Narrator: An eight-year-old boy named Charlie is abducted by Kabi, the head witch doctor of his region in Uganda. Kabi performs a horrific act of mutilation and leaves the boy for dead. Charlie survives, and through a series of extraordinary events, Kabi is brought to trial. The witch doctor is convicted and sentenced to life in prison. For most, this is where the story ends: justice served, evil punished. But what if the story was just beginning? What if the next step was to not only forgive this man but to visit him in a maximum-security prison, listen to his story, and actively help him find redemption? This is the radical, almost unthinkable, challenge at the heart of Bob Goff’s book, Everybody, Always: Becoming Love in a World Full of Setbacks and Difficult People. It argues that our purpose isn’t just to agree with the idea of love, but to become love itself, especially for those we believe are our enemies.

Narrator: Before we can love others, Goff argues, we must understand that love is not an action we perform but an identity we inhabit. He illustrates this through a moment of personal crisis. While visiting a friend’s ministry in San Francisco, thieves broke into his van, stealing his luggage, wallet, and a laptop containing the only draft of his new book. Arriving at the airport to fly home, he had no ID. When the TSA agent asked him to prove who he was, Goff was stumped. He couldn’t use his driver’s license, his credit cards, or even the cover of his previous book, which only featured balloons.

This experience crystallized a core idea for him: our true identity is not based on our possessions, our job titles, or our external markers of success. These things can be stolen or lost. Instead, Goff suggests that Jesus identifies people by how they love. Our true identity is forged in our capacity to love others, especially those who are difficult or "creepy." Goff concludes that God’s ultimate plan is not for us to simply give and receive love, but for us to become love. As he puts it, "Love isn’t something we fall into; love is someone we become." This shift in perspective moves love from a transactional feeling to the very essence of our being.

Narrator: Goff draws a sharp distinction between building a castle and building a kingdom. A castle, he explains, is a fortress designed for exclusion. It has high walls, a deep moat, and a drawbridge to keep people out. It’s a structure built from fear, designed to protect what’s inside from the dangers outside. A kingdom, on the other hand, is built on inclusion and grace. Instead of moats, it has bridges. Instead of dungeons, it has grace.

He brings this concept to life with the story of a trip to Disney World. After arriving at the airport, he spotted a limo driver holding a sign with his name on it. During the ride, Goff learned the driver was about to retire and had never ridden in the back of his own limo. On impulse, Goff had him pull over, and they switched places. Goff drove the rest of the way, allowing the driver to experience the luxury and feel celebrated. In that moment, Goff wasn’t building a castle to protect his own status or comfort; he was building a small kingdom by extending an unexpected bridge of kindness to someone else. This, he argues, is how we are meant to live: tearing down the walls of judgment and fear to welcome everyone in, operating without an agenda, and simply loving people where they are.

Narrator: Many people wait for a clear plan or a mystical sign from God before taking action. They circle the airfield of life, waiting for perfect conditions and three green lights before they feel safe enough to land. Goff, an avid pilot, uses a harrowing personal experience to challenge this mindset. Flying home late one night, he prepared to land his small plane, but only two of the three landing gear indicator lights turned green. The nose-wheel light was out. The control tower couldn't visually confirm if the gear was down. He was faced with a choice: circle until he ran out of fuel, or trust what he knew and land the plane.

He realized he had two green lights—the back wheels were down and locked. He had his experience as a pilot. And he had his faith. He didn’t need absolute certainty. He chose to land the plane, bringing it down gently on its rear wheels. The landing was perfect. The problem, it turned out, was a single, five-cent burned-out lightbulb. Goff uses this story as a powerful metaphor for faith. We often want more confirmation than we have, but God has already given us enough "green lights"—our experiences, our talents, our love for others—to move forward. Faith, he concludes, isn't about having all the answers; it's about having the courage to land the plane anyway.

Narrator: In skydiving, instructors teach that it’s not the initial impact with the ground that’s most lethal; it’s the second impact, the "bounce," that causes the most damage. Goff applies this to human failure. When people mess up, the initial failure is the first impact. But the "bounce"—the judgment, isolation, and disapproval from others that follows—is often what truly crushes their spirit. Our job, as people becoming love, is to be there to "catch them on the bounce."

This means running toward people in their moments of failure, not away from them. It requires us to offer love and acceptance when they are at their lowest, to wrap them in grace instead of criticism. This is a difficult, counterintuitive act. Our instinct is often to distance ourselves from failure. But Goff insists that this is precisely when people need love the most. By being present in their pain and offering unconditional support, we can prevent the second impact and help them begin the process of healing and restoration.

Narrator: The book’s most radical idea is that loving our enemies is not a passive sentiment but an active, difficult, and transformative mission. After the trial of Kabi, the witch doctor who harmed his son Charlie, Goff felt a pull to do the unthinkable: visit him in prison. He found a man who was broken and asking for forgiveness. This encounter began a years-long process of engagement. Goff didn't just forgive Kabi; he started a school for witch doctors in Uganda, teaching them literacy using the Bible.

The ultimate proof of this love in action came when two witch doctors from his school called him in the middle of the night. A child had been abducted for a sacrifice. These two men, once perpetrators of such acts, risked their lives to rescue the child and return him to his mother. They texted Goff afterward with a simple message: "Love does." Goff’s point is profound: loving your enemies means actively helping them become better people. It means seeing them not as projects to be fixed, but as people to be loved, and in doing so, creating the possibility for their—and our own—transformation.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from Everybody, Always is that love is not a feeling, a transaction, or a strategy; it is an identity. Bob Goff challenges the reader to move beyond merely agreeing with Jesus to actively becoming love in a world full of difficult people and painful setbacks. This isn't about having a perfect plan or waiting for permission. It's about making ourselves available, building bridges instead of walls, and showing up for people, especially when they fail.

The book leaves us with a beautifully simple, yet profoundly difficult, challenge. What if we stopped waiting for God to give us a detailed map and instead recognized that He has already given us the destination: to love everybody, always? What if we took the people right in front of us—the annoying, the creepy, the ones who have hurt us—and decided to love them, not because they deserve it, but because we are becoming love?