Thirty-four hours, in a packed car, with a large dog in the passenger seat. That was the setting. That was my solitary confinement.

I know I said I was getting sick of telling you about my drive, and I was. But I feel like I should share one last thing.

Thirty-four hours in solitary confinement leads to a lot of listening. I listened to music and I listened to my soul, that much you already know. But I also listened to the Bible on CD, and I didn’t realize until I finished the drive–I listened to eight books of the Bible during the cross-country trek. Eight.

When was the last time I read eight books in a day? Um, never. And I read a lot.

The difference I noticed between reading and listening was this: Listening allows you to simply sit there and let the words come over you, like gentle waves coming over your feet at the beach, like sunshine coming up over the treeline. Reading is more difficult. It’s like digging for treasures or hiking up the mountain and coming back down.

The Gospel of John was the first book I listened to during the drive. John is a crazy book really. It’s not a pure narrative like the other Gospels; in fact, it’s highly structured and organized. Certain features of the book are peculiar to John’s Gospel, not even mentioned in the other three accounts of Jesus’ life. Turning water into wine, the resurrection of Lazarus, and Christ’s prayer in chapter 17 are just a few unique features that come to mind. As for the structuring, most would agree the book is organized into seven signs and seven discourses. It also seems to be structured around the Jewish feasts. And all of this is done with John’s explicit purpose in mind: that we might believe Jesus is God’s Son and that we may have life in His name. Life.

Living and giving. Love learning to serve. Pain throwing us down. Love turning the whole thing around.

Living. Giving. Loving. Hurting. Serving.

Yellow. Orange. Red. Purple. Blue.

So you’re probably sick of hearing about my drive by now. I am too. So let me sum up the last day in this way: Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, and Illinois all look the same. They’re part of the infamous Corn Belt, Great Plains, Midwest, etc. I’ve known this from geography class and from growing up in Indiana, but driving through it really brought this truth home.

That said, the flatlands are a great place for brainstorming. One of the storms that swirled through my mind was this:

I want to do six things with my life, broadly speaking. I want to teach and write. Create and build. Mentor and coach. These seem to operate in pairs, but I think I would like the six to converge. Thus far, I have done these things on a small scale, as a volunteer mostly. But I would like to make a living doing these things. I would like to provide for my family by doing these things.

But then again, living is giving. So perhaps I need to keep doing these things as an act of service.

And maybe someday, some way, I will receive pay. Maybe here, maybe there. Maybe the latter is more just and fair.

I slept at a Pilot Gas Station. Five hours worth. Maybe six.

When I woke up, two things caught my attention. First, Gideon had stolen my blankets. Second, mountains stood all around; and, on top of the mountains was snow. No wonder I was cold and couldn’t sleep!

As I began my second day of driving, I noticed two more things: in Utah, houses were big. Snow was big as well. On the first day, I enjoyed a drive that was sunny with a high of 75. On this day, I would have less than 1/4 mile visibility and spitting snow.

Driving through the snow, I made note of two more things. The first came from a band I know called Under the Olive Trees. They’re good. They’re going to play at Ichthus this summer. But the point of me mentioning them is this: Thayne has a line in a song where he says, “Love’s not love until it learns to serve.”

I thought about that for a long while. Love’s not love until it learns to serve.

Later in the day, I listened to my old buddy John Mayer. He sang the second worthwhile thing. “Pain throws your heart to the ground. Love turns the whole thing around.”

I liked that too. Pain throwing us down, but love turning it around.

I didn’t plan to bash NASA in my last post. I just happened to experience something in the next leg of my journey that reminded me of NASA. Mentioning these space gurus simply provided a good segue.

Speaking of segues, I was crossing the border into Idaho. As I was driving, I saw a train full of what looked like spaceship parts. Huge, white pieces of high-tech stuff, wrapped in plastic, with the word “Siemens” on each piece. Siemens, if I remember right, is an engineering company from Germany that puts most corporations to shame. They handle big stuff. Really big stuff. Like making the world a better place. And employing 405,000 employees in 190 countries.

Thinking about inventions, about spaceships and wind turbines, about Siemens, led me to think about other things like Brave New World by Aldous Huxley and the presentation by Kevin Kelly at Q recently, “What Technology Wants.” I couldn’t help but wonder what God thought about all this stuff, about our human project.

God, I wish I knew what God was thinking.

…

…

I couldn’t figure it out, God’s thoughts that is, so I kept driving. Silenced. Silenced by my new surroundings. On the one side of the road, in a nearby field, was a storm, gray and wet. On the other side of the road, and behind me, sunshine and blue skies. Huh, imagine that.

