Let's All Be Brave: Living Life with Everything You Have

a note from the author

I love writing in coffee shops. I love the hubbub of drinks being made and customers passing through, the conversations all around, and the smell of hot drinks and baked goods. So for each essay in this book, I’ve included the location where I wrote a portion, if not all, of that particular chapter. Think of me the next time you stop in at one of the coffee shops mentioned.

This book is full of stories — the ones I’ve lived, observed, and heard from others. I retell them to the best of my ability, as memory serves me. A few names and details have been changed in order to honor those I love, have loved, or could end up loving in the future. 978031033793_0001_001.jpg

an honest moment

March 2013

My dining room table, Nashville, Tennessee

I’m not brave. I lack courage. I’m thirty-three years old, and I sometimes cry when I leave my parents’ home in Georgia to drive back to my little brick house in Nashville. I have never jumped out of a plane, and I only ride roller coasters when I’m trying to impress a boy.

Some people live for an adrenaline rush. I live for a sugar rush.

I don’t think it is fun to risk, to gamble, to possibly lose. I like safety, smart choices, and learning the easy way. Tell me it’s a bad idea and I’m going to believe you.

A few months ago, my friend Lyndsay’s car ran out of gas. (Something that does not happen to me because I do not let my gas gauge go below a quarter of a tank. I never once saw the low gas light come on in my first car. I don’t know if it even worked. Never risked it.) But Lyndsay is a natural-born risker, and she pushes that two-door coupe to its gassy limits.

So her car coasted into Nichole’s parking lot, and Lyndsay carefully directed it into a slot. It was out of gas, out of fumes, literally just rolling because the wheels are round. Before sitting down for dinner with Nichole, Lyndsay called her boyfriend, who brought over a can of gas. While she was still at the table, he filled up her tank with a few gallons of gas and then drove home. When she was ready to leave, her car worked fine.

Lyndsay told me the next day, "That did not hurt enough for me not to do that again."

She’s the valedictorian at the School of Learning the Hard Way. And she wears it like a Ms. Tennessee sash and crown.

That’s how risk takers roll. That is not how I roll.

But I want to be brave.

And I’m going to ask you to be brave too, even if you, like me, don’t take to it naturally. I’m here to ask you to please do that thing in your heart that scares you to death. To make that move or leap or step or sound you wouldn’t have made a week ago.

There is no formula and there are no rules. There is the Bible, our guidebook for all things, but other than that, being brave is organic and spiritual and a unique journey for each person.

I won’t be making a list of brave things you should do. I won’t be saying, Here is exactly what courage looks like or If you want to really risk in a way that impacts the people around you, do these particular things. I don’t think that works. I don’t think you need me to tell you what to do. I think you know. I think you just need a little pregame warm-up. A little something to oomph you along. An understanding of the map you are holding.

I had lunch with my friends Chris and Jimmy this week, and we were talking about this very subject. And Chris said, Courage implies action, like you are going somewhere or going to do something. Courage. Maps. Movement. We talked about what it means to be on your map and off your map and whether there’s a map at all.

I left that barbecue lunch buzzing with hope and ideas. I love talking about what courage looks like (probably more than I like actually living it). I think an appreciation for brave people and brave moments has been in me forever. To this day, my favorite Steven Curtis Chapman song is Burn the Ships from way back in the mid-90s. It’s a song about Spaniards sailing for Mexico in 1519, and upon arrival and in the midst of many hardships they wished they could go back. Instead they decided to burn their ships. Stay there forever. And figure out what that life would hold.

Brave.

That stuck with me when I first heard the song as an awkward middle schooler — sometimes you set sail without a view of the destination, trusting the tools you’ve got. And once you get there, you stay. You move forward, not backward. You burn your ships.

In my mind, when I think about you and me and where we are going, I see ships sailing and maps waving in the breeze and forks in the road. I see airplane arcs on tiny television screens and I see navigational tools strewn across a desk.

I see action. Movement. Travel.

X marks the spot, but it’s not about the X. (Also, it’s not about your ex.) It’s about getting there. It’s about the brave things you have to do between here and there to make you the person your X deserves. (Again, not what your ex deserves. You have got to get over him or her.)

But here’s the problem: I’m known for getting lost. I cannot be trusted to lead if we need to get from here to there. So if you’re on a journey or an expedition or an adventure, I’m going to get you lost.

If I had my pickings of what flaws to be known for, I’d go for something like too pretty or too nice. Instead it’s usually too directionally challenged to be in charge at this moment. (Or any moment of travel, really.) Mama always said I’d marry a mapmaker — it would be the only way to balance out the deficit in my skill set. So any cartographers out there, give a girl a call.

I love maps. Before Siri would talk to me on my iPhone and tell me when to turn right and when to turn left and redirect me because somehow I had still missed the turn, I had a lot of maps in my car. I still have a few because, you know, I’m me and I get lost and I can’t get too much directional assistance.

I need maps. And so do you. Maps of the mall because, seriously, I just need to pop into Gap for a breezy white cardigan. Maps of the airport because Atlanta’s airport is practically its own city. Maps of your town and maps of your state. Maps of the places you’ve been that you never want to forget and maps of the places you want to go to.

