My biological father left us when I was six years old.
From that moment on, our home—our lives—were marked by a quiet resilience. My mother, left to raise four children on her own, never voiced bitterness. She never spoke ill of the man who gave us life, yet gave little else. I can only imagine the ache she must have carried—especially in moments when our table was bare, and mouths still needed feeding. I, the oldest, witnessed her resolve, her silence, her strength.
My father was not absent in the absolute sense. We had contact—six to ten times a year, scattered throughout seasons. But his support, his presence, his fatherhood... was minimal. As a child, I craved more than brief visits or occasional calls. I needed a protector, a provider, a father in the fullest sense.
And yet—despite all he lacked, I choose not to live in the shadow of ill-will. I have come to believe that one of the most disrespectful things a man can do is not something visible, but something painfully absent: the failure to provide for his own children. To be physically alive but emotionally and practically unavailable is a quiet form of betrayal.
But God, in His mercy, has given me a gift: the capacity to remember good will. To choose good will.
I choose to hold onto seven moments—seven simple, sacred events my father gave me. Seven memories that break through the heavy fog of disappointment and allow shafts of sunlight to pour through. They are not perfect, not even sufficient—but they are mine. And I treasure them.
I remember building and exploring in a dune buggy with him, laughter echoing as we bounced through rivers and over dunes ~~
I remember the honor of receiving batting lessons from Babe Dahlgren—yes, the Babe Dahlgren who succeeded Lou Gehrig. ~~ I remember my very first backpacking adventure into the Sierra Nevada, up to Silliman Pass in Sequoia National Park—a moment of wonder, of majesty, of connection to something greater than myself.
And there were more—perhaps quiet, perhaps small—but each one a thread in the fabric of a complicated relationship. A fabric I could easily rip apart in anger… but instead, I choose to mend with gratitude.
Thank You, Father in Heaven, for these memories. Thank You for helping me hold onto these moments—not because they erase the pain, but because they remind me that good will is a choice. One I make not because my earthly father deserved it, but because You, my Heavenly Father, poured it into me.
Where ill-will should have reigned, good will rises instead. That, too, is a gift—a reflection not of him, but of You in me.
Should I not ... Because of His undeserved Goodness ... Should I not ... Return goodness to others
'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me Your goodness is running after, it's running after me With my life laid down, I'm surrendered now I give You everything 'Cause Your goodness is running after, it's running after me
And ... this song by an old time favorite ... Keith Green ...'Make My Life a Prayer to You' ... Indeed!
Finding "Good Will"—at times, it feels
almost impossible to imagine.
And yet... it’s often tucked
within the folds of another’s life, quietly waiting to be
noticed.
More often than not, it’s there—if only we are
willing to look beyond the momentary distractions,
beyond the
noise, the wounds, the unmet expectations.
Good will may not
shout. It rarely demands attention.
But if we are still enough…
open enough… humble enough…we just might find it—
not in
the grand gestures, but in the quiet mercies.
A memory … A
gesture … A simple act of presence once offered.
And
sometimes, that is enough to carry us through.
Sometime in the mid-sixties, the world was shifting in ways I couldn't yet understand. Most in the United States were focused on Vietnam—the images of war flickered across the black-and-white television screens in living rooms across the country. But for a seven-year-old boy in Los Angeles, the battlefields of Southeast Asia were distant and abstract. My world was much smaller, yet no less consuming.
Baseball became my life.
There was no questioning where my loyalty lay. In my mind, there was only one name that mattered—Sandy Koufax. He wasn’t just a pitcher; he was a magician, an artist with a baseball in his hand. The way he wound up, that high leg kick, the snap of his wrist as the ball spun toward the plate—it was poetry in motion. I watched him whenever I could, trying to memorize his every move, every pitch, every perfect moment on the mound.
And so, in the backyard of my childhood, I became Sandy.
The garage door was my catcher, its panels bearing the scuff marks of countless fastballs, curves, and sliders—at least in my mind, they were sliders. With each pitch, I imagined the cheers of a packed Dodger Stadium, the roar of the crowd swelling as I struck out batter after batter. I worked tirelessly on my windup, pausing at the peak just like Koufax, then exploding toward home plate. Sometimes, I'd shake off an imaginary catcher’s sign, just like I imagined Sandy did, before hurling the ball with all the strength my seven-year-old arm could muster.
Each time the ball smacked against the garage, it was as if I had just thrown the winning strikeout in the World Series. I could almost hear Vin Scully's voice echoing my triumph, announcing to the world that this little boy from Los Angeles had just done the improbable.
The game was never just a game. It was a dream
— a dream to be like Koufax, to stand on that mound in Dodger blue, to hear the crowd chanting my name. And so, I kept throwing.
