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After the team headed home, I stayed a little longer and my parents flew over to meet me. On Friday morning we visited Churchill's War Rooms, the underground headquarters where Winston Churchill and his leadership team directed Britain through the darkest days of World War II.
While bombs fell across London, Winston Churchill and his team gathered there to study maps, coordinate military strategy, and make decisions that would shape the course of history.
Churchill’s leadership during the war was defined by courage, conviction, and an unwillingness to surrender when surrender seemed almost inevitable.
But for someone who accomplished so much, one of his observations caught my attention:
Think about that.
Buildings eventually crumble. Organizations change. Even accomplishments that feel monumental in the moment can fade with time.
But words have a way of staying with us.
You probably remember something a teacher said years ago that made you believe you were capable of more.
You may also remember a careless comment that left a wound long after the person who said it forgot the conversation.
Words can steady us in a crisis. They can give us courage when we want to quit. They can help us see possibilities we would have otherwise missed.
Or they can do the opposite.
The Bible puts it plainly: “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.”
One of the most powerful books I’ve read is called Give Your Speech, Change the World. Its premise is simple:
Not just when we’re standing on a stage.
Not just when we’re addressing a crowd.
Every time.
Maybe you need that reminder today.
As you prepare a huddle for your restaurant team.
As you spend a few minutes in the car with your kids on the way to school or practice.
As you prepare to teach a lesson at church.
As you get ready for a big presentation.
You may not be leading a nation through a war, but someone in your world may be fighting a battle you know nothing about. And your words could be the encouragement they need to keep going.


This morning I'm waking up in London with nearly 30 members of the ADDO team.
That may seem a little over the top. Taking a team overseas isn't something most organizations do. But for us, it's the reward for accomplishing a goal that, at one point, seemed completely out of reach.
The story behind it is actually one of my favorites:
Last year we set a goal that was significantly larger than anything we'd ever accomplished before. We believed it was possible, but if I'm honest, we weren't sure.
About two-thirds of the way through the year, it looked like we were certainly going to miss it.
Then someone asked a simple question: "What if we gave this an unbelievable amount of focus? Could we still do it?"
Instead of lowering the target or making excuses, we decided to find out.
We added a weekly meeting that focused almost exclusively on the leading indicators that would determine whether we'd get there. We made decisions faster. We communicated more clearly. Everyone committed to doing their part because we knew the goal wouldn't happen unless all of us moved together.
Something interesting happened. Momentum created momentum.
Opportunities started appearing. Conversations accelerated. Decisions got made. One win led to another.
Then came the final week.
We had secured one last client that would put us over the top, but there was a problem. The payment wouldn't be finalized before year-end, which meant we technically wouldn't hit the goal.
Except we had spent the year building more than a pipeline, we had built a relationship.
The client found out about our goal, and they voluntarily offered to adjust the terms of our agreement so it could count before the deadline.
Think about that: A client changed the timing of an agreement simply because they wanted to help us succeed.
That's what relentless focus, organizational alignment, and relational equity can accomplish.
That story alone probably deserves its own article.
But that's not really what I've been thinking about as I landed in London today.
I've been thinking about three leadership lessons that apply to every organization, regardless of size.
1. Big goals are galvanizing.
Small goals rarely change people.
Big goals demand new thinking, tighter collaboration, and better execution. They force conversations that otherwise never happen.
People often ask whether ambitious goals create unnecessary pressure.
Sometimes they do, but they also create clarity.
When everyone knows what matters most, it's amazing how much easier it becomes to decide what deserves your time and what doesn't.
2. Don't be afraid of hard seasons.
I'm not advocating for constant hustle or a culture where people wear exhaustion like a badge of honor. Burnout is real, and healthy organizations need rhythms of work and rest.
But I also wonder if, in some places, we've overcorrected.
I heard someone recently make this observation: "There might be more people bored than burnt out." That line has stuck with me.
Growth requires stretching. Whether you're building a business, raising a family, planting a church, or pursuing a meaningful goal, there are seasons that demand more from us. Those seasons shouldn't last forever, but they shouldn't be avoided either.
Some of the greatest confidence you'll ever gain comes from looking back and saying, "That was hard... and we did it."
3. Celebrate on purpose.
No, I'm not suggesting every organization should (or could) take their team to London.
That's not the point.
Too many leaders hit a goal and immediately ask, "What's next?" without ever stopping to recognize what was accomplished. (I’ve been guilty of this many times!)
Celebration isn't just a reward, it’s reinforcement.
