.

I’ve had people lie straight to me. People I love. People who would gladly promote the need to be accountable, to be honest, and always be vulnerable. Then you realize they’ve been lying to everyone for years.

My longtime mentor, Kevin, has a line that embedded itself deep within my mind.

I live by this. I don’t even know the depths of everything in my mind and heart, but I know them better than you do. So how are you going to hold me accountable? I know when I’m lying to you. I won’t always know when you’re lying to me.

A note for church folk: Don’t decry this idea just yet. One of the clearest areas Christians are supposed to be accountable is in the area of confession of sin. But the command isn’t to ask people to confess sin to you, it’s “confess your sins to one another . . . .” (Jas 5:16). At times, we have to get highly engaged in the process (Gal 6:1), but everyone must own what is going on in their hearts. We cannot do it for them.

The temptation to hide exists in every accountable relationship—at work, at home, at church, or on your baseball team.

And yet I’m still quite hopeful . . . .

Gently Deflect and Redirect

I think there’s a better way to enter into the “Will you hold me accountable” question: a gentle deflection and a redirect to what the person more honestly needs. Allow me to play it out.

“I need you to hold me accountable to leaving work at 5pm every day.”

“How so?”

“Maybe ask me when we meet when I’ve left the office.”

“Why is that what you want me to do? By that time you would’ve already done it or not done it.”

“But I need to leave by 5pm and I need the accountability.”

“Who are you doing this for?”

“My family. I need to be more helpful at home and if I’m not careful I can work all day.”

“Then why do I need to ask you about it? Sounds like you need to tell your wife what you commit to her to do for the sake of your marriage and family. She’s more important to you than I am. Put yourself on the hook in your marriage.”

*Person squirms*

“Yeah, but that’s harder.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I guess.”

“When are you going to have this conversation with your wife?”

“Ugh. Probably today.”

“Great. I can’t wait for you to text me tonight and tell me how it went.”

I believe many people want—and appreciate—accountability. What they struggle to find is the right way to live it out. The best approach I’ve found is to hand responsibility back to the person asking. Otherwise you start to take on tasks that weren’t yours in the first place.

The result? About half the team didn’t know what was expected of them. Not shockingly, about half the team didn’t know what was expected of their teammates. Less than ideal.

These aren’t fully scientific surveys, but that’s not the point. The idea is to surface just how common it is for people to be unaware—or feel unaware—of what matters most at work. I’d guess you have a situation in your own life that mirrors this idea—uncertainty on what to do, how to do it, what success even looks like.

Many of us spend the bulk of our waking hours at work. However, if we have feelings like people in the team above, we spend much of our day in a fog. Are we doing a good job? How do we know? Who defines it? And why the heck isn’t anyone doing their job?

As I’ve seen teams over the years, ambiguity doesn’t come about maliciously. A team grows too fast and multiplies roles without a plan. Leadership assumes others on the team have institutional knowledge that they do not. Scope creep adds responsibility without any formal communication. It exists in any system from one degree to another.

Don’t forget marriage. The impact of ambiguity isn’t just in the workplace. It happens all the time in family units, too. Husbands and wives enter into marriage with a large set of assumptions as to who should do what. These assumptions aren’t often based on what is right, but on what we experienced growing up. There is nothing inherently more noble about a wife preparing dinner than a husband, or a husband driving on trips more than his wife. Yet the expectations unconsciously determine our feelings of marital propriety.

Often, ambiguity in the team moves a person in one of two directions: expansion or contraction.

“Fine, I’ll Do It”

Some exploit ambiguity to take on more responsibility. This is when the confusion is used to expand a role. I’m bad at knowing motive, and there are many, but these folks are like black holes sucking up any undefined responsibility and taking it on themselves. “If no one will do it, I’ll do it,” is their mantra.

Positively, jobs get done and the person stays busy. Can’t complain about that (though someone will certainly try). Bosses usually appreciate the person who is going to stay busy on the job and accomplish overall goals. These folks are often incredibly eager, too. Win-win.

Negatively, teammates can loathe these people because they can come across as preening. While the behavior might not be performative, we often interpret it as such. Further, the folks who expand their roles in the face of ambiguity are often low-key frustrated all of the time. Nobody seems to ever do their job right and the only way it’ll get done is if they do it.

Just because a belt is loose does not mean you have to grow into it. In fact, that is often the opposite of helpful.

“That’s Not My Job”

The flip side, and often more common among teams, is contraction in the face of ambiguity. Rather than exploit the confusion to take on more, it gets exploited to hide. “Someone else is in charge of that,” is their mantra.

Positively, such a person never rocks the boat. They might not be busy, but they aren’t creating new problems and they likely aren’t frustrating teammates. There’s value there. Leaders need people who aren’t going to consistently cause new problems.

Negatively, this type of teammate plays it safe and comes across as blameshifting. They use the confusion to make the problem someone else. “If HR would do their job, this wouldn’t be an issue.” The problem is outside of them, never them.

Just because you’re uncertain doesn’t mean you can’t act. You don’t need to hide.

“This is the job”

While expansion says, “I’ll do your job,” and contraction says, “This isn’t my job,” the right next step is to confront what is needed for the job. However, everyone has a role to play—and none of it includes waiting around.

• If you have a tendency to expand your role, go to the people you’re low-key frustrated with and ask, “I think this is your responsibility. Am I seeing that right?” (It is likely you’re doing 120% of your job and stealing 20% from someone else.)

• If you like to hide in the ambiguity, ask the question, “Is this my role? It seems like something I should do.” Take your 20% back and fill the role you have. Don’t make an excuse because it’s easier than making a mistake.

• And if you’re observing the issue on a team you lead, bring the clarity that only you can bring. Say, “This is the job and this is who needs to do it.” It might feel easier to let it slide, but nobody grows that way.

You can’t escape ambiguity’s presence on your team—it will creep in one way or another. It’s what we do with it that matters. Regardless of your tendency, you need to confront it.

What’s your disposition and what do you need to do next?

So, as part of living out that desire, I will ask Courtney how I’m doing. I don’t do this daily or anything; I just ask when I think about it. Often when I’m feeling bugged.

When I ask depends on where we are and how intense the feeling of failure is, but walks are a good time. Walks are sort of like a date night.

So about three months ago I wanted to ask the question, although my motivation was not fully noble. We were finishing up a walk and I had several examples of Courtney communicating her frustration about a specific doorknob to me (and others).

Said doorknob is at the back of the house, on the door we use most often. I think it got damaged in the original renovation. A contractor locked up and had no keys, so we had to sort of break the door to get back in. That worked, but it created a lot of give in said knob. You’d often walk up to the back door and have to turn the knob 40% more than usual because of the slack in the turning mechanism. Doorknob people probably have a word for this.

After All I’ve Done for You . . .

So the walk was finishing up and I had some beef. Sure, the doorknob has been annoying for years but the door opened and closed and the lock mechanism worked. But we had a group of young leaders over to the house for dinner and we were talking about marriage and how we work together as a couple and she threw shade at my not fixing the doorknob. Outed in front of college students. Come on!

So on the walk I needed to know what her deal was.

