This isn’t the first time Alex and Claire have traded ideas, but it’s the first time we’ve listened in.

TEXT THREAD – 10:47 AM

Alex:
You ever get the feeling your brain’s three meetings ahead of your calendar?

Claire:
Only three? You’re slowing down.

Alex:
Ha. Forecasting call just ended. Everyone nodded like we’re in control. We’re not.
Half the project’s built on “assuming supply holds.” I’m already mapping backups.

Claire:
Mapping or spiraling?

Alex:
Both, maybe. Isn’t that what they pay me for - seeing around corners?

Claire:
Corners, yes. Every possible alley, maybe not.

(pause)

Alex:
If I don’t, who will?

EMAIL – 10:22 PM
Subject: corners again

Alex:
Sorry for the brain dump this morning. You probably had better things to do than coach a half-panicked ops guy. I keep replaying that leadership course we did—the part about “anticipate to adapt.” Everyone loved the slide. Nobody mentioned that anticipation feels like waiting for an accident you’re trying to prevent.
Anyway, curious how you keep from living three steps ahead.

– A

Claire → Alex
Re: corners again

Alex—

It’s funny you ask. I used to call it strategic insomnia: eyes wide open at 2 a.m. “just in case.”
Eventually I learned the difference between readiness and restlessness. One prepares; the other rehearses disasters that never audition.

You’ll learn the balance—probably the hard way. Most of us do.

C

TEXT – Next Morning

Alex:
So the trick is learning when to stop rehearsing?

Claire:
Yes. The music still plays even if you’re not conducting every bar.

Alex:
Easy for you to say.

Claire:
Not really.

Claire – Later That Night

Claire closed the laptop and watched its glow fade across the room.
She thought of Alex’s last line and of the years she’d spent pacing her own corridors of contingency.

Readiness had once been her pride - her armor, even - but she knew how easily it slid into restlessness.
She smiled in the half-dark, recognizing herself in his worry.

Then, with a practiced flick, she reached for the light switch—the closest thing she’d ever found to an evacuation button—and let the room go quiet.

TEXT THREAD – 7:56 AM

Alex:
Coffee #2 and counting. Forecast looks clearer when you caffeinate the optimism.

Claire:
Or blur it. Depends which fire you’re feeding.

Alex:
Fire keeps people warm.

Claire:
So does overexertion — for about five minutes. Then you’re ash and paperwork.

Alex:
You make burnout sound poetic.

Claire:
Poetic? No. Predictable, maybe. The body has better boundaries than the mind; it just barges in to file the complaint.

EMAIL – 9:42 PM
Subject: fuel

Alex:
I’ve been thinking about your “depends which fire you’re feeding.”
Honestly, half the time I can’t tell. Everyone keeps saying “love what you do” — so I keep doing only to find out the loving part disappears.
I used to think tiredness was proof of devotion.
Maybe that’s the trap: mistaking depletion for purpose.

Anyway, thanks for answering the panicked texts.
I owe you one.

– A

Claire → Alex
Re: fuel

Alex —

You don’t owe me anything. You just need a new metric.
Exhaustion isn’t a virtue; it’s feedback.

There’s a kind of excess that looks like devotion until it burns through what it was meant to serve.
I learned that later than I care to admit.

Try this: before you add something to your plate, ask who actually benefits when I’m empty? Or who loses out?
If the answer is pride, not people, it’s the wrong fire.

C

TEXT – Next Morning

Alex:
“Wrong fire.” You should trademark that.

Claire:
No need. Everyone’s tried it; few of us remember when to stop adding wood.

Alex:
Hard to know the line between passion and pride.

Claire:
It’s usually the moment you start confusing sparks for light.

Alex:
That sounds like experience talking.

Claire:
You could say that.

Claire – Late Evening

She closed her phone and stared at the mug cooling beside her.
The phrase “wrong fire” lingered — old words wrapped in new ones.
Once, she had called it zeal.
Later she learned the quieter name: self-importance in disguise.

Across the room, the lamplight trembled against the wall.
She turned it off, leaving the faint scent of coffee and burnt match in the dark.

TEXT THREAD 9:07A

Alex:
Morning audit. Three meetings already added.
Forecast still looks caffeinated.

Claire:
Careful. That sounded like the old fire talking.

Alex:
Come on. That is a low flame joke at best.

Claire:
Even low flames can scorch if you forget to look.

Alex:
I remember.
I am just trying to keep the embers friendly.

Claire:
Good. Start with what actually matters today.

Alex:
Proposal is almost done. Just polishing commas and pretending it is brilliance.

