Comfort is popular, but courage changes lives.
Here he comes again.
He’s been around for as long as I’ve been here. He’s the guy in charge of my bandage change. He’s the one who gets me out of bed, on a gurney, down the hall, to the tub, and back.
He’s a huge guy. He looks just like Apollo Creed. You know, the big boxer who fights Rocky? Yeah, when he’s not fighting Rocky, he’s working here. I call him Big Roy.
And he used to be my favorite nurse.
He used to be the one I’d ask for because he was so gentle. He was the best at carefully getting me out of bed, rolling me to the bathtub, and tenderly setting me in it.
He used to be the best.
He changed.
I’m not sure why.
The past few days he still comes into my room, but he hasn’t been putting me on a gurney.
Instead he comes in, unstraps the Velcro that fastens me to the bed, picks me up, holds me upright, and tries to make me walk to the bandage-change room.
My legs dangle between his.
Doesn’t he know I can’t walk? Doesn’t he know my legs don’t work?
My feet don’t even touch the floor.
But my feet and legs throb like heck. All the blood races down to them. It causes a huge burning in my legs. I tell him to put me down. To roll me back. I tell him it hurts. I tell him to stop.
Instead of listening, he gets mean about it.
My legs drag on the floor between his, and he says to me, “Boy, you are going to walk again. You might as well get used to it. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”
Seriously. Can you believe that?
I mean, what is he thinking?
My legs are still completely wrapped in bandages. And what’s underneath those bandages is a mess.
I can’t bend my legs. I can’t put weight on my feet. I have no muscles.
I am not going to walk again.
And I’m ok with it.
Mom and Dad will take care of me. My sisters will help, too.
I don’t need to walk again. Or do anything again. I’ll be fine just like I am.
And now he’s in my room again.
He unfastens my right arm. Then my left.
He unstraps my left leg. Then my right.
He gently picks me up; he carries me out of the room. And then he does it again.
He lowers my legs to the floor. My feet barely touch the floor. He bear hugs me. He starts moving me toward the bandage change room. My legs swing lifelessly between his.
And then he starts talking to me.
“Boy, listen to me: you are going to walk again. You might as well get used to it. Come on, move those legs. There you go. Boy, come on, I’ll walk with you.”
I try to ignore him and ignore the pain he’s causing.
I stare down at the floor.
Whatever, Roy.
I’m not going to walk again.
An old pickup truck pulled up our driveway.
I’d been waiting for this moment, for this truck, and for the man driving it. I watched from a chair in the front hall as an old man stepped out. He shut the truck door, pivoted around, and walked toward our house.
It was late winter, about a year since I’d been burned. Although I was finally out of a wheelchair, my body was hunched forward, my arms were stuck at ninety degrees, splints still adorned my arms, neck, and legs, and I walked with a bad limp. The ongoing physical therapy was painful and its impact slow. Sure, I was “walking,” but not like normal. Now that I was out of the hospital, I was desperate to be a normal kid again. To run. Play baseball. Shoot baskets. Keep up with the other kids. It was taking too long and I was discouraged.
Then a gentleman called my parents. He’d heard about my story and wanted to pay me a visit. He wanted to take a walk with me. One-on-one. Man-to-man.
That’s all I knew as I opened the door for him. We introduced ourselves in the front hall, my parents told us to enjoy our time, and the two of us “men” hobbled outside. Our gaits were similar, his due to age, mine due to the scarring that covered my entire body.
And this old man told me his story.
His name was Glenn Cunningham.
He asked if I knew anything about him.
I shook my head no.
So he told me a little bit about himself.
In his youth he was an all-American athlete. At one point he held the world record for the fastest mile ever run. As an Olympic runner he won a silver medal in the 1936 Olympics.
He stopped and turned toward me.
“You know what, though? You and I, John, we’re not so different. When I was a little boy, I got burned in a fire, too. I was trying to start the stove in our schoolhouse with my older brother. It was cold and we were the first ones to school that day. We wanted to get the stove burning so the room would be warm when others got there for class. John, we had no idea that the night before they’d switched the kerosene can with gasoline. That’s not good, is it?”
