My forthcoming memoir is not just about young men. It’s about friendship, which I believe applies to any age and any gender. That said, the stories of my childhood friend group are boyhood tales, and this has led me to reflect a lot on the state of young men today. I assume that readers of 2000 Miles to Wrigley will end up thinking about it too.

If this quest piques your interest, you can follow it more closely on Patreon!

This is why my buddy Pike and I made our way to Tucson’s Dunbar Center, where a local nonprofit called Boys to Men (a great name, in the opinion of this ’90s R&B fan) hosted a screening of Gone Guys. The 45-minute documentary builds on the work of Richard Reeves to make the case that our society needs to pay attention to the needs of boys, who are struggling in school, in relationships, and with substance abuse and suicide.

The film is well executed and persuasively demonstrates that boys need attention. The experts and young men featured in the rural Vermont setting truly feel like representatives of our society as a whole. The panel discussion here in Tucson affirmed that, although the culture and setting couldn’t be more different, the challenges are similar. This seems to be at least a nationwide phenomenon. The film seemed to emphasize the issues and potential solutions for helping young men academically, though it also named many other concerns.

One of the most memorable portions of the film comes when a question is posed: “What is healthy masculinity?” The experts in the film not only struggled to give a cohesive answer, but the majority of them struggled to provide an answer at all. When they did share their thoughts, they were quick to note that they were uncomfortable applying the concept only to boys. I found this strange, since the film was overtly about guys and their needs. The filmmaker drew out this portion of the film because it clearly stood out as one of the problems we face. We have data that says boys need help, but we feel uncomfortable naming what that help would achieve. My buddy Eric and I took time to discuss this specific issue at length on our podcast, in case you want to take a deep dive into it.

Here, though, I want to address the film’s final thought, why it made me sad, and what my road trip experience in 2000 Miles to Wrigley taught me about the topic.

The final scene of the film features a young man who admits to feeling like he has no hope but has found something he can succeed at: lifting weights and getting ripped. The film celebrates this — that this young man has found something to live for. He’s found something he can control. Here, I believe the filmmakers reveal just how far they are from understanding what it means to be a man. If this young man experiences an injury or — I hate to even bring this up — gets old and can’t get any fitter, then he’s lost his hope and no longer has his purpose. I think that a healthy man does not look for what he can control but learns to be under control in a chaotic world.

One of the most important hurdles I had to face in embarking on this journey to explore friendship with other people was the fact that I could not control the story. I could not make people go. I could not plan my way through all of the variables. I could not guarantee that people would have a good time, that we’d watch a memorable baseball game, or, most of all, that I could manufacture any outcomes around the very topic I wanted to explore. I couldn’t make my friendships improve. All I could do was show up and try. I was faced with being out of control, moving into chaos, and hoping to experience resonance.

The film left me wondering whether we’ve confused purpose with control.

Dr. Andy Root got me thinking about resonance by introducing me to the thoughts of the German sociologist Hartmut Rosa. Rosa critiques our modern age, in which we are obsessed with controlling outcomes. He believes that the human heart longs for resonance, an experience that control actually short-circuits. Resonance, he says, is like the experience of falling asleep. The more you try to control it, the less likely it is to happen. The trip that became the subject of my story is an example of moving into chaos, hoping for resonance, and receiving a gift. The camaraderie and connection that happened along the way are gifts that I received, not outcomes I produced. This trip made me a better man.

Life is not something we can control, but it is something we must move forward into with hope. I hope that many more of our “gone guys” will discover that there’s far more to life than what they can control and that they’ll take the great risks of moving into what can bring their souls alive. I assume the makers of this film have done just that in producing a film and sharing it with the world. For that, I applaud them.

• Andy Littleton - Memoir on friendship - in process!
• Andy Littleton - Pastor, Writer, Small Buisness Owner, Podcaster
• The Little Man: A Father's Legacy Of Smallness

What Gone Guys Gets Right — and What It Misses About Manhood was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Since Justin Bieber sang his song Everything Hallelujah at the “water break” of the World Cup, the Christian community has been very excited. Seeing famous people do things relatable to our faith is really nice, and it feels like we can borrow some boldness from them. I want to suggest, though, that Justin Bieber wasn’t primarily trying to be overt about his faith commitments. I think what we’re seeing from him exhibits two things he understands as someone who’s grown up famous. As fans, observers, and people who desire to represent God’s kingdom in the world, I think we can glean a lot more from what he understands than from our perception of him as a prototype of evangelical bravery.

