I Know the Plans I Have for You: A Story of Missed Opportunities, Divine Intercessions?

By Ron Coleman

As a teenager, Ron Coleman passed up some pretty amazing opportunities, all for reasons even he didn't understand. Upon graduation from high school and with no goals or ideas in mind about his future, he drifted along for a while. It was a very uncertain time. The Vietnam War draft was a looming threat to all able-bodied males of that age group. Eventually, with the draft about to call his number, he felt forced to enlist in the Air Force. Scared to death but much to his surprise, this new life led him on a path he never could have imagined.

While reflecting back on his life during preparations for his second and final retirement, Ron realized just how much God had influenced every aspect of his journey. What if he didn't have those surgeries as a toddler? What if he had been allowed to play sports at an earlier age? Why didn't he go to college when it was first offered? All he really knew for sure in those earliest years was that he was forced to go to church far more often than he wanted. What Ron wasn't aware of during all those church attendances was that God's love was quietly and securely being planted in his heart and mind. His faith, he learned later, was what had sustained him and stood out as a very important part of his life.

It was only when he took the time to think about everything that had happened in his life that he could see God's fingerprints on it all. Ron's story then gives credit where credit is due and hopefully enables others to know where and how to seek help when needed.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781639615247

Book preview

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I Know the Plans I Have for You

A Story of Missed Opportunities, Divine Intercessions?

Ron Coleman

ISBN 978-1-63961-523-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63961-524-7 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Ron Coleman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

And so It Begins

Missed Opportunities

Early Years, Off to Work I Go

Off to the Air Force

More Training, Then on to the Real Air Force

Roommates and First Job

Leading Up to Twenty-one!

Making Charts, Playing Softball

Disappointment to Happiness

The Best Jobs in the Air Force

Last Years of Active Duty

Life after the Air Force

First Federal Civilian Job

I Was Hoping for Intelligence

Civilian Career Takes a Turn

Paradise, then Trouble

Finally, a Breakthrough

A Very Dark Time!

Hope for New Beginnings

Tasks/Trials of a Leader

On Coming to an End

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

If I were watching a movie of my life, although that's something that will likely never happen, the opening scene would depict me sitting at my desk at work during the final week before retirement. My hands would be on the keyboard. The camera would then swing around behind me in order to view the computer monitor, which would have the words Retirement Speech. A caption at the bottom would read: Final week of work before retirement.

The scene would shift to black and white and show my mom and three-year old me sitting with the doctor. Mom would be looking very concerned as she listened to the doctor; he would be wagging his finger while issuing a stern warning! The scene would change again, back to color, showing me as a teenager in a high school baseball uniform. In this scene, I would be angrily refusing a coach who was suggesting a change in baseball position. Then the scene would change once again, this time showing me wearing a graduation cap and gown; a Class of 1969 banner would be posted on the wall behind me. Family and friends would be gathered around me, all asking, What are you going to do now?

A puzzled expression and shrug of my shoulders would tell the story—I didn't have any idea! One final scene change would depict a nineteen-year-old with right hand raised, swearing the Oath of Allegiance while being inducted into the military. A television would be seen over my shoulder; on it, the scene would show a burning aircraft with a caption, Another US plane shot down over Vietnam. The look on my face would be that of a scared young man faced with the fear of what may lie ahead. Then the scene would switch to black and white, be somewhat fuzzy around the edges, and with intermittent lines of static running horizontally across it. The scene would now expand to that visit of Mom and I with the doctor, and a caption would be seen at the bottom of the screen, which would read: Approximately sixty-five years earlier.

Of course, no movie will ever be made of my life. Writing the story of me was an idea that came as I was trying to decide what I might say in my retirement speech. Where should I begin? What have I done in my life that has been anything of true significance or consequence? What has happened in my life that I can honestly say has been my own doing? The memories of where and how I started and when and where I ended up made me realize my life was not about anything I did or planned or really even thought about. On the contrary, I realized every aspect of my life could be directly attributed to God. It had finally become obvious to me, in hindsight, that He planned every step along the way. As the author of life, God laid out a path for me and set everything into motion. For I know the plans I have for you (Jeremiah 29:11a NIV). These are the words that truly underscore the story behind my story.

So my story is of a rather average boy who grew up to be a rather average man. At least, that was my thinking. You see, as I said, I was never much of a planner; I never thought much about my future. And certainly, I never thought about how things in my life had gone and what I might have done differently. That is, until the last few days of my working life.

In the following chapters, I will share with you many of the missed opportunities but also the many occurrences that worked out to my benefit (perhaps divine intercession?). As far as missed opportunities, the reasons could be many: (1) I may have been too naïve to recognize an opportunity when it was presented; (2) maybe I was just too stubborn (or lazy) to act upon it; (3) maybe I simply didn't know what or how to respond; or (4) perhaps it was God's divine intercession leading me to respond as I did or did not. But of all of these missed opportunities, any one of which would have or could have sent me down a multitude of other pathways, let me just say in hindsight I cannot imagine living my life any differently or having a better outcome. Besides, I doubt I could have changed any of them anyway, for I believe everything I missed, everything I have been given, everything I have done right or wrong was all orchestrated as part of God's master plan for my life.

