Last Updated on September 28, 2024 by Chris and Lindsay
(October 2, 2014)
Hello Friend,
As I try to do each week, I will take you on a little journey through this email that combines a little personal experience and sharing how these experiences are processed in the context of a seemingly unrelated topic. But at the end of the update, please know that this journey is all to honor a man named James Clark, who recently passed away and whose life deserves remembrance for reasons I will share below.
As you know, Lindsay and I are not afraid to share the intimate details of our lives on the road via our videos, social media and newsletters because we are committed to being raw and real and authentic in whatever “influence” we have over people.
Currently, we have just under 20,000 YouTube subscribers, over 70,000 TikTok followers, and a few thousand Instagram followers, and just a few hundred people, like yourself, who may or may not open our weekly newsletter.
We’ve had several hundred thousand people watch our motorhome tour video, where we shared our backgrounds and beliefs as a testimony. Collectively, we’ve reached millions of people through all of our videos, website posts, and combined social media platforms. Millions. It is hard to fathom sometimes.
Once, as an Earth-Space Science teacher trying to help my students understand how incredibly vast the universe is, I offered a free “A” in class if (at home!) they wrote a numbered list from 1 to 1 million. The closest any kids got was nearly ten thousand. Most quit in the hundreds. A million. Wow!
When Lindsay first had a video go viral, somewhere around 4 million people watched her explain how we watch television on the road (yes, that should tell you the state of society when such a topic warrants millions of views!).
To be transparent and prove a point about what the world has become, we made zero on that video, leading to zero opportunities to make $1.
What you read about and see on the news about “influencers” is sensationalized as much as the “successful” influencers sensationalize themselves. The whole industry is built on distracting people from what matters – genuine relationships with others and living with people living and experiencing things together.
Without clickbaity images, titles and “wait until you see what happens at the end” text, society has shifted toward the sexiest and most convenient interpretation of reality – or distractions from it.
What’s the best toothbrush? Where’s a nice vacation spot in Europe? Should I really buy that car, phone, or piece of clothing?
You used to watch commercials on TV or read them in a newspaper or magazine. Now, some “influencer” tries to tell you in 30 seconds why you should buy the toothbrush from the brand that paid them to say what they say or go to the place that they had to stage for 3 hours to get the views they show you of the beach or city or mountaintop view.
Yes, that’s what the “influencer” industry has been reduced to. And Lindsay and I feel dirty just being associated with it and having to call ourselves “influencers” because that is how brands and audiences relate to you.
We’ve been around sharing our lives publicly since 2018, failing to find success as “influencers” because that is never what we set out to be.
But that’s not what I’m getting at today.
Today, I am sharing my memory of a man who had true influence long before the word “influencer” became part of today’s lexicon.
This past week was particularly peculiar for a variety of reasons. I won’t go into all of them here. But I will say that when I opened Facebook the other night, I was disturbed to read about the passing of a man I had known as “Mr. Clark” from age ten.
Growing up, Mr. Clark was what modern churches would call a “media director” or something to that effect. Back when cassette tapes were all the rage, Mr. Clark would sit in a booth in the back of the church my family attended and would record the weekly sermon. If one sermon was particularly powerful, or you wanted to share it with someone you think needed the message, you could approach Mr. Clark and ask him to make a copy of the sermon on a little white cassette tape.
That’s how I knew Mr. Clark from 10 to 23 years of age.
He was a kind man, tall and always with a bushy mustache that accompanied a smile anytime you approached the booth in the back of the church.
From the ages of 23 to 30, I knew Mr. Clark to be my first professional boss, the principal of a public high school in Jacksonville, Florida who took a really, REALLY big chance on hiring me fresh off a 4-month solo backpacking trip through the South American continent.
During that journey, I learned, among other things, that my business degree was pointless. I learned that I had a deep desire to travel, mostly alone, because it forced me to see the world around me quite differently, to look for strangers to approach and intentionally engage in conversation.
