Donald and Diddy

mish and sandrav,
as you wish.

The ride to the church had been rather tiring - driving a manual transmission car in stop and go traffic. But, darnit, I was going to hear Don Miller speak. Luckily P and Shuwen were with me to ease the pain. We drove up and up the hill. After we parked at the parking lot we hiked up and up to reach the venue. You can see the city lights from up there.

We shuffled to get ourselves into the sanctuary. It was packed with beautiful people in their twenties. You think I’m being sarcastic, but really I’m not. This is LA. And it’s Bel Air Presbyterian. Dude. They were beautiful.

And because it’s LA, the program started 20 minutes late. Not that anyone minded. We were talking, seating ourselves down, checking out the crowd, anticipating what it would be like, waiting for Vanessa. Ah, there she comes. And we found Cathy, too.

While we sat and waited, P asked me how old Don Miller was, and what he looked like. I shrugged. Thirties? White guy? P thought, no, he’s gotta be older. I shrugged again and caught sight of two guys standing right next to us. I thought to myself, oh, I bet you that’s him and he heard us arguing about how old or how not old he was. That would be funny.

The college pastor took the mic and introduced himself, introduced Don. Whaddayaknow, he was the guy next to us.

He’s a big guy. Tall, round, dark-haired. He opted to stand. He warmed up the audience with a story about a book reading he attended in Portland while he was on a date with a Republican – very funny fact b/c we all know how he feels about that party. Anyway, then he said he was going to read an excerpt of his next book, to be called To Own a Dragon, about what it’s like growing without a father. He wanted to test the material on us. So off he went.

It was typical Don Miller: Funny, observant, revealing, and so real. The character in the book (I assumed it was Don) started off saying, since he didn’t have a father growing up, he would dream and make ones up. He wanted to be Theo Huxtable, because Cliff Huxtable is such a cool dad. You know, what with having awesome musicians perform in his living room and all; such things cool dads do. Then he shared about the time his mom asked a neighbor, a kid, to escort him to Father-Son camp; a 17-yr-old kid who would smoke pot and end his sentences with “You know what I mean, dude?” The list of father figures ended with a guy at church – can’t remember his name, Dave, or something – who listened to him, encouraged him to write, and then encouraged him again, and again. He cracked me up; then he made me cry. I will definitely get the book when it comes out.

He took some questions afterwards, about the books he reads, about the responses he gets about his writing. I can’t remember what else.

To close, he read from another book of his, Through Painted Deserts. He had the crowd rapt, as if we all forgot how to breathe for a good 8 minutes. Again, I won’t do it justice, so just read it. You’ll know why I can’t put words to the way I felt.

You see, I get flustered around people I highly admire. So no, I didn't get to meet him. More like, I sabotaged the chance to. Because, well, I get flustered around people I admire. I could've met him, had him sign my copy of Searching for God Knows What, asked him about the Catalyst Conference ("my pastor was there, did you meet him?" blablabla, the scenario of our conversation played out in my head). But in order to have him sign my book, I had to get in line. And the line was long, and outside there were Diddy Reese cookies. Well, we opted for cookies (for me it was a subtle form of the aforementioned sabotaging plan). So after a brief chat over cookies, our crew trekked down the hill covered in fog. What a refreshing night.

So, what's the takeaway?

I highly recommend reading, going to book reading, Donald Miller, Diddy Reese cookies. But without the whimping out.