There is a rhythm to the world. It doesn’t announce itself with urgency or chase us down with deadlines or ping us at 10 p.m. on a Sunday. It waits quietly, patiently, for us to remember it.

That rhythm is rest.

I didn’t grow up with a Sabbath practice, and honestly never really thought about it much. But in law school, when my life turned into a slog of endless deadlines, projects, and tests, something in me knew I needed an anchor. Not a nap. Not a day off. Not even a vacation. Something deeper. I needed resistance.

My Sabbath practice started not with a theology book or a church sermon, but with deep exhaustion. Law school demands everything from you: your time, your mental energy, your relationships, and even your identity. The people who survive it either surrender to the system or find a way to live outside it.

The gift I had been given to withstand and resist this system was that I had been shaped, years before, by an experience that would become foundational to my Sabbath practice. After college, uncertain of my future and worn thin from nonprofit work, I went to a monastery in France. (Something I’ll dive into another time…) But it changed me. I went to the edge of my spiritual limits — and found that monastic life, silence and structure, weren’t confinements. They were fundamental habits for freedom.

Later, back in Waco, I founded an intentional community with three friends. We shared our money, our meals, our prayers, and even an extra room for people in need. We developed what we called a “rule of life.” Prayer at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., family dinner rhythms, boundaries around our time. And while we weren’t trying to be monks, we were trying to survive with our souls intact.

So, when I entered law school, I brought this rhythm with me. Sabbath became my line in the sand. A full 24-hour window where I closed the laptop, ignored the pinging phone, and said no to the endless expectations of my performance-driven culture. It wasn’t just about rest. It was a protest against the expectation to always be “on”.

Sabbath is how I defy the voice in my head that says, “Keep grinding. Prove yourself. Don’t fall behind.” It’s also my protest against a corporate culture that demands 24/7 availability and rewards burnout with more work.

During my Sabbath, I remind myself the world will spin without me, and that my worth does not rise and fall with productivity.

Now, this isn’t always clean. There are moments when I break my Sabbath for various reasons. A client emergency, for example, which is a request I feel obligated to respond to. When I do that, it doesn’t feel really like a compromise… It feels like grief. It’s not just about what I give up – it’s about who I become when I forfeit the pause. I carry frustration and always disappointment.

But Sabbath, like grace, is not earned. It is returned to.

If you want to start a Sabbath practice, I have only one piece of advice: make it measurable. Make it real. Don’t start with an undefined idea of what you want it to be. Choose a day and set a start and end. It could be two hours or twenty-four. But put a fence around it. Ironically, that’s where freedom begins.

Then fill that time with what makes your soul expand. For me, it’s church, family, friends, the gym, dinners, my wife and dogs. Sometimes it’s reading a good book. Other times, it’s simply doing anything but work.

It may sound counterintuitive, but not working (Sabbath) has made me a better lawyer. Not because I’m more efficient, but because I remember who I am when I stop performing. I remember why I do this work. I remember who it’s for.

The machine isn’t going to stop. It’s a machine after all. But you can step outside of it.

Even for a day.

Even for a breath.

And in that sacred pause, you might remember who you are and why you do what you do.

With the turn of the new year – the “crossing over,” as the Ghanaians say – I’ve been talking a lot about rest. Specifically, how can we cultivate lives that include more rest.

Well, in a corporate (national?) culture obsessed with hustle and work, I personally practice something deeply countercultural: Sabbath.

Since my first year of law school, I’ve carved out a 24-hour period every week to stop working completely. No law books, no client calls, and no work obligations. From (usually) Saturday around noon to Sunday afternoon, everything shuts down.

What started as a survival tactic — a way to prevent law school from becoming a soul-crushing bootcamp — has become one of my life’s non-negotiables. It’s not imbued with religious legalism or checking a spiritual box, though. It’s about reclaiming what it means to be human in a culture that wants to turn us into machines.

Rest is resistance.

Our professional world (lawyers, corporate types, and almost anyone else on the rat race) treats people like commodities. Lawyers, especially, are measured by the hour…literally. We build our careers, reputations, and livelihoods on how much we can produce, and how many hours we can squeeze out of each day. What results is a culture filled with burnout, anxiety, and emptiness.

