Mike P. Taylor

It was the third Sunday in a row that the back row sat empty.

Pastor Ray noticed it during the second verse of “How Great Is Our God.” Worship felt as empty as the back half of the sanctuary as he mouthed the words he’d sung a million times.

Three songs and one offering later, Pastor Ray was on stage preaching someone else’s sermon. He caught himself emphasizing what he was supposed to – like a performance he’d rehearsed before.

After the service, Ray shook a few hands then walked slowly to his office, passing the greeter table with half a tub of peppermints still untouched. 

He closed the door behind him, sat at his desk, and pulled out an old yellow notebook.

Page after page was filled with raw things. Real things. Things he used to care about.

This was where he used to scribble sermon ideas before his church invested in a sermon planning app. 

Now he could buy entire sermons online without having to crack open a Bible.

He chuckled, more with disgust than anything. He felt himself hit a wall inside.

“What happened?” he wondered out loud.

On one of the pages, he found a line he didn’t remember writing: 

“If the building is full but hearts are empty, the building will soon follow.”

He closed the notebook slowly and stared out the window. 

The sun hit the stained glass just right and it made the room glow. The light coming in was gorgeous, but there wasn’t much light left in him.

The church had shrunk in numbers in recent years, that was a well known fact. All churches in America had been shrinking.

But something else had shrunk too: their capacity for God.

God somehow felt small in this place.

“The God of the universe,” Ray spoke into the air, “feels like he’s been stuffed into a shoebox.”

He remembered Jesus once said we’d be known by our love, but lately they’d mostly been known for their opinions and division.

What used to be communion had become cups of juice once a quarter.

What used to be family had become small groups that felt awkward and forced.

What used to be prayer had become transitions between songs and sermons.

They operated the church like a business, sacrificing anything necessary on the altar of efficiency and growth.

And then the thought hit him so clearly it made him exhale.

“My God. Maybe the world isn’t rejecting Jesus. Maybe they just haven’t seen much of him lately.”

He could see plain as day now, like a magic trick after learning how it’s done:

Maybe people haven’t been running from God, but from the off-brand version of him we created.

Ray stood up, walked over to the window, and said a quiet prayer he hadn’t said before.

“Jesus, bring us back. Don’t bring people back into church – bring the Church back into our people.”

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, the empty seats are less of a problem…

And more of a wake-up call.

She took his arm, white dress trailing behind her.

The music started. The aisle stretched out in front of them like memory lane.

And suddenly, she wasn’t a bride any more. 

She was five years old, watching him nod and smile at the rude waiter instead of snapping back.

She was eight, hearing him compliment the coach who never played her.

She was twelve, seeing him call his co-worker to congratulate him when he got the promotion dad wanted so badly.

He never tore anyone down.

He taught her what honor and respect looked like.

She was thirteen, on her way to sneak out to a party when she overheard him crying on the back porch talking to his best friend talking about the pain from his past.

She was fifteen, and he was apologizing for yelling during an argument they had while she was reluctantly learning to drive.

He gave grace, humbled himself, and taught her how to forgive.

She was sixteen, and he was warming up her car and packing her lunch even though she was old enough to do it for herself. He smiled good morning at her while he wiped the sleep from his eyes from being up late working extra shifts to save for their dream home.

He was present and he was a servant, and he taught her how to pour out a life for others.

She was suddenly right there for all the nights that he wrapped his arm around her and talked with God like a close friend.

He showed her what it looked like to live submitted.

They reached the altar, and she was brought back to the moment.

He smiled through glassy eyes, then whispered, “You’re ready.”

She squeezed his hand one more time.

Then silently she thanked him for showing her what a real man looked like.

They sat at the edge of the dock, bare feet dangling over the water.

The boat floated beside them, still unfinished—paint half-done, ropes loosely coiled.

“Why isn’t the boat ready yet?” the boy asked.

His dad sipped his coffee. “Because I’ve been working on the dock.”

The boy furrowed his brows. “But the boat’s what we’re supposed to be building.”

His dad smiled. “That’s true. But without a strong dock, the boat doesn’t matter.”

He looked out over the lake.

“The dock holds everything steady. It keeps us grounded. It’s what we stand on when the water rises. Most people don’t think about it until it starts to break.”

The boy looked up and tilted his head as if to say, “hmm”.

“The boat is for where we’re going. The dock is what holds us up while we build it.”

They sat in silence long enough to appreciate it.

Then the man stood and reached for his tools.

“Let’s tighten the rails,” he said. “The boat can wait. The dock can’t.”

She was barely two. Pink sandals, dusty knees, and hair stuck to her cheek from the last parts of the sucker she had on the way over to dad’s work.