So, what does Justin understand?

1. He understands that expectations are killer.

The two things Bieber did at the World Cup are not new for him. The faith thing isn’t new at all. I was a middle school youth director when he first became famous and released his debut album, My World, after being discovered on YouTube. I remember a girl in my youth group showing me that you could download a Bible study endorsed by him. This was 2009, and a couple years later the famous kid would have a book written about him: Belieber! Faith, Fame, and the Heart of Justin Bieber. Christianity seems to have been part of the mix for Justin from before he became well known and started hanging out with Carl Lentz. His faith didn’t keep him from some of the troubles that fame and fortune lead you into, just as it didn’t for Lentz, his pastor at Hillsong.

The stripped-down performance — singing along with an acoustic guitar while dressed like a dude who’d been chillin’ on the couch all day — wasn’t new either. His 2026 Coachella performance had a similar feel: very stripped down, with him clicking on a laptop, embracing and acknowledging imperfections, and singing along to YouTube videos of his younger self rather than performing with the most dynamic band or DJ he could find. That show was his first in a while after dealing with partial facial paralysis due to Ramsay Hunt syndrome. That wasn’t his first rodeo with health issues — bacterial infections, chronic mono, and the likely effects of past drug use, to name a few. In light of all those struggles, and the fact that he doesn’t need the money, it’s clear that he’s made a choice to present himself in a different way.

To some degree, we do know why.

If there’s something Justin Bieber has learned over the years, it’s that there’s no level of performance he can provide that will shield him from criticism or the pain of rejection when he’s not OK. So, part of his new persona is to cut out the pressure to be the best and most impressive version of himself. Of course, his fame and established career make it possible for him to do this and still get a lot of attention, but that doesn’t make the principle any less true.

If there’s any group of Christians who need to learn from this, it’s pastors, entrepreneurs, and the new swell of Christian influencers who are trying to present themselves as amazing, competent, or so vulnerable that they stand out from the digital crowd. These folks, by nature of their calling (or choice to go public), will feel at least a little bit of what Bieber has felt. No amount of performance will help you when people become disappointed with you. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to do things well, but it’s a reality we do well to consider as we ask, Why am I doing all this anyway? If we’re doing it to be seen, loved, and appreciated, we may be in for a rude awakening if we’re human.

Expectations are killer. The more you perform, the higher the expectations and attention rise. Usually, that emphasis on performance also means that our hearts are getting less attention. Justin Bieber seems to understand that one way to give your heart more attention is to perform less. The song he sang at the World Cup seemed to be about attention: the attention he’s giving to the most important things in life. The attention he’s giving to God by saying, “I praise you Lord,” for each one of them.

Ironically, the same culture that expects performance is beginning to distrust it. That’s why Bieber’s second lesson may be just as important as the first.

2. He understands that people are increasingly drawn to messages that feel honest and accessible.

To me, this takeaway is huge. In an age when feeds are flooded with “AI slop,” it’s becoming novel to see something that feels real and unpolished. I think Justin Bieber knows this and that his performances are not lazy at all (though he’s been accused of that). I assume that he’s actually on the cutting edge of communicating to our culture and realizing that, to punch through the veil of slop, communicators must present themselves as real.

There are various ways to pursue the “real.” In church circles, some look for the real in the ancient and the weird. This may manifest in the new phenomenon of flocking to the local Orthodox church. This may feel like a uniquely Christian movement, but it isn’t. As one who pays attention to broad societal trends, I cannot help but see that this Christian trend coincided with architectural and aesthetic trends like maximalism (embracing the display of old and unnecessary things en masse) and “granny chic” and “yacht life” among wealthy Millennials and Gen Zers who want to feel the way they did when they hung out with their grandparents. Whatever the case, all of these movements are grasping for something real, tangible, and dependable.

Justin Bieber’s version of this is less rooted in nostalgia, which makes sense, as his life has always been lived in a spotlight. In a way, he represents those who can’t recall a time of stability or life without screen time. He isn’t drawing back to a bygone era to find the “real.” Instead, Bieber is trying to find the real in the here and now. He’s embracing that he is a product of this culture, at this time, who is flawed but trying to show up and move through life in a more honest way.

