Epic Novel Published on Amazon

My new novel that was on the Amazon Vella’s favorite list for a number of weeks is now available in print at a discounted price. This is a emotionally powerful and epic fictional novel that may not be appropriate for everyone. Read with caution. It took me 10 years to write this story, and I’m thankful to finally see it in print. Enjoy, and be encouraged.

Six Simple Steps

When you’re young, your body can tolerate a lot of abuse, and there will be little evidence of such neglect at the time. A carefree diet of “I can eat whatever I want and still be thin” might make you feel like a statistical outlier, but in reality you’re just speeding up the ticking clock of your physical existence in this life.

No matter the amount of money, fame, or self-delusion, no one gets a free pass on health. Our bodies are all made up of the same material and therefore have the same requirements.  

So cut down on the excess carbs and refined sugars. Hydrate your body with lots of water. Do cardio for your heart, and build some muscle. And don’t forget to get enough sleep.  

With advanced medical treatments and technology, more people will likely live longer, but by following these six simple steps, you will live not only longer but better.

Overall, your body is a great gift from the Lord. Be a good steward of it.  

A Little Every Day

One of the best kept secrets in life is that you can accomplish anything if you just do a little every day. 

Consistently wins over speed, skill, and even talent.  

But you need time on your side, so plan ahead, and be prepared to practice patience. Most people can’t see past tomorrow, let alone five years from now. Trust that God has good plans for you, and do your best to be ready for the future, but hold onto those plans with loose hands because we are not ultimately in charge; we submit to the will of our heavenly Father.  

It’s always easier to start something new than to continue in being faithful to something your have already started. 

Don’t let the excitement of new ideas override the commitment of old goals. 

The ordinary person starts many things but finishes only a few. 

Don’t be the ordinary person.  

The Cost of Commitment

Commitment to anything requires cost. It requires sacrifice. Some people say yes far too often and over commit themselves and then have a difficult time paying the cost and making the required sacrifices. But some don’t ever want to commit to anything because they don’t know if it’s worth the sacrifice. 

If you are a true follower of Christ, you have the Holy Spirit guiding you.  

Meditate on Scripture, and spend time in prayer. Also, seek wise counsel from your church body. 

Rely on God to show you what is worth the cost of your commitments, and don’t sign up for something unless you are willing to sacrifice for it—your time, focus, and finances. 

Pledging to commitments provides you special opportunities that add significant value to life, and those who always run from commitment will miss out on many of those deeper blessings. 

Scripture Meditation

When people think about meditation, they often think about yoga or some sort of new age spirituality where people meditate to clear their minds of everything. As Christians we don’t meditate to think about nothing but to think about truth—Jesus. We are called to the practice of daily meditation upon the Word of God.  

It may be challenging to have a daily in-depth Bible study where you look up the original Hebrew and Greek with several commentaries laid out all over your desk, so here’s a practical strategy for younger people to get into the habit of opening your Bible everyday.  

Search online for a good source to get a list of the top Bible verses to memorize. Print them out. Every morning start your day with looking up one verse. Mark it up in your Bible—make it messy. Read the verses that come before and after it. Then deeply think about what it means.  

This is meditation.  

Continue to think about it all day. 

Hide it in your heart.  

A lifetime of this practice will grow into a powerful spiritual discipline and branch out into other areas of your life as well.  

Just Dance

Don’t ever be the guy who just sits while others dance. Don’t congregate around the punch bowl attempting to logically weight out the pros and cons. Don’t sit out to make small talk with some neighboring friend. And definitely don’t stare alone into the endless void of your glowing phone screen.

Dance! 

Don’t even think about it. Yes, you probably aren’t good at it, but it doesn’t matter. Be the guy who is secure enough in himself to simply have fun.  

Make life fun. 

Some will see your personality light up the floor and come join you. Others will want to but not have the confidence. They may applaud you afterwards in friendly encouragement or try to tear you down in deep jealousy. 

But no matter how tired, underdressed, or not in the mood, never let your girlfriend or wife dance alone. And especially don’t persuade her to sit it out with you. 

Your body was created to move. Use it. Don’t care what others will think about it. It is one of the greatest gifts you ever been given, and believe me or not, it’s fading quickly.  