My story begins then almost at birth. Why do I say almost? Well, I don't quite remember the trip down the birth canal, but then, who does? So then, obviously, my story starts with my earliest memory, and the story will conclude with my retirement from the active workforce, which occurred just a few years ago. I had reached that ripe old age, the age at which the Social Security Administration says one may begin to draw full retirement benefits from those employment taxes we contributed during our whole working life. Born in the early 1950s, drawing full benefits could start for me at age sixty-six. Even though I began to draw Social Security on my sixty-sixth birthday, it was during that birthday celebration at work that I boasted, As long as I'm having fun and can remain a key contributor on the job, I will probably continue to work until I turn seventy!

In my humble opinion, I believe I was still a key contributor and leader of the intelligence work and character of our unit and mission, right up until the very last day. As for the fun part, well, let me borrow (and tailor) a few words from the last line of that famous poem, Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer. Simply put, [T]here is (was) no joy (any longer) in Mudville (obviously, my parentheses added).

Anyway, back to my story and the reason I thought about writing a book. The concluding episode of my work life was mostly about preparing for my second retirement; I had previously retired from active duty with the US Air Force after serving for a little over twenty-one years. When I left active duty, I swore I was done with any further relationship with the military and any semblance of government work. But after a woeful and very frustrating time of job searching on the outside, I changed my mind. I desperately wanted to get back into the life I had come to depend on with its discipline, rules and responsibilities, expectations and accountability. I did manage to find a job on the outside after my first retirement, working just under two years, but kept applying for every federal government job I felt I was qualified for. Luckily, I was able to get back in and worked as a federal civilian for the Air Force for another twenty-four years.

So, in this last episode, I found myself as the senior civilian in an Air Force Intelligence Squadron. I was functioning as the right-hand man in charge of civilian matters to a squadron commander. My responsibilities included overseeing all aspects of the squadron's federal civilian and contractor workforces which included: facilitating all hiring, mentoring all on workplace discipline, evaluating and reporting work performances, and assisting any personnel transitions away from the unit. During my seven-year tenure as the senior civilian, I never had to fire anyone (although I wanted to); any who left did so for their own reasons. I did have one civilian who I encouraged to retire due to medical disability and one who passed away; procedures for those departures were minimal, basically controlled by civilian personnel—beyond my responsibility.

When I announced the joy for working was no longer there, and it was time to call it a career, nearly all of my peers urged that I be honored with a formal retirement ceremony. I didn't agree right away, but after many cited my forty-five years of combined military and civilian service, how could I argue? However, there was no established guidance to follow for a civilian retirement; I was simply the first in our squadron to retire under normal circumstances. Besides, for a civilian retirement ceremony, especially in a military unit steeped in tradition and with members expecting all the usual military pomp and circumstance, the commander needed me to figure out how to mesh the few civilian requirements with elements that would make it a truly fitting and honorable ceremony.

The responsibility to plan a ceremony normally should have fallen to my boss, the commander, but there was one main problem: the commander had many more important issues to contend with. The last thing any commander needs to focus on would be a civilian retirement. I was actually happy I could do it; it allowed me to incorporate all of the time-honored traditions of military ceremonies I had come to love over the years, and I could use the opportunity to establish a framework for future civilian retirements in the unit. As we got down to the final few weeks, as the ceremony agenda was being finalized, I was asked if I had planned to give a retirement speech. I hadn't!

At every military retirement ceremony I attended, a speech was always given, especially from those of the higher ranks and especially from the more distinguished retirees. I decided as a senior leader in the unit I should prepare one. I never liked speeches that were off-the-cuff with no notes; the speeches often ended up being repetitive or just not very coherent. Perhaps it would be forgetfulness brought on by the adrenaline rush of the moment, or maybe a case of the nerves would take over. Either way, I didn't care for speeches rambling in incomplete thoughts or stories. And what of a speaker's anecdotes? Often, they just didn't seem to make sense…perhaps it was simply a case of You had to be there. I made it my mission, then, to prepare a message of the things I had done, lessons I had learned, and experiences I wanted to pass on to the younger folks.

While reflecting on what I might write, I found I started to think back on the whole of my life, not just the twenty-four years of a federal civilian career or even the twenty-one-plus years of active military duty that came first, but all the way back to my earliest memories. Thoughts turned to every step that led me to joining the military in the first place. Suddenly, the whole of my life, with all the missed opportunities and what-ifs, flooded my thinking, leading me to thoughts of how my life certainly would have worked out differently if left to my own thoughts, ideas, and choices.

I suppose some people might be able to say during their lifetime every plan they had turned out according to their desires. Then again, others might say nothing ever worked out the way they wanted—perhaps a combination of the two; some plans worked out while others did not. But of those dreams or plans that did work out for them, did everything happen exactly as they imagined it? And was everything realized in accordance with their time schedule? And, again, of those dreams that did come true, did everything else then, following after, fall neatly into place too? How about when a dream didn't pan out as they had hoped? Do you think they might have thought about those things that happened instead, or in place of, that might not have occurred?