I shook my head. No, sir. Not good at all.
“John, that morning, in that school, next to the burning stove, the can ignited. Everything was on fire. The entire room just . . . it just turned to flame.”
He paused and looked away.
“My older brother, Floyd, was my best friend. He was part of every childhood memory I had, and he was with me in that schoolhouse that morning. He died nine days after the fire.”
Seven decades later the pain of that loss could still be clearly heard in Glenn’s voice; the heartache still reflected in his eyes. Time had not healed these wounds.
“John, I was burned all over. Even though I was grateful to be alive, the pain was so intense that sometimes I wanted to die. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t respond right away. We took a few more steps. Eventually, I looked up at him and quietly answered.
Yes. I do.
We continued to slowly make our way down the sidewalk.
“My entire body was burned, but my legs were burned the worst. The doctor wanted to amputate them because they were burned so badly. If they got infected, it was certain death. Luckily my mom begged the doctor to save them, promised she’d do all the bandage changes, every day, as long as I had a chance to learn to walk again.”
He paused again. “It took a long time, John. It took a long time to get out of bed. It took a long time before I could stand, before I could walk, before I could even think about running.”
How did you do it?
“At first my mom would carry me out of the house and stand me next to the fence that circled our property. I’d just hold on to it until I fell down. Get up, hold on longer, and fall down again. Then she’d carry me back in the house. After a while, I’d hobble out of our house all by myself. I’d get to the fence and hold on to that darn fence with both hands and slowly make my way along it, step-by-step around the farm. Eventually, I was able to walk along holding on with only one hand. Then no hands! I started walking next to it, then jogging next to it, and eventually sprinting next to it. I got faster. Could go further. Then I started running races. I didn’t think I’d end up at the Olympics. All I knew was, I wasn’t going to live my life sitting down. So I got up. I put one foot in front of the other. And I never looked back and never quit. Not on that farm. Not running in college. Not racing in the Berlin Olympics.”
Glenn turned toward me and bent down awkwardly so he could look me in the eye. His voice was strong and determined.
“John, I didn’t drive all the way here to talk about me. I’m here because I believe in you. I’ve heard what you went through—and I know what you’re going through now. It’s a fight. It’s a struggle each day. But think back about how far you’ve come since your first day in the hospital. People didn’t think you would live through the night! And here you are, proving them wrong!”
I nodded.
“You’ve come so far, John. And you are just beginning. Just picture yourself doing whatever you desire to do. Visualize it. Don’t be satisfied with mediocrity. You will be able to do whatever you believe you can do. Set high goals and expect high achievement. Don’t give in when it gets hard. Don’t ever give up on your dreams. That’s the key: never give up.”
We walked back to my house with Glenn asking questions and offering encouragement.
I needed Glenn in that moment. I needed to know someone else had walked this same path. As a ten-year-old kid, walking around with an Olympic medalist and burn survivor transformed the way I felt about my current situation. It was the first time I really believed that if he could do it, so could I.
When it was time for him to leave, I walked Glenn from the porch to his red pickup truck. It took a few tries, but eventually the engine revved to life. He rolled down the window, put his head out, waved, and yelled as he pulled away, “John, never quit!”
It was an incredible conversation.
It changed my life.
And it almost didn’t happen.
Just two weeks after Glenn pulled out of my driveway, he died at his home in Arkansas. He was seventy-eight. A man who’d spent his life overcoming odds and generously investing in others had delivered one last gift, a gleam of hope for an impressionable little boy still learning to walk.
Glenn’s visit occurred more than a year after the voice of Nurse Roy first prodded me forward, his deep voice echoing in my ear and tickling hope in my heart. “Boy, you are going to walk again. I’ll walk with you.”
Roy’s visits were needed, too. As much as I hated him at first, didn’t believe it was possible, and disliked the pain from those walks to the tub, one day everything changed. One day on our walk back to the bandage change I believed. One day I bought in to what he was trying to do. Maybe, just maybe, I will do this. I will walk again.
