The Empty Leaderboard

2,530 words, 13 minutes read time.

Mark Holloway felt the heat of the stage lights on his neck, but for the first time in his life, it didn’t feel like a spotlight of judgment. It felt like a cleansing fire. He stayed in that embrace with Chris for a long moment—long enough for the silence in the room to turn from awkward to heavy, and finally, to something holy. When he pulled back, he saw that Chris wasn’t the “Lakefront King” he had built him up to be in his mind. Chris looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes that no Instagram filter could have hidden if Mark had been looking for them instead of looking for reasons to feel inferior.

“Mark,” Chris whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cooling fans in the ceiling. “That lake photo? That was the only ten minutes of that entire weekend we weren’t screaming at each other. My oldest son told me he hates me on the drive home. I spent the last three nights sleeping on the couch because I don’t know how to talk to my wife anymore. I saw you walk in every Sunday and I thought, ‘There’s Holloway. He’s got that quiet, steady strength. I wish I was that composed.'”

Mark felt a dry, ironic laugh bubble up in his chest. “We’ve been haunting each other, Chris. We’ve been living in each other’s shadows, and the shadows aren’t even real.”

The pastor, a man named Miller who usually kept a tight grip on the “order of service,” didn’t move toward the microphone. He stayed in the front row, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking slightly. The “program” had officially died, and in its place, something raw was breathing. Mark looked back at the stage—the mahogany lectern, the expensive lighting, the 4K screens. It all looked like cardboard now. It was all just scaffolding for the real work happening on the floor.

Mark turned toward the rest of the men. He didn’t go back to the microphone. He didn’t need the ten thousand watts anymore. “I used to think that being a ‘Man of God’ meant being a man of answers,” he said, his natural voice carrying through the hushed rows. “I thought it meant having the firmest grip and the most certain spirit. But look at us. We’re a room full of experts on things that don’t matter and novices on the things that do. We know the stats of players who don’t know we exist, but we don’t know the fears of the man sitting six inches away from us.”

A man in the back, someone Mark recognized as a high-powered attorney named Steven, stood up. Steven was known for his sharp suits and an even sharper tongue in committee meetings. He wasn’t wearing a suit tonight. He was wearing a faded polo shirt, and he looked smaller than Mark remembered.

“I’ve spent forty thousand dollars on a kitchen remodel I didn’t need because I wanted my brother to be jealous,” Steven said, his voice cracking. “And my daughter hasn’t looked me in the eye in six months because I’m never home to eat in that kitchen. I’m a success in the courtroom and a stranger in my own hallway. I look at all of you and I feel like I’m wearing a costume.”

One by one, the “Holloway Effect” began to ripple through the pews. It wasn’t a landslide; it was a slow, steady breaking of a dam. These weren’t the polished testimonies you hear on a Sunday morning—the ones where the struggle is safely in the past tense and wrapped in a neat bow. These were “present tense” confessions.

Mark sat down on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the side. He felt a strange sense of peace watching the hierarchy of the church evaporate. The “Alpha” guys, the “Quiet” guys, the “Success” stories, and the “Struggling” cases were all bleeding into a single, unified color: human.

He thought about his house—the one with the mortgage that felt like a collar around his neck. He thought about the SUV with the French fry in the seat crack. He thought about the regional account he didn’t get. For years, those things had been the metrics of his soul. If the account was up, Mark was up. If the house needed a repair he couldn’t afford, Mark was “broken.” He had tied his identity to a set of moving targets, and he was exhausted from the chase.

“You know,” Mark said, catching the attention of a younger guy in the front row who looked like he was about to bolt for the exit out of sheer vulnerability-overload. “The hardest thing I ever had to do wasn’t admitting I failed. It was admitting that even if I succeeded, it wouldn’t be enough. We’re all trying to fill a canyon with pebbles. We think if we just get a bigger pebble—a faster car, a better title, a more ‘spiritual’ reputation—the hole will go away. But the hole is infinite. And the only thing that fits in an infinite hole is an infinite grace.”

