Kingsport Spirit

I was raised by a World War II veteran who loved me deeply and did everything he knew to set me on a positive course. Without him, I would have been lost.

He gave me discipline, direction, and responsibility. His leadership style had been forged in the military. Two sayings reflected that: “Yours is not to question why. Yours is but to do or die,” and “Loose lips sink ships.”

The message was clear: do what needs to be done, don’t complain, and keep moving forward. At times, it felt like boot camp. He would tell me to make my bed, and I swear I half expected him to bounce a coin off the sheets.

That’s not a criticism of my dad. He wanted me to work hard, stay out of trouble, and become something. He gave me a foundation I desperately needed.

I assumed that was simply what leadership looked like: leaders gave orders and people followed.

Early in my career, I learned that leadership comes in many styles—and from every level of an organization. Personality tests, particularly Myers-Briggs, reinforced something important: the harder I tried to be someone I wasn’t, the more frustrated—and less effective—I became.

I also learned that good leadership wasn’t about surrounding myself with people who looked and thought like me. I didn’t need a room full of “Yes, sir.” I needed people willing to question me, challenge an assumption, and see something I had missed. In fact, I find myself seeking it out.

I wasn’t always right. Nobody is.

You must be humble and open-minded. Once you know better, then do better.

It is easier to charge forward when everybody thinks alike—or is too intimidated to tell the emperor he isn’t wearing any clothes. Easier doesn’t mean better.

There are exceptions. In war, somebody has to make the call, and everyone else has to execute it.

In the heat of the moment, you don’t have time to ask, “How does that make you feel?” You complete the task at hand.

But that doesn’t make the feelings disappear. Too many veterans carry experiences they never talk about, sometimes for decades. They gnaw and linger. Sometimes you really are sick. It’s not your imagination. Doing push-ups and drinking orange juice isn’t a universal medicine.

Sometimes grit is exactly what we need; sometimes “toughen up” misses what is really going on. It’s called human resources for a reason.

We’re not robots.

The same principle applies in sports. Pat Summitt once talked about pulling the best out of an athlete while knowing when you’ve pushed far enough. Push too little, and you may never discover someone’s potential. Push too far, and you can break their spirit.

People can accomplish extraordinary things when they believe they can. Once they believe, “Nothing I do is ever good enough,” confidence disappears, morale falls, and momentum stalls.

My father gave me discipline, responsibility, and perseverance. Life taught me I could build on that foundation without leading exactly as he did.

You don’t have to become someone else to lead. You have to understand yourself well enough to become a better version of the person God created you to be.

Significance is found in the lives we touch, the people we encourage, the relationships we nurture, and the things we leave better than we found them. It is becoming the husband, father, grandfather, friend, and servant God created us to be.

Scripture tells us, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

That is harder than it sounds.

You can’t be still when you are running a hundred miles an hour in the wrong direction. Busyness can become its own kind of distraction. Drugs and alcohol can numb temporarily. Anything we use to keep ourselves from slowing down long enough to confront who we are, where we are going, and what God may be trying to tell us.

The enemy doesn’t necessarily have to destroy us. Sometimes distraction is enough—keep us busy, keep us preoccupied, keep us from being still long enough to know God.

Eventually, the titles disappear. The career ends. The calendar clears. The things we accumulated belong to someone else.

What remains are faith, relationships, the lives we touched, and the grace that carried us through.

At the end of the day, those are the things that matter.