 
A  
Less Than  
Golden Life

Finding Meaning In  
The Average Life Story

Jason Golden

Copyright © 2015 by Jason Golden.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Permissions Coordinator," at the address below.

Jason Golden Publishing

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Fenton, MO 63026

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Ordering Information:

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A Less Than Golden Life/ Jason Golden. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-5136-0405-3

ISBN 978-1-5136-0441-1

For Nicholas Duncan

Contents

Author's Note

Preface

Chapter One: On The Edge 1

Chapter Two: Turning The Page 15

Chapter Three: A Receding Hairline 25

Chapter Four: The Hornet's Nest 29

Chapter Five: Beauty In Desolate Places 35
Chapter Six: Love And Such 39
Chapter Seven: A Story Built In A Tree 49

Chapter Eight: Love On The Fly 77

Chapter Nine: Golden Arches 93

Chapter Ten: Jesus And Stuff 109

Chapter Eleven: Sensei And The Wolf 115

Chapter Twelve: Honest Abe 133

Chapter Thirteen: Nut-to-Butt 137

Chapter Fourteen: A Work In Progress 143

_"Opportunities will come and go, but if you do nothing about them, so will you_."

―Richie Norton

Author's Note

The average human being will live to see the sun rise and set roughly twenty-eight thousand times between their first breath and their last. Each one, no more than a grain of sand in the hourglass of eternity in which only a few will choose to be remembered.

Every morning you are forced to make a decision: whether or not to be more than what you were the day before. You search for beauty and meaning in life, no matter how average you may think you are. You long to finally step out of the comfort of your daily life into the whimsical world of the unknown. Although this story isn't whimsical, it is true.

What makes this book worth reading book is not my story, but the stories of those I have encountered throughout my life. Those heroes who exceeded their potential and inspired me to do the same. These individuals and their stories have added immeasurable meaning to my life. The greatest aspect of life is the opportunity it affords us to be whomever and whatever we want to be, if we are willing to work for it.

I have always said I didn't care about being average, but that was before I found out I could be more. Life is the greatest journey any of us will ever take, and it is up to us to determine where that journey will lead.

Preface

Ariver flows like the soul within every human being, a constant, fluid organism, filled with both beauty and wonder that is so often overlooked. We have all found ourselves standing at the bank of this river, desperately trying to find the courage to step out into the unknown as it steadily flows by. Making the decision of whether or not to take the leap of faith is something we all have to face at one point in our lives, and it will ultimately determine how we live our lives. This step, however hard it may be to take, will determine whether we live a life worth sharing – one that will leave a lasting impression on those around us. This story is probably very similar to your own: an unremarkable person desperately trying to find beauty and meaning in life. I wish to live extraordinarily in the hopes of creating a lasting legacy. After all, the greatest people in history have found themselves at that point, and they all chose to accept the risk in pursuit of the reward.

One

On The Edge

Irecently came to a point in my life where I was forced to make the decision of whether or not to take a critical step. Up until this point, I was living within the dreaded comfort zone most of us spend the majority of our lives in – an uneventful place that sadly results in a life full of missed opportunities and regret. I can't say I was particularly content with living that way. I just became complacent with the position I was in at the time. The irony of the human being's amazing ability to adapt and become comfortable in any environment, no matter how destructive or mundane, is that it often condemns us to that lifestyle. My former life was the perfect example of this evolutionary trait until I was forced to change my way of thinking. As cliché as it sounds, all of this started with a dream I had about a year ago. It had such a profound impact, it led me to write this book, and ultimately, to try to find and create meaning in my life.

As an avid fly fisherman, it is not uncommon for me to dream of being on a river, especially if that river is filled with large, rainbow-colored fiends that feast on tiny feathers hovering on the water's surface. It is something that every true fly fisherman spends most of their days obsessing over. It is such a soul cleansing experience that most who try it become addicts, in the best sense of the word. Being on a stretch of water, ferociously waving a twig, is more spiritual than you can imagine, however, it must be experienced firsthand to be fully appreciated.

The stretch of water looked somewhat familiar, but I knew I had never actually fished it; and the man walking next to me gave me the same strange feeling of familiarity. As I looked out across the landscape, I breathed in deeply, as if to bring myself back from the state of awe I was in at the majesty of what I saw. The trees stood tall around us, rising like waves in the distance and hugging the rolling hills, eventually evolving into the mountain and overlooking countless miles of countryside. The reds and yellows signified the onset of the fall season - I remember thinking how beautiful it was.

Although I didn't recognize the man, the peace he carried inside his spirit was contagious. The longer I walked next to him, the more I felt I had known him my whole life; and the longer he talked, the more he seemed to be the person I wanted to become. I also found myself becoming extremely envious of his perfectly manicured beard, and at an alarmingly awkward rate.

We continued walking until we reached a bend in the river. It seemed the perfect entry point to begin our wade downstream.

"We are here," he said, stepping off into water. It seemed to be rushing much faster than the human body could withstand, especially, for a man of his age. But without hesitation, he stepped into the raging unknown, his body strong against the current. He stood rooted, despite the persistent current, as if he were raised by a village of salmon-hungry bears since birth. I started to step forward also, but my fear consumed me, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"Don't be such a sissy, Jason!" he yelled out, laughing loud enough to safely call our fishing trip quits before it even began. "Are you going to let an old man show you up like this?" he yelled unrelentingly.

I remember thinking how bittersweet the feeling of fear is to most humans. It can be very bitter if you are the one experiencing it. No matter how trivial the situation, fear has an unrivaled power over the mind. Now, if you happen to witness another person's fear, in this case, the older man laughing hysterically at me, it can also be a very entertaining phenomenon. No matter how hard I tried, I could not force myself to take the crucial first step.

"I don't even know your name!" I shouted. "Tell me your name so I can at least know who to haunt in the afterlife!"

"Oh, hush! You are more dramatic than my second ex-wife," he said, struggling to finish his thought without bursting into another round of laughter.

"If you have to know, my name is Jim; and I don't know about you, but I came here today to fish," he yelled as he waded downstream.

He continued walking until he was no more than, a speck floating above the water in the distance. The longer I stood at the water's edge, the more afraid and frustrated I became. Of all the times I'd gone fishing, I never experienced that, and had no clue why it now consumed my mind. The feeling lasted for what seemed to be hours until I came to the point where I had to make a decision. Jim was downstream, but still within earshot, which only added to my torture. The wind blew at a constant speed, seeming to serve its sole purpose: delivering Jim's worry-free whistle, and the occasional "Oh, I got another one!"

A true fisherman's worst nightmare is watching, or in my case, hearing, another fisherman's success. This began to haunt me in a way the waters never could, and I had to go. I promised I would jump on the count of three, and that is just what I did. The rush of cold water took my breath away, but the freedom it offered revived my soul. I lay back, entrusting the very force I so feared not even a second before. I let it safely guide me to wherever I was going, closing my eyes and embracing my newfound sense of peace.

"Hey, fella, are you gonna let this thing dump you in the Gulf of Mexico? Or are you gonna do some fishing?" the old man pitched with piercing sarcasm.

His voice startled me, bringing me back from the trance I was in.

"Well, isn't that what we came here to do, old man?" I said with a grin. At this point, I was feeling extremely overconfident. Besides, it was my turn to say something witty and clever.

"Do you need me to bait your hook for you too, young man?" he retorted.

My smile immediately faded with the realization that I could never catch him off his game. Nonetheless, I was content in the midst of the wilderness that now had me firmly captivated in its grasp.

Before making my first cast, I took a deep breath and scanned the water around me. In the distance, I saw what every trout fisherman would give up his own family to see – the majestic rise of a trout, breaking through the water's surface to engulf the season's latest hatch, like a fabled creature consuming an unexpected ship at sea. In that moment, I knew my decision to step out into the waters was an invaluable one.

I began with a short cast into a pocket of water that seemed like the perfect place for a trout to hide. My presentation was flawless, but offered no reward, which came as no surprise. Any good fly fisherman knows that the first cast of the day, more often than not, offers nothing but pain and disappointment. I am convinced that trout are the most temperamental of all creatures with one exception: the fool that tries to catch one. I have always compared the relationship between the angler and fish to my first year of school. I spent every day at recess convincing my best friend to go to the swing set and ask a certain girl out for me. I received the same answer of rejection every time I did so – just like the rejection an angler receives from a trout, although they occasionally provide some reprieve.

My thoughts were interrupted by the splash of a fish jumping from the water, Jim hooked a fish from the same pool I just declared fishless – and it was a monster. He fought it with such ease and grace that it looked more like a romantic dance than a fight for its life. As the fish began to tire, and the fight came to an end, Jim captured it in his net and unhooked it as if he were holding his newborn baby for the first time. He gave the fish a kiss on the nose, setting it free to swim into the depths of the unknown, and I saw a sparkle in his eye.

"You think you will ever catch him again?" I asked.

"Well, son, the answer to that question is quite difficult. The beauty of what just took place is a lot like our experiences in life. You see, countless fish inhabit this beautiful place, and they go through each day, doing the exact same thing, acting on instinct alone – essentially, just surviving. They swim through these waters, looking for food and avoiding predators just so they can do the same thing again the next day; and the one I just released was no different. The sad thing is: we as humans are all doing the same thing too. We, however, can't blame instinct for our behavior, – we have the option to live extraordinarily, but most of us never will. Just like the trout, we continue doing the same thing every day because it is safe and we know it will get us to tomorrow. We spend so much time focusing on surviving that we ultimately forget how to live. Now this is where it gets deep," he said playfully as I stood wondering if I were talking to an old fisherman, or a closet psychiatrist.

"You see, those few moments that fish just experienced were more than likely the most terrifying of all the moments in his life combined – as well as some of the greatest. Just like him, none of us expect our lives to change if we are living within our comfort zones. It is something our brains won't allow us to do." His voice was soft as it flowed through me like the melody from a child's first seashell, but his words were profoundly different. He didn't finish his thought, but I knew it was something I didn't want to hear. God was preparing me, however, little by little, to hear what I needed to.

"Just like the trout, it takes something drastic and sometimes, frightening to yank us from our routines and launch us into the unknown, where most of us are too scared to venture. I gave that trout a second lease on life – I shook him out of his comfort zone and now, he will never look at life the same, or at least, a fly on the surface of the water. Well, I am not sure really, but theoretically, it is beautiful and true." He paused.

"No pun intended, but are you catching my drift son?" he asked.

This was the moment I was dreading, but also looking forward to at the same time – I paused to gather my thoughts, but before I could speak, he stole the mic and continued.

"It is simple, take this fly, for instance. Before this fly was something beautiful, or a piece of artwork, it was a hook. That hook is a perfect representation of our lives before we decide to live up to our true potential. With nothing on this hook, it can never fulfill the purpose it was designed for, which, of course, is catching a fish. "Our lives are the same way, if we never truly live the lives that we were meant to, ones with real impact, then we never really serve our true purpose. Now, the beauty of this is that with a little bit of thread, feathers, and care from a skilled hand, this hook can be turned into something both man and nature can admire," he explained.

At this point, I was standing in the river's current, looking out into the distance, but unable to focus on anything physical. My mind scanned through my list of life experiences. Have I been living a meaningful life? Finishing the things I set out to do? Or am I a fraud? Have I served my purpose? Or am I just living in my comfort zone like so many others do?

My mind raced to answer those questions, but I came up with nothing. I could tell Jim knew I was confused. What I failed to perceive was how he would manage to clear up any confusion and change my whole perspective on life itself.

He continued, "All of these elements that make up this fly translate perfectly into our lives. The hook represents us, coming into this world with virtually nothing to offer and having to rely on a skilled hand to change that. I would like to think of the thread, the foundation of any good fly, as the relationships we experience over the course of our lives. Our relationships are what hold us together, and ultimately help us decide who we will become during our lifetimes." He paused, holding the fly up towards the sky as if it were about to be sacrificed to an ancient, mythical god.

He took a long breath and began again. "Now this feather here is where the magic happens. This represents our life's experiences – the beautiful moments, along with the terrible ones. These are what make our lives beautiful, full of meaning, and a story worth sharing, or the opposite, if we choose that," he chuckled. "All of these elements are what make you and me who we are. Without these, our lives would be as desolate as the surface of a naked hook. But the beauty of it, my friend, is that we have the ultimate choice in the quality of the elements."

I was brought back down to Earth only after water rushed into my mouth from my jaw dropping in awe of what I just heard. I lowered my head to gather my thoughts and formulate a reasonable reply for the closet life coach, pretending to be a fisherman that was standing beside me. I looked up to speak, but the only trace left of Jim was a note tied to the end of my line. It read:

Son,

The day you decide to be a fly instead of a hook is the day you start living. Make a difference in this world, even if it is in the small world that you call yours. You are the author of your story, the conductor of your life's song – write one that speaks to others before the river of your soul flows into a larger body of water.

  * Jimbo

two

Turning The Page

Itried putting my finger on who Jim was supposed to be, but came up empty-handed. Looking back, I now realize he symbolized everything I wanted to be in life, but hadn't achieved. He was the embodiment of who I could become if I chose to live the life he described. All I knew at that point was: I had to make a change in my life. I had to turn the page and write a new chapter in my story, one that would truly make a difference.

