To Be Known
I don’t know where I live these days, or hardly even what I do.
Two days after coming home from Mexico, I was off again. Or on?
Church last Sunday was epic (so many necks to hug), followed by a beautiful 75th birthday celebration for Helen’s granddad Jerry. For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of knowing him, Jerry Lancaster is a living legend. When he says something, everyone listens. He’s taught (and is teaching) me as much about how to carry myself and walk with wisdom and humility as anyone I know. Getting to marry his granddaughter and become part of his family six years ago has been one of the biggest blessings of my life.
First thing Tuesday, I flew to Columbia, Missouri, to attend Main Street Summit. Over 1,000 entrepreneurs from all across America and several other countries converge in this little Midwest college town each fall for a couple days of incredible conversation, food, and presentations.
This time, my friend Ezra came with me. It's the first time I've attended one of these work events with a close friend, and it felt like forever since we'd had time together like that.
I say work event, but I left with my heart deeply changed.
This year, I was invited to speak from the main stage, so I was a bit nervous. About 1,000 high achievers in a spectacular theater, and 20 minutes to make my case.
I spent more time than usual preparing for this talk, weaving together quite a few themes from the upcoming book: stories from childhood, my parents and grandparents, and how the dreams we pursued as children were often the unannounced seeds of our callings as adults. God was with me, and I am grateful.
From the flight to Columbia through my flight home when I parted with new friends in the DFW parking garage three nights later, it was a wonderful trip. Of course, the most wonderful part was arriving home to Helen and the boys. The last few days I’ve spent a lot of time with them around our place, and with our friends here.
I don’t know where I live these days, or hardly even what I do.
But I know who my friends are, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have so many in so many places.
One of those friends is Dupree Scovell, and something he said at the event will stick with me for a long, long time.
You could say Dupree is an overachiever. We first met a couple years ago at a men’s retreat. Dupree’s father befriended Ray Hunt back in the 70s, which led to managing some of the Hunt family’s oil fortune in real estate. Both Dupree—and his dad a couple decades before him—were star athletes at Texas Tech. Dupree went on to earn four bachelor’s degrees there, then two master’s degrees from Stanford. Today he manages and co-owns a large portfolio of hotels across the country in his family’s business.
In his talk, he recalled a moment in his life a couple years ago, as his career was reaching new heights, when a father figure challenged him:
“Someday, Dupree, when you’re gone, you know what your kids and your family are going to say about you? They’re going to say ‘he was a great man—but we never really knew him.’”
His words were straight from the heart, not preachy, and they went straight through mine.
I’ve been turning over and over that question of what it actually means to be great. Extraordinary generosity, inspiring others to change their lives, making the world better—those are the things I’ve always associated with greatness. And far more noble than just achieving money or fame, right?
But something about those words unsettled me.
Growing up number five out of ten children, I’ve always carried a chip on my shoulder. Each of us carved out the thing we were good at, and that somehow gets progressively harder the further you fall in the line (sorry, David!). To add to that, teasing is a part of our family culture (see my story about Papa Lynn), and each of us gave and received plenty of it. I love that. I had the most wonderful childhood and parents, but somehow, perhaps just because of the way I’m wired, I’ve always felt the need to prove myself to gain approval. That instinct has been a powerful tool for persevering through adversity and achieving some modest success. It’s also led to some stunning mistakes.
But I’m beginning to see a different angle. All the energy I’ve spent trying to earn other people’s acceptance, trying to prove myself worthy of their time and respect, has sometimes isolated me from the very people I want to be close to. It’s a hard thing to untangle, especially when part of your work involves figuring out how to tell stories and capture people’s attention online.
Perhaps therein lies the difference of being noticed and being known.
And yet, as children of God, our flaws and insecurities are already known, and we are loved all the same. There’s nothing I can ever do to earn God’s love and acceptance. And somehow, rather than making me want to do less, that makes me want to love Him more than ever before.
My uncle Asi said something in his sermon yesterday that struck me. He said that the way God asks us to repay the debt of extraordinary love we owe Him is by loving one another.
All that energy and desire to do something doesn’t need to be squelched. It needs to be channeled—not toward proving ourselves but toward loving the people God puts in our lives.
That love should infuse our work, our responsibilities, our words—everything.
I am grateful my life has touched men like Dupree, Jerry Lancaster, my grandfathers, my father-in-law, and my father. Helen, Lucas, Ezra, and Benjamin. My friend Ezra, and many others I’d run out of space to name.
This is a season of stretching. I imagine we can all relate, especially as parents trying to build something for our families—maybe even in our own little ways trying to tip the scales of good in the world. Some weeks, the pie of hours in the day and energy simply doesn’t seem big enough. But then somehow it is.
“What’s your next big project?”
People ask me that all the time—including today. And I ask it of myself multiple times a day.
Right now, I think it’s learning to love people without having to prove myself.
And learning to be known in a deeper way.