As I unwrap the details of my life with opportunities missed, realized, or replaced, there is one thing I know for sure: joining the Air Force defined me and set the stage for the rest of my life. In these chapters, which by the way are my true remembrances, you will see a few of my dreams worked out, but mostly they didn't—much to my delight. But what I was given in place of the failed dreams and the missed opportunities gave me a better life and made me a better person! So the key lesson I learned through it all? God's plans, His intercessions in my life, have been far better than anything I could ever have imagined!

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And so It Begins

There's no better way to start the story of the missed opportunities and/or divine intercessions that have happened in my life than to look at how it all began. And since this is my story, I'd like to begin by borrowing a line from the many actors, actresses, or other award honorees and recipients who, upon being given an award for some sort of merit, likely said, I need to begin by thanking my parents. Seriously? Do these people really need to say, I couldn't have done any of this without them? Nope! Fact is, everyone knows 100 percent of all the people in the world were born, obviously, with thanks going solely to their parents. And like them, I was no exception! Therefore, it only makes sense. My story must begin with Mom and Dad.

There is an old expression, simply put, opposites attract. While scientists have found this to be true of magnets, researchers into the human emotions have found this to be almost as certain when it comes to love and relationships. In my memory of the first nineteen years of life, living at home with my parents, I found this expression to be 100 percent accurate!

Mom and Dad were total opposites. If I had to choose a couple of words to begin describing my mom, tough and shrewd are two I'd start with. I am certain there were other people who would suggest more colorful words for her. I'll leave those words to them! Gentle and caring are the words that first come to mind for Dad; and this time, I believe, most others would agree. Now, if you'd ask me to describe the two of them together, the phrase They sure did love each other rings true! I'm not suggesting every minute of their married life was always perfect, but tough was frequently softened by gentle, and caring was sometimes encouraged to be shrewd. Their marriage was a unique dance step, a balancing act, which sustained them for all of their sixty-seven years, nine months, and fifteen days together!

Mom was born first in Middletown, a small town near Pennsylvania's capital, just three years before the start of the Great Depression. Dad was born about twenty months later in another small Pennsylvania town, Lebanon, about twenty-five or so miles to the east. Because of the severe economic downturn created by the Depression, families would often need their children to get jobs at an early age in order to help the family to survive; sometimes parents encouraged (pushed) their kids to get out on their own to fend for themselves and ease the stress on the family. Quite often, kids growing up in the 1930s and 1940s were forced to quit school to seek full-time work; this was certainly true of my parents.

Mom made it most of the way through twelfth grade, opting to quit school just before graduation, easing the strain on her family. Likewise, Dad quit school in the tenth grade for the sole purpose of helping his parents feed the seven mouths at the dinner table. Both of my parents were incredibly hard workers, as was the case with nearly all members of their generation.

Because of limited transportation options (car-ownership was a luxury; very few families in the 1940s could afford a car), Mom tried to find work in her town. However, jobs were either scarce with so many others needing to do the same or typically very low-paying; the pay may not have been enough to live on one's own. At the urging of Mom's closest friend, the two young ladies took a bus ride, traveling to the Hershey Chocolate Factory eight miles away. The factory was hiring hundreds of workers to make a special chocolate bar that would be placed in the meal (ration) kits for its soldiers in the war zones. Both Mom and her friend were able to get jobs, and together, they found and shared a small apartment within walking distance of the factory.

In the years after quitting school, Dad bounced around from part-time job to part-time job, always with the hope to make more money, most for his family but some to maintain the bad habits he had picked up. During this time, too, our nation was at war; the United States had been dragged into World War II after Japan's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. Foremost in everyone's thinking was support for our country; Dad was no exception. Although I knew Dad never did serve in the military, it wasn't until after I came home from serving with the Air Force on the island of Guam did I learn why.

During World War II, when the call went out for young men to join the Army, Dad went to sign up, even though he was not yet sixteen; he lied about his age! He almost made it in, but the medical report from his physical denied him the opportunity. He was rated 4-F, meaning he was declared medically unfit for military service due to being diagnosed with a leaky heart valve. As he shared this story, I could still sense his sadness and regret that he was unable to heed the call to serve our country.

As he finished telling the story, I think we both came to the realization that any military service for him just wasn't part of God's plan. I think my joining the military served as a kind of exoneration for his inability to do so. Tears came to his eyes as he expressed how proud he was of me for serving our country. But then in his typical manner, he cracked a smile and laughed as he said, I see the Air Force has finally turned you into a man. That's something I never could get done!

Dad got his first full-time job at age sixteen, working on the loading dock of a major department store in town. After a little more than a year, and with no apparent hope of advancement, he set out to find a higher paying job. Although it was nearly thirteen miles away, with the help of a car-sharing friend, Dad was lured to that same sweet-smelling chocolate factory. Dad was hired; he figured they would put him on the loading docks since that is what he knew. But managers at Hershey decided help was needed in other areas, and soon he learned to be a quality-control inspector. He found himself examining the little foil wrappers surrounding the candy as they were coming off the Hershey's Kiss machine.

