Let's face it, some people are born on the edge. You probably know somebody. You know, they have every reason to be happy, and they're not. They are plagued by the blues, depression, real sadness . . . but why?

What makes some people dream of death? Do they think their problems will be solved? Maybe, sometimes, but not all of them do. Is it a chemical imbalance in their brain? Possibly. Or demonic spirits, the spirit of heaviness, pressing them down, drowning them in depression, the black wave, thoughts of death, release...

....release? Release from what? Release INTO what?

This isn't an issue for and about the pagans, those that don't know God, or those that are into drugs, or those that are the product of divorce, or abuse.

Suicide is something that afflicts Christians, Buddhists, Atheists and well-balanced happy people. Young, and these days, especially old.

I certainly don't have all the answers. Perhaps I have none of the answers. The only thing I have to offer, really, is my own experience (and it's not the most exciting story, hardly anything like my fiction, but it's my truth, what I went through, what I know and really, ultimately, my deliverance).

That's what I offer here. Not to brag about myself. Not to make you feel sorry for me. But maybe you can identify with what I went through, and maybe the saving grace that pulled me up will work for you too.

Actually, I know it can work for you, if you believe.

*  *  *

First off, NO, I never attempted suicide, and no again, I'm not dead right now, a product of suicide, ghost writing (if you will) this testimony. I never suffered any "failed attempts" (nor successful ones), but it was always in the back of my mind, it was always there calling out:  "Well, don't forget me! You know, I just might work!"

To be perfectly honest, death seemed like a plausible doorway, even when I was a little kid. Where did this notion come from, that death was a door marked:

"Exit"

...and a viable solution to whatever problem, or no problem, not really based on happiness or sadness, just a simple door to go through? I don't know. I think some people are born with a "weakness," if you will. You might call it "their cross to bear."

Perhaps this was my cross.

Once, when I was a kid, perhaps nine years old, losing my temper, I punched a whole in the little window on the front door of our house, and knew that I was in terrible trouble, and the only solution I could think of was to kill myself -- and yes, I went through all of the angst, picturing how sorry everyone would feel that I'd chosen such a route. I took the death fantasy so far as to actually write out a note, sit on the living room carpet and press a huge kitchen knife to my heart, even putting some real pressure into the self-threat, literally poking myself.

Why didn't I go through with it? I didn't want to die, not really, even though for many moments I thought I did. But I was a child raised in a Christian church, I had heard about Jesus my whole life, believed in Him, believed in a God Who could watch me every second of every day, a God Who knew me. Why would I want to die? I had two actual parents (my father never even left us), and these parents never divorced, and my father never beat my mother, and I was never sexually abused, and I also had two sisters I knew loved me (even though we fought like cats and dogs), and adoring grandparents that lived about a mile away, whom I visited nearly every day. We weren't poor -- solid middle class -- I got pretty much everything I wanted, within reason. I had friends. I thought I was attractive, my friends and family concurred with my opinion, and they even loved me, that they had high hopes for me, without any kind of pressure. I never had secret fears that I might be gay, or that I was inept and could never succeed, I never thought I was stupid, or impoverished or fat or unloved or unpopular or grossly pimpled or underweight and constantly picked-upon or troubled mentally or any of the other things that you might associate with the kind of loser that wants to take away the life he has been given.

Why would I want to die?

I even had a realistic view of what awaited me on the other side of self-inflicted death, and even understood that God would be highly merciful to me (that's the picture I had of God, as a Great Lover, not a Monster Torturer) but that's not why I didn't do it.

So why would I come horribly close to ending my life before even hitting puberty? I don't know. It was something in me, even then. Not the product of a movie I saw (although movies like "Romeo and Juliet" were highly attractive, I identified with them, at a very early age) nor in any book I'd ever read (I was always a voracious reader) -- in fact, most of the movies and books I grew up on were anti-suicide, completely pro-life. It's crazy, the whole notion, a nine-year-old nearly killing himself over something as stupid as a broken window! And yet, I don't think the occasion had anything at all to do with mental illness.

