Writing, Reflections, Gifts: An Update

Over the last year, I've received letters, cards, email, and visits that have been a great source of encouragement. Such kind acts humble me and bolster my spirits. The communiqués reiterate the power of encouragement. We can make the world such a better place through encouragement. When we take the time to raise another's spirit, we unleash a perpetual cycle of good in the world, a providential blessing that comes full circle.

Nearly six years of cramped life has not squashed the free spirit in me. I remain keen to revisit the blue waters of the world I love, the green grass and rolling hills, the rich valleys, the shining cities and magnificent beaches. Until I was imprisoned, I never fully appreciated the capacity of memory, the endless string of information the head can carry. Nor did I recognize the value of all those wonderful places on the globe I've encountered. I'm grateful for those memories, for they sustain and fuel inspiration.

Most commonly, I'm asked three questions: "What is it like in there?" "How are your daughters?" "Can you tell us what really happened?" In detail, I want to try to answer these questions in the upcoming months. There's this idea that if you haven't been here, you're incapable of understanding it, which I think is untrue. Life in prison is akin to being a castaway in the land that time forgot, as if you're living on a distant planet that offers brief flashbacks to the planet you once occupied. Those flashbacks come in the form of email, visits, phone calls, magazines, newspapers, chapel services, movies, and television. But at the end of the interaction, you're right back in this odd, surreal world.

I'm fortunate to be in a place that has lush vegetation. The grounds brim with a diverse mix of trees – oaks, crate myrtles, willows, cedars. Beds of flowers and rows of hedges line the sidewalks. Lush plants, some tropical, border the buildings. Cats live on the compound. In many respects, the prison looks like a small idyllic college campus. Within fifty yards of the recreation yard, I see life as it should be – cars passing, people strolling, and rows of houses.

I fill my time with a variety of disciplines. Mostly, I do what I can to make the best of the situation. Though sequestered from the real world, I still carry a colossal zest for life. Life is magical and must be lived. If it's behind a fence, so be it – I'll live it with all my heart. Confinement will not quell my spirit nor crush my dreams.

This experience has become a clarion call, forcing me to think creatively again, to build new ideas from scratch in my head. I remember looking at the grim forecast early on, and saying to myself, "I'll never recover from this nightmare. I've rekindled the ashes in the past, but not this time." And then I thought, I'm not going out like this in scandal and failure. I'm not going to let my daughters down anymore, my family.

How do you give up? You don't. You suck it up. You take responsibility for your actions. You apologize to those you've hurt. You do everything you can to make your wrongs right. You roll up your sleeves and do what it takes to restore order from the chaos your actions caused. You fight to gain some semblance of normalcy, to make a distorted world circular again.

If we all had more courage, more honesty, and determined ourselves to do the right thing, there would be a lot less pain and hurt in this world. It takes courage to look inside and acknowledge failure, to admit acts of injury. Truth is all around us, but our human tendency is to rationalize our shortcomings, leading to difficult, arduous, pure hell for lack of a better term. I went through periods of depression, self-doubt, uncertainty, then ultimately emerged in a state of heightened confidence. Somehow, through it all, with God's help, I determined my spirit to fight; I willed my mind to believe.

What keeps me believing? Something simple but unshakeable: I know God is bigger than what's transpired. None of these physical restraints can take away my gifts or God's plan for my life. I know the talents I have, and I'm using this time to develop them further, to better them, to refine them. I'll use this experience to help others. All who lost financially, who were hurt, will be made whole. I've seen God in the worst situations imaginable. I've seen miracles throughout the world. God didn't allow me to be part of such miraculous acts just to taunt my own faith. He allowed them into my life to fortify and strengthen my faith, to inspire belief for His spoken promises in a time when the elements surrounding my life contradicted those very promises.

I still believe that things are going to give for me, and not just naturally, but supernaturally. So I press forward, believing and trusting and doing my part. When we accept responsibility for our actions, we feel our heart expand and unfold as it releases burdens of fear, failure, and self-doubt. Fresh faith is born and begins to grow. Sometimes those moments that you spend hoping and believing and waiting for something good to happen become the most defining moments of your life.

I spend my days in a routine of discipline, six days a week. I spend each morning reading, starting early with the Bible. Following my spiritual time, I move on to the Wall Street Journal, various periodicals, and books. At 11:30, I hit the weight pile for two hours. Cross-fit training makes up the first, incorporating weights and cardio. I work my core and two different muscle groups during the second hour. When finished, I squeeze in a high-protein meal, shower, and start writing. My writing time occupies five hours, and is my favorite part of the day. In the evenings, I watch movies, sports, and various television series, or go to the gym and play basketball.