Your life, start to finish, is a map. And we are HERE. That’s all I know. I don’t know where you’ve been and I don’t know where your map will take you. I only know there will be moments when you feel like the map has turned or changed and moments when you realize you’ve read this map wrong all along. You will crumple it up and throw it down, only to return to it for direction once you finish your cryfest. I get it. I know.

But it’s your map. Not my map. Or my cousin’s map. Or your spouse’s map. It’s yours. And there is something so sweet about God doing life that way. Giving you your own rivers to cross and mountains to climb and forks in the roads of your life that I will never come to. You get to be brave right there, in each of those places. Bravery begets bravery. If you’ll be brave, I’ll be brave. And when I am brave, you feel like you can be too. We are holding hands and I promise I won’t let go.

Let’s all be brave.

just start

March 2013

Mountain Brook Starbucks, Birmingham, Alabama

I think the hardest thing about writing is the blank page. Or computer screen. It’s said to be a writer is to have homework every day for the rest of your life. You remember that feeling, don’t you? When you have a paper to write or an assignment to turn in and you know you can do it if you can just. get. started. I find the same to be true if I’m creating a presentation for a conference I’m speaking at or if I’m trying to write a message on a Father’s Day card. I know what I want to say. I just often don’t know where to start.

My favorite hamburger in Nashville is the turkey burger with a gluten-free bun at Burger Up in 12South. It’s always cooked perfectly, and they have this honey mustard aioli that will just bless you. The owner of Burger Up is Miranda. She’s a bit of a legend in our neighborhood for taking a boring stretch of street and adding some substantial eateries. I wrote my first book almost solely at her coffee shop, Frothy Monkey. Next came Burger Up and then a sandwich shop, and now? Josephine.

Josephine, the newest restaurant to situate itself on 12th Avenue South, hasn’t even opened yet, but everyone in our neighborhood is buzzing about it. They’re going to have a Sunday brunch that is pretty much all the permission I need to eat nowhere else after church except right there in one of her perfectly made booths.

Every time I run into Miranda on the street or in Burger Up, I ask how Josephine is coming along. She always tells me about another decision she has made — the style of patio furniture, the foods she has traveled across the country looking for, the right chef to bring to town, the kind of napkins and cutlery.

Every decision requires her to start somewhere. The menu was blank. The walls were blank. Even the title of the restaurant was blank. But one day she made that first decision toward offering us a new neighborhood favorite, and once things got started, they haven’t stopped. Her courage shows up as community tables, delicious food, and warm hearts all up and down the neighborhood thoroughfare.

I’m flying to Minneapolis today. Travel is a major part of my life and job right now, which means fewer turkey burgers from Burger Up, but luckily, on an airplane seems to be where I get lots of writing done. Sitting in a window seat with my laptop open and All Sons & Daughters pouring truth into my ears — this is prime writing time for me.

As I’m buzzing over some farmland (I’m guessing somewhere in Iowa), I’m thinking about how hard it is to start, whether it’s a new book, a new restaurant, or any other dream you may have. To start the journey toward that thing . . . I don’t know what it is for you, but it’s not a journey to courage. The moment you take that first step, the moment you start, little seeds of courage, the ones I believe are already planted there right now, begin to sprout in your heart. You aren’t headed out to find courage. It’s in you, it is blooming, and it is with you as you travel and say yes to things that seem scary. Remember, it’s not only the X that matters; it’s getting there.

At my home church, the high school students host and run the middle school retreat. It’s a really neat experience. As an adult leader a few years ago, I loved watching my sister Sally, an eighteen-year-old senior, be the retreat director. She nailed it. It was the only middle school retreat I ever attended, but I’m pretty sure she was the best retreat director ever. The coolest part about being an adult leader was I literally just had to supervise, not really plan or lead. It was awesome.

We were at one of those retreat centers that have cabins and bunk beds and two showers for every twenty people, and it was as rustic as you are picturing.

And I loved it. Yes, I absolutely love retreats. You know why? I love when all my friends are trapped in the same place for days at a time. Is that weird?

On the Saturday night of this middle school retreat, I crawled into my little twin bunk, shoved up next to another twin bunk, and closed my eyes. It wasn’t thirty seconds later that I felt someone tap my shoulder.

Because we are a people who love to prank, I was sure I was about to (1) be sprayed in the face with some sort of liquid or (2) get to participate in pranking someone else. Instead, it was Mallory, another senior helping lead the retreat. Because it was March, Mallory was just a few months from graduating and heading off to Auburn University.

She asked me to scoot over, so I did. I was worried — Is something sad? Something wrong? To snuggle up next to your leader in a twin bed means that something isn’t right. So I lay there on my side as Mallory stared up at the springs on the bunk above us. Light from the moon barely snuck in through the curtains, but it was enough for me to watch as she was obviously wrestling with something in her heart.

I don’t want to go to Auburn, she whispered, and I heard the tears dripping onto my pillow. I waited, thinking she had more to say. When she didn’t, I responded.

Okay, Mal. You don’t have to.

I think, she stammered slowly, I want to be a missionary. I want to go to YWAM. Her voice was still shaky.

Okay, Mal. You can do that. I said it quietly. I wanted