He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a middle-manager. They were soft in some places, calloused in others. They weren’t the hands of a warrior or a titan of industry. They were just Mark’s hands.

“I spent my whole life wanting to be David,” he mused, referring to the biblical king. “But I think I’m actually just one of the guys in the army who was hiding in the trenches because Goliath looked too big. And the irony is, I was hiding from you guys too. I thought if you saw my fear, you’d leave me behind. I didn’t realize you were in the trench next to me, just as terrified, watching me to see if I’d run first.”

The atmosphere in the room had shifted from a “conference” to a “hospital.” The fluorescent hum of the lobby seemed miles away. Here, under the dimming stage lights, there was a sense of heavy, honest brotherhood that Mark had spent forty years looking for and forty seconds finding once he stopped lying.

He stood up again, but this time he walked toward the back of the room. He wanted to get away from the “Main Stage” entirely. He wanted to be on the level ground. He passed David, the man with the truck, who reached out and gripped Mark’s forearm. David didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes was a silent “thank you.” It was the look of a man who had been given permission to stop holding his breath.

Mark reached the back doors, the heavy oak handles cool to the touch. He turned back one last time to look at the room. The men were no longer sitting in neat rows. They were gathered in small clusters, talking, some with hands on each other’s shoulders, some just sitting in a shared, comfortable silence. The “Leaderboard” was gone. The “Highlight Reel” had been edited down to the raw footage.

“I’m going home,” Mark whispered to himself.

But home didn’t feel like a place he had to perform for anymore. Home was just the next stop on a journey where he didn’t have to be anyone but Mark Holloway. He pushed the doors open, the cool night air hitting him like a physical blessing.

The cool night air was sharp, smelling of rain and the distant scent of pine mulch from the church’s landscaping. Mark stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the silence of the parking lot wash over him. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked toward his SUV—the silver crossover he had spent so many years despising because it wasn’t something else.

As he reached for the door handle, he heard the heavy thud of the sanctuary doors opening behind him. He turned to see Jim, the group leader with the booming charisma, stepping out into the light of the entryway. Jim looked different without the pulpit in front of him. He looked smaller, his shoulders slightly hunched against the chill.

“Mark! Wait up,” Jim called out. He jogged down the concrete steps, his breath blooming in the air like small, white ghosts. When he reached Mark, he didn’t offer a handshake or a pat on the back. He just stood there, looking at the silver SUV.

“I’ve lived in this town for fifteen years,” Jim said softly. “I’ve led this group for five. And tonight was the first time I felt like I wasn’t the only one in the room who didn’t have a clue what he was doing.”

Mark leaned against his car door. “You too, Jim? I figured you had a direct line. You always look like you’ve got the next five years mapped out.”

Jim let out a short, hollow laugh. “Mark, I spend my Tuesday afternoons rehearsing my ‘spontaneous’ prayers in the shower so I don’t sound like an idiot. I stay up until two in the morning wondering if I’m just a professional Christian who’s lost the plot. When you got up there and talked about the leaderboard… I realized I’m the one who built the leaderboard. I thought that was my job. To keep everyone climbing.”

“It’s a long way down,” Mark said, not unkindly.

“It is,” Jim agreed. “But the air is better down here, isn’t it?”

They stood in silence for a minute, two men in a parking lot, no longer defined by their titles or their perceived successes. Jim reached out and squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “See you Sunday, Mark. And hey… don’t worry about the parking spot next to David’s truck. He told me he’s selling it tomorrow. He’s going back to a sedan so he can start paying off his kid’s tuition.”

Mark watched Jim walk to his own car, then he climbed into the driver’s seat of his SUV. He didn’t turn on the radio. He didn’t check his phone for notifications. He just sat in the dark. He reached down and picked up the lone, shriveled French fry from the console—the tiny, greasy monument to his “mediocre” life. He looked at it for a second and then tossed it into the small trash bag hanging from the dash. It was a small act of cleaning, a minor order in the chaos.

