The King's Table

This past December I got a call from my friend Scott. He told me that he was taking a trip to Mexico with a few of our friends, and he wanted to know if I wanted to join them. Before I could politely decline because I didn’t have the time or money, Scott said, “I want you to come and I want to pay for everything.” 

Well, I mean, if you insist …

Camille gave me an enthusiastic green light and I said yes to the trip. After much waiting and anticipation, last week the trip finally arrived. From beginning to end, it was extravagant. I arrived in Nashville on Sunday night, to have dinner with Scott and his wife, Maleah, before we embarked on our adventure. I offered to Venmo them for my portion of our feast from Edley’s barbecue, but Scott said (in his very Scott way), “Bro, I got this.” 

And that would prove to be the tagline of our adventure.

When Scott and I arrived to the airport early Monday morning, we checked in and he handed me my ticket. I thought there had to be some mistake. This ticket said “First Class”. I had only flown first class one other time in my life, and I’m pretty sure we took out a second mortgage to make that happen. But it wasn’t a dream, we boarded the plane as first class passengers.  I sat down, dabbed my face with a moist towelette, ordered a Mimosa and watched the commoners shuffle past me to the slums, a.k.a the main cabin. For a few hours we lived like Kings. At least that’s how I’ll choose to remember it.

The view from our room in Puerto Vallarta

We stepped off the plane in Puerto Vallarta and rendezvoused with our friends, Jonathan and Devin. The four of us hopped in a cab and were promptly in route to the Hyatt all-inclusive (did I mention it was all-inclusive) resort. Now a couple things you might be wondering… Who in the heck is this guy Scott? And why did he fly you guys down to Mexico?

I feel like it is important to give a little background when explaining my friendship with Scott. Not only because I’ve known him since I was a baby (or at least since I developed a cognitive memory), but also because our friendship is wrapped up in a bond shared by 7 dear friends. Devin and I have been best friends since we were toddlers. I think I stayed more nights at his house when I was in high school, than I did my own. Seriously. I’ve known Jonathan since we were 8 years old, and he became one of my closest friends in high school. We’ve both been on Young Life staff for a decade and I’ve shared more adventures with him than anyone else in my life. Our other dear friends, Jimmy, Daniel and the other Jonathan decided not to join us on this trip, but I have plenty of tales of adventure that include them. To put it simply, the seven of us are not just friends. We’re brothers. Friends who’ve spent a lifetime together, and will (in the words of the great literary giant, Jay-Z) “ride or die” to the very end.

And this trip to Mexico wasn’t just about a couple days on a beautiful beach; soaking in infinity pools, enjoying free drinks, eating great food, crushing tourists from St. Louis in sand volleyball, smoking cigars, telling old stories and talking late into the night. We had a mission.

As I sat out on the beach that first morning, reading the Scriptures, worshiping Jesus, watching the sunrise and gazing out into the horizon at the edge of the ocean, I was struck by the profundity of the moment. Scott had brought us to Mexico to wade into the deeper waters. We spent 4 days talking about how we could “do life better.” We identified areas of resistance in our lives. The things that were holding us back from our callings, our dreams and our personal happiness. We focused on the 5 F’s: friends, family, finances, fitness and faith. 

We laughed a lot, cried a little and dreamed big. Not just for ourselves but for one another. It would be impossible for me to communicate the richness and depth of every conversation. But there was one particular moment, something that Scott said, that stuck with me. It was a “Bro, I got this” moment, but this time Scott put it in a far more profound way. He said, “Guys this is what I dreamed about. What I always wanted to do. As the Lord has blessed me and my family financially, it has allowed me to bless you. Because of Jesus, I have been invited to feast at the King’s table, and I feel like now I just get to serve you at His table.” Our adventure was an embodiment of Psalm 34:8, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

Our trip was just that. Feasting at the table with my dear friends. Tasting and seeing the Lord’s goodness. I came back a better husband, father and friend. I have a renewed vision, a more clarified calling, truth in place of lies I had been believing and a reminder of the incomparable gift of true friendship.  

