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When I Picked This Guy Up Outside the Motel #RideshareConfessional

I pull up outside the motel and there is a couple waiting by the sliding reception doors. She is white, middle-aged, blue-collar. He is black with a frizzy, gray beard and sad eyes. As I pull to a stop, they say good-bye to each other and then he walks around to get in the back seat on the passenger side.

Picking people up at motels is always interesting. Sometimes, they are long-haul truckers who need a lift to their next ride. Sometimes, they are employees of the motel. Sometimes, they are transgender sex workers. You never know who you’re going to run into.

He sat down quietly and I started driving away. I asked a few introductory questions, as I always do, trying to figure out if he wanted to talk or not. Conversation is part of the service, or at least that’s how I see it, so if someone wants to talk, I’m there for it. How’s it going? Nice day, isn’t it? What are you up to today?

He was talkative. They had just bought a house and were getting ready to move in but were staying at the motel in the meantime. He worked at a beer store in the city. He’d never done that kind of work before, but somehow he made a good impression on the owners, so the guy trained him. He went on and on about the different types of beer, clearly an expert. I asked him if he had a recommendation, although I don’t often drink. This sent him on an entirely new rabbit trail, and it was fun, because he loved talking about what he knew–most people do.

I asked him if he grew up in the area, and he said he went to a high school in Harrisburg. I recognized the name.

“They have a good football team, don’t they?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said.

“Did you play?” I asked him. And he grinned, a big, wide grin full of pearly-white teeth.

“Oh, yeah,” he said again. “Wide receiver and safety. I wasn’t the biggest guy out there, but I was fast.” And he laughed, and I realized he was younger than I first thought, maybe even my age, or close to it. For a moment I could see him, a spindly high school kid, darting around under the Friday night lights, knocking someone down or catching a ball and running like a jack rabbit. How these years get away from us.

I really liked him. In that moment, driving into the city on a warm, February day, I wanted to hang out with this guy. We pulled over, and he was profuse in his thanks. I told him I’d try to come by and see him some time. He climbed out of the car, and there was a co-worker of his standing on the sidewalk, smoking. The banged fists together, and I could see them chatting as I drove away.

* * * * *

As of Sunday night, you can still get the Kindle version of my novel The Day the Angels Fell for only $4.47, so buy yourself a digital copy and tell your friends! Thanks so much. I couldn’t make a living as a writer without your support.

Photo by Azrul Aziz via Unsplash
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Keep Looking for the Good Stuff

When I was a nine-year-old kid living on a farm in central PA, my friend and I ran down the long lane past the apple tree and pear tree and cherry tree, across the empty back road, and into the church’s parking lot. Sometimes, we rode our bikes there, and in the late spring days the air was still cool enough to blur our eyes. The trees were a kind of new green, not the shadowy green they would become in the summer heat, but a lime lollipop color that was new and fresh.

We each pulled a penny from one of our pockets, got down on our hands and knees on the macadam, and looked for Fool’s Gold. If Wikipedia can be believed, this is actually something called Pyrite, but that didn’t matter to us back then. We wanted the shiny stuff. We’d look and look and look, and when we finally saw a piece, we’d dig it out of the ground with our penny, pocket the gold, and keep looking.

* * * * *

I’ve been reading through the Psalms in the Message—I love the creativity and poetic language Eugene Peterson uses. And the other day I read Psalm 106:

They traded the Glory

            For a cheap piece of sculpture—a grass-chewing bull!

As the story goes, when the Israelites thought they had been abandoned by God and Moses, they threw their jewelry into the fire, melted it down, and created a calf to worship. They were so desperate to have something tangible to lead them, something they could see and touch and feel, that they were willing to walk away from the God who had miraculously provided for them such a short time before.

They were willing to trade the Glory for a cheap replacement.

* * * * *

Whether or not you’re a Christian, there’s a clear application here: stop trading in the good stuff for meaningless crap. Keep going for the real, the true, the meaningful.

