The Threshold: Volume Two

Copyright © 2013 Michael D. Rourke.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 (866) 928-1240

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This work is a memoir.  It reflects the author’s present recollection of experiences over a period of years, and may not coincide with what others depicted in the story experienced or remember.  The author recreated dialogue from memory and a few scenes were restructured. Therefore, in consideration of that fact and in the interest of protecting identities and privacy, I have changed relationships, names, cities, states, and other locations.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All lyrics are original and written by Michael D. Rourke.

Front cover design by Michael D. Rourke.

Front cover artwork by Bill Carney.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7627-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7626-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7628-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917774

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/30/2013

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

Introduction

Chapter 1: Inclusion and Exclusion

Chapter 2: Searching for a Church

Chapter 3: Steeple Peaks and Valleys

Chapter 4: New Church vs. Old Hymns Loved

Chapter 5: Work Search Adds to Employment

Chapter 6: The Work of Backsliding

Chapter 7: At Last, My New Profession

Chapter 8: A Salaried Occupation

Chapter 9: Big Breeze

Chapter 10: A Pain Put to Use

Chapter 11: A Closer Walk at the Plow

Chapter 12: Off-Course Love Repented

Chapter 13: Faith Spurring Blessings

Chapter 14: Old Shadow Shot with Light

Chapter 15: Faith for a Storm

Chapter 16: Loss and Gain

Chapter 17: Stand Firm in the Lord

List of Lyrics

Cross the Jordan

Suburbia

True Saving Faith

Rock of Love

Online Dating

Friends First and Foremost

God’s Kind of Love

A Proverb a Day

Who’s to Say?

Unemployment Shuffle

White Shadow of Light

Children Someday

Special Ed

A Positive Opportunity

In Love Again

Life

First Day of May

Jesus on My Lips

Jesus Saved Me

Can Love Hear Me?

Holy Spirit Carries Me

Emotional Cobwebs

All of His

Dear Diary

Torn Threads

The Holy Spirit’s Near

My Spot

Everyday Love

Christ in View

A Born-Again Lunch

The Threshold

Abounding Life and Love for God

Preface

Seeing my challenges unfold some readers will find similarities as their thoughts travel. Perhaps they will be encouraged to follow their calling into a new direction of God’s love. Others may be reassured they grasped the dedication, choices and directions they built their lives on, but find themselves questioning what comes next.

After twenty four years of living in God’s providence He has led me to encourage those who seek more fulfillments with Him in their lives. Proverbs 5:21 For the ways of man are before the eyes of the LORD, and He ponders all his paths.

There is a gift without the limits of time it is God’s gift of salvation.

Receiving Jesus Christ as Savior and as Lord is to realize a piece of eternal joy now. Living always for His glory and praise is God’s plan. Time is once – go with truth.

Acknowledgement

Thank God, for faithful Pastors, for the men who have accurately taught the truth of Holy Scriptures. By God’s grace I have listened and learned by sitting in church, from the radio, and TV. Very special thanks for the faithful outreach sending tapes, CD’s, newsletters, books and an occasional phone call, all teaching God’s truth one verse at a time.

Introduction

Returning to New York in 1993 plans to write a book grew from a notion into a constant sacrifice along the way. My 2002 right hip replacement surgery and recovery afforded me the time to begin cataloging my two hundred and forty diaries. Rearranging life’s events and making sense out of all the pieces of time, and the changes God made in me was my joy.

After decades of talking to me in the diary I discovered voice recognition software. All the spontaneity of a first draft was spoken into the computers word processor. I called it vocal writing. As time wore on with some slow fingered typing I enjoyed the benefits of seeing the seventh then the seventeenth draft come alive.

Not until 2012 when I began working with my publisher was a more cohesiveness in storytelling addressed. It was in the three phases of working with the publishers editing where my life got sorted out.

The regenerating work of the Holy Spirit has given my new heart a desire and force to be a voice with His message. Beyond that the best I can do is pray for the reader to be ignited to live for God more fully. Jesus is the way the truth and the life. To seek after God through Jesus is to know eternity hear on earth. Heaven is closer today, come Lord.