Some people -- feel -- more. They think more. And in this kind of world, run down and filled with evil at every corner, feeling and thinking can be a painful experience. This concept was portrayed wonderfully in the movie "Little Man Tate," a movie hardly about suicide. A movie about empathy, and feeling, and thinking, and worrying, intelligence and kindness, accepting what you are and living with it, sometimes even heroically.

I don't think I ever truly experienced depression until about the age of 18 years of age, when a whacky girlfriend taught me all the ins and outs of feeling hopeless, of feeling empty inside, of wishing to escape. But changing in girlfriends after a year seemed to help a lot, and having a wonderful relationship with the girl I would forever after remember as my "first real taste of true love" wiped out the previous depression that had been building. It wasn't until years later (after years of star-crossed-unrequited-love depression) that I would read a study that said that men -- even men who suffer chronic depression -- would find freedom from their depression when they were married, even when the marriage was not particularly good. That relationships, or key relationships, have something significant to do with depression.

One positive thing in my handling of my depression -- it became my tool. It did not immobilize me as it does so many people. I did not retreat into booze or drugs, but into my writing. I could go through hours of drinking coffee all night, going in and out of weeping jags, but never interrupting my writing, my fingers flying across the keyboard, telling dark stories of death, of want, of desperate love, unrequited love, and misery . . . boy, was I a miserably sad son of a bung! Storyteller from about the age of four, writer from about the age of seven or eight, novelist and fiction writer from about thirteen, I flirted with becoming a boxer, seriously, from about the age of 15 to 19, and probably would have suffered far less depression if I'd gone the pugilist's route, but at least today I still have a functioning brain (okay, so this is debatable, as well!) -- I was a walking, talking cement mixer full of contrasts, paradoxai, oxymoronical contradictions and living breathing puns.

What a mess.

In my early twenties, oh, let's say from about 19 years of age until about 24 years of age, I began to write (I picked the writing over the boxing, duh, in case my writing is too punchy). I mean seriously. To write. I write, therefore I am, to loosely misquote Descarte. I filled notebooks with free-flow thoughts, scribbled poetry and ideas and took writing classes and read Hemingway and Dosteovsky and Hugo (and those guys can teach you A LOT about depression, let me tell ya!) and drank coffee and smoked cigars and read books about writing and wrote stories and began to mail out submissions because it seemed like the thing to do and began to receive rejections almost immediately but that was okay because I was a great writer, not a hack or a hobbyist, I was going to write until I was successful and could write to my little heart's content, or until I became feeble, or until I killed myself. I even loosely figured I'd probably be killing myself around the age of 30 or so (because 30 is prettty darn old, don't ya think?).

And I was depressed. I lived with my parents, but that didn't work, and then moved to San Diego and lived with an aunt, but that didn't work, then lived with a buddy who would prove to be a lifetime friend, but that didn't work, and then lived alone and met the wrong kind of girls and then lived with my sister for a while and that didn't work and then moved back in with my parents and that still didn't work until I met the wrong woman and married her and started acting like a reasonably responsible adult. (And that hardly worked.)

All during this time, from 19 to 25, I was writing. I wrote in the neighborhood of 125 short stories or more, several novels (even finishing a few, writing more than 1,000 pages of another, and writing more than 1,200 pages of another that I would finally split into three huge novels, filling notebooks with ridiculous ramblings and rants) -- and I was seriously depressed during these years. Seriously. But not the way manics do it, getting really up, and then falling really low, cycling up and down. WIth me, I'd get really, really LOW, and then I'd work like crazy, dragged under by the Black Wave (as I called it), depression, and I'd write until the depression went away -- in some cases this would mean that I would write all night, pulling what I'd call "an all-nighter" (wasn't that original?), writing in the neighborhood of 20-35 pages, some of it actually good stuff.

One thing of note, which I wouldn't realize until much later, I had traded in Gods. I didn't want any help from the One God. I wanted to do it all myself. It was the religion of Art that I belonged to now, a hard and demanding mistress goddess -- and I served her with every fiber of my being. Still, in the end, she is a false goddess. Art is not a true or valid religion. It is empty, unless it is plugged into the True source of real power. And I knew this, even back then, that I was straying into a wilderness...

