"And they heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden." Genesis 3:8
There is a marked difference between running away, getting away, and hidden away. When I was in 2nd grade, all three were a trifecta to a plan I was betting on. I needed a sure win, a brilliant strategy, to help me escape from taking a test at school. I was counting on them to win, place, and show. I needed a winning combination that would beat the odds of taking an exam that I was sure to flunk. I couldn't help but gamble that truancy had its rewards. I had panicked and was desperate. That's what happens when you don't study. The odds of passing drop, and the fear of failing rises. My fear had risen high enough that I just had to do something drastic. My escape plan had me heading off to school like any other normal day, but instead of heading down the street, I headed straight under my neighbor's bushes.
While concealed beneath leafy branches, I lay as still and hidden as possible, secretly watching my friends and schoolmates walk by. They didn't see me, but I'd later learn that my actions had been under surveillance by our neighbor. I thought for sure I'd gotten away with the first part of my plan. Waiting until the coast was clear, I sprinted behind a house across the street and hid out for what felt like hours. Eventually, boredom drove me back home, where my mother, ever perceptive, saw right through my escapade. She hadn't been fooled one bit and seemed to know everything of what I'd been up to. Back in the 1960s, homemaker moms were like the secret police, and I'd been spotted by an informant. I couldn't get away with anything. There were spies everywhere.
Four years later, after moving to Lincoln, New Hampshire, I never had to run away again for not studying. I had learned that lesson. However, if I ever needed to escape for another reason, I could get away—fast! As you can see from the pictures above, I was ready to roll. Having a couple of mini-bikes and then a motorcycle was one of the best parts of my growing-up years. I loved riding the mountain trails. It also meant having a new friend, Steve, who also owned a Kawasaki. Coincidentally, we had the exact same model and color, complete with matching identical ignition keys. If you examine the middle picture closely, you'll notice that I put my initials on the gas tank to tell them apart. Having a motorcycle also meant having some extra friends tag along for the ride. We weren't going anywhere in particular—just everywhere. And we had a blast!
Despite my love for riding, I never graduated to a street-legal motorcycle. One terrifying incident stands out as the reason why. It was late spring, and a patch of winter sand still clung to the road. As I rounded a curve at Loon Mountain, going at a fairly good speed, I hit the sand and started losing control. Wobbling like crazy, I teetered on the edge where the road dropped off. Fearing the worst, I didn't think I was going to make it. But somehow, I managed to reach clear blacktop, regain control, and advert disaster. It was a heart-pounding close call! That experience taught me a valuable lesson about being careful, and I realized I wasn't ready to die. There was no way, even if it were possible, that I wanted to crash through the gates of heaven.
The best of times were spent riding with friends. Among them was Eddie, my weekend condominium neighbor from Massachusetts, and Chris, who lived across the street from Steve. Sylvie, a grade above me in school, once rode with me. To avoid being soaked in a rainstorm, we sought shelter inside a large, abandoned water pipe that ran to the paper mill. She reciprocated by taking me horseback riding a couple of times. Those moments created wonderful memories. In the winter, when I couldn't ride, I skied with Sylvie and her friend Beth, with whom I probably spent the most time. Beth and I also had some great times playing tennis. My motorcycle allowed me to leave the mountain and visit friends in town. Even though I had to mow the condominium lawn for several summers to help pay for it, those "biker" days were absolutely worth it!
I also enjoyed watching a lot of television after we finally got cable. I even got hooked on the soap opera, One Life to Live. Then, on September 11, 1974, when I was fourteen years old, a new television series premiered. Not just any regular show, but one that would greatly influence and even alter the course of my life. Its message of strong faith, love of family, and praying to God went deep into my heart. While I didn't attend church during those years, I watched every episode of Little House on the Prairie. The following video is a prime example of its not-so-subtle message. It's a clip from the episode titled "The Lord Is My Shepherd."
The episode features Laura Ingalls running away from home because she didn't pray an extra-special prayer for her sick baby brother. When her brother passes away, she feels immense guilt for not praying on his behalf. Laura had been jealous of the attention he received from her father, who was thrilled to finally have a son after having three daughters. Determined, Laura embarks on a hike to the top of a mountain in search of God. She wants to plead for Him to take her to heaven and return her baby brother to her Pa. In a surprising twist, Ernest Borgnine portrays a crusty old mountain man who turns out to be an angel sent to assist Laura. If you watch this short clip, you'll witness the emotionally powerful and faith-filled essence of the scene.
If you're familiar with the series, then you know about Laura's sister Mary going blind. Mary eventually marries her husband, Adam, who is also blind, and together they open a blind school. In 1981-1982, I worked at the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind as a dormitory teacher. This is not a coincidence but a direct result of my watching Little House. In later posts, you'll see more about how the series directly influenced the course of my life and greatly strengthened my faith.