Chapter 1: Inclusion and Exclusion

O n November 17, 1993, I returned to my old stomping grounds in upstate New York at the age of forty. As a born again Christian for four years and three months, returning home was a tight fit at first. Standing outside Ma’s old family home under the tall pine trees in the cool breeze, I looked up. I gazed into the rolling white clouds and then bowed my head in prayer. I paced the yard, pausing to eye the racing gray clouds, again seeking God’s will. Maybe tomorrow the sky would be overcast and drop an early snowfall before Christmas. I had missed the four seasons so much, especially winter. After twelve years of the West Coast life and so much constant sunshine, change could be felt in the air. With my face refreshed after a few days of looking into the wind, I shook off the jet lag and was secure in God’s leading. His kindness had arrived, bringing comfort and the answer to my prayer. I was given confidence and reminded of the Bible verse in Proverbs 3:5–6: Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths. Recognizing the Lord’s love led me securely into the assurance of my salvation and His will for my life. Trust and obey in faith. He died for me, and I would live for Him by continually killing my old life of sin.

The yard seemed empty. No dogs’ just memories. Thunder was our first family dog and so close to me as we grew up. Piper was my dog and learned from Thunder’s old wisdom, to carry the baton of friendship and love. Piper and I buried Thunder. The Pie carried on as my best friend. After his first years of training and East Coast traveling, Pie dog and I ventured to the West Coast. His eyes followed me as long as they could. Together we worked out my problems finding places to live, jobs, and God. I shared great experiences with him and those thoughts rolled on my mind. I added those times to my box of experience marked Dogs someday when the time was right I’d get another pup, Lord willing. A few boxes of life’s experiences were on my mind waiting to be opened.

Forty boxes had followed me slowly-moving back east on UPS trucks. To me those big brown vans were like old-fashioned western covered wagons returning home from their California adventure. The big brown truck finally arrived, backing down the driveway to the garage. I was again spending time in the large garage as I opened and unpacked. Makeshift tables and benches surrounded me with West Coast possessions. I left with two suitcases and a dog. How did I get all this stuff?

My small writing room in the back corner where the diary started twenty years ago would now hold the new collection of memories. The additional diaries added to the old ones in the house totaled over two hundred notebooks. The early winter cold was offset by my turning on the room’s small heater, and I sat thinking and picked up my current diary and wrote by the window. I set up the old computer from Rod, the seminary student. I didn’t like the machine because it forced me to think like it—without compromise. My interaction with it demanded that I follow its rules exactly with what buttons to push in sequence. They were called keys. I had to give my full attention to and place my fingertips precisely on the keys. One mis-stroke and the curse of the cursor would strike. Like lightning splitting wood, my words, pages, and more importantly, my thoughts were shattered. At that point, the keys used to unlock my thoughts were more like a cell key to lock up my mind. But the word processing was helpful with making corrections, even though it was awkward with my dyslexia and irritated my wrists.

Pacing around all my stuff, I first conceived the notion of larger possibilities for me in my mom’s huge garage. Ma had kept the family property going on her own, always with the hope I would return someday. I was glad she did and glad to ease her burdens as she grew older and was finding what maintenance and care of the property she used to do was now more difficult. But I needed space. I got restless inside the house because I wasn’t used to sharing space. Growing up I always took my energy outside or into the garage enjoying its space.

My first two ambitions were to find a Bible-believing, Bible-teaching church and to tell others of Jesus. I was fortunate to be in an area of upstate New York known as the Capitol District. The Yellow Pages revealed several communities that overlapped and supported a few hundred churches. However, my first attempts at finding a church were awkward and disappointing. I looked in my neighborhood and found no depth of teaching. I met folks after church, but their complacency toward learning came across in our short talks that followed introductions. Fitting in with others was going to be challenging, just as it was in California with people who held to the traditions of having a family, a mortgage, and the same job for twenty-five years. But the coffee was hot, and their cookies and fellowship were tasty.

My mom saw my face-to-face expressions of joy talking about my bond with the Holy Trinity. Even though I had time to explain more fully God’s saving grace, her Catholic understandings voided my words. Likewise, my mentions of the gospel to my brother Ken and his wife Carole fell on deaf ears. They were polite, but their unwillingness to discuss my Christian conversion was cold. I felt what I perceived as their negative presuppositions toward God. Perhaps they discussed my changed life since my visit in September 1992. Perhaps my visit home set the stage for their apathy. Their kids, Cindy and Frank, were still young. It seemed like the parents were being protective, keeping their kids from such talk. By turning their backs on me, though, they were also snubbing Jesus. My family’s overlooking my obvious thrill and desire to talk of the Bible was alarming. They rejected God’s offer for a Savior from the penalty of their sins. Resentment of Jesus wasn’t new to me; I had learned that out west. Perhaps part of my trial to understand people’s continual rejection of God was for me to learn how to continually except their decision. My only recourse was to pray for their salvation, to pray that God would soften their hearts and break down their pride. I was once proud and didn’t want to be told how to live. I was without interest toward Jesus (even though no one spoke to me about Him) I was lost before I was found.

