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Excerpt One

My father did not know his father until he was six-years-old because my grandfather left a wife and a one-year-old son to cross the Atlantic and come to America. He came here and worked hard to establish a future for his family. From a very early age my father learned that a man must work in order to give his family a better life. At sixteen he immigrated to this country. He mastered the language and spoke excellent English. He defended this country as a distinguished noncommissioned officer in the U.S. Army. He rose up through the ranks from apprentice to master plumber, supervising large projects for a regional plumbing contractor. His quick mind and confident manner gained him the admiration of family and friends alike. I cannot remember a time when he worked less than two jobs. I cannot remember a time when people would not have used the term "hard-working" when speaking of my father. That never changed. It was a constant, until dad got sick.

When he was diagnosed with cancer he approached it like everything else in his life. He put forth a great effort to fight the disease. When he could no longer work he had to battle the self-doubt and insecurity of redefining himself without work. It was painful to watch. He pushed himself to be useful. I remember when my wife and I had just moved into our first house. He came over to panel our basement. He was so tired from chemotherapy and advancing disease, that he literally had to sit down every ten minutes or so. I remember coming home from work one day and there was Dad sitting on a white bucket turned upside down. He wanted to get up when I came in, but he just didn't have the energy. This was the man who had always represented strength and stability to me. The man who never seemed overwhelmed by anything. He smiled at me with good intentions, but his face betrayed the pain of diminished capacity. It touched me deeply that he would work slowly and with great difficulty to help me. I learned something very important about his heart that day.

When it finally became apparent that he would not win the battle, he put what energy he had left into setting things in order. Ironically that last phase of his life, when he became vulnerable, produced some of the most meaningful memories for me. He had no need to be in charge and no need to pretend to be strong. All that was left was an honest and loving man. In that state he was very special to all of us. I remember all the work he did, but none of it stays in my mind as vividly as the time he gathered us together and made a simple "final" request. He didn't mention anything about work or houses or possessions. He didn't say a single word about wills or money. He simply said, "Please love each other and please always stay together." I love him very much for those words. They are valuable words to live by. The measure of his life is contained more in those nine words than in all the other things he accomplished.

In the last months of my father's life, I had the most wonderful conversations with him. I was able to tell him how much he meant to me and how I appreciated all he had done for my sister, brother, my mom and me. He had lost his sense of indestructibility. He had become vulnerable and open to me in a way that was much deeper than anything we had experienced prior to that. I always knew I needed him, but in those last times he let me know he needed me—and that bound us together in a way I find hard to describe.

In the end what I value most is not that he sent me to college or that we had a nice home and our bills were paid. What I value most is that he allowed me to share the difficult realities of life with him. I am forever indebted to him, not for all the work—although it was helpful to me—but for the lessons I learned as I watched him in the final stages of his life. I'm indebted to him because when he was weak he let me be strong. He validated me as a man when he spoke to me as someone he trusted. Now that I am in a similar position, I carry it in my heart that he walked this road before me. He gave me an example of love, caring, dignity and integrity. That's an incredible gift for a father to give to a son. I pray every day that I will be able to give it to my son and my daughter.

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Excerpt Two

Welcome. If you picked up this book or if someone gave it to you—we probably have something in common. There's a chance that, like me, some big change took place in your life that has you wondering who you really are. Whether it is illness, disability, loss of a relationship, or some other sudden change—you and I have some things in common. Maybe you've been forced to deal with a harsh reality and your understanding of who you are is up for grabs. It's unsettling to find your world redefined by circumstances. But it happens all the time. For me it was debilitating illness that wiped out my idea of who I was and where I was going. For you it may be a different kind of abrupt change. It doesn't matter what caused it—the effect is the same.

For me, the journey began with a phone call from a doctor.

* * *

"Hello," Dawn said. "Yes, hi Doctor Milton. Ahuh. Yes, I understand. Yes, but what does that mean?

I looked up over the newspaper. As the color drained from Dawn's face, I shivered involuntarily. Doctor Milton was not delivering good news; that was apparent. I watched my wife falter under the weight of his words.

Yes," she said. " Of course doctor. We'll be there. Wednesday at 2:30. Yes. Thank you doctor."

I studied my wife's profile as she hung up the phone. She sagged against the clean white trim that framed the opening between our family room and the kitchen. I dropped the newspaper—there was other news that now had my attention.

"Dawn? What did he say?" I asked.

She wiped her eyes and slowly turned to face me.
"The biopsy shows that you have active scarring of your liver. He wants to talk to us about treatment."

"Oh," I said trying to digest her words, but reacting more to her body language.

Dawn walked over and sat next to me. Her hands trembled. She could barely see me through the blur of her tears. Her hands found my shoulders and she pulled me toward her. Then quietly I asked, "Is it that serious?" She choked out the words, "I don't know." I felt cold even though she hugged me. "He thinks you should consider leaving work for awhile."

* * *

At forty-three years of age I was the president of a successful marketing communications company. Finances were stable and my family was doing well. Opportunities surfaced at every turn and the future looked bright. I was very involved in my church. I had been an elder for over fifteen years. I was called upon to preach on a regular basis. And I was actively involved in our counseling ministry. I had even filled in for a year as the Associate Pastor.

At forty-four years of age I ran into a brick wall—serious illness made it impossible for me to work. Without work I was no longer sure of my worth. As my confidence slipped away I began sliding down a very steep hill. That's when four little words-twelve letters—began to haunt me. The four words came in the form of a question—"Who are you, now?"

What you do does not determine who you are. Your essential value is not defined by your activities. It's not found in your successes or failures. Your essential value is not earned; it is given to you by God. Yet so many of us spend our lives trying to prove we are acceptable, valued, worthwhile. I was no different in that regard. I kept asking myself,—"What's left without the things you thought made your life valuable? What good are you now that you've lost your place in this world?"

You may be asking yourself similar questions. Everyone does—sooner or later. It usually happens in times of dramatic change. It usually comes when you realize there is no easy way out. It's the time you crash into unfiltered reality. It's also the time you come face to face with God.

Is something forcing you to start over? You can't do it on your own, but with His help:

"Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly
beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power
that works within us…"

Ephesians 3:20

And so began the end of my life—at least as I knew it.

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