During my mid-teens, I started spending summers in Blue Hill, Maine. My grandfather, at the tail end of the Great Depression, purchased a house with a beautiful view of the bay. The house was sizable, with seven bedrooms and four fireplaces. It had been built by a naval architect who also had a boat house studio on the water's edge. Additionally, there was a large, detached garage with two unfinished apartments on the second story. My grandfather acquired the entire property at a depression era bargain price. The only drawback was that the house wasn't winterized; during winter, the pipes needed draining, and the windows had to be boarded up.
My parents later renovated and winterized the house by eliminating the entire second story, creating all the living space on the ground floor. When my dad retired, they lived there for several years but eventually sold it and moved to Florida. The following picture shows the house before the renovation. In the middle photo, I'm seventeen, standing on board our boat. And in the third picture, I'm on Long Island beach with my dad in the water and my mother sitting on the sand. The island was situated in the middle of Blue Hill Bay, and we had a beautiful view of it from our front porch. I feel incredibly blessed to have spent my summers there.
When I was fifteen, I spent the summer in Blue Hill and vividly recall returning to Loon with a sense of disappointment. The summer had been wonderful, yet I was greatly saddened by what I had missed. It turned out that the girl I had a crush on was giving pony rides to the tourists at Loon Mountain's base lodge. I wished I'd had the chance to walk down from the condo and spend time getting to know her better. Later that fall, we did have a date, which you can read about in an earlier post titled The End from the Beginning. It explains how God was directing my future, leading me to someone else and somewhere else. This new path included packing my bags for boarding school. It wasn't quite running away this time, it was more like getting away.
I attended the New Hampton School for the last three years of high school—the same school my two brothers had previously attended. At sixteen, I left home and moved into a dorm. Sports became my passion, and I developed a love for running. In the photo, I'm captured mid-stride between two cross-country team members. Interestingly, it was also my first encounter with "fake news." The caption claimed I found running to be "a mentally stimulating exercise," but I never said that—I was misquoted. By the fall of my senior year, I had ramped up my training to 60-70 miles per week. However, after a twenty-mile run, I realized I overtrained by injuring my knee. Despite my recovery efforts, the knee was never the same, and my running days came to an end.
During my sophomore year, I had a friend named Jay who introduced me to the author Carlos Castaneda. On Amazon's author description page, it states: "Born in 1925 in Peru, anthropologist Carlos Castaneda wrote a total of 15 books, which sold 8 million copies worldwide and were published in 17 different languages. In his writing, Castaneda describes the teaching of Don Juan, a Yaqui sorcerer and shaman. His works helped define the 1960s and usher in the New Age movement." Jay often mentioned to me what he learned from reading Castaneda's books, including topics like astral projection and other spiritual phenomena.
While I never read any of Castaneda's books myself or delved into the subject, it was around the same time that Jay discovered Castaneda that I, too, discovered a compelling book: Hal Lindsey's The Late Great Planet Earth. This 1970s bestseller focused on Bible prophecy, captivating me with its portrayal of prophets who could foresee the future with one-hundred percent accuracy. To me, their ability was evidence of divine revelation. No other religious texts or prophets from different faith traditions could compare. Additionally, I explored Raymond Moody's 1975 book, Life After Life, about near-death experiences. From that point on, any book related to this subject matter became a must-read for me.
From my earliest memories to today, I don't recall ever not believing in God. There was no eureka moment of discovery; rather, faith seemed woven into the fabric of my existence. As I gaze at the plastic manger scene in this picture, my thoughts remain elusive. Yet, somewhere along life's journey, faith had been planted within me and taken root. And a lot of the credit goes to the unwavering faith of my mother, who set the best example for me to follow.
In the spring of 1979, I was ready to graduate from high school. It had been eight years since I attended a church; I hadn't yet read the Bible, and I didn't pray. But I did believe. I was thankful that I did because of what happened next. On the night of my graduation, Don Tottingham (Mr. T), who was my coach, advisor, and friend, died in an automobile accident. At the end of this post, I've added an advisor's report and newspaper articles to demonstrate just how much he meant to me. My best friend during my junior and senior years, Mike Casner, appears in the trophy picture with me. Mr. T had signed and dated my advisor's report the day before he died. The news of his death shocked and saddened me. I was just starting my life, while his had tragically ended at the young age of twenty-four.
I began this post with a story of avoiding a test at school. As a young boy, my fear of failing had escalated to the point where panic led me to believe that running away was the solution. Hiding under a bush and skipping school didn't resolve the issue; eventually, I had to face the test. There was truly no avoiding it. Life, for all of us, is filled with various tests or trials—not just tests of knowledge, but also tests of faith.
You can attempt to run away, or hide, but sooner or later, you'll realize that evading the question of faith is unsustainable. What do you truly believe? When I graduated from high school, I had passed numerous tests of knowledge and finally received my diploma. Yet, after graduation, my faith was put to the test. This time, I couldn't run away. Instead, I learned to run towards God.
The next post titled Beyond Logic is Faith and Love begins at:
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