I only asked for a little rodeo. He gave me the entire ranch.

Carlos was a vet who served in Iraq after his father gave him an ultimatum. He offered In one hand, a shovel to work, and the other, a one-way ticket to the military. If Carlos had a choice he’d be saddling a rambunctious bull with thousands yelling his name. He was a bull rider, and a good one too. But, “There’s no money in bulls!” His dad yelled.

At first Carlos was sitting across from me, the life of the party with an amusing chuckle that made everyone like him. We were in the Patagonia lumber company, a one room open air bar in quaint, Patagonia, AZ, 20 miles north of the Mexican border.

He was clean-cut, wearing fashioned cowboy boots, blue jeans, a dandy buckle, a tucked-in western yoke shirt, and of course, a cowboy hat. I come from Lancaster, Pennsylvania where there are no real cowboys. Only farmers, and rednecks. And yes, there is a difference.

The bar patrons began talking of the Ukraine crisis with Russia and talk of “WWIII”. Although I grew increasingly fretful, imagining a draft an world war, Carlos didn’t seem phased, explaining the situation and answering my questions.

Later Carlos moved beside me and I asked more questions, now about him. He had a comical knack for storytelling pairing each story with a punchline. And As I listened to him I couldn’t help but infer from his attire. I let out a nervous smiled, half knowing the question I was about to ask was, well, risky. But curiosity is often too strong.

“Are you a true cowboy?” I asked.

I could tell it landed poorly so I backpedaled, “Because back at home we have these  — ”

“Am I a true cowboy!? You think I’m a show cowboy!?, I ain’t no show cowboy!!”

I struck a nerve. And for the next two hours —I kid you not —Carlos revealed to me he was in  —  sure-as-the-sun-sets  — fact, a true cowboy. He did so with ranch stories and videos or photos of his ranch activities. One vividly showed his ribs kicked in by a steer. Others told of branding cattle, cutting horns, shooting six’s, riding horseback in canyons, lassoing steers, and other ranch activities causing me to wince. And I was certain I wasn’t with no show cowboy anymore.

And he had every right to defend himself. I took a shovel to the ground his identity stood on. If we hadn’t first established rapport it could have ended terribly. But Carlos was a true cowboy. He was vulnerable, lowering his tone and pace to share details of his fathers shadow over him and the arduous journey breaking away from that. He was funny, always finding the bright side of any situation.

When the lumber company closed at nine we went to the restaurant next door at the only hotel in town. There he bought me a burrito and more drinks while sharing more hilarious stories, keeping me both entertained and asking questions.

At a rare lull in the conversation, the bartender, perhaps assuming we were best friends, asked Carlos how he knew me.

Carlos, jokingly, responded without hesitation, “Wait a second! I don’t even know this guy! What the hell do you do and why are you here?” Before answering we both erupted in laughter.

But Carlos was right. He didn’t know me. I had spent most of the last three hours listening and questioning. With his gift of storytelling it was easy to do. He told me his pain, starting with his stamped-dream by the foot of his father. He told me his glory of high school football nights as the underdog team clinching the title, of honest hard work and his contracting business, of his brotherly comradery in the dust of Iraq. Yet each story ended with us laughing.

After it all I walked back to the lumber company where my truck was parked and where I would sleep. In parting I shook Carlos’ hand which felt like stone. He told me I was welcome at the ranch anytime.

Social psychologists say that people reach the deepest level of conversation when they reveal the stories that define themselves  —  the moments that sculpted them into who they are today.

Over the course of three hours Carlos and I reached this point. And perhaps I can say I had some part in that by reaching for the stories that mattered. And most importantly, listened.

In the 3 months I traveled I think listening was the sharpest tool I had in connecting with others. Not just waiting to respond without interrupting, but purposeful listening, searching for the emotions behind the surface level stories they were sharing.

Unfortunately, there were also times I failed to listen and certainly missed out by trying to inject too much of myself, or to impress my listener. But when I did listen intentionally it was rewarded with the fulfilling glow that washes over you when you meaningfully connect with someone. Those are the people I remember most.

I heard tales of historians becoming professional drug dealers, state troopers becoming fanatical writers living with their German Shepard in a trailer and touting the Urantia book as the second Bible, and even a social media influencer who stopped her life cold, deciding whether she was going to give up being a mom for a career. I met a woman who got a call from a friend to ride bike across the country to remember a lost friend, and despite being overweight and never having ridden more than 10 miles, she rode. I met a man who worked in an uranium mine in Arizona traveling back and forth the Texas to be with family, who shared how his life changed after reading the Bible. I met a young man who struggled finding friends in college but was also defining a bold path for himself so he could attract better friends. I met a 16 year old boy who I looked up to as a man.

Whether it was the Dutch lady, Mr. Wolf, Todd, Jim, Susan, Tasha, Randy, or that girl who said she was a troublesome bag  —  by complete certainty they all had an incredible story.

Intentional listening opened the door. And I hope I can listen more as I meet more people and as I grow in my current relationships.

So, in reflecting on 2022 and the three month Arizona sojourn within I would be shortsighted to neglect the simple act of sitting down and hearing one out. Their stories were much of what I took home and still hold today.

And yet sadly there are many who feel their bread of life —their story—is tasteless and stale. They are lied to, told it isn’t worth sharing. But listening is one simple gift that can reveal to them the complex herbs and spices and zesty flavors, the hidden value they had all along.