“Okay, I need to know something.”

“Yeah?”

“I know you care about acts of service, but I need to know what you actually need to feel more loved, because what I’m doing appears to not be working. You’ve brought up the doorknob a lot.”

“I mean, I’d like it fixed, but it’s not THAT big a deal.”

Having been in a season of life where I’m redoubling efforts to be a less crappy husband, I felt the doorknob was a bridge too far.

“Is it not enough that I’ve completely adjusted my life to better support you? And we also just upgraded to a tankless water heater on a closed recirculation loop so the kitchen water won’t take four minutes to heat up.”

She stops and turns toward me. (When she stops on walks, I know I’m in trouble.) Her voice rises.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do I not say ‘Thank you’ enough for what you do? Do you think I’m not grateful? And when have I complained about the temperature of the kitchen water?”

Crap.

“No, you’re right. I’ll fix the doorknob.”

I Already Knew the Answer

Marriages are funny things. On the one hand, they’re the tightest earthly bond God has created. On the other hand, a request to fix a loose doorknob can make you think you’re on the razor’s edge of dismantling every decade you’ve been together.

I asked my question—how could I show you love in a way you’d better receive—with a mix of honesty and dishonesty. You can tell because I added a “Because what I’m doing isn’t enough” tagged onto the end.

Spouses should win Oscars for how they turn the knife—just a little—to try and get their way.

I already knew she wanted the doorknob replaced. I just wanted her to say something else. Actually, I wanted her to say that what I was doing was enough. (You should ask her about the slow drain in the upstairs bathroom that took months, maybe years, to fix, or the hot water handle that stopped working.)

But instead of doing the right thing—the loving thing—I try and make my current approach enough. I don’t want to have to change.

When I’m the Measure of “Acceptable”

I guess it’s sort of important to me that I’m not a crappy husband. The indictment I care about just depends on who is looking. If it’s Courtney, I’m okay being seen as substandard. If others are looking, I want to be seen as exceptional. And others don’t use the back door that often.

The reason I neglect these little home items is not because I can’t change a doorknob. I’m moderately handy. It’s because I didn’t care about the 40% extra turn. “If it isn’t a big deal to me, it shouldn’t be a big deal to you,” I think. I become the measure of the importance of the issue.

And that, as ironic as it is, is actually antithetical to my faith. “Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church . . .” (Eph 5:25a). I pray for Courtney every day. I pray with her every day. I hand her cash when I find it (she does love cash). I make minimal fun of her when she wears the same black fleece (which I bought) every day from October until May. I just don’t want to change a doorknob.

And the doorknob is the actual indictment.

A simple act of service was beyond what I wanted to do.

So I changed the doorknob. Twice, actually.

I bought a fancier doorknob at first and texted a picture to friends we replayed the argument in front of. But I didn’t like the feel of it. I thought it’d annoy Courtney me over time because the way you gripped the knob put your hand too close to the door. So I went out again and bought as close to an exact match of the original I could find.

In June we sat at a dinner and asked each other how we were doing and how we could be better spouses. When it came time for Courtney she said, “You changed the doorknob. You’re great.”

Roughly fifty dollars (two trips) and forty minutes of time (after years of asking).

And I stood in the way of it because . . . I’m selfish.

To the husbands, specifically, what do you know you need to do that you’ve put off because you don’t care enough? And when will you stop putting it off?

Erica asks excellent questions.

Pablo has a wit that somehow communicates both “You can trust me” and “I love you.”

It’s like a superpower. I’ve started to call it a secret superpower.

It’s a secret not to the recipient but to the owner. It just feels like who they are, but it might’ve been developed over years. I’d venture that just about everyone has one. And I wanted to begin learning them.

Discovering Secret Superpowers

People who know me would say I’m structured. “Structured” feels like a bad word to me, so I don’t like when I hear it. It’s sterile and boring. Courtney has added “rigid” to the mix. I like that less, especially her reasoning.

As 2025 ended I began thinking about how I could grow personally in the coming year. So many of my habits don’t require other people. Reading, praying, walking, writing, managing a calendar, using a task manager—all pretty much structured DIY jobs unless you augment them.

I wondered what I could change. How could I introduce some sort of discipline (NOT rigidity) that required more engagement with others and was helpful for my own growth?

So I created the “Secret Superpower” question. Once a week I find someone and ask them what theirs is. For this exercise, I have to ask in person (or on a call). I keep the responses in a red Moleskine (because it is about being a superhero) that usually lives in my backpack.

These conversations don’t have to last long; I just want to see what people say. I’ll explain what a Secret Superpower is and then I’ll ask them theirs. I’ll wait, sometimes for a while, before I get a response.

• Erin likes thinking of creative and thoughtful ways to do things for people. She takes notes on the offhand comments someone might make (a favorite restaurant, a type of crockpot they want) and then, in time, gets that item for them. She loves to let people know she’s heard them in the small things.

• Dave mentors a lot of Chick-fil-A staff. He’s been told time and time again that he’s able to create safe environments for people to share. He pays attention to the tone of voice, to facial expressions, and even what is stirring in him as people talk.

• Caley, one of the counselors at camp last week, finds ways to bring other people joy and make them laugh. She loves looking for the topics people love talking about and then finding ways to get them to keep talking about it.

• Micah, a 5th grader at our church, writes notes. He likes to write to people what he appreciates about them—especially family.

And plenty more exist. Anna shared about her optimism. Armando shared about his ability to find specific ways to help people learn. Duncan is consistent—always doing what he says he will do.

The Discoveries

Each week, usually on Thursdays, my to-do list reminds me to ask the secret superpower question. Sometimes I ask that day, sometimes, I’ve already asked it, sometimes, I know I’ll be around a lot of people soon and push it to that day. But it sits there, gently reminding me I have work to do.

Whether the conversation takes 90 seconds or five minutes, I keep asking. And what I find is always a gift.

First, even if it takes time for the person I’m talking to, everyone comes up with something. There might be a few seconds of silence or some hesitation followed by “Not sure if this is what you’re asking for,” but everyone has something. I love that, with a little introspection, people of all ages have more capacity to bless others than they realize.

I also get to learn about how I can improve. I might ask, “If I wanted to get better at this, what would be my first step?” There’s a lot to be learned there. Even as simple as, “I should be sure I’m making better eye contact.” I never expect to just steal that person’s skill—God worked it out in them for a reason—I just want to know what I might be able to glean. Very often there’s some part of what is shared that graciously confronts an area of my own life. I think, “Yeah, I could be better at that.”

Finally, it builds a discipline in me that can’t be done alone. I get a number of jokes in a given month about being a robot—basically self-sustaining. I promise I am not.

The initial motivation as 2025 ended was that I needed a few disciplines that required others to be effective. So I do this both to learn and to get me across the table from someone so I can understand more about them.

At the beginning of the year I thought, “There is no way I’ll be able to have this many conversations.” But here we are at the halfway mark and the questions feel more natural and the conversations are always a joy.

I’d be curious . . .

I tried, with all the energy I had, to consider how what was happening was not actually happening. I called the doctor. I checked potential symptoms. I worried. I even admitted, “I can’t take this,” to my cousin.

