A Word to My Grandchildren

I sat down on New Year's Eve in 2016 because Jeremy had given me the opportunity to record a living history. At seventy-eight, I could look back on a life that had been dynamic, surprising, and much richer than I could have planned. I had crossed oceans as a boy, returned to Australia as a missionary, tried several careers, found the work that suited me, and built a family with Judy.^[1]

Of all the people I wanted to know me, I thought especially of my grandchildren. I wanted them to understand not only where our family came from but how much gratitude I felt for their parents and for the lives opening in front of them.^[2]

A life history is not a list of accomplishments. The meaning is usually found in ordinary decisions: whether a family accepts an adventure, whether a young man keeps working for tuition, whether two people find their way back to each other, and whether a home becomes a place where children know they are wanted.^[3]

I also wanted the family to know my parents and grandparents through me. Their courage, faith, thrift, and willingness to work made my own choices possible. None of us begins alone, no matter how independent we may imagine ourselves to be.^[4]

The world changed almost beyond recognition during my lifetime. I went from wartime ration books and a coal furnace to air-conditioned automobiles, instant communication, and the prospect of self-driving cars. I did not see change as a reason for fear. I saw evidence that human beings could continue learning.^[5]

My hope for the generations after me was simple: be disciplined, stay curious, save something, do useful work, love your family, and keep faith. The best is not guaranteed, but I believed it remained possible.^[6]