CROSS THE JORDAN

Follow Him past the golden swan.

Keep afloat, pray, you will hold on.

In God’s plan, roll, lift up your head.

In His way, faith feeds on His bread.

Cross the Jordan, reborn souls can be found.

Cross the Jordan, hallelujahs resound.

Cross the Jordan, new life is heaven-bound.

Cross the Jordan, peace with God all around.

Someday no more island. Praise for God will multiply.

Someday off my island, I’ll be in heaven’s holy tribe.

Up ahead, temptation is swift.

No sinking, Lord. Your love will lift.

In His might, tear, lose evil’s bank,

Carry on, past those sins that sank.

In December it snowed, Ma and I went to a Christmas tree farm and cut our own six-foot Douglas fir and dragged it out. I enjoyed the quick changes the passing cloud cover made in lowering the air temperature, followed by the warm, steady sunshine after its passing. My helping her decorate the first real tree she had since I left made her so happy. The smell of the pine indoors brought decades of memories.

Ma and I made our traditional holiday bread we called Bookie, which she made alone for years. For years she had asked my brother’s family to come and help; more than anything, she wanted to enjoy her grandchildren in their youth. Ma said Ken’s family of four only came a few times to make bread with her. Eventually, just Ken came to help her with the heavy work of kneading the dough. She was so happy telling me how the kids giggled and laughed with her helping her with the sticky dough. As we worked with the heavy lump mixing in the flour, Ma couldn’t hide her hurt from so much time alone and Ken not taking the initiative to bring the kids over more. Ma is so strong in her ability to forgive. I was amazed to see her level of understanding toward my brother’s position. At the same time, she displayed a degree of frustration in her voice. Often she’d say, So what if Carole doesn’t call or come by to talk! Ken could have brought the kids over; after all, I’m the grandmother. I felt bad for her not having any grandkids or daughter-in-law from me that she could be close with. Ma was always there to help when family or friends needed it. At last I was home with her and could give her the help and attention and love she needed. She learned to bake bread from Granny, and she just wanted to pass the tradition on to her family. So I was learning how to bake bread.

I don’t know what it is like being married, juggling in-laws, and pleasing more than one family. I can’t speak for my brother or his family; everybody’s different. I can speak of my mom’s wants and desires to be wanted and loved more. But who doesn’t? I did get a look at what some of the difficulties of being in a marriage may have been like. The brother I once knew wouldn’t hurt his mother if he could help it. So I thought that he must be in a position of being torn between whom to please. I always looked up to Ken when I was young. He was always the leader and I followed when we rode bikes, swam, ran in the woods, or played basketball. It was frustrating for both Ma and me. Ma would just say, Oh well, what are you going to do as long as he’s happy? There was much about marriage I didn’t understand. It was a blessing for me to observe Ma’s gentle forgiveness to overlook the years she felt slighted. Maybe I’ll learn someday from Ma’s model to be more understanding. She’s a gem. Knowing how Ma could forgive and knowing how God could forgive, I knew I was being taught by the Holy Spirit.

The best way to help anybody was in prayer first. I could only hope that Ken and his family would know Christ. I knew if the true God of the Bible were first in their lives, they could work out what honored God. Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is head of the wife, as also Christ is head of the church; and He is the Savior of the body.… Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself for her (Eph. 5:22–23, 25). Only by honoring God first could Ken and Carole take on the biblical pattern of the household and be a Godly example to their children. Until then, I would continue loving them and appreciate how God had blessed them. For I knew that God’s common grace and goodness falls on all people universally, as seen in Matthew 5:45: He … sends rain on the just and on the unjust. In God’s kindness, He lets people live, even though they choose to sin by ignoring Him.

As Christmas drew near, I felt more of the distance from my small family. Because of their silence and disinterest, they did not understand my faith in what the Bible teaches. I was a foreigner in a foreign land I called home. I loved them and they loved me, and I wanted them to have the gift of knowing God. I was stifled by the casual ease of division among my relatives. When Christmas Eve arrived, my brother’s family (who went to church three times a year) went with Ma to her Catholic church. My isolation was my burden to bear. I didn’t even want to go to an unfamiliar Protestant church with strangers. I was drawn to be alone with my Savior. I wanted to keep a clear understanding of God’s supernatural gift to the world. I meditated on God’s gift of joy in Christ. I was not alone; I was with my heavenly triune family. Christmas was an awkward mix of unspoken separation full of worldly gifts and sharing human love.

