Pages torn out of old journals rest in my hands. Stapled together. Written by my father at 28 and 29. Newly arrived on the field overseas.
Entries penned in precise style. Possibly with the Parker ink pen I can picture in my mind. Dad’s writing instrument of choice for years.
He turns 90 this month. And this window into his thoughts over 60 years ago reveal the foundation of a life wholeheartedly committed to his Lord.
No ordinary life.
