Ryan George's Blog

I started journaling ten years ago today on one of the most discouraging days of my life. I’ve recorded an entry for almost every day since that fateful May 18, 2016.

Every once in a while, I flip through past entries to reflect on different moments. There’s a lot of hard stuff in there. I don’t wallow in the low points, as I’ve seen so much pain redeemed in my life. Those lines illustrate shifts in perspective, theology, and relationships. I try not to let who I used to be burden my soul with regret. But I find value in pondering the mile markers on the way to the current version of my heart.

Thankfully, those pages are also filled with epic days:

• snow camping in Antarctica and then visiting my seventh continent (Asia)
• adopting a teenager after 19 years of marriage
• starting professional counseling and attending therapy retreats
• wing walking on an aerobatic biplane in Washington and California
• BASE jumping for the first time
• surprising my wife in Italy to re-propose to her on a girls’ trip
• attending ice racing school
• publishing my second and third books
• snowmobiling in three countries
• completing both a survival class and a surfing lesson in the Arctic Circle
• introducing my friends to ice climbing
• staring wide-eyed from helicopters en route to glacier adventures in British Columbia
• riding in the front seat of an aerobatic glider guided by a three-time champion aerobatic pilot
• driving through dozens of creeks and rivers in Iceland
• spending an entire night hanging off a cliff in Colorado
• swimming behind an ice breaker ship in Sweden
• spending multiple weekends camping next to UTVs in Utah’s high desert
• crossing the highest Alps road passes of 6 countries back-to-back via motorcycle
• canoeing the canyonlands of the Texas-Mexico border
• officiating weddings (including for my baby sister) and watching my wife officiate her first
• snorkeling between the tectonic plates of North America and Europe
• bagging my third and fourth continents for bungee jumping
• racing dune buggies at night in a Nevada desert
• sea kayaking after midnight in the Lofoten Islands
• paragliding 9 times in 6 countries
• finishing record days, weeks, months, and years in my business
• discovering that my nephew had been named for me
• tender relational moments that put a lump in my throat when I recall them

How ‘bout you?

What’s been one of the best things you’ve experienced in your past decade of life?
How often do you go back to relive those moments?
And what grand adventure do you hope is someday a true thing you can describe in your journal?

 

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Stock image purchased from iStockPhoto.com

I am quite addicted to the shows that don’t require screens, subscriptions, or an Internet connection. I continue to find instructive escape via experiences I can’t pause, fast forward, or conveniently consume in the cracks of my schedule.

Ridgeline sunsets.Moonlight hikes.Lightning shows.Rain on the leaves.Don’t get me wrong: my soul has been marked by TV scenes; I’ve cried hot, cathartic tears after poignant movies; and I spend more hours a week scrolling social media than participating in faith environments. I don’t have the proportions right—in part because the optimal balance may be unknowable.

But I know this: the more our shared culture pushes me to the artificial, the curated, and the convenient, the more I need the opposites of those realities. I find the slow, humble, and tangible gifts of nature to be priceless.

In a world with ever-present bar codes, QR codes, or discount codes, I need the lesson of generosity—of no price tag, no “add to cart,” no sales tax. I also need the example of nature’s magnanimity to confront a mind always thinking in terms of billable dollars per hour.

In a world generating headlines of grift and genocide, inequality and subterfuge, injustice and dehumanization, I’m grateful for the incredible luxury of a quiet dusk from an available overlook.

Every other Tuesday, my alarm rings way earlier than usual. 4:40am. Mitch’s goes off even earlier as (1) he has further to drive and (2) he makes his kids’ lunches before he leaves.

We alternate who prays in the parking lot at 5:16am, and I should probably change up what I say after removing my hat. “Thank you for access to these trails. Thank you for the gift of Mitch’s friendship. Thank you for the conversation we’re about to have.”

After the benediction, we hike up and over a hill with a mountain’s name. The stat line each time:

6.2 miles950 feet of elevation gainCountless drags from the CamelBak nozzles hanging over our shoulders

The addictive nature of our conversations arises from the juxtaposition of our past differences and current similarities.