This feels applicable to those of us trying to represent faith in our time as well. The church can be chronically 10 years behind. It seems wise for us to skip right past the “AI slop” trend, which I must admit I did get drawn into for a bit, and to embrace expressions of faith that remain real and honest. I’m sure the pendulum will swing and all the trends will dissipate. I truly don’t expect the Orthodox trend, or fumbling around on stage, to last forever. That said, in an age when it’s getting really difficult to tell what’s real online, I think we can show up in simple ways and embrace the basics of life and faith. Talking about those things, and saying “praise the Lord” for them from a sincere heart, might just be what our media-saturated culture is longing for.

I think Bieber understands that.

• Andy Littleton - Pastor, Writer, Small Buisness Owner, Podcaster
• Dispatches from the Outpost
• Watch What You Say About Church

What Bieber Understands was originally published in Dispatches from the Outpost on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have written books and experienced the thrill of holding published print versions of them in my sweaty little palms, but I have not done so through an agent. That means I’ve never attempted to publish beyond small or independent presses. Today, though, I completed my first round of agent queries. So how am I feeling?

Vulnerable. Like I want to crawl into the closet and hide behind my winter coat.

From what I’ve heard, I should expect to send dozens, if not more than one hundred, queries. Most of them will be rejected, if I’m lucky enough to hear back at all. The majority of them will be skipped over and ignored. Without an agent, most established publishers won’t give you the time of day. The authors agents prefer have established careers and massive platforms of fans and followers. I have a few thousand people who might see one of my posts, and my books have sold… hundreds of copies.

Outlook? Slim chance.

So why do I bother? I can always self-publish or sign on with a small publisher that basically charges you for all its services while making you do all the promotion. I can do either of those, and I will if it comes to that. But I am choosing to “go for it” with an agent and a major publisher because I want this story to get out there as far as it can. I want that because I think friendship, especially among men, matters and that our culture needs stories that don’t just name that fact, but exhibit what one might do about it. I think we need stories of hope, which this true story has turned out to be. I think that some of the “vehicles” of this story — the VW Beetle and the Chicago Cubs — make it easier to sell without name recognition. Finally, I believe that the story and the people involved are worth the effort. With an agent and the pressure to publish at a high level, the final drafts of 2,000 Miles to Wrigley will have to be excellent. Excellent is what this story, and every friend involved, deserves.

So, if you pray, you can pray that the right agent sees my query and feels drawn to give it a chance. I’ll be over here, facing my fears, and I can use all the camaraderie I can get!

• Andy Littleton - Memoir on friendship - in process!
• The Little Man: A Father's Legacy Of Smallness
• Andy Littleton - Pastor, Writer, Small Buisness Owner, Podcaster

May I Query You? was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In February of 2006, everything was looking up. I would beat my best friend Sam to one of our goals: getting married. He played guitar at my wedding as he made plans for his own. Sam would get married, like me, at his home church in Tucson, but he would establish his new life in Denver, where his wife-to-be, Valerie, had moved to pursue her passion for long-distance running. Sam would teach, record, and perform on his beloved electric guitar.

Twenty years ago, all those plans were in motion, as were the contingent dreams. Dreams of future hangouts as couples. Dreams of family, of moving to Denver to raise children together. Dreams of artistic pursuits that would bring us all back together. Dreams of road trips and visits, in which we’d talk about the good old days when we were kids and when we were simply dreamers, not doers like we were becoming twenty years ago.

This summer, on June 29, it will have been twenty years since Sam and Valerie’s lives, full of plans and dreams, stopped short. We will remember that twenty years ago, we friends and family realized that life would never be the same. Our dreams and our plans would have to be entirely reoriented around a void, a chasm left by the absence of two people we could never have imagined living without, until we had no other choice.

This summer, I will have a story formed. That story will result from facing that chasm and refusing to dream no more. That story is one of friends who remember that life can be short and that our relationships are the most important things we have. That story reaches back into the painful loss of Sam and Valerie but also reaches into the stories that we, the living, still inhabit, and the hope we hold that keeps us in the game.

For those following along who aren’t familiar with what happened to Sam and Valerie, here are some links from twenty years ago.