Writing has become my way of making sense of the world, especially going through these difficult years. When I'm writing I can feel it; there's a real feeling when I know I'm getting it right. What has helped me through my recovery is being willing to essentially become an open book and share both the good and bad of my life. Most people are sympathetic beings. They understand fear, loss, regret, and failure, so they can understand what I write. Anyone who knows me, who has read or heard some of what's out there in the media, in the public eye, has said to himself, "There has to be another side to the story." There is. When the legal process is final, I'll tell all and hold nothing back, sparing no details.

I've always possessed a great interest in the human story, in the intricacies of life that shape us as individuals. This fuels my love of history, of story. I think the richest and most significant stories defy easy answers. That's what draws me to writing. The best movies, the best novels, the best works of nonfiction are, I think, complicated. They rouse raw emotions, stirring the seed of life within us, waking us from slumber, inspiring something beyond ourselves.

Most of us love a story. Rarely do we remember easy stories. Characters facing their greatest fears with intrepidity are what make a story good. Cherished movies and books are tales embroiled in conflict. You had this, you had that, you crashed, you burned, you rose from the ashes – these are all typical, mythological things we understand and feel. Be it in our romances, careers, escapades, the polar changes, the happy and sad things in life, are something we've all experienced. The same elements that make a story meaningful are those that make a life meaningful; love, loss, forgiveness, risk, fear, bravery, honor, failure, redemption. We think life is about building a nest egg, finding security, but the truth is, life is about our experiences, what we live, feel, and encounter.

The writing has reunited me with my calling and unearthed a new internal fire – fiction writing. For the past year I've been writing a novel. The five-hundred-page work is near completion. Writing fiction involves placing yourself in imagined circumstances, creating a world, and bringing that world to life. I find in that labor of concentration something wonderful, something that can be, something that is born. Looking candidly, this correlates with the role I played when I stood behind pulpits and spoke to thousands weekly. Back then, I understood my gift to be oratory, and at one point, believed I squandered that gift. But now I see otherwise. My gift never left, and its prime role remains intact. Only the delivery, the format, has changed.

Our gifts can transcend our perception of where those gifts are applicable, where they might work, flourish, and be used to touch the lives of others. Your gifts and talents are transferable. Even if you're in a place right now that's not ideal, not what you expected, your gifts will be utilized. And there are things you will learn in that place to sharpen those gifts that will become transferable. The biblical lives of Joseph and David live out this idea.

Hardship or crisis creates opportunity. When your back's against the wall, you have no choice but to try new things and stop being dependent on the former. The adversity can be an advantage. It can be that one moment that opens something up for you, something you were unable to see in comfort or stability.

As people self-select, choosing what's comfortable, they miss the serendipity of bumping into ideas that may not agree with them, but are life altering. Embrace what you don't know, what you fear. Embrace hardship and difficulty. Though life may not be breaking your way, God has a plan for it all. You might discover and unleash a beautiful gift lying dormant inside your heart. Sometimes the only way to make sense of the adversity is to plunge headfirst into it, to take the swim.

Fiction writing has accomplished things in my life I never imagined. It has a life and significance beyond what I fancied. With my novel, I initially wrote because there was a story inside me burning to get out. I wanted readers to view life through the lens of two characters taking the human journey, to feel the ups, the downs; the laughter, the tears; the joys, the heartbreak. I hoped to move an audience by conjuring emotions that inspire something greater, helping readers comprehend why bad things happen to good people, to feel the nostalgic currents of childhood, of romance, of the journey itself, the good and bad of those affairs. I wrote to take readers outside of themselves, to a place where they could feel these characters and be reminded that no matter what transpires in life, there is a river of destiny flowing in the unseen space surrounding that life. Blended streams of fate do shape our lives even when we doubt ourselves.

The further I delved into the story, the more I fell in love with the characters, and the story took turns and twists I never expected or imagined. Though the story contains all of what I wanted, it holds more than I anticipated. The result is something captivating. I think most readers will fall in love with the book and its characters. The response from a group of twelve reviewers seems to support this premise: "Engrossing." "Fascinating." "Riveting." "A novel I'll read again and again." "Moving and unexpected." "Unforgettable."

Writing should change the way we look at things, inspiring us to look through a different lens. For me, it boils down to this: If there's one person who sees my mistakes, learns from them, and keeps pressing on through their own shortcomings, then writing was the right thing for me to do. We all have life experiences that can bless others. Whoever we are, wherever we find ourselves, no matter our age or station in life, we all have stories to share – stories that can make a positive difference in the world and change another person's life. Don't be afraid to use the good and bad of your life to brighten someone's world.

Love and Its Discontents

Stories are as distinctive as the people who live them, and the best stories transcend time and space.  So it begins, this story, like most great stories, with a woman, a city, and the hand of fate.

