It was a hot California morning, the kind where you wake up already sticky with sweat.  Sis and I were alone in the house; she was 6 years old and I was nearly 4.  We entertained ourselves as best we could, our stomachs growling as long hours ticked by.  It was okay though—the hours when Mother and her boyfriend were not there were hours that we did not receive beatings. 

Brilliant sunshine streaming through half veiled windows finally beckoned to us.  We ventured outdoors and explored happily, our bare feet leaving dusty meandering trails among the sparse weeds of the backyard.  Before long a water spigot caught our attention and we became enthralled with the unfamiliar contraption.  Ramona gave the round handle a curious turn, and—oh glee!—water gushed out.  The handle came off in Ramona’s hand, becoming a new toy until it slipped from her hand into the mud.  Handle forgotten, we splashed about in an ever expanding muddy lake until we were soaked from head to toe and decorated with globs of mud as though Picasso himself had been hard at work. 

The pool of muddy water grew until it began to swallow up our knees.  Oh no!  Surely our mother and her boyfriend would return and beat us senseless for this escapade!  We could not get the water turned off no matter how we tried, and as the urgency to escape the water mounted, I caught sight of a rain gutter right under my nose.  I latched onto the long pipe and began desperately climbing.  Perhaps I could reach a place where Mother would never find me.  Half way up, my grip began to slip, triggering such a terror of falling that it obliterated all other terrors.  I screamed for help at the top of my lungs while scrambling to hang on for dear life.  A lot of good my sister was—she walked away just as my grip gave way.  I fell, but not very far because my right knee jammed itself behind the gutter pipe.  I dangled upside down, eyes squeezed shut. 

Miz Amos, the old, plump neighbor next door, heard my screams and came to see what the ruckus was all about.  Between shrieks I heard giggling, which is why I finally opened my eyes.  It looked to me like she was upside down.  “Boy, you surely done it now!” she said, still chuckling.  She made short work of my whole trouble, plucking me off the gutter pipe and wrapping me up inside her warm, cookie-dough smeared apron.  It smelled so good!  And it felt good too, especially the relief of being safe.  The kind woman had thought to bring pliers and soon the water was turned off.  Ramona and I spent the rest of the day at her house eating cookies, while she washed and dried our clothes.  Sis and I never did get in trouble for that scrape.  Perhaps nobody told.

~~~~~~~

Hello, Friend, welcome to my life!  This book is less about me, and more about all that God can do in your life, and mine, to bless and empower.  I hope you will find encouragement here, for you need not perceive a Christian life as being too difficult!  If you have any doubt as to God’s loving interest in your life, or ability to use you for blessing whether in life or ministry, please know this: if God can love and use Jeremy, He can love and use you…. 

~~~~~~~

My alcoholic biological mother began her mothering duties at age 15 when she gave birth to my sister Ramona.  I came along two years later.  Few memories remain of my biological father’s presence during the early years with my mother, however memories of Mother’s boyfriend are painful.  We were just toddlers, yet Mother and he left us alone often, sometimes for full days at a time.  On various occasions they came home after many hours away and accused us of getting into the refrigerator during their absence.  For our imagined crime they stripped us bare and beat us with a leather strap.

God bless Miz Amos, who looked every bit like Aunt Jemima on the syrup bottle, and who was just as sweet.  She rescued Ramona and me from many a predicament, giving us the only love we experienced as toddlers. 

~~~~~~~

One evening when I was four, my sister and I heard muffled adult voices in the living room.  We huddled fearfully in our bedroom, wondering what we had done or what punishment would befall us this time.  We didn’t know it then, but our paternal grandmother had come to rescue us. 

Our bedtime was long past when Sis and I were gathered up and placed in the back seat of Grandmother’s ancient black car.  An adventure seemed to be brewing, but the full extent of it was still unknown.  Mother walked up to the back window of the huge black car.  I could see tears drawing wet trails down her cheeks as she looked into our faces.  Misery was in her eyes.  She mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry,” and turned away, shoulders hunched pathetically.  I felt great sorrow for her and forgave her for everything, right then and there.  I never did struggle with forgiveness after seeing her tears. 

Minutes later, grandmother climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away with us.  I learned years later that she had purchased us for a lot of money. 

We lived with my grandmother for less than a month, but I have never forgotten her gentle love. 

My father soon sent his new wife to bring us to live with them.  It was a long bus ride from California to Edmonds, Washington, where I met my father for the first time.  He treated us kindly.  We lived with my father for another month, and then the State people came and took us away.

So began a trail of foster homes, a new one every few months.  There were good homes, bad homes, and ugly abusive homes.  One lady chased me around the house with a butcher knife threatening to slice me to ribbons.  I hid under the bed for hours that night.

One day the State people informed me that they had found an adoptive home for my sister.  She would be leaving that very day.  “Will we ever see each other again?” we asked.  “Yes, anytime you want,” they promised.  “All you have to do is ask.”  I never did see Ramona again, despite forty years of asking.

