Wayne's World
Wayne’s World
Adventures in Curiosity, Humility, and Life Well-Lived
Some people are interesting. Others are interested. And every once in a while, you meet someone who is both—and your life gets better simply by paying attention.
Wayne was one of those people for me for decades. He challenged my thinking more than any college class, workshop, or conference I ever attended. Learning was his primary hobby, second only to his love of sharing it—knowledge both world-changing and delightfully trivial. Time with Wayne was never wasted; it was collected. He was a joy to be with and a memory always in the making.
If you need evidence for my introduction, it begins with two articles—long ones—from educational and leadership journals. Wayne passed them along to me with a grin and called them required reading.
The first was about how to pack a suitcase efficiently. The second was about how to interview people on stage.
Perfect.
Wayne was part of our ministry, and we traveled constantly—taking teens and adults on adventures across the country and around the globe—so you can imagine how timely those articles were. And you can probably understand why I counted my blessings every time I found myself learning, laughing, and thinking alongside Wayne.
By day, Wayne was an aeronautical engineer—or something close enough that I never pressed him on the title. His humility wouldn’t let him linger on the fact that he worked with plutonium, the material used to power spacecraft, or that he and his team were responsible for advancing much of our nation’s space exploration. By night and weekends, he was teaching people like me how to pack a suitcase and ask better questions.
One of my favorite—and funniest—memories of Wayne came during one of our adventures. We had refurbished a big, old yellow school bus, notorious for no-frills, mission-style trips. Wayne had orchestrated a journey to Canada, with a quick stop at Niagara Falls, determined to squeeze every possible ounce of adventure—and acceptable risk—out of the route.
When we finally arrived at the Falls after the long haul from Ohio, Wayne pulled me aside for what he clearly intended to be a serious conversation. He looked at his watch, then showed it to me. We were fifteen minutes behind his planned arrival time.
We were about to spend an entire long weekend on the road, and he was concerned about fifteen minutes. My first response was laughter—until I remembered his day job, where seconds actually mattered.
Beyond the countless bus adventures was Wayne’s deeper, quieter quest for learning. At one of our nearly weekly lunch outings, he arrived buzzing with excitement about his weekend.
I went to meet the author of one of my favorite books, he said, casually. The author, it turned out, lived in the mountains of nearby Kentucky. Wayne had driven up, unannounced, knocked on the door, and introduced himself—not for an autograph, but simply to say thank you and to ask questions. He wanted the backstory. The thinking behind the thinking.
We laughed as he told it, especially when he explained that his reward for the effort wasn’t a signed book, but a photograph together. Which, somehow, felt exactly right.
And then there was the practical side of Wayne.
Our ministry gathered weekly for what we called Evening Zoo—a lively mix of teaching, fun, and a lot of teenagers in one place. Wayne noticed something no one else had bothered to consider. If we sold cans of soda during the evening—with just a small markup—it could help fund future mission adventures.
It didn’t stop there. While most youth groups tried to lure teens in with free food and giveaways, Wayne suggested something different. What if they ordered pizza as they walked in the door? They were happy. We covered the cost. And, once again, we quietly made a little money for the bigger mission. And yes, Wayne owned the project – from keeping us supplied with pop an pizza as often as needed.
It wasn’t about profit. It was about stewardship. About doing ordinary things with intention. For a long season, that mindset shaped how we operated—an approach that may have seemed like it came from another planet, a thing Wayne happened to know well.
Sharon—Wayne’s wife—was deeply involved in the ministry in her own right, bringing ideas, leadership, and a steady presence. She led a small group of high school girls who were serious about their faith, but just as serious about having fun along the way.
Wayne supported all of it quietly, faithfully, and without needing credit. I never knew the full backstory, but I did know this: he was also an avid high school girls’ basketball fan, the kind who followed teams all season and showed up when it mattered.
So when one of the girls in Sharon’s group made it to the State Championships, Wayne did what Wayne always did. He made sure the girls got there too. He helped orchestrate the weekend, turning a big moment for one student into an unforgettable shared adventure for the whole group.
Partnering with Wayne for more than twenty years was always an adventure. I often encouraged him to lead a small group of guys, something parallel to what Sharon did so naturally. He always declined, usually with a gentle hesitation and a comment about not being confident working one-on-one.
What he never seemed to realize was that this was exactly what he did best.
On trips and in ordinary moments, Wayne had an unforced way of sitting with teenagers, listening without rushing, talking without impressing. He was as interested in their questions and stories as he was interesting in his own quiet, curious way. And that combination—rare and powerful—was magnetic.
Wayne never tried to teach me nearly as much as he modeled for me. He lived out a simple truth: that showing up with curiosity, humility, and genuine interest in others matters far more than programs, credentials, or carefully crafted plans. Share what you love. Pay attention to people. Stay humble. That’s the work.
And sometimes, when we were together, I’d look up at the sky and wonder out loud if any of the satellites quietly circling the earth had something to do with him. He’d smile—just slightly—and say, Maybe.