"The Night My True Journey Began" - Final Submission

 It is hard to describe… that feeling I’d get at the end of the church services that I attended on Sundays. The order of the services rarely changed… singing, announcements, special music. preaching and finally… the “invitation.”

The “invitation” is just what it sounds like… it was when attendees were invited to walk down the aisle of the church to pray at the altar or to make some sort of a decision about their spiritual lives. It was a personal decision made in a public way. The decision could be to dedicate themselves to the ministry, to rededicate their lives to Christ, to be baptized or, the most important decision… to accept Jesus Christ as their personal savior.

 

There was a rhythm to the invitation. The sermon was closed with prayer, the congregation would stand and sing an old familiar hymn, “Just as I Am,” while the pastor implored those who felt led… to come forward.

 

Just as I am, without one plea
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that Thou bid'st me come to Thee
O Lamb of God, I come! I come

 

“Is the Holy Spirit speaking to you? If so, then obey His prompting and make your way down this aisle today.” Pastor Osborne would plead.

 

Just as I am, though tossed about
With many a conflict, many a doubt
Fighting and fears within without
O Lamb of God, I come, I come

 

Every time I heard the pastor utter these words… I’d get this “feeling” of unease and I would grab onto the pew in front of me the way you would grab onto the safety bar of a wild roller coaster ride at an amusement park.

 

Just as I am, and waiting not
to rid my soul of one dark blot
to thee whose blood can cleanse each spot
O Lamb of God, I come, I come

 

Why was this happening to me? My mind would run through a familiar sequence on each occasion of this feeling of unease. It went something like this:

Why do I feel this way?

Is God speaking to me?

Do I need to accept Christ?

Of course not! I did that when I was 7. I’m now super active in my church. I’m the President of the youth group. I have no reason to go forward. What a ridiculous notion. Just hold on and I’ll be fine in a few minutes.

 

This battle raged on for months. I told myself that I didn’t know what was going on but a still, small voice in my spirit indicated otherwise. It was a battle being waged between my head and my heart. I fabricated an intellectual argument to quell a plea coming from the depths of my soul.

 

Dan Hawtree - MANY years later

In January of 1976… around the occasion of my 17^th birthday, our church held a revival with Evangelist by the name of Dan Hawtree, a fiery preacher of the gospel who held your attention with his mastery of the scriptures and his keen sense of humor. But little did I know that it would be Pat, his wife, who would be used of God to touch my life in a special way during the final night of those meetings.

 

The revival meetings went from Sunday to Sunday. Eight days of gospel preaching. Pat Hawtree was a beautiful lady with an amazing and powerful singing voice. She would belt out a gospel song before every sermon that her husband would preach. That was the extent of her involvement in the services… until the final service that second Sunday night.

 

Dan Hawtree introduced his wife that night… not to sing… but to share the testimony of how she became a born again child of God.

 

Pat Hawtree

She talked about growing up in the church and attending every service with her family. As a teen, she became very active in her youth group. Upon graduating from high school, she attended Tennessee Temple Christian College and was selected to sing in an ensemble group of college kids that would travel and sing in various churches. The group would present the gospel everywhere they went.

 

For some reason, I was locked into her words. Her story wasn’t exactly like mine but there were enough similarities that I found myself hanging on her every sentence. It was as if I knew that she had a message especially intended for me.

 

Mrs. Hawtree continued. She told us that throughout her teen years and into the first couple years of Bible college, she felt an unsettled  longing in her soul. She couldn’t pinpoint the cause nor the source but it was amplified in many church and chapel services… especially during the invitation.

 

Now she REALLY had my attention.

 

Two years into Bible college, Pat Hawtree came to the realization that despite her Christian upbringing, her involvement in church and ministry and her service in Bible college… that the still small voice in her spirit and the unsettled longing in her soul… was God knocking at her heart’s door. She concluded that she had never truly accepted Jesus into her heart and life. Upon that realization, she asked Jesus to cleanse her from her sins and to come into her heart and save her.

 

Tears welled up in my eyes as God’s Spirit spoke truth to me through the life and testimony of Pat Hawtree that night. I finally realized that faithful church attendance and involvement in ministry, although good and admirable, were not the currency for God’s offer of salvation. It was the admission of sin and the acceptance of Christ’s blood sacrifice that promised a home in heaven.