Sabbath stands in direct opposition to that machine.

Observing the Sabbath reminds me that I am not defined by my productivity. I am, first and above all else, a human being, made in the image of God — made for work, yes, but also made for worship, for relationships, for joy.

I’ll be honest: at first, I resisted it. I believed the lie that if I just worked harder, stayed up later, sacrificed more, I could secure my future. That I could outrun scarcity. That I could earn safety. But Sabbath isn’t a reward for having everything finished. It’s a declaration of trust. It’s saying, with my actions and agency, that, even (and especially) when I stop, God keeps on working.

Every week, Sabbath offers me a reset.

Keeping those 24 hours sacred offers me time with my wife. That time includes slow walks with our dogs, books that aren’t assigned reading, church community, and unrushed meals.

It’s rediscovering what joy feels like when it’s not tethered to achievement.

Some weeks, it feels easy. Others, it feels like climbing a mountain — turning off the phone, letting the emails go unanswered, and trusting that the world won’t fall apart without me. But that’s part of the beauty. Sabbath reminds me that my identity is not in being a lawyer, or a businessman, or even a future public servant.

My identity is secured in something greater. Someone greater.

Scripture tells a different story than the world.

The Bible says God worked six days and then rested. Not because He needed to, but because the work was good, and the rest made it complete. It was an act of delight, not of exhaustion.

In Exodus, Sabbath is framed not just as a commandment, but as a gift. And In Deuteronomy, it’s linked to liberation, a reminder that we are no longer slaves to endless labor.

For me, practicing Sabbath is practicing freedom.

It’s an act of resistance against a world that says you must be available 24/7 to prove your worth. It’s a declaration that my life is not a spreadsheet. It’s a refusal to let the grind define me.

As a lawyer, businessman, and (God willing) future public servant, I want to be a voice that says:

• You are not what you produce.

• You are not your email count or your billable hours.

• You are not your LinkedIn profile.

• You are a human being, valuable and beloved, even when you rest.

And it starts with something so simple that it feels radical in today’s world:

Stop. Rest. Trust.

Every week, I choose to lay down the tools of labor and pick up the practices of life: prayer, rest, laughter, family, and reflection. Every week, I fight to live like I believe the Gospel is true, that my future is secured not by my effort, but by God’s grace.

Sabbath isn’t an escape from work.
It’s what makes my work possible.
It’s what makes my work meaningful.

And in a culture racing toward burnout, rest might just be the most revolutionary thing we can do.

With the holidays in full swing, visiting family, telling old jokes, and arguing about politics or your bad haircut, I am reminded of a feeling that too often pops up during this season: shame.

There are things we don’t say to each other. Not because we lack the desire, but because we lack the courage, the clarity, or the language. Words like divorce, miscarriage, depression, suicide. The words that carry an unbearable gravity. We push them off to the margins of conversation, not because they don’t matter, but because they’re too important. Because speaking them might break us.

In the last few years, two of my closest friends have revealed devastating truths to me. Not in some grand moment of confession, but almost… accidentally. One dropped the word “divorce” casually in conversation while I was washing dishes in Santa Fe. Another, while we were playing pool, told me he and his wife had experienced five miscarriages over the past year. I had no idea. No inkling.

Both moments hit me hard. First, with shock. Then with sadness. And then, with anger. Anger not at them, but at the silence. Anger that they had carried such profound pain without me. That they had suffered privately, while I went on believing everything was fine. That I had missed the chance to show up when it mattered most.

But the truth is, I’ve done the same.

When my younger sister, Hannah, died by suicide, I went silent.

For years, I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t even admit I had a sister. I avoided conversations that might lead to her name, to her story, to my grief. Not because I was ashamed of her, but because I was ashamed of how shattered I felt. I was afraid of what would happen if I opened that door. I didn’t want to get pushed in and locked in my grief.

So I said nothing.

