I needed to write that paragraph because I need to read those truths. My life isn’t about me or even my legacy. As I lean into the race or “press toward the mark,” my goal will be hollow if I envision a personal laurel, a shiny crown, or some brag-worthy bling.
The next time I’m tempted to bask in the glow of something I’ve done, I hope I remember Tanner on that dock. And I hope I throw the equivalent of my medal into the lake.
A lot of people come to Nashville to chase a dream, a longed-for career. Seemingly, half of the Christian Industrial Complex® is there, too. Candidly, I would love to do a promo tour with all of the cultural influencers there; so, I’m not judging those who travel there for those reasons. But this trip to Nashville was to try new experiences with my brother, and we got everything out of our time together that we could.
At 5:47 A.M. on Monday, I started sobbing. Walking in a dark woods where nobody could see me, I ugly cried. At one point, I had to stop walking because I couldn’t see straight. I had been listening to a song whose lyrics spoke into a wound my therapist and I had been discussing for months. The truth of Scripture in the lyrics broke me—or more accurately, poured into my brokenness. This was not the first time this has happened, not even on this mountain.
Ol’ Jimbo explained this more than 1,800 years before humanity first took to the skies and 1,900 years before people first left earth’s atmosphere. Comfort doesn’t just lead to atrophy in the muscles of our heart; it leads to the frailty of our souls. A life in which faith isn’t needed leads to an existence where faith becomes hypothetical instead of practical. Daily, weekly, or otherwise-regular challenges don’t just make the story of our life more interesting, they prepare us for the inevitable moments of crisis—the loss of wealth, health, reputation, or a loved one. If our faith isn’t regularly tested against the gravity that pulls our shoulders toward our feet, we slowly forget where we get the strength to stand.
Pulling into our driveway last year, my daughter asked me why we drive old cars. I guess I could’ve been offended, but I was more impressed by the courage and candor a question like that requires. All of my siblings drive newer cars than Deonnie and I do. In fact, the average model year for the vehicles in our driveway and garage is 2008.
My daughter leaves for college in a couple of weeks. I’ll have gone from not being a dad to parenting a high schooler to living in an empty nest in the span of 26 months. Before Deonnie moves to her dorm at Radford University, we embarked on our first ever dad’n’daughter trip. It was a whirlwind of a long weekend.
I’m enamored by sunsets, sunrises, and moon rises. I probably watch three to six of these events each week. I think what I’m really addicted to might be closure and ceremony.
Logan and I covered 211.2 miles of dirt roads, alpine trails, desert canyons, sandy slopes, rubber-lined rock, and even hot asphalt in 2.5 days. We crawled at 2mph and zoomed at 65mph. We rubbed through narrow gaps between trees and luxuriated in open spaces. We shivered in the cold and sweat through our shirts. We ate in a remote village cafe, at franchise fast food joints, and out of our backpacks. We yelled over engine noise and stood in silence. We discussed profound matters of the heart and laughed at double entendres. These three days in Central Utah left their mark on our friendship and our perspective.
I chose to be a new and better version of myself every May 18 that I’m still alive. That would mean I would look back at old thoughts and ideas with embarrassment or laughter. That would eventuate in growing pains and new regrets. It would require apologies to friends and to Jesus. It would lead to me reading almost 200 nonfiction books between then and now, many by authors who think differently than I do, who look different from what I do.
I hiked while listening to a book about how to have an open mind, how to know when to change an opinion. In it, Adam Grant claimed in the first chapter that it starts with humility. Growth can’t happen without change, and change can’t happen without admitting change is needed. We have a choice: to be pliable and aware of our finiteness or have our pride break us.
I love snowmobiling! Six of my church buddies who’d never been on a sled joined me in Jackson Hole, WY, for two days of jaw-dropping beauty, exhilarating speed, and moments of courage.
I gave wing walking a second try. Different pilot, different plane, different location. Same adrenaline rush. Huge thanks to Mason Wing Walking Academy for making this adventure possible!