Whether I needed directions or a place to stay or was looking for a companion on an excursion from this or that town, I learned to love the road as I trekked from Quito, Ecuador the the very bottom of the world in Ushuaia, Argentina and back up again.
But, more importantly, I learned that I wanted to spend my life positively impacting others.
Incidentally, I came across the book, “The Motorcycle Diaries,” while on a bus on my way to the famous Solar de Uyuni salt flats in Bolivia. This story recounts the events that shaped the future life and decisions of Che Guevara, a polarizing political leader in the Western World, who is known more for his buddy Fidel Castro’s ruthless leadership than the moderating effect he had on those more extreme leaders around him.
So many people throughout South America loved him and, when Lindsay and I met during a mission trip in Cuba, we learned of his beloved remembrance there as Castro’s more gentle left hand, the “man for the people” as older Cubans related to me.
How we judge his political roles, whether he caved to the corruption and ego of power and thought he truly could revolutionize the entire world, is not for debate. Nor am I saying he’s the kind of guy who died doing what I would say was a good deed (inciting revolution in Bolivia).
As I unintentionally found myself along Che Guevara’s path on his motorcycle ride through the South American continent, I felt the same compulsion to do more with my life than waste it away in pursuit of riches and fame. He forsook an upper-class Argentinian lifestyle where he was enrolled in medical school to embrace the cause of the same people Jesus spent most of his time with – the poor, hungry, sick and dying.
Che Guevara’s motorcycle adventure led him toward a future of influencing people in one way. My backpacking adventure led me to return to Jacksonville, Florida, as a 23-year-old man eager to do only two things: travel and positively impact the lives of people around me.
I stalled out for a month or so and took a job that, incidentally, remains my fallback in between life decisions. I worked as a server in a high-end restaurant, hosting all of the luxurious Super Bowl parties that the city of Jacksonville hosted that winter.
I met so many famous people that I could have started my own TMZ-style brand. From Super Bowl winners and Hall of Fame NFL football players and coaches to movie celebrities, rock stars and even a few high-profile politicians – I met them all.
I only had a flip phone then, and “selfie” wasn’t a concept yet.
But I wasn’t tempted to cave to my colleagues’ desire to be overwhelmed by celebrity appeal. Every day for two weeks, some familiar face—or two dozen—walked through the door. I can still list the names of people, including childhood idols I had, who meant nothing to me in watching them walk by or serving them food.
I just wanted to fund my next trip. Rich people leave big tips.
Sometime during that week, I received a call from Mr. Clark. He learned from my mother, who worked as a teacher for him, that I was back from my travels and possibly available and qualified to teach in one of several vacant positions he had.
I will never forget the interview, one small chapter in that ever-important coming-of-age transition into adulthood, in which the man who used to hand me taped recordings of church sermons offered me my pick between teaching math, science, or English.
If ever I had learned the benefit of being a “jack of all trades,” it was when I realized that my unusual college coursework—which began with engineering (heavy math and science) at Georgia Tech, included two semesters as an English major in community college, and concluded with a business degree from the University of Florida (Go Gators!)—made me qualified to teach any of these subjects.
It didn’t matter what I taught. What mattered is that I could:
- Get paid (really well for a 23-year-old used to making tips at a restaurant) to
- Do something that positively impacted the lives of others (high school students being particularly appropriate candidates) while
- Having Summer, Christmas, Spring breaks and 10 paid personal days for which I could travel.
Mr. Clark hired me on the spot. I began the Monday after the Super Bowl, and I joke that I went from serving A-list celebrities at the Playboy Party one night to standing in front of a bunch of high school kids in about 36 hours.
I had no clue what I was doing, but that’s part of the job of a good teacher (learning, adapting, and changing rather than relying on set patterns and pedagogy) and part of the transitional season into adulthood.
That’s why I say Mr. Clark took a really big chance to hire me.
It took me a year or so to get my bearings as a teacher. One thing Mr. Clark did well was to take chances on people who most would likely steer clear of.
While he had a quiver full of older, more experienced teachers, he hired around 20 of us just out of college—partly because the State of Florida was booming and jobs were bountiful for recent college graduates, but mainly because Mr. Clark saw the value in the potential of younger teachers.
