Everybody, Always

Everybody, Always Plot Summary

Introduction

The sun was setting over a small coastal town as a group of strangers gathered on the beach. They'd never met before, but were drawn together by a simple invitation chalked on a community board: "Join us to hear stories of unexpected love." As they formed a circle in the sand, an elderly man began to speak about how his greatest enemy became his dearest friend. One by one, others shared their own tales of transformation – moments when they chose love over fear, forgiveness over resentment, and presence over perfection. What united these diverse narratives wasn't dramatic circumstances but ordinary people making extraordinary choices to extend grace beyond comfortable boundaries. This collection of transformative stories reminds us that love isn't just something we feel or find – it's something we become. In a world that often encourages us to draw smaller circles of belonging, these accounts challenge us to widen our embrace to include the difficult, the different, and even the seemingly unlovable. Through compelling personal experiences, we discover that genuine love isn't just about expressing warm feelings toward those who are easy to care for, but actively choosing to see the humanity in everyone we encounter. As we journey through these narratives, we'll witness how small acts of courage and moments of authentic connection can create ripples of grace that extend far beyond our immediate circumstances.

Chapter 1: Encountering the Unexpected: The Paths of Transformation

The young man sat in the driver's seat of the yellow pickup truck, gripping the steering wheel at ten and two like he'd been taught in driver's education. There was only one problem – this wasn't his truck. When Bob approached his vehicle after work, he found this homeless stranger comfortably settled inside. The doors were unlocked, as they had been for months since the locks stopped working along with most other features of the aging truck. Instead of reacting with anger, Bob tapped gently on the window. The man looked up, waved, then rolled down the window and asked with complete sincerity, "Can I take you somewhere?" "Not today," Bob replied, opening the door to let him out. The man swung his legs over, stood straight beside Bob, crisply patted him twice on the shoulder as if Bob were his valet, and walked away whistling. This unexpected encounter wasn't a one-time occurrence. For months afterward, Bob would find the same man in his truck at the end of each workday. Their ritual became something of a changing of the guard – a wordless exchange of space between two people who needed something from each other. One day, Bob returned to find his truck vacant but trashed – empty beer bottles, half-smoked cigarettes, and garbage scattered across the floor. The homeless man was nowhere to be seen. Bob immediately understood why: shame had driven him away. Shame does that to us all. It makes us leave safe places. It breaks the rhythms we've established with each other. It mutes our life and our love. It's the pickpocket of our confidence. Later, when the truck was stolen and eventually recovered, Bob decided he didn't want it anymore. It barely ran after years of neglect – he'd never changed the oil in 120,000 miles. With some distance, he realized how messed up it truly was. Like many relationships in our lives, sometimes we don't recognize how broken something is until we step away from it. Jesus told a story about a father and a lost son that parallels this experience. When the son in Jesus' story returned home after squandering everything, his father ran toward him in celebration rather than judgment. The son didn't let shame dictate his future – he returned to the relationship. And his father wasn't counting all the ways his son had failed; he was simply delighted they were together again. This is the invitation extended to all of us – to find our way back to the people we've loved and who have loved us, to reconnect with God when we've lost our way. The beauty of transformation isn't found in avoiding all mistakes, but in refusing to let shame define our identity. When we embrace the grace that says we're more than our worst decisions, we create space for others to experience that same liberating truth in our presence.