Mitch grew up in a Catholic single-parent home in Miami and got the full college experience at Florida State. I spent my formative years as a preacher’s kid in a sheltered home school family and then at a fundamentalist college that (1) forbade me to be on an elevator with a female and (2) framed Jerry Falwell as liberal. Mitch can’t remember certain details of his beachfront spring breaks. My spring breaks were each filled with a dozen mandatory church services I’ve tried to forget. Mitch played baseball and had girlfriends. I played LEGOs and had a pen pal (who told me my penmanship matched that of a serial killer). His high school friends still text him every week, while not all of my siblings let me know when they’re in town.

But both of us grew up at sea level and have fallen in love with mountains. We’re both students of gentle parenting and avid consumers of nonfiction books. We both found a Jesus worth the sacrifice of our comfort and preferences. We both drive Tacos and struggle with moderation around tacos. We both start our serving shifts at church before sunrise on Sundays—he in the kitchen and me in a parking lot. Super niche: we both think Slovenia is an underrated vacation destination.

We share prayer requests with the same dozen or so guys on Wednesday nights. We share a preference for outdoor faith gatherings over indoor ones. We share a reticence to turn on our headlamps until one or both of us trips in the dark. We share a respect for the woods as a confessional space.

In fact, when my counselor wants me to expand trust or a conversation beyond the walls of her office, she’ll recommend that I talk to Mitch. When I do, he has always honored that confidence. Beyond healthy, I find that space Mitch holds for me to be holy.

I used to think church happened only during service times. Then, I realized spiritual community could be any intentional gathering. Now, a faith space can be anywhere I go with an intentional friend.

I won a middle school math award from the Delaware Association of Christian Schools, but it wasn’t until today that I ran the numbers on Jesus’ promise: “Where TWO or three are gathered in my name, I’m there with them.” By my calculations, Mitch and I have hiked 150 miles a year with the Creator of Hearts. And the greatest evidence I have that Christ’s 2,000-year-old promise is true is how Heaven’s empathy, curiosity, acceptance, and pushback join me before dawn twice a month.

Most of y’all know my wife leads a women’s ministry at our church (“Women’s Life”), while I facilitate a parachurch men’s gathering (“Dude Group.”) Crystal deserves her flowers for how she intentionally pursues the hearts of women and sacrificially helps meet their spiritual, relational, and physical needs.

But this picture from Ian & Kate’s beautiful wedding illustrates what Paul Harvey used to call “the rest of the story.” See, she has at different times spiritually invested in all of the dudes in this picture—myself included. She even got the privilege to baptize the groom. In a world that tries to relegate XX chromosomes to subsidiary roles in the kingdom and especially the American church, she knows that spiritual gifts aren’t determined by gender and aren’t dependent on the age or sex of the recipient.If Crystal had been in the first-century network of house churches, she’d have been on the list of women Paul shouted out in his letters as fantastic ministry partners and local assembly leaders.I grew up in a faith system that oddly required testicles to hold titles and jobs in faith spaces. I married a woman with more [courage] than I’ll ever have who didn’t care what she was allowed to do or what label was on the church website under her name. She just showed up for people, held space, spoke challenging words, and convinced people of Jesus’ affection through her own.For the past two and a half decades, I’ve lived with a shepherd of souls. And in this highland cattle pasture, I was wowed yet again by the fruit of my wife’s pastoral labor.

It’s funny how time changes our dreams.

Forty-five years ago, I thought this car was the epitome of American vehicles. In reality, it was the Mercury knockoff of maybe the worst version of the Ford Mustang ever.

My dad told me I could have this red two-door when I got my license, and I thought about that “someday” regularly. This was the car my dad took my sister and me to do doughnuts in Chattanooga intersections, when snow shut down the city—to show off our Buffalo heritage and bravery to house-bound Southerners. This was the car from which I saw a shooting star and wished for a brother while bundled up in blankets in the hatchback trunk. My dad wheeled and dealed used cars while we lived in Tennessee, but this one stayed in our driveway for years—even as the address of our driveway changed.