Like the majority of people on Earth, I hadn't done much in my life worth talking about, let alone, writing in a memoir. Even as I jot down these words, I am quite nervous for two main reasons. The first is my fear of not finding enough meaningful moments in my life that are worth sharing and capable of creating a narrative worth reading. The second, and most terrifying, is the fear of failure. That is generally a universal human experience for anyone trying to accomplish something great in life. In the case of this book, it is not the failure of selling enough copies, or becoming a successful author. That fear passed ten minutes into writing this, and after I attached the blank page entitled: List of Qualifications to be a Writer to my refrigerator. I accepted that fact from the start. In a way, I feel it makes this process more enjoyable. After all, if you begin the process with no great expectations, you tend to be more honest with yourself as well as the process; especially while writing a memoir with the intent of being as candid and transparent as I can.

The failure that rattles my bones would be the inability to communicate to you, my audience, and my friend. I fear that my story could fail to shed light on the beauty that lies within, and is yours – if you choose to pursue it.

When I began changing the way I was living, the only thing I could think to do was reflect on who I was. I was brutally honest in doing so. Knowing whom you are is the only way you can change, or become the person you want to be. This process was hard for me. It's not easy to point out your flaws, the deeply rooted cause of most insecurities, since they have unrivalled control over a person's mind and therefore, his or her ability to be successful. My insecurities have been the most imposing obstacles I've had to overcome. They are the main source of my failure to produce happiness in my life. They still haunt me, but now I am convinced they can be turned into an obscure form of positive motivation. These are problems created by events from the past, usually incredibly embarrassing or traumatic, that eventually become treacherous barriers that we need to break through in order to fulfill our true potential.

The seventh grade is a time when a boy begins the process of becoming a man. This is usually heralded by an indescribably awkward voice. It is one part boy, a small part man, and a large part five-year-old girl, for which I quickly became the poster boy. But the start of the year seemed promising, despite being chubby. I had just begun the process of shedding what I call the weird child cellulite. A few years prior, it comprised the majority of what my body was made of, not water. I wore a haircut that was popular, and hid my early baldness at an unusually young age. This latest style only whispered that I was a skinny, fat kid, instead of screaming it like all of the years beforehand.

I also gained some self-confidence through playing on the basketball team. Despite our small class of thirty-five people, I was considered one of the best. Even though I was still chunky, I earned the position of the team's point guard. I always bragged I was the captain of the team, which I am sure our coach had to laugh about behind closed doors. I enjoyed the game and developed enough skills to be respected. I was usually the first or second person picked for recess games – something I was lucky enough to engage in all the way up until eighth grade. Recess basketball games had become a favorite pastime with my friends, and being placed at the top of them certainly gave me the confidence I formerly lacked for most of my life. We shot for first possession, watched the team captains shake hands, and from that moment on, we held nothing back. We were warriors on the awkward, concrete battlefield of puberty and peach-fuzzed upper lips. It became the place I would find myself only to quickly lose myself again.

The game started much like every other one before it. The teams were picked and sealed with a handshake as the rest of us took our positions on the court. I usually switched from point guard to shooting guard during the games, but in this game, I started as the latter, which would later prove a fatal mistake.

"You ready, Golden?" My friend, Joseph, shouted from behind me in his good-humored, yet superior tone.

"Joe, you may be bigger and stronger, but believe me, I'm better," I playfully retorted.

I was playing with Joseph when I said it; but deep down, I felt it – and believed it. I had finally found the one thing I was good at, and it went to my head faster than a rabbit humps in heat. The only thing I was ever good at before basketball, besides eating, of course, was making people laugh. I still hadn't learned to control my ego at this point.

The opposing team threw the ball within bounds, initiating the epic battle we had become so familiar with in our newly discovered minor-adulthood. The score remained even as we traded baskets on both ends of the floor. Plenty of trash talk was being thrown around in the process. Shot after shot, both teams found the bottom of the net, leaving no clear sign of a victor. We only had around fifteen minutes after lunch to play, but there were some days, like this one, that seemed to last a lifetime in the mind of a skinny, fat kid who thought everyone's eyes were fixed on him. This was especially true after hitting the go-ahead basket, which ended up being the last shot I would take for the rest of that school year. In a way, it become the symbol of my teenage years being suddenly ruined by the events that followed the swish of the net.

I made a steal on the other end of the floor and sprinted back to score. I intended to become the hero of the day and be worshipped by the kindergartners who, for some strange reason, called me by my middle name, which no one else knew. In my head, they were all cheering, migrating to the front line just to get a glimpse of a warrior in his purest form, fighting the good fight. After all the years I endured feeling held back by either my body weight, or outright awkwardness, I believed I had truly earned my moment in the spotlight for once. I got my moment only a matter of seconds after that thought, except it was the exact opposite of what I was hoping for.

While making my epic sprint down the floor, my legs were swept out from beneath me by the enemy pursuing closely behind. The momentum that would've surely carried me to victory was now planting my face onto the pavement. With minimal time to react, I threw my hands out to catch myself, hoping to avoid injury and the embarrassment that accompanies it, but I failed. And when I say failed, I mean, I failed in the worst possible way.

The second I hit the concrete, my hands bent in a direction the good Lord never meant them to bend. It looked like the moment you try to save a bowl of cereal, already halfway spilt in your lap, while trying to sit down on the couch, although it hurt much worse than the shame you feel afterward. I felt a crack and a jolt of pain that surged through my body like steaming-hot lava. I yelled out in agony, like a teenaged girl who just found out her favorite boy band broke up over a fight they had in their mom's basement. It was that scream, which secured my moment in the spotlight, making it a moment that would haunt me for years to come.

I was taken to the nurse's station where they fashioned makeshift splints for my wrists by using old sports magazines from the library and duct tape. That was about as useful as trying to wash a saltine cracker down your throat with peanut butter. Having faked several injuries at school before, I had established a pretty good relationship with the nurse. She knew every number she needed to call to get me out of there. My nightmare was over, or so I thought.

My youth pastor drove me to the hospital where they took X-rays and told me I broke both of my wrists. They wrapped my left arm in a cast up to the middle of my bicep, making an l-shaped cocoon. That would be my arm for the next month-and-a-half. The right wrist was only a minor fracture so I was given a removable brace to wear when I wasn't using the bathroom, or punching myself in the face from embarrassment. I sadly wondered if my life were over as my mother rejoiced that I could still do my own schoolwork and wash myself.

As if the ridiculous casts and embarrassment from being the only person on Earth to break both arms while playing basketball weren't enough, there was more. While getting help up after my fall, a group of girls noticed half of my rectum was exposed from my shorts. Apparently, they thought it necessary to inform the entire school and giggled every time I passed them in the hall. My mistake for not pulling up my shorts with my two pristinely healthy wrists.

The seventh grade was one of my worst years and thus, the root of my deepest insecurities, some of which I still struggle to overcome to this day. As I write this now, the story seems so silly, like something that shouldn't have stayed with me for such a long time. But it has and in many ways, I am sure you can relate. Some of the most trivial things retain enormous control over the obstacles we have to overcome and the confidence we have in our abilities. Who knew that a plumber's crack could be such a powerful deterrent to living with a purpose?

three

A Receding Hairline

Irecently read an article on human ambition. It discussed an array of ideas and offered some exercises designed to assist in turning your ambitions into a reality, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The author was incredibly uplifting and motivational, like the guy you see on television at four in the morning, selling a supplement that is, guaranteed to cure your erectile dysfunction in minutes! That's my kind of guy, even though I don't suffer from that - yet.

He went on to talk about the difference between people who have great ambitions, and people who actually put in the work to accomplish their goals. The only difference between the two is the work one is willing to put in over the other. Those were the words that made him not my guy because they defined who I was in the worst way possible.

I am twenty-one years old and have a receding hairline, a very noticeable trait not many twenty-something-year-olds possess, and certainly not a flattering one at that. But I have come to embrace it, as some people may think I am slightly older and possess the wisdom they somehow missed out on. However, most of the time, this is not the case, and the majority of people I meet think I am just an immature forty-year-old.

Three years ago, I was forced to shave my head when I joined the Army. I quickly became accustomed to people making jokes, saying how time had not been very kind to me. My response always included my insistence that I would always have a better-looking wife than them. I thought it was a comical response aimed at redirecting the verbal abuse elsewhere, but it only seemed to show what a sensitive subject it was for me. After all, who else is unlucky enough to be the only person to break his wrists and moon the whole school while playing basketball, and all while balding at an unusually fast rate, not to mention having larger breasts than most girls my age? I am quite sure the answer to that question is fairly exclusive.

Thankfully, the years after the injury improved. I grew out of most of my awkwardness and began to seek my place in life. I graduated high school, finished my training in the military, and was stationed in Hawaii. That was where my wife and I started our lives together, and where I began writing this book, and ultimately, where I began to find myself in many ways. It was the critical time in my life when I faced the decision of whether or not to step out into the unknown, the place where great stories are made. Was I ready to try my hand at creating my own reality?

Four

The Hornet's Nest

Throughout the process of writing this book, I learned everything I could about what makes a story meaningful. I read books, watched videos and even gave a flower to a homeless woman who was sitting outside a Walgreens. I felt good for doing those things, but knew I had to do more with my life if I intended to impact others. The main point I learned was that any meaningful story is filled with challenges that must be overcome.

I have not experienced many challenges in my life, mainly because I never pursued any of my ambitions. That is the greatest challenge for most of us – the challenge of assuming the risk of successful accomplishment. I outlined the goals I had that could change the course of my life, as well as the ways I could impact those around me. I soon discovered identifying the goals is the easy part; putting in the work is a different story.

Charles Morris is an older man who attended our church when I was younger. He is one of the greatest storytellers I know. He lives the simple life, like an Amish man whose darkest secret is the broken television he has tucked away in his basement. He owns a large piece of land just outside my hometown, where he and his family built their house from the neighboring forest long before I existed. The place has such a divine quality to it, they decided to tag the path leading up to it Canaan Road, as if to tell the world they found their own slice of heaven on Earth.

Growing up, Charles was like a real life super hero. He never ran out of stories to tell, which he told with the passion of a leather-bound, motorcycle-riding, street preacher. I went to his house every Sunday after church. He taught me how to hunt, fish, and find beauty in the world. I could never figure out if he knew how much of an impact he was having on me. Perhaps that is just what living with a purpose does to those around you. He also taught me what not to do, since he was essentially an accident just waiting to happen. I had front row tickets to more than a few less than graceful moments. I remember coming home from school and finding out he nearly died when his rotary tiller almost cut his arm off in the garden. But once I knew he was okay, I couldn't wait to hear him tell the story. It sounds twisted now, but for a kid, it only confirmed his super human persona.

When I grew older, I realized that even though people seem to have simple lives, they are all capable of living beautiful stories. Every morning, Charlie gets out of bed and thanks God for another day before he tends to his animals and his land. I eventually realized that his great stories were just a byproduct of his hard work. Garden tillers do not usually break into houses and tear off the arms of your average couch potato.

On the fireplace mantel in his home, there is a hornet's nest. It rests next to a picture of him holding a catfish larger than most grown men. I never bothered asking about the nest, because frankly, I thought it wasn't real; but one day, he told me the story and it was something I will never forget.

He was walking home in the afternoon after a morning spent hunting when he got stung on the arm. The stings began increasing with each passing step and subsequent swipe of his hand to clear the air. He began running as the air filled with angry hornets that took great pleasure in stinging an old man with a gun. Even after the stings ceased, he found no reprieve from the pain they inflicted.

He awoke the next morning with severe swelling around his eyes and mouth. He looked like a villain after the hero had his way with him. However, he was bent on going back to the nest to conquer what tried to conquer him, no matter what condition he was in. And after dressing in layers and layers of clothes, he set off into the woods. With the nerves of a Spartan marching into battle, he held the chainsaw in his right hand, clearly announcing his plans to take back what was rightfully his. Anyone who knows Mr. Morris knows he is a prideful man, one who stands up for what he believes in, and the kind of guy that doesn't go down without a fight. That was exactly what he planned on doing – putting up a fight.

He marched deeper and deeper into the forest, inching closer to the sight of the previous day's battle. His fast walk turned into a slow saunter, then to a noiseless tiptoe. He approached the nest hanging from the limbs of the tree like an apple begging to be plucked, except this apple was filled with enraged, airborne predators ready to unleash their wrath on any unsuspecting trespasser. What they didn't know was: this time, their enemy came prepared. Within the next few moments he would wreak havoc on their unconquerable domicile, but surely not without a battle.

As Charles began climbing, the tree limbs began to shake, alerting the hornet charged with guarding their fortress to his presence. As it sounded the alarm, Mr. Morris inched closer and closer, stopping briefly to fire up the chainsaw that undoubtedly still sits in his old shed to this day. That brought a swarm of aerial combatants. The extra layers of clothing provided protection from most of the attacks, allowing him enough time to sever the connecting appendages before observing the fall of the apple from the tree. The epic battle instantly turned to silence; he won the war and the spoils that came with it.