You've likely already figured out the next part of this story: how Mom and Dad met! When asked how they met, Mom would always hesitate, letting Dad share the public version of their story. Mom would then provide a minor clarification. I think it was Mom's tough, savvy, and very private nature that wouldn't allow her or Dad to tell of their actual meeting, courtship, and love affair. And while my sister, Barb, and I never did learn the real story, we always loved to hear Dad's public version. We heard it hundreds of times.

Beginning the story, Dad would become very animated as he would say, Your mother operated the machine that put the foil wrappers on the Hershey Kisses, and I was the quality-control guy in charge of inspecting her ‘kisses.' Every time Dad would get to this part, he would light up and add, And your Mom had the best kisses. That's why I married her.

And Mom's clarification? She would simply say, rather smugly, that she never worked on the Kiss machine. She made the rations bars. But their story worked. Barb and I still love to share it!

To my understanding, while they were dating and a year or so into their first year of marriage, Mom and Dad were quite the wild couple with heavy smoking, hard drinking, and frequent slot machine gambling—they lived the partying carefree life. Dad also had an appreciation for music, and he became intrigued with the local Drum and Bugle Corps. He especially liked the Corps marching, drill formations, and performance competitions. Unfortunately, he didn't play any instruments, but that didn't stop him. He sought out the opportunity to join. Proving to the Corps he had some rhythm, he was able to join. Story has it Dad became quite a showman, clashing the cymbals and using an array of hand movements to provide a little razzle dazzle during the competitions.

It is no wonder then, while we were growing up, Barb and I would always see how excited and animated Dad would get when attending a parade. As marching bands would pass by with the drummers rat-a-tat tapping, Dad would be bouncing up and down along with the beat and would simulate the clashing together of cymbals by clapping his hands together along with the drumbeat. We would laugh at Dad. He would just shrug his shoulders and offer a sheepish smile while saying, That's me. I'm just a ‘cymbal-minded' player.

Mom would travel along on the D&B Corps' buses to all the weekend competitions; it also became a time of great partying while traveling to and from performances all over the region. On one such bus trip, Dad got so ill before a performance he almost didn't go on the field with the rest of the group. Fearing his absence might be missed during the marching drill formation, especially his dazzling showmanship with his cymbals, he gutted out the performance. Their group took first place in the competition, but Dad literally had to be carried back on to the bus. He continued to get worse while traveling home from that western Pennsylvania competition; so ill, in fact, he thought he was certainly about to die. Remembering the military doctor's diagnosis of that leaky heart valve, he figured the smoking and drinking, his worldly lifestyle, had now taken its toll on him. The longer the drive continued, the worse he felt, and the more his sinful life seemed to weigh on his mind. Although he was very weak, he managed to throw his cigarettes out the bus window and vowed if his life was spared, he was done with smoking, drinking, and gambling too!

Upon their return to town, Mom struggled to get Dad home; he was so weak he couldn't make it up the stairs to their second-floor apartment. They decided to take him to his mother's house where she set up a bed in her living room where he could rest. His doctor was called to the house. There wasn't much that could be done. Dad was told his heart was now worse than ever. Dad wasn't given much hope for improvement. Dad simply needed to get plenty of rest and any physical activity, especially climbing stairs, was out of the question. Even if he wanted to, all he could really do was lay around. Even a short walk to the bathroom would wear him out. During this time, Dad had plenty of time to contemplate his life; it seemed all he could think about were his sins.

About the third day of resting and thinking about the sins he had committed, and with no hope of ever getting better, Dad was almost to the point of despair. He wanted to die. But then he remembered a sign he saw above a door across the street from his first department store job. The sign was for the local Rescue Mission. Dad attended Sunday school as a child, but in recent years, he didn't give religion much thought; he had been enjoying his adult life too much. Not understanding why, the thought of the Mission kept coming back to him, and soon he had the feeling he was being directed to go there. He learned there was to be a church service that very night and begged his mom to take him. Dad's mom, my sweet grandma, couldn't say no. Something told her she needed to try, even though knowing it would take quite an effort to get him there. The mission's meeting place was on the second floor of the building and, of course, elevators were few and far between in the late 1940s—getting Dad to the service was going to be quite the challenge.

The preacher at the Mission was Reverend Lester; he used to tell people he would often preach on whatever passage he would open to in the Bible. He felt certain that God would direct him and give him the words to say. On the night Dad went to the Mission, however, as the reverend opened his Bible, the passage it revealed was not one he felt he could effectively or comfortably preach about. He closed his Bible and sat it on its edge binding on a table; he figured when letting it fall, the Bible would fall open, and he would examine those pages for his sermon.

