A Sense of Purpose

Unless we are out of town, you’ll probably find me teaching class on Sunday morning. I volunteered to fill in five years ago and got hooked on having a regular audience. At first I was positively terrified. Getting a room of adults to find interest in and discuss the same old book they’ve been reading since childhood is not always the easiest. I’m no stranger to thousand-yard stares that may or may not be battling the after-effects of a late Saturday night. We are Methodists after all.

After literally sweating through many awkward moments of silence in the early days, I realized that the necessary skill inherently was not in communicating new information. Talk at people long enough and you lose them. The key to success was asking the right questions so folks would open up and explore the topic. People love to talk about themselves. Sharing is therapeutic. I love talking about myself so much that I’ve typed it all out for you to read.

Through our time together, I’ve grown more comfortable asking the tougher questions to my class. They have stuck with me through surprise meditation sessions, optimistic reading assignments, and even a four-part series involving Kathy Lee Gifford. Admittedly, a few visitors have not returned. 

On a recent Sunday, I challenged our group with a question that my 7-year-old had laid on me just days before while walking into a Milo’s. While my mind had been doing the math on how many extra sauces would be required, Libby so casually inquired “Daddy, what is our purpose in life?

Needless to say, I was not ready for this. A mere twenty steps from ordering cheeseburgers and my kid turns into Aristotle. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want to sear improperly into their beautiful heads, so I sputtered for a second then asked to reconvene later at a less beefy establishment. 

Then naturally, I forgot until Sunday when I realized I could once again saddle the class with my personal challenges. What did they think was their purpose for being on this planet?

With little hesitation, my buddy Steve broke the silence and piped up. “You know, it’s funny you ask, because I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately too. Here it goes.” 

…

My paternal grandfather died at the age of 48. It’s an unspoken rule in our family that you don’t get too certain about one's future. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. This hits harder each day, as my forties seemingly pick up speed. I recall my father and uncle being this age - having a crazy look in their eyes while chasing tornadoes and playing chicken on jet skis. 

Since I was only four when my grandfather passed, my mental image of him has been slowly reconstructed through the relics and stories that live on. Judging by these alone, one can only picture a full and amazing life. In storage behind the underground home he built, I would stumble across the wildest stuff. It was par for the course to find a parachute, an antique crossbow, race car parts, a suitcase full of knives or something equally awesome. The stories that inevitably followed would be told through a smile, and always included a chuckle. 

With a keen eye, you begin to see his sense of humor woven through everything. There’s a  treasured photo of my grandparents as young sweethearts. It’s the quintessential fifties scene, two young lovers holding hands on a swing set, keeping their chastely distance. But when viewed at close range, you’ll see that there is a pair of painties hanging in the foreground of the picture. The story goes that Ed found them in the woods, but in either case, I’ve spent hours upon hours laughing at his artful execution.

And that brings me to the point.

Steve told us that, in this phase of life, his purpose is to do everything he can to facilitate a happy and safe family. Simple as that. He has career ambitions, hobbies and cooks excellent desserts, but the thing that matters most above all else is delivering the next generation to adulthood with good heads on their shoulders. 

I enjoyed hearing this perspective. It was refreshing and frankly pretty badass for a dude to say that out loud. We go through seasons that ask different things of us, but the foundational requirements are generally the same. You can’t fake being a good father just like you can’t fake happiness. Working for the benefit of something larger than yourself, and doing so in the right spirit, inherently helps you understand your own why.

Being honest, I totally punted that day at Milo’s. I promised my little ladies that we would discuss Libby’s question in an environment less beefy. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want seared improperly into their beautiful heads. I started by admitting to them that I can’t tell them their exact purpose, but that I’d be happy to share mine and maybe that would help.

The last eight months have been a rollercoaster of freedom and fulfillment, but hanging over all of it has been a heaping pile of guilt. I’ve been so fortunate to have this opportunity to figure myself out a bit. Until recently, it was hard to shake the thought that this whole thing is entirely selfish. Each day not spent toiling away at a profitable or hugely impactful enterprise was seemingly wasted. But Steve’s insight helped put things in perspective. What if instead of trying to wrangle some complicated existential meaning from life, I simply live it the best way I know how?

