Love Does: Discover a Secretly Incredible Life in an Ordinary World

by Bob Goff

Bob Goff has had a greater impact on my life than any person I’ve known. And while you’ll read stories in this book about adventures both big and small, it isn’t bears or witchdoctors or dynamite that got through to me, though I confess Bob’s adventures are intoxicating. The reason Bob has impacted my life is because he loves me. Bob Goff loves people with a force that is natural, and by natural I mean like nature, like a waterfall or wind or waves on the ocean. He loves effortlessly, as though love packs annually in snow on a mountain, melting and rushing through him in an infinite loop. There’s no explanation for a man who can love this well save God. I think Bob Goff knows God, and I think God’s love flows through him.

I don’t know how to explain Bob’s love except to say it is utterly and delightfully devastating. You simply cannot live the same once you know him. He will wreck your American dream and help you find your actual dream. He will wreck your crappy marriage and help you find a love story. To know Bob is to have a façade you’ve spent your life maintaining beautifully strewn to ruins while, like a friend, he comes alongside you as you rebuild.

Those I’ve introduced Bob to, and there have been many, find it hard to put into words what is different about him. But the title of this book says it all. Where you and I may want love and feel love and say love, Bob reminds us that love does things. It writes a letter and gets on a plane. It orders pizza and jumps in a lake. It hugs and prays and cries and sings. Much of what we’ve come to know and believe about love doesn’t ring true once you know this man whose love does.

I have a season’s pass to Disneyland and I can take a train there anytime I want. If I want to take a friend, I have an old classic motorcycle with a sidecar, a Harley-Davidson Springer Softail I keep in the garage for special occasions. It’s the kind of motorcycle you’d see in a picture under the title “whimsy” in the encyclopedia. It’s cool. It’s blue and it’s loud. I like riding it because I’m fully engaged while getting from here to there. I also like that I can bring a friend along as well. When I pass by people they smile because they’ve never been in a sidecar, but I can tell they wish they were the passenger. Whimsy is a lot that way—it needs to be fully experienced to be fully known. Whimsy doesn’t care if you are the driver or the passenger; all that matters is that you are on your way.

I used to want to fix people, but now I just want to be with them.

Randy disappeared for a few minutes into the house while I stood awkwardly on his porch with my hands in my pockets. When he came back to the door, he had a tattered backpack hanging over his shoulder by one frayed strap and a sleeping bag under his other arm. He was focused and direct. All he said was this: “Bob, I’m with you.” Something in his words rang right through me. He didn’t lecture me about how I was blowing it and throwing opportunities away by leaving high school. He didn’t tell me I was a fool and that my idea would fall off the tracks on the way to the launchpad. He didn’t tell me I would surely crater even if I did briefly lift off. He was resolute, unequivocal, and had no agenda. He was with me. Despite the kind gesture, it was pretty odd to think he wanted to come along. “Um, sure, I guess,” I said halfheartedly. “You sure?” “Yeah, Bob, I’m in. If you wouldn’t mind, what if I caught a ride with you?” Randy stood with a determined look. “So, let me get this straight. You want to drive to Yosemite with me—right now?” “Yep, that’s right. I can find my way back after we get there and you get settled in.” I’m not sure why I accepted Randy’s generous self-invitation. I guess it’s because it caught me totally off guard. No one had ever expressed an interest in me like that before. “Sure . . . ,” I stammered as we both stood awkwardly on his stoop. “Uh, I guess we should get going then.” And with that, Randy closed the door to his little house and we walked side b...

At this point, Ryan was a regular and he bounded across the lawn and up to the porch without hesitation. He was pretty winded, actually, leaning over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. I wondered if I should give him a paper bag to breathe into. After a few long moments, Ryan straightened up. There was a pause while our stares met. I had learned that a pause by Ryan meant there was another whopper of an idea brewing in his head. “Hey, Ryan, what’s up? It’s great to see you. How are the plans coming?” “Do you . . .” He exhaled. “. . . have . . .” He inhaled. “. . . a boat?” “A boat?!” I was belly-laughing as I asked him to repeat what I thought he’d just said. “Yeah, do you have a boat?” Ryan asked more confidently as he straightened a bit. “Well, actually, Ryan, I do!” I said with half enthusiasm and half awe at Ryan’s love-induced, audacious bender. He had that glazed look again as he looked me squarely in the eyes. “Well, can I borrow it?” Ryan was out of control. He had no idea what an outrageous thing he was asking. But you see, to Ryan, I wasn’t a total stranger—no one was. To him, the whole world was full of coconspirators when it came to winning over his love. He was completely unaware of and unimpeded by what was proper, what was acceptable, and what was conventional. Nothing was going to get in the way of what he decided he was going to do.

What Ryan didn’t realize is that I decided to one-up him. Why should he have all the fun? That night, I called the Coast Guard and told them about Ryan’s elaborate plan and his glazed-over enthusiasm for his girl, which had swept him into a state of unparalleled whimsy. Ryan’s enthusiasm was contagious, and pretty soon the guy on the other end of the phone had caught the bug too. The Coast Guard officer and I hatched a plan of our own. When the big night came, everything was in place. The night was balmy, the air was clear, and I think the stars even came out a few minutes early to see Ryan’s elaborate scheme unfold. Ryan and his girl came walking down the path. When they got to the white Nantucket house on the bay, he led her up the stairs and across the lawn toward a candlelit table on the porch. “Ryan, what are we doing? Is this okay? Whose house is this?” she whispered as she held his arm a little tighter. Ryan pulled out her chair and said this was for her as he sat her down.

