If you’re ever looking for my mom, first check the church. She is an incredibly Godly woman, and yes, she covers the church in prayer but more often than not she’s covering the church with balloons. So if you’ve checked the church and she’s not there, the only other answer could be our Starbucks; or the one in Boise, or the one in Nampa, or the other one in Boise. My mom, in all of her “mom-ness”, drives a white Toyota Camry. It’s a functional car that can handle not only us big kids in the backseat, but also somehow swallows two cart loads of Costco loot. Among other accidental imprints on the bumper, you’ll notice stamped into the license plate the word “pamoja.”
Whether its an adventure or just a Starbucks bible study, there is a lot to be said about doing things together. For the last seven months I’ve been living in community. At any give time on the World Race I’ve lived with at least six others all the way up to fifty-one people. Though what I am talking about is more than living, sleeping, and eating together. Anyone can go skydiving, Rocky Mountain climbing, or bull riding, but you won’t have anyone to talk about it with unless you do it with at least one other person.
I love the analogy that says each one of us is writing a story. My favorite part of that idea is that my story can overlap with other peoples’ stories, creating a shared experience. A shared experience is a more memorable experience because there is more than one person to help remember it, and sharing even the most simple tasks makes them more interesting. During those moments in time, I get to help write their story, and they get to write in mine. Because each of us sees the world through a different lens, we might have chapters that have the same title, but the way they are written might be completely different.
Two months ago, I really wanted to go paragliding in Pokhara, Nepal. It was midweek when I brought it up to all of the guys that were staying with me up in the mountains. I told each one that I would love to do this but only if you come with me. I really wanted to go but what I desired more was a shared experience. As the weekend arrived, every one of the guys deiced to go. Some of them decided after I gave them my shared experience talk. We got picked up at our hostel by Buddha Paragliding. They took us to their offices where I signed a paper that said if I “go splat” I wouldn’t sue, and we were off. Our stories were already being written together. We met our pilots; mine was named Richard. We drove to the top of the mountain. In a whirlwind of harnesses, ropes, and helmets, we were soon soaring over treetops.
Each of us had the same experience, one that we can reference together. Although the event was the same, the memories written look different. Take Kyle for instance, a great writer that probably used beautiful descriptor words to describe the same experience that I said was very pretty and really cool. Even still, our stories crossed with an incredible shared experience; each of us five men had a similar chapter in our story.
My mom is an expert with shared experiences. She recognizes the value of quality time together. Constantly advocating for our family to do things together, and with others. Luckily my dad has the same notions. Our lives are better together, and our stories are more memorable when we write them with others. My mom’s license plate captures this idea very simply. “Pamoja” is a Swahili word for family or together.