Sometimes we need others to walk with us, imagine what’s possible through our lives.
I wouldn’t be who I am today without Glenn and Roy. These two men met me where I was, but refused to allow me to keep my eyes down on present challenges. They cheered me forward, pointing me toward where I could go. They cast a mighty, daring vision. They believed before I did.
These two men taught me something transformative.
They showed me the power of looking up.
I love coming home from work.
A few weeks ago, pulling into my driveway, I was greeted at my car by three of my kids, Jack, Patrick, and Grace. I gave out hugs, played a quick game of tag, then went inside to find Henry and my wife.
Beth was getting dinner ready. We kissed hello, talked a bit about our days and about the evening ahead. She then asked me to get the kids inside for dinner. Still not seeing Henry, I stepped into the foyer and called out his name. No reply.
He’s only four so I started getting a little anxious.
I climbed the stairs calling his name.
Still no reply.
I got to the top of the steps, reaching our family room, which sits high above the backyard. It has windows on three sides and a beautiful panoramic view. And tonight, from on top of the back of our couch, forehead pressed against those windows, stood a little boy wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle mask and Superman cape with a light saber in his right hand.
He turned and waved the light saber at me with menace.
The week before we’d been to the ER for stitches for this little man. It was not his first time there. From deep, gaping cuts on his hands to a quarter in his stomach, we’ve gotten to know the nurses at the ER well over the past few years. Not wanting to visit our friends again I snapped:
Henry, put down the light saber and get off the couch, little man! If you fall out the window, you’ll find out quick that you can’t fly. Get down, Hen!
He jumped down, ran over to me, and attacked me with karate chops and hugs. His love gave me pause, softened my heart, and reminded me that it wouldn’t be long before he actually believed those words I spoke.
It wouldn’t be long before he lowered the light saber and threw it away for good. Before he thought, There’s no such thing as superheroes.
It wouldn’t be long before he took off the cape, stepped down from the couch, walked to his room, stuffed the cape in a corner of his closet, and thought, That’s all just pretend. Kid stuff.
In other words, it wouldn’t be long until the massive playfulness, creativity, and wild hope for each moment got sucked out of him. Soon, he’d be like the rest of us. Shirt tucked in. Left foot in front of the right. Living like everyone else. Believing that a wildly exciting, joy-filled life, where anything is possible, was impossible.
I just wanted, as a parent, to keep Henry safe. But when we try to stay safe, when we strive to stay comfortable, we miss the great opportunities of life.
We all face moments when we would rather stay where we are. Whether we are too injured, or it’s too late, or it’s too scary, those excuses arise because we have been trained to keep our eyes down, on the rocky soil in front of us, trying to make sure we don’t trip. We’ve got to stay safe, we think. Looking down is just practical. Don’t want to look stupid. Don’t want to fall.
But when we are staring down at where we are, we can’t look ahead at where we could go. We miss the beauty of what’s possible. And we certainly can’t see the path to get there.
What we need is a return to the mind-set that whispers to us, “Anything is possible.” What we need is the courage to go back to the drawer where we tucked away our cape. You know, the one you used to wear when you were little, when life was full of limitless potential? We need to find the courage to put that cape back on. To look up at the horizon. To climb back onto the couch. And to dare to fly.
It’s time to dare again.
It might be painful.
But it will totally be worth it.
For five months I was strapped to a hospital bed.
During those months of fighting just to survive the fire, my muscles atrophied and I had no muscle mass left. In addition to the lack of muscle, the skin grafted onto my body was saving my life, but also presenting another challenge. The postage-stamp-size skin grafts taken from my scalp were strategically placed to cover the areas of my body where the skin had completely burned off. This new growth of skin came with a new hurdle: scarring. Thick scars began to tug on my joints. This was why my body was strapped down to the bed in an X position with my arms and legs fully extended. If the skin contracted, it meant limited mobility or a slow retreat to a fetal position.