I didn’t realize it until many years later, after years of sometimes butting heads with his leadership. However, Mr. Clark was one of those rare educational leaders who knew precisely which rung of the ladder he wanted to stand on and go no further.
While the natural progression for many educators is to climb from the classroom into assistant administration, administrative leadership and then jobs with the “county” (possibly leading to Superintendent or jobs with the State Board of Education) – Mr. Clark seemed happy to remain an educator, even as an administrator.
So, while he left the classroom many years before he hired me, likely around the time he handed me recordings from Sunday service, he continued as an educator by investing in the young teachers he hired.
We weren’t easy to deal with. We questioned everything. We challenged existing systems. We drank heavily and called in sick frequently (yes, the two events were related!).
But we were on fire to bring a positive change into the lives of each of the kids in our classrooms. Not one of us felt like we could fail in reaching deep into our classroom rosters to help even the most unlikely student learn something – whether about math, science, history, English, or, more importantly, about themselves.
Those first five (of seven) years I taught were incredibly transformative for me, my colleagues, and the children we taught, coached and mentored.
Mr. Clark taught me that even someone like myself, with no previous desire or experience to teach, was in fact an educator at his core.
Everything I am today is owed credit for those seven years in the classroom. And they all began with Mr. Clark’s offer to me a few short days before a Super Bowl I never watched or ever learned who won.
Those first few years under Mr. Clark’s leadership tamed the wildfire in me that ignited on a bus somewhere in Bolivia, raging to be a part of some profound and positive impact in the world.
I didn’t always get along with Mr. Clark when he was my boss. Part of the problem of having so many little fires around is that they can rage into something fierce if not contained. I sometimes raged with many of my young colleagues because things weren’t changing as we thought.
But I remember two other important lessons I learned from Mr. Clark amid the occasional confrontation.
The first is that for every problem I brought to him, he requested 2-3 possible solutions. I can still hear him tell me this, teaching me to complain less and focus on problem-solving. To date, I can’t think of any issue I have confronted without first processing possible solutions before bringing them to the attention of others.
Second, Mr. Clark began each morning by reading something positive over the intercom. He called these mornings “Words of Wisdom.” While they weren’t all profound, their cumulative impact was more in teaching us to begin the day positively before the world started crumbling around us (and we resort to the first lesson above).
Mr. Clark retired during a transitional year in the county. Our demographics shifted dramatically during my first few years of teaching and “new blood” was mandatorily brought in to address the shift. I don’t know whether he was offered positions at any other schools or within the county in some other administrative role.
He was the captain of his ship. No other captain would do. So he knew the only thing he could do was to step aside when given the mandate.
No doubt, even in the many years since I left the classroom, I still drive past the school occasionally and can think of no other person more than him at the helm. It wouldn’t surprise me if, sometime, many years from now, they changed the school’s name or some part of it in memory of his commitment to it and all of us who lived in the shadow of his wings.
When you read this, Mr. Clark’s memorial services will have been held. Lindsay and I will be barreling somewhere south and east on our way back to Florida – but we will be late in attending the service.
However, I do not doubt that hundreds, if not thousands, of people will be in attendance, including students he taught, teachers he led, colleagues he worked with, and those who just knew him for who he was – whether as the “tape man” at church, the friendly neighbor or the guy who used to sit at Starbucks and read a paperback novel (his favorite retirement activity, aside from taking trips on his motorcycle).
One of my all-time favorite movies (based on an equally well-written book) is “Big Fish.” If you haven’t seen (or read) it, I recommend adding it to your list to watch one day.
I won’t give away much other than to say that there is a funeral in the movie that is the kind of memorial I always aspired to have and am sure has taken place in memorium for Mr. Clark – people of all ages and with different experiences with Mr. Clark getting to mix and mingle and share stories of how he impacted them and the memories they most remember from his life.
No doubt, from the snippets I have observed in Facebook posts since his passing, Mr. Clark’s impact over decades of his life will have a generational impact beyond anything that anyone can ever calculate.