The drive home felt shorter than usual. He wasn’t racing the phantom cars of his imagination. He wasn’t rehearsing the speech he’d give his boss to explain why the regional account was better off with the younger guy. He just drove. He noticed the way the streetlights reflected in the puddles, the way the neighborhood houses looked warm and yellow in the dark.

When he pulled into his driveway, he saw the light in the living room was still on. He saw the shadow of his wife, Sarah, moving past the window. Usually, this was the moment the “Mask” went on. He would straighten his posture, wipe the exhaustion from his face, and prepare to be the “Standard-Issue Husband.”

But tonight, Mark Holloway stayed in the car for a moment longer. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. He saw a man who was tired, yes, but he also saw a man who was finally, undeniably real. He thought about his son, Leo, and the bike chain that needed fixing. He thought about the daughter who was becoming a stranger and the wife who deserved to know the man she actually married, not the one he was trying to be.

He opened the garage door, the motor groaning with a familiar, domestic rhythm. He walked through the mudroom, kicking off his sneakers. The house smelled like laundry detergent and the taco seasoning from dinner.

Sarah was on the couch, a book open in her lap. She looked up as he walked in, her eyes searching his face with that intuitive, terrifyingly accurate “wife-radar.”

“How was the meeting?” she asked, her voice soft. “Was it the usual? Coffee and a ‘be a better man’ lecture?”

Mark walked over to the couch. He didn’t stand over her. He sat down on the floor by her feet, leaning his back against the cushions. It was a position of vulnerability, of being “less than” in a way that felt entirely right.

“No,” Mark said, reaching up to take her hand. “It wasn’t that at all. I think… I think I finally quit my job today.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, her hand tensing in his. “The firm? Mark, we can’t—”

“No, not the firm,” he interrupted, turning to look at her. “I quit the other job. The one where I try to be everyone else. I’m just going to be me for a while. Is that okay? It might be a little messy. I might not have the best truck in the lot or the most polished prayer in the room.”

Sarah looked at him for a long beat, her expression softening into something Mark hadn’t seen in years—a look of pure, uncomplicated relief. She reached down and ran her fingers through his thinning hair.

“Mark Holloway,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for that guy to come home for a decade.”

Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Leo was probably awake, sneaking a book under the covers. Tomorrow, there would be bills to pay. Tomorrow, the younger guy would start the regional account. Tomorrow, the world would still be full of leaderboards and highlight reels.

But as Mark sat there on the floor, his wife’s hand in his and the weight of the world finally off his shoulders, he knew he wasn’t afraid of tomorrow anymore. He had found the one thing that no amount of competition could provide: he had been found out, and he was still loved.

The leaderboard was gone. The race was over. And for the first time in his life, Mark Holloway was exactly where he wanted to be. He was home.

Author’s Note

This story is for the man sitting in his driveway with the engine idling, staring at the garage door and wondering when the hell he’s finally going to feel like he’s “arrived.”

We’ve all been sold a lie. We’ve been told that manhood is a ladder, and if you aren’t climbing, you’re suffocating. We walk into our churches, our offices, and our gyms with our chests out and our secrets locked in the basement, terrified that if the guy next to us sees a single dent in our armor, we’re finished. We spend our lives comparing our raw, unedited internal disasters to the polished, high-definition highlight reels of everyone else.

Mark Holloway is the guy in the mirror. He’s the man who realized that the “Leaderboard” he was killing himself to climb was actually a gallows. He finally understood that you can’t be loved if you refuse to be known, and you can’t be known if you’re too busy pretending to be a goddamn superhero.

Stop looking at the guy in the next lane. Stop measuring your worth by the badge on your grille or the title on your door. As it says in Galatians 6:4:

“Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.”

This story is a punch in the mouth to the “Sunday Morning Mask.” It’s a reminder that the most masculine thing you will ever do isn’t winning a fight or closing a deal—it’s having the stones to drop the shield and tell the truth.

The race is a scam, brothers. Step off the track. The only person you’re supposed to outrun is the fake version of yourself you’ve been dragging around for years. Go inside. Be real. Be home.

