A few months before I left China, I worked hard to email several friends to let them know I was returning so I could find a new roommate to share an apartment with. When I finally returned, bought a car, and spent some time with my family, I was excited to see some of my friends that I only got to see once or twice a year and finally relaunch a more permanent friendship with them.

One of my first opportunities was with a longtime friend who had been a confidant and encourager for me while I lived in China. We went to breakfast and I was excited to spend time together. As we caught up and talked and laughed, I decided I needed to be really honest with him. I told him that it had hurt my feelings that he never replied to any of my emails when I was preparing to leave China and when I reached out to him to see if he knew anyone that I could live with. I figured he was busy and just missed my emails.

He then looked at me and said, “Well, I didn’t know what to say because I wasn’t excited that you were moving back.”

He went on to say some more hurtful and untruthful things about me and the rest of our breakfast together was awkward and uncomfortable.

It’s been 5 years since that conversation and I still don’t know how to process it completely. I was mad and hurt as I realized that I had just lost a valuable friendship. However, I did take away a valuable lesson from that conversation. I learned that I wanted to treat people better when they are going through a similar transition. Transitioning from one culture to another is one of the most difficult things people can do. Among the many emotions that are felt during this transition, you certainly want people to be happy that you’ve returned. If you’ve never had a transition like this before, just do some research on readjustment after living abroad. It’s incredibly hard to feel like you belong or fit in and how to appropriately talk about your life overseas.

Since that conversation, I have gotten married, moved across the country, and continue to travel globally to do some very fulfilling work. I’m doing just fine. But every once in a while, I’ll be driving home from work and my brain will go back to that conversation. It still stings, but it also encourages me to treat people better than that. Kindness wins every single time.

There’s a local coffee shop here my hometown in Colorado. They have crushed it in terms of marketing their small business. Their instagram is brilliant, they’ve built valuable partnerships with other small businesses, they get positive media coverage, and they even created a semi-viral YouTube video. From a marketing perspective, all of that stuff is fantastic. So what’s the downside?

The downside is that their coffee shop literally has about 30 seats (I counted them). Most of them are small two-seater tables, so if customers are there doing work alone, then the space will be functionally maxed out at about 20 people. This is a problem because now it’s hard for me to decide to go there. It’s too risky. There’s a high probability that I will drive the 15 minutes there from my house only to find out that there’s no where for me to sit. This happens almost every time. I end up crowding into a small bar section that is barely deep enough for my laptop and watch like a hawk until someone leaves.

I think this coffee shop has marketed themselves into a problem. Many people that I talk to avoid going to there for the same reason. What is the shop owner supposed to do? Not market at all? Of course not. I know they are loving the attention, but I think they have “over-marketed” themselves and now they have a new problem to solve.

When traveling, one thing I always try to remember is to laugh at myself and with other people. If I can’t carry joy with me then I’m probably doing more harm than good.

One of my favorite things when I travel is befriending locals who never expected to make a friend. Shopkeepers, waiters or waitresses, taxi drivers, and hotel staff are all people I interact with daily. No matter where I go, the common language spoken between us is big smiles and laughter. My colleagues and I always do our best to be advocates of loving one another and building bridges of friendship across a variety of cultures.

The media may often tell us that my culture and another culture aren’t supposed to get along, but I never find that to be true when I climb into a taxi or order food at a restaurant. People everywhere are still people. I found this quote earlier today from a book I read years ago that sums this all up:

We crave kindness. We admire those who are strong yet gentle, patient, and in control of their thoughts, attitudes, and actions. — Jason Jaggard “Spark”

Every country I visit, I find that people simply crave kindness. Whether I like it or not, I represent more than just myself when I’m visiting other cultures and I hope that the strangers I meet will remember me as kind, humble, and someone who loves life.

One friend recently described it as “passion fatigue.” Home after home. Story after story. Tears upon tears. Desperation. Poverty. Hopelessness.

We’ve seen it all, heard it all, and choked back as many tears as we can. We’re passionate about helping and passionate about finding solutions, but, over time, fatigue sets in and you start to doubt. You doubt that you’re making any difference at all. You doubt that it’s worth it. If you can’t get to all of them, then why even try?

Syria is in the midst of a horrific civil war, while at the same time, ISIS is attempting to sweep across Syria and Iraq. This has left millions without a permanent home, food, education, or a future. I’ve sat in their homes and tents. Hugged them. Cried with them. Most of the time, they just want to be near someone who will listen to their story. At the end of my time with them they will often say something like, “Thank you for coming to my home and listening to my story.” The sense of hopelessness is palpable.