Julian sits on a grassy knoll observing two players in the thrall of an outdoor chess match on a life-sized board.  Checkmate is imminent.  There is no escape for the black king.  The contestant controlling the dark pieces should resign, but is unwilling, circling the board in languid steps, searching for an out.  The crowd sighs, tosses hands skyward in disbelief.  One shouts, "You cannot win!" The contestant is unresponsive, oblivious, detached from his audience, unwilling to see what the spectators see, determined to find what's not there.

Julian feels the tension and wonders why black won't fold.  But then he knows.  He recognizes the fierce determination in the contestant, the illusions.  His detachment with the girl is just as vast, feeling infinite, insurmountable, unbeatable.  He thinks his denial is as portentous as that of the circling contestant.  Black cannot win. To think otherwise is a mirage.

Julian rises from the lush, immaculate carpet of green, leaves the knoll.  The contestant continues to circle the board.  People's lives are lost in the trance of delusion, Julian thinks, as he moves through the historic city of Canterbury, passing the cathedral, the oldest in England.  He turns down a winding lane, brushes against the weeping willows as a gust of wind rattles the drooping branches. The lane curves, snakes alongside the riverbank.  Julian hears the chirping of swallows, smells the wildflowers, crosses an ancient footbridge, pauses at the apex.  He leans against the stone, wonders if he's as delusional as the losing chess player: repeatedly circling, refusing to cave, misreading the pulse of his own heart.  He looks down at the river, watching his shadow, the current surging in silence, his mind preoccupied, unable to shake the girl from his thoughts.

It's been this way since he moved from London three weeks back to attend the University of Kent for his final year of law school.  He goes for stretched, aimless walks, hoping to get away from returning to the one place he wants to be. Ever since he spotted her waitressing at the popular pub near his apartment in the walled city, his decision making vacillates, follows an identical pattern.  Just when he decides he's not going back, he feels something inside breaking, some pull, tugging at him like an undercurrent. But today will be different, he tells himself.  The ridiculous denial of the chess player has strengthened his resolve.

Julian observes the swans, ducks, fighting upstream on the clear waters of the Stour River.  His heart is roaring inside, tugging, pulling again.  He glances at his watch, fidgets, wrangles with his doubts, takes in the birds again.  Their fight inspires something within.  He closes his eyes, pinches the lids with his thumb and forefinger, changes his mind once more.  Today will be no different.  He will return.  He will follow the path of the birds - against the flow, upstream, refusing to cave.

The historic streets look old and purposeless basking in the afternoon sunlight.  Turning onto High Street, he glances toward the sky and notices an encroaching army of clouds choking the blue in the distance.  He speeds his steps, the world tilting beneath his feet, rushes past the corn market, the mansion of the White Friars.  Canterbury's shop windows become a blur of colors as he moves down the King's Mile, through the city inhabited since pre-Roman times.  The city feels timeless, motionless, without gravity.  He think's of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, wonders if its subjects felt buoyant like he does, moving through the enchantment of all that's been before.

Julian reaches the front door of the pub as the first drops race from the sky.  He pauses in the anteroom, hears the clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, SKY Sports broadcasting a Premier League match on the mounted monitors beyond the interior door.  The room is typical European fare; a mirror, wooden coat racks bloated with hats, coats, scarves, all things British.  The pub is packed.  He looks in the mirror, adjusts some strands, gulps deeply.  A deafening roar rattles the mirror, vibrates his reflection.  He sees what he feels, his heart lurching inside.  The walk through the interior door seems like the longest of his life.  He enters to shouts and hugs, raised pints sloshing beer, the packed crowd singing furiously.  Chelsea's fight song confirms the goal that has prompted the roar.

Julian takes a seat in an open booth, reverential, feeling as though he's in the presence of royalty.  The rowdiness subsides as the pro-Chelsea crowd pines for another goal.  He glances around the pub.  Though he doesn't see her, he spots her.  Like wind, he spots her by what she moves.  The twisting heads and contorting necks, the stammering lips and wandering eyes.  Only one happening can bend the crowd's eye away from the soccer match.  Her moving through the pub.  She's impossible to miss. Magical skin, long wavy locks framing a pretty oval face, pouty lips, mesmerizing curves, perfect in contour, provoking reveries of eroticism in men's minds.  Her beauty is hypnotic, having captured Julian the first instant he saw her, and every time since, sending his heart galloping wildly to a place it's never been.

And then she comes into full view.

Julian feels a sensation surge through him, a charge that is half thrill, half panic.  His pulse speeds up in that electric, yet terrible way, as she comes near, takes his order, scribbles, looks up, smiles.  Pure intoxication.  He catches his breath, feels the wetness under his arms.  The butterflies are soaring.  She spins, stuffs the white notepad in the back pocket of her jeans, moves away from the table in spectacular fashion, a bewitching gait, and mercifully vanishes into the thick crowd, allowing him to breathe again.