Awhile later, I was ready for dinner. I pulled off at Idaho Falls, drove across the big bridge, and walked along the canyon ridge, admiring the beauty, letting the dog run and pee. I grabbed some IHOP, took it to the canyon and watched the sunset.

Yellow.

Orange.

Red.

Purple.

Blue.

Now that’s an invention.

Living is giving. Living is giving.

The quote ran through my head as I drove through the Columbia River Gorge. And it continued as I drove through the Hood River area and through the Dalles. The phrase faded and I drove in silence, admiring the plateaus, the river, the waterfalls, the untouched hills, the wind turbines. I marveled at the clear, blue sky, the perfect temperature, the sun shining on my arms. I could hardly believe it. Sunshine.

I passed some tree farms, line after line of pine soldiers–skinny, straight, equal, tall. I descended into Pendleton, passed by the city and prison, and ascended out. Onward I drove through eastern Oregon, beginning to make the shift south.

Eventually the gas tank needed a boost, so I pulled into a town called La Grande. The service-man set the pump, cleaned off my windshield, and talked about small things. I asked if there was a park nearby, so he gave me some quick directions. I zigged and zagged a few blocks, parked the car, and let the beast loose. We enjoyed the sunshine–I ate two slices of pizza, as Gideon galloped around like a horse.

Awhile later, I was pulling myself up on the monkey bars, giving my upper body a little surprise work-out. A young boy approached, probably ten or twelve years old, skinny jeans, knit cap, skater shoes. He asked about my dog and if I was from the area. I told him no, but I certainly liked his town. La Grande was a lovely place. Quiet and situated in a valley, little mountains and high hills rolling all around. We started talking about skateboarding, about school, about video games. He told me about some of his favorite games while standing on top of the railing in front of the slide, balancing 15 feet above the ground. As he hopped on another railing, then twisted over to the fireman-pole, I asked him if he had ever broken any bones. He said no, as he straddle-walked the bridge railing, then hopped to another skinny beam.

I hopped to another topic–music. He was into punk and rap-rock.  Insane Clown Posse, Kottonmouth Kings, stuff like that. I told him I liked most anything, but I wasn’t very familiar with those genres. I had been into that type of music when I was his age, but I was over it now. I think I had tried to block that stage of life from my brain (but I didn’t tell him that).

We talked about sports, then the kid found an old Chap-Stick on the ground and invented his own sport. Toss the stick as high as you can, lose it in the sunlight, and try to avoid being hit by it as it plummets back to earth. The boy added another element of difficulty to the sport by trying to kick the cylinder into the air. Genius, I thought. Pure genius.

He should work for NASA. That’s what they do. Send cylinders into space, then wait for them to plummet to earth when they’re finished. Only difference: a few billion dollars.

Thirty-four hours, in a packed car, with a large dog in the passenger seat. That was the setting for the thoughts in this post.

With my belly full of waffles, I said goodbye to Portland and turned on an old favorite, Coldplay. I don’t know why, it just seemed right. I listened to a few songs, then a line came to the surface and punched me in the gut. “What good is it to live with nothing left to give?”

I didn’t stop the car, but I did stop the CD. I started thinking: What good is it to live with nothing left to give?

 

Is my life characterized by giving?

Do I have more to give?

Is my life worth living?

 

Right now, it would appear my life is worth living. I have everything to live for. I have a little daughter on the way. I have a pregnant wife that needs my love and assistance. I have moved back to my dearest friends and family. I am 24 years old with two-thirds of my life ahead of me. Yes, it’s worth living. It would also appear I have more to give. With a little girl on the way, I have time, affection, knowledge, money, and dignity to give (when I’m having my fingernails painted or my hair put in pigtails). I have those things to give in other relationships too, with my wife, with friends, with family. Yes, I have more to give.

But is my life characterized by giving?

No, it’s not. Sure I moved back to the Midwest for the sake of my wife and daughter. Sure I sacrificed writing opportunities, a degree, a few great friendships, and a church I absolutely loved in order to move back. Sure I’ve given money to people in need and to ministries I thought were worth supporting. But is my life characterized by giving? Is it full of giving? No. In all honesty, it is full of self-absorption. It is full of personal ambition. It is full of the desire for selfish gain.

It’s not that I’m some narcissistic pig. I don’t think most people would say I’m self-absorbed or overly ambitious or desiring gain. Those aren’t the first words that someone would use to describe me. However, I can almost guarantee “giving,” “self-sacrificial,” and “others-centered” would also not be among the first words someone would use to describe me.

So what am I saying? I’m saying I’m a self-obsessed dog. Not a narcissistic pig, but a self-obsessed dog. And what’s wrong with that?

Everything.

Thankfully, I have everything left to give. And the more I give, the more I will live. Because living is giving.