I know it can be hard to keep believing in the work you’re creating when it feels like there’s nothing on the horizon, no hope for a bigger audience, no real reason to keep going. It’s hard to keep going when it feels like you’re leaving a wake of failure behind you. Or maybe you’re having trouble finding hope when it comes to your spouse, your kid, your church, your business, your dream. Maybe you’re finding it hard to keep hoping in yourself. I understand this. When everything seems to have vanished, when our goals and dreams seem unattainable, we just want something we can touch. And we get to the point where we’re willing to trade in the good stuff we can’t see (even if it’s just around the corner) for just about anything tangible, even if it’s a cheap imitation of that beautiful, wonderful thing we’ve been chasing for such a long time. Even if it means walking away from the Glory.

We give up way too early, way too often.

The key is hope. Trust. Faith.

As Journey would say, Don’t stop beleeeeevin’…

So keep hoping. Keep going. Keep trying. One more day. Find someone who will encourage you to stay focused on the good, the beautiful, the true, the real. And don’t trade the good stuff in for Fool’s Gold. If you do, you might walk away with pockets that feel full, but it’s really just a pocketful of shiny junk. The good stuff is out there, waiting for you.

* * * * *

What’s the good stuff that feels elusive to you right now? What’s the Fool’s Gold you’re tempted to go after? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

* * * * *

As of Thursday evening, you can get the Kindle version of my first novel, The Day the Angels Fell, for only $4.70! Check it out HERE.

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Driving For Uber on a Friday Night #RideshareConfessional

I like driving for Uber and Lyft on Friday evenings. I know some drivers don’t, because you occasionally have to taxi the heavily intoxicated with their slurred words and nonsensical conversations and belligerence. I once had to help a young man find the door handle in my car. I once had to wake someone up so that they’d get out. I once watched as a man tripped over every single Christmas-themed yard ornament between me and his front door. I once, sadly enough, had to help three girls hoist their passed-out friend up the front steps. And of course, there are the obnoxiously-intoxicated frat-house boys who think they are gods.

But normally I don’t mind driving during that time of a Friday night, not all that much. Occasionally, the gushing, drunken older women who want to be my absolute best friend in the whole weary world get on my nerves. That’s a little awkward. For the most part, Friday nights are fun because there are people everywhere and the city is alive and most of the people I drive are relaxed, not going to work, hanging out with their friends, and happy about life.

I did pick up a guy the other night who just received bad news about one of his parents, and I had to drive him to a hospital that was 40 minutes away. This was just after I had decided it would be my last fare of the night, because my eyelids were getting heavy and I was ready to go home, but he needed a ride and the fare was decent, so off we went.

I asked him a few questions and he clearly wanted to talk, so the miles passed quickly as he told me about his job, his wife, why they chose to live where they live. And I nodded and listened and navigated the route.

I heard the pop of a beverage can in the back seat. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s only water. I didn’t want you to think it was a beer.”

I shrugged. I don’t sweat that kind of stuff. People are going to do what they’re going to do. Just don’t puke in my car. That is literally the only thing I care about. Well, that, and don’t make out back there. I might not be able to see you, but I can hear everything.

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you do? What does your wife do?” And it was surprising, because most people just want to talk about themselves, which I’m completely happy with because, to be honest, I don’t have an aching need to tell every single passenger my life story.

“Sorry,” he said, walking back his questions. “Not to be nosy. It’s just a long ride, you know?”

So I told him. I told him about why we moved back home to PA, what my wife has been up to (finishing her middle-grade novel and now looking for representation), how we decided to send our kids to public school after 10 years of homeschooling. And it was nice. He was nice. It was a good conversation.

Then we got to the town and we arrived at the hospital, and he moved to get out.

“If you don’t see a tip tonight,” he said, “don’t worry. I’ll get around to it. But this whole thing,” and he motioned towards the hospital, “it’s got me preoccupied.” I told him not to worry about it. I didn’t ask about his parent. I figured he’d tell me if he wanted to.

I took one more fare in that faraway town, a young girl getting off work late at night. I circled the building a few times before we could find each other. I dropped her off at a store to pick up some medication, then I drove the 40 minutes home.

The guy was good to his word, by the way. He left me a generous $5 tip.