Chapter 2: Unafraid to Love: Facing Enemies with Grace

In Northern Uganda, amid the aftermath of a twenty-five-year civil war, Bob found himself pursuing an unprecedented case against a witch doctor named Kabi. The head witch doctor in his region, Kabi had abducted an eight-year-old boy named Charlie, viciously attacked him, and left him for dead. Unlike other victims of such attacks, Charlie survived. For the first time in Uganda's history, they had both a living victim and an arrested witch doctor – creating the opportunity for a landmark case. The trial proceeded despite threats against the judge and others involved. Charlie, just eight years old, demonstrated remarkable courage as he stood in the courtroom, pointed directly at Kabi, and said, "That's the man who tried to kill me." His testimony was unwavering as he detailed the horrific attack. The court eventually delivered a guilty verdict. When the judge signed the order condemning Kabi to life imprisonment, he broke his pen and threw it off the table, declaring: "What's been done today will never be undone." News of this first-ever conviction of a witch doctor spread throughout Uganda, sending a powerful message about accountability. But something unexpected happened in Bob's heart afterward. Despite his satisfaction with justice being served, he felt a darkness when thinking about Kabi. He recalled Jesus's challenging words about loving enemies – not just agreeable neighbors, but those who are most difficult to love. Could this command possibly extend to someone as evil as Kabi? It seemed impossible, yet the discomfort persisted. Eventually, Bob visited Kabi in Luzira Maximum Security Prison, one of the most fearsome places on earth. When Kabi entered the meeting room, he dropped to one knee and expressed remorse for what he had done to Charlie. Then he said something stunning: "I know I'm going to die in here. What I really need is forgiveness." His words hung in the air. Forgiveness? For a witch doctor who had attempted child sacrifice? Every instinct in Bob screamed against it. Yet in that moment, something shifted. Instead of seeing only a monster, Bob glimpsed a criminal hanging on a cross next to Jesus – one to whom Jesus might say, "Today you will be with me in paradise." Their conversation turned to family, to what mattered most to each of them, and eventually to faith. By the end of their meeting, Kabi expressed his desire to put his life in Jesus's hands. Later, Bob witnessed Kabi speaking to three thousand fellow inmates in the prison courtyard. Despite Kabi's garbled theology and halting delivery, the power of their standing together – not as enemies but as brothers – communicated something profound about transformation. When Kabi finished speaking, he turned to Bob, took his hands, looked him in the eyes and said with strength and kindness, "Bob, I forgive you." The statement stunned Bob. How could this convicted criminal forgive him? Yet in that prison courtyard moment, he understood something essential about love's transformative power: We often focus on loving those who are easy to love, but our greatest spiritual growth comes when we extend grace to those who seem least deserving. True transformation isn't just about changing our enemies – it's about what happens within us when we dare to see the humanity in those we once despised.

Chapter 3: Presence Over Perfection: Life's Overlooked Lessons

Adrian worked for the TSA, standing at the front of the airport security line in San Diego. Day after day, he checked IDs while absorbing the frustration of harried travelers. Standing five-foot-nothing on his tiptoes and weighing less than a bag of chips, Adrian nonetheless possessed a sturdy presence born of tireless work. What caught Bob's attention during his frequent travels was how Adrian treated each person with the same quiet respect and sincere kindness, regardless of their mood or manner. One day, after observing Adrian for weeks, Bob reached the front of the line and extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Bob. I've passed by you a dozen times and I just wanted to thank you for the way you treat each person in line. It's really amazing. The way you treat people reminds me a lot of the way Jesus loved." Adrian looked up slowly, his eyes welling with tears. Without a word, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Bob, resting his head against his chest. "I'm Adrian," he said into Bob's sweater. It was awkward, standing there embracing while 150 impatient travelers watched, but this moment marked the beginning of a profound friendship. Over subsequent trips through security, they built their relationship three minutes at a time. Bob learned about Adrian's wife Patricia, their children, and Adrian's dream of buying a small house. He discovered Adrian spent weekends swirling advertising signs on street corners to earn extra money for a down payment. When Adrian finally found and purchased his dream home, he beamed with pride as he shared the news. Their families began spending holidays together, and Adrian gave Bob a double-matted photograph of the main library in Mexico City, telling him all the books there couldn't contain what he had been learning about God. One day, Bob called Adrian's phone and Patricia answered with devastating news: "Adrian's gone." He had suffered a fatal stroke in the airport parking lot after work. There had been no warning, no reason – it just happened. Though heartbroken, Bob realized Adrian had taught him something invaluable about authentic presence. "I used to think it would take a lifetime to become someone's friend," Bob reflected, "but now I think we do it just three minutes at a time." Adrian never seemed confused about his identity. In a world where many project curated versions of themselves, Adrian was simply a man who loved God, loved his family, and loved the next person standing in front of him. He didn't need social media validation or attention; he found fulfillment in genuine connection. His life exemplified Jesus's teaching that people would know Him not by elaborate theological arguments but by how His followers loved one another. The beauty of Adrian's approach to relationships reveals an often-overlooked truth about meaningful connection: It doesn't require grand gestures or perfect circumstances – just intentional presence in small moments. When we're fully attentive to the person before us, seeing them not as an interruption but as an opportunity for grace, we participate in something sacred. Three minutes might seem insignificant, but when offered with sincerity and consistency, these brief encounters can form bridges of understanding that span the deepest divides in our human experience.