When you pause to celebrate, you remind people that their sacrifice mattered and that the journey was worth it. It doesn't have to be an international trip. It might be dinner together, handwritten notes, or simply gathering everyone to tell the stories behind the success.
People may forget the numbers, but they rarely forget how accomplishing something meaningful together made them feel.
As this hits your email inbox, our team is on a double decker but in London, making memories together, and enjoying the reward of a goal that once felt impossible.
I'm grateful to be surrounded by people who believed, stayed aligned, worked hard, and kept going when it would have been easier to settle.
If you're leading a team today, don't be afraid to set a goal that stretches people. Embrace the hard seasons when they come. And when you reach the finish line, don't rush past it.
Pause. Celebrate. Tell the story.
Because one day you'll realize it’s not just the destination, it’s who your team became on the long road getting there.

There’s a subtle art in communication that almost no one masters.
It’s not what to say, it’s when to stop.
Over and over, I’ve seen it, especially in speaking and presentations. Some of the most compelling communicators make a surprisingly costly mistake: they don’t know when to shut up.
They start strong. The room is engaged. Momentum builds. And then… they go just a little too long.
Not dramatically too long. Just enough.
And that “just enough” is where the magic fades.
Jerry Seinfeld once explained why he walked away from one more season of Seinfeld, even though the offer on the table was enormous. His reasoning wasn’t financial. It was about protecting something more valuable than money: timing.
“The love affair between the people making the show and the audience was so intense. It was so white hot. I had to respect that. I could not go to that point where it starts to age and wither. It doesn't take long”
That line stands out: it doesn’t take long.
Because decline rarely arrives dramatically. It creeps in quietly and almost invisibly, but once it starts, you can’t undo it.
Then he gives a simple but sharp example of performance:
“For example, you go see a comedian. At an hour and 10 minutes, you love the guy. At an hour and 30 minutes, it's like, ‘I thought he was never going to finish.’ And you walk out with a whole different feeling. It's a small amount of too much”
That phrase–a small amount of too much—might be one of the most important principles in communication.
Because the gap between “that was incredible” and “that was a bit much” is often just a few extra minutes, a few extra slides, or one story too many.
Most speakers think their job is to give everything they have.
But the best communicators understand something different: Your job is not to say everything you could say. Your job is to say the right things and stop at the right moment.
There is always more content you could share. Another story. Another point. Another layer.
But more content is not the goal. Clarity, momentum, and resonance is.
And resonance dies quickly when you go past the peak.
If you’re speaking, leading a meeting, or sharing an idea, a simple question changes everything:
Do I want to be thorough or do I want to be remembered?
Thoroughness pushes you to keep going. Memorability requires discipline.
People rarely remember everything you say. They remember how they felt at the peak—and how you ended.
And if you push past that peak, you don’t just add content.
You often reshape the memory.
What was once “that was incredible” becomes “it dragged a bit at the end.”
Same message. Different ending. Different impact.
They identify the moment they want people to remember and they stop there.
Not after it. At it.
And in communication, excess doesn’t feel like generosity, it feels like fatigue.
The difference between impact and overload is often just one sentence too many.

One of the first things I noticed when I visited Japan earlier this summer was how incredibly clean everything is. Streets are spotless. Public spaces are pristine. Train stations are immaculate.
Then I noticed something else.
There are almost no trash cans.
At first, it was frustrating.
I'd finish a coke, a snack, or a bottle of water and find myself carrying the trash for what felt like hours. I kept thinking, "Surely there's a trash can around the next corner."
There usually wasn't.
As an American, my instinct was simple: if people have trash, give them more places to throw it away.
In other words, fix the system.
But Japan took a different approach.
Rather than creating more opportunities for people to dispose of trash, they created a culture where people take responsibility for it. The expectation is simple: if you bring it, you carry it until you can properly dispose of it.
The result?
Fewer trash cans. Cleaner streets.
That got me thinking about leadership.
When something isn't working in our organizations, our first instinct is often to add another rule.
Create another policy. Build another process. Add another layer of oversight. Add another approval step. Require another report. Schedule another meeting.
Sometimes those things are necessary. Systems matter.
But too often we try to solve cultural problems with procedural solutions.
Imagine an organization struggling with poor customer service.
The typical response is to create a new checklist…then another training..then another script…then another accountability process.
None of those are inherently bad. But what if the real issue isn't that employees don't know what to do?
What if they simply don't care enough to do it?
Or consider a company where people consistently miss deadlines.
The solution often becomes more status meetings, more project management software, and more reporting requirements.
But what if the issue isn't visibility? What if the issue is commitment?
Many organizations are filled with the equivalent of extra trash cans.