A week later, Ma and I took the tree down as I preached to her. After being home over a month, my preaching to my mother was at its highest point. I was just realizing the mixed results of my evangelizing and her inability to comprehend the gospel. Seeing and hearing myself preach was uplifting for me, but the outcome was far less. I could understand that all my effort and good slick talking was not going to change her thinking. After sixty-five years of being locked in Catholic tradition, she was more than patient putting up with me. I had to rely on the will of God and wait to see how His plans unfolded. His gift of salvation was offered; His creation was known and seen. If people didn’t accept that He was real and seek Him, they would have to deal with God’s judgment someday.

At New Year’s dinner, I prayed a thankful, joyful gospel prayer for all our many blessings and was glad my family heard. Right after I said amen, Ken and Carole were talking all about sports activities with their kids. I could see that was their world and that it was a good thing for them. They loved being involved with the kids. Hearing about their family activities brought back to my mind the few times when Ma and Pa would watch me play basketball at high school. Ma usually worked late and needed rest, but she tried to come with Pa. He drank and would show up a little tipsy from time to time, embarrassing her, and they would argue back at the house.

My brother and his wife were able to give more of themselves to their kids. The generational cycle of neglect that was grandfathered in from Granny’s divorce and then the suffering my mom went through with my dad stopped. I saw a new era of giving more time and attention in my brother’s family. My talk about my West Coast adventures was clearly opposite to their interests. The old life I had lived with pot, alcohol, and travel was what they probably hoped their children would never do. So did I. My attempts to relate struggles in the music and acting industries were just heard but not felt with interest. We were relatives in blood and in name, not in time spent or in experiences. Their typical chosen lifestyle kept them in a neighborhood ten minutes away. They were diligently grinding at their routines—nothing wrong with that. It appeared that they never hit their heads on the ceiling of hometown or wanted to roam for new adventures. It seemed like they never lived the unfolding life of exploring beyond what was expected. If they did, they never mentioned it. Their lives were on the treadmill of their choice, as was mine.

Their gears of thought did not turn as mine used to or did now. I was always the cog going in another direction. We all had our struggles in life; we all had our happy times. They seemed to be comfortable with theirs. My past times brought me so low I fell at the feet of God who drew me to Himself. My high times became a blessed binding in loving God. Keeping quiet about that was not easy for me, it was not comfortable. After our New Year’s dinner together, they went out the door on their own way. God bless them, they were going to raise beautiful kids without God the Savior. But I prayed for their souls.

Going into January 1994, I was at last able to recognize what I had passed by. I empathized with some of my brother’s family situations. He and his wife had long friendships with like parents with common goals with basketball games and Little League parks. Their concerns about their kids’ futures seemed to be paying off for them. Ken had worked long and hard at the same job for nearly fifteen years. Carole had the privilege of being a stay-at-home mom. Unlike my brother and I, who were latchkey kids, their kids were never left alone. Unlike my parents, who suffered with alcoholism’s troubles and overburdening debt, they did without a few things but they were happy. I was glad for them and glad to see the new cycle of loving parents who spent time with their kids. I actually hoped for some of the same lifestyle they had. I wanted those pictures on the walls like I’d seen in all the homes I glanced into while walking the dog. Their family picture had everything but God.

My mother was considering retirement after twenty-six years. Her successful career as a supervisor overseeing a flock of various types of stressful people and deadlines to hit left her with high blood pressure. We talked about the many aspects of her time and priorities as she and I became a more mature family. Those first few months were very exciting for her. Her passion for cooking was once again fully alive. I was the cause for the effect of her revived vigor and her rediscovered love of life. That winter she flew to Florida for her annual February migration to visit with our aging Uncle Shawn. He was still a kind old man. He visited at my mom’s in the summer, so Ma’s stay there was satisfying for everyone. She was like the daughter my aunt and uncle never had. He thought the world of her and would do anything to help her.