He has been visiting the pub to catch a glimpse, thrilled to be inhaling the same air as she, spending his meager savings on appetizers and drink, viewing her from a safe distance.  He is stalking and doesn't know why, or pretends he doesn't know why.  He is scared stupid by what he's doing but he can't stop himself.  No force on earth can prevent him from entering the pub.  He is not one to fall in love with a girl over appearance, an expression, a gesture, but in those moments she glances his way, passes near, his heart rockets out of his chest.

Everything about her entrances him.  He notices the little things.  The sway of her long tresses, whipping side to side, as she clears a table.  The beautiful arch of her back while carrying foamed pitchers of hops across the wooden floor to the old drunks clamoring for her, and another drink The reading glasses perched on her nose, her face buried in a book, foot bobbing with delight, her thoughts elsewhere, during her break. On every level, there is a draw for him, and each time he pays the bill, there comes a flicker of sadness, a foreclosure of some sort, his heart sinking inside.

Julian notices that Alexa never seems to bask, take pleasure in all the attention she receives from spellbound men. She seems oblivious to it all, as if she believes beauty is trivial, fleeting, inconsequential in life, undeserved.  He is unaware of what thrills her, what she cherishes most.  Upon waking each morning, she rushes to the nearby orphanage, volunteering, spending the early part of each day with young children. Unbeknownst to Julian, she loves children and hopes to relocate from her native England to some third-world nation, to better the lives of the abandoned.  There is a higher pull, an endless spiritual draw tugging at her heartstrings.  This is why she works at the pub, saving every pence; the tips are enormous.

Julian feels bashful, shy, afraid to strike up conversation beyond the routine obligation of placing his order.  It's unlike him and killing him inside.  He tries to walk away numerous times, each attempt taking a sharp right just before the exit, landing him in the men's room with nothing to do.  He talks to himself in the mirror, exhorts his psyche, splashes his face, takes a million deep breaths, mutters the same lines over and over, and when confident, exits the restroom.  The confidence seeps out with each step back to the booth, leaving him deflated again.  He expects the magnetic pull of her to fall away, to lead nowhere, to cease, for the ice to never break, as it hasn't on all previous visits.  But then, today, like a miracle, it does.  She looks his way, smiles, so brightly, it's a wonder she doesn't set something alight.  She approaches to refill his drink.  Something detonates inside Julian, bursting upward, a feeling defying explanation, spine-tingling.  Their eyes meet, freeze, something otherworldly locked in the gaze.

"Why are you always staring at me?" She asks.

Julian's heart kicks, slams into his throat.  He chokes on his water.  Seconds later, barely composed, he stumbles over his words.

"I'm not staring at you."

"Yes, you are. Every time I look your way, I catch you staring at me."

The discomfort that would normally overtake Alexa in a situation like this is allayed by Julian's noticeable unease.  Alexa finds it amusing, and even endearing, the way he keeps blushing and shaking his head in apology.  His embarrassment, the flushed cheeks, the squirming, charms her in some way.  Unlike most men in the pub, he's free of braggadocio, false bravado, speech stooped in flattery and insinuations.  She leaves, returns with an appetizer of fried Mozzarella, his favorite, leaves again, the sheen of her smile keeping him planted.  Between runs to other tables, some sexist comments, one catcall, she steals glances of him.

His face is now submerged in his law books.  He doesn't dare look up, yet amazingly, he has not left.  This impresses her as she studies him.  He's not completely handsome: the nose a bit small, the hair long and unruly, the jaw not so strong, but his eyes are alive, piercing blue.  He has a fabulous grin, beautiful teeth, and a habit of punctuating his orders with a positive, happy cadence.  And though his face does not enthrall Alexa as those of previous boyfriends, it's a kinder face and, as Alexa will learn, a visible emissary for the attentiveness, the compassion, the enduring goodness that resides within Julian.

Still embarrassed, croaking inside, Julian closes his books, vacates the booth.  He places a few pounds on the table, pays the tab, moves to the door, exits without peeking Alexa's way, his heart plummeting again.  He supposes he should be relieved, but he wants something else.  Perhaps if she had erupted, displayed some emotion, told him she feels uncomfortable, to never come back.  Something definable, like checkmate, no possible out.  Instead, he gets an appetizer and that breathtaking smile lighting up the world.

Julian walks a half block down the cobblestoned street in the dreary drizzle of the British Isles, feeling her absence, his senses still smitten by her aroma.  The air is frigid, and the valve in the clouds loosens.  Raindrops pelt the cobbles, blur the shop windows, ripple windshields, drench his hair and clothes.  He doesn't care; he needs the lashing, the cleansing, an atonement of some sort.  His head is hanging low, knowing he can't go back.  Ever.  The embarrassment of it all, caught ogling, lying like a psychopath.  "I'm not staring at you," how stupid of him.  He feels the force of it, like a thousand daggers, puncturing the life within.  Waylaid, he doesn't hear the sound of running feet, the splashy steps approaching from behind.  Her voice startles him, seizes the air from his lungs.