(from left to right) Devin Maddox, me, Jonathan Drinkwine, and Scott Stephens

Throughout the trip we struck up many conversations with other hotel guests. When we would tell them about who we were and what we were doing there, people almost couldn’t believe it. And it opened a door every time for us to share the Gospel and to give them a glimpse into an authentic life; a true and better Kingdom. People consistently stood amazed at the depth of our friendship and our shared purpose that we had found in Christ. 

In his book, The Four Loves, C. S. Lewis famously said that friendship is born in that moment when one person says to another, “You too? I thought I was the only one”. And he went on to say,

“In friendship...we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years' difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another...the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting--any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian, there are, strictly speaking no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, "Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you," can truly say to every group of Christian friends, "Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another." The friendship is not a reward for our discriminating and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.” 

Almost everyone who I’ve told about our little escapade to Mexico, has responded with the same sentiment, “Man, I need a friend like Scott.” Well I do have a friend like that. In fact I have a few of them. And I’m incredibly grateful that the Lord chose them for me. 

Beginning Again

“If you wait until the conditions are perfect, you’ll never write a thing.” - Andrew Peterson

I’m baaaaaaack.

I kind of gave up on this project a couple years ago. Well, 4 years to be exact.

I’m not sure why I stopped writing, or what prompted me to abandon this blog (a “blog” that nobody really knows about or reads btw). But if you have somehow stumbled upon this… I’ll tell you this. I had grand plans for this platform.

I was going to write a post every week. I would slowly gain readers, who would become fans, then more and more followers would start rolling in. A major publisher would discover me and give me a book deal. I would be the next Bob Goff. Impressing readers with my creativity and profound story-telling, taking them down an old dirt road of twists and turns that would eventually lead to some deep spiritual truth or life lesson. Then people would buy my book, I would make a lot of money, build a hobbit hole in a hill behind my house, spend my time building things and writing more stories. In the evenings I would gather my friends around a fire pit outside my hobbit hole, sipping bourbon and puffing our pipes, telling stories, discussing deep ideas, planning adventures and dreaming of doing something big. Something significant. Something that would change not only the world, but the hearts and lives of people. All the while, I’m becoming not just a hero, but a legend. Because in the words of Babe Ruth, in the cinematic jewel that is The Sandlot, “Heroes get remembered. But legends never die.”

Well, needless to say, none of that happened. But that is not to say that nothing happened. Over the last four years, my life has been filled with plenty of stories. Stories of loss, failure, job changes, losing myself, struggles with mental health, trials in our marriage, sick kids, more kids, clarity, joy, restoration, accomplishments, finding myself again, moving to a new city, coming home. And that’s just the surface of the surface. There’s an iceberg underneath all of that. 

So why did I stop? Why am I back? Why now? I don’t know really.

Maybe it’s because of an old International Scout. Camille’s sister and brother-in-law live on a farm just outside of Louisville, KY and we went to visit them this Christmas. Josh, my brother-in-law is one of the most creative, driven people that I know and he always has his hand in some new (usually big) project. And he can pretty much buy, flip and sell anything. 

A few weeks ago, he found this old International Scout rusting away, half buried in a neighbors field and immediately saw potential. He offered his neighbor a little bit of money to haul it away and the guy agreed. And a couple days later, after giving it a bath and getting some air in the tires, Josh and I were loading this old vintage 4by4 onto a trailer, having sold it and turned over a modest 500% profit. Then off she went, on the road to being restored and driven once again.

I guess my passion for writing is kinda like that old Scout. Once upon a time, it was beautiful. It was something to be proud of. It embodied tales of adventure and all the miles logged out on the open road. But at some point along the way, I just sort of abandoned it. Days go by, then months and then years. Then a few months back, my friend Andrew Peterson, came and dug it up, cleared away the weeds, put some air in the tires and encouraged me to begin writing again. There’s more miles to log and stories to tell. 

