Nate Nasralla's Blog, page 2

sorry, not this year

The Big Idea: bring out the best in others to reveal the best in you.

Belle, our chocolate lab, loves praise.

She loves belly rubs, too, but she’ll do anything so long as you tell her she’s a good girl. She’ll even walk around the house picking up her toys if you tell her how proud you are. She’s not bashful about seeking your praise, either. She’ll look at you with beautiful brown eyes and a titled expression wondering, “Am I am a good girl today?”

Belle and I aren’t so different, honestly. In fact, I’m sure I crave affectionate praise more than she does. I may not wiggle my rear-end in excitement when someone says, “Good job, Nate!” but my ego is far more fragile. Belle’s self-esteem doesn’t fluctuate to the same extent that mine wavers from day to day. If she gets a walk and a treat, she feels pretty good about herself.

While it’s not surprising that my emotions are more complex than my canine companion, I don’t think I’m unique in this. I think we all live to hear the words, “Well done.” We long for the inner peace of knowing we’re enough, that we measure up in the eyes of others.

To borrow Dale Carnegie’s words, “I can look back at my own life and see where a few words of praise have sharply changed my entire future. Can't you say the same thing about your life?”

In our pursuit of praise, we typically elevate our good qualities, while shoving our negatives traits into that one junk drawer hiding all the dead batteries, coupons, and rubber bands. I ensure my co-workers see my ambition. I never disclose the moments in which it limits the time I spend with my family. This typically works out for a little while, but a self-promoting, image-managing approach to securing others’ approval never succeeds for long. We seem foolish when we’d hoped to appear wise. We look ugly when we’d hoped to look attractive.

We realized this a few year back and we did away with boasting in favor of the “humblebrag.” You know, bragging couched in veiled humility, or a fake complaint that makes declaring your awesomeness a little more palatable. The New York Times and Washington Post even featured the topic in their respective pop-culture columns in recent years.

For example, “I can’t stand flying first class. I have to sit on the plane longer than everyone before we take off.” Or, “It’s so hard being the company’s smartest employee. Everyone asks me to stay late and help them with their projects.

So, if outright boasting is ugly, the humblebrag is insincere, and our craving for adoration remains unquenched, where can we turn? Who will validate us?

While it’s counterintuitive, I believe this conversation should start from the opposite perspective, entirely. We’ll do best by first lifting up those around us. You see, by placing someone else above ourselves, we demonstrate our capacity for humility and modesty. These are far higher and more noble characteristics than pride.

Besides, if we all desire praise and we need the occasional, “You’re doing a great job,” don’t we all want to live life with the people who make us feel noticed, and valued?

Just like the sea that sits below the streams around it, increasing in power and grandeur as the earth’s rivers are drawn toward it, we also gravitate to those who lower themselves. By pointing out the best in others, you actually, by extension, reveal the best in you.

We all have a certain “ness” about us. I have a Nate-ness to me. You have a you-ness to you. Before we discover our ness, we’re impressionable. As we search for what makes us special, a sense of identity, we need someone to point us in the right direction. We need a guide who’s willing to use their words to bring out the best in us, and equip us for the journey ahead.

Personally, I was never more sensitive to the words of those around me than during my high school years. I clung to feedback from my teachers, peers, and especially the girls I liked. Naturally, I wasn’t sure who I was becoming during these years, so for better or worse, I looked to others’ input to define me.

Fortunately, this was the same time in which I met my high school baseball coach, Willie. When I met Willie, I immediately knew I wanted to be known as a person who did things the right way. I wanted to work hard and demonstrate integrity.

I’ve previously mentioned that during my freshman year, I was one of two students below five feet tall. The other guy, Dave, didn’t care for baseball, so I was the only runt trying to prove he could contribute to the team’s dream of winning a regional title.

My diminutive stature meant I couldn’t hit the ball out of the infield. I was slow rounding the bases, and I didn’t have the reach to stop hard-hit balls from squirting into the outfield. In short, I left a lot to be desired. I did have one thing going for me, however. I was tenacious. I had a fire in my belly, and I was determined to prove that I’d be more motivated than any other player (yes, just like Rudy and every classic sports movie out there).

As it turns out, that approach worked. Coach Willie knew baseball was about life, not some regional title that didn’t matter all too much anyway. Willie was in the business of training men as much as ball players.

The first day I walked onto Willie’s baseball field, he told me to straighten my hat and tuck in my shirt. He was always talking about “discipline,” and conducting ourselves with pride. We did things the right way or not at all. He didn’t tolerate shortcuts, like showing up to gameday with dirty cleats. Coach Willie had more experience than every coach in the state, so we listened to him.

When we’d drive the team bus to away games, Willie wouldn’t leave until I was sitting in the passenger’s seat. He was a scout for the San Diego Padres, so I’d listen to him talk on the phone about big-league stuff as we drove. After he’d hang up, he’d fill me in on what really happens behind the scenes in the major leagues. The combination of sitting up front and listening to the pro’s talk shop said I had a place on Willie’s team, regardless of my ability to crush doubles and chase ground balls.

When Willie looked at me sitting in the passenger seat chewing sunflower seeds, I think he saw a wide-eyed kid trying to make himself into something through sheer effort. I also think he knew that the baseball field would turn me pliable; I’d actually listen and apply the lessons he taught us. I’m sure it’s why he gave me a jersey. It certainly wasn’t my athletic prowess.

When Willie told me I was a ball player, he was really saying, “You’re enough. Come belong here.”

I appreciated that more than he knew. I couldn’t wait for the spring season my sophomore year, and when my junior year rolled around, Willie started coaching the varsity team. Playing for Willie with a varsity letter was going to be the pinnacle of my high school career. I was beyond excited, and I put in my best effort during the two-day tryouts, just as I always had.

This time, however, it wasn’t enough.

Willie called me into his office right after tryouts finished up. As I walked in, I was all smiles. I figured we were going to talk about the new uniforms, the away game schedule, or something you’d discuss with the guy who rode in the passenger seat. When Willie didn’t say anything, I started to grow concerned. Then, tears began to slip down his cheeks.

He just shook his head and whispered, “Not this year, Nate. I’m sorry. Not this year.”

I started to cry too, but I quickly choked back my sobs. I wanted Willie to know that I’d learned how to be a man. That I’d grown up and could remember to tuck in my shirt on my own.

Strangely, I was thankful for Willie’s tears. They told me that the baseball field didn’t define who I was. His sniffles confirmed that our relationship wasn’t merely transactional, that my worth wasn’t limited to my utility as a position player.

As I walked out of his office, Willie said I’d always be one of his favorite players. He told me I was becoming someone he was proud of, no matter what the roster said. You see, Willie knew that people typically turn out as we say they will. If we tell them they’re loved, they’ll act like loveable people.

Willie gave me a sense of dignity to live out, and for that, he’ll always be a giant in my memory.

Jesus was in the business of shaping lives, too. He regularly used people who looked like they’d be as much help as a short kid on a baseball field, and he made them into world-changing activists. He once told a bunch of guys on a boat, “I will make you fishers of men,” and with those few words, he gave them a higher calling. He didn’t talk to them as insignificant laborers who, I’m sure, smelled like raw fish. He turned them into students of a renowned teacher.

What’s more, Jesus didn’t just call them to become disciples and leave it at that. He let them listen into the big-league conversations in the passenger seat. He let them into all parts of his life. They witnessed the good parts, like miracles, and the truly horrible parts, like contemplating his own death in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Jesus also used his words to give a higher calling to a woman named Mary. During a time when popular culture generally viewed women as property as much as people, Jesus spoke up and honored her. As she cleaned his feet with her tears, dried them with her hair, and anointed him with perfume, everyone around Mary and Jesus chastised her. They told Mary she was wasting good perfume, and being foolish for throwing away an entire year’s wages.

Jesus could have agreed with them. He could have cast Mary aside and associated himself with the men of higher status sitting around the table. He didn’t do that, though. Instead, Jesus gave Mary a new reputation. He said she’d not only done a beautiful thing for him, he said she’d be remembered wherever stories are told. He gave her a legacy in addition to a good name.

Think about that for a second. Can you imagine how Mary must have felt as she approached a renowned teacher, unprompted, in a setting where she was viewed as less-than? She must have been terrified, shaking as she wept on his feet.

Now, can you envision how she would have felt while walking out of that room? Jesus gave her dignity! He disregarded an entire cultural stigma and he changed her label from a wasteful woman to a living legend.

This is the reason the apostle Paul writes about having the same perspective as Christ. As he writes, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves,” he’s really suggesting that hollow actions won’t cut it. He’s encouraging us to see others as valuable, and in fact, to treat them as more significant than ourselves. In the same letter, Paul points out how this seemingly upside-down spiritual principle is observed in Christ’s life:

[T]hough he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name.

This is critically important because none of us are static. We’re always progressing into more humble and heavenly versions of ourselves, or more hollow and hellish caricatures of who God designed us to be. C.S. Lewis describes this as:

…[A]ll your life long you are slowly turning… into a heavenly creature or a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war and hatred with God, and with its fellow creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, it is joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state of the other.

The questions we’ve arrived at, then, are how are you encouraging the people around you? Are you using your words to praise others, and to give them an admirable reputation to live out? Do people feel they’re valued and validated by you? Can they see a more noble, future version of themselves when they’re in your presence?

These questions are worth spending some time on. Our answers will ultimately reveal more about you, and me, than others.

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what a blind haircut taught me

The Big Idea: we learn more with less information.

Let’s face it. Most of the news, photos, media, and content we consume is a waste.

We live in a noisy world, so information is sensationalized to break through to us. It has to be; we’ve grown weary from media overload. We see 3,000 unique corporate logos every single day. We consume news from eight separate sources, on average. It’s no wonder we’ve grown anesthetized to anything but headlines and highlights.

Our brains are struggling to filter through what’s important and what’s not. Our attention spans have disintegrated. They are now, in fact, shorter than a goldfish’s. 

This creates a considerable challenge for us because not everything that shocks us brings us life. Not everything sensational is meaningful. 

If we wish to live deep, meaningful lives, we have to start by stripping away the stimulus. While it sounds a little strange, the more we dial back the flow of information, the more we’re able to absorb. This is the paradox of our five senses. As you remove one sense, the others grow exponentially more sensitive.

This topic matters because life will always bring us hardship. When we inevitably find ourselves facing down conflict, whether it be unemployment, the death of a friend, depression, guilt, obesity, a breakup, or what have you, those of us who have been living deeply will thrive within that particular trial. If we’ve taken time to soak up life, have rich conversations, and move beyond superficial exchanges, we’ll find ourselves grounded amidst adversity.

For example, a few years ago, a massive storm rolled through Western England and Northern Ireland. This region is typically very rainy, which over-saturates the topsoil. Tree roots are able to find the nutrients they need to sustain life without spreading too deeply into the earth. Trees can live with shallow, surface-level roots. So, when a powerful winter storm system hit the region, tree limbs didn’t snap while the roots held tight, like normal. Instead, acres upon acres of trees were uprooted entirely. Generations-worth of trees were toppled and forest preserves, public spaces, and family estates were completely decimated.

In today’s age of misinformation, social media, and “alternative facts” designed to align our minds with certain political parties, products, and lifestyles, it’s worth noting we’re on an eerily similar trajectory. Like the United Kingdom’s trees, we’re at risk of living off surface-level nutrients. We rarely take the time to cultivate the kinds of deep roots that will sustain us during life’s storms.

So what does this look like, practically speaking? How do we move beyond shallow exchanges and live deeply? With a wealth of information but a poverty of attention placed on topics that truly matter, where do we begin? While there are a lot of answers to this, a blind child visiting a barbershop showed me where we all might start.

