LET LOVE LEAD: Five Favorite Life Lessons

I worked in the trades much of my young life.

More importantly, I worked for my step-dad, Rick, for a good portion of it.

We carried plenty of friction between us through much of my life. Working together changed so much.

He was the Superintendent. A master tradesman who pursued perfection and settled on excellent. Principled. Good. Very hard.

As I return to the Studio after some much-needed time away, my thoughts keep walking down memory lane. I see Rick’s fingerprints all over my life.

Five stories keep coming back to me.

Together, they helped shape the philosophy I live by every day:

LET LOVE LEAD.

1. Family Comes First. Always.

Fremont, California.

Rick was a mechanic, and a brilliant one at that. The dude could fix absolutely anything mechanical, from a cross-threaded bolt to a shattered transmission.

Mama’s car broke down.

Weeks went by, and her car sat untouched. Mama was walking and riding AC Transit everywhere. Day after day, I could see the tiredness deepening in her face. Peace was already a come-and-go thing in our household, especially with me entering the chaotic friction of early adolescence.

Watching her struggle made me furious.

Around that same time, I was running my own operation.

At eight years old, I had built a neighborhood business mowing lawns, pulling weeds, raking leaves, and washing windows. I was the community entrepreneur, fiercely independent and very proud of my hustle.

One afternoon, I grabbed my gear and headed toward the door to service my paying customers.

Rick stepped in front of me.

He told me I could go to work after I completely mowed and manicured the front and back yards of our own home.

I was pist.

I had paying clients waiting. A reputation to protect. Money to make.

Our own grass paid exactly zero dollars.

This struck eight-year-old me as an obvious flaw in Rick’s business logic.

Rick remained unimpressed with my economic analysis.

I dragged the mower into the yard, fired it up, buried my anger in the engine noise, and knocked it out.

Front yard.

Back yard.

Edges.

Cleanup.

When I finally shut the motor off and wiped the sweat from my face, I looked up.

Mama was standing there.

She looked across the freshly cut grass.

Then she smiled.

A genuine, beautiful smile.

I remember standing there, sweaty, irritated, still very interested in my paying customers, and suddenly very interested in that smile.

Something shifted.

All that ambition outside our home had a place.

So did the people inside it.

That stayed with me.

2. Your Actions Are Talking Too Loudly

Fremont again.

I was thirteen, headstrong, fast, athletic, and carrying enough confidence for several boys.

I was a champion youth boxer, a standout baseball player, and fundamentally a good kid.

I was also fourteen levels of stubborn.

I had a mouth capable of out-talking nearly any mistake and enough pride to dig my heels in whenever somebody challenged me.

My boxing coach told me to keep my hands up.

I dropped them because apparently proving my chin could absorb punishment qualified as strategy.

My baseball coach called for a sacrifice bunt.

I saw the fence.

I thought being a champion meant doing everything my way.

And I had an explanation for everything.

Rick had recently become my stepfather. He brought the full presence of a commercial construction superintendent into our home. Years of jobsites had trained him around noise, crews, schedules, pressure, concrete, steel, blueprints, and consequences.

My speeches held considerably greater appeal for me than they did for him.

For months, whenever I became defensive, complained about a coach, or tried talking my way out of trouble, Rick would do this bizarre thing that drove me absolutely crazy.

He would stop.

Look me straight in the eye.

Slowly raise one massive, calloused hand to his right ear.

Cup it.

Tilt his head.

And wait.

I kept talking.

Rick kept listening.

His hand stayed there.

I spent weeks trying to figure out whether years on loud jobsites had damaged his hearing or whether the man was simply messing with me.

One afternoon, I finally snapped.

“Why do you keep doing that?! Why do you hold your hand to your ear like that every time I talk?!”

Rick looked at me.

Slowly, he raised his hand again.

Cupped his ear.

Locked his gaze onto mine.

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you. Your actions are talking too loudly.”

That one landed.

Boxing had taught me plenty about impact.

I knew when something connected clean.

The room got quiet.

For once, so did I.

3. The House Explosion in Hayward

Hayward, California.

My aunt’s home exploded.

Water heater.

Gas.

Atrocious mess.

Thank God she was away when it happened.

Out front sat a heap roughly eight feet high, ten feet wide, and ten feet long.

I was voluntold to clean up and prepare the property for construction.

Rick backed his truck toward the pile, handed me leather mule gloves, and commanded me to get to work.

Naturally, I asked where my help was.

Rick dropped the tailgate and pointed toward heavy rakes, a shovel, and a hoe.

“There you go. I’ll be back.”

Then he left.

I was pist.

A while later Mama rolled in to see how things were going.

Relief washed over me.

Surely she would survey the egregious injustice being inflicted upon her son and immediately arrange reinforcements.

I explained my situation.

Mama looked at the pile.

She looked at me.

“Well, honey … you’d better get going.”

Justice had another appointment.

I started grabbing handfuls of debris and chucking them into the pickup bed.

After a while, I looked at my aunt’s house.

My auntie and cousins needed their home rebuilt.

I was standing there spending energy arguing with reality.

That realization had a way of clarifying the assignment.

Rick came back.

He looked at the truck.

“What have you been doing? I didn’t expect you to be 100% finished, but I didn’t expect so little.”

It stung.

The time I had spent talking, looking for ways around the work, and demanding justice had produced exactly what Rick saw in the truck.

Very little.

I admitted I was wrong, apologized, and buried myself in the work.

I figured out how to use 2x4 boards to build a wall inside the truck bed so I could stack the debris higher and make better use of the space.

I raked.

Shoveled.

Lifted.

Packed.

Rearranged.

Then I started sweeping the minutiae.

Rick returned.

This time, he approached me with a big smile.

He looked at the truck.

Looked at the work.

Looked at me.