I never understood the reason why he needed the nest until recently. That was when I began trying to understand what makes up a meaningful life. After all, the nest, alone, wasn't what made Charlie the man I admire so much today. Then I realized something, the nest not only symbolized the reclamation of one man's pride and self-respect, but was also a memento, a centerpiece at the table of the story. It is a portal into another dimension, where all the greatest storytellers vividly share their experiences over an expensive blended scotch whiskey and a deck of cards.
Five

Beauty In desolate Places

Ispent a few months in the deserts of Southern California, training with the Army, and I hated it. Two months into the dry desert heat, constant wind, and living with not-so-cuddly wildlife never added up to an oasis in my mind. But the one thing the Army guarantees is: you will have countless hours of nothing to do, except trying to maintain your sanity while staring at the inside of a green tent for sixteen hours a day.

During this time, I carried a notepad with me that I used to write down my thoughts throughout the day. Most of the entries were about my wife, and random thoughts I had as I desperately searched for my purpose in one of the most inhospitable places in the lower forty-eight.

During this time, I started writing this book to concretize my plans to start living a more meaningful story. I never claimed to be a writer, but the idea of someone getting lost in my words carried a certain romance that I could not resist. I wanted people to experience what I had while reading my collection of books in the blistering desert heat; and feel the way they sucked me from reality, making me believe in things larger than myself.

To describe the desert in words is nearly impossible. It's a place you have to feel in order to understand its hidden beauty. I guess in a way, it is a perfect symbol of our lives, which can seem so desolate at times. When we first arrived, I figured there was no beauty to be found, just vast open land with treeless hills, steep mountains, and the echoing cries of misery from thousands of soldiers begging for mercy.

It was a land scorched by unbearable heat, such as my body never experienced before. Being from Missouri, I am no stranger to excessive heat, but this was a very different monster. It was a parasitic element that ceaselessly expressed its desire for destruction, as if the long weeks without a shower weren't enough. It became the tick that remained just out of arm's reach, an ever-present pest in an already wretched situation.

My first impression quickly changed when I saw the sunrise the next morning. The sky was full of more colors than the mind could comprehend. It started as a dark purple, then changed to blue, red, and finally orange. I imagined God as an artist, enhancing his work with each passing brushstroke. It was breathtaking to see this portrait in motion, and something I will never forget. It must be witnessed personally in order to fully be cherished. I was reminded of the twenty-eight thousand days a person sees in his or her average lifetime. Such a small window of opportunity that truly is.

When I stepped out of our vehicle at one of the training sites, I glanced toward an abandoned movie set from The Lion King. The rocks there were magnificent, stacked on top of one another, making a city of stone that seemed to stretch for miles on end. I couldn't help imagining which mystical creatures may have built such a playground. It was the American Stonehenge, and witnessed only by the unfortunate souls who had previously been forced to vacation there.

Since then, I have developed a certain love for the place. I often wonder how I would have viewed it if my visit weren't there under those circumstances. The night sky was like nothing I ever saw before; and I only wish I had more time to soak in the beauty of it all. The desert, I believe, is a perfect representation of the human story.

At first glance, an average person's life, like my own, seems as desolate as the endless miles of desert plains. It is filled with countless moments that fall short of remarkable, but if put into a story, would have an audience drooling into their popcorn. After all, nobody spends good money to see a guy airing up his tires every Tuesday because he can't face replacing them, and the highlight of his story is his visit to the diner where he eats every Friday since his divorce. You couldn't pay people to sit and watch that; not even if you chose the best looking actor to play the lead role. However, I do believe that if time is set aside, the beauty in the average life story will become as evident as a desert sunrise, or a breathtaking night sky. I learned that beauty can be found in even the most desolate of places, you just have to be the one searching for it.
Six

Love And Such

Iwas married at the age of nineteen to the girl of my dreams. Many people thought we were too young, and advised us to wait until we were older and had figured our lives out. They thought we were rushing into things too quickly and my stint in the military would only add to the complexity of a newly established marriage. However, I assume they didn't realize that love leads to a severe case of selective hearing, or complete deafness at times.

I met my wife through mutual friends. They helped me gather the courage to ask her to the Homecoming dance. I hadn't made plans to attend that year because I was a terrible dancer and hated the way my love handles hung over the dress pants that never seemed to fit just right. I was excited, but also not, at the same time. The thought of dances usually meant being around people I wasn't necessarily fond of. All while having to witness kids, the majority of whom didn't even have jobs yet, acting like they were regulars in the New York City club scene.

When they told me her name was Emily, I immediately knew who she was. I never talked to her before, but I saw her in the hall from time to time. She seemed like a quiet girl, focused on school, not interested much in dating, but stunningly beautiful. All of which added up to being the opposite of who I was. Needless to say, I fully prepared myself for the turndown of the century; although I eventually mustered up enough courage to send the first message.

I knew she was a "church girl" so we had some common ground, which I not so reluctantly used to my advantage. To my surprise, she seemed interested, or was too nice to let me know otherwise.

After a few weeks of talking and getting to know each other, I asked her to Homecoming. With a huge smile, she said, yes, and that night, I took her home and met her parents. They seemed to enjoy my company; we talked about our families, church, and baseball. I hate baseball. Growing up near St. Louis, you'd assume I'd be a baseball fan since the only things we have in St. Louis are the Cardinals, and barbeque (something I have yet to try), but that is surely not the case.

When I was younger, my grandpa took me to Busch Stadium to watch the games, and since he got free tickets for being a clergyman, we went quite often. Although I hated baseball, being there at the stadium with him was different. I loved the atmosphere of the ballpark and the history behind the stadium. I loved the excitement of always believing you were one bad swing away from taking home a souvenir, and one good swing away from winning. I also loved hearing my grandpa let out his signature, "Welp!" after hitting at least three cars before successfully exiting the crowded parking lot. However, the game, itself, I do not enjoy, and would rather watch paint dry with binoculars than sit through a game on T.V.

Homecoming weekend was perfect; she was perfect, and best of all, it was the first time I found a dress shirt that didn't make me look like a whale. We had a great time, even though I can't dance, and she seemed to like me just as much as I liked her. I never felt so comfortable with someone before; and since I was her first date, I had the advantage of no one for her to compare me to.

Over the next year, I fell madly in love with her. I loved everything about her, her innocence, smile, and cheesy jokes that I pretended were funny just because. I know a lot of people don't believe in love the way you see it in the movies, and thinking about it now, I don't know if I do either. In the movies, true love is often won by the man who does things that, in real life would, more than likely, land you in jail. Most women don't respond well to a man they met a day ago, or a guy throwing rocks at their window, or showing up in the most obscure places to casually ask if she needs a ride. I also don't look like a Ryan Gosling so I couldn't tell you for sure.

I, in turn, learned that love takes a lot of work, hours of getting to know each other, and weeks of companionship just to earn one another's trust. I remember spending my nights thinking of things I could do to bring a smile on her face. On the first Valentine's Day together, I really tried to go all out. I searched through the store for hours until I found a Charlie Brown's Valentine's Day book. I took it home and changed all the names of the people who had love interests to our names, then I replaced the cartoon faces with cutouts of our own faces. Needless to say, I made sure to wrap it well; since it wasn't the manliest thing I've ever done. If caught with it alone, I would probably have earned a good beat down by not-so-sensitive men. One thing that became increasingly evident to me is that love makes you do crazy things.

I left for basic training a few months after graduating high school. I knew being away from Emily and my family would be hard, but never expected it to be the hardest thing I'd ever done. I grew up in an extremely close family, which I never knew I took for granted until I left. Before I left, I wanted nothing more than to be on my own, exploring the world and paying a car payment I couldn't afford. But once I was gone, I wanted nothing more than to return to my small hometown. It amazes me how much we take for granted in our lives. Even now, I find myself taking things for granted that I swore I would never when I was away. The only thing I can do is pray that they don't end up being the most important things in my life.

I knew Emily was the one I'd spend the rest of my life with when I was in basic training. Every day, for nine weeks, I received a letter from her, keeping me updated on what was going on back home and telling me about her plans for the days she would see me again. This was better than the love you see in movies, I was living it. Every day that passed, I fell more in love, she was everything I could have dreamed of, and much more than I ever deserved.

I truly believe our love became so strong because of our hard work and dedication. Much like a story, hard work is the defining factor on whether you live meaningfully, or lead a life filled with regret. When I went home on leave, before reporting to my first duty station, I proposed. My plan was to do it on Christmas Eve, but I couldn't wait. I decided to take her to the dock on the lake where we had our first date. She had no idea what was going on, and I imagine she was scared, since it was a dark and cold, snowy night in the middle of nowhere.

I took her hand and we ran off into the night. When we reached the dock, I didn't know whether I was shaking from the cold, or from the nervous breakdown I was suddenly having. She asked why we were out there; and I told her I had a surprise. I asked her to turn around and close her eyes, and I got down on one knee. I was lucky she turned around because I lost my footing when I bent down. What a way to end a nice proposal! I imagined me falling into the freezing-cold water, just watching her laugh as she ran away in the night, shouting nasty jokes at my expense. Luckily, I managed to gather my composure as she turned around. I will never forget her face. It took her a second to realize what was happening, but when she did, it hit her like a ton of bricks. She began to cry tears of joy, and after she caught her breath, she smiled and said, yes. It was one of the most perfect nights of my life.

We got married on July 6th in the church I grew up in. I was honored to have my grandfather conduct the ceremony, something that was very special to me and another moment I will never forget. It was a small wedding, but it couldn't have been more perfect. We both wrote letters to each other that we read in place of vows, and I couldn't help tearing up while looking into the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world that was now my wife. I was staring at the woman I would spend the rest of my days with, and couldn't have imagined her being any other way.

We had a videographer that we found online to film our day so we could have the moments forever recorded. He was quiet and didn't say much the whole night, but he seemed like a nice guy, and I'm sure he was. I thought he was just really into his work, or maybe an introvert at worst, but surely skilled at taking videos. A few weeks later, I found out I was wrong when we received the final copy of the video. Of course, my wife and I were excited, so we loaded it up and played it immediately. I wish I could continue to say it was perfect, and that it captured our day in the most elegant way, but I can't.

It started out with us turning around in slow motion to music that had to have come from a 1980s grocery store orientation video. I also wish I could tell you what happened after we faced the camera, but I was nearly unconscious from too much laughter and strange regret. We have come to love the video though; it is a funny way of reminding us of such a great day, and the joy that was shared by so many. Now it is a comical artifact of two life stories evolving into one beautiful narrative.

I believe God gives all ordinary people extraordinary experiences, just like my wife. I never deserved the love she gives to me, or all the memories we've made that put so much meaning into my life. We all have beautiful events in our lives; we just have to take the time to appreciate them and hold onto them when we receive them.

Tomorrow we celebrate our two-year anniversary. It will be the last one we spend together in Hawaii. It is unbelievable how fast time has slipped by since that first message, but I suppose that is how all life's moments seem. I imagine we will be dancing on the beach, if not physically, then spiritually, while the sun sets behind the mountains of paradise, as we look forward to another year of sharing our lives together. I can think of no better way to celebrate such a joyous occasion with the most beautiful chapter in my story.
Seven

A Story Built In A Tree

In this life, I believe there are people who are called to live out incredible stories, as if to remind the rest of us that we aren't living our lives the way we should. Like a good movie, these stories leave you feeling invincible, stirring up ambition inside the human soul. The sad thing is, those ambitions usually fade within a day or so, and we go about living strictly within the confines of our comfort zone again. Maybe we are all called, and only some are willing to take the risks involved with living life to its fullest. The only thing I am certain of is: I will never be qualified enough to answer that question.

A few years ago, I witnessed a story that changed my life. It began at our family Thanksgiving, where I saw my cousin, Nicholas, for the first time in many years. He didn't come around much after graduating high school, and got mixed up in the wrong crowd, so we were all surprised to see him. Although it had been quite a while since our last encounter, we still got along like we did when we were kids. We spent the day playing ping-pong and music in the youth center at the church we all grew up in. The stage had, ironically, been built on the same spot where I had my head busted open from a rock Nicholas threw ten years earlier. I was over it, but I always made sure to show him the nice scar it left behind, in case he somehow forgot.

Before he left, a look of worry came over his face. He told us his doctor recently found a lump in his abdomen and he had to undergo a biopsy within the next few weeks to find out exactly what it was. I was worried, but figured it was nothing serious. After all, he was young! Youth has a way of deceiving the mind from thinking anything bad can happen to someone. We said our goodbyes, assuring him he would be in our prayers, and headed our separate ways. I was young at the time, so I guess I didn't fully grasp the gravity of the situation, but then again, I don't think any of us really could have.

The night I heard the results of the biopsy was a moment I will never forget. My mother and I were driving home from the store when she looked over at me with tears streaming down her face. She grabbed my hand and broke the news of Nick's diagnosis, like a chaplain reading a soldier his last rites on the battlefield. What I didn't know was: hours beforehand, Nick was handed a death sentence by a man wearing a white coat. He callously spoke about the value of life, and how important making the most of everyday was all that mattered at this point in Nick's life. What had essentially just begun would shortly come to an end.

The next few weeks were spent with Nick getting second opinions from some of the best physicians in modern medicine. Of course, everyone hoped it was all a big misunderstanding, but time and time again, the outcome remained the same. The lump turned out to be a malignant tumor. It formed over the course of a few years, growing to the size of a brick around his liver and pancreas. He was diagnosed with stage four cancer. That meant the doctors suspected the disease had already spread to other organs throughout his body. He was sent home, given "six months-to-a-year" to live, and no more than a pat on the back and some lollipop medicine sticks to numb the pain.