I peered past my Entrepreneur magazine and noticed a slender black pole sitting in the middle of the walkway. I was sitting in a row of seats at the front of a barbershop, patiently waiting my turn.

Someone’s going to trip over that thing, I thought to myself. 

As I looked around to determine why a tripping hazard had been left in the middle of everyone’s footpath, I realized that narrow stick was actually meant to prevent someone from tripping.

A child wearing sunglasses and a crooked smile gripped the pole's leather-bound handle. He seemed to be eight, maybe nine years old in my estimation. He gazed wistfully in the direction of a small bell that signaled another patron’s entrance. If his sunglasses and stick hadn’t already given it away, him aimlessly gazing toward the various noises in the shop confirmed it. He was blind.

“James?” A stylist called out from the back of the barbershop.

The child clutching the walking stick was evidently names James, as he quickly rose from his chair. His mother leaned his stick against the wall and guided him to an old-fashioned black leather barber’s chair. She conferred with the stylist for a moment, sharing that James liked his hair short on top, but not so short that he wouldn’t be able to run his fingers through it.

The stylist fired up her clippers and brought them near James’ ear. He winced as they touched the side of his head, recoiling from the loud noise of the mechanical shears. His nose wrinkled and his brow furrowed as the stylist moved the clippers toward his neck. 

It occurred to me that James relied on sound to help determine what’s friendly and what’s not. It was quite a curious thing to watch. He was incredibly sensitive to everything happening around him. On several occasions, the stylist had to redirect his head to face forward as he wiggled around to face the different sounds.

I realized I was staring after another minute of watching the stylist work. I wanted to be observant without being offensive, so I glanced at his mother. She had picked up a book and appeared to be focused on the pages, so I continued to observe James.

The stylist picked up a pair of scissors and started trimming the top of his sandy blonde hair. Without the white noise of the clippers drowning out the din of the barbershop, James seemed even more interested to know what was happening around him. He craned his neck toward every jingle and clanking sound as his stylist continued to reposition him. I imagined James was using the cacophony of noise to construct a scene as vivid and as detailed as anything I was watching.

Once she finished with her scissors, the stylist leaned against a silver lever and reclined the overstuffed chair towards a sink. James smiled the kind of wide, open-mouth smile you’d expect to see from a kid riding a rollercoaster. His face lit up with delight as sudsy hands and pressurized water massaged his scalp. 

After a towel dry, comb, and some gel, James stood up from the chair looking like a new man. He listened as his mom admired his fresh cut, and he beamed as she told him how nice he looked.

Will I have that much fun getting my hair cut today? I wondered.

Generally speaking, I love going to the barber. The brand-new feeling as you stand up from the barber’s chair is among the best in the world. But this particular trip felt more like a chore. I’d been waiting far longer than my projected wait time. My longer wait meant a later finish, which also meant I’d have less time to replace the kitchen faucet, which I had working on before I left the house. In turn, that meant I wouldn’t start cooking dinner until I was already hungry, which meant I’d be a grouch… you get the idea.

Yes, these were trivial concerns in the grand scheme of things. But nevertheless, as I oscillated between emails on my phone, ESPN on the TV, and my Entrepreneur magazine in a sad attempt to medicate my impatience, I grew increasingly restless. Sitting still, listening to the sounds of the barbershop, and reflecting on my week didn’t feel like productive ways to spend my time. I just wanted to check ‘haircut’ off my list and move to my next task.

James’ mother handed the stylist a cash tip as they strolled toward the storefront. As they walked, it occurred to me that James was leading them, and dragging his walking stick behind him. He grabbed the door handle and once outside, he walked toward his mother’s vehicle, stopping in front of the passenger door to wait for the chime signaling the door was unlocked.

Clearly, James had studied his steps. He remembered the layout of the barbershop and the parking lot alike, and he was able to retrace his path without any assistance.

As I pocketed my phone and set my magazine in its rack, I had to laugh. I often rush through my weeks without stopping to learn from them. I’m always running from place to place, distracted by the topic of the day. I mean, if I could somehow get back all the hours I’ve spent repeating mistakes I’ve already made, and should have learned from and moved past, I’d easily have a year of free time. This particular day was no exception.

I was in a rush to leave the barbershop and get on with my day. I wasn’t interested in unplanned down time. Shuffling through my barrage of email and obsessing over my too-tight schedule was far easier than spending a few moments contemplating my week.

James, on the other hand, clearly took his time navigating his weeks. He soaked up his surroundings, despite his lack of sight, and it helped him find his way.

Back in your school days, did you ever cram for an exam? You know, where you’d shove 200-pages-worth of information into your brain in less than two minutes? If so, I’ll bet you don’t remember any of those facts and figures. Everyone knew the art of cramming was finishing right before the professor handed out the exam. That way, knowledge wouldn’t begin leaking from your ears too soon.

I often feel like my weeks are one constant test that I have to cram for. You could chalk it up to my over-achieving personality, but I always seem to find myself with a progressively demanding schedule and a crowded calendar. I’ve tried to shortcut my way through various tests like managing more employees at work, or renovating a house when I get home from the office, but cramming has only served to back me into a corner.

Learning to live well has required that I move beyond shortcuts. Living deeply has meant adopting new rhythms and routines into my week. It’s demanded that I slow down the salvo of constant distractions to make time for contemplation, imagination, and higher-level thinking.

Two of our world’s most brilliant minds agreed with this view. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.” Albert Einstein’s opinion was, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

Jesus (who was far wiser than these historical giants) also challenged his followers to live deeply in an era when memorizing as many laws and guidelines as possible was the norm. When Jesus walked the earth, a group of people called Pharisees were among culture’s most powerful influencers. They forced their followers to memorize and obey the 613 Jewish commandments written in the books of the Bible called the Torah. Pharisees were legalistic, highly religious, and they were ruthless.

One day, a member of the Pharisee’s leading ranks decided to go toe-to-toe with Jesus. This Pharisee was a lawyer, so he was exceptionally trained in examining others and recalling the law’s fine print. He put Jesus to the test by asking him, “Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”

This was more than a simple test, however. It was a trap. You see, if Jesus selected just one of the 613 laws in his answer, that left 612 opportunities for the lawyer to say he was wrong. But if Jesus refused to provide an answer, he’d have been made out as foolish, uncertain of the law, and unfit to teach his followers.

Jesus, however, was not only smarter than the Pharisees’ schemes. He took a far simpler approach to defining a well-lived life. He freed his followers from the tyranny of the law, while upholding it at the same time. He distilled an entire culture that drown people in hundreds of laws, traditions, and rituals into just two simple commands.

Jesus replied to the Pharisee, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.”

You see, by narrowing the entirety of the Jewish law into those two sentences, Jesus not only broke the chains shackling culture, he made the most of his short life on earth.

On the one hand, the Pharisees overwhelmed their followers with information. It made them appear holier, and wiser. People literally spent a lifetime trying to learn and apply all 613 laws. On the other hand, Jesus trained his disciples for the most important mission ever – preaching a gospel of eternal life through grace and faith, not memorizing laws to hopefully pass life’s final test – in just three years’ time.

That’s pretty impressive when you consider that Jesus imparted enough wisdom to enable his followers to plant churches, restore life, and transform broken communities in less time than it takes to earn a college degree.

What’s more, beyond leaving us these two simple rules for living an eternally-significant life, Jesus he left us his church. He created an entire support system that draw upon the talents and gifts of a whole group of believers. We don’t have to lay down roots to try to weather life’s storms alone. Instead, we get to live like a colony of Aspen trees which develop a network of interconnected, 130-foot-long roots that allow it to sustain the life of hundreds of trees.

And just like James’ mother who made sure he arrived to the barber on time and his hair looked good, we’ll go further and live fuller by relying on the support of the community around us.

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climbing gray’s in a whiteout

The Big Idea: difficult experiences are the hardest to forget.

Coloradans climb 14ers like New Yorkers eat bagels.

There are a lot of varieties to try, and you’re not really a native unless you’re able to list the mountains/delis you’ve visited. Coloradans, however, believe summitting 14ers is much cooler than eating bagels, and sub sandwiches for that manner. (For the uninitiated, a 14er’s peak rises higher than 14,000 feet in elevation).

You’ve most likely noticed some patterns and personality in my stories by this point, so you can probably sense this is one cult tradition I could easily get behind. I love the outdoors, adventure, and a good challenge. Putting it all together in the form of a statewide ritual felt like the greatest hobby ever.

While the first time Erin and I summitted a 14er is a moment I’ll never forget, it’s an experience she rather would. We were totally unprepared for what unfolded during our ascent, you see. While that only served to heighten the sense of adventure in my mind, it was so distressing in Erin’s, she wouldn’t entertain the thought of climbing another 14er for quite some time.

Generally, we believe we create memories with our minds, but it’s our emotions that determine what we retain. We don’t actually see memories for what they are. Feelings are sticky, they attach themselves to past events as we construct memories based upon what we felt. When we recall past events, the facts may be fuzzy, but sensations are as sharp as ever – especially the negative ones.

When I think about this particular trek up a 14er called Gray’s, I don’t remember how many switchbacks we navigated, or how many miles we hiked. I clearly remember, however, feeling alive as the relentless winds of a winter storm pummeled me. Erin, on the other hand, remembers with scrupulous detail how miserable she felt while sliding down ice-covered scree, wishing our day would come to an early end.

As it turns out, it’s the painful memories we’d most like to forget that are toughest to leave behind.

I squeezed my watch as the alarm and glowing green face said it was time to rise and shine. There were still a few hours left before sunrise, but we needed to break down our campsite near the base of Gray’s and get moving. The weather becomes more variable in the afternoon, so we’d have to start our descent down the mountain’s face far before then.

I folded our tent and crammed my sleeping bag into its stuff-sack. Once our gear was neatly consolidated I sat down beside Erin and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee.

“How’d y’all sleep?” I asked as our group of friends, Grant, Bre, and Danny walked over. Their packs and headlamps were strapped on, ready to begin our journey.

“Well…” Danny sighed. “Bre woke up in a stupor around midnight, freaking out that someone was trying to get into our tent. I didn’t sleep much after that.”

“Bummer,” I said as I studied Danny’s bare legs. “Shorts? Will you be warm enough in those?”

“Yeah man, we Peruvians are cold weather people,” he laughed. “Besides, it supposed to be pretty sunny today.”

“Hope so,” I nodded.

“You guys ready to get rolling?” Grant, the native Coloradan among us, asked. “We should head out if we want to make both Gray’s and Torrey’s,” he advised, referring to Gray’s sister peak, which can be reached by traversing a saddle connecting the two summits.

Erin double-checked her backpack and confirmed she’d tucked her camera inside. “Ready!”

Our journey began as we navigated a skinny trail cut through thick sagebrush. Every so often, I turned around to watch the dispersed trail of headlamps tracing our footsteps. The track of lights looked like little ants against the pre-dawn blackness, all following little breadcrumbs we’d dropped along the way. As the sun gently rose a few hours later, we all stopped to suck down water.

“So far so easy,” I said as I attacked a granola bar and gazed back at the looming walls of rock on either side of the valley.

“Well, I think I’m a little too hydrated,” Erin spoke up. “I’m going to find a place to do my thing.”

A few minutes later, Erin came running back to our group. “Did you guys knows there’s a huge cliff that way? Like, sheer, hundred-foot drop-off huge. I was almost toast!”

“We’ll stick together now,” I reassured her. “No worries.”

