Snooze.

Five minutes later: Beep. Beep— click. A small, groggy victory.

It’s 7:45, which means I have fifteen minutes to get ready for school. I throw on my Tuesday best, rush downstairs, and grab a slice of freshly buttered toast hugging my mom with my free hand as I head out the door. There are three minutes until the bell rings for my 8 a.m. sixth-grade algebra class. It’s a five-minute walk, but I calculate that if I sprint I can make it in two. With Nikes on my feet, toast in one hand, and a Lunchables in the other, I bolt down the street. Passing David’s house, I notice the empty driveway - his parents already dropped him off on the way to work. A few yards ahead is Kevin, equally determined. I shout for him to slow down, but his tiger mom shoots me a look from the driveway, as if a tardy would jeopardize both our futures. I shrug, pick up the pace, and with seconds to spare, Kevin and I slide into line just as the bell rings. Another buzzer beater. Another small victory.

At the time, this felt like life: always slightly late, always moving quickly, always assuming someone had built a system that would catch you if you stumbled. As I’ve grown older, I’ve become increasingly aware of how fortunate I was to be raised in Fremont, California. A city where grocery stores were never more than a mile apart, boba shops filled every plaza, and ambition hung thick in the air quietly absorbed by the next generation. Crime was low. Schools were strong. Opportunity felt assumed. But like any city, it also had parts you learned not to look at for too long.

Take a shortcut down a side street and the picture changes: encampments tucked into hidden alleys, RVs lining low-traffic commercial roads, or tents beneath highway overpasses. I drove faster when I encountered these places and always avoided eye contact with the man holding the sign at the intersection not in hostility but in unfamiliarity. I didn’t know the rules of engagement or how to enter those spaces without feeling intrusive or exposed. Within a city defined by abundance, progress, and opportunity, there were also clear signs of lack. And for most of my life I passed them by.

On a Tuesday night in 2020, I joined my friend K to go to an encampment which he’d been visiting every week for over a year. His involvement started with curiosity and Nature Valley granola bars. He drove through one day, interested in what was happening, offered the crumbled snack, stayed to talk, and eventually developed friendships. That same curiosity shaped our plan that night. We loaded his car (this time with baked goods and snacks grouped deliberately) and headed toward C Street. On the drive over, K explained the dynamics of the street and boy was it complex. There were conflicts, entanglements, alliances, drama, risk, and harm. What did I expect when lives live so publicly and without margin? I continued to listen, nodding, trying to picture what we were walking into. We parked at a bend in the road and stepped out of the car.

C Street was quiet. No real traffic. No reason to be there unless you worked nearby or needed a way through town. I remembered driving the street on the way to the gym during rush hour. Looking down the street, the contrast was immediate. On the left: neat commercial buildings, parked cars, trimmed hedges, clean sidewalks. On the right: worn-down clearly lived in RVs, tents, piles of belongings, trash bins overflowing, the smell lingering in the air. It was Fremont as I knew it, pressed directly against a world I had barely acknowledged. I felt embarrassed - not just that this existed so close to home, but that it had taken this long for me to notice.

We crossed to the right side of the street and stopped at the first RV. K knocked. The door opened almost immediately. A woman named S greeted us, followed closely by a massive pit bull that ran straight toward me. I had never had a dog charge me like that before.

“K!” she shouted, breaking into a smile as she hugged him.

I stood off to the side while K introduced me and S asked a few polite questions. I answered quietly. Mostly I watched the ease between them. At one point, she shared something heavy. K listened and didn’t interrupt. Unsure what to do, I stepped back and crouched to pet the dog. I noticed a large tumor protruding from its side. K later told me it had been growing for months and there wasn’t money to remove it. Still, the dog leaned into my hand, tail wagging, content in a way that felt incongruous with what it carried. K prayed for S. We hugged and said goodbye.

At the next RV, no one answered. K knocked once. Then again. Then called out. Nothing. He jogged back to the car, returned with a bag of Chips Ahoy, handed them to me, and told me to place it on the curb in front of the RV door.

“These are their favorite.”

On our way to another RV, a man biked past us slowly, watching as if we weren’t supposed to be there. I felt my shoulders tighten. K waved casually and asked if he wanted any extra groceries.

“What do you got?” the man said.

We walked back to the trunk. K lifted it open, revealing the abundance inside. The man took a few things, nodded in gratitude, and rode off. Later, K told me he barely knew him and that he’d felt unwelcome too. It was their first interaction since K first visited over a year ago. K smiled at the openness of it. My shoulders finally relaxed.

