This isn't about Napkins

Last week, I was invited to Florida where I spoke on “The Power of a Paper Towel” with an incredible company based out of Panama City Beach. Not a bad place to have to go to work if I do say so. And it was remarkable.

Now, I’ve said this before, and I’ll keep on saying it until it’s no longer true, but being able to share that story — and engage with people around the idea of doing small things that can make a big difference — is my absolute favorite thing to do. It’s not even close, really. 

Truly, if I could tell that story every day for the rest of my life, I’d be thrilled. 

I get such a charge from being up there in front of a crowd, and I am thankful EVERY TIME a business, church, school, or WHATEVER trusts me with their time and attention. 

I love watching as the proverbial lightbulb goes off and folks begin to understand that “the guy up there talking about napkins is actually up there talking about… me.” 

Last week was no different. It was a great event with a great, eclectic group of leaders who engaged deeply in the message, and I was, frankly, pretty proud of myself for pulling off another successful event.

They laughed when they were supposed to laugh.
Some folks cried a little (at the appropriate times).

And I loved meeting person after person who came up, shook my hand, hugged my neck, or simply said, “thanks for coming.”

Then George came up, sheepishly, removed his glasses — as if to look more deeply into my eyes — and said, “My son died six months ago, and it has broken me. Completely. All I have wanted to do since I found out is to go see him. To stop being here…” A huge tear rolled down his face, “…to stop being alive. He was my life. He was my best friend.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t even move.

Then George grabbed my arm and said, “But you know what? I’m not supposed to go Home yet. I’m supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be an encouragement to these people,” he waved his arm out over the stragglers who were stacking chairs, throwing away remnants of the taco bar, and mingling before heading back to work. “I think I’m supposed to do small things every day to help folks not feel so alone… Like I have felt for the past six months. I just wanted to tell you that.” 

And then a tear rolled down my face.

This isn’t about napkins. Not even a little bit. 

Thank you, George.