Twice Upon A Time

the david asscherick and nathan renner story

TWICE upon a T I M E f publishers ire engine

Fire Engine Publishers Twice Upon a Time: the David Asscherick and Nathan Renner Story Copyright 2009 by Jennifer Schwirzer Edited and printed by Remnant Publishers Cover photographs by David Asscherick and Nathan Renner Cover design and layout by Tara Gieck Printed in the United States of America All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Scripture quotations attributed to the NASB are from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995

by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

For more information on Jennifer Jill Schwirzer: jenniferjill.org For more information on ARISE: ariseinstitute.com For more copies of this book: ppvida.com ISBN 978-0-9843690-0-3

The author would like to thank: God for all things good Nathan and David for the opportunity My husband Michael for faith in me Becky and Violeta for loaning their husbands Levi, Laurel, Landon and Jabel for loaning their dads Tara for beautiful work and sweetness Mom for the writing gene Cindy for the rah-rahs

Dedicated to Kimmy, with prayers that you will write even better books someday.

Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up... And though a man might prevail against one who is alone, two will withstand him, and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

~Ecclesiastes 4:9-12, NKJV

prologue

| My Brothers, My Friends

I guess it’s time to start writing this book.

The prelude to it has been exciting: A breathless, animated call from David explaining his idea of me writing the David and Nathan story; me tentatively agreeing to write the book, but wondering aloud why he didn’t do it himself, being such a talented writer; reading the elegantbut-short manuscripts he’d started and never finished; several long story-gathering sessions with Nathan over the telephone; a whirlwind trip to California, during which the three of us holed up in a hotel room for an entire Sunday, barely stopping to eat, sculpting a framework in which I would carefully lay the story of their lives. When the ADHD from which we all probably suffer got the better of us, we took a walk in the sunshine, followed by a photo session. I stood between them, proud big sister that I am, and thought, “I love these guys. I don’t have time for this, but I’m glad I’m doing it.”

You recruited me, David and Nathan (mostly David). But now I actually have to write this thing, and I’m scared. How can I do justice to a reality as exquisite as the coalescence of divine and human wills? How can

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| twice upon a time I convey heaven’s touch on ordinary lives? Neither the most delicate dovetail nor the most perfect storm captures its beauty and power.

God’s handwriting is clearly all over your stories—how can I trace it?

It’s too holy for me. At the same time, your lives are intertwined with people. How can I be honest about them, and about you, as human histories are never free of all biases? I feel inadequate. How can I write this book?

But how can I not write it? It begs to be written, and neither of you will get to it before the year 2043.

You’re both relatively new to my life. I met David about eight years ago.

Everyone knows David. Nathan is lesser known because his pastoral calling keeps him ensconced in local church life. We resonated from the beginning in spite of my aging hippie status in contrast to your punkrock roots. Before Christianity, my guitar was acoustic, yours electric; I was everything natural, you had wildly colored hair. But I think my hippie culture informed your punk culture to a large extent. Every “alternative” lifestyle is the same under a few surface differences.

Consequentially, we clicked.

I’m writing this book for one reason, twice over; the reason is friendship.

The twice-over is the two of you first asking me to write the book because I was your friend, and then me accepting because you were mine. You could have asked better, more famous writers, but you felt a kinship with me. . . . I was your friend.

I really should be writing my own book, forwarding my career, but what’s the attraction of professional advancement in comparison to human connection? . . . You were my friends.

This friendship factor is what makes this book unique. David, you could

!p r o l o g u e | 7 easily have turned out the formulaic testimony book, sold scads of copies and smiled all the way to the bank. You’re a big fish—at least within the little pond of the Seventh-day Adventist Church. Any entrepreneur would endorse such a venture. But this approach wouldn’t have accurately portrayed your essence. You’re not only prominent, you’re a people person. You have strong affections and an intense social curiosity. How could you present yourself as a stand-alone, then, when the richness of your character is your extreme geniality? You seek companionship in a perpetually boyish way. How natural to present your story in the context of a friendship.

Besides, your lives have almost eerie parallels. For one thing, you look alike and sound alike. Your vocal timbre and word cadence is so similar I still can’t really tell you apart on the phone. You track with each other on major theological, political and doctrinal views. Historically, you independently fell in love with skateboarding as kids. You were both close to your moms, and as kids journeyed with her through a period of fundamentalist Christianity. You both cherished a favorite church song that riveted itself into your minds. You both climbed—and climb— rocks. You were both straightedge punk rockers (definitions will follow).