It surely isn’t a coincidence that everything that puts a smile on my face also tends to involve trying to put one on others. Teaching, cooking, throwing parties, playing music, writing stories about how dumb I am - it doesn’t take a thorough psychoanalysis to see what gets me going. For better or worse, I feel like I was put here to show people how fun and funny life can be. Taking things too seriously makes Chappy a dull boy. Besides, I genuinely love being in a place where the bad days at least make for great stories.

So much worry over the last ten years has been devoted to doing all the right things for my kids, as if there are boxes to check. That all felt pretty hollow in moments when their concerned faces wanted to know why I rarely smiled for a long time. What my children (and I would argue all humans) really want is to be around people who are enjoying life. I’d rather be the one dancing like an idiot, hosting tricycle races and pushing the boundaries of sandwich innovation. I’m here to show y’all a good time. That’s my purpose.

“If you are happy, all of us will profit from it. All living beings will profit from it.” -Thich Nhat Hanh

Truckin'

I have been witness to much handiness over the years. There is a diploma in my closet that belies a thorough understanding of physics. The spectacular nature in which I can fail at simple tasks, however, can sometimes baffle all comers. If we’re self-analyzing, I would pin much of my failure on the desire to do things without assistance. Such stubborn resolve tends to get hella dangerous when heavy, sharp or moveable (bonus if you have all 3!) implements are involved. 

I wonder how much of this hubris can be chalked up to genetics. The Chapman men, while being noted do-it-yourselfers, have a long history of getting in over our heads. Impressive failure is quite effective as a primary teaching method, plus the stories are lit. Fireworks, believe it or not, can set your cousin on fire if used incorrectly. If there is a tornado in the area, don’t leave shelter to “go have a look.” When sharing a boat with another fishing enthusiast, it’s best to hook the fish instead of your compatriot's face. Sure you could simply be told this, or you could be witness to the barb stuck in uncle Pat. Tell me what method is more impactful.

With so many memorable life lessons stored away, you’d think I would simply know better by now.

Over lunch on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of catching up with two long-time friends. They asked how I fill my days since taking a break from work. Instead of listing out things, I instead opted for the weighted priorities. Number one: keep my family happy. For this week, completing that directive meant that I would be renting a trailer from U-Haul and trucking some cargo for  our Labor Day vacation. This was a perfectly reasonable request. 

Vehicle purchases are an area where I devote oodles of thought. I hear people say they are not car people, and that’s a perfectly fine way to be. Especially with younger children, that thing in the driveway can seem like a rolling trash can simply delivering utility. The default in my neck of the woods for any red-blooded male is a big ass truck or truck-adjacent SUV. Because I wear a lot of Patagonia hats and prefer something sportier, this season of life finds me in a Subaru Ascent. My tow hitch is such a de-prioritized feature that it lives hidden behind a piece of plastic that masks as bumper. Subaru people are, by and large, more apt to use it as a way to attach assorted racks for carrying all of their outdoorsy paraphernalia. 

Someone once told me that the largest U-Haul location, by size, happens to be the one closest to my house. The acres of pavement abut a Red Lobster, which my firefighter friend has seen the kitchen of and accordingly refuses to eat there. This is not a block we are eager to put on the poster. Yet such convenience does afford ample opportunity to fill one’s American belly with unlimited shrimp while figuring out what to do with all your extra stuff. When I pulled out of the U-Haul Store successfully attached to my five by nine-foot rig, there was a fury of rattling metal at every transition, but otherwise smooth sailing until the final stretch.

My mother spent over forty years in the insurance industry and regularly reminds us that almost 80% of car accidents happen within 15 miles of home. Statistically, we spend most of our time in that range, so it makes sense. The familiarity of everything can also cause us to put our guard down. I am constantly dodging walkers, scooter children, a cat named Mowgli who occasionally pops out of drains and (notably) some very hazardous bumps down the stretch. We like to say that if you can make it out of the neighborhood, then the rest of your adventure should be a piece of cake.