Several years after this photo was snapped, though, my dad sold this promise to a missionary friend for a dollar. Jesus needed a shiny, red Capri more than I did.

 

I’m not bitter. It all worked out. I learned to drive in a car I liked even more—the 1978 version of one I’ve Googled to see what it would cost to ship from Japan. And for the last 21 years, I’ve had a supercharged MINI Cooper in my driveway or garage—and on more winding roads than I can count.

1981 Ryan had no imagination that someday I’d drive rally, Indy, and Formula 2000 race cars—or drift at ice racing school on a frozen lake. Reagan-era Ryan didn’t even know what a Nissan GT-R or Lamborghini was and, thus, couldn’t have dreamed of driving them as I did with Timmy and Mitch. Every vintage of me would’ve been—and still is—blown away that I starred in a unique car commercial with a stunt driving body double.

My life is so much more exciting than I ever dreamed it would be. As a result, my imagination has rarely been bigger than my potential. It hasn’t needed to be. Fate, Chance, or Sovereignty has allowed my muscles of hope to atrophy.

Someday, I’ll probably look back on pictures of 2026 me and think, “Man. If that dude only knew.” And I’m kinda glad I don’t know yet. That ignorance will hopefully let me show up with more wonder and less entitlement—and a healthy sense that the world is so much bigger than I can ever know.

I had snowmobiled with my wife. I had snowmobiled with my buddies. Until the weekend before the Super Bowl, I had never snowmobiled (or vacationed) with my wife and my friends at the same time. My third trip to Jackson Hole’s winter trails brought the best trail conditions I’ve had yet—a great introduction to those in our group who’d never ridden a snowmobile or vacationed in the Rockies.

We snapped this shot after our group prayer huddle on a bridge over Greys River. We were about to have a day far more eventful than I had expected. Half of this circle had never been on a snowmobile. Ironically, it was the half with experience that returned home with injuries.

I’ve had better sandwiches in my life than whatever I grabbed from the grocery store deli the night before. But lunches taste better when you eat them in the backcountry. And even if they don’t, cuisine levels don’t matter when your friends are sharing their joy about the experience you’re sharing.

The food at the Box Y Ranch is so good, it steals your sense of urgency to get back on the trail. The proprietor made us a batch of warm cookies for free, adding to the magic of our adventurous day.

After we put our sleds away for the weekend, we stopped at a Teton overlook before heading back into town for dinner. Every group I take on an adventure leaves me better than it found me, and this selection of souls proved no exception. I’m grateful for the examples of these husbands and the contagious courage of these wives. Mark Twain said, “I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.” Turns out, I like these folks.

Nobody leaned into their fears and discomfort more than these two ladies. Others of us rode faster and jumped higher, but none of us overcame anxiety as Crystal and Leah did. They were gracious to wait for the rest of us when we pulled over to play off-trail—and even cheered us on. They shone as examples of selflessness and kindness. They proved the travel writer, Tim Cahill, true when he said, “A journey is best measured in friends rather than miles.”

————

This was the first trip to Jackson Hole on which we never had to dig out a snowmobile. Part of that was due to the lack of snow off-trail—from the driest winter in a decade and the warmest winter ever in Jackson Hole. But part of that was due to us taking chances only where the snow was shallow. Five of us got our sleds off the ground. All of us marveled at the surroundings made unique by the lack of snow on the trees.

This is the picture that made it onto the postcards to my nephews. They’ll think it’s impressive. The reality is that I chickened out every time I approached this jump, making me the only attempter who didn’t get daylight under my track. Philosophers and preachers will tell you that comparison is the thief of joy, but context has time and again proven to me a benevolent giver of humility.

Jacob Bumgarner is the man. He showed us what “FULL SEND” looks like.

If you click here, you’ll see video evidence that Jacob stuck the landing on his biggest jump.

Screenshot

Courtney didn’t back down from a challenge. She outraced all of us dudes (especially me) through the trees and put some daylight under her tracks. I love that in the video of this jump, Jacob marvels at his wife with, “DANG!”

Jeremiah had never been on a snowmobile until a few hours before he took his sled airborne. I think he’s hooked on snowmobiling now.

