Still Me: Life as a Work in Progress

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

This is the most personal and honest book I have written, and as much as I would like for you to think I did this all by myself, the truth is much more complicated than that. I had help—lots of help. And I would be remiss if I did not take a moment now to thank the folks who got me where I am now.

That means you, Jeremy and Les and Pat and Sally and Chad and Bruce and Dan and Lisa and Phil and Jerry and Janna and Adam and Jeff and Anissa and Gabriel and Jon and Tracey and Walter and . . . well, you get the picture.

There are also people I should mention because I’ve stolen things from them—more things than I can remember. I’m talking about Richard Rohr, John Ortberg, Scot McKnight, Conrad Gempf, and Philip Yancey. More than words or phrases, I’ve stolen from them a way of thinking. I won’t be giving it back, but I wanted to confess here.

There are some great thinkers, now departed, to whom I am deeply indebted: C. S. Lewis, Dallas Willard, and Lewis Smedes. I never met any of them, but I am looking forward to it in the life to come.

I owe an incredible debt of gratitude to Sean Palmer. He’s more than my cohost for the Not So Black and White podcast; he’s a trusted friend and confidant.

I have the best agent I could ask for: Jason Jones. He concentrates on the business side so that I can just write and not have to worry—that is an amazing gift. Also, he has good taste in beverages.

Thanks to Jason Fikes, Rebecka Scott, and the entire team at Leafwood for their faith and patience. I have never been treated so well by a publisher, and I look forward to seeing how God uses this partnership to bless people.

Special thanks to David Blackwell, Dane Booth, and Hal Runkel for knowing where all the skeletons are and refusing to tell anyone about them.

My daughters, Anabel, Eliza, and Mia, are old enough now to know that their dad isn’t as together as he once led them to believe. I am so grateful to them for accepting me, flaws and all.

To my therapist Bill Harkins, who saved my life more than once and encouraged me to write this stuff down.

And finally, to Tiffany, who loved me better than anyone else ever has.

CHAPTER ONE

WHO AM I?

My name is John Alan Turner, and I am many things:

A writer. A published author. A theologian.

A leadership consultant. A sought after public speaker.

A teacher. A father. A son. A brother. A neighbor. A coach.

A friend. A boss. A colleague. An employee.

I am somebody’s boyfriend. I am somebody’s ex-husband.

I’m a survivor.

Some people love me. Some people hate me. Some people miss me. Some people wish I would go away. I wish I could say that doesn’t bother me and be the person who is so well differentiated that I do not care what others think of me. That is not the case. I care. Sometimes, I probably care too much.

I am a thinker. An introvert. A storyteller. A wordsmith.

A raconteur. A whiskey drinker. I am a charmer. A flirt.

A liar and a thief. An adulterer and an idolator.

I am overly competitive. I am insecure. I am impure.

I am lazy. I’m a quitter. A cheater. A worrier.

A foul-mouthed gossip. A sinner.

I’m a man in my late forties. A child of the ’70s who came of age in the ’80s and married in the ’90s.

I am white. I am male. I am American. I am a Southerner.

I’m conservative. I’m Christian.

More specifically, I’m evangelical—if that means anything anymore. I am not very patriotic. I may be Anabaptist. The line between those two keeps getting more and more blurry to most people, even as it becomes clearer to me.

I’m a foodie. A sports fanatic. A jazz enthusiast.

I’m an INTJ. A gregarious introvert.

A high I on a DISC profile.

I’m an Ideator. Or, if you prefer Enneagram speak, I am a 5 with a 6 wing.

I am smart. I am funny. I am generous. I’m a good listener.

I’ve been told I’m a good kisser. I am afraid. I am lonely.

I am disappointed and disillusioned. I am tired and frustrated.

And I am tired of being me.

I am none of these things; no one is ever always anything. I am all of these things. And I am more. I am more than my résumé, my genetics, my educational background, my preferences, my accomplishments, my failures. At least, I’m supposed to be. And I have no idea how I got here.

That’s not entirely true. I could, if given enough time, probably trace a reasonable facsimile of the events that transpired, bringing me to this station in life. But who has time for that?

As I read that back I realize that, if anyone should have time to do such things, it ought to be me, right? I’m a writer, for crying out loud! Isn’t that my job?

Going back to connect the dots like that is something most people know they could do. But, like doing twenty pushups or jogging a mile, it seems more trouble than it’s worth. Introspection like that does not pay off, and it might just bring up bad things that are better left alone. Still, I am where I am. And every once in a while, I wonder how I got here.

So, let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Forgive me for indulging myself in a little exercise in autobiography. My hope is that this will let you in a little bit on who I am and how I got where I am. If not . . . I’ll at least try to make it an interesting story.

Everyone has to grow up somewhere. And—as much as we hate to admit this—where and when and how we grow up affects our understanding of the world.

Me? I grew up easy. I mean, sure we had struggles. What family doesn’t? But there’s no getting around it: I had it easy.

For the first decade of my life, my family lived in West Monroe, Louisiana, tucked away in the northeast corner of a semi-rural community there. Don’t let my urbane sophistication fool you. I learned my way around a tackle box and owned a BB gun before I owned a bicycle. We ate catfish and hushpuppies and turnip greens and black-eyed peas. And we liked it.

My father was the dean of a now-defunct seminary (so there was a fair amount of pressure to know the right answer in Sunday School). He also preached for a small church in the even smaller town of Hale, Louisiana, a place so unremarkable it did not even have its own post office. Go ahead and look it up. I dare you to try to find it on a map.