• Track star, fiancé killed by wreck days before nuptials
• Briefs, 7/2
• Automobile Accident Claims Life of Two - Colorado State Athletics
• Samuel Zawada (23) and his fiancée were killed in a car crash days before their wedding - MyDeathSpace.com
• Lives Lost Too Young
• Andy Littleton - Memoir on friendship - in process!

20 Years Ago was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I remember the first — and last — time I rode The Zipper. It was a horrible experience: bodies lurching, hanging, gripping cold metal bars. The ride that appealed to my friends presented itself as daring, exciting, invigorating. Cages of whooping humans flew around and around in the night sky above us, lit up by thousands of multicolored, pulsing lights.

The experience itself was jarring and wearisome. I had no desire to do it again. I have refused to do it again many times.

The Zipper is one of many thrill rides at the county fair. The fair was once about exhibits and shows. In fact, that seemingly bygone era lives on at our county fair, back in the barns and buildings. Kids’ artwork, the miniature train society, and the historic tractors sit tucked away in the back, next to some guys who explain the “Wordless Book” version of the Bible to kids. Very few people spend their time back there. Everyone is at the light-filled, loud, chaotic area in the front with all the rides. These days, The Zipper is boring — old news. We need to fall further from the sky.

I am that old guy now. While the kids ride the rides, I walk around looking at the tractors and the artwork. I sit down and enjoy one fried Oreo. Just one, while I contemplate the meaning of it all.

It dawned on me the other day that what’s happened at the fair has happened to our lives. Slow contemplation, art, a good show — it’s all boring now. It’s too slow. It doesn’t hold our attention. At some point, as technology allowed, we all started riding the proverbial Zipper. We must always be staring at the lights, and they need to flash brighter than ever and drop us further and further out of the sky.

The strange thing is that the Zipper experience has taken over our news and our government. It’s a carnival of constant lights and noise. It demands our attention and tells us that we’re missing out if we aren’t thrashing about in its cage.

I don’t want to do it.

I don’t want the news flashed in my face all day long. I don’t want to hear everyone’s hot take on the terrible — or amazing — thing that’s happening. I don’t want to live in a constant state of overstimulation. As we study wisdom this year at Mission, I’ve found myself wondering what to do about it.

Perhaps it’s like my old experience of The Zipper. I’ve done it. It’s miserable. I don’t have to do it anymore. Maybe it’s that simple.

• Andy Littleton - Medium
• Dispatches from the Outpost

Wisdom and the Zipper was originally published in Dispatches from the Outpost on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Two conversations in the past week reminded me of something we care deeply about at Mission Church. We care about being a community known for its depth. We often phrase this in the positive: we want to think deeply and dig deep into the meaning of our Scriptures. But depth has another side. We also want to know one another deeply. We want others to see the depths of our hearts. When we do this — when we really go there — what we see is not always pretty, simple, or certain.

The first conversation was one I didn’t actually have. I did talk with Daniel — in fact, I spent an entire evening watching a blowout basketball game with him — but in the back of my mind I kept returning to the conversation he’d shared on his podcast a few days earlier. After a grueling month, my very faith-inclined and passionate friend reflected on where his mind wandered during a flurry of trials. He asked his audience, “If faith is the answer, what was your question?” He went on to ask what we hand to those who watch and participate in our lives as Christians. Do we exhibit faith or certainty? He added,

“We show them our intense, perfect confidence in the goodness of God. We show them the clarity of the truth that we hold. We show them the postures of the heart that come from living in and through the gospel in a community of believers, and we miss the part where we show them the fear, the doubts, and the uncertainty that the faith is an answer to. If you aren’t uncertain, then what exactly do you need faith for? Faith is a verb. It is a verb that answers the weakness of our heart.”

Earlier in the week, I sat down to some incredible locally brewed beers with my friend Porter. He is on a quest — a quest to find what feels like a missing part of who he is through artistic exercises. For him, this quest has a lot to do with faith, faith that once characterized generations of his family and feels buried, though deeply, in his identity. His quest brings questions, concerns, and predicaments. His feelings of inner conflict and curiosity excite and overwhelm him at the same time.

At one point he paused and said that few people he knows feel able to have these conversations with Christians, even though they want to. I asked what gets in the way. He told me that many times there is no room to be unsure. Christians often come across as if they have it all figured out, and that’s really, really hard to relate to. It just feels like there’s no room for those of us who aren’t sure.