Claire:
I believe in you.
Mostly.

Alex:
Mostly belief still counts.
Also signed up for two new initiatives. Because momentum.

Claire:
Momentum is how people trip in public.

Alex:
I will take that risk. The walkway is moving anyway.

Claire:
Have you ever noticed that every time you say yes, something else quietly gets demoted to someday?

Alex:
I do not like where this is going.

Claire:
Every list you write creates another list someone else could write.
The things you chose not to do.

Alex:
That feels like philosophy with a hangover.

Claire:
Or clarity with its hair pulled back.
Either way, it still asks the question.

Alex:
Which is what?
That I should stop trying to outrun my calendar?

Claire:
That you should look at who keeps losing when you keep adding.

EMAIL
Subject: The second list

Claire —

I tried your exercise.
I pretended a stranger was keeping score of what I skipped.
Turns out the stranger is not so strange.

Dinner with my sister that has been postponed into folklore.
A conversation with my mother that is stuck in my drafts folder.
A book I bought because it would make me wiser. It looks untouched and very patient.
Leaving the office before the sun sets just once to see what color daylight actually is in late October.

Everything I add to my plate borrows from people who had it first.

Does everyone do this?
Or am I the only one robbing tomorrow to feel productive today?

Relieved that proposal is done
Still bothered by the math

A

Claire → Alex
Re: The second list

Alex —

It is normal.
It is also how people lose the things they meant to keep.

Good work is still work.
It asks to be fed.
And hunger is not a sign of virtue.

Ask your second list a different question:
Which of these losses will cost more if you repeat it next week?

Then start trading yes for yes
Not yes for disappearance.

The right things want a place at the table too.

C

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
The right things are picky.
They want time and daylight and attention with a pulse.

Claire:
Of course they do. We are alive.

Alex:
So I am caught up on everything
except the lives that actually matter.
Classic Alex move.

Claire:
Plates break.
People do too.
Choose carefully what you keep in the air.

Alex:
Fine. One item moves back to the first list.
But only one.
And only because you are annoyingly convincing.

Claire:
Progress is still progress.
Even if it sulks on the way in.

Alex:
I will take that as praise.

Alex — Late Evening

For once he closed the laptop without apology
and sat long enough to hear the silence resist
then give in.

He imagined a thin sheet of paper taped behind the first list
names and promises and one favorite book
all written in a quieter ink
waiting for him to notice.

Maybe purpose was not found by stacking more tasks on top.
Maybe it hid in what he refused to sacrifice again.

He let tomorrow stay where it belonged.
Then he turned off the light before the room could argue.

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
Call me reckless.
I left the house without my AirPods.

Claire:
Bold start.
Do you remember how to walk without a soundtrack?

Alex:
Not sure.
The world is surprisingly loud when it has nothing to compete with.

Claire:
Or maybe it is surprisingly honest.

Alex:
There is this bird that keeps trying to negotiate a better deal with the wind.
Meanwhile I am… just here.
Walking like a person who forgot he is supposed to multitask.

Claire:
You sound almost peaceful.

Alex:
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I am only fifty yards from my front door.

EMAIL
Subject: the pause experiment

Claire —

I kept walking.

No earbuds.
No podcast telling me how to optimize my morning.
Just the squeak of my shoes and a neighborhood that has apparently been alive this whole time.

When I stopped looking at my phone, I noticed things that did not owe me anything
but still showed up:

A kid’s chalk drawing half-faded on the sidewalk.
Three leaves stuck together like they refused to fall alone.
A porch light still on in daylight, as if someone needed a reminder they were welcome home.

Silence used to feel like punishment.
Now I am wondering if it is an invitation.

The tricky part is what shows up with it.
Thoughts with no deadlines.
Regrets that did not get calendar invites.
A tiny ache where certainty used to live.

Still… I might try it again tomorrow.

— A

Claire → Alex
Re: the pause experiment

Alex —

There is a rest in every measure for a reason.

If we never stop, the music turns into noise.
Even instruments must breathe.

Give yourself the dignity of pauses.
Not every moment needs proof of usefulness.

C

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
One question.
If I stop filling every second
who am I?

Claire:
Someone who can be more than busy.
Someone who can be present.

Alex:
Presence feels wild.
Like I forgot a rule.

Claire:
Or finally remembered one.

Alex:
I am not sure whether to thank you
or blame you.

Claire:
I will accept either.
They both mean you are listening.

Claire — Late Evening

The room was finally quiet.
No alerts.
No hurry disguised as purpose.