 

That night, I gave my heart to Jesus. That night, my true journey began and the blessings that I have received from on high are too numerable to recall, let alone mention. My faith in and direction from God has absolutely been the catalyst for every major decision in my life through all of these decades since my conversion. My marriage, my kids, my places of employment, the places we have lived and the houses of worship where we’ve attended and served in… have been of God. I’m 100% convinced of that.

 

If you have read my submissions to this blog, “Though He Fall,” from the beginning, you will know that a good portion of my early life was filled with pain, confusion and despair. What I didn’t realize through all of that mess… was that God was there and He was preparing the way for me to come to Him. At my absolute breaking point at 16 years old, in 1975… God engineered the circumstances that brought me into a preacher’s home in California. That preacher was my brother, Bill and his influence ultimately led me to Christ and the life I now enjoy in Him.

 

Praise the Lord!

 

Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the LORD upholdeth him with his hand.

-Psalm 37:24

 

“Was That Enough?” – Submission #45

The “Odd Couple” experiment lasted less than a month… thank God. When Chuck, my roomie, moved out of our apartment, I had no choice but to do the same. But where would I go?

Brother Butch, circa 1985

I remember Bill coming to pick me up a day or two after Chuck left. We drove to Butch’s house in Artesia, just a few miles away. Butch is my oldest brother, 10 years my senior. Bill didn’t tell me the specific reason for the visit, but I suspected it had something to do with me and my sudden state of homelessness. I guess if he briefed me on the purpose for the visit and Butch ended up rejecting the idea, that might make Butch look like a bad brother. In reality, he had no real obligation to take me in. He wasn’t a part of the process that brought me to California. He never signed-up for this. Why should he be pushed into a commitment and sacrifice of this magnitude?

I hated that I was so dependent upon others for life’s necessities. But I was still a teenager and a high school student. This uncomfortable process was a part of my journey and it would serve to teach me some valuable lessons in life, particularly the blessing of family and an appreciation for those who sacrifice in order to help you along your path.

We walked into the house and I felt a bit on edge as we greeted Butch and his wife, Ruby. A couple minutes of small-talk ensued and I sat down on the nearest chair. Bill waited for Butch’s eyes to meet his gaze and then silently, motioned with his head for Butch to follow him outside… which he did, as they shut the door behind them.

I barraged Ruby with nervous chatter.  I wondered if she knew what my brothers were talking about. If she did, she didn’t let on.

Ruby and I had always gotten along great. Before dad died, and she and Butch were still dating, Ruby babysat some kids on our street. I would frequently wander over to keep her company and to help her with the kids. I was only 10, but it kick-started our relationship and I was absolutely thrilled when she and Butch got married a couple years later.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably more like 20 or 30 minutes, Butch and Bill came back into the house. I looked at Bill with curious eyes and he said, “Are you ready to go?”

He must have said “No.”

We got into the car and I just looked down… a little frightened and a bit depressed.

“Now where are we going?” I asked Bill

“To get your stuff.”

“Why?”

“To take it to Butch’s house. You’re going to live with them” He said with a sly smile.

RELIEF!

Munson Boys Bob, Bart, Butch, Bill in 1975

Butch and Ruby’s house was very small… less than 1,000 square feet, I’m pretty sure. It had two bedrooms and one bathroom. I would share a bedroom with my 4-year-old nephew and 1-year-old niece. The house didn’t have a hallway. The kid’s (and my) room was right off the living room. Butch and Ruby’s room was right off the kid’s room. Yes, you had to go through the kid’s room to get to their room unless you walked through the kitchen to get to the Jack and Jill bathroom, which led into their room also.

It’s complicated.

Me and Butch in Iowa, a few years ago

The living situation was less than ideal for all of us and I’m sure that was the catalyst for the lengthy discussion between my two older brothers. It seems that maybe my move to California was turning into a burden of unintended consequences for all involved. Nevertheless, I am so thankful for the sacrifice that Butch and Ruby made to accommodate me during that crucial season of my life. It brought me some much-needed stability.

Butch worked at LeFiell for 48 years

Butch was/is the model of stability. He’s lived in the same neighborhood and has been married to the same woman for nearly 50 years. He retired a couple years ago from the job he started right out of high school back in 1967. He worked for one company his entire adult life. He is and always has been my hero.

