The man of the house is tall, lean and so bald that his head shines almost as much as his smile. He worked law enforcement all his career. As a state trooper, he once rescued the Beatles from crazed fans after a St. Louis concert.

He worked for the federal government as well, something to do with organized crime and exploding body parts. I don’t ask for details; I just nod. He served with the Secret Service under Presidents Ford, Clinton, “Daddy Bush” and Vice President Dan Quayle. Barbara Bush was his favorite even though she wasn't a president.

He’s retired now, mastering the art of gardening and the go-to guy if you have concerns about a tree. Rabbits eating the bark off your dogwood? Call him.

Writing is his chief enjoyment. He’s written 29 books, none of them published. That doesn’t diminish his enthusiasm one semicolon, nor should it. A lot of good writers are never published, and some published writers aren’t all that good. He prints out his manuscripts, tucks them in three-ring binders and passes them among friends who receive his creations with delight.

At the center of his writing room sits a stately desk with a brass lamp, a desk pad, a pencil holder and a day calendar. The desk sits in front of windows that frame lush greenery and channel oceans of soft, natural light.

The center desk drawer is organized with precision. A divided tray holds a solar calculator, Post-it notes, mechanical pencil refills, scissors, a pink highlighter, a magnifying glass and a small compartment in the middle containing 40 brightly colored paper clips: turquoise, sky blue, hot pink, lime green, white and neon yellow.

Nobody touches the paper clips. He says that with a smile, probably the same smile he wore when he yelled, “MOVE IT!” at the Beatles.

Not even he uses the paper clips. “Those are special,” he says. “I won’t use them. I’m still emotional.”

The paper clips were a gift when he was diagnosed with advanced cancer and underwent 40 radiation treatments. The clips were linked together and hung on the kitchen wall. After each radiation treatment, he and his wife would return home and, because he was so utterly exhausted, she would remove a paper clip.

Each blast of radiation was followed by one less paper clip.

It didn’t look like progress at first. Slowly, gradually the chain began to shrink.

They monitored it when they sat down for a meal, skipped a meal because he was too sick to eat, or when they walked to the garage to head out for another treatment.

One of my most beloved theologians, Ray Stedman, once wrote, “Suffering is part of the program.” Who was better acquainted with suffering than Christ? It was the path to resurrection and life after death.

Most of us subconsciously acknowledge that suffering is part of the program—particularly for others. Then we are shocked when we find ourselves in that equation.

Nobody escapes this life unscathed. Everybody goes through something.

When darkness falls, your steps falter and the path ahead is frightening, keep inching forward, keep believing, keep praying.

The path through suffering is one paper clip at a time.

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