Read an Excerpt
1
Mission Proposal, Mission Purpose
I’ve always believed the mission is greater than the man. —Rick Perry
The Sierra Madre has one of the largest rain forests in the Philippines. Situated on the island of Luzon, this rugged jungle is home to a surviving hunter-gatherer group called the Agta. Several years ago, a team of anthropologists set out to study this Indigenous group of people. The researchers were curious to learn more about how the Agta valued the members of their tribe based on their individual contributions. They discovered that out of all the different trades and talents these people possessed, including fishing and cooking, the people the Agta held in highest regard were storytellers. Imagine that! The folks who spun tales had a higher status than those who literally brought home the bacon (and the snacks and drinks).
But most of us love a good story, don’t we? Stories matter. They keep us entertained. They can carry on family traditions through generations. Stories can engage and inspire a single life or go on to change thousands.
When I began to think about how to propose to my then girlfriend, Demi, I knew it had to be a great story. I wanted to offer my future bride an experience that she would never forget, one that would make butterflies flutter in her stomach each time she retold it. Okay, fine, and maybe, just maybe, there was smidgen of ego in my motivation. I wanted to be the awesome fiancé who crushed this monumental task. (What can I say? I’m a competitive guy, even with myself.)
There were three things this story had to have: special people, a beautiful location, and the element of surprise. The goal was to have a mission-possible mission proposal for the girl of my dreams.
The ring had to come from Africa, my bride’s homeland. I met with a jeweler who recommended an “internally flawless diamond,” which is exactly what it sounds like. It was also responsibly sourced and had a story of its own—how and where it was discovered and the detailed processes it underwent to be crafted—recorded in a beautifully designed book.
Giving gifts is my love language. Having found a woman who to me was the epitome of flawless beauty in so many ways, I knew this was the ring for her.
I had found something beautiful to give to the love of my life. Now to create the element of surprise. Unbeknownst to my bride, I had arranged for my family, both sets of Demi’s parents, and her best friends to be present the moment I popped the question. Special people? Check.
The big moment would come on January 9, after a belated and (wink, wink!) pretend Christmas celebration with my family in Florida. Over the actual holidays, I was helping to cover the national championship between Clemson and Alabama for SEC Nation and ESPN. Demi and I flew from South Africa, where we had spent Christmas, to the States. At the ESPN party before the big game on January 7, Demi and I met the president of Clemson, Jim Clements, and his wife, Beth. They are some of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet. They have four children, including a daughter named Grace, who has special needs, and host a Night to Shine event in their community. (I’ll talk more about Night to Shine in a later chapter.) The four of us became fast friends. Fast-forward to the pregame show. Right after filming for SEC Nation, I looked around and noticed Demi was nowhere to be found. I sent her a text saying I had to be down on the field for the first part of the game but that we could meet up after. Her reply was shocking: “That’s fine! I’m hanging out with Jim and Beth in their box!”
What? As a good southern boy would say, “Bless her heart.” I mean, Jim and Beth are absolutely wonderful people, but Demi doesn’t understand American football allegiances! While I don’t necessarily root for Alabama, I do work for SEC Nation. But Demi’s decision to hang with the Clementses says a lot about her. Even if she had understood the difference between the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) and the Southeastern Conference (SEC), it wouldn’t have mattered to her. She appreciates people just for who they are. It’s one of many reasons I fell in love with her.
Demi and I arrived in Jacksonville, Florida, my hometown, on January 8. We spent the next day celebrating “kid Christmas” first. All the nieces and nephews gathered at my house and unwrapped their gifts, and then it was time for the adults to unwrap their gifts, one person at a time, one gift at a time. After each gift, we took time to talk about it. You can imagine how long the process took.
In order to create a proposal that was unexpected, I did something that you might think is borderline unfair. As we opened presents with my family that morning, I gave Demi a small velvet box. I knew what she really was hoping to find in that box, even though she’d never say it out loud. When the box clicked open, Demi’s eyes widened and she beheld . . . not an engagement ring. I figured getting her a non-engagement ring would take care of any expectations she had of getting a real one. To her credit, Demi was so gracious about her gift.
We continued unwrapping presents for a while. Once we finished, it was time for Mission Proposal, which would happen in the backyard of my parents’ farmhouse. The plan was for everyone to meet for dinner at my parents’ house nearby. Some of the women suggested to Demi that she dress up since Christmas dinner at the Tebows’ was a formal thing (not true, by the way—more like jeans and T-shirts or pajamas). I had something else planned to further throw Demi off the scent of an engagement. A friend who worked at a local car dealership had dropped off a decoy truck that Demi and I were going to drive over to my parents’ to give my father as his last gift. After the engagement actually happened, I’d return the truck to the dealership. (Sorry, Dad!)
The day was full with sweet surprises but none (yet) for my soon-to-be fiancée. I was positive Demi had zero clue of getting engaged that day.
Funny, on the drive over to my parents’ place, one of our favorite songs just happened to come on. It was “The Wedding Song” by Demi’s favorite South African artist, Matthew Mole—the very same musician I had flown in that day and had arranged to play live for her right after I asked her to marry me. The mood was perfectly set.
The engagement and post-engagement pictures had to be taken during the last hour before sunset so the lighting could hit just right with the backyard scenery. Photographers had camouflaged themselves behind trees and bushes. Microphones had been planted in secret so our loved ones back at the house could be a part of the moment and be ready to join us on cue.
Finally, it was time. We pulled into the farm but didn’t go inside the packed house. Instead, I asked Demi to follow me behind the house, where the pond was. I told her I had something to show her. The sun hung low on the horizon. Crickets chirped in the background, and a slight breeze whispered on our skin. Beautiful location? Check.
So many fond memories flooded my mind as the pond came into view. Demi knew the pond was special to me. It was where our family buried Otis, the dog I grew up with. And it would be where, ten months later, I would bury Bronco, my next dog. By that pond, I had prayed about where to go to college. And now another event was emerging that would change the course of both of our lives. Demi and I walked to a wooden archway adorned with white flowers. Underneath was a bench, and under the bench I had carved the following to mark the span of our dating relationship:
Timmy & Demi
4/28/2018–1/9/2019
Forever . . . My Sweets
I spoke from the heart. I can’t tell you everything that was said, because that’s just between me and her, but here are the lines that mean the most and I’ll remember always: “Demi, I love you so much. I wanted to come here, to where I grew up, to a place that I love so much, with the person I love the most. When I first saw you, you gave me so much hope. When I first heard your voice, you gave me so much belief. When I first met you, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life fighting for you, fighting for us.” I slipped down to the ground on one knee. “Will you marry me?”
She said yes.
After shedding a few tears and sharing some laughs, we held each other close as “The Wedding Song” played. It was a cue for the next scene in the story. As tears drenched Demi’s eyes, a figure began to emerge from a stack of hay bales. It was Matthew Mole himself, strumming his guitar and serenading us live. Demi’s face froze in shock. There he was, her favorite artist, playing for her right there in Jacksonville.
Matthew was also the second cue. As Demi and I swayed in rhythm to the melody, I gently turned us around so the back deck of the house was out of her view. “I wish your family could be here right now,” I whispered.
