Why I built this.

I am the eldest of five, and I grew up blessed with a tight-knit family in the far western suburbs of Chicago. I excelled in school, graduating high school early while already attending college. By age 22 I had earned my MBA with a concentration in Strategic Sales Management. I moved quickly into business consulting and technology development, advancing rapidly while life filled with work, travel, the daily grind, and social plans. In 2012 I married Kate, full of joy and hope for the future we would build together.

On the surface it all looked fine, but that's not really how it works. It's always been the small things that pile up quietly. Along the way Kate and I faced a cancer scare, a miscarriage, and hard seasons I didn't handle well. I wasn't the person I should have been for her, for myself, or for God. Those moments didn't feel like they were breaking anything at the time. They just kept adding up, wearing at you. And if you're not anchored, they loosen the bow long before the whole thing comes apart.

In 2018 something did shatter. A serious accident left every bone in my face broken, put me in a coma, caused burns, and required months of recovery where I had to relearn how to walk, talk, and find my voice again. Only God's grace kept me alive. And yet when the recovery was over, I slipped back into the same patterns. Some lessons refuse to stick the first time.

In late 2021 my wife Kate died. The weight of that loss was unlike anything I had carried before. I reached out to my family and asked if I could come to Tennessee. They said yes without hesitation. I moved to Middle Tennessee, drew close to family, and started attending First Baptist Church in Hohenwald. Even surrounded by people who loved me I was lost. Grief would hit without warning, in the middle of a service or in the middle of an ordinary day, and I had no idea how to make sense of it. The weight never truly settled. It only shifted until it came crashing down again, sometimes when I least expected it.

At some point something finally gave way inside me. I stopped fighting it. I let go of the bitterness and the blame and the idea that I could reason my way through any of this on my own. I accepted that God's plan is far larger than I can see. On June 19, 2022, I was baptized.

The grief didn't disappear. It never will. But everything changed. I changed. Accepting Christ doesn't mean the hard parts of life go away. It means you don't face them without a foundation. When I look at life from God's eternal perspective, even the darkest seasons are short chapters in a much larger story. That changed how I carry the weight and how I face the world.

Ekkluo didn't start as a product. It began when my sister needed a simple way to track her children's readers club at church. I built a small tool to help. Then another member asked for help with spiritual gifts assessments. Another needed support coordinating an event. Those small acts of service for my own church family grew naturally into a full platform now serving First Baptist Hohenwald, where I worship every Sunday, not an outside vendor.

I've spent my career watching good people burn out because the systems around them weren't built to support the work. The church is no different. The people who show up every week to serve in the nursery, coordinate volunteers, visit the sick, and help families in need deserve tools that work with them, not against them. When the platform is right, people stay focused on their gifts instead of managing around the gaps.

That's why the price is flat. One simple monthly fee with everything included. No per-member charges, no modules to unlock later. A church watching its budget shouldn't have to do math before caring for its people. That's why support is local. I'm right here in Middle Tennessee. You're talking to the person who built it.

And that's why the name. Ekkluo means called out, but we're always at risk of growing slack and weary. This software exists to keep the bow strung tight so the people doing God's work never have to stop.

I built this out of grief and gratitude and the slow realization that my gifts were meant to go somewhere. This is where they went.