...I became the incarnation of the "Prodigal Son." But I still knew God, the Real God. I even talked to Him, daily. But I didn't necessarily want to be on His side. Not that I wanted His enemy's side, either. No, I wanted MY side, and I'd do my best with the talents God gave me, and when I was successful, I'd THEN join God. And so, in a fashion, I lived with pigs and squandered my money on prostitutes (figuratively speaking, of course -- I was always too proud, too haughty, too arrogant to ever condescend to paying for sex, so don't take the last statement literally). But the women I did relate to appealed far more to my eyes (and lusts) than to my head -- and the ones that pursued me the hardest were the ones I eventually caught.

I rode a big motorcycle toward the end of this period, for about a year, and in that year I put on 35,000 hard-rode miles on my Suzuki GS1000. I worked for a construction company about this time and was cajoled into drinking beer with the boys, and it is only by the grace of God that I'm still alive, as often I'd drink more than a six-pack of beer, and then race off into the night on my bike, sometimes hitting over 100 miles an hour -- and the 30-mile drive home would be no more than a blur in my memory the next day. When sober, on secluded roads, I'd often take my bike to its 135-mile-an-hour max, and I'd look down at the road and picture tumbling along it, and although thrilling, I really never felt any fear, and the idea didn't seem all that troubling -- sure, there'd be a couple of ouches along the way, but when you're invincible that doesn't matter too much. Toward the end of this period I soloed across America, riding from California to New York and back, sometimes riding 12 to 20 hours, only stopping for gasoline and coffee (thank goodness I never mixed those two up), sleeping in a little orange pup tent in campgrounds or in secluded meadows.

My solo across America was my trip to Mecca. My holy journey. My pursuit of my religion, Art. And in a thunderstorm in Kansas I picked up a novel that caught my eye -- that "first love" I mentioned earlier had given me a copy of The Princess Bride to read when I was 18, and here, at 24 years of age, I found my second William Goldman novel, The Color of Light, a story about a writer, of all things! If Art was my goddess and self-expression my religion, then William Goldman became my Bible, or, at the very least, my holy prophet.

I was wandering further and further away from God, a relationship with God, and deeper and deeper into Art, and in equal measures, The Black Wave.

At the end of my motorcycle journey I met the woman who would become my wife and a head-on collision on my motorcyle ended my cycling days. My fiancee was on the back of my bike, neither of us wore helmets, and an old woman made a left-hand turn in front of us -- head-on collision. I flipped over the handlebars and smashed in the windshield of the Eldorado with my back, and then rolled off the car to fall on top of my fiancee who had struck the fender of the car. Miraculously, no one was hurt badly. No broken bones. No fractures or concussions. At impact, my bike was doing anywhere from 35 mph to 45 (you can't really remember when you're plowing into a vehicle five times the size of your own vehicle!) while the auto was doing anywhere from 10-15 mph. WIth the conservative estimate, picture hitting a brickwall at 45 mph! With the more liberal estimate, hit that same brick wall at 60 mph (without helmets)!

A week later, in a rental car, on our way to Las Vegas to marry, a defective recapped tire blew out and the car slid into the steeply sloped median and rolled (mucho oucho). We're not sure how fast the vehicle was traveling when it rolled, but it was probably over 55 mph.

Again, what can only be termed "miraculously," no one was hurt seriously. I sustained a few cuts on the forehead. But no broken bones, concussions, etc. This included me, my fiancee, and my best man sitting in the back of the car (the same roommate mentioned earlier, a guy I met when I was in the seventh grade, he in the fifth).

Regrettably, these two major traffic accidents, less than a week apart, would establish a pattern for our marriage (a purposeful accident of a different order). The marriage wasn't all that good (duh, but it had its good days, that's true), but it did produce two beautiful children, Harrison Christian and Alicia Kathryn, and I did do a lot of good writing during those 4-1/2 years of marriage (in addition to slowly melding into the Graphics Arts field, which would pay most of my bills until present days). Granted, I can't blame the bad marriage on my ex-wife. It was a dual effort, and we both performed splendidly in creating a disfunctional relationship.