~~~~~~~

The State found a family for me one year later.  Paul and Louise Saxton and their adopted son Philip met me at a local park in Everett, Washington.  Our one hour initial visit together is a treasured memory. 

Paul Saxton was tall, lanky and deep-voiced.  He showed me how to fly the balsa wood airplane they brought me, and I felt safe just standing next to him.  Louise Saxton, petite and cheerful, looked at me with approval and acceptance.  “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you,” she says today, a stark contrast to so many of my former parental figures.  Thirteen year old Philip pushed me on the swing and teased me in the way only an older brother could do. 

Within days, the Saxtons took me home with them to Port Angeles, Washington.  According to my new mother, I was emotionless, refusing to cry or to bond to the Saxtons.  Experience had taught me that the State people would soon come and take me away; they always had before. 

Formal adoption into the Saxton family—my very own family!—took place in December of 1963, and I could not have asked for a more loving family.  My first Christmas as a full fledged member of the Saxton family was one I will always cherish, for I awakened Christmas morning to a wisp of snow on the ground and nearly every Tonka truck and tractor Sears offered.  There was more—a bright red radio flyer wagon!  It became my pride and joy.

I spent many hours careening in my wagon down the driveway at warp speeds.  One day I achieved the wild speed of warp three, and then lost control, flipping end over end down the driveway.  When the tumbling stopped, it felt like the gravel of three counties was imbedded in my knees, hands and noggin.  Before long the pain had reached warp three.  I limped to the house clench-jawed and determined not to cry.  I would hide in my room until the pain let up.

Mother had seen the spaceship wipe-out and met me at the door.  I was shaking with physical pain and the agony of holding back tears. She picked up my little body and held me close as she sat down in her old rocking chair.  God’s love pulsed in her heart.  “I love you, Jeremy Saxton,” she whispered into my ear.  “You are mine and nobody will ever come and take you away.  You will always be mine.” 

The dike broke.  I sobbed for a long time as deep, God-sent love finally replaced the fear of loss.

It would be years before I realized that my adoptive mother’s choice to love me, almost before she knew me, was just like God’s willing choice to love us, even in the absence of any merit on our part.  “God demonstrates His own love towards us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). 
~~~~~~~

Dad was my hero.  At six foot four, he towered above me like a mighty cedar, deeply rooted in good morals and solid direction for his family and himself. 

He had founded a wholesale paper company, and worked hard to build the business.  He left for work at seven every morning and reappeared at six o-clock at night, to the delight of a six year old boy waiting eagerly at the kitchen window.  At bedtime every night, I gave my dad a forehead kiss and a hug, followed by, “I love you dad,” and then trundled off to bed.  As the years passed, the hugs and kisses turned into handshakes and the “I love you” was unspoken but nevertheless understood.  

Dad loved the sales aspect of his business.  He drove great distances along the coastline of the Pacific Northwest to meet the needs of his dedicated customers.  On rare occasions he took me with him and boasted proudly of me at each stop.  I stood close by him then, grinning a freckled grin of delight at my Dad’s love.  Each stop was a new adventure.  My father’s deep, booming voice shattered the tranquility of each store, and soon the laughter of a renewed friendship reverberated to the front door.  I was proud of my dad and the sincerity of his presentations.  He truly cared about his customers’ needs. 

After an outing with him I invariably arrived home tinged a slight shade of green from all the candy bars, hamburgers, and Twinkies, but a happy boy who had spent the entire day with his hero.

Dad taught me how to fish, to shoot a gun, and to cook over an open fire, sharing his bits and pieces of wisdom as we went.  All the while, he wore his heart on his shirt sleeve, and I never questioned his love.

Dad always stood alongside me when trouble came.  Not that he always agreed with the choices I made that led to trouble, but he was willing to endure the trouble with me.

Of course, that went both ways.

Once, Dad attempted to hide the purchase of a twenty four foot cruising yacht from my mother.  He had gone behind her back, violating their agreement to postpone the purchase of a boat until the finances had improved.  Dad was not one to wait very well!  He shared his predicament with his friend Cliff, and together they hid the boat in one of Cliff’s storage buildings downtown until Dad could figure up a plan to tell Mom.

Dad was somber when he picked me up at the library shortly after buying the boat.  Observing his unusual gravity, I asked, “What’s up, Dad?”

He gave me a quick glance.  “I have a problem, Son.” 

Wow.  No problem had ever yet existed that my Dad couldn’t solve.  It must have been a stiff one if Dad admitted it to his fourteen year old son.  I studied him for a moment.  Did he buy the boat after all?  Hmm, could be.  The concern etched on his face bordered on alarm.  Maybe he feared that his love for boats was about to sink his marriage.

“You bought the boat, huh.”

“Yup.”

“Tollycraft?”

“Uh huh.”

I felt a surge of excitement, but managed to make a feeble attempt at concern.  “Boy, is Mom gonna be mad at you!”

Dad obviously shared the same concern.  He told Mom that very night, and we all went and looked at the boat together.  Things were quietly tense around the Saxton home for a few days! 

Though very concerned about Mom and Dad’s relationship, I was thrilled about the boat and anticipated many adventures to come.  The bump in the road passed and we all enjoyed cruises to the San Juan Islands during the summer months.  Eventually Dad and Mom purchased a much larger boat.  The timing of that purchase was mutual!

