I was jittery, contemplating the introduction that was about to take place. The air inside the cab of the retro Range Rover that Scott was driving smelled like salty air and seat leather. I gripped my colossal laptop tighter and blindly scanned the notes that I had jotted down. A few of them read:

What did your childhood home look like?

What was it like growing up in the jungle?

How did you know your mom never loved your dad?

We pulled up to a beautiful home, with columns and lush Florida landscaping. Scott led the way to the front door and smiled, probably sensing my nervous excitement. A man with a kind, welcoming smile greeted us at the door.

“I’m Rindy,” he said, gripping my hand.

Rindy, I thought, his name belongs in a book.

He led us to a beautifully furnished sitting room and I began to fire away questions enthusiastically. I was pretty certain that almost anyone could outrank me with credentials, but I don’t think anyone else could outrank my enthusiasm for his story (which is still true today).

“I remember…oh going back when I was eight of nine years old that my family and I lived in the jungle in a silt house,” he began. “We lived there because of a tiger and every night my dad would take up the ladder, afraid that the tiger might climb it.”

Are you kidding me? I thought. This is too perfect. I was already writing the beginning of the story, my mind painting vivid pictures of a grassy hut, standing on legs, in the middle of a jungle in Cambodia. I could see the tiger, hear its purr, feel its yellow eyes. Sitting on his couch, the first chapter “The Stilt House” was born.

I interviewed Rindy for most of the day, starting with questions and transcribing everything he said as quickly as I could type (talk about typos). I was surprised and thankful for the amount of detail that he remembered and how vividly he described everything. At one point, he and his wife demonstrated the meager amount of rice that they were typically allotted while in the labor camps. It was barely a half a cup. Emotion and memories paraded across his countenances as he relayed it all- the good, the evil, the death, the salvation, and the forgiveness. I couldn’t comprehend what he had been through and I couldn’t believe that the man sitting before me with the kind, smiling eyes had been through more pain and suffering than most people could endure in 10 lifetimes.

Rindy was that day, and continues to be today, the picture of redemption. While the pain of the past is real and tangible, the saving power of Jesus is greater still. It’s a power that transcends culture, time and socioeconomic status. He doesn’t just kind of save and restore, but He remakes and remolds. I didn’t have to squint a certain way to see it, it was just there, before my eyes, as plain as the black and white scrawled across the page that sat in front of me.

This truth is what has kept me going. The journey has been long (loooonnnnng) and it’s not over (getting closer though), but I remind myself (almost daily) that the end will be worth it. To be honest, sometimes I’m going 100% on faith, because I’ve never done this before and the stats on those actually succeeding at landing a book deal are slim (like rejection is PROMISED). Yet I remind myself again (and again and again) that this story is not about me and that the outcome is not about me. It’s about Rindy and his story and wrapped inside of that is His story, which makes it truly worth being told.