To prevent this, I needed stretching. I needed physical therapy.
Every day, Maureen and Brenda would appear in my room, unfasten me from the bed, unhook the machines, and set me in a wheelchair. They’d roll me out of the room, out of the burn unit, down the hallway, to the elevators. They’d hit the button marked B and we’d descend to the basement. Never a good sign.
They’d roll me into a large physical-therapy room, gently pick me up, and set me on a yellow mat. Surrounded by a bunch of other patients, they’d begin to slowly stretch every joint on my body. Usually beginning with my ankles and toes, they’d aim to put as much movement back into my joints as they could.
They’d work on each joint for a few minutes.
Take a short break.
Bend it in the opposite direction.
Take a short break.
Then move on to the next joint. Then the next. Ankles. Hips. Arms. Legs. The entire body.
Then they’d flip me over and start stretching everything again.
It was torturous.
After forty-five minutes it was time for a break. They picked my limp body up off the mat and set me back in the wheelchair. They rolled me down a hallway, made a left-hand turn, opened a door, and pushed me inside. The room was full of mops and buckets and brooms and cleaning supplies.
It was the janitorial broom closet.
You see, they were about to embark on the toughest part of my therapy: bending my knees. If I was ever going to walk again, my knees would have to bend. Right now they were locked in place.
These therapists took me to the broom closet out of respect for me (and the other patients). They wanted me to be able to cry out in pain. And they didn’t want to scare anyone else.
We had a routine. Maureen would walk over to me, put a towel in my mouth so I’d have something to bite into. She’d lock the wheelchair brakes. She’d hold me down at my hips. Then the other therapist, Brenda, would come toward me, bend down, and start working on my knees.
I’ve had hernias, broken bones, burns, bandage changes, infected abscesses, and cellulitis. I’ve had fingers amputated, joints stretched, blood drawn from my toes, and skin grafted from my head. I’ve endured about every kind of physical pain outside of natural childbirth—and my wife says if I want a fifth child, I’ll have to personally go through that one, too. But this therapy was the most acutely painful experience of my life.
These therapists were stretching skin that had grown taut; it was not flexing. They were stretching joints that had begun to permanently harden into position. They were stretching a little boy who, despite the towel in his mouth, was weeping and screaming and begging them to stop.
I remember looking down through my tears at them. I remember seeing my pain reflected on their faces. I remember seeing tears in their eyes. And I remember thinking, What are you crying about? I’m the one being tortured!
Oh, how amazing those therapists were in my recovery.
I live an incredibly active life today, and many individuals deserve an awful lot of credit for that. But no one more than those therapists, in that basement, in that darn broom closet, stretching through their personal anguish of watching a little boy in pain so that they might liberate him from the scars that bound him.
It makes me emotional decades later just thinking about them.
How did they do it?
Why not take the easier way?
Why not stop when the little boy said, “Ouch!”
These therapists knew that stretching is never easy. It’s unwanted. It’s painful. It’s hard on all parties involved and in all facets of life. It’s not pleasant to be stretched and it’s not pleasurable to stretch others. Yet the pain of today unveils the possibility of tomorrow.
Stretching leads to growth.
Growth is frequently painful.
But “growth is the only evidence of life.”
John Henry Newman was a wise theologian, incredible thinker, and prolific writer. That is one of his most remarkable quotes. Think about it. Growth is all about new beginnings, a different direction, a budding relationship, a big move, that new position, a bold conversation, the daring venture, the next chapter in your life.
Growth is the only evidence of life.
The opposite is true, too. Stagnation is the first step to your grave.
The fifth choice that you must make to live a radically inspired life is this: refuse to become stagnant by purposefully growing and intentionally stretching in every area of life.
When a couple stop actively dating, stop pursuing one another, stop choosing to really love, stop choosing to grow together, stop choosing to continually forgive—they begin to die. They didn’t fall out of love. They stopped growing in love.
When an organization stops innovating, stops doing things differently, stops investing in its people, and stops dreaming big, it stops growing and begins to die.