"I think you owe me a coffee for lying to me."

His heart rumbles, races for the moon.  He's tongue-tied.

"Don't pretend you didn't hear what I said," she says smiling

He knows what he needs to say, but he can't utter a single word.  Cotton mouthed.

"So are we going for coffee?" She asks impatiently.

"Yes." His head nods longer than his monosyllabic reply.

"Only one condition," she says.

"That I pay?"

"Well, that's acceptable, but not the condition."

He stares.

"You're staring at me again."

Dying a thousand deaths, he barely gets the words out, "It's hard not to."

Alexa blushes, feels warm inside, quickly adjusts.

"No more lies," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"The condition ... no more lies; it's a bad way to start something."

Rigid with embarrassment, Julian nods in agreement, his eyes looking away, his lips pursed like a child caught disobeying.  They move wordlessly toward the coffee shop, the rain concealing the film of sweat inching across Julian's skin.  A cool wind sheets the mist against his face as the world dizzies into a blur of feelings he can't identify.

A few steps into the walk toward his new life, he breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry for lying to you."

He pauses, turns her way.  All of what he's about to say, she sees in his eyes.  He feels the words surging, words that have been churning in his mind, pounding his heart, building for weeks, hours, minutes, seconds.

"I stare at you because you're the most beautiful girl in the world, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

To be continued ...

Redemption

Tim Montgomery stepped to the line, and called out the exercise to the other runners, all between the ages of seven and sixteen.  At his command, the students were off and running.  Montgomery shouted words of encouragement as they zigzagged through rows of cones on a grass field in Florida.  Back and forth they moved, kicking their knees high with the former 100-meter world record holder.

Most of the youngsters working with Montgomery don't remember when he was the fastest man on the planet.  They've seen his Olympic medals, but most had to Google his name to learn about the sprinter's glory days.  In doing so, they also learned about his troubled past, a dark period of failure covering nearly a decade of his life.

Topping the search results were not the chronicles of his 1996 silver medal in Atlanta or his 2000 gold medal in Sydney.  Nor was it the 2002 tale of him setting the world record of 9.78 seconds in Paris.  Leading the Google headlines were captions that would make most men bury their head in shame, sending them away in humiliation, never to be heard from again.

At the age of 27, Tim Montgomery stood at the summit of human achievement.  He pretty much had it all.  He was dating one of the world's most famous women, was known as the fastest man in the world, and had enough money that if invested properly, could last a lifetime.  The success and status led to choices that would cost him dearly.  Enmeshed in a self-indulgent lifestyle fueled by the high-living wants of materialism, vanity, and pleasure seeking, Montgomery soon discovered that all the decadence could not fulfill his desires.  Within five years of setting the world record, he tumbled from the pinnacle of success, and most of everything he had acquired was gone.

First went his track career.  He was banned for two years from the sport that had brought him wealth and fame, for using performance-enhancing drugs.  After receiving the ban, he vacated results from March 2001 on, including the world record.  When he stopped running, he tried to find other ways to make money.  He involved himself with former friends from the track community, and soon found himself caught up in a $1.7 million dollar check-writing scheme.  In 2007, he pled guilty to conspiracy to commit bank fraud and two counts of bank fraud.  He was sentenced to 46 months in federal prison.

While he fought the fraud case in New York, he was arrested in Virginia for dealing heroin, in another attempt to make money fast.  Again, he pled guilty and was sentenced to another five years in federal prison.  Six years after he set the world record, Montgomery faced spending the next decade in prison, becoming just another tragic story of a gifted man who threw his life away on worldly pursuits that could never satisfy.  Bearing the brunt and suffering the greatest fallout of his reckless and selfish choices, were his two youngest children, ages five and seven at the time.

Montgomery entered federal prison on April 6, 2008.  Two Olympics came and went while he was incarcerated.  During those prime years, that period in one's lifespan that God designed to be productive, a time to grow and strengthen the bonds of family and career, Tim Montgomery languished behind a fence, filled with regret and pain for the choices he had made.  Although he had accepted responsibility for the acts that had removed him from the world and the people he loved, the years away gave him time to scrutinize those poor decisions and resolve himself to change.  And soon, in that harsh environment, a notable story of redemption was born.

Seeing the disappointment and pain he had caused his family, Tim sought to make the years of incarceration a turning point.  In prison, for the first time in his life, he read voraciously.  He went through the Bible multiple times, enabling the work of transformation to take place.  And the resulting change was astonishing, working its way inside out, reaching distant wastelands of Tim's life.

