A Well-Seasoned Life: From Global Master Chef to Prophetic Revivalist

By Fred Raynaud

"We don't seek God's power; we seek His presence. His power and

everything else we need is always found in His presence."

Is there freedom for those... wounded by trauma? bound by addiction? trapped in demonic bondage?

Is there healing for a...

grieving heart?

body that is broken? tormented min

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Aug 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887386546

Fred Raynaud

Join Fred Raynaud as he takes you on a life journey of redemption, healings, signs, and wonders. Fred demonstrates how to live a life of revival. Witness how a dishwasher from the beaches of Southern California rose through the ranks of culinary to become a Global Certified Master Chef, then, at the age of sixty-six, founded Kingdom Wind Ministries.Fred Raynaud, WCMC, founder and president of Kingdom Wind Ministries, Inc. (www.kingdomwind.org), is an author, speaker, and minister of Jesus Christ through the Apostolic Network of Global Awakening (ANGA). With forty years in marketplace service, Fred is well-equipped to reach this generation through prophetic evangelism. Author of several books, including The Seer's Gift, The Seer & Healing, Healing Rain, and others, Fred and his wife now enjoy the beach lifestyle of Florida.

Book preview

Preface

The future works out great men’s destinies;

The present is enough for common souls,

Who, never looking forward, are indeed

mere clay wherein the footprints of their age

are petrified forever.

—JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Everyone has a relative—someone in their family they simply adore. You know the kind, the ones you can’t wait to see—and when you hear they’re coming, you impatiently wait in the front yard for their arrival. I know that person usually changes as you age. Mine did several times. When I was a pre-teen, it was my cousin, Jimmy Frans. He was about eight years older than my brother and me, but boy, was he funny. In the early ’70s, he retrofitted an old mail truck into an ice cream truck, serving our Huntington Beach neighborhood. We rode our bikes and followed him through all the various neighborhoods in our community as he played that all-to-familiar ice cream truck jingle. To my friends, we were heroes—we had a connection, a source of free ice cream. Decades later, Jimmy and I became business partners in two crazy ventures.

As a young adult (and even to this day), my brother-in-law, Greg Barrett, my older sister Jean’s husband, was a man I aspired to be—and still is. He’s a fantastic guy, a Cali-born surfer, lifeguard, quarterback of the high school football team, a graduate from UCSB, a naval pilot during the Vietnam War, and a Continental Airlines pilot for the rest of his career. As a kid, he used to dunk me in the trashcans at Redondo Beach when I interrupted their frisbee football game, all to the tunes of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons playing Sherry Baby in the background. Later, he introduced me to the fantastic music of the ’60s. Greg helped me navigate high school relationships and got me my first restaurant job as a dishwasher at Sambo’s in Whidbey Island, Washington. During my summer break from my freshman year of high school, I snatched my girlfriend from her aunt’s house, and we ran away together to Whidbey Island to live with my sister Jean.

However, my all-time favorite relative has to be my Nana, Alice Mary Lowell Raynaud. What an amazing lady she was. As kids, whenever we drove down to my aunt Eva and uncle Bill’s house in Chula Vista, a rock throw from the Mexican border, my first stop was to see Nana. We’d pull up in front of their little Spanish bungalow, built in the early 1920s, make a brief stop by their Ryukin fantail fishpond in the front yard, then run around the side of the house and pass through the arched passageway that led to the courtyard behind the house. Once there, we’d rush into the kitchen to the sound of percolating coffee, sizzling and splattering sounds of sliced slab bacon nested in a large cast-iron skillet, and pass out hugs to my favorite aunt and uncle, Eva and Bill Smith.

My first ceremonial act was to grab Uncle Bill’s fire hat. He was Fire Chief at the naval base in nearby San Diego. If I were feeling brave, I’d put on Bill’s fire boots and wobble around the house for a bit. My second act was to reach for a small wooden tobacco pipe that hung on the kitchen wall, specifically for my brother and me when we came to visit. Now, with his hat on my head and a pipe in my mouth, no tobacco, of course, I was ready to see my Nana. She was in her 80s, so we often found her lying down in her bedroom in the back of the house. I’d run into her room yelling, Nana! Nana!

