For the Right Reasons (9 page)

“I’m not talking about a point of style,” he said. “I told you I didn’t have the money when you came to me in the first place.”

“I shouldn’t have pressed you, but I’ve found that most people have more than they let on.”

“What are you, some sort of shrink? A wannabe psychic? I wasn’t playing any games with you,” he said. “How much money I had in the bank is not a mystery. There are numbers in a ledger. Black and white. I didn’t have it.” He paused, probably in an effort to collect himself. “Sean, I actually took out a loan to give you the money you said you desperately needed to make this company a success.”

“You did?” I asked, choking over this new revelation.

Then, as much to himself as to me, he asked, “How am I going to pay for my daughter’s wedding?”

I had no answers.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Then you can’t possibly understand how hard it’ll be to tell my wife this.”

When I got off the phone, I called Josh. I couldn’t wait to talk to him and figure out which investors he and Don could let down easily. I wasn’t sure if I had the heart to go through another call like Jim’s.

It went through to voice mail, so I dialed Don.

After a few rings, I knew he wasn’t going to pick up either. This had never happened in all the time I’d known these guys. If they couldn’t pick up, they’d immediately either text or call me back. I stared at my phone and debated whether to call them again.

Just as I was about to dial Josh, my phone buzzed in my hand.

On the little screen, I read the name of another investor, who had undoubtedly just learned of our company’s demise.

The last thing I wanted to do was answer that call.

It buzzed once. I took a deep breath. Twice. I began to feel warmth come across my cheeks. Three times.

“Hello?” I forced myself to answer, clearing my throat to hide my anxiety.

“Sean,” the investor said. “Why aren’t your partners answering my calls?”

Don and Josh, it seemed, were completely off the grid and appeared to be taking zero responsibility for any of the repercussions. Even while I was on the phone with this second investor, other furious investors beeped in.

I tried to ignore the constant buzzing in my ear and focus on this disappointed man. This man with whom I’d previously shared meals, good times, and dreams of wealth.

“Unless you give me my money back by the end of the week,” he yelled, “I’m going to sue you personally!”

My hand began to shake as I tried to calm him down. There was no way
I could even buy him another meal. I definitely could not afford to give him forty-three thousand dollars.

“Where do you think I’ll get the money?” I asked.

“I don’t care where you get it,” he said. “But you’ll never make another dollar that isn’t earmarked for me for the rest of your life if you don’t come up with something.”

What’s going to happen to me, God?
I thought as he yelled.

For the next few weeks, I was horrified of my own phone. Every time it rang I felt like I might throw up. My partners—my friends—left me to pick up the pieces. My phone absolutely blew up, but I didn’t want to talk to these investors anymore.

I was alone, more alone than I’d ever felt in my life.

One night, I lay in my bed and pulled the covers up to my neck. The ceiling had a shadow on it that had moved slightly over the past three hours I’d been staring at it. I felt my heart beating wildly in my chest. I sat up, punched my pillow, rolled over to my side, and tried desperately to find a comfortable position.

“If God is for us, who can ever be against us?” I kept reciting Romans 8:31 in my head. It was a Bible verse we used in church, and it was the only thing that comforted me. I’d never experienced anxiety. I’ve always been a laid-back guy, so I wasn’t sure what to do with this feeling—this terrible, ever-growing feeling. My face felt hot. My skin hurt. My head ached.

I’d always thought of myself as a risk taker, an entrepreneur. But when Jim asked me that question about his daughter’s wedding, I realized a cold, hard truth.

I couldn’t take any more chances.

Lying there in the darkness, I made a decision I said I’d never make.

I had to go into the family business.

three

WHAT A WAY TO MAKE A LIVING

One day, Brooke showed up at my apartment with Lola on a leash and tears in her eyes. She knew the dogs needed to be together and was willing to give up Lola to make that happen. I know it was hard for Brooke to make this sacrifice, so I was deeply touched by her generosity.

The dogs were thrilled to be reunited.

Every morning I’d wake up at seven o’clock and take them out. Then I’d feed them and marvel at their canine manners. Lola ate her bowl first while Ellie patiently waited for her to finish before having her bowl of food.

“God, you know my heart,” I prayed as I reluctantly left Ellie to finish her bowl so I could get dressed for my day at work with my brother-in-law at his State Farm agency. I slid on my khaki slacks—the uniform of the insurance salesman—and prayed, “You know I don’t want to live a normal life. If this is your will, if you
really
want me to sell insurance, I’ll do it.”

Andrew, one of the top fifty most successful State Farm insurance salesmen out of ten thousand nationwide, gave me a job, my own desk, and a phone. Sadly, I had to use that phone to cold-call potential customers. I hated the feeling of holding my breath as I waited for someone to hang up on me before I even had the chance to get out my pitch.

Still, it was much better than breaking news to investors that you’ve lost their money.