You both lost at love, and shortly after found love—the love of God, and the love of your wives. You each have two children. And this isn’t even half of the list! (For the entire list see Appendix A.) But there are essential differences. Nathan, your happy childhood evokes Norman Rockwell images. Most importantly, your parents stayed married, and you benefited from the security that foundation affords.

David, your childhood was more tragic, chaotic, and painful. You don’t know your birth father, nor did you have a true stepfather until later in childhood. Probably as a result of these differences, Nathan, you trust more easily. In fact (and I’ve never told you this, David), I think you finally trusted me because Nathan trusted me first. You kind of hung back and watched me interact with him. It almost seemed as if he was your people-tester. At any rate, Nathan, you’re a strength to David, and an important long-term, always-there kind of friend.

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| twice upon a time I first met you, David, when a church youth magazine asked me to cover the hot new evangelist from South Dakota. “He used to be a punk rocker and a competitive skateboarder,” the editor had said, “and now he’s preaching. Can you track him down and write a 700-word version of his story?” I relished the opportunity to do a little journalistic prying.

I had met you a year or so before and thought you were . . . interesting.

Or should I say weird? Sorry, bro, but at first blush you seemed a little left of center. You approached my booth at a convention (over)dressed in shirt, tie, and a suit at least two sizes too big. Your hair adhered neatly to your head with the assistance of some gel product. Looking a bit like Clark Kent casing the joint, you picked up one of my CD’s and a book. “How much are these?” you asked with your mouth in an absolutely flat line across your face.

“They’re on sale for half price,” I said. Rather than take the full discount, you handed me a twenty dollar bill and slunk into the crowd without so much as a smile. Like I said, weird.

But once on the phone with you, a new persona emerged. Talkative, funny, engaging; you spilled out your testimony between cell phone dropouts. You were driving somewhere in the west with Violeta, your wife of only a few years. I had met her some time before at a wedding, and thought she was like a creature from another planet—so innocent, untrammeled, and lovely. Anyway, you happily chatted out your story and it was love at first write. I mean your story. I loved it. I still do, which is a good thing because I’m about to tackle a forty-thousandword version of it.

Two or three years later the two of you were at the same convention with a newborn. When I asked, David placed him in my hands for a moment, saying, “His name is Landon.” He was perfect, tiny and dolllike. A few minutes later the same David snatched the baby from me. I later learned he’d been told by Violeta not to pass him around so much.

Can’t say as I blame her.

A few years later—same convention—I approached you, David. You

!p r o l o g u e | 9 had founded a school called ARISE with your best friend and apparent twin, Nathan Renner. I had heard buzz about “the guy that looks and talks just like Asscherick.” Well, now I could see it for myself. You even dressed alike, having lost the oversized suits and donned polo shirts.

I remember marveling at your hyper-developed biceps (don’t get big heads now, guys), given your relatively small stature. You were a couple of Popeyes. Now I realize it was the rock-climbing.

One thing led to another and soon I found myself touring at the church Nathan pastored. Nathan, the connection between you, Becky, and me was instant. How can I explain it? You’re the kind of people I have no problem crying in front of. You neither catastrophize it or ignore it.

When I’ve stayed in your home we’ve spent hours splayed out in chairs, chatting away like girls at a slumber party. Perhaps it is Nathan’s strong maternal bond that makes him emotionally accessible. In any case, I love that quality in a man. Once your eyes teared up when you talked about a needy church member. I said, “Clone him.”

It’s not often that a sensitive person is also buoyant, but I know no one as terminally happy as you, Nathan. I recall one early morning getting ready to drive away from your house. You came out to help load suitcases. When I asked, “How are you this morning, Nate?” you acted as if you actually had to think about it.

“You know, I’m really doing . . . good,” you said with that signature curl in your lip and your eyes shifting from side to side, as one carefully considering an answer. I should have known. You’re always doing good.

I’m about 19 years older than Nathan and 15 years older than David. I like to remind you guys that you could be my children, but the bond isn’t really motherly, it’s more big-sisterly. This way I can be bossy without feeling quite as old. And I do boss you around a bit, especially David, who needs a firmer hand. On occasions I’ve been known to douse him with my water bottle when he gets sassy.