I was greeted by the most beautiful smile and wide-open arms, Little Lib, come here and give your Nana a hug. She called me little Lib, after my dad Liberty Ernest Raynaud, as did many of my aunts and uncles. Her greeting was warmth to my ears. She’d ask, When did you get here? Is Buddie Paul with you? And Libby and Jean?

Yes, Nana, we’re all here, in the kitchen. I think Dad’s cooking a pot of beans. We’re supposed to go to the tamale factory a little later. I loved going to the tamale factory, with the incredible aromas of freshly steamed masa, hot flour tortillas, and flour or corn dough balls for those that wanted fresh at home.

I proceeded to tell her about my time at school and the adventures we had in the bamboo forest, catching frogs and lizards in the Santa Ana Riverbed, skateboarding down Main Street and by the pier, and riding minibikes along the dirt banks of the river. I didn’t want to talk about myself. I wanted to hear her stories, even though I’ve listened to many of them a hundred times before. I enjoyed talking with her. This time the conversation was different. Her stories had a depth I couldn’t have imagined. She had several old pictures on the dresser, one of which was a young bare-chested boxer. Next was a framed letter with a governmental seal of the great State of California at the top, signed by then-governor Ronald Reagan. Another one was of a thick-black-mustached man who resembled Tom Selleck, the American actor known for playing Thomas Magnum in the television series Magnum P.I. (1980–1988), and Frank Reagan, a New York City Police Commissioner in Blue Bloods.

I remember one day, several years later, when I was about twelve years old—we arrived late, so my brother and I slept on the living room floor in sleeping bags. That was the best part, sleeping on the floor, just outside the kitchen. It allowed you to hear the percolator coffee in the morning, and you knew the action was about to begin. After everyone was up, and I had my coffee with its nice overdose of milk in hand, I headed to Nana’s room. I knew she’d be awake. When I walked in, I was right. She was wide awake. After greetings and hugs, I grabbed all the photos and sat at the edge of her bed, asking questions about each one, one at a time. For me, the first and most obvious one was the boxer. I asked, Nana, who’s this? Tell me about the boxer.

She smiled, then looked up, almost drifting off into another world. She placed her soft-aged hand on mine and said, "Santa Rosa…Petaluma…" pausing between words. She had a glimmer in her eyes—remembering her years in San Francisco Bay and Santa Rosa.

Nana, are you okay? I was worried about her; she was getting up there, and for the first time, I realized that life on earth wasn’t forever.

Yes, dear, I’m sorry, she was coming back to reality. She responded, That’s your grandfather, Ernie Raynaud—my husband. When she said that, she drifted off again but only for a second, then she smiled and sang a little tune, "Dudaly-do te do, te do, dudaly-do te do…" moving her fingers in the air to the melody.

I laughed at her singing, then eagerly asked, Nana, was Grandpa a boxer?

Oh yes, an excellent boxer—in San Francisco and San Diego. He was a baker too. He could make the best bread. Oh, the aroma—I just love freshly baked bread.

"Where’s Grandpa Ernie now? How come I’ve never met him?"

She dazed off again as if lost in distant memories about the early days with Ernie… Then she snapped out of it, Oh, there I go again. It’s been so long—I do miss him. Did I tell you he was a boxer?

Yes, Nana, you did. An excellent boxer. I was wondering if all this talk about the past was too hard for her. I asked, Nana, you said Grandpa died.

Yes, dear, he passed away a long time ago—it was January 11, 1939.

How did he die?

With water-filled eyes, she answered, His heart was too big for this world—it just…ruptured. But he was a strong man! He used to walk around the block on his hands every day—in training. You know, little Lib, he saved my mother and me—I was only fourteen.

I didn’t get it. I was still focused on Grandpa as a boxer. I responded, Walking on his hands—wow, that’s not easy. I’ve tried it before, and I couldn’t get five feet.

Yes, it’s not, but he did it every day, religiously. I guess you’re old enough now for me to tell you about my life, my husband Ernie, the Great Quake, and leaving San Francisco Bay for San Diego.

I paused for a second when I heard my mom laughing. I could smell the bacon, and I was hungry, so I said, Nana, I’ll be right back—then you need to tell me all about it. I looked at her light blue eyes and wrinkled face. For a moment, I thought how time was flying by, and if I didn’t hear her story now, I might never hear it. Nana, do you want me to bring you something to eat?

Yes, honey, thank you—how about a little bacon and some toast.