If you’d like, you can follow my Facebook page, Rideshare Confessional.

Photo by Adam Siwiec via Unsplash
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Some Thoughts on Bedtime (and a Book That Will Help You Get Through It)

After parenting for fifteen years, Maile and I still have two kids in the house who have a strict bedtime–that would be the youngest two. Cade and Lucy, our oldest, are mostly allowed to wander the house or read until later in the evening. Abra and Sam know there’s a general expectation of being in bed by 8:00pm, but they are sometimes out at various activities in the evening, so it’s flexible. Leo and Poppy, however, have a strict 7:00pm-be-in-bed-or-one-or-both-parents’-brains-will-explode bedtime. They are dear, adorable, lovely children, but by about 6pm something happens, and they transform into drooping forms that can only communicate in sirens and whines.

What does their bedtime consist of? We start with the brushing of the teeth. Poppy has a blinking toothbrush that is supposed to tell you how long to brush, but it turns out it just fills her with anxiety, knowing it will stop blinking at any moment. Leo has one of those electric toothbrushes, the kind that spin. He insists on applying his own toothpaste, even though he doesn’t yet have the manual dexterity to apply an appropriate amount. Sometimes he tries to apply it while it’s spinning. That’s fun.

After that, we change Poppy’s diaper while Leo uses the restroom, because if he doesn’t, there is a better-than-50% chance he’ll wet the bed. From there, we move into the getting-into-pajamas mode. Poppy has developed a slight phobia for pulling shirts over her head, but we’re almost through that phase. Leo likes to pick out his own pajamas.

After all conditions are perfect, and Poppy is holding her fistful of pacifiers, we move into the part of the evening with the highest stakes: the choosing of the books. Right now we’re in the middle of Charlotte’s Web, so the choice part is out of the equation. Which is kind of nice, because I’m not always satisfied with their choices.

When they do have a choice, things get interesting. During the childhoods of the first four children, we have amassed a rather impressive library of children’s books. Where the Wild Things Are, The Cat in the Hat, Guess How Much I Love You… The list goes on and on and on. Yet, these youngest two children continually choose the most boring, insidious books that we own. Such as the Cars 2 book, from the movie, that has something to search for and find on each mind-numbing page. Or the board book that has various trucks in it, where each page has a handful of flaps to pull open and read. They usually fight over who gets to open the flaps.

Can I tell you what brings me great joy as a parent? When my children come to their senses and come toddling over to me holding one of Matthew Paul Turner’s beautiful books. Seriously. His first two, When God Made You and When God Made Light, are beautifully written and illustrated. They are two of my absolute favorites.

And today my friend releases a third book, When I Pray For You. He somehow manages to write with a depth and a simplicity that attracts both children and adults. His verse is impeccable. The way he plays with words is a true delight.

If you’re looking for a book for a child, or a young friend, or a gift for a baby shower, these books, full of life-giving words, would be perfect. Check out his new release today.

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What I Saw in My Son’s Eyes When He Was Nearly Pinned

It was Sam’s second wrestling match of the tournament. He had won his first after three hard-fought periods, but the second match, it was a tough one. The other kid took him down quick and nearly had him pinned for the entire first period. The second period was more of the same—the other kid on top of Sam while Sam struggling to keep his shoulder blades off the mat, twisting and turning and writhing and fighting. For an entire minute, the other kid nearly had him pinned, but Sam kept resisting.

Then, the third period, and nothing really changed. Besides an escape, Sam didn’t get any more points, and the other kid nearly had him pinned. Again. For the duration of three periods, he was on his back, the match on the line.

But at one point, while he was in the middle of fighting, he looked over at me where I sat at the edge of the mat. I was shouting his name, cheering him on.

We made eye contact. It was actually kind of eerie, because he was in this huge struggle, giving it all he could, and it was all happening in this massive gymnasium with two other matches taking place and hundreds of people shouting and whistles being blown and kids cheering on their teammates and mothers wringing their hands and cheering, and in the middle of all of that chaos, our eyes met. His little 9-year-old face stared over at me, in the middle of that fight, and our eyes locked.