The Bible fell open to the very same passage. He closed the book a second time. Picking it up a third time, it again opened to that same passage. Looking at his watch, he realized it was now past the time for the service to start, and since no one had shown up, he decided to leave. As he was coming down the stairs, he encountered Grandma and those trying to help Dad up the stairs to the meeting. The Reverend, as it turned out, was actually Grandma's cousin whom she hadn't seen in quite a while. After telling about Dad's illness, the reverend retreated back up the stairs and again prepared to start a service. When it was time to deliver the sermon, his Bible again opened to that very same passage as it had before: the illness of King Hezekiah found in 2 Kings, chapter 20.

(Paraphrased) King Hezekiah was regarded as perhaps one of the greatest kings of Israel, including all those coming before his reign as well as many coming after. He had done many great things for the country and its people; he was widely known for his steadfast love of God. It was evident in his leading of the kingdom.

The king fell gravely ill during the tenth year of his reign, and at nearly the point of death, God revealed to the Prophet Isaiah the king would indeed die very soon. God told Isaiah to go tell Hezekiah he should get his house and affairs in order; Isaiah passed these words on to the king.

Rather than putting his affairs in order, the king prayed; he reminded God how he was faithful in his devotion and service to Him. He prayed and wept bitterly. Then, even before Isaiah could get all the way out of the palace, God told him to return to Hezekiah and tell him his prayers were heard, his tears were seen. God told Isaiah he would heal Hezekiah, and three days later, Hezekiah must go up to the temple; by doing so, God would add another fifteen years to his life.

Hezekiah asked for a sign so that he would know he would indeed be healed, enabling him to go to the temple three days later. God told Isaiah Hezekiah could ask either for the shadow to advance ten steps or return back ten steps. Knowing the sun's shadow would advance normally; Hezekiah's faith enabled him to ask God to make the shadow retreat ten steps. God did make the shadow go back the ten steps; Hezekiah was healed and was able to go up to the temple, and he lived an additional fifteen years!

Shadow movement, especially ten steps forward on the palace stairway, generally took about forty minutes of time. Now, I am neither a scientist nor an astronomer, but to me, there would seem to be many potential issues or concerns with reversing the rotation of the earth or changing the position of the sun to enable the shadow's backward movement. The fact of the matter is, it did happen! Want to check it out? Search it out on the Internet. Simply search "shadow go back forty minutes. Many theologians and scientists have weighed in on this phenomenon; even NASA had a few words on the subject. All that could be said was that it happened and only by way of a miracle," and there was only one being who could perform a miracle of that magnitude: God! My nonscientific statement of fact: Just know that with God, all things are possible!

That night, after hearing about King Hezekiah, Dad accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior and asked for his sins to be forgiven. Besides forgiveness, a medical miracle must have happened too, for just like Hezekiah, when Dad's doctor visited three days later, there were no longer any signs of heart trouble. Dad's weakness was gone; his strength had returned!

Dad didn't take the healing of his body or forgiveness of his sins lightly. He was a totally changed man; never again did he smoke, never again did he drink even one drop of alcohol; never again did he gamble, and never once was he heard uttering an unkind or unsavory word. Instead, he committed himself to the study of the Bible and to serving his fellow men and women through service with the Rescue Mission. And from that day forward, he encouraged—or maybe I should say urged or even forced—frequent and regular church attendance for his family. I didn't say it back when I was a child, but I've been saying this for years: Thank you, Dad. Thank you, God!

My sister, Barb, was born first; she came very nearly at the midpoint between Mom and Dad's second and third anniversaries. I came along a year and a half later. It was pretty evident Mom always seemed partial to males; through the majority of Barb's life, it was clear she wasn't Mom's favorite. In fact, many years later, as I finally became aware of life outside of myself, I realized the two of them didn't get along very well at all. They seemed to butt heads on just about everything.

Fortunately, though, Barb was Daddy's girl; sometimes Dad would be put into difficult situations as he would be required to exact some sort of discipline on Barb when maybe he didn't feel it was necessary. I always knew I was somewhat of a Momma's boy, as some suggested, but I think I just learned which buttons I could push and those to steer clear of with Mom. I always felt I was just as much a Daddy's boy as any boy could be. Dad showed his love for both of his kids equally!

For Barb and me, our home life, our growing up years, consisted of being raised in a staunch Christian home where multiple attendances were required each week at the very conservative and law-oriented Rescue Mission. To say the Mission was strict in its doctrine would be an understatement. Females couldn't wear pants. Only dresses were considered acceptable, and the hemline had to extend below the knees. Males could only wear long pants but no jeans to any services; the wearing of shorts by anyone was strictly frowned upon, anytime, period! Most of these clothing rules were not just for services but anytime you were inside the Mission's four walls. Games involving any type of card playing would most certainly lead to gambling and was, therefore, considered sinful. And any type of movement involving two people in close proximity to one another in a rhythmic manner to music, known as dancing, would obviously lead to sinful desires of the flesh, which again was considered to be of the Devil.

