Read an Excerpt
From Chapter One
For the first twenty years of my life, I genuinely believed that my ending up on earth was some sort of tragic mistake. I was certain that somebody in the great company of heaven had erred, perhaps hitting an incorrect key on the galactic travel log or confusing me with the soul of a mighty Gurkha, because I clearly didn’t belong here.
Naturally a joyful, sensitive little creature, I found myself quite incompatible with my surroundings. Earth and the humans inhabiting it struck me as very harsh, and my most vivid early memories are of the relentless assaults on my young senses. My ears rang from the cacophony of screaming adults, roaring transportation vehicles, and explosions from the nearby military base. My eyes squinted and teared in the penetrating light from bulbs and screens. My skin burned and swelled in response to the glorious, yet unforgiving sun and wind. My tongue singed and recoiled from harsh, unfamiliar chemicals with every bite of processed food. My nose puckered and flinched from the unbearable stench of rotting garbage and noxious perfume. But oddly, no one else seemed to register these intrusions as bothersome.
We took a family vacation to Nevada when I was a child, and because my father was a big fan of the television show Bonanza, we visited the Ponderosa ranch near Lake Tahoe. I have two distinct memories from that day: first, learning that “sarsaparilla” was basically root beer, and second, hiding in a porta-potty, desperately trying to shield my ears while the rest of my family enjoyed the ranch’s wild-west gun show. Under normal circumstances, being within twenty feet of a portable toilet would have been an unthinkable, malodorous nightmare for me, but that day, it was wildly preferable to the violent explosions and appreciative shouts taking place just outside my rancid refuge.
Prior to that day, I had never heard a weapon fired up close, and was surprised to discover that each burst of gunfire pierced my consciousness like a searing ice pick being driven mercilessly into my brain. The deafening percussion of each blast tore through me like vibrating shrapnel, rattling my senses. Behind my tightly closed eyes, I saw an endless reel of every soul in history who had been brutalized by firearms, with images of one savage death chasing the next—complete with detailed visions of each anguished face—and I felt the suffering of every single one. It wasn’t the first time I had experienced the pain of those who passed before me, but at that point in my young life, it was the most intense. I found myself wishing the faux cowboys would kindly shoot me so I wouldn’t have to feel it anymore.
But my parents and sister loved it, regaling each other with opinions and reenactments all the way back home to California. When they asked me why I had run away from the show, why I didn’t want to “join in the fun” as they put it, I tried to explain to them that for me, the experience had been terribly jarring and unpleasant. I remember exactly how my father looked at me in that moment, with utter bewilderment, disappointment, and disbelief—like I couldn’t possibly be related to him.
It was far from the last time he would look at me that way. Similar scenarios arose throughout my entire childhood, each one further frustrating my parents and making me feel like an alien who had veered terribly off course and crash-landed in the wrong family. Whereas they enjoyed raucous competitive events, watching nightly disasters on mainstream news, and superficial small talk with the other church families, I craved meaningful connections, solitude, and peaceful time spent in nature. I felt as though I could scarcely connect to the fading murmurs of my soul trying desperately to speak louder than the constant noise of this foreign world. Yet, everyone around me seemed unburdened by this conundrum, which baffled me.
I share none of this with the intention of disparaging my birth family. Despite our vastly different worldviews and choices, I love my parents and extended family, and acknowledge that all are products of their environment who did the best they could with the hand they were dealt, as we all do. Rather, I share this because of the critically important role this combative environment played in preparing me for the missions I have undertaken as an adult, which would not be possible had I not learned to trust myself implicitly, regardless of any and all external pressures.
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