MEET G~
The life behind Sparks—and the Jesus who changed it.
I started out as a VW, turned into a Ferrari, and then transformed into a utility vehicle—a Bronco.
The VW was where I started—an inferior vehicle in some ways, limited in what it could do, but one that could stay the course. It could carry me down the road, but it wasn’t built for four-wheel-drive terrain. Life eventually required something more functional.
It really started before the VW—in a homebuilt go-kart, with my friends pushing the back. They were the horsepower. Up and down the hills.
The Ferrari came later—fast, driven, always moving. The Bronco is different. It’s useful. It carries what needs carrying, gets through the rough stuff, and does the job.
I’m not about the fluff or the flash or the pizzazz. I want the tool that works.
Where I Came From
I was born in San Francisco in 1959.
Childhood was an adventure on every level. A close-knit neighborhood. Close-knit friends. Tough home environments—and the freedom to come and go. We were the last kids to get that kind of adventure. Things kids today wouldn’t even have a clue of understanding.
The hard parts I’ve written into the Sparks rather than spread across this page. What matters here is that I came out of it having learned to carry my own weight and rarely ask anybody for help.
My twenties and thirties were adventurous and high-pressure. I moved fast and rarely stopped to ask why.
Law enforcement was a time in my life that taught me a lot of lessons in a short amount of time. But that’s not the guy I was built to be.
Then came decades in business and technology. Business gave me a great deal—stability, experience, leadership, responsibility, endurance, success, failure, and resources. But business was never who I was. It was the vehicle I drove and the ground I got tested on.
When a sixty-three-year family legacy finally closed, what I walked away with wasn’t a résumé. It was what all those years had taught me about perseverance, responsibility, people, success, failure, and what really matters.
Marty
Marty and I met through a dating service. She worked there as one of the managers, and I sat in front of her to see if I qualified for the service.
We instantly had an attraction. The rest is history.
More than thirty-four years now. We’re signed up for eternity. It’s a sealed deal, and Jesus is at the center of it.
She sees what I walk past. She brings the hard conversation without accusation. Much of what steadies me on the page was steadied by her first.
What Health Changed
Health had its say too. West Nile. A widow-maker heart attack. Disability. Pain that doesn’t always leave.
Those years took the Ferrari off the road for good. They didn’t take the driver out of the seat.
The Man Who Said He Never Would
In my forties I was around a circle of people who loved Jesus. I liked them. I went where they went. But I was conforming, not converted—going along with a life that belonged to other people.
I didn’t take the time to know Jesus, and for the next ten years I never even picked up the Bible.
One Sunday Marty and I were sitting in church and the sermon turned to evangelism. I got up in the middle of it. Went to the bathroom. Walked outside. And never went back in.
Marty asked me afterward, “What happened? I thought you were sick.”
I told her, “No. I just know I’ll never be one to evangelize, and I didn’t want to listen to that sermon.”
Not couldn’t.
Would never.
Years later I became the very man I said I would never become.
I became the guy I used to laugh at.
The Turn
At fifty, I was in an auditorium at a Billy Graham crusade with sixty-five hundred other people. I walked up and accepted Jesus, and Billy Graham’s message brought me to my knees.
His message that day was about receiving Jesus.
Ten years before, I would not listen. This time my ears were open.
That was the beginning, not the finish.
What made the relationship personal came afterward—trials I couldn’t manage my way out of, an intimate experience with Jesus beside my bed that profoundly affected me, and dreams that changed me forever.
Little by little, acknowledging Jesus became knowing Him. And knowing Him eventually became surrender.
I became the guy sitting in Panera with twenty men around him, reading the Bible.
I became the guy wearing a cross and finally knowing what it meant.
Not jewelry. Not identification with a crowd. The Cross. His sacrifice. My surrender.
I had a wagon, and I spent most of my life filling it with junk and pulling it behind me. Things I thought I needed. Things I thought defined me.
One day Jesus called me to build a cross in my backyard. Then He brought me to it and told me I was going to die.
He was right.
I died to self and was reborn in His image. That was the full transaction. No longer 99 percent.
It was 100.
God took the handle. I finally learned who was supposed to have it.
I have a lot of friends who love Jesus, and one cliché I’ve learned is absolutely true:
You can’t make this stuff up.