She sat for a while without choosing the next thing.
The silence did not demand anything from her
and that felt new.

She thought of Alex walking without noise
learning that breath can be part of the measure
and that stopping does not mean losing.

Outside her window, the streetlamp flickered
only once
as if the world itself had paused to consider
how music is made.

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
Update from yesterday’s silence experiment.
I made it thirty minutes.
Then the panic set in.

Claire:
What kind of panic?

Alex:
The what-if-I-am-forgotten kind.
Feels like the internet has trained us to believe quiet means irrelevant.

Claire:
Maybe it just means unobserved.
Those are not the same.

Alex:
Tell that to the part of me that thinks belonging is measured in notifications.

Claire:
That part needs a nap.

EMAIL
Subject: absence

Claire —

You ever get the feeling that if you stop moving
everyone will notice they do not need you?

I sat at my desk today
hands still
heart loud

and suddenly I saw the space where adrenaline usually hides the truth.

When I stop
I hear the question I keep outrunning:

What if my worth shrinks when my motion does?

I do not want that to be true
but some days it feels like physics.

— A

Claire → Alex
Re: absence

Alex —

That is not physics
that is fear trying to masquerade as logic.

You are confusing usefulness with value.
One changes.
The other does not.

Do you know what stillness reveals?

What you reach for when applause goes quiet.

Let that teach you something.

C

TEXT THREAD

Claire:
My turn to confess.
I get fidgety too.
If I stop helping
I am terrified I will be in the way.

Alex:
That makes no sense.
You are the person people count on.

Claire:
Exactly.
Being needed is easier than being known.

Alex:
I did not expect that from you.

Claire:
I did not either
until I had to sit with myself.

Alex:
Here is to not running from the pause.

Claire:
Here is to waiting long enough to hear what it says.

Claire — Late Evening

She closed her laptop
and let the quiet settle without rushing it away.

The room held a gentle hush
as if the day had finally stopped asking anything of her.

She wondered when they both learned
to outrun the pause
and whether they might one day walk into it
without bracing.

Stillness did not feel empty tonight.
It simply felt like room to breathe.

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
I finished three big tasks today.
And somehow it still feels like I missed the important thing.

Claire:
Productivity is great at awarding the wrong trophies.

Alex:
Should I be aiming for participation medals instead?

Claire:
Maybe aim at what matters
and see what kind of medal shows up later.

Alex:
That sounds like you have tried it.

Claire:
Tried. Failed. Tried again.
Turns out effort can camouflage ego.

Alex:
That feels too accurate.
Can we go back to jokes?

Claire:
We can.
But you asked a real question.

Alex:
Fine.
Why does getting things done feel less like purpose
and more like running on a moving walkway?

Claire:
Because speed is not the same as direction.

EMAIL
Subject: wrong end of better

Claire —

I had a strange moment today.
I was doing something that looked helpful
felt necessary
earned applause

and halfway through it I realized
I did not actually care about the result.

It is like I keep saying yes
to things that look good on a résumé
but steal attention
from things that feel true on a Tuesday.

How do I keep ending up
on the wrong end of my own priorities?

— A

Claire → Alex
Re: wrong end of better

Alex —

There is a kind of devotion
that steals from better devotion.

Sometimes we chase what seems worthy
only to find out it was simply familiar
or flattering.

The hardest part is noticing
when good work starts borrowing from better loves.

I wish I had seen that sooner in my own story.

C

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
That line you wrote
did you just… come up with it?

Claire:
No.
It came back to me from somewhere.

Alex:
From where?

Claire:
I cannot remember exactly.
I think it came from a letter.
Something about choosing the better thing
even when other good things call your name.

Alex:
That sounds like someone wiser than me wrote it.

Claire:
Maybe
but you are the one who noticed it.

Alex:
Now I am curious.
If you ever remember the whole quote
send it my way?

Claire:
I will.
It helped me once.
It might help you too.

Claire — Late Evening

She scrolled through old notes
but nothing surfaced
except the ache that told her she had learned that truth
the harder way than she meant to.

There is wisdom that arrives gently
and wisdom that arrives
after something precious has been neglected or misused.

She hoped Alex could learn the gentle kind.

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
Small update.
I tried to let the better thing set the day.
I am not sure what it was
but I felt less scattered.

Claire:
That sounds like order
sneaking in through a side door.

Alex:
It felt like I traded three small wins
for one quiet yes.

Claire:
Sometimes quiet is the sign you chose well.

Alex:
Do you remember that line you almost remembered?
It has been humming in the background.

Claire:
Pieces of it keep returning.
Something about not letting the shiny good
steal from the needed good.