So dance.  

Underarm Deodorant

Not everyone is lucky enough to know their great-grandmother, but I was. Grandma Patterson is what we called her. From Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl, she and my great-grandfather brought their many children over to California for a better life. She spent her time working in the laborious fields and raising her 10 children.

When I knew her, she was already old. She wore her hair pulled back tightly into a brown bun that rested on the back of her head. She mostly wore long straight dresses that hung like giant t-shirts. She was overweight some, and she hunched over when she walked.

And her eye vision was failing.

Back then, people didn’t always wear sunglasses when working outside in the fields, and a lifetime of abuse from the unforgiving sun did a number on my Grandma Patterson.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was chubby with an acne covered face and a mouth full of metal. My undiagnosed OCD caused me to slick my hair straight down with a perfect part so not a single hair would ever dare go out of place. I was extremely shy, awkward, and my best friends went by the names of Nintendo and Sega. Needless to say, I didn’t have girls chasing after me, and I didn’t blame them.

For Christmas that year, I remember unwrapping a Christmas present from Grandma Patterson. I think it was the last one I ever remember receiving from her. It was a green bottle of spray deodorant.

Yes, underarm deodorant.

I opened it up not knowing how to react. I was still at the young age when body odor didn’t exist, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I forced out a “Thank you!” with a decent smile.

My great-grandma stood up and walked over to me hunched over. She leaned in close to me and said, “You spray a little of that here and there, and you’ll have to fight those little girlies off of you.” She motioned like she was spraying it on both sides of my neck.

It then made sense to me and my observing parents that my Grandma Patterson thought she bought me spray cologne. Like I said earlier, her eyesight was failing.

Not too long later, I visited her with my family, and she said to me, “Terry, I bet all those little girlies are after you now, aren’t they?”

I answered awkwardly, “I don’t know.”

She continued, “Well, this is what you do. You need to get yourself a baseball bat in one hand and a croquet stick in the other, so when the girlies come after you on the right, you can knock them off with the left, and when they come after you on the left, you can knock them off with the right.”

I thought she really must not be able to see the dorky looking kid standing right in front of her; the girls at my school didn’t want anything to do with me.

On our way home that night, I silently chuckled in the backseat of our family minivan. And after thinking about it some more, it was nice to have someone see something in me I didn’t see in myself, even if that person was going blind. It was encouraging that she saw something in me that she thought others would find attractive.

A few years later, my acne cleared up, my braces were taken off, and my hair hung more loosely and naturally as it grew out in a blond, suffer style. I lost weight and spent time outside swimming in my family’s new pool as my skin darkened into a healthy shade. With my newly gained confidence, I traded in my timid shyness for a gregarious, extroverted personality.

And the girlies started to chase after me.

My Grandma Patterson didn’t get to see me graduate high school or college. She didn’t live that long. But she didn’t need to see those events because even with her blind eyes, she saw me—the real me.

I pray to be a little more like her and see others not with my eyes but with something more. I hope to see their future possibilities. I desire to be a builder of people and error on the side of encouragement.

There’s already enough honest evaluation. There’s enough tough love. Even after the silly self-esteem movement in the 1980s and this crazy post-modern society we live in now, we still need people to see in us what isn’t there yet.

We all need a Grandma Patterson who will give us our own underarm deodorant.

The Librarian

I was around eight years old, and it was about once a month that our teacher took us to the school’s library to check out a book. For me, this was an exciting time. Out of all the books in the entire library, I got to choose one to take home for an entire month.

But I couldn’t really read that well.

With my speech disorder, sounding out words didn’t really work (if it ever works). But I knew there was something valuable about them—stories.

I think Mr. Bo, the librarian, knew that too. He was an elderly man who shared a resemblance with Mr. Rogers, the children’s show host.

I distinctly remember him having our class all sit together on the carpet as he gently brought out a worn book that he treated like an old friend. He carefully held the green book and lightly turned each page as he read to us The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. He ended the story in a dry voice as he read about how all the boy wanted was to be with the tree and how the tree was happy. He slowly closed the book, sat it down on the table next to him, and patted it with his weathered fingers.

“Do you know what that book reminds me of?” he asked the class of children on the floor.