The other positive to this marriage was that The Black Wave became a controllable monster. While married, I was rarely depressed. True, sometimes I would think about "my first love" (sigh), but the depression was nothing like it was during those five-or-so years of my Herculean writing labors.

Oh boy, but when the marriage ended. Let me tell you. Oh brother. Where art thou? Yikes and sheesh and good night. Amen.

During this marriage, my walk with God would become almost nonexistant (though I would still pray to Him, daily) -- I didn't want His help. I wanted to do it all on my own. Maybe later, God, I'll have more time for You. And when the marriage ended, boy oh boy was I angry at God. Nonsensically, true, because He sure didn't have anything to do with the break-up of my marriage, that was mostly my doing, with equal helpings supplied by the little woman.

When the marriage began to self-destruct I was frantic. I had never planned on divorce. I would do anything to keep the marriage together. Even promising my wife she could engage in any kind of elicit behavior she so desired (which was not an easy concession for someone like me, and there would have been a lot of illicit concessions in that behavior). But nothing doing, and if I didn't agree to everything in the battle demands, I would never see my children again.

The day I got this news (about 2 or 3 days after my birthday!) I was working at a temp job in downtown Denver. By chance I had parked in a skyscraping parking tower, and I happened to be parked about on the top level. Everything seemed hopeless. All the work and love and anguish in that marriage, and it was over, irrevocably. Under the very worst conditions. And my kids were going to suffer. And I couldn't do anything about it, and I was in a lonely city with only one friend, absolutely no family to turn to. And I was far from God, even though I did manage to rail at Him somewhat, high up in that parking tower.

And then I thought, why not? I can easily smash through the thin cable that separates me from a long plunge to the pavement below. Why not? I sat there, high in the sky, engine rumbling, thinking, "Why not?" Then something fortuitous happened.

A Wilson-Phillips song came on. Kind of a dumb song. Kind of screechy. But the words got into my head, somehow. Hold on for one more day. Hang in there, just one more day. You can do that, can't you, hold on for just one more day?

And  thought: "Yeah, I guess so. One more day. We'll see what happens tomorrow. There's still that Exit when I need it, right? Sure, one more day."

That evening, another fortuitous something. My pal, the one that had encouraged me to come to Denver to find work (the same guy in that car rolling over on its way to Las Vegas 4-1/2 years before) happened to rent the movie on video "Dead Poet's Society." I watched the video with Eric, and it was like Someone slapped me in the face. What was I thinking about, all those years?! Suicide was not a good option. It hurt people, the people I loved. How could I even think about offing myself? There would be absolutely no way to comfort the people I would undoubtedly damage.

Strange events. Coincidental? Serendipity? A screechy song and goofy Robin Williams in the same day?

In the custody battle that ensued I suffered my first and only panic attack. Boy are those babies scary. I developed blind spots in my eyes, couldn't remember my telephone number or my boss' name, and had serious trouble breathing. Thank God it was only temporary. And through an amazing series of events, I ended up a single father taking care of my four-year-old son, Harrison. The first day I had to drop him off at day care I sat out in the car and wept for 15 minutes (in the meanwhile, he was running around having a ball with all these rug rats!).

For 2-1/2 years I rebuilt my life, allowing God back in, maybe just a little (but for the greatest part, I was not ready for God, my mind was of a secular bent). I'd teach Harrison how to pray, and pray with him every night, but still, I didn't want God's help. Sure, I wouldn't refuse a million-dollar check, or a 50-pound hailstone falling out of the sky on my ex-wife's head, but still, I wanted to succeed on my own. Art was still my religion. I was still living in the far country -- still sending God the occasional post card.

Through another series of events, these more low-down than amazing, I spent my first time in jail (three days in the belly of the whale), and Harrison was ripped away from me, and I would not see him for a whole year (and the meter was running on my time away from my daughter; by the time I saw her again more than 3 years would have elapsed, time she has still not forgiven me); however, all the trumped-up charges against me proved baseless and were eventually dropped -- the ruse was successful, however, in further separating me from my children; the custody battle, 4 years of fun and thousands of dollars down the seedy-lawyer drain, came to its close, and the State of Nevada (I'm not certain, but I think its official slogan is "The Prostitute State") awarded physical custody to my ex-wife (I got joint custody, a paltry two months out of the year, if I could afford to fly the kids out from first Nevada and later Washington).

