If I make it to 90, I hope the people who celebrate my birthday can point out that I was a builder and a restorer of sorts. I won’t have buildings or machines that showcase my handiwork. Instead, I hope I will have helped people find (1) courage to do scary/hard things, (2) redemption of their pain, or (3) a safe ear for their confessions of doubt, sorrow, insecurity, or disillusionment.
That dark cloud is lined with the Savior’s empathy, emphasis, and example that breaks through from hearts like my daughter’s. Today, she reminded me what Jesus told the religious leaders of his day were his only two commandments: love God with a full heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.
Four years ago, I had never ridden a motorcycle. Four weeks ago, I rode a motorcycle 2,000km through six countries from one end of the Alps to the other—from Innsbruck, Austria to Monaco. I had high expectations and kept stoking their fires, watching the hype videos on social media dozens of times. And somehow—don’t ask me how—this experience surpassed even my daydreams.
I used to work really hard to find the most romantic or original anniversary present for Crystal. Now, I know the best gift I can give her is a better version of myself than the husband she had last year.
That’s what prayer has felt like for me lately—few words in either direction, just a sense that I’m held or at least known.
For two decades of my life, I was forced to sit through sermons every Sunday night. Loud men in ties tried to convince me that my attention was worship. If only they knew the unforced rhythms of grace and the silhouettes of sunsets! If only I did, too…
Before my perennial crazy-busy autumn season, I stole away to mountains six time zones from home to BASE jump, paraglide, and hang glide.
One of my favorite parts of being “Uncle Mac” is giving my nephews and nieces new categories for their imaginations, more options for their “when I’m a grown up” dreams, and new experiences to give them new stories to tell. Until a few Saturdays ago, my sisters’ boys had never floated a creek in a kayak. Before I pulled a full shift in the office, I spent the morning making sure they had a new accomplishment.
Our 25th wedding anniversary arrives in September, but (1) both of us are in perennial busy seasons then and (2) I was told one of the best times to visit Slovenia was when May transitions to June. Last November, while my wife sweated out a missions trip in Sierra Leon, I designed a trip and crafted a proposal for a 6-day circuit of the Julian Alps and the Gulf of Trieste.
Trusted voices have pointed out that I bring that same unnecessary computation to both my relationships and my perspective on the world. I spend too much time practicing conversations, conjuring social media posts, and anticipating therapy sessions as though swimmers occupy the other seven lanes. Or maybe all eight.
As I journaled about this episode the next morning, I cried. I hope lots of people can say that figuratively about me, and I’m thankful for the episodes over the past few decades when trusted souls have walked slowly with me.
I don’t rank my adventures because of (1) recency bias and (2) the unique diversity of what interests me. I prefer cold over hot, fast over slow, and rare over cliche. And this adventure checked all of those boxes. Putting an all-wheel-drive Subaru in track mode and seeing what you can do with it on a frozen lake uniquely combined elements of past adventures. It was a Sunday, and I was in heaven.
This might be the one part of my faith experience American Christian Nationalism hasn’t spoiled yet.
I brought nine dudes to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, for a weekend of snowmobiling. Most had never been on a snowmobile. Some had never been in the Rockies during the winter time. All of us left with hearts full of absorbed beauty and new adventure highlights.
My sister posted a meme the other day, joking that God had to be a girl dad. Since I have a daughter, I Googled “girl dad” to see if I qualified for that label, too.
I had to sneak adventure into the cracks of 2024, as I worked 122% of the hours and 117% of the days I worked last year. But I had many beautiful, human moments where no photos were captured that live on in my journal and heart. But here are some that did make it onto the visual record.
The last two sentences of my most recent book are lyrics from this song. “Ring the Bells” gets partial credit for fueling three years of writing, editing, and wrestling with the manuscript. It gave language for what previously was only groans from within my rib cage.
What I found within the books on the list below were ideas and language that resonated with my soul. These thoughts and words kneaded a heart I’d laid bare to the world for months. These author’s anecdotes and antidotes carried me from one therapy session to another.
Over the last several years, I’ve been in the process of redefining what “family” means to me, what I value in friendships, and even what I want my legacy to be. I’ve been discovering that the tribes that used to help me describe who I am no longer prescribe who I’m becoming. I’ve been learning that I fit into fewer and fewer boxes—that less of my identity can be transcribed with shorthand. I’m still trying to figure out who I am, what I believe, and where I fit into this world. For the time being, a fraction of that is connected to a Japanese machine in my driveway. Whether or not I’m a “truck guy,” this pickup will take me places that’ll push me closer to the me I want to be.
November has been hyperbolic for me so far: rich moments that landed on my soul, anxious hours that’ve taxed my system, and pangs that have constricted my heart. So, I’ve escaped into the hills and the Psalm 121 that tells me to look for peace there.
What you’ll notice in online spaces is that most of the voices for sexual justice are female. The witnesses, whistleblowers, journalists, and protestors are mostly women. That may be part of why young women are leaving the church in droves at rates higher than young men are. Few Christian men want to go on record with their opinions. Few of the men in my parachurch Bible study seem comfortable with my passion for the topic.
I have only a handful of pictures of me as a kid. But tonight I was taken back to this picture because of a seemingly unrelated assignment at work.
I try not to take for granted that I mostly fly for free. I get to see so much of the world because I can jump countries and continents for less than what the airport parking will charge me when I return. Instead of complacency, that gift fills me with wonder that I can do what any caesar or pharaoh couldn’t—what titans like Carnegie and Rockefeller never experienced. I can start one day on one side of the ocean and start the next in another. I can hold my wife’s hand on two different continents on the same day and take pictures of creatures below the waves. I can leave the anvil on which I beat out a living and glide above the clouds.
I came to the high desert in hopes of finding a potential missing piece of myself. I also arrived with a boatload of insecurities (per usual) and even a wrong motive or two. But I left the wild lands of southern Utah with a sense of accomplishment, a filter for looking at my spiritual community back home, and tons of pictures I didn’t take.
I have a choice today to worry if I’ll ever see that road rager again, if he’ll be parked outside on some random night. I’m posting this to free me from rehearsing the story. And I guess that’s why I wrote my latest book—so my brain can move onto other stories, other adventures, and other nights’ sleeps.