Nick came over to our house a few days after receiving the diagnosis. Considering the circumstances, he had a reasonably positive outlook on the situation. We watched movies and played games, all of us straining to avoid the elephant in the room. He began visiting us more often, until he was virtually living with us.

During this time, Nick and I grew incredibly close. He slept in my bedroom because I had a nicer television than my brother, and I didn't mind sleeping on the floor. We spent most nights telling jokes and listening to music, wincing when the occasional yell from my dad let us know we were being too loud. Still, on some nights, we couldn't avoid talking about the inevitable.

A few weeks after the prognosis, Nick began treatment. The doctors planned several rounds of chemotherapy, aimed to reduce the size of the tumor. The first round of treatment would last nearly three months, ending with surgery in an attempt to excise the cancer from his body. The odds of success were slim to none, but there was still a chance, lending us some hope. Throughout all of this, there was one thing I knew for certain. I would be there for Nick, offering the only thing I was decently good at: making people laugh. That was one of the reasons why we became so close in the first place. It didn't sound like much at the time, but down the road, I found out it was his favorite form of treatment. He would frequently tell me he loved me because I made him feel like he didn't have cancer.

I was eight years old when we broke ground. All the planning and preparation that led to this point would now be put to the test. We gathered the lumber, studied the blueprints and began our largest construction project yet: a treehouse in the back of our grandparent's home. It would be roughly six feet off the ground, have a rope ladder, a tent to house the PlayStation and bottle rockets, and last, but certainly not least, an extension cord to power our mighty fortress. It took nearly a month of our summer for us to complete, but when the last beanbag chair met its final resting place, it was worth every laborious second.

We had it all figured out. Since Nick was the oldest, he was in charge of the treehouse as a whole, my brother was second-in-command with the job of allocating the fireworks, and I was the greenhorn. I made the sandwiches and did the sweet tea runs for the boys when they were busy overseeing treehouse operations. It wasn't the most honorable job, but someone had to do it, and I did it well. Looking back, I'm surprised they trusted me with transporting the food. My physique reflected the shameful reality that I had an unhealthy enjoyment for eating everything in sight.

One morning, we gathered at the base of our bastion and decided to fire off the remaining fireworks. We wanted to celebrate the wonderful summer that was coming to a close.

One... two... three...

We simultaneously lit the fuses to our respective rockets and watched them soar away; each one exploding in glorious fashion, except for mine. It decided to change direction mid-flight and headed straight for the neighbor's house, detonating on the roof in inglorious fashion. Seconds after the impact, an elderly woman stepped out of the house. She was wearing Vietnam era military fatigues and holding a shotgun. We took off running, but she spotted us across the field, and headed our direction in a freakishly tactical fashion. I will never forget the eerie sensation of being pursued by a camouflaged, shotgun-wielding grandma-man. And how quickly she responded to the aerial bombardment we initiated on her foxhole!

The door swung open as we rushed into the house for cover. We watched the grandma-man pacing back and forth at the fence line, looking for any sign of the brutes responsible for the ruckus. After what seemed like an eternity, the entity vanished, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief. We survived one of the most memorable and exciting summers of our lives.

Nick finished his last round of chemotherapy, and appeared stronger than before it all began. The treatment seemed to be a success, and the doctors grew hopeful the tumor was contained well enough to perform the surgery. We knew the road ahead wouldn't be an easy one, but if anyone could beat the odds, it was Nick, and no one believed it more than he did. A date for the surgery was set for a few weeks and the waiting game started.

The night before the surgery, we decided to stay in a hotel. The weatherman predicted a record-breaking ice storm that was expected to hit by nightfall. After a rather lengthy time searching for a place to stay, we hit the mother lode. I almost shed a tear as a beacon of light reached out like a lighthouse beckoning me to shore, the economy hotel. The building, itself, was nothing to call home about, but its placement compensated for its appearance. Directly adjacent to the hotel stood one of the most beautiful things I have, or will ever witness in my lifetime, The Incredible Pizza Company. At the sight of this blessing, we knew two things: first, there was a God; and second, he wanted us to stay there.

We settled into our room and rushed out to the wonderland that awaited us. By this time, I had lost most of my baby fat, but I gained a little back that night. All-you-can-eat pizza should be a crime against humanity. We played two holes of glow-in-the-dark mini golf until we realized it wasn't very much fun, then moved on to the go-carts. Nick won the race and walked around with the first place ribbon pinned to his shirt.

The next morning came early, bringing with it a somber mood. It wasn't until that very morning before we all realized what a huge undertaking this surgery would be. It was expected to last roughly eight hours, if all went as planned. There would be an eight-inch incision starting from the belly button, where doctors would work to remove the tumor, along with parts of the liver that had been overrun by cancer. The surgery was not meant to be an answer to the overall problem, but merely a means to prolong Nick's life. It also served as an open window of opportunity for further treatment.

Before Nick went back, the family was allowed a few minutes alone with him to give him pep talks. We carried on small talk; I told a couple jokes to lighten the mood, and we prayed for him. In the blink of an eye, he was rolled away. He was stepping off the banks of his river, and into the waters of the unknown. The difference was, his choice was not only to write a better story, but also to survive long enough to write the most meaningful chapters. After all, a good story portrays a character overcoming great challenges to reach his goal, and that is what Nick was doing.

In that moment of pain, I realized how cancer eats away at the foundations of an entire family. It is so taxing to care for someone you love in such a terrible situation. I can't imagine how those who actually had to take care of him felt. It took every ounce of my energy just to make sure I did everything I could to shine a light in Nick's life. But it became increasingly clear to everyone that he was the one shining a light into all of our lives.

His strength was astonishing to everyone who heard his story. How he managed to take such a terrible situation and turn it into a life-changing narrative left us speechless. He didn't miss an opportunity to share his testimony with people, hoping to inspire others to do something great with their lives before their time ran out. Seeing the change from that Thanksgiving Day to the end of his treatment was unbelievable. Nick had finally grown into the man he was destined to be.

I could be cliché and say the hours passed like days as we watched the second hand marking off the tedious minutes, but cliché is all it would be. We were all too busy sitting with hundreds of people who stopped by to show their support. They each had their own stories to tell about how Nick positively impacted their lives. Right then, I truly recognized how incredible the story I was witnessing, and even taking a small part in, really was. I believe for a story to truly be meaningful, it has to have an audience to listen and applaud when the challenges are overcome, or cry when the character's girlfriend runs off with the richer, better-looking man. Without an audience, a great story has no more impact than a bug landing on a rushing river.

The doctor came out, bearing good news, not something they do very often these days. He explained the details of what they did, which may as well have been a different language to me. I did manage to gather that everything went as planned. Nick would be monitored over the course of several weeks to confirm whether or not the surgery was successful. The walk to his hospital room felt like an eternity, and that is not being cliché. It was the first door on the left after you pass the fifth nurses' station on the thirteenth floor in the left wing of the third building. To our surprise, he was sitting up in his bed, laughing with the nurse, and we were greeted with a smile that let us know everything was okay.

After the few weeks spent recovering, Nick was scheduled to meet with his doctors to check on the progress of his treatment. We were hopeful, yet weary, of what they would say, since we hadn't received much good news from the start of all this. We met Nick after the appointment for lunch, anxious to hear what the doctors told him. When we saw him, we immediately knew something wasn't right, his smile that beamed throughout all of this turmoil was gone. Soon, our smiles would vanish too. He said the doctors found small, cancerous tumors on his pancreas, and feared they would be found elsewhere. They also believed it was only a matter of time before the cancer totally consumed his liver, due to the remnants left behind after the surgery. We were in shock. After so many months spent fighting this disease, Nick was only given a few more months to live. No one said it, but the countdown in our minds began.

I performed in my eighth grade talent show the year I learned to play guitar. I nearly backed out at the last minute, but Nick assured me that if I went through with it, I would be the biggest ladies' man in school. That was enough to motivate me at the time. Growing up as a fat kid, you cherish any attention you can get from the ladies, because it is few and far between. After the show ended, I got congratulated by my friends, but not because I won. Nobody ever won the talent shows in our school, for some odd reason. My mom surprised Nick and me with tickets to see The Wedding Singer at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. At first, we thought it was kind of lame, but we decided to try it out anyway.

When we arrived, we immediately noticed we were absolutely underdressed for the occasion. We stuck out like sore thumbs, walking around couples in suits and dresses, while we were wearing shorts and hoodies. I wore a hat that night, but threw it away in the bathroom trash, as if that were the only accessory that made me look out-of-place. We bought overly priced food from the concession stand and brought it with us to our seats. There was no food allowed in the theatre, which obviously wasn't strongly enforced as I carried my meal past the door greeter.

We waited for the show to start by trying to spot the richest person we could. It's quite easy. All you have to do is find an old man wearing a nice suit who's holding hands with a woman at least half his age. The show started with a song-and-dance, which had us both wishing we did something else with our weekend. We decided to stay since we made the trip up there, and didn't want to hurt my mother's feelings if we left early. It turned out to be a great decision. A few minutes into it, we were hooked, and found ourselves laughing hysterically at jokes that were oddly more humorous on stage than on film. At one point, I even cried I was laughing so hard. Between the play and Nick's side jokes, I could barely breathe. We both left the theatre that night with smiles from ear-to-ear, each knowing this was a night neither of us would forget.

I wish that I could tell you everything between Nick and our family worked out perfectly, but that would make me a liar. A few days after he received the news that the cancer had spread, everything went downhill. Nick and my brother were coming home from the store when he told my brother to stop and pick up a dog off the side of the road so he could take it to a safer place. They argued back and forth until finally my brother gave in and let the dog in the car, which turned out to be a big mistake. The dog began freaking out, barking and clawing at the windows and seats. My brother, like most people, stopped the car and forced the dog out, if only to save what was left of his back seats. Nick became furious and argued with my brother the rest of the ride back home.

Once they got to the house, my brother stormed in, telling my parents what happened, which was followed by Nick explaining his side of the story. At this point, I had no clue what was going on. The only thing I remember is hearing a scuffle in the kitchen, which was Nick storming out. My father hurried after him to try and keep him from driving away so distraught. That upset Nick even more, and he pushed and pulled until he ran out of the house and drove away, but not before screaming words I will never forget:

"You were the only true family I ever had!"

Anyone that was close to Nick knew that they would end up getting into a disagreement; it was only a matter of time. That was just the kind of person he was, a fighter both mentally and physically. I kept in contact with him over the course of the next couple months, but things just weren't the same. He went from practically living in our home to never coming around. The experience created a pain I hope I never have to endure again in my life. However, we remained close. He would pick me up every once in a while to grab hot wings and catch a movie, but the argument still weighed heavily in the back of both of our minds. It all happened in the summer time, shortly after we had the time of our lives at that year's church summer camp, a place where our friendship was written in stone. Another kid ate human feces for the fourteen dollars in my wallet.

I often questioned God why he would let something so terrible happen to a family so close. It was like we lost him before he was actually taken from us. This became one of the darkest points in my life. I began to question the very existence of God, claiming there was no possible way a loving God would do that to a kid who was in the prime of his life. I think we have all questioned God, and it is something he wants us to do. If we never question God, how can we truly prove our faith is real?

We received the call on Halloween night. They were taking Nick to hospice to care for and comfort him until he took his last breath. Nick's mother told us he was expected to pass within the next few days, and we would be allowed to see him, but we had to make it quick. The family packed into the car and hurried off to the hospital. On the ride there, my mind raced in a million directions, thinking of all the great memories we shared over the past year-and-a-half together. My body was crippled by the thought of never seeing him again, but I still tried to convince myself that he would be as healthy as when we last saw him. As if it were all a big misunderstanding.

We arrived at the hospice house and made our way to his room. The picture of what I saw will be forever branded in my mind. It was traumatizing. Nick was sitting up in his bed, eating his dinner, but I barely recognized him. He was no more than a shell of who he once was. His body was being consumed by a disease that had eaten away every last ounce of body fat he had. His skin and eyes had a yellowish tint, indicating his liver had begun to fail and jaundice was setting in. The only things still familiar to me were his voice and charismatic presence.

He called us over to the side of his bed and began to speak in a quiet whisper.

"Do you know why they brought me here?" he asked. We stood there, speechless, holding back the tears that would inevitably fall.

"They brought me here to die," he said with tears rushing down his face.

My grandmother reached down and grabbed hold of his hand, reassuring him he would be okay, as we could no longer hold back our tears. He began smiling up at me as if to comfort me, and let me know everything was okay even though we all knew this was, most likely, the last time we would see each other. We made small talk about how the food was, and I told a few of his favorite jokes, as if nothing were wrong. I knew he wouldn't have wanted it any other way, and his smile gave testament to that fact.

Before we said our goodbyes, he looked around the room, frantically trying to find his red hat. We asked him why he wanted it so badly since it seemed like an awkward time to put a hat on.

"I found the perfect Glen hat, and I wanted to give it to you," he said.

Glen was a character from our favorite movie, someone we impersonated a little too often. One night in particular, we imitated his voice so much, I couldn't remember how to talk in my natural voice for several days. Most people in the room didn't think much of what he said, but it meant everything to me. It showed me that he cherished the memories we had together just as much as I did, and our friendship was stronger than anything that could come between us.