Shortly after we resumed our trek, the temperature began to plummet. Normally, the temperature climbs as the rising Colorado sun shines. On this particular morning, however, it was getting so cold that if we stopped moving, we began to shiver and rub our hands together to generate heat. We were all wearing some sort of light windbreaker, but none of us had planned for winter weather.

“Graupel, that’s interesting,” Grant said as he swiped his hand along a rock and inspected the wintry mix clinging to his glove.

“You nerd,” his wife, Bre, joked after hearing Grant’s weather-science master’s degree speaking.

“Well this graupel is making my hands as cold as Danny’s legs,” Erin said.

As we kept moving up the trail, slowly but surely, we started to see hikers in front of us turning around. It was either too snowy, slick, or just plain miserable to continue. In fact, the wind smacking my hood was so loud I couldn’t hear Erin expressing how much the weather sucked until she was close enough to tap me.

After another hour of moving up the trail, we were closing in on the summit. Roughly 600 feet of vertical elevation remained when we crouched out of the wind to assess everyone’s status. Erin was miserable. Danny didn’t look too good. The altitude was getting to him, and he was feeling a little queasy. Grant and Bre, like me, were cold, but up to make a final push to the summit.

As you might imagine, the deceptive part about summiting 14ers is the thinning air. As you gain elevation, it compounds the effort required to take each additional step. Hiking at a mile high is one thing, hiking 9,000 feet higher is a whole different experience.

The blowing, wintry mix turned to snow as Erin shivered in her windbreaker. “Time to move,” I said, wanting to keep warm while making progress.

Less than an hour later, we made the summit. Shaking from the cold and winded from the effort, we held up a sign that read “GRAYS PEAK, 14,278FT” and posed for a picture. There were no breathtaking views, no gazing across the Rockies from atop the world. Instead, we stood in front of a solid white backdrop. I kid you not, apart from the earth-colored boulders around our feet, the back of the photo is as pure white as a brand-new bedsheet.

We were standing on the peak of a 14er in the middle of pure Colorado whiteout, and clearly, we didn’t come prepared.

“I can’t even see Torrey’s right now,” I said to Grant after we snapped a few photos. “This is going to get pretty sketchy.”

“Yeah, there’s hardly any visibility,” Grant agreed.

“You’re not considering hiking across, right?” Erin overhead us.

“Well, we should definitely get Danny down to lower elevation,” I pointed out.

Grant nodded. “No doubt. I’m amazed he made it here. Altitude sickness is no joke.”

We all agreed that traversing to Torrey’s Peak was too risky. It would be just as risky to split the group, so it was settled. We’d head down after spending just a few minutes atop Gray’s. As we picked our way down the slope, I considered how people always talk about making it to the top of a mountain. Really, we should talk more about making it down.

Making it back down Gray’s turned out to be just as exhausting and even more mentally taxing than the trek up. The snow that was once light and fluffy had turned to ice, creating a slick glassy film that coated every surface we stepped or held onto. Unstable footing and the unforgiving force of gravity worked together to bring us crashing onto the jagged rock time and time again.

Eventually, we made it off the mountainside. When we passed the valley and reached the trailhead, I knew we’d never forget that trip, no matter how many mountains we visited. Erin, however, was convinced she’d never hike another 14er.

She preferred to forget the experience altogether.

If you were to ask about that trip up Gray’s, I would say it was incredible, while Erin would say it was incredibly unenjoyable. Erin recalls feeling such intense discomfort that her impression of 14ers was colored with a dark shade for quite some time.

For a while, I’d joke about picking more, and more difficult, peaks to climb, just to get a rise out of her. I’d always get a reaction because as far as she was concerned, she was done with 14er’s. Yet, when I’d mention climbing Gray’s in a whiteout, she couldn’t help but recall the experience in vivid detail. The feeling of blustering wind and sliding down icy rock still rush to her mind.

We all have memories we either label as pleasurable or painful. Strangely, it’s the painful times we most want to forget that are most deeply engrained in our brains. They seem to find the folder marked Do Not Erase. Even a years-old event can feel as fresh and raw as an event that occurred yesterday. That’s why Erin reacts so strongly to the mention of 14ers.

Pleasurable moments, by contrast, usually fade with time. It’s easier for the details of euphoric experiences – like summitting Gray’s, from my perspective – to escape us. They’re written over by more recent experiences, as if the folder labeled Keep in our brains already hit its storage limit.

For example, when I recall my wedding night, it feels like I missed most of it. I was caught up in the high of seeing my bride, celebrating with family, and catching up with friends, so the details are fuzzy. However, I can perfectly recount the conversations from our honeymoon which centered on how I was selfishly wandering off to find my own adventures in a foreign country (guys, your wife isn’t supposed to cry on her honeymoon, just so you know). Those moments are filled with heartache, not happiness, and they’re far clearer in my mind.

A Boston-based psychologist, Elizabeth Kensinger, backed this phenomenon with evidence in a groundbreaking study.

She found people who feel negative emotions during an event are far more likely to accurately recount the event. Similarly, she discovered that we retain adverse memories for far longer than pleasurable ones. A plausible explanation she offers for this is threatening and harmful times are more valuable to our brains. They help us survive and avoid future pain.

That sounds reasonable to me. However, I think there are other factors at work here, too. Personally, I tend to internalize my flaws while writing off my accomplishments as accidents. I attribute wins as good things that just happened to go my way, while I hold myself personally accountable for my failures. “If only I had just…” is the start of too many sentences in my life.

I know that holding onto screw-ups and painful experiences is no way to live. If I always allow the sweet moments that lighten the sting of past pain to fade way, it’s only a matter of time before I’m crushed under the burden of years-worth of negative memories.

Luckily, Jesus said there was a better way. He showed us it’s possible to live lightly in a world filled with heavy, grievous moments. While life will never consist of four-hour lunch breaks and weekly bonuses at work, he said that’s more than okay. In fact, he regularly sent his followers out into the whiteout.

The twelve who followed Jesus were told to go face down some pretty serious baggage, like diseases and demons. I’ve never seen a demon, but I have to imagine they’re not pretty, and the sight of them probably sticks in your mind for some time. Yet, as they left to tackle demons and diseases, Jesus instructed them, “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money; and do not have two tunics.” He didn’t even give them a windbreaker.

If we choose to follow Jesus, we’ll be called into the unknown, often feeling like we’re sliding on our butts down frozen rocks. Rarely will we be equipped for what we’ll encounter. This can seem very counter-productive on the surface, like Jesus just doesn’t know how to plan very well. I think it’s all for our good, however. He just wants us to follow the path he created, instead of wandering off the side of the mountain.

Faithfully following Jesus into the whiteout will always be hard work, but fortunately, he warms us up along the way. When our past produces feelings of guilt, anger, and sadness, he cloaks us in grace, forgiveness, and hope. Jesus reminds us that he accepted the physical wounds of the cross, that we might be given the emotion healing we need to keep moving forward.

Even the apostle Paul, a man whose past was stained with the memories of executing Jesus’ followers in the bloodiest of ways, was able to write, “[I]f anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” Paul didn’t cling to the oppressive experiences he’d rather forget, saying to himself, “If only I’d killed one less Christian…” He embraced the joy and new life he found while following Jesus’ call.

A French priest and professor, Henri Nouwen, wrote about this intersection between mental health and spirituality. Some of his most salient words read:

To be grateful for the good things that happen in our lives is easy, but to be grateful for all of our lives the good as well as the bad, the moments of joy as well as the moments of sorrow, the successes as well as the failures, the rewards as well as the rejections that requires hard spiritual work. Still, we are only grateful people when we can say thank you to all that has brought us to the present moment. As long as we keep dividing our lives between events and people we would like to remember and those we would rather forget, we cannot claim the fullness of our beings as a gift of God to be grateful for. Let's not be afraid to look at everything that has brought us to where we are now and trust that we will soon see in it the guiding hand of a loving God.

Everyone is willing to embrace the wins and warm moments. Standing on a mountain top in the sunshine is the easy part. Enduring whiteouts and leg-burning trials while we’re wholly unprepared is the difficult part – and the part that usually sticks with us over the long-term. I think, though, that’s exactly why Mr. Nouwen says we’re to be grateful for both kinds of experiences. God’s able to use the good and the bad to shape us for the better.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, Erin did climb another 14er. Almost poetically, one year later, she summited Mt. Bierstadt while raising money for Colorado children suffering from mental health challenges.

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crying while flying

The Big Idea: considering death creates a better life.

My wife, Erin, sees my writing before anyone.

Without fail, she always offers me the same piece of advice. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You look like the bad guy, and I look like the angel.”

I’ll give that to her. Since most stories I tell are about the lessons I’ve learned, naturally, I reveal my screw-ups to the world. But honestly, even if I wanted to write about Erin’s mistakes, I don’t think she’s made enough. Me on other hand; I can fill books with my missteps.

It’s New Year’s Day, so as I think about all the times I’ve gotten it wrong in 2018, and what I want to do better in 2019, I will give this to myself. There have were flashes of thoughtfulness in which I really got it right last year. I’m an amazing husband from time to time — I can say that, right?

Well, I suppose there were more than flashes. Recently, there was a whole week in which my thoughtfulness superseded my selfishness.

The week began as Erin crashed into our bedroom. “Nate! I can’t find them!” She shouted with a panic about her voice.

 “Huh?” I asked through a mouthful of toothpaste. It was early on a Monday, so my mind was full of conference call agenda items. I was trying to shake the weekend fog from my head.

“You can’t find what now?”

“My letters! I wanted to re-read my dad’s letters to me, and when I went to grab them, I realized I have no clue where they are. I know I put them with the letters you wrote, but I’m not sure where those are, either.”

Before Erin’s father passed some years prior, he affectionately authored a number of letters to Erin. Some were hand-written, others were transcribed as he neared the end of his life. His words mean the world to Erin, so she’s incredibly intentional about where she keeps them. As we bought and started to move into our new house, she bundled her dad’s letters alongside every love note I’d penned to her.

Counted together, those letters represented one hundred notes composed over six years. If there’s any single item that Erin could save in a house fire, it would be her box of letters. She could download photos from her online backup, she’d chance her engagement ring’s ability to withstand the flames, and she’d just replace any other possession. Those letters, though, those are irreplaceable – especially the ones her dad wrote.

“Oh, well, I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. When was the last time you read them?” I asked.

I could see the panic in Erin’s eyes as she answered, “Before we moved. So what if we don’t actually have them anymore? Did we throw them away, by accident? Or leave them behind?”

“Absolutely not,” I answered categorically, despite the fact I couldn’t say for certain.

“But how can you be so sure?” Erin challenged.

“Well, let’s just go through the whole house and all the boxes in the basement before we get too worried. Okay?”

Erin stared at me, as if to say she couldn’t just shed her anxiety on command. “That’s reasonable,” she agreed, “But you know how much those letters mean to me, right?”

I nodded, but Erin wasn’t convinced I fully understood. “Me losing my letters would be like you…” She paused to find a potent-enough comparison that would adequately illustrate how she felt.

“Well, it would be worse than you losing every single one of your possessions!”

“I see. That would be bad,” I nodded once more.

“Yes, it would be. So help me look for my letters, please!”

I trotted down to our basement to comb every cardboard box that had sat idle since our move. Fortunately, there were only a handful of boxes to search. Neither of us like clutter. Unfortunately, though, after ten minutes of hunting, I was convinced Erin’s letters weren’t hiding in our basement.

“Let’s look again tonight,” I offered Erin as I emerged from the stairwell. “Maybe we need to start over with fresh eyes.”

“Yeah, okay,” Erin conceded as she fought back tears.