The Word of God is not mere print gracing thousands of pages.  It's something living and alive, a sword of alteration.  Like a surgeon's scalpel slicing through tissue to remove cancerous tumors, God's Word does the same to a person's life.  Language fails to explain exactly how this miraculous process works.  Similar to the way God spoke the world into existence, creating something spectacular from a void of nothingness, the Word of God does the same to an individual's spirit.  When one engages its pages, something divine is unleashed in the invisible world, undetectable to the naked eye.

More emotionally than intellectually, we sometimes feel as though God has no interest in our lives, that He's unconcerned about our travails and plight.  When we stumble down paths of sorrow, failure, or disappointment, our spirits are wounded, which can easily lead to an avoidance of the Word.  Such negligence births disconnection, a hollow void.  Our spirit is vulnerable, left wanting, yearning for purpose, and meaning.  The emptiness coerces our hearts to consider behavior and actions that once seemed inconceivable.

The path of success can do the same.  Success is a lousy teacher.  It can cause God-fearing individuals to think they're invincible, that they don't need the Word, seducing smart people into believing they will never fail.  This is what happened to Tim Montgomery, and in many ways, to me as well.

Before my personal failure, I walked in close relationship with God.  My heart burned with passion for the things of God.  But slowly, over time, I started to neglect the Word, reaching a point where I did not read it for years.  Aberrant behavior soon followed, costing me everything I held dear.

Perhaps you're reading these words and can relate.  You once experienced the presence of God.  You walked in close communion with God.  You can remember when your heart exploded with a measure of life that was otherworldly.  Everything was fresh, alive, and promising.  You held high hopes for your life; your future appeared bright.  Now your spirit languishes in a wilderness of dissatisfaction.  You feel lost, alone, hollow, empty.  Internally, you long for the promises you believe God once spoke to your heart.  You just know they're out there somewhere in the void, waiting to reunite with your heart.  But you don't know how to get there, how to find them.  You have no strength to believe, no faith to receive what God has promised you.  You don't want much from God, just a measure of reprieve, some sense that what you once felt and believed is true, that God's promises remain in spite of what you've done or how you've failed, and notwithstanding what someone else has done to you.

At his lowest point, Tim Montgomery began to delve into God's Word.  There, he found words that exposed his hopeless dilemma with brilliant light.  Those words were not dead, nor were they coded.  They were alive, living words that interpreted his life and situation.  When he opened the Word, he encountered more than wise sayings; he encountered a Person - a living God, holding conversation.  And when Tim chose to listen to His words, to follow them, to bury them in his heart, the miraculous unfolded in his life.

During Tim's prison years, the Word began to transform him.  It struck the distant wastelands of his past, digging up promises from that past.  Returning from the land of the dead were lost and buried dreams.  At the most improbable time, the mother of Tim's oldest child reentered his life.  God had burdened Jamalee's heart for the man she once loved, while he was locked up.  "I just knew the heart of this man, who he was inside.  He was not the man who had made the horrible public mistakes.  He was a good man, misguided; a man with so much potential to do good."

Jamalee was determined to help Tim become the man God had designed him to be.  She committed herself to that task.  A year and a half later, Jamalee and Tim were married at the prison, as God's plan of redemption pushed forward.  Ten years after they first met, Tim was finally becoming the family man Jamalee had always known he could be.

Next on God's road of redemption came the reduction of Tim's cumulative prison sentence of 106 months.  Forty-nine months after entering prison, Tim was released.  Again, the Word worked in mysterious ways, causing the unthinkable to unfold, as Tim walked out of prison a free man four years ahead of schedule.

And then came the restoration of his calling.  Ultimately, every person has a call on his or her life.  God births desires in every heart.  He imparts gifts and talents.  The coupling of those talents with our desires formulates into some sense of calling, something we feel inspired to do with our lives.  Often, when we fail to fulfill our calling, we feel disjointed, and experience discontentment.  Life becomes blasé, barren, if you will.  When we engage our calling, pursue that sense of purpose with passion, we are happier and more content.

In prison, Tim ingrained himself in the Word, and the hunger for his calling returned.  His world-class athletic ability was not a gift or talent to be wasted.  It was to be used to help others.  So, he started right there, in the wilderness, training other inmates, working with them on the weight pile, designing custom programs to help better their lives.  He created diet and fitness plans for the guards.  And as he spent the hours in prison pursuing his calling, God birthed a business idea to further that calling upon release - NUMA Speed.

NUMA stands for Never Underestimate My Ability.  The company focuses on coaching athletes across all ages and disciplines.  The confidence Tim lacked in himself to break the world record without performance-enhancing drugs is what he tries to instill in each athlete he coaches.  After less than a year, he has eighty clients.

