We live in a world that subtly, and not so subtly, says the same thing over and over: You should be doing more.
Work more. Be more involved. Cook from scratch. Get ahead. Stay informed. Stay fit. Stay positive. Stay available.
And if you’re tired? That’s just proof you need better habits. Or a better planner. Or a better version of you.
But maybe that voice is wrong.
Because here’s the truth most of us need to hear on repeat: You don’t have to do it all.
You are not required to carry every need, fix every problem, attend every event, or please every person. Your worth is not measured by your output. And your value isn’t proven by your exhaustion.
The badge of burnout is not a badge of honor. It’s a warning sign. And maybe it’s time to pay attention.
So how do we live in a world of MORE without losing ourselves?
1. Drop the invisible expectations.
Whose standards are you living by? Take five minutes and list the expectations that weigh you down. Then cross out anything that’s not life-giving, sustainable, or aligned with your actual purpose or calling.
2. Choose your “yes” on purpose.
You can’t say yes to everything, so say yes to what matters most. Protect time for people and priorities that bring peace, not pressure.
3. Practice saying “not right now.”
You don’t have to say no forever but you can say not this season. Saying no to one thing is often the only way to say yes to what really counts. Every yes to one thing is a no to something else. Choose your yes carefully.
4. Rest without guilt.
Rest is not laziness. It’s resistance to the idea that your value is tied to your productivity. Take a nap. Read for fun. Watch the sunset. And don’t apologize for needing to take a break.
5. Accept help before you break.
You were never meant to carry everything alone. Ask for support. Say, “I can’t do this right now.” Let someone step in. That’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.
Doing less doesn’t mean you care less. It just means you’re human, and you’re finally living like it.
So take a breath. Let something drop. Give yourself permission to be a person, not a machine.
You don’t have to do it all.
You just have to do the next right thing, with heart.
No this is not grammar class. It’s not middle school English. I have no right to teach anyone about proper grammar – just ask my wife!
I’m talking about the way we speak to each other in real life. And if we’re honest, most of us are walking around throwing out periods like we’re dropping final judgments from the throne of Mount Know-It-All.
“She’s just lazy.” “He never listens.” “They’re obviously lying.” “She meant to hurt me.”
Period. Drop mic. End of sentence. End of conversation. End of understanding.
But what if we traded some of those “.” for “?” What if we stopped acting like we knew and started wondering again? What if we paused long enough to ask before we assumed?
Lean in so you hear this fully: When we stop asking questions, we start making enemies out of people who might just need a little grace.
Look, I get it. You’re tired. You’ve been burned. You’ve been lied to, ghosted, manipulated, even taken for granted. So now, instead of wondering why someone did what they did, you just decide why! Then it’s all wrath. It’s time to punish them accordingly.
But here’s the problem: your story might be wrong. And now you’ve built a whole emotional prison based on a bad guess. It’s like the old adage about don’t assume.
Maybe she didn’t text back because her dad’s in the hospital. Maybe he didn’t show up because he’s drowning in shame. Maybe they didn’t invite you because they assumed you were busy, not because they hate you.
But you didn’t ask, did you? You just wrote the script, cast them as the villain, and hit “Publish” in your mind.
We do this all the time, even in the church. We talk about people instead of to them. We speak for people instead of asking from them. We judge motives we never took time to understand.
And it needs to stop.
You want to build real trust in your marriage? Ask more questions. You want to lead people better at work or in ministry? Ask before you assume. You want to stop being chronically offended? Trade your periods for question marks.
“Help me understand why you said that?” “Can you help me understand what you meant?” “Is something going on that I don’t see?” “What happened from your perspective?”
Those kinds of questions are not weakness. They’re strength. Humble strength. The kind that seeks truth more than the thrill of self-righteousness.
Here’s the raw truth. Some of us would rather be angry and wrong than humble and informed.
We cling to our pain because it makes us feel justified. But what if your story isn’t the full story? What if the “truth” you’re holding is only half of it?
That doesn’t mean everyone’s off the hook. It doesn’t mean you never confront. It doesn’t mean you pretend people didn’t hurt you. But when you do confront, do it with a question mark, not a gavel.