It can feel like our efforts are just a tiny drop in a big bucket. And they are.

If we don’t start with a drop at a time, how will we ever make a difference? Just because it’s only a drop at a time doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. It’s worth it. I keep telling myself that, even when it feels like defeat. It’s worth it. Every food drop. Every blanket. Every opportunity to put their children back in a classroom. It’s worth it. Tiny drops in a big bucket. But totally worth it.

Recently, I spent some time with a family that fled Iraq after their lives had been threatened multiple times. The youngest daughter drank from a bottle of milk while we talked. The oldest daughter cried and threw a serious temper tantrum. Our host finally translated and said that the oldest daughter is crying because she’s hungry and wants milk too, but that bottle is their last bottle so they have to give it to the youngest. My heart broke. We walked out and our host who visits homes like this every single day hung his head low. He gently kicked the tires of a car parked on the curb. He wiped is eyes and you could tell he was completely emotionally spent. One person in our group put his hand on our host’s shoulder and said simply, “You’re doing great work, man.”

Every drop counts. Even when we hang our heads low and feel defeated. It’s another drop in the bucket. It makes a difference. We will (and must) press on.

Sometimes in life, we get to reflect on what we’re doing and what we’re a part of and celebrate that we get to do something that really matters and makes a difference. I don’t know about you, but that helps me go to bed with a smile on my face and wake up with energy.

For the past few years, I have been working alongside my colleagues to bring aid to refugees who have fled Syria and Iraq in search of safety. This crisis has been called one of the greatest humanitarian crisis’ of our lifetime. It’s my opinion that there isn’t a “calling” needed to respond to this situation. We must simply respond.

A few years ago, as my colleagues and I looked at this desperate situation, we asked ourselves how we could leverage what we’re good at to bring hope and restoration to people who have literally lost everything and have been driven from their homes. Many organizations have responded with food, water, medicine, and blankets. This first wave of relief literally saves lives. After this first wave of desperate need was met, we began to look at the lives of displaced people and ask ourselves how we could be helpful in saving their future. Education is the expertise that we bring, and education is a critical component to helping displaced people reestablish their lives.

If displaced people desire to ever return to a normal life and seek a profession that will lift their family from their desperate circumstances, then they must continue their education.

We found that many school-age children had been out of school for years; and some of them had never been in a classroom before due to the war and devastation in their home country.

I’ve sat with university-age refugees who were weeped because they had to flee Syria before they could receive their high school diploma. They are desperate to go back to school.

We have found that providing education and schooling to these kids and adults is a way of providing dignity to their lives. In a small way, it is providing restoration and — in some ways — making them whole again as we see them laugh, smile, and even sing.

It is the privilege of a lifetime to know that I get to be a part of reshaping lives, restoring dignity, and offering hope.

The people I have met and shared meals with along the border of Syria and inside Iraq are the kindest, most hospitable, and most generous people you can imagine. They are funny, witty, smart, caring, strong, and resilient. I cannot express how grateful I am to call them my friends.

I met Daisy within the first few days that I lived in this small town in China. She was one of the first to talk to me after my class. She was outgoing, smart, friendly, and her English was excellent. She would recruit her friends to go get milk tea or snacks after class with me and we would all sit and chat. Our campus was filled with small parks and sitting areas where several other students, Daisy, and myself would go to hang out, practice their English, and I would embarrass myself with my Chinese skills.

It wasn’t long into our friendship that one day Daisy broke down in tears, seemingly out of nowhere. I tried to calm her down and her friends tried talking to her and comforting her. The light and easy mood turned somber very quickly. She finally calmed down enough to speak, and through tears and gasps for air she explained to me that her father was just recently killed the month before in a car accident. My heart was shattered. I thought about my own father and what that would feel like. I was brand new to Chinese culture and I literally had no idea how to respond to grief in this context. I’m sure I messed it up and sent the wrong message. But, despite my ignorance of not knowing how to respond, I simply tried to listen and be a comforting ear for her to talk out her confusion, anger, pain, and sadness. There were many days that semester that Daisy would text me just before class to tell me that she was too sad to come to class. I was trying to delicately balance being both her teacher and her friend. I was constantly torn about how to respond to her heartache. I gave her more days of absence than I should have. I gave her more grace on her assignments than I should have. I didn’t even bat an eye when Daisy and three of her friends missed two days of class because they just needed to get out of town and process the pain. Sometimes, it’s more important to be filled with grace and empathy during someone’s darkest days than to make sure they get their lesson for the day and do their homework. Trying my best to be a good teacher was a priority for me, but when a student is going through the deepest possible pain imaginable, I think my role is to just love them and care for them the best that I know how. Nobody can really teach that stuff. I just had to go with my gut intuition and hope it was the right decision. I learned that my students observed these actions throughout the semester and respected me more for it.