To those closest to Tim Montgomery, the change in his personhood is obvious.  The rock-star lifestyle is gone.  His disgraceful fall and prison experience have brought him closer to his family.  The Montgomery whom Jamalee knew previously, would have preferred to go out partying.  Now he opts to take his kids to Starbucks or visit the father of a client in the hospital.  "There's nothing else I want," he says.  "I had everything else - fast cars, money, clothes, jewelry, traveled the world.  And I still ended up at the bottom."

At the core of God's heart lies redemption.  Stories similar to Tim Montgomery's tale of redemption fill the Bible's pages.  God's ultimate act, the death and resurrection of His Son, was one of redemption – not only a redemptive act to secure one's eternity, but also an act to redeem one's life from the tentacles of failure, setback, and disappointment.  Never underestimate what God can do.  No failure is too great and no problem too big.  According to God's spoken Word, nothing in your life is irredeemable.  Embrace His promises and watch the powerful work of redemption unfold in your world.

Arab Portraits

Arab Portraits

In 1991, I spent several days in Beirut, Lebanon. It was ill advised for American citizens to set foot in the war-ravished nation at the time, and illegal to do so from the standpoint of the American government. The illegality was partially a result of numerous acts of terror inflicted on American personnel in the mid-eighties, particularly the Embassy bombing that killed 63 and the Marine barracks bombing that killed 241 American soldiers. The latter caused the Reagan administration to withdraw all U.S. forces from Lebanon.

During my days in Beirut, I encountered a city and people that undermined depictions portrayed in the Western media. When I journeyed beyond the bombed out city into greater Lebanon, I experienced the same. But for a few billboards flashing anti-American sentiment, the supposed hatred of Americans was unseen in the areas of the country in which I traveled. No one was burning American flags or chanting "death to America." I never once heard the term "The Great Satan" in reference to me as an American or the United States in general.

On one trek, I crossed the mountains of Lebanon and entered the Bekaa Valley, traveling as far north as the city of Baalbek, a known Hezbollah stronghold. Though I attracted cross looks and drew curious stares, never once was I threatened or made to feel unwelcome by the general populace. Most of what I encountered contradicted the images being transmitted across Western airwaves, depicting an illiterate people blinded by hatred and powered by religious fanaticism. In fact, once I chose to look beneath the muddled exterior and beyond prejudice, I stumbled upon portraits of life that undermined the media's representation of the Arab people as a whole.

With my arrival in Beirut, I was consciously aware that certain hostile viewpoints did exist, and those beliefs could activate at anytime during my stay in Lebanon. Attentively, I took in my surroundings when I'd venture out to experience the Lebanese culture, feeling some urgency to safeguard myself from potential danger that might be lurking in the shadows. In hindsight, I recognize such caution was more a result of flawed preconceptions created by the nonsensical rhetoric of the Western media, forming some images in my mind of the Arab world that were anything but true.

Throughout my time in Lebanon, I met no one who openly spoke hostile words in my presence. Though I found myself in one chilling situation where the stakes were high, it was an isolated incident, materializing as a result of my ignorant curiosity, and not because someone targeted my nationality or ethnicity.

While in Lebanon, militant Islamic groups were still holding U.S. citizens as hostages. This included the journalist Terry Anderson whom I've written about previously. His seven-year ordeal in Lebanon was both a riveting and harrowing tale of survival. And this crisis was always at the forefront of my thoughts, further fostering my early prejudgments.

My first night in Beirut, I was greeted by a power outage, something one might expect in a country emerging from the throes of a seventeen-year civil war.  Minutes later, an explosion rocked the city. My sparse hotel shook violently in the wake of the blast. Once the building stabilized, I darted to the window and peered outside. In the moonlight, an ominous funnel of thick smoke mushroomed skyward. Some radical group had blown up the clock tower of the American University just down the hill from my quarters. The explosion solidified every preconceived notion I held about Beirut and the Arab world, which grew in measure the first half of the following day.

I woke up early the next morning, and soon was moving around the city. Near the university, military personnel had cordoned off the area. Of what military group, I was uncertain. Throughout Beirut, checkpoints were set up and manned by various groups brandishing weapons. Some of these factions were the official Lebanese Army, others a hodgepodge of militant Islamic groups, yet others various factions of the Christian militia.  Neighborhood bands of unaffiliated armed men also manned inspection points, as did foreign troops such as the Syrian army.  All of this was a result of wobbly peace accords set into motion and the ever-present sectarian tensions between rival Sunni and Shiite factions, along with the encroaching presence of Hezbollah (Party of God), the Shiite political movement and terrorist group backed by Iran.

By noon, I had crossed more than a half-dozen checkpoints. Initially, this was intimidating, reinforcing my preconceptions of the Arab world. But by midday, I had grown accustomed to the blockades and was able to occupy myself with the task of uncovering Beirut. And what I discovered was enlightening.

