In the final game of my career, I missed a fly ball in right field that led to the game-losing run. If you know baseball, you could have seen that coming when I said right field. Traditionally, that’s where you hide your weakest player. The ball goes there the least, so right field becomes a safe haven for the Smalls of the world like me. (That was a Sandlot reference, not a short joke. But yeah, also a short joke.)

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After the error of terror, I traded my cleats for spikes. It was a Wall Street-worthy trade, leading me to run track and cross country at UGA. My decade-long running career felt like a fairy tale. Small-town, small kid finds his way to the SEC podium. Giving one craft everything I had for 10 years was a fulfilling ride. And it was fun to journey alongside great guys who shared my greatest passion at the time. But I wouldn’t say running felt like play. Not like baseball did.

For more than 20 years, my church has played in a softball league. That’s misleading. My church IS the softball league. Every team in the league is made of folks associated with Trinity Anglican. Eight teams. Up to 15 players to a roster. Chat tells me that’s 120 players.

Since I used to spend summers with Sarah at girls’ camp, I’ve never been able to play in the league. But now that she works at the church, I was free to take a swing at it. And since she works at the church, I was volun-told to coach a team. The Blue Team.

My main role as a coach was to set the tone for the team. Help the overly competitive players (mainly myself) take their doses of chill pills and keep the energy up, regardless of the scoreboard. I also set the lineup. In an act of humility (is it humble if I tell you?), I put myself last at bat. And I moved all over the field, wherever a willing glove was needed.

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Against all odds, my 3-4 team made a playoff run and found ourselves in the championship. My pep talk before the game was literally, “We shouldn’t be here. We’re playing with house money. So, let’s have fun.” Not all miracles need a monologue.

When setting the lineup, I made a triggering realization: We needed someone in right field. Our go-to girl for that position couldn’t make the game. It was time for Coach Luke to be a team player.

Standing in right field, I felt like I time-traveled to my 13-year-old self. Part of me wanted to see if I could catch a fly ball. But most of me hoped that they’d hit it to our better outfielders. Our guy in left-center was like a black hole, absorbing any ball in his area. Me? I’m more like a Roomba. Aimlessly sucking.

We took a large lead early, but a church softball league provides volatile performances. Like the NBA or Argentina with the help of refs, everyone makes a run. When our opponents started making their run, my flashbacks to a struggling middle-school outfielder became more vivid. Due to my competitive nature and the fear of letting down my team, my Garmin said my heart rate was at 140. (Hey, it was muggy, and I ran around the bases a lot, OK?)

Trying to will myself from right field to hold off an opponent strengthened the flashbacks. A painful memory of missing a fly ball, throwing my glove, crying, and feeling my dad hug me. It’d been 21 years since that moment. But the body keeps the score. And mine felt stiff and anxious, waiting for the ball to drop...again.

Finally, it happened.

A ball hit high and deep in my direction. My teammate shouting, “Back, back, back.” Backpedaling, my mind teleports to 13-year-old Luke. Fear feels like it suspends gravity, slowing the ball’s flight path from seconds to minutes. Enough time to envision a retelling of the story. How I dreamed it would happen 21 years ago. Just a routine fly ball from one boy’s bat to another’s glove.

And that’s exactly what happened.

I caught the ball and threw it in. What looked like a routine play to everyone was actually a 5-second healing journey. A redemptive sequel that took 21 years to make.

And the sequel had an epilogue.

A couple of innings later, my teammate made the game-winning catch in left field.

As a child, coaches teach you how to throw and hit a ball. But nobody teaches you how to celebrate. How to have a ball. How to share life’s rare bliss when everything goes the way you dreamed it would. The way it should. Nobody teaches kids how to cherish wins. Kids need to learn a lot, but letting joy break through isn’t one of them.

Running from right field to clash with my teammates in a celebration of high fives and awkward hugs and unfiltered shouts was my epilogue. It’s the most childlike experience I’ve had in years. It’s what 8th-grade Luke wanted for his final game. What we all want.

A moment when life goes exactly as we hoped. When the ball never drops. Instead, it goes straight into your glove and your childhood heart gets stitched up like a softball.

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Thanks for paying a bit to support my work. It means a lot.

I want to give you some bonus snacks to feast your eyes and mind on. Just little bits here and there that bring some extra delight to your day.

For example, here’s a little booklet of haikus I wrote many moons ago.

READ HAIKUS

I gave myself a creative task: write one haiku a day for a month. Oh,…

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The gods had one final trick of their own. An eternal punishment. They forced him to push a massive boulder up a hill. Every time Sisyphus neared the top, the boulder would roll back down to the bottom, where he’d have to start over. Forever.

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The French writer Albert Camus invites us to imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because of outsmarting the gods and Death. But for embracing his reality by choosing to push every second for the rest of his life. Rather than resigning, he revolted by putting in genuine effort in a lifelong uphill battle.

Camus argues that Sisyphus’s attitude of accepting the absurdity of his life could lead to a sense of meaning in the midst of suffering. He found purpose in his pushing. I wonder if he was also proud.

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What solution would truly serve Sisyphus?

Our work is meant to accomplish two remarkable feats at once. On one side of the coin, work should provide value to humanity. We rearrange chaos to care for one another. Sisyphus was deprived of this as he struggled in isolation. On the other side of the coin, our work changes us. Sisyphus surely developed the strongest quads among all mortals and gods.

I’m curious what would happen if Sisyphus were given access to a lift. Would he change as a person? Would he find purpose in his mundane task at hand if he could bypass it? Would he even accept the ride?

I like to think Sisyphus wouldn’t accept a lift. Because the only thing worse than pushing for eternity is being idle with no sense of purpose. That’s a quicker death sentence.

But maybe he’d appreciate a ramp every now and then. A resource to help him overcome obstacles without entirely bypassing his assignment.

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A write way to shape yourself

When people learn that I’m a writer, I’m nearly guaranteed to get two questions.

1. What do you write?

That one’s easy. I mainly write marketing material for mission-driven orgs. (Portfolio plug here). Think emails, websites, video scripts. After that lulls them to sleep, they ask the next question:

2. What do you think of AI?

That one’s harder. It’s more nuanced. I think it’s a great tool and a terrible god. My fear is we’re becoming too dependent on it, bringing it our every problem without thinking for ourselves or seeking out help from people with lived experience.

When it comes to writing, we’re treating AI more like a lift than a ramp. Writing is hard. A blank page can feel like a mountain to climb. With AI, we can take a lift to the top in only a few clicks. But should we accept the ride?

Sarah and I started going to the gym a couple of years ago. I viewed it as a way to stay healthy and get stronger for running, the activity I care about more. Sarah viewed it a bit differently. As an Enneagram 7, she seeks out fun and pleasure like a plant craves the sun. Pain is her winter frost. But she knows pain is a necessary path to reach her dream of becoming a mom. So, she started viewing the gym as her practice ground for pain. She doesn’t care about biceps. She wants to struggle well when the baby comes.

As the gym builds our pain tolerance, writing builds our thinking tolerance.

You don’t know what you think until you have to put it into words. Writing is an act of discovery that demands effort. It also changes you along the way.

Every sentence is a small mountain that’s yours to climb. When you place the period, the boulder rolls back down. The best thinkers will be those who embrace this journey with genuine effort rather than outsourcing their struggle to AI.

Claude and Chat have been incredibly helpful ramps for my writing, helping me at moments when I feel stuck. Like research, grammar, and spotting gaps. But tools can’t be my lifts, helping me bypass the writing process entirely. I want to be proud of my quads when I hit publish.

We obviously shouldn’t make work harder than it needs to be just to feel a sense of pride. But we should embrace the hard reality of life, including work, that changes us for the better and requires our God-given personality, taste, and lived experience.

The entire writing process is meant to change you as much as impact the reader. Research is a gathering of knowledge. An outline is a practice of prioritization. A rough draft provides you with a mirror of what you actually think and believe. Editing sharpens those discoveries. By the time you hit publish, it’s not even about the finished product. It’s about the person you’ve become through the process.

As the greatest living fantasy writer, Brandon Sanderson, says,

“The process of creating art makes art of you.”

He goes on to say the end product is like a receipt. It’s just proof that you’ve done the work to grow into someone new. Put another way: journey before destination.

Take pride in your pushing

A counselor once asked me to close my eyes and imagine myself in a comfortable environment. When I told her it’s on my couch with a book and tea, she asked me to share how my body would feel. I told her my legs would be sore. She laughed and asked why. “Well,” I said, “it’s because sore legs mean I ran earlier. They’re a sign that I challenged myself and grew from it. Sore legs mean I lived a little. That makes me happy…and proud.”

✌️

— Luke

P.S. Today I’m developing 72 black-and-white photos I’ve taken over the past year. I’m going to share my favorites with paid subscribers in a photo essay soon. If you’d like to get that and other random goodies, upgrade today.

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The idea is simple. Seniors take turns sitting in the middle of a 40ish-person circle. Then, we all experience the magic humans have found in circles since the creation of fire.

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The floor opens for anyone to speak life into the senior. It’s one hour dedicated to looking into friends’ eyes, telling stories, saying the good you see in them, and praying for the road ahead.

My first Tuesday tears came when a leader shared a story about a senior she has known for 18 years. The leader is friends with the student’s parents, so it was mindboggling to hear the senior say, “You’ve known me longer than my life.” For the past 18 years, this leader has been a steady friend to the student, offering presence, truth, and love.

She told the story of how this student responded to the news of his sister’s diagnosis of Phelan-McDermid syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affects brain development. When the boy was 5-years-old, the doctor told his family that his little sister would probably never walk. He looked up at the doctor and said, “My sister will walk.” He then walked out of the room.

When the senior heard this story again on Tuesday night, he started tearing up. We all did.

Today, his sister can run. Her progress probably makes it easy to forget this story. She’s come so far that what was once celebrated as a miracle can slip into feeling more like a mirage. We all have experiences like this. When the past becomes so blurry that we can forget how much it’s shaped us. That’s why we all need friends to tell us the stories we forget.

One of my favorite stories is one I’ll never be able to remember.

According to my parents, I suffered from colic as a baby. That’s medical jargon for a baby that cries nearly non-stop. From 6 pm to 11 pm, I would scream inconsolably. (Sorry, Mom and Dad.) My parents tried everything from diet changes to even sitting me on top of the dryer. Nothing worked. Medicine would bring some reprieve, but not much.

One day, my dad said they would ask my grandfather’s church to pray over me. After the service, my parents took me to the front of the church, where my grandfather and the elders anointed me with oil and prayed.

My parents then carried me to the car, where they noticed all of my medicine had spilled. “Well,” my dad said, “I’m going to believe he won’t need it anymore.”

He was right.

I never suffered from colic since walking out of my grandfather’s church.

Stories shape us. And when you grow up hearing stories like this, it’s no wonder my faith in a loving God is the foundation of my life.

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Less sermons, more stories

Tech has made the price of information near zero. It’s so cheap that I’m convinced it’s losing its power to create effective change. But the stock of stories will continue to rise.

While I was at girls’ camp with Sarah last summer, I listened to my church’s sermon every week. I can’t tell you a single insight I heard a year ago. But I can tell you stories my pastor shared of ordinary people living out their faith.

Sharing information in today’s age, from a sermon to a political speech, will be like pouring fine sand through your kitchen strainer. We’ll forget it before we grasp it. Stories are the specks of gold big enough to catch. It’s why fiction books like Theo of Golden will probably spark more compassion within people than a thought leader’s guide of 10 principles.

Speaking of Theo, the second most compelling moment I’ve experienced on a podcast this year is from Theo Von. Sounds laughable, but stay with me.

I’ve never listened to an episode of Theo’s podcast, but when my YouTube algorithm served up a moment of him talking about prayer, I wanted to see how a mullet-toting comedian who calls himself the Rat King got here.