"But tonight ... September the ninth, 1965" ~~ "To see the only pitcher in baseball history to hurl four no-hit ~ no run games. He has done it four straight years. And ~ now he capped it, on his fourth no-hitter, he made it a perfect game! And Sandy Koufax ... whose name will always remind you of strike-outs ... did it with a flourish. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books ... that 'K' stands out even more than the O U F A X ..." Vin Scully 1927 ~ 2022
It was the winter of 1985, forty years ago this very month. The
chill in the Oregon air was heavy with rain, occasional snowflakes,
and the deep quiet that only a winter season can bring. Yet, within
our hearts, a different kind of anticipation stirred—a hope that
could not be dimmed by either the cold or uncertainty. We were
preparing to welcome our son, Zachary Alan, a child we prayed for,
cherished, and longed to dedicate to God from the very start.
Expectation and joy filled our days, but those feelings were met
with a challenge when the doctor informed us of Zachary’s Fred
Astaire-like dancing feet. A “footling breech,” they called
it—a precarious position that meant our son would not make his
entrance into the world as planned. Instead, a Cesarean section would
be required. In those days, such news felt more foreboding than it
might today, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and birth. The
realization weighed on us, yet through it all, the promise of our
son—our Zach—remained like a flame that could not be
extinguished.
We prayed. And as we waited, God planted a seed of purpose within
our hearts—a desire to dedicate this birth to Him, to let our son’s
arrival signify something greater. As though divinely timed, we soon
discovered a brand-new organization had been founded in our
community: the Salem Resource Center. Only twelve
years had passed since abortion was legalized, and here stood a
mission that sought to protect life—to offer grace and compassion
to preborn babies and the mothers facing crisis pregnancies. This
fledgling organization and its mission of hope aligned perfectly with
our own prayer: that Zachary’s life would begin with a dedication
to God’s grace and the preservation of life.
When Zach finally arrived—his tiny feet making their entrance
through careful, prayerful hands—we saw not just our son, but a
miracle. The cold, wet Oregon winter could not touch the warmth we
felt in our hearts that day. Our hope had been fulfilled.
Indeed ... There is a Story
Now, forty years later, we stand amazed at God’s
faithfulness—both in Zachary Alan’s life and in the ongoing work
of that small seed of hope planted so many years ago. Today, that
once-new organization has grown into what is now the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, a thriving testament to God’s love and
provision. Just as we prayed for Zach’s life to bring hope, this
clinic brings that same hope to every young woman who walks through
its doors, often overwhelmed and despairing, only to find grace,
charity, and the courage to choose life.
Hope is sustained in many ways. Through monthly and corporate
donors, through community events like walk-a-thons (Zach in stroller, was at the very first), swim and
bike gatherings, banquets, and other fundraisers, the clinic continues its
mission to be a lighthouse of hope. Each day, they stand as a
reminder of the beauty and sanctity of life, and the joy that comes
when a young woman leaves those doors with a newfound desire to bring
her child into the world—a story of redemption written anew.
In celebrating Zachary’s fortieth birthday, we also celebrate
forty years of hope. His life and the ongoing work
of the Hope Pregnancy Clinic are deeply connected—a symbol of God’s
grace at work, no matter the odds or the season.
As one who was born to a sixteen-year-old mother, I can personally
attest to the power of that hope. I am living proof of what happens
when a young woman—though unsure, scared, and facing
obstacles—chooses life. It is only by God’s grace that I live
this day, and it is by that same grace that I pray hope will continue
to manifest in the lives of countless others.
To Zachary Alan—the child of winter, the child of hope—your
life reminds us that every birth is a miracle. And to the Hope
Pregnancy Clinic, may you continue to be the hands and feet of Jesus,
offering love and light to every mother and child who enters your
care.
Forty years of life. Forty years of hope.
For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my
petition that I made to Him. – 1 Samuel 1:27 (ESV)
Mark Schultz 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... The birth of a child often brings circumstances out of our control. Regardless .... the miracle of birth is just the beginning of 'What It Means To Be Loved' .... Enjoy!
Years past … there
were two best friends, Maya and Lila. They had been inseparable since
childhood, their bond forged in laughter, shared dreams, and endless
games of soccer on the neighborhood field. Maya was fiery, driven,
and unstoppable—a natural leader on and off the field. Lila,
quieter and gentler, was the heart of their friendship, always there
to encourage Maya and keep her grounded.
But Maya had a shadow inside her: a quick
temper that burned hotter than the sun. Lila had seen it flare up
before, but she always stayed patient, calming the storm with her
steady presence. Until one day, during an intense high school soccer
match, Maya’s temper exploded in a way that shattered everything.
It was a close game, and Maya’s team was
losing. Lila, trying to help, accidentally stepped into Maya’s
path, causing her to miss the winning goal. The whistle blew. The
game was over. Maya spun around, her face twisted with rage.
“Why
do you always ruin everything?!” she screamed, her voice echoing
across the field. “You’re useless! I don’t even know why I put
up with you!”