If you are unfamiliar with the City of Vestavia Hills, where we live, the name is a solid clue what you are in for topographically. There is not a flat place in which to park a trailer. But I had to immediately turn the ship around and pick up the kids from school, so I thought it best to drop it in the driveway real quick. First mistake.

I hopped out and disconnected, figuring I could make short work of it by simply walking twelve hundred rolling pounds into place on our flat-ish parking pad out front. It instantly started building speed when loosened and I knew where things were quickly headed. Our steep yard would only assist in adding momentum and from there it was full speed ahead all the way down to our minister’s house. 

At the last possible moment, I lunged forward and pushed the tongue as hard as I could in a perpendicular direction to the hill. Mercifully, the trailer turned back uphill and came to a precarious stop in the front yard. I said some things that my mother wouldn’t be proud of as I surveyed the scene. Sweat rolled down across a pair of dusty scraped hands. The whole front of my big toe had been skinned and that was starting to bleed like crazy, because of course I had sandals on for this adventure. Side note - I’m the guy who will happily point out every knucklehead pressure washing, lifting things or chopping with open-toed footwear, but I’m just as dumb. The skinned toe was a nice compliment to the one on my other foot that I had broken doing laundry a week previous. Dear reader, I live an extreme life.

After some further salty language, a little bit of ingenuity and a change of clothes, the trailer was parked somewhat safely on the street and loaded with a dining room table I really should have asked for help with. 

Early the next morning, I loaded in the last of our items then lined up to reconnect the Subaru. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. With a full load and no handy jack in place to steady the tongue, it started rolling on me again. For sure I was ready this time with a few well-placed wheel chocks, but the dance of moving them a little, then repositioning the hitch was maddening. When I finally succeeded, I was once again drenched in sweat. For some reason, the clamp didn’t seem to be screwing down as far as it had previously. After some furious attempts at tightening it as much as possible, I attached the chains, connected lights and started off down the hill.

I was still descending when one wheel hit a deep rut and the other caught a different one. In one of the more terrifying things I’ve witnessed in my rearview mirror, the trailer removed itself from the hitch and took a course independent of the vehicle. In a panic and with pedestrians on the road ahead of me, I stopped. The trailer slammed into the Subaru with a sickening thud. 

Believe it or not, my driving record is impeccable. I’ve never been in an accident while behind the wheel. The sound and force that came through the chassis, however, sounded expensive. I stepped out to survey the damage. One of the walkers who had witnessed the scene asked “Do you need help!?” before qualifying with “I wouldn’t know what to do here but I can call someone for you.” I must have looked a treat, sweat-dampening the third shirt that morning with assorted cuts on my hands.

Through some miracle of miracles, the front of the trailer had dropped right before impact, missing the bodywork entirely. It had glanced off the connection hardware before ramming into, get this, the spare tire. There were some superfluous plastic pieces up underneath that had seen better days, but they would all be hidden from view when I eventually reattached the bumper cover. Instead of using my still shaking hands to call Allison, I instead put it all back together (correctly this time) and carried on my way as if nothing had happened.

The rest of my cautious and solitary trip provided plenty of time for introspection. I’m not one to live life with regrets, but yeesh the previous twenty-four hours had been an unnecessarily wild ride. Certainly, my age requires that more patience and thoughtfulness be employed in dangerous situations. How lucky am I that disaster struck within walking distance of my house and with no lasting damage? What if this had all played out on the interstate just a few miles later?

As my journey came to a close, The Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” fittingly was the last song to play. When Jerry Garcia sings “Every silver linings got a touch of grey” I instinctively stroke my sideburns, which are starting to betray the future color of my mostly brown hair, knowing I’ve probably just accelerated the process a bit. I continue on, dear reader - not particularly wiser but possibly better prepared against my own future stupidity.