The Two People I’m Trying to Impress

December 24th, 2025

There are only two people whose respect I truly need.

They’re not my parents. 

They’re not my coach. 

They’re not my mentor—no matter how impressive their résumé might be.

I need the respect of my eight-year-old self. and my eighty-year-old self.

And both are hard to impress.

When I was eight, my goals were simple. I wanted to belong. I wanted to lead. Leadership had nothing to do with grades back then. It was all athletics. If you could run fast, throw hard, or survive neighborhood football on asphalt without pads, you were in.

Even then, I see now that God was shaping something in me—a desire to step forward, to matter, to be part of something bigger.

By the time I was twelve, everything changed. I heard a motivational speaker for the first time, and I was hooked. People were listening. No one was getting tackled. And something stirred in my heart. I remember thinking, Someday, I want to do that. I didn’t know it then, but a seed was planted—a calling to encourage others through story.

Now, at eighty, I find myself still looking forward. I’m still hoping for stories that encourage others. I’m praying for a story of freedom from cancer—not simply for more lifetime, though I wouldn’t mind a few more good years of golf—but for a bigger story. God’s story is written clearly in my life.

I’m not just praying for longevity. I’m praying for testimony.

Right now, the story includes a difficult chapter. For five weeks, I’ve had intractable hiccups that have left my body worn down and my solar plexus aching. My care team finally found a medication—chlorpromazine—that stopped the hiccups. The cost has been heavy fatigue. I can’t walk to the mailbox. I’m weak. I’m resting. But the hiccups are gone.

And even here, God is present.

The next part of the story will be revealed on January 5, with a CT scan. The images will tell their truth—either no growth or shrinkage. I don’t yet know what the page will say. But I do know who holds the pen.

So I pray. And many of you pray with me.

I pray for a story my eight-year-old self would admire—not for strength alone, but for courage and hope. And I pray that my eighty-year-old self, whenever that chapter closes, will be able to say with peace and gratitude:

That one was worth telling.