Chapter 4: Ordinary Moments, Extraordinary Impact: The Power of Showing Up

Bob's neighbor, Carol, had become an integral part of their family over the years. When the children were young, they would run across the street to show her their art projects or tell her stories. Carol would listen with genuine wonder, begging them to tell more while feeding them mountains of cookies. What started as a simple neighborly relationship deepened into something far more meaningful over the decades. When Carol was diagnosed with cancer, their connection took on new dimensions. Bob rushed to RadioShack and bought two walkie-talkies, placing one beside Carol's bed and the other next to his own. Something magical happens when you communicate through walkie-talkies – you're both instantly transformed into nine-year-olds. No one has cancer, nobody is alone, and no one is terrified anymore. Their houses became like tree forts; walkie-talkies were the tin cans connected by string. For two years, Carol and Bob talked this way. The walkie-talkies didn't fix her cancer, but something more profound occurred – she wasn't afraid anymore. During Carol's battle with cancer, Bob discovered new ways to show up for his friend. When she confessed she'd never toilet-papered anyone's house, they grabbed rolls of toilet paper and decorated a neighbor's trees – even as police drove by. When she craved a specific type of hot dog, Bob searched a dozen stores until he found the exact brand. When she grew too weak to attend their neighborhood's annual New Year's Day parade, the entire community changed the route to pass through her front yard. Hundreds of people pressed their noses against her window, waved, and bounced balloons while Carol, through her tears, lifted her weak hand to blow each one kisses goodbye. A few days later, she passed away. Carol's battle with cancer revealed a powerful truth: childlike faith often allows us to overcome fears that would otherwise paralyze us. Jesus told His friends that unless they changed and became like children, they would never enter the kingdom of God. Children have mastered what most adults are just beginners at – they aren't afraid of what they don't know because their curiosity outpaces their fears. Three words stand out in the Bible that capture this truth: Be. Not. Afraid. God whispered these words to Joshua, shouted them to Abram, and Jesus spoke them confidently to frightened fishermen in a storm. The difference between those who live courageously and those who remain paralyzed by fear isn't the absence of uncertainty – it's what they allow to call the shots in their lives. People who are becoming love experience the same uncertainties we all do; they just stop letting fear determine their choices. They move from merely wishing things would get better to bearing up under whatever circumstances they face. When we're not afraid and engage the world with childlike faith, the people around us won't be afraid either. Hope and courage spread like a good kind of contagion, creating communities where vulnerability is met with grace rather than judgment. Carol's story reminds us that showing up consistently for one another – in mundane moments and crisis alike – is the essence of love in action. It's not our eloquent words or grand gestures that ultimately matter, but our willingness to be present with each other through whatever life brings. When we choose to walk alongside others through their deepest valleys, we don't just ease their journey – we discover new dimensions of love within ourselves that transform how we navigate our own challenges.

Chapter 5: Beyond Comfort: Finding Purpose in Difficult Places

The phone rang with an invitation to speak at a national conference for Christian radio broadcasters at Disney World. When Bob arrived at the Orlando airport, he was surprised to find a limousine driver holding a sign with his name. Though initially hesitant, he decided to enjoy the unexpected luxury ride. During their drive, Bob struck up a conversation with the driver, learning that after twenty-five years of service, the man was retiring the following month. As they neared their destination, Bob had a sudden inspiration. "Hey buddy, have you ever ridden in the back of one of these limos? I bet you'd love it!" The driver laughed, saying "Of course not. I'd get fired." Bob persisted: "You're retiring anyway. Pull over!" Remarkably, the driver complied. They swapped places – the driver settling into the spacious back seat while Bob donned the chauffeur's hat and took the wheel. When they reached Disney World, Bob opened the door for his temporary passenger, pinned a medal on his chest, and said, "You're brave. You're courageous. You're foolhardy! Did you see how I took that last turn?" This playful role reversal reflects a profound spiritual principle: sometimes we need to break out of established patterns to experience the fullness of what God intends. Too often, we construct metaphorical castles in our lives – impressive structures designed to showcase our accomplishments and protect what we've accumulated. We surround these castles with moats to keep "creepy people" out. But Jesus didn't call His followers to build castles; He invited them to build a kingdom. And there's a fundamental difference between the two. Castles have moats to keep unwanted people away, but kingdoms have bridges to welcome everyone in. Castles have dungeons for those who mess up, but kingdoms offer grace. Castles are populated by people who look, think, and act alike, while kingdoms celebrate diversity and difference. Jesus taught that the kingdom of God grows not through exclusion but through radical inclusion – drawing ever-widening circles that bring more people into community. God knows we're easily confused and often wayward, yet He pursues us with love anyway. He wants us to see people as He does – not from the top floor of our fortified castles but from the ground level of grace. When we're willing to step out of our customary roles and comfortable perspectives, we create opportunities for authentic connection that transcend the artificial barriers we construct. The limousine story illustrates how sometimes the most meaningful exchanges happen when we're willing to upend conventional expectations. By allowing the driver to experience what had always been just inches away yet perpetually out of reach, Bob created a moment of joy and affirmation that communicated value more effectively than words alone could have. Similarly, when we invite those on the margins into places of honor and dignity, we participate in the kingdom-building work Jesus described. People who are becoming love don't define themselves by titles, accomplishments, or social standing. They measure their lives by how effectively they communicate worth to others, especially those society often overlooks. They understand that our highest calling isn't to impress others with our importance but to reflect Jesus by creating moments where everyone feels seen, known, and valued. This kingdom perspective transforms how we engage with every person we encounter, inviting us to ask not "What can this person do for me?" but rather "How can I honor the image of God I see in them?"