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| twice upon a time I mustn’t get carried away. It’s not as if any human relationship stands on its own. All human love is so incomplete, so frail. All of us have left friendships behind, either because of estrangement, boredom, or just growing apart. Things tend to run in cycles. Eventually circumstances, distance, or personal change moves once-close people away from each other. The old expression “familiarity breeds contempt” too often proves itself true. The romantic phase of a friendship ends and the rush of positive emotions abates, after which commitment and work become necessary to keep the friendship intact. This isn’t to say I anticipate this, but it is to say that human relationships are fickle and unworthy of our complete trust. Left to our own devices, Nate and Dave, we may be arch enemies in five years!

This is why the God factor is so essential to our story. There remains a foundation on which human relationships rest. In fact, all that is stable, good, dependable, and secure balances upon that same foundation.

It is this foundation that has taken the bond between the two of you, forged initially in the teen years, and deepened it through the passage into adulthood. Often the dramatic changes that occur during that passage blow high school friends apart. Indeed, many of your friends have lost touch. But the two of you have tracked together. And that’s because you’ve individually trekked with God. Think about it, my little brothers. Countless children through the ages have blissfully snuggled in bed to the tune of the words “Once upon a time . . .” With this book, they get twice the bliss. This storybook, this “Once upon a time” is Twice Upon a Time. It’s a story with two plots, a drama with two leads, a journey with two paths, a timeline with two subjects. The split is ordinate. None of us live in a vacuum; all of us live in a state of perpetual intertwine. Made in the image of the triune God, we’re interminably social, connective, and engaged. This has a multiplying effect. Each relationship becomes an entity of its own.

Twice Upon a Time is really many stories. It’s the story of David; it’s the story of Nathan; it’s the story of David and Nathan; it’s the story of God and David; it’s the story of God and Nathan; it’s the story of God, David and Nathan . . .

!p r o l o g u e | 11 My young brothers, twice God worked his miracle on your hearts, and it has multiplied from there, fanning out to thousands and even millions who’ve known and loved you, and have known and loved God because of you.

I must get to work. There are hundreds of pieces to fit together, scores of chronologies to reconstruct, pages of little vignettes to puzzle into the meta-narrative. I feel like an explorer, bound to discover the holy wild of God in the midst of the mundane.

I feel like a big sister picking up Legos. Arrrgghhhh! How to bring order out of this chaos you brothers have left me . . .

introduction

|

God loves average, medium people. He visited the shepherds on Bethlehem’s plain with a retinue of incandescent, symphonic angels. He charged the care of His Son to middle-class parents from Nazareth. He discipled twelve work-a-day Joes. We mustn’t despise our averageness, for God speaks through it. In the grand scheme of things, none of us can boast exceptionality. We’re all so small. But the God Who interfaces with us, shaping and guiding events—He is great.

Now, let’s get started. Gather ‘round little children, and I will tell you of two average, ordinary, but amazing young men. Twice upon a time . . .

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.

~sigmund freud

The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.

~theodore hesburgh

The precursor of the mirror is the mother’s face.

~d.w. winnicott

chapter 1

| Wanted: Men

Cheyenne, Wyoming is a windswept, rugged city, where true grit is everywhere—as common as the prairie dust and as conspicuous as the silent, purple mountains. There’s a pluck in the people. You can see it in the eyes and hear it in the mouths, though words are not as common here as in many places. A meeting of the eyes often suffices. Perhaps it’s because of the wind. No description of Wyoming would be complete without the wind. Due to its elevation and peculiarities of position, Cheyenne is one of the windiest, dustiest cities in America. Before modern times, this had a weeding effect.

Weaker folks just couldn’t survive the cold weather, cutting gales, and unforgiving soil, leaving a steeled population and, some would argue, an exceptional gene pool.

Our story begins with a miniscule zygote emerging from that gene pool.

His name would one day be David Asscherick.

Cheyenne rests on the northern tip of Front Range Urban Corridor, a sprawl that has spread like the measles. The ease of urban life belies the spirit of Cheyenne, yet the sprawl lurches on, with all its posers and pretenders. The real cowboys, the true frontiersmen, are a vanishing

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| twice upon a time breed. Before “Cowboy Up” stickers, line dancing, and Garth Brooks, there was the land, the horses, and the men—real men. One such man was Charles Oakley Atkins, David Asscherick’s grandfather.

(And don’t get confused by the differing surnames—this is one of those complicated family sagas, full of love and divorce, marriage and remarriage, abandonment and adoption.)

