Decision Points

during my second inauguration as governor. The morning of the ceremony, we attended a service at First United Methodist Church in downtown Austin. Laura and I had invited Reverend Mark Craig , our friend and pastor from Dallas, to deliver the sermon.
    I tried hard to focus on the inauguration, but I couldn’t. As we walked into the church, I told Mother I had been struggling with the decision of whether or not to run for president.
    “George,” she said, “get over it. Make up your mind, and move on.” It was good advice, but not too helpful at the time.
    Then Mark Craig struck. In his sermon, he spoke about the Book of Exodus, when God calls Moses to action. Moses’ first response was disbelief: “Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” He had every excuse in the book. He hadn’t led a perfect life; he wasn’t sure if people would follow him; he couldn’t even speak that clearly. That sounded a little familiar.
    Mark described God’s reassurance that Moses would have the power to perform the task he had been called to do. Then Mark summoned the congregation to action. He declared that the country was starving for moral and ethical leadership. Like Moses, he concluded, “We have the opportunity, each and every one of us, to do the right thing, and for the right reason.”
    I wondered if this was the answer to my question. There were no mysterious voices whispering in my ears, just Mark Craig’s high-pitched Texas twang coming from the pulpit. Then Mother leaned forward from her seat at the other end of the pew. She caught my eye and mouthed, “He is talking to you.”
    After the service, I felt different. The pressure evaporated. I felt a sense of calm.

    Laura and I had been discussing the presidential race for eighteen months. She was my sounding board as I talked through the pros and cons. She didn’t try to argue me out of the race, nor did she attempt to steer me in. She listened patiently and offered her opinions. I think she always sensed that I would run. As she put it, politics was the family business. Her goal was to make sure I made my decision for the right reasons, not because others were pushing me to run.
    If she had objected, she would have told me so, and I would not have run. While she worried about the pressure I would feel as president, she shared my hopes for the country and had confidence I could lead. One night she just smiled at me and said, “I’m in.”
    Breaking the news to our daughters was more difficult. Barbara and Jenna were seventeen years old, with independent streaks that remindedme a lot of their dad. From the very beginning they had asked me not to run—sometimes joking, sometimes serious, often at the top of their lungs. One of their favorite lines was, “Dad, you’re going to lose. You’re not as cool as you think you are.” Other times they asked, “Why do you want to ruin our lives?”
    Those were tough words for a father to hear. I don’t know if our daughters really thought I would lose, but I did know they did not want to give up their semi-private lives. One evening I asked Jenna to come out on the back porch of the Governor’s Mansion. It was a beautiful Texas night, and the two of us sat and talked for a while. I told her, “I know you think that I’m ruining your life by running for president. But actually, your mom and I are
living
our lives—just like we raised you and Barbara to do.”
    She told me she had never thought of it that way. The notion of living life to the fullest appealed to her, just as it always had to me. She was not thrilled. But from that point on, I think she and Barbara understood.
    Looking back on it a decade later, our daughters appreciated the opportunities that came with the presidency. They traveled with us on international trips, met fascinating and inspirational people like Václav Havel and Ellen Johnson Sirleaf , and learned about public service. Ultimately, Laura and I probably saw Barbara and Jenna more during the presidency than we would have if we had stayed in Texas.
    One of our favorite places to spend time with the girls was Camp David. One weekend in the summer of 2007, Laura and I invited Jenna and her boyfriend, Henry Hager , a fine young man from Virginia she’d met on the 2004 campaign. At dinner Friday night, Henry mentioned that he’d like to talk to me the next day. “I’ll be available at three o’clock in the presidential cabin,” I said.
    Henry