Rick and I weren’t in a boat at the time. We weren’t standing anywhere near water. In fact, we weren’t even standing outside. He dropped this sentence while grabbing gear in an oversized closet at our church that we’ve affectionately dubbed, “the parking room.”
In that same mirror, though, reflected the face of a finisher. I had finished last by a large margin, but I had crossed the finish line. I had done it, but I wouldn’t say I had conquered it. My impetuousness had been tempered with humility, and yellow-vested prayers had been answered.
Sitting in a tiny, Italian restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, my wife asked me what was my biggest takeaway from my day representing MINI USA’s Final Test Test Drive program at the New York International Auto Show (NYIAS). I couldn’t answer her without a broken voice and tears escaping under my glasses and down my cheeks.
I was whisked away to an adventure that would in no small way make the heart of those dreams come true.
Deep down, though, we all distrust advertising to varying degrees. We wonder what the ad isn’t telling us, what it’s exaggerating, and why so much fine print is often needed. The advertising profession is seen as convincing people they (1) need something they don’t or (2) want more than they need.
I chose to move to Lynchburg and have fallen in love with it enough to call it home. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that my wife and I are factors in my sister and some of our closest friends emigrating to what we lovingly call “LynchVegas.” Here are the selling points with which I would counter the Lynchburg skeptics.
In the din of a bustling convention center, a wiry stranger walked up to me, leaned close to my shoulder, said one sentence, and then walked away. Before the gentleman even finished his deliberate sentence, I felt like he was sent to to deliver it to me.
Pastors like to talk about Jesus’ first published miracle happening at a wedding, but I’m not a pastor. I just play one on TV. And pastors like to mention that God attended the first wedding in the Garden of Eden. But I read that story last week, and Jesus didn’t make Eve repeat any vows or have Adam get a ring for his bride. He just brought Eve to Adam.
I highly doubt Rudolph realized the inherent advice that he was giving. It’s the same advice I give college juniors and seniors who ask me how to build a successful business and the advice I give nascent auctioneers in the halls at conferences: “Focus on your core competencies. Find what you do best, and focus on the niche market that values that.” It’s advice I had to learn from experience.
The challenge, especially for those of us who consider ourselves self-sufficient, is to reach out to our friends. The reward for this vulnerability is more than refreshment. It brings a renewed sense of purpose, a sense of belonging, an appreciation of the Sovereign.
Back at my hostel, folks asked where I’d been; and I told them.
Responses included, “They let you do that!?” and “How did you arrange that?”
“I asked.”
There are some big lessons in there for me—professional, relational, and spiritual ramifications that I’ve been processing since then. But on my first morning in Cape Town, I made the rest of the trip unnecessary. This would not be topped. This would be the story of the trip.
If I were to measure the adrenaline rushes of my life in terms of cost per hour of participation, negotiating the Garden Route proved far more affordable than bungy jumping, sky diving, hang gliding, etc. That said, I wouldn’t mind paying extravagantly for safer ways to get my hits of endorphins, dopamine, and norepinephrine.
My wife and I were on a romantic getaway in a jungle hotel. We toured the Arenal rain forest with a public-university-trained nature guide explaining the eccentricities of the flora and fauna that we saw as we meandered. What struck me more than anything were all the symbiotic relationships—both plants with creatures and creatures with other creatures. In their current state, neither could survive in their current form without the other in its current form.
So, while I didn’t really need to learn Walter’s primary lesson, it was the “two” of the movie’s “one-two” educational punch that hit me so hard that I got emotional in the theater.
We didn’t blow out any candles or eat any cake. Nobody sang the happy birthday song—let alone had to volunteer to start everybody singing it. Greg didn’t opened any gifts; and there wasn’t a stack of cards. I don’t think I saw any table cloths. Yet, as we walked back to the equipment sheds, Greg told me, “This may have been my best birthday ever.”
Tonight, I’m choosing not to think about the Ravens’ new playoff chances or their altered offense’s chemistry. Tonight, I’m not going to feel sorry for Peyton Manning working with a third-string center or Chip Kelley coaching without a full stable of dynamic receivers for the NFL version of his Oregon offense.
The leftist podcasters’ conclusion surprisingly sounded the same as some of the memes I’m seeing from women of the religious right. “All women are beautiful. Love your body, no matter what it looks like.”
It’s repeated often, even though it can’t be true—just as it can’t be true that all men are handsome.
The fifteen seconds after my fall held a moment of truth for me. I’ve failed so many times in stressful or frenetic situations; but for a few minutes and while a few stories below the Lewisburg, WV, airport, I pulled it together and pressed through my aloneness, insufficiency, and pain to find the spoonful of composure hidden in my chest.
For the first nine years of my driving carer, I never got a traffic ticket in my home state.
And then I moved to Virginia.
It was an emotional moment for me, yet I didn’t know how to feel. I was moved by the gesture, but I felt awkward for being the sole recipient. Love, respect, and appreciation wafted with the smell of bread, protein, and dairy; but I didn’t feel like what I love to do needed to be rewarded. In a welcome moment on the horizontal level, I felt something vertical in motion.
I’m flying, floating, then riding a bus to what’s rated as one of the most grueling hikes in North America—a rugged wilderness described by trail alumni on YouTube as a place where nobody escapes a battered body. In fact, the Canadian Coast Guard and Parks Canada medevacs or otherwise rescues up to nine people a week from this stretch of ground—when only 52 people per day are allowed to enter the trail.
When I tell people where I’m going, I get two general responses. The first: “That sounds awesome!” and more often: “Not me. Why would you do that?” For the crowd who fall in that second camp, let me walk you through the reasoning.
If I had a dollar for every time I saw or heard the words social media, my wife and I could go on an international vacation—and I don’t mean Canada. I’m sure the same holds true for you. Websites like Facebook and Twitter and YouTube are touted as marketing gold mines, the future of advertising, the magic answer for harvesting clients out of thin air.
For the first year since 2004, I didn’t take a week off work this year; and Crystal and I had no vacations together—even a long weekend. So, I had to bring alive a year in which Crystal and I both worked a lot (her cumulatively more than me in terms of both days and hours) and didn’t get a lot of pictures together. I decided to entertain with random knowledge, peripheral touches with our social media streams, and as much as possible about the adventures we did find in the margins.
So, for the last three days, I’ve been talking to God about it, asking for something worthy of John, worthy of his mom, worthy of answered prayer. Today, I interviewed John for an hour about his mom—a woman I’ve never met.
But this week brought a different sentiment to the uninspiring rental car experience. This week, I wasn’t renting a car from a distant airport. This week, I was driving four wheels’ worth of milquetoast on roads I drive everyday.