Low point in my life. Understatement of the year. At least during the custody battle there was hope. I mean, doesn't the good guy always win? Doesn't RIGHT count for anything?

Not in this world. Maybe in the movies. But not in real life.

I was still not ready for God. Especially not now -- sheesh, He allowed my marriage to go down the tubes, then didn't step in to stop me from losing my kiddies. I'd do it on my own. If anyone could  survive and succeed, it should be me, right? Persistence is good, and dogged determination sometimes wins out, but plain old mule-headed stubborness really doesn't serve anybody or anything.

After two years of strict celibacy I was back in another relationship, and tragically, it was a relationship of convenience. She was a wonderful woman, and we met each other's needs -- kept each other back from the edge of the precipice, BUT -- but we both knew we weren't right for each other. But we both were hungry to be in a relationship (she'd been lonely since her divorce nearly 10 years previously). You can talk over all the details, both agree on the conditions, shake hands and say: "Well, okay, we need each other, this is nothing serious." And still, always, someone gets hurt. Or both get hurt. Or branching out exponentially, MANY get hurt. I think in the long run, it's better to stay celibate. As in all things, God's original plan for man is best (not that He intended for people to be celibate, but outside of marriage it seems to be the best policy).

My time was running down. The Black Wave was a constant visitor. In fact, it was now more a Black Tide. And my writing was sporadic during these days. I was getting angrier. My mouth became dirtier. Soon I was talking like a Stephen King character: "F this! and F that! and F you!" And I even began to drink more (alcohol has never been a real threat to me, for one it never has affected me, and my body would bounce back the next day without a hangover) and smoke more and more cigars, and my coffee consumption was up to an average of 40 cups a day (and yet I slept fine at night, my sleep has always been sweet, regardless)!

Three years passed, seeing my kids during the summer. Working a dead-end job (desktop publishing, graphic arts, blah blah blah), and still strugglng with my writing, churning out another three novels, dozens more short stories and novellas and boy howdy did it grow darker and darker. Hope was failing, slowly but surely, and occasionally I'd flirt with the possibility of returning to God. But that was for wimps. All those geeks in church feeling superior to everyone else -- they had their fire insurance, and they were snooty, and how can you take religion seriously when you see the nonsense on TBN? Good night, what a nightmare.

Till the fateful day. Bills, debts and overwhelming responsibilities were ridiculously overwhelming, money was scarce, and it looked like for the first summer I would be unable to afford to fly my kids into Denver. Plus, what kind of relationship was that, anyway, seeing your kids for two months in the summer, and your daughter hates you anyway. Plus, the three-year relationship was coming to its close with bitter recriminations surfacing -- should the relationship of convenience become a marriage of convenience? Should we just throw three years of time away? Plus, what about that soul mate I had always dreamed about, always prayed for, always searched for? And the job was going nowhere, the writing was going nowhere. I was going nowhere.

The proverbial straw that threw the camel's hump out of whack occurred while I was leaving work that evening, a huge thunderstorm rolled over me, drenching me in the 20 seconds it took for me to jog to my car. It was a deluge.

Dripping wet, I discovered my car battery was dead. An odd fog that morning, and I must have left the lights on. Great. Dripping wet. Dead battery. No kids this summer. Messed up relationship. Nothing going right, nothing had ever gone right, nothing would probably ever go right. What was the use any longer? What was there to look forward to, other than paying money for kids I never see, even during the summer (and money that hardly goes to them, anyway). Everything seemed to be strangling down upon me. Hope? There was no hope.

God was against me, that was certain. He had foiled me every step of the way. I didn't want His help? Fine, He'd spin me around like a bottle, and force me to kiss whatever the bottle pointed its astonished yap at (and see if I liked that any better)!