A night of searching for Erin’s letters came and went, and still, they were nowhere to be found. Although I wouldn’t let it show, for Erin’s sake, I was genuinely considering the possibility I had thrown them out. It crushed me to feel I might be the source of so much anguish. I listened to Erin lament the probable loss of her dad’s final words as we lay in bed that night. If I hadn’t pitched them, I figured at the very least, it was conceivable that a friend had tossed them out during our move.

We woke early up the next morning and Erin returned to scouring every nook and cranny in our home. I even re-searched the same places I’d examined just ten hours earlier. I was trying to avoid accepting those letters’ dreadful fate.

I contemplated how long it would take me to re-write one letter for every major event and relationship milestone we’d shared over the previous three years. I knew I couldn’t reproduce her dad’s letters. But if I could replicate the ones I’d authored, it was a start. Then, right before I committed myself to rewriting every letter I could, I heard Erin cry out.

“Nate! Nate! I found them!”

Erin sprinted into our bedroom, clutching a black and red box of cinnamon pancake mix. Apparently, I love pancakes so much I figured a box of mix would be the safest place to stash Erin’s most valuable possessions. There was no way I’d pitch a pancake box.

Tears of joy and relief alike welled up in Erin’s eyes. She hugged that box like a mother who’d lost her child in the middle of Times Square. After collapsing onto our bed, exhausted from carrying so much worry for the last day, she whispered, “They’re still here.”

I sat down and embraced her. “They’re still here,” I repeated.

Erin left for work later that morning, and I had an idea. While I munched on a granola bar, I spread out Erin’s letters on our wood floor, and I snapped a photo of each. I arranged the images in a PDF file, and sent it to our local printing center. Now, not only would Erin have an online photo backup of each letter, we’d have a printed copy of them in a single, spiralbound booklet.

The low rumble of our garage door told me Erin was home from work later that evening. As she walked in and set her purse down, I laid the booklet on our kitchen table. I was beaming, proud of my work, and she quickly gathered that my grin was wider than usual.

“Did you have a good day?” Erin asked, studying my expression.

“Yeah, it was alright,” I replied. “Something came for you in the mail. It’s on the table,” I pointed to a stack of letters, strategically placed on top of the booklet I made.

Erin eyed me, curiously, as she grabbed the pile of papers. The binding must have stood out to her, as she let everything but the booklet slide from her grip. She stared down at the cover titled E’s Letters in disbelief.

“You wrote me more letters?”

“No, I made a book of your letters. I didn’t want you to go without them, so now you’ll always have them in one place.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t, but I wanted to,” I smiled. Erin snuggled into one of my trademark bear hugs as I said, “You know I’d like to write you a letter every single day if I could, right?”

“I do, you really love me,” Erin whispered and nodded.

Work called me away the next morning. I spent the next three days on the road, and by the time I was finally headed home, I was beyond ready to see Erin. Her smile was all I could think about as I boarded my late-night flight. The allure of priority status and new cities had nothing on seeing my wife.

We rolled down the runway and lifted into the night sky. I watched the sparkling lights of Philadelphia fade to black, and marvelously, as we climbed higher, the song from the first dance at our wedding switched onto my playlist.

Suddenly, it was like I was living a real-life Hallmark movie. Time seemed to pause, as if the director was setting up his next shot. The stillness of the night sky and the sounds of my wedding sucked me into a world where I was the only passenger on flight 5789. I almost believed all one-hundred musicians of a full-scale orchestra were serenading me from the last twenty rows of the plane.

I choked back hot tears that threatened to slide down my cheek. I’ve been told crying is healthy. That it’s a cleansing experience, kind of like sweating out the emotions trapped inside you. I’ve tried to cry in the past, just to see if it works like that. It never did work, but this time, I didn’t have to try. It just happened.

The sweet sounds of our wedding faded out, and the words I’d say to Erin in the final moments of my life came into focus. Our recent search for Erin’s letters probably brought those words to my mind. I’m not certain, but whatever the reason, my life’s final words leapt to the center of my attention.

As I considered my parting words to Erin, I felt such an intense burden to write out every word that welled to the surface, that it was as if I really was dying. My thoughts took such control that I had to document my final words. I felt like I was in a race to write Erin before my hands stopped working and I truly did pass.

Even now as I write this, I fear I’m not communicating just how surreal an experience this was. Believing I was likely experiencing some type of pre-death premonition, and the possibility of an early death had become my reality, I could only focus on writing. What more could I do, knowing how much Erin loves her letters, and this one might be my last?

My words to Erin consumed my thoughts. They sprung forth with such vigor, like an underground geyser that had burst after years of harboring the tears and emotion I should have sweat out. It was like I could see Erin’s smile, sense her touch, feel her next to me. There was no fear in my mind – I ignored death in favor of spending my closing hour consumed by love. I think this is what John meant when he wrote in his letter, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear.” (1 John 4:18)

Eventually, I sat back in my seat and wiped my eyes, satisfied that Erin would now have my last letter, should that day have already come. I traipsed through the airport in a daze once my flight landed. Never before had I been more grateful to curl up next to my bride than on that night.

I hope Erin never has to read my final letter. Instead, I hope we die in the exact same moment. You see, whenever I leave for a trip and I hug Erin goodbye, she makes me promise to come back. If I die first, I’ll break my promise. But if she goes first, I couldn’t bear knowing she’ll never welcome me home again. Neither of those options seem very good, so I hope old age takes us together.

But regardless of how and when we go, considering death on that late-night flight brought me more than a final letter for Erin. It gave us a richer life – it brought me a stronger love, here and now.  

When I recall that flight, I’m reminded to cherish the moments I have with those who matter most. Time only speeds up as we age, in the sense that when I was five years old, one year was 20% of my life. Patiently waiting for the calendar to reach Christmas once more was unbearable. But when I turn 50, one year will be a mere 2% of my life, so I better make the most of my time today, before the years really start to fly by.

The late Steve Jobs had something to say on making the most of each day:

I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: ‘If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?’ And whenever the answer has been ‘No’ for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

At face value, I like his message. I agree, life’s too short to spend it apart from what matters most. I’m uncertain of its usefulness, however, because I don’t think Jesus would say life is primarily about doing the things we want to do. I think he’d say life is about becoming holy, not just happy. Our level of desire for the plans and people that fill our days shouldn’t be the determining factor for how we live. Instead, I think he’d want us to look in the mirror and ask, “Am I trying to accomplish God’s purposes, or mine?”

The process of shaping our character to more closely mirror Jesus’ is what’s called sanctification. It’s to be made holy, not only happy, and it’s how we’re able to live out God’s purpose for our lives. To sanctify something literally means to set it apart for a specific purpose. That makes things simple, I think. I know I’ll be able to reflect on a life well-lived if only I do my best to fulfill God’s plan. I don’t need to chase the ever-shifting, often-deceiving desires that churn within me.

Many say relying on a creator for our purpose is too simple; it’s demeaning, not desirable. A god is limiting, not freeing. I wonder though, can our lives really have purpose – can they have meaning – without a creator? If there was no intentional design behind our lives, if we’re all just cosmic accidents, what would be the point?

You see, paintings have meaning because they’re born from an artist. As the artist works, (s)he express emotion, ideas, history; there’s intention behind the creative process. If the artist produces a truly intricate painting, we say it should live forever. We preserve it in a gallery for the benefit of future generations.

On the other hand, if I were to randomly knock over a jar of paint onto a canvas, it would be destined for the trash can. We wouldn’t care too much about it – there was no purpose behind its creation. What’s more, we certainly wouldn’t say a flawless Monet painted itself. Something can’t arise from nothing. And even if it could, how meaningful is something built from nothing?

We like to think of our lives as paintings. We all feel our lives have some degree of purpose, even if we can’t put our finger on it, exactly. We feel we have the right to be preserved, and dignified. We’re horrified when someone taints life, spilling paint on the canvas, if you will, through emotional, physical, or any other abuse.

Ultimately, what we’re really saying is life is intrinsically valuable. We’re more than accidents. This is because our lives are of infinite consequence when a creator’s designed us, and destined us to be preserved in a gallery, not dumped in a trash can. Pausing to consider these questions – where we came from, our creation, along with where we’re going, our destiny – will create a better “dash” between our birth and death dates.

The alternative to this perspective is described in Thomas Nagel’s The Meaning of Life, as the atheist philosopher writes:

…it wouldn’t matter if you had never existed. And after you have gone out of existence, it won’t matter that you did exist. Of course, your existence matters to other people – your parents and others who care about you – but taken as a whole, their lives have no point either, so it ultimately doesn’t matter that you matter to them.

Putting myself in Mr. Nagel’s shoes, I’d have to agree. If we came from some molecular collision, and we’re just hardwired to survive through evolutionary process, what would be the point? If there’s no higher destiny than to be buried in the ground, why try to dignify my life, or that of others? We’re all just flashes in time, soon to be smothered by the natural process of aging, right?

Although I have many friends who assent to this idea with their lips, they reject it with their lives. Their head says it’s logical, while their heart says it’s not livable. You don’t need to collect love letters to see that people and relationships should be treasured.

Taking this all together, it’s easy to see why John 3:16 is among the most memorized, beloved verses in the Bible. It begins with the deepest source of purpose for life, “For God so loved the world…” It concludes with the hope that we, “…shall not perish but have eternal life.”

That’s not all, either. The beginning and end of John 3:16 hang on the reality in the middle, the weight of which I felt as I wrote Erin’s final letter. Loves conquers death. The full verse says, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

Do you see it yet? In Jesus’ sense of the word, do you see it? God believes you are of such eternal worth and value that he saved you by sending his son to this earth. And because love conquered death on the day his son hung on a cross, a cross built by human hands, we can all be together in the end. We won’t be dumped in a trash can, written off like spilled paint.

That is staggering when you think about it. No other god claims to have experienced death, let alone death of the most excruciating variety. But our God has, out of love, and that love is reflected in all of us. It’s what compels us to spend hours searching for lost letters. It’s why I was crying while flying.

I suppose this has been a more emotional post than is typical, so let me just say, we don’t discover God by feeling alone. As I sat in that airplane, the love I felt for Erin had been developed through years of doing life together. I recalled memories, I considered the dreams we share with each other. Likewise, faith in God, or more generally, a creator, is not about an emotional leap. It’s about considering where we came from, why we’re here, where we’re going, and then living life accordingly, solidifying belief through experience.

However, most of us avoid thinking about these questions, let alone living out the answers. For good reason, too. They’re tough questions. Asking about “the meaning of life” feels too big of a subject to even approach, so we often don’t. We prefer to look in the mirror and ask what we want from life.

We settle for lives built on happiness, or love, or doing good, without ever considering how these things can hold meaning in and of themselves without any other context. It’s always the context that gives the middle meaning, so we have to consider if there was intention behind our beginning, and a destiny to our eventual end.  

Despite my experience on that late-night flight, I still focus on the middle of my life, and what I want out of it. I forget the reason behind my beginning, and the end that awaits me. But when that fateful day arrives, when we read our loved one’s final letter, and when life speeds up, I think we’ll all wish we’d spent more time considering the context to our lives.

Hopefully, it won’t require crying while flying to stop and reflect on life’s big questions this year.

living life in a tunnel

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies.

This can make life difficult, because unlike writing a book or signing up for a marathon, companies don’t have finish lines. In fact, if you’re doing things right, companies just keep growing, demanding more of your time and energy.

Currently, I’m growing a business that helps nonprofits, and my role requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot. When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s difficult to disengage from work. I’m kind of like that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion.” The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

So, I usually leave my trips with a serious case of tunnel vision.

In the past, I never felt that was much of an issue. Tunnels are usually the fastest route from one place to another. They’re direct. They’re efficient. Similarly, narrowly focusing on my goals is the fastest path to achieving them.