Only Jesus can do it.
What My Days Look Like Now
A normal day begins by getting up, getting some coffee, spending time with Jesus, thinking, and reflecting on what’s on my heart.
Part of that morning ritual is sitting with Marty over a cup of coffee, having that special conversation that starts our day and grounds us in where we are and what’s going on.
I love that time. It’s my time of connection and peace.
I wake up grateful, and I armor up every day.
I also have the attitude that I can do whatever I want.
Marty will ask, “What are you going to do today?”
“Whatever I want to do, and whatever Jesus guides me to do.”
I’ve paid my dues and earned the right. I spent decades carrying responsibilities, running businesses, solving problems, supporting people, and living under schedules and obligations.
I garden. I take pictures.
Photography keeps me sane. Every time I look at a scene, I imagine it boxed into a photograph. I have a photographic mind and a photographic vision. I always see a story in everything. I see things a lot of people don’t see and simply walk right past.
And I’m a tool guy. I’d rather own one good tool that does exactly what it was built to do than a drawer full of clever ones.
Maybe that says something about where I’ve landed. I’m utilitarian-minded now. Less interested in flash. More interested in usefulness.
All three of our dogs are Australian Shepherds.
Jasper is my service dog. He goes with me everywhere I go, weather permitting, and he has been an amazing companion. Like me, he’s up there in age now. We both move a little more gingerly through the day than we used to.
Bluesy and Sadie are the kids of the house. Two and three. They’re amazing, well-trained animals, and they’re genuinely part of daily life.
They’re finding their way now, like Jasper and I did, fitting into everything we all do. It’s such fun.
They keep us feeling alive.
What cracks me up most often is what the dogs do and what people do. Sometimes it’s just the blind humor of the day.
I have healthy friendships with both men and women. My closest friendships today are Christ-centered relationships with people who are walking toward Jesus.
Sometimes somebody says something to you at exactly the right moment. They sit with you. Encourage you. Give you another perspective. And something shifts.
It’s like standing in the shower, scrubbing yourself with soap, looking toward the ceiling and suddenly thinking:
Aha. I get it.
A paradigm shift.
I believe God puts people into our lives who can help create those moments.
Many men who have walked with me in my walk with Jesus have called me their Gabe. In the Journey material, a Gabe is the man who walks beside another man—encouraging him, helping him see, and pointing him toward Jesus.
I’ve been a Gabe many times in my life, and I’ve had a few too.
Not by forcing myself into somebody’s life. Just by being available when God puts someone in front of me.
If somebody needs a good word, give it. If they need encouragement, give it. If another perspective might help them realign, offer it.
At thirty-seven, I felt like I had the weight of the world and a grip on it as well.
At sixty-seven it’s very different. What I really need to navigate each day is my physical well-being and my walk with Jesus. I want to keep Him in front and at the center of everything I do.
The rest of it is Marty, my sister, friends, the people God puts in front of me, and the time I have left to spend well.
At this point in life, the question has stopped being how much I can accumulate.
It’s what I can contribute.
Why Sparks Exists
I don’t want what I know to go to my grave.
I want to leave more behind than I took.
That’s the whole reason.
I’ve received a great deal through life. A lot of what I learned came at a price, and some of it was paid in ways I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It would be a waste to take it with me.
I want to contribute something back to my brothers and sisters.
Sparks come from things I’ve actually lived.
The mistakes. The victories. The losses. The ridiculous moments.
Marriage. Business. Dogs. Friendship. Health. Age. Time. Faith.
And increasingly—Jesus.
If something I’ve lived can save another person a little pain, encourage somebody, create a different perspective, or simply cause a spark of thought they carry away and ponder, then writing it was worthwhile.
My goal isn’t for somebody to finish a Spark impressed with me. The goal is that something sparks.
A thought. A question. Some encouragement. A different perspective. A moment of recognition. Perhaps even curiosity about Jesus.
One Last Thing
The most interesting thing about my sixty-seven years isn’t everything I’ve done. It’s what God managed to do with the man who once walked out of church because he was certain he would never tell anybody about Jesus.
You can’t make this stuff up.
Only Jesus can do it.
If what I’ve shared here resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~