Jean, a Senior Saint and family friend, asked the question while I was visiting my dad’s church in Tullahoma, TN, last year: “Steve, next February, would you be willing to speak to a group I’m a member of?”

“Sure, Jean, I’d be happy to. February looks clear. Just email me the details.”

When I’m asked to speak to a group and my calendar is clear, I always say yes. I’ve spoken about my Appalachian Trail hike and the lessons I learned over 40 times in the past few years. I’ve shared my insights at churches, schools, children’s homes, community centers, colleges, and camps across a dozen states. Audiences have ranged from 10 people to several hundred, from 3rd graders to really old people.

I’m invited not because I’m eloquent but because I don’t charge a fee and people are interested in my hike. I accept the invitations because I’m blessed to have the opportunity to share a unique perspective on my AT journey and corresponding faith journey. The AT hike gives me an excuse to talk about God to people who might otherwise not be interested. I realize this season won’t last forever—the invitations will eventually stop coming. So, for this season, I always say yes.

That brings me to Jean’s invitation.

“I want you to speak at the February 4th meeting of the Highland Rim Chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society.”
“Head and neck people?”
“No, that’s otolaryngology. I’m talking ornithology.”
“Insects?”
“No, birds. We’re bird people.”
“Birds? I don’t know anything about birds.”
“Yes, but you hiked the AT.”
“I don’t recall seeing any birds.”
“You hiked over 2000 miles in the woods and didn’t see any birds?”
“Not that I recall. I heard one or two fluttering in nearby bushes. I’m sure there were others, but I was looking down, watching where I was going.”
“Hmm. Maybe that’s okay. I’ve heard you speak and I think they would appreciate what you have to say. You sure you didn’t encounter any birds?”
“Well, I don’t know if this qualifies, but at an all-you-can-eat buffet in Atkins, I ate 7 or 8 pieces of fried chicken.”
“Chicken? We can work with that.”

For the first time in 4 years, I got a little nervous about an upcoming speaking gig. What was I going to say to bird people? Aside from feathers and the ability to fly, I know almost nothing about birds. As for experience, in the late 90s, two birds pooped on my youngest son, Kyle, within a span of 30 minutes. He teared up and his mom comforted him while I laughed. But that was while waiting to board a boat at the San Antonio Riverwalk, not on the AT. I’m not sure that was the kind of bird insight these people were looking for. And, with the venue being less than a mile from the Jack Daniel’s Distillery, would the audience even be sober?

Unsettled, I went to my friend, Valerie, a kind person, mother of 4, wife of 1, and bird lover. Valerie is into birds big-time. She identifies, counts, and photographs them. She bathes her children in a birdbath—except for Eli, who’s a male teenager. Valerie doesn’t just sit in the pew in front of us at church—she nests. While others affirm the preacher with a hearty “Amen!” Valerie squawks. On a jog in Alcoa this past summer, I spotted her standing by a pond, staring into the sky with binoculars. Birds energize her in much the same way that an RC Cola and moon pie energize me. Yes, I would approach Valerie for advice.

“Hey, Valerie, I need a favor. I’m speaking to an ortho…, ornith…, to some bird people in Lynchburg next week. Can you help?”
“What do you know about birds?”
“I’ve had fried chicken.”
“I see. Are you the only thing on the agenda?”
“No, I’m right before ‘great backyard bird counts’ and a ‘Woodcock display outing’.”
“Woodcocks are awesome!”
“You bet they are!” (She wasn’t going to out-enthusiasm me.)
“Seriously, let me show you the funky American Woodcock dance.”
(She pulls out her phone and orders up a video of an American Woodcock dancing.)
“That is awesome! What a crazy head bob!”
“It’s a courtship display.”
“I know that. I used it myself in college.”
“So, when you’re talking about the AT, just work in a little Woodcock dancing.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll bob and weave and keep moving. I’m so glad I came to you.”

Later that evening…
“Hon, what are you doing?”
“Practicing the Woodcock dance.”
“The what?”
“The Woodcock dance. It’s a mating ritual. What do you think?”
“We’re past that. Just come to bed.”
(What does Jan know about birds!)

So, yesterday, I drove to Lynchburg to talk to mostly strangers about God, the AT, and birds. I was greeted warmly by Jean and hubby Darrell, then approached by an elderly woman with the aura of a bird club matriarch. She introduced herself and told me she was 86 years old…

I replied, “Wow, I bet you’ve seen a lot of birds!” (Not a great opening line. Should have led with the woodchuck.)
“Oh, yes indeed.”
“What are your favorite birds?” (My small talk skills are legendary.)
“Well, that’s a tough one. I enjoy the wren…although it’s so small. Hard to spot.”
“Yes, tiny, but cute.”
“And, of course, the reticulated woodpecker.”
“Of course. The way it reticulates reminds me of my favorite bird, the woodchuck.”

She gave me an odd look and then we were mercifully interrupted by the announcement that it was time for dinner. I joined 25 of the sweetest Tennesseans you’ll ever meet for a delightful meal featuring nuts and seeds. During the meal, I learned that on their latest bird count for the Audubon Society, they had reported an impressive 76 species and 3,706 birds. These people take birding seriously.

As I stood to prepare to speak, I did a little Woodcock dance as an ice-breaker/attention-getting step.

Dead silence. Tough crowd.

“You okay?” a man asked.
“Yeah, just got a little crick in my neck. Long drive.”
“Maybe use a chair?”
“No, I’m good.”

For the next 45 minutes, I talked to these dear people about God, the AT, and birds. For the bird portion, I used a picture of a nest with 4 eggs in it, which I had taken while on the AT in Grayson Highlands, Virginia. The excitement in their eyes I had hoped for may have been diminished by their familiarity with nests and eggs.

More positively, I mentioned a “distraction display” that I had witnessed on the trail a few times, where a bird will fly away from its nest and flap its wings, feigning injury, to distract a predator from its nest. A few in the audience nodded in understanding and approval. They were essentially acknowledging my bird swag. For one special moment, I was one with the audience—birds of a feather. I spent the rest of my allotted time talking to them about God and the AT, and then I drove home.

In 1 Corinthians 9:20-22, Paul said, and I’m paraphrasing…

• I became like a Jew to win the Jews
• I became like one under the law to win those under the law
• I became like one not having the law to win those not having the law
• I became weak to win the weak
• “I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.”

I’m not a bird guy. I’m not eloquent. I’m certainly not Paul.

But when the February 4th 2020 minutes of the meeting of the Highland Rim Chapter of the Tennessee Ornithological Society are written, may they state: On a rainy night at the Moore County Building in Lynchburg, Tennessee, the unqualified and not-entirely-confident Fob W. Pot became a bird guy, though not a bird guy, to try to win some bird guys.

What can you become?

What unfamiliar or uncomfortable environment can you enter to reach someone?