In the Beginning

“And they that know thy name will put their trust in thee: for thou, LORD, hast not forsaken them that seek thee.” — Psalm 9:10

What better place to start than the beginning? For me, that beginning came in the fall of 1962—August 27th, to be exact—when I was seven years old and my life changed forever.

I had spoken with my adoptive mother, Barbara McCulley, who passed away 12-Feb-2026. Time had taken many of the details from her memory, but she recalls that she and my dad brought me home for a weekend—maybe two—to see how I would fit in with their family, including their ten-year-old daughter. She once shared that she had hoped to adopt a baby, but the agency advised otherwise because of the older child already in the home.

The photo below is the only known picture from my early years. I’m in the center, standing with two boys I considered my best friends in the world. I’ve always hoped that one day I might find them again and meet them face to face.

I was the oldest of five children my biological parents placed for adoption. The reasons behind that decision was never fully clear to me. Years later, in the 1980s, my biological father sent me a cassette tape attempting to explain. His words were scattered, but one thing came through—after signing the papers, he regretted it deeply and wished he could undo what had been done.

In all, there were seven of us—two half-sisters and four full siblings—born within about eight years. One sister, Elaine (whom I knew as Sally), was adopted by an aunt in Ottumwa, Iowa, where my maternal grandfather, Lawrence, lived with his second wife, Virginia. The other four of us were placed through the American Home Finding Association, also in Ottumwa. As you’ll see later, my grandfather played an important role in eventually bringing parts of our family back together.

I remember one moment clearly. As I was leaving the home, my younger brother John gave me a toy—a small beige plastic horse with a broken leg. I treasured it. Every time I looked at it, I thought of him. One day, it disappeared. My mother later told me she had thrown it away because it was broken, never realizing what it meant to me.

There was one other keepsake—a small promotional brochure from the American Home Finding Association. John’s photo was on the cover, and he remained their “poster child” for years. Decades later, when I returned to visit during their 100th anniversary, I mentioned that I had lost my copy. Within moments, the director, Tom, retrieved another one from a file cabinet—aged, but still intact. It felt like a small piece of the past restored.

As I close this chapter, I’ve included additional photos of my siblings, Shirley Joyce and John Harold. Shirley was one year younger than me, and John was two years younger.

There were difficult years ahead, but through it all, God was faithful. Even as a child without formal Christian teaching, I believed in Him. Looking back now, I can clearly see His hand guiding me through every season, helping me overcome obstacles I never could have faced alone.

One of the first verses I memorized as a young Christian still stays with me today:

“To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me in my throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne.” — Revelation 3:21