However, the trouble is that living in a tunnel is a very bland existence. There’s not much to see or do in tunnels. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

My wife, Erin, knows this. While I’ll forget to eat lunch, check in with friends, or call family once I get working on a project and come down with tunnel vision, Erin’s very good about keeping in touch with people. She’s much more thoughtful than me, so we’re opposites in this way.

Usually, that makes us a great match. Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch your hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through the front door of our home on this particular night, I was not only an object-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

While I flew home from a week away, a few friends asked Erin if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and I wanted to keep moving after a full week.

Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve only seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“True, but we’ll still be together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping you’d want to spend time with me.”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I just kept driving down my own little tunnel.

“Well, yeah. I do. But this way, I’ll get to spend time with you and I’ll get to see our friends.”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, with none of the sacrifice. I’d had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see our friends, all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’ve been in our house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you. And, I also want to see the friends I can’t see when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling, Nate. And you can’t expect that I’ll need the same thing as you after a long road trip. I was hoping for some time together, just the two of us. You have to make a choice at some point.”

 “This doesn’t seem fair,” I said, driving deeper into the tunnel.

“Fair? No, this isn’t about what’s fair. It’s about choosing to put someone else’s wants above your own.”

I was out of road. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. “Fine, let’s just stay home,” I yielded.

I sat down on our couch and tried to look uninterested, insinuating that the only interesting things existed inside the brewery our friends were headed to. Staying home together was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was mad that I couldn’t.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage. I created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

I never stopped to consider Erin’s perspective. She loves spending nights with friends as much as I do, but she also knows it’s good for us to reconnect after spending weeks apart. Even if it means sacrificing another opportunity, Erin knows there’s value in prioritizing our marriage.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

I know this deep down. Nevertheless, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me, and therefore front-of-mind, simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This was a different type of letter, however. It was an undated resignation letter addressed to my company. It explained that because I wanted a full life with my family more than I wanted to build a company, I was giving up a very good role in a quickly growing venture.

I didn’t mail it, though. Walking away isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, we simply throw the good things in our lives out of balance, which makes them unhealthy. I’m good at my job, and Erin wants me to succeed. So instead, I addressed the letter, stamped it, and handed it to Erin.

By giving her my resignation letter, I was communicating my choice. I was saying I was serious about putting our marriage before my goals. And do you know what happened next?

I discovered that I’d had it all, all along. When I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I started to relish my work while I still had it, and I began to cherish time with her all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We kill ourselves to make a life. We feel we’ll only truly start living after accumulating a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

However, I believe the truth of life is that the more we give, the more we gain.

By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. By taking, you fill the world with foes and contention. Think about it. Which world would you prefer to live in?

You can think about it this way, too. If it’s true that we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment and safety we thought our selfishness would produce.

Now, consider this. What are the good and valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give up something along the way? Consider your relationships – how did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for the benefit of others, we ultimately find there are more people out there who love us. It’s simple – loving people find themselves loved, and selfish people find themselves living in dull, lifeless tunnels.

Want to read more?

don’t stop now, download a free preview of my latest book Living Forward, Looking Backward to read more stories just like this

First Name *

















































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(5-minute version) living life in a tunnel

This week, I’m trying something different.

If you want a short, 5-minute version of this post, read on.

Instead, if you prefer a richer, 10-minute version of this post, click here.

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies.

This can make life difficult, because unlike writing a book or signing up for a marathon, companies don’t have finish lines. In fact, if you’re doing things right, companies just keep growing, demanding more of your time and energy.

Currently, I’m growing a business that helps nonprofits, and my role requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot. When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s difficult to disengage from work. I’m kind of like that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion.” The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

So, I usually leave my trips with a serious case of tunnel vision.

In the past, I never felt that was much of an issue. Tunnels are usually the fastest route from one place to another. They’re direct. They’re efficient. Similarly, narrowly focusing on my goals is the fastest path to achieving them.

However, the trouble is that living in a tunnel is a very bland existence. There’s not much to see or do in tunnels. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

My wife, Erin, knows this. While I’ll forget to eat lunch, check in with friends, or call family once I get working on a project and come down with tunnel vision, Erin’s very good about keeping in touch with people. She’s much more thoughtful than me, so we’re opposites in this way.

Usually, that makes us a great match. Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch your hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through the front door of our home on this particular night, I was not only an object-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

While I flew home from a week away, a few friends asked Erin if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and I wanted to keep moving after a full week.

Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve only seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“True, but we’ll still be together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping you’d want to spend time with me.”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I just kept driving down my own little tunnel.

“Well, yeah. I do. But this way, I’ll get to spend time with you and I’ll get to see our friends.”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, with none of the sacrifice. I’d had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see our friends, all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’ve been in our house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you. And, I also want to see the friends I can’t see when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling, Nate. And you can’t expect that I’ll need the same thing as you after a long road trip. I was hoping for some time together, just the two of us. You have to make a choice at some point.”

 “This doesn’t seem fair,” I said, driving deeper into the tunnel.

“Fair? No, this isn’t about what’s fair. It’s about choosing to put someone else’s wants above your own.”

I was out of road. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. “Fine, let’s just stay home,” I yielded.

I sat down on our couch and tried to look uninterested, insinuating that the only interesting things existed inside the brewery our friends were headed to. Staying home together was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was mad that I couldn’t.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage. I created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

I never stopped to consider Erin’s perspective. She loves spending nights with friends as much as I do, but she also knows it’s good for us to reconnect after spending weeks apart. Even if it means sacrificing another opportunity, Erin knows there’s value in prioritizing our marriage.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

I know this deep down. Nevertheless, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me, and therefore front-of-mind, simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This was a different type of letter, however. It was an undated resignation letter addressed to my company. It explained that because I wanted a full life with my family more than I wanted to build a company, I was giving up a very good role in a quickly growing venture.

I didn’t mail it, though. Walking away isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, we simply throw the good things in our lives out of balance, which makes them unhealthy. I’m good at my job, and Erin wants me to succeed. So instead, I addressed the letter, stamped it, and handed it to Erin.

By giving her my resignation letter, I was communicating my choice. I was saying I was serious about putting our marriage before my goals. And do you know what happened next?

I discovered that I’d had it all, all along. When I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I started to relish my work while I still had it, and I began to cherish time with her all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We kill ourselves to make a life. We feel we’ll only truly start living after accumulating a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

However, I believe the truth of life is that the more we give, the more we gain.

By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. By taking, you fill the world with foes and contention. Think about it. Which world would you prefer to live in?

You can think about it this way, too. If it’s true that we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment and safety we thought our selfishness would produce.

Now, consider this. What are the good and valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give up something along the way? Consider your relationships – how did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for the benefit of others, we ultimately find there are more people out there who love us. It’s simple – loving people find themselves loved, and selfish people find themselves living in dull, lifeless tunnels.

Want to read more?

don’t stop now, download a free preview of my latest book Living Forward, Looking Backward to read more stories just like this

First Name *

















































Email Address *

Roger that - your free download is on its way to your inbox now. Make sure to check your email soon.

(5-minute version) the more we give, the more we gain

This week, I’m trying something different.

If you want a short, 5-minute version of this post, read on.

Instead, if you prefer a richer, 10-minute version of this post, click here.

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies.

This can make life difficult, because unlike writing a book or signing up for a marathon, companies don’t have finish lines. In fact, if you’re doing things right, companies just keep growing, demanding more of your time and energy.

Currently, I’m growing a business that helps nonprofits, and my role requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot. When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s difficult to disengage from work. I’m kind of like that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion.” The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

So, I usually leave my trips with a serious case of tunnel vision.

In the past, I never felt that was much of an issue. Tunnels are usually the fastest route from one place to another. They’re direct. They’re efficient. Similarly, narrowly focusing on my goals is the fastest path to achieving them.

However, the trouble is that living in a tunnel is a very bland existence. There’s not much to see or do in tunnels. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

My wife, Erin, knows this. While I’ll forget to eat lunch, check in with friends, or call family once I get working on a project and come down with tunnel vision, Erin’s very good about keeping in touch with people. She’s much more thoughtful than me, so we’re opposites in this way.

Usually, that makes us a great match. Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch your hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through the front door of our home on this particular night, I was not only an object-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

While I flew home from a week away, a few friends asked Erin if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and I wanted to keep moving after a full week.

Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve only seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“True, but we’ll still be together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping you’d want to spend time with me.”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I just kept driving down my own little tunnel.

“Well, yeah. I do. But this way, I’ll get to spend time with you and I’ll get to see our friends.”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, with none of the sacrifice. I’d had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see our friends, all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’ve been in our house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you. And, I also want to see the friends I can’t see when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling, Nate. You have to make a choice at some point. You can’t expect that you coming home is always be about me going out. I need it be about me and you sometimes, too.”

“This doesn’t seem fair,” I said, driving deeper into the tunnel.

“Fair? No, this isn’t about what’s fair. It’s about sacrifice and choosing to put someone else’s wants above your own once in a while.”

I was out of road. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. “Fine, let’s just stay home,” I yielded.

I sat down on our couch and tried to look uninterested, insinuating that the only interesting things existed inside the brewery our friends were headed to. Staying home together was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was mad that I couldn’t.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage. I created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

I never stopped to consider Erin’s perspective. She loves spending nights with friends as much as I do, but she also knows it’s good for us to reconnect after spending weeks apart. Even if it means sacrificing another opportunity, Erin knows there’s value in prioritizing our marriage.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

I know this deep down. Nevertheless, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me, and therefore front-of-mind, simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This was a different type of letter, however. It was an undated resignation letter addressed to my company. It explained that because I wanted a full life with my family more than I wanted to build a company, I was giving up a very good role in a quickly growing venture.

I didn’t mail it, though. Walking away isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, we simply throw the good things in our lives out of balance, which makes them unhealthy. I’m good at my job, and Erin wants me to succeed. So instead, I addressed the letter, stamped it, and handed it to Erin.

By giving her my resignation letter, I was communicating my choice. I was saying I was serious about putting our marriage before my goals. And do you know what happened next?

I discovered that I’d had it all, all along. When I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I started to relish my work while I still had it, and I began to cherish time with her all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We kill ourselves to make a life. We feel we’ll only truly start living after accumulating a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

However, I believe the truth of life is that the more we give, the more we gain.

By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. By taking, you fill the world with foes and contention. Think about it. Which world would you prefer to live in?

You can think about it this way, too. If it’s true that we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment and safety we thought our selfishness would produce.

Now, consider this. What are the good and valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give up something along the way? Consider your relationships – how did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for the benefit of others, we ultimately find there are more people out there who love us. It’s simple – loving people find themselves loved, and selfish people find themselves living in dull, lifeless tunnels.

Want to read more?

don’t stop now, download a free preview of my latest book Living Forward, Looking Backward to read more stories just like this

(10-minute version) living life in a tunnel

This week, I’m trying something different.

If you want the richer, 10-minute version of this post, read on.

Instead, if you prefer a short, 5-minute version of this post, click here.

Have you ever stared into the fridge, wondering why you walked into the kitchen in the first place?

I have. In fact, it’s a daily ritual for me. If I think about anything but Greek yogurt and blackberries as I walk to the fridge, all hope is lost.

My thoughts regularly consume and distract me. So much so, that much to the chagrin of my wife, Erin, I’ll stop talking and continue conversations in the quiet of my mind. It goes something like this.

Me: “Did I ever tell you about…”

*silence*

Erin: “Nate, you’re doing it again. Did you tell me what?”

Me: “What?”

