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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Hey, I struggle, too—not to judge, not to disparage, not to avoid. I’ve got a long way to go—at least as much as the facelift haters, probably much more. But I know my path toward Christ-likeness doesn’t take me up a ladder with a can of spray paint.
At some point last autumn, I realized that my shorts were getting in the way. My dysfunctional, insecure psyche was liking the attention my shorts got me. Jacked—I know. When passing greetings revolved around my shorts, they couldn’t be about our guests or about Jesus.
Jesus left heaven to come to where we are. He didn’t rain post-dated business cards on us. He didn’t ask us to weed through insider jargon to understand he wants us more than he wants justice for our sin. The choice he offers is essentially an ultimatum, but he wants *so much* for us to reciprocate his movement toward us.
“God left me here for a reason,” I inserted later into the indelible conversation.