I walked out of her room and headed for the kitchen. The smell drew me in—the aroma came out like translucent clouds scenting the entire house. A large pot of beans was quietly simmering on the stovetop. Eva placed food on the table—a bowl of creamy scrambled eggs mixed with chorizo. Next to that was a platter of thick-cut smokey bacon. Her bacon was the best. I don’t know if it was the cast iron skillet or just the quality of the bacon, but it sure was yummy. Right by the bacon was a plate of toast with all the standard embellishments. In addition, there sat a bowl of spreadable bacon fat—a favorite of my uncle Bill. He always went for it first. It didn’t matter what it went on—toast or tortillas, the bacon fat was his. At every meal, there was a folded steamy towel filled with hot flour and corn tortillas and a bowl of Escabeche, and of course, there were bottles of various hot sauces. We all went for the jalapeños.

Eva had the best kitchen in the world. It was so warm and inviting. It beckoned you to sit down, relax and share to your heart’s content. Behind the kidney-shaped ’50s diner table with its wrap-around dark-red booth was a large window overlooking the courtyard. Around the window, there was a hand-crafted scalloped wood frame that ran around the entire dining area. It had tiny cubby holes embedded in it for small pictures and figurines. I sat for a second facing the window and made a couple of breakfast tacos when the milkman walked in through the screen door with glass jugs of milk in hand.

Morning, Bob, how’s your day going? asked Aunt Eva.

Bob opened the fridge, Real good, Eva, thanks. I see the family came down to visit. He removed the old milk and replaced them with new jugs, Hey Libby, Jean, how’s Orange County treating you? He went over to the sink and poured a cup of coffee. That was my clue to scoot down next to my uncle Bill and free up a chair.

Dad said, Great, loving Huntington Beach. The lath house is up. His lath house was an open-air garden shop for all his plants, and besides being a bartender, gardening was his passion.

Uncle Bill reached over, grabbed my knee, and squeezed, How are you doing, zeek? Staying out of trouble?

Yes, Uncle Bill, going into junior high next year. I loved my uncle. He was just a simple hard-working man who lived by his hands. He knew everyone in the city by name, and they all knew him. He had a welding shop out back, next to a fenced-in goat and geese yard, where he sold welding jobs around the city. His life radiated with peace, comfort, and contentment. I’ve always yearned to be a man like that—one day.

Moments later, Júralo walked into the kitchen. Júralo was my uncle’s welding business partner. The kindest man I had ever met. He was teaching me Spanish. Júralo had family on both sides of the border, so we all were accustomed to making trips to T.J. and back. When I was eighteen, I landed in the T.J. jail for drunk and disorderly conduct, and it was Júralo, Bill, and my dad who got me out of that place. Júralo knew the Tijuana Chief of Police. What a close call. If it wasn’t for him, I might still be in Mexico.

Anyway, a few minutes later, Mom jumped in, Paul’s out in the treehouse, exploring. What are you doing?

I was just talking to Nana—bringing her a bite to eat.

Well, you best get going—while it’s hot.

I fixed Nana a plate and headed back. Nana, I hope you’re hungry. It’s delicious.

Honey, can you grab my teeth in that glass jar over there?

Something about teeth floating in a jar freaked me out, but I knew she couldn’t chew without them. After she ate, I returned her plate to the kitchen and headed back. Okay, Nana, finish your story.

She did just that! For the next several hours, I listened as she shared with me her journey from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Santa Rosa, California. She talked about her train rides and riding stagecoaches across rugged dirt roads that weaved together all the western towns where the railroads didn’t go. I sat listening as she looked at me. I thought, What an amazing life she must have had. My mind pictured a world so far from the world of today—like the old west. Then she told me about how they survived the Great Quake of 1906 in San Francisco. Our talk must have stirred things up. I grabbed that old photo of that thick mustached man and asked, Nana, who is this?

She fondly held that photo in her hand and said, This is your great grandfather, Adelbert—the captain, or Caps, as we called him. He was a navy man, a landsman in Admiral Dahlgren’s squadron, and fought in the Civil War. After the war, he moved to St. Paul, Minnesota, and became Chief of Police at the Rondo Sub-Station. Then she paused and took another drag from her cigarette. She took a letter from an old box pasted with dried flowers on top and handed it to me, then said, Your great-grandmother, Abby Eva Weatherbee Lowell, gave this to me before she died.