I got my first job at a taco and hot dog joint called ‘Pup n Taco.’ Or as we called it, ‘Puke n Taco.’ It was a somewhat popular chain fast-food joint. I didn’t get paid much but I managed to save up enough money to buy a 1966 Mustang for $600 dollars.

It was a pretty nice-looking car. Kind of a dark, dusty blue and the body was in great shape but apparently the previous owner had done way too much tinkering with it… trying to modify the engine and transmission… until he ran out of patience and sold it off to some sucker.

The “sucker” (me), soon learned that it would break down on a regular basis. Luckily for me, I was dating a girl whose dad was a mechanic and he spent a lot of time with his head under my Mustang’s hood. His oft repeated refrain was, “You should have let me look at it before you bought it.”

Sage advice but a tad too late.

Aside from all of the periphery issues of living arrangements, part-time jobs, car troubles and high school… much of my focus centered around the pursuit of truth and faith… of God and the Bible… of Christians… of acceptable and unacceptable activities and behavior.

Because I had made the church the center of my activities and the teens in the youth group as my primary companions… was I now a Christian? A believer? A disciple of Jesus? I mean, I think I looked the part and acted the part. I modeled my dress, my conversations, my activities and, most importantly (it seemed), my list of “do’s and don’ts” after those around me. I must be a Christian, right?

If all of that wasn’t good enough to make me a Christian, I still had an ace in the hole. When I was about 7-years-old, I sat in that very church one Sunday morning, a few years before dad died, and listened to Pastor Osborne as he implored folk to come forward and get “saved” at the conclusion of his sermon. I didn’t really understand all of that but a buddy sitting next to me grabbed my arm and said, “Let’s go.” And so we trotted down the aisle to the front of the church.

My buddy and I got separated as some man took me in a back room, sat me down, read me some Bible verses. He asked me if I understood what those verses were telling me and even though I didn’t understand… I nodded in affirmation. He then had me repeat a prayer. At the end of this activity, he declared that I was now a “child of God” and bound for heaven. Cool!

So… I had that. But was that enough?

"The Odd Couple" - Submission #44

If I do the math, I can figure out that Janet (Bill’s wife), became pregnant with their first child in early October of 1975, about a month after I had moved in with them.

I’m not sure when they actually made the big announcement. It was probably in November or December. I was excited to hear the news. It never occurred to me, at least early on, that this news would have any dramatic effect on me and my situation. But eventually, it did.

As I have mentioned earlier, Bill made next to nothing working for the church. They had to meticulously budget in order to make ends meet. As an example of their poverty, I never… ever… remember Bill filling his car up with gas. It was always putting in a dollar’s worth at a time… two dollars if he was awash with cash. But never more than that.

The financial impact of having a child would be significant and Bill had to plan accordingly. And so, before I had completed my junior year, Bill and Janet sat me down… and gave me the news that would jolt my world. The bottom line? I would not be living with them any longer.

Janet’s grandmother, they called her “Gummy,” owned a house in Chino, California… about 45 minutes away from our apartment in Norwalk. She also owned a house in Oklahoma and split time between the two states. As a way to help Bill and Janet save money, Gummy offered them the opportunity to live in the Chino house… rent free.

They accepted her offer. And now… they had to break the news to me.

I felt shocked and devastated by the news. I had been so happy and content since moving in with them in September and now, it felt like the rug was being pulled out from under me. I was bewildered and lost. I know that Bill felt horrible about doing it, but it really made sense for his family.

Obviously, Bill wasn’t going to throw me out on the streets. He had developed a plan prior to breaking the news to me. The problem was… it was a horrible plan.

A “down on his luck” guy had started attending our church. His name was Chuck Beard. Chuck was a scruffy looking character… probably 40ish, always wearing the same clothes. I was pretty sure that he didn’t own a razor or a toothbrush and if you found yourself downwind from him, it was obvious that he didn’t have much access to soap or a shower. But he seemed nice enough.

Apparently, Chuck was looking for a place to live. He worked part time doing odd jobs and couldn’t afford a place on his own… so… you guessed it… Chuck was going to be my new roomie. What??? Uh… yeah…. The odd couple.

Chuck and I moved into a different apartment complex, around the corner from where I had been living. No TV. No phone. I paid rent with the social security check I got from my dad’s passing away.