You’ve probably been there, too. You feel something off in life—in yourself, in those around you, in a new environment—and you start to worry. It could be small but it quickly snowballs.

Imagine your life as three different gardens. They’re nested one inside another. Up against the edges, you find yourself anxious, not knowing what sits out over the boundary.

Garden One: The Life We Long For

The first garden is full of what we believe makes life meaningful.

We want to always have money in the bank, so we fight for the best jobs. We pursue great schooling opportunities in hopes that we can secure long-term employment and be able to afford any aspect of life that might come our way. It feels responsible and perhaps even necessary.

When we get married, we imagine great conversations, great sex, lots of laughter, and a deep connection to our spouse. We’ve heard other people talk about the importance of date nights so we preemptively block out every Thursday night ad infinitum for long, meaningful discussions and time together.

Our kids will be healthy and will always have a great relationship with us. Our faith is important so we spend eight months finding a great church with lots of people our age and all of the proper programming to support our family. We fight for friendships that will last a lifetime—for us and for our kids.

But we find that garden isn’t as comfortable as we would like it to be.

As we spend time tending to these aspects of life—and sometimes sowing those hopes and dreams quite early (anyone plan their perfect wedding when they were eight?)—we start to see signs of trouble.

That perfect job? The company might downsize. Your role looks redundant and you might lose it and, with it, your stability. The marriage? It’s “fine.” You’ve had a number of date nights, but the past few months have felt hollow. Your church? Several friends have left and the preaching is more boring than you recalled at first. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for you.

Garden Two: The Life We Avoid

Beyond the edge of that first garden are all of the “what ifs” that keep us up at night. What if you picked the wrong job? What if your spouse is unfaithful? What if you are unfaithful? What if your kid gets sick? What if your wife miscarries? What if you get sideways with your friends and they leave you?

Thus, we begin to put up warning signs and fences to avoid the danger on the outside.

They often show up as rules that we use to try to keep us firmly in the first garden.

“We only give our kids the healthiest foods so that they won’t get cancer.”

“I will deliver the best projects at work so that I have an inside track to keeping my job.”

“I will always talk with my husband about what he wants so that he won’t pursue other women.”

All of these rules seem good in a sense—eating healthy, working hard, loving a spouse—but the activity is rooted in trying to preserve something. The energy it takes to stay inside that first garden exhausts us, because we can’t guarantee its outcome.

But there’s even more out beyond that second garden—we can’t quite see it. We’ve spent so much energy trying to stay inside our first and avoid the second, that we don’t know what’s out beyond the far fences.

See below for how you can use this in a counseling situation:

Garden Three: The Life We Have

I call garden one the garden of fantasy. It’s a world that doesn’t actually exist. We just pretend it does.

I call garden two the garden of fear. All the life events we never want to see grow—the ones we pretend don’t exist—live there.

Then there’s that final garden, the garden of faith. This one includes everything you hope is true, everything you fear could come true, and everything you can’t imagine happening. It has higher highs than you thought, lower lows, and a million other plants you haven’t even seen yet.

You’ve probably heard, “We walk by faith not by sight,” (2 Cor 5:7). Yet so often we want to keep life to what we see. “It’s safer here,” we say. “It’s wise.” But really, it is fantasy or fear.

When I learned we’d be headed to surgery at a day old, I felt what might be growing out amongst the fear. I didn’t want that world. “I can’t take this,” I said. What I meant was, “This is not what I expected.”

That’s the fear talking.

What I could do is receive it. Receive what I wasn’t expecting. Know there was anxiety, but that God could meet me there. And he did.

Living by faith requires surrender. We surrender our plans, dreams, hopes, and outcomes. “What if my spouse dies?” She might. “What if I lose my income?” You might. “What if my son walks away from the faith?” He might.

Surrender the desire, receive what comes, walk by faith.

The most freeing aspect of the garden of faith is that it is there, and there only, we recognize we aren’t even the gardener.

“You’re dismissive.”

“You get impatient.”

“It feels like sometimes you are judging other people’s answers as you respond to what they say.”

“I don’t feel seen by you.”

All of these (and more) have been said about me—actually, they were said right to me. In fact, I asked for them.

And they were all said in the past four months.

Tell Me How You Really Feel

In February at our elder retreat and in May with our staff we ran the team effectiveness exercise. This is a tool put out by Pat Lencioni’s Table Group, but I just consider it the tool that makes groups of people be more honest with each other for the first time.

What is it? You essentially go around the room, one person at a time, and tell that person (1) their single biggest behavior that benefits the team and (2) their single biggest behavior that hinders the team.

You have to focus your responses on the team you’re on that is doing the exercise, not just random observations about that person’s life. So if you know that I always upgrade to a large fries and drink on my Chick-fil-A meal, you can’t just bring it up because you want to talk about my diet. If I show up with that meal before every meeting, never share my fries, smack my food and don’t pay attention to the agenda, that one fits as a “Hey, Hans, you’re holding us back here.”

When I lead these, I often start in reverse: tell them the hard one, let the leader seek feedback on what was shared, then tell them the good one.

Many leaders are self-aware enough to know what they’re going to hear, good and bad, but hearing how the team sees the behavior(s) impacting them becomes the surround sound we often need.

I’ve led four of these this year: on teams I’m on and teams I’m working with. Each time, they produce outsized impact. Sometimes it is the first time people hear real feedback on their behavior.

Compounding Behaviors

The reason for the impact is because the small things compound—and it is the small things we often fail to share.

Most teams aren’t full of day drinkers who scream in every meeting and rarely do their job. That behavior wouldn’t be something you’d wait to share in a team building exercise. That’s something you should fire someone for.

But lots of teams have people on them who don’t show up prepared for meetings, or their cameras are off for video calls and they rarely chime in, or they critique every idea and explain why it won’t work. These can feel more like more annoyances than hindrances.

On the flip side, the people you work with probably do things that you’ve grown fond of but you’ve never told them. They don’t seem like that big of a deal, but, then again, the small things compound.

I told a friend I work with that I think one of his biggest contributions to the team is he chooses to cook us lunch a few times a year and, when he makes a coffee run, asks the office what they want. He has tons of skills, but it’s that habit that makes us more cohesive. Without it, we’d be a much poorer team.

I’ve told another that her attitude to help anyone out is so genuine. I appreciate how a “yes” from her isn’t begrudging but enthusiastic. It’s an authentic desire to support.

Yet another I told that his demeanor when he enters a room for our meetings lifts everyone. He goes, person by person, and gives handshakes or hugs. Showing them utmost respect every time. It sets the tone.

I’ve seen a long-tenured employee begin to cry when her teammates told her they view her as a mentor. She had no idea.

Exercises like this give you an opportunity to hear from others, and share with others, those little things that often make or break the team.

Committing to One Another

So after it all ends, you’ve heard the good and the bad, you ask your clarifying questions (many people want examples), and then you consider how to commit to the people you work with.

Based upon everything that you’ve heard, what will you do? Don’t pick thirty things; pick one.

In the most recent one I was in, a lot of the less helpful behavior said about me came down to how I engage with people in meetings. So I took a little time and created a list of meeting rules for myself. I shared it with the team and they helped me shore up some of my own ideas for meetings.