I carefully held that fragile letter in my hand, afraid it was going to crumble, and asked, Nana, when did she die?

She passed away on May 22, 1920, right here in San Diego. She was only sixty-six years old. I sat and listened as she read that letter about my great-grandfather. She went on to tell me about Percival, my ninth great-grandfather, who set sail for Boston, from England, on April 12, 1639, headed for Newbury in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. They crossed the Atlantic on a creaky old ship called The Jonathan. It took them nine weeks to cross. Everyone was going to the New World—the French, the Spanish, and the Dutch, with pilgrims, merchants, and pirates.

I had no idea my dad’s side of the family were pilgrims. I knew about my ninth great-grandfather, John Howland (1592–1672), on my mother’s side, who was a passenger on the Mayflower. Ironically, he was the personal secretary to Governor John Carver and accompanied the Separatists and other passengers when they left England to settle in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Mom said he almost died on the Mayflower when he was thrown overboard during a violent storm. She told me, …as he was falling, he grabbed onto a rope from the ship’s sails. With the storm raging around him, he hung on until crewmembers could pull him to safety. This was so amazing to me; Mom’s side was from our founding fathers, and now Nana’s too. I was blown away by the depth of our family’s roots.

Nana went on to tell me about their journey from Boston to the Newbury Colony on Ipswich Bay. Then she said, Little Lib, originally, our name was spelled Lowle until the early 1720s, when the Reverend John Lowle changed the spelling to Lowell, and it stayed that way ever since. Then she paused and drifted off again.

I took hold of her hand and said softly, Nana, are you okay?

Yes, dear, just thinking. Then she said, Do you see that little sign above the mirror over there? She pointed with her shaky finger.

Yes, Nana, what does it say?

"It’s our family motto, it says, ‘Occasionem Cognosce,’ and it means Consider the Occasion or Seize the Opportunity. Do well and make good. In the mid-eighteenth century, the Reverend John Lowle coined that phrase, pointing to the sign again, …and these twin values of ambition and duty have been the hallmark of the Lowell family ever since Percival landed on the shores of America. It’s a simple phrase that combined ambition and duty."

Nana, it makes me wonder what happened to them—how they all turned out.

"You know your great-grandfather’s family, the Lowells, descended from our founding fathers as well. The Lowells were men and women of conviction. They were not Royalists or Loyalists—but Revolutionists bent on bringing about the birth of America. They fought against the British in 1775 and 1776. John Lowell, the son of Reverend Lowell, was instrumental in the creation of our constitution. John was elected as a selectman to the General Court in 1778, representing Boston, and in 1779 he was asked to join the Boston delegation to the Massachusetts Constitutional Convention. Along with John Adams, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock, Lowell would help write the constitution for Massachusetts. He was one of the first to read those first amazing words: ‘All men are born free and equal and have certain natural, essential, and unalienable rights.’ Sixteen months later, we won the War of Independence."

When was that, Nana?

"It happened on October 19, 1781. That’s when General Cornwallis surrendered to General Washington at Yorktown. Their dream of a new country governed by honest principles had come true. They created a ratified constitution to uphold equality and justice for all citizens. All of that, Little Lib, is traced back to the early Massachusetts colonists and Percival. They had a dream, a vision to build a community that worked for the common good of all. But the Constitution of the United States, which the Massachusetts Constitution primarily influenced, would not be ratified until 1788.

"In Philadelphia, John Lowell served as the Massachusetts representative to the Congress of the Confederation. While in Philadelphia, Lowell shared housing with James Madison, and the two became good friends. Then Lowell was named a judge for the new Commonwealth of Massachusetts, signed by, among others, Walter Spooner, Sam Adams, and Moses Gill. Then in 1789, George Washington appointed John Lowell to the federal bench. He left the admiralty court, as he had left the state court, with gratitude for having served and excitement for the new opportunity. Do you see how Occasionem Cognosce played a role in our ancestors’ lives?"

Yes, Nana, I think I understand. I was overwhelmed by the legacy of the Lowells. Nana, I guess you can say that John Lowell was one of our first judges?

Yes, Judge Lowell would be reappointed to the bench under President John Adams and remain a federal judge until the presidency of Thomas Jefferson. John Lowell became known from that point on and would forever be known as ‘the Old Judge.’

