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“Because I like you.”Newt Scamander gives Jacob a remarkably direct account of his affection in Fantastic Beasts, and I ...
10/07/2026

“Because I like you.”

Newt Scamander gives Jacob a remarkably direct account of his affection in Fantastic Beasts, and I have been thinking about how hard it is to find a similarly ordinary word for one of my closest work friendships: love.

“Colleague” explains why we began speaking. “Friend” is true, of course, but after years of talking many times a day, sometimes at considerable length, I want some way to name what all that conversation has made possible.

Over the years, we have admitted things we each rather hate about ourselves. Leadership provides plenty of material for this, should anyone be running short. These are the things we would genuinely prefer not to have noticed, much less mentioned to someone else. The affection has survived the additional information.

That changes what it means to be liked. There is less need to wonder whether the friendship depends upon an incomplete account of me. A flaw can be named honestly without becoming the entire description of the person; knowing each other well makes room for both affection and the conversations that affection cannot reasonably excuse us from having.

Perhaps that is why I reach for the larger word. There is a particular relief in telling the truth about something unlovely in yourself to a person who already knows enough of you to have reasons to stay.

English has “affection” and “fondness,” so the vocabulary cupboard is hardly bare. Still, sometimes love is the word I mean. I wonder why I feel the need to explain it before allowing it to stand.

“Basic” sounded reassuring. I took it to mean this part of the education would be brief.After two years of fairly steady...
10/06/2026

“Basic” sounded reassuring. I took it to mean this part of the education would be brief.

After two years of fairly steady hand embroidery, I love the work enough to have developed opinions about thread. Sometimes it still knots, and by now I usually know what was supposed to happen instead. There is a particular irritation in trying to understand something your hands cannot yet do reliably. Ignorance at least has the courtesy of being mysterious.

At Hogwarts, students begin the Levitation Charm with a feather. It is a rather kind place to begin: something small enough to practice on while movement and pronunciation find their way together. Still, the feather can remain on the desk long after the instruction makes sense. Understanding has arrived; the rest of you is catching up.

I had been using *basic* as though it meant *easy*, when really it tells me where a skill belongs in what comes next. Other things depend upon it. That says almost nothing about how quickly I, personally, will stop tying tiny knots in the wrong places.

The distinction has made me a little more patient. I would not overstate the transformation. A whole lovely pattern is waiting, and I still want the thread to stop interrupting. Yet every stitch in that pattern asks something of the skill I keep wishing I had finished learning.

Perhaps some basics are like this: small enough to disappear once we know them, and maddeningly visible while we are still learning.

Apparently, the moving staircases at Hogwarts have something to contribute to a conversation about healthcare management...
10/05/2026

Apparently, the moving staircases at Hogwarts have something to contribute to a conversation about healthcare management.

As a nurse practitioner manager in value-based care, I believe in the premise: healthcare should reward better outcomes and thoughtful use of resources, not simply more activity. The complication is that some of the improvement a team achieves may eventually become part of the benchmark it is expected to beat next. Success can change the standard by which the next success is judged.

There are sensible reasons for this. A system cannot keep rewarding the same improvement forever. It would also be a peculiar position to work in healthcare while objecting to the possibility that care could keep getting better.

Still, the arithmetic has a human afterlife.

Medicare and other payers establish larger expectations; organizations respond; leaders translate those expectations into goals. Eventually, someone has to carry the new number to the people doing the work. Sometimes that someone is me, which puts me in the slightly awkward position of understanding why the staircase moved while explaining the new route to everyone still on it.

What seems important is how much of that history survives the conversation. If a team met its target, and the next one is harder partly because of that success, looking only at the new gap leaves something consequential out. The earlier work helped change the starting point. It deserves to remain part of the account.

That does not exempt anyone from improving again. It does give the next conversation somewhere more honest to begin.

How does that happen in your work? Is there room to appreciate an achievement before it becomes the expectation?

The boys’ argument about wands and staffs sent me into a week of thinking about categories, medicine, motherhood, belong...
10/04/2026

The boys’ argument about wands and staffs sent me into a week of thinking about categories, medicine, motherhood, belonging, nostalgia, faith, and the people we think we have already understood. The full essay is now on Substack. Link in bio.

Gryffindor had main-character energy before anyone thought to call it that, which probably contributed to my childhood p...
10/03/2026

Gryffindor had main-character energy before anyone thought to call it that, which probably contributed to my childhood preference. But bravery is something I have always wondered about in myself. Being assigned to the brave ones would have been reassuring.

Ravenclaw seems the likelier destination. I tend to begin with the reasoning and work toward what I feel. That approach has its uses, although outside an academic discussion it can sound abrasive when no abrasion was intended. Someone else may recognize what they feel before they can explain it. The difference in sequence does not, by itself, tell us who is more thoughtful or who cares more. Nor does recognizing my tendency settle whether it is what a particular conversation needs.

There is real pleasure in finding people who recognize something familiar in the way your mind works. A description can help explain why certain conversations come easily, or why others require more patience. It becomes less useful when it starts supplying conclusions about a person we have barely begun to know.

My identity in Christ holds more than any of those descriptions can: the parts that fit poorly together, the tendencies that need attending to, and the person still being formed. That belonging does not depend on my being a sufficiently convincing example of a personality type. Finding a home among people who understand me still leaves room, and responsibility, to grow.

