This Little Life of Mine: Chapter 1: Why Write?

Why does anyone write? Most writers have no assurance anyone really is interested in what they write, so why bother? After all, there are only a very few people who can actually make a comfortable living out of writing. There are even fewer who can become rich, famous and successful by putting words on paper. Most people, both in history and in contemporary society, who write have to do something else to pay the bills. So, why write?

Writers write because they have something to say that they must commit to some permanent form. It does not really matter if anyone wants to read what they write or not. It matters even less if anyone is willing to pay them money for what they write. What matters is that they get their thoughts, their ideas, their heart and soul and mind on paper, or, these days in some electronic media. If anyone chooses to read it, that is a bonus. If anyone appreciates what is written, that is even more of a bonus. And if someone pays them for it, that’s nice, too. But these are not the things that motivate serious writers. Serious writers write because they have no choice.

I have no choice but to write these words. They are inside me screaming to get out, and I must let them out. I cannot hold them back any more than a volcano can hold back the spewing lava within it. If no one ever reads what I write, I will still have done what I set out to do, to set down words that describe this little life of mine.

I have been on this earth more than sixty years as I begin this writing, and that is a long time. But it is not really a long time; for one thing I have learned in these sixty plus years is that this life is temporary, transient, so much like a vapor, here today, but not to be found tomorrow.

It is because of the transitory nature of life, and because of my age, that I set about the task of telling the story of my life, whether anyone cares to read it or not. A few more years and my life on earth will be over, and I will no longer be able to write any story. At the very least, I hope that future generations of my family — my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren — all will read this and understand this life recorded here, and from whence they came.

In a very real sense, of course, it is not merely my life that is recorded here. I have necessarily recorded the lives of others as well, others whose little lives have intertwined with mine at various points along the way. There are many, too many to include all here.

Life is full of beginnings and endings, of new friends encountered and old friends left behind. Doors open; doors close. We encounter people — family, associates, friends — all too briefly, and they are gone. What did another man who could not resist the urge within to write set on paper? Something about all the world being a stage, and people merely players who strut and fret, and then are gone. That is life, and it is life that I hope to record here.

This is also a record — in fact, it is primarily the record — of what God has done to live His life through me. That is the main purpose I have in this treatise. I would like to testify to what God has done much more than to tell you what I have done. Because I did not have a faith experience with God until after my seventeenth birthday, the first part of this account will seem somewhat devoid of faith and what God might be doing. I didn’t know until I met God what God could do.

It may seem strange to some that I would want to write about God and how He is revealed in my life. After all, should I not prefer to record what I have done? Would I not want my descendants to understand what great things I did? Shouldn’t this account be about me and my life and what I did? I answer, “No!” And I answer that way simply because I have not done anything significant on my own. Nor could I. Nor can anyone. Humans do not handle life very well. It is too big, too demanding, but also way too fragile for our hands to deal with. We need God’s hands. He Who created life is the only One qualified to live it. He has chosen to live His life through His children; I am one of His children.

I begin this lengthy document, with or without readers. I begin not knowing how it or the life it reveals will end. I begin because something within me compels me to begin. I begin because I have something to say that I must commit to a permanent form. I begin.

In most cases, where a person other than an immediate family member is included in this narrative, I have changed the name to protect the privacy of that individual.

A Mosque and Ground Zero

A Muslim leader who calls himself a moderate in Islamic theology wants to build a mosque in lower Manhattan a couple of blocks from Ground Zero where Islamic terrorists brought down two buildings and murdered nearly 3,000 people on September 11, 2001. The plan to build this mosque has polarized New Yorkers and people across the country.

Certainly Muslims have a right to build anything they can afford to build within the restrictions of zoning ordinances on land they own. They should be, and are, as free to build a mosque as Christians should be, and are, free to build a church. That is the legal part of this debate, and there really is no debate on this part of the issue. The law does not prohibit the construction of a mosque at the location in question. The plan has been approved by the city's building committee, so there are no legal hurdles to proceeding with the plan.

However, there is a tremendous amount of emotional opposition to building a mosque at this location. Some view it as a slap in the face to the families of the victims of 911. Some view it as a symbol of Islamic superiority and victory over the American infidels. Some view it as just plain disgusting. Others argue that it would be a symbol of acceptance of those who are different; it would celebrate diversity. It would remind us that not all Muslims endorsed the terrorism that struck deep fear into the hearts of nearly every American.

Personally, I have no concern over the building of the mosque at the desired location. I did not lose any family member or friend on 911, and I have no plans to visit the mosque when it is completed. I have no personal stake one way or the other.

However, it seems to me that the Muslim leaders overseeing this project need to listen to the outcry against their plan. It would be foolhardy to put up a building that is so controversial as to lead to violence and rioting. The building would be like a lightning rod attracting all the kooks of whatever stripe to create mayhem, causing property damage, injury, and possibly death.

The planners should either sell the property and locate elsewhere further away from Ground Zero, or delay construction indefinitely. They should then engage in a public dialog concerning their repudiation of Muslim extremists and the violence the world suffers because of them. That is one of the things that has made many Americans uneasy about Muslims in America. We have yet to hear any strong, public pronouncements of repudiation from the Muslim community. Lacking that, it is only logical that Americans would be hesitant to trust Muslim plans to further change the skyline of our largest city.

Thirty Years to Write a Novel

I have been working for thirty years on a novel. I call it "The Missing Person." It is not a mystery story per se, but I have tried to fill it with suspense. It does have a mystery at its core, but it is more than just a mystery story.

It is about a young man who was abandoned as a toddler and, before he settles down to marriage and a career, he wants to find out who abandoned him and why. This is not easy to do. Twenty years have passed; clues are virutally non-existent, and his family and fiancee want him to move on with his life.

Of course, it is to be a spiritual story. God must be in the story, and He must be glorified in the story. To some extent, that is the easy part.

The difficult part has been making the elements of the story come together logically. What happens to one character often has an effect on another character. Making the interchanges in the multiple stories involved has been a challenge to say the least.

I had the story completed once. I let my wife and daughters read it. Their reactions were mixed. I wasn't pleased myself. So, I scrapped what I had written and started again.

Will this novel ever see the light of day? I do not know. If God can use it, He will. It likely will not be a commercial success.

But if some people read it, and are encouraged by it to trust Jesus Christ, then my thirty years of writing will be vindicated. All I have to do is finish it. That will take a while longer.

But at the age of 68 as I am, I don't have another thirty years to write a second novel.