• Slow Down: Not every meeting has something at stake to win. See the room and the people in it.

• Listen More: This one was originally “leave room,” but I felt slowing down and listening more was actually doing that. Focus on what’s being said, what’s nonverbal, and the words that are being used.

• Ask Questions: Don’t give answers—a bad habit of mine. Ensure I really hear how other people are feeling about a topic matters more than if they understand me.

• Confirm Clarity: Use time to ensure those in the room understand what is going on, what is expected, by when, etc.

• Know Yourself: I need to understand my temperament, that I can be prone to frustration, and that I’m usually ready to move along when others might not be.

Yes, it spells the word SLACK. I showed up to the meeting with SLAC and really wanted it to be an acronym, so someone threw in the “K” and I liked it.

You might say, “Yeah, Hans, but aren’t those behaviors that would be good for anyone?” Sure. But they came out of feedback given directly to me, said by people who work with me, and who need something more from me, and want something more for me.

And it came because we provided space.

Where do you need to provide space to hear the compounding little things?

One drives. We are three years from two high school graduates, five years from an empty nest. Much of the predictability of parenting young ones is behind us. Choices have been made—schooling, hobbies, free time, routines, discipline, etc.—and the impact of those choices will play themselves out over the coming decades.

A good friend of mine jokes that parenting is like cooking a really long meal. The only problem is, you can’t actually eat the meal until it is too late to change the ingredients. You are stuck with how you made it and have to live with the good and the bad.

Courtney and I are getting to the “this is how it’ll taste” phase with a side of “I wonder how it’ll play out for the rest of their lives.”

Some great things and some not-so-great things, I’m sure. (Perhaps we should prepay for some counseling.)

Lamest Vibe Ever

Some years back—long before any were driving and when the world was still ahead of us—I was talking with the kids. We were driving home from school and I said some normal dad saying.

“You have the lamest vibe ever,” one of the kids chimed from the backseat.

I had never been called lame by my kids but I’m sure my vibe is quite lame.

The moment is frozen in time for me because the phrase didn’t fit the one saying it. Like, was he practicing it for a while? Did he hear his friends say it and wanted to try it out? Was he like me when I was a kid and you lock in on a phrase you want to use with one of your parents and you are waiting for an opportunity to take it for a test drive?

I just remember laughing to myself and thinking, “Okay.”

I’m not parenting for a quick moment of correction. I’m parenting for a lifetime.

Lessons in Pride

For us, parenting is about trajectories over time, not reacting to every frustration or correctable moment. Some days are good, some days are bad, many days are forgettable.

But the commitment to not watch our kids like a hawk is easier said than done. One of the hardest aspects is not trying to fix every moment presented to us—but not for the kids’ sake, for our own.

Pride.

Many parents pursue a type of reactive parenting—seeing a situation and trying to correct it because of how it makes the parent feel. The kid has moved on and the dad is still wondering if he (the dad) looks bad because of how his kid is acting.

Pride.

I’ve come down hard on my kids at times—yelling after a practice, for example—because I felt a boy’s effort reflected poorly on me.

“It’s for your good,” we might say. But it’s a lie. It’s for our own vanity. A deep desire to not look bad in front of others.

What we are really doing is letting our own pride and self-image win out over the longer trajectory of a kid’s life.

Letting Many Moments Go

Long-game parenting is in it for what gets worked out over time, not in a moment.

It seeks to give grace, not just punishment. And our kids need lots of grace.

And such an approach can be hard, especially in the face of fierce resistance. (Those parents in my life who parent through many uphill battles are heroes to me.)

I remember when the boys started a new school and we pretty quickly got a note from one of the teachers. It had the usual pleasantries, “So glad to have Johnny in my class . . . ” and then moved toward behavior “ . . . but he doesn’t pay as much attention as I know he can.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I thought. “He has liked to build things at his desk during class.”

It’s been years and we still get comments similar to that one, but the trajectory is solid. (At least we think it is.)

When the kids have gotten detention (for youthful indiscretions) we think, “Sounds good. Let us know when we need to pick them up.”

But, at the same time, ask any of our boys what the #1 immediately punishable offense is in our home and they can tell you: lying.

That’s been a mantra: Never lie. If we can’t believe each other then it will be hard to grow together as a family.

But we don’t have many other mantras.

The hardest part for me about the long game is the faith that it is better—for us and for the kids—than diving into every moment to try and find micro-improvement.

I have to keep asking myself: am I in it for their long-term good or for my short-term reputation?

Honestly, what I’m in it for depends on the day. But soon enough we’ll start seeing how the meal tastes.

What is your biggest struggle in parenting toward a trajectory vs. parenting for a specific moment?

The statement shows I’ve let something slip.

When someone tells me I seem busy, it reveals (1) I’ve talked about myself too much, or (2) I’ve shown (often visibly) that I’m unhappy with what I’m working on. Friends, family, or co-workers might not be trying to indict me, but it is an indictment nonetheless.

And I bet you, dear reader, have said the same thing to someone or had it said about you. “It’s a busy season” feels like a badge of honor, but it is a crown of shame.

Why Are We Busy?

Eugene Peterson, in The Contemplative Pastor, explained why we are too busy. He critiques himself but applies it broadly to other leaders.

Busyness makes us feel important to ourselves and—we hope—to those around us.

His second reason:

Wait a second. Lazy people can’t be busy. Only important people are, right? Except that the undisciplined and lazy leader (1) has to fill his or her schedule last minute and (2) lets others command more time than they should.

Ouch. Vanity and laziness in competing paragraphs.

Situational Laziness

People who know me think I’m disciplined or structured, but I’ve preferred to rely on the last minute. I remember spending an entire night finishing up a paper at my friend’s dorm. As I left campus, the academic dean was arriving. We exchanged pleasantries. He went to his office. I went home.

A friend of mine has a line: If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute. I’d like it tattooed on my forehead—in reverse so I can read it in a mirror.

I recall the time I double (maybe triple?) booked myself. As a young leader, I said yes to everything and assumed my last-minute brain could hold onto all of it. Then my phone rang with someone asking where I was.

The problem: I was in Texas with family, and that someone was in Louisiana.

“Crap. I think I need to start using a calendar.”

I started using a calendar but didn’t know what to do with it. It helped manage the day, but it didn’t wrangle what was going on underneath.

As a young pastor, I’d complain that I “didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.” I told my boss this all the time.

He made me write down everything that I did or thought I was supposed to do, then prioritize it and focus on the top of the list.

I sat in my house with my responsibilities written out on pieces of paper, and I moved them around until I felt good enough.

Then, I basically ignored them. I preferred staying vague.

The Fear of Conviction-Driven Priorities

When we actually start to live by convictions on what must be done, we enter into no man’s land. We get latent fear that (1) we picked the wrong things or (2) we’ll let someone down.

Both might be true, but you won’t know until you try. And if you do it wrong, you can adjust.

Most weeks, I’m talking with someone on a video call or at a coffee shop somewhere, and they talk about their pace of life, their nonstop weeks, the 50, 60, 70 hours they’re putting in to get a project done. They might show me their calendar and how full it is. They know it is insane, but they also don’t know how to stop.