Erin: “You just said, ‘did you ever tell me?’ So what were you going to tell me?”

Me: “Oh. I’m not sure.”

For example, a few weeks ago, Erin and I woke up early to hike the Gore Range in the Rockies. As I drank my morning coffee, I started editing a section of my new book. After I’d become engrossed with the words on my screen, Erin asked me, “Can you make sandwiches to bring with us?”

I said, “Sure, no problem,” without actually processing what Erin requested. Fifteen minutes later, once I set my project aside, I thought about what she said.

“Packing something for our hike? Oh, sandwiches. Got it,” I mumbled to myself.

I walked over to the fridge to gather some supplies. There wasn’t a single slice of ham, turkey, or cheese to be found. “Erin!” I yelled out. “I can’t make sandwiches! We don’t have meat or cheese!”

“Are you serious?” Erin shouted from upstairs. “I laid out everything you need, including Ziploc bags, right next to you. They’re literally right in front of you.”

I turned and looked at the table, sheepishly. Sure enough, Erin had spread the necessary sandwich-making provisions around my computer. It was a serious case of myopia.

Tunnel vision like this is usually produced by me refusing to part with the things I treasure. Writing books is an easy example. Tunnel vision is the fastest route to the artistic achievement I crave, so I’m loathe to give up my time to little things along the way (like conversations and sandwiches).

Living inside a tunnel is a very bland existence, however. There’s not much to see or do in a tunnel. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

That’s true of the Eisenhower Tunnel, too, which we drove through on our way to hike that day. The Eisenhower is the longest mountain tunnel and the highest point on the U.S. Interstate system. But even a tunnel as remarkable as the Eisenhower didn’t entail much more than looking at concrete and smelling exhaust.

We drove through the Eisenhower because it’s fast and it’s easy. We did have a choice, though. There’s an alternative route – Loveland Pass – which takes you up and over the Continental Divide.

The views from Loveland Pass are stunning. In the winter, the highway is carved into the middle of these massive ice walls so it feels like you’re cruising down Santa Claus’ extra-long driveway. If the Pass’ 11,990-foot elevation doesn’t take your breath away, the uninterrupted, sweeping views of snow-capped Rockies will.

However, to get Loveland’s iconic views, you have to first give up the tunnel’s convenience.

The same idea applied to my writing that morning. If I never give up the time I spend on my projects, to do little things for the people I love (like make them sandwiches), then my relationships will never have the rich conversations and shared experiences I like to write about.

More generally, our lives works this way. Generosity flows backward. When it comes to choices as simple as driving through a tunnel, or those as complex as marriage, we find that the more we give, the more we gain.

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies. This can make life difficult because unlike writing a book, companies don’t have finish lines. In fact, if you’re doing things right, companies just keep growing, demanding more of your time and energy.

Consequently, just as I often lose my train of thought and stop talking during conversations, it’s easy for me to grow consumed by my work. This was especially true once the company I co-founded was bought by another company, who transitioned me into a role that requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot.

When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s difficult to emerge from an episode of tunnel vision. Most people fatigue as they spend more time on a project. But me? I pick up speed. You know that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion?” That’s me. The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

Erin calls it my “tornado mode.” Tornadoes consume everything in their path, and they can’t really be stopped until they spin themselves out of energy. If I start vacuuming, she knows it’s not long before I’m scrubbing dishes, folding clothes, and throwing out stuff she thinks we need to keep (but I think is clutter).

A project in my path becomes my sole focus. Once I start spinning, I’ll forget to eat lunch and drink water. When I’m traveling and working, I don’t think to check in with friends or family. It’s not that I don’t want to. These things just don’t cross my mind; kind of like sandwich ingredients sitting in front of me. 

Erin, meanwhile, is very good about maintaining our relationships with friends, at church, and with neighbors. We’re opposites in that way, so it’s better when we’re together.

Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch your hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through the front door of our home on this particular night, I was not only a tornado-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

Before I returned home, a few friends had asked her if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and I wanted to keep moving. Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve only seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“True, but we’ll still be together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping you’d want to spend time with me.”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I just kept driving down my own little tunnel.

“Well, yeah. I do. But this way, I’ll get to spend time with you and I’ll get to see our friends.”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, with none of the sacrifice. I’d had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see our friends, all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’ve been in our house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you. And, I also want to see the friends I can’t see when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling, Nate. And you can’t expect that I’ll need the same thing as you after a long road trip. I was hoping for some time together, just the two of us. You have to make a choice at some point.”

 “This doesn’t seem fair,” I said, driving deeper into the tunnel.

“Fair? No, this isn’t about what’s fair. It’s about choosing to put someone else’s wants above your own.”

I was out of road. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. “Fine, let’s just stay home,” I yielded.

I sat down on our couch and tried to look uninterested, insinuating that the only interesting things existed inside the brewery our friends were headed to. Staying home together was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was mad that I couldn’t.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage. I created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

I never stopped to consider Erin’s perspective. She loves spending nights with friends as much as I do, but she also knows it’s good for us to reconnect after spending weeks apart. Even if it means sacrificing another opportunity, Erin knows there’s value in prioritizing our marriage.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

I know this deep down. Nevertheless, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me, and therefore front-of-mind, simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This was a different type of letter, however. It was an undated resignation letter addressed to my company. It explained that because I wanted a full life with my family more than I wanted to build a company, I was giving up a very good role in a quickly growing venture.

I didn’t mail it, though. Walking away isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, we simply throw the good things in our lives out of balance, which makes them unhealthy. I’m good at my job, and Erin wants me to succeed. So instead, I addressed the letter, stamped it, and handed it to Erin.

By giving her my resignation letter, I was communicating my choice. I was saying I was serious about putting our marriage before my goals. And do you know what happened next?

I discovered that I’d had it all, all along. When I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I started to relish my work while I still had it, and I began to cherish time with her all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We kill ourselves to make a life. We feel we’ll only truly start living after accumulating a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

However, I believe the truth of life is that the more we give, the more we gain.

By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. By taking, you fill the world with foes and contention. Think about it. Which world would you prefer to live in?

You can think about it this way, too. If it’s true that we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment and safety we thought our selfishness would produce.

Now, consider this. What are the good and valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give up something along the way? Consider your relationships – how did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for the benefit of others, we ultimately find there are more people out there who love us. It’s simple – loving people find themselves loved, and selfish people find themselves living in dull, lifeless tunnels.

It’s important to note, though, this doesn’t work if we give with a specific end in mind. The good of the other person must be our genuine and single end. Generosity can’t be counterfeited in order to gain something self-serving. If we fake it, we’ll not only be labeled as manipulating, we’ll soon decide we’re not getting what we want and we’ll give up on the whole endeavor of living generously.

Giving has to be sustained. We have to live freely always, not only when it benefits us.

Lest you begin to think these are my ideas, Jesus Christ is the original. He regularly talked about this paradox, but in a much bigger way.

He said things like, “If you cling to your life, you will lose it, and if you let your life go, you will save it,” and, “Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full —pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap.” (Luke 17:33, 6:38 NLT)

This is very encouraging if you think about. Jesus basically told the world, “Hey, look, the most important thing on this earth – your life – it’s actually the easiest thing to get. You just have to let it go. There’s no ten-step plan here.” (Obviously, these are my words, not his.)

Jesus didn’t only prefer our world to be one where we lay down our lives for our friends (and our enemies, actually). He lived his choice. He made the dreadful, horrible decision to give up his life on a wooden cross, thousands of years ago.

He didn’t do it because it was best for him. He did it because it was best for us.

Jesus knew we’d never live perfectly loving and generous lives – ones deserving of an eternal and rewarding life with God. So, he chose to suffer, and he gave his perfect and generous life as a sacrifice. He paid the penalty we should have paid, and in so doing, he offered us a relationship with his Father. That’s what grace is – an undeserved gift.

Even if you believe Jesus Christ was simply a moral and influential teacher from the first century, you must agree we’ve been given much through his death. After all, it’s why we call that day in history “Good Friday.” Jesus’ life and teachings spread like wildfire throughout the ancient world, giving dignity to women living in a culture of oppression, encouraging education in an illiterate society, and freeing the poor and enslaved.

(I’ll note, should you be thinking, “But what about all the negative results, like the crusades?” I would challenge you to judge Jesus not by how his message was abused, but by who he claimed to be, and how he actually lived. We don’t judge Islam by terrorists, right? No, we judge it by its historical veracity and doctrinal coherence. Likewise, we shouldn’t judge Jesus by crusaders – even modern-day political crusaders – who misuse his name for personal gain.)

I should also note that receiving Jesus’ gift of grace and living in his grace are very different things. To receive something, we have to do just that. We accept it. But to live in grace is to accept the same call to lay down our lives. We must spend ourselves for the well-being of others, showing everyone the same love that Jesus did.

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said so well in his book, The Cost of Discipleship:

The cross is laid on every Christian… the cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise god-fearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.

That doesn’t sound like an appealing invitation now does it? I mean, if I’m throwing a house party, and I want our friends to show up, I’m not going to say, “Make sure to get a good night’s sleep and come alert. You might die on your way over. It’ll be worth, though. Promise.”

I’m not sure exactly why God decided that death would be the passageway to life. It seems strange. Nevertheless, I have found that on the days I’m aware enough to sacrifice my selfish pursuits and follow his call, I find joy that far exceeds any earthly gain or achievement.

Similarly, to return to Bonhoeffer’s words once more:

“Christianity preaches the infinite worth of that which is seemingly worthless, and the infinite worthlessness of that which is seemingly so valued.”

To Bonhoeffer’s point, in the corporate world, we give people opportunities that advance their status and earnings. When it comes to the moral values we’re now discussing, like love and joy, a far more valuable reward is paid out in the spiritual realm.

We know this because if one day you decide all the wealth in the world hasn’t fulfilled you, that it’s no longer worth pursuing material success, it can’t be traded for rich relationships or deep contentment. Those things are far too valuable – all the world’s money can’t buy them.

Instead, we only get what’s truly valuable and what we truly desire – love, relationships, joy – by first giving them.

Want to read more?

don’t stop now, download a free preview of my latest book Living Forward, Looking Backward to read more stories just like this

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(10-minute version) the more we give, the more we gain

This week, I’m trying something different.

If you want the richer, 10-minute version of this post, read on.

Instead, if you prefer a short, 5-minute version of this post, click here.

Have you ever stared into the fridge, wondering why you walked into the kitchen in the first place?

I have. In fact, it’s a daily ritual for me. If I think about anything but Greek yogurt and blackberries as I walk to the fridge, all hope is lost.

My thoughts regularly consume and distract me. So much so, that much to the chagrin of my wife, Erin, I’ll stop talking and continue conversations in the quiet of my mind. It goes something like this.

Me: “Did I ever tell you about…”

*silence*

Erin: “Nate, you’re doing it again. Did you tell me what?”

Me: “What?”

Erin: “You just said, ‘did you ever tell me?’ So what were you going to tell me?”

Me: “Oh. I’m not sure.”

For example, a few weeks ago, Erin and I woke up early to hike the Gore Range in the Rockies. As I drank my morning coffee, I started editing a section of my new book. After I’d become engrossed with the words on my screen, Erin asked me, “Can you make sandwiches to bring with us?”

I said, “Sure, no problem,” without actually processing what Erin requested. Fifteen minutes later, once I set my project aside, I thought about what she said.

“Packing something for our hike? Oh, sandwiches. Got it,” I mumbled to myself.

I walked over to the fridge to gather some supplies. There wasn’t a single slice of ham, turkey, or cheese to be found. “Erin!” I yelled out. “I can’t make sandwiches! We don’t have meat or cheese!”