The rest of the night unfolded in a quiet rhythm. Some people were home. Some weren’t. Conversations happened where they could. When they did they sounded familiar: updates from the week, frustrations, small delights. K shared about his job, his family. Advice passed back and forth without ceremony. I noticed how little he tried to fix anything.

I drove home from C street feeling unsettled and I couldn’t yet name why. Nothing dramatic happened and interactions mostly felt normal. No clear lesson revealed itself but I knew something in me had shifted.

Consistent as he is, K went back the following Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that. Eventually so did I. At first, I came alongside him. Then one week I went alone. I was nervous the whole drive. Of course people missed him and asked where he was. Over time, relationships formed slowly and unevenly. Some weeks felt meaningful. Others felt awkward. Sometimes nothing happened at all. I began to notice changes not neatly and not all at once. Someone talked about cutting back. Some spoke a little differently about themselves. Some asked for prayer when they never had before. What I did know was my Tuesday nights no longer felt optional. For months I returned. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was no longer just observing renewal but standing inside it. I was changing too - walking alongside others as we discovered dignity, love, purpose, and opportunity together.

There are places we pass every day without seeing. Streets we use as shortcuts. Lives lived inches from ours that remain unseen because noticing them would ask something of us. Growing up in Fremont, I learned how to move quickly—to make the most of opportunity, to stay on pace, to climb. I assumed the goal was to keep advancing, trusting that the system would reward effort and catch you if you slipped.

C Street undid that. There were the occasional buzzer-beater victories, but no ladder. No clean progress. Just people, week after week, living without margin. I went there thinking I would witness change - or be the one to drive it. And while change did happen, I learned that all the important work happened outside of my control. Progress is slow. Outcomes are unclear. And the only measure that matters is whether you show up and make yourself available.

I’ve always been someone who feels most alive when I’m creating or executing — when I’m doing something. So naturally, I saw Carey’s quote as a kind of validation and a reason to keep pushing forward, to use my ambition for kingdom purposes.

But over time, that motivation started to feel more complicated.

• Was I really doing this for God, or was I trying to prove something to myself?

• Was this obedience—or insecurity?

• Am I getting ahead of God?

After all, He doesn’t need me. He’s not waiting around for my help to accomplish His plans. And yet… I’ve also been told He wants to use me. That He delights when His children join in what He’s doing.

So where does that leave me? Somewhere between grace and ambition, rest and effort. If I push too hard, I fear slipping into legalism. If I pull back, I worry I’m being unfaithful with what He’s entrusted to me.

I’m learning that the gospel doesn’t erase that tension—it redeems it. Grace doesn’t silence effort; it purifies it. The kind of striving God calls us to isn’t about proving our worth, but responding to His love. Holy ambition isn’t self-made—it’s Spirit-born.

Good Effort vs. Bad Effort

• Good effort: effort that is the vehicle of divine power

• Bad effort: effort that tries to be its own power

Good effort isn’t about gritting your teeth to impress God. It’s effort that rides on the current of grace. Bad effort runs on self-importance, anxiety, or image-building. It may look productive, but it is spiritually weightless.

What is grace?

If effort can be redeemed, then grace must be more than a pardon. To understand how grace shapes our ambition, we need both of its angles—both are essential:

• Undeserved favor

• Power for living

Undeserved Favor

We can’t work to earn grace. It is free and undeserved.

• Romans 3:24

• Romans 5:15

• Romans 11:5

• Ephesians 2:8

Grace as Power for Life

Grace isn’t just a disposition in God; it’s an active force—His empowering presence working in us. It changes our capacity for work, suffering, and obedience.

• 2 Corinthians 9:8

• 2 Corinthians 12:9

• 1 Corinthians 15:10

• Hebrews 4:16

Paul describes grace not as something static, but dynamic:

“God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work.” — 2 Corinthians 9:8

Grace sustains us in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9) and energizes our effort (1 Corinthians 15:10). In every case, grace isn’t merely given — it works.

And when Hebrews calls us to draw near to the “throne of grace,” it’s not just saying God forgives us — it’s saying He meets us with well-timed help. Grace is both the heart of God to treat us better than we deserve and His power extended to help us when we most need it.

If grace is both favor and power, then the question naturally follows: what should that power produce in us? What kind of ambition pleases God?

(Shout-out to my guy John Piper for shaping how I understand grace 🙌🏼)

Does ambition matter to God?

Is there such a thing as good vs. bad ambition? My short answer is yes.

