A Step of Faith

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
would like to thank the following for their assistance: Once again, my writing assistant, travel companion and daughter, Jenna Evans Welch. (And Ally, who came along for the ride. And Sam, who also came, but against his will.) My friends at Simon & Schuster: Jonathan Karp, Carolyn Ready, my editor Trish Todd (and Molly) and copy editor Gypsy da Silva. Mike and Cathy Hankins of the Southern Hotel in Ste. Genevieve, Kelly Glad, Judge Samuel D. McVey, Dr. Steve Schlozman, and The Cancer Learning Center at Huntsman Cancer Institute at the University of Utah.

My staff: Diane Glad, Heather McVey, Barry Evans, Karen Christoffersen, Doug Osmond (Osmonds rock!), Lisa Johnson, and Camille Shosted. And my agent, Laurie Liss. Good work. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning. (Just seeing if you really read my books.)

To my daughters, Jenna Lyn and Allyson-Danica.

The Okefenokee wouldn’t have been the same without you.

I love you, girls.

Faith is the strength by which a shattered world shall emerge into the light.

—Helen Keller

More than once, usually after getting a strange glance from an occupant of a passing car, I’ve wondered what people think of me—a lone man, unshaven, long hair spilling from beneath his hat, walking alone along some forsaken stretch of highway. They wouldn’t likely guess that I once owned a prestigious advertising agency, or a multimillion-dollar home, or shared a love that others only dream about. Nor would they guess how badly my heart’s been broken. We don’t think those things about strangers.

The truth is, they probably don’t think about me at all. Or at least not for very long. We have become proficient at blocking each other out. Just like we block advertising noise. I’m not claiming this is a sign of societal decay or moral deficiency. I think it’s a necessity. There are far too many people for us to think about each of them during our short stay on earth—like the thousands of books in a library we haven’t time to read in an afternoon. But this is no excuse to cease browsing. For every now and then, we find that one book that reaches us deep inside and introduces us to ourselves. And, in someone else’s story, we come to understand our own.

I don’t know how you found me, but my name is Alan Christoffersen. And this is the story of my walk.

PROLOGUE

Maybe, if we just accepted our deaths, we might finally start to live.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

Am I dying?

It’s a stupid question, really, as we’ve all got an expiration date. I guess the real question is not
if
, but
when
.

As I was walking through the South Dakota Badlands—before I knew something was wrong with me—I had this thought:
What if we all carried little timers that counted down the days of our lives?
Maybe the timer’s a bit dramatic. Just the date would do. It could be tattooed on our foreheads like the expiration date on a milk bottle.

It might be a good thing. Maybe we’d stop wasting our lives worrying about things that never happen, or collecting things that we can’t take with us. We’d probably treat people better. We certainly wouldn’t be screaming at someone who had a day left. Maybe people would finally stop living like they’re immortal. Maybe we would finally learn how to live.

I’ve wondered if, perhaps, at some deep, subconscious level, we really do know our time. I’ve heard stories of people spontaneously buying life insurance or writing wills just days before an unforeseen calamity takes their lives.

In my own life I’ve seen evidence of this. My mother—who
died when I was eight—told my father more than once that she didn’t think she would live to an old age or, to her great sadness, to see her grandchildren. Some might say that she jinxed herself, but I don’t think so. My mother wasn’t a pessimist. I think she knew.

Whether we know our time or not, it doesn’t change the truth—there is a clock ticking for all of us. I suppose this weighs heavily on my mind right now because my clock seems to be ticking a little more loudly lately. A brain tumor will do that to you.