We often imagine vulnerability as a single decision. A leap. A dramatic choice to open up. But that hasn’t really been my experience. Vulnerability, in my life, has been more like a spiritual discipline. A slow, persistent practice. A muscle that needs training. It started with small steps. Quiet acknowledgments. Attempts to say her name without trembling. To tell the story without falling apart. It was awkward at first. But I kept trying.

Over time, I discovered something interesting. Most people don’t probe. They generally don’t ask the painful questions that I so greatly feared. They just listen. They nod. They bear witness. And that’s enough. In fact, that’s everything.

I also discovered something else. People don’t hide their suffering because they’re dishonest. They hide it because they are afraid. Afraid of burdening others and being misunderstood. Afraid of being vulnerable in a world that is often careless with vulnerability.

More than anything, they’re afraid of being alone in their pain.

That’s where friendship comes in. Real friendship. Because true friendship isn’t about solving problems or offering advice. Not really… It’s about presence. It’s about saying, “You are not alone. I’m here for you.”

This presence is healing. Not because it fixes anything, but because it reminds us that we matter, and we’re not carrying the unbearable alone.

In a culture obsessed with productivity and image, silence can feel safer than honesty. But the longer we stay silent, the more isolated we become. And eventually, the silence becomes its own kind of prison.

Breaking that silence is terrifying. But it can also be liberating.

When my friend told us about his divorce, he didn’t do it with drama. He just said it. And in saying it, he opened a door back into the community, back into friendship. And we welcomed him through.

The same is true for the friend who shared about the miscarriages. I was initially angry that he hadn’t told me sooner. But then I realized he had been carrying not just grief, but shame. Shame that he had changed his mind about wanting children, and that he hadn’t been able to protect his wife from this pain. Shame that silenced him.

And I hadn’t made it easier. I just assumed he would say something if he was hurting. But maybe I needed to knock on that door, too.

The truth is, vulnerability is mutual. It’s about asking as much as speaking. About creating space and saying, “I’m here. I’m not afraid of your pain.”

I think about these moments often. They’ve made me more attentive and more committed to asking better questions. Not just, “How are you?” but “What has been hard lately?” Not just, “What’s new?” but “Is there anything you have been carrying alone?”

Because sometimes people need an invitation. They need permission to be human, and they need to know the room can hold the weight of their truth.

And sometimes, we need to say the thing out loud not for ourselves, but for the people who love us. Because love isn’t real if it can’t hold sorrow. Because friendship that only exists in joy is not friendship at all.

I think of Hannah often. And now, I speak of her without fear of getting locked in grief. The more we speak, the more we find that we’re not alone. The more we speak, the more we give others permission to do the same.

So if you are carrying something heavy, say it. And if someone around you seems quieter than usual, ask.

Nobody has ever asked me where I went to law school.

Well, nobody paying my bills has asked me (plenty of friends have wanted to know why I moved to Minnesota from Texas for 3 years of ice hell).

Other than that? Not once.

Not when structuring a multi-million dollar fundraising round; not when negotiating a company sale; and not even when navigating messy shareholder disputes.

In nearly a decade of practice, working with hundreds of founders, investors, and CEOs, no one has cared about my alma mater, my GPA, or my class rank.

Here’s what they actually care about:

Can I solve their problem?

Can I help them avoid common risks before they become catastrophes?

Can I guide them through complex decisions with clarity and confidence?

In law, experience dwarfs credentials. Every time.

The legal profession has long sold a dangerous myth — that prestige equals competence. We parade diplomas, firm names, and university brands as if they guarantee wisdom.

But a degree on the wall doesn’t make you a good lawyer.

Reps do.

Failure does.

Learning — over and over again — from real-world problems.

I went to law school with brilliant students from Ivy League backgrounds, and many of them were exceptionally smart. But intelligence isn’t the same thing as wisdom.

Wisdom only comes with time, with mistakes, with clients who challenge you, with deals that fall apart, and with the long, slow process of becoming a true counselor.

And here’s the kicker: AI will only accelerate this truth.

Tasks that once required dozens of associate hours — contract drafting, document review, basic legal research — are being automated.

Clients are realizing they don’t need to pay top dollar for boilerplate work anymore, so that fancy Boston-based degree will have to work much harder to command that same price per hour.