Oh… and how did I get to school now, you ask? That’s a great question and I thank you for asking.

Before Bill and Janet headed for Chino, they had secured my transportation. An old, girls’ bicycle, previously own by Janet’s younger sister, Donna. It was old, it was rusty, and it was butt ugly.

As ugly as the bike was… I couldn’t leave it outside or it would get stolen within minutes. It was a bad neighborhood. So, the bike was stored in the cramped living room of our upstairs apartment. Every morning, I would ride that bike three miles to school, steering with one hand and holding a stack of books and notebooks in my other hand. I rode the busy streets of Norwalk and Cerritos, through heavy Mexican gang area on Norwalk Blvd and 166^th Street… peddling as fast as my feet could go.

I missed school frequently and would write my own excuse, forging Bill’s signature at the bottom. At some point, the school administration noticed the forgeries and requested a meeting with Bill, who was my legal guardian. I don’t remember the outcome of that meeting, but I know that I quit missing school after.

I spent my evenings listening to the Dodger games on a little radio as I stared out the front window. It was my only source of entertainment. Chuck and I never spoke to each other beyond any necessary communication. On occasion, Bill would stop by the apartment and I would be so happy. I craved his company so badly that I would always try and think of ways to get him to stay just a few minutes longer. Every time he left, I would be consumed with sadness.

Chuck and I were approaching the one-month mark in our apartment together and rent was due. I remember riding the bike home after school, I think it might have been the last day of the school year, because I was earlier than normal. I carried the bike up the stairs, stuck my apartment key into the locked door and pushed it open. Chuck was on the living room floor with a bed-sheet spread out in front of him. The few belongings that he owned… a couple dirty shirts, some silverware, a couple pots and pans… hobo stuff…  were on the sheet and he was pulling up the four corners, making a knapsack of sorts.

Chuck was caught off-guard and he stammered and stumbled over his words. Obviously, his plan was to be long gone by the time I got home. Finally, these words came tumbling out of his mouth, “I can’t afford to live here anymore.”

I stood in stunned silence as he quickly strode by me and out the door with his bed-sheet of earthly possessions slung over his shoulder… the sound of his pots clanking in rhythm with his steps. Chuck was gone but his body odor lingered.

Thanks for the memories, Chuck.

I put the kick-stand down on the bike and sat down on the couch. I looked up toward the ceiling, as though speaking to God and said, “Now what?”

"Culture Shock" - Submission #43

From day one in California, I immersed myself in a new lifestyle. Gone were the vices of weed, cigarettes and alcohol. Gone were the days of self-medicating to escape the painful realities of my life. I no longer wanted to suffer through life, I wanted to embrace life... a new life... and drink it in.

As I started to attend church, much about me was in stark contrast to who I was just months earlier when I attended that church service with my brother. My appearance was quite different. My hair was much shorter. My wardrobe now fit in with the other “church goers.” My attitude and countenance now reflected a teen, eager to learn, as opposed to one that couldn’t wait to escape a sanctuary of individuals so different than myself.

I was in the midst of turning over a new leaf... which was a good and noble exercise. A concerted effort to execute a complete makeover of my attitude, inclinations, habits, thoughts and actions. But even though the church setting and living with a preacher served as a backdrop, my early acts and evidences of transformation were not the result of a religious experience or a confrontation with God. The changes in me were the result of my overwhelming desire to live a life that had zero resemblance to the life I had lived up to this point. This distinction was lost on me at that time. It was also not understood by those observing my changes play out.

More on that later.

My arrival didn’t give me much time to prepare for the start of my junior year of high school. I lived within the boundaries where students were assigned to attend Excelsior High School in Norwalk. This was a very old high school and one that would end up getting closed down a few years later. As a point of interest, after it closed down, it became the movie set for “Grease 2” and a number of other TV shows and movies.

Of one thing, I was certain... I did not want to attend Excelsior High School, a school well known for its frequent gang activity. This truly frightened me and caused me to lose sleep.

Frankly, no school in the area was exempt from some sort of gang infestation but some had better track records than others. One such school was Richard Gahr High School in Cerritos. Gahr was known to be pretty racially balanced with minimal gang issues. Luckily for me, my brother, Butch, lived within the Gahr boundaries. So... I “borrowed” his address and enrolled at Gahr.

