Years ago, I had a conversation with my son Paxton that I didn’t fully understand until much later.
He was probably seven at the time.
He wanted to go see a friend or go do something, and before he could leave, I asked the question parents have probably asked a million times:
“Is your room clean?”
“Yes!”
The answer came quickly.
So I followed up.
“If I go check, am I going to see that it’s clean?”
Again:
“Yes!”
Then I asked one more question.
“Is it perfect?”
That one changed his entire demeanor.
He melted.
“Dad, you always expect things to be perfect.”
I don’t remember exactly how that conversation ended.
But I remember those words.
And years later, I’ve realized that my seven-year-old son was teaching me something I didn’t fully understand at the time.
Words matter.
Because what I meant and what Paxton heard were two different things.
I wasn’t really asking whether his room was perfect.
What I was trying to ask was:
Did you clean your room to the standard you know we expect?
Those aren’t the same thing.
And it took me longer than it probably should have to understand the difference.
Perfection isn’t the standard.
I’ll be the first to acknowledge that perfectionism is something I struggle with.
I like things done well.
I notice details.
When I see something that can be improved, my instinct is usually to improve it.
That can be a strength.
But I’ve also learned it can become a weakness when the pursuit of excellence quietly becomes the expectation of perfection—for myself or for the people around me.
Perfection is an impossible standard to live under.
Especially when you’re seven years old and trying to get permission to go play with a friend.
But a standard is different.
A standard creates clarity.
What does a clean room look like in our house?
What does being prepared look like?
What does treating someone with respect look like?
What does following through on your word look like?
What does doing your job well look like?
A standard says:
This is what we agreed good looks like.
Perfection says:
Anything short of flawless is failure.
Those produce very different environments.
The Standard Is the Standard
There’s an interesting connection to Paxton in all of this.
He’s a Pittsburgh Steelers fan because of his grandfather.
And Steelers head coach Mike Tomlin has become known for a simple statement:
“The standard is the standard.”
I’ve come to appreciate those words more as I’ve gotten older.
The standard doesn’t disappear because today is inconvenient.
It doesn’t change because you’re tired.
It doesn’t matter whether someone is watching.
It isn’t about perfection.
It’s about understanding what is required and holding yourself accountable to it.
That realization changed some of the language I’ve tried to use with Paxton as he’s gotten older.
He’s twelve now.
The standard I should expect from him today is different from what I expected when he was seven.
Not because the old standard was wrong.
Because he has grown.
He’s more capable.
He knows more.
He has more responsibility.
So the standard can rise with him.
And shouldn’t that be true for all of us?
The standard I held myself to when I started my career shouldn’t be the same standard I hold myself to today.
The standard for someone learning a new role shouldn’t necessarily be the same as the standard for someone who’s been doing it for ten years.
As our capacity increases, so should what we expect from ourselves.
That’s part of growth.
Good. Better. Best.
There’s another lesson I’ve carried with me that fits here.
Rick Rigsby’s Lessons from a Third Grade Dropout includes a statement from his father that has always stuck with me:
“Good isn’t good enough if it can be better and better isn’t good enough if it can be best.”
There’s a drive in that statement that I identify with.
Don’t settle.
Don’t confuse completion with excellence.
If you’re capable of doing better, keep working.
Raise the standard.
But Paxton’s lesson has helped me understand something I need to put alongside Rigsby’s words:
Best and perfect aren’t necessarily the same thing.
Your best today may be different from your best five years from now.
The point isn’t to reach some mythical place where nothing can ever be improved.
The point is to keep developing the person capable of reaching a higher standard.
That’s a distinction I’m still learning.
And then this morning, I heard another perspective on expectations that made me think about that conversation with Paxton all over again.
When expectations become something else
This morning at Element Church in Wentzville, Pastor Aaron Bell spoke about expectations and disappointment with God.
One of the central ideas of the message was simple but challenging:
Without expectations, we can’t have disappointment.