Teaching in a foreign culture isn’t always about the curriculum, the lesson plan, or the assignments. It’s sometimes about being a safe place for your students to vent, process, and mourn. I was happy to play that role.

Need to catch up? Read part 1 here.

My feelings of regret and what-in-the-world-have-I-done faded quickly as I began to dive into my new life in China. This was an all new experience. Chinese food in China is not your average General Tso’s Chicken from the food court at the mall. Chinese food in China is out. of. this. world. And then there’s the new culture I set out to explore. Grandparents dancing in the park. Grown men doing tai chi. Was I on the set of a movie or was this real life?

I went to orientation sessions for four days in Beijing and learned all about what my new life would like. I learned about how to be professional in the classroom, how to build quality friendships with locals outside the classroom, how to not look like a goofball at the market, and how to get along well with my team of other teachers.

I left Beijing and took a train to my new permanent home in Shandong province. It was a small town by almost any standards. It was a farming town with a deep rich history. And right in the center of town was an old university. This was my new home.

Many details about my new home are fuzzy in my mind, but there are a few distinct stories that stand out: the sunroom in my apartment, the noodle shop just outside the school gate, going for a walk around town on my first day, discovering a coffee house where some new Chinese friends insisted that I play the drums in their band (I do not play the drums), eating watermelon and roast duck, and being the absolute worst teacher ever. I was the worst. But I think I made up for it by being a good friend.

My new home in Shandong will always stand out to me as a magnificent start to my years in China. When I think back on those days, my mind thinks of sunny, warm days. I think of good food and deep laughter. I think about how carefree and stress free I was.

Even with all of the good, there were also very tough days. My students — who quickly became my friends — dealt with extremely difficult circumstances in their lives. Family deaths. Fear. Pressure. And their own dark secrets.

In part 3 of this story, I hope to dive into some of those heart-wrenching stories and unpack how language and culture barriers evaporate when we share the depths of our heart with another human.

I was wide-eyed and excited. I had packed my entire life into 2 suitcases and a backpack. Notes from friends, picture frames, even a couple of left over Auburn football pompoms to remind me of home were stuffed away in those bags. The combined nervousness and excitement was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The memories now even feel like a faded dream from last night that I’m trying to describe to a friend over morning coffee.

My mom broke down in tears at the security checkpoint at the airport. I remember that vividly. My dad stood strong and silent. I laughed a little in that moment, but that was to keep me from sobbing too. The furthest I had ever lived from home was one summer in college when I went to North Carolina to fly fish and work at a pizza restaurant in a small mountain town.

Now I was moving to China. Indefinitely.

I boarded the plane and flew uneventfully to Beijing where I was greeted outside of baggage claim by a handful of American strangers. They were assigned to whisk me away to my hotel where I would stay for a few nights while going through a series of orientation sessions that were designed to make sure I could survive in my new host country.

I sat on my bed alone in a very unfamiliar place. I was hungry because my nerves and excitement and jetlag prevented me from eating much dinner. I sat there with only the dim light from the bedside table. The curtains were drawn. I sat and thought about how I had just made the biggest mistake of my life. I left a job that I loved. I owned a side business that was booming. I had the most amazing group of friends in the world. I gave it all up and now sat alone in a hotel room in a foreign country. Fear set in.

“Is it too late to pack it all up and go home?” I wondered out loud to myself. I ran scenarios of conversations in my head of how I would explain my sudden return home to all of my friends and family. They would understand. No one would judge me.

I laid my head on my pillow and closed my eyes in hopes that falling asleep would bring the light of a new day and, with it, a new spark of courage.