Charles Oakley Atkins was “Oak” for short. It was one of those perfect nicknames. He was stately and sturdy, unshaken by the Wyoming wind. Oak and his wife Rita spent their lives braving the elements and generally being good, hard-working people. In addition to two boys, they parented a beautiful, cherished daughter named Debra Lou. As a teen Debra Lou fell in love with another teen—a long-haired, jobless, aimless adolescent named Frank Cross. The marriage and pregnancy that ensued were not easy for Oak and Rita. It was too much, too soon, too fast; yet they had no choice but to embrace and help the young couple, and struggle along with them.

That’s what Wyomingites did best—struggle. It was in their genes.

Consider for a moment that gene pool. It is certainly noteworthy that one of the two subjects of this book was a prime candidate for pregnancy termination. The mother was young, the father unstable; money was scarce and the future uncertain. The baby would have joined the silent ranks of unnumbered aborted fetuses but for the beliefs of the mother and her parents. Pregnancy termination was entirely out of the question.

That invisible-yet-powerful shield of moral conviction secured the life of what turned out to be a loving and loveable human being—a person.

Verily, incalculable potential is enveloped in a pregnant womb.

And so on August 16, 1972 a newborn’s tiny cry sundered the air of the Cheyenne Memorial Hospital. The birth, a Caesarian, was a glorious and messy affair—body fluids everywhere, surgical instruments gleaming, doctors all around, mother dazed with medication. Surely she must’ve wondered, as she lay on that operating table, how she would care for a child, being a near-child herself. Such was the unsettled world into

Wanted: Men | which David Charles (after Charles Oakley) Cross was born.

The fresh-faced parents would try to make a go of it. Oak worked for the great Union Pacific railroad and secured employment for Frank. The couple remained married for barely a year. Frank was gone; Debra and David remained. We might say he left his Cross behind, because all that remained of Debra’s dear and David’s dad was a name.

An abandoned Cross.

Years later, at 24, David would phone Mr. Cross. “This is David, your son,” he would say. “Hey, not to overwhelm you or anything, but I thought maybe we could get together for lunch.”

“Oh, my God . . . Oh, my . . . Oh, my God . . . Oh, my,” was all the rattled man could manage.

No lunch.

Three months later, when David tried again, Mr. Cross was, perhaps, less discomfited, but remained unwilling. “I’m too busy. I cannot meet,” he choked. Courage or compassion, or perhaps both, eluded him. David sensed it was the last time he’d attempt a connection.

No lunch again.

Something very strange did happen, however, several years later. Oak, who David describes as the “the kindest and best man I ever knew,” died at 91. The great, deep-rooted tree had fallen. David, by this time, was a Christian minister and was asked by the family to conduct the funeral. David accepted and later called it, “one of the greatest honors of my life.” About 70 people attended the funeral, mostly family. And there was one former family member—Frank. After the sermon and final prayer, the attendees filed past the casket to give their last regards.

David stood by the casket and shook the hands of everyone, including Frank, but the man never introduced himself and so David, having no

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| twice upon a time idea what he looks like—apart from one old picture of him as an 18 year-old holding a newborn (David)—shook his hand unknowingly.

The father knew he was shaking his own son’s hand, but the son did not know that it was his father’s hand.

After the funeral, David’s mother, asked, “Did you see Frank, he was in the third row wearing a red sweater?” David, confused and almost unbelieving, answered, “no, no I didn’t.” David wasn’t quite sure how to feel, or what to do. But one thing he did know: he had just missed Mister Cross.

It was true in more ways than one.

Debra, like so many single mothers, struggled to make ends meet.

Juggling a job and a baby is no mean feat. Increasingly, young David was dropped off at an old red-roofed house on the west end of Pershing Boulevard. It was, of course, Oak and Rita’s house. Happily, they lavished the young whippersnapper with no small amount of love.

Some of the very best moments and memories in David’s life center around “grampa and gramma;” his eyes never fail to brighten with both love and joy when he speaks of them. Indeed, they were almost as much parents as they were grandparents. Oak endearingly called him “old broken rope,” for some unknown reason (though terms of endearment rarely have a rational explanation). Years later David would write in his journal, The Pershing House was, without question, my favorite place on earth as a child. Oh how I loved that house and all it represented! The huge backyard (which seems surprisingly small today), the dirt-floored garage, the towering steps that led steeply upstairs, the dark basement (with the absolutely terrifying, tentacled furnace), and, by far most importantly, the ponderously tall crab apple tree that seemed to swallow up the backyard.