“C’mon,” is all he had to say as they came onto my boat. I was at the helm and they made their way to the bow. With the stars out in full view, we slowly motored out into the bay. After a short time, we approached the spot where Ryan and I agreed I would stop the boat so he could pop the question. In a total coup de grâce, Ryan had fifty more of his friends on the shore to spell out “Will you marry me?” with candles—just in case he got tonguetied or overwhelmed in the intensity and whimsy of the moment. With their flickering sign as his backdrop, Ryan got on one knee. “Will . . .” He exhaled. “. . . you . . .” He inhaled. “. . . marry . . .” He paused. “. . . me?” There was a gasp followed by an immediate and enthusiastic yes. In this, the most special moment of their lives, neither Ryan nor his bride-to-be noticed that the Coast Guard had pulled in behind us with their firefighting boat, just as the officer and I had planned. I gave the thumbs-up—the sign that she said yes—and he shot off every water cannon he had on the entire rig! It was a scene that belonged in New York Harbor on the Fourth of July with the Statue of Liberty in the background. But it wasn’t happening there, it was happening for Ryan because that’s the way love rolls; it multiplies. Ryan and his bride-to-be let the mist from the water cannons settle over them like a thousand small kisses. Ryan’s love was audacious. It was whimsical. It was strategic. Most of all, it was contagious. Watching Ryan lose hi...

After reading the test results I had rigged, my parents had to agree that I was meant to be a forest ranger, and my mom took me to the mountains where the forest rangers live. Where are the girls? I thought. This was the first indication that my research had perhaps been flawed.

What I later learned is that Kathy had joined a sorority and that a “big brother” was Greek-speak for a guy from a fraternity the sorority sisters pair up with. I was so hurt—I almost wished for the other version I initially understood to salvage my ego. I vowed never to love again. I also vowed never to join a fraternity or be part of the Greek system. I started a list of other Greek things I would boycott. On my shortlist were gyros, olives, and the removal of my Achilles tendon.

I wanted to do things that would make a difference in the world. My professors, however, wanted me to do things that would make a difference in my grade point average.

Without a lot of fanfare, the dean turned the corner from his office, and as usual, I prepared to say, “Just tell me to go buy my books.” Something was different this time, though, because instead of avoiding me and walking away without saying anything, the dean just stood there towering over me. There was a long pause. The dean looked me squarely in the eyes, gave me a wink, and said the four words that changed my life forever: “Go buy your books.”

The day I saw Maria was ten days before Valentine’s Day. And since I had already secretly claimed her as my bride, I figured I’d better let her get to know me. You know that feeling where you don’t know what to do with yourself? Everything reminds you of that person. A painting, a sunset, children playing, a couple holding hands, a paperclip, my wristwatch, everything. Yet thinking about them just isn’t enough; you just need to do something, anything.

A perfect envelope. I made a stamp the size of a doormat and put it on the envelope upside down. (Guys, you know that means “I love you,” right? If not, back to finishing school for you.) Inside, I took another four-foot-by-eight-foot piece of cardboard and wrote, “Maria, will you be my Valentine?” Simple. Straightforward. Not too hard to spell. I really wanted to write, “Maria, will you marry me?” but it would have been a little early. Proposals are definitely week three material. I borrowed a guy’s truck and drove my gigantic card downtown and into the garage of the high-rise. I struggled to get the card into the elevator and drew more than a few odd looks and smiles. The elevator sped me upward. I felt so excited I thought I was going to faint. But I didn’t want to crumple the card, so I pulled myself together. Wouldn’t Maria think this was just about the greatest Valentine’s Day card she’d ever received? Wouldn’t she know how nuts I was for her? Wouldn’t she like me back? This was going to be just great. She was going to love it!

I decided to start each day by making Maria a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I put it under the windshield wiper of her car. Why? I’m not quite sure. It was like I was sandwich-stalking her. Sometimes I would even put notes in the sandwiches. I know all this sounds crazy, but if you got to know me I bet you wouldn’t think so. Maria probably thought that I was weird. But weird can be safe too, and my love was a weird, safe love. Fortunately, Maria understood that for some of us—most of us—the language of love is laced with whimsy. It sometimes borders on the irrational. Like I’ve been saying, though, love is a do thing. It’s an energy that has to be dissipated.

At some point I stopped staring at the pile of broken cake on the asphalt that was my life and decided to get some skin in the game. My life had not been shattered into many pieces by a massive tragedy, but it consisted of as many disorganized pieces as it would if it had been. I simply decided that I wasn’t going to let the residual rocks and small pieces of gravel get in the way of me getting served up and used. It has always seemed to me that broken things, just like broken people, get used more; it’s probably because God has more pieces to work with.

Finally, and definitely the coolest part, is that you get a card from the State Department that gives you diplomatic immunity. I wasn’t exactly sure what diplomatic immunity meant, so I asked around to see if I could kill someone. Not someone important, of course, but someone normal—like Doug. I never got a call back on that question, so I’m operating under the assumption that I can.

I used to think I needed an invitation to get into most places, but now I know I’m already invited.

There is only one invitation it would kill me to refuse, yet I’m tempted to turn it down all the time. I get the invitation every morning when I wake up to actually live a life of complete engagement, a life of whimsy, a life where love does. It doesn’t come in an envelope. It’s ushered in by a sunrise, the sound of a bird, or the smell of coffee drifting lazily from the kitchen. It’s the invitation to actually live, to fully participate in this amazing life for one more day. Nobody turns down an invitation to the White House, but I’ve seen plenty of people turn down an invitation to fully live. Turning down this invitation comes in lots of flavors. It looks like numbing yourself or distracting yourself or seeing something really beautiful as just normal. It can also look like refusing to forgive or not being grateful or getting wrapped around the axle with fear or envy. I think every day God sends us an invitation to live and sometimes we forget to show up or get head-faked into thinking we haven’t really been invited. But you see, we have been invited—every day, all over again.