No one answered.

“My parents,” the old man said.

Being only a kid, I somehow knew that was a good book, and I also knew Mr. Bo was a good man.

For a number of months, I would always check out the same book. It was a large illustrated book of fairytales. To me, it was so much better than the other books because it contained multiple stories instead of just one.

While the students were allowed to look through all the books, I looked with them even though I knew I was going to renew the book of fairytales once again. Finally, I stood in line to have the book renewed.

When I placed the old book on the counter, Mr. Bo said, “This book is getting old, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“An old book like this needs to retire to a special home where someone can take care of it? Would you want to take it home and take care of it?”

I smiled and shyly said, “Yes.”

Mr. Bo opened up the front cover and took out the library card covered with dated stamps. He then very carefully pulled out the cardholder that had been glued on the back of the front cover. He handed me the book and smiled.

At the end of the school year, my school held its end of the year awards assembly. My mom was in the back videotaping it with her large, rectangular, over the shoulder camcorder. I was just a regular kid, so I never got the best reader award or the best athlete award. I was always the good, quiet kid in class.

Towards the end of the awards assembly, the principal announced there was one more award that was very special. It was the library award, and only one student in the entire school would receive it.

Mr. Bo steadily made his way up the stairs.

My name was called.

I feel like Mr. Bo believed in me. He didn’t really know me. We never held a real conversation. But he saw something in me. And I saw something in him.

After I moved from that small town, I remember hearing that he passed away, and the school named the library after him.

I still have that old book of fairytales somewhere up in my attic safely stored away in a box. That collection of stories prepared me for the real stories I would encounter in life.

The stories I would experience, create, and tell.

Mr. Bo saw something in me and was a small part of my story although he never knew it. As leaders in this sometimes-confusing world, I hope we can see things in others. I pray that we can believe in people even after years of disappointment.

Let us be stories.

Childhood Home

There’s something special about one’s childhood home. I was born in Bakersfield, California. When I was two, my parents moved out to Derby Acers. Just to give you an idea of this area, some people called it “Dirty Acers.” But to me it was home, and a wonderful home at that.

My parents were in their very early twenties when they bought a brand new, double-wide mobile home and placed it on a quarter acer of land. They put up a nice fence and divided the backyard for a horse corral. I remember having a swing set, a tree to climb in, a little area designated for our doughboy pool, an orchid for my mom, a long, extended drive to skateboard down, and still plenty of room for a young boy’s invisible adventures. It was in that backyard that my best friend Matt and I fought off alien soldiers who hovered over us in a giant flying saucer. Other days we were fighting off medieval warriors who were invading our castle as I w a knight and Matt was a wizard.

A dog named Boy barked in excitement at the imaginary scenes as my mom baked a cake inside waiting for my dad to get home from work.

I lived in that house until my family moved to Bakersfield at age 10, so the majority of my innocent childhood was spent there.

It really was a perfect place to grow up as a kid. I left my bike in the front yard, and there was never a thought about someone stealing it. Doors were often left open for a sweet breeze, and most of the time they were unlocked. We had horses, cats, bunnies, dogs, chickens, a pig, and three-wheelers.

The foothills and mountains that surrounded the valley were close and always clear, and there was something special about the sunset that fell down over them. There was time then too. Time to watch cartoons. Time to play outside. Time to stare at my mother as she made dinner or organized her records and folded laundry. Time to wait on the front porch to see if I could spot my dad’s work truck driving home on the main road a few blocks away. Time to think.

My younger sister, Amber, was about seven years younger than me. Since we moved to Bakersfield when I was nine, and she was around three, she didn’t get to experience the same childhood I did.

A few years ago, when I was in my early thirties, and she in her twenties, we made plans to grab lunch as we tried to do every few weeks. Christmas was approaching, and we were looking for some place special to eat. I thought up the idea of driving out to Taft for lunch and another 15 minutes to Derby Acers to show her where she first lived. I was surprised that she wanted to join me on this adventure. She had recently gotten engaged, and we would get to use the long drive to catch up.

The road went from straight, long lanes to hilly roads and then to a small two-lane road surrounded by oilrigs and foothills. Turning into our, I guess you could call it a neighborhood, the road faded to dirt. My sister jerked around in my truck as we went over the uneven dirt.