Accusations harden hearts. Questions open them.
And if we’re serious about being people of grace, if we actually believe in redemption, reconciliation, second chances, then we better get really comfortable with asking: “What’s the rest of this story?” “Is there more I don’t know?” “Before I draw conclusions, can I hear your side?”
Start using more “?” than “.” and watch how your relationships shift. Watch how your defensiveness drops. Watch how healing and inner peace begins to sneak in.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll stop losing good people to bad assumptions.
So go ahead ask the question. It might just save you from a thousand regrets.
We’re all running. Maybe we’re chasing the next win. Striving for the better job, the cleaner house, the bigger impact, the more impressive version of ourselves.
It’s exhausting and somehow never enough.
The world’s voice is loud: Do more. Be more. Prove your worth. Be perfect. And it’s easy to believe that if we’re not constantly climbing, we’re somehow falling behind.
But here’s question with which we need to wrestle: What if success isn’t actually the goal?
What if being present, grounded, kind, and faithful right where you are is enough? What if you’re not behind, you’re just looking at the wrong scoreboard?
Maybe we’ve confused success with significance. Success chases numbers. Significance shows up for people. Success aims to be impressive. Significance aims to be intentional.
And intentional living doesn’t always look flashy but it does last.
So how do we shift from chasing success to choosing significance?
1. Redefine your win.
Ask yourself: What really matters to me? If your life was a garden, what would you want to grow? Joy? Peace? Connection? Focus on growing that, not everything else.
2. Notice who you’re trying to impress.
Would your calendar, habits, or stress level look different if you weren’t trying to prove anything? Be honest, and then get brave enough to choose freedom over performance.
3. Embrace small, steady impact.
Raising kind kids. Listening well. Loving your neighbor. Leading with integrity. These don’t trend online, but they change lives in quiet but long lasting ways.
4. Resist the highlight reel.
Life isn’t a competition. Your pace, your progress, and your purpose don’t need to match anyone else’s. You’re allowed to grow slower if you’re growing deeper.
5. Celebrate quiet victories.
Did you rest instead of pushing through? Apologize instead of defending yourself? Choose presence over perfection? That’s success. Start naming it.
Maybe success isn’t something you chase. Maybe it’s something you live on purpose, in love, at your own pace.
You’re not falling behind. You’re learning to walk forward in a world that only knows how to sprint.
And that, my friend, might be the most countercultural success of all.
Until next week, keep choosing what matters. The scoreboard doesn’t define you. Your soul does.
Leadership has a spotlight. People see you on the platform, hear your words, watch your decisions, and feel your energy. They see the meetings, the prayers, the big ideas, the vision cast into motion. But behind that spotlight, there’s a shadow few people talk about. It’s the part of leadership that doesn’t make it into the highlight reels or Instagram stories. It’s quiet. It’s invisible. And for many of us, it’s achingly personal.
For me, the shadow shows up when I walk through the door at home.
After pouring myself out all day listening, guiding, teaching, and carrying the emotional and spiritual burdens of others, I often come home on the verge of empty. Not because I don’t love my family deeply, but because I’ve already spent everything I had to give. My family often doesn’t get the version of me who stood strong at the funeral or prayed boldly in the hospital. They get the version who crashes on the couch, struggling to engage in conversation, completely zoned out to the world around me, and often too tired to really be present.
It’s a strange contrast: I can rally the energy to lead a meeting of twenty or preach to a crowd of hundreds, but when I’m in the comfort of my home with my family I’m sometimes disconnected and have a hard time holding down a real conversation. I know the right thing to do. I want to be fully present. But sometimes the cost of being “on” all day means I end up emotionally “off” at home.
There’s guilt there. And a bit of shame too. And then there’s the quiet wondering: Is this what they signed up for?
This is the shadow side of leadership where passion meets limitation, where strength in public masks weariness in private. Most people don’t see the pastor who silently prays on the drive home just to have enough energy left to be fully engaged when he gets home.
