In honor of the stories you are not yet able to tell.

Working at TWLOHA has taught me a posture of constant humility. My travels, my hours, my jetlag, and my often broken train of thought are all given purpose because of the people who happen to show up at each destination. Every single conversation is unique and scriptless. Every story is sacred, even—and maybe especially—when they are told in fragments.  

This past week, we were in Willmar, Minnesota at a music festival called Sonshine. It was there that a middle-aged man built like he could be in the NFL visited our booth. He came by on the last day and simply asked how things have changed since winning the American Giving Awards. I greeted his question with a “thank you.” The fact that he asked the question meant he also shares in our reward and our story moving forward, and we couldn’t have won without the support and help of people like him. I told him we were excited about the opportunity to be on primetime holiday television and share our mission and vision with more people than we ever dreamed possible. I told him that because of that contest, we are more active this summer than ever before, that we have big plans for Heavy and Light and a new website. I told him we are still dreaming up ideas to use the winnings in a highly effective and intentional way.    

To all of this, he just said, “Thank you.”  

He paused. His bottom lip disappeared behind his top front teeth. I lost his eye contact to some space far across the room. And then he spoke again.

“I’d share my story, but I would collapse in telling it. Please keep working.” 

His voice broke a little, and with tears beginning to flood his eyes, he said, “I have to go.” He left in a hurry.  

I didn’t see him for the rest of the day, but it was a truly galvanizing experience for me during a time when road-weariness had begun to set in. Perhaps his son or daughter or wife or sibling or parent or best friend should have been there with him. Perhaps he never should have known that we exist. Regardless of where his life intersects with our mission, we owe this man something. We owe him our best work, to honor his life and the story he is not yet able to tell. 

I told this man a lot of facts, a lot of words, and a lot of hopes—but he told me more. He told me that some stories take time to find a voice and an audience, but every story is worth patience as it unfolds. My friend Alyce said we are meant to stand in the gap—the space between “call” and “response.” It is there that we wait—for this man, but also for you. Your life is important. It is our honor to play a role in your story, just as you play into ours.  

Don’t give up. We love you. We miss you. We can’t wait to hear from you.

—Chad