I left that day knowing it was the last time I would see him until his funeral. I was always angry over the fight between Nick and my family. At the time, it seemed like a sick, twisted joke to kick us while we were down. Though I have come to believe God used the disagreement between Nick and my family to keep us from having to see him deteriorate the way he did.

The only thing that matters now is, at the end of it all, I knew neither of us had any regrets. There was nothing but love between us. I held on, hoping for a miracle that I would never receive.

Nicholas James Duncan passed away on December 2nd, the night before my birthday. He lived over a month longer than the doctors expected, but that didn't surprise anyone who knew him for more than a day. My father broke the news to me that night in my room. He hugged me and began to cry as he explained the details of Nick's passing. I knew the day would come, and I thought I had prepared myself for it over the course of the previous year, but it is something no one can truly be prepared for. That night is still entrenched deeply in my soul. It was the lowest I have ever felt, and the night I began losing faith in God.

The days after Nick's death were excruciating. The family got together to comfort each other, sharing memories of our beloved friend. It's a strange feeling when the memories of laughing and telling stories with a loved one are the only things left of them to cling to. Friends and members of the church stopped by to offer their condolences and drop off food, trying to make our mourning a little easier. They also tried to comfort me by quoting scripture, or talking about the miracles that God had worked through Nick's story, but it only made me increasingly bitter. Looking back now, I realize I was being selfish, I didn't receive the miracle I wanted, so nothing else mattered. We all wanted Nick to overcome his disease, and be able to tell a miracle story; but I think the rest of the family recognized the reality of it all way before I did.

We attended his funeral a few days later. Marking the end of an amazing narrative. The funeral was beautifully prepared, a perfect tribute to the beautiful legacy he left behind. We wept as the pastor spoke of the man he had become, and laughed as a video played through pictures, detailing the stages of his life. Before the ceremony ended, audience members were invited to share their stories of Nick and the impact he had on their lives. It was incredible to see the number of people who had been positively affected by him, and in that moment, my questions were answered.

Nick was put into that situation to make a decision on what he would do with the remainder of his life. He chose to take a negative circumstance and turn it into a life-changing narrative, something some of us aren't brave enough to do. I believe at one point or another, each of us will have a challenge in our lives that leaves us with two choices: do what Nick did, or live out the rest of our lives as victims of circumstance. That was the decision I had to make that day, sitting in the church, where I said my last goodbyes to my best friend and my hero. I read the letter he wrote just days before his heart took its final beat.

Thanks for being there for me, through the good and the bad. Thank you for your prayers and for the time you spent with me. I want you to know I'm in heaven now, healed. You prayed for my healing, and I am. I will be here waiting for each one of you to meet me. Some of you may have heard me say, cancer is the best thing that has ever happened to me. When you are thinking, how? If I didn't get cancer I may have never given my life back to Christ. Because of this sickness I rebuilt relationships and made new ones. I am in heaven now where I belong, and I am in no pain. God had a plan for my life, and sometimes our timing doesn't always match up with his. I hope you find peace in knowing where I am today. Our God is a forgiving God, everything in my past he has forgiven me of. We all have sinned and had our screw-ups, but I want you to know he forgives and forgets and he loves you as much as he loves me. It is okay to cry and it's okay to laugh, I am in a better place and I'll be waiting for you when it is your time to come home.

I love you,

Nick.

It's been over six years since he passed; time has really flown by. Of course, I still have days where I would do anything just to laugh with him again, but that is me being selfish. I am eternally grateful for being allowed to witness such a life-changing story, one that helped many others battling cancer and other circumstances in life. Nick was one of the few people that set out to do something incredible, and did it courageously. I learned that no matter how young or old you are, life can change in an instant, and when it does, will the letter you leave behind be filled with regret? Or beauty that lasts far beyond your years on this Earth?
Eight

Love On The Fly

When I began my plan to write a meaningful story, I thought of no better place to start than my marriage. My goal is to be the husband my wife deserves, and ensure that not a day goes by without her knowing how deeply loved she is. I began by thinking of small things I could do to bring a smile to her face. I asked her to dance one night, which I think surprised her. I was actually quite nervous to ask; it was like the Homecoming dance all over again. Yet there we were in the living room, dancing; and then I realized a few seconds later, we couldn't, and that was that. Of course, it didn't go like it does in the movies. There was no rain pouring over a couple who are dancing so whimsically, you can't help asking, why aren't they wearing the gold medals they won in the Olympics of the summer before the movie was filmed? The only thing that mattered was: I tried. I went out of my way to show her I loved her and she appreciated that.

Many of the ideas I came up with over the next few days failed, but I was persistent in my pursuit to be a better husband, and it eventually paid off. I spent the whole day at work thinking of the perfect date that would leave my wife swooning over me by the day's end. I finalized the plan and began the mission of dropping a bombshell of romance all over her. The key to a special evening is the element of surprise. Women love surprises, and I intended to exploit this fatal quirk. I am historically terrible with surprises, and could probably count my successes on the hand of a Ninja Turtle, but this time was different.

When I arrived home, I told my wife to get ready for an adventure we would be having after dinner. I refused to answer any questions pertaining to the plans I had in store for the evening, for fear of spoiling the surprise. We ate the lovely dinner my wife prepared, and after dodging her remaining questions, our adventure began. It started at a convenience store where I picked up the supplies I needed to execute my plan. I felt bad since it took me longer than originally estimated, and my wife was left out in the car for an uncomfortable amount of time; but I hoped to make it up to her. I put the bags in the car and drove away. Then I realized I must have overlooked one small detail: the destination where our evening would take place.

My decision was made relatively quickly since Oahu isn't known for being a vast land mass. I picked a beach on the west side of the island, where I had been a few times. It was the only place I knew where you could see a perfect sunset, other than in the deserts of Southern California! We drove as I sang from the back of my throat to songs on the radio, adding in what can only be described as my own unique style, and using the most god-awful voice you could imagine. We reached our destination and I had sweat dripping from head-to-toe, not because of my nerves, but because my wife's car didn't have air conditioning, and only one of the windows rolled down. We walked to the beach and I revealed the first item of the night, a Frisbee. This immediately brought a huge smile to her face. During the journey to our destination, she, ironically, shared the story of how she never learned to throw one. I taught her the basics of a Frisbee throw, which she quickly mastered well enough to make me look bad. To this day, I still believe it was the wind, bashing the orange disc to the ground with every attempt I made. As if Mother Nature had nothing better to do than ruin my outstanding reputation for Frisbee-tossing.

The next phase began as the sun dipped beneath the surface of the ocean, creating one of the most beautiful scenes I ever witnessed. We sat in awe, watching the dark orange and red reflections elegantly dancing off the surface of the sea like a perfectly choreographed performance. We became spectators as nature celebrated the passing of another successful day.

I told Emily to close her eyes while I laid out our favorite blanket along the shore, and dug holes in the sand where the candles would go. I started a fire in a clay pot that I picked up in the store's gardening section, and let her open her eyes. She inhaled loudly as a smile stretched from ear-to-ear. I finally successfully executed the perfect surprise. I bought a box of poppers, which happened to be a childhood favorite for both of us, and we set the Frisbee at an angle before using it to initiate our paper grenades. We watched the last rays of sun hitting the Earth before being swallowed up into the sea. Of course, the fire went out as soon as I brought out the materials to make s'mores, so we had to use the flame from the citronella candle, but neither of us cared. She was having a blast and so was I. We had music playing in the background, and because it was a cloudy night, there were no stars out, so I bought a set of glow in-the-dark stars to make up for it.

That night wasn't only the start of me becoming a better husband, but it also gave me a glimpse of the person I could become. When we first arrived at the beach, I walked around, trying to find kindling for the fire. I stumbled across a pile of blankets and a grocery cart where a homeless person was fast asleep.

My heart sank in my chest as I tried to think of a way I could help. So after our evening ended, I set the remainder of our food inside the grocery cart. I remember praying as I walked away, hoping my small contribution would somehow encourage this person, and stir up hope in his soul. The image stuck with me for the rest of the evening: how little he had, and how much so many of us take for granted in this life. Right then, I made the decision to do anything I could to help those who aren't fortunate enough to help themselves. Perhaps, maybe one day, they can find themselves on a beach, watching the sunset next to the ones, they love.

Just like all good things, our evening ended sooner than it should have, leaving us with a wonderful memory neither of us will soon forget. We arrived at the house that night as happy as we have ever been, especially after turning our ceiling into a lime green solar system! I am definitely a child at heart, but I got uncomfortably excited over them. So did my wife, and we shared a mutual awkwardness that made it seem a little more normal. It was amazing how something so simple could bring so much joy to our lives. The smallest things become the most meaningful when you share them with someone you love.

I decided to make a "bucket list" and asked Emily to make one as well. When I first asked her, she looked at me as if I had grown a set of breasts from my forehead, but warmed up to the idea as time went on. We exchanged our lists and explained why one idea was liked over another, and which ones could be checked off in the near future. One of my favorites on the list was skydiving, and since I am deathly afraid of heights, it was a bit more terrifying than the others. A couple of my buddies and I decided to do it the weekend after my birthday. For some reason, naming a date for the adventure made it even more unsettling.

The idea of skydiving sounded glorious until I really sat down and imagined it. I know millions of people do it each year without incident, and love it, and I am sure the same will happen to me. However, I am not one to lie to myself, or pretend I am not the least bit frightened by the idea of relying on a small strip of cloth to keep me alive, and an extra strip if the first one fails. I sat for hours, thinking of other scenarios where you can realistically narrow down the things sparing you from death to two, but I truthfully came up with nothing. That could either be because my logic is spot on, or I am not creative enough to think of such things. I am sure when the time comes and I go through with it, I will feel a little bit more alive than I did beforehand.

I always thought the idea of making a bucket list was silly, but that was before Nick, and before I decided to put more meaning into my life. To me, the list serves as a daily reminder of your goals, even on days where riding a unicorn seems easier than finding the motivation to get yourself out of bed. I decided to make a list for my marriage, outlining the things I would like to accomplish in the lifetime I share with my wife. It was hard for me to narrow my thoughts down to things that I believed could be realistically achieved. We are all dreamers at heart in a way. My list had a few big items, like European vacations and having children, but for the most part, I focused on the small things. Of course, the big things are important as they often make for some of the greatest memories, although they usually require a long period of time to plan out. My focus on the small things came down to the simple fact that they yielded the most immediate impact.

My plans were simple, to find different ways to bring a smile to my wife's face and make her feel beautiful. Whether it was sending her random texts throughout the day, or waking her up before I went to work to tell her I loved her, something she wasn't always too happy about.

I have only been married for a short time, so you could say we are still in the honeymoon stage. Perhaps it's only a matter of time until it wears off and we turn into creatures that merely roam about the same living space. I have met countless people, especially in the military, who don't seem to appreciate the value of their marriages, and I refuse to become one of those people. At the end of the day, the success of my marriage depends on me being the man my wife dreamed I was the day we married.

One of my favorite things in the world to do is fly fish. I grew up loving the outdoors, especially fishing, but I never fly fished until later on in my life. In the beginning stages, I owned a cheap reel that I practiced with, pretending I knew much more than I did, and fooling my friends into thinking I was some kind of fly fishing connoisseur. However, I found out very quickly that it was more of an art form, and not just another way to catch a fish. I decided that instead of pretending I knew how to fly fish, I would actually learn. I spent incalculable hours watching videos and reading forums, building a foundation of knowledge that would allow me to become a true fisherman.

I became infatuated with the romance behind perfecting such a skill, and was determined to succeed one way or another. The mechanics behind a fly fishing outfit are simple, but unless they are used by an experienced angler, they can do more harm than good. Using such a setup is the ultimate test of a fisherman's skill, presenting a challenge too enticing to pass up. I began practicing in the driveway at night, during the hours when people wouldn't be awake, lest they assume I lost my mind. It took weeks, but I eventually began to grasp the fundamentals of making a presentable cast. Until then, I never fully appreciated the difficulty of casting a fly.

This particular way of fishing is a perfect analogy to marriage. A cast from an expert angler is like watching an elderly couple holding hands as they walk through the park. Its beauty is easily recognizable. From the outside looking in, they make that beauty appear effortless, but behind every successful story is the work invested to reach that point of perfect proficiency. When we are the ones working to achieve these things, it is a different story.

When I began learning to fly fish, after I ran out of motivation to pretend, I found it one of the more difficult hobbies I ever set out to do. Even doing research on picking the right setup managed to make me sick to my stomach. There was an infinite amount of information that was highly subjective, to say the least.

I ordered my gear after hours of deliberation and convincing my wife that somehow, she would benefit from it too. I sat waiting like a child, watching out his window while visualizing Santa making his annual rounds zooming through the Milky Way; except my anticipation was for something that was actually real.

Any good fly fisher knows that the key to becoming a successful angler is to master the art of casting, something I was determined to perfect. When I really became passionate about the sport, I was living in Oahu, not the most ideal place to begin pursuing this form of fishing. Besides a couple freshwater reservoirs, fishing was strictly limited to fishing the flats, which took gear far more aggressive than I was willing to invest in. The cast, like marriage, is something that takes years of practice to perfect. Countless days are spent earning to trust your rod and reel, and learning everything there is to know about it. Just like marriage, excellence is attained after an infinite amount of mistakes.

