Why does anyone write? Most writers have no assurance anyone really is interested in what they write, so why bother? After all, there are only a very few people who can actually make a comfortable living out of writing. There are even fewer who can become rich, famous and successful by putting words on paper. Most people, both in history and in contemporary society, who write have to do something else to pay the bills. So, why write?
Writers write because they have something to say that they must commit to some permanent form. It does not really matter if anyone wants to read what they write or not. It matters even less if anyone is willing to pay them money for what they write. What matters is that they get their thoughts, their ideas, their heart and soul and mind on paper, or, these days in some electronic media. If anyone chooses to read it, that is a bonus. If anyone appreciates what is written, that is even more of a bonus. And if someone pays them for it, that’s nice, too. But these are not the things that motivate serious writers. Serious writers write because they have no choice.
I have no choice but to write these words. They are inside me screaming to get out, and I must let them out. I cannot hold them back any more than a volcano can hold back the spewing lava within it. If no one ever reads what I write, I will still have done what I set out to do, to set down words that describe this little life of mine.
I have been on this earth more than sixty years as I begin this writing, and that is a long time. But it is not really a long time; for one thing I have learned in these sixty plus years is that this life is temporary, transient, so much like a vapor, here today, but not to be found tomorrow.
It is because of the transitory nature of life, and because of my age, that I set about the task of telling the story of my life, whether anyone cares to read it or not. A few more years and my life on earth will be over, and I will no longer be able to write any story. At the very least, I hope that future generations of my family — my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren — all will read this and understand this life recorded here, and from whence they came.
In a very real sense, of course, it is not merely my life that is recorded here. I have necessarily recorded the lives of others as well, others whose little lives have intertwined with mine at various points along the way. There are many, too many to include all here.
Life is full of beginnings and endings, of new friends encountered and old friends left behind. Doors open; doors close. We encounter people — family, associates, friends — all too briefly, and they are gone. What did another man who could not resist the urge within to write set on paper? Something about all the world being a stage, and people merely players who strut and fret, and then are gone. That is life, and it is life that I hope to record here.
This is also a record — in fact, it is primarily the record — of what God has done to live His life through me. That is the main purpose I have in this treatise. I would like to testify to what God has done much more than to tell you what I have done. Because I did not have a faith experience with God until after my seventeenth birthday, the first part of this account will seem somewhat devoid of faith and what God might be doing. I didn’t know until I met God what God could do.
It may seem strange to some that I would want to write about God and how He is revealed in my life. After all, should I not prefer to record what I have done? Would I not want my descendants to understand what great things I did? Shouldn’t this account be about me and my life and what I did? I answer, “No!” And I answer that way simply because I have not done anything significant on my own. Nor could I. Nor can anyone. Humans do not handle life very well. It is too big, too demanding, but also way too fragile for our hands to deal with. We need God’s hands. He Who created life is the only One qualified to live it. He has chosen to live His life through His children; I am one of His children.
I begin this lengthy document, with or without readers. I begin not knowing how it or the life it reveals will end. I begin because something within me compels me to begin. I begin because I have something to say that I must commit to a permanent form. I begin.
In most cases, where a person other than an immediate family member is included in this narrative, I have changed the name to protect the privacy of that individual.
