September 8th was my birthday.
Not the birthday recorded on my birth certificate. That one says I am eighty-eight years old.
This is another kind of birthday.
On September 8, 1974, fifty-two years ago today, I began my Christian journey.
Physically, I am eighty-eight.
Spiritually, I am fifty-two.
I was thirty-six when the Lord spoke words that left little room for negotiation:
“Paul, yield now, or I will forever leave you alone.”
It was not an invitation to add a little religion to my life. It was a call to surrender—to place the life I had been directing into the hands of the One who had given it to me.
I yielded.
I did not know where that yes would take me.
I could not have imagined the pulpits, classrooms, broadcasting studios, churches, countries, prisons, books, friendships, mountains, or valleys that would follow. I could not have anticipated the doors that would open—or the ones that would close.
It has not been a straight road.
There have been seasons when I walked confidently and others when I limped. There have been moments of clear direction and long stretches when I could see only enough light for the next step.
I have sometimes wandered.
But I have never wandered alone.
Looking back over fifty-two years, I do not see a record of my faithfulness nearly as much as I see a record of His.
He kept calling.
He kept correcting.
He kept forgiving.
He kept reducing the distance.
He kept giving me another assignment.
An old post appeared before me yesterday about Caleb. At eighty-five, Caleb did not ask for a rocking chair. He asked for a mountain.
“Give me this mountain,” he said.
I am three years older than Caleb was.
I do not claim to possess the physical strength I had at forty. My body reminds me that eighty-eight is not forty. But I am discovering that God does not require yesterday’s strength for today’s assignment.
He provides today’s strength.
“Your God has commanded your strength.”
—Psalm 68:28 NKJV
I receive that as encouragement—not as a guarantee of how many years remain, but as a reminder that the years I am given are entrusted years.
At eighty-eight, people might expect me to speak primarily in the past tense.
But God keeps speaking to me in the future tense.
There are still books to finish.
There are still men in prison waiting to hear that their failures do not have to become their identity.
There are still students to teach, words to write, stones to place beside the path, and dreams that have not yet unfolded.
Even the recent effort to bring order to my study and discipline to my writing seems to carry spiritual meaning. Perhaps uncluttering is not merely preparation to leave.
Perhaps it is preparation to hear.
At fifty-two spiritually, I do not know everything about following Jesus. In some ways, I am more aware than ever of how much I do not know.
But I know Him better.
I know something of His patience.
I know something of His mercy.
I know that when I wander, He comes looking.
I know that when I return wearing the stains of the far country, He does not leave me standing at the door. He calls for the best robe.
I know that when the storm rises, He is still in the boat.
I know that when the road enters a dark valley, the Shepherd enters it with me.
And I know this:
God is not through with me yet.
I am not asking to become young again. I am asking to remain alive to God at eighty-eight—curious, teachable, obedient, and ready for whatever assignment comes next.
So today, I pause beside a marker stone:
September 8, 1974—September 8, 2026.
Fifty-two years of grace.
Fifty-two years of learning to follow.
Fifty-two years of discovering that the One who called me is faithful.
Then I pick up my walking stick and continue.
There is still some road ahead.
Walk with me.
Spiritual Wanderings 