Also, I need to confess something. Andrew Peterson has no idea who I am. But he has greatly affected my life and my faith and now my writing. Andrew is singer/songwriter, a theologian, an artist, a poet, a gardener, a father and a follower of Jesus. To me, he’s a legend. He is one of the poets I have known. He wrote a book about songwriting and story telling, called Adorning the Dark. After reading it, I remembered that I have stories to tell.

In his book, he wrote, “The best thing you can do to write your book is to stop not doing it. Just stop it.”

So I’m going to stop not doing it. I guess my hope in beginning to write again, through this medium, is that all these stories might be compiled into one big story and eventually turn into a book. Yeah. I’m going to write a book. Like I said, I have stories to tell. Stories God has given me. Real life adventures full of both peril and joy. Stories that I need to get out. The Lord gave me the heart and mind of a storyteller and I don’t want to waste that. And the best thing I can do is to begin again. So here goes nothing …   

Calling All Cowboys

My friend Michael once told me that the best thing his father ever gave him was a cowboy’s heart. His whole life he wanted to be out on the frontier, not where it’s safe or subdued, but out on the frontier where its wild. Blazing a new trail where others might follow. If you have the heart of a cowboy, you can’t help it. You were made to be out on the frontier.

I was on Young Life staff for 8 years in Tennessee. Chattanooga is a town with a rich YL history: a seasoned Metro director, several staff people, a thriving Young Life College program, 13 YL clubs, 6 WL clubs, Young Lives and Capernaum. We ran two WyldLife camp weeks every year, put on family camp, took hundreds of kids to outreach camp and wilderness/ski trips, and sent multiple kids out on work crew every summer. At our fall camp at SharpTop Cove last October, I got to share the gospel with over 700 kids from our area. I learned more about life with Jesus and ministry with kids than I could ever put into words. For me, my experience in Chattanooga YL was incredible. 

But it was safe.

This past December we packed up our family and headed west to Oxford, Mississippi. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had given up a lot, for what felt like a little. Two high school clubs, one middle school club, and a developing Young Life College club. I had gone from one hundred leaders to thirty. And when I showed up to our staff retreat for the mighty Mississippi region, the room felt a little empty. There were only nine of us in a little cottage outside of Jackson, MS. And I realized something … I’ve got a cowboy’s heart.

I’ve told many of my friends in the Young Life world that Mississippi is the “Final Frontier” of Young Life in the south. A widely unreached, underdeveloped state where few dare adventure. And before you pass this off as literary drama or exaggeration, let me tell you why I’ve come to believe this.

Currently we have three job openings in our region:

1. Area Director (Jackson, MS) - Jackson is the capitol of Mississippi and has a rich YL history 
2. Young Life College Director (Starkville, MS) - Starkville is the home of Mississippi State, an SEC school with 21,622 students. Dak Prescott could be in your small group…
3. Area Director (Hattiesburg, MS) - Hattiesburg is the home of Southern Miss, a university with 14,554 students and a YL committee in place ready to launch the area

And here’s the crazy thing … no one is lining up to interview for these jobs. Let’s just be honest for a second: in more developed Young Life regions, scenarios like these would have people banging down the door to get a shot at one of these jobs. But not in Mississippi … not yet. Why not? Because it’s the frontier, uncharted territory only for the brave of heart. 

If you live and serve in one of those more developed areas, I’m not implying that it’s not hard or that there aren’t battles to be fought or that it’s any less glorious a calling. I’m just saying that it’s safer. It’s the home front, not the frontier. If that offends you then you can can stop reading this, because I’m not writing to you. But if this excites you, or sparks a nervous flicker of light in your spirit, then this is my invitation…

Could it be that you have a cowboy’s heart? That a final frontier in Young Life is whispering your name on the wind of the Spirit of God. We need cowboys in Mississippi. People who aren’t afraid to venture into the unknown. These cities and towns are waiting. Could it be that the Lord is calling you to our little region?