Despite the fact that attending Gahr ended up being a good choice, the first few weeks of school was an exercise in massive culture shock. I had attended California schools from Kindergarten through the 4th grade but that was a long time ago in “kid years.” My formative years, ages 10 through 16, were spent in small town Iowa. I went from attending a lily-white high school in the Midwest, with less than 200 students to a racially diverse high school in Los Angeles County with over two-thousand students.

Almost everything about school was different in California. There were no inside hallways… every passageway was outside. Our lockers were outside. Most everyone ate lunch outside in the area known as the “Quad.” For the most part, the various races stuck together during lunch period… blacks with blacks, Mexicans with Mexicans, Asians with Asians and whites with whites. Unwritten rules… I guess. I normally sat alone during those early days.

Many students fell into specific categories or cliques that seemed to have their own peculiar dress codes and languages… like the “Stoners,” the “Surfers,” the “Cholos,” the “Preps,” and, of course, like most every high school in America… the “Jocks” and the “Nerds.”

As for me, my style was pretty simple... all the basic colors of corduroy pants
and black wallaby shoes.

Gahr High School was relatively close to where I had attended elementary school before dad died and we moved to Iowa. So, it was interesting to come across some kids that I knew but hadn’t seen in more than six years… like, Chet Beatty, Bobby Hernandez, Mike Green, Paul Pugh, James Felton and Ted Walton… these are a few of the names that pop into my head as I type away. Regardless of that past connection, there was no re-connection with any of them during my next two years of high school. Chet Beatty and I ended up at the same church about 15 years after graduation and are still friends and in contact today… but he’s the only one from that group.

To say that I was anxious, intimidated and lost... was a substantial understatement. I watched the clock in each class incessantly, trying to will it to move more quickly. The best part of each day, for me, was hearing the dismissal bell in French class and walking out to see Bill’s turquoise, 1971 Malibu, waiting at the curb to pick me up.

Slowly but surely, over the course of my junior year at Gahr, things began to get more comfortable as the culture shock started to melt away. I got used to my surroundings and formed a few casual friendships. But even through the tough parts of my move and acclimation to my new surroundings … I never… ever… regretted moving to California.

My fondest memories of that time period of my life was living with Bill and Janet in that cramped little apartment across the street from our church. Janet would cook a full meal every night and all three of us would sit around the dining table, talking about our day. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had sat down for a family meal prior to that point.

Bill had a big aquarium with some really cool looking fish and it wasn’t long before I got a 10 gallon starter tank for my bedroom. Bill and I would go to the pet store on Pioneer Blvd about once a week to buy supplies, new fish or just to look around. That was always a highlight.

We really got into UCLA basketball too. It was
interesting to watch the team in their first season without coaching legend, John Wooden.

Every night, at 10:30PM, we would laugh our way through black and white reruns of The Honeymooners with Jackie Gleason and Art Carney. And then throughout the week, Bill and I would find situations where we would quote Gleason and do our best to imitate his bombastic voice… “To the moon, Alice!”

Life was good. Life couldn’t get much better.

And then… a bombshell.

To be continued…

"Thanks God" - Submission #42

The day of my departure finally arrived. I was moving to California. I was leaving a family, a town and a period of my life that had pushed me to the brink.

Would this move facilitate the remedy that I had so desperately sought, or would it just transfer my struggles to another geographic location?

I slept very little the night before I left. Despite the fact of a late afternoon flight, I was up early the next morning with my suitcases packed and sitting at the front door. I sat in the living room and watched the clock. Time slowed to a crawl.

Eventually, I heard some stirring in mom and Jack’s bedroom. Muffled voices, some crying and the sniffling from a runny nose. Their bedroom door opened, Jack, my step-dad, walked out and shut the door behind him.

He stood there for a moment, looking at me with a half-smile on his face.

“Let’s take a ride.” He said.

Odd. Very odd. In the four years he’d been married to my mom, he’d paid very little attention to me. I don’t recall too many conversations with him at all. But apparently now... he wanted to talk.

We got into his Buick Electra and headed west on 2^nd Street… toward downtown.

Occasionally, he’d look over at me, as though he were about to say something. I’d look back at him in anticipation, only to have him smile and turn his eyes back toward the road in front of him. He seemed to be searching for the right time and the right words. I think we both felt awkward. We had never forged the type of relationship that would make this type of conversation, comfortable.

