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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.

Today I’m guest posting over at TV Asylum about how our Amish neighbor used to come watch TV with us. Here’s a little preview for you:

Monday Night Football. My dad and I chilling out on the sofa with a bag of Doritoes. I was nine years old, and in 1986 it didn’t get much better than watching football with my dad.

Then an unexpected knock at the door. We lived in farm country, with only a few neighbors, and no one visited us at 9:00pm on a Monday night. Dad gave me that look that said, “Go answer the door.” It was the same look I got when he wanted me to be the remote control for the television. (Oh, glorious remote control, you were only a few years away!)

I walked towards the front of the house, watching the TV over my shoulder. I opened the unlocked door. Standing there in the doorway, his hat in his hands, was an Amish man.

“Are you watching the Browns?” he asked quietly, looking over his shoulder.

Head over to TV Asylum to read the entire post.

* * * * *

If you’re here for the first time, here are two things you should know:

1) I’m traveling around the country in a big blue bus named Willie with my wife and four kids
2) I just released an E-book called Building a Life Out of Words. It’s my story of hitting rock bottom and then deciding to go after my dream of writing for a living. Find out more or order it HERE.

Thanks for reading!

After the Killer Tribes conference I sent Bryan Allain a list of questions about the conference he organized and successfully pulled off in Nashville, TN. He was kind enough to agree to this semi (not really) exclusive interview, in which many of his deepest, darkest secrets are brought to light.

If you were at the Killer Tribes conference, you’ll want to read this – it’s a glimpse inside the mind of the man who put it all together. If you weren’t at Killer Tribes, you should read this for the inside scoop on next year.

What was your favorite aspect of the Killer Tribes conference?

Seeing people meet in real life for the first time. I loved the fact that Killer Tribes was the place that friendships were formed and taken to the next level.

There are a few things I heard or learned that I can’t stop thinking about. What one point made by a speaker are you still mulling over?

The speakers as a whole brought such a great mix of practical and inspirational, and that was my biggest desire going in. So happy they all delivered like I hoped they would.

As for one point that stuck with me, I keep thinking about Daddy-O’s comment that we go to conferences so we know we’re not crazy. That was brilliant. Many of the people in your life might not understand why you blog or how it is that you can have so many online friends, and eventually they might make you start wondering the same thing. But then when you’re all gathered together and having a blast at a conference it all makes sense.

So basically you’re admitting that Daddy-O was your favorite speaker. Awesome. I can’t wait until Sarah Mae catches wind of this and breaks out a can of…

Anyway…when you made the final announcements and then released the happy hordes at the end of the day, were you more relieved that it was over or disappointed that it was over?

Neither. It was more a state of satisfied shock. I kept telling people throughout the day that it felt like I was sledding downhill at 100 mph. The experience was thrilling, fun, and (on some level) kind of dangerous. I had a blast all day and in the back of my mind was just hoping we didn’t hit any trees on the way down. So when we finally got to the end (in one piece) I was able to say, “wow, that was awesome!” I guess at that point I knew I wanted to do it again.

So you weren’t relieved OR disappointed. Whatever.

What’s one thing you would do differently?

Maybe have one additional breakout session in the morning? I’ve taken a bunch of notes on stuff that would be cool if I do it again, but I can’t share those because of non-disclosure agreements I signed with myself.

You are aware that non-disclosures never hold up in a court of law, right?

I don’t know if you know it or not, but the masses are calling for a follow up. What is the % chance there will be a Killer Tribes Conference in 2013? What are the main factors?

I’d say the chances are high. I want to do it, and I think most of the attendees would be up for another one, so that should ensure that it happens. As long as I can work out the logistics, expect the Killer Tribes sequel at the end of March / beginning of April 2013.

In the words of Harry from Dumb and Dumber…”so you’re saying there’s a chance.”

If you were at Killer Tribes, what was your favorite part? If you weren’t there, what were you disappointed to miss?

I meandered up to the small food shack. It was nothing more than a metal concession trailer with a plywood room somehow fastened alongside. Inside, a makeshift counter ran along the walls. Country music scratched out from an old portable radio.

I had never expected Arizona to be so cold in April, but a cool desert breeze dashed along the rocks and the dirt and the plateaus, felt more like a late-fall morning in Pennsylvania. The market surrounding the Four Corners monument had only begun to wake up. Vendors pulled up in their pick-up trucks, held steaming cups of coffee, chatted with one another, and shrugged their shoulders at the slow start to the day.

I ducked into the small shelter and put my arms up on the counter. Two iron skillets waited on unlit gas burners. A woman emerged from the corner of the aged, clean kitchen. Her black hair reminded me of the dark night we had driven through to get there. She offered me a reserved smile, a small row of the whitest teeth shining through her plump, tan skin. It was obvious that her ancestors were the original occupants of this immense land.

“What can I get you?” she asked quietly. No pretense. No sappy customer service. Simply a question that needed answering.

“I’d like an order of fried bread with powdered sugar,” I said.

“It will be just a few minutes,” she replied, turning her back.

* * * * *

Waiting for my order (the sign declared it a Native American specialty), I wandered back out into the hot sun, felt the cold breeze, and stared out into a foreign landscape. I might as well have strayed on to another planet.

The ground was formed out of pebbles, and dust. These created a soil that supported small, hearty shrubs and larger rocks, which in turn held up mesas and plateaus. This order of things remained uninterrupted to the horizon. To the south, a massive mountain. Far to the east, barely visible, snow-capped peaks.

I saw only one house, tucked in a deep valley created by steep-edged mounds of rock and earth. The mobile home held tightly to a fence, five cars and a few ramshackle outbuildings. That’s it. One house by itself in thousands of acres.

* * * * *

There is something about the west that immediately grabbed on to my heart. The open, rugged terrain awakened something in me, something adventurous and hopeful. The physical emptiness left room for a spirituality that filled the wind and the sky. It was a beautiful, mystical, foreboding place.

The kind of place where anything could happen.

* * * * *

We drove through Navajo country all day. The few small towns we encountered were random scatterings of mobile homes. Each surrounded by a fence. Piles of tires. Cars on blocks. Chained dogs sleeping in the dust.

We passed a hitchhiker once. 150 years ago he would have been a Brave on a beautiful horse, proud and stern. But in this world, and in this time, he didn’t even raise his thumb to us. Just leaned back against the road sign and crossed his legs, his tattered clothes grabbing on to the red dirt. He reached up and licked the tip of his thumb, as if preparing to separate two thin sheets of paper. Our eyes met as the bus passed.

* * * * *

Maile took a picture of a rocky outcropping, the kind you get used to seeing while driving through that part of the country. It grew up out of the ground like a massive plant, or a pillar holding up the temple that is this earth.

In the foreground of the stone monument sat yet another trailer. A few old cars. It was as if the present reality is still overshadowed by what was, and what might have been.