I rarely read Young’s Literal Translation, but its rendering of Hebrews 11:1 feels both clunky and beautiful. It follows the Greek closely and invites more reflection than translations that smooth out the meaning. It reads: “And faith is of things hoped for a confidence, of matters not seen a conviction…”

“Of things hoped for…a confidence.”

“Of matters not seen…a conviction.”

Anytime you hope for something or acknowledge that you cannot see, you step into uncertainty by definition. But when faith enters the equation, it grants conviction and confidence right in the middle of that uncertainty. I think both of my friends long for that kind of faith — faith that meets them in their weakness at the ends of their quests, where the questions still linger.

Are we people who carry faith yet acknowledge that being unsure is OK? Do we have the depth of faith that lets us sit with people who live in uncertainty and look across the table and say, “I am too?”

These two friends encouraged me. Christians who show up in their uncertainty will find plenty of people who want to explore faith across the table with them.

• What We Do With Jesus: Reflections on Modern Faith through the History of Tucson's Garden of Gethsemane
• Watch What You Say About Church
• Well-Equipped Christians are Checking Out, Right when Churches Need Them Most
• Dispatches from the Outpost

Offering Uncertainty was originally published in Dispatches from the Outpost on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Perhaps your neighbor is an unbeliever.

My parents were believers.

Will your kids grow up to be believers?

Can you date an unbeliever?

Can you be friends with a believer — one who believes differently than you?

I want to challenge these categories. In fact, I want to suggest that we stop using them altogether. No more unbelievers! Everyone believes something. Everyone is on a journey. Our categories are flawed and need to be reconsidered.

Where Did They Come From?

I assume my Christian tradition has a lot to do with this — and I can understand why. Jesus talks about the necessity of believing in him. Yet he says this to people who already believed in the God of Abraham. His disciples went on to say the same to those who believed in the gods their priests and politicians tried to appease, and to those who believed that “Caesar is lord.”

These were not unbelievers; they were people who needed to transfer their belief — to place it in the one who could fulfill what their former objects of faith could not, both within themselves and in their world.

I also assume that our modern Western culture has reinforced these labels. Step by step, we’ve moved toward the assumption that faith is a personal choice rather than a human characteristic. We think that when we stop believing one thing in a certain way, we stop believing altogether. We tell ourselves that trusting our perception and instincts is not belief but unbelief. We imagine we can free ourselves from faith — that we are capable of trusting only ourselves.

But what is trust if not faith? And what is a god, if not the object of our worthship? Could our belief in ourselves mean we are believers, just like those who believe in spirits?

Why Do We Use Them?

In religious communities, these labels help us identify who is “in” and who is “out.” Of course, as we all know, belief alone is never enough. We must believe right, so we create even more labels to describe what real believing is.

But is the label “unbeliever” actually helpful? Do we ever ask what we imply about our neighbors when we use it? Did Jesus or Paul assume general unbelief among those they engaged with?

In our broader culture, we often scoff at “believers,” as if they are naïve for assuming that reality is layered and deeper than what we can see. Instead of the “who’s in vs. who’s out” mindset of religion, we adopt an “us vs. them” mentality. There are those people who believe silly things, and then there’s us — the ones who supposedly avoid the pitfalls of those beliefs and remain “neutral.”

The question we fail to ask is: what beliefs lie behind our supposed neutrality?

My Humble Suggestion

I do believe in Jesus, and I take his command to believe seriously. My argument is that he — and those he sent (the apostles) — didn’t categorize the people they engaged as unbelievers. Their starting point seems to be that their audience already believed many things, but that God’s kingdom coming in Jesus was also something to be believed in.

In other words, they invited people to believe more — or to believe in a different Savior or Lord — rather than to believe for the first time.

I think this matters because it acknowledges that both the religious and the irreligious stand on the same playing field. All must ask what it means to believe — and what it means to believe in Jesus. As a longtime Christian, it is good for me to ask whether I could believe in Jesus more deeply, to trust God through him more fully. And I would invite us to consider that our friend or neighbor, who believes other things, might be invited to do the same.

We could all benefit from asking:

• What do I believe in most ultimately?
• Could I believe more by embracing Jesus?

Perhaps this way of thinking would also be more respectful toward those outside our systems.

So What Do We Call People?

I get it. We need categories. We need to be able to describe and distinguish between different kinds of people.

But I’d like to suggest that we describe each person uniquely.