And what I saw in his eyes, well, I can still see it.

* * * * *

For the last ten years, I’ve made a living as a writer. Mostly co-writing books, helping people tell their stories and share their messages. Business people want to pass on their miraculous journey to their kids or folks want to share how they overcame. And it’s an amazing way to live a life. The creativity, the depth, the searching for stories, the listening—it’s incredibly rewarding. Now, I even get to write my own books, which is like blessing on top of blessing. A gift after you thought all the gifts had been opened.

But it’s also a roller coaster way to live a life. Some years, we have plenty. Other years can be a little lean. And those lean years, they can really test you. They can make you feel like you’re in the middle of a wrestling match, always on your back, always struggling to get out from under a serious weight.

During those years, it can feel like we’re on the edge of being pinned. And sometimes giving up seems not only like a good option–it seems sensible, even necessary. Why keep fighting when the outcome feels inevitable?

* * * * *

The seconds were ticking down. It felt like there was no way Sam could win—the point total was too much to overcome. But he still wasn’t giving up. That crazy kid. I think about the quote by the woman who wrote the book Unbroken when she was speaking about the real-life main character: “What made him an impossible boy also made him an unbreakable man.”

When we made eye contact, I expected to see fear in his eyes, or desperation. Or maybe disappointment. A lot of kids cry at these tournaments, when they lose, and I wouldn’t have faulted him, if emotion took over. There is a particular feeling to being bested in front of large crowds in a one-on-one battle. It isn’t pleasant.

Yet I didn’t see any of those things in Sam’s eyes–not fear or desperation or disappointment or sadness or embarrassment or shame. None of that. It was remarkable. He was looking at me with nothing apart from fierce determination. In the middle of that match-long struggle, he locked eyes with me, and what I saw there was someone who was calm. And aware. And he was not going to give up, no matter what. No matter how dire the situation. No matter how far behind. Because the match wasn’t over, and as long as the match wasn’t over, he wasn’t going to get pinned. He had made up his mind.

It was a remarkable moment. He is remarkable.

The whistle blew. He lost. But not really.

It’s amazing, what your kids can teach you.

* * * * *

Did you know I wrote two award-winning young adult novels? You can check out the first one HERE.

And below is a picture of Sammy from a few years ago. You can follow all of us over at my Instagram account.

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Back in the Uber and Lyft Saddle Again

She said things didn’t work out well for her in Alabama, that she needed a fresh start. It didn’t sound like her parents were very receptive to her moving back in with them, so she stayed with a relative here in Lancaster for a few months, just to get back on her feet.

“Have you been able to find work?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’ve got two jobs now, and we’re heading to my new place.”

We cruise out of the city, out to where you can breathe, on narrow roads that wind among the fallow winter fields. We get to her new place and I help her unload her suitcases. She seems nervous and excited and anxious and hopeful. Her roommate asks about my car. I wish her good luck, all the best, and hit the road.

The next guy I drive is laughing as he climbs into the front seat.

“Oh, man, I’ve always wanted to ride in a Mini! I love your car! I’m giving you five stars no matter what.” He pauses, thinks for a moment. “Just don’t get in a crash, okay?”

He’s from Puerto Rico, grew up in Lancaster, and seems way too young to be working at the hospital and studying for his Master’s. But what personality! What love for life!

Again and again and again, when I’m driving, I’m reminded that what makes America great is that we’re all so different, from so many different places and backgrounds and experiences. I love that about us.

I drop him off and he’s still gushing about the car, promising he’s going to buy one.

* * * * *

I’m driving for Uber and Lyft again, partially because I enjoy it, partially because I’m exploring writing a book about this experience, partially because raising six kids (all of whom seem destined for braces and expensive colleges) costs a lot of money. It’s not the most lucrative gig in the world, but I love driving and I love the stories strangers will tell you when they know they’ll never see you again.

So, here we are. I hope you’ll follow along, share the stories with your friends, and join me over at my Facebook page, Rideshare Confessional.

As always, you guys are the best. Thanks for reading and sharing and sending me encouraging notes and just generally being really good human beings.