He gambled to the end that he was right about there being no God. Now he knows for sure, something he asserted vehemently that was not knowable in this life.

Joel Siegel of ABC News writes of Hitchens:

“Hitchens became the public face of atheism. Critics assumed his cancer diagnosis, in 2010, would lead Hitchens to relent and embrace God. But he remained a proud non-believer to the very end, as he made clear in an early October 2011 speech at the annual Atheist Alliance of America convention in Houston, as he accepted the Freethinker of the Year Award. His body gaunt from the ravages of cancer, Hitchens said, ‘We have the same job we always had: to say that there are no final solutions; there is no absolute truth; there is no supreme leader; there is no totalitarian solution that says if you would just give up your freedom of inquiry, if you would just give up, if you would simply abandon your critical faculties, the world of idiotic bliss can be yours.’”

Lots of humanity in that quote, huh? Lots of misconceptions about what becoming a Believer means. Lots of hostility. Lots of strong words—too strong.

Strong words can belie doubt. Not always, of course. But I’m just saying: the superlatives in Hitchens’ acceptance speech caught my attention.

Lots of Christianity’s brightest minds debated Hitchens, ostensibly believing that by intellectual argument they could convince heartfelt assent. Apologetics are for Believers. Unbelief isn’t about belief at all. Unbelief is a conflict of wills—the divine in tension with the human.

Life and death are a wager. Pascal said in essence, if I believe in God, and govern my life according to that belief, only to die and discover I was mistaken—i.e., there is no God—then what have I lost? On the other hand, if I live a life of unbelief, and die to discover I was wrong, then I have lost all eternity.

I can’t help but wonder this morning: Does Christopher Hitchens live today only in his legacy or somewhere more profound?

In your notes you have also spoken about transformation—transformation of life, marriage, outlook—that has occurred while living alongside the ministry of Dad and Mom. I’m happy for you, thrilled that through knowing Dad and Mom you have more fully grasped the height, and depth, and breadth of Jesus Christ who is your life and love.

It is true that Dad has departed this life and joined those who went before him, including of course, Mom seven months ago. It is also true, as Larry Norman sang, all of us are “only visiting this planet.” Sooner than we might think, we too will depart this temporal to fully apprehend our eternal.

In the meantime, Dad and Mom left a legacy. Now it is your turn—our turn, those of us who remain—to leave a legacy.

One of the things we worked very hard to manage at Lifetime Guarantee, the ministry Dad, and Mom, and I founded many years ago, was the personalization of the ministry. It is very hard to be personal with a large mailing list, but based upon your notes, we were successful. Many of you posted on the Lifetime memorial page about letters you received, dinners enjoyed, and even serendipitous meetings with Mom or Dad. You spoke of notes written on pages of books, cell phone numbers exchanged, hugs in lieu of handshakes, and so forth. You wrote about radio broadcasts heard in the middle of the night that were “just for you.” The archives at Lifetime are filled with hundreds more such notes received over the last thirty-five years.

Mom and Dad and I each had visible presences on the platform of Lifetime Guarantee, but Mom and Dad were the more visible face of Lifetime, I more the one pulling levers behind the curtain of the organization. As we positioned ourselves to launch into ministry via radio, we convened a strategic meeting in which we determined to not use any illustrations, or make any references, to current events while on the air. Our hope was to create a legacy of ministry material that was timeless. Twenty years later I run into folks who ask if Bill and Anabel record each day or each week.

When we assembled ourselves in Houston to partner with Mars Hill Productions to create “The Life” video, each person in the audience, especially the ladies, was coiffed to eliminate “high style” and any other physical feature that would cause the video to age prematurely. We carefully chose Mom and Dad’s attire, worked on Mom’s hair, Dad’s glasses and lapels, and the decoration in the room to create a classic style that would stand the test of time. Many, many of you have written to say that you continue to use “The Life” long after similar products have gone out of style.

As technology changed, so did Lifetime—in order to foster a legacy of ministry. All of the audio materials created through Lifetime were converted to digital formats. Today, the audio ministry of Bill and Anabel and me reaches a potential listening audience many, many times greater than our radio broadcasts did at their zenith. Every product—audio, video, and written—was digitized against decay and for dissemination across multiple platforms.