I remember reading an article about a man who began fly fishing, but quit because he didn't see the point in all the trouble it took to learn. He said he didn't understand why anyone would waste their time learning, when they could be on the river, fishing with a traditional setup, and catching the same fish without all the hassle. I happened to read it right after a terrible day of fishing, so I sympathized with him more than I should have, but I didn't agree. To me, fly fishing is more than fishing. It is a test of one's commitment and investment of precious time.

I view marriage the same way. So many people give up on each other because they lose sight of the point in brief moments of struggle. Those moments are what create the closest thing to perfection. It was while learning to fly fish that I realized the beauty in the relationship waiting for me back at home. It was such an odd connection, but in my mind, so apparent and lovely. Becoming a better angler helped me become a better husband.

Marriage is the greatest journey of one's life and unfortunately,one that is more often than not, taken for granted. Life is meant to be shared, and when you finally find the one you can share everything with, your story will become that much more meaningful. I have come to recognize that even when my wife and I reach a point of tension in our relationship, just like a novice fly fisherman, the struggles that are endured now only pave the way for future success.

Love is something the world is in desperate need of, and it starts with each of us. If an act of kindness can change a life, together, we can change the world.
Nine

Unsocial Media

Iam part of the last generation of kids that knows what it's like to use the bathroom without an iPad. I grew up in the nineties, an era which I consider the pinnacle of human existence. It was a time where toy commercials had jingles, pinball was a cutting edge computer game, and social media happened over a three-way phone call. Life changes quickly.

I was a teenager by the time social media became the monster it is today. I remember my seventh grade teacher talking about her Facebook profile as if she were part of the next big thing. What did she know? My group of friends and I discussed the issue at lunch over a carton of milk, and concluded there was no way Myspace could die out. But what did we know? A few weeks later, I launched my profile with a picture of me looking like a member of the Flock of Seagulls, and the rest is history.

My relationship status with social media is complicated. In one way, I consider it one of man's greatest inventions. It allows you to stay connected with others around you, and keep up with celebrities, as well as current events. You are essentially one click away from contacting that long lost friend, or even someone across the world whom you have an interest in. Just imagine if our founding fathers had this technology. It would have saved years if John Hancock could've been the first person to like the Declaration of Independence instead of signing it. Could you imagine how many friend requests he would have received?

The thing I have come to dislike about social media recently is the false sense of community it creates. I spent many hours in Starbucks (forgive me for posing as a hipster/seventeen year old girl!) and observed so many faces fixed on news feeds that I began to doubt whether humans remembered how to communicate. I must admit I am just as guilty as you are.

I am followed by an NBA All-Star on Twitter, so in a way, you could say I am famous. Since then, I have only logged on a few times and created an accountone for the sole purpose of talking to Jim Carrey – although I still haven't. Last time I checked, I only had a handful of followers; but on that list, you will see Dwight Howard's Twitter handle and a blue check mark, indicating he is the real deal. I have always wondered how my name would look with a blue check next to it, but then again, I would only see it once-a-year during my annual log-on.

I was sitting alone in my barracks room, which is a dark, smelly, lonely pit of despair. It is where the Army sends you if you aren't married. I saw a tweet from Dwight, asking fans to submit their best Kobe Bryant face. I sat back on my futon, took a deep breath, and squeezed my face until I had a minor hernia. I submitted the photo, and a few minutes later, received a follow from the man, himself. It was quite exhilarating and definitely made for a good story that no one believes.

Halfway through writing this book, I decided to delete my accounts to see if there would be any difference in my attitude and productivity. I was becoming more and more resentful towards my "friends" and it was starting to really affect my attitude towards my real friends and family.

A guy at work thinks I am sort of an elitist for doing that, but he went to college in Florida, so I am not sure if he is right. All I know is: I saw a noticeable difference in my productivity and attitude. I finished more of this project than I had in all the months beforehand.

Social media is a great place to make an impact and have a voice, but it is also a terrible place to do that too. The reason I deleted mine was because of the divisiveness it causes between groups of people with different views and beliefs. And instead of having educated discussions about it, more often than not, it leads to condemnation. Just because we have the freedom to voice our opinions doesn't mean they should be heard all of the time. Instead, in a world of a million opinions, try and be the voice of love and positive change.

Though we will never use the bathroom without a screen in our hand again, now we have the ability and access to make a positive impact on our world like never before. This is the ultimate challenge. It will surely define not only our individual lives, but also our generation. I have since resolved my conflict with social media, but still believe it is something we should all take a break from. I would challenge anyone to take a month off to pursue meaningful human interaction and make a face-to-face difference in this world. Sitting behind a screen is the easiest way to avoid connecting with those who mean the most to you, and even those who don't. We are all ambassadors for what we put our hopes in, and so much of that is lost now behind the glow of a screen.

Ten

Golden Arches

The summer of 2012 marked a turning point in my life. I graduated high school, and in the blink of an eye, was being screamed at by a man with a hat for a face. I finally got to experience what I had seen in so many military movies throughout my life, and it was quite underwhelming, to say the least. I was prepared physically, for the most part, but not so much mentally.

I found that out around two weeks into my training, while sitting in a classroom, going over basic soldier skills. I began to doze off, along with everyone else in the room, a consequence of being overworked and lacking sleep. The moment my eyes shut, I was called upon to answer a question I must have been too absent to hear. When it registered in my mind, I had already opened my mouth, and was speaking words that were apparently unacceptable to the ear that received them.

In an instant, I was in the back of the room, being singled out by the senior drill sergeant. He got his point across without having to say a single word. He motioned for me to smile as big as I could, the kind of smile that every horse in the cartoon realm seems to possess. Being the great soldier that I was, I followed his order. His second bit of instruction confused me, but I followed it as he signaled for me to grit my teeth and hold my mouth open with my hands. In my mind, I couldn't help but imagine how hilarious I looked as my teeth began to chatter. I was relieved of my public humiliation nearly an hour after it began, and allowed to return to the torture of trying to keep myself awake.

The best part of basic training, and probably my whole experience in the military, was mail day. Every letter I received seemed to restore parts of me that I thought were lost in the transition of becoming a soldier. There would be days between mail deliveries, but I could always count on multiple letters each time to keep me company. For the most part, I slipped under the radar, which of course, ended when our platoon was assigned a temporary drill sergeant from another platoon. We knew he was the most animated of the bunch, but we found out sooner rather than later that he had more than just a few screws loose.

I am not sure if drill sergeants really like some recruits over others or not, but he seemed to like me enough to make fun of me at every opportunity. I came to embrace it after realizing there was nothing I could do. I told myself it was because he thought I was worth making fun of, which shows the sad state of mind I was in at the time. He particularly liked to do that during mail time and it soon became a daily circus act.

"Bronze? Who is Bronze? And why are there pictures of naked men in here?" he would say with enough conviction in his voice to convince me I had a boyfriend back home.

I became his primary target; and since my last name wasn't "Bronze," I didn't acknowledge him right away. He began screaming it over and over, asking me why my boyfriend sent so many letters. I often wondered if a class on humor were a requirement for an overly arrogant, eighth grade football coach to become an almighty drill sergeant; but I suppose that will remain a mystery. I realized he was calling me after he began staring a hole through me. His eyes grew larger and larger with each passing syllable until they began poking me on the shoulder. I yelled out belligerently, which he found comfort in, for some reason.

When I arrived at his feet, I felt like a servant begging for his daily ration after a long day of work. Naturally, I was hoping to quietly grab the letter and return back to my seat. However, knowing where I was, and who he was, assured me it wouldn't be that easy. He looked up with a devilish smile as he chanted demonically that I had to earn it. Everyone in the room began to chuckle as we all knew what that meant. It was time to pay up the only way a recruit can: performing push-ups. I assumed the position and performed the exercise until I physically couldn't anymore.

"I suppose that's enough for today. I would love to run this circus for the rest of the night, but unlike you worthless children, I have a life to live." The words slid off his tongue glibly as the credits began to roll, marking the end of his daily performance.

He threw my letter across the room as he stood up, yelling out a combination of profanities before his oppressive presence withdrew. The walls of the building slowly consumed his screams, leaving behind an unnerving silence that plagued us all as we waited for our next round of abuse.

Those two stories stand out most in my mind. They describe the majority of experiences I have had to endure in the military. The most prominent memory that will stick in my mind forever is not of war, or pain and suffering, since I was fortunate enough to avoid that. It was of a man in his thirties, claiming to be the tip of the spear, giggling as he called me "Golden Arches" for the first time. The fact that it took him nearly the whole cycle to come up with something that I heard on the first day of fifth grade from a kid with glasses, was frightening, to say the least. I find it hard to see the beauty in those moments of my story, but maybe not all of life's moments are supposed to be beautiful, or full of meaning. Maybe some are just full of laughs, and in some weird and twisted way, those can also be valuable life lessons.

Throughout my time in the military, I can't really say I served my country. As a member of the Intelligence Corps, in all reality, I was a glorified lawn maintenance worker. I could count on one finger the number of times I was actually able to do my job – an event that was fake. My original plan was to join so I could deploy, serve honorably, and move on with my life. I got stationed in Hawaii, our deployment was pulled, and that was that. I promised myself I wouldn't write much about my experience in the service, mainly because those years were the hardest for me to find purpose in.

The lifestyle of the military appeals to some more than others, and I definitely fell in with the latter group. Over all, I can't say it was all that bad, considering I got to live in Hawaii for three years and build a life for my wife and me. The downfall for me was the inability to think freely and find a real sense of worth within the organization. The second drawback was the type of people who comprised a rather large portion of where I worked – at least, from my perspective. Not to say that I didn't meet some great people, which I did. The best way to describe my experience would be a memory from my childhood.

When I was eight years old, my Uncle Mike took my brother and me to a local wrestling match in our hometown. It was the first time I had ever been allowed to attend a live match, so my anticipation was clean through the roof.

Watching pro wrestling became sort of a tradition in our house when I was growing up, and I loved mimicking the signature moves of the greats on my older brother. In hindsight, it was a great bonding experience; but back then, it was all-out war. We took our seats in the arena, which was an old KC Hall that could comfortably hold around two hundred people. There had to have been twice as many, if not more, in attendance.

After the first match, I realized I was no longer at a wrestling match, but a testosterone-filled beauty pageant. The main event of the evening featured all the wrestlers in the performance. Like all wrestling epics, they started off with two warriors, set to face off in battle; then after the use of rather provocative jargon, everyone on the payroll seemed to join in on the action. I can't say it was a match, but rather a ballet of muscle-bound meatheads, grunting and straining to show their dominance over one another. The true victor was the competitor that managed to have the worst hernia. Well, I guess it depends on how you look at it.

I considered myself a spectator in my Army experience, watching a few dozen grown men wielding their superiority by measuring each other's biceps before walking around on their knuckles and speaking to each other in a series of grunts. However, my time grew much easier after hiring a Neanderthal as a personal interpreter. He let everyone know the job wasn't for me.

In no way do I believe my enlistment undermines the military service. It was just my personal experience and mostly derived from my lack of productivity, not to mention, personal satisfaction in what I was doing. I believe there are heroes and have met many of them, men and women who have genuinely done a lot for our country and the world. I have witnessed many stories that should be celebrated and honored, but just happened to be in the percentile that did not. Looking back, I realize this was just God's way of letting me know that the Army wasn't what I was meant to be doing.

June 6, 1944

At the side of countless other men, most not even old enough to have a beer in their own country, Private Robert Crocker prepared to take part in the largest military operation in the history of the world.

A part of the now infamous 101st Airborne Division, attached to the 907th Glider Battalion, Private Crocker was one of three enlisted men from his battalion selected to partake in the preliminary air assault operations only hours before amphibious operations began on the beaches of Normandy. Charged with cutting off German communication lines, these men would soon be thrown directly into the heart of the war that changed the world forever.

The operation was to take place just days after his twentieth birthday, when the world decided for him that it was time for him to become a man. And just after midnight, Pvt. Crocker took the leap of faith into the cold black night, hitting the silk somewhere over Normandy, France – at a place where the bravest men in the world gathered for their rendezvous with destiny -the motto of the 101st Airborne.

Under heavy fire, the thousands of men who survived the fall were scattered for miles. Alone and unsure of their location, they drove on to take the objectives they were sent there for. Pvt. Crocker landed off course in Saint-Lô, France – a key junction town that, if captured, would have allowed allied forces an avenue deeper into the country. And in the midst of the chaos, by the grace of God, he managed to find and integrate with a small group of soldiers and they began their missionary work for the Stars and Stripes.

They traveled north on foot for days until they reached the port town of Cherbourg, France – the site of unrelenting, fierce fighting that had begun the day of the initial invasion. It was a key objective for allied forces and a place where Bob's life would be changed forever.

June 30, 1944

The day Pvt. Crocker's war would end.

His rendezvous with destiny came in the form of a German hand grenade. It was thrown from a building adjacent to the trench providing cover for him and six other men. Any good man would've run, or jumped for cover in hopes of escaping the fury of such a circumstance, but that is not what great men do. Pvt. Crocker, acting out of pure instinct that only true heroes possess, grabbed the grenade to heave away its destruction.

The sad thing about heroes is that they do not become that way until they make the gravest of sacrifices. After all, no one remembers the soldier who safely sits behind a desk in Hawaii for three years. Trust me, I know a guy. The ones that get remembered forever are the guys that are induced to play hot-potato with a live grenade, and do so without a second thought.