JR let us know that airtime wasn’t just for those in their 30s and 40s. He proved (1) that wisdom isn’t opposed to adventure and (2) that grandpas can drop the hammer.

————

Someday, I’ll figure out why I love full moon nights so much. Until then, I’ll just soak them in. In my childhood, my autonomy came at most during school, at work, or on my Western Auto ten-speed bike. Now, I have freedom in almost every area of my life and often struggle with impulse control. I’ll eat the same meal four times in two days or scroll social media instead of getting needed sleep. So, maybe the magic of the moon arrives in its forced wait—my inability to summon a moment at my whim. Whatever the reason, I was super excited to have a full moon while in Jackson Hole.

Crystal and I walked around Jackson Hole, hand in hand, looking in art gallery windows. We watched ice skaters in the town square and snagged this photo under one of the four antler arches.

I don’t know if this moose likes full moons as much as I do, but he didn’t mind posing with one.

After I said goodnight to Crystal at the hotel, I drove out to a Teton overlook off the highway. I listened to music that spoke truth over my heart and marveled at the glow of the famous peaks. The moment was meant for me as no cars passed along that stretch of highway for a good ten minutes. I had the place to myself. There are moments in my life seemingly sprinkled with pixie dust, and this felt like one of those sovereign gifts.

————

Crystal and I invited two couples who lead marriage ministry small groups, as well as a pair of marriage counselors, onto our first-ever couples adventure trip. This is where the narrator’s voice breaks the fourth wall and says, “You might need that context later.”

On the first morning, I led the group to “Prayer Bridge,” the span over Greys River on which I always ask someone to bless the day of scenic riding ahead. On the way there—unrecognized by me—my backpack fell off my sled. Crystal stopped to pick it up and didn’t make it to the rendezvous point until well after I had expected. Not knowing the situation with the backpack, I insensitively told her she’d need to ride faster for the sake of the group.

After Jacob led the group out of the prayer huddle, I walked into the woods to empty my bladder, knowing the group of mostly rookie riders would be easily catchable. Meanwhile, Crystal—for my sake—pushed herself beyond her comfort level, overshot a curve, left the trail, and ended up halfway between the groomed path and the river. I didn’t see this happen in front of me and wasn’t looking around as I sped to the next rendezvous point. When I arrived, everyone asked me where Crystal was. “She’s not with you guys!?”

I whipped around and sped back toward the trailhead. After a mile or two, I found Crystal standing next to the trail. I failed to ask her if she was okay, because I saw her standing and assumed she had just gotten her machine stuck somewhere. Initially, I failed to hug or comfort her, either—instead, first asking logistical questions. She showed me where her sled had landed after her wreck. She had knocked herself unconscious and sustained significant soft tissue damage in her shoulder, but she had remembered to pull the lanyard to cut the engine.

I sped back to the rental shop and got her a slower, wider (steadier) sled while the doctor in our group checked her over. To Crystal’s great credit, she rode with us the rest of the day and didn’t slow us down at all.

Probably due to the warm and dry conditions, we encountered only two or three groups of riders all day. While I was back at the shop, a group pulled up to Crystal’s precarious situation with a chainsaw, shovel, and an expert rider. They extricated the sled and saved me from needing to pay the rental company to retrieve her sled. (I rode it the rest of the day.)

Crystal has forgiven me for a lot over 25.5 years of marriage, but this (and the morning after it) will go in my Husband Hall of Shame. I let my insecurities rule my words and actions, and that never ends well. This kiss and smile were before she got back on a sled and rode for 5 more hours.

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It’s interesting what moments get photographed on a weekend getaway and the ones that reside only in internal memory.

