Draft 1

It was the year 19...

No, no, no.

The day was bright and cheerful when...

No, no, no.

You might wonder...

No.

This is the story of...

No.

...

Whenever anyone writes anything, they are telling a story. Whether it's found in a newspaper, a text book, a diary, a loose piece of paper, a novel, a sign, or the back of their hand - it is a story. So I suppose this is just a story too even though it feels like much more, since it actually happened. In some ways it's a story about one person, but in other ways it's a story about lots of different people, and in another way it's a story that's not about any of them.

Most stories start at the beginning. They do this by establishing a time line, setting scenes, introducing characters -or- establishing common ground, or the level of man's understanding thus far -or- explaining the purpose of the story. This cannot happen with this story for to do so would be to go back to before the beginning of time, and while I am certain of events which transpired at this time before time I certainly cannot describe and explain them in any great depth and I fear to do so would take you away from the real story I am trying to tell here.

Have you ever had a dream? I don't mean the magical and scary things which dance before our eyes in sleep, or the vague hopes of someone for when they're a little older. I mean the type of dream which grows inside you with roots that reach into the centre of your heart, the kind that perhaps you're not even aware of, sown from fear which never seems to go away unless this secret dream can be realized. Some might call it hope, but for me hope is something different. Hope is given and certain although not yet, while a dream is created by you and never certain until it is the now.

He had a dream tied up with family, acceptance, and provision, but really it was all about love - giving and showing it generously; receiving and being worthy to receive it.