“Are you serious?” Erin shouted from upstairs. “I laid out everything you need, including Ziploc bags, right next to you. They’re literally right in front of you.”

I turned and looked at the table, sheepishly. Sure enough, Erin had spread the necessary sandwich-making provisions around my computer. It was a serious case of myopia.

Tunnel vision like this is usually produced by me refusing to part with the things I treasure. Writing books is an easy example. Tunnel vision is the fastest route to the artistic achievement I crave, so I’m loathe to give up my time to little things along the way (like conversations and sandwiches).

Living inside a tunnel is a very bland existence, however. There’s not much to see or do in a tunnel. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

That’s true of the Eisenhower Tunnel, too, which we drove through on our way to hike that day. The Eisenhower is the longest mountain tunnel and the highest point on the U.S. Interstate system. But even a tunnel as remarkable as the Eisenhower didn’t entail much more than looking at concrete and smelling exhaust.

We drove through the Eisenhower because it’s fast and it’s easy. We did have a choice, though. There’s an alternative route – Loveland Pass – which takes you up and over the Continental Divide.

The views from Loveland Pass are stunning. In the winter, the highway is carved into the middle of these massive ice walls so it feels like you’re cruising down Santa Claus’ extra-long driveway. If the Pass’ 11,990-foot elevation doesn’t take your breath away, the uninterrupted, sweeping views of snow-capped Rockies will.

However, to get Loveland’s iconic views, you have to first give up the tunnel’s convenience.

The same idea applied to my writing that morning. If I never give up the time I spend on my projects, to do little things for the people I love (like make them sandwiches), then my relationships will never have the rich conversations and shared experiences I like to write about.

More generally, our lives works this way. Generosity flows backward. When it comes to choices as simple as driving through a tunnel, or those as complex as marriage, we find that the more we give, the more we gain.

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies. This can make life difficult because unlike writing a book, companies don’t have finish lines. In fact, if you’re doing things right, companies just keep growing, demanding more of your time and energy.

Consequently, just as I often lose my train of thought and stop talking during conversations, it’s easy for me to grow consumed by my work. This was especially true once the company I co-founded was bought by another company, who transitioned me into a role that requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot.

When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s difficult to emerge from an episode of tunnel vision. Most people fatigue as they spend more time on a project. But me? I pick up speed. You know that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion?” That’s me. The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

Erin calls it my “tornado mode.” Tornadoes consume everything in their path, and they can’t really be stopped until they spin themselves out of energy. If I start vacuuming, she knows it’s not long before I’m scrubbing dishes, folding clothes, and throwing out stuff she thinks we need to keep (but I think is clutter).

A project in my path becomes my sole focus. Once I start spinning, I’ll forget to eat lunch and drink water. When I’m traveling and working, I don’t think to check in with friends or family. It’s not that I don’t want to. These things just don’t cross my mind; kind of like sandwich ingredients sitting in front of me. 

Erin, meanwhile, is very good about maintaining our relationships with friends, at church, and with neighbors. We’re opposites in that way, so it’s better when we’re together.

Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch your hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through the front door of our home on this particular night, I was not only a tornado-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

Before I returned home, a few friends had asked her if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and I wanted to keep moving. Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve only seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“True, but we’ll still be together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point. I was hoping you’d want to spend time with me.”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I just kept driving down my own little tunnel.

“Well, yeah. I do. But this way, I’ll get to spend time with you and I’ll get to see our friends.”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, with none of the sacrifice. I’d had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see our friends, all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’ve been in our house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you. And, I also want to see the friends I can’t see when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling, Nate. You have to make a choice at some point. You can’t expect that you coming home is always be about me going out. I need it be about me and you sometimes, too.”

“This doesn’t seem fair,” I said, driving deeper into the tunnel.

“Fair? No, this isn’t about what’s fair. It’s about sacrifice and choosing to put someone else’s wants above your own once in a while.”

I was out of road. I’d reached the end of the tunnel. “Fine, let’s just stay home,” I yielded.

I sat down on our couch and tried to look uninterested, insinuating that the only interesting things existed inside the brewery our friends were headed to. Staying home together was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was mad that I couldn’t.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage. I created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

I never stopped to consider Erin’s perspective. She loves spending nights with friends as much as I do, but she also knows it’s good for us to reconnect after spending weeks apart. Even if it means sacrificing another opportunity, Erin knows there’s value in prioritizing our marriage.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

I know this deep down. Nevertheless, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me, and therefore front-of-mind, simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This was a different type of letter, however. It was an undated resignation letter addressed to my company. It explained that because I wanted a full life with my family more than I wanted to build a company, I was giving up a very good role in a quickly growing venture.

I didn’t mail it, though. Walking away isn’t always the answer. Sometimes, we simply throw the good things in our lives out of balance, which makes them unhealthy. I’m good at my job, and Erin wants me to succeed. So instead, I addressed the letter, stamped it, and handed it to Erin.

By giving her my resignation letter, I was communicating my choice. I was saying I was serious about putting our marriage before my goals. And do you know what happened next?

I discovered that I’d had it all, all along. When I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I started to relish my work while I still had it, and I began to cherish time with her all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We kill ourselves to make a life. We feel we’ll only truly start living after accumulating a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

However, I believe the truth of life is that the more we give, the more we gain.

By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. By taking, you fill the world with foes and contention. Think about it. Which world would you prefer to live in?

You can think about it this way, too. If it’s true that we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment and safety we thought our selfishness would produce.

Now, consider this. What are the good and valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give up something along the way? Consider your relationships – how did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for the benefit of others, we ultimately find there are more people out there who love us. It’s simple – loving people find themselves loved, and selfish people find themselves living in dull, lifeless tunnels.

It’s important to note, though, this doesn’t work if we give with a specific end in mind. The good of the other person must be our genuine and single end. Generosity can’t be counterfeited in order to gain something self-serving. If we fake it, we’ll not only be labeled as manipulating, we’ll soon decide we’re not getting what we want and we’ll give up on the whole endeavor of living generously.

Giving has to be sustained. We have to live freely always, not only when it benefits us.

Lest you begin to think these are my ideas, Jesus Christ is the original. He regularly talked about this paradox, but in a much bigger way.

He said things like, “If you cling to your life, you will lose it, and if you let your life go, you will save it,” and, “Give, and you will receive. Your gift will return to you in full —pressed down, shaken together to make room for more, running over, and poured into your lap.” (Luke 17:33, 6:38 NLT)

This is very encouraging if you think about. Jesus basically told the world, “Hey, look, the most important thing on this earth – your life – it’s actually the easiest thing to get. You just have to let it go. There’s no ten-step plan here.” (Obviously, these are my words, not his.)

Jesus didn’t only prefer our world to be one where we lay down our lives for our friends (and our enemies, actually). He lived his choice. He made the dreadful, horrible decision to give up his life on a wooden cross, thousands of years ago.

He didn’t do it because it was best for him. He did it because it was best for us.

Jesus knew we’d never live perfectly loving and generous lives – ones deserving of an eternal and rewarding life with God. So, he chose to suffer, and he gave his perfect and generous life as a sacrifice. He paid the penalty we should have paid, and in so doing, he offered us a relationship with his Father. That’s what grace is – an undeserved gift.

Even if you believe Jesus Christ was simply a moral and influential teacher from the first century, you must agree we’ve been given much through his death. After all, it’s why we call that day in history “Good Friday.” Jesus’ life and teachings spread like wildfire throughout the ancient world, giving dignity to women living in a culture of oppression, encouraging education in an illiterate society, and freeing the poor and enslaved.

(I’ll note, should you be thinking, “But what about all the negative results, like the crusades?” I would challenge you to judge Jesus not by how his message was abused, but by who he claimed to be, and how he actually lived. We don’t judge Islam by terrorists, right? No, we judge it by its historical veracity and doctrinal coherence. Likewise, we shouldn’t judge Jesus by crusaders – even modern-day political crusaders – who misuse his name for personal gain.)

I should also note that receiving Jesus’ gift of grace and living in his grace are very different things. To receive something, we have to do just that. We accept it. But to live in grace is to accept the same call to lay down our lives. We must spend ourselves for the well-being of others, showing everyone the same love that Jesus did.

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said so well in his book, The Cost of Discipleship:

The cross is laid on every Christian… the cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise god-fearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.

That doesn’t sound like an appealing invitation now does it? I mean, if I’m throwing a house party, and I want our friends to show up, I’m not going to say, “Make sure to get a good night’s sleep and come alert. You might die on your way over. It’ll be worth, though. Promise.”

I’m not sure exactly why God decided that death would be the passageway to life. It seems strange. Nevertheless, I have found that on the days I’m aware enough to sacrifice my selfish pursuits and follow his call, I find joy that far exceeds any earthly gain or achievement.

Similarly, to return to Bonhoeffer’s words once more:

“Christianity preaches the infinite worth of that which is seemingly worthless, and the infinite worthlessness of that which is seemingly so valued.”

To Bonhoeffer’s point, in the corporate world, we give people opportunities that advance their status and earnings. When it comes to the moral values we’re now discussing, like love and joy, a far more valuable reward is paid out in the spiritual realm.

We know this because if one day you decide all the wealth in the world hasn’t fulfilled you, that it’s no longer worth pursuing material success, it can’t be traded for rich relationships or deep contentment. Those things are far too valuable – all the world’s money can’t buy them.

Instead, we only get what’s truly valuable and what we truly desire – love, relationships, joy – by first giving them.

Want to read more?

don’t stop now, download a free preview of my latest book Living Forward, Looking Backward to read more stories just like this

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the more we give, the more we gain

Have you ever stared into the fridge, wondering why you walked into the kitchen in the first place?

I have. It’s a daily ritual for me, in fact. If I begin to think about anything but Greek yogurt and blackberries as I walk to the fridge, all hope is lost.

My thoughts regularly consume and distract me. So much so, that much to the chagrin of my wife, Erin, I’ll stop talking and continue conversations in the quiet of my mind. It goes something like this.

Me: “Did I ever tell you about…”

*silence*

Erin: “Nate, you’re doing it again. Did you tell me what?”

Me: “What?”

Erin: “You just said, ‘did you ever tell me?’ So what were you going to tell me?”

Me: “Oh. I’m not sure.”

For example, a few weeks ago, Erin and I woke up early to hike the Gore Range in the Rockies. As I drank my morning coffee, I started editing a section of my new book. After I’d become engrossed with the words on my screen, Erin asked, “Nate, can you make sandwiches to bring in our backpacks?”

I answered, “Sure, no problem,” without breaking my concentration. Fifteen minutes later, once I stopped typing, I actually processed what Erin had requested.

“Sandwiches. Got it,” I said to myself.

I walked to the fridge and looked for supplies. There wasn’t a single slice of ham, turkey, or cheese to be found. “Erin!” I yelled out. “I can’t make sandwiches! We don’t have meat or cheese.”

“Are you serious?” Erin shouted from upstairs. “I laid out everything you need, including Ziploc bags, right next to you. They’re literally right in front of you.”

I turned around and looked at the table, sheepishly. Sure enough, Erin had spread the necessary sandwich-making provisions around my computer. It was a serious case of myopia.

Generally, my moments of tunnel vision are triggered by an unwillingness to part with the things I treasure. Projects and goals, like writing books and racing triathlons, are two common examples. Tunnel vision is the fastest way to get the artistic and athletic achievement I crave, so I’m loathe to give my time and attention to other things (like conversations and sandwiches).

Living inside a tunnel is a very bland existence, however. There’s not much to see or do in a tunnel. Typically, there’s just a lot of cement and fluorescent light.

