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The following is a guest post by my friend Kevin Haggerty. He and his wife recently bought a house and made a baby, just before the school where he worked decided to let him go. Now he’s in transition. Check it out.

A couple of weeks ago, Shawn published a great post about his trepidation over advising someone to follow their dreams.

He talked about “a guy named Kevin.” I’m “that guy.”

Nice to meet you.

As Shawn disclosed in his post, I’m currently in a difficult situation in my life. I was recently given the news that my teaching contract would not be renewed for the approaching Fall, due to budget cuts being made by the school where I’ve taught for six years.

Additionally, I have a very pregnant wife and a house payment. Things are not neat and organized right now. In fact, they’re the furthest thing from that.

In all of this, it probably makes little to no sense to consider doing something dangerous. I should probably forward my resume to as many schools as possible and try to find another teaching job. That would be safe, right?

Only, that isn’t right.

I always thought that was safe, but as soon as enrollment went down, my job went away. It makes me ask: “Was my job ever really safe? And what does safe really mean?”

The two major points I’m currently weighing are:

1)    I don’t want to entrust my financial salvation to another person or committee again. That is only as stable as this moment, which isn’t really all that stable at all. I want to work for myself. I’m sure of that.

and

2)    There will never be a time in my life where following a dream won’t be dangerous. There will always be something to lose, people to disappoint and the possibility of failing.

It’s taken me my whole life to come to the conclusion that I am a writer. It’s as much a part of who I am as my height, my eye color and my Irish temper. I can’t divorce myself from that, and I won’t.

So now comes the scary part: How do I take a dream and a passion and turn that into something that pays my bills?

The truth is that I’m not sure yet.

I know. You probably were expecting something grander and more inspiring, but I’m still figuring it out. In the meantime, I’m reading at every opportunity. I’m talking to awesome friends like Shawn, Chad Gibbs and Leanne Shirtliffe, who have all been very gracious in giving up their time to be resources of wisdom for me.

I listen to podcasts. I continue to seek God’s answers and also the wisdom of those around me, like my parents and friends.

Most importantly of all, I keep writing. It’s the only way to get better. I write at my little blog. I’ve finished one book, and now I’m about to start another.

I’m trying to learn everything I can about working as a freelance writer. None of that is “safe,” but if I can make it work, it means I’ll have a freedom that I’ve long desired.

It’s a trade-off, but I think it will be worth it in the long run.

That’s really it. That’s where I am in my journey. I will still get paychecks from the school through the end of August. I have a retirement fund that should buy me two or three more months after that point.

It’s frightening. The worst case scenario is that the money will run out in a few months. I’ll have a wife, a newborn son and my house will be taken away.

So why post about that? That’s not encouraging at all, right?

First off, I just wanted to be honest. If you’re going through a similar situation, or you may be in the future, I’m doing you no favors by dressing it up. This is my burden. This is real.

Second, and more importantly, I’m sharing because I’ve come to an important realization that I hope will be helpful. Here it is:

My worst case scenario isn’t something I can’t come back from.

Do you get that? If I don’t find my dream source of income by the time the money runs out, I’ll do something. I’ll deliver pizza. I’ll rake leaves. I’ll do whatever I have to, and, you know what? I’ll survive.

If I lose my house, it will be heartrending, but there are other houses. If I have to sell things, I’ll have money again one day and can buy new things.

At the end of the day, we have family who will always take us in. It isn’t my preference, and we will do all we can to avoid that scenario, but this is the secret:

I’ve come face to face with my nightmare, looked it in the eye…and I didn’t blink. I didn’t wince. I didn’t run away.

I’m going to pursue my dream. I’m still figuring out what that means and how I’m going to do it. But I owe it to myself to at least try.

What’s standing in the way of YOU pursuing YOUR dream?

Answer the question, folks. Then head over to Kevin’s blog and take a look around. While you’re there, pick up a free copy of his E-book, The Idiot’s Guide to the Galaxy.

to my aunt, whose strength and resolve in her battle against cancer gives all of us hope and courage

when hair falls into a pile it does not fall straight
the way it hung from your head
just moments before

the muggy May night hangs from
the streetlights      leans around corners     taps
on the large glass window with nail-bitten fingers soft

and uncertain then looks away

the group gathers inside while passers-by
brisk and late and biting their nails check their watches
check the crossing lights      check for keys

the group gathers inside      champagne glasses
raised to life      the muggy May night taps on the glass
then looks away      when your hair falls into a pile

it is so much more than hair falling into a pile

i brush my daughter’s blond-almost-white hair
and i think of yours (brown-almost-black)
piled up on that barber’s floor      she cries

as i untangle the knots pieces cling to the brush
wisps of it fall into my lap      i hold her hair tight trying
to protect her from the pain      impossible

when things are so tangled      so knotted

there is bravery there but it is not on the floor
hidden under your pile of hair      the buzzing shears
could not slice it away

you are no Samson      you do not hand over
your strength or blindly push down
the pillars      you are so much stronger than that

the courage has not left along with your hair
the courage is in you     shining
so that sometimes i must look away

We made a last minute decision to park Willie at a truck stop and take the minivan on a mini-adventure on a short stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway (the minivan feels like a sports car after driving the bus – it shall henceforth be referred to as The Silver Bullet).

Being in Salinas, we drove about thirty minutes west and encountered the Pacific Ocean just south of Monterey. I’m sorry, northern New Mexico – my heart has found a new home. The beauty of this stretch of coast is simply unbelievable.

 

 

 

It’s one of those melancholy nights that come three-fourths of the way through a trip, when you’re sad that so much of the trip is behind you, and sad that you still have so far to go before getting home.

