Bongo Chico

It was 2002.
I was 21 and deep into my Nicholas Sparks era. I’d read a lot of his books during that time. If I believed in reincarnation, I swear my most recent previous life was a teenage girl who tragically didn’t get to grow out of being a teenager.
A lot of my tastes were made fun of by my peers for being, you know, teenage girly. Nicholas Sparks. Pop music. I mean, guys, around that time I had a fricking Justin Timberlake marionette doll from the No Strings Attached album. I think a friend gave it to me as a gag gift, but I secretly enjoyed having it.

I’ll save myself from further embarrassment, but you get the drift.

Anyway, 2002.
A Walk to Remember was out on DVD.
I saw it at Blockbuster and thought, yeah, I liked the book, I should check out the movie. I watched it, pretty sure by myself, in my dorm room. Pretty sure my roommates were not there. Even if they were, I don’t think they would’ve watched with me.

I was enthralled. Shane West. Mandy Moore. What wasn’t there to like?
Then came that scene where Mandy Moore sings Only Hope. And that song struck a chord with me.

The next day, I went to Tower Records near UH, University of Hawaii, not Houston, to buy the soundtrack. Wow. Why do I feel like I’m writing some kind of historical document? Blockbuster. DVDs. Tower Records. CDs.

I saw that this band Switchfoot had most of the songs on the soundtrack and that Only Hope was originally their song.
And thus began my love affair with Switchfoot.
I was hooked.
And have been hooked ever since.

One of my favorite songs from them is The Shadow Proves the Sunshine. That song got me through two failed ordination interviews as a Methodist provisional candidate.

At the end of this January, I had the privilege of serving as the resident theologian for Extravaganza, an ELCA youth workers conference in St. Louis.

The highlight of that time was meeting Tim Foreman, the bass player for Switchfoot and brother of frontman Jon Foreman.

One of the perks was that I was going to interview him after his set on stage. So the organizers left Tim and me in a room and said, “Joe, get to know Tim before you interview him. We’ll come get you guys in like fifteen minutes.”

That fifteen minutes turned out to be over an hour. Poor Tim.

I asked him about his childhood.
How his experience growing up as a PK, pastor’s kid, was.
I told him about my A Walk to Remember story, and he told me how they even got on the soundtrack.
We talked about his family and his son, who’s also in a band, Jettee. He was so cool, so down to earth, so unassuming.

The event staff and I later talked about how easy it was to talk to him, and I joked that maybe if he wasn’t the bass player, he could be the rock and roll diva. I don’t know if it’s a stereotype of bass players, but one of the running jokes in a favorite movie of mine, That Thing You Do, is that the bass player is credited simply as The Bass Player. We never even learn his name.

As the time was winding down and it was getting closer for him to play songs from his new (and first) solo album, Bongo Chico, he looked at me and said,

“Dude. I’m getting nervous.”

And I genuinely did not know how to process that.

Tim’s been in the music industry for three decades. Tim and Switchfoot have played across the world. And now he’s in a room full of Lutheran youth workers, confessing he was nervous.

I was honestly stunned by his vulnerability. It was such a human moment. So damn endearing. And comforting.
To know people still get nervous. That people like him still get nervous.
And I think that’s what stayed with me.
Not the music. Not the fandom. Not the nostalgia of DVDs and Tower Records and dorm room movie nights.
But the reminder that the people we put on stages are still just incredibly human.

Somewhere along the way, we start believing confidence comes with experience. That success erases insecurity. That after enough time doing something, the nerves disappear.

But they don’t.

And especially for men, we’re not taught to admit that.
We’re taught to look composed.
Capable.
Certain.

Vulnerability is often treated like weakness. You’re supposed to have it together. Know what you’re doing. Walk into every room like you belong there.

So when someone you admire casually admits, “Yeah, I’m nervous,” something shifts. Because vulnerability doesn’t make someone smaller. It makes them relatable.
It reminds you they’re human.

I think a lot of us quietly assume everyone else knows what they’re doing while we’re still second guessing. Everyone else is confident while we’re hoping we don’t get found out. Everyone else belongs while we’re afraid we don’t.

And then a guy who’s toured the world for decades says he’s nervous before going on stage.

And suddenly you remember.
Nobody outgrows being human.

One of the strange surprises of getting older is realizing confidence isn’t certainty. Most of us are just learning how to move forward while still carrying doubt.

Maybe courage isn’t the absence of nerves.

I recently ran across a quote talking about the difference between being brave and being courageous. Brave is not being afraid of something most people are afraid of. Courage is being afraid of something and doing it anyway.

So maybe courage is showing up anyway.
Maybe the people we trust most aren’t the ones who never feel nervous, but the ones honest enough to admit when they do.
And maybe that’s why moments like that matter more than we realize.

Because so many of us are exhausted from pretending we’re fine.
Pretending we’re confident.
Pretending we’re not scared of messing things up, letting people down, or being seen as weak.

Especially leaders. Especially the people everyone assumes have it all together.
But honesty is often braver than performance.
And sometimes the most freeing thing you can hear isn’t advice or inspiration or certainty.

Sometimes it’s just someone saying, “Yeah, me too.”

And if Tim Foreman still gets nervous after thirty years on stage, maybe the rest of us are allowed to feel nervous too.

And show up anyway.

Go check out Bongo Chico!