Whoever does the truth comes to the light so that it can be seen that their actions were done in God.”

John 3:21

Yes, I could have saved the “Easter Egg Hunt” photographs for today. But this is my birthday and for some reason I want to write about it. Maybe – I don’t know – this is an echo of creeping mortality seeping into my consciousness? Not on purpose, I’m sure of that, but there all the same.

It’s actually not a big birthday. Sixty-eight doesn’t have a zero at the end. Not even a five. But for some reason it feels significant.

Maybe – and I am just speculating here – maybe my feeling has something to do with the fact that this is my first birthday without any parents. Last year dad had recently passed. Now it’s the both of them. I did after all spend more than sixty-seven years with parents. Or, to put it another way, “My entire life!”

Regardless, this birthday is very much on my mind. 24,837 sunrises. That’s a little more than 3,538 weeks. And I have, most significantly, been married with Rebekah now more than two thirds of my life. That is so cool!

Writing a Memoir

Why am I thinking about all this? I already mentioned that “68” is not traditionally considered epic. But I think it has something to do with the big writing project I have settled on for this “Tarboro Year.” You see, I am writing a memoir. Of course I’m well aware this manuscript will likely be unpublished, or self-published. In fact, unless some publisher runs across this and expresses interest, I can fairly guarantee it!

But that is okay. Seriously. I already know my work meets the “publishable” threshold. But this book is not being written for the publishers (although they can have it if they want it!), this is happening because I need to tell my story.

The more I advance in age – “sixty-eight, check” – the more convinced I am that we all have a story to tell. Not just a story I have, but a story it is important for me to share.

Here we are!

So here we are in Tarboro, North Carolina, privileged to be immersed in the life and ministry of this beautiful collection of believers known as Howard Memorial Presbyterian Church.

And I sense in this moment that my story is mature enough (not complete, but developed) to share and hopefully to inspire. Because what are stories for, if not to help one another? To help and to inspire as we all live and love our family and our community.

So anyway, back to the scripture. I love the raw and cutting edge focus of the CEB in translating this text. “Whoever DOES the truth comes to the light.“

This is my prayer, my hope as I look at the story that is my life to date. I want it to be evident that I not only value the truth but that I DO the truth.

Not yelling judgement or condemnation, but DOING love and light and grace and mercy and justice and encouragement and hope and promise….

Late Monday evening this old, old hymn jumped into my consciousness from somewhere in my memory. May this be my birthday song. (recording below)

My song is love unknown–
my Savior’s love to me;
love to the loveless shown,
that they might lovely be.
Oh, who am I, that for my sake
my Lord should take frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
salvation to bestow;
but men made strange, and none
the longed for Christ would know.
But oh, my Friend, my Friend indeed,
who at my need His life did spend!

Sometimes they strew His way,
and His sweet praises sing;
resounding all the day
hosannas to their King.
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
and for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run;
He gave the blind their sight.
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
themselves displease,
and ‘gainst Him rise.

They rise, and needs will have
my dear Lord made away.
A murderer they save;
the Prince of Life they slay.
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
that He His foes from thence might free.

In life, no house, no home
my Lord on earth might have;
in death, no friendly tomb
but what a stranger gave.
What may I say? Heav’n was His home;
but mine the tomb wherein He lay.

Samuel Crossman (1623–1684)