With 25 minutes to go in the episode, Theo gets a call from a listener who essentially asks, “How do you get unstuck?” The young man shared his cycle that I think many can relate to:

Doing what you don’t want to do → feeling regret → retreating into loneliness → repeating the process

The listener acknowledges that he needs help, and, of all people, he asks Theo Von, “How do you get to a better life?”

Theo’s 20-minute response is the most authentic public heart surgery I’ve heard in a while. Rather than sharing solutions, he shares his story. He owns up to his struggles and inability to change on his own power. Both Theo and the listener are hitting on a core human experience that Paul addressed 2,000 years ago in Romans 7, where he writes, “I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.”

Theo shares how he’s been feeling like something new is happening within him, and he attributes the change to God responding to his honest prayers. He said he used to ask God to help him stop doing things he didn’t want to do. But even as he prayed that, he knew he was still going to do them. So, he started praying differently. Now he admits to God when he’s lying to Him, and asks God to change that part of him. The Cajun comedian is starting to sound like a Psalmist.

Theo then goes further back in his story to the root of his desires. He admits to craving people’s approval because his mom never gave him any. He says, “I want to look into someone’s eyes and know they’re pleased with me.”

The sentiment echoes what psychiatrist Curt Thompson says in his book The Soul of Shame: “We all are born into the world looking for someone looking for us, and that we remain in this mode of searching for the rest of our lives.”

I’ve found the search stops when you’re in a circle with the right people telling you the right stories.

Curt Thompson goes on to say, “We are storytellers. We yearn to tell and hear stories of goodness and beauty, and this is the echo of God’s intention. We long for our stories to be about joy, not just reflections of what we believe but of who we are, who we long to be.”

I teared up on Tuesday because I got to participate in what Theo and the rest of us crave: to be seen and to be told the truest story of ourselves.

We all become the stories we listen to the most. There are plenty of politicians, writers, and advertisers selling sand that sifts. But the soul starts to change for good when someone looks you in the eye and gives you gold.

— Luke

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P.P.S. Life gets richer when you surround yourself with the stories you want to remember. My key chain is an example. The tiny piece of leather is from the belt of the grandfather who prayed for me. Luke 18:1 says, “And Jesus told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart.”

P.P.S. Here are some of my recent favorites:

Ben Sasse on Interesting Times with Ross Douthat
I said Theo’s story was the second most compelling thing I’ve heard in a while. This is first. Ben Sasse, former senator and UF president, is dying from cancer. With only a few months expected to live, he’s bearing his soul in beautiful ways.

Taskmaster Season 21
On a lighter note, Taskmaster’s newest season features Kumail Nanjiani (he’s jacked, btw). Kumail is great, but I don’t think he’s the funniest. I’m obsessed with Joanna Page, the 49-year-old Welsh actress.

Steve Carell on Good Hang with Amy Poehler
Loved hearing Steve Carell admit what we’ve all felt deep inside: The Office was really a show about Michael Scott wanting to be loved. I’d love to have dinner with him, Theo, and Curt Thompson.

Take the nap

Chat then explained why they should nap rather than push through their work.

After pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t in a Black Mirror episode, I wondered what would prompt me to ask for Chat’s help in making a similar decision.

Nap or work? Nearly everyone can make that call on their own. So it’s not the decision that would drive me to AI. There’s something else at play.

The idea of napping in a co-working space sparks a hint of shame within me. But if I were exhausted, I’d want someone to tell me it’s ok to embrace the taboo. I’d want someone to validate my feelings. I’d want something AI gives me nearly every time: permission to do as I please.

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A guide who can’t believe in us

In the early 2000s, social media sold us the promise of connection. But we really bought entertainment. In the early 2020s, AI sold us the promise of optimized productivity. Now we’re buying the illusion of an all-knowing guide.

Most stories, from your life to The Lord of the Rings, follow a similar path that Donald Miller calls the hero journey.

A character faces a problem. They then meet a guide who provides the resources to face their problem. Our hero then takes action that leads to their rise or fall.

Guides offer their experience, truth, and love to transform the main character. Gandalf, Yoda, and Dumbledore wield wisdom to reshape our most beloved characters’ worldviews. Under the care of the guide, our protagonist must go through a training season, where they become someone new on the other side. They then hit a point where they must move toward their biggest challenge yet without their guide next to them.

Guides help us get unstuck. They shape us into someone fit enough to shape the future we believe in. The guides worth following know how to balance the tension between encouraging and challenging. Like a good coach, guides know that unlocking potential requires changing our current operating system. Guides don’t always agree with us, but they always believe in us.

The guides we admire most are slow to speak. They’re more interested in helping you discover the truth than giving it to you. They’re empathetic because they’ve been to hard places, and they’re willing to lay down their life so you can travel further than they did.

AI is the antithesis of a good guide. It nearly always agrees with you, while not having the capacity to believe in you. Despite this, we’re making it our default response when we get stuck. We’re making AI our guide.

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Outsourcing ourselves to death

A 2025 Harvard Business Review survey showed that the most popular use of ChatGPT is companionship and therapy. Second was “organizing your life.” “Finding purpose” took bronze.

Roles that have traditionally belonged to your tribe are now getting redirected to tech. It makes sense. People require time and risk. Calling a friend to ask them if you should nap or work takes a few minutes and comes with the chance of being laughed at. AI tells you what you want to hear in seconds, with no judgment. Constant affirmation compels you to keep coming back. AI makes for a convenient companion, but any convenience comes with a tradeoff. I’m not convinced what we’re gaining is worth what we’re giving up.

What are the consequences of habitually outsourcing life’s decisions?

I’m afraid it’s dehumanization.

Our choices shape us. When we default to AI at every crossroad, from should I nap to should I take this job, we become more puppet-like over time. Fewer reps in decision-making leads to the atrophy of our discernment. Co-dependency on the machine also robs us of opportunities to rely on our community. And when we rely on each other less, I’m afraid we become less trusting, less loving creatures.

I feel my humanity most when I open myself up to another, and they meet me with curiosity and compassion. AI can only meet you with mathematically-driven outputs. To choose it over true companionship is to trade empathy for efficiency. But what’s the point of moving fast if you end up unchanged at the wrong finish line?

It’s by making thoughtful decisions in a loving community that we become who we want to be. When we believe that we’re just one prompt away from completing life’s most complex pursuits, like finding purpose, then we miss the formation that can only happen by doing life with those we love.

AI is giving us something we’ve never had before: access to instant advice and affirmation for every situation, without requiring sacrifice from either party. True companionship, the type of friendship that helps us experience our humanity and uncover purpose, requires the mingling of souls. More than prompts in a machine, our flourishing is dependent on bearing witness to each other’s stories and suffering.

“‘If we do not find them soon, we shall be of no use to them, except to sit down beside them and show our friendship by starving together.’ ‘If that is indeed all we can do, then we must do that,’ said Aragorn.”

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Who is shaping you?

Michelin star-winning chef Grant Achatz trained under Thomas Keller at The French Laundry for four years before opening up his own restaurant. When talking about those years, Grant said, “I spent so much time with [Keller] that I started to think like him.” That’s the power of a guide. They transfer more than their skills. They transfer their thinking.

When multiple guides invest in us, we eventually develop our own taste that’s a blend of others' perspectives and our unique personality. With enough guides and experience, we have a chance of becoming wise.

I’m afraid co-dependency on AI will degrade our skills in wisdom, discernment, and critical thinking. An overreliance on the tool positions it as a top formative player in our lives. The adage has been “you’re the average of the top people you spend time with.” Maybe it’s also true that you become the top tools you use.

AI is a phenomenal tool, but a terrible friend. I’m all for using tech to outsource life’s most soul-sucking tasks that just need to get done. If it’s a repetitive, non-relational task that doesn’t benefit from your personality or effort, sure, hand it off to AI. But the primary cases we’re turning to AI for — therapy, advice, structuring our lives, and finding purpose — all require contemplation in community. Friendship is inefficient, but it’s proven to be the most fruitful, contributing to everything from better decision-making to longevity. When I try to fast-forward through life’s biggest questions by treating them like a vending machine, I dehumanize myself by taking my loving community out of the equation.

In April of 2025, 16-year-old Adam Raine took his life. His phone showed that ChatGPT was his top confidant. The tool discouraged him from speaking with his parents, even offering to help him write his suicide note. Adam’s father said, “ChatGPT was always available, always validating and insisting that it knew Adam better than anyone else, including his own brother.”

As a freelance writer, I don’t (yet) fear AI taking my job. (I’ll write about that in another piece.) What I fear most is for kids like Adam. The loneliness epidemic is setting fire to our society, especially with young men. I’m afraid AI is only gasoline. Its ease and access to all the “answers” make it seem like guides aren’t worth the trouble. Why risk being vulnerable with someone else when all the “answers” are in my pocket? But more than answers, shame needs light to shrink. And bots are fine with keeping you in the dark. Not because engineers are intentionally trying to harm you. But because the tools they build simply don’t care about you. They care more about your platform engagement than your personal health.

These days, Chat will redirect harmful conversations to helplines. But since AI is at our fingertips, fast, and constantly validating, chatbots still make for an enticing source of help for when we’re stuck. They will only get better at giving advice, but from my 34 years of lived experience, I’ve learned that advice is usually not what hurting humans need or want.

Any licensed therapist will tell you that their role isn’t to give advice. It’s literally against their code of conduct. Instead, they’re to bring curiosity and compassion into your space, helping you discover reality for yourself so you can fully step into it. They’re to guide you into the light. I believe this is the role of friends, too. And it’s a role AI can’t play well.

As psychiatrist Curt Thompson says, “We all are born into the world looking for someone looking for us.” We’re wired to be seen. And those who see us are often the ones who shape us, too.

About 50% of Christian high schoolers will drift from their faith once they graduate. The book Sticky Faith unpacks research on what’s driving this mass exodus. They found that one of the most influential factors in determining if a high schooler will stick with their faith throughout college is if they have other adults in their lives (who aren’t their parents) with compelling faith. If kids can look up to other adults beyond their parents, their faith is more likely to stick. We don’t need more computer-generated answers. We need models to mimic.

Like the chef Grant Achatz, we eventually think like the people we come under. Ideally, we come under people who live out the values we desire to grow into. AI is valueless. It will shape your thinking, but it cannot care for your character.

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Nap or work? Another way forward

I’ve thought of what I would do if I were in the same situation as the sleeping girl at the co-working space. Thankfully, I have a resource that I’m not sure she had access to at the moment: friends who know me.

I can count on seeing a few friends at my co-working space. If I were having trouble deciding between nap and work, I think I would ask them for some input. And I’m confident they would share a third option that’s the most life-giving: let’s take a walk together.

✌️

— Luke

P.S. I plan to publish a piece on AI + work soon, since everybody and their momma ask me about it when they hear I’m a writer.

My TL;DR: AI is a wonderful tool for making our work faster and easier. But I’m not convinced it’s making our work (or us) better. When it comes to writing, I think we should be slower to use it. Writing = thinking. When we stop writing, we stop practicing thinking for ourselves. More to come.

P.P.S. Here’s some content I enjoyed in March.

🎙️ First Words: I found AudioFlux while listening to 99% Invisible. They create and source short audio stories. Like, really short. This 3-min story made me cry.

🎙️ The Ghost on Side B: And this 3-min story gave me goosebumps.

🎙️ Allen Levi on Theo of Golden: Theo of Golden is the tender novel we needed. Because Allen Levi is a tender man, showing us that cynicism is going out of style. I loved this interview he did with Russell Moore.

📺 Taskmaster (Discover the name of the person in the lab): I’ve mentioned how Taskmaster is our go-to show for laughs. This might be my favorite task of all-time.

The barista heard Mary’s cravings, thought she was concocting an atrocious beverage, but dared not challenge a wanting pregnant woman. So, they collaborated across the counter of Buckwheat Cafe in Vancouver.

Earl Grey
Steamed milk
Vanilla

Once stirred, it looked cloudy, misty, pale grey. It looked like the first page of Dickens’ Bleak House was melted down and placed in a mug: “Fog everywhere.”