I believe that King Jesus is doing something incredible here! That we’re at the forefront of a great movement of God. If you’re reading this, and you’re daring to dream, know that I am praying for you as I write this. That God will give you His vision and His courage. That you might pack your bags and move to Mississippi. If you have cowboy’s heart, call me. Let’s talk

Winning the Right to be Heard

"We must win the right to be heard...Friendship Evangelism...Incarnational Evangelism...face to face...person to person...friend to friend...and finally heart to heart. Putting flesh and bone on the Message." - Jim Rayburn 

I got a little snapshot of that in Scott Brown's living room this past Monday night. Over the course of this last semester I've had the privilege of leading alongside one of our student staff guys, Cody Sanders, an Ole Miss senior and team leader at Oxford High School.

I sat at OHS club this past Monday night and listened to Cody tell the story of the Cross. He did a great job communicating, but you could tell he was nervous. How could you not be? A hot, crowded living room full of high school kids, and Cody was tasked with the job of trying to communicate the greatest love story the world has ever known.

But the shakiness in his voice and the awkwardness of trying to flip a page on his note pad while balancing a Bible in his hand was ... just beautiful. Because it was sincere. And every kid was leaned in, listening to Cody proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And that was exactly how Jesus intended for them to hear it. A jar of clay pouring out living water. 

As I looked around, something profound captured my attention. No one was talking. They were all listening. Every heart seemed to be hanging on every word. They were dialed in. And I realized why. It's because Cody had credibility with nearly every kid in the room. He has spent the last 3 years just simply showing up. Showing up to pass out donuts before school, to watch baseball games after school, to cheer kids on at track practice, to sit with kids at lunch, to talk life with guys over dinner. He's learned their names, and prayed for them by name and chased after them when they wanted nothing to do with God. He has labored and he has earned the right to be heard. So when he stood up in front of them and described the beautiful, scandalous account of how Jesus died for them ... they wanted to hear what he had to say. And that message is the very power of God. It raises the dead to life again.

I was proud to be in the room. I was proud to know Cody. It was Young Life in it's purest form; it felt exactly like what Jim Rayburn had in mind.

Cody (bottom left) with co-leader Connor (mailman) and their Campaigner guys

My friend Eve Sarrett once told me, "I've never met anybody who loves Jesus, who wasn't first loved by somebody who loves Jesus."

Cody is graduating and moving to Georgia this summer. His season in Oxford is ending, but his investment here will last forever... on into eternity. Many of these guys have come to know Jesus over the past couple years. And it's because they were known and loved by somebody who knows and loves Jesus. Well done good and faithful servant.

The Velvet Ditch

They call Oxford the Velvet Ditch ... you know, because it's a soft place to land. Once you come here, you just don't want to leave. We've been in Oxford just over a month now and we have experienced that. It already feels like home for us. The art, the culture, the square, the grove; Oxford is the crown jewel of Mississippi and it's southern charm seems unrivaled. 

But I think the thing that makes Oxford so special is the people. It was hard for us to leave Chattanooga. We have so many people there who we love and miss deeply. But our family has felt so welcomed by this community. From the moment we drove up to our house we felt celebrated and wanted and loved. I don't think I'll ever forget cresting the hill on Bristol Cove the day we moved in and seeing the words, in giant letters, "WELCOME TO OXFORD SPILLMANS!" We were in shock, first by the fact that such a thing is possible (Shout out to Kurt at Oxford Yard Card) and then by the fact that we were wanted here. People were excited for us to get here. I made the girls pose for a picture so we could commemorate the moment.

And we hit the ground running. This past month has been a whirlwind: unpacking, settling in to our house, getting Collette enrolled in school, meeting leaders, committee gatherings, clubs starting up, getting campaigners started with some 8th grade guys, leader weekend, friends visiting from out of town, speaking on a leader weekend at Clearwater Cove, starting leader training, hosting our Young Life banquet with almost 400 people in the community. In some ways it's been breathless.