Think about that.
So much of our disappointment comes from the gap between what actually happened and what we had already decided should happen.
We expected the opportunity.
We expected the promotion.
We expected the relationship to work out a certain way.
We expected the prayer to be answered the way we wanted.
We expected the timeline to look different.
And when reality doesn’t match the picture we’ve created, disappointment fills the gap.
The message this morning challenged us to look instead to God’s character rather than the expectations we place on Him.
That hit me.
Because I started thinking about the difference between standards and expectations again.
There are standards I need to hold myself accountable to.
How I work.
How I treat people.
How I lead.
How I parent.
How I respond when things don’t go my way.
How I live out my faith.
Those are things I have some ownership over.
But trouble starts when I turn my expectations into obligations for everyone else.
Including God.
I can pray.
I can prepare.
I can work.
I can hope.
I can pursue something with everything I have.
But faith isn’t an agreement where I do those things and God is therefore obligated to produce the outcome I expected.
That’s not trust.
That’s a transaction.
And maybe there’s a leadership lesson buried there too.
Hold the standard. Loosen your grip on the outcome.
I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to make things better.
Sometimes that’s served me incredibly well.
Sometimes I’ve probably tried too hard to control what “better” was supposed to look like.
That’s where standards, perfection and expectations can become tangled together.
A standard says: Here’s what is required of me.
Perfectionism says: I cannot fall short.
Expectation says: Here’s what I believe should happen.
Faith says: I’ll do what I’m called to do and trust God with what I cannot control.
I’m still working on all four.
As a dad.
As a husband.
As a leader.
As a runner.
And in my faith.
Running gives me a pretty tangible example.
Detroit is getting closer.
I have a standard I need to hold myself to between now and October 18.
Train.
Get the miles in.
Take care of my body.
Prepare appropriately for 26.2 miles.
I haven’t done that perfectly.
I’ve written about that recently.
So I need to recommit to the standard.
But I also can’t control everything that will happen on race day.
Weather.
How my body responds.
Something unexpected happening during the race.
I can prepare well and still have a day that doesn’t unfold exactly as I pictured it.
Preparation is my responsibility. The outcome isn’t entirely mine.
That’s true of considerably more than running.
Back to that messy room
Paxton is twelve now.
Five years have passed since that conversation.
And I suspect the cleanliness of a twelve-year-old boy’s room will continue to provide opportunities for character development—for both of us.
But I don’t ask him for perfection.
At least I’m trying not to.
What I want him to understand is the standard.
And eventually, I don’t want him cleaning his room because Dad might come inspect it.
I want him to develop his own standards.
That’s the real goal.
Because whether we’re raising children or leading adults, constantly enforcing a standard from the outside isn’t the highest form of accountability.
Ownership is.
Eventually, you want people to know what good looks like and expect it from themselves.
Not because someone is standing over them.
Because it’s become part of their character.
And maybe that’s where all three lessons come together for me.
From a seven-year-old boy who thought his dad expected perfection.
From a football coach reminding his team that the standard doesn’t change.
From Rick Rigsby’s reminder that there’s always room to become better.
And from a Sunday morning message reminding me that my expectations aren’t promises God made to me.
Set standards.
Pursue excellence.
Keep getting better.
But don’t confuse any of those things with perfection.
And don’t become so attached to your expectation of the outcome that you miss what God may be doing when life doesn’t go according to your plan.
Hold yourself accountable for what is yours.
Give others room to grow.
Choose your words carefully.
And when you’ve done what you’re responsible for doing, have enough faith to loosen your grip on everything you aren’t.
I’m still learning that.
It started with a messy bedroom.
I’m beginning to realize the lesson was much bigger than the room.
The standard is the standard.
But perfection was never supposed to be.
#MondayMilesAndLeadership
#BuiltForTheLongRun
#Standards #Leadership #Fatherhood #Faith #Growth