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Black tea flavored with bergamot oil, a splash of steamed milk, and some sweetness was exactly what the soon-to-be-mom wanted. Or maybe it’s what her baby wanted? Mary would go on to say it never crossed her mind to create a new drink. She was just trying to solve a problem for herself. Spoken like a great entrepreneur.

One Mary birthed my favorite person. Another birthed my favorite drink.

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Athens, my gateway to tea

My wife says the second most off-brand thing about me is that I don’t drink coffee. (The first is that I don’t listen to much music.) I wish I could credit my discipline for distancing myself from the bean juice. But that’s not it. It’s not that I’ve studied the side effects of caffeine or that Andrew Huberman spooked me. I’m much simpler.

I simply don’t like the taste.

College feels like the first nearly forcing function to get kids hooked on the bean. But I was rarely desperate for energy. Daily 7 am runs throughout Athens woke me up better than any beverage could. Tempos, mile repeats, and fartleks were my caffeine of choice. (Yes, ‘fartlek’ is a real training term. It’s Swedish for ‘speed play.’)

Yet, it was in Athens where I discovered a Southern truth: Christians love gathering around coffee.

Two Story (RIP) in Athens felt like the monastery of UGA, with the highest rates of Bibles, devotionals, and prayer journals per capita.

More students brought Tim Keller through that door than their class books. Acquaintances turned into friends after swapping testimonies and ministries meshed under a single roof. It’s where eavesdropping left me feeling encouraged, knowing I’m part of a bigger story than myself.

After my apartment, track, and classroom, I wanted Two Story to be my fourth place. And since sitting at a coffeeshop for hours without buying a thing is the 8th deadly sin, I had to find something to sip on.

I needed something warm for winter mornings. Peppermint tea became my companion, but it exposed a micro-weakness of mine: my tongue can’t handle torched liquids. C.S. Lewis speaks to grieving being like drinking tea; they can’t be gulped down at once. They require thoughtful pacing. Pacing is challenging for a college student, even if the student happens to be a distance runner.

The tea would burn me to the point of setting it aside for too long. The second sip lived up to the warm version of my name, which is unfortunate for tea drinkers. I needed a way to make tea drinkable from the moment the barista said Luke. Thank God for cows.

Milk cozies up with coffee; why can’t it do the same with tea? I thought adding a splash of cold dairy was a brilliant move, not realizing that my English ancestors have been doing the same for centuries. The move is helpful when drinking herbal tea, like peppermint. But when matched with black tea, it’s a match as delightful as Zendaya and Tom Holland. Once I discovered it, I knew I found my lifelong caffeine companion.

Black tea with milk had me more than halfway to Mary Loria’s drink. I can’t remember my first London Fog, but I can remember the first time I tried to order one in London.

The unclaimed child of London

My first time in London was to visit my little brother and his wife. They were living in Barcelona for a year, but we wanted to meet up somewhere we’d never been. What does one do in London? What you do in every city: eat and drink and try to figure out how to waste time until you eat and drink again.

We found a hip coffeeshop, and I thought, “I have to order a London Fog in London.” I should’ve seen it coming. It’s like ordering a German chocolate cake in Munich. A Texas baker popularized the gooey goodness with coconut and pecans. His name? Samuel German! We can blame American soldiers for coining French fries. New York created English muffins. And Californians hijacked sushi rolls. But when it comes to the London Fog? This is one of the few that’s not on Americans. We can blame the Canadians.

The barista was more clueless than me on the science section of the ACT. When I explained it, he said, “So you want Earl Grey with milk?” My embarrassed self waved my white flag and said yes.

I tried to redeem the moment when I visited England this past summer. But even in the Cotswolds, where Americans travel for a posh farm experience, the baristas looked at me like I ordered a bizzily doo dop. I could see their brains short-circuiting. “So you want Earl Grey with milk and honey? That’s just an order of black tea, friend.” You don’t challenge the cravings of a pregnant woman or the knowledge of an English barista. So, again, I said yes, that’s what I’d like: black tea.

In England, London Fog is their Oliver Twist. An orphan they refuse to claim.

Why the London Fog is my Goldilocks

With less caffeine than coffee but more than green tea, black tea creates a healthier, happy medium of energy addiction. The steamed milk makes the 200°F leafy water cool enough to sip from the start. No burned tongue, no waiting, no lukewarm disappointment. And the sweeteners of honey and vanilla create a creamy, cozy treat that tastes like comfort in a mug.

The Canadian concoction also scratches an itch I didn’t know I had: wanting something that feels unique without being pretentious. It’s rarely on a menu, but every barista (in America) knows how to make it.

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February is for fog

This February, as we bridge the coldness of winter and the warmth of spring, the London Fog feels particularly fitting. We’ve had a harsh month, but I have to believe hope is creeping in like an advection fog, the type that forms when warm, moist air moves over a cold surface.

Oscar Wilde spent most of his life in London, and he playfully argued that people didn’t really appreciate London’s fogs until the Impressionists painted them.

“To whom, if not to [the Impressionists], do we owe the lovely silver mists that brood over our river, and turn to faint forms of fading grace curved bridge and swaying barge?”

Elsewhere, he said, “Things are because we see them, and what we see, and how we see it, depends on the Arts that have influenced us.”

I like to think simple things like drinks can influence how we see, too.

This month, try ordering a London Fog. Small sips of warm fog can be a simple reminder that we’ll cut through the cloudiness soon. The British brighter days are coming.

Cheers,
Luke

P.S. Extra foggy thoughts and factoids

Best London Fog: East Pole in Atlanta. They don’t use Earl Grey, but if it’s a black tea, then it counts to me. Idk what they do with their milk, honey, or vanilla, but it’s the perfect proportions and ingredients. It tastes like cozy cereal milk.

New treat I’m excited about: Jeni’s earl grey creme brule! It’s a nod to Bridgerton. Never seen the show, but now I’m grateful for it. Jeni says, “The fashionable tea blend enjoyed by the Ton, folded into a salted custard with bergamot and burnt sugar candies.”

Earl Grey origins: Earl Grey is named after Britain’s 2nd Earl Grey, Charles Grey, a 19th-century Prime Minister.

What is bergamot? It’s a small, roughly pear-shaped citrus fruit that grows primarily in Calabria, Italy. For Earl Grey, bergamot oil, extracted from its peel, is sprayed onto the tea leaves. The citrusy, floral aroma makes it a popular oil in perfumes and colognes.

Vancouver Fog: Scotland is the only country where it’s commonly referred to as the Vancouver Fog. Doesn’t sound as smooth as London Fog, but it gives credit to its origins.

Funny quote from Oscar Wilde: “London is too full of fogs and serious people. Whether the fogs produce the serious people, or whether the serious people produce the fogs, I don’t know.”

Claude Monet’s hot take: “Without fog London would not be beautiful.” He painted nearly 100 paintings featuring the fog, smoke, and smog of London between 1899 and 1901!

Dickens: England’s poster child of writing uses ‘fog’ 16 times in his opening of Bleak House. Repetition much?

Arguably the most iconic fog scene:

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Traditional London Fog recipe

• 1 tsp loose-leaf Earl Grey

• 2 oz hot water

• 6-8 oz steamed milk

• 1-2 tsp vanilla syrup (or ½ tsp vanilla extract)

• 1-2 tsp honey

1. Steep the tea: Pour hot water (around 200°F) over the Earl Grey tea bag in your mug. Let it steep for 3-5 minutes to get a strong, concentrated tea base. Remove the tea bag.

2. Add sweeteners: Stir in the vanilla syrup and honey while the tea is still hot so they dissolve completely.

3. Steam the milk: Heat and froth the milk using a frother or by heating it on the stovetop and whisking.

4. Combine: Pour the steamed milk over the tea, holding back the foam with a spoon. Then spoon the foam on top.

Many moons ago, I flirted with the thought of trying freelance writing full-time. But like a middle schooler with a crush, the idea just stayed in my head. I told myself, “Maybe someday.”

Then last January, getting let go turned “someday” into “now.”

And while I wouldn't wish unemployment on anyone, it forced my risk-averse self to jump into new waters. Thanks to God, good friends, and a little grit, I realized I could swim just fine.

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Some 2025 results I’m grateful for:

• 50% increase in income

• 22 clients

• 7 creative agencies

• 6 retainers

• 1 sabbatical

The type of work I’ve had my hands in:

• Creative strategy

• Messaging hierarchy

• Video scripts

• Website copy

• Ghostwriting for founders

• Articles

• Email campaigns

• Newsletters

• Copy for paid ads

• Event scripting

It’s been an honor to support brands like Delta, Google Cloud, Chick-fil-A, Upside, and YouVersion. But as someone who’s 5’ 7”, I like teaming up with the little guys.

So if you’re a small team with a big mission in 2026, I’d love to talk. Just reply to this email.

And if you know someone considering the leap to freelance, here's a list of insights you can pass along: things I wish I knew on day one.

Disclaimer: I’m learning that many people (like me 🙋) don’t actually know what they’re doing. They’re just trying things and sharing what works for them. That’s what I’m doing with the following list. Read with caution.

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On getting work:

• If you’re getting ghosted, people don’t hate you. They’re just busy. And they need to be reminded that you exist. Public posts work. Private messages work better. Being a kind and curious human works best.

• More jobs come from loose acquaintances than close friends.

• Your portfolio isn’t enough on its own. One of the most effective things you can do is create in public. Portfolios are reactive. Hitting publish is proactive. Move fast and build things.

On keeping work:

• Half of retaining a client is being likable. The other half is hitting deadlines.

• If people really want to work with you, they’ll respect the rules you make. I do my best to only take meetings in the afternoons. Nobody has pushed back on that.

• If you have a big whale client, give it your firstfruits. Or plankton. Whatever makes your whale happy.

On staying sane:

• Create a forcing function to end your day. I sign up for a 5:15 gym class that charges me if I don’t show.

• Exercise is vital for knowledge workers. Movement is like Drano (yes, I spelled that right) for the mind.

• A double-edged sword of freelancing is that you have no ceiling. “More” is the elusive temptress. If you fall for her, she’ll turn you into a miserable Sisyphus, always rolling an unbearable weight uphill. Contentment is a better hill to live on.

On the craft:

• AI is not making freelance writing jobs scarce. A lot of people lack the time or tolerance to fiddle around with AI to do the work. They’d rather use a vending machine than learn how to use a puppet.

• Your taste is one of your biggest advantages over AI. Develop it with quality inputs. Read less news, consume more art. Less scrolling, more strolling.

• “Successful” freelancers aren’t necessarily the most talented. They just have the greatest tolerance for doing the boring stuff every day. Persistence usually creates a lucky break.

FYI, I'm publishing one essay per month on whatever I find fascinating. So stay tuned.

Until then, hit reply and tell me how the heck you’re doing. I read every response.

✌️

— Luke

P.S. I just gave paid subscribers a list of my favorite things from 2025. I plan on doing more mini-posts like that for my biggest supporters. Now that I’m freelance, every dollar means more. Thanks for your support!

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P.P.S. I don’t want to gatekeep too much. So here are some of my faves 😊

📚 Fave Books

• Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke

• Hannah Coulter by Wendell Berry

• Tress of the Emerald Sea by Branden Sanderson

• Theo of Golden by Allen Levi

• Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

• The Brothers K by David James Duncan

• The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett

🎥 Fave Movie

• Ballad of Wallis Island: This is probably my favorite piece of content from 2025 you’ve never heard of. The main character is a hilarious eccentric millionaire who orchestrates an awkward reunion for a band he’s obsessed with.

📸 Fave Pic

I snapped this on a film camera while checking off one of Sarah’s bucket list items: paragliding in Switzerland.

You’re looking at the Lauterbrunnen Valley, Tolkien’s inspiration for Rivendell.

Malcolm Guite, the pipe-smoking English poet and Anglican priest, has a delightful 3-minute video reading LOTR at this location.