Another standard at Lifetime, one of our stated core competencies, was simplicity and practicality through personal transparency. Our belief was that we could best encourage you, and guide you on life’s path, through not only teaching but also showing. There are lots of diagrams and illustrations, but there are many life-stories. We all need information, but in the end, we all need an example.

Mom is gone, dead on November 7, 2010. And Dad is gone, dead on June 23, 2011. I transitioned Lifetime, the Board of Directors, and myself on August 31, 2008 to the next generation of leadership. The ministry of Lifetime continues, but more to my point in this note is that there remains a legacy of ministry, a legacy rooted in simplicity, personal transparency, ageless relevance, practicality, and the message of Jesus Christ’s transformational power.

Yes, Mom and Dad are gone, but they left you—all of us—many tools standardized to the key element for successful living: Christ in you and through you the hope of glory.

Yes, there is a mailing list of significant size at Lifetime, but our Heavenly Father doesn’t measure success by the size of a mailing list. You know that. Dad taught you this with his egg illustration. Remember? Size isn’t what’s most important, not even results. What is most important is methodology.

My point? You know the methodology of ministry. Dad taught it to you, we demonstrated it for you, and Lifetime diligently created resources to equip you for ministry. The legacy you celebrate as you recall Bill and Anabel is a legacy that you can—that you must—access and possess and share with others, just as you have been taught, and have seen, and have witnessed in us.

My brothers and I, our families, and the ministry of Lifetime are deeply grateful for your attention to our loss and a grief that will never be assuaged in this life. But life proceeds. We are transients, just visiting this planet. Our highest calling is first to trust in Him who is life, grace, truth, mercy, and wisdom from God. Our greatest privilege is to transfer our calling to others, and in so doing, create a legacy rooted in Life.

There are many hundreds of audio messages at Lifetime.org. You can listen and learn for the rest of your days. There are hundreds of pages of written resources, a daily devotional, and many hundreds of articles on an array of subjects that are all indexed. All of this is part of the legacy created at Lifetime Ministries for you to draw upon as you grow, and live, and transfer yourself to others.

Although I have transitioned myself from Lifetime and into a new phase of professional life, I post thoughts and writings at my website, PrestonGillham.com. I publish books and materials here as well. In fact, my latest book, “No Mercy,” is a work of fiction designed to demonstrate the battle that rages between the flesh and the spirit. But the story of “No Mercy” doesn’t end there. This adventure of a King and his two sons demonstrates the victory that is ours in Christ Jesus. In the main character, Hank, there is an example to follow.

Dad and Mom and I, and the ministry of Lifetime, would be heartbroken if we ever had any inkling that you ran aground, lost your way, or turned away because our lives on Earth have progressed toward change and death. Seize the day! Our remaining time is short. It was only “yesterday” that Dad and I signed the formation papers for Lifetime Guarantee. Immerse yourself in the open legacy available to you and join those whose feet are upon the road to greater revelations of victory.

Thank you again for writing in memory of my Dad. He finished well midst very difficult circumstances. I miss him terribly, but I wouldn’t return him to this place for anything. Instead, I will go to him—we shall go to him, as well as those who come after us.

I remember sitting between Dad and Mr. McCann—Preston McCann, one of Dad’s best friends and the man whose name I carry—on many Friday nights watching a high school football game somewhere in Oklahoma. I was engulfed between two giants in my life and was consumed occasionally with cigar smoke from Dad’s stogie.

Dad was informed later on, by well-meaning folks, shortly after becoming a follower of Jesus Christ, that it wasn’t proper for a Christian to smoke cigars—not even at a ball game. So he quit in honor of his reputation and in response to his desire to do right by his Savior.

As I think about it, it strikes me ironic that one of my most vivid memories—celebrated recollections—of Dad is the smell of his cigar. He and I founded what would become Lifetime Guarantee Ministries in the late 70’s and were partners in ministry and business for thirty years. We marched in many campaigns, fought many battles, influenced hosts, created best sellers, and formed wonderful legacies, but my first memory is a smell that wafts readily across the savannah of my mind in Dad’s absence.

When Mom passed in November she was alone. Alone in the sense that no one was with her, holding her hand. How could we have been unless by happenstance? She was alone for less than ten minutes. I received a call and went to her vacated side. Death had not yet turned cold.

I received a call regarding Dad as well. It was June 22^nd at 1:30 in the afternoon. But let me back up two steps.