“You did a great job. Feels good, huh?”

Yeah.

It did.

4. The Difference Between a Journeyman and an Apprentice

1989 was a hard year.

I lost my job at the Acme warehouse in Kansas City.

Like most young fine artists, I was barely scraping by. I ate popcorn and JuJu Bees and drank whatever remained of the Folgers instant coffee.

I hated my life and loved it all at once.

I knew finding my place in the world as a writer was going to take time. In my youth, I believed in myself so strongly that I was certain success could arrive any day.

Mama sent me money.

I returned it with a note saying I was going to make it on my own.

Evidence of passion.

Evidence of determination.

Also proof that I ranked among the smartest dumb young men on my block.

I knew my landlord well. I was confident that assuring her I would have a job any day would be enough to keep my house.

My confidence remained impressive.

My rent remained due.

She gave me until the end of the month to move out and kept the security deposit.

Rick was building homes in San Ramon and needed an apprentice. He offered to buy me a one-way ticket home, give me a good job, and hand me an opportunity to start fresh.

Two days later, I was wheels down in Oakland.

Mama picked me up and drove me to the jobsite.

Rick loaded me up with an old tool belt, a 22-ounce Estwing, a tape measure, a blue chalk reel, and a few other tools.

Then I was assigned to a journeyman named Jeff.

I learned a lot.

Fast.

Clean up materials.

Carry lumber.

Do a carpenter’s roll on cords.

Respect electric tools after a fast-moving storm.

Set and sink a 16D nail.

Jeff gave me that last goal, and I worked at it until the hammer, nail, and wood finally started cooperating.

Then Rick gave me a special project.

Stacking blocks.

He wanted as many as I could build.

Rick offered to show me how.

I jumped on it with fervor and zeal and explained that I understood.

He offered again.

I assured him again.

I was clear.

Completely clear.

Nearly an hour later, Rick returned.

To his amazement, I had built many upon many.

He asked how I was doing.

I said nothing.

I simply opened my arms over the blocks and smiled.

Behold.

Craftsmanship.

Productivity.

Young Bryan-David Scott had arrived.

Rick picked up one block.

“You must be proud, eh?”

I nodded and grinned.

Something felt … off.

“They’re all backwards!”

Long day.

Rick looked at me and asked whether I knew the difference between a journeyman and an apprentice.

My stacking blocks had prepared me beautifully for humility.

“No, sir. Not really.”

“The journeymen … are still learning. They show up ready for work with the right tools, or they buy them. They work smart. They work hard. They ask questions. They are learning. Apprentices know everything.”

Then he walked away.

I headed toward his trailer.

Rick shook his head and pointed back toward the jobsite.

Message received.

I walked toward Jeff and the crew.

Jeff looked at me and started laughing.

Soon, everybody was laughing.

Just to drive the point home, Jeff handed me a stacking block and showed me what a properly built one looked like.

He tapped me on the shoulder and asked whether I had ever noticed God gave us two eyes, two ears, and one mouth.

Everybody had material that day.

The ride home with Rick stayed quiet.

Three blocks from the house, he spoke.

“I asked you about the journeymen and apprentice. Do you remember the difference?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“Journeymen are learning. Apprentices think they know everything.”

Rick looked at me and grinned big.

“Answer me this: why do people always have time to go back and redo a job, but they never have time to do a job right the first time?”

We rolled into the driveway.

Rick looked at me again.

Grinned.

Then he voluntold me to unload the entire truck.

Everything.

I have carried that day with me ever since.

I want to remain a journeyman for the rest of my life.

Keep learning.

Ask questions.

Seek wisdom.

Work smart.

Work hard.

Do the job right.

And when somebody older, wiser, or more experienced offers to show me something, give them both eyes, both ears, and considerably less mouth.

5. Let Love Lead

Seattle, Washington.

Years later, the roles had changed.

I was raising my sons.

I was the dad.

I was building the foundation now.

Somewhere inside those years, three words became our family motto.

LET LOVE LEAD.

One afternoon, I was upstairs when a crash echoed through the house.

Glass.

Then the cry of a little boy.

I flew downstairs.

There in the kitchen was my youngest, Noah, probably five or six years old, crying hard.

Across the floor lay the shattered remains of a precious family heirloom, something Mama had given me, something that carried years of our family inside it.

Noah had climbed onto the counter reaching for a cup.

I swept him into my arms, lifted him clear of the glass, and set him on top of the kitchen chest freezer.

Hands.

Arms.

Feet.

Skin intact.

Thank God.

I pulled his little head against my chest.

“Baby, what happened?”

He cried even harder.

“That’s been in our family for a long time and I broke it! I know I’m in trouble. I don’t want you mad at me.”

I looked at the shattered heirloom.

Then I looked at my boy.

I lifted him down from the freezer and knelt in front of him.

I held his small face in my hands.

“Yes, Noah bear, that meant a lot to me. Yes, it was in our family for a long time, and I loved it. But stuff can be replaced. You can’t. You are way more important to me than anything material in this world. I love you so very much.”

His face changed.

I stood up.

Cranked the music.

Grabbed the broom and dustpan.

“We’re pulling together as a team. As a family.”

Noah wrapped his arms around me.

Then we cleaned the kitchen together.

Later that night, I sat at our dining room table playing cards with my boys.

Music played through the house.

We laughed.

Shouted.

Talked trash.

Played our hands.

Enjoyed being us.

In the middle of the game, I looked across the table at Noah.

He caught my eye.

A smile broke across his face.

I smiled back.

The glass had been swept away.

My boy was safe.

My family was together.

Years of Rick.

Years of Mama.

Years of learning.

Years of getting things gloriously wrong and getting another chance to do better.

The words came later.

The living came first.

LET LOVE LEAD.

Love had the lead.

It still does.

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