I thought it was a big transition from my MINI Cooper to my Tacoma in 2024. That adjustment seemed small after this setup in Jackson Hole. For our second day of riding, we had to get the sleds to a trailhead an hour out of town. That required one of us to steer this dog-and-pony show. My name was on the rental agreement. So …

I’ve slept in a lot of airports, usually on the floor. So, I was grateful the Jackson Hole airport had a nap spot in front of a fire. Before I succumbed to unconsciousness, I overheard an unseen man on his phone telling someone that their mutual friend had out-kicked his coverage. Apparently, that shared friend wasn’t deserving of what Phone Guy called “Only Fans quality breasts.” If that’s what he’ll say in a public airport, I can only imagine what he’d say in a locker room or a car with a son or nephew. Worse yet, that makes me suspicious of what he’d do alone in a room with a woman and his back to that room’s exit. I hope that objectified wife never has to be alone in a room with Phone Guy.

It shouldn’t have rattled me as much as it did—not with jubilant male voters marching with “women are property” signs and others spouting “your body my choice” on podcasts, social media, and even in one of my local high schools the day after the 2024 presidential election. Permission rolls downhill. But I hope I never grow numb to that misogynist reality. And I hope to live a life antithetical to that so that every woman around me knows she is safe.

I can’t get enough of airports next to mountains, and I’ll take an airport where you must walk across a tarmac to your plane (almost) every time over one with jet bridges. I miss the days when flying out of Lynchburg included those outdoor strolls.

I’ve been told that when I was first learning how to talk, I got excited when a fire siren sounded. Apparently, that excitement led me to use a contraction of firetruck that didn’t use the “iretr.” I didn’t use that contraction when I saw these mega machines—not even when one of them powered up and drove around us. But the little boy inside me wished I could slip someone a twenty and ride shotgun.

It’s always a good sign when the plane is being secured with duct tape. That said, I’m glad they let us fly with that solution.

You know you’re in the right souvenir shop when the gigantic stuffed bear is wearing a sombrero.

Whether or not you try to follow the example of Jesus, if you value empathy, I know your soul is tired right now. If you understand nuance and seek truth instead of comfortable confirmation, your mind is exhausted. If you stand for the equal humanity of every person regardless of where they were born, your feet are tired right now.

I’m with you.

Over the past month, I’ve kept coming back to this quote from the West Kerry region of Ireland (originally written as “Mo sheasamh ort lá na choise tinne”).

In years past, my refuge was prayer in the woods. I was convinced that Sovereignty caught the hot tears rolling down my cheeks. In between those gravel trail sessions, my therapist’s couch seemed to defy gravity when I sank into it. Over the past decade, hours-long phone calls with my brother have comprised the sand that has absorbed my weary heels. Commiseration from my wife, daughter, sister, and hiking buddies has washed over my aching toes like the creek where I sit on Sunday afternoons. Exchanges with my nephews help me forget about the headlines and my sore soles for hours at a time.

I’ve listened to podcast interviews and read books about the loneliness epidemic. For sure, it shows up in the quiet desperation of the lonely, but it also appears indirectly in our newsfeeds. I’m convinced that many on the far right and left believe and act upon extremist rhetoric to feel part of a tribe, to feel connected to something bigger than themselves. Insecure men abuse their power to quell their ache for meaning, fulfillment, and contentment that secure attachment could provide. Wounded and disenfranchised women find agency in the pugilism of their red-hat or rainbow-haired movements.

So, the connection I’ve experienced with safe hearts feels like an antidote or an exception. I need them more and more as a large swath of a nation without them rages, dehumanizing others. And I wish other thirsty souls would find this mitigating luxury. As my government murders bearers of God’s image on video or sexually assaults them behind barbed wire, I pray every perpetrator of violence gets wooed out of their dogma, befriended out of their hatred, and loved out of their brokenness.

 And may those cheering for them experience the same!

Whether or not you try to follow the example of Jesus, if you value empathy, I know your soul is tired right now. If you understand nuance and seek truth instead of comfortable confirmation, your mind is exhausted. If you stand for the equal humanity of every person regardless of where they were born, your feet are tired right now.

I’m with you.

Over the past month, I’ve kept coming back to this quote from the West Kerry region of Ireland (originally written as “Mo sheasamh ort lá na choise tinne”).

