Whole Truth Living

My Growing-Up Years

I am 44 years old, and I’ve lived a full and meaningful life—one filled with many blessings and many good people along the way.

I grew up in Washington State, in a mill town called Longview. My family history came from very different directions. My mom grew up traveling all over the world as a military brat. Her father—my grandpa—was a colonel in the Air Force, and that lifestyle shaped much of her childhood. My dad, on the other hand, was several years younger than his four older siblings and spent most of his growing-up years in Southern California.

They met in Washington, got married, and had my brother and me.

My dad grew up attending a Northern Baptist church fairly consistently. My mom’s family would have considered themselves Christian, but church attendance was mostly limited to Christmas, Easter, or special occasions. When my parents were young and newly married, they were like many couples—focused on working, paying the bills, and finding time for fun when they could.

My memories from the first six to eight years of my life are pleasant, but somewhat scattered. I remember riding bikes up the road to a friend’s house and noticing how cluttered and dirty their home was—something that stood out to me even at a young age. I remember having to take naps in kindergarten, and I remember walking home up the big hill to our large blue house on Rocky Point Road.

When I was about eight years old, we moved out to Mill Creek, where my dad’s parents lived on ten acres in the woods. That move marked the beginning of the part of my childhood that I remember much more clearly—the years that left a deeper imprint on who I would become.