But here’s what I’m learning: acknowledging the shadow doesn’t make me a failure. It makes me human.
And more than that, it makes space for grace. Not just from others, but from God. His power is made perfect in weakness, not in performance. My family doesn’t need the best version of me; they need the real one. The one who admits when he’s tired. The one who asks for help something I don’t do very well at all. The one who chooses to show up even when it’s hard.
Leadership in the spotlight may inspire people. But how we live in the shadows, that’s where real integrity is forged.
So to all the tired leaders, the weary parents, the ones who give their best in public but feel spent in private: You are not alone. Your shadow doesn’t disqualify you. It just means you’re carrying more than most people can see.
And maybe today, that’s the place where God wants to meet you. Not in your strength, but in your surrender.
To the game. The dinner. The awkward backyard birthday party. We brought a dish, stayed longer than we meant to, and lingered on front porches just because we could.
Now? We RSVP “maybe,” scroll past the invite, tell ourselves we’ll catch up sometime. We’re busy, tired, behind, and convinced we have nothing left to give.
But we’re losing something sacred.
There’s a quiet magic in just being there. Being physically, emotionally, and relationally present. Not with a perfect gift or polished words. Just with your presence. In a world that’s over-connected and under-committed, showing up is a radical act of love.
And maybe the people in your life don’t need a fixer, a genius, or a social media-worthy gesture. Maybe they just need you to show up.
So how do we reclaim this lost art?
1. Stop waiting for perfect conditions.
You’re never going to feel fully ready, rested, or caught up. Life rarely clears the runway. Show up anyway. Show up with your messy hair, tired eyes, and half-baked casserole. Your presence matters more than perfection.
2. Make it local, not epic.
You don’t need to fly across the country to prove you care. Text a neighbor to grab coffee. Walk across the street. Bring someone a plate of cookies just because. Community starts close to home.
3. Let it be awkward.
Not every connection feels natural at first. That’s okay. Real relationships take time, silence, and a little discomfort. Keep showing up until awkward becomes authentic.
4. Say yes to small things.
Not every moment needs to be a grand gesture. Say yes to the lunch invite. The volunteer spot. The walk around the block. Small presence plants deep roots.
5. Check in, for real.
A 30-second “Hey, just thinking about you. How’s your week?” text can change someone’s day. Don’t underestimate the power of a simple nudge that says, You matter. I see you.
We don’t have to be everywhere. But we can be somewhere. Fully. Intentionally. Present. One philosophy I’ve tried to live for years is to do for one what you wish you could do for everyone.
We’ll never be able to be all things to all people. We can’t help everyone. But what if you can make a difference for one person. Start there and see where it goes.
Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for your family, your community, your world is to simply show up and stay.
You don’t have to fix the world.
Just be in it, with love.
So keep finding common ground, one small act of presence at a time.
This weekend, grills will fire up, flags will wave, and kids will run through sprinklers while parents kick back with a cold drink. Memorial Day, for many Americans, has become synonymous with sunshine, burgers, and an extra day off. But behind the laughter and leisure lies a blood-stained history too sacred to ignore. It’s time we faced it.
Your picnic came at a price.
Not a price paid at the grocery store or gas pump, but in trenches, in jungles, in deserts, and stormed beaches. It was paid in letters home that would never be answered. It was paid with dog tags and folded flags, with tears on gravestones and children growing up without their parent. Memorial Day is not just a holiday. It’s a holy reminder that freedom isn’t free.
We’ve gotten too casual about it. We slap “Happy Memorial Day” on store signs and social media posts, as if this day is about celebration instead of solemn remembrance. But Memorial Day is not Veterans Day. It’s not about thanking the living. It’s about honoring the dead. Specifically, the men and women of the armed forces who gave their lives so you could enjoy yours.
Think about that for a moment.
While you’re biting into a hot dog, someone else’s son bled out in a field in Normandy so that tyranny wouldn’t rule the world. While you’re laughing around a bonfire, a father died in the sands of Iraq so your kids could live free of fear. While you’re scrolling on your phone, a young woman took a bullet in Afghanistan and never came home to her dreams, her wedding day, or her family. And we’re worried about overcooked burgers?
