Although my parents were not Christian or even religious in any sense, I grew up in a very stable family. I had one older brother, one younger brother, and one younger sister. My father was a building contractor and developed a neighborhood of homes in the small town of Farmingdale, Maine. My parents were hard workers and good providers. As a youngster I fondly remember summers at our camp on Echo Lake and many winter weekends skiing at Sugarloaf Mountain, where we also had a camp. As diverse and wonderful as my childhood and High school years were, I had no idea who Jesus was. Through High school, I was the good kid. I didn't smoke, I didn't drink, I didn't party, and drugs hadn't been invented yet. I met my wife-to-be in the sixth grade and started going out with Marcia when we were both freshmen in high school. She had received Christ when she was eight years-old, and would frequently try to get me to go to church. I remember once during my senior year and another time during the next eight years that the Spirit of God strongly called me to Himself and each time I resisted. Then on Easter Sunday in 1975 Jesus revealed Himself to me in a way that I finally understood that I was a sinner and I needed a savior. In the years following that event God has consistently shaped my life. Sometimes in the furnace of affliction... sometimes on the Mount of Transfiguration, but always with more mercy and grace than I deserve.