~~~~~~~

Serious trouble began to develop in school between a few bullies and me.  Somehow I became their “choice meat” for pushing around and beating up.  Who knows which of my flaws they disliked.  I was small for my age, and looked somewhat like Beaver from the “Leave It To Beaver” television show. 

I gave it my best effort to fit in throughout my school years.  The harder I tried the worse things seemed to get.  Rejection followed me through school like a pack of rabid dogs.  Each day brought threats, humiliation and beatings.  One young man took it upon himself to thrash me in the gym locker room nearly every day. 

By my sophomore year of high school, I was still small for my age, yet craving my classmates’ approval and desperately determined to somehow fit in.  Before drifting off to sleep I fantasized nearly every night about how I could become a hero at school.  If I could only save someone’s life or beat up the school bully, maybe my enemies might begin to like me and accept me the way I was. 

~~~~~~~

Depression set in.  As an adult I now understand why some young people might take a gun to school and harm their classmates.  The physical and mental abuse I endured became almost more than I could handle.  Many times I sat in my bedroom with my dad’s rifle in my hands, imagining how easy it would be to take it to school and wreak a little of my own havoc.  If I could snuff out the lives of those who were making my school days a thing of terror perhaps my own misery would come to an end.

I became more and more frightened and withdrawn, but said nothing about my days to anyone, not even to my parents whom I knew loved me.  Day after day, I ate dinner in silence, and then retreated into my own privacy. 

The Tree Camp was my favorite retreat.  Beyond the north gate, the chickens and the barn, was a gigantic, triple-trunked maple tree located in the woods at the end of a fern path.  Motley slats of wood unevenly nailed to one of the trunks reached to the opening of the platform that was my tree camp fifteen feet above the ground.

Peace reigned there.  God’s forested world came alive if I sat silently for long enough.  God’s beautiful creatures showed themselves, occasionally wandering close enough to satisfy their own questions about the two-legged interloper.  I hid there for hours with a book or just my thoughts, relishing the brief moments of peace found only in solitude.  My tormenters grasped for me with harassing phone calls to the house several times each week, but they could not reach me in my tree camp.

The need for vigilance extended to excursions in town.  They inevitably cornered me if I failed to stay in populated areas of town.  My parents realized something was very wrong, and wracked their brains to bring their son’s torment to an end.

Toward the end of my sophomore year at Port Angeles High School, Dad sat me down for a talk.  His deep voice conveyed concern. 

“Son, your mother and I know you’re having it rough at school, so I spoke to the high school superintendent in Joyce.  If you’d like, you can finish your last two years there.  What do you think?”  Joyce was a small village fifteen miles west of Port Angeles. 

“Thanks Dad,” I said. “Can I think it over for a few days?” 

A new school and a new start began to sound mighty fine to me.  Two weeks later I agreed to change school districts. 

The next two years were wonderful!  For the first time in my life I became popular.  Life was good. 

My new classmates readily accepted me as an all around good guy, but the old bullies didn’t forget about me.  Many times my former tormenters chased me relentlessly, like hounds after a fox, if they spotted me driving through Port Angeles at night with my girlfriend.  One night they caught up to me.  Several held me down while another, wearing a hefty ring, punched me in the face and gouged me with the ring.  I spent hours that night in the Emergency Room receiving treatment for a broken tooth and a battered face. 

The day finally came when they chased me for the last time.  With the thugs on my tail, I drove straight to the police station and pressed charges of harassment against them.  In court a week later, the judge warned the defendants that any more of this type of behavior would result in severe trouble with the law.