• Holy ambition is “from God.” It has a God-shaped origin and a God-centered aim. It wants Christ known and people loved. See: Holy Ambition: Paul’s and Yours

• Unholy ambition can be “for us” or even “for God,” but still revolve around self. It uses God-language as a ladder for personal glory.

The difference isn’t only in what we do, but in where the desire comes from and what it’s aiming at.

The gospel sequence: Grace → Ambition → Effort

1. God’s grace comes first

2. Grace kindles holy ambition

3. Holy ambition expresses itself in sustained, joyful effort

God’s Grace → Holy Ambition → The “Right” Effort

This order matters. When we invert it, we either:

• Try to produce grace by effort, which is legalism

• Or we attempt ambition without grace, which becomes self-promotion

Kept in order, effort becomes an instrument, not an idol.

How to test your effort

Ask three questions:

1. Origin: Is this desire arising from prayerful dependence, Scripture-shaped vision, and love for people? Or from comparison, insecurity, or fear?

2. Aim: Would this still be “worth it” if nobody noticed but God? Is the good of others the point, not the prop?

3. Engine: Am I moving by the strength that God supplies, or by caffeine, panic, and pride? Do prayer, patience, and repentance sit inside my workflow?

Where grace is the engine, the fruit can look like love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Where self is the engine, the fruit can looks like hurry, envy, harshness, and exhaustion.

What good effort can feel like:

• Clear conscience: motives are periodically re-surrendered to God

• Quiet persistence: urgency without panic

• Repentant flexibility: able to stop, adjust, apologize, and keep going

• Joy in smallness: content to be a conduit, not the source

What bad effort can feel like:

• Chronic comparison and defensiveness

• Fragility when plans fail or credit shifts

• Prayer becomes an afterthought

• A low-grade hum of anxiety dressed up as “drive”

Practices that keep the order right

• Begin with receiving: a brief daily prayer, “All this by the strength that you supply”

• Clarify aim: write a one-sentence purpose for the work that centers God’s glory and others’ good

• Build in repentance: short pauses to confess mixed motives and ask for clean hands and a steady heart

• End with gratitude: name evidences of grace, not just metrics

A word on “for God” language

It’s possible to do things “for God” in a way that keeps self at the center. The check isn’t the phrase we use but the power we rely on and the fruit that shows up over time. Holy ambition tends to produce humble, steady builders rather than anxious empire-makers.

Bottom line

So maybe Carey was right after all — but only when read through the lens of grace. Expect great things from God, yes. Attempt great things with God, not just for Him.

Grace doesn’t compete with effort. It creates the right kind of effort. When grace births holy ambition, effort becomes a vehicle of divine power, not a bid for divine approval. Receive grace. Let it set the aim. Then work hard in the strength God supplies.

Further listening and reading

• John Piper on Grace and Holy Ambition

At the event, I met folks across the entrepreneurship spectrum: professionals with stable jobs wanting to learn more about entrepreneurship, ambitious young bucks with side hustles, first time founders who’ve raised ¥ XXm, seasoned founders with a few exits. It was epic to see diversity in culture, age, and experience in one room to learn from and support one another.

As the only one from Silicon Valley (and also the only American) I received questions on the startup landscape, trends in AI usage and development, raising money from VC, challenges in getting a Visa, opportunities available in the US. Naturally, I turned the question around and asked about the landscape in Japan. As I chatted, a common theme emerged. Many early-stage founders expressed a desire to work or start a company in the US. While there are channels for entrepreneurship in Japan, they perceive it is easier in the America. There is no shortage of founder communities, incubators, VCs, talent-dense networks ready to adopt a shiny new tool.

Of course, America isn’t perfect - we have our share problems - but I can’t deny it’s reputation as “the land of opportunity”.

• The U.S. remains the largest global economy with many major cities offering diverse job sectors, particularly in technology, finance, and healthcare.

• A culture of risk-taking, entrepreneurship, and relatively limited regulation can enable faster career advancement, especially for those pursuing new business ventures or tech startups.

• Compared to Europe, the U.S. typically allows for higher upward mobility, though job security is less firm and social safety nets are more limited, meaning setbacks can be harder to recover from.

The data backs the narrative: the U.S. still offers strong potential for those seeking dynamic, high-reward environments and willing to take risks. But the global landscape is shifting and that’s a reflection for another time.

Hearing people long for opportunity in the U.S. made me reflect on how much of it I already have and how little of it I earned.

Gratitude… But to what end?