He turned south on Main Street. We passed the post office and drove over the bridge above the railroad tracks. I looked out my window as we passed the houses of several of my friends. We turned into the entrance of Edgewood Park. I couldn’t help but think of all the memories I made at that park. So many football and baseball games played there. The dances at the log cabin where I awkwardly tried to show my moves… but only after consuming alcohol or smoking weed.

Jack pulled into a parking space by the tennis court and turned off the engine.

He looked at me with serious and sober eyes. “You know you’re breaking your mother’s heart, don’t you?”

“Yes.” My eyes looking downward.

“She cried all night.” He continued, “She’s still crying.”

I nodded my head as I bit my lower lip. I was uncomfortable and struggled for an acceptable response. I avoided eye contact.

I’m sure that a portion of my mom’s sorrow had to do with the fact that I was leaving home at the age of 16 and moving across the country. She was also fighting the guilt she felt for being so disconnected during the years that lead up to this point.

She had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned me shortly after my dad’s death. She traded her role as my nurturer, my comforter, my protector… in favor of a selfish pursuit of a companion… a fact that, years later, she would readily admit to and desperately seek forgiveness for.

Jack seemed to run out of words. He turned the key and the Buick roared to life.

That brief conversation was a mere formality. Jack knew it wasn’t going to change anything, but he needed to check that box and tell mom that he tried.

As for me… I just wanted to get to the airport.

 

I will never forget the feeling of elation that started in my head and rapidly moved all the way to my toes as the aircraft cleared the mountains and began to descend into the hazy LA basin. Through the ever-present smog, I could see the maze of housing tracts and the grid patterns of streets and freeways. Eventually, the Pacific Ocean appeared in view and we flew low enough to see the palm trees.

Oh… the palm trees. Why did seeing those palm trees trigger such joy in me? Maybe they became the symbol of my escape and my new-found freedom. Whatever the reason… palm trees, to this day, make me happy.

This was back in the days before TSA and security checks in airports. Back when you could walk into the terminals where passengers were exiting the airplanes.

I walked off the plane and Bill was there to meet me. Big grin on his face. He was just as excited as I was.

We made our way to the baggage claim, talking a mile a minute. We grabbed my bags and headed to his car.

We worked the LA freeway system from the airport to Norwalk. The 110 to the 405 to the 605. Did we run into any traffic? Of course, we ran into traffic. We were in Southern California! But I didn’t mind in the slightest because my brother and I were engaged in nonstop conversation. We were talking about all of the things we were going to do… baseball games, the beach, Disneyland. And those were just for starters.

Just days before I arrived, Bill and Janet had moved from a one-bedroom apartment to a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex. It was directly across the street from Baptist Community Bible Church, where Bill was the Assistant Pastor and his father-in-law was the Pastor.

That church would become the hub of my activity. More on that later.

I will never forget walking in that apartment door for the first time. The first thing that caught my eye was a stool, sitting in the middle of the living room. On that stool was a towel and a pair of scissors. I knew immediately what that meant… Bill was dead serious about reducing the length of my hair and apparently it was the number one item on the agenda.

But you know what? I didn’t care! I was still riding high on elation and there wasn’t a thing that was going to knock me off course. Cut it off! Cut it all off!

Janet came bounding out of the bedroom with a squeal and gave me a big hug. She was such a sweetheart!

Within minutes, I was sitting on the stool, watching my golden locks tumble to the carpet below. Janet snipped away as she chatted.

She held up a mirror and said, “All done! You look so handsome!”

For the first time in a long time, my hair was off my
ears and above my collar. I guess this was the prescribed look for my new life. “A small price to pay,” I thought.

Janet went to bed. Bill and I stayed up and talked until the wee early morning hours.

I took a shower and then went to bed… in my new room.

I remember lying there in the quiet of the night and in the solitude of darkness… with a feeling of contentment and peace that I hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the ceiling with a heart filled with gratitude, I said two simple words. “Thanks God.”

"Little Box of Personal Expectations" - Submission #41

Immediately... upon my return home from California, I was consumed with anxiety, depression, fear, despair and dread. These feelings were only exacerbated when I thought about the start of the school year set to begin in a couple weeks.