Perhaps the person you went on a date with considers themselves spiritual but feels uncomfortable with organized religion because of past experiences. How about you say that? The word unbeliever doesn’t capture that story.

Maybe you have a friend who has held onto the Mormonism of their family to stay connected, but in private conversation admits they’re open to many other faiths. How do you say that? The word believer doesn’t quite do their story justice either.

It takes a little more work to describe a person in all their complexity, but I suggest we try. It honors them — and it helps us more accurately portray their beliefs to one another.

• Watch What You Say About Church
• What Ships Are For

No More Unbelievers was originally published in Dispatches from the Outpost on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

If this quest piques your interest, you can follow it more closely on Patreon!

The Cubs have made the postseason for the first time in the era of my fandom, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to see a playoff game at Wrigley Field.

The first hurdle to cross: could I even make it happen schedule-wise? Games on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (if needed) were not the ideal scenario. Tuesday wasn’t great, but it was better than Wednesday.

The second hurdle: who could I get to join me? I started with some of the Cubs fans and season ticket holders I know. Next, I moved to the Padres fans I know. Finally, I tried Chicago residents. The first Chicago friend I asked — my buddy Mike — was down to make it happen and host me on his air mattress.

The third hurdle: not overpaying for this. I tried my best to balance timing and opportunism to get the flight and ticket at the right moment. I messed both of these up. I bought the flight assuming the game time based on my research, and I got that wrong. Changing the flight negated the good deal I got by using my miles a little early. Buying more miles was my only option — not terrible, but not “free” anymore.

I got seats with a good view at a low-ish price point on a third-party site after trying online and missing out, as the remaining seats sold out in two minutes. A day before the game, a buddy with season tickets offered his unsold ones to me. It was a unique scenario in which waiting until the last minute would have been beneficial. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that if I’d waited, it wouldn’t have worked out either.

So, why cross all of these hurdles in the first place?

That sunk in during the third inning, as Mike hopped over the railing to go get some beers and hot dogs. I was standing, looking out over the field, and I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. My eyes were watering. Why, in the third inning of a baseball game?

Because I really wanted to be there, and I really wanted to meet a friend — and it was happening. On top of that, I really wanted the Cubs to win. I realized that in this year of paying more attention for the sake of this memoir — listening to Cubs games, postgames, and podcasts — I’d begun to care about this team and the roller coaster season they’ve been on. I’m invested, I’ve been showing up, and I care.

Maybe that’s the friendship lesson for the day as well. As Mike and I hung out over beer and burgers afterward, and I heard about his day, I became more invested in him. As he dropped me off at the train and headed off to work, I was left hoping his meetings would go well. I was hoping his year would go well, and that all sorts of things I heard about would resolve or move in a good direction.

I want him to win. I care!

And to care, I had to be there. Maybe that’s the simple truth.

• Andy Littleton - Memoir on friendship - in process!
• The Little Man: A Father's Legacy Of Smallness

I Care was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

O, the rollercoaster ride of life!

The Cubs clinched their spot in the playoffs after a sweep in Pittsburgh. Immediately afterward, they lost at least three straight to the Reds.

My trip to Wrigley with friends was everything I could have asked for. The memories of my friend Sam and his fiancée Valerie — though painful at times — were a gift. The time with friends was a blast. The Bug made it all the way to Wrigley — no further, mind you — but it did its job. We drove 2,000 miles to Wrigley! It will go down as one of the most meaningful weeks of my life. Thank you for your support along the way!

Then, I came home to my loving wife as we transitioned my mother into our house following her new cancer diagnosis. The next day, my father-in-law was hospitalized. He still isn’t able to return home. We are increasingly concerned as our parents age and decline quickly. A few days later, our little pet goat was gone in the backyard. My wife does not take these things well. On top of all that, the pile of work I returned to is still sitting there, as these other things had to take priority.

I had intended to update you, my readers, almost two weeks ago. But…such is life. The rollercoaster of life.

So, what now?

Now, there is a book to write. I’m excited about this process, but I’m also aware of the constraints I’ll have to battle. About twenty-one thousand words fill the manuscript, but there’s still a long way to go. Over the years, I’ve been capturing vignettes and ideas. I’ve established a structure to organize the material. I’ve identified themes I plan to weave throughout the story. I am also brainstorming some upcoming get-togethers with friends — meant to keep me committed to this quest, which isn’t just about writing a book. It’s about living well and becoming a better friend in real life. Of course, the better the Cubs do in the postseason, the more fun we’ll have, so I need you all to cheer and follow along with our boys on the North Side! We also have a new Mexican League team in Tucson, so I plan to hang out around the local ballpark with good people, too.

