Book Review: The Last American Man

You will notice right away this book is not psychological self help. I read self help too, but find it often leaves me feeling just plain confused. Its sort of like watching a movie from the front row of a theater. Things appear large and more detailed but my eyes usually hurt from trying to focus so much. There is such a thing as analyzing your life too much. To that end, I commend to you The Last American Man by Elizabeth Gilbert - a biography, a human study, a real life story of one man. Sometimes hearing someone else’s story can bring clarity to our own lives that insight alone cannot deliver. And this story will certainly not disappoint you.

Meet Eustace Conway through the eyes of author Elizabeth Gilbert (yes, the Eat Pray Love writer). Eustace is a brilliant charismatic naturalist still alive somewhere in the woods of North Carolina. It seems odd to have a biography of someone still living, unless they’ve been a president or overcome some amazing obstacle to accomplish some grand feat. I guess in that regard, Eustace Conway is the later.

You don’t have to read too long to learn that Eustace has accomplished much with his young life. He survived in the woods for a week at age 12 without bringing food or shelter with him. At age 17 he hiked the Appalachian Trail doing 30 miles a day in sneakers and a loin cloth. Almost without catching his breath, he was on to kayak Alaska and then to living with the most primitive tribe he could find in Guatemala. And just for adventure sake, he galloped across America on horseback and set a new record for the fastest trip from coast to coast by horse. And that’s not to mention his daily life of living in a teepee, running a full nature camp, making his own clothes, and eating road kill. Eustace Conway has indeed done a lot of amazing things.

And all of this is killing him because none of this is getting him the thing he wants most - his father's validation and love. Eustace Conway has a massive father wound. This is his greatest obstacle. It almost bleeds off the page. Some parts of the book are absolutely heart breaking. Here is just a taste of the words his father uses to obliterate his son. “You are so stupid. I’ve never met a child more dimwitted. I don’t know how I could have sired so idiotic a son. What are we to surmise? I believe you are simply incompetent and will never learn anything.” (p.30) Daily, methodically, deliberately his father bludgeoned his son with similar tirades.

Like everything else in his life, Eustace has put herculean efforts into pleading with his father for some relief, some validation, some love. From age 12 to the present, he has written letters to his father as penance and petition for mercy. Well into adulthood, he wrote: “I have an overwhelming need to be accepted by you, to be appreciated, acknowledged, recognized for something better than trash… I have a great void where I look for love. All I have ever wanted is your love. Perhaps I should accept defeat and stay away from you. But denial and distance do not satisfy the need for your acceptance” (p.105). His father has never responded to any of his letters.

If you’ve ever wondered at the impact of a father’s love on a man, read this book and have your heart torn in two for Eustace Conway. You may find new eyes, new curiosity, new compassion for your own story and the stories of the men in your life.

Check out the Resources page of my website to purchase this book from my Amazon.com bookstore.

Restoring Broken Things

You may have noticed my unofficial sabbatical from doing any writing whatsoever for the last few months. I know. I’ve committed the chief of all blogging sins. So here’s the story.

At the beginning of the summer, we purchased a historic home with the hopes of renovating it and restoring it to its original Victorian Lady charm. Its old, 116 years old to be exact. Old. Like back when horsepower meant the actual horse hitched up in your back yard. And the first owners of our home probably did have horses in the backyard. But all these years have taken their toll on this antique homestead. Sagging wooden floors, plaster falling from ceilings, out of date wiring. Add to this all the unkempt years of neglectful renters. Our Victorian Beauty needed some lovin’!

We started this whole venture awash in romanticized sentiments that restoring an old home is like a really fun hobby. Or some symbolic spiritual pilgrimage. I grew up pumped full of This Old House episodes with Bob Villa and still love that show. But they make the process seem so laden with excitement and effortless progress. And not a single worker on that show ever breaks a sweat or dirties their clothing. Somehow I imagined our weekends being full of similar restful energizing work.

At some point several weeks into our project, amid so much dust and detritus and 16 hour work days, I finally let myself admit I had lost all romantic ideals about our renovation project. I was now just plain afraid. I was standing in an expensive pile of rubble. In the name of change and restoration, we had produced one grand mortgage backed mess. Here we had gone and dismantled a perfectly good home. And without any prior experience at this, I really feared that we might never emerge like we hoped and planned.

That fear is surprisingly familiar to other areas of my life. Change seems to carry a romantic sense to it. But eventually the idea of change melds into the harder, sometimes downright discouraging work of changing. Yes, I want to love my wife more courageously. Yes, I want to be more in shape. Yes, I want to listen to God more. And then its 30 degrees out when I get up to run. Or a time of pursuing my wife crumbles into an all out fight. Or I spend a whole hour with God daydreaming about something we have to do on our house. I start to wonder if I’ll ever change. Fear shouts its resounding, “No!”

Take something like counseling. I hear so often in my office the sighs of relief from folks who have finally taken the step of getting counseling. The hope of change wafts in with them like fresh spring air after winter. And then we get to work… for a couple months. And that’s expensive. And will it actually work? Will it pay off? And I’m reminded so often of that Garth Brook’s line, “This is how it seems to me. Life is only therapy. Real expensive and no guarantee.” And I have to tell my clients change does not come in pill form. Change is a process you just have to trust sometimes. Trust.

Well, we’ve emerged from our house project. And it looks really good. Those wood floors have a beautiful sheen to them. The stained glass chandelier hangs magnificently in the dining room. My wife can often be heard sighing with relief and exclaiming, “I can’t believe this is our house!” Indeed. How did we make it? We had to learn to trust the process.

We did get our spiritual pilgrimage.