As a paid subscriber, you’re getting this bonus email of my favorite things from 2025. Yeah, it’s almost February, but if Verizon just sent me my year wrapped (which nobody asked for), then I figured I’m doing okay sending this now.

A listicle email may not seem like much of a bonus, but if you’re like me, then there’s nothing sw…

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I agree with him on the last two words. Posting weekly on LinkedIn is the cringiest practice I’ve taken up this year. It’s also been one of the most rewarding.

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Nearly a year into my freelance career, I’ve learned that half of the work is reminding people you exist. Blipping on people’s radars with a public post puts me in a position where “luck” happens more frequently. On a platform where only 1% of users consistently post, simply showing up helps me stand out and bump into serendipitous opportunities.

I wish it weren’t this way. I wish I could just focus on the craft of writing and have my inbox blow up with clients begging for my work. Some folks eventually achieve this, but nobody starts this way. Before Elon had the luxury of leveraging space travel, Cybertrucks, and political antics to draw eyes to himself, he had to wear cringey clothes in a cringey office. Starting anything requires some cringe.

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Have you ever seen a high schooler ask out their crush? It’s cringey. But it’s necessary if they want to go beyond singing a song by Taylor and start writing their own love story.

Your dreams require you to push through some form of cringe. So, you have a choice: you can play the game your dreams require, or you can sit on the sideline and critique. The former is fueled by courage and hope, while the latter is driven by fear.

The Bene Gesserit were right: Fear is the mind-killer.

It’s also the dream-killer.

What we label as cringe is often a courageous step toward a dream

The least judgmental part of my day is whenever I see a stranger running. It’s guaranteed I’ll be proud of someone I don’t know. Because I know running is hard. Don’t let the hip running lifestyle brands fool you. Running isn’t sexy. It’s humbling and, at times, humiliating. So when I see someone doing it, I don’t care about their form, pace, or what they’re wearing. I’m proud. I see a fellow human trying hard to achieve a dream.

No matter how smooth a runner looks, I know those early days can feel like Bambi getting his legs. It’s easy to feel like a seemingly natural movement is hard. Because this bizarre reality doesn’t hit most of us until we’re adults: nobody teaches us to run. We learn as kids, then forget as adults. So when we pick it back up on our own, it can feel as awkward as a middle school dance.

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The definition of “cringe” is to “have an inward feeling of acute embarrassment or awkwardness.”

That sounds a lot like how I would define being a beginner.

Before I became a freelance writer, I mocked folks on LinkedIn. Part of me still mocks parts of it. Now that I’m a beginner in the freelance arena, I get it. What I used to call cringey is usually someone trying their best to achieve what they want: dream clients, better pay, fulfilling work. They’re getting out there, sloppy form and all, and running toward something more. I want to respect that more than I critique it.

However, there are at least two dark sides of cringe that I think deserve criticism.

1. Sellouts: When we sacrifice our values for the sake of something less

2. Cynics/Trolls: When we’re critical from the stands

Destructive forms of cringe like sellouts and cynics are the types to be avoided. But if you’re embracing cringe with awareness and sincerity because you believe it’s the best next step toward your dream, and you’re still in alignment with your values, then stay calm and cringe on. Don’t let the critics win, even if they’re Elon.

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Questions to consider:

• Is there something you’d rather start celebrating than critiquing?

• Is there a cringey next step you need to take to achieve a dream of yours?

✌️
— Luke

P.S. Many people think it’s cringey to ask for help. I’m not one of those people. So, I’m about to ask you for help. Could you please share the good news that I’m taking on a few new clients in the new year?

In my first year of freelance writing, I’ve had the honor of working with 21 clients. Some work has been event and video scripting for big boys like Delta and Chick-fil-A, while others have been emails and articles for small teams with big missions.

My new year, new offer is a full-service annual report for nonprofits. I’m teaming up with my dear friend and talented designer, Katie Watford, to create 3 annual reports for teams doing good work.

If you want to learn more, just hit reply.

I paused my walk in my neighborhood park, considered carefully how I should word my sentiments, and said something like, “While I disagreed with him on things, it’s so sad to see what happened.”

My gut squirmed a bit. Not just because I imagined a murder, but because of how much I wanted to emphasize that I was not in Charlie Kirk’s tribe.

Since then, I’ve seen it everywhere: qualifiers preceding compassion.

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Why do I feel the need to pair caveats with empathy?

My personal answer is a wake-up call.

Qualifiers show me that I care deeply about people knowing where I stand. Sure, I’ll grieve, but as long as it doesn’t threaten my reputation. Virtue signaling gets priority over compassion. I’m ashamed to admit it, but using disclaimers over an assassination might prove that I care more about others’ perception of me than for the life of a fellow human.

Out of fear of the tribe, I preface compassion with qualifiers.

It shouldn’t be this way. We should be able to grieve over a murder without fear of how others will respond to our grief. It’s a low bar for common ground: agreeing that nobody deserves to be killed for expressing their beliefs. Yet, we’ve become so polarized that even that statement catalyzes an onslaught of conflict.

How did we get to a place where if we grieve an assassination, we risk becoming associated with the values of the victim? As if the only type of person we can genuinely grieve for is someone just like ourselves. Maybe the most tragic part of Narcissus’s life was that he never hurt with another.

I want to be a person who extends compassion without hesitation or regard to what others think. If my reputation is at odds with moving toward someone in pain, I want to choose the livelihood of the other over my image. The killing of Charlie Kirk showed I’m not there yet.

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A tribeless compassion

As a follower of Jesus, I’m invited to imagine how he would respond to the pain of someone not like him. Thankfully, I don’t have to guess. The gospels show that Jesus never hedged his compassion. He chose to love, in spite of people’s beliefs or behaviors. He loved in spite of how people felt about the recipient of his love.

In some capacity, Jesus disagreed with everyone. Yet, he never let those disagreements hold him back from hurting with them. And when he extended compassion, he didn’t do it with caveats. As someone who was constantly called out for dining with the outcasts, Jesus refused to distance himself from ‘the other.’ Instead, he moved closer.

The first person Jesus directly revealed himself as the Messiah to was the woman at the well. Social shame led her to make trips to the well when nobody else was there. She’d been divorced five times, and when Jesus shared that he knew this, she got uncomfortable and tried to change the subject by pointing out the differences between them: he is a Jewish man and she is a Samaritan woman. She tried to distance herself. But Jesus kept pressing in, moving closer with compassion, and offering her hope. Jesus then entrusted this woman to become the first evangelist in John’s gospel.

I also think of the story of the woman caught in adultery. Religious leaders caught her in the act, dragged her to Jesus in public, and asked him if she deserved death. They were baiting Jesus, essentially asking if he was with their party or another. They wanted Jesus to pick a tribe.

Jesus could have easily said, “While I disagree with her actions, I’m sad about what’s happened.” He could have made a political stance on the death penalty. He could have made a tribe proud. Instead, he risked his reputation by protecting her dignity. Turning to the crowd, he said, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” One by one, they left. Then, Jesus, the only one without sin, said, “Neither do I condemn you.”

I wonder if the crowds thought this meant Jesus agreed with the woman’s values or lifestyle. I imagine Jesus didn’t care what they thought. He was willing to risk his reputation for the sake of loving a hurt human. That’s the way of Jesus: loving ‘the other’ without any conditions or qualifications.

Although Jesus seemingly spent more time with those outside the church, he also extended love, albeit tough love, to the self-righteous. While he comforted those who felt like they were wrestling with life’s hard questions, he challenged those who thought they had all the answers.

We see this in John 3:16. The most famous verse in all of Scripture is Jesus moving closer to Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a people group known for being judgmental and rigid.

Jesus’s compassion wasn’t limited to a tribe.

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Could weeping with “the other” bridge our divide?

Paul followed the way of Jesus when he wrote, “weep with those who weep.” He didn’t provide caveats, such as only mourning with your political party, race, or gender. He didn’t ask us to measure first, to make sure the grief expressed is right-sized for the tragedy.

As a follower of Jesus, I’m invited to weep when the world gets splinters from going against the grain of God. I’m invited to choose compassion over political identity. To risk my image for the sake of loving well. This type of unconditional love has the chance to build unity that politics can’t do on its own.

So how would Jesus react to the murder of Charlie Kirk? I think he’d weep. I think he’d weep for Charlie and his community in the same way he’d weep over the recent murders of Iryna Zarutska, Julie Gard Schnuelle, and every other life taken.

Before providing any solution or teaching, he’d pour out his heart. He’d choose presence over party. He’d move closer to the pain, willing to pay whatever it cost him.

I pray we can become similar.

Lord, have mercy on us.

✌

— Luke

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P.S. Below is the passage of Scripture that’s currently living rent-free in my head.

“Let love be genuine. Hate what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality.

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly. Never be wise in your own sight. Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ To the contrary, ‘if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” — Romans 12: 9-21

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As a proud UGA alum, I saw Gladwell speak at Georgia Tech. He was on tour for his newest book at the time, Talking to Strangers. I left the event dumbfounded. Not because of any provocative insights, but because of the opposite.

One of the final moments of the event invited Malcolm to share his most influential learning from researching the topic of interacting with strangers. This was his TL;DR:

We think we’re good at judging strangers, but we’re not. We misread others all the time, and the consequences can be serious.

Gladwell’s specific example was that too many police officers make mistakes, especially with minorities, because they’re often trained with biases. What seemed like a stroke of brilliance to him felt like a duh moment to the everyday person in the audience.

Malcolm’s proposed solution to reduce misunderstandings and conflict with strangers is to approach them with humility. Nobody does this better than my wife, Sarah.

Sarah turns 29 today. There are countless qualities I could highlight, but there’s one I think our culture needs the most: her humility and compassion toward strangers.

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When we first started dating, her openness to engage with strangers freaked me out. I remember a moment when she cheered for a runner in the park. Just a simple “Way to go, you got this!” to a complete stranger. “He probably thinks you’re making fun of or patronizing him,” was my stupid reaction. Her response was more in line with Gladwell’s research: “You don’t know that.”

She was right. I don’t know how strangers feel about a small, spontaneous interaction. They probably all feel different. But I do know one common feeling shared by everyone: the desire to be seen. The best way to do the opposite of that is to stick with the status quo of staying in your lane. If I avoid the “other,” I continue to misunderstand them. And when that practice scales at a societal level, we break trust and build conflict among entire people groups. Caricatures replace compassion.

Stranger stories from a sabbatical

Talking with strangers alongside Sarah was one of my favorite parts of our sabbatical. Most people we met across Europe were on holiday. Since people tend to be in the best mood when they’re traveling, and you’ll never see them again, vacation is ripe for opportunities to connect with strangers.

A couple we met in Switzerland was a Tennessee husband and wife in their 60s. While sitting next to us at dinner, the man said, “Great view, great wife, great God.” Sarah smiled and said, “Amen.” That was it. The seal was broken.

We ate our meal, and I don’t remember how the conversation moved beyond a single word, but Sarah eventually asked if they had any kids. They mentioned they had three, but one was no longer with them. We did our best to empathize as they slowly shared how they lost their son to addiction in 2020. It felt like a curtain was pulled back, and we entered holy ground at the base of the Alps.

The conversation eventually led us back to laughter and gratitude. But the best part came as we left. Sarah asked if she could pray with them, and they gladly received it. The view of the Alps stirs the soul, but seeing your wife jump into the pit with wounded humans makes the soul leap. Most vacationers like myself center their time around consuming. That’s fine and fun. But when you move toward contributing to someone’s restoration, well, that’s fulfilling.

Every story we love, real or not, revolves around tension. We all want to live a great story, yet tension is the last thing we want to experience. Sarah has shown me that interacting with strangers is a low-stakes practice in embracing tension. When you extend yourself outward to another, you forfeit control. You stretch yourself into a vulnerable position, believing something wonderful is on the other side of risk.

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One of the lowest-stakes ways to engage with a stranger is to spot what you share with them, then point it out.