Yet, amidst all that, I have had an overwhelming since of peace. It has become so evident that God uprooted us in Chattanooga, because He has been waiting for us here; so that he might plant us here in Oxford. He has laid out our steps and has gone before us. Waiting on us to get here, so that we might help build his kingdom in this little town in North Mississippi. As crazy as it sounds, we're home. And I couldn't be more grateful that he gave us such a soft place to land.

Coming Home

My friend Houston once said that if we could see an aerial view of our house in Chattanooga … To truly see it with kingdom eyes … there would be a beacon of light shooting up out of my backyard. The light of the living Christ coming up out of our treehouse. It's Holy Ground.

The walls of that treehouse have soaked up the prayers of God's children. My prayers. The prayers of college guys. The prayers of my high school guys. Bold prayers in which high school guys spoke the names of their friends, who were lost and broken and dead in their sin, before the throne of the Father. One of those names that was prayed a countless number of times was the name of my friend Peyton.

Peyton graduated high school last year. He was one of those guys that stayed away more than he came around. He lived life on the fringes. Running and hiding. When his friends invited him to Young Life he would grow angry and hateful. To him, the gospel was the stench of death and he ran from me when I would pursue him. He was running from God, a good and perfect Father. He was a prodigal running into the far country.

A few weeks ago, he got into some pretty serious trouble and found himself in this distant land, far from his Father, broken, desperate and alone. But my friend Jack, who graduated with Peyton, who prayed for him by name many times in that treehouse, had continued to pursue him this past semester during college. And one conversation over Thanksgiving led Peyton to begin the long journey home. Jack actually told Peyton that he believed the Holy Spirit had set his sights on him, and he believed there was nothing he could do to escape.

It was fitting that when Peyton came home for Thanksgiving, his heart had already begun the long journey homeward to a God who has never stopped loving him. A good Father who has been waiting at the window, looking for him on the horizon. A God who would run out to meet him and restore him as a child and make him His son again.

So, the Sunday after Thanksgiving before Peyton drove back to school, he stopped by my house to see me. That cold November afternoon he found himself on the porch of my treehouse. He was done running. We talked about his heart that had turned away from God. We talked about a God who came near and put on flesh so that Peyton would know that he is loved outrageously, despite his running. We talked about Jesus and the cross and how God the Father made Jesus, who knew no sin, to actually become Peyton's sin, so that he might become the righteousness of God! And as I shared with him the old story of Jesus and his love, he wept and gave his heart to the only One who could change it. He believed in the Christ and received his gift of salvation. The prodigal had come home.

And standing in the treehouse where his friends had boldly asked God to save him, Peyton began to sing the words "What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus." It was beautiful and God gave me a front row seat.

As Peyton drove away from my house that night, back to school, he drove away a new creation. A child of God. The old has gone and the new has come. And his Father went with him. A Father who will never give up on him and never let go. As he pulled out of my driveway I wept tears of joy and this song was playing in my heart. 

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I Built an Altar

It's actually happening. We're moving. After 10 years. Our house in Chattanooga is under contract. We're buying a beautiful home in Oxford (with a porch). If everything goes according to plan, we'll be pulling out of our driveway by mid December. 

It's exciting. A new adventure. And I guess there's a reason that the windshield is so much bigger than the rearview mirror. We're looking ahead. There's life and friends and stories and a calling to bring his kingdom in some new little way to Oxford. And I know that when we pull out of our driveway in Chattanooga for the last time, my heart will be full. As I glance back in the rearview mirror, it will be full of the sweetest memories:

Fires in my backyard with Young Life leaders, tackle football with my high school boys, campaigners in my living room, our best friends gathered around the island of our kitchen with a bottle of wine, the house where we brought home both of our babies, the last place I hugged my Dad on this side of heaven, life together with people with whom we'll live forever, sweet tears, sweeter laughter, deep conversations and so many answered prayers. A million memories.

And perhaps the memory I will hold most dear in my heart, as we pull out of E. Newberry St. for the last time … I'll look back in the rearview mirror, past the house, into the backyard and wave goodbye to … a treehouse. 