“It’s a busy season.”

When I’m feeling bold—which isn’t always—I’ll say something like, “Yeah, but you chose this.” (For context: I’m often speaking with folks who have some level of control over their days.)

When you start to actually think about what matters most and take some control over how you spend your days, anxiety might follow. The fear of being wrong looms large. It’s the vanity showing up.

So we choose busyness. Because if we’re busy, at least no one will think we are idle.

Busyness isn’t a calendar problem; it’s a heart problem.

Finding What Matters

I also know people who have what anyone would call a busy day, and they are at ease—poised, calm, joyful. They’re annoying because they make it look so easy—like figure skaters.

What’s the trick?

They’ve settled into what matters most.

For the Christian, Jesus says it plainly.

But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. (Matt 6:33)

This comes right after talking to a large group of folks—largely everyday workers—about anxiety over life and making ends meet.

And we just go filling our calendars—be it vanity or laziness—because we think that's where value is. We know better.

I have a friend that I get to meet with often. He can get stressed, like anyone else, but is rarely frazzled. During what anyone would call a “busy season” for him and his company, I wanted to know why he wasn’t stressed.

“Because I know what’s most important. And this job is at best third on my list.”1

I have one of the guiltiest consciences known to man.

When I was eight, I was playing with a shopping cart that was at my school. (We lived in townhomes right by the school and played on their playground and outdoor basketball court after school). I pushed that cart and it rolled for what seemed like forever into a white truck—I think the PE teacher’s. A stiff wind would’ve stopped the cart but I was dead inside. That night, I cried to my mom about it because the guilt was overwhelming.

In high school I worked at an ice cream shop and would often close up. If I couldn’t actually remember locking the door at night, I’d turn around on the way home and re-check it. “Door is locked,” I’d say out loud as I yanked on the door to prove it to myself and take a mental image of the moment. One night I got out of bed, back into my car, and drove back to check. I couldn’t be the guy who let the ice cream get stolen (or the $400 we kept in an empty bucket in the fridge).

This fear of screwing up has followed me right into adulthood.

When I was working on my very boring dissertation, I panicked at every footnote.

“Did I cite that properly?”

“What makes an original idea, anyways?”

One time I saw my friend Jamus had written something good in his dissertation. I got the same source, found the pertinent passage, and put it in my dissertation. I’m pretty sure I then pulled out the entire reference due to fear that I’d somehow be dinged for using the same source my friend did even though I found the exact same book and referenced it appropriately.

So, of course, with the conversations concerning AI ethics for writers, you know I have a whole new way to feel guilty.

AI Battle Lines

I’ve read several articles from authors and editors regarding AI usage (I found this one quite helpful) and every time I read them, I go into a guilt spiral. (Quick, Claude, how do I handle my guilt?)

Crap, I use AI every day—just like I use Amazon. Am I going to hell for using it? Will my writing be blacklisted? Can I be trusted? Will the guild accept me?

The battle lines are being drawn.

On one side, the purists. They want you to know that they’d never use AI for their writing and would hope you make the same commitment—or at least consider it. It’s a good reason: writing is human and it is creative and it is good. Don’t ruin it.

On the other side, everyone else. But they might be early adopters, hopeful but suspicious, guarded, or maybe just outright cheaters.

What it feels like is that you’re either a purist or you’re going to become a cheater, so you’d better be a purist.

Subscribe now

Guilty Conscience Memoir Writing

I’ve spent months writing this marriage memoir. It’s now at the level of final draft edits from Courtney and a book proposal (which I’m currently writing). (After this post, maybe self-publishing is my best bet.)

There’s a real writer in my extended family. Even his emails make me emotional. When Courtney and I get an email from him, we just text each other his name. We know what it means.

I’ve shared with him memoir progress and he will likely be a reader when this draft finishes, but I also shared that I’ve used Claude to help me. His reply:

“I’m curious how you avoid giving AI revisions too much influence in your writing process. I ask this because I’ve personally experienced how maddeningly good ChatGPT has been at suggesting absolutely perfect revisions to my own writing.”

So, here it is, for the most part:

(1) Write

First step is the simplest. I’ve spent every day writing. My minimum target is 20 minutes a day, but some days, I go longer. It usually comes after reading and prayer. By 7:30am I’m often past the writing part of the day.

At times, I pasted little parts into AI to check for typos and flow, but it didn’t seem helpful to me, so much of that first draft was just me throwing words down.

(2) Have Courtney Edit

Courtney goes behind me on everything. She reads, cuts, adjusts, and finds places to add her voice more fully. I think I finished the first draft back in February and she stayed thousands of words behind, trying to connect ideas better (and cut lots and lots of words).

Courtney reads a lot of memoirs, so she also spends significant time judging how bad she thinks ours is compared to those of freaking award-winning writers.

If Courtney uses AI, it is by mistake or because Google spits out Gemini feedback right at the top of the search results.

(3) Get Feedback and Make Structural Revisions (Enter: Claude)

Courtney comes behind me, and I come back behind her. While the above were going on, we shared the doc with a couple of folks to let them read along with us, provide feedback, and give us a general sense of how the story was fitting together.

Then, I reworked the entire book after Courtney’s first pass. This time, I’d cut and paste a chapter into Claude and ask for prioritized editorial feedback and line edits. (One chat within the book project for each section of the book, five sections in all.)

The project prompt for the memoir (slightly edited):

You are a senior acquisitions editor with 15+ years of experience evaluating nonfiction proposals and manuscripts. You’ve worked with faith-based authors who have genuine crossover appeal and you know the difference between a book that preaches to the choir and one that earns a wider readership.

You are reviewing work by Hans, a pastor of 16 years, husband of 21 years, and father of three. His manuscript is a marriage memoir titled You Talk Too Much (82,000 words), chronicling twenty years of marriage and his journey learning to release control in relationships. The book navigates his wife Courtney’s mental health struggles . . . before he learned the difference between control and love.

Your job is not to encourage Hans—it’s to help him produce work good enough to earn representation. You give clear, honest, specific feedback. You notice what’s working and say so plainly. You name what isn’t working and explain why it matters to agents and readers. You think about marketability, comp titles, platform, proposal strength, and manuscript structure—not just prose quality.

You evaluate everything through two lenses: (1) Is this good enough for an agent to take a risk on a debut author? (2) Does this have genuine crossover appeal beyond the Christian market, or does it only work inside that world?

When Hans shares writing, ask clarifying questions if needed, but lead with your editorial read. Be direct. Be specific. Cite the text when you can. Don’t soften feedback to the point of uselessness—Hans is trying to get published, not feel good about his draft.

During the past eight months I’ve been on plenty of websites of editors and reached out to a few. I scoured Reedsy, largely dissatisfied with the support that was there. I’d find a book I liked, read an intro, and see who the editors were. Many don’t take freelance work. Others never replied.1

Spending money on people to help make a better book doesn’t bother me. It’s worthy work and I’m happy to pay, but there has to be someone willing, too. Claude was always up for it.