I knew every square inch of that home and yard. It was my home. Or so it seemed, as I spent so much time there.

Clearly it is love that colors those memories, making even a dirt floor

Wanted: Men | and crab apple tree appear nigh-magical. Were it not for the overflowing and unceasing love of Debra, Oak, and Rita, it is unlikely that David (or his younger brother, Robert) would be the well-adjusted, loving people that they are today.

Less than a year after the crumbling of her first marriage, Debra embarked on her second. This time to one Glen Dorminey. The marriage lasted nearly six years, much of which was spent in the great anti-Wyoming called Florida. David’s memory of this time is, perhaps predictably, quite shadowy, but he does recall a somewhat traumatic moment that probably embodies the distress he felt. He had a great fear of Glen spanking him. One day he had soiled his pants and came crying to the door. “You have to stay out of the house because you’re dirty,” he recalls his mother saying. “When your dad comes home you’ll get a spanking.”

No doubt the overwhelmed mother had no desire to traumatize her son, but the absence of a strong parental bond with Glen made such a statement seem like a death sentence.

Debra and Glen struggled to make ends meet and soon joined a Southern Baptist Church, quickly forming a tight circle of friends. Soon the circle became a kind of subculture when the group began to embrace a very fundamentalist form of Christianity which included speaking in ecstatic tongues, exorcisms, gifts of discernment, and miraculous healing.

Satan was, in no small way, the center of the group’s activities and focus. Ironically, and perhaps accurately, the church proper pronounced the group “led of the devil” and excused them from membership.

Thereafter they joined a large nondenominational church. Oddly, the Satan-centered theology and practice was on tap there as well. Years later Debra mused that it seemed they were, “essentially worshiping Satan more than God.” The seeds of this emphasis would bear a bitter fruit in young David.

Barely beyond toddlerhood, David grew anxious. The focus on evil apparently invited its presence. He became simultaneously fascinated and terrorized by a picture in the giant, illustrated family Bible—a dark Renaissance-era painting of Michael, the archangel, casting Lucifer out

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| twice upon a time of heaven. Over and over, as if magnetized and mesmerized, David would creep back to have a look. Perhaps predictably, subconscious anxieties bubbled up in the form of nightmares. The recurrent theme?

Satan was seeking to kill him—always pursuing and often right on his heels. It was too much for the young boy; something had to be done.

Concerned church members visited the home to conduct an exorcismlike ritual. “Tear up the picture and put it in this milk carton,” they instructed Debra. She complied, and the Satan-filled carton was incinerated. The service continued, “Do you have any charms that might be attended by evil spirits?” they asked.

“Yes! My gold zodiac charm,” she recalled. The exorcists buried the charm out of sight.

And, perhaps strangely enough, the nightmares ended.

One might be tempted to consider this a victory for demonology if they forget that the child’s extreme fear of the devil was caused by . . . an extreme fear of the devil. Human beings, particularly children, are highly impressionable. The adults around David were centered on and terrified of Satan—is it any wonder he became similarly terrified?

Denying the existence of evil and evil personages is both decidedly modern and decidedly naïve; enlarging their influence is likewise foolish.

Extreme focus on the demonic can create a self-verifying feedback loop, to say nothing of a fear-based religion.

Precious little of his time as Glen Dorminey’s son remains in David’s memory. The most valuable take-away of that era was his only bloodrelated sibling, Robert Oakley Asscherick. Born when David was three, baby Robert quickly became one of the two most important people in the boy’s small world. Robert has since sprouted to four inches taller than David, and, David matter-of-factly bemoans, “Three times more handsome.” He recalls the ego-crucifying experience of high school girls telling him his little brother was “hot.” But long before he was a rival for the attention of the neighborhood girls, Robert was a treasured

Wanted: Men | young companion—“the best brother anyone could hope for,” says David. They are still bound tightly together by close friendship, and two intimate and fraternal cords: the same mother, and the experience of father abandonment.

This is where the memories get conflicted, even murky. Debra seems to recall Glen as a “nice guy.” He may indeed have wished to stay connected to his son. But Robert’s experience was one of rejection. To his perceptions, Glen withdrew from his children like a dog from an empty bowl. For whatever the reason, he was an absentee father.

Two brothers. Two dads. Two strikes.