When we stop paying attention to our health, when we make poor choices in our diet or addictions or exercise, we have chosen to be comfortable, to stop growing, to slowly recede. These choices lead away from health and vitality. And though the slope may be imperceptibly slight, they lead in time toward illness and death.
Death seldom occurs overnight. It’s a slow fade. The changes can be subtle, but make no mistake: in choosing not to grow, we choose to die.
In today’s culture when things get uncomfortable, we often see it as a sign that something’s wrong.
But I know personally that we’ve got to learn to see discomfort differently. It may be a sign that something is right. It may be proof that we are growing in a new direction. The poor kid with a towel in his mouth would have remained locked in bed unable to walk had it not been for Brenda and Maureen, for the broom closet.
It’s not just those enduring physical therapy who benefit from being stretched. You’ve likely made the greatest advances in your life when you were made uncomfortable. Think of your best teachers in school. They likely were dynamic, but the reason you learned the most is they made you work. Things that come easy are seldom worthy. Stretching forward may not be fun, but it may possibly be something much more significant: life-giving.
Real growth is often unwanted, extremely painful, and ultimately completely worth it.
Man, life was getting good.
Seven years into my career as a real estate developer, I was finally figuring out how to actually do this work. I could plan a job, run a crew, and even make a little money. I was finally getting comfortable.
My crew was rehabbing a historic multifamily structure. The blueprints of the building were unfurled on the hood of my truck. My loyal foreman, Harold, and I were going through the plans and making a list of required materials for the following day.
My phone rang.
It was a woman who led a third-grade Girl Scout troop. She and her daughter had read my parents’ book, Overwhelming Odds. They were both deeply moved by the story, and she asked if I’d be willing to share my story with their troop.
I walked away from Harold to the back of the truck.
There was a long, awkward silence.
You mean, like, you want me to speak to the girls?
“Exactly. We’ll get the girls together after school, have snacks, you can speak, and the girls will ask some questions. How about next Wednesday?”
More silence.
By now, you probably know what this moment was.
That phone call was an inflection point in my life.
It seemed like a minor one at the time; a simple yes or no to her request. But as you read on, you will see how huge it really was. It changed the rest of my life.
I try to say yes as frequently as I can to new possibilities. Yes to serving. Yes to making a difference. Yes to new foods, new things, new people, and new ideas. When you say and live yes, greater possibilities open each day than you could have imagined.
But every bone in my body was crying out for me to say no.
I looked down at my feet. Stared at the dirt.
Then looked up. I saw my building, then the beautiful trees, and then a brilliantly blue sky.
Took a deep breath and murmured, Yes. Sure. I’ll do it. Sounds perfect.
We agreed on a time, she gave me directions, and we ended the call.
I stared back at the building, back toward my truck, back at Harold, and said aloud, “Oh, crap. What did I just do?!”
Yes, my parents’ book was in circulation, but I’d still never really told anyone the story. I’d still not told close friends from grade school, high school, or college. Not the guys I worked construction with every day. Even my wife and I had seldom discussed the fire. She’d read the book, wept like a baby, and couldn’t believe all we went through, but we didn’t harp on it. It happened in the past. It was over. It didn’t define us. Our life was good.
And now I’d have to figure out a way to share my story with a bunch of little girls . . . and I didn’t have the first idea where to begin.
Fortunately, I owned a textbook on speaking from my college days. At Saint Louis University I was required to take a class on public speaking to complete a business major. The notion of speaking in front of people terrified me. So I postponed taking the class for as long as I could. Finally, second semester senior year, no more slack was in the rope. It was now or never.
The professor came to class impeccably dressed. His hair was so perfect and unchanging that I’m convinced he went to a stylist each day before class. He had a deep, resonant voice that lit up the room when he spoke. He taught that presentations could educate, inspire, engage, motivate, and even transform audiences. He could have sold anything to anyone. But he couldn’t sell me on the notion that I’d ever be a public speaker.