Right after my Dad died I came home and decided I wanted to build a treehouse. Why a treehouse? I don't know. I wasn't much of a builder or anything. Maybe it's that I felt like I wasn't in the place to care for others hearts because mine was broken. Or maybe I just wanted to be a part of something for once that I could step back and look at at the end of the day, and think "It's complete." Ministry can be so hard some days, because people are always a work in progress. You can finish a treehouse.

But mostly I think it was just a quiet, small whisper from the Spirit of the living God. The Holy Spirit living in me. I made my plans to build a treehouse, but the Lord had laid out my steps. I thought I was building something temporary. For my girls. But He was building something in me. Something eternal. 

I recruited my 3 college small group guys to help me. Jimi was the project manager. He was a construction management major, and he drew up the blueprints and figured out what we needed. Houston was the foreman. He had grown up building houses with his Dad and he led us in the actual building. I shelled out the cash and Gerry … Well Gerry was the grunt work. The manual labor. 

We would wake up early almost every day in the winter of 2014. I'd build a fire in the backyard. The guys would stop at McDonalds and grab me coffee and then we would start building. I learned a ton about construction, but I learned more about how to live life with people in the middle of grief. Some of the sweetest conversations in my life happened when we were building that treehouse. We prayed and worshiped and laughed and cried and dreamed … together. As we were building this treehouse, God was resurrecting something in me.

After building almost everyday that winter … One night, I found myself hanging out on the deck of the treehouse with my buddy Bryan Meeker. It was cold out, and there were no walls or a roof (just studs). Staring up into the stars, we laughed and went back and forth telling stories from our college days at Union University. And that night God gave me the sweetest picture. A thought that told a story. A story that I will always store up in my heart.

I remembered a lesson I had learned from Camille's art professor Lee Benson. Lee is one of the most amazing, godliest men I've ever met. He's authentic and he loves Jesus with a fierce love. I remembered him telling his art students, "When God does something significant in your life. A marker. Something that shapes or changes you: you should go out into the wilderness and build an altar. An ebenezer. So that you can always return to it and remember what God has done in you." As I sat there telling that story to Meeker, I began to weep and I could barely speak. I realized that I hand't just been building a treehouse. I had built an altar.

This is Lee Benson. Camille's art professor. And our dear friend.

I mean I didn’t set out to do that. It just happened. I thought I was building it for my girls. That it would be a place for them to dream, and have sleepovers, and live out adventures that could only happen outside of this world. But for me it was more than that. That season of life hadn't been about the finishing a project. It was an act of worship to thank God for giving me my Dad.

And so much life has come out of his death. My Younglife boys claimed that treehouse as their own. They named it the Tabernacle, and it became a place of refuge and hope for them. I sat with high school guys in that treehouse night after night and watched them believe deeper in the gospel, in the person of Jesus, and in the power of prayer. I sat with kids in that treehouse and prayed with them as they gave their hearts to Christ and believed for the first time. Eyes were opened and hearts were healed. I found healing for my heart in a season of suffering, and hope in a season of loss. It had become holy ground. Built on the foundation of the love of a father. The perfect love of a Heavenly Father and the extravagant love of an earthly one.

And when I drive away from our house for the last time in a couple weeks, I won't just see a tree house in my rearview mirror. I'll see an altar. And I’m so thankful.

The love of a Father

Today is my Dad's birthday. Tom Spillman passed away 2 years ago this past October and he would have been 71 years old today. This is my favorite story about my Dad:

When I was in the fourth grade, we had a contest at our school. It was a phone book drive, and whichever class brought in the most old phone books to recycle, would win a pizza party at Chuck-E-Cheese's. Which, in elementary school, is a big deal.

Well my dad knew how much I wanted to win the contest … So we spent the next few weeks collecting phone books from our neighbors and raiding recycling centers for old phonebooks. He'd lift me up, put me inside the recycling bin and I would find the phonebooks people had already recycled. Then we would load them up and take them to my school. I was determined to win.