My anger swelled like a volcano. A fit of rage built inside me until I exploded as lightning rained around the car. Thunder exploded overhead, and I shook my fist at God. I mean I literally shook my fist at God. I screamed at Him.

"What are You doing?! You've stifled me every step of the way! You've kept me back. And why? Am I that terrible? DIdn't I work hard? All these years? Didn't I take good care of my family? And then You go and let my marriage explode. You let my wife do all the things she did. And You keep me in this pathetic job, when I've worked for years, years, struggling, writing, and You keep me from writing!" I roared at full volume -- my head felt like it was going to explode. I guess I'm lucky I didn't have a brain embolism right then and there.

A solution came to me like a friendly whisper from the backseat of the car. It was an old solution. An idea like an exit sign throughout my life.

I had a clear image. It actually scared me, and nothing scares me. I could see, in my mind's eye, going home, kowtowing to the gas water heater, like some warm god made of tin, kneeling before it on the carpet and writing my final words, blowing out the pilot light and keeping my head close in that dark and dank space, writing until the last, writing as I've always written, as I've always wanted to write...

Youch! I was actually going to do it. I wasn't even going to debate it or reason it through. No sympathy ploy. For the first time in my life I was actually afraid because it seemed my fate had caught up with me and I didn't have any choice in the matter. I didn't have a choice. I didn't have a choice.

"Why not give Me a chance?"

I swallowed. It was that real, that question, that still small voice. As if someone I knew very well and had not seen in a very long time was sitting there beside me, someone shivering and wet just like me. Offering me a deal. Offering me something greater than a deal.

"You've done it your way, now why not let Me help you?"

Offering me something so much greater than a deal.

I could see the water heater. It was an Exit. It would all be over. My race would be done. Sure, I'd be a loser. But man, it would be over. I'd be over.

"Why not give Me a chance?"

Why not? I'd done it my way. I could sing it out along with Elvis and Frankie: "I did it mah-eeyyyyyyee uh-WUH-aaaAAAaaay!"

Now, why not do it His way? How big of an idiot was I, anyway?

I slumped back in my car seat. Exhausted. Spent. And I wept. What a bitter weeping. What a big baby, bawling in his brain-dead car. Wimp.

But no, it wasn't like that. I didn't feel sorry for myself at all. I wasn't losing. By capitulating to Him, I was releasing everything negative -- well, sure, not everything right at that moment -- but a trend was formed in my heart, right then, to forgive everything, to live at peace. I was releasing to Him...

...and it felt wonderful. I was weeping in relief, and in shame, because like, DUH, I'd always intellectually known this was possible. But it was always MY will that had to win through.

"Okay. I'm coming over to Your side. I give up. You win. You lead me, and I'm going to follow You. I'm an idiot, I admit it. We'll do it Your way, and see what happens..."

And I gave my heart to Him, right there. No ceremony involved. No tongues of fire above my head. No babble vomiting from my lips. But I chose Him. And it wasn't because I was afraid of endless screaming torture in a lake of fire, and it wasn't because I wanted to walk on streets of gold and strum a harp. I was choosing sides, right then and there, because I wanted to be on the Good Guy's side, no matter what happened to me or my life, I wanted to go with the One that had loved me through all the mess of my life, the One who had stood there patiently all through the arrogance and pride of my life, the One who always waited for me, unconditionally loving me, all that time -- I had given up on Him, sure, but He had never given up on me.

I believe even if Elizabeth Hurley appeared in a puff of red smoke and offered me a lip-smacking deal, fame and fortune and happy days lolling in Hawaii -- I wouldn't have even had to consider it, I would have gone with God's offer...

...to give Him a chance. Just see what develops...

Now when I say I chose Him, I don't mean that I had any idea in my head that I was going to start going to church again, or start passing out flowers at the airport. I meant, simply, that if He led me, I would follow Him. To whatever, to wherever, to whomever and whichever and whyever and whenever.