Memorial Day is the most sacred secular holiday we have. And it should feel weighty.
Yes, go ahead and gather with your family. Yes, enjoy the beautiful day and the blessings we have. But do it with reverence. Let your children know why school is out. Let your conversations remember the cost. Pray for the families who don’t get to picnic because they’ll be at a cemetery. Fly the flag, not because it’s festive, but because it’s a symbol of lives laid down.
Jesus once said, “Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13, ESV). Memorial Day reminds us that some among us have lived and died that very truth. Whether they believed in Jesus or not, their sacrifice reflects the greatest love we’ve ever known.
So as the grill sizzles and your kids laugh and the sun shines down, take a moment. Pause. Reflect. Thank God for the freedom you enjoy and the fallen who paid for it.
Over the next 8 weeks we’re going to pause on Thursdays for what I’m calling a Common Ground Project. It’s a reflection on what we have in common in life. This week it’s exhaustion. Yeah, you’re not alone. It’s not just you.
You’re not imagining it. You’re not weak. And you’re definitely not the only one who wakes up more exhausted than when you went to bed, even if you technically “slept.” Something deeper is going on, and everyone feels it.
Sure, life is full. But this is more than busy. This is like a soul-tired kind of feeling. Deep in your core you’re just exhausted.
We’re trying to carry everything from work stress, to endless news cycles, to aging parents, to demanding schedules, to that invisible weight of trying to be okay for everyone else. Even our “free time” feels like another item on the to-do list. And somehow, we still think the answer is to do more, be more, hustle more.
But what if the answer is actually less? What if less is more?
Here’s the truth: We weren’t made to live like machines. Constant output, zero margin, endless comparison. We were made for rhythm. That ebb and flow, work and rest, noise and silence. But somewhere along the way, we replaced rest with scrolling, and silence with streaming.
So what do we do?
It’s actually far easier than we might think. So for starters don’t overcomplicate it. Here are four small but powerful ways to start fighting your soul-tiredness today:
1. Name It
Take 10 minutes. Just you and a notebook and your favorite pen, and ask yourself: What’s actually wearing me out right now? Is it physical? Emotional? Mental? Relational? You see getting honest about the source helps you stop blaming the wrong things. And when we stop blaming the wrong things we’re able to tackle the right ones.
2. Build Micro-Margins
You might not be able to take a two-week sabbatical, but you can create 15-minute moments of calm. A walk without your phone. A slow cup of coffee. Sitting in the car in silence before going inside. Don’t underestimate the restoration that can come from tiny moments of peace.
3. Let Something Go
Not everything needs to get done today. Seriously. Choose one thing this week you can stop doing. Maybe it’s a social obligation, a load of laundry, a screen time habit, and simply trade it for breathing room. Rest takes intention. It’s a choice, not an accident. You can accidentally fall asleep but you can’t accidentally rest.
4. Ask for Help
You don’t get extra points for doing life alone. Tell someone what you’re feeling. Ask a friend to take your kids for an hour. Let your partner know you’re running on empty. Community doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps you from falling apart alone. Remember even the Lone Ranger had his trusty friend Tonto by his side.
Here’s the good news: This tired doesn’t have to be forever. You can rebuild rest into your life. No, not the kind of rest that’s just sleep (though that matters too), but the kind that lets your soul exhale. The kind that reminds you that you’re human, not a machine.
You’re not broken for being tired. You’re just human. And being human means learning how to live at a livable pace again.
Earlier this week, I went to my daughter’s final track meet of the season. Now, before you picture me in running shorts and a stopwatch yelling, “Let’s go!”—let’s get one thing straight: I do not run. I respect running. I admire people who run. But me? If you see me running, call the police because something has gone terribly wrong.
So there I was, dad on the sidelines mentally applauding every single runner for voluntarily doing what I would only do if chased by a bear.
Then came her event, the 4×800 meter relay. Now, this was brand new territory. She’s trained as a sprinter. Give her a 100 meter dash and she’s golden. 200 is even cool. Her comfort zone is short, fast, and done. But there she was, taking on two full laps around the track. And when that baton hit her hand, she launched off the line like she was running the 100-meter dash.