The kids played at the back of the bus, Sammy’s little shout punctuating their pretend world. Maile sat beside me, slowly eating an ice cream bar. Outside the sun dropped until its light hit that particular angle where everything is split into light sides and dark sides. Even the lowest things leave long shadows.

One of my favorite albums started playing: Druthers’ “Lots and None At All,” and suddenly the strangest thing. I felt homesick. For the first time on this crazy trip, a small ache for familiar things, a longing for routine.

Blindsided by a desire for the mundane.

* * * * *

I’d be dishonest if I didn’t admit to some occasional anxiety regarding the future. Current projects are coming to an end, and there isn’t a lot of writing work on the horizon for me.

Yet I know that, right now, this is where we are supposed to be. Traveling the country. Too many things led us to this place. We’ve had too many awesome experiences. I’ve met too many inspiring people. No matter what direction this road ends up taking, it has been too good to second-guess.

It’s E.L. Doctorow’s whole business with the headlights. You know, how driving at night you can never see beyond your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

* * * * *

O send out your light and your truth; let them lead me.

* * * * *

The kids sit at the table writing out postcards to some of their friends. We haven’t been so good about helping them stay in touch – not for their lack of writing. But most of the pieces of correspondence they do write end up getting lost somewhere in the bus.

I found a small pile of letters the other day. They had fallen down to the side of the desk.

Sometimes prayers feel that way don’t they? Like misplaced correspondence.

But there is hope, too, more hope than I’ve ever felt before. An exciting sense of expectation. Anything could happen.

* * * * *

At an acceptable time, O God, in the abundance of your steadfast love, answer me.

I have made some very expensive transactions on this trip. Nearly everywhere we’ve gone, I’ve gained something, and I’ve left something behind.

In Virginia, we gained a kind friend who treated my kids like they were his grandchildren. He built a small fire under that southern night sky for marshmallow roasting. And I left a piece of myself on that farm in Bremo Bluff while struggling to comprehend a world where slaves used to look up at those same stars.

In New Orleans, we wandered the streets in the French Quarter, taking everything in, and I was left wondering about a homeless man sitting on a step when all I had to give him was a quarter.

In northern New Mexico, we got lost around Carson National Park. At one point the road scaled the side of a cliff – looking back, we saw a small, green valley hidden among the red rocks. A winding stream, lined with trees, disappeared into a canyon etched in the side of the mountain. If I could have stayed there, I would have. I can still see that perfect valley in my mind.

From New Mexico into Arizona I was left speechless by the beauty of the landscape. And I ached as I saw the poor living conditions of the Native Americans who used to roam freely under that massive sky.

All over the country, we’ve made friends, and then we’ve left them behind.

These are the transaction that occur when you live a life of faith: you receive beauty and unexpected grace, but sometimes in exchange you lose everyday comforts. You lose a sense of ownership. Some things make less sense. Some things take on added meaning.

* * * * *

Maybe a month ago my sister and brother-in-law received a call from child services. Would they be interested in providing cradle care for a child who’s parentage was uncertain? The father had decided to claim parental rights but had a process to go through. The adoptive parents were hesitant to take in the baby if the father was going to get involved.

So my sister and brother-in-law took the little one in. They feed him every three hours. They get up with him in the night. They change his diapers.

But even more importantly, they invest huge pieces of themselves into his young life, not knowing how long he can stay with them.

This is the walk of faith: giving without thought of what will be gained. Receiving beauty and unexpected grace in the midst of so much potential heartache. So much potential love.

* * * * *

Before you, two paths. One of comfort and predictability. The other? Faith and adventure.

* * * * *

Today we drive north to San Francisco, and then the monumental turning:

East.

Please, if you know the family involved in the adoption scenario above, refrain from mentioning any names in the comments.

There are plenty of completely legitimate reasons not to encourage someone.

Encouragement could lead them to some kind of disastrous failure, the kind from which people do not easily recover. Then I would feel responsible and guilty. And I’m not a big fan of feeling responsible for someone else’s downfall. I enjoy feeling guilty even less.

Or my encouragement might be the motivating factor that propels them toward some kind of wildly unforeseen success, the likes of which even I cannot imagine. But that would leave me feeling rather chagrined and perhaps even jealous. Chagrined I can deal with. Jealous? Not a big fan.

It’s so much easier to be the voice of reason. The mitigating factor. The one who tempers all fires.

It’s so much easier to ask, “But did you think about this?” or “Have you considered the worst case scenario?”

It’s so much easier to ask, “But have you thought of your family?” or “What will your parents think?”

It’s so much easier to discourage, because it is what our culture does: it grabs anyone straining towards excellence or ingenuity and it sucks them back into the comfortable mass of mediocrity.

* * * * *

By most standards, I have never been wildly successful at anything. At the age of 35, this is an awkward admission to make. I never started a business that made $1 million. I have never written a book that swept the nation. Or my own state. Or my own hometown.

In fact, hidden among the ongoing construction of my relatively meager existence are what some would see as colossal failures. Enormous amounts of debt. Businesses that never caught on. Starting over. And then starting over again.

Yet I do not see them as such. Where others see failure, or heartache, or disappointment, I now see potential foundations. Holes that to some look like gaping empty crevices have the perfect dimensions in which to pour the footers of my future.

* * * * *

The common denominator in any venture that has moved me forward has been the presence of encouragement. A stranger’s email regarding my writing. My dad’s excitement about our current cross-country trip. A friend’s note about something I did that made an impact.

Encouragement creates a path where before there was none.

Discouragers are everywhere. You can’t throw a Double Skinny White Chocolate Mocha in a Starbucks without hitting a discourager.

But encouragers are one in a million. Be an encourager.