I go out there.
I write about what I find.

A milk vending machine, a yellow lab, and an unbelievable amount of sticks; thrown, retrieved, chewed, destroyed. That is what Grace and I's days have been filled with for the last week, as we stay with Fia, who is not merely a 2 year old quite-obviously-yellow-lab (evidence attached above), but rather a 2 year old quite-obviously-yellow-lab whose owners insist is actually a golden retriever.

While Fia's genetics, and much on Earth, are disputed, one thing is not: I'm Bryce, and this is the Far Out dispatch, which you are receiving because you either 1. were coerced, 2. gave me your email on Instagram or Facebook, or – and this is most impressive of all – 3. signed up on my website, brycercampbell.com. If none of those apply, or you regret your decision, the one-click unsubscribe is always at the bottom.

"The first and second books are so slow," my wife says with hesitation, "compared to the later ones." Grace is of course speaking not of the Old Testament, but of Harry Potter – which I have never read. Actually, that was quite muggle of me: I have begun reading. Stumbling upon the first of the series in another home we were staying at, and my wife finding it unacceptable that I didn't know where the phrase 'You're a wizard, Harry' comes from, she encouraged me to delve deep into a fantasy world with her, as we read through the series together.

And what a world it is! Writing fiction has always impressed me: if I were to tell you the story of how I met my wife, it would only take half the skill as writing some similar story but based on goblin-adventurers in Kazakhstan – if they were so exotic.

Best I can tell, writing in the nonfiction category is simple: find a good story, look at it very intensely, and then force someone to view that experience through your (likely) near-sighted eyes. And if it takes years before anyone looks, you can always do as I did: become a carpenter.

But writing fiction, well . . . if you don't make it big, everyone will think you're insane.

We (or rather, Potter; I am truly enveloped) have just arrived at Station Nine and Three Quarters – which is apparently somewhere in London. 85 or so pages in, and I am having trouble setting it down, if for no other reason than because I remember the general trivia that, according to the BBC (as I am in Britain), reading fiction literally makes you more intelligent:

At the Princeton Social Neuroscience Lab, psychologist Diana Tamir has demonstrated that people who often read fiction have better social cognition. In other words, they’re more skilled at working out what other people are thinking and feeling. 

That is great news, because I need all the help I can get: I am freshly married, and the profoundly positive message often provided to a young to-be-married man is, "just you wait, buddy." Sadly, I am both impatient and hate negative views of marriage.

They say you are an expert at something after 10,000 hours. That means, after 416 days of being married, you are an expert. I have not been married 416 days. Frankly, I have been married about a quarter of that much. So be warned: I am merely a quarter of an expert.

That being said, I think it could be beneficial to show you the absurd extent that God can go to, to bring about a marriage (or anything). Not because our story is better than meeting someone at your local church (it's not), but rather because I believe that marriage doesn't have to be the grim death that a lot of 20-something-year-olds think it is.

I have debated where to actually begin this story, because in reality, the beginning of Grace and I's marriage was 25 years ago when a young American pastor got a job offer at a ministry in New Zealand.

But a half decade ago or so, in the depths of my loneliness, notably after my brothers passing, I had started posting photos from my first roadtrip on Instagram (to my 90 followers, most of whom were people from home I didn't even like). In the course of doing that, I began to follow along with other people traveling.

And by chance, one spring afternoon, I saw an Instagram story from Jared Kreiss: you may know him as photographer extraordinaire, but I know him as vanman. His post was of his van, with a distinct Charleston scene in the background. I, both socially unaware (having not yet read Harry Potter) and extremely lonely, shot off an Instagram DM from a nameless, faceless account. All I said, according to Jared's version of the story, was "I know where you are."

Apparently that was a weird thing to message someone, even though something cool must've happened then: because six years later, Grace and I got married. But those are the seared sides of a steak, and as we all know: the juice is in the middle.

The juice begins soon after I messaged Mr. Kreiss, because he replied. I am not sure why, but I am grateful that he did. We arranged to grab a bite at the Whole Foods cafeteria – he, still uncertain that I was not attempting to (at best) dismember him. But for my many faults, that is not one. It would be a few weeks from then, where sitting at a red light, having just cried in my truck from genuine despair and loneliness, shot off a text, asking if he wanted to hang.

Jared replied and said that he was skating around one of the barrier islands that evening with some friends he had made in town, and I was invited. What followed was the beginning of a friendship that would span States, countries, years, and, at this rate, probably generations.

Because a few years later, I was standing on a sand dune in Charleston. Having now traveled a few times around the southeast and once to California to help him with some photo work, we were no longer stalker-victim, but now friend-friend.

And when Jared offhandedly mentioned he was going to New Zealand for their summer in a few months, and that he had already bought a van, and had a friend from North Carolina going, and I was invited to join, you might think I immediately said yes.

Yet at that moment, the internal answer was a simple one: no. I couldn't afford it. I was a carpenter working to build an Instagram following and failing to make any money on social media, and I had $4,000 in credit card debt.

But I am not very good at letting people down, so I told my ol' pal Jared that I would think about it. I didn't really intend to; I made up my frugal, yet in debt, mind. Until one morning, having just come out of the water surfing with my friend (and the Captain of our wedding) Colin Hansen, I mentioned New Zealand.

Captain Hansen is one of the most relaxed men I know. But when we exited the narrow beach path and arrived at our trucks, he turned towards me, maneuvering his well-loved and many-times-repaired 9 foot 6 inch surfboard under his arm, and stared, with what can only be described as the expression of a man who has just begun to read Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, and is now arriving at Station Nine and Three Quarters.

Little did I know, what he knew.

Yes, this is the beginning of the story of how I met my wife, Grace, who is from New Zealand. Yes, this is exquisite detail. But it is only so because you deserve to know that there are extreme lengths Somebody is going to, to organize your life as well – even if it feels aimless and void and confusing. In fact, in retrospect, it is only in those periods of time in which we are flexible enough to be maneuvered in such a way that great things can happen. And by great things, I don't mean getting rich. I mean things that glorify God. Because when bound by rigidity, I have found I often do not make way for any way other than my way. Unfortunately, my way is – historically – the subpar way.

But that is best saved for a future dispatch. Until next time,

See you out there,

Bryce C