In years past, my refuge was prayer in the woods. I was convinced that Sovereignty caught the hot tears rolling down my cheeks. In between those gravel trail sessions, my therapist’s couch seemed to defy gravity when I sank into it. Over the past decade, hours-long phone calls with my brother have comprised the sand that has absorbed my weary heels. Commiseration from my wife, daughter, sister, and hiking buddies has washed over my aching toes like the creek where I sit on Sunday afternoons. Exchanges with my nephews help me forget about the headlines and my sore soles for hours at a time.

I’ve listened to podcast interviews and read books about the loneliness epidemic. For sure, it shows up in the quiet desperation of the lonely, but it also appears indirectly in our newsfeeds. I’m convinced that many on the far right and left believe and act upon extremist rhetoric to feel part of a tribe, to feel connected to something bigger than themselves. Insecure men abuse their power to quell their ache for meaning, fulfillment, and contentment that secure attachment could provide. Wounded and disenfranchised women find agency in the pugilism of their red-hat or rainbow-haired movements.

So, the connection I’ve experienced with safe hearts feels like an antidote or an exception. I need them more and more as a large swath of a nation without them rages, dehumanizing others. And I wish other thirsty souls would find this mitigating luxury. As my government murders bearers of God’s image on video or sexually assaults them behind barbed wire, I pray every perpetrator of violence gets wooed out of their dogma, befriended out of their hatred, and loved out of their brokenness.

 And may those cheering for them experience the same!

Today, my only living grandparent turns 90. Grampa Boberg still has a stronger handshake than I do. He has earned that grip across 70+ years of building and rebuilding things. He took great pride in his work, and that dedication has shown through his finished construction projects and restored tractors.

The grandfather who asked the world to call him “Pete” has long challenged my assumptions, the religious ecosystems of my youth, and even the way my clients make their money. And I’m here for those robust conversations—with him and others.

I enjoyed most the early morning discussions, where he sipped coffee between long, deep breaths. I felt accomplished when his querulous eyebrows gave way to hearty laughter at an impromptu punchline (mine or his).

My last couple of visits to his former house on Burns Hill gifted me with his respect and curiosity. Maybe it’s because I’m now older than he was when he became my granddad. Maybe it’s because he sees me differentiating myself from the son-in-law he never fully trusted. I don’t know.

But if I make it to 90, I hope the people who celebrate my birthday can point out that I was a builder and a restorer of sorts. I won’t have buildings or machines that showcase my handiwork. Instead, I hope I will have helped people find (1) courage to do scary/hard things, (2) redemption of their pain, or (3) a safe ear for their confessions of doubt, sorrow, insecurity, or disillusionment.

When the news of this weekend’s winter storm hit, I thought:
• I should probably bring the snowblower up from the basement.
• We probably won’t have church this weekend.
• I hope my wife can make it home from the airport Saturday night.

This is how my daughter responded:
“omg what are all the homeless people gonna do ?! please pray for them ”

We are inundated with headlines of insecure people in power leveraging cruelty when targeting the categories of people Jesus said were his litmus test of the church: the hungry, the thirsty, the foreigner, the poor, the sick, and the imprisoned (Matthew 25). Church people and government agencies in my social media feeds have both celebrated the violence while quoting Bible verses or referencing Bible stories. That blasphemy doesn’t make me question my faith or see Jesus any differently, but it makes me consider every week if this American religion aligns with Christ’s words.

That dark cloud is lined with the Savior’s empathy, emphasis, and example that breaks through from hearts like my daughter’s. Today, she reminded me of what Jesus told the religious leaders of his day were his only two commandments: love God with a full heart, and love your neighbor as yourself.

Today, my wife distributed backpacks filled with school supplies to Nicaraguan elementary students who look like the children that masked, flak-jacketed agents have either abducted into black SUVs or pepper-sprayed in their car seats.

Injustice is everywhere. Hatred hides behind policies. Darkness looms like the clouds that are about to dump snow, sleet, and freezing rain on my driveway.

But compassion is, too.

For every racist who repeatedly knees citizens in the face, there’s a soft heart doing what it can. For every bulletproof-vested bully who racially profiles veterans, off-duty police officers, and students, there’s a sacrificially generous servant. For every Christian nationalist justifying their government’s injustice, there’s someone whose first response to a hurting soul is “please pray for them ”