A Burning in My Bones預覽

Truly Human

Embarking on this remarkable journey researching Eugene’s story and putting it to paper, I made multiple visits to the Petersons at their home on Flathead Lake. On my first trip, Eugene led me down stone steps off their back deck, past their kayaks propped against the house, and opened the screen door into their crawl space. Eugene flipped the switch, and a 100-watt bulb flickered and sizzled.

Against the wall stood two black metal filing cabinets stuffed with thousands of letters, old manuscripts, decades of scribblings, thirty years of kitchen calendars marking every major event in their lives, letters from prominent religious and literary figures, notes of immense admiration (criticism too). On makeshift shelves sat stacks of his books (many with corners nibbled by mice) that hit the NY Times bestseller list and nearby sat open boxes, overflowing with black and white photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings. So much there, and yet, whenever I’d come back up to the house, he’d ask, “Winn, did you find anything worthwhile?” He could not comprehend why any of this was interesting. To Eugene, it was simply his life.

It was probably the third visit, when I happened into one of the Peterson’s side closets (where Eugene had tucked away his many publishing and leadership awards) and found, in a long row on the floor, thirty-three journals. Eugene’s private thoughts, scratched onto these pages, over four decades. For a biographer, this was like a miner hitting the mother lode. I crammed the journals into a suitcase and flew them back home with me to Virginia.

However, as I opened the first diary, I felt apprehension. What would I discover? Did I really want the unvarnished Eugene, what he might say when he could talk as freely as he wanted? Was I prepared to encounter (as I did) the hardships in their marriage, his struggles and failings, his doubts and fears? Did I want the real Eugene—or only the persona of Eugene, the Eugene from a distance? Did I want the truly human Eugene?

Those months immersed in Eugene’s inner world made me peer more deeply into my own. Do I see myself as God does—as a very imperfect person who is nevertheless completely loved? Am I comfortable with my humanness? Am I comfortable with others?