For those who have signed up to support me, I want to let you know what you’re giving to. I’ll be carving out chunks of time — some short, some extended — to focus on writing. There will be minimal costs associated with this, mostly fuel and coffee. I’ll also be working on the necessary steps to pursue a publisher. That will include creating materials, building a website, and seeking opportunities to share this journey publicly. These steps will involve expenses that I have no way to offset without your continued generosity.

So, for now, I say thank you! Thank you for caring enough about me, my friends, and this journey to follow along; for caring about the state of friendship in our world; for your prayers, encouragement, and practical help that made this crazy idea of a road trip in a 1971 Volkswagen to Wrigley Field move from dream to reality. I hope you continue this journey with me as the story continues to unfold.

So here’s to you, my friends! Here’s to riding the rollercoaster of life together. Here’s to October baseball. And Go Cubs Go!

• Why I’m Driving 2,000 Miles to Wrigley
• Talking Tucson Toros, Autographs, and the Quest for Friendship Lost
• The Little Man: A Father's Legacy Of Smallness

What Now? was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

6. Stay True — Hua Hsu

This memoir of friendship is rooted in tragedy, as the author’s friend was murdered. Su reflects on the depth of their bond, the shared passions that forged their connection, and the sacredness of friendship even in the face of loss.

Stay True: A Memoir

5. The Drive: Searching for Lost Memories on the Pan-American Highway — Teresa Bruce

I read several beloved travel and friendship memoirs, and Bruce’s journey stood out. In it, she retraces her parents’ attempt to drive the Pan-American Highway after tragedy had struck their family. Traveling with her husband, she not only searches for her father’s homemade camper and reconnects with people from her past, but also uncovers insights into the political dynamics of the regions she visits. Along the way, she learns more about herself, her fears, and what matters most.

The Drive: Searching for Lost Memories on the Pan-American Highway

4. Small Wonder — Walter Henry Nelson

This book focuses on the history of the Volkswagen. While it wasn’t the most riveting read, I learned a great deal about the Porsche legacy, pre- and post-WWII Germany, and the transition that led to Volkswagen’s long-term success. For my project, I found myself reflecting on how relationships form and grow when people share a dream and vision together.

Small Wonder: The Amazing Story of the Volkswagen Beetle

3. On Friendship — Cicero

Of all the books I’ve read on friendship, this short work by the Roman statesman ended up with the most dog-eared pages. Written as a dialogue between friends reflecting on the death of a companion, it examines what makes a good friend, the meaning of friendship, and the ways it can be distorted. Cicero’s reflections come from someone who had clearly thought deeply about the subject, and I appreciated the ancient perspective compared to the more modern works I’ve read.

On Friendship

2. The Church in an Age of Secular Mysticisms — Andrew Root

Root is an academic writer who consistently engages with the great philosophers and theologians of both the past and present. One idea from this book that has stayed with me is his claim that today’s average person — whom he sees as deeply religious, but in a hyper-individualized way — is more likely to look to memoirs for spiritual guidance. A memoir is, after all, one individual authentically opening themselves to another. This poses both a challenge and an opportunity for Christians like me. Root maps how contemporary memoirs intersect with the true spirituality that comes only from God. My hope, in light of this, is to invite people into connection with me while pointing beyond myself to the gift only God can give.

Church in an Age of Secular Mysticisms (Ministry in a Secular Age)

1. Wait Till Next Year — Doris Kearns Goodwin

Kearns Goodwin is well-known for her gift in blending memoir with rich historical storytelling. At first glance, this book is about the Brooklyn Dodgers, but as always, it’s about much more. One of the most striking elements for me was the relationship between Doris and her childhood neighbor and friend. That layer of the story made me reflect on what it might look like to reconnect with old friends after years apart.

• Wait Till Next Year - A Memoir
• Get more from Andy Littleton on Patreon
• The Little Man: A Father's Legacy Of Smallness

6 Books Inspiring My Process was originally published in 2,000 Miles to Wrigley on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.