Chapter 6: When Forgiveness Seems Impossible: Charlie and Kabi's Story

The courthouse in Northern Uganda was surrounded by armed soldiers as the precedent-setting trial began. Inside, Kabi, the head witch doctor of the region, sat in chains while the prosecution prepared to make their case. Bob had traveled back and forth for months to prepare for this historic moment – the first time in Uganda's history that a witch doctor would face justice for child sacrifice. On the witness stand stood eight-year-old Charlie, who had survived Kabi's brutal attack. With remarkable courage, Charlie pointed directly at Kabi and declared, "That's the man who tried to kill me." The courtroom fell silent as everyone witnessed the bravery of this small boy facing his attacker. Charlie detailed what had happened without flinching. After days of testimony, the judge delivered a guilty verdict, condemning Kabi to life imprisonment. It was a watershed moment for the country – justice had been served, and a powerful message sent that such crimes would no longer go unpunished. After the trial, an unexpected struggle began in Bob's heart. While justice had been served, he felt darkness whenever he thought about Kabi. He recalled Jesus's challenging words about loving enemies, not just agreeable neighbors. Could this command possibly extend to someone who had committed such evil? Against his every instinct, Bob eventually visited Kabi in Luzira Maximum Security Prison. When Kabi entered the meeting room, he knelt and expressed remorse. Then he said something stunning: "I know I'm going to die in here. What I really need is forgiveness." The request seemed impossible to grant – how could anyone forgive such horrific actions? Yet in that moment, Bob glimpsed something beyond his own capacity for grace – he saw a criminal like the one who hung beside Jesus on the cross, receiving the words, "Today you will be with me in paradise." Their conversation turned to family and faith. Over subsequent visits, a transformation became evident in Kabi's life as he embraced a new spiritual path. Eventually, Bob witnessed Kabi addressing three thousand fellow inmates in the prison courtyard about his changed life. When Kabi finished speaking, he turned to Bob, took his hands, and said with strength and kindness, "Bob, I forgive you." The statement stunned Bob completely. How could this convicted criminal forgive him? In that moment, he realized that Kabi wasn't just speaking words; he was practicing what he had learned about Jesus's teachings on loving enemies. Kabi knew that if Bob was his enemy, he couldn't be perfect like his Father in heaven unless he extended forgiveness – the very thing he desperately needed himself. Meanwhile, Charlie's path of healing continued. After the trial, Bob connected Charlie with Randy, a skilled surgeon from Los Angeles who offered to perform reconstructive surgery free of charge. The operation was successful beyond expectations, giving Charlie hope for a more normal future. During his recovery, Bob took Charlie to climb Mount Kilimanjaro – the boy's chosen destination for his "ten-year-old birthday adventure." Though Charlie didn't reach the summit, he climbed higher than Mount Rainier – an extraordinary achievement for a child who had endured such trauma. This intertwined story of Charlie and Kabi illustrates a profound truth about forgiveness: it often begins as an impossibility. Our natural instinct is to categorize people as either deserving or undeserving of grace based on their actions. Yet Jesus challenged this binary thinking by demonstrating love toward those society deemed unforgivable. The revolutionary message of grace is that our worst day isn't bad enough to disqualify us from receiving it, and our best day isn't good enough to earn it. Charlie's courage to face his attacker and Kabi's unexpected journey toward redemption reveal how forgiveness creates possibilities where none seemed to exist. Their story reminds us that transformation isn't just about changing our enemies – it's about what happens within us when we dare to see the humanity in those we once despised. When we participate in this difficult work, we don't merely extend forgiveness to others; we experience a profound liberation ourselves.

