I Thought This Was What Success Looked Like

For a long time, I had a pretty good picture of what success was supposed to look like: make more money, get the better job, be recognized for what you've accomplished, maybe even know a few people whose names other people know.

And, one by one, I got to experience some of those things.

I landed the corporate jobs and eventually crossed the six-figure mark. I remember when making that kind of money seemed like one of those imaginary lines separating the people who had made it from everybody still trying to get there. When I finally crossed it, it felt good. I was proud of what I had accomplished.

But life on the other side of that line looked surprisingly similar to life before I crossed it.

There was a season in ministry when our church received the Purpose Driven Health Church Award from Saddleback Church. We had worked hard, believed in what we were doing, and having that work recognized meant something to me. Somewhere in that season, I ended up standing beside Rick Warren for a picture.

I won't pretend that wasn't cool. It was.

But eventually the event ends, the picture gets filed away, the award finds a shelf, and Monday morning still comes.

For five years, I also had the opportunity to serve as a chaplain in the Cleveland Indians organization with their Single-A affiliate, the Lake County Captains. That put me around professional baseball players at an interesting point in their lives. Some were young guys hardly anybody outside baseball had heard of yet. A few went on to become names baseball fans everywhere knew.

I have pictures from those years, including ones with Francisco Lindor and Bruce Chen. They're great memories, and I'm glad I have them. But being around professional athletes also gave me a different perspective on something I had probably spent too much of my life chasing.

Knowing important people doesn't make you important.

A photograph with somebody famous doesn't add anything to your worth, any more than a salary, a title, or an award does. None of those things are bad. I'm grateful for the opportunities I've had, the people I've met, and the things I've been able to accomplish. The problem comes when we ask those things to tell us who we are.

Maybe that's one reason I've grown to appreciate Winnie the Pooh.

Pooh doesn't have much that would impress us. He doesn't have a title or an award hanging on the wall. He certainly isn't worried about his salary or whether somebody important knows his name. He's got a few good friends, the Hundred Acre Wood, and, on a particularly good day, a pot of honey.

And somehow, that seems to be enough.

It took me a lot longer to figure that out.

I spent plenty of years believing the next accomplishment might finally make me feel like I'd arrived. Looking back now, I'm not sure arriving was ever the point. Maybe contentment has less to do with finally getting everything you've been chasing and more to do with recognizing what was already good while you were busy chasing it.

Pooh seemed to understand that all along.

Golden Glove winner and 5 time All Star, Frankie Lindor and me.

The Rocking Chair

About thirty years ago, Julie and I bought a double rocking chair at Cracker Barrel. I don't remember what we paid for it, and I doubt there was anything particularly special about it when we brought it home. It was just a rocking chair.

But then we started using it.

For thirty years that rocker has been part of our life. We've sat there and talked, watched kids grow up and grandkids come along, and lived through all the changes that somehow happen while you're busy doing something else. Jobs changed. Ministry changed. Houses changed. We changed too. Through all of it, that old rocker just kept rocking.

Eventually, it began to show those thirty years. The weaving was torn and coming apart, the wood needed attention, and the whole thing was getting pretty rickety. We could have thrown it away and bought a new one. That probably would have been easier, but there were too many memories sitting in that chair to haul it to the curb.

So for our forty-fifth anniversary, I decided to restore it.

I refinished the wood and found someone who could reweave the seats and backs. While I was working on it, I decided to leave something behind for whoever sits in it long after we're gone. I carved CALLOWAY into the top rail and JEFF & JULIE into the one beneath it.

When it was finished, it looked almost new again, but that's not what made it valuable. What made it valuable was everything that couldn't be refinished—the thirty years already spent sitting in it.

There was a time when I probably would have measured the good life by what came next: the next job, the next opportunity, the next accomplishment, the next recognition. I've had some of those things, and I'm grateful for them. But at sixty-four, I'm discovering there are things you can't put on a résumé that turn out to matter a whole lot more.

Maybe that's part of the wisdom of a simpler life. You quit looking quite so hard for the next thing and start recognizing the value of what has been sitting beside you all along.

Sometimes that's a person.

Sometimes it's a memory.

And sometimes it's an old Cracker Barrel rocking chair with your names carved into the back.

Thirty years of rocking. Forty-five years of marriage. Still worth keeping.

