Beginnings

Committing my life story to print seems to trivialize it in a way. Like an obituary, the summary of an entire life in a few paragraphs simply doesn’t do it justice. In reading my own account, I’ve thought, “Oh… is that all there is to it?”  There seemed to be so much more drama when I was living it out!

Well, yes, there is more to my story than what you’ll read here.  It’s been cathartic to visit the hidden crevasses of my own memories, but I’ve chosen to purge most of what I found rather than bring them to the light of day. The result has been liberating – like rebooting a computer: shut down; restart. Ahhh…!  Glitches gone.  Smooth operation. Perhaps in another time, another place, you the reader may benefit by a further elaboration.

Born in 1962 – Detroit, Michigan, USA. My parents were divorced within a few years of my birth. My mother took custody, moved to Guelph, Ontario, Canada and remarried. And so it was, that in 1967 I became both a landed immigrant and an adopted stepson. Not long afterward, a half brother was born. My stepfather, a tenured professor of philosophy at the University of Guelph, was a brilliant intellectual with a good sense of humour. He was also a binging alcoholic. I didn’t bond well with him.

My natural father remained in the Detroit area. He also remarried and raised a family. I never doubted his love for me, but due to circumstance, he was distant and inaccessible to me. His wife and two daughters, my half sisters, have always been welcoming. But their home was not a place I belonged.

I was the leftover product of a failed relationship. Both parents remarried and had children of their own. I was an inconvenient truth; an uncomfortable reminder of the past – feeling as though my very existence somehow required an apology. Not that anyone intended to cast that impression but that’s what I internalized. The unchanging reality of my parent’s divorce was something I was just expected to get over. As such, I really didn’t want the fact of my existence to interfere with either my parent’s need to move on with their lives. But I was between two worlds with an incomplete sense of belonging.

At the age of 12 years I saw a movie called “The Cross & The Switchblade”. Sponsored by the Billy Graham Association, it depicting the true story of a straight lace country preacher who left his comfort zone to answer the call of God reaching out to young people caught up in violent street gangs in New York City. At the movie’s end, an invitation was extended to anyone willing to put their faith in Jesus Christ. I responded to that invitation. I made a prayer of faith at that time.  But I did not learn to read the Bible, pray, or go to church and I walked away from the experience without comprehending it’s significance.

My parents divorced again when I was 16 years old.  By that time I was experiencing deep seated social anxiety and began to dabble in drugs.  My drug use escalated quickly and within months I was high school dropout and no longer living at home. Using drugs was my only ambition. I had no sense of direction, no purpose, or hope in life. These were dark days. I wandered the city streets alone at night, following railroad tracks on the edge of town, living on the fringes of society. I contemplated suicide.  At the edge of a cliff I concluded that I was afraid to die. I decided that I wanted to live. But I was afraid to live. I needed a way out.

It was around time that my Grandmother contacted me to offer a place to live with the goal of completing high school education. She lived in north Michigan, USA. Accepting her offer meant leaving my entire world behind. It was a big decision but an easy one because I had reached a dead end. I had nothing to lose.

Life in a small town USA was a big adjustment. I didn’t want to be there. But since I had decided to live and not die, I began make decisions that were in keeping with life. I accepted responsibilities, competed in sports and made friends. I graduated high school and pursued a university education. I was making the grade but still contended with social anxiety and a dark drug seeking side. The two lifestyles don’t mix well. I couldn’t maintain the game on either side. I lacked a core identity. I had no foundation for consistent living.

I first met Christians in university. They seemed odd to me – always smiling with a funny look in their eyes. I avoided them but our paths kept crossing. I was hostile and full of arguments. Undaunted, they invited me to their meetings. In spite myself, one day I attended. That’s where I encountered an invitation to open my heart to Jesus Christ. I accepted that invitation. I had forgotten the decision I made ten years prior. This was a new response. I remember thinking, “…well, I can’t deny that I have made wrong choices in life…”. So I simply invited Jesus into my life and asked Him to forgive my mistakes. To my amazement, He did. I had a sudden awareness of new dimension inside me. It’s hard to explain, but something changed inside me in that moment. I felt love, acceptance and… the close presence of God!  Instinctively recognized this experience represented a fresh start in life. The old was gone and the new had come. It was an unexpected and powerful experience.

At the time, I had no language to describe what I was going through. It was an experience that lacked any precedent. Even today, as I look back, it’s difficult to adequately describe the nature of that experience:  it was like a being released from a vacuum tube to finally breathe fresh air; it was like having lived all my life in a dark underground cavern to now discover the existence of an open door to a vast, free world above where the sun shines; it was like the story of Oliver Twist who lived as a pauper until the day he discovered he was royalty. My search to become “one with the universe” ended when I discovered the Person who created the universe. It was a great moment of epiphany.

From that moment onward, I had a desire to read the Bible. It made sense.  The Bible gave language to my experience in ways I couldn’t otherwise express. I read it voraciously. Through the Bible, epiphany’s realization was confirmed to me over and over.

I discovered prayer. Prayer is just being real with God and talking to Him – about anything, really. It’s not a difficult exercise. In expressing my heart through prayer, I learned that I possess a unique, concise and comprehensive way of communicating. In prayer, I just spoke to the picture I saw in my heart and was amazed to see how the words would fall into place.

I learned there are many benefits to regular church attendance, not the least of which was being able to meet other people who could relate to my experience. I wasn’t alone.  Not by a long shot.

Epiphany grounded me. Epiphany brought me to centre and put my world into perspective. Knowing God as my Father provided a vantage point to view my earthly fathers more objectively than the jaded, limited understanding that my disaffected youth would allow. This position enabled me to forgive, to love and to move forward with my own life.

Knowing God as my Father meant understanding that my true origin and destiny is spiritual. My citizenship is in heavenly places. This identity supersedes all natural, political and geographical boundaries. This realization had enormous implications for me. My life prior had been spent between two different countries. No matter which country I was living in, I always felt that a part of me was left behind in the other. Realizing a spiritual point of origin made me whole.

Over 35 years have passed since all things became new.  The wonderment of it all is still with me.  Clearly, this is more than a passing phase.  I put my hand to the plow.  How can I go back?  I choose to press forward.  I seek to apprehend that for which I also have been apprehended.  My writing is a part of that pursuit.