Having the house alone was a good five-week breather to sort out my cobwebs in peace and quiet. I drifted from the house to the garage, a distance of about forty feet. Often I’d do some light yard work in deep thought. I needed to consider the car accidents in California and their pressure on my decision to either have a back operation or not. I returned with pending litigation on my two car accidents. Unsettled physical and financial woes involving lawyers were a ride I wished I wasn’t on. Settlements blah, blah, blah with or without money, and what was with the future medical liability stuff? Rewinding the scenarios of indecision and pain caused cynicism in my thoughts. The animosity reminded me of coming home from Texas to bury my dad.

I tried walking in the streets to think and to keep up my routine. I had come home weighing about two hundred pounds, and that was good. But without a dog, it was a very lonely feeling in the old streets. The idea of getting another dog and the responsibilities that entailed were too much to seriously consider. But I enjoyed the thought of having another four-legged friend someday.

SUBURBIA

Bus stops stop, the farms grow.

Two-lane highways quest on.

Life so casual, incognito.

Streetlights run, by sidewalks,

Matchbox houses nest

Along the mighty Mohawk.

How my heart aches for you, Suburbia.

I love that address in my memory.

Upstate New York, Suburbia,

I gave you up for L.A. hurrah,

A dream torn from Shangri-la,

Upstate New York, Suburbia.

Neighbors waving back and forth,

Autumn sun-painted trees,

Alarm-bell geese flying north,

How my heart aches for you, Suburbia.

I love that address in my memory.

Quiet traffic rolling on.

Someday a puppy will come.

Okay watching life’s marathon.

Prior to coming home, I had phoned friends. They heard the same gospel news I had told my family. They had listened but without comment. I knew my friends, and I knew how news of my faith would travel. Resettling brought real differences. My union with Jesus was to be tested. According to the Bible, unsaved sinners are all going to hell. Again I wanted to share the gift beyond all earthly treasures. I knew that I would have to keep free from former patterns of sin and those good old boys I used to sin with. Of course, sinners would not call it sin; it was more like a fun way of life.

Some of my phone calls announcing my return were full of friendship and excitement. I received warm calls and shared news with both guys and girls, and a few said they would stop by. My enthusiasm was consistent, but it was not shared. No one cared to talk about the Bible, not even my closest friends. I felt the coldness in their silence; it was another wave of disillusionment. Their disregard toward our past friendship resulted in real differences. Most of the old friendships were gone. They didn’t want to talk about Jesus. Our missing twelve years were never filled with any talk.

Very few friends did stop by, and we spoke of life and our battles, victories and losses. My tales of being in a Hollywood rock band or acting on stage were mixed with tales of a slow life in the sun at the beach. Excesses of alcohol, pills for relaxation, and too much marijuana were pale in comparison to the immoral adventures with beautiful women. Then I’d tally the account of wild living as all loss, which would have earned me the terrors of hell. Follies of sin were transitioned into the times I received God’s grace. I then began to explain humankind’s dilemma of being under the judgment of a perfect God. I continued by telling about the curse of sin we were born with and how sinfulness was in our nature. Imperfection was what kept us out of God’s perfect heaven. All sinning was only a course that led to hell. I gave the details of God’s loving grace and His plan of saving us from hell through the gift of the sacrificial death of Jesus. His substitutionary death was for all those sinners who saw their hopeless condition and believed in who He was as God and what He did. Jesus is God who came as a man who died for the sins of only those who believed in Him. When He rose on the third day He conquered death. Jesus didn’t die for unbelievers and heaven wasn’t for those who denied Him. Hell will have many surprised people.

When I spoke of accepting the eternal gift of God’s grace and the endless rich treasures in the Bible, my friends’ curiosity would vanish from their faces. Like changing masks, first they showed interest, and then they cared not. They could not relate to the simple plan of God and how His Spirit works in those who seek after the gift of Jesus. When I spoke again of how knowing Jesus would replace their sins, that’s when they began to walk away. But how my old friends did like to hear the earthly stories I told. We agreed on the fun we had in the past and how those times came and left us supposedly wiser. Our good-byes were cordial, with my standing invitation to return anytime. Again I felt what I perceived was their negative presuppositions toward God and their total lack of concern about going to hell.