Alex:
That rings.
If you find more of it
I want to hear it.

EMAIL
Subject: better, not just good

Claire —

I wrote both lists again.
The first one looked confident.
The second one looked honest.

I moved one thing back where it belonged.
Not heroic.
Just right-sized.

It felt like pruning that made space for fruit
you cannot force
only guard.

If you do recover the rest of that line
maybe we could compare notes in person.
Not a meeting.
Just a table where decisions do not need to perform.

No pressure.
I am only saying the air around this has started to feel different.

— A

Claire → Alex
Re: better, not just good

Alex —

I like the table idea.
I am not sure which café yet
but I can bring time and a pen.

I will keep looking for the line.
If I find it
I will write it down
so it cannot run away again.

C

TEXT THREAD

Alex:
A table and a pen sounds like the right inventory.

Claire:
Add light if we can find a window seat.

Alex:
I know two places with windows
and exactly one with reliable chairs.

Claire:
Reliable chairs are underrated.

Alex:
So is choosing the better thing.

Claire:
Then let’s see what it looks like
when we choose it on purpose.

Alex — Late Evening

He set one cup on the counter
and then, without thinking, set another beside it.

Steam rose from only one
but the second warmed in the same light.

He opened his notebook to a blank page
and the corner lifted a little
as if a small breeze had found its way in.

He did not write the quote.
He did not have it yet.

Instead he wrote two words at the top
and left the rest for whatever might arrive:

The Better Thing.

There is always room for hope; it will fit better if you leave a little space for it.

Many years ago, I bought a blank journal,
a purple hardback with no lines,
the favorite color of one of my children.
I filled its pages with pieces and drawings of wisdom:
some mine,
most borrowed from those who said things better than I did.

It was meant for their future selves,
for when life’s complexity settles in
like an uninvited guest who plans to stay.

I imagined them passing the journal
from one sibling to another
when one was struggling and needed oriented -

or grounding - in what really matters.
A quiet reminder that even when life branches out,
the roots of a father can still hold.

Looking back,
that journal became something else.
It showed me how ordered love works:
words given now for

someone you love to stand on later.

It also revealed the risk:
when the better things
are postponed for the busy things
the pages fill
but hearts can empty.
Silence becomes full
of what we meant to say.

I do not remember how I stumbled on the excerpt
that underpins the story of Alex and Claire.
A line of truth that hit before I knew why.
A line that has come back many times over the years.

It came from a letter C. S. Lewis wrote
to a woman named Mary Shelburne,
a woman he never met.
We are afforded a glimpse into their exchange;
careful where you step,
there are tender plants growing
among the sage of oaks.

C. S. Lewis wrote:

“…don't be too easily convinced that God really wants you to do all sorts of work you needn't do. Each must do his duty in that state of life to which God has called him. ...there can be intemperance in work just as in drink. What feels like zeal may be only fidgets or even the flattering of one's self-importance.... by doing what one's station and its duties does not demand one can make oneself less fit for the duties it does demand and so commit some injustice. Just you give Mary a little chance as well as Martha"
(Letter to Mary Shelburne, 28 November 1953)

At first glance,
a warning about overwork.
But the deeper cut is this:

You can lose the best things
by giving the wrong things
your best energy.

Good work can steal from better love.
What is urgent can rob what is sacred.
You can win the day
and lose the ones who wanted to share it.

I know something of that.
Broken years.
Decisions that looked noble until the light changed.
I did it.
I was there.
Even now, next steps sometimes feel hollow —
the air thin, the horizon unclear.
My hope is not in me or us; the players.
It is in the Playmaker.
Restoration, my hope, distant and worthy – is a daily prayer.

Just as with Alex and Claire,
their restoration is now more possible than ever.

Some may wonder about Mary and Martha,
they come from Luke 10:38–42.
Two women doing good things
until the Good Himself arrives
and reveals the best thing

amongst the good and better things.
Presence over production.

And later, in John 11,
Martha moves first.
She goes out to meet the arriving Healer.
Her heart has changed direction.
Her love has found its timing.

So, where do we stand?

Are we skirting the selfless best
to taste the sweetness of selfish good?

Are we rationalizing best intentions
as a salve for self-inflicted wounds?

Hardest to see in ourselves,
what quiet pangs are those we love trying to show us?

Do we hear them?

Do we hear the sound only our spirit can catch -
the low rush of an unseen waterfall just around the bend?

We are learning
that the Better Thing
is not always a choice we missed,
but a choice we can still make.

Even now.
Especially now.