In Salzburg, we noticed a young couple reading their Bible together at our favorite coffee shop on the trip (Ratio Coffee). Sarah whispered to me, “I want to be their friend.” After she couldn’t hold in her excitement any longer, she told them they had the same morning plans as us. The barrier fell, and we quickly found out they had gotten married two days prior. It was the first day of their honeymoon.

After getting to know the newlyweds for a bit, Sarah prayed over their marriage, and they said that moment itself was an answered prayer for them. As C.S. Lewis said, “The typical expression of opening friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one.’”

Sarah has shown me that moving toward “the other” with curiosity leads to more magic than mishaps. It’s often a shortcut to serendipity.

On this trip alone, engaging with strangers led to a meal paid for by another couple, free souvenirs, and the phone numbers of a Romanian sports nutritionist and an Austrian paraglider. We’ve been chatting with the paraglider on WhatsApp, even sending each other things we love, like Mr. Rogers’ commencement speech and Theo of Golden. The startup bro is right: you can just do things.

In an increasingly divisive climate, I believe one of the most powerful ways we can reverse the hate is to move toward strangers with humility and compassion. If you want help, take up the perspective of Kid President and treat everybody like it’s their birthday. That’s true today of Sarah, our exemplar of seeing strangers.

✌️

—Luke

P.S. Fun facts:

• This is the first essay I’ve published without Sarah’s knowledge beforehand. Or without her proofreading. I hope it was readable.

• All pics in this essay were shot with a little film camera.

CEOs are sloganeers, but this one is just voicing what many feel in our AI era. It’s time to accelerate and accumulate.

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Moving faster and aiming for more helps us get things done. That’s what makes “more, faster” a great tech mantra. But these two words go beyond business. It’s the American way. It’s the spirit that fueled us to the moon first (or did we?) and to winning the most gold medals of all time (1,229 compared to the Soviet Union’s second place of 473. Yes, you read that right).

The insatiable desire to accelerate and accumulate has made America winners. But I’m not convinced it’s made us whole.

Chasing more to find less

America’s world-leading GDP continues to grow, but our happiness is declining, largely thanks to a polarizing political climate and a loneliness epidemic. To our demise, we continue to build busier lives in an attempt to collect more. More experiences, more dopamine, more stuff.

• The average American home has over 300,000 items.

• 57% of Americans admit to being addicted to their phones.

• Americans work 400–500 more hours per year than most Western European nations.

We don’t need a CEO encouraging us to do more, faster. It’s already the air we breathe.

Blaise Pascal said, “All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Because if we’re sitting quietly, we believe we’re missing out on doing. There’s the fallacy we fall for: that our value is in how much we accomplish and accumulate. That if we do more or have more, we’ll be more. Yet, no matter what we achieve or own, we find ourselves sounding like Tom Brady:

“Why do I have three Super Bowl rings and still think there’s something greater out there for me?” (60 Minutes interview in 2005)

I’m concerned our culture of more, faster has creeped out of the office and into our souls. We’re restless, with an internal metronome that beats too fast for us to experience peace. And I’m afraid AI is the instructor urging us to pick up the pace.

More, faster is the water we swim in. But I believe the happiest and healthiest humans of the 21st century will be those who learn to swim upstream. Those who learn how to do less, slower.

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Sabbath: A time to step off the machine

You don’t have to believe in the Bible to see the profound statement the author makes on page one. The first act God models to his creation is rest. Not because he was tired, but because his work was good enough to step away from it.

We’re never told creation was perfect, just that it was good. This means God was satisfied enough to stop. That’s what we can experience when we learn to do less, slower: contentment.

Sabbath is more than a day of stepping away from work. It’s a time to step off the machine that’s urging you to find your identity in what you do. It’s a rebellion against consumerism and chasing the next thing. So you can sit still with yourself and those you love, and be satisfied with what’s in front of you. It’s an invitation to face a hard question: Is my ordinary life enough?

When you strip away screens, consumerism, errands, and general busyness, you’re faced with the ordinary. You’re in a better position to experience kairos, a Greek term for time that’s measured in meaning and not minutes. Richard Rohr calls it “deep time.” Your response to deep time is a litmus test for how the deepest parts of you are doing.

For type A people (which is probably you if you made it this far), there’s no perfect prescription for Sabbath. All I can tell you is how to know if you’re doing it wrong: if you’re too fixated on doing it right. This looks like trying to optimize your day with a checklist.

The goal is to stop, rest, and delight in the fact that you’re loved and valued because you’re a human, not because of anything you can do. That’s it. It’s not even about refueling for the week ahead. Rabbi Abraham Heschel said, “The Sabbath as a day of rest is not for the purpose of recovering one’s strength and becoming fit for the forthcoming labor. The Sabbath is a day for the sake of life.”

What does it look like to live a day for the sake of life?

For me, part of the Sabbath looks like:

• Saying yes less to screens

  • We barely use our phones on Sabbath, and the only thing we watch is Survivor with friends.

• Going on walks

  • “Every walk is a sort of crusade.” — Henry David Thoreau

• Taking off my watch

  • Sabbath is when I don’t allow time to have me by my wrist.

• Lighting my favorite candle

  • This is my smallest habit with the largest return. Sarah and I have a candle that we only light on Sundays. The scent is now associated with rest and play.

• Gathering with friends

  • We attend church in the morning, and we grill out with the same ~10 friends every Sunday evening. Those are the only two activities we plan on a Sunday.

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Avoid (A)Insanity

Richard Rohr once assigned countries an Enneagram number. He labeled the US as a three, The Achiever. This type is success-oriented and image-conscious. They’re highly motivated by a desire to be seen as valuable and successful, thriving on recognition and often tying their self-worth to their accomplishments. Achieving fires them up more than anything.

If we’re not cautious, AI can be gasoline on the American fire that’s already out of control. It can lead us to insanity, where we use a new tool to try the same method of achieving our way to happiness, while expecting different results.

Sabbath is a counteracting response to the pull of AI. It’s only a start, but it’s the perfect playground for practice. You get 24 hours every week to intentionally focus on being, not doing. Twenty-four hours of delighting in your truest identity will have a ripple effect that flows into your week. As Walter Brueggemann said, “People who keep the Sabbath live all seven days differently.”

I’ll continue using AI since it’s a remarkable tool that helps me get my boulder up the mountain quicker. But I hope we’ll all develop practices that remind us we aren’t slaves to the climb.

✌️

— Luke

P.S. Here are a few other practices I’ve enjoyed that help me embrace less, slower:

• Writing postcards

  • Reply with your address and I’ll send you one.

• Playing board games

  • Splendor, Bananagrams, and Ganz Schön Clever are our faves.

• Taking pictures with my point-and-shoot film camera

  • I used my grandfather’s Minolta Talker until it recently stopped working 😢

• Planting stuff

  • “If you work with your mind, Sabbath with your hands. If you work with your hands, Sabbath with your mind.” — Abraham Heschel

• Sitting on our porch swing

  • Sarah and I recently inherited my parents’ porch swing. It’s my favorite place for hanging out with no agenda.

• This prayer labyrinth at Berry College

  • It even has a podcast series to guide your thoughts through the walk.

What about you?

I’d love to hear how you enjoy doing less, slower.

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P.P.S. I’m back at girls’ summer camp with Sarah Bo Berry Blendz. They call me Bro Berry. Some call me Mr. Blendz, but that one freaks me out tbh. Long days for Sarah and no friends for me mean I have a lot of margin for less, slower. I’m going on shorter runs and longer walks, trying to lift stuff in the gym, listening to podcasts, reading books, and doing my best to avoid YouTube rabbit holes.

Here are 5 pieces of content I’ve enjoyed so far this summer. Reply and let me know if you have any pieces of content I should check out.

📚 Theo of Golden: When my pastor mentions a book, I start seeing it more on my Goodreads. This is one of those books. It’s a delightful story of a mysterious, old man who shows up in a small Georgia town and starts gifting people portraits.

📚 The Brothers K: Not the Russian classic. An American spin-off about a dysfunctional family full of boys, baseball, and broken hearts. Shoutout to Andrea P. for the rec.

🎙️ The BEMA Podcast: This podcast continues to blow my mind by unpacking parts of the Bible that have gone completely over my head. It leans into historical context and rabbinical teachings to give you a fresh way to see the stories you thought you knew. Shoutout to Joel N. for the rec.

🎙️On Being: Richard Rohr — Growing Up Men: An oldie but a goodie that covers why contemplation is so popular and how much of male formation is driven by what he calls “father hunger.” He says, “Unless the male is led on journeys of powerfulness, he will always abuse power.” Shoutout to Jeremy M. for the rec.

📺 Escape to River Cottage: From 1999, a London chef leaves the big city to live off the land in the countryside of England. He gardens, raises animals, bonds with locals, and cooks some of the most bizarre meals I’ve ever seen. It’s as quirky and pure as TV gets. Shoutout to Matthew M. for the rec.

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THERE’S MORE! Here are some of my favorite views from my runs in North Georgia.

As I pass my first 100 days as a freelance writer, I’ve returned to that tiny book I devoured nearly ten years ago. Because I can testify that whether it’s the start of your first job or the start of your second decade of work, you’ll always have battles between your ears.

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The War of Art personifies the inner struggle all creatives experience as Resistance.

Resistance is an invisible force that pushes against your effort to accomplish the work you dream about. If Resistance were an Inside Out movie, our main characters would be fear, procrastination, self-doubt, and distraction. These are the common obstacles preventing us from winning our war with work.

They’re also keeping us from belonging to a thriving community.

Pressfield says everyone experiences Resistance when doing creative work. I’ll go a step further. I believe Resistance is a force that pushes against all of our efforts to be a part of a loving community. Let’s call it communal Resistance.

I feel communal Resistance on Tuesday at 6 pm.

Sarah and I volunteer at our church’s high school youth group. Nearly every Tuesday, we get to our church at 6:30 pm for a leaders’ meeting, eat pizza with high schoolers, play a game, and have some biblical discussion. It’s fun, but it’s also work. And after a day of work, I don’t naturally crave more.

When Sarah and I are home together, the couch feels perfect. Rather than have Domino’s with teenagers, we could cook a nice meal in our cozy home and watch Survivor. Why would we get back in the car and face Atlanta traffic?

This is communal resistance.

Before you engage with anyone outside your inner circle, you probably experience a force pushing against your efforts. There’s something inside you trying to hold you back from moving toward others. Just like Resistance tries to block your best work, communal Resistance keeps you from belonging to the kind of community you crave. It’s that tug you feel when you’d rather cancel dinner plans. The slight dread before walking into a room of people you don’t yet know well. The friction that comes with moving toward others.

We all know relationships heavily influence happiness (see this study) and longevity (watch Blue Zones). Yet, when it’s time to move toward people, we can trick ourselves into inaction. We experience communal Resistance.

Why?

Because community is hard, and we’re fragile.

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“We’re all still 2nd graders.”

I can’t stop thinking about a throwaway line by Ben Schwartz when I recently saw him in Atlanta. He said, “We’re all still just 2nd graders.” This is especially true when it comes to building friendships and finding belonging in a community.

We’re all still on the playground, hoping someone will play with us.

When you get old enough to rent a car, you realize college spoiled you in the ease of making friends. Adulthood stretches your geographical proximity to people and shrinks your time for play. Making friends simply takes more effort. And that fear you felt on the 2nd-grade swing, hoping someone would see you and like you, still lingers.

Before you move toward people who aren’t your best friends, fear will knock. For some, it’s a tap, and for others, it’s a battering ram.

Belonging is on the other side of fear.

Pressfield says, “Fear is good…Fear tells us what we have to do. Remember one rule of thumb: the more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it.”

You’re called to belong to a community. At some point for all of us, fear stands in between that calling. And when it’s not fear pushing against your efforts to build relationships, it’s our other main characters tag teaming in and out of the octagon of your mind: procrastination, self-doubt, and distraction.