She stood at the edge of the loading dock, arms stretched high, reaching for a place she couldn’t touch.

Her dad watched from the side, carrying boxes up the staircase behind her. Back and forth. Load after load.

Each time he passed, she pointed again.

“Up,” she said. “Up.”

He smiled, but kept walking.

She grunted this time as she tried to pull herself up by the edge, but her legs slipped and she landed in the gravel.

Frustrated tears came fast. She turned to him, betrayed.

He set down the box, knelt beside her, and brushed the dirt from her hands.

“There’s a way,” he said gently, pointing to the stairs. “But you’ve gotta walk it.”

She didn’t understand; she just looked up again.

So he scooped her into his arms and carried her the long way around.

Step by step they went up the stairs while he held her hand.

At the top, she grinned wide like she’d done it herself.

He just held her steady while she celebrated, then he took her hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”

And that’s what they did.

Down the stairs and back up again. One step at a time. Over and over like it was a carnival ride.

She came to love the steps more than she loved the platform.

She didn’t know it then, but she was doing much more than helping dad unload boxes.

College used to be marketed as being “for everyone”.

It still is today to some degree (that’s good, I know).

That “mistruth” is more false now than it’s ever been.

College can be one of the best experiences a young person has, especially if they go in with a plan.

I’m very glad that doctors, engineers, lawyers, and scientists go to college.

But having a plan and using college as a springboard to a successful career is not the norm.

One survey found that a third of American adults had no plan after graduation.

Another study found that about half of all bachelor’s degree graduates end up in a job that doesn’t require a college degree.

Meanwhile, college graduates, on average, leave school with $38,000 in student loan debt.

Most kids sign up for college, agree to pay the massive bill, then try to figure it out while they’re there. And sadly, almost half of them don’t (40% don’t graduate).

College has become this place to extend high school and delay adulthood. And it’s not hard to understand why.

We ask 18-year-olds to pick a major, choose a career path, and invest thousands upon thousands of dollars in a decision they don’t fully understand yet.

And even if they do it right, there’s still one major skillset they probably won’t learn in college:

How to solve real-world problems without a rulebook or a manual to follow.

College teaches you how to research, write, show up on time, and follow instructions. 

All of that has value, of course. 

But real success – especially today – demands more. You have to know how to step into unclear situations and figure out what to do next.

That’s rare today, and it’s because of how we teach our kids.

It’s almost impossible to teach that in a classroom.

Most college programs don’t regularly ask students to solve problems without a clear process. Students are taught to give the right answer, not find one on their own.

But the people who build careers and lead teams and make things better are the ones who create solutions when there wasn’t a roadmap, not the ones who follow all the steps correctly.

That doesn’t mean college is a waste. It has immense value for certain career paths. It just means there are huge gaps between what’s efficient for grading and what’s effective in the real world.

And the truth is, we desperately need more problem solvers than we need rule followers.

The American Dream as we know it is going away.

But maybe it was never the problem.

For generations, the formula was simple: work hard, follow the rules, climb the ladder. Show up, do your job, and you’ll be fine.

But now the ladder’s gone.

The jobs are being outsourced, automated, or eliminated altogether. And the dream we were promised is slipping through our fingers.

Not because people stopped working hard, but because the world stopped rewarding average.

This isn’t a glitch in capitalism. It’s working exactly how it should.

It rewards efficiency. It rewards speed. It rewards cheap. And robots are really good at all three.

You can’t praise capitalism when it lifts someone up, then curse it when it replaces you. It’s just doing what it’s designed to do – to optimize.

Which means you have to change what you bring to the table.

Seth Godin calls this the end of the industrial economy. The death of “just showing up.”

In Linchpin, he says the future belongs to people who bring something human – creativity, generosity, insight, care.

Not cogs. Not button-pushers. Not box-checkers.

Linchpins aren’t the cheapest or the fastest. They’re the ones you’d miss if they disappeared.

• They’re the barista who remembers your name and your story.
• The employee who solves problems before they escalate.
• The designer who hears what you meant, not just what you said.
• The teacher who turns information into transformation.

Being a Linchpin means showing up with intention, solving real problems, and offering something no one else can replicate.

We’re not being replaced because we’re lazy. We’re being replaced because we became predictable.

And predictable is easy to automate.

So now we face a choice:

Mourn the loss of stability, or step into the risk of becoming irreplaceable.

The American Dream isn’t dead. It’s just evolving.

It’s no longer about climbing the ladder.

It’s more about becoming a ladder for someone else.

And honestly, it’s an evolution that we desperately need.

Somewhere along the way, we started wearing burnout like it’s a badge of honor.

Letting someone know that we’re busy somehow feels validating.

A survey found that 60% of parents feel overwhelmed by the mental load of parenting.