With all of these rules, life was very confusing for Barb and me in the mid-fifties to the late-sixties. We heard what the Mission preached, but outside of the Mission and in the comfort of our own home, even Mom and Dad weren't fully wrapped up in all of their rules. As a family, we often had game nights where we played many different games; often, these games included some type of cards. Mom and Dad even looked forward to card nights with Dad's sisters and their hubbies (usually playing Pinochle), but no gambling was ever a part. Of course, there were always the bragging rights! And Mom and Dad loved to dance. Like I said, it was a time of delicate balancing: a comfortable home life versus the strictness of the Mission.

None of the card games we played ever led to gambling, and to Barb's and my knowledge, any dancing by Mom and Dad never lead to those terrible sinful desires of the flesh! (Not that Mom or Dad would ever let on to us. S-E-X, after all, was a word never to be spoken or publicly displayed.)

Besides all the rules against the bad things in life, to be sure, we were taught that the Bible was the center of everything at the Mission and should be for our lives. We were encouraged to memorize Bible verses. This was heavily stressed. We also learned that prayer, frequent prayer, was the answer to everything. I can't begin to recount the number of times someone would tell me to pray for whatever was on my mind. Whether I was confused or troubled about something, if I needed or even wanted something, take it to God in prayer. He would always answer. And, yes, while growing up, I may have resented the Mission's sometimes over-the-top guidelines, but I now feel thankful and very blessed. So many times, what I thought were long-forgotten Bible verses now occasionally come flooding back into my mind and usually just when I need it! As for prayer, I can attest God has always answered my prayers. The writing of this book serves to remind me of the prayers that have been answered throughout my life.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. (Matthew 7:7–8 NIV)

Ask and it will be given—that was what we were always told, and the answer would immediately be given (immediately was implied). But there is a simple yet rarely mentioned fact, an important fact, to learn about prayer. Never once do I recall anyone ever say that God's answers were not immediate. It was understood. If you prayed and didn't get the answer you wanted right away, then obviously, God's answer was no. But I have learned over the years many of my prayers have been answered; some were days, weeks, or even years later. With that in mind, it must be said and stressed, sometimes His answers are Yes, and sometimes they are No, but oftentimes, the answer might be Not right now…hang in there. God's timing is perfect. In my own experiences, I must tell you, If you listen and wait patiently, you just might learn that these apparent no answers might also include a reassuring whisper from God. Just you wait. The plans I have for you, well, you just won't believe what I have in store for you!"

Once Barb and I hit our teen years, most of Mom and Dad's rules became very simple. First, never forget anything we were taught up until now, which included never talking back, never lying to them, and never acting up (defined as being stupid) in public. But beyond those simple rules, Mom's main concern was anything that might cause her to become embarrassed; her biggest fears were, Don't get pregnant out of wedlock (Barb) and Don't you go and get some girl pregnant before marriage (obviously for me). Dad's rules were the same as Mom's, though he didn't harp on them like she did. That's because he believed his few rules would trump all of hers. His rules? Always go to church, pray, and accept Jesus Christ as your savior. Those three about cover it all!

I fear I've painted a very poor image of my parents, probably more so of my mom, but that was not my intent. Mom, like most everyone, was a product of her upbringing. Besides the times being tough due to the Depression, her mother, Dora, died before Mom's tenth birthday. That left her father to look after both her and her older brother. Being a single parent back then was probably even more of a daunting challenge than today; support agencies like we have today didn't exist back then. Fairly quickly, after Dora's death, Grandpa found another mate, Rebecca, a woman who also suffered the death of a spouse. Likely, it was a marriage of necessity; my grandpa needed help with the kids, and Becky (the name she preferred), I believe, had no other means of support. Becky had no kids of her own, and although she longed to be a mother to her stepdaughter, my mom wanted no part of it! Mom got out of the house and off to Hershey the first chance she could get.

Barb and I have talked more since Mom and Dad's deaths than we have since she married and left the nest. We both agree that we never lacked for anything; there was always plenty of good food on the table and ample clean clothes to wear. Gifts were always plentiful under the tree at Christmas and a gift or two for birthdays (to be sure, Mom always let us know we had the same number of gifts or the promise that equal monies were spent). And if we absolutely had to have something, it usually found its way to us. We believe Mom's style of parenting made us stronger, enabling us to grow and be able to stand up for ourselves. That's how she showed her love for us. Dad's love was evident and unquestioned, too, as was his love for Mom and God.

2

Missed Opportunities

I consider myself a very blessed man! As I look back on how I navigated through this life, certainly not everything went my way. Or did it? After I let many potential opportunities pass by, I asked myself, why didn't I take this path or do that thing? There were some incredible opportunities offered to me that, for one reason or another, I let go. As I recall, I was either too stubborn, perhaps not smart enough, or I simply just didn't act. Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty, and generally, I agree with that statement, but I also believe beyond a shadow of doubt a power much higher than I knew better how I should act and in accordance to what my life should become. My hope, as you read on, is not to get all preachy. I simply want to tell you, as I have been reminded my whole life, about the proof of God's plans for me. For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV).

