I don’t know if I’ll ever make it back to the Conrad,
But that’s not for lack of longing.
I already miss a place I didn’t even know existed for my first 38 years.
If I do return, I’ll see more rock and less ice.
There will be less of the glacier.
But the Conrad will see more of me—a better me.
The irony of the situation was that I was asked to speak about what I’ve seen God do in odd or uncomfortable ways over the past few years of my life. Using Bob Goff’s book, Love Does, as a filter, I told my story of life change and the stories of sovereignty that affirmed my spiritual journey. I challenged the circle to respond to God’s promptings, even when they don’t understand the reason or efficacy of that obedience.
We summited one peak in cold, blowing rain; and I said to one of my teammates, “I don’t know if there’s something broken in me, but I love this!”
Candidly, the church through history has often made those instinctive journeys more dangerous. We’ve crushed lives and spooked others from progress. Even as we have attempted to build in-roads into secular culture, we have created more hurdles for someone to find their destiny on the other side of their church experience.
It’s been a tension—not wanting to set my expectations too high but interrupting my days with daydreams (and Google searches), having such a huge motivation but not flaunt the prize in others’ faces. If you’re reading about it here, it’s because you want to join me; and I’m grateful for your support.
It’s exciting to meet people with passion. We can all enjoy conversations about what inspires each other, and we should. That requires that we act on those passions, that we create those stories, that we pursue our dreams.
The story I’ll remember most won’t be the one on the screen. It’ll be the one God wrote and directed behind the scenes. A story of rescue, a tale of sovereignty.
Crystal knew I needed to be reminded of my purpose. She knew I had let this winter be filled with self-doubt, uncertainty, and discontent. She had seen me dreaming of more
It’s not numbness. I’ve just moved on—like I do on the highway after I pray for the family involved in the wreck I just passed. It was such work to “hold this trip loosely with open hands” that I barely felt it eventually leave my hands.
I love being in the sky. I’ve got an adventure résumé filled with aerial adrenaline rushes, including jumping out of planes. So, it’s a bit ironic that I get nervous on airplanes during turbulence. Sometimes, straight out scared. I use the free drink napkins to dry my hands on multiple flights per year.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.