We drove past my old best friend’s house, Matt, and then turned left. There in the middle of the dirt road, I stopped in reverence to show my sister her first home.

After a few seconds of silence and an odd look on my sister’s face, she said, “Why did Mom and Dad live here?”

I looked to examine my childhood home. The fence had fallen. The grass has turned to dirt. The orchid was gone to just an empty dry space with scattered weeds. The pool has vanished. No dog barked eagerly to see me. It was a pathetic sight.

I tried to explain to Amber what it was once like—the fine details of every bit of energy that Mom and Dad put into it to make it a fine home for their two children. But then I realized something.

It was more accurate in my memory than it was in real life. What now stood wasn’t my childhood home, for it was gone forever.

Or maybe, it was forever saved in my memories, where it will always be real.

That’s the moment I understood that the past can’t be revisited in real life but only in the heart.

I looked at my sister. Graduated from college. Engaged. Grown. Accomplished. Faithful. Kind. Wise. She is what I still have from that past. Not some house.

We drove to Taft and ate at a Mexican food restaurant. It was mostly empty inside. There was a huge Christmas tree with colorful lights across from our table. My sister and I laughed and smiled as we told stories and revisited jokes while eating our food. And I enjoyed the present before me—my grown little sister who would only hold the same last name as me for a few more months.

Let’s be thankful for the past and hold it dearly in our hearts, but let’s be thankful for all God’s given us in the present and never neglect for a moment what we have now because in time, it too will be gone.

There’s something special about your childhood home. I was born in Bakersfield, California. When I was two, my parents moved out to Derby Acers. Just to give you an idea of this area, some people called it “Dirty Acers.” But to me, it was home, and a wonderful home at that. 

My parents were in their very early twenties when they bought a brand new, double-wide mobile home and placed it on a quarter acer of land. They put up a nice fence around the property and divided part of the backyard to have a horse corral. I remember having a swing set, a tree to climb and sit in, a little area designated for our doughboy pool, an orchid for my mom, an extended drive to push my Big Wheel tricycle down, and still plenty of room for a young boy’s invisible adventures. It was in that backyard that my best friend, Matt, and I fought off invading alien soldiers who hovered over us in giant flying saucers. On other days, we battled against medieval warriors who were invading our castle as I was a knight and Matt was a wizard. 

A dog named Boy barked in excitement at the imaginary scenes as my mom baked a cake inside waiting for my dad to get home from work. 

I lived in that house until my family moved to Bakersfield at age 10, so the majority of my early childhood was spent there. 

It really was a perfect place to grow up as a kid. I left my bike in the front yard, and there was never a thought about someone stealing it. Doors were often left open for a sweet evening breeze, and most of the time, they were unlocked. We had horses, cats, bunnies, dogs, chickens, a pig, and three-wheelers. 

The foothills and mountains that surrounded the valley were close and always clear, and there was something special about the sunset that covered them. There was time then too. Time to watch cartoons. Time to play outside. Time to watch my mother as she made dinner, organized her records, and folded laundry. Time to wait on the front porch to see if I could spot my dad’s work truck driving home on the main road a few blocks away. Time to think. Time to just exist.  

My younger sister, Amber, was about seven years younger than me. Since we moved to Bakersfield when I was nine, and she was around three, she didn’t get to experience the same childhood I did. 

When I was in my early thirties and she in her twenties, we made plans to grab lunch as we tried to do every few weeks. Christmas was approaching, and we were looking for someplace fun to eat. I came up with the idea of driving about a half hour out to Taft for lunch and another 15 minutes to Derby Acers to show her where she first lived. I was excited that she wanted to join me on this adventure. She had recently gotten engaged, and we would get to use the long drive to catch up. 

The road went from straight, long lanes to hilly roads and then to a small two-lane road surrounded by oilrigs and foothills. Turning into our, I guess you could call it a neighborhood, the road faded to dirt. My sister jerked around in my truck as we went over the uneven, dusty ground. 

We drove past Matt’s old house and then turned left down our street. There in the middle of the dirt road, I stopped in reverence to show my sister her first home. 