On the surface, I found chaos and destruction, and a physically obliterated Beirut. Hamra Street, often labeled the Champs-Elysees of the Arab world, was anything but a romantic boulevard lined with blossom trees, outdoor cafes, and trendy shops. Every building had suffered damage. Embankments of rubble replaced the dreamy ambience of decor, eradicating most signs of life. Yet, amidst such desolation, I witnessed a stunning gesture of kindness from a woman who went out of her way to approach me, directing me away from impending trouble looming nearby. Such acts of kindness became the norm, leading me to discover a resilient and beautiful people.

At dusk, I stood on the Corniche, the famed roadway running alongside the sapphire waters of the Mediterranean. The panoramic view was spectacular, the great sea stretching endlessly west, the mountains of Lebanon jutting skyward to the east, cradling the city in an ostensive nest. As the auburn hues of the setting sun washed over the city and the last hints of pink fell from the sky, I immediately understood why Beirut was called the Paris of the Middle East. Even in war, Beirut was spectacularly stunning.

Aside from Beirut's natural beauty, I found a deeper beauty in the Lebanese people. In the midst of great uncertainty, and in a time of death and loss and suffering, I found a people who defied every impression conveyed about them in the Western media. I did not find hatred or religious fanaticism; I found elevated levels of compassion, love, and kindness.

Often, certain areas of the world look like they're on fire with malevolence and hatred when you watch the news. You see isolated images of people shaking their fists, committing certain acts, and a long-lasting opinion frames itself in your subconscious. Soon your view of others, people you've never met, is skewed by prejudice. Preconceptions develop, causing judgments to be cast without ever knowing a person or a story or a place.

In my travels throughout the Middle East, I've always found the Arab people to be lively, passionate, benevolent, sympathetic, and kindhearted, similar to any other people group on this planet, and not unlike most Americans. Beyond the obvious cultural differences, lay dreams, hopes, and desires congruent with our view of the world. The great majority of Arab men and women work hard to make a better life for themselves and their families. They hope to live in peace and security, to find their lives in the folds of blessing. They love their children and grandchildren as much as you and I. At a heart level, they're no different from any Westerner.

Arab people have extended grace to me in a plethora of circumstances in more than two decades of traipsing the globe. To this day, I carry fond memories of such encounters – a cab driver in Palestine, a hotelier in Cairo, a flight attendant in Amman, a restaurant owner in Beirut.  Concerning the latter, the man’s restaurant was blown up and his livelihood destroyed, yet his disposition on life remained intact as he said, "It's okay, it's just material loss. I still have the most important treasure ... my family. I will not hate those who did this to me because if you love more, you win."

It's unfortunate that images in the media shape and mold our Western viewpoint of other people groups and in no uncertain manner, paint Middle Easterners, specifically those of Arab descent, in the darkest light, colored by extreme prejudice and bigotry. This kind of targeted discrimination has created some of the greatest atrocities and injustices by leaders and governments worldwide, including our own.

One does not need to travel far to revisit the days of Stalin or Hitler or Mao. Following the horrific events of 9/11, our own government embarked on a witch hunt, profiling and targeting Arab citizens, looking to atone for the massive breakdown and failure of our billion dollar intelligence agencies. To this day, Guantanamo houses men who've never been charged with a crime. Over half of the 166 prisoners at the detention center are unindicted. Most have been held captive for more than a decade, unable to have contact with their wives and children. Recently, certain John Grisham books were banned from the prison, rejected because "their legal content is problematic."

A Defense Department spokesman said the following when asked for explanation of the Grisham ban: "We will continue to provide them with appropriate reading materials based on what we believe is consistent with our responsibility to maintain good order and humane treatment. The detainees in our charge are humanely treated with multiple outlets for enrichment." Grisham retorted, "My knee-jerk reaction, in response to their humaneness, is to ask where does waterboarding fit in? Gitmo is a sad perversion of American justice."

I ask two deeper questions: What kind of "humaneness" and "enrichment" is found when you've separated men from their wives and children illegally? If you cannot charge a man with a crime, what's "humane" about holding him captive because of his ethnicity?

In closing, I'd like to address one last portrait of the Arab world, the chemical weapons attacks in Syria.  I can't comprehend how one can view images of innocent women and children gasping for air, dying as their respiratory systems shut down due to sarin gas, and not be resolute to do whatever it takes to prevent such further atrocities.  To dismiss these horrifying acts simply because they involve people of a foreign land is inhumane.  If the nations of the world had taken such a stance during the last century when Hitler was gassing Jews, Poles, Czechs, Slavs, Hungarians, Romanians, along with Christians, people of The Resistance, and other ethnic and religious groups, the world would look much different today. Absent intervention, the death toll of the Holocaust would have far exceeded the eleven million now known.  May we remind ourselves of a chilling truth: Neutrality pledges silent allegiance to the perpetrators of such acts.