I’ve met with a group of men for sixteen years. Every Wednesday morning, 832 times, we have gathered at Scott Walker’s office to drink coffee, read a book together, discuss our concerns and our victories, and then to hold hands around the conference table and pray. On June 22^nd, a few minutes before 6:00 AM, one of my Wednesday buddies, Lamar, rang me on Skype from New York to say that Scott was dead. His heart quit cataclysmically on the precipice between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.

My Wednesday buddies and I—all except for Lamar who was traveling in New York and Scott who was with Jesus—gathered in the corner of a downstairs room at Colonial, drank coffee, and collected our thoughts, such as they were, such as they could be given our grievous loss. We prayed the best we could, staccato thoughts, trusting the Spirit within would fill in the gaps.

I left Colonial shell shocked. In my truck, I put my head on the steering wheel and sobbed convulsively until the reservoir of tears reserved for such a time was empty. I lifted my head, wiped my eyes with my palms, and my nose with the back of my hand. I nodded with little embarrassment to a lady in the car next to me who observed my grief while talking on her phone, backed out of my parking spot, and drove to visit Dad as was my custom.

Dad had a cough and wasn’t doing as well as he had been on Tuesday. Dad had good days and not-so-good days. To me, this was one of the latter, until I visited with Dee, Dad’s hospice nurse. She was concerned Dad had aspirated food into his lungs.

The version of Parkinson’s Dad suffered made his muscles stiff. Early on, Dad began to shuffle when he walked, then began slurring his speech. He lost his ability to write, eventually his eyes quit following words on a page and he could no longer read. Jackie, Dad’s nurse at the care facility—and truth is, my care giver as well—helped me understand: “Preston, at some point Doc will lose his ability to swallow,” she had told me months earlier.

In retrospect, I thought I understood what Jackie told me about death due to Parkinson’s, but I didn’t really—until Wednesday, June 22, 2011. When Dee and Jackie said they suspected Dad had aspirated, I shook my head. “What’s that?”

They were graceful in their explanation. I wish I could recall how they worded it so I could provide the same grace for you, but I can’t.

Their words aligned in my unsophisticated mind into this: They suspected Dad was coughing because he had sucked food into his lungs. His body was creating mucous to isolate the foreign body—just as it would do a bacteria or virus in the lungs. If they were correct, the mucous designed to isolate the foreign body would progressively compromise the efficiency of his lungs to the point of death, death by pneumonia.

Jackie and Dee both hugged me, told me they would let me know the test results, and ensured themselves that I was okay before they let me go. It was 11:30 Wednesday morning.

I ran errands and went to the chiropractor to get my head screwed back on straight. I filled the truck up with gas. At 1:30 I was in the Costco parking lot when Dee called to say Dad was declining rapidly. When I hung up the phone, Dee had defined my next steps: summon my brothers.

Dad stabilized that afternoon, and remained so. The nurse’s report was the same at my bedtime as it had been when I left Dad late in the afternoon.

Jackie called Thursday morning at 6:15. In the night Dad rapidly resumed his exit from this life.

I saw the arrival of the continuous care nurse Thursday morning. I witnessed Dad’s care givers come into his room. A giant of a man, Darshay, Dad’s aide came in to see him on his day off. He bent over Dad, addressed him as “Doc,” patted him, then engulfed me in his black arms for reassurance before turning to the door. The housekeeping lady with orange hair and piercings, Alissa, stopped her cart and came in to  stroke Dad’s hair. Joanne, who gave Dad his baths and trimmed his nails, kissed him on the head, knelt and prayed over him. Samuel, the night nurse from Kenya, whom Dad called Obama, came in early.

Jackie came into Dad’s room in ten-minute intervals. Each time, she hugged me, checked Dad, confirmed his vital signs with the continuous care nurse, and then kissed Dad on the head before leaving to tend to her duties. Ten minutes later she would return. She stayed late.

One by one they all came, called him “Doc” and spoke affection into his “good” ear, the ear with the hearing aide. Word spread. They held my hand, stood next to me. Caring.

Dee was insistent that Dad have his hearing aide in his ear—especially in his turn toward death’s door. Dee’s a tiny lady, at least in stature, but she put her hands on my shoulders, checked to be certain I was okay (she knew about Scott’s passing), and guided me so I wouldn’t suffer regret later over what should have been—could have been—said to Dad. She ordered his hearing aide battery changed and the device checked to be certain Dad had every advantage and provision for his journey.