But, the more important question is: What can’t AI automate?

• Strategic thinking

• Sound judgment

• Relational trust

• Knowing when a contract clause looks fine but could blow up a deal down the road

Which is why lawyers who rely solely on pedigree will struggle.

The future belongs to those who can build trust, guide decision-making, and steward the mission of their clients — not just check boxes or bill hours.

In fact, one of the hidden weaknesses of the “prestige pipeline” in law firms is that young lawyers often get siloed into doing the same tiny tasks for years. They become technical experts on minute details — but they miss out on broader experience:

• Sitting face-to-face with clients who might be throwing things across the room or weeping at the potentially bad result coming their way.

• Negotiating under pressure, especially when the facts aren’t in your favor.

• Resolving messy human conflicts with tact and wisdom.

These are skills no degree can confer — and no shortcut can replace.

Clients don’t need you to impress them. They need you to help them.

And often, the best helpers aren’t the ones with the fanciest degrees. They’re the ones who have been in the trenches, learned from their mistakes, and know how to deploy their hard-earned wisdom.

Experience isn’t an add-on. It’s the foundation.

It’s the difference between advice that’s technically correct but strategically disastrous, and advice that actually moves a company forward.

So if you’re choosing a lawyer, don’t ask where they went to school. Ask them how many deals they’ve closed, what they’ve learned from losing, what mistakes they’ve seen — and how they’d help you avoid them.

If you’re a young lawyer, don’t hide behind a diploma.

Get your hands dirty.

Chase experience.

Fail wisely, and often.

Because at the end of the day, the legal profession doesn’t need more prestige.
It needs more judgment, more wisdom, and more people willing to do the hard work of becoming experienced counselors, not just credentialed technicians.

And the market — not the old myths — will reward them.

Here’s something few people outside the legal industry truly understand:

When you hire me as your company’s corporate lawyer, my client isn’t you. It’s the company. Even if you’re the founder, the CEO, or own 90% of the equity.

My duty — legally, ethically, and morally — is to the entity. Not the individual.

This might surprise you, but when someone asks a lawyer: “Is this confidential?” The answer might not always be “yes.” In classic lawyer speak - it depends. It depends on who, exactly, is the client.

This distinction matters more than most realize. And it has real-world consequences — consequences I’ve seen play out again and again over the course of my career.

I’ve had to tell powerful CEOs “no.”

Early in my career, I served as general counsel for a company. The CEO was also the majority owner. In practice, that meant he signed my paychecks and gave me my marching orders. But from a legal standpoint, I didn’t work for him. I worked for the company.

There were moments when he would ask me to draft agreements for his personal side projects, transactions that weren’t directly tied to the company’s core business.

On the surface, it seemed harmless. He even argued that proceeds from these deals might be invested back into the company.

But legally, ethically, it was a landmine.

Mixing personal transactions with corporate resources could have exposed the company — and its investors — to unnecessary liability. It blurred the corporate veil that protects businesses and founders alike, and it constantly made me question whether my work on the deal would put me at odds with my duty to safeguard the company’s future.

So I pushed back.

Because representing a company well sometimes means disappointing powerful individuals — even when it’s uncomfortable.

I’ve sacrificed personal gain to protect corporate integrity.

In another case, I held an equity stake in a company I represented. When that company faced bankruptcy, I had to make decisions that benefited the company’s creditors — not myself.

It would have been easy, even tempting, to find a way to prioritize my own payout.
But legal ethics doesn’t allow for that. My fiduciary duty — my required loyalty to the entity — demanded otherwise.

I had to operate at arm’s length, prioritizing fairness, transparency, and legal compliance over personal profit.

Was it frustrating?

Absolutely.

But it was the right thing to do.

And in law, doing the right thing isn’t optional.

Why this distinction matters for founders and leaders:

When you hire a corporate lawyer, you’re hiring someone to protect the entity — its mission, its structure, and its future. Often, this protection may align with your personal ambitions.
But, other times, they don’t.

And when they don’t, you want a lawyer who knows where their loyalty lies.