That’s incredible. I had no idea. Now that’s worth sharing in school!

Yes, it is, Lib! The truth is, your family heritage is from among the most distinguished families in America, all descendants from Percival Lowell. From this one line of Lowells came ministers and lawyers. There were manufacturers, poets, activists, many Federal Judges, U.S. Congressmen, and even an astronomer—who was also named Percival. He established the program which made the discovery of Pluto possible. Frances Cabot Lowell was the founder of the Industrial Revolution in the U.S… Abbott Lowell was President of Harvard University in the early 1900s. There were Federalists, Unionists, and Abolitionists that fought against slavery; an anti-suffragist who became the first female delegate to an electoral college; a loyalist turned revolutionary; a former lawyer turned horticulturalist.

Nana, that is something. I hope someday I can do something great.

You will, for that, I’m sure. You know there are some famous poets and writers in the family. James Russel Lowell, or Jamie, as his family and friends called him, was a Harvard scholar and famous American poet during the time of Lincoln, the Civil War, and the Mexican-American war. He wrote using the thunder of his words to fight against the injustice of slavery. He did so throughout his writing and poetic career. Then there’s Amy Lowell. She was a famous American poet who devoted her life to the cause of poetry. She said, ‘God made me a businesswoman…and I made myself a poet.’ During her career, she wrote and published over 650 poems. Oh, and Robert Lowell…he won the National Book Award in 1960 and the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1947. All these Lowell men and women made history. James Russell Lowell summed up the family motto best when he said, in 1865. Then she recited his words from memory:

Faith in God, faith in man, faith in work—this is the short formula in which we may sum up the teachings of the founders of New England, a creed ample enough for this life and the next.

I don’t know what to say, Nana. I wish I could make a difference. I don’t know what all those things mean, but it sounds like they were all great people. I need to write this down.

That memory stuck with me all my life and seems to be a good start to the story set before you, and we will see if this Lowell, indeed, followed in the footsteps of his ancestors and lived out Occasionem Cognosce. Let God be the author of that assessment.

Acknowledgments

How can I write my story without acknowledging the one person who stood by me through thick and thin, through every winding road—my wife of forty-four years and counting, Jan Raynaud? We have lived life together for so long that she truly is wrapped up in that amazing promise—these two shall become one. Jan heeded the call of the King and lifted me up, carrying me through times of despair and times of amazing grace. No one will truly ever know the roads we’ve traveled… Thank you, Jan. May we continue to grow and walk together as we enter this new age of grandparenting. I love you.

The second person I would like to acknowledge is my dear friend, Jonathan Fleece. I met Jon four years ago while coming out of surgical recovery at a local tea bar. I was sitting outside in the patio area, talking to my new friend, Eric, talking about the dynamics of death and the fragility of life, death, the eternal state of the spirit, and grief, when Jon walked up and asked, Hey, what are you guys talking about?

I turned and looked at his face-filled smile and said, Life, death, and grief.

Jon proceeded to tell me about the recent loss of his brother. From that day forward, Jon and I became best of friends. In fact, every page I have written in this book and my two novels, Jon has read. His encouragement over the last four years has been a faith-filled lifesaver. Thank you, Jon. May we slay the dragon as we bring the gospel to the nations.

The third person I would like to acknowledge is Kim Gifford (kimjgifford.com), a powerful Christian sister, writing coach, editor, and preacher—schooled at the Global School of Supernatural Ministry. I first met Kim last year on a trip to Israel that Jon and I attended. During that trip, my heart was drawn to Kim. She has such a passion for this generation and ministry, it’s off the charts. This year I hired her to help me with the first draft of this book. Her prayerful insight and editorial work were instrumental in getting this book read to send to TBN/Trilogy. Thank you, Kim, for all your work and prayerful insights into this crazy life story.

Introduction

The King, full of mercy and goodness, very far from chastising me, embraces me with love, makes me eat at his table, serves me with his own hands, gives me the key of His treasures. He converses and delights Himself with me incessantly, in a thousand and a thousand ways and treats me in all respects as His favorite. It is thus I consider myself from time to time in His Holy presence.