The first lap was great. She was out front, flying. I was proud and also slightly nervous. Because, well, pace matters. You can’t treat an 800 like a sprint… unless you’re trying to see Jesus early.
Then came the second lap.
Halfway around, you could see it. That burst of speed had caught up to her. Her arms got heavy. Her face said, “Why did I agree to this?” And honestly, I felt it too. Not in my legs, of course, but in my soul.
She was tired. Gassed. Ready to throw in the towel.
But she didn’t.
She kept going. Slower? Yes. Suffering? Probably. But quitting? Not an option. She made it to the finish line, gave everything she had, and handed off the baton with pure grit and determination.
And that, friends, is the picture of perseverance.
You and I? We’ve all had “second-lap” moments in life. We start strong. The new job, the big dream, the spiritual commitment, the fresh relationship. But then reality sets in. The pace gets heavy. The excitement fades. We get tired. Discouraged. Maybe we’re ready to give up.
But don’t.
Push through. Even if your pace slows to a crawl. Even if you’re limping through pain or panting through exhaustion. Even if you have to walk, crawl, roll, or yes even puke before you get there… just don’t quit.
Because quitters don’t finish, and finishers don’t quit.
We’re not called to be perfect. We’re called to endure. To finish our race. To hand off the baton of faith, love, and hope to those coming after us. So keep going. One step at a time.
And if you’re ever tempted to give up? Just picture a tired teenager on her second lap, digging deep to find strength she didn’t know she had because sometimes the greatest victories come not from speed, but from stubborn, courageous endurance.
The numbers say it. The exodus of young people says it. The stale worship. The empty classrooms. The leadership pipelines that dried up a decade ago. They all scream what no one wants to admit: we are stuck. Not in doctrine. Not in Jesus. But in methods, mindsets, and models that have lost their grip on reality.
And every time someone dares to raise a hand to ask, What if we tried…? the answer isn’t curiosity. It’s control.
Let’s name the poison: fear. Fear of change. Fear of innovation. Fear of losing comfort, influence, or nostalgia. Fear that masquerades as faithfulness.
And under the weight of that fear, creativity is choked out, ideas are left to rot in meeting minutes, and the Spirit-led boldness that marked the early Church has been traded for policy manuals and committee reports.
When questions are silenced instead of answered, the Church doesn’t just stagnate. She suffers. People suffer.
Whole communities go unreached. Entire generations leave because they were told their questions were divisive, their ideas disruptive, their creativity unorthodox.
All the while, Jesus weeps.
The Gospel is unchanging. But the way we carry it never was.
Jesus didn’t call the disciples to maintain a system. He called them to overturn one. He didn’t say, “Find the most comfortable way to reach people like you.” He said, “Go make disciples of all nations.” That meant language barriers. Cultural shifts. Wild methods. Radical risk.
He preached from boats. He taught with stories. He sat with outcasts. He blew up traditions that had calcified into idolatry.
“You have heard it said… but I say to you…” That wasn’t safe. That was revolutionary.
Yet in 2025, the Church shrinks back from that same edge. We cling to what’s known, what’s approved, what’s “how we’ve always done it.” We turn down the volume on innovation. We run creative leaders out of the room. We label new ministries unnecessary. We crush Holy Spirit dreams under layers of bureaucracy, protocol, and denominational red tape.
Jesus flipped tables in the temple. It seems the best we can do is form a committee to discuss whether the tables are Lutheran enough (insert your own denomination there).
And we wonder why no one’s listening. The world doesn’t care how it’s always been done. They care how Jesus lived, loved and lead.
Silencing questions is not just bad leadership. It’s spiritual malpractice!
When we shut down the dreamers, we shut out the very people God is calling to lead the next generation. When we ignore the young leader with a passion for digital ministry because “we’ve never done it that way,” we lose a voice who could reach those we’ve never reached. Heck we’ve probably never thought of reaching some of these people!