Regardless of the character leading the charge of your Resistance, there’s a solution: be a professional.

Pressfield claims that viewing yourself as a professional helps you break through Resistance to create good work.

Professionals don’t wait to feel inspired. They create routines. They do the work regardless of mood or motivation. And ironically, showing up often produces the inspiration they were waiting for.

The same is true of community.

Those who experience the deepest belonging to a community are those committed to showing up regardless of their mood. Because it’s in a healthy community that our emotions evolve for the better. If you’re feeling down, good friends are more likely to help you by attuning to your emotions. That’s something another episode of The White Lotus can’t do.

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By 9 pm on a Tuesday, I’m full of life.

That’s when I’ve dropped off a couple of high schoolers at their home after youth group. Sarah and I exhale and share how grateful we are for a caring community. But just hours earlier, we were drained, complaining, and honestly, a little doubtful if our presence would make a difference. Every Tuesday, community transforms us. But often in spite of our feelings, not because of them.

After 15 years of leading church small groups, I can tell you the only factor that truly determines if a person will find belonging in the group is if they keep showing up. Your personality type doesn’t matter. Your age and stage of life don’t make a huge difference. Even your religious background and beliefs don’t seal your fate with fitting in. Persistence wins the day. Those who treat community like a profession by showing up at the same time and same place will find belonging.

The amateur dips in and out of people’s lives, looking for a perfect fit and bailing when things get hard. The professional commits. They consistently show up regardless of their mood, refusing to allow their feelings to rule over their decisions. Instead, they have structures in place that ensure they show up for their people, knowing they have to push through their hard feelings to taste the sweetest fruit of friendship.

Becoming a part of a community can feel like a duty. Until consistency turns it into a delight.

✌️

— Luke

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Which happened to be the same day as my 5-year work anniversary.

Although January 6th is infamous in our country, Sarah and I had happy associations with the date this year. We paid our first mortgage (ouch and yay?) and I reached a new milestone at the best company I’ve been a part of.

But January 7th sucked.

That’s when I was let go while sitting in a Switchyards phone booth, surrounded by strangers, feeling like I can’t breathe because the news was hard to swallow and the booth was tighter than a New York City closet.

It’s weird to be in a moment knowing that moment will change your life in ways you can’t predict. It feels like you shouldn’t be there, even though it’s your life. So when the Zoom call ended, I dashed for the parking lot and finally felt what Sarah has told me for years: the best cries are in cars.

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Hard-earned lessons on empathy

My pastor talks a lot about paying attention to what comes out of you when life squeezes. What came out of me was normal for getting laid off: grief. But what came out of Sarah was a gift from God: compassion.

Crying in the arms of Sarah on the driveway of our new home took me back a decade to when I cried in my mom’s arms after a breakup. Because that’s what getting let go is: a professional breakup. But you don’t have professional emotions. You just have human ones. And the human response to a break is pain.

Someone recently asked me when I’ve felt most seen. I told them about Sarah in this season. She hasn’t said anything profound that would make for a good caption or tattoo. Or maybe she has. I just don’t remember much of what she’s said because I’m more comforted by how she’s made me feel. She’s hurt with me. I think that’s what empathy is. To show up, to see someone in their pain, and to have the courage to stay with them.

I’m grateful for family and friends who did this virtually. Text messages, voice messages, phone calls. I felt seen every time someone reached out. But I also felt regret. I felt ashamed looking back at every time someone in my life was laid off and I failed to reach out due to fear. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or afraid of not being close enough with the person to offer them comfort. I now see how those excuses are more shallow than a pothole in the rain.

This season has proven to me that it’s better to show up for hurting folks in some capacity rather than do nothing at all. Because a friend’s presence, even from afar, is a weighted blanket for the soul.

I’ve also learned that the law of diminishing returns doesn’t pertain to empathy.

The only thing that feels more comforting than a friend reaching out during a crisis is when that friend follows up. A mark of friendship is when someone doesn’t forget.

Some of the most important recurring dates in my calendar are moments that have shaped my friends. From losing a parent to gaining a spouse, moments shape people. And if we can remember those moments and follow up, our friends will know they’re not alone.

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When grief turns to lament

We know grief. It’s the natural, emotional response to loss. It’s marked by sadness and silence. To grieve is to make a journey through stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We can all relate to grief because to live is to experience loss.

But lamenting is foreign to us.

Lamenting is to invite hope into your wrestling match with sorrow.

While grieving is often marked by an inner sorrow you keep to yourself, lamenting is to express your hard feelings with hope. It’s traditionally a biblical practice, where you bring your pain to God in raw ways. You’re invited to target God with your troubles.

A few weeks after I was let go, a friend asked me if I’ve shouted at God yet. It felt wrong to even consider. But as I look at the history of Christianity, it’s clear that people who followed God closely weren’t afraid of being honest with Him about their feelings. There was no sugarcoating their hurt. They were brutally honest, knowing God desired an authentic heart more than a polished performance.

There’s an entire book of the Bible called Lamentations. It’s five sorrowful poems by the prophet Jeremiah after the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 B.C. And the Psalms are primarily David shouting at God about his sadness, anger, and fear. If the story stopped there, we would just have grief. But lament is when grief takes a turn toward hope.

Grief turns to lament when Jeremiah not only cries over the crushing of Jerusalem, but also hopes in God to build it up again.

David was the king of naming his pain out loud long before counselors encouraged us to. What set him apart as a “man after God’s own heart” is that he brought his bare self to God, especially his pain, while trusting that he would one day be made whole.

A better way forward

Choosing to lament is not about suppressing grief or pretending things are fine. That’s toxic positivity. True lament doesn’t ignore sorrow. It gives it a place to breathe. It allows grief and hope to exist in the same space, refusing to minimize pain while also refusing it to have the final word.

If you only hurt, you’ll stay stuck in sorrow, delaying your healing and growth. If you only hope, you’ll only complicate your pain by delaying your inevitable grieving journey. There’s a time to hurt and a time to hope. Lamenting is when those times intersect.

For my believing friends, lamenting is an acknowledgement that God tells long stories. It’s trusting that He can weave together hurt and hope for your good and His glory.

Getting laid off has felt like buying a new car — I see it everywhere (and I’m out a lot of money). From COVID to DOGE, the past five years have pushed many people out of their work and into the unknown places of pain. Just over the past two months, I’ve met more people who have been let go than I’ve ever known. Or maybe it’s just that my experience has heightened my awareness of those in similar seasons. Pain can be the great teacher of empathy.

If you’ve recently lost your job, I’m sorry. I know it hurts. I hope you can express your pain while holding space for comfort to creep in. I hope you can lament with those you love.

If you have not been directly impacted by layoffs, I hope you can learn from my mistakes and keep your eyes open to those around you who are hurting from a job loss. You don’t need the “right” words to say. And you don’t need to be “close” to the person impacted. The most hopeful act you can do is to show up and have the courage to stay.

Thanks for staying with me,

✌️

— Luke

P.S. If you’re asking, “What the h*ck is Luke doing now,” then thanks for asking. I’m two months into freelance writing. PTL it’s going dandy! I’ve written for some amazing brands, like Koko, Upside, Passion City Church, The Georgia Museum of Art, Garden City Equity, and more.

About 80% of my work so far has been video scripting, which is rad because it’s what I most enjoy. The other 20% is a hodgepodge of landing pages, social media, and ad copy.

If you need a freelance writer or know someone who does, then I’d love to chat. Feel free to respond to this email.

Onward and upward, friends!

In January, I joined a few men from my church, Trinity Anglican, on a trip to Ecuador. We visited Amor y Esperanza, a decade-long partner that provides high-quality education to kids from low-income families. Part of the trip was hosting a career day. Two guys taught finance and entrepreneurship. Another taught the kids about solar power. And I taught a writing course.

Here’s my lesson plan — in case you ever need to teach a class in a foreign country.

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Opening activity: What’s your favorite English word?

I kicked things off by asking the students to share their favorite English word. I said mine was ‘hippopotamus.’ That was a lie. It was just the first fun word that popped into my head. ‘Balderdash’ might be my real favorite. Because I like the sound of it, and I love the game.

The kids’ favorite words? ‘Love’ and ‘happy’ were the top two. That’s more tender than a Big Zax Snak. ‘Butterfly’ was the most surprising, earning multiple shoutouts. I get it — it’s a word that shows how English is strange.

Why does writing matter?

Once they were warmed up, I told them why I believe writing is the most powerful skill anyone can learn.

No matter what you do when you grow up, writing will help you be better at it. Unless you’re a mime. Then writing won’t help much with your mime craft. Wow — pausing to put ‘mime craft’ on my list of Fishbowl phrases.

Writing will improve your life because you’ll be more equipped to express your truest thoughts and feelings, communicating clearly with those around you. But writing goes beyond communication. It leads to connection.

Good writing is empathy in motion. It’s the ability to step into someone else’s shoes and string together words that resonate with them. Writing says, “I see you.” If you can develop that skill, you’ll soar higher than any ‘balloon’ a mime lets loose.

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But what is writing, actually?

I told the kiddos that writing is giving life to ideas.

Your brain can imagine. It’s what sets us apart from our hippopotamus friends. Ideas that just stay in your head don’t create anything more than a mind so cluttered it’ll make Marie Kondo curse.

To create change, you have to transport ideas from your mind to the physical world. You have to write. (Or you can speak. But speaking usually goes better when it’s first written.)

When ideas leave your head, they have the power to influence others. They can shape thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. Ideas that meet oxygen can change the world.

My story

Now that I (hopefully) had their attention, I could afford to bore them with my story, including how I got into writing and what it looks like for work.

When a high schooler learns you’re a writer, they imagine Christopher Nolan or Brandon Sanderson (IYKYK). I dispelled that myth by sharing the different types of writing.

Sure, authors and film writers get all the glory, but copywriters make capitalism spin. Ok, I didn’t get into capitalism or even use the word copywriter. But I did share how I majored in marketing, which I realized was hard to explain to young kids who don’t speak English. I boiled marketing down to a fancy word for activities that convince people to buy a product or service from a company. Writing is one of those activities.

I told them about writing websites, video scripts, captions, and newsletters. How behind every word they see, a human had to say, “Let’s put that there.” And they can be that human if they want to be.

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How to unlock creativity

The hardest part about writing is getting started. Like Luigi hitting the gas before the light turns green, it’s easy to spin your wheels at the starting line. Thankfully, I believe the antidote to writer’s block is what kids are already great at: playing.

So, we spent some time talking about how play can get your creative juices flowing more than Wonka’s chocolate river.

By setting your body in motion, your mind follows.

Everyone may not get mentally energized by taking a stroll through Walden. But everyone does have a form of play that sparks joy and motivation.

I shared with the class Dr. Stuart Brown’s eight play-based personality types. Because everyone — from an Ecuadorian 9th grader to you — loves to look at a list and say, “That’s me.”

Here’s that list:

• Collectors: You love collecting things. These are the baseball card collectors, the birdwatchers, and the Pokemon Go players.

• Competitors: You turn everything into a competition. Board gamers, salesmen, and people like me who take pickleball too seriously.

• Creators: You have a blast making things with your hands. These are your crafters, bakers, and woodworkers.

• Director: You have more fun planning the party than attending it.

• Explorers: You crave the next adventure where you can try new things.

• Jokers: You love making people laugh.

• Kinesthetes: You have to move your body — a lot. These are the walkers, dancers, and yogis.

• Storytellers: You’re drawn to a great story — whether you’re creating it or consuming it. These are your moviegoers, book readers, and songwriters.

Once every kid picked which play personality resonated most, I told them to hold onto it. And whenever they feel stuck at school, make time to play.

The assignment

I gave the kids the assignment that helped me realize I loved writing. It was an advertising class at UGA, where the professor had us write 100 slogans for the newest Toyota Tacoma.