~~~~~~~

My graduation gift from Dad was a two week boating trip for just the two of us to the San Juan Islands.  The Tollycraft had been replaced by a head-turning, thirty six foot, 1947 Elco cruising yacht.  We had the time of our lives and spent hours talking about life and its possibilities. 

Towards the end of our trip, we arrived on Jones Island, an uninhabited, windswept speck a half mile across, with a smattering of fruit trees and a few windblown firs.  After setting up camp, I rested against a nearby fir tree and began to fret.  My future was nearly upon me.  I had already joined the Army, and would be leaving home straightaway after our boating trip.  I gazed blankly over the blue expanse of water, fearfully contemplating the impending Boot Camp.  A familiar arm dropped across my shoulders.  Without a word, Dad’s presence quenched my fears.

Army Boot Camp
On the day I left for Boot Camp, Dad escorted me onto the Greyhound bus.  He stood in the aisle of the bus and asked, “Do you need anything, Son?”  If he asked me once, he asked the same question ten times.  Finally I answered, “No Dad, but unless you plan on going with me, you need to get off the bus.”  He hesitated and then with one last glance over his shoulder, exited the bus.

Dad’s station wagon was still parked in the lot when the bus pulled away.  Dad could be seen hunched over the steering wheel, head buried in his arms, his huge shoulders heaving as he wept for his son.  That was when I realized the depth of my Dad’s love for me, which I never forgot.

Boot camp at Fort Ord, California, was a breeze, because I had been used to hard physical work and running for miles through the woods.  And as for firearms, I had handled and shot rifles since Dad taught me as a young boy.  I felt badly at times that I was having so much fun, while everyone else in boot camp seemed so miserable.

The next ten years as an enlisted soldier sped by.  I married my high school sweetheart.   Our beautiful daughter Sandy arrived two years later.  The traveling and adventure of military experience built my self-confidence and leadership abilities.  By June of 1985, the enlistment was over, but so was the marriage.  I headed back to the northwest and Port Angeles in my 1971 Mustang with one dog and Sandy, who was now six. 

~~~~~~~

Soon after arriving in Port Angeles I secured a minimum wage job as a lube tech at a local Subaru dealership.  The wages didn’t provide nearly as well as the Staff Sergeant wages to which I had been accustomed.  I continued working there, believing that hard, competent work could lead to quick advancement. 

Raising Sandy alone was not easy.  As with most children, she hadn’t come with an instruction manual and I had no formal training to prepare me for single parenthood.  Sandy and I lived alone for the next four years, struggling both financially and emotionally.  We lived a day at a time.  In addition to my fulltime lube tech job, I worked all the extra jobs I could find to earn enough money to survive.

The daily routine seldom varied.  Every morning started at 5:30 a.m. with a two mile run.  After breakfast, I put Sandy on the bus and then went to work.  After work, I picked Sandy up at the sitters, fixed dinner at home, and set Sandy in front of the television.  After dinner, I headed next door to the landlord’s garage and worked on cars with him, sometimes until midnight, with the only break at eight p.m. to make sure Sandy was all tucked into bed. 

As the years passed, Sandy and I became inseparable.  She shadowed me even on weekends while I worked on a farm bucking hay, butchering cows and pigs, and any other farm chore available.  The hard work went on and on, and most of the time I could see no end to it.

A second marriage during this time became a disaster.  It lasted for only three years.  After a second divorce, I began to spiral down an emotional drain.  Sandy moved out of town.  My step-kids went to live with their father.  The house was empty and lonely, leaving me with a parched and barren existence.  All that ever came of my hard work were empty hopes.  The bank account always registered on empty.  There was no way out of the stress and frustrations that I could see.  I felt like I had completely failed at the game of life, and no longer had anything to live for. 

~~~~~~~

The bottom seemed to drop out when I learned that my mother’s sister, Aunt Phyllis, had had a grave stroke.  Mother staggered with the news through the doors of the dealership where I worked, and we rushed straight to the hospital. 

The doctor requested a meeting with the next of kin, so Dad, Philip and his wife Debi joined us at the hospital.  Aunt Phyllis had already undergone batteries of tests.  Pointing to various brain scan pictures, the doctor stated the bad news as gently as he could.  “These areas on the scan indicate a significant amount of damage.  Your loved one has had a major stroke.  I don’t believe she will last many more days in her comatose state.  I’m sorry….” 