Because in moments of tension, clarity saves companies. Integrity preserves futures. And founders who respect that line set themselves — and their businesses — up for long-term success.

If you’re a founder or CEO, here’s what you should expect from good corporate counsel:

● They will advise you in the best interests of the company, even when it’s not personally convenient.

● They will tell you “no” when needed, not just rubber-stamp your plans.

● They will separate your personal goals from the company’s legal needs — protecting both in the process.

If you’re hiring a lawyer, ask yourself:

● Are they clear about who their client is?

● Are they willing to protect the company’s integrity even if it means hard conversations?

● Will they prioritize stewardship over short-term appeasement?

See, the best founders don’t fear these boundaries. They welcome them. Because they know a company built on integrity is a company built to last.

Final Thought:

In a culture obsessed with personal brands, personal gain, and personal platforms, it’s easy to forget that organizations, communities, and our futures matter.

Corporate law, at its best, reminds us of a larger truth:

We are stewards, not owners. And stewardship demands sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering clarity about who — and what — we’re called to serve.

When you find a lawyer who understands that, you don’t just protect your business. You honor the people, the dreams, and the futures that business represents.

And that’s a foundation worth building on.

Welcome to Plain Good Sense — a space for thinking aloud about work, vocation, and what it means to live with purpose in a world that often rewards everything but.

This first essay, Mission Over Market, is where my own story begins. It’s about how I found meaning in the practice of law, why the system often feels broken, and what it might look like to rebuild it around service rather than status.

Thanks for reading. I’m glad you’re here.

— Christopher

Mission Over Market: Why I Became a Lawyer and What Comes Next

“Law school is a process of moral deformation.”
— a college professor of mine once said.

He was right.

I didn’t go to law school to be a lawyer.

Now that might sound strange coming from someone who’s practiced law for almost a decade. But it’s true — I never wanted to be a lawyer.

Really, all I wanted was to be of service.

Before law school, I worked for a nonprofit arm at Baylor University, focused on ending hunger in Texas. A lofty goal, but one I could really sink my teeth into (pun intended). When that work brought me to the steps of the Capitol in Austin and the corridors of power in D.C., I fell in love with the power of advocacy - the work of instituting policies that could ease the lives of millions. At the time, lobbying seemed like the best path forward, and the most effective lobbyists I knew all had law degrees. So of course, I followed suit.

As life usually goes, despite my intentions, I eventually found myself actually practicing law: advising founders, helping startups raise capital, structuring real estate deals, and guiding clients through the chaos of launching or exiting a business.

Now I won’t pretend I love the practice of law itself (I don’t), but I’ve found walking with people through some of the most pivotal, hopeful moments in their lives holds real meaning.

Still, in my opinion, the profession itself is broken. I believe we’ve created a legal marketplace that has the ability to (at its worst) corrupt the soul. As my college professor once told me, “Law school is a process of moral deformation.” Too often, that holds true.

Our legal industry has become very effective at being efficient for itself and inefficient for its clients, those it serves. The market has reduced people to billable units: six-minute increments on a spreadsheet. And it rewards burnout by making partners out of those individuals willing to go above and beyond the standard 80-hour workweek. It seems to me it has commodified (billable) intellect and sacrificed virtue.

It’s no wonder so many lawyers feel disillusioned… It’s why I sometimes feel the same.

Throughout my journey - through law, investment banking, development, and advocacy - my faith has always been my compass. It keeps me going on days when I’d rather not. And most importantly, my faith reminds me of my purpose in life: namely, to serve. To serve my wife, my friends, my clients, and my community. That call to service is not theoretical; it’s a daily, sacred call to be of help to those who need it most.

As I look toward the future, then, one that could potentially include a run for public office, I carry this conviction with me: Service over status. Faith over fear. Mission over market.

There are real issues facing our society and its people — skyrocketing housing costs, a looming water crisis, a fraying social fabric. We need voices that understand policy but lead with principle. I hope to be one of them.

Because while I may have started this journey wanting to change the system from the outside, I now believe the only way forward is from within — through faith, service, and relentless hope.

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