Well finally it was the last day of the contest, and I had gathered a decent amount of lute but not enough to win. There were some classes that had dozens more than I did. And I thought, "That's it. It's over. We lost the pizza party."

I was sitting in class that afternoon, drowning in my sorrow, when a voice came over the intercom: "Ms. Gilpin, please send Bryan Spillman to the office."

I nervously walked to the front lobby of Norman Binkley Elementary. I'll never forget rounding the corner to see my Dad standing there.

I asked him, "Why aren't you at work?"

He looked at me and said "Come outside with me, I need your help with something…"

As we walked outside, he slid open the door of his old beat-up Dodge Caravan and out poured hundreds of old phonebooks! I mean we were swimming in em. Needless to say we won the contest and I was hailed a hero. And my hero was driving away in his mini-van that smelled like old phonebooks.

That's just how my dad lived life everyday. From the moment he adopted me when I was a couple days old until the day he passed into glory, he loved me with an extravagant love. With an outrageous, never giving up always and forever love. It's as if his heart was so full, because he was so proud of me, that it just burst forth everyday and poured out in some little measure of extravagant love.

And it was my Dad's love for me that was the single most thing in my life that pointed me to the love of Jesus. He pointed me to a God who loves me extravagantly simply because I'm his. Because I belong to him. A God who has found me, and rescued me, and adopted me and made me His son. A God who has gone before me, and done what I could never do on my own … and the celebration is for me. What an amazing love.

My dad was far from perfect ... but it was his love for me that pointed me to the perfect Father. A Father who will never leave me. That was my dad's most sincere hope for me ... that I would know God as a friend and as a Father.

I've discovered, that in death, we're tempted to glorify people. I've wanted to say things like, "He was the greatest dad who ever lived!" Well if Tom were here, he would quickly refute that sentiment and tell you that such things are a statistical impossibility and therefore cannot be measured. And maybe that's true. But I do know this about my dad: 

He was the best dad ... for me. God was so kind to me that he would pluck me out of a family and literally place me with Tom Spillman. He is the most faithful friend I've ever known outside of Jesus. And He was my biggest fan.

I'm grateful that he is home now with the Father whom he taught me to love. I believe that my dad is more alive today than he ever was as I knew him. He is a child again. Free from cancer and fully healed. I believe in the resurrection of the life and in the power of the blood. I believe he has simply passed from death into life, from the shadowlands onto eternal shores.

I love you Dad and my heart longs for the day when I will see you again. Happy Birthday.

This a bale of shredded phonebooks that my elementary school principal made for my Dad to thank him for bringing in the most phonebooks in all of Davidson County in 1995. I found it in my parents house after he passed away. He held onto it all those years.

Welp, here goes nothin'

So, I've never blogged before. But this isn't really a blog. It's more just a way for people who have loved us over the years to keep up with us in a new place on a new adventure. We're moving to Oxford Mississippi, where I'll be the Young Life Area Director. So I figured I'd create a space where those of you who love us, and pray for us and support us … can stay connected with us. So it's not a blog, ok? But I do love writing. And I love story. Not just stories, but the whole concept of story. That we can use imagination, art, words, film to communicate a narrative that will move and breathe and live in others hearts. I've realized somewhere along the way, in the past 30 years, that God made me to be a storyteller. He's put these crazy ideas in my head, this laughter in my spirit and these songs in my heart that I just have to get out. A friend of mine recently shared with me this quote by Walt Disney. I think Walt's words best encapsulate my hope for the spirit of this blog...

Beautiful! That's what we storytellers do. That's what I want to do for you. I want to tell you stories. Stories from my life and my family and my ministry with Young Life. Stories that whisper the name of Jesus. Stories that are telling one big story. The greatest story ever told. The story of Jesus and his love. And on rainy days, when the storms come, when the voice of the enemy creeps in to steal kill and destroy … I hope these stories restore order in some way in your life and in mine. And I hope most of all that my words instill Hope in you.