Call to Action

If this story struck a chord, don’t just scroll on. Join the brotherhood—men learning to build, not borrow, their strength. Subscribe for more stories like this, drop a comment about where you’re growing, or reach out and tell me what you’re working toward. Let’s grow together.

D. Bryan King

Sources

• Galatians 6:4-5 – Testing Your Own Actions
• 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 – Strength in Weakness
• 1 Samuel 16:7 – God Looks at the Heart
• Proverbs 14:30 – The Rot of Envy
• Psalm 139 – Being Fully Known by the Creator
• The Thief of Joy: Dealing with Comparison – Desiring God
• Escaping the Comparison Trap – The Gospel Coalition
• What does the Bible say about comparing yourself to others? – GotQuestions
• The Comparison Trap: Why Men Compete – Man in the Mirror Ministries
• Coming Out of Hiding – Wild at Heart (John Eldredge)
• Overcoming the Comparison Trap – Focus on the Family
• Matthew Henry’s Commentary on Galatians 6:4
• The Crisis of Male Loneliness – Christianity Today
• The Sin of Comparison – Tim Challies
• The Importance of Vulnerability in Men’s Groups – MensGroup

Disclaimer:

The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.

Known, Guarded, and Still Becoming

As the Day Ends

“O LORD, you have searched me and known me… I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” — Psalms 139:1, 14

As the day draws to a close, our minds often replay conversations, decisions, and moments we wish we could revise. Evening has a way of softening our defenses, allowing doubts and self-criticism to surface. Into that vulnerable space, Psalm 139 speaks with gentle authority. David reminds us that God’s knowledge of us is not observational alone, but relational. The Hebrew verb yadaʿ—“to know”—carries the sense of intimate, personal knowing. God does not merely register our actions; He understands the motives beneath them, the fears we carry, and the hopes we rarely articulate. When Scripture says He knows when we sit and when we rise, it declares that no part of our ordinary life escapes His attentive care.

This truth challenges a common lie whispered at the end of the day: that we are unseen, misunderstood, or alone with our failures. The psalm insists otherwise. God hems us in—behind and before—an image suggesting protection rather than confinement. His hand upon us is not the weight of judgment, but the assurance of presence. Shame tells us to hide from such knowledge; faith invites us to rest in it. David dares to say that God’s complete knowledge of him is “wonderful,” not terrifying. That adjective signals something beyond comprehension yet deeply comforting. As we prepare for rest, this truth steadies the soul: nothing about us is a surprise to God, and nothing we carry into the night places us outside His care.

The opening exhortation—refusing to let the enemy pluck away the seeds God has planted—finds its grounding here. Seeds of truth take root best in soil free from accusation and fear. When we rehearse self-loathing, we cultivate the wrong field. Psalm 139 redirects our attention from inner critics to divine craftsmanship. “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” is not positive self-talk; it is theological confession. The word yareʾ (“fearfully”) conveys reverence, suggesting intentional design, while palaʾ (“wonderfully”) speaks of something set apart, extraordinary. To affirm this is not arrogance; it is agreement with God’s declaration over His creation. As the Church Calendar often reminds us—especially in seasons emphasizing repentance and renewal—true rest comes not from self-improvement, but from trusting God’s faithful gaze.

Triune Prayer

Father, You who know me completely, I come to You at the end of this day without pretense. You have seen every moment I have lived today—the words spoken, the thoughts unspoken, the emotions I barely understood myself. Thank You that Your knowledge of me is not condemning but compassionate. Forgive me for the ways I have turned that inward knowledge into self-judgment rather than trust. Help me to rest tonight in the truth that I am fully known and still fully loved. Lay Your hand upon me, not as a reminder of my shortcomings, but as a sign of Your faithful presence surrounding my life.

Jesus, Son of Man and Christ, You stepped into human vulnerability and carried it all the way to the cross. You know what it is to be misunderstood, accused, and weary at the close of the day. I thank You that through You I do not have to fear being exposed before God. Where shame has tried to define me today, remind me that You have already spoken a better word over my life. Teach me to release the weight of self-reproach and to receive the rest You promise to those who come to You weary and burdened. Let my confidence rest not in my performance, but in Your finished work.