Lila froze, her eyes wide with shock. Tears
welled up, but she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked
away, her shoulders hunched, her heart breaking. Maya stood there,
too angry to chase after her, too proud to apologize.
Days turned into weeks, then months. Maya
buried herself in soccer, winning games and earning accolades, but
something was missing. The friendship that had been the anchor of her
life was gone, and though she wouldn’t admit it, she missed Lila
deeply. She thought about calling her, about apologizing, but the
words never came. And soon, years had passed, and they were
strangers.
Maya’s life, once so promising, took a turn
she never expected. Injuries ended her soccer career, and without the
sport that had defined her, she felt lost. She drifted from job to
job, struggling to control the anger that had alienated so many
people. One day, sitting on a park bench with eviction notices in her
lap and tears streaming down her face, she felt like the world had
swallowed her whole.
“Maya?”
She looked up and froze. There, standing before
her, was Lila. Older now, but still with that same gentle smile, that
same warmth in her eyes.
“Lila,”
Maya whispered, her voice trembling. “What… why are you here?”
“I
heard you were going through a rough time,” Lila said, sitting
beside her. She handed Maya a cup of coffee, as though no time had
passed.
Maya took it, her hands shaking. “Why would
you help me after everything I said? After the way I treated you?”
Lila smiled softly. “Because I forgave you,
Maya. A long time ago. Carrying that anger wouldn’t have done
either of us any good. And… I never stopped caring about you.”
Maya broke down, the weight of years of guilt
and shame finally crashing over her. “I’m so sorry,” she
sobbed. “I was horrible to you. I let my anger destroy the best
thing I ever had.”
Lila placed a hand on her shoulder. “Maya, we
all make mistakes. What matters is what we do next.”
From that day on, Lila became Maya’s
lifeline, just as she had been years ago. She helped Maya find a job,
encouraged her to seek therapy, and stood by her as she rebuilt her
life. Slowly, Maya learned to control her anger and rebuild the
person she wanted to be.
But life has a way of testing us in ways we
never expect.
One evening, as they walked together after
dinner, a speeding car came careening around the corner. Maya froze
as the headlights bore down on them. In an instant, Lila shoved her
out of the way, taking the full impact herself.
Maya screamed, "Lila, no!" She rushed to her friend’s side.
Lila was conscious but pale, blood pooling beneath her. “No, no,
no,” Maya cried, cradling her. “Stay with me, Lila. Please, you
can’t leave me.”
Lila’s lips curved into a weak smile. “Maya,”
she whispered, her voice barely audible, “you’ve always been
the stronger one, more than you think. You don’t need me to save you anymore.
You’ve found your way.”
“I
need you,” Maya sobbed. “I can’t do this without you.”
Lila’s hand brushed Maya’s cheek. “You
can. Promise me… you’ll help someone else the way I helped you.
Don’t let my leaving be the end of this.”
And with that, Lila’s hand fell limp. Maya
held her as the life slipped away, her heart breaking into pieces.
Years passed. Maya never forgot Lila’s final
words. She built a life she was proud of, honoring Lila’s memory in
everything she did. But her greatest calling came one day when she
met a girl named Sophie.
Sophie was fiery and talented, just like Maya
had been. But she had the same anger that had once consumed Maya, and
it was driving people away. Maya saw herself in the girl—the anger,
the pride, the loneliness—and she knew what she had to do.
Through patience, love, and persistence, Maya
became a mentor to Sophie, teaching her how to channel her anger, how
to forgive herself, and how to let others in. As Sophie grew and
thrived, Maya felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years.
One day, as they sat together after practice,
Sophie turned to Maya and said, “Why do you care so much about
helping me?”
Maya smiled, her eyes misty. “Because someone
once cared enough to save me when I didn’t deserve it. And now, I’m
paying it forward.”
Sophie frowned. “Who was it?”
Maya looked up at the sky, the fading sunlight
casting a warm glow. “Her name was Lila. And she taught me that
forgiveness can change a life.”
As Sophie ran off to the field, Maya stayed
behind, whispering a quiet “thank you” to the Lord of heaven and
earth. Lila was gone, but her legacy lived on—through Maya, through
Sophie, and through the countless lives that forgiveness had touched.
Stories ... Our lives are FULL OF STORIES ... This blog is in fact the story of my life. This story along with the incredible song by Matthew West, is a story that is able to change a life. ~~ That said, the greatest story of all is about a man ... His story is of Love ... of Humility ... of Sacrifice ... He died on a cross to bridge the brokenness of our lives ... with His very own life. He Loved us so very much ... that He humbled Himself ... and He sacrificed His life upon a cross, shedding His blood for our sins.
I hope this this kind of Love ... Humility ... and, Sacrifice ... might always be the model illustrated in my life. ~~ I asked you ... Where are you? ... What is your brokenness? Will you, as Paul ask in Romans 10 ... Call upon the name of the Lord? ... He can ... He will set you free & change your life!
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