I began this email by saying I needed to take you on a journey through several experiences and seemingly unrelated topics to bring you back to the honor I hope to bestow on the man I knew as Mr. Clark.
I hope the “moral of the story,” so to speak, is evident at this point.
While the world is so caught up in sensationalized stories, and some people have made small fortunes as “influencers” directing the attention and decision-making of their following toward specific products and services, other people like Mr. Clark have filled a much-needed calling in life and deserve to be known and respected for the true influence that they have in life.
While I know that Mr. Clark had a Facebook account, I am confident he never aspired to use it or any other social media platform to project any message beyond the simplicity of the things he loved the most – his children, his wife, his living brother, a brother who passed away in Vietnam and the glory of anything and everything Orange and Blue (Go Gators!).
If I can convince the world of one thing in however many years I might be considered an “influencer,” it is that true influence is far more profound and important than anything you’ll ever see or read about and is almost always exclusively based on the principle of Love.
Mr. Clark knew Jesus beyond the Sunday sermons and white cassette tapes. And while he, like all of us, likely struggled often with living a life in which we become more and more like Jesus every day, I do not doubt that I will meet him again at a time and place where one’s influence will no longer matter.
I don’t want Lindsay or me to be viewed as “influencers.” While we have chosen to pursue a course in life where we will always be grouped in that broad category, we are so willing to allow ourselves to be vulnerable and open to criticism because we want to live a life in which we are true influencers.
Whether ten thousand people or two attend my funeral, whenever that day comes, I want to live each day of my life with the full recognition that everything I say and do has the chance to help someone come into a better place in their life.
If it helps you learn more about how to enter or engage in the RV lifestyle or enjoy our favorite camping spots in North America, great. If it gives you the confidence to take on some big motorhome or RV remodel, awesome.
But from the most sincere place in my being, I hope that you are learning from us that life is just a road we’re on that leads us from one moment to the next in which we have the chance to create something truly beautiful in the lives of others.
I didn’t say farewell to Mr. Clark before he passed. Lindsay asked me the other day whether I would regret that. I told her no, I wouldn’t.
But I will miss the response I will not receive to this email. Over the past six years, regardless of how consistent (or inconsistent) I have been in sharing our story through these newsletters, Mr. Clark has always responded.
So, about a year ago, I started writing these letters to him, simply copying each of you to the address as subscribers on the newsletter, hoping that somewhere out there, you were experiencing something positive, helpful, encouraging, or inspiring because of it.
These were Mr. Clark’s last words to me, sent only a few days before he passed away:
Thanks for another great “wander” sharing. It was a good diversion from my infusion this morning. I remember “Thermopolis.” We stopped there on my bike trip. I hope to someday return to the Black Hills with [my wife]. If you keep reading James, you will certainly be challenged. I love that book. Safe travels on your return trip to Jax and back to Baja.
Praying for you, my friend.
I tear up now because in all of the years I have known Mr. Clark—as the tape guy at church, my principal, a retired avid reader, biker, and Florida Gator sports enthusiast—I never knew him as a “friend.”
But that is precisely the way he saw me.
So now, I say farewell to a friend. While it is highly unlikely that you ever knew him, I hope that honoring Mr. Clark in memorium will remind you of a man or woman who had a similar impact on your life, a true influencer.
In that moment, I hope you appreciate the lessons that person taught you and that you can look back and smile at how those lessons led you from one chapter in life to the next.
Life is such that we will never know our true influence, regardless of whether we can read analytics from our social media platform dashboards or not. It doesn’t matter whether 4 million people watched a short video of how Lindsay and I watch television while on the road.
What matters is whether you’ve made it this far in this letter and considered whatever may or may not be stirring in your heart as the thing you need to say or do right now to recognize the influence you have or appreciate the influence you’ve experienced, as I have in knowing Mr. Clark, my friend.
May today fill you with blessings and joy and may Love be at the center of everything you do.
With Love,
Chris & Lindsay + Everest + Huckleberry!
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