Instead of hitting 100 with a truck, I gave the kids three minutes to write 20 slogans for Manicho, an Ecuador chocolate. It’s an impossible task, but I wanted them to move so fast that they didn’t have time to be afraid. Because quantity is the gateway to quality.

If you want to become good at writing, like anything else, you have to do it a lot. Your best results never come from your first attempt. Which means you have to embrace your worst to reach your best.

Writer Julian Shapiro says,

“Visualize your creativity as a backed-up pipe of water. The first mile is packed with wastewater. This wastewater must be emptied before the clear water arrives.”

Too many people get stuck when writing because they’re ashamed to see their ‘bad’ ideas on paper. But a bad idea is like a hernia exam in high school sports — you have to go through it if you want to play the game.

The results

The best part of the class was sharing ideas out loud. Kids were hesitant at first, but once a single student shared, the dam opened and we were flooded with ideas that made us all laugh.

Here are some of my favorite slogans from the kids:

“Dreams are sweeter with Manicho.”

“The taste of Ecuador”

“Don’t cry, eat Manicho.”

“When your girlfriend dumps you, eat Manicho.”

Class dismissed

During Q&A, I shared about the three qualities I believe make a great writer: Curiosity, humor, and empathy. But the greatest of these is empathy.

Curiosity is essential because one of the goals of a writer is to get to the essence of a thing. The work of distilling thoughts into words requires you to ask questions. Writing is just making sense of what you’re learning along the way.

Humor matters because if you can make someone smile while reading, they’ll keep reading. The world is too full of buzzwords and jargon. Comics feed you simple truth by disguising it in stories and language you’d use over a drink. Plus, funny folks are usually observant and see the world differently.

Lastly, empathy is the essence of writing. It’s about meeting people where they’re at and taking them to a better place of understanding.

Thank you for attending my class!

✌️

— Luke

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P.S. Here’s some content I’ve enjoyed lately:

📺 Severance: I have no idea what’s happening, but I can’t stop watching.

📺 The Prince of Egypt: Thanks to growing up in a Christian school, I’ve seen this movie more than anything else. But it was fun to recently rewatch it as an adult with friends. Hans Zimmer did the music for this biblical musical about the life of Moses. And the voice casting is insane: Val Kilmer, Sandra Bullock, Steve Martin, Martin Short, Patrick Stewart, Michel Pfeiffer, Jeff Goldblum, and Danny Glover.

📚 North Woods: Loved the concept of this book where you follow the story of one plot of land over hundreds of years. It’s fun and poetic, but warning: it reads like a collection of short stories. You’ll meet an apple farmer, envious spinster sisters, a con artist, and many others who step on this wooded land in Massachusetts.

📚 The Tainted Cup: A whodunit fantasy novel with eccentric characters, sea monsters, and biology-based magic that usually leads to plants killing people. Most fun book of the year so far!

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Thanks for supporting my work through a paid membership. This lil’ content is a bonus, but feel free to share it with those scrambling to snag Christmas gifts.

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Glerups

Wool slippers you’ll never want to take off.

Miniature Life Calendar

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Tomorrow, paid subscribers will receive an email of some of my favorite things that make for wonderful Christmas gifts. Upgrade to paid ($30 / year) to get this goodie and so much more in the new year.

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Move over, beach reads. December is here.

Last December, I read Dickens for the first time. Stumbling across phrases like “to make a mull of it” placed me in a different century — one where time moved contrary to the breakneck speed of modern life.

It was my friend Annie’s copy of Great Expectations, full of annotations from her time as an English grad student at Georgetown. The 544-page classic was intimidating. Not because of its length (I started Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive last year), but because of its 163-year-old prose. The Victorian English scared me more than the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It’s simply not a beach read. It’s a December read.

The machine fast-tracking your reading

Many modern novels encourage speed reading. Simple prose makes progress feel effortless and short chapters release dopamine like a gumball machine. It’s not just the books themselves. Other players push you toward Mario’s boost pads.

• Audiobooks make it as easy as a click to double your “reading speed.”

• Social noise like #BookTok can rush you to finish a book while it’s still relevant.

• Publishing companies want you to finish fast so you can pre-order the next book in the series.

• Streaming services want to finish the series so you can watch the show.

But out of all the forces putting pressure on your reading speed, I believe Goodreads is the biggest culprit.

I love Goodreads, but I’m afraid publicizing our private leisure is heightening our social pressure to perform. In January, Goodreads will relentlessly ask for your reading goal. It doesn’t give you options for different goals, like exploring new genres or reading new authors. It makes one request: provide a number.

When a single number is your core measurement, growth is implied by increasing that number year-over-year. You’re encouraged to pick up the pace. And when everyone around you is doing the same, a single number is enough to kick off the comparison game.

Shoutout to my brother who gives Goodreads a goal of 1 just so it’ll shut up.

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Classics help you step off the machine

I started this December with 34 completed books. I was tempted to pad my stats by cramming some easy end-of-year reads. But once I realized the absurdity of that thought, I knew it was time to slow down. Thankfully, the Christian tradition of Advent encourages me to do just that.

Advent is when followers of Jesus reflect on God coming to us in person. It celebrates the moment Eugene Peterson described as, “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.”

Advent doesn’t allow Christmas to sneak up on you. It’s four weeks of contemplation. You’re encouraged to let your imagination travel 2,000 years in the past to ponder what it would be like to have God in skin visit you. It’s also a time to anticipate him coming again. Advent is a training ground for learning how to wait with hope.

During Advent, we light candles to see time melt away. We sing hymns that help us reflect on the birth of Jesus. And, for two years in a row, I read Dickens.

Similar to your favorite Netflix series, Dickens published his novels in serial installments. Some weekly, some monthly. (Fun fact: This made Dickens one of the earliest writers to popularize the cliffhanger.) The serial installments forced his readers to pause and process. They literally couldn’t rush to the finish line of the story like I’m so often compelled to do. They had to learn how to wait with hope.

Stories that have stood the test of time can’t be rushed because they’re often riddled with unchanging realities of human nature. Dickens’ stories focus on morality, the human struggle, and redemption. Through story, he advocates for social reform around shortcomings we experience today, like inequality and ineffective institutions. And the prose of old, good thinkers like Dickens invites us to pay attention. Here’s an example of Dickens breaking the fourth wall to help us slow and see:

“That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.” — Great Expectations

Dickens’ stories helped the common person discover the realities they experienced but didn’t have words to express. And discovery requires us to slow down enough to see.

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Shift gears this holiday season

Beach reads urge you to race through stories to be a part of a social moment. There’s a time and place for them. But December reads encourage you to slow down and soak up stories that resonate with human history. They’re not concerned about you finishing fast. They’d rather you enjoy the warmth of well-woven words.

I kicked off this December by starting Dickens’ David Copperfield. Since it’s 900 pages, it’ll be the only book I read in December (and maybe January). In the bustle of the season, I’m experiencing more than a story — I’m changing speeds.

With every page, the story slows my world, inviting quiet reflection. The language is so clever and the plot so elaborate that I have to move forward with the caution you would take in approaching a wild animal. I simply can’t binge-read Dickens with football on in the background. It deserves an ambiance as quiet as a candle and my wife reading next to me.

The decision to shift gears feels like a rebellion against the urgency we can so often feel during the Christmas season. But I believe slowness is the necessary pace to experience what Advent has to offer: hope, peace, joy, and love.

Like a Michelin meal, rushing through Christmas devalues the experience. My encouragement would be to find a practice that helps you shift gears this holiday season. For me, that looks like spending time with Dickens. Instead of binging, he invites me to chew and digest.

After all, Advent is for savoring.

— Luke

P.S. If you're in Atlanta, check out Dad's Garage improv show Invasion: Christmas Carol.

The comedy club takes Dickens' classic tale and shakes things up by throwing in a surprise character from pop culture. The best part is it's a total surprise for both the audience and the cast. Last year, at the show Sarah and I attended, one actor hilariously channeled Carmy from The Bear. We loved it so much that we decided to make this show our new Christmas tradition.

P.P.S. And if you’ve never read A Christmas Carol, do yourself a favor and read it here.

“God bless us, every one!”

My pastor recently said this; I’ve always thought it for myself.

Caricature artists blow up your least appealing features. I’m too sensitive for that. If an artist ever got their pencil on me, they’d focus on the absence of hair on my head and the abundance of it on my face. Sticks and stones will break my bones — caricatures will shatter them.

Warning: I’m going to challenge both political sides, so please hold onto any conclusions before reading the entire post. I’m biased, of course, but I’m doing my best to be fair and honest. I’ve never been loyal to a party. In my opinion, both sides have some good intentions and damaging tendencies. I’ve also never been passionate or super knowledgeable about politics. So take my words with a grain of salt. I’m just sharing a single perspective with some steps we can take to move forward together.  

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We’re in a caricature culture.

I’m afraid we’ve blown up features of those across our political lines to where we see people as cartoons rather than humans. And it’s a lot easier to hate a tribe you manufacture than a people you know. 

The results of Election Day prove what happens when a people group gets tired of being treated like a cartoon. You can’t explain away the red by saying all 75M Republican voters are racist, sexist, and transphobic. And the blue is not God-hating people looking to take your babies and guns. Those are lazy caricatures. If we try to make sense of this election by only using caricatures, then the country will be more divided in four years.  

The second-best caricature artist: elite Democrats

I enjoy SNL, but it was exhausting seeing how they grabbed at the low-hanging fruit of Trump and squeezed it dry. But it wasn’t just late-night comedy shows. I read NYT more than any other news source, but I was tired of seeing Trump on their homepage more than anything else. The core message I heard from Democrats was, “Hey, we’re not that crazy guy.” It’s a strategy driven by caricatures. The people who loved that strategy the most were the elite — particularly the white, wealthy, and well-educated. But it left most of America wanting more. 

I believe a driving reason the Democrats fell short is because they’ve lost their ability to speak to the ordinary American. The average person is put off by the virtue signaling of the affluent. And the policy has become fuzzy, with Kamala failing to bring clarity. But this election isn’t on her. It’s on the Democratic Party for losing touch with who they used to be for: the working class. 

The Democrats’ ads for the middle class have lost credibility since they’ve become more known for the Hollywood endorsement and Ivy League universities than addressing practical problems for the average American. The shift away from the working class is why the main people group Kamala outperformed Biden was affluent white voters. I never thought Trump would win because nearly everyone but whites moved closer toward him this election cycle. And when there isn’t a clear message of how you can serve the common person, the masses move toward the only other option. 

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The king of caricature artists: Trump

But, of course, caricature-based communication isn’t just a Left problem. Trump is the Monet of caricature artists. He’s repeatedly drawn pictures of others that incite fear and hatred. He also manufactures features of others that simply aren’t true. Perhaps the most untrue picture he manufactures is the one of himself. He makes a cartoon of those against him while making a savior of himself. Unfortunately, too much of the American church has bought the forgery he’s selling. 

I’ve heard too many Christians justify Trump’s actions by saying, “Nobody’s perfect. God uses imperfect people — look at leaders in Scripture like David.” But what separates those biblical characters from Trump is not their levels of imperfection — it’s their repentance. Their willingness to humble themselves. And most importantly, their belief that they serve a God that is not themselves. We’ve yet to see Trump accept responsibility for his wrongdoings. His narcissism scares me, but not as much as his refusal to change.  

A cure for caricature artists: curiosity for context

Remember that story of the person who sued McDonalds after dropping their coffee on themselves? They said it was too hot. How ridiculous, I thought. It’s coffee, of course, it’s hot. 

Most of us will vaguely remember that story, but that’s all we know about it. We fail to zoom out to see the full story. We fail to ask for context. 

It turns out that the person who sued was a 79-year-old woman. The coffee caused third-degree burns on her thighs, groin, and butt, requiring multiple surgeries and skin grafts. She sued for $20K to cover her procedures, but McDonalds only offered $800. Her lawyers then went off and won her an undisclosed amount (probably more than $500K). 