This was my new life. I would go through the agency training program. Then, a couple of years later, I would have gained enough experience—and clients—to start my own agency. My grandfather, my dad, and Andrew had gone down that path. Now it was my turn.

“But, God, you know I hate this so much,” I kept praying as I drove down Custer Road to the State Farm office located in a strip mall. “Is this the way you want my life to be?”

Ever since I decided to be an insurance agent, God and I had been having a pretty constant conversation. Not an argument, really. Not even a negotiation. I was convinced there had to be something else I could do that wasn’t as office-y as being an insurance agent.

As a kid, I believed in Jesus and heard all the stories in Sunday school—Noah and his ark, Samson and Delilah, Daniel and the lions. As I grew older, I was always the nice kid everyone’s parents liked. My parents brought me up to respect adults, and Mom would get all over me if I didn’t say “yes, sir,” or “yes, ma’am.” My friends’ parents knew I wouldn’t get their kids into serious trouble. When I began dating, the girls’ dads were always very warm and welcoming. I think they knew I was going to respect and take care of their daughters. Even though I hung with the popular kids, I didn’t drink or do some of the other typical high school behavior they did. In college, I still didn’t drink underage or have premarital sex, but I’m not sure I knew
why
I wasn’t drinking illegally or hooking up. My Christianity wasn’t fully formed. After all, it wasn’t strong enough to keep me from skipping classes or cheating on exams, and I never really shared my faith with my friends or teammates.

After college, I was back in my hometown and—once again—near my parents and my church. Still, I didn’t love God more than I loved myself. When I dated, I broke my promise not to have sex before I was married. I
knew this was wrong, so I felt incredibly guilty afterward. Shame, however, wasn’t strong enough to keep me from sinning again. Eventually, it would fade into the recesses of my mind. When I’d talk to another girl, I’d go down that path of destruction again.

I kept ignoring God, even though I felt horrible.

Something’s gotta change
, I thought. That’s when I decided to take ownership of my faith. I wanted to—finally—be a man. I wanted to have a real faith, not a list of things I didn’t do.

“All right, Jesus,” I said one night. “Let’s do this again.”

So I got up in the morning every day, went to work at the insurance agency in the strip mall, and prayed for strength to get through the day.

The first thing I’d do, after grabbing a cup of coffee and saying good morning to Andrew, was to go into my office and open my Bible. Even though I’d drifted far away from God, I knew exactly how to get back to him. My dad always told me the Scriptures are alive—the living, breathing Word of God—and he always had his nose in his Bible. We played a game that involved me opening the Bible anywhere and reading a random verse aloud. Dad would, more times than not, be able to tell me which book, chapter, and verse. In contrast, my Bible knowledge had never gotten deeper than those Sunday school stories. When I recommitted myself to Christ after college, I recommitted myself to reading the Bible. I would read a few chapters in the Old Testament, then a few in the New Testament. The more I read, the more my faith grew—by leaps and bounds. The Bible was surprising. Unexpected. Frequently, I’d read a chapter and think,
I didn’t know that was in there!

When I asked Dad about some of the more interesting and confusing things I’d learned, he handed me a copy of a book called
When Critics Ask
by Norman L. Geisler and Thomas Howe. With that resource by my side, I read the whole Bible cover to cover over the course of several months.

Something interesting, even miraculous, happened as I read the Bible
regularly. It transformed how I thought. I noticed when I got away from reading it, my mind and life got away from thinking biblically. However, when I immersed myself in the Bible, I saw the world differently.

This became my ritual. I’d pray for God to deliver me from my job at State Farm. Then, since God obviously didn’t seem to be interested in delivering me from it, I’d get on the phone and beg people to buy insurance.

Every day the clock’s hand swung slowly around the dial, and I’d take a break to sit in the break room, watch
Seinfeld
reruns, and eat my perfectly portioned, Sagi-approved amount of turkey and veggies.

Though I hated limiting my diet, I followed Sagi’s every instruction down to the last ounce. If one of my meals was six ounces of chicken breast, a cup and a half of brown rice, and one cup of broccoli, I’d get out a scale and weigh everything. If he told me six ounces of chicken, I measured six ounces of chicken. That’s how my body transformed so quickly. I never skipped a day, and I never cheated once. I saw big results in just a month.

“Wow, look at those abs,” Sagi said three months after we met. “Would you consider being in my workout video?”

“Really?” I said. “Like, I’d be the guy in the back doing the routines with you?”

“You and a few other guys,” he said. Sagi’s new venture was a ninety-day program to help people gain muscle mass by the makers of P90X, a popular video series you can do at home to build muscle.

“Sure!” I said. “What’s it called?”

“Body Beast,” he said. “But I know what you’re thinking.”

“What?” I asked.

“Probably that when you see this handsome face, you don’t think ‘beast’—you think ‘beauty.’ Right?”