When asked, many people have stated their earliest recollection about something significant in their life might go back to as early as age four or five, and this was usually an event of particular note that truly stood out for them, perhaps in preschool or kindergarten. For me, I believe my earliest memory is a conversation between my mom and our family doctor when I was just barely three. Perhaps I can remember it so vividly even now because Mom continued to remind me of the key part of that conversation so many times while I was growing up. You see, when I was two years old, and then again when I had just turned three, I had surgeries to repair inguinal hernias—one on each side of my lower abdomen.

Mom took me in for a follow-up appointment after I got out of the hospital with that second hernia, and naturally, she asked the doctor if there was anything we needed to be concerned about. Now, while a hernia is not all that uncommon at that young age, our family doctor expressed concern and issued a caution. The doctor's reply: Now that he has had a hernia on each side, you know he can only get one more in the center, which then, well, you know what that means, right?

Mom must have known what that meant, but obviously, I didn't. She looked alarmed but nodded her head!

Later, as Mom was relaying the conversation to Dad, I asked her what the doctor meant; Mom wouldn't say and quickly changed the subject. I'm sure she thought I was too young and wouldn't have understood anyway! Sadly, the hernias affected my chance to do anything physical, which, as it turned out, was everything I found I wanted to do. The doctor's warning then directly impacted many aspects of my life, at least right up until I was in the eighth grade.

I was reminded of the doctor's warning about a year or so later as we were traveling home from a Philadelphia Phillies baseball game. The factory where both Mom and Dad worked often scheduled morale events for its workers, at least its upper management. Dad, by virtue of his position as a key (and respected) supervisor, was often included. A bus was filled with employees and their families for the game; all four members of our family were able to go. Dad coached and played for the factory's softball team for many years, and as far as I knew, his knowledge of the game was extensive. He pointed out many aspects of the Phillies game that were taking place on the field, things you didn't always get to see or hear on TV. During one inning, Dad said, Watch the guy on first base. He will probably try to steal second base on this next pitch.

Next pitch, bingo! The runner took off and was safe at second! Then a few innings later, Dad whispered, Keep your eye on the batter. He's going to try and bunt the ball to advance the runner on first into scoring position.

And just like that, the batter laid down a bunt, and the runner on first made it safely to second base. Then Dad announced, Now all we need is any kind of hit so that the runner can come home to score a run to tie the score. Of course, a home run would be even better.

I was amazed. How did Dad know the next batter would hit a home run? Yep, Dad called it right: home run, and the Phillies won the game! But I wondered why Dad didn't do that for all the Phillies games!

Recognizing the excitement I was still exhibiting on the bus ride home, Dad's boss asked me if I might want to be a professional baseball player someday and play for the Phillies. You can probably guess my answer; Mom quickly nipped that notion in the bud. Mom's usual caution flag came out as she said, You remember what the doctor said after your hernia surgeries, don't you?

I nodded, although I still didn't really know what that meant; I just knew Mom always got kind of weird every time the subject of me playing any sport came up. But that ended any more talk of me playing baseball, at least for that night!

*****

I don't think I was all that into music early on, and I'm referring to the years prior to first grade. My only memories of any music, up to that point, were the hymnal songs we sang at both the Sunday morning and evening services as well as the old-time Gospel songs sung at the Tuesday night Prayer Meetings. Of course, there were also the kids' tunes we'd sing at the Mission's Saturday morning Children's Bible school. As is typical of most kids that age, I couldn't read the words nor understand the musical notes on the pages, but after singing the songs over and over and over, week after week, I learned to follow along, at least with the first verses of the songs. Beyond that, I had no thoughts of anything more about music. But when I was around four years old, a beautiful brand-new piano showed up in our living room; I didn't know why. I soon learned Dad had expressed an interest in taking piano lessons with Doris, the pianist at the Mission, but honestly, I rarely ever saw him playing it.

Then, when Barb was in first grade, Mom told her she could take piano lessons with Doris too, if she wanted to. Barb didn't, but what Mom really meant was that Barb's piano lessons were going to start the following week. Barb began playing well from the very start, but several years later, she didn't want to practice anymore. Obviously, this angered Mom and Dad; it was always about the money being spent on lessons. Why spend money on piano lessons if you're not going to practice? But quitting the piano lessons was never an option!

By junior high, Barb had become an avid reader. She was especially interested in murder mysteries. I think she collected every one of the books in the Nancy Drew series. Every moment she could, Barb had her nose in one of those books; she hated to put them down, especially for piano practice.

I remember one very tumultuous night when Barb was reading. Mom began strongly urging Barb to get her mandatory practice time out of the way. Barb hesitated at first but finally relented and started to practice. Soon Dad showed up with the board of education (a.k.a. a wooden paddle) in hand; it appears he wasn't appreciating the force with which Barb was banging on those ivories. That was one of the very rare times I saw Dad so angry! The results? Let's just say Dad put a little dent into Barb's reading habits, but sadly, the beautiful piano bench suffered the larger dent.

