A Special (Forces) Failure
“Then, I’d jump over the obstacle, run across the balancing beam, fly though the monkey bars, and seamlessly pull out my gun to hit every target with perfect precision…” That was what he imagined himself doing on the hill in the distance. In his mind, he had already run around the large hill several times, each lap executed with utmost perfection, in preparation for a dangerous mission. A mission that required extraordinary sacrifice and training. A mission that was vital in defending the right and defeating evil. A mission with no guarantees of success nor survival. But the cause was just, and he had answered the call of duty.
Yep, those were my thoughts as a seven-year-old, as we drove on a fishing trip in northern Finland and Norway. Ever since I was a child, I imagined my life as a special forces operator, ready to take on the toughest challenges.
Fast forward a little over 20 years, and of all the things I had done, being a special forces operator did not make the list. I’d graduated from a demanding college program, started (and failed at) some startups, joined another which eventually grew into a $50 million business. Then, I had gone out again on my own, only to be reminded of the grim reality in startup land—over 90% fail.
The dreams of becoming a Special Forces Operator had never left me. Every six months or so, I would find myself watching videos of Navy SEALs going through BUD/S, with a particular emphasis on Hell Week (week three of the program).
At a particularly low point in my startup career—having run out of money and shut down a business—I found myself paying the bills as a substitute teacher and watching these videos again. But this time something was different. I recognized that I was no longer in my late teens or early twenties, and my body was not as resilient as it used to be. I’d had physical injuries from which I’d never fully recovered.
The reality hit me: I was never going to be a special forces operator. My time had passed.
I was crushed. In a very real way, a part of me died that afternoon. Perhaps better said, I finally recognized that something had already died some time ago—that hope-filled childhood dream. I was left with whispers of what could have been.
Having been a man of faith throughout my twenties, I had sought to follow the impressions and thoughts of my heart, feeling that I had been guided. Actually, I knew God had guided me. It was precisely because of this that I hadn’t pursued a career in the military.
Now, as I faced the realization that my special forces dreams were never going to happen and because of being financially and careerwise destitute even as I sought to follow God, I was angry. Upset. Disappointed. So, I did what I’ve learned to do—I took it up with the Big Man Himself.
Without going into detail on that particular event, let’s just say that I was less-than cordial in some ways and perhaps a little more than honest in expressing how I felt about how things had gone. Had I joined the military, at least I would have had a steady paycheck rather than needing to become a substitute teacher to pay the bills! I also repeated to the Lord what some my faith leaders had taught—that it didn’t matter what I did for a living as long as I did it with honesty and integrity. In all earnest, I had sought to follow my God, and yet here I was: not as a special forces hero, but as a failed entrepreneur working as a substitute teacher.
To say that I was upset is an understatement.
The next day, I saw pictures of children from Bangladesh. I’ve seen pictures of children from all over the world previously, but somehow these children—their eyes—looked different. Suddenly, I was filled with an unexplainable love for them. Tears first formed in my eyes, then began falling down my cheeks. What is happening to me?
After about 10 minutes, I had to turn my laptop off—the emotional cost of this was too much for me to handle. I needed distance. However, as I stared out of the window, I could still see these children and I still felt that overwhelming love for them. I couldn’t shake it regardless of what I did.
I looked at the wall—I saw the children. I went outside for a walk—I saw the children. I went to the kitchen to eat—I still saw the children.
For two hours, this continued; for two hours I saw these children regardless of where I went or what I did. And for those two hours my heart burned with a pure love for them. Finally, emotionally exhausted, I said to myself: “Maybe I need to do something about this.”
Lily Charities was born.
Less than 60 days later, we’d raised enough funds to build our first school.
Rock bottom is a solid foundation to build on. Since that day in 2021, our organization has been committed to helping the children of Bangladesh.
I did not become a Special Forces Operator for my country. However, I received the invitation and opportunity to become a special forces operator in a different way. Rather than jumping out of airplanes risking life and limb in combat, I can help bring an end to generations of poverty; rather than learning to wield deadly weapons, I can help combat the deadly effects of illiteracy and lack of education. Rather than showing valor in battle, I can show the worth of an unknown child.
The future is bright, and the best is yet to come as we stand together to assist one another. All of us, working in unison, can be a part of this special force. All that is required is a willingness to give and take action.