We drove through a fairly notable tunnel on our way to hike in the Gore Range that day. It’s called the Eisenhower Tunnel. It’s the longest mountain tunnel and the highest point on the U.S. Interstate system. But, even driving through a tunnel as remarkable as the Eisenhower doesn’t involve much more than looking at concrete and smelling exhaust.

The reason I chose to drive through the Eisenhower that day is because it’s fast and easy. We did have a choice, though. There’s an alternative route to the tunnel – Loveland Pass – which takes you up and over the Continental Divide.

The views from Loveland Pass are absolutely stunning. In the winter, the highway is carved into the middle of these massive ice walls, so it feels like you’re cruising down Santa Claus’ extra-long driveway. If the Pass’ 11,990-foot elevation doesn’t take your breath away, the uninterrupted, sweeping views of snow-capped Rockies will.

However, you only get Loveland’s iconic, magnificent views if you first give up the convenience of the tunnel.

Similarly, rich conversations and shared experiences with my wife (the very things I write about) require that I first give up my often selfish and narrow focus on my own projects (like writing). 

So, while it may seem strange, we find that generosity flows backward in life. When it comes to choices as simple as driving through a tunnel, or those as complex as marriage, we find that the more we give, the more we gain.

I’m an entrepreneur, which means my biggest projects are companies. This makes life difficult at times, because unlike writing a book or finishing a race, there’s no end to building a company. In fact, if you do things right, the company keeps on growing, demanding more time and energy.

Just as I get lost in thought during conversations, it’s easy for me to grow consumed by my work. This was especially true once the company I co-founded was bought by another company, who transitioned me into a role that requires I travel a lot. Like, sixty flights a year, a lot. When I’m on the road and away from home, it’s even more challenging to emerge from a case of tunnel vision.

Unlike most people who fatigue as they spend more time on a project, I pick up speed. You know that law in physics, “an object in motion tends to stay in motion?” That’s me. The more I work, the more I want to work. The more I travel, the more I want to travel.

Erin calls it my “tornado mode.” Tornadoes consume everything in their path, and they’re really difficult to stop. If I start vacuuming, she knows it won’t be long before I’m scrubbing dishes, folding clothes, and throwing out stuff she thinks we need to keep, but I think is clutter. I’ll even forget to eat lunch or drink water once I start spinning. Seriously.

What lies in front of me is usually my sole focus. So, when I’m traveling, I don’t really think to check in with friends or family. It’s not that I don’t want to, it just doesn’t cross my mind. Like sandwich ingredients sitting in front of me. 

Erin, meanwhile, is very good about maintaining our relationships with friends, at church, and with neighbors. We’re opposites in that way, which makes us better together.

Except, recently, those opposites collided in grand fashion as I came down from a nonstop travel bender.

From Minneapolis to Milwaukee, Seattle to San Francisco, and D.C. to Philly, I compressed a whole lot of travel into a few short weeks. I loved it, too. I was traveling as much as I was because the business was growing. It’s intoxicating to watch hard work turn into something valuable.

As I walked through our front door on this particular night, I was not only an object-in-motion, I was picking up steam. I didn’t realize, however, that I’d set myself on a collision-course with Erin.

A few friends had texted her to see if we wanted to meet them at a local brewery. Naturally, I wanted to go. I was riding a high and wanted to keep moving. Erin, on the other hand, declined for us. She said we were going to spend time together, just the two of us.

“We’ll have plenty of ‘us time’ this weekend,” I reasoned as I dropped my bags at the front door. “Tonight works for everyone’s schedule, so let’s go out.”

“Everyone’s schedule but ours,” she reminded me. “I’ve seen you on two days in the last two weeks.”

“That’s true, but we’ll be going out together. It’s not like we’re driving separate cars to the brewery.”

“That’s not the point, Nate. Don’t you want to spend time with me?”

I should have seen the caution signs at this point. Instead, I kept driving down the tunnel.

“Of course. I’ll get to spend time with you, and see friends at the same time. That’s great!”

I was thrilled by the efficiency of it all. I’d get everything I wanted, without any sacrifice. I had a full day of meetings on the East Coast, I’d spend time with my wife, and I’d see four other friends – all in one day. What wasn’t to love?

“You’re not getting it, Nate. I’ve been in this house, alone, for the better part of two weeks. Without you. Now, you’re here, but you don’t want to be with me. How do you think that feels?”

“I do want to be with you… and I also want to see the friends I can’t when I’m traveling.”

“But you’re always traveling. You have to make a choice at some point. You can’t expect that you coming home will always be about me going out. I need it be about me and you – our marriage – sometimes, too.”

Oh boy. There was a cliff at the end of this tunnel, and I was headed right for it. If I didn’t stop and reverse out, I’d run right over the ledge.

“That’s unfair,” I said, barreling toward the precipice.

“Unfair? No Nate, unfair is always being the one who’s left, instead of being the one who gets to do the leaving. Unfair is you not picking me when you come home.”

I was out of road. I’d blown past the edge and into the abyss. In a matter of seconds, I’d lose my momentum and spiral downward.

“Fine, let’s just stay home.”

There it was. The crash landing; my indifferent “fine.” Staying home was now empty of my heart. I wanted to have it all – travel, my wife, my friends – and I was maddened when I couldn’t.

Just as anyone would expect, lots of tears accompanied me wrecking our evening.

By wanting to have it all, I wound up with nothing. Not only me, but Erin, too. My words twisted meeting our friends into either dragging Erin out, or locking me away in a cage at home. I’d created a losing scenario, regardless of the choice we made.

It’s obvious, even to those who aren’t married, that healthy relationships don’t blossom when we prioritize our interests over our significant other’s. If I wanted a meaningful and thriving marriage, something had to give. In this case, I had to choose between my travel schedule, nights with friends, and quality time with my wife.

Even during episodes of tunnel vision, deep down, I know Erin comes first. She always will. In fact, I hope we die in the exact same moment.

You see, whenever I hug Erin goodbye before leaving for a trip, she makes me promise to come back. If I die first, I’ll break my promise. She’ll watch me leave one final time, knowing I won’t come home. And if she goes first, I couldn’t bear knowing she won’t be waiting to welcome me home. Neither of those options are good ones, so I hope old age takes us together.

Still, there are moments when it takes too long for my words to walk the path from my heart to my head. They get distracted along the way, like when I’m walking to the fridge. So what’s in front of me – and therefore front-of-mind – simply leaps out. My love for Erin doesn’t make it from my soul to my brain, so there’s a disconnect between what I believe and what I communicate.

It’s why I write her letters. My words have enough time to travel from my heart to the page.

That next afternoon, I decided to write Erin another letter. This letter, however, was different. It was a resignation letter addressed to my CEO. It explained that I’d made a difficult choice, and because I wanted a full life with my wife more that I wanted to build a company, I would give up a very good role in the company. I addressed it, stamped it, and I handed it to Erin.

Do you know what happened in the weeks after I gave Erin that letter?

I discovered I’d had it all, all along. When I stopped clinging to my work as the end-all-be-all, and I gave Erin the ticket that would end my travel, I found the freedom to enjoy my work while I had it, and I started to cherish my time with my wife all the more.

It’s easy to miss what we have when we’re focused on getting more. I think this is the great lie of our age. We feel we’ll truly start living once we’ve accumulated a little more. More status, more wealth, more experience. Just, more.

Conversely, the truth is the more we give, the more we gain.

You see, by always taking for yourself, you fill the world with foes and contention. By giving, you build a world of friends and kindness. Which world would you prefer to live in?

Well, it’s not as simple as what we prefer. We reveal our true choice daily by how we live our lives.

Think of it this way. If we get by giving, then conversely, in the negative sense, we lose by taking. By hanging onto our priorities, our time, our money, we miss opportunities to gain something even better. Just ask any money manager. We diminish the long-term value of whatever we hold onto. We find ourselves with quicksand eroding beneath our feet, instead of the contentment or safety we hoped our selfishness would achieve.

Now, consider this. What are the good or valuable things in your life? What are you thankful for? Did you gain those things by keeping and hoarding resources for yourself? Or did you give something along the way?

To make this a more specific exercise, think about your relationships. How did you build them?

The reality is that when we give away love and we spend ourselves for others’ benefit, we ultimately come to find there are more people out there willing to love us. I’m sure this is true of your relationships. Loving people find themselves loved in return. Dark and selfish people find themselves abandoned, living in an insipid, lifeless tunnel.

It’s important to note, though, if we give with a specific end in mind, this doesn’t work. The good of the other person must be our genuine and single end. Generosity can’t be counterfeited in order to gain something self-serving. When we fake it, we’re not only labeled as manipulating, we’ll soon decide we’re not getting what we want, and we’ll give up this whole endeavor of living generously.

Giving has to be sustained. We have to live freely always, not when it benefits us.

Lest you think these are my own ideas, Jesus Christ is the original. He regularly talked about this paradox, but in a much bigger way. He said “If you cling to your life, you will lose it, and if you let your life go, you will save it.” ( Luke 17:33, NLT )

This is very encouraging if you think about. Jesus basically told the world, “Hey, look, the most important thing on this earth – your life – it’s actually the easiest thing to get. You just have to let it go. There’s no long ten-step plan here.” (Obviously, these are my words, not his.)

Jesus didn’t only prefer our world to be one where we lay down our lives for our friends (and our enemies, actually), he lived his choice. He made the dreadful, horrible decision to give up his life on a wooden cross, thousands of years ago.

He didn’t do it because he wanted to. He did it for us.

He knew we’d never live perfectly loving and generous lives, ones deserving of an eternal and rewarding life with God. So, he chose to suffer, and he gave his life – which was in fact perfect and generous – as a sacrifice. In turn, he gave us the path to a lasting relationship with our Heavenly Father. That’s what grace is – an undeserved gift.

You must agree, even if you believe Jesus Christ was simply a moral and influential teacher from the first century, we’ve been give much through his death. After all, it’s why we call that day in history “Good Friday.” Jesus’ life and teachings spread like wildfire throughout the ancient world, giving dignity to women living in a culture of oppression, encouraging education in an illiterate society, and freeing the poor and enslaved.

(Should you now be thinking, “But what about all the negative results, like the crusades?” I would challenge you to judge Jesus not by how his message was abused, but for who he claimed to be, and how he actually lived. We don’t judge Islam by terrorists, we judge it by its historical veracity, doctrinal coherence, and experiential relevance. We shouldn’t judge Jesus by political affiliations or violent crusaders who misuse his name.)

Now, I should note that receiving Jesus’ gift of grace and living in his grace are very different things. To receive something, we have to do just that. We accept it. But to live in grace is to accept the same call to lay down our lives. We must spend ourselves for the well-being of others, showing everyone the same love Jesus did.

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said so well in his book, The Cost of Discipleship :

The cross is laid on every Christian… the cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise god-fearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.

As we follow this call, we’ll find that generosity flows backward. This time, in the form of joy that far exceeds any type of earthly gain.

To return to Bonhoeffer’s words once more, “Christianity preaches the infinite worth of that which is seemingly worthless, and the infinite worthlessness of that which is seemingly so valued.”

To Bonhoeffer’s point, in the corporate world, we give people opportunities that advance their earnings and status. However, when it comes to the moral values like love and joy we’re now discussing, our rewards are paid out in the spiritual realm, which is far more valuable. If one day you decide all the wealth in the world hasn’t fulfilled you, that it’s no longer worth pursuing material success, it can’t be traded for things like relationships and contentment. Those things are far too valuable. All the world’s money can’t buy them.

So, in the end, we find we get what’s truly valuable, and what we truly desire – love, relationships, joy – by first giving them.

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