I was surprised at first when Barb didn't cry at the force of Dad's wrath, but then, after seeing the dent made in the bench, I understood why. The bench took much of the blow. None of us were happy about the dent in the bench, but it became a lesson to all of us. Obviously, for Barb and me, we knew we had better practice; for Mom and Dad, it was about learning to control their anger. In later years, the subject of the dent became quite the talking point and occasionally a point of some laughter.

Two years after Barb started playing the piano (I was just a month into first grade), Mom asked me if I wanted to learn to play the piano too. I said I didn't want to, but she explained, We [your dad and I] always want to treat both you kids the same. That way neither of you can complain that one got something less than the other. Obviously, it was a fairness thing; fairness showed up in every other aspect of our life growing up. So, as you might guess, my lessons started with Doris the following week. It is ironic, though, when I asked if I could learn another musical instrument during second grade, they said, Yes. But Barb had not been given the same consideration. And just so you know, I wanted to play the trumpet or another brass instrument. Mom liked and bought me a saxophone.

Anyway, Doris was an excellent pianist and teacher; she was very sweet and patient with me, likely why she may have been my first crush! I think she was in her late twenties when I started taking lessons with her. She and her parents attended the Rescue Mission, like our family, which was how the idea of piano lessons started for Dad and possibly why Mom wanted to get us kids involved too. For years, besides teaching, Doris played for the Mission's live radio shows and church services on Sunday mornings and the Saturday Children's Bible school. Quite the accomplished pianist, Doris was often requested to be a guest pianist for many of the really good Christian singers on the East Coast. She was even invited to accompany the great George Beverly Shea a few times; he was a regular performer on Reverend Billy Graham's television crusades!

Of the thousands of songs I heard her play, I never ever heard one wrong note coming from her piano. And as I think back upon her amazing talent, I believe her ability to remember music could be compared to saving a file on a computer! Doris only needed to play a song once from sheet music or book, and months later, she could recall it quickly and play it exactly as saved in her memory. And for singers she accompanied, if she felt a song was too high or too low for their voices, Doris would transpose the notes to a more suitable key without even needing to stop and think about it.

Fast-forward a few years, every time I would bring up wanting to play sports again, Mom would remind me of the doctor's warning. But once I started taking piano lessons, Mom's caution against playing sports was multiplied. She would say, What if you hurt your fingers? You know you can't play the piano with broken fingers! Finally, during sixth grade, when I was pleading almost nonstop to be allowed the opportunity to play Little League Baseball with all of my friends, Mom decided she should explain the doctor's cautionary warning from my second hernia: If you get injured, if you get hit in the center [she pointed directly at my little man parts], you could lose your ability to make a baby. Well, at that point, I still had no clue what that meant, but to my recollection, that was probably the closest we ever came to having a talk about what it takes to make babies! And you are probably asking at this point, where was my father in all of this? Dad was there, but he never gave me the talk either. In our house, if you recall, there was no talk of sex. The word sex and any related words were never to be uttered aloud. And as far as Dad's position on whether I could or couldn't play sports, well, that was one subject Dad simply wouldn't go against Mom. In today's world, that's called picking your battles.

During my first six grades in elementary school, I did pretty well in all subjects but especially so in arithmetic (mathematics). Private kindergartens cost money back then, so no kindergarten for Barb or me. If I had one downfall, it was that I had a tendency to talk too much. I was usually downgraded in conduct or deportment, as it was labeled, on our report cards. Because the subjects were so easy for me, I was always the first one done with class work. I often became the class clown—turns out I found that I enjoyed being the center of attention. I also learned later on that while wanting to be the class clown, it forced me to pay attention in order to make comments or wisecracks; hence, the consistent less-than-stellar grades in deportment. Sadly, because the subjects were so easy, I never had to study in those first six grades; therefore, I never learned good study habits. That was something that would haunt me in later years, and obviously, seventh grade was the start of those later years.

The seventh grade was a terrible year for me! That was the start of junior high as it was called in the 1960s. Over the summer before seventh grade, Mom and Dad received a letter from the school district declaring it wanted to place me in the advanced math class. The school district's letter claimed it had a responsibility to place ‘uniquely gifted students' who tested ‘well above average.' I remember being sent to take a special test during the last month of sixth grade. I was the only kid from my elementary school to take it; I felt very unsettled sitting there with a bunch of kids I didn't know. Apparently, I scored well above average, but truth be told, I know I had to guess at many of the answers. Anyway, when that letter arrived, both Mom and Dad were surprised and excited, Dad especially! They agreed to allow me to go into the class. Honestly, I don't think any of us knew exactly what this advanced class idea would mean, but I do remember Mom giving me a stern lecture about not talking or acting up in school.

When the first day of junior high came, I found I was in a class with about twenty-five of the smartest kids. There was a second slightly less-advanced class, and then all the rest of the seventh-graders were divided according to the alphabet. I felt uncomfortable in the advanced class from day one and struggled the entire year. My problem was twofold. First, being the only kid from a different elementary school (all the others had grown up together in the same southside elementary school, first through sixth grade); and second, there was that lack of good study habits that I mentioned earlier.

I felt intimidated; the