As he progressed toward death I told Dad everything was under control, cared for, and in order. “It’s okay to make your exit, Dad. We’ll be okay here. I’ll see to it.” I told him he was finishing well, told him to tell our twins in heaven, Alex and Anna, hello and that we would be along soon.

Dad’s chest ceased to rise and fall. The nurse listened for his heart. “Is he gone? Is that it?” I asked, and Susan nodded.

Dad slipped away at 3:18 on Thursday afternoon, June 23, 2011. Dianne held his right hand, I held his left. Another of my Wednesday buddies, John, who had lost his best friend in Scott a day earlier, had his hand on my shoulder when Dad’s earthsuit breathed its last.

The care givers, those divine humans who fence daily with death, referred to Dad’s gaze as “fixed.” That was the term they needed for their charts—to satisfy the suits in the carpeted offices. After she charted Dad’s condition, Jackie turned to me, “Doc is looking at something. Maybe it’s Anabel. Maybe it’s Jesus. He sees something. I can tell you that much.” She edged close and I put my arm around her.

Jackie is an Oklahoma girl, one of two that cared for Dad. Jackie is moving back to Oklahoma, Leflore, Oklahoma, eighty miles from where Mom and Dad, and my brother, Mason, are buried. Jackie’s husband has already moved. She has shortened vacations and delayed moving “until Doc was gone.” She called two days ago to check on me, to cry with me, to share our loss. Where does one gain a heart possessing this capacity, I wonder?

I have gained mercy since September 2010. That’s when the odyssey of Mom and Dad’s passing began. I didn’t know I was gaining mercy. The first inkling I had of this was in the emergency room of Baylor hospital as I sat beside Mom’s fractured body on October 2, 2010. This infusion can only be Father’s provision as is necessary.

I use the word “gained” on purpose. I know I am the recipient of mercy, but now that I’m gaining mercy I am realizing I didn’t know what mercy was inside of me. As you would expect, I received many things from Mom and Dad, but the final gift of their lives was the opportunity to find and exercise mercy.

I can’t explain mercy to you yet—maybe not ever—not that you need me to or expect me to. It is akin to blessing, but seems at this point to be the fuel, the driving force, the passion of blessing. It’s good, no doubt due to divine providence, that I can’t write about or talk about mercy yet. It is better that I live with it for a while before I intellectualize it and reduce it into words.

When Dad died, I put my head on his still chest and cried. I wasn’t sad that he was gone. The last four months were hell for him and everyone around him. I’d asked Father to take him, even gotten a bit irritated that He had not. Dad needed out of the physical mess he was in, at least it seemed so to me.

It is sixteen days since Dad died. I’m still not certain which tears belong to Dad’s passing and which belong to Scott’s. I’ve delayed writing, thinking I could distinguish the drops that have formed a river. To no avail.

I’ve wondered the last sixteen days—wondered about these tears that come over me at the most inopportune times. Why would I cry over my Dad’s completed freedom?

I have taken some time to retreat into the mountains, to walk in the afternoon showers, and to stand in the rush of a snow-melt stream and fly fish. I’ve done this because I’m exhausted, and fragile, and tender, and am a man suffering. I’ve gone away to these environs because they are raw, unadulterated, and straightforward. I know this geography as a place of comfort. The nuance of regular life makes too much noise when I need to sort through my soul.

I’ve concluded that my tears are about finality. There will be no more memories made with Dad. I’ll have to make do with the ones I have until I make my own passage and we pick up over there, beyond this orb debauched by the Fall. But there are enough memories for the remainder of my lifetime.

When he died, the bell tolled for my Dad, my professional partner, my friend, and my colleague. There is a whole lot of loss in that sentence. But, it is okay. It is a rich legacy.

Some years ago I sat in the living room of my friends, Latchezar and Lucy Popov, in Sofia, Bulgaria drinking a glass of wine and talking of our families. Being the same age, we shared the same future: our parents were soon to be gone. Latcho said, “You know, Preston. We are soon to be orphans in this world.”

I’d never thought of myself as an orphan before, until Latcho said that, but he was right. His words returned to me after Dad entered the care facility and Mom was dead. I leaned back in my chair at the recollection and considered that identification: orphan.

Orphan! A phrase from Father’s book came to mind: “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.”