—Nicholas Herman, 1670s

Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection

I want to share with you my story. It’s a story of my encounter with Jesus that transformed my life and desires forever. When God pulled me up by my bootstraps and altered the direction of my life, I wanted to give Him all—everything! Instead of setting me on the path of preacherhood, He asked me to cook and do so for Him. For the next forty-five years, I served Jesus in the marketplace as a Chef. Yes, I said Chef. I’ve had a pretty amazing career over the last forty-five years! I’ve learned that life is defined by so much more than what one does for a living or how one goes about taking care of their family to put bread on the table. The measure of a man or woman is not found in the occupation a person undertakes in life but in a life lived and the impact that life has on the lives of others. Jan, my wife, and I have pretty much seen and lived it all in a lot of different and unusual places. Without a doubt, we’ve had our fair share of ups and downs, victories and defeats—yet, thanks to God, we’ve always seemed to land on our feet and make it to the next milestone in life. This current milestone is the capstone on my life in culinary. The good news is, there’s another milestone around the corner, another chapter yet to be lived.

So, if you want to know how an uneducated dishwasher from the beaches of Southern California rose to the heights of culinary, business, the restaurant industry to become a Global Master Chef and then, at the age of sixty-five, founded Kingdom Wind Ministries and became a fulltime itinerant minister of Jesus Christ, then read on, you just might be surprised along the way.

This story encapsulates my life from my birth to my born-again experience at the end of the Jesus People renewal of the seventies and just before the birth of the Third Wave movement of the eighties, to my service in the marketplace. As you read my story, I pray that a holy fire is birthed within your own heart. I pray that you come to believe that all things are possible through Christ Jesus, who strengthens us. I pray that you, too, will tap into that dream from forgotten years and step into your own destiny. God has a plan for your life. He has created you for amazing things. Your destiny is filled with so much abundant fruit. If you could see it, you’d come back like Caleb, proclaiming, We should by all means go up and take possession of it, for we will certainly prevail over it (Numbers 13:30, NASB).

So, dive into my story, and I pray that it fuels your heart to go in and possess the land God has set before you.

.  .  [ 1 ]  .  .

Shattered Innocence

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born, I consecrated you. I appointed you a prophet to the nations.

Jeremiah 1:5 (ESV)

At the turn of the twentieth century, a baby born prematurely had dismal prospects for survival. Except for a few scattered pockets of medical interest, the knowledge, expertise, and technology necessary to help these infants weren’t available. Preemies who survived more than a day or two were often labeled weaklings or congenitally debilitated, implying inherent frailty with little chance for a normal future. The survival of these tiny infants depended on many factors. At the top of the list was the degree of prematurity and the infant’s birth weight.

By 1950, a disorder called retinal vasculature (RLF) became the leading cause of blindness among children in the U.S. By 1956, RLF became the first acknowledged complication of the treatment of prematurity. Unregulated use of oxygen was identified as the culprit. Oxygen use was immediately curtailed throughout the world, and rates of RLF dropped dramatically. By 1960, unfortunately, without oxygen treatment, deaths due to respiratory failure increased, and RLF began to rise again.

Before the seventies, most babies born more than three months premature died because they could not breathe independently. At that time, reliable infant ventilators didn’t exist. Although ventilators had been around in adult ICUs for several years, the technology necessary for the newborn wasn’t available until the seventies. In 1963, Jacqueline Kennedy, wife of President John F. Kennedy, gave birth to a son born several weeks early. The baby died a few days after birth due to neonatal respiratory distress syndrome. The birth and death of a well-respected president’s baby brought the issue of prematurity to the forefront of the medical community. Between the mid-sixties through the late nineties, continued advancements pushed the limits of viability back so that almost any baby born alive had a chance for survival.

On January 4, 1957, at Torrance Memorial Hospital, Los Angeles, my mother, Myrtle Jean Raynaud, went into premature labor. I was forced to enter the world at 3 lb. 3 oz (1,500 g). I spent the next two months in an incubator. The first thirty days were the most frightening for Mom, not knowing if I’d survive. She had hope—for every 500 grams of weight gained, the prospects of survival increased dramatically.

After months of nail-biting incubation, I left the hospital inside a cushioned shoebox. My grandmother on my mother’s side, Goldie Ann Sprague, used to say, Your legs were the size of my thumbs.

Then she held her thumb in the air, waving it about. It was the most enormous thumb I had ever seen. There are really four things I remember about Goldie in detail: The first was the size of her thumbs. I can’t seem to get that image out of my mind. The second was stewed tomatoes, which she fed us every time Paul, my younger brother, and I went to visit. In protest, we used to shove those wet, warm tomatoes down our pants and loudly proclaim, Grandma, we’re finished with dinner, and waited to be excused. We hated stewed tomatoes.