Within a month Carolena and I were dating. Within two months I was studying the Bible, seeing what God wanted for me, what I thought about Him. Within three months Carolena and I went to church and within four months we were engaged to be married and within five months we met the wonderful pastor of this church and at about the sixth month this wonderful pastor married us in his church, and on about the seventh month we started Bible studies with the wonderful pastor and about the eighth month we were baptized together by this wonderful pastor in this wonderful church...

Now granted, a church is not perfect, just like people are not perfect. One reason I walked away from God in my youth was the fact that people are such bad witnesses. If you look at the people, it's a given, you're going to see hypocrites and liars and two-faced creeps and elitists and filthy secret sinners, and on and on. The trick is, don't look at the people. Really. Keep your eyes focused on God. On His Son. And the miraculous thing? When your eyes are focused on the True object, the people are wonderful. Really. They're a cinch, nothing to it -- they're even what you might call loveable.

The truth is, no one is perfect. If God decided to wipe out everyone that wasn't 100% perfect, this world would be void. No one would be here. If He was going to wipe out all those that had even one sin to their name, one unconfessed sin to their record -- no one would survive. But that's where Grace comes in -- because if you truly accept Him, then you have HIS perfection, 100%. That's our only hope. Anything else -- if you think anything else will get you to where you want to go, you better take a closer look at the Gospel. The Good News is, by the grace of God, we have hope. Only by the grace of God.

God used Carolena to bring me back to Him. He brought the right kind of woman into my life, to reawaken the deep spiritual side of me. She asked me the kinds of questions that drew me deep into the Bible to find answers...

...and it has been wonderful since then. Carolena and I, to date, have been married nearly TEN years. We were called into drama ministry and it has opened up like a flower (it works perfectly, being that I am a writer and Carolena is an actress). God put together two people who are nearly opposite, each fulfilling the other -- where one is weak, the other is conveniently strong. I'm an introvert who doesn't find it easy to communicate with others, at least verbally; Carolena is an extrovert who can instantly interact with anyone. Of course, it hasn't been perfect. We've had some tough times. But our walk with Him has grown more and more personal, His grace has become more and more evident, and He has touched us in so many ways, changed us in so many ways, shaping us like clay in His wonderful loving hands. During the tough times, He has been there, helping us through it, and I finally have been able to welcome His help, ache for His presence -- and He is always ready to bless us more and more (and bless us in extraordinary ways that we can hardly imagine, it is like I ask Him for a moped missing a backtire, and He replies with a Lexus LX450 SUV).

God brought me back from the brink of terrible, black nonexistence, and he delivered Carolena from spiritual darkness.

We've seen some blatant miracles. I'm not talking about finding a $5 bill the day after I pray for money. God has actually given us clear glimpses into His hidden, spiritual world.

God called both of us to serve Him, in ways we at first were not comfortable, and in my case, ways in which I was inadequate to serve Him. On three separate occasions I have been called to preach, and anyone who knows me raises their eyebrows (YOU? get up in front of people? get up in front of strangers? and talk? TALK?) -- but guess what? God provided me with what I needed, and I was able to follow through with what He bid me to do. He really does make it possible for us to do anything He calls us to do.

On Christmas Eve, the Year 2000, Bronte Carolena Larsen was born to us, our Miracle Baby Girl, the sweet little fire of our lives. What a blessing she is. And God continues to bless us. On October 3, 2002 Dirklan Christian Larsen was born (and I had just turned 40, only 4 months before!), and a baby with sweeter, deeper, darker eyes has never been born (take it from me!). Then thirteen months after Dirklan's miraculous birth, Wolfgang Christian Larsen entered the picture!

No matter how good your life is, no matter how wonderfully everything is going, there is always a God-shaped black hole in us -- only God can fill in that emptiness. We can substitute meditation, lovers, Art, or Porsches, or karate, or knitting -- but nothing can really fill that emptiness. Only God can.

I'm on His side, now. Whatever He wants, that's what I want. Wherever He leads us, that's where we'll go. His side is the best side. He knows better than I, what is best for me. He knows so much better than I, where I need to go and who I need to meet, and what I need to get me there. And, wow, there is such peace, on His side, it surpasses all human understanding. And this life, in this terrible world, is so much more abundant, the living of this life is so much more abundant. What a great choice it was, to give Him a chance, to try it His way...

