What I knew is that I had a story. And, really, the chase of a story—along with some solitude for contemplation—was why I had traveled as far and as hard as I had. I smirked in acceptance. It was an altered mission accomplished.
This isn’t an exhaustive list, any more than it’s an easy one. These suggestions can get you in the right headspace, though, which will help all of you build your own list.
But I just promised him what he wanted and let the 50-something smirkers play through. Then Tim and I got up and out-drove them.
Do spend intentional time with your spouse—at home and while traveling. Do work on joint vacation solutions that are more about mutual enjoyment than about compromise. Don’t underestimate the value of solo travel, though; and don’t worry about what others think about your ensuing choices.
In short, that’s why I keep trying new experiences both big and small—to increase my catalog of memories and keep my exploration muscle from atrophy. My tendency has been to focus more on my grand wish list than on the daily opportunities for joy. The more I take inventory of my life and what fills me up, I’ve noticed that a series of small moments can adequately span the gaps between the lines on my bucket list.
I don’t know that I felt courageous at any point on that river. Until my ungraceful exit, I just kept focusing on the frothy, incessant rapids. You could make the case that my adventure was cut short. I wouldn’t argue, but I left with both contentedness and determination to one day finish. I told Mark that I got what I came for: a story.
It took me a while for all of that to fade back to my normal levels of entitlement and insecurity. It took me realizing that I have a good gig. It took moments where my friendships were worth more than money, where freedom didn’t have a price tag. It took experiences that seemed to have mystically dropped me into the right place at the right time.
I’ve not run into Bob since that encounter. I’ve thought about writing him a letter. I’ve wanted to thank him for demonstrating humility—for being an example to me for the rest of my life. I’ve wanted to apologize for telling my story at the expense of his much better ones. My guess, though—from my short time with him—is that Bob wouldn’t have told unsolicited stories.
The auction industry has a similar stigma to that of the sport of parachuting. Both are seen as risky business to the uninitiated and inexperienced.
One of the things I’ve seen or heard people foregoing for Lent is social media. I can surely understand wanting to curtail an addiction to the likes and comments, favorites and retweets, shares and pins. If envy and comparison are temptations, abstinence from streams of others’ photos and videos could be a helpful detox.
I find that Life gives us a lot of challenges like that. There’s a gratification waiting for those who press past obstacles, detractors, or fear. That doesn’t mean that we should all run to to play with venomous snakes or tight rope walk between skyscrapers. Part of fear’s biological role is to help us measure and evaluate situations before proceeding. But part of that natural response also scares up enough dopamine and adrenaline to reward the courageous.
That’s what my Christmas “letter” did, too, even if retroactively. It added incentive where I shouldn’t have needed any. It gave me the chance to turn vacations and weekend explorations into a thematic ego trip. I became the writer you see in the credits of reality TV shows—not that I was lying or finding a story that wasn’t there but that I was intentionally guiding others’ perception of me through carefully edited snippets.
I’m not trying to make the case that auctioneers should use repurposed cardboard to promote their auctions and their businesses. It’s just that we would all benefit from more succinct, more candid, and more restrained advertising media.
We say we have to prove it to ourselves, but then why do we need an audience? Affirmation. For some reason, our accomplishments don’t count until a valid voice or choir of voices tells us it does. It’s a phenomenon as old as the human race, though social media now gives us instant feedback.
To be fair, there’s a reason few flock to this slice of the Chihuahuan Desert. It’s not convenient to get there—hours from an interstate highway and seven hours from a major airport (San Antonio). The unabated sun makes visits bearable only half the year, and paddling possible for even fewer months on the calendar. You have to buy water, because it’s that scarce; and educated folks know not to drink the river water that’s already there.
It’s not surprising that illusionist shows are advertised all over the place. The entire city is a slight of hand trick. Vegas successfully convinces you it’s the ultimate resort, a place where you pay for unmatched entertainment. Not even Disney could make a theme park this extravagant. The sounds and lights and fixtures are all meant to distract you from the reality of loss, even from the mass of bored and crestfallen faces slumped in front of machines.
My alma mater shunned my book, even though it was the first by a graduate of their writing program. I’ve dropped between $2,000 and $3,000 on the project. A church friend found a signed copy at Goodwill, and I purchased a signed copy back on Amazon. My guess is that The Outfitter hasn’t moved any copies. Nobody (other than me) has been profoundly impacted by its contents, as far as I know. That’s all okay.
As you learn your writing rhythm, you’ll learn when, where, and how to get the most out of your time at the keyboard. Some of these elements will impact your efficiency more than others. So, be aware of procrastination triggers and distracting stimuli. Pay attention to patterns in the process—good and bad—and determine ways to diminish the negative and promote the positive. That’s how I got this list.
Notice how different your Facebook feed looks in November with all of the people doing their gratitude challenges. I’d like to propose a different challenge: write down a list of things that energize you. If you can, find ways to incorporate more or bigger portions of those in your life away from social media. Then, if you think it will inspire or entertain others, share about those things.
Wherever Jesus and his truth comes alive most and best to someone is probably where they should congregate—whether at my church or not, a megachurch or not, a contemporary church or not. While you can learn a lot about any church on a Sunday morning, you’ll understand more after diving into its culture outside of its auditorium. Especially mine.
At the end of my life, I’d rather be known for what I did in a prayer circle, in a reflective vest, in a counseling conversation, or with a text message than anything I commercially wrote or designed at my desk. No matter the pictures shown at my memorial service, I hope people have stories of how they saw Jesus or his attributes in me. When someone else writes my obituary, I hope they can honestly write, “He pursued spiritual and physical adventure in such a way that others were drawn to do the same.”
It’s funny how adrenaline and dopamine work.
Biologically, you get more of them—and with them, more of a rush—the more scared you are at the second you launch.
It’s the same with faith.
God seems to dole the reward for surrender with a greater sense of gratitude, peace, and accomplishment.
At the bottom of this plunge, Woody began to worry for me. He wondered if I had tried to follow him. He chided himself for taking off on his own—after warning us not to do it earlier in the trip. He imagined the worse—explaining my injury or even my demise to Crystal.
Small things matter in both first and subsequent impressions. Small things like facial expressions, intuitive conversations, and remembering someone’s name or parking preferences—they matter. So do authentic, calm interactions in a frenetic situation and a sense of empathy when trying to leave quickly. We get emails, social media comments, and face-to-face conversations that tell us that these small things contributed to watershed moments or at least mile-marker events in someone’s spiritual journey. Some even say that just seeing us in our pre-game prayer circle gets them excited for what they’re about to encounter in the building.
It was past his bedtime now; it was past mine, too. The clock in the car glowed with the green numbers that spelled midnight. Following the trafficker’s flares, I pulled into the river of taillights.
In the silence, Timmy’s mind must have wandered from the game and to his brother’s coming departure for college. “I’m gonna miss you,” he said slowly, looking at his new ball and then out his window.