On days when I was supposed to present to the class, I’d often pretend to be sick. When I did present, it was from a folded-up paper, as I stared carefully at each word to ensure no eye contact was made with him or the other students. I wasn’t sure if I would even pass the class.
On the last day of school the professor asked if he could have a minute of my time. Uh-oh.
He walked me back to his office, handed me my final paper, looked me in the eye, and told me, “O’Leary, you got a C in my class. Listen to me: you got a C because I love you. Now, go graduate!”
So in saying yes to that Girl Scout speech, I was in over my head.
More than forty hours went into preparing for that first speech. In the morning I’d tell Beth I had a packed day and would be home late; then I’d tell my employees that I had meetings off-site all day. I’d sit in a vacant parking lot writing, rehearsing, recording, and listening to my speech.
For a week.
For a fifteen-minute talk.
To four third-grade Girl Scouts!
The Wednesday of the presentation, I got up early. Drove out to an abandoned parking lot and practiced for several more hours. I drove by the school around lunchtime to scout out where this thing was going to go down. It’s always wise to know the territory of your enemy; to know what you’re up against.
I went home. Showered. Put on a suit and tie. Finally, pulled in at three fifteen, opened my door, walked to the front of my car, bent down as if I were going to tie my shoe, and threw up. The immense pressure of speaking to this group literally made me sick.
A little voice whispered to me, What are you doing? Just go home. This is stupid and so is your story.
But I got up. I popped in a piece of gum, walked toward the school, and reached for the door. The little voice kept whispering, They don’t really want to hear from you. What if they get bored? What if they throw their coconut-laced Samoas at you? Be smart. Turn around. Quit.
Inflection point. I had two choices. Shuffle back to my car and claim something came up. Or walk through that door.
I’ve learned again and again in life that you can show courage or you can be comfortable. But you can’t do both at the same time. While comfort might be popular, courage changes lives. I’d seen it with my siblings the day I was burned. Felt it as Nurse Roy carried me down the hallway. Seen it in the eyes of my physical therapists in the hospital. And heard it from Glenn Cunningham when he walked with me.
I ignored the voice, grabbed the door handle, lifted my head, and stepped in.
The girls were all sitting at desks with juice boxes and snacks. The troop leader provided an introduction. I stood behind the teacher’s desk, partially read and partially ad-libbed my story. My voice was monotone and shaky. I stumbled over words and lost my place several times. It was far from perfect. When I was done, they asked some questions, applauded sweetly, stood in line, and hugged me before leaving the classroom.
My first speech.
No paycheck for it. No fanfare. No, they didn’t even give me a box of cookies.
But that phone call, that one speech, changed the entire direction of my life. All because I was willing to look up, stretch courageously, and get uncomfortable.
I said yes.
I shared my story twice more that year.
A small Catholic school had me speak to their fourth-graders. A local Rotary Club invited me to speak at a luncheon.
As my parents’ book continued to circulate, the calls from groups interested in hearing my story expanded, too. I tried to say yes every time. I spoke thirteen times the following year. A few of those events even “paid” me for my time. I got a gas card from one client, a coffee card from another, a tub of popcorn from a third. Baby, I was rolling in it!
Now, no one confused me with Tony Robbins. But with each speech, I got a bit more polished, a little more confident, and a little more convinced this was my intended vocation.
Although the popcorn wasn’t going to keep the lights on, after that year, as I saw the impact my story could have on others, I felt compelled to do more than just respond to people who wanted me to speak. I felt a calling to proactively seek opportunities to share my story, to essentially create a speaking business.
I didn’t know what I was doing. So I hired a marketing company to help me with a business name, logo, and website.
I bought the website domain name. We incorporated. Made business cards. And I had all the elements that looked like a real business.
And as you grow a real business, real expenses grow, too. Office space, laptops, software, phone lines, marketing, and, if you are going to grow . . . payroll.
In the early years I was introduced to the perfect candidate to work with me. But there was no way I could afford an employee. She required the exact amount of money that I had made in the previous year. I looked down at my ledger. There just was no way to make it work.