Busy has become our baseline. And without it, we feel unproductive, maybe even unimportant.

(Just imagine saying yes to something that doesn’t have a goal and see how the thought makes you feel.)

Overwhelm isn’t a sign that you’re important. It’s a sign that something needs to change.

A burned-out parent is not an effective parent.

You can’t pour out if you’re empty. And you can’t fake being present for long.

Rest isn’t indulgent. Rest is essential.

One study found that regular leisure activities—quiet time, time in nature, hobbies, even just unwinding—are linked to lower stress, lower blood pressure, better health, and better mood.

It’s not about having a hobby or taking a vacation. It’s about fostering a lifestyle that includes rhythms of rest.

But most of us ignore the invitation. We call it lazy or selfish or just plain impossible.

But what if your health and peace was part of the job?

What if letting go is what helps you show up better?

Your kids don’t need a superhero. They just need a present parent.

Most people don’t waste time, money, or opportunities on purpose.

They usually just don’t realize how valuable they are.

We naturally think impact comes from big plans and important goals.

But it’s usually the unnoticed moments—a distracted look, a sharp word, a missed chance to engage—that shape the people closest to us.

We overestimate the weight of our intentions and underestimate the power of our presence.

Because you only steward what you truly cherish. And you only cherish what you see as valuable.

A few things worth cherishing:

1. Cherish your insecurities. Insecurity isn’t weakness—it’s insight. It simply shows what you care about and where you long to grow. When you hide it, it becomes shame. When you share it, it becomes connection. Vulnerability is the doorway to trust.

2. Cherish your frustration. Frustration is a mile marker—it points to what matters and where unity is needed. It’s not the enemy; it’s a signpost. The goal isn’t to eliminate it, but to walk through it with purpose. Avoid it, and you’ll drift. Embrace it, and you’ll grow.

3. Cherish the present. The present is the only place you can actually affect change. Everything else—past regret, future fantasy—is an illusion. Who you want to become isn’t found in tomorrow. It’s in the next word, the next moment, the next small step you choose right now.

You don’t need more time.

You just need to value the time you already have.

And when you start to cherish it, you’ll steward it well.

Most people don’t forget what you said—they just never really heard it.

Not because they’re rude. Because we’re all mostly half-there.

Scrolling. Distracted. Waiting for our turn to talk.

We think we’re listening, but we’re just collecting noise.

Presence has become rare. And rare things become valuable.

According to Forbes, 92% of highly engaged employees say they feel heard at work. In companies that outperform others, 88% of employees feel heard—compared to just 62% in companies that don’t.

Turns out, listening isn’t just polite. It’s productive.

One study found that brain development was increased in children who had interactive conversations where they were being listened to by an adult.

Because being heard feels like being seen. And being seen changes people.

The opposite is also true.

Distraction doesn’t just break focus – it erodes connection.

So the question being asked in the head of someone who’s speaking to you isn’t, “Did they hear me?” The question is, “Do they care about me?”

Listening isn’t passive. It’s sacrificial. It costs you attention, energy, pride.

But it gives something more valuable in return: trust, clarity, belonging.

You don’t have to be brilliant to make someone feel loved.

You just have to be fully there.

Fear can’t take anything from you – it can only tell you stories and receive what it convinces you to hand over.

And most of the time, we give it more than we realize.

Fear shows up any time you’re close to something meaningful. That’s not a flaw, that’s often confirmation.

But somewhere along the way, we started treating fear like a signal to stop, instead of a sign along the way.

There’s a moment in Moses’ story where God tells him to lead his people out of slavery. Moses is 80, unsure of himself, and afraid of public speaking. He tells God all the reasons he can’t do it—his past, his weakness, his fear.

God doesn’t reassure him with comfort or confidence. He just basically says, “Go, I’ll be with you.”

That’s it. No motivational speech, just a promise that he’ll be present.

The fear didn’t leave, but Moses stopped letting it convince him to give it control.

And that’s the shift—fear doesn’t have to go away for you to move forward, you just have to stop giving it the authority to decide what you do.

Here’s what I’ve noticed:

Fear is real – it’s very real. But it’s not a flaw. It’s part of being human.

Fear grows when we give it energy—when we obsess, avoid, or try to outsmart it.

But you don’t have to argue with fear to move forward, you just have to see it for what it is and keep going.

Fear feeds on control. The more you try to manage every outcome, the louder it gets.

Peace doesn’t come from having a plan, it comes when you decide that it’s okay if you don’t have one.

Our culture says to conquer fear by mastering it. But what if you don’t need to master it? What if you just need to stop handing it the wheel?

Fear will ask for what matters to you. But you don’t have to hand it over.

It only takes what you give it.