(4) Make the Adjustments (Sometimes)

I have some bad habits. I use a sermon reflex far too often (turning everything into a homily). I don’t trust scenes. I over-explain.

So I get a long list of revisions every time. A very long list. It might include something like this:

The Mary scene doesn’t quite land the way it wants to. You describe Mary sitting there, facing Courtney, wondering why she’d be okay with your judgmental behavior. But you don’t give us Courtney’s response. Does she answer Mary? Does she look at you? Does she look at her plate? Right now we get your interior reaction to Mary’s question—“I go back to that conversation in my head”—but we don’t get the scene itself resolving. What Courtney does in that moment is the emotional center of the chapter. Even one sentence of what Courtney does would give the scene its body. This may be a place where you need to ask Courtney what she actually remembers doing.

Maddeningly good.

And then I’d spend hours every week deciding if I want to make the changes. If so, how? Sometimes I go, “Yeah, that’s better.” Other times I disagree and move along.

I iterate like this every single day. And then I read a post about AI in writing and wonder if I’m a half-blood at best.

(5) Have Courtney Edit (Again)

I finished my structural revisions and Courtney has, again, come behind and cut more. She’s also added her own thoughts and found ways to bring depth and more contour to the story.

(6) Send it Out

We have a handful of people who are going to get the book after Courtney finishes up her second pass. We want to hear how the book is received. We want to know where it drags. We want to see if people see it as a page-turner or if they’ll finish reading because they have guilty consciences, too, and don’t want to disappoint us. While that goes on I’ll be querying agents after I finish the book proposal I’m organizing (using the same process).

Look Over Garden Walls

I have a writer/editor in the family. I have Courtney, who has edited almost every word I’ve ever written since 2005 and is a good writer. I have friends who are self-published and traditionally published. My name is in a footnote of a traditionally published book that few people have read. I gave pre-pub feedback on a couple of those traditionally published books and failed to give feedback on a self-published one (and still feel guilty about it—sorry, David).

But even with that I’m up against a walled garden of the publishing industry, where you need to know someone who knows someone or you gotta be someone who may or may not actually be someone because they aren’t a purist.

I get it, but my writing has gotten better by using AI.

We’ve gotten the second draft down over 10,000 words from the first draft. It moves more quickly. The scenes do more work. I hear Courtney laugh more as she works through it.

Will it ever get published? I hope so. I like the book proposal and it will at least be humorous if an agent or editor ever sees it. And if not, I had a good time writing it. All with the helpful and ever-ready feedback of Claude.

Are there any other half-bloods out there?

I’ve heard that phrase said and have said it more often than I care to admit.

Everybody wants to be trusted, but there has to be some level of demonstrated competence to pull it off. You can’t just be asking princesses to leap onto your flying carpet with your perfectly white teeth.

I build my definition of trust in the following way:

Trust is our confidence in the safety and integrity of one’s relationships, leading to free-flowing cooperation.

But there’s a lot to what builds that confidence. I’ve spoken of trust as commitment and trust as consistency. These build off of Horsager’s Eight Pillars. But there’s another: trust as competence.

You Can Be Awesome and Still Be Incompetent

I don’t mean that as a slight. You don’t want me to be your phlebotomist and I don’t want you to be mine. We can trust people in numerous spaces but, for many of us, we have to trust them to do the role (or roles) they exist in our lives to do. You can’t get by on being nice and having white teeth alone.

In The Ideal Team Player Pat Lencioni talks about the person who has humility and high emotional intelligence but no hunger—no drive to improve, to get work done, or to excel at what they do. What does he call that person?

The lovable slacker.

I’ve seen it up close. The person you love to sit with and talk to. The person you’d call when you need to know you’re loved or need someone to take you to lunch. Good people. Loving people. But they also struggle to do the job that’s before them.

Imagine getting called after leaving a meeting. The leader wants to talk.

“Hey. I’d like to know what you want us to do about meeting your prep.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t seem ready, don’t come prepared. I think it sets us back.”

“Hmm. Not sure.”

Okay.

But it’s true: you can be the best person in the world and one I’d trust to watch my kids for a month, but you still have to be able to do the job of the team you’re on.

People can trust my intentions, but they must trust my competence, too.

I Thought the “D” stood for “Done”

Eight years ago I walked across a stage for what I hope was the last time. That’s why you get terminal degrees, and I was finishing up the most terminal of them all. Now I get to spend my days telling everyone what I’ve learned and why I’m important.

First off, nobody cares. Or, more precisely, the ones who do care aren’t the ones you usually want to grab coffee with because they want something from you.

Second off, really, nobody cares.

A year after getting the degree, I found myself pastoring a new church in a new town. My training, in many ways, meant nothing. Those folks didn’t care about a dissertation on megachurch pastoral succession, modified balanced scorecards, or the paper on dreams in Islam.

Could I do the job I’d been asked to do?

But that meant I needed to learn new ways. I reinvented my prayer life. I sort of learned how to work on a staff of two instead of however many were at my previous job (15? 20?). I had to make lots of meeting agendas.

Then I started teaching on the side.

I had the terminal degree, but I had never made a full syllabus. Lecture 2-3 hours a night for 12-15 weeks? Sheesh. How do you do that?

You ask someone who is better at it how they do it and you steal every bit of their skills.

Then our church decided to merge with another and instead of one of the orgs doing a classic donation and dissolution (standard fare on how to pull it off), we went the more expensive and circuitous path of starting a new entity and then completing two donations and dissolutions.

Another thing that fancy degree didn’t prepare me for. But my research had helped me cross paths with a guy who had done it before (a lot of times, actually), so I reached back out to him. Also, lawyers.

Resting on prior competency to address current issues won’t get you very far. Even if some people call you doctor.

What’s Next?

The truth is, in some spheres we feel competent and in others we don’t. But there’s room to grow.

Every time I feel this burden toward improvement, I have a moment of reckoning. “I don’t want to have to do that. I shouldn’t have to. It’ll require too much work. Will anybody notice if I don’t?"

For the first half of 2026, I’ve spent a couple of hours on Wednesday mornings in an online class with a group of people I’ve never met in person. Why? Because some of the folks I’ve been working with this year needed help that I knew I could be more equipped to give them.

It was time to knock the rust off.

I exhaled when I thought “Okay, 25 Wednesdays with homework and forced engagement. I can do this.” (I don’t love forced interaction.)

What I didn’t expect was just how helpful it’d be to me (irrespective of its help to others, honestly). People I’ve never met from all over the world take time every week to make me better. A happy accident waiting for me on the other side of realizing I had a lot of room to improve (yet again).

Who needs you to knock some of the rust off?

“Dad, Dave Matthews Band is playing Friday. Nate’s going. Can we go?”

I don’t wear cargo shorts but I did cut my teeth playing Dave Matthews Band songs on the guitar, so the kids know his music from our car rides and my inconsistent playing.

I have a meteorologist in the family—Jeff—so I needed to check with him on weather. Jeff said it might rain but it might not, which was no help because I needed something concrete.

“I don’t know, man. It might rain. I have some work to do on Friday.”