A company lacks innovation, so they create an innovation committee.
Communication is poor, so they add meetings.
Employees aren't engaged, so they launch another survey.
Trust is low, so they implement more controls.
Performance slips, so they add more layers of management.
Again, systems matter. The answer isn't to eliminate structure. The question is whether we're treating symptoms or solving root causes.
Because every system communicates something.
More approvals communicate, "We don't trust you."
More rules communicate, "We don't think you'll make good decisions."
More oversight communicates, "Someone else owns the outcome."
The best organizations I've encountered operate differently.
They don't have fewer expectations. They have stronger cultural expectations.
People answer emails because they respect one another. They serve customers because they genuinely care. They prepare for meetings because excellence matters. They help teammates because that's simply what people do here.
The behavior isn't driven by enforcement. It's driven by identity.
That's the magic of culture. Culture answers the question:
"Who are we when no one is watching?"
When culture is strong, people make the right decisions without needing another policy manual.
When culture is weak, leaders spend their lives creating new rules.
This is why culture work is so difficult.
You can't roll it out in a meeting. You can't install it with software. You can't mandate it with a memo.
Culture is built through thousands of moments.
The behaviors leaders tolerate. The actions leaders celebrate. The stories organizations tell. The standards teams refuse to compromise. The commitments people repeatedly keep.
It takes longer than creating a rule.
But it lasts longer too.
Anyone can add another trash can.
The harder challenge is creating a culture where people don't need one.
The same is true in business.
You can build systems that force people to do the right thing.
Or you can build a culture where people choose to do the right thing.
The first creates compliance.
The second creates commitment.
And commitment is what separates organizations that merely function from organizations that flourish.

When you're young, it's easy to believe wealth is something you earn later.
A bigger paycheck.
A nicer car.
A house.
A growing investment account.
But what if I told you that many of you reading this are already billionaires?
Not dollar billionaires.
The concept is simple. If you are in your teens or twenties, you likely have more than two billion seconds ahead of you in your life. Even in your thirties, you still have an incredible amount of time remaining. Or maybe you’re in the latter half of your life, yet you still have millions of seconds to live.
Think about that for a moment.
You may not have much money in your bank account. But you possess something infinitely more valuable.
Time.
The tragedy is that most people don't realize how wealthy they are until they've spent most of it.
I was reminded of this recently while traveling in Japan with my son. As we walked through shops and restaurants, one song by the artist Yuuri seemed to be everywhere. It was catchy, upbeat, and honestly... a little cheesy.
I remember thinking, Why is this song so popular?
Then I looked it up.
More than 96 million people had watched it.
At first, I was surprised. But then I listened more carefully. The reason it connected wasn't because of the production or the music. It was because it captured something every person understands.
Time moves.
Life moves.
And whether we realize it or not, our days are passing.
That is why the idea of being a "time billionaire" resonates. Deep down, we all know time is our greatest asset. We know we can't earn more of it, buy more of it, or save it for later.
We can only decide how we spend it.
When I graduate...
When I get married...
When I get promoted...
When I make more money...
When things slow down...
But life isn't waiting for you in the future. Life is happening right now.
The friendships you build. The habits you form. The character you develop. The faith you cultivate. The people you choose to invest in.
I've met people with millions of dollars who were incredibly poor. They had no margin, no meaningful relationships, and no joy. I've also met young people with very little financially who were incredibly rich because they understood something many people never learn:
Every hour is an investment.
You can spend your time scrolling, comparing, and chasing things that won't matter five years from now.
Or you can invest it in things that compound forever.
Read books.
Serve people.
Build friendships.
Develop skills.
Spend time with family.
Walk with God.
Those investments create a kind of wealth that money can never buy.
Moses understood this thousands of years before anyone talked about "time billionaires." His prayer wasn't for more time. It was for wisdom with the time he had.
"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom."
Psalm 90:12
That is the challenge.
You may never become a financial billionaire. But if you're reading this today, you are likely far wealthier than you realize.
You have time.
Don't waste your billions of seconds chasing things that won't last. Spend them becoming someone who will. Because one day you'll discover what every older person eventually learns:

Today’s post might be mainly for me. I know it’s one I need to hear.
If you know me well, you know patience is not one of my natural strengths.
I like faster. Quicker. Let's get it done.
When I see a problem, I want a solution. When I set a goal, I want progress. When I start a project, I want results.
But I'm learning that improvement doesn't always work that way.
Last year, I was in Amsterdam for a conference and had the opportunity to visit the Rijksmuseum. If you've never been, think of it as the Netherlands' version of the Louvre. It's home to centuries of Dutch masterpieces, including works from artists like Rembrandt and Vermeer.