After a few seconds of silence and an odd look on my sister’s face, she said, “Why did Mom and Dad live here?” 

I looked to examine my childhood home. The fence had fallen. The green grass had turned to dirt. The orchid had gone to an empty dry area of scattered weeds. The pool had vanished. No dog barked eagerly to see me. The mobile home had weathered to a worn structure with a sunken roof as bags and boxes of trash sat at the front door. It was a pathetic sight. 

I tried to explain to Amber what it was once like—the fine details that Mom and Dad put into it to make it a perfect home for their two children. But then I realized something. 

It was more accurate in my memory than it was in real life. What now stood wasn’t my childhood home, for it was gone forever. 

Or maybe, it was forever saved in my memories, where it will always be real. 

That’s the moment I understood that the past can’t be revisited in real life but only in the heart. 

I looked at my little sister. Graduated from college. Engaged. Grown. Accomplished. Faithful. Kind. Wise. She is what I still have from that past. Not some old mobile home. 

We drove to Taft and ate at a Mexican food restaurant. It was mostly empty inside. There was a huge Christmas tree with colorful lights across from our table. My sister and I laughed and smiled as we told stories and revisited our favorite jokes while eating our food. And I enjoyed the present before me—my grown little sister who would only hold the same last name as me for a few more months. 

Let’s be thankful for the past and hold it dearly in our hearts, but let’s be thankful for all God’s given us in the present and never neglect for a moment what we have now because in time, it too will be just a memory.  

Last Dance

In normal high school culture, the only thing that is worse than being dumped by a wonderful person is having to break up with a wonderful person. That was me during my junior year. She was a great girl—pretty, smart, clean, classy, but we just had different callings in life. I felt I had a different mission than she did, so during my junior year, I had to decide to do one of the most difficult things ever in high school. I had to leave someone who loved me dearly. I dropped her off after school one day and told her the hard news. She fell to the ground crying in her front yard, and I drove off alone—very alone. 

Don’t worry. She’s fine now. She has a beautiful family and a good career. 

But back to the past—it was towards the end of my junior year, and the prom was approaching. This would be the first high school dance I would attend without my ex-girlfriend. She had a date. He was a decent guy. He was actually one of our school’s better football players. 

It hurt in a way. I understood everything. It all made sense. But it still hurt. 

I knew what I had to do. It’s what any teenage guy would do in high school. I would ask the hottest girl I knew to be my date. Someone who would be the type of girl to wear a blazing red, tight-fitting, short dress. Someone who would latch onto my arm long enough, so I could walk through those huge, double doors of the prom’s entrance to have my ex see me for just a moment and miss me. 

Now I thought, Where would I find such a girl? 

Church youth group, of course. 

I asked her with a folded, hand-written note during a Wednesday night service, back before text messaging. She happily accepted. I’m still not sure if it was because of me or because she went to another school and wanted to be allowed to attend my school’s prom. At the time, my high school was one of the more popular schools in town. 

Bringing this girl to prom wasn’t purely selfish. I was hoping I would find something special about her and that she would win me over, like one of those 80’s movies or something like that. I knew she was pretty, and maybe there was something about her personality or character that I was missing and would discover on this magical night. 

Prom night finally came, and with the financial help of my generous grandparents, we arrived in a limo with friends. She wore a short, red dress and had taken on the essence of stereotypical, high school hotness. We walked in through those double doors, and she was latched onto my arm. The music vibrated through the souls of our shoes as our eyes looked up to the flashing strobes. My school’s ASB had once again transformed a regular building hall into a different dimension. 

My date and I quickly found my group of friendly peers as the young men lit up in surprise as they set their eyes upon my mysterious date. Then something happened that I’ll probably always be unsure about. My ex-girlfriend walked up to my date and said something before walking angrily away. My date’s mouth dropped in awe. 

“What?” I asked. 

“She just called me a skank!” my date said in her high voice while her mouth stayed hung open. 

“She did?” 

“Yes, she did!” 

Now that was very out of character for my ex, but honestly, I laughed a little in my mind, and maybe a small smirk broke through onto my face. The night was going just as planned. 

Just then a popular song came on, and over a hundred students rushed closer to the center of the dance floor. 