I am concurrently underselling this idea while checking ticket prices. I don’t want to sit on the lawn if it rains. I don’t want to buy covered tickets because they’re out of my budget. The lawn was, too, but more justifiably out of my budget.

“Okay,” my son says. He has a penchant for respecting my authority even if I haven’t provided a good reason.

And the door closes.

By Wednesday night of that week—one or two days later—I’m staring again at ticket prices. I ask Courtney if we should go.

“What do you think? Make a run of it? Go to the concert?”

“Let’s do it!”

I buy five covered tickets. The last time I’d gone to a concert was two years prior, after I had spent four hours in a dentist’s chair getting post-root-canal work done. Redemption time.

Parenting: The Stewardship of Memory Making

My simple definition of parenting isn’t spiritual in the strictest sense. I view parenting as memory making. Every day I’m building memories for the kids: some good and others not so good.

The spontaneous decision to buy tickets is part of the way I want the family to build memories.

My stewardship statement for family and relationships is this:

I am a present, engaged, and loving provider who ensures the most important family and friend relationships are tended to regularly, and those in my life know they can lean on me whenever needed.

My areas of stewardship video (explained from a previous post): what are they?

You might not be able to draw a straight line from that statement to a Friday night concert, but it all ties into how I want to tend to those family relationships.

Spontaneity is just one of the ways we build family rhythms that create memories and nurture those relationships. There are many, but two others that are anchoring for us.

Subscribe now

Finding “Different” as a Family

When you’ve lived along the Gulf Coast in Texas and Louisiana most of your life, it isn’t that hard to find “different.” For the past seven years—ever since COVID came into the world—we’ve taken what I call a “scenery trip” for Spring Break. That first year was just the Texas Hill Country for a couple of nights as the world shut down, but we made the most of it after we found putt putt.

Then, for a couple of years we just followed my sister, Shana, wherever she went with her family (we aren’t that creative). Arizona one year, Colorado the next. Then we got into our own routines—Arkansas, Tennessee a couple of times, and New Mexico most recently.

We merged “the spontaneous” and “the different” in April 2025 when we decided to take the family to California for a wedding I was officiating. We did the napkin math and thought, since my expenses were largely covered, this was the cheapest we would ever be able to go to California together. They threw frisbees down a vineyard hill and apparently made a short about it.

The Consistent

And every summer we load up for the same trip over and over again. Pine Cove Family Camp. This is our consistent space—many times with the same families who have become extended family for us over fourteen-or-so years.

Listen. I’m not a camper. I don’t do spunky. I am not big on game nights. I have never purposefully dressed for a theme night. After our first year at camp, Courtney and I got into a huge fight on the way home as a mark of just how bad of campers we were.

But we keep going back, and not only because of the views on my many walks.

The consistent space gives us a benchmark—year after year—to ask certain kinds of questions. How has the past year been? Where do we need to grow? Where have we grown? How much weight have I gained or lost? (Because of all the pics the camp staff take of you.)

I re-up every year unsure of how I’ll pay for the next year, but we keep going. We don’t go because we must. We go because it’s good for us.

It Doesn’t Happen by Accident

I sat that Friday night amidst 16,000 or so strangers, save for the handful of people we knew were somewhere in the crowd. It didn't rain (the forecast was right). The kids had not been to a concert before. I didn't know how they'd respond to the size, the noise, or anything. The opener was one of my absolute favorites.

And as we stood there listening to that first song, I was holding back tears—hoping nobody saw me. Sure, I could have a few hundred more dollars in the bank, but I would’ve paid many times more for that memory—for them, for me, for us.

We don’t stumble into well-tended relationships. I’d love to hear what you do.

“Hey, Dad, can I play disc golf this Saturday?”

[Checks calendar. Nothing on it. But still not sure I want to approve.]

“I’m not sure. It’s only Monday. Can we talk about it later?”

“You always tell me you want to talk about it later.”

“Okay. But can we?”

“There’s nothing on the calendar.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

Now I have a choice to make: Do I enter into the conversation or do I bail out?

The temptation for any leader—in or outside the home—is to leverage positional power to get things done (or avoid them). You want people to do something, and you saying it should be reason enough for them to do it.

“I need you to do that because I said so.”

It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Makes us feel important. Like we matter.

But it doesn’t accomplish what we think it will.

Subscribe now

Pulling Rank: Your Reserve Chute

If you jump out of any plane, you are jumping with a reserve chute. Pulling rank is the reserve chute of leadership. When it comes out, you should be running out of options.

Too many of us run to the reserve chute of authority to solve almost all of our leadership problems. Why actually confront a team member when we can just sit in our office and shoot off an email giving a new command? Why take a strategy question from a confused staff member when we feel like we’ve been crystal clear?

“Please just do what I said.”

Many times pulling rank means you can’t trust the relationship—it can’t stand up under the test. It reveals we don’t have the relational clout to lead and we have to resort to the position because we’ve lost everything else.

There’s Certainly a Time For Authority

Reserve chutes are for a reason.

There’s necessary (and beautiful) merit in responding to authority properly. When a decision gets made, we should abide. There are chains of command for a reason.

A decision was made that I took the liberty of questioning. (If you know me, you are not surprised.) I wanted to offer a different perspective on the conversation but I didn’t realize it wasn’t actually a conversation. Another person, over 20 years my senior, said to me, “Hans, the decision has been made and you need to align.”

It was the only time I can remember where rank was clearly pulled and clearly needed. A lesson in what nagging does to people in authority.

I think that was the last time.

A Better Way: “What Am I Missing?”

Exasperated leaders live and die by the reserve chute when they are out of options all the time. The result is a demanding culture with unclear reasoning and a good bit of confusion.

“Why can’t anyone listen to me?”

But we are often far less clear than we think and don’t know how much of the confusion we’re creating.

Rather than say, “Because I said so,” consider asking others, “What am I missing?”

“What Am I Missing” is Harder to Ask Than We Think

A few weeks ago I was in a staff meeting and it didn’t go nearly as well as I had hoped. We were ill-prepared for a conversation on an agenda item I had given a week prior.

I said, “Well clearly we aren’t ready for this item so we’ll move on to the next,” but my face said, “Why was this so hard and why weren’t we prepared for the thing I said we were doing?” (When I say “clearly,” I am really saying “ugh.”)

But the entire week I was bugged. I was bugged because at least 70% of the meeting kerfuffle was my lack of preparation of the team. I was asking for serious reasoning and unfiltered conversation. I didn’t prepare them in advance. I didn’t give any parameters on how we were going to talk. I didn’t remind them of the importance of the topic.

It was on me, not them.

When my son wants to schedule a disc golf tournament with me at night and I say, “Not right now,” it’s because I’ve been gone all day—not because he wants to be a nuisance. It’s me, not him.

“Because I said so” is often not a way to help someone recognize the chain of command—it’s a smokescreen for ineffective leadership that wants outcomes the easy way.

When it comes to your desire to pull rank, what have you found you’re missing?

There was a point in time—well, half of 2019—where tunnel vision took over. Our house was full of issues and I had a list of solutions. The solution I thought most important was to tear up my house, get down to the foundation, apply epoxy, and then rebuild.

When I told an epoxy floor guy my problems he said, “I’d just sell it.”