As I drove home, that line from Daniel reverberated in me as much as my exhaust did. “It doesn’t sound any louder out here. It probably just seems louder to you.”
For those who chafe under the label racist, (1) imagine the weight of generations of your family being called that. (2) Imagine someone who always called you that trying to convince you to adopt their faith, their religion, their god.
God is not subject to human voting or removal from office. Jesus is not intimidated by my sin and the soil that adds to his name. He is the source of all good things. So, my daily spiritual insurrections do not threaten his kingdom, his sovereignty, or even his affection. But every time I see one of those January 6 photos, I’ll be reminded that he can get blamed for my choices.
One of these chairs asks the government to fix things on their behalf, to regulate only people who act differently than them. The other chair doesn’t wait for city hall, the statehouse, or Washington, D.C. to be a part of the solution. One of these chairs looks for leverage. The other looks for influence. One of these chairs uses the sins of their opponent to excuse their own. The other sees their own sin and lets it inform the grace they extend to others.
The horrific events of today—the symbolism, the injustice, and the anarchy—didn’t sprout overnight. They built over time from individual choices. A compromise here. A shoulder shrug there. A cashed paycheck here. A bump in followers there. All of us complicit in where our nation currently is have needed more excuses. For some, those excuses have grown farther and farther fetched.
Leave it to 2020 to bring a snowstorm to Big Bend National Park. Boy! Did we find some fun adventures as we adapted to closures and fully-booked campgrounds! Woody asked us to look for parables around us—both in nature and in our interactions with it.
2020 needs no introduction, but this tumultuous year introduced me to three new prayers. My conversations with Jesus grew sweeter and more intimate while the world around me seemed to move further away, and these simple prayers proved cathartic for my soul. You might find them helpful. Just in case, here’s how I bumped into them.
This year’s pandemic gutted tens of thousands of dollars from my business but gave me a lot more free time. Instead of diving into Netflix, I spent more time outdoors and in my car on winding, rural roads—usually alone and … Continued
Emily—speaking for Jesus—told me that I didn’t have to do anything more to live up to the honor she and Zach gave me. So, I won’t try to earn something they have already freely given. But I’m going to live as though my name is good enough for two people, because apparently it is. I’m going to lean into life with the confidence of someone whose legacy won’t just outlive him but will walk around with it on two legs. I’m going to chase life and legacy with a roar, and I’m going to teach a lion cub how to get his shouts to reverberate louder than the echoes of his uncle.
I spent a couple days at a retreat for creatives with one of my heroes. I got some clarity I’d been wanting and some insight into next steps for a couple passion projects. I spent some time alone with Jesus atop a mountain. And then? Then I danced in the sky in a motorless aircraft.
In the New Testament, we learn that God is love. Not just lovely. Not just loving. He is inherently the definition of love. This love must be fierce, then. It must be ready to fight for what and who God loves. That love goes to war for justice. That love battles for the restoration of broken things. That love boasts a plethora of reinforcements to resist the forces that scheme for our depression and aggression. That love engages with the enemies of truth and life. That love deploys against the marauders that raid our hearts and souls. That love fires back at the giants who intimidate us and bind us in fear.
Doing things God’s way often takes longer and requires more patience. Staying inside Jesus’ cones makes us feel like we’ve lost our autonomy. Going where the Holy Spirit points sometimes doesn’t make sense to us. But I can tell you as someone who has set out cones weekly for a decade, those cones are there for someone’s safety or the community’s benefit—or both.
If that’s a mile too far, I’d ask whether you’re a fan of Jesus or a follower. If these temporary restrictions are unbearable, I’d ask whether your greater identity is anchored in the Bill of Rights or the Gospel. If church for you is just sitting in rows on a Sunday or chatting with friends in its foyer, I’d invite you to imagine that church can be more. Much more. And it’s only two miles from where you’re standing right now.