The accents were so thick. One weekend, we visited another church in nearby southern Arkansas, and my teacher told us that if we weren’t good boys and girls, we might end up in hay-ull. I summoned all the smart-alecky-ness I could for a six-year-old and informed her that I wasn’t afraid of going to hay-ull. After all, my dad preached there most Sundays.

One of the board members of the aforementioned institution where my father was employed gave several faculty members plots of land in a neighborhood called Happy Acres. We lived there—and I am not making this up—on Love Street.

Everyone in my neighborhood went to the same church. Most of the dads worked together. We all went to a Christian school that was started by our parents for us. If it truly takes a village, we certainly were one. Everyone’s parents disciplined everyone’s kids.

Lest you think I’m wearing rose-colored glasses or enduring a bout of nostalgic rhapsody for a mythical Camelot that never actually existed, I do recognize, looking back with adult eyes, that there were hard times. We weren’t rich. We lived in a modest three-bedroom house. We once had an Oldsmobile that broke down and sat in our driveway for a couple of years. We didn’t have the money to fix the transmission, and my dad, being as unhandy as he was educated, simply made the payments and got by on one car.

And there were dark times, too. Some sinister things happened in that environment, things that I’m not going to write about. At least, not yet. Maybe one day. When I’m stronger. I mention it lightly here because it’s important for you to know. Bad things, things like abuse or neglect, things like violence or assault, whether they are endured or merely observed, these things shape the way we think about the world, ourselves, and our place in the world. They lead us to think and do things we wouldn’t otherwise. They force us to come up with defense mechanisms that work for us when we’re young and trying to survive, but they end up working against us as we get older. And far too often they surface when we least expect or want them to. Tactics that allow us to feel safe in childhood can be dangerous when used as adults.

I’ve learned that recently.

My sister likes to say that because my father was a leader in the church, we got to see the clowns with their makeup off. We heard the racist jokes. We knew whose marriage was in trouble. We watched people get away with things, sometimes terrible things, and never suffer the consequences because of their status and position in the community. It’s easy for a preacher’s kid to become cynical.

Still, my parents did their best to protect me from most of the ugly stuff when I was a kid. For example, I had no idea that a casserole was served toward the end of each month because my parents, like so many other parents in the mid-to-late-70s, were struggling to make ends meet. I was blissfully unaware of such things. I believed my mother planned such meals far in advance rather than simply combining bits and pieces of leftovers at the last minute, ghosts of dinners past comingling with rice and cream of mushroom soup.

I thought we occasionally ate breakfast foods for dinner because it was an exotic change of pace. It felt like the kind of thing they must do in France. That being the extent of our family hardships, I’d say, yeah, I had it pretty easy, and, to a large extent, I believe what I believe to this day as a direct result of my early childhood experiences.

Life in the Sun

Oh, and it got better from there. We eventually moved to the suburbs of Orange County, California. In the early-80s, that pretty much defined having it easy. For five sunny years, we lived the good life in Cypress, California—hometown of Tiger Woods and John Stamos.

Wealthy enough to live there, too poor to own, we rented a bigger-than-we-needed house in a quiet, little neighborhood, walking distance from schools and shopping and parks. Of course, no one walks anywhere in southern California, but we could have—if we’d ever been stuck. My father led a growing, vibrant church filled with young, upwardly mobile suburbanites.

He had this motto he used to repeat all the time: The best is yet to be! He said it with so much folksy enthusiasm, I have to admit, it was downright contagious. And, when he got up in front of the congregation each Sunday, he’d declare the first half of Psalm 118:24, This is the day the LORD has made. Then everyone in church would finish it for him, Let us rejoice today and be glad. And we would all stand and sing When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder loudly enough to shake the rafters.

We canvassed neighborhoods, inviting strangers to visit our church. We hosted youth rallies at the beach. We conducted spectacular Vacation Bible Schools with production values that might make the Artistic Director of your local community theatre green with envy. Every Tuesday night, we took over the local skating rink, forcing them to mix a few bad contemporary Christian songs into the regular playlist of early-80s pop music.

This period, too, had a profound impact on me and the way I view the world. I had this sense growing up that no matter what happened, all would be well. If something of mine got broken, it could be fixed or replaced. There would always be something to eat in the refrigerator. There is a solution to every problem. There will always be something under the tree on Christmas morning. These were assumptions I came to believe in so deeply that I never one time doubted their certainty.

In some ways, it’s got even better the older I’ve grown. I ate more food than I needed last night. I live in a house that’s nice. It’s not huge. In fact, it’s pretty modest by today’s standards, but it’s still larger than most houses have been for most of world history.

I make money. Sometimes I make a lot of money. Other times I don’t make so much, but no one in my family has ever gone to bed hungry. We’ve never been thrown out of our home. We’ve managed to pay our bills on time, had a roof over our heads, food on the table, shoes on our feet. My kids have never had to worry about any of this. And I can see this shaping their worldview.

This is important because your worldview shows up in why you vote, what you watch, where you shop, how you drive. Your worldview determines how you talk to yourself and others, how you treat your neighbor, and whether or not you forgive your enemy. Your worldview is demonstrated by your thoughts, feelings, words, and actions.

And your worldview is largely in place long before you ever set foot on a college campus or in the workplace. Your worldview gets set early, before you really have a chance to think critically about such things. And once it’s set, it’s incredibly resistant to change. This is one of the reasons Jesus told stories. Stories have a way of sneaking past our defenses.

My Neighbor

In the Gospel of Luke (the single