When I see my friends doing something compelling or interesting, I have this deep desire to do anything I can to help them succeed. Does anyone else feel that? I want to do what I can to help push their art or product or whatever. And I don’t mean I give them advice or lip service. I mean actual help. I was thinking about this recently while out walking my dog. Things popped up from way back in middle school and I noticed a common trend from over the years that I have a strange desire to help people accomplish their dreams. Here are a few examples:

1. I was in middle school. My friend, Jared, was a musician. He had a couple of self-produced tapes (yes, tapes). He had a show coming up that he told me he was excited about. I had just received a brand new CD burner as a gift. I think it burned at 1x (those who know, know how slowwww that is). It was one of the first CD burners to hit the consumer market. I spent days and nights leading up to Jared’s show converting his tapes to CDs. I thought it would be a much better product for him to sell. He didn’t ask me to do it. As a matter of fact, I surprised Jared on the day of the show with a stack of CDs for him to sell. To this day, I don’t know if he thought it was cool, cheesy, or creepy. But I didn’t care. I just had this deep desire to help his music career in any way that I could.
2. Fast forward to high school and most of college. The internet was still a fairly new thing and the hot idea at the time was small businesses coming to the realization that they were going to need a website to stay relevant to their customers. So I learned to build websites for people and I built them for really really cheap. If you owned a legitimate web design business at that time, then I’m sorry because I was that guy that undercut all of your prices so severely that it didn’t matter how good you were, people came to me simply for the price. The secret? I didn’t care about the money. I cared about helping people who had businesses or hobbies that I liked.
3. Fast forward a bunch more years. I met a new friend in Thailand who was passionate about freeing women from the hells and horrors of the sex industry. I listened to his pitch. I heard his passion. And I said to him, “I’ll leverage everything I can to help this. I really believe in you and believe in this.” I meant that. I went back home and talked to everyone who would listen. Finally, I put my own reputation on the line by sneaking him backstage at a massive conference and introduced him to an acquaintance who I knew could make some serious waves financially for my friend’s org. It wasn’t until months or years later that I heard through another friend that that introduction had actually helped my friend’s organization receive tens of thousands of dollars in donations in addition to many more relationships that have helped their mission.

The stories seem to go on. I don’t know what it is, but when I hear of my friends doing compelling things, I just want to jump in and help. I have not “monetized” any of this or made some business plan. I don’t lead a conference or a retreat on how to help businesses or hobbies grow. I just try to do stuff that I think will help. I think this is why I get so frustrated at all the chatter all over the place. If you’re into something, jump in and help out. Less talk. More do. I’ve never shared any of those 3 stories above with anyone. I’m tempted to delete them because now I’m feeling insecure like I’m tooting my own horn. If you only knew how much it’s not about that at all. It’s about trying to encourage us to jump in and actually try to do something good with people or projects that we care about.

Read this post quickly (because it may not stay online long) and share it if it resonates with you. I’d also love it if you left a comment telling me about how you’ve been able to help someone else’s dream come to life.

The more I stare at this post, the more likely I am to delete it because I feel that I’ve overshared.

The other day, I was asked, “If you have a contract to work X hours per week with a client and you are going over those hours doing tasks that are not directly what you signed up for, what would you do?”

I thought about this question for an hour or two at my office until I saw this friend later in the afternoon. I said, “I have my answer, but I know you aren’t going to like it. Nevertheless, it’s still my honest answer.”

I said, “I would choose to be generous over being a stickler about the contract. I would generously give more of my time, and as a result, give more value to the client than what I am receiving.”

I have thought about that conversation for a few days now and it has stuck with me. I’m very serious about that answer and I believe it applies to many areas of our lives, but it definitely applies to business. Give more than you receive. If I’m working with a client and they agree to pay me $1000, I hope that at the end of the job they will feel that they received more value from me in what I delivered than what they expected. I certainly don’t want it to be the other way around. I would be embarrassed if they paid me $1000, but later complained to their friends or coworkers that they feel what I delivered was only worth $800.

That friend replied to me, “But what if it’s consistently 5–7 hours per week that you’re working more than you agreed??”

I know there is a threshold of how generous we can feasibly be before we’re just being taken advantage of. I get it. I just don’t know where that threshold is. I think it’s different for different people. If you find yourself dreading the work or being negative about the client under your breath or to your friends, then maybe it’s time to reevaluate the agreement and have an honest conversation with the client. Communication is one of our most powerful tools. Just talk about it. Having sat in both seats as the one who does the hiring and managing, but also having done freelance work; I very much appreciate open and honest dialogue.

Be generous. I promise you there is a massive upside and ROI.