It might not work the same way for you, but it WILL work for you, and that's a promise. Choose Him. Choose His side. He can change your life, today. You don't need to talk to me about it...

...talk to Him. He'll listen.

That's a promise.

"...for this son of mine

was dead and has returned to life.

He was lost and is found..."

My Personal Experience with Word-Faith Theology

"I want my share

of your estate

now, instead of

waiting until you

die!'" His father

agreed to divide

his wealth

between his sons.

A few days later this

younger son packed all his belongings and

took a trip to a distant land, and there wasted

all his money on parties and prostitutes. About the time his money was

gone a great famine swept over the land,

and he began to starve. He persuaded a local farmer to hire him to feed

his pigs. The boy became so hungry that

even the pods he was feeding the swine looked good to him. And no

one gave him anything.

When he finally came

to his senses, he said to

himself, "At home even

the hired men have food

enough and to spare, and here I am, dying of

hunger! I will go home to my father and say, ``Father, I have sinned against both heaven

and you, and am no longer worthy of being

called your son. Please take me on as a hired

man.''' ``So he returned home to his father. And while he was still a long

distance away, his father saw him coming, and was filled with loving pity

and ran and embraced him and kissed him. His son said to him, "Father, I have sinned against

heaven and you, and am not worthy of being

called your son--" But his father said to the slaves, "Quick! Bring the finest

robe in the house and put

it on him. And a jeweled ring for his finger; and shoes! And kill the calf we have in the fattening

pen. We must celebrate with a feast,  for this son of mine was dead and has returned to life. He was lost and is found."

Luke 15:12-24

Living Bible

"For God

so loved

the world

He gave

His only

begotten

Son, that

whosever

believeth

in Him

should

not perish,

but have

everlasting

life."

John 3:16

Who can

find a

virtuous

woman?

for her

price is

far above

rubies.

Proverbs 31:10

Come now,

and let us

reason

together,

saith the

LORD:

though your

sins be as

scarlet, they

shall be as

white as

snow; though

they be red

like crimson,

they shall be

as wool.

Isaiah 1:18

But you,

Israel, my

servant,

Jacob whom

I have

chosen,

descendant

of Abraham

my friend,

whom I

have taken

to myself,

from the

remotest

parts of the

earth and

summoned

from

countries

far away,

to whom

I have said,

"You are

my servant,

I have

chosen you,

I have not

rejected you,"

do not be

afraid, for

I am with

you; do not

be alarmed,

for I am

your God.

I give you

strength,

truly I help

you, truly

I hold you

firm with

my saving

right hand.

For I,

Yahweh,

your God,

I grasp you

by your right

hand; I tell

you, "Do not

be afraid,

I shall

help you."

Isaiah 41:8-10, 13

And we

know that

all things

work

together

for good

to them

that love

God,

to them

who are

the called

according

to His

purpose.

Romans 8:28

For to be

carnally

minded

is death;

but to be

spiritually

minded

is life

and

peace.

Because

the carnal

mind is

enmity

against

God: for

it is not

subject

to the

law of

God,

neither

indeed

can be.

Romans 8:6-7

People

assume

that their

"soul" is

immortal,

(everything

they believe

about death

is derived

from this

assumption)

and yet

the Bible

teaches

that only

"God" is

immortal,

and only

those

who

believe

will

receive

eternal

life...

Some

people

feel more,

they think

more,

love more

and

agonize

more...

There is

an empty

space in

every

person,

and art

can't fill

that space,

nor yoga,

karate, golf,

meditation,

good deeds,

TV, books,

people

lovers

relationships

children

or

positive

affirmations

or

self-

absorption,

self-

actualization,

self-

esteem...

Only

God

can

fill

that

empty

space...

...it's

the

way

we

were

created...

...to

worship

Him

in

Spirit

and

Truth.

"Every story of conversion is the story of a blessed defeat." - C.S. Lewis

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"Aim

at

heaven

and you

get earth

thrown in.

Aim at

earth

and

you

get

neither."

  -C.S. Lewis