I wrote His pledge on a sticky note. I pasted it next to my computer as a comfort until it peeled away due to wear.

I fished Homestake Creek two days ago. It was poor fishing given the unprecedented volume of snow melt, but I still fished. I edged along in the torrent, flipping my fly where Browns might lie, shielding my glasses from pelting rain with the brim of my cowboy hat, and heard those words rise out of the river: “I will not leave you an orphan.” The rush of the river transferred into me the intensity of Father’s message for me.

Years ago, when the symptoms of Dad’s illness were first manifesting, I talked with Dianne: “I don’t want to come to the end of time and regret not engaging Dad more. We work together every day, but I don’t want to have more memories of working with Dad than I have of being with Dad. I’d like to propose to Dad that we take a trip together, and that we pay Dad’s way.” My wife readily endorsed my request.

Dad and I were in his garage building the furniture that would accommodate the recording equipment for the Lifetime Guarantee broadcast that would eventually reach 55 markets and thousands of listeners. As we cut and glued and clamped, I said, “Dad, I’d like to take you on a trip, all expenses paid. I’ll take you snowmobiling in Wyoming, salmon fishing on a boat in Alaska, or trout fishing in Yellowstone. You choose.”

The best picture of Dad and me, or at least my favorite, and one that hangs in our hallway, is from fishing on the Firehole River in Yellowstone. Dad had gone into the woods “to make water,” as his Pop had termed it, and returned with only one suspender fastened on his waders, an initial clue to his eventual demise to Parkinson’s. That single suspender was crossed across his chest, the other dangled behind. I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t fix his suspender. I was glad we went fishing.

As the affirmation from Father’s book reverberated in my empty mind, “I will not leave you an orphan,” I fished Homestake Creek in a steady rain, and I remembered fishing in Yellowstone with Dad. I also remembered burying Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s and my brother’s twelve days ago in Eastern Oklahoma, a land threaded together by streams my Granddad Hoyle fly fished.

After losing his brother and his father to death, Norman Maclean wrote, “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

Finally, Dad is free. Released from the chains that bound him, the chains he spoke to you about, that he wrote to you about, and that are his legacy of thought, ministry, and desire. These are the substance of his words.

Like Dad was, and like you are, I’m haunted by them. I too have written and spoken and thought about this freedom that is ours, that Dad and I spent hours discussing, forging them into our souls with the furnace who is Grace. Today, there is no longer a mystery for Dad in the haunting words of Scripture.

Dad is free. And one day, we too shall be.

Since my last post, the family has trekked to Poteau, Oklahoma and back to bury Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s. We honored Dad, celebrated him, recognized him, thanked God that he is no longer suffering the humiliation of Parkinson’s and dementia, and comforted each other with our love and the confidence that, while we can’t return Dad to us, we can go to him.

As I promised, I will write more about Dad in the days to come. Right now, I’m afraid my mind is scattered and my emotions flat. Soon though.

A memorial service for Dad will occur on August 20, 2011 at 11:00 AM Central. The service will be held at Southcliff Baptist Church, 4100 SW Loop 820, Fort Worth, TX 76109.

I will meet anyone interested for breakfast at Courtyard by Marriott, 3150 Riverfront Dr, Fort Worth, TX 76107 at 8:00 AM on the morning of the  20th.

Dianne and I will host a reception for family, out-of-town guests, and friends at our home, 2020 Wilshire Blvd, Fort Worth, TX 76110 from 3:00 to 5:00 .

Again, know  of my deep gratefulness for your care, love, and words of comfort. I look forward to honoring Dad with you on August 20th.

I don’t know. Perhaps there are those who get used to death and the dying process. I should have asked Dad’s hospice nurse that question in retrospect, but I didn’t think of it until now.

Dad was in a mess. He wasn’t all broken up like Mom was after the tumble that destroyed her in November, but he was afflicted with the progression of profound Parkinson’s and associated dementia. His brain was sabotaged by the effects of the Fall, rotted throughout with disease, and compromised by the plaque of his sickness.

Parkinson’s is what killed him, the dementia dictated it was an ugly process. What a wicked disease! Please come quickly, Lord Jesus, but until you do, thank you, thank you for the people you gifted to provide care to us all in such times of ungracious need. My soul! I have rubbed shoulders with angels since Dad moved into the care facility.