Three days after our initial meeting I got a letter in the mail from her thanking me for the coffee, the time, and the consideration. It ended with a quote from Abraham Lincoln: Determine that the thing can and shall be done, and then we shall find the way.
I held the note and read it again.
Okay, I thought. Well, I’ll think about it.
And I did.
I prayed about it. I asked some friends who ran their own business what they would do. And I discussed the decision with Beth. We examined the possibility of failing, of going into debt, of needing to mortgage the house. We made a list of best-case scenarios and worst-case scenarios. What became clear was the only thing worse than failing in this business might be looking back on not investing and asking, “What if?”
What if I really went All In? What if this could really grow? What if we could inspire others to wake up to the gift of their story? What if this really is my calling?
You see, it doesn’t matter if you’ve finally looked up and seen what is possible, if you are not then willing to choose to stretch, get uncomfortable, and possibly fail to get there.
Vision is worthless without the courage to risk and take action.
You’ve got to let go in order to reach out. It’s like those first few awkward steps I took with the help of my therapist. They’d gently get me on my feet, slowly let go of me, and challenge me to put one foot in front of the other. Each awkward, painful step risking the comforts of where I was for the possibility of a new lease on life.
Was this another moment like that?
Yes.
So I hired Deanna.
This would stretch me into an uncomfortable position unless this thing took off. Trading in my work boots, blue jeans, and tool belt for dress shoes, a suit, and a laptop, I sold all my real estate holdings in 2007 to focus solely on speaking. It was scary. It felt a little crazy. It was an All In play.
And it was the best professional decision of my life.
Our business tripled in the year after I hired Deanna. It’s increased every year since. We’ve moved offices and added amazing colleagues such as Molly, Abby, and additional staff over the years. The little, musty office with one desk has grown into a mission-centered business. Over the past seven years, because of my team’s hard work, I’ve had the honor of speaking to more than half a million people all over the United States and the world. We remain on fire with our mission, our work, and our desire to ignite others to lead inspired lives.
I was twenty-eight years old when I started Rising Above. Life was good. I didn’t need to challenge myself to do something that was uncomfortable.
Comfortable is popular, it’s easy, it’s the currency many trade in.
But boldly stretching is how things grow and where the magic happens. It fuels growth relationally, professionally, and emotionally. It’s where lives are changed. Starting with yours.
Over four terrible days in April 2011, 355 tornadoes touched down from Texas to New York. Alabama was most directly impacted, with more than 200 tornadoes blasting through the state.
They were the most destructive storms in the history of the state, killing 238 people, causing billions of dollars in damage and devastating entire communities.
As communities slowly began to clean up, the Alabama Power company was challenged with rebuilding its electrical grid. This incredible undertaking would require the entire organization’s commitment if it was to be successful.
To encourage their employees to stay safe, to work together, to remain focused on the task at hand, and to remind them that in spite of the terrible storm their best days remained in front of them, I was invited to speak with the various business units.
Speaking more than thirty times all over the state, I fell in love with Alabama Power, with their employees, and with the incredible community they support.
After spending a significant portion of my summer with them, I prepared with mixed emotions my last presentation for the company. The talk was in a beautiful lodge just outside Eufaula, Alabama. I checked in late, got some work done, and went to bed. Nothing special.
The following morning after I finished my final presentation, the man who’d driven me around during the speaking tour and had become a dear friend, Keith, came to the stage. He hugged and thanked me. As I started walking back toward my seat, I heard his southern drawl beckon, “Fella, come on back up here.”
Going back to the stage and having no idea what he might do next, I looked at Keith, waiting. He said, “Fella, all summer long you’ve been shining light into our darkness. We wanted to reflect a little bit of light back your way. So, fella, we wanted to do something kind for you.”
Keith had a dozen roses.
He handed them to me.
Wow, thanks, Keith.
Then he said, “Fella, be a good son and give these to your mama.”