In a perfect world, the grenade throwback would have gone off without a hitch. Just as a bald eagle would have dropped a freedom bomb on Hitler himself – but of course, we don't live in a perfect world. The grenade detonated as it left the tips of his fingers, ripping through flesh and bone – and hurling his body to the ground.

Bob was evacuated from the battlefield to a field hospital, where they performed two guillotine amputations, removing the lower third of each arm. He also sustained severe penetration wounds from shell fragments inflicted by the blast. This included an injury that required the enucleation of his right eye sixteen days later in England.

From there, Robert began the long and difficult road to rehabilitation. He was transferred to Percy Jones Hospital where he was fitted with prosthetics. He learned to use them far faster than they could teach him – all the while with a smile on his face.

March 17, 1945

This day marked the end of Bob's career in the military, almost a year after his life changed forever. He was given an honorable discharge and some of the nation's highest honors for valorous service commemorating his actions that day in the trenches of Cherbourg, France. And because of his generous sacrifice, the men that were by his side that day were given the opportunity to live again.

By the end of that year, he returned home to St. Louis and began writing a new chapter in his life. He met and married the woman of his dreams five years later – laying the foundation for a beautiful family and lasting legacy. They were married just a month under fifty-one years before his wife passed, it was a marriage full of joy, love, and beautiful children who are proud to have a true hero for a father.

This year, Bob Crocker turned ninety-one years old and he is still sharper than most men half of his age. He has faced more adversity than anyone I ever met, but continues to live through whatever life brings him with an inimitable grace. Even in the pictures, taken just months after the injuries, you see a man with a twinkle in his eye and determination in his smile. That has remained the one constant in our family; and I am forever grateful for witnessing his courage and such an astonishing life story.
Eleven

Jesus And Stuff

Throughout my life, I have had many people ask me who I thought God really was. I usually gave the generic answer that Jesus was God's son, and when mixed with the Holy Ghost, you get three-in-one. The answer was like a jingle you hear on the radio during your morning commute. An air that makes you quiver and immediately want to curl back up in bed. I was guilty of the most common fallacy nearly every Christian makes, defending something you have not yet proven in your own soul. I learned quickly that if you are not on top of your game, people who question your faith and beliefs will hang you out to dry.

The first time I came in contact with an atheist was on the comment section of an internet video. A famous physicist gave a seminar, stating the existence of God was both improbable and unnecessary. He went into great detail discussing theories that might as well have been in a different language. The crowd cheered as he spoke with the zeal and passion of an old school Southern Baptist. The seminar reached its climax as audience members began asking questions that arose during the eon he spent talking, just to hear his own voice. One brave soul from the crowd tried to defend his faith in God, but quickly took his seat after the audience erupted in laughter. In a way, we have all been that man at one point or another. I know I have.

I truly discovered God only in recent times, after taking several lone fishing trips at the lake near our home. To some, the moments would seem miniscule, but they obviously aren't fishermen, so their opinions don't matter. I have always enjoyed fishing, but when I began fly fishing, it changed my life. My journey of becoming a good fly fisherman was a lot like my relationship with Jesus, in that I started off as a fraud. I would toss around scripture and "Jesus talk," just like the line on my forty dollar fly combo, focused strictly on putting on a show. I could make a comparison to fly fishing with just about anything, and I guess that is why it's such a beautiful thing to me.

It is a sport where perfection is virtually unachievable, and the same goes for being a Christian. I am not one to tell people who or what they should believe in. I can only show them what I do and hope it impacts their lives, even though I may not always conduct myself in the most conservative way. Every great disciple in the Bible had his or her share of problems and flaws, which, in the end, is what makes them truly great – as I hope is the case for me. Though I am far from being a disciple, in a way, we all are.

I would like to give one piece of advice on this topic, which you have already learned while reading this: I am not qualified to give advice. Of course, I am assuming you made it to this point without using this book as kindling for a fire, or toilet tissue. But if I had any advice, it would be to find beauty and meaning in your life, something you believe in and run with it. If you can't put your faith in something greater than yourself, at least, stand for something that is worthwhile. Believing in yourself is one of the most important things you can do in life, along with believing in others.

I would be a liar if I told you I was a great Christian. It pains me to say that, but admitting it is the first step in the right direction. Deep down, I think this goes for most of us. And it's not necessarily a bad thing either. Knowing you are not where you want to be is the best motivation for improvement. I feel that by writing this book, I will be better than I was beforehand, but a long way from where I should be. The best thing about having a friendship with Jesus is that he doesn't expect, or even want perfection – he wants you just as you are.

For a long time, my relationship with Jesus was more of a fling. I used him when I needed him and left him when I didn't. I thought of embellishing it, or making it like a high school relationship, but I graduated three years ago, so it is just a fact. I am glad He meets me where I am, no matter what happens in life.

After all, faith is the belief in something you cannot see, and no one is more familiar with that, than a good fisherman. Throwing cast after cast into rushing waters, he retains complete confidence there is something down there, watching and waiting. This is the kind of faith we should all have, no matter what our endeavors in life may be.
Twelve

Sensei And The wolf

Afew months ago, I had the opportunity to travel to Japan to participate in a military exercise. Up until this point, I hadn't traveled outside the United States. I was at a crossroads regarding the idea of it all. On the one hand, I was excited to visit one of the oldest cultures on Earth, one that I had only experienced through a few movies and a couple of personal conversations. Unless you count catching a shrimp in your mouth from a Japanese-American hibachi grill chef! Along with that, I could finally strike the travel to a foreign country item from my list of things to do before I go bald. I should've thought more about that too, because it only leaves me a few years to get a lot of things done.

On the other hand was the abysmal fact that I could only experience the country through the unwashed window known as the United States Army. However, I managed to find a bright side – the trip would cost me nothing more than throwing a softball, and doing a few pull-ups while holding my tongue around people I was not entirely fond of.

After we arrived in the country, we had two days to explore before we checked into our hotel. I use the term hotel loosely. In reality, we slept in an old, abandoned warehouse building in the heart of a former military post, however, those two days were quite memorable.

The first thing I noticed immediately upon stepping off the plane is how gracious their culture is to foreign travelers, unlike America, where we expect everyone to speak American. The airport was filled with signs that included, what I assumed, every major language in the world to help guide ignorant travelers – or even three Americans who thought living in Hawaii was fairly Asian. Everywhere we went, we were greeted with smiles and laughter. This was especially true when trying to order food, or asking where the restrooms were. The generosity and unconditional acceptance I received from these people was something that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

When our training began, our exploration of the country came to a halt. I wish I could say I enjoyed that aspect of the trip, but I would be a liar. What I can say is: during this time, I met two human beings that were truly legendary and had a profound impact on my way of thinking.

On the other side of the world from where I sit today, there is a village in Spain that I have never seen before – but will be forever connected to it in some obscure way.

The town of Villalobos, which translates to City of Wolves, is located in the northern region of the country. It has a population of less than three hundred people at any given time. It is a place of mystery and wonder, something I quickly realized after a brief internet search that yielded diminutive results.

The legend behind this small village is grandiose, to say the least, but has only brushed the ears of a few lucky individuals, excluding those who still carry the legend around in the form of a last name, which is how the story was passed along to me. And like most legends passed by word of mouth, the facts are rather murky and timelines are virtually non-existent, a flaw that I have tried to overcome in my journey to becoming a better story-teller.

When I was growing up, an extremely wise man told me, "The true legacy of a man is through the eyes of his enemy." When I was young, I didn't understand it, but the older I get, the more sense it makes. Most of the people close to us will have nothing but good things to say at the end of our lives, a statement I find comfort in. However, once you live a truly exceptional life, even your greatest opponent will respect you. That is why the small village of Villalobos is so special.

The City of Wolves is said to have acquired its name in this honorable way, from its enemies in war as well as the self-assured conquistadores from generations passed. The village became known for its ruthlessness in battle, and the relentless defense of its people – so much so, that armies, both large and small, began bypassing the village in their quest for greatness out of fear and respect. Thus, the legend of Villalobos was born.

When we arrived in our "hotel," we set up our cots and met the other members of our team. I was the lowest ranking person there so I remained rather quiet that night. I wanted to curb any unwanted attention and feel out the other members in our group to see if I could just be myself. This sad fact was one of the main reasons why I didn't fit well in the military lifestyle.

Each group was given an experienced mentor to guide them through the week-long exercise. This is where I first met the voice of a man named Christopher. I say voice only because I heard him long before I met his face. It had me concerned as to what the outcome of the remainder of the week would be.

I followed the echoing voice until I reached a room full of people, along with the human megaphone that was now my mentor. He went around the room, shaking everyone's hands, asking us to call him Chris; and laughed as he told us how much he didn't want to be there. He was extremely charismatic and the only way to accurately describe him would be as a true, barrel-chested, freedom fighter, like the kind you see in over-the-top war movies. But I still wasn't sure how I felt about him as I laid in bed that night, listening to him tell war stories. Some things become increasingly less believable when you are in the military, since everyone seems to have an outrageous story. I couldn't help doubting what he told us.

The week passed painfully slow, especially since we weren't allowed to do anything fun – something none of us expected. Going into it, I knew I'd be working long hours, but I also had the dead-wrong assumption that we would be allowed to explore during our off-time, but we were not. The one constant through it all became Chris's sense of humor and his uncanny ability to find the best in every situation. Most of all, he managed to bring out the best in all of us in the group. He turned the mundane into meaningful moments, even if they were slightly inappropriate. And my former doubts on the legitimacy of his war stories soon vanished.

Throughout the week, we began a tradition of finding the most arbitrary topics to discuss, in hopes of breaking through the monotony of the day. Our discussions included a wide array of subjects, my favorite being the argument over whom the best looking male actor was. I was surprised how passionate a group of heterosexual males could be about another man's appearance. There were other conversations that made the trip worthwhile, and one in particular would become one of the most inspiring stories I would ever hear, from one of the most inspiring individuals I would ever meet. Like I said before, some people are destined to live truly amazing lives, and Chris is one of those people.

During one of our hiatus conversations, someone asked Chris about an injury to his hand that, up until that point, I hadn't noticed. When I did, I was shocked at how substantial the injury actually was. His right hand had a skin graft that covered most of his palm and he was also missing a finger. He told us in the most nonchalant way that it happened during his deployment to Iraq a few years prior. He said it was nothing compared to the injury to his thigh, which I saw for the first time a few days later, along with the scars the bullet wounds left behind.

He vaguely went over the details of the actual attack, but he ensured us that the guys that attacked them were much worse, which you would immediately assume just by looking at him. That was also the conversation that led to the story of the City of Wolves.

What I didn't know was: I was in the company of a descendant from the Villalobos tribe, which I confused for a hard-to-say Hispanic name for nearly the entire week. Chris spoke about the history of the name, and how the village received such an honorable designation from its sworn enemies. And to this day, the legend is carried on by barrel-chested, freedom fighters like Christopher Villalobos. He insists the only fight he ever lost was to a boy twice his age while protecting his brother on the way to school. A claim I am not bold enough to inquire about, and one I wholeheartedly believe.

The last I heard from him, he passed the U.S. Army Special Forces Assessment and Selection course with flying colors. I can only assume, through my experiences with the man, that he was also the most beloved member of the team. It is warriors like him that need to be celebrated and honored for the great service and immense sacrifice they have so graciously donated.

The other gentleman I met in Japan was called Sensei by those who knew him. He was a soft-spoken man that stood no more than five-and-a-half feet tall before the slump of age. He carried a gentleness that is rarely seen in our generation. But hidden behind this meek exterior was one of the most powerful men I've ever met, both physically and spiritually.

I first encountered Sensei on a tour of an ancient Japanese castle that was older than the country I was born in. He was in charge of guiding us through the castle, which I assumed at the time, was because he spoke English fluently.

The sheer size and sophistication of the building was breathtaking. The path to the entrance seemed to wind on forever; and although it was now in the middle of a city, you couldn't help feeling you were lost somewhere in the distant past. Sensei guided us through each exhibit, past the cage filled with monkeys that, at any other time, would have surely raised some red flags in my mind. We entered the castle through a door that was smaller than it should've been – one that seemed to have been made for Sensei himself.

Each floor was filled with Japanese artifacts, equipment and stories that belonged to the Samurai who stood guard in the same spot I found myself centuries later. This was when I found out that Sensei was, in fact, one of the few remaining Samurai in the country, an ancient skill that could be traced back over a thousand years in his family's history. He was trained as a child and spent every day of his life since perfecting his craft. You could sense the reverence he had for such an honorable history.

The group came to a stop as Sensei gathered us around a wooden model of the castle we were standing in. At first glance, it seemed rather underwhelming, almost as if it were constructed well after the castle came into existence – and something that would have been easy to pass up if you weren't aware of the story behind it.

Like all human beings, every object has a story. And like all human stories, some are insipid, most are mediocre, and a few are truly breathtaking. In the case of the model, the last is the appropriate category. Sensei began telling us the story behind the model, which was constructed well before the castle began being built, and far from being the first of its kind. The royal family behind the erection of the castle searched far and wide for talented architects to create an exact-to-scale model of the structure. They wanted to know every microscopic detail before they initiated the actual project.