Holy Spirit, Comforter and Spirit of Truth, dwell with me as I prepare for sleep. Quiet the voices that would uproot the seeds God has planted in my heart. Where anxiety lingers, breathe peace. Where lies have taken hold, gently replace them with truth. Cultivate belief within me—not shallow optimism, but deep trust that takes root and grows over time. Guide my thoughts toward gratitude and hope, and prepare my heart to awaken tomorrow with renewed confidence in God’s faithful care.

Thought for the Evening

Before you sleep, release self-judgment and consciously entrust your unfinished thoughts and emotions to God, choosing to rest in the truth that you are fully known and lovingly held.

For further reflection on Psalm 139 and God’s intimate knowledge of His people, see this article from Bible Project: https://bibleproject.com/articles/psalm-139-gods-intimate-knowledge/

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Born With Him

When Christ’s Nativity Becomes Our New Beginning

As the Day Begins

Selected Scriptures: Romans 6:6; Galatians 2:20; Ephesians 1:22; 2:5–6; 4:15; Colossians 1:18

The Church calendar draws our hearts again toward the mystery of the Incarnation, not merely as a historical remembrance but as a living reality that continues to shape the people of God. Leo the Great captured this truth with striking clarity when he wrote that “the birthday of the Head is the birthday of the body.” His words remind us that Christmas is not only about the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem but about the birth of a redeemed people who find their life in Him. Scripture repeatedly testifies that what happens to Christ happens, by grace, to those who are united to Him. The apostle Paul declares, “Our old self was crucified with Him” (Romans 6:6), using the Greek word synestaurōthē, meaning “crucified together,” emphasizing shared participation rather than distant observation.

This union with Christ is not symbolic sentiment but spiritual reality. Paul’s confession, “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Galatians 2:20), reveals a life no longer governed by self-originated identity. The Church, described as Christ’s sōma (body), receives life from its kephalē (head), as Ephesians 1:22 proclaims: “He put all things under His feet and gave Him as head over all things to the church.” Just as a body does not exist independently of its head, so the Church draws its life, purpose, and direction from Christ alone. His birth initiates not only redemption’s story but also the Church’s own existence as a living organism in God’s redemptive design.

Leo’s insight presses us further, reminding us that though believers are separated by time and circumstance, they are gathered into one shared story. Paul writes that God “made us alive together with Christ… and raised us up with Him and seated us with Him in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 2:5–6). The Greek verb syzōopoieō—“made alive together”—carries communal force. In Christ’s nativity, His life enters history; in our baptism and faith, that same life enters us. Christmas, then, becomes deeply personal. The Child in the manger is also the risen Lord who incorporates us into His death, resurrection, and exaltation. To awaken to this truth at the start of the day is to step into life already anchored in Christ’s victory and sustained by His living presence.

Triune Prayer

Heavenly Father, as this day opens before me, I give thanks that You are the author of life and the giver of new birth. I praise You for sending Your Son into the world so that humanity might be gathered back into Your heart. Thank You for not leaving me bound to my old self but for including me in Christ’s death and resurrection. Shape my thoughts and actions today so that they reflect the reality that my life is hidden with Christ. Grant me humility to remember that I do not belong to myself, and courage to live as one who has been raised to new life by Your gracious will.

Jesus the Son, I honor You as the Head of the Church and the source of my life. Thank You for entering history through the humility of birth and redeeming it through obedience, sacrifice, and love. As You live within me, teach me to surrender daily, to let Your life be seen through my words, my decisions, and my compassion for others. Help me walk in the truth that Your resurrection power is already at work within me. May I grow up into You in all things, as Scripture calls me to do, bearing witness to Your life through faithful obedience.

Holy Spirit, I welcome Your presence as the One who makes union with Christ real and active in my life. Breathe wisdom into my choices today and remind me when I forget who I am in Christ. Strengthen me when weakness tempts me to live from my old nature rather than my new identity. Guide me gently into truth, shaping my heart so that it remains receptive to Your leading. Let Your transforming work continue within me, that I may live as one truly born from above.

