This afternoon, partially inspired by Leanne Sypes’ post about her accordion-file time capsule, I dug through my big-bin of writings. Like my mind, there was great disorder — to-do lists from last month crammed in with devotionals from 1983. Father’s Day notes my daughters had written to me brought a smile to my face, as did love letters from my wife, but mostly I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. I am not at all at peace with who I’ve been – as a husband, a father, a pastor.
To cope, I retreat to my writing studio with a book I found — a book I wrote before becoming all these things, back when I was a 21-year old, single, aspiring writer totally unprepared for the war that would rage within (with mental illness), ill-equipped for responsibilities I would frantically assume.
What follows is the opening of Life (in obvious places). It is a work of fiction, but as I do not possess a wild imagination, it is firmly based on experience.
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