The power of father figures is almost immeasurable, and thus his absence often inerasable. Siring a child is one thing, fathering a child is quite another. A child comes forth to life with a dad-shaped space lodged deep in its heart. Long emptiness of that space takes its toll psychologically, spiritually, and even physically. “The father-wound,” says author Gordon Dalbey, “is an epidemic among us, snowballing down through the generations unto today, when its effects have become so destructive that we cannot ignore it any longer.”1 Good fathering is consistently correlated with better social adjustment, healthier sexual development, greater intellectual growth and even a better sense of humor in children. Predictably, a father’s physical and emotional distance has the opposite effect.2 Fortunately, in the cases of David and Robert, the father wound healed before it was too late. It’s the story of an officer and a gentleman, and actor Richard Gere need not apply.

Here’s how it happened: When the marriage to Glen fell apart, Debra toted her tots back to where they’d last seen the light: Wyoming, of course. It wasn’t long before Debra fell in love with one Lieutenant Richard Asscherick, an Air Force officer stationed at FE Warren Air Force base, Cheyenne. They met at a dance at the Hitching Post, a westernstyle haunt frequented by “fly boys” from the base. When the model-

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| twice upon a time slender, fashionably dressed Debra walked in, Richard turned to his fellow officer and said, “I’ve got mine.” Five months later, on Valentines Day, in—surprise, surprise—Las Vegas, they were married. It was 1979 and David was six years old.

The third time was a charm (and a charmer!), both in terms of a lasting marriage for Debra and a father figure for the brothers-abandoned, David and Robert. David recalls, “The first time I met him I thought, ‘Here we go again.’ But right off, I could tell something was different. I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now. If there is a quality above all others that summarizes who my dad is, it is dignity. It’s not an English lord’s dignity—not august and aloof—it is the dignity of a common person, a perennially friendly and honest person.”

That dignity came at a price—it always does—for Richard Asscherick.

He had some scars of his own (who doesn’t?). Having joined the Air Force at 18, he married a young maiden and with her fathered three children. Sadly, divorce followed not long after. And yet there lay in Richard’s heart a deeper, darker wound. He lost his first child, Marian, when she was just six months old. He had come into her room to check on her, and noticed immediately that she wasn’t breathing. Rushing to the hospital, he ran down the hallway, clutching his dead child in his trembling arms, screaming, “Someone help my baby!”

Marian could not be helped.

But David and Robert could be. And they were!

David distinctly recalls Richard telling him this story. It was the first time David remembers seeing a grown man cry. He didn’t realize this was even possible. Suddenly and scarily he was witnessing something of a completely different order: tears were flowing down a manly face.

It was an unsettling incongruity for young David. “The world suddenly became more dangerous and scary,” he recalls, “I mean, after all, if adults weren’t always in control, then who was? I think I lost a good portion of my childhood naiveté and innocence in that moment. It was entirely disconcerting. The whole world went scary, unpredictable,

Wanted: Men | unfriendly, and ugly all at once. I remember thinking to myself, ‘What am I going to do now? I wish I hadn’t seen him crying like that. What kind of world was this anyway?’”

It’s significant and telling that David couldn’t factor vulnerability into the dignified, friendly image of his new dad. It would have served him well to recognize that love could be vulnerable. Far from being the fruit of instability, those tears were the basis of David’s security, for they proved that the man could love. The words of Ellen White come to mind: “The reason why there are so many hardhearted men and women in the world is that true affection has been regarded as weakness, and has been discouraged and repressed. The better nature of these persons was stifled in childhood; and unless the light of divine love shall melt away their cold selfishness, their happiness will be forever ruined.”3 Rarely have words been truer.

Fortunately and gloriously, the light of divine love began to shine.

David and Robert now found themselves in an environment that would encourage those generous, loving impulses. Their broken home was un-breaking. Leaving the decision up to them, Richard expressed his desire to adopt David and Robert. It was exactly the right thing to do.

In doing so, he reposed confidence, trust, and love in the boys—his new sons.

It wasn’t an instant, knee-jerking “yes.” Having been raised essentially by his mother, David initially recoiled from Richard’s fatherly discipline, once even screaming, “I hate you and I wish you weren’t my dad!” But the resultant look of sorrow on Richard’s face somehow made him glad he was his dad. Soon afterward he walked into Robert’s bedroom and announced, “I’ve decided to be adopted.”

“Me too,” Robert responded. And so it was that each child under the Asscherick roof became an Asscherick.