I loved watching Grandma enjoy old Elvis Presley movies of the late fifties, some black and white, others in color, like Love Me Tender, Loving You, Jailhouse Rock, and G.I. Blues. She would say to me, I just love Elvis Presley. Let’s watch another one, all the while eating a plate of cubed aged cheddar, Ritz crackers, and a cold glass of beer.

My mom said, When you came out, it was like a boxer fighting to survive. I knew you would make it—you always have to keep fighting in life—if you want to get anywhere.

I can still see her warm blue eyes and red hair staring at me. Her words gave me a strange kind of hope—a hope that one day in my life, I would lean on. It’s funny, sometimes, I think, if Mom had gotten pregnant with me during the late 20th century, in this current culture, I may have joined the sixty-two million other pre-born babies whose lives have been taken in America since 1973, even before they could take their first breath.

Surely, Mom had all the suitable excuses. It was an inconvenient pregnancy. She had already escaped one violent alcoholic marriage and was now divorced from my dad. She struggled with alcohol abuse herself—though a highly functional alcoholic. She was an intelligent, independent, hard-working woman. She aspired to survive and ascend, to do something with her life. She was an older woman, and pregnancy at her age in the fifties was considered dangerous. She lived in a home with alcohol abuse. She was fearful of raising children in an atmosphere of violence. Surely, all the excuses were there to terminate the pregnancy. Thank God it was 1957, and Mom had the moral compass to pursue life and nurture me in the womb. If she didn’t, I wouldn’t be here today to share this story with you.

You know, I’ve always had strong women in my life. Along with her mother, Goldie, and her sisters, my mom escaped the Great Depression and Dust Bowl years of the thirties. They were all strong women. Mom hung from the side of ships, welding, to do her part in WWII, and survived the life of a working woman in the fifties and made something of herself all while raising a family. Of course, I would spoil it now if I were to tell you about the strength of my sister Jean, who nurtured so many loved ones during times of terminal illness, and my wife Jan, who held on to the dying breath of our only son, Jamisen. My daughter Nicole, who clung to life after losing her older brother when she was just a teen. Or Aunt Sally, who wrapped her arms around Jamisen’s daughter and raised Kayla as her own. Finally, there was my stagecoach riding Nana, who survived the Great Quake of 1906, the pandemic of 1918, World Wars I and II. She fought for a women’s right to vote and experienced three economic collapses.

The point is that a woman’s strength wasn’t unearthed in some archaeological dig in the sixties—it’s always been there. Strong women in my life have laid an incredible foundation for future generations to live on, not only for me but for my daughter Nicole and granddaughters Kayla and Anise. I pray they carry on that amazing legacy of strength and moral conviction. I pray that my grandson, Elliott, will always hold onto his sweet loving nature and honor women, as Jesus so modeled—in this, I have no doubt he will do with sacrificial love and compassion.

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Mom’s Gentle Touch

There is more power in a mother’s hand

than in a king’s scepter.

—BILLY SUNDAY

I remember my mom’s gentle touch. When I was young, she used to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. I always loved those hair washings. Even as a teen, not always, but sometimes, you know, in those moments when you need a mother’s comfort, I’d ask her if she wouldn’t mind washing my hair. I think it was her fingers against my scalp and that perfectly warm water. Truth is, in a family that didn’t have a lot of affectionate moments, a hair washing was the doorway to parental intimacy.

It’s funny how you remember the simple, little things—the ones that come out of nowhere—catching you off-guard. Those are the ones that usher in the fondest of memories. It could be anything—something you see, hear, smell, or touch—but it’s a moment, a trigger that rubs against your soul, escorting an unforgettable memory into your purview. We need those memories. They keep us grounded. When we’re grounded, we can move on in life and pursue our destiny. I know, some memories may be like knives, wanting to carve up your heart, but those are the ones that need to be dealt with, maybe not at the moment, but at some point in the future. Lean in on the good stuff. Wipe the dust off your pants, pick yourself up, and keep moving forward.

I was third in a family of four, though my younger brother Buddie Paul wasn’t born yet. My parents had a rocky marriage from the