My family was newer, older, and with different twists. Since Pa and Granny had died, Aunt Lucile was the oldest close relative left. She still lived alone in her little house three doors away. She needed more help with things around her place. Just like old times, we would sit and talk on her front porch, but without the brandy. She was Catholic also and took no interest in my explanation of new Christian values. The fact that her producer friend in Hollywood didn’t help me at all was in the past, it didn’t matter. As always, she was a good listener. We agreed that by knowing how to accept someone’s differences, one knows oneself better. It mattered to me that we could still talk as friends. I told her how God let me run in the west for twelve years. He took away what I loved and got me out of breath so I would be still to listen to Him. I was done with chasing the dream of identifying myself with the reassurance of self-worth. None of my relations or old friends wanted to understand or care about the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ. They were more interested in acquiring material gain and earthly security without God. Their lives without God were like so many others. People ignorantly loving the sin of ignoring Jesus were seen by me as self-destructing. I left Aunt Lucy with one of my original phrases to ponder over: There’s more than just one bucket to fill; take time to breathe deep climbing life’s hill. And while you pause to take a breath, recall time only passes once before death. Aunt Lucy smiled and said, That’s a good one, Michael.

Chapter 2: Searching for a Church

S ix weeks after my arrival, the dust settled as the 1994 new year’s clock kept ticking away. Helping Ma with the house chores and upkeep of the grounds were good deeds being done. There were many avenues that needed to be explored. As enjoyable as it was watching the snow fall, the fact that I needed to search for another job was on my mind. I brought home new aches and pains and saw myself where I had always been in life—a laborer. Not having a higher education or skill or trade wasn’t anything new to me, but seeing it at forty was. There was also my other searching for local Christians that needed to be done. I wanted and yearned for the greetings and camaraderie of believers. I also wanted to keep on the path of sobriety, producing clear energy. Conversely I did not engage with old friendships or indulge with the former lifestyle of getting high or fornication.

Time was passing quickly; the old and new seasons of my life were in the wind. I was without a long-range plan to sink my teeth into. The only short-range plan was for me to just sit and think. Thinking had been as consistent as the diary, but the diary had been and still was slowly being replaced. I again found the steadiness in my prayer, Bible reading, and new life with the Holy Spirit very fulfilling. Daily regrouping my thoughts, I wondered how my purpose to live a God-honoring life would take shape. Perhaps I would live several more years; perhaps not. What could I do with the time that was given to me? What had I done with the time I already spent? All I had to show for my life was on paper in boxes of diaries.

A strange thought came. Again, the abstract picture in my mind was of those UPS trucks servicing America. I saw them as a straight line, like those old western covered wagons hauling people’s things in their lives. I collected and had brought home on those wagons more boxes of things and stories of life I experienced. Recalling my years of struggles and their outcomes, I saw that they were still easy to see rolling in my memory. I could see several of my unique situations and circumstances standing out like white stepping-stones circling in my thoughts. Surrounding me in my memory were thousands of diary pages, a shield of words enclosing my life already lived. On those lines of my gathering twenty-year-old paper trails were my old and new lives. In the center of my circular existence, God shone above all my plans directing all His plans He carried out. He had allowed my concussion to happen, and He allowed me to record my experiences and store those stories in boxes. And the boxes of my know-how, my encounters, were still waiting to be opened and added to. That peculiar thought lingered.

I was in a secure location at Ma’s house to pull together those stories with a string of a continuous effort in writing a book. It was such a big idea, and it kept coming around. I could only go to God again in prayer. That time of thought resembled all the installments of my life where God was always the conductor. At the lead driving my train of thoughts was God steering those covered wagons holding my diaries of life. Was it His design all along for my time on earth to be lived out and collected in my digests of daily news? I knew that if God wanted my stories to become a book, He would have it. If He didn’t want me to write a book, it wouldn’t happen. I questioned my reasoning for the time-intensive book idea. Was I being duped by evil to pursue another narcissistic adventure? I prayed for the will of God in my life, not my will but for His leading. The idea was enormous and so long-range. Time would tell.

First things first, and the first of my efforts would be to find a church. My California box of church experience was full with hindsight to use. My renewed necessity for a church created a fresh, new, empty box to fill with more visiting churches in Schenectady and surrounding areas. All my forthcoming church encounters and lessons were to be stacked as always with and by God’s grace. He guided my past search, and He would guide me for years to come, Lord willing. Seeking the will of God meant thinking, speaking, and doing that which would honor Him and glorify His Son. Again, the Bible was used by the Holy Spirit to teach and guide me. Do you not know that those who run in a race all run, but one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may obtain it (1 Cor. 9:24). I hunted on the radio for local Christian programming. I missed my California preacher. Before having left that church, I was told how hard it would be to find a replacement. I was told that I had been exposed to a unique learning experience that would always serve me well. If they were right and I did leave the top, I’d find out, and in faith through prayer, I began searching.

After I looked in