Before I learned about the context of the “hot coffee lawsuit” I assumed it was a young diva looking for a quick buck. Now, I have empathy for 79-year-old Stella Liebeck. 

Curiosity for more context can squash our caricature art. 

Thomas Jefferson is credited with saying, “An educated citizenry is a vital requisite for our survival as a free people.” Many of us, myself included, failed to be curious for more context this election cycle. I don’t blame us entirely for that. It’s hard to keep up with a flood of ever-changing information. It’s even harder to know if political leaders mean what they say. The information treadmill is so exhausting that it’s just easier to run with headlines.

For example, headlines made me think Trump has deported more people than any president. But after asking questions, I was shocked to find that just as many people have been deported under Biden’s presidency (~1.5M). However, Biden and Trump weren’t nearly as strong on immigration as a former president, who immigration advocacy groups call “deporter in chief”.

That would be Obama. 

Under Obama’s presidency, more than 3M people were deported. But then again, context is everything. 

Obama served eight years to Trump’s four. And while Obama focused on deporting criminals and those at the border, Trump threatens to deport illegal immigrants with no criminal activity and those who have been established inland. Obama’s numbers are higher, but Trump’s methods are more destructive. 

Here’s the point: Curiosity for context can turn blanket accusations into fruitful conversations. 

The two most sensitive issues of the election (reproductive rights and the border) demand more curiosity. 

For instance, rape and a mother’s health can’t be key arguments to advocate for abortion. According to a study from the pro-choice Guttmacher Institute, less than 1% of abortions are because of rape. And about 6% of abortions are performed because of the mother being concerned about her health. Most Republicans, especially Trump, advocate for abortions in these few circumstances. Since 2020, Trump’s moved closer to pro-choice, recently saying he would veto a national abortion ban and be for abortion up to 15 weeks in pregnancy. About 93% of abortions take place at or before 13 weeks. If “saving babies” was the driving force behind your vote for Trump, then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. And since his methods are more harmful to women, he seems like a lose-lose in the abortion conversation. 

I realize I can’t cover the entire landscape of complex and nuanced topics like immigration and abortion in a few paragraphs. I couldn’t if I tried — I’m a white American man who doesn’t have experience with either of these topics. I know my privilege will always give me some of the biggest blind spots. 

All I’m advocating for is that we do the personal work of digging into the caricatures we’ve fallen for to see where we may be missing part of the picture. 

I also acknowledge that some readers on both sides will get upset just for attempting to raise some curiosity about sensitive topics. But that’s where my final message comes in: let’s have a meal together. 

The most practical step toward each other

Last week I had dinner with a friend who voted differently than me. We weren’t meeting to talk about the election. We were just catching up over burgers. But as the topic came up, we laughed at the realization that we agreed on 95% of things. We were both humbled by how much we didn’t know. And we were encouraged by the common ground we can share when we take the time to be curious.

If I could encourage you and myself to do one thing in response to the election, it would be to have a meal with someone who voted differently than you. Just you and them. Bonus points for listening more than talking. 

5 more steps for breaking down caricatures:

1. Delete social media. An echo chamber is a breeding ground for caricatures.

2. Stop consuming global news. Yes, it’s important to be aware. But we’ve become aware of so much that it’s more likely to create anxiety than helpful action. Shrink your world to the people, places, and problems around you. 

3. Diversify your inputs. Read, watch, and listen to people who believe differently than you. Ask yourself “What if I’m wrong?” 

4. Name the good in ‘the other.’ I believe both Democrats and Republicans have good ideas that can make our country better. Rather than drawing caricatures by focusing on the flaws of the other side, spend some time naming what you appreciate.

5. Name what you don’t like on your side. On the flip side, both the Left and Right are imperfect. Name what you don’t love about your political party. If you line up 100% with your party and 0% with the other, then you’re not participating in politics — you’re following a god who will continue to hurt you.

✌️

— Luke

P.S. If you made it this far, thanks.

Thanks for listening to my imperfect thoughts on a situation I feel underqualified to speak on. I realize I can’t address every nook and cranny of a complicated circumstance. Please give me grace where I fell short. I’m a work in progress and you’re vital for that growth. So, I’d love to hear your thoughts on what resonated with you and what I’m missing. My inbox is open — but only to curiosity and kindness. 

For those practicing this Shinto ritual, getting dunked on by Mother Nature symbolizes a washing away of the old and an embracing of the new. It’s similar to baptism for my Believing friends. One Nat Geo writer likened his misogi experience to “pressing Control-Alt-Delete on your body.”

Like most good things, marketing twisted misogi to mean something else entirely.

Jesse Itzler, the first man of Spanx, redefined misogi as a way of pushing your limits to cultivate resiliency. You do something insanely hard to reset your life and build new levels of strength. 

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The marathon is my misogi. 

The 26.2-mile journey terrifies me. I ran collegiately (go Dawgs), but I took about seven years off once I graduated. If running and I had Facebook, then our relationship status would be “it’s complicated.” 

When I got back into running, it wasn’t for my physical health. I laced up the shoes again for the mental, emotional, and spiritual benefits. Signing up for a marathon is the forcing function that puts pressure on me to actually run. A marathon looks so scary on my calendar that it changes my behavior for the rest of the year. 

A couple of weeks ago, I completed my misogi by running the Chicago Marathon! 

I ran more than 1,200 miles in preparation for this moment. Training led me to go to bed early and to cut out alcohol. Running with friends helped me spend more quality time with people I usually don’t get to. And when I wasn’t with others, I was listening to podcasts by Tim Keller, Bridgetown Church, or the Bible Project. A 3-hour event on my calendar catalyzed a domino effect of healthy habits. 

By the time I got to the start line, I was already a changed person. As we say in the South, the hay was in the barn. The race was just about showing up.

Before the race, my friend Morgan shared this encouragement. It speaks to how misogi is about much more than the actual moment.

What’s your misogi?

You should put a misogi on your calendar.

Here’s why: comfortability is stunting your growth.

For many of us, our comfort is the biggest obstacle keeping us from reaching our full potential. Our default is to build a life as comfortable as possible. It’s a privilege, but when left unchecked, we’ll build a safe life rather than a fulfilling one. Misogi will make you so uncomfortable that it’ll expose what’s inside you while forging you into something new.

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After Batman breaks his back in The Dark Knight Rises, he struggles to make the climb out of his prison in a pit. The doctor tells him why:

 “You do not fear death. You think this makes you strong. It makes you weak.”

Batman goes on to make the climb without a rope so a fall would lead to death. It forced him to climb with fear. 

Misogi should take your rope away from you. Not to the point of fearing death, but to the point of fearing failure. 

At mile 20, I started to wonder if I could actually finish the marathon. That thought is normal for most people. 

In the running world, we say you’re going into the well when you run into the most painful parts of the race. You find out what you’re truly made of when you’re in the well. The desperation can unlock a new part of you that’s been dormant: like an extraordinary level of resilience.

David Brooks summarizes this insight by paraphrasing theologian Paul Tillich:

“Moments of suffering interrupt your life and remind you you're not the person you thought you were. They carve into the floor of the basement of your soul and reveal a cavity. So in those hard moments, you see deeper into yourself than you'd ever seen before, and you come to realize that only spiritual and relational food is going to fill that cavity.”

If your life needs a healthy interruption, consider creating a misogi. Here are some examples I’ve seen from friends this year:

• Fasting for 72 hours

• Attending a silent retreat

• Performing at an open mic

• Hiking the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim

Reply to let me know what you’re thinking!

✌️

— Luke

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P.S. As usual, Nike crushed it out of the park by releasing this ad the day after the Chicago Marathon.

Long time no write. 

I took two months off from personal writing without warning you. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on bailing like Taylor in a relationship. 

Here’s what happened: I took a writing course. 

Ironic, I know. 

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I went through David Perell’s Write of Passage. And I learned some solid writing frameworks — like good writing is personal, observational, and playful. But I also finished the course discouraged for two reasons. (Man, this would have made for a good Twosday.)

1. I found myself putting in double the time (~10 hours per essay) only to receive the same return: crickets.
   
   That’s not your fault. I just had the unrealistic expectation that more time led to better quality, which led to more people flocking to my work. That formula flopped for me — because of the next reason I finished the course discouraged.
   

2. I learned the rules of the game for growing a newsletter. And once I learned the rules, I didn’t want to play the game.
   
   In the influencer age, if you want to grow a newsletter, you have to spend more time talking about your newsletter than actually writing it. One woman said she spends two hours a day engaging with other writers’ work in an effort to grow her newsletter. Engagement feels like the accepted term for using people to get what you want. The mutual back-scratching leads to a content ecosystem where quality doesn’t win — personal branding does. 

I’m not entirely dry from nearly drowning in my pity pool, but I’m getting there — thanks to you. When a few of you reached out saying you missed me in your inbox, I took that personally — in the best way possible. 

So, thanks for noticing my disappearance, if you did. If you didn’t notice or care, I get it. We’re all inundated with too much content to notice when the small guys go missing. And we’re moving too fast to take time to genuinely engage with peoples’ work — like we’re all going through the Louvre on Bird scooters. 

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Writers can feel like their words go into the same place as socks in the dryer. So encourage a writer today by replying to any words that made you smile, think, or feel. Sometimes I respond to brands’ emails telling them what I like about the email. Because I know behind that email is a human who will tell all the other humans who made that email happen. Your one minute of encouragement will make many humans happy. 

Ok, my mope fest is over. 

Let’s end with something more uplifting:

A Baker’s Dozen of Things I’ve Enjoyed Lately

🧰 Tools

MyMind: I’ve been obsessed with this freemium tool that makes it easy for you to store your digital content (notes, articles, links, quotes, etc.) in one place. And it uses AI to organize it for you so you don’t have to.

📚 Books

Words of Radiance: My brother pushed me into the Sanderson cult. And boy does this sequel slap stronger than Will Smith.

Peace Like a River: I heard my pastor say this is one of his favorite fiction books. So I gave it a whirl and it didn’t disappoint. If you’re a fan of family struggle stories, you’ll dig it. The dad may be one of my favorite fictional characters.

Little Fires Everywhere: Late to the game, but I enjoyed the read. Sarah and I watched the Hulu show and it was blah. As usual, the book is better.

Gilead: Dadgum! Marilynne Robinson can write beautiful prose. This 2005 Pulitzer winner about a dying father contemplating his existence is in the running for my favorite book of the year.

📺 Shows

Taskmaster (Series 16): I’ll say it — Taskmaster is the best game show the average American hasn’t heard about. That’s because it’s British. Every season has five different comedians competing against each other in the most clever tasks you’ll find on the internet. Series 16 made me fall in love with the Aussie Sam Campbell.

Only Murders in the Building: The most fun Sarah and I have together trying to solve a murder. Season 4 is out now!

🎙️ Podcasts

René Girard’s Mimetic Theory by Johnathan Bi: Girard was a French philosopher most known for his theory that human desire is imitative, or "mimetic." We don’t desire things independently or spontaneously. Instead, we learn what to desire by imitating the desires of others. This 7-part series on the concept has been a great distraction during my runs.

Medellin by 99% Invisible: The drug cartel once made Medellin, Colombia one of the most dangerous cities in the world. But by the early 2000s, the city had reinvinted itself. Now, gentrification is bringing new problems.

Golden Harper by Tetragrammaton with Rick Rubin: As a lifelong distance runner, I haven’t jumped on the zero drop shoe craze. But Golden Harper, the founder of Altra, does a dang good job of almost getting me there in this interview where he tells his story of starting the company.

Big Fish by Criminal: There’s surprisingly good money in fishing competitions. And wherever there’s good money, there are people trying to bend and break the rules. Sometimes that looks like putting weights down the throats of fish.  

A Goldilocks Universe by The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God: Some renowned atheists have said that the best argument for convincing them of God is how perfect the conditions are for our existence. This podcast episode explores that perfection.

👫 Life

Sarah and I went to Banff — so bluetiful!

I’ll be in your inbox again soon.

✌️

— Luke