It was a miserable, brokenhearted drive home that evening. 

Aunt Phyllis and I had been close.  She was a hero to me, the wildest of three sisters and the most intellectual.  A world traveler, she used to regale me with tales of trips to Europe and South America.  We could visit together comfortably for literally hours on end, and often did. 

During one such visit, I commented, “Gosh, if you were 40 years younger!” 

“That crossed my mind,” she replied with a sparkle, and we enjoyed a hearty laugh. 

I lay on the bed weeping inconsolably at the thought that Aunt Phyllis could be wrenched away from me, on top of all the other disappointments of life.  That night, considering a way out, I began to work out the details of suicide in my mind.  It seemed the only viable way to escape my pain.

~~~~~~~

I was still weeping when sudden, immense peace flowed over me.  It was a God-thing, a bolt from heaven, a divine intervention.  There was no other explanation.  In one moment of gentle realization, all the pain melted away, the frustration, stress and anger draining out of me like the air out of a balloon.  God spoke comforting words into my heart, “Jeremy, I am still here, I have never left you.  I have always been and will always be with you.  I will never leave you.”  Such peace!  Such comfort!  Such overwhelming love!  The relief and gratitude were palpable . . . but how could it be? 

With the peace came instant conviction, but amazingly, the peace remained undisturbed.  I had been guilty of leaving God in my dust for years.  I had made many poor decisions.  I had allowed work, a daughter and a 1971 Ford Mustang to become more important to me than my relationship with God. 

“Lord, I have done so many things wrong!  How can You still love me?  I am such a sinful man and I don’t deserve you.” 

But He did love me, and I knew it without a shadow of a doubt.  I knew He had forgiven me.  It felt to me like God was holding me to His bosom and rocking me, much like my mother did many years earlier.  This time it was God who whispered, “I love you Jeremy Saxton.  You will always be Mine, and nothing can snatch you away.” 

Since that night, I have never been the same.  I knew from the depths of my being that God was much bigger that I, and that His grace, mercy and forgiveness would be good enough for even me. 

God’s peace never wavered.  I slept soundly that night in the arms of Christ whose grace is sufficient.  A new hope in Christ carried me through the next day.  Unfamiliar and overwhelming joy filled my heart all day.

After work I went to the hospital and stood by my aunt’s side and held her hand.  Giving it a quick squeeze, I asked her, “Aunt Phyllis, can you hear me?  Squeeze my hand twice if you hear me.”  Her hand tightened on mine twice and my heart leaped.  I addressed her again with the eternal question.  “Aunt Phyllis, is your hope and faith in the grace of God, through His son, Jesus Christ?”  She again quickly squeezed my hand twice.  My fears for her dissolved and my heart was satisfied. 

I left the hospital that day knowing that I won’t always have the answers to life’s curve balls, but rejoicing in the knowledge that God cares, deeply.  No matter what happens in life, good or bad, hope and gratitude need not waver, for God is love (1 John 4:8). 

I also suddenly knew that God had a purpose for my life.  That the same God I had forgotten about had never forgotten me was utterly amazing to me.  Surely it was no coincidence that I had walked a crazy and wild path of sinful life smack into a living God who still loved me.  It became more important than anything else to discover and follow that Purpose. 

In order to fulfill God’s purpose, I had to first do something with the craving to fit in that had previously driven my life.  It took me a while to realize that I had been modeling the behaviors of others, doing what they did, in order to gain their approval.  That had only led to poor choices and emotional struggle.  I had tried everything: sex, drugs, alcohol, bodybuilding, pursuit of money, anything to somehow fit in.  Rather, modeling the actions and love of Jesus to others became my goal.  Transformation, not conformation, was God’s much better plan (Romans 12:2). 

I was finally ready to give up the struggle and focus on building a personal, one-on-one relationship with Jesus Christ, who is always there, fully loving, fully forgiving and fully accepting. 

Today, I choose to not allow the past to be a millstone around the neck.  Rather, I have embraced the past, knowing that our mighty God loves me enough to purposefully allow a measured amount of struggles and pains into life for His specific purposes.

Does that make me special?  No.  At least, no more special than you.  I am just Jeremy, a child of the living God, packing a bag full of willingness to allow God to be all God wants to be in my life.  Is life easy now?  No.  Life is usually filled with an assortment of trials.  And that is okay.  Life can be sweet when I choose to accept and embrace what God allows, even when lived a day at a time.