I had a few hours before my flight home to journal and process the trip. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunity to travel, to meet new people, to see God’s favor woven through it all. That quiet space helped me recognize how much of my life I’ve been given, not earned. Loving parents. A stable home in Silicon Valley. Education. Opportunities. All of it outside my control. I couldn’t help but wonder how differently life might have turned out had I been dealt another hand.

Gratitude led me to a sobering question: what does it mean to steward all this well? To use what I’ve been given—privilege, resources, opportunities—not for self-preservation, but for something beyond me. The answer, of course, depends on one’s worldview.

As I journaled, I remembered the Parable of the Talents which tells of a master who entrusts money to three servants before a journey; two invest and double their share, while the third buries his. The master rewards the faithful, but punishes the fearful servant by taking his remaining talent and giving it to the one who multiplied the most.

When I first read this years ago, I was unsettled by the master’s response. Was the message that I needed to make more money for God? Over time, I realized it’s not about financial gain, but about stewardship and faithfully investing whatever God entrusts to us: time, ability, opportunity, even privilege - and offering Him a return.

It was already clear I’ve been given much but what’s less clear is how to invest it and the return expected of me. What are the metrics that matter to God? Is it how many stomachs of the poor we feed? How much we give away? Or is it something deeper?

ROI - The “Return” that God Expects

I wrestled with this question in a conversation with a friend. He reminded me that in the parable, the master’s praise isn’t about how much the servants produced. Both faithful servants—one with five talents, the other with two—receive the exact same words:

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

It suggests the master’s joy wasn’t rooted in the size of their return but in their faithfulness with what they were given. The third servant’s problem wasn’t poor performance. He did nothing. Out of fear or mistrust, he buried what was entrusted to him.

Maybe what God desires most isn’t measurable output, but movement - a posture of trust that leads to faithful action, even when we don’t fully understand the outcome or God’s fairness in the moment. Inaction, not failure, is the true loss. As a side note, I do wish the parable included a servant who lost half his investment just to see how the master would respond.

So what exactly is God asking us to “invest”? The parable doesn’t spell it out directly, so we have to look at the rest of Scripture.

• In Genesis, God’s first command to all of humanity (Adam and Eve) is to “be fruitful and multiply.” Fruitfulness meant cultivating creation and exercising wisdom, moral and spiritual.

• In Psalm 1, the blessed person “bears fruit in season” by meditating on God’s Word day and night—nurturing an inner life aligned with His ways.

• In Galatians 5, the “fruit of the Spirit” isn’t productivity or impact, but love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

So perhaps the “return” God seeks is moral fruitfulness—the visible outworking of inward transformation. Faithful effort produces fruit not because of our skill, but because we participate in God’s redemptive work. Our role is to cultivate; His is to give growth.

Stewardship – Letting Grace Grow

As I consider what’s next post-sabbatical, I feel called to steward my privilege—not to multiply my comfort, but to multiply grace. The gifts of family, education, opportunity, and even geography aren’t random advantages but invitations to participate in God’s generosity.

God entrusts each of us with unique measures of grace and revelation. The return He expects isn’t outward success but inward faithfulness—lives that bear His likeness in the world. Stewardship, then, means letting what He’s planted in us mature into love, wisdom, and righteousness expressed in action.

In that sense, inaction isn’t neutral. It’s the refusal to let grace grow.

The works of your hands surround me, O LORD;

your signature is etched upon creation.

The sky and the sun,

the trees heavy with plums,

the birds with their feathers,

even this sofa, stitched in leather—

all together sing your name.

Yet I confess:

my soul falls silent outside their choir.

Forgive me, O LORD.

I look at my feet, aglow—

lit by the lamp of your word—

and feel unworthy of the road ahead:

overcome by flaws,

stumbling in silence,

uncertain.

Though I shine,

I envy those who glow in other hues;

I envy those who wander the dark

light-hearted and loud with laughter.

My soul is weary—

spent from forcing its own light,

striving, straining,

still unsatisfied with who I am.

You have searched my heart

and mapped its shadows.

You knew I would stray;

you know every hidden sin.

Yet still you chose me—

loved before foundations were laid,

drawn near through your Son.

Jesus, in you I have everything:

a co-heir of heaven,

lavished with every spiritual blessing.

Teach me to walk your ways;

lead me deeper into the Father’s heart.

Your face, O LORD, we seek.

Let us behold your beauty

and drink the fullness of joy at your right hand.

View my life through heaven’s eyes—

for your eye is on the sparrow,

and I know you watch over me.

And you smile.