WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I went into college graduation believing I was now trained and equipped to go change the world.

And if not to change the world, at least to make a serious difference.

And if not to make a serious difference, at least to make some serious money.

And if not any money, at least be working a job that I enjoyed.

And if a job I didn't really enjoy, at least a job that sounded enjoyable—something I could spin to my friends as I convinced them of my amazing life. Even if it wasn't really.

With college diploma in hand, I was ready to be used by God and man in big ways. A college diploma meant answers. A college diploma meant doors flung open, where everything is up for grabs.

So why now, years later, do my hands still feel like they're in pockets full of Super Glue?

To make matters worse, I have other friends whose hands are glueless. They started grabbing success the minute they stepped into the real world.

One of those friends (I call them friends, but secretly I loathe them just a little now) is Mike Yankoski, who purposely became homeless for five months, then wrote a life-changing and powerful book about it called Under the overpass. Now he's traveling everywhere speaking about this experience. Such vision, such strength, such hope, such excitement, such purpose. Thanks, Mike. While you're at it, can you come over and kick my little dog, BeauJo, who has to wear diapers because he can't control his bladder?

Another one of my friends, Brent, recently came back from El Salvador, where he helped start and sustain eight different businesses for the local economy. Right after he returned, he received a random call asking if he wanted to jump on a private jet and fly with influential guys like Rick Warren (author of The Purpose Driven Life) to Uganda to help with peace efforts and business development.

Brent told me one amazing story after another about his spur-of-the-moment trip to Africa and Switzerland (I forgot to mention this added jaunt to Switzerland). During one of their flights, Brent explained, he glanced at the computer screen of the gentleman sitting next to him, only to see him working on a speech for (then current) President Bush, which good old George W. would be giving the following Tuesday. My friend sat next to, conversed with, and bounced ideas off one of the U.S. president's inner circle whilst—pause for effect—flying to Switzerland in a private jet!

I remember the night Brent dropped in unexpectedly and told me about his trip. It was a cool, crisp evening. I was sitting on a brown, furry beanbag called the Lovesack that was purchased at a yard sale. As Brent told his story, a very large part of me was very excited for him as I sat on the edge of my Lovesack in awe and anticipation. A very large part of me felt very proud of my friend. A large and overwhelming part.

But then there was this small, little voice that kept popping up like an angry squirrel that believes he owns your bird feeder. Sure it was small, but it made its presence known. Paul, the voice asked, what are you doing right now?

"Well, I'm still trying to find my way. I'm doing—"

No, no, the small voice said with a chuckle. Not what are you doing in life, but literally right at this moment—what are you doing?

Then the joke hit me. Here my friend Brent is explaining how he's trying to change the world in a dramatic way. Flying to Africa, chatting it up with world leaders. And what was I doing while he's telling me all this? Eating a piece of chicken (all right, not actual chicken but chicken-flavored Top Ramen) while icing my hamstring, which I had torn during a slow-pitch softball game.

Slow-pitch softball! The "sport" that fifty-five-year-old men with a gut the size of Fort Worth, swinging a bat with beers in both hands, can excel at.

At the very least I could've been icing my hamstring that I'd hurt sprinting into a burning building to save a three-year-old with terminal cancer.

As Brent told his hilarious story of the plane not being able to find runway space in Zurich, I flashed back years ago to my Smug College Self, that arrogant kid who was untouchable. Thriving there in that peaceful, safe collegiate womb. Smiling, dreaming, thinking big— knowing that once I was really born, my life would be made into a movie someday. And if not a movie, at least a TV miniseries.

How I wished I could've gone back and just slapped that know-it-all grin off his face. I would've loved to tell him the truth—that someday he would be on a giant, hairy beanbag, broke and unemployed, eating his last Top Ramen while his friends did all the big things he'd always dreamed of. But there, back in the womb, would I have even listened?

WOMB TO REALITY

It was so cozy. The best La-Z-Boy on the market. Complete tranquility never to be duplicated. Our only responsibility was to set our seats to "relax." Comfort only embryonic fluid could offer.

And for nine straight months, relax we did. How could we not? Lights dimmed to a perfect sleeping level. Never too hot, never too cold. Soundproof walls impervious to dogs barking, blenders mixing, people yelling.

And the food. Oh, the food! Delicious and delivered directly to our stomachs. None of this opening cans or reheating leftovers for us. No sir, it was seven-course cuisine in a tube.

And the best part? The only person you had to deal with was you. And not you as you are today, but a you with no wrongs.

You hadn't yet stolen any cookies from the pantry. Hadn't tried to look up the dress of your fourth-grade teacher. Hadn't called your best friend stupid or told your parents you hate them. No failures, no history of disappointments, no shameful secrets, no insecurities as blaring as that zit on your nose you'd be blessed with come age fourteen.

Nope. Just ten fingers, ten toes, a couple appendages hanging off your side. Pretty simple. You had yourself pretty much figured out.

Life was sweet in the womb. A couple of posters over there, a plant or two thataway, maybe someday a flat-screen TV. You had big plans to stay there forever. It was comfort; it was safety; it was the best five-star hotel no money could buy.

To have faith that life would end up smelling like a twelve-dozen-rose bouquet was no stretch of the imagination. It wasn't much of a leap to trust that your cocoon would shield you from all harm. That was the standard,...