Why Pooh Still Matters

We Keep Going Back To The Mountains

When I was growing up, my dad got three weeks of vacation each year, and for years and years I pretty much knew where we were going to spend them. One week in June, another in July, and another in August, we headed for the Cherokee National Forest near Tellico Plains, Tennessee. There were plenty of long weekends mixed in whenever we could get away.

We didn't need much of an itinerary once we got there. We fished, swam, rode dirt bikes, played card games and explored the mountains. What started as a camper on the back of a truck eventually grew to include a station wagon and pop-up camper, and later a pull-behind trailer.

This wasn't exactly luxury camping. We used outdoor toilets that smelled exactly like you would expect outdoor toilets to smell, and sometimes washing up meant heading down to the creek. There was no Wi-Fi to complain about because nobody had invented it yet.

And we loved it.

Those mountains got into me. Even after all these years, I'm still drawn back to them, and I think part of me has always wanted my grandchildren to experience some of what I experienced there as a kid.

I've made a few concessions.

Some things change, some things don't.

Pooh never seemed to be in much of a hurry to get somewhere else.

A walk through the Hundred Acre Wood was enough. A little honey was worth getting excited about. Sitting beside a friend could fill an afternoon. Pooh wasn't trying to build a résumé, impress anybody or figure out what came next.

For a long time, I probably would have thought that was a pretty small way to live.

I'm beginning to think he may have understood something I didn't.

Some of the best things in my life have been remarkably ordinary. Sitting in an old rocking chair with Julie. Playing with my grandkids. Feet propped up somewhere we've traveled. A cup of coffee when nobody needs anything from me. Going back to a place I loved as a kid and discovering that I still love it sixty years later.

None of those things would look particularly impressive on a résumé.

But I'm not sure the résumé was ever the best way to measure a life.

Maybe contentment isn't learning to want less from life.

Maybe it's learning to notice more of the life you already have.

That's probably why I keep going back to the mountains.

Different cabins. Same mountains. Same idea.

Three years ago, Julie and I took our kids and grandkids to some cabins in the mountains of North Carolina, just over the mountain from where we did our childhood camping. A couple of weeks ago, we went back to those same cabins again.

Our version comes with indoor plumbing, real showers, comfortable beds and Wi-Fi. Apparently there are limits to how faithfully Papaw is willing to recreate his childhood.

But the important parts haven't changed much. We fish. We hike. We explore. We sit around and talk. Nobody has to be entertained every minute. There is time to wander off and discover something, and there is time to do absolutely nothing.

Back in March, Julie and I were in Tennessee when my sister and her eight-year-old granddaughter, Celie, joined us for a drive to Bald River Falls. Celie and I decided to hike to the top of the falls together. Somewhere along that trail, another little girl discovered that she liked being out there too.

Now she calls me her hiking buddy.

At the top of Bald River Falls with my hiking buddy.

I wonder sometimes if my dad knew what he was giving us during all those weeks in the mountains. Maybe he thought he was simply taking his family camping. I don't remember him sitting us down and explaining the importance of slowing down, spending time together or appreciating simple things.

He just took us.

Decades later, I'm still going back. Only now I'm the one taking kids with me.

I don't need my grandchildren to wash in a creek or suffer through a smelly campground toilet to understand what I learned there. I just want them to experience a little of what Dad gave us—the chance to slow down, explore, get dirty, laugh together and discover that you don't need very much to have a really good day.

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Notice what’s already here.

What is one ordinary thing in your life you would miss if it disappeared tomorrow?

_________________________

Choose one thing you normally rush through.
Today, don’t.

Stay five minutes longer.

You don't need more today.

Notice what you already have.

Monday Morning

Pooh never seemed to be in much of a hurry.
Maybe that's part of what he understood that the rest of us keep forgetting. Contentment isn't about having less ambition, wanting less from life, or never looking forward to what comes next.
It's about being present enough to notice what is already here.
So what can you do Monday morning?
Before you reach for your phone, start making the list, or begin thinking about everything that needs to happen next, stop.
Notice one person.
Notice one ordinary thing.
Notice something in your life today that you once hoped you would have someday.
You don't have to change anything.
Just don't miss it.
Notice what is already here.

Download the “Notice What's Already Here” Action Plan