Now, I should confess something: I'm not an art connoisseur.
I know just enough about art to walk through a museum and say things like, "Wow, that's really old," and "I bet that took a long time to paint."
But there was one exhibit that completely captured my attention.
It wasn't a famous painting.
It was the restoration process.
The museum showed how experts restore damaged masterpieces. I assumed they would tackle entire sections at a time. Maybe clean half a painting one week and the other half the next.
One tiny section. Then another. Then another.
They carefully remove layers of dirt, repair damage, study colors, preserve details, and slowly bring the original beauty back to life. What appears unchanged from a distance is actually being transformed through thousands of small, almost invisible improvements.
And standing there, I couldn't help but think:
That's how most meaningful improvement happens.
We all want breakthrough moments.
But most breakthroughs are built on boring Tuesdays.
We want transformation to happen overnight.
Instead, it usually happens one conversation, one habit, one decision, one day at a time.
The reality is that lasting improvement is rarely dramatic. It's incremental.
Maybe that's exactly what you need to hear today...
Maybe the initiatives you've introduced haven't yet produced the results you expected.
Maybe the culture you're trying to build isn't changing as quickly as you'd like.
Maybe the relationship you're investing in feels like it's moving at a snail's pace.
Maybe the goal you're pursuing still feels frustratingly far away.
Don't confuse slow progress with no progress. The masterpiece wasn't restored in a day. It was restored one square inch at a time.
And perhaps that's how growth works for all of us.
It happens piece by piece, conversation by conversation, and decision by decision. It happens day by day, one square inch at a time.

I'm waking up this morning in Swainsboro, Georgia, getting ready to spend the day with the leaders of Emanuel County School District.
Every time I'm in this part of Georgia, I think back to one of my very first speaking engagements nearly 16 years ago at a student leadership conference at Southeastern Technical College in nearby Vidalia.
After all, I had been a student leader at the University of Georgia. I had led one of the largest student philanthropy organizations on campus, helped raise money for children in need, and had plenty of stories, energy, and enthusiasm to share.
And, if I'm honest, at 25 years old I thought I knew quite a bit.
Then I walked through the doors. The students sitting in front of me didn't look anything like the students I had built my presentation around.
There was a 42-year-old man learning to become an electrician because he wanted a more stable future for his family.
A 31-year-old single mother was pursuing a medical certification while balancing work, childcare, and more responsibilities than I could imagine.
In the back sat a 58-year-old man who had recently been laid off and found himself back in a classroom because starting over was his best path forward.
These weren't just students trying to maximize their college experience, they were people trying to build a better life.
And suddenly, my planned presentation didn't work.
Not because it was poorly prepared.
Not because the content was bad.
It didn't work because I had prepared for the audience I imagined instead of the audience that actually existed.
That day taught me a lesson I've carried into every keynote, leadership workshop, client engagement, and marketing strategy ever since:
Before you communicate, teach, lead, market, or influence, ask yourself a simple question:
Not who I wish they were.
Not who they used to be.
Not who my last audience was.
Who are they? What keeps them up at night? What are they hoping for? What burdens are they carrying into the room?
Over the years, though, I've realized that's only half the equation.
It is possible to know your audience without ever truly caring about them.
It's possible to study demographics, personality profiles, buying habits, and engagement data while remaining completely disconnected from people's hopes, fears, and dreams.
People can tell the difference.
They know when a speaker is trying to impress them instead of serve them.
They know when a company sees them as a transaction instead of a person.
They know when a church wants attendance more than transformation.
And when you get both right, people feel it immediately.
They walk away thinking:
This person understands me
This person cares about me.
That's true of the leaders we choose to follow. It's true of the organizations we choose to trust. And it's true of every meaningful relationship we'll ever build.
People want to be seen before they are led.
They want to be understood before they are challenged.
They want to know you care before they care what you know.
So whether you're leading a team, teaching a classroom, delivering a presentation, preaching a sermon, or serving a customer, remember the lesson a young, overconfident speaker learned nearly two decades ago in Vidalia:
Know your audience. Care about your audience.

I believe that more today than ever.
In 1973, researchers at Stanford conducted a fascinating experiment with children who loved to draw. These weren’t kids being forced into art class. These were kids who naturally enjoyed sitting down with markers and paper simply because it brought them joy.
The researchers split them into three groups.
The first group was told they would receive a reward for drawing.
The second group wasn’t promised anything, but received a reward afterward.
The third group neither expected nor received a reward.
