One of my favorite things to do as a young kid was to build one of those model airplane kits. Sometimes it would be a famous airplane from the past. At other times it would be a modern jet fighter, sleek and fast. Either way, the process for building the model airplane was the same: open the box, get out all the pieces, and follow the instructions to put it together. Every time, and I mean every time, my expectation was that my creation would look exactly like the picture on the box, and every time my airplane fell far short of that perfect picture.

As a kid, I was ecstatic when my dad’s electronics broke because I got to take them apart, piece by piece. My goal was simple: to see how they worked from the inside. Formerly functioning computers turned into a jumbled mess of RAM cards, CD drives, cooling fans, etc. Before I dismantled them, every one of those parts was necessary to form the computer’s “whole.” Each part worked in tandem for the computer to function. If one part is broken, the entire machine fails; mere parts are not enough. And not only that, but every part also has a shared need for power.

I have never been good at first impressions. I’m tall, lanky, and—dare I say it—a bit awkward. When I’m not absolutely focused, I also tend to forget people’s names only two sentences after they introduce themselves. Because of these poor habits, I often fall face first into the most dreadful of awkward moments: times when someone says, “Hey, Garrett!” and, in forgetting their name, I can only respond with, “Hey… man!” The person, who I should know, is unknown to me. I may know a little bit about who they are, but I’ve failed to know the most fundamental thing about them: their name!