When we refuse to plant new ministries because “the budget doesn’t allow,” what we’re really saying is, “We don’t trust God to provide for the things He inspires.”
When we fail to mentor new leaders because we’re afraid they’ll do things differently, we’re not protecting the Church. We’re burying the talent God gave us and expecting applause for our caution. Newsflash friend, Jesus condemned that talent burying servant as wicked and worthless. I think we might be on the wrong side of this argument.
The Church is dying not because the Gospel lacks power—but because the Gospel-bearers lack courage.
Courage to ask, “What if?” Courage to step out of the boat. Courage to let go of sacred cows and grab hold of a cross.
Do we believe the Holy Spirit still speaks? Still moves? Still creates new things?Then why do we act like the Great Commission was fulfilled in 1965 and now we just need to maintain the property?
Jesus didn’t die so we could die on the hill of tradition. He rose so we could move forward with the message of the resurrection into our neighborhoods.
Here’s what has to change:
We need leaders who ask dangerous questions. Not heretical ones, but honest ones.
We need churches that give permission to fail, to experiment, to build what’s never been built.
We need to stop confusing liturgy with legacy. Tradition with truth.
We need denominations that empower churches instead of controlling them.
We need new expressions of the unchanging Gospel. And we need them now.
This is not a call to throw out doctrine. This is a call to remember that Scripture and our tried and true doctrine is the foundation, not the ceiling. That methods are tools, not idols. That ministry is mission, not museum curation.
If we keep silencing questions, we’ll silence the Church.
But if we listen? If we empower? If we unleash Spirit-filled, question-asking, tradition-challenging, Gospel-rooted pioneers?
Then maybe, just maybe, the next generation will stop walking away. And start walking in.
The Church doesn’t need more meetings. It needs more movement.
Let’s stop being afraid of the unknown. The God I serve…He’s already there.
Part 7 of the “Towel-Bearers: Redefining Leadership” Series
They don’t wear name tags that say “hero.” They don’t have book deals, podcasts, or one of those larger than life cardboard checks. But they have towels. And they’re soaked.
These are the leaders you won’t find in conference lineups. But heaven knows their names.
Because they’re doing it the Jesus way.
The Youth Leader Who Keeps Showing Up
She preps lessons no one seems to remember. Deals with middle school chaos and sticky floors. Listens when a kid says, “My dad left.” And she doesn’t flinch.
Nobody claps. But she shows up again. And again. And again.
That’s what Jesus looks like.
The Grandma Who Prays in Secret
She doesn’t hold a title. She can’t stand long enough to volunteer. But every day, her Bible is open and her hands are raised for her family, her church, her nation.
No one sees the war she’s fighting on her knees. But the heavens shake because of her faith.
That’s what Jesus looks like.
The Pastor Who Refuses to Climb the Ladder
He’s been overlooked. Passed over for bigger churches, flashier pulpits. But he keeps loving his people. He weeps with them. Marries them. Buries them. Disciples them. No fanfare. Just faithfulness.
That’s what Jesus looks like.
The Business Leader Who Leads Differently
She could build her brand. She could chase profit. But instead, she raises up employees with dignity. She writes checks to single moms who can’t pay rent. She mentors with grace and serves without needing credit.
That’s what Jesus looks like.
This Is the New Definition of Leadership
It’s not influence. It’s integrity. It’s not followers. It’s faithfulness. It’s not building a name. It’s bearing a cross.
Towel-bearers don’t wait for recognition. They don’t chase platforms. They chase Jesus—and stoop to serve.
One Day, the Towels Will Be Traded for Crowns
Maybe nobody sees you right now. Maybe it feels like you’re throwing seed into dry ground.
But one day, the King will come. And He’ll say the words the world could never give you:
“Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Not for how loud you were. But for how low you knelt. Not for how much you built. But for how much you poured out.
You didn’t quit. You carried the towel.
So Here’s to You—The Towel-Bearers in the Wild
You’re the real leaders. The brave ones. The hidden ones. The faithful few.
Keep serving. Keep loving. Keep kneeling.
The world may not know your name—but heaven already carved it in glory.