Chapter 7: Small Acts of Courage: Building Kingdoms Not Castles

In the aftermath of Charlie's case, Bob made an unprecedented decision – he started meeting with witch doctors. Sending word through the bush radio in Northern Uganda, he announced that the honorary consul required all witch doctors to gather at the king's hut. Though they weren't actually required to come, hundreds responded to the summons. Some arrived carrying dolls that resembled Bob, sticking pins in them while he spoke. Before these gatherings, Bob would set up sting operations in villages, posing as a wealthy businessman and asking local witch doctors if they would help find children for sacrifice. Invariably, they offered to do so for just thirty dollars. During the meetings, he would show these recordings to warn them of the consequences they faced. But then, something remarkable would happen – after frightening them with the prospect of prison, Bob would kneel and wash their feet. Both parties were equally uncomfortable with this act of humility, but it created an opening for something new. The most surprising development came when one witch doctor leader explained their greatest need: "People think we have power, so they want us around, but they don't really like us, so we're very isolated. Most of us don't even know how to read or write." Recognizing an opportunity, Bob started a witch doctor school. The curriculum wasn't about enhancing their magical practices – it was about basic literacy, using only two textbooks: the Bible and Love Does. Hundreds enrolled, and many graduated with government-recognized certificates of literacy. At the graduation ceremonies, Bob would hold each witch doctor's face between his hands, kiss them on the forehead, and whisper both affirmation and warning. The combination of compassion and clear boundaries created a powerful context for transformation. What began as an adversarial relationship evolved into something neither side could have anticipated – a community where former enemies could experience acceptance while moving toward a different future. One night, Bob received a midnight call from two witch doctors who had attended the school. They reported that a child had been abducted by a new witch doctor in the area for sacrifice. "Should we go get the child?" they asked. Bob immediately encouraged them to rescue the boy. Four hours later, he received a text message: "We've rescued the child. He's with his mother." And moments later, another message that simply read: "Love does." This extraordinary outcome highlights the difference between building castles and building kingdoms. Castles are constructed to protect what we already have – our status, comfort, and security. They keep unwanted people out and maintain clear hierarchies of power. Kingdoms, by contrast, expand through inclusion rather than exclusion. They grow not by accumulating resources but by distributing them, not by maintaining barriers but by removing them. Jesus taught His followers to build a kingdom where the last would be first, where leaders would serve, and where enemies would be loved. This approach seems counterintuitive in a world that values achievement, accumulation, and clear boundaries between "us" and "them." Yet the witch doctor school demonstrates how this kingdom perspective creates possibilities for transformation that would never emerge from a castle mindset. The rescue of the child represents the culmination of a remarkable journey – former perpetrators of violence becoming protectors of the vulnerable. This outcome wasn't achieved through condemnation alone, nor through permissiveness that ignored real harm. Instead, it emerged from a challenging middle path that held both justice and mercy in tension, that offered both clear boundaries and genuine acceptance. Our world is filled with seemingly intractable conflicts and divisions that appear impossible to bridge. Yet these stories remind us that transformation often begins with small acts of courage – the willingness to enter difficult spaces, to see humanity in those we fear, to offer dignity to those who have caused harm. When we build kingdoms instead of castles, we create communities where grace can flow freely, where identities aren't fixed by past actions, and where enemies can become allies in creating a more compassionate world.

Summary

The tapestry of stories woven throughout this journey reveals a profound truth: love isn't something we merely experience or express – it's someone we become. Through encounters with homeless strangers in yellow trucks, terminally ill neighbors with walkie-talkies, prison inmates seeking forgiveness, and witch doctors learning to read, we witness how love transforms both the giver and receiver. These narratives collectively demonstrate that our capacity to love grows not by avoiding difficulty but by moving toward it with courage, grace, and unwavering presence. The path of becoming love requires us to transcend comfortable boundaries and conventional wisdom. It invites us to build kingdoms rather than castles, to measure success not by what we accumulate but by whom we include. When we stop keeping score of wrongs and start celebrating progress, when we trade judgment for curiosity and fear for compassion, we participate in the revolutionary work Jesus described. The journey isn't about perfection – it's about progress, about falling forward and bumping into grace all over again. As we practice loving everybody always – especially those who are difficult to love – we discover that we're no longer who we used to be. Our failures and setbacks don't disqualify us from this transformation; they become the very terrain where love proves its power to restore, redeem, and recreate us into vessels of grace for a world desperate for authentic connection.

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Bob Goff

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