A few weeks later, the researchers returned to observe what happened and the results were shocking.
The children who had expected a reward for drawing showed significantly less interest in drawing afterward. The kids who weren’t focused on rewards? Their love for drawing stayed the same.
Think about that.
The markers didn’t change.
The paper didn’t change.
The children didn’t change.
I’ve watched this happen in organizations, and honestly, I’ve struggled with this in our own business too.
People often begin deeply connected to purpose.
They want to impact lives.
They want to serve people.
They want to build something meaningful.
They want to create positive human-to-human experiences.
But over time, organizations can slowly shift the conversation.
Instead of: “We get to change lives.”
It becomes: “We need to hit our numbers.”
Instead of: “We exist to serve people well.”
It becomes: “If everyone works harder, profits will increase.”
Now don’t misunderstand me. Compensation matters. People deserve to be paid well. Healthy organizations should reward people generously.
But when money, bonuses, incentives, and perks become the primary story, something dangerous happens.
The mission slowly loses meaning.
What once felt like a calling starts to feel transactional.
I’ve talked about this before in the context of missionaries versus mercenaries.
Missionaries are fueled by conviction.
Mercenaries are fueled primarily by compensation.
And if leaders aren’t careful, they can slowly turn missionaries into mercenaries by overemphasizing external rewards while underemphasizing purpose.
That Stanford experiment reminds me of something deeply important:
So what do we do with that?
If you’ve lost motivation, don’t immediately assume you need a new job, a new title, or a bigger paycheck.
Sometimes what’s missing isn’t opportunity, it’s purpose.
Ask yourself:
Who does my work help?
Why did I start this in the first place?
What impact am I trying to make?
Purpose gives ordinary work extraordinary meaning.
Metrics matter. Goals matter. Accountability matters.
But if the only language people hear is pressure, numbers, and performance, they eventually disconnect emotionally from the work.
The best leaders constantly remind people:
“This matters.”
“People are impacted because of what you do.”
“Your work has meaning.”
When people understand why the work matters, they can endure almost anything.
A raise is great.
Recognition is great.
Profit-sharing is great.
But none of those things create lasting fulfillment on their own.
People want to know their life matters.
They want to know their contribution matters.
They want to know the work means something beyond the paycheck.
That’s why I believe purpose will always outperform perks in the long run.

This week, America celebrates 250 years.
Two hundred and fifty years of remarkable innovation, extraordinary sacrifice, bold leadership, and unwavering resilience.
No nation is perfect. Ours certainly isn't. But few countries in history have created the opportunities, freedoms, and spirit of possibility that have defined the American story.
As I travel internationally, I'm constantly reminded of how much I love this country. Every nation has something to teach us. Every culture has strengths worth admiring. Over the last few months I’ve spent time in Japan, Indonesia, and Canada and learned lessons from each.
But every time my plane touches back down in the United States, I'm grateful to call this place home.
Farmers became founders.
Teachers became community builders.
Business owners created jobs that changed families for generations.
Pastors strengthened neighborhoods.
Parents quietly raised children with character.
History tends to remember presidents and generals. But America was built just as much by people whose names will never appear in a history book.
That's still true today.
It's exercised in boardrooms, classrooms, churches, small businesses, nonprofits, and around dinner tables every single day.
That's encouraging because leadership is something every one of us can choose.
As we celebrate 250 years, maybe the best question isn't, "What kind of country did we inherit?"
Maybe it's, "What kind of country are we leaving behind?"
Every generation inherits a nation. Every generation also leaves one.
We'll either strengthen the culture or slowly weaken it.
We'll either build trust or erode it.
We'll either pass on character or compromise it.
Those choices don't begin in government. They begin with us.
The founders gave future generations something remarkable, but they never intended America to run on autopilot. Freedom requires responsibility. Opportunity requires stewardship. Great nations require great citizens.
The next chapter of America's story won't write itself.
It will be written by leaders who choose integrity over convenience.
Who choose service over self-interest.
Who choose unity without demanding uniformity.
Who believe disagreement doesn't have to become division.
Whether you're leading a Fortune 500 company, coaching Little League, serving in your church, teaching third grade, or raising your kids, you're helping write that story.
For my friends around the world reading this, I hope you feel the same pride in your own nation. Healthy patriotism doesn't require believing your country is perfect. It simply means being grateful for what you've been given while taking responsibility for making it better.
That's true in America.
That's true everywhere.
So as America turns 250, let's celebrate the courage of those who came before us.
Let's honor the sacrifices that secured the freedoms we enjoy.
And then let's get back to work.