HOW It All STARTED - MY STORY
I was born in the country, surrounded by grape vineyards in Northern California near a small town called
Lodi. I was the third of three sons and I was eighteen years younger than my oldest brother, Eric, and
fourteen years younger than my second brother, Mark. You could definitely assume I was not on the
agenda.
By most measures, I had a good childhood. But loss entered my life early. In 1968, when I was seven
years old, my brother Mark was killed in Vietnam. I still remember coming home from second grade that
day. My mother sat me down, her voice steady but heavy, and told me what had happened. Strange
how moments like that never fade. Even at that age, faith was already part of my world.
We went to a small church in Lodi every Sunday. I remember crying with my mother—and then, just like
that, stopping. I told her I wasn’t going to cry anymore because Mark was with Jesus. Mark had given his
life to Christ before he left for Vietnam. That mattered more than I could have understood at the time
and gave my mother amazing comfort…from the mouth of a child.
Ten years later, loss struck again. My father was killed on his motorcycle at sixty-two, just months before
retirement.
My dad’s faith journey was deeply tied to Mark’s death. Let me quickly tell that story. My mother was a
strong and committed believer in Jesus and the God of the Bible…and she was a true prayer warrior. My
father went through the motions of church attendance, but that was about it. There was no surrender.
One morning, while praying for him in frustration of his unwillingness to commit his life, my mother
prayed words she later told me frightened her: “Whatever it takes to bring Edward to know You.”
Almost immediately, a thought entered her mind—“Even your son?” Mark had just deployed to Vietnam
a month earlier.
She told me years later she rejected the thought outright. “No, not Mark.” But then she stopped herself
and surrendered the prayer: “Not my will, but Yours.” My mother was not emotional or dramatic in her
faith. She wasn’t the type to exaggerate spiritual experiences. That’s what gave this story its weight.
Several months later, while reading letters from her sisters that included a small-town newspaper from
Iowa, she found herself flipping to the obituary section. The thought crossed her mind—Would Mark’s
name be there? She immediately dismissed it as an irrational and morbid thought.
As she was processing this, she heard tires crunching on the gravel driveway outside our country home.
Without looking, she walked toward the backyard, away from the front door, instinctively knowing
something was wrong. Then another thought came—clear and unmistakable: “Turn around. I’ve
prepared you for this.”
She turned back toward the dining room window. Two Navy officers were walking toward the door.
I learned much later that Mark’s death completely broke my father. Years after the loss, he told my
mother he wanted to die but was afraid to. That night, she led him to Christ. My father served the Lord
for the next ten years until his death. I knew he was a believer. I just never knew how deeply that faith
had been forged in the loss of his son…my brother.
During COVID, while organizing our attic, I came across a box of old letters my brother Eric had sent years earlier. Inside was a handwritten letter from my mother to a support group for parents who had lost children. As I read her words, she described in detail how Mark’s death had shattered my father—and how God met him there. It was confirmation of a story I had only partially known.
Why share all of this when talking about the Baja 1000?
Because I believe God is sovereign. I believe He speaks in ways we don’t always understand. And I believe the Holy Spirit truly does guide, prepare, and call us—sometimes long before we realize it. I don’t pretend to understand it all. But the story I’ve just shared is hard to dismiss.
And I share it because something remarkably similar has happened in my own life—leading me, step by step, to this moment.
