The danger comes in the hesitation, the indecision. Analysis paralysis can keep you from getting any of them—like when you spend so much time flipping through the movie options that you end up not watching anything.
Rather than keep scrolling, we must choose a dream or two and jump in. We can always pause or stop later, when we’ve spent more time on the path; but we’ve got to move past the trailhead parking lot.
As of right now, I’m keeping 40% more of my New Year’s resolutions than when I first got serious about my goals a decade ago. That might not sound like a lot, but my friends and family have told me that they can see real change happening in my life. I’ve gotten to this mile marker, in part, by following these five principles.
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.
I don’t need a lottery jackpot to pursue those goals. Chances are, you don’t need a Powerball payout to move toward your ideal vocation, either. Sure, we might have to sacrifice more, save more, or be more creative with our time, talent, and treasure in order to accomplish our grandest dreams. We might need to let go of some relationships, status, or security.
Over the years, I’ve learned that one of the marks of a healthy culture is its exports to others. So, retention cannot be the primary benchmark by which I’ll measure buy-in for the rest of my promotional career. That said, I will never stop being proud of the moment when a raw, untrained kid in khaki corduroys asked, “Who’s with me!?” and everyone else in the room answered, “I am.”
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.
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’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.
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.
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.”
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.