“Harry wished he had about eight more eyes.”— J. K. Rowling, *Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone*I recognize somet...
10/02/2026

“Harry wished he had about eight more eyes.”
— J. K. Rowling, *Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone*

I recognize something of Harry’s pleasure at Disney. I grew up going and still love it; watching the boys makes that childhood enchantment feel available again. Their enthusiasm has perfectly respectable adult equivalents, although mine tend to involve acquiring supplies for another creative pursuit. Watercolors, then sewing, then pastels. Wanting to make something beautiful seems a reasonable consequence of having seen it.

I have done this often enough to expect the first attempts to go badly. The frustration arrives when I have been trying for a while and still cannot produce what I had in mind. Apparently, accepting the need for practice doesn’t stop me from having opinions about how long it ought to take. That impatience is ordinary enough. The larger question is how much we can eventually ask of something that first delighted us: whether its particular pleasure remains enough, or whether we begin expecting it to make everything else feel complete.

The first Harry Potter book gives its enchanted world the Mirror of Erised, which shows Harry what he most desperately desires and makes it difficult for him to turn away. There is something to consider in a story so generous with wonder, yet so serious about the power of longing. That relationship deserves a little more room on Sunday.

Last October I spent the month with Gothic stories. This year I wanted a little more mischief, so October at Storyline i...
10/01/2026

Last October I spent the month with Gothic stories. This year I wanted a little more mischief, so October at Storyline is going to Hogwarts.

We are beginning with Harry’s letter, partly because it opens a world and partly because I cannot stop thinking about the odd physicality of the thing. The wizarding world can accomplish the impossible and still seems remarkably attached to parchment, books, trunks, fireplaces, maps, and robes with actual pockets.

Meanwhile, our own increasingly extraordinary technology often works by making the object disappear altogether.

I am not nostalgic enough to surrender indoor plumbing, instant messages, or several other triumphs of civilization. Still, there may be something worth noticing in a fictional world where greater capability does not automatically mean less materiality.

My boys, naturally, have identified the more urgent question: why Ollivanders has failed to diversify into staffs.

This is me, including the part where I would apparently accept another stretch of holding up the sky if someone thanked ...
09/30/2026

This is me, including the part where I would apparently accept another stretch of holding up the sky if someone thanked me warmly enough.

I want the work to get done, and I will do a great deal for someone who appreciates me. I am also willing to hand things over, although I should probably admit that I will still be judging how they are done. If I have to keep checking and remain involved, it becomes very easy to conclude that I might as well keep the task.

I have some responsibility for understanding why I keep saying yes. When I say the work is becoming unbearable, though, I may still be able to meet the next expectation. Looking only at my performance would give a very incomplete account of how I am managing.

How about you? What keeps you taking on more when you already know it is too much?

I heard some version of it for most of the early years of our marriage, when my husband and I moved often enough that I ...
09/30/2026

I heard some version of it for most of the early years of our marriage, when my husband and I moved often enough that I developed opinions about the proper number of boxes one man's books should require. Twenty seemed excessive. This judgment has not aged particularly well; we now have seven bookshelves in the house and another one or two in his office.

The books moved with us. So did everything else. My mother died. We had a miscarriage. We kept moving. And, as it rather inconveniently does, ordinary life continued alongside the harder parts.

Nothing in my life went "wrong," exactly. We still had people over. We had babies. We talked. My career continued to advance. From the outside, I was apparently becoming "interesting," and people often told me, in the present tense, "You are so strong." Strength and interestingness were the rewards I received, although both sometimes felt like polished objects someone had placed on a shelf for me to admire. I was less certain I wanted them at the price. By the time we admire something polished on a shelf, we have conveniently lost sight of the fire.

The difficulty is that I cannot dismiss the claim entirely, because I can see what those years formed in us. My husband and I learned a kind of dependence on one another that I am not sure easier circumstances would have required. The closeness is real, and I am grateful for it. So is the loss of the stability and community we both wanted.

I believe there is Someone tending the work because I believe God is sovereign. Medicine has given me more than enough evidence of how little control any of us actually possesses, and of how much worse suffering can be than what I have known myself. I have watched a twenty-year-old become paralyzed from the neck down. My faith does not require me to pretend I can explain that. It gives me reason to believe God is at work even when the good I hope for remains beyond what I can see in this life.

I can be grateful for the closeness my husband and I gained and still wish we had been allowed more stability along the way. I can believe God was at work and still ask, "God, could we not have taken a different approach?"

The three seconds come from the same controlling personality my husband already finds funny when I try to make a ten-yea...
09/28/2026

The three seconds come from the same controlling personality my husband already finds funny when I try to make a ten-year plan for things that haven't happened and probably don't require that much forethought (e.g., chicken coops). At work, I am exceptionally attentive to detail; at home, I'm much more relaxed than those plans suggest. Yet there seems to be a clear limit to how much driving I am willing to hand over to the car.

Whenever new technology appears, I often wonder whether we are anticipating what should receive our greatest attention. I can come up with many scenarios in the form of "if this, then that." The aspect that requires more careful thought is what I hope the "then" will make possible.

Might greater capability mean more opportunity to be human?

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