My date innocently said, “I told one of my friends that I would dance with him for one dance since I’m at his school. Can I go find him to dance with him, so I can get that over with, and then we can be together for the rest of the night?” 

“Of course, that’s fine,” I sent her off into the dark, teenage abyss of moving bodies. 

I wasn’t really bothered by her request because I honestly just wanted to dance with my own friends. Most of them only brought friends as dates, so they could just have fun dancing with everyone. 

Half an hour went by. Then a full hour. Two. Three. Still no sign of my prom date. Someone asked if I knew where she was. I didn’t.  

Maybe she was nearby, camouflaged with the other countless short, red dresses that moved around, near, and on sweaty guys. Someone else asked if she was okay. I answered confused, “I’m sure she’s fine.” 

I continued to dance with my friends and tried to pretend that I was having a good time as I did at every other school dance.  

But I wasn’t. 

I wasn’t second guessing my decision of breaking up with my ex, but I was sad. Maybe mourning in a way. And I was alone. The familiarity of the environment made me remember the first dance with her my freshmen year, and how I felt like the king of the world back then, when everything was still brand new. But I gave her up, and now she was dancing with someone else, looking happy and pretty as ever. Maybe I was second guessing my decision. 

As the DJ played a slow song, all my peers coupled up with each other under the moving white lights of the magical environment. I awkwardly stood there by myself. I watched time fade by like the last two years of my high school life. I felt like a fool. People started noticing that I was alone, and it was awkward, so I had to go. 

But I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t just leave my date, although she left me. I looked for a hideout, some place unnoticed and safe—the restroom. 

Surrounded by the cold, tall, echoing walls of the men’s restroom, I could still hear the song vibrating through the floor in muffled words of bass. The bottoms of my feet were now sore from my dress shoes. I looked into the scratched mirror and examined myself. Sharp dressed in a pressed shirt. A red tie to match a missing date. Hair still perfectly styled. But alone. 

Was this going to be my future now? Were the best days of high school already behind me? 

I second guessed my decision of breaking up with her. I felt wholeheartedly that it was the right thing to do at the time. I had prayed through it. I felt confirmation. 

I looked back into the mirror. 

“What’s up with this, God? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” 

I felt the bass massage the souls of my shoes as a new song began—Lady in Red, the 90’s slow song that became the signature last dance at all my school’s dances. I gave a wry smile and thought about how pathetic I was to be hiding out during my high school prom. I remembered who I was. 

A child of God. 

Someone bought with a great price. 

Someone loved unconditionally. 

A believer. 

I straightened up my posture and walked out of that cold restroom with a confident smile to see my world turning together in slow motion to the magical mood of the music. 

I stood there hoping for a miracle. Waiting. Even enjoying the happiness of others. 

Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

I turned to see Britney, a friend of mine. Not anyone I ever flirted with. Not anyone I ever considered dating but just a friend. She said, “I thought you might be feeling alone there, stranger. Want to dance?” 

“Thanks.” 

We slow-danced together at a friendly distance for the rest of that song, and I wasn’t alone. 

Although we are friends on social media, Britney and I don’t talk much. We don’t comment on each other’s posts really or even “like” each other’s photos, but there will always be an element of gratitude connected to any thought of her. Although there have been many forgotten dances with many different girls, that one dance will never be forgotten. 

After the lights came on and people rushed to find their purses and jackets, I finally found my date. She told me some dramatic story about searching all over for me. I didn’t believe her, but I wasn’t upset. I knew she wasn’t the girl for me. 

I really didn’t give her much thought after that night, but I did think about Britney. I recalled how she was involved at her church. I remember visiting her youth group from time to time, and she was always there and involved helping with something. I can never remember hearing her say anything bad about anyone, not even once. She was never the center of attention. She mostly just blended in. 

I believe the Holy Spirit gave her discernment to see what I was feeling that night. I can imagine her noticing my out of character prom date. I can picture her watching me glance through the crowd at my ex-girlfriend every now and then. I can see her searching for me during the last dance of the night and feeling a bit of relief when she found me. 

The Spirit leads us to notice the lonely and seek after them. To have empathy even when their pain is from their own decisions. To be there so people don’t have to be alone during the last dance.