Thought for the Day

Because Christ lives, I live—and today I choose to act, speak, and love as one whose life is inseparably joined to His.

Thank you for beginning your day in God’s presence and allowing His Word to shape your walk.

For further reflection on union with Christ and the nature of the Church, see “Union with Christ” from Desiring God:
https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/union-with-christ

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Six years old.

They say he’s the reborn soul of a sacred master.

And now his life belongs to someone else's prophecy.

You won't forget this one. 🧘‍♂️💔

👉 https://brewminate.com/the-story-of-padma-angdu-tibetan-buddhist-rinpoche

#Brewminate #PadmaAngdu #TibetanBuddhism #ClimateOfFaith #SpiritualIdentity #ChildhoodAndDestiny

Christianity and Brujería Coexistence Through Storytelling: The Ordinary Bruja

Welcome to My 5:30 AM Super Secret Writing Sessions…

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet where thoughts rise to the surface unbothered, where truth bubbles up with the steam of morning cafecito. It’s in these sacred hours before the world wakes up that I find myself face to face with the deepest parts of me—and the stories that demand to be told.

One of those stories is The Ordinary Bruja.

This novel has been a long time coming. Not just because it blends magical realism, psychological horror, and Dominican ancestral memory, but because it finally gave me the space to write about something I’ve carried quietly for so long: the complicated relationship between Christianity and Brujería. And how, despite what many have been told, they can coexist.

Kia, Marisol, and the Argument I’ve Always Wanted to Have

For years, I’ve felt this inner tug-of-war. I was raised with Christian values, but my soul has always whispered to the spirits of my ancestors. I’ve pulled cards for clarity. I’ve lit candles for strength. I’ve spoken to energies older than scripture. And still, I find myself saying amen. Still, I find peace in both paths.

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But I never had the words, the room, or the character to show that contradiction—until Kia.

Kia is Marisol’s best friend in The Ordinary Bruja, and she represents what I’ve always hoped to portray: a belief system grounded in Christianity, yet open enough to sit at the same table with Brujería. Through Kia, I was finally able to hold a conversation between two worlds that people often treat like they have to be at war.

She doesn’t practice brujería, but she respects that Marisol does. That’s the coexistence. That’s the magic. Not in forced agreeance or conversion, but in the sacred art of acknowledgement. Of recognizing someone else’s truth without diminishing your own.

Faith Doesn’t Have to Be a Battlefield

So many spiritual practices rooted in Indigenous, African, and diasporic cultures have been demonized by organized religion. We see it all the time—the way Christian spaces turn their back on brujas, curanderas, espiritistas. But what if we shifted the conversation?

What if spirituality, like identity, isn’t a binary?

The Ordinary Bruja is my love letter to that idea. It’s a novel about reclaiming what’s been lost or shamed. About realizing that magic—whether it comes from prayer or spellwork—has always been within you. Marisol doesn’t just wake up to her ancestral power. She wakes up to herself.

And I want you to witness that journey.

Request an ARC. Read it. Share it. Let’s Start the Conversation.

If you’re drawn to stories that:

• Blend #LatineFiction with ancestral memory and magical realism
• Tackle identity, belonging, and intergenerational trauma
• Explore the sacred tension between Christianity and Brujería
• Center strong female friendship and cultural reclamation
• Ask what it really means to come home to yourself

Then The Ordinary Bruja was written with you in mind.

ARC requests are open. Early readers are already calling it one of the Must-Read Books of 2025. And I believe that, with your help, we can create the kind of word-of-mouth momentum that helps stories like this reach the people who need them most.

This is more than a novel. It’s a return to self.

Don’t forget to ask for it. Don’t forget to read it. And please, help me spread the word.

#ARCRequestsOpen #brujeriaAndChristianity #latineFiction #magicalRealism #marisolEspinal #mustReadBooksOf2025 #ownvoicesFiction #reclaimingAncestry #spiritualIdentity #TheOrdinaryBruja