Dad turned into death’s tunnel Wednesday morning and died Thursday afternoon at 3:18 PM. I was with him. One of my very close friends, Scott Walker, died late Tuesday night of a heart attack. It has proven to be a long week.

I was somewhat prepared for Dad’s exit. I was totally unprepared for Scott’s, as all who knew him were. We buried Scott today and reached for consolation in each other. It is odd how the untimely robbery of an early death draws us together. Scott is a formidable loss, and coupled with Dad, is proving a taxing time.

I will write more later. Right now, my reserves are low. There will be a memorial service in honor of Dad here in Fort Worth, most likely toward the end of August. My brothers and I will get that figured out soon and let you know.

We will again make the trek to Eastern Oklahoma, just as we did eight months ago, and place Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s. It is fitting, and I promise: I will be in touch soon. Thank you again for your outpouring of love and thoughts.

Would you like to expose the enemy of your soul? Like to uncover how he entices you to do his bidding? Then do something about that?!

Good for you! Me too! This is what “No Mercy” is about.

The book is now available electronically—and has a NEW section of questions for reading groups.

In “No Mercy,” Hank Henderson’s life displays how movement through the dips and dark places in life is realized and enjoyed. Moving, changing, overcoming, and succeeding are sometimes best demonstrated rather than talked about.

“No Mercy”—now available for Kindle, iPad, and Nook—shows how to change and be transformed.

Bill wrote recently, “I’m ¾ of the way through ‘No Mercy!’ Wow Wow Wow!!! What a powerful read.”

Why is this an important book for you to read?

Because it helps you move and grow and change and transform in your quest to know your Heavenly Father better. It guides you in the process, offers a mentor to follow, and ushers you into the grand adventure of spiritual formation.

Bruce said on the “No Mercy” Facebook page, “The greatest treasure of all is His grace in real life. ‘No Mercy’ points the way uniquely.”

From here you can access the various online stores.

A few weeks ago I was in Canada and appeared on “100 Huntley Street” to discuss my book, “No Mercy.” As is my custom, after they had applied my makeup and guided me to the Green Room to await the start of the program, I slipped out to find a solitary place to discuss things with Father.

Television is a heady media. Unlike radio, it is visual and about appearance. Walking down the halls of Crossroads Television Network with makeup all over me is a dead giveaway that I’m “a personality.”

I was polite and I smiled and I greeted people, but I needed a quiet place to consult with my Father.

The more I walked, the more my morning coffee guided me. At first I viewed my necessary pit stop as an interruption in my quest, but when I entered the Men’s Room I remembered: Bathrooms in television studios are abnormal. Unlike the airport or a restaurant, the bathrooms in a television studio contain dressing rooms and showers. I had found my quiet place.

I sat down in the chair between the sink and the commode, rested my elbow on the sink to my right and my arm on the grab bar to my left, and as is my custom I asked Father while enveloped in solitude if He had any guidance for me before I “went live.”

I discovered some years ago to seize the isolation of my hotel room, my truck, and my house to my advantage. The cue that reminds me to capture my last moments of quiet is the door knob/handle.

Before I touch the handle to leave, in this case, the Men’s Room, I ask, “Father, do you have any final words for me before I leave this solitary place?” And then, I wait until He has had time to reply or is finished speaking to my heart and mind.

Once our conversation is complete, I check my fly one last time—that is a critically important step if you are on stage or platform—grab the door knob, and step out to face whatever comes my way.

Inside the labyrinthine hallways of Crossroads Television, buried down a half-hall from an unused makeup room, behind the door marked “Men,” and shielded behind a swinging door affording the privacy of a loo, I consulted with Father in my makeshift prayer closet before going on stage. Then I checked my fly—and then, and only then, did I touch the handle to the door.

But whether speaking on camera to what they told me was an audience of a million, or getting out of the truck to visit my Dad in the care facility, a door knob/handle/latch is my reminder to pause in the quiet and follow the lead of my Older Brother who leveraged solitude to His advantage. In fact, He frequently retreated to secluded places to visit with His Father.

As Paul Harvey used to say, “Now, you know, the rest of the story.”

So, as you watch this clip of the interview, and consider the headiness of being “on camera,” consider where my morning started.

The fundamental, life-skill of solitude is essential to our wellbeing. For Hank, the main character in “No Mercy,” it starts with his morning stretches.

For me, it starts with a door knob.