What the newly employed architects were unaware of was: if they failed to give the royal family exactly what they wanted, they would be executed. Their entire existence hung in the balance, dependent on their ability to create an exact replica of something that didn't yet exist. Many of them, according to Sensei, were not able to accomplish such a goal.

The story didn't seem to resonate with others as it did with me. It was so astounding for an object that had undoubtedly been overlooked by thousands of people. Just as is the case, I am sure, for some of life's more fantastic stories.

We continued to the top of the castle where a small gift shop sold overpriced souvenirs. Every ignorant American in the building, including myself, bought an uncomfortable amount of useless items that I still cherish to this day. The conversation I had with Sensei, however, is the memory I cherish most.

Chris and I were taking part in shenanigans throughout the day and the castle was no exception, although they came to a screeching halt when Sensei approached. With his signature bow and smile, he inquired about our experience in his country, and whether we had any questions for him. Chris, a warrior and martial artist himself, had many questions, but I was too awed by the man's presence to take much notice.

He began talking about his heritage and the daily life of the Samurai warrior. He lifted the legs of his pants to reveal countless scars as he spoke of his days as a member of the Japanese mafia. He was forced into the line of work during his early twenties in order to ensure the safety of his family. His unique skill-set was highly sought after in an age where the art was quickly dying out. He spoke of the bullet wound that rested just above the knee as if it were a relic of days past, and the other men involved weren't as lucky. The sheer power the man carried was something I will never forget. It is an asset that can only be gained through absolute confidence in oneself.

He began speaking about his life as one of the last Samurai warriors in existence, and the way it affected him as a man in general.

"You see, my friends, the way of the Samurai in my family ends with me," he said with a humble smile.

"I come from a family of warriors that have fought and protected these lands for over a thousand years, with honor and courage. And though I am proud of their accomplishments, the violence must end with me. I must reconcile our differences with the world." He continued with increasing emotion, "You see, because of our history and the life I have lived, I carry the tears of a thousand women on my shoulders – that is why I could never marry or have children. That is the consequence of living by the sword."

It took me a second to realize I wasn't in a movie before I could respond. I am not even sure what I responded with, but it couldn't have been much use. It is not every day a human being gets to hear such striking prose from a master rhymester.

Before the trip ended, I had the privilege of taking a photo of Sensei and Christopher the wolf, and I only wish I would have done the same. I imagine some photos are reserved for only the greatest of warriors, those who do what others aren't able, or willing, to do. I can only assume that it will be one of the first photos God chooses for his scrapbook at the end of this. At least, I was the photographer.
Thirteen

Honest Abe

There is a man that lives under the bridge outside my house. He is the twenty-first century Abraham Lincoln and he has the identification to prove it.

I met him last year on my way home from the grocery store in an unforgettable encounter. I had passed by him for months without much thought, but a spur-of-the-moment decision landed me next to his shopping cart with a bag of food. We were talking for an awkwardly long length of time. I wish I could say I remembered his name, but I don't think he even knew it, which I found bizarrely romantic. After all, he could essentially choose to be whomever, or whatever, he wanted to, and that is a freedom few of us get to experience.

He showed me his appreciation for the meal I brought by revealing something, I imagine, was one of his prized possessions – a novelty driver's license with a mug shot and make-believe stats of President Abraham Lincoln, himself. He told me he took it from a store a few years back as it was just too good to pass up. And somehow, the smile on his face made the fact that he stole it completely irrelevant. He bore a child-like innocence that made it nearly impossible to deny him some sort of assistance.

During the following weeks, I began to take him food and clothing – on some occasions, indulging in humorous conversations, most of which I failed to understand, but thoroughly enjoyed. Others consisted of dropping off the care package at the side of his cot and shopping cart, the sum total of everything he owned. But whatever the case, I always made sure to slip in a note that assured him no matter what, his life was full of beauty and meaning.

I am not sure exactly how much help I was for him, but he helped me tremendously to see things from a different perspective. Helping him taught me many things, but most of all, I learned that helping others less fortunate brings a feeling that nothing else can. I also learned that I have been extremely selfish in my life.

If a man that lives under a bridge can find a reason to wake up with a smile, then what excuse do you and I have not to do the same? Life is hard, but when you finally take control of it, nothing can hold you back.

It has been a while since I last saw Abe. His cot is no longer under the bridge that he called home for as long as I have lived in Hawaii. The thing I found strange was his cart was left where it always was, filled with the few belongings he owned. I still don't know exactly what could have happened to him; and in a way, I am not sure I want to. I can only hope wherever he is turns out to be better than where he was. But the one thing I am grateful for is the positive change he made in my life.

Fourteen

Nut To Butt

When I began this journey back in Southern California over a year ago, I had no idea how much work it required. At the time, I assumed I would have the book finished within a few months and accomplish everything I envisioned a meaningful life would consist of. This, of course, is never the case in reality. The whole purpose of living a meaningful life is the experiences and beautiful moments amassed throughout a (hopefully) long lifetime.

I went through months where I completely lost all passion for the project, and didn't write a single word. I became complacent, lazy, and full of excuses as to why I couldn't complete something that I was so determined to do just months beforehand. The harsh reality of failure crept closer and closer, emphasizing the fact that starting a project doesn't mean anything unless you complete it. After all of this, I found myself back on the shore of mediocrity, staring down into the river once more. I began to think of all the reasons why I would fail just like I did at most things I tried in life – finding excuses to throw the project away.

There are always forks in our paths, but if we let our passions be our guide, we will never lose our way. I am just beginning to learn that.

The sad thing about life is that it is never as romantic as it is in a book or movie, which made this journey much more difficult for me. When I set out to find meaning in my life, I felt I had an obligation to live in a way that would impress people, to give them that emotional feeling you get when you watch a great movie. And in doing that, I missed the point. I have slowly learned the most important element to realizing your true potential is love for the journey, more than the final destination. After all, the challenge of the journey can be life's greatest teacher.

I almost backed out until an impulsive decision landed me on a tuna can of a plane that, most likely, hadn't been inspected since the Reagan Administration. I was ten thousand feet above a rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, attached nut-to-butt to another man with only one way down. Although it was a few months later than we originally planned, we were finally skydiving.

The hours beforehand were filled with uncertainty since we chose the only cloudy day of the year in Hawaii. The owners told us the odds of jumping were slim, so we left to eat lunch and wait for the verdict. I remember dreading the decision the call would bring, no matter what it happened to be. A part of me was sick with fear from the thought of actually going through with something that was miles out of my comfort zone. The other part of me had to do it, if only to convince myself that I would somehow be better for the experience, which I now believe without a doubt.

The call came in, and within the span of an hour, I went from being on the ground to flying through the air, trusting someone I never met before with my life, then back on the ground. And like all great things, it didn't last as long as it should have.

Stepping out of the plane that day did more for me than I could have ever imagined. It became a symbol of the man I was becoming. I had finally taken an actual step in the direction of a fulfilling life, instead of just talking about it – I was now taking chances. It may not seem like something extraordinary, but for me, it was. I finally felt more alive, much more than what I had been just seconds earlier. And nothing can compare to the feeling you get when you realize you are becoming the person you want to be.

The hardest thing for me to realize was: a great story is not measured by minutes or days, but by the sum total of both. The journey to having a beautiful life is a process, and one that likely began long before the day you realized it – something that took me an eternity to see in my own life. But once you realize that, the possibilities are endless. You begin to see things from a different perspective, and actively search for ways not only to change your life for the better, but also the lives of those around you.

I rushed home to watch the video, assuming I was going to look cooler than I actually did. It turns out gale force winds and a receding hairline don't mix well. And the kisses I blew to the camera weren't my proudest moments. But there is something beautiful about jumping into the arms of a God that can deliver such joy so effortlessly.
Fifteen

A Work In Progress

Although I am far from where I want to be in my life, I can, at least, say I have begun to live the life I have chosen. The concept I have come to understand best is that once you are on the right track, you will never be happy with where you are in life – and will constantly be looking for ways to improve it. I still have days where I lose sight of what is important, but that is called "being human," something even the greatest people must endure.

I believe with my whole heart and soul that every person on this planet has a purpose for his or her life. We are all authors of our destiny, and each day starts with a blank page writing itself unless we take the typewriter away from all the things that make us mediocre and begin writing a stunning narrative. Those who wait until tomorrow will be forgotten when tomorrow comes.

You will never have the support you want, or the experience you think you need when you set out to do something great. The truth is: you will, most likely, never receive genuine support from anyone, even from the closest people in your life. When I began this book, I was told by nearly everyone I knew that, because I wasn't a writer, I would be spending a year of my life merely constructing a fancy coaster for my coffee table. Although the jury is still out on that prediction, I can only assume all the naysayers will be in the same position they were when I left them. And even the people who did support me were extremely conservative in doing so, which I can understand, having had so many failed ambitions in the past. I guess you have to prove the world wrong before you can change it. The world needs more people like you and me, dreamers in search of meaning and purpose in our lives.

Every summer, I went with my church to our youth camp at the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. It was a week filled with church stuff, basketball, getting launched off a giant balloon into the lake, and my favorite part: food. It became a legendary week for everyone, especially for the kids who weren't afraid to swim with their shirts off, which certainly wasn't me. I have countless fond memories from my years there, but one story in particular stands out as a great life lesson.

I was fifteen when we arrived at camp that year, and excited that Nick was my counselor, since the ones before him were too uptight for my taste. We got our dorms, which were an eerie foreshadowing to the rooms I would later live in as a soldier. I guess hindsight really is twenty/twenty.

It was around day two when something unusual happened. We were walking past the nurse's station, which served as my escape from the dreaded swimming pool, the bane of my overly-soft figure, when our group stumbled upon a pile of human feces. Seeing something that is not very common on the sidewalk, especially outside a nurse's station, it was sort of awkward, but we continued on after a belly laugh and jokes about eating it like typical, adolescent boys. What we didn't know was: that is exactly what would happen a few hours later.

After a fourteen-dollar bet and a bit of harassment, one of my best friends accepted the challenge of eating the brown lump outside the nurse's station without the nurse's consent, I should add. Of course, we didn't believe him, and really only accepted it after he walked through the door and refused my fourteen dollars, while declining to brush his brown-stained teeth. The best part was that we had it all on video, and broadcasted the event throughout the camp the day after turd-gate occurred.

Life is full of beautiful moments, but also its fair share of excrement. This is a fact no matter who you are, or what you have done. What you do with it defines who you are. Sometimes, when we encounter a problem, the best thing to do is just take a bite out of it. Not in the literal sense! I don't condone eating human waste like my friend did, but sometimes, having the guts to do so is what makes the difference in living the way we intend to live, or living in mediocrity.

Some may think it is weird to envy a guy that took such a bet, but he did become the most popular kid at camp that year, and even had a girlfriend long before I did. I guess that is the benefit of taking such risks in life.

As for myself, I have finished my apprenticeship in living with a purpose. Nonetheless, my journey has yet to hit puberty; but if you are reading these words, I must assume I accomplished my goal of publishing it. I only hope my words have made the difference I set out to make, even if only in a subtle way. As I grow out of this ugly duckling stage, I can say I am pleased with how far I have come and where I plan to go. I have lived a life without regret. Although full of meaning, it is still a work in progress. It took me twenty-one years to leave my less than golden life behind, but in this case, it is always better to be late than never.
Acknowledgements

Iknew when I began this book that this would be the most difficult section to write. Not because I wouldn't know what to say, but because I could write another book, just thanking everyone who led me up to this point, and encouraged me one way, or another. Although some may not be mentioned, nearly everyone I ever met has shaped me, good or bad, and I thank you all.

Thank you, Emily, for your constant love and support through this process that took much longer than it should have. Your belief in me has done more than you will ever know – I love you.

To Bob Crocker, thank you for the life you lived, one that has exemplified the highest level of honor and sacrifice, courage and love for your family, friends, and most of all, those who have never met you. I can only hope I did justice in presenting such an astonishing life story. I am forever changed and grateful for my experiences with you.

Chris Villalobos, your story added so much to mine, and I cannot thank you enough for letting me share it with the world. You are a true friend and hero.

To my wonderful family, I could name you all, but I do not have the ambition to write for another year! Your love and support throughout my lifetime has molded me into the man I am today, and I am forever indebted to you for all you have done. I love you.

To my Aunt Peggy, I could have never shared your father's story without your immense help. You have been such a beautiful person in my life, and I hope I have shown honor to your family's story. This project was not easy; and as it still remains to be seen how successful it will be, I am a little less worried, knowing I have people like you by my side. I have seen God through all of these stories, which is truly breathtaking.

Lastly, I want to thank you. Because you not only took a chance on this project, but also on me. You gave me a voice in a world where the average person must yell to be noticed. I can only hope I made an impact on your life in some small way. Just remember, if I can write a book, you can do anything. In a way, I feel like I already know you, and cannot thank you enough for your faith in me.
Connect With Jason

The most important thing I learned while completing this project was the significance of sharing my life with those around me. Meeting new people and catching up with old friends are what truly brings meaning and beauty to my life. We all have a unique story and we should all be able to share it. Just like you have given me the chance to share mine, I would love to hear yours.

If you ever find yourself stuck at a crossroads, or need a friend, or an ear to listen, just give me a ring. My phone number is (636) 209-7662.