At the back of the room I saw Mom and Dad appear from behind a curtain. Couldn’t believe it. Dad doesn’t travel much anymore due to Parkinson’s disease. Mom loves any reason to take a vacation, but as Dad’s caretaker, she seldom does. As they made their way toward the stage, several hundred power workers rose to their feet.
I hugged my parents, handed the flowers to Mom, and thanked Keith. This was a wonderful surprise.
He went on, “You know, seeing you walk over to your mama and your daddy like that reminded me of that story you told us about the big nurse when you were a little boy. What was his name?”
You mean Nurse Roy?
“Yeah, that was his name. What was it that Roy used to say to you?”
Boy, you’re going to walk again. I’ll walk with you.
Keith scratched his head and said, “What was is it he used to say?”
I spoke a little louder, Boy, you are going to walk again. I’ll walk with you.
“No, fella. I bet that he didn’t sound like that at all. I bet ya he sounded much more like this.”
I heard a microphone kick on. A booming voice filled the room: “Boy, you are walking again. And I am proud to walk with you.”
I spun around in shock.
They pulled back a curtain in the back of the room and then I saw him. A man I hadn’t seen in twenty-four years. Nurse freaking Roy!
He hadn’t aged. He still looked just like Apollo Creed.
I started to walk down the aisle toward him. The audience leaped to their feet again and applause rained down.
I had kept in touch with many of the nurses and doctors who had served me all those years ago. An entire table at my wedding reception was filled with those friends. But Roy had left the hospital shortly after my release; we’d never been able to find him. Alabama Power had tracked down this amazing man who was so instrumental to my story. They contacted him, explained to him how I spoke about him, and asked if they could fly him in to reunite with me.
Apparently he’d said yes because now he was giving me a huge bear hug.
I was speechless.
Tears filled my eyes.
What a moment.
Mom, Dad, Roy, and I sat down to dinner that night. The last time we’d eaten together, I was on morphine, tied to a bed, with nutrition coming in through a feeding tube. Now we were sitting at dinner, flanked by new friends from Alabama Power, celebrating this amazing reunion, and absolutely on fire with joy. It was a night I’ll never forget.
Near the end of the night Roy and I had a few minutes by ourselves to reconnect. We talked about my time in the hospital, those brutal bandage changes, and the daily walks to the tub. We talked about difficult nurses and old friends. We shared what we’d both been up to for the last twenty-four years. I told him about my family; he shared with me about his. He then leaned over and said, “You know, John, it surprises me that you did something with your life.”
The same sentiment has been shared with me several times by high school teachers from my past. But this time I felt it was intended as a compliment. You see, when a child is burned, sometimes he or she makes it out of the hospital, but not back into life. The emotional journey is just too painful. I understood what Roy was saying.
So I said, “Thanks, Roy.”
“You know what surprises me even more, though?”
I shook my head no.
“How you were able to marry such a beautiful woman!” He chuckled.
“Wow. Thanks, Roy. I am glad they found you!”
We both laughed.
Then he said, “John, in all seriousness, do you know what surprises me the most about all of this? About this dinner, this reunion, this whole thing?”
“I don’t think I want to hear this one, Roy!”
“Well, I am going to tell you.”
He took a sip of his ice water. He looked into my eyes. He took a long pause. Then he said, “It is to learn that after twenty-four years, I mattered. John, I did my job, I loved my work, I loved my patients. But I never really understood until today that I mattered.”
“You did, man. You did.” I swallowed, the emotion catching up with me. But this was my moment to tell Roy what he really did for that little boy.
“Roy, I loved all my nurses. They were all so good to me. But truth be told, some of them would be whispering to each other about death. They didn’t really believe. You, Roy, would walk into that same room, to that same burned-up little boy, pick me up, and basically yell at me, ‘Forget death! Boy, you are going to walk!’ Roy, you changed my life. Yeah, you mattered. I’ll never forget you.”
What an awesome reminder not just for a kid in a burn center, but for each of us as we stretch forward in our work, health, faith, relationships, and lives. Forget death. You are going to live. You are going to walk. And I’ll walk with you.
Lift your head.
Walk on.