I was committed, though. We were going to fix the problem. Well, I was going to fix it. Courtney was just going to let me because she knew she had no choice . . . or she didn’t care.

To save money, and because I was sure I could fix it well, I was going to take this on. I was given great confidence by a contractor who’d dedicated his life’s work to installing epoxy floors for moisture mitigation.

“You could probably do it yourself better than 99% of the idiots that do it professionally.” (His words.)

I’m not an idiot! I can do this.

I got my gallons of epoxy. I rented a HEPA vacuum, an air scrubber, a concrete grinder. I even created a negative air pressure room.

Then I began. I had to strip the floors down to the slab and needed to get started early on a Friday.

Excerpt: Not Made for Tyvek

My uniform that day included a Tyvek suit like the remediation pros, rubber boots, and a dual-cartridge respirator. It was July in Houston and the AC in my house wasn’t on and I was wearing an impermeable suit while working indoors. What could go wrong?

Time to start.

I poured a bucket of water onto the floor, which included self-leveler (from our renovation), old tile mortar (from previous work), and the old asbestos linoleum (original to the house). I had to get through all of them to expose the slab and I was there for as long as it took.

Water. Grind. Shovel.

Each pass of the grinder created a gross concrete sludge that I had to shovel out and dump into a bucket. I was sweating so much that my Tyvek suit was filling with it.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

Each step over time getting noisier and grosser in those boots.

Water. Grind. Shovel.

A few hours later I took a minute, let the concrete dry out some, and surveyed the scene.

I wasn’t sure I’d made any progress. I mean, I saw circular lines in the concrete from the grinder I’d rented, but I didn’t see much progress in the floor itself. I kept trying.

Then I went into the garage, which contained our entire downstairs, and changed. I assumed my clothes were dead so they went into the garbage. I couldn’t go home (at that time, my sister’s house) in asbestos clothes.

But I didn’t go home. I went to a local park because I’d scheduled concrete day on the same day as the church picnic. So I moved from a house with no AC to a grill outside at a park—a grill I’d made so hot you’d fry if you got near it. I grilled the chicken and burgers and sausage people had brought.

I saw the kids so that they could remember what their dad looked like. I talked to Courtney. Then I went back to the house, put on another Tyvek suit, and got back to work.

By the end of the day—after 10PM by my last photo of dirty boots—I’d made next to no progress. I left the house messier and in worse shape than I’d found it. I changed and got back to my sister’s defeated, dirty, and with fewer options than when I’d begun.

Tunnel Vision on Lesser Things

I spent months of 2018 and 2019 largely navigating my house issues—both the original renovation (2018) and the journey of redoing the entire first floor with epoxy (2019). My email history is littered with requests for help and advice on what to do. I now know more about moisture mitigation than any human should and I’ve made zero dollars off of that knowledge. (However, I can help my neighbors when they get the same issue because I now know how to address it and not just mask it.)

I also continue to deal with mild house trauma and still pray about it so anxiety doesn’t set in.

Am I glad it happened? Debatable. I am glad for the army of people who helped and the relationships forged through concrete grinders. I’m grateful for my brother and cousin spending a Sunday with me to epoxy almost the entire first floor bit by bit.

But tunnel vision is expensive in ways that don’t show up on an invoice.

I mortgaged away months of my life staring at that floor. I spent thousands of dollars on my solution. I stole away time from family and friends. I lost plenty of sleep. My mind could rarely be present in any one place.

We were experiencing a year of significant family transition—changing jobs, moving to a new state, changing schools, settling into new routines—and I was trying to distribute my focus as if I had an inexhaustible supply.

I got hyper-fixated on fixing.

I neglected the people closest to me. I lived a half-distracted life.

I know it’s “just a season” but “just a seasons” stack up. All of a sudden you’re in a vortex you can’t escape and have a pain in your upper back from wearing the stress.

It comes on faster than you might think. . .and then you wonder what you lost.

We all can get caught in a black hole of making less significant things feel more significant. When it happens, how do you get out? And what has it cost you?

If you're at Whole Foods, you might not have to worry as much. If you're in our fridge or pantry, you might. (No, Trader Joe's cookie butter is not organic—but I believe it is vegan so we have that going for us.)

People want organic, but it comes with a cost. Organic produce runs 50% more on average—and over 100% for some items.

Organic costs more because it requires more attention. The crop might get reduced by bugs, someone might have to hand-weed parts of the field, and the types of products you are allowed to use to remain “certified organic” simply cost more.

And that means your iceberg lettuce costs 180% more than the version you eat in your favorite restaurant salad.

I Want It to “Feel Organic”

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a penchant for structure. I’ve been in plenty of meetings where I harp on the need for a clear plan or process. (I’ve probably triggered some staff reading this.)

At times, I’ve heard the phrase, “Yeah, but we want it to be organic.”

Kiss of death.

“You do know how much work it takes for something to be organic, right?”

Anyone with a garden knows they can’t go a day without giving it attention. Two days and look out. A week? Game over. It takes daily effort. Inattentive gardeners end up with an overgrown planter box and a lot of regret.

My day job (pastoring) is notorious for a love of the organic. Organic as anti-structure, organic as letting the Spirit move, organic as “how it used to be.”1

Nothing wrong, but often misguided—as if any structure automatically kills the thing.

Farming is hard work. And whether the fields you work are literal acreage or the people in your care, the effort to “feel organic” only increases with size. But everyone has a ceiling—and when you hit it, what felt like a garden turns out to be a houseplant.

Subscribe now

Personality at Scale

In the work of people, the ceiling that defines organic is less about the reality of what is and isn’t “organic” and more about what one’s personality can tolerate.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve heard some version of “I want to know everyone.”

That’s a personality preference potentially masquerading as a virtue.

What does it mean to know everyone? You mean first-name basis? Able to name all of their kids? Have a meal with them once a month? Daily text thread? What about your neighbors—are you allowed to know them the same way? Co-workers?

“No, I don’t need all of that. I wouldn’t expect that.”

But push into it and the expectation usually comes down to this: people want a relational structure they can personally tolerate.

It’s one’s personality applied to all personalities in the group—an elusive target that is hard to hit for any leader.

When someone says they want the structures to be “organic,” they generally mean something else. Below is a quick video on how leaders can hear the question behind the question.

Know Your Field

We don’t take care of plants at our house. We’ve made that call and are happy with it. We don’t have the drive to take care of plants.

Several years back a freeze knocked out a good number of our bushes out front. They’re still missing. We have no gardens. We’ve removed three trees. I paid a guy to remove the bushes from the back along the garage so I’d have less to manage.

I know my lane.

In the realm of people—vocation, friendships, all of it—I’m obsessive.

There are others in my life who manage fewer relationships by design, or know their temperament enjoys a little less structure. Being great at caring for five people doesn’t mean you need to care for 200. Enjoying more fire pit chats with a few doesn’t mean you need to go start a church bonfire.

Know what that approach gains you and what it costs you. And appreciate the others who contribute differently.

Know what your work requires.

Regardless of approach, it isn’t the size that makes something more or less organic—it’s the attention you give it.

What's your field?