At a time in my young life when I should have been excited about entering the final couple years of high school and planning my future... I was in a place of utter darkness. 

The day after I got home, I was surprised when Scott Lombardi and Mark Gibbons knocked at my door and wanted to hang out. At any other time, I would have been happy... thrilled to hang out with these longtime friends. But not now. Not in this frame of mind. I didn’t want to see or talk with anyone.

I told them that I couldn’t. Told them I had to go visit my sister. I lied.

I was a mess.

In the depths of my despair, I began to think about what that preacher in California had said about Jesus and His desire to forgive me and to turn my life around. Would he? Could he?  Was this the glimmer of hope that I needed? 

I began to explore the ramifications of a new direction in my life. A direction guided by faith in God. A new path. A very different lifestyle. 

Would God be willing to have me? Was I willing to have Him? How could I learn more about Him? Did we need a third party to handle the introductions? Would He require me to quit smoking, change my taste in music and cut my hair? Would He require anything at all?

I had so many questions and very few answers but in those moments of deep thought about God, I allowed myself a sliver of hope... the hope that I could finally escape the misery I had endured for the five previous years.

One thing that I felt very strongly about was that I needed a change in location and environment. I needed to get out of that house. I needed to get out of that town. Heading back to California seemed to be my only viable option… but that would be a very tough sell. I couldn’t imagine mom loosening her grip on her baby… the last child still in the nest.

I wanted to call my brother, Bill. He was the one brother that might have a shot at making this dream come true. He was the brother who could teach me more about God. HeH

But he was also the brother that I all but shunned for the past two months. Why would he want to talk to me? Why would he want to disrupt his new marriage by taking on the responsibility of his misguided, mixed up 16-year-old brother?

I stared at the phone for a long time. Every so often, I’d reach for it, hesitate and then pull my hand away. I was filled with pessimism. I distinctly remember the battle raging in my mind about making that call. And it went on for days.

When I decided to finally make that call, it dawned on me to pray before doing so. I felt that God had somehow become a part of this process and so, in some sort of crude, non-eloquent fashion I invited Him to control the conversation and begged Him to grant my desire. I’m sure I also added the bargaining chip of my full obedience to Him… should He provide the specified outcome. You know… the foxhole commitment thing. But I was 100% sincere. I wanted my life to change and I was totally ready to dive into that process.

I don’t remember the specific words that Bill and I spoke on the phone that day, but I do remember that he was immediately in my corner. No hesitation. Full agreement. He wanted me in California, with him and my sister-in-law, Janet.

That turned out to be the easy part.

The hard part? Convincing mom to buy into the plan.

He called my mom that night. It was a short conversation.

“No chance!”

As much as I had expected that outcome… I was still devastated. Death of a dream. I had allowed myself just a small ray of hope and it hurt more than I had anticipated when that hope was extinguished.

I cried on the phone when I talked to Bill the next day. I told him that I had prayed to God about this and that He had failed me already.

Isn’t it funny how we tend to put God in a little box of our personal expectations?

As we were hanging up, Bill told me that he wasn’t done yet. He wasn’t giving up and he urged me to keep praying. I promised him that I would… and I did.

A few days later, a 3-page letter, addressed to mom, arrived in the mail. In the letter, Bill had poured out his heart to mom about me moving in with him. It was very moving and quite compelling.

I remember mom emerging from her bedroom with the letter in her shaking hand. She was crying. She stared at me for quite some time, unable to speak. Finally, she made a short, simple statement in a quivering voice. “You can move to California.”

Obviously, there were more details to discuss but, in that moment, mom wasn’t ready… or able to talk anymore about it. She made a hasty retreat to her bedroom and closed the door. I sat in stunned silence and listened to mom’s muffled sobs.

I felt horrible for my mom… but not horrible enough to reverse course. I was moving to California!

I called Bill and shared the great news. He was happy, but he was also specific and firm in his expectations. This wasn’t another vacation. There was a list involved… and that listed included things like attending every church service, chores around the apartment and… the worse one of all… getting my hair cut!

You know what? Bring it on! What else do you want me to do? I’ll do it! I was ready. I was so ready! I wanted change. I wanted focus and discipline. I wanted boundaries. I wanted structure. I had been without these elements in my life for so long that I craved them. This leaf was ready to be turned over.

I started packing that very night.