Richard took Debra’s children as his own. To this day he loves her just like he did when they first met, and he loves her children—who

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| twice upon a time are unreservedly and unqualifiedly his children. David sums it up with characteristic pithiness: “Richard Asscherick was my third dad, but my first father.”

The loving support of a man stabilized Debra as well. Being a daughter of Wyoming, she had always survived, but now she thrived. Returning to school, she graduated with a nursing degree and began working in an oncology clinic. Compassionate, devoted, and tenacious, she excelled as a nurse. Yet, after watching her patients die for three years, she opted to investigate the other end of the life-spectrum and became a neonatal nurse.

Her family burgeoned right along with her career. In the marriage to Richard, she got two new children herself: Wendy and Robert Wayne, or “Wayne” as he became known partially to avoid confusion with Robert Dorminey (who became Robert Asscherick). Wendy was a pretty, smart girl who was closely bonded to her brother Wayne. As the oldest Asscherick kid, Wayne was seven years David’s senior. Though only in junior high, Wayne was nonetheless a towering figure to David. He had a moustache; David still had baby teeth. He often wore a flannel shirt over a t-shirt, buttoning just the bottom two buttons and tucking both shirts into his jeans. David tried to emulate him, only to elicit cries of “geek!” from the girls at school. The look just didn’t work for a skinny seven year-old. One needed teen-sized pectoral muscles—or at least a chest. A moustache couldn’t have hurt either.

Wayne had a fast car. It was loud and, to David and Robert, beautiful.

He would drive it around the neighborhood, exuding an effortless cool.

David wanted everyone to know that this James Dean character was his older brother. It’s a safe guess that Wayne didn’t share David’s enthusiasm in this regard.

One particular event is freeze-framed in David’s memory, probably because it epitomizes his brother’s ethical clarity. Wayne and his dad sat at the table, talking. Dad had just finished jury duty, and the case had been a long one. “It was a rape trial,” Richard said, “And one particular

Wanted: Men | juror was convinced that the defendant was innocent. He was alone in that conviction. The others tried to persuade him with the evidence they found compelling . . . he held out for a long time but eventually they wore him out. He got tired of defending his belief, and he . . . gave in. You know, to accommodate them . . .”

Wayne slammed his fist on the table and shot up out of his chair, incensed. “That’s unacceptable!” he said with disgust, “If that was me, I would stand on my little piece of ground no matter what. I couldn’t care less what others think! It wouldn’t matter to me if the whole world disagreed! If I’m convinced that I’m right, I’m not going to change just because someone else thinks I should!”

Richard smiled, proud of his son’s convictions-turned-tirade. David was proud of him, too. “It’s true what Wayne is saying,” he reflected, “It’s right to stand for what you believe even if others disagree and look down on you.” And so David began to absorb the ethos of the Asscherick family. Illustratively, Richard once had a hat that read: “That’s My Opinion, and it Ought to be Yours!” (Though, in fairness to Richard, it was a gift. An appropriate gift, yes, but a gift nonetheless.)

Like father like son: life was pretty simple and not-a-little black and white for Wayne—there were good guys and bad guys. And as far as David was concerned, Wayne was a good guy. Not surprisingly, then, Wayne went on to become—what else?—a police officer.

Because Richard and Debra yearned for a child of their own, the couple adopted seven year-old Elizabeth, a sweet, adaptable, and mischievous little addition. In other words, a perfect fit. This rounded out the Asscherick family to a perfect seven; Richard and Debra, Wayne, Wendy, David, Robert, and Elizabeth. Sandwiched in the middle of a lively, engaging, and at times confusing family, David’s relational nature began to flourish. He finally had the home he’d always wanted, with a real-life dad, and a last name he would keep for the rest of his days on earth.

25

The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.

~Thomas Jefferson

Family life is a bit like a runny peach pie—not perfect but who’s complaining?

~Robert Brault

The informality of family life is a blessed condition that allows us to become our best while looking our worst.

~Marge Kennedy

Describing the wonder of friendship, Solomon said “two are better than one.” This factual coming-of-age story begins with a twosome— David Asscherick and Nathan Renner—before their paths crossed. As children the rugged West invigorates and toughens them, instilling an awe of nature and a love of conquest. Adolescence sees them foray into skateboarding, rock climbing, and straightedge punk rock music.

Finally, what appears to be fate connects them, tumbling them together in the same late 20 th century youth culture and spitting them out as ardent followers of a new faith.