When you\u2019re a freelance cameraman like I am, you can\u2019t always pick and choose your assignments. Often, you accept work not out of any particular affinity you have for the subject but because you have bills to pay and a family to feed.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, though, you\u2019re fortunate enough to land an assignment that you can really get into and feel passionate about, even learn from. You pray for jobs like that. Well, I do anyway.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s why I was pumped when I got a call from a local client last April. They were selected to shoot a documentary on Paul Young, a novelist in my area who wrote the surprise best seller The Shack<\/em>. They asked if I\u2019d be their cameraman.<\/p>\n Are you kidding?<\/em> I thought. I loved shooting documentaries. And about a book that my wife, Julie, and I had both enjoyed immensely? It\u2019s the story of a man who meets God when he\u2019s at the lowest point in his life, inspired by Paul Young\u2019s own dramatic spiritual journey.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t intend for it to be published. He wrote it for his children, to show them the redemptive power of faith. He printed up 15 copies at Office Depot and gave it to family and friends for Christmas. His friends passed it around. Eventually a major publisher picked it up and The Shack<\/em> became an international phenomenon, with 14.5 million copies sold worldwide.<\/p>\n The crew and I shot a series of interviews with Paul, at his beautiful suburban house and at different locations around town. Writing the book, he said, had been his offering to God, who\u2019d reached him and restored him when he\u2019d hit bottom.<\/p>\n Listening to him over the course of several days, I was struck by his assurance that good followed faith. I believed in God, but I had a lot of questions about how exactly he works in our lives.<\/p>\n One afternoon, as we were wrapping up for the day, the producer said to me, \u201cWe\u2019re going to film the last segment tomorrow at Paul\u2019s old house, where he lived when he wrote the book.\u201d<\/p>\n The next morning I picked her up at her hotel and together we drove over. We pulled up in front of a modest house on a quiet street about 20 minutes from my home.<\/p>\n \u201cPaul sure has come a long way from here,\u201d the producer remarked.<\/p>\n A shiver went through me. \u201cI think I know this house,\u201d I told her.<\/p>\n Six years ago I had driven to a house that looked very much like this one, on a far different mission. After years of struggle as a freelancer, I\u2019d finally carved out a comfortable career in sales.<\/p>\n Christmas had turned from a time of anxiety, from Can we afford anything besides the necessities this year? How will we break it to our kids that we won\u2019t be able to see their cousins in California?<\/em> to a time of celebration, visits to relatives and gifts under the tree.<\/p>\n Our family had been freed from want, and I wanted to find some way to pass our blessings along.<\/p>\n Christmas was coming. The local paper was full of stories of people struggling to keep their families afloat. \u201cWe could donate to a charity,\u201d Julie suggested. But I wanted to do something more directly.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat if I could find one husband, one father, to help anonymously?\u201d I said. I\u2019d slip one hundred dollars under his door. To the recipient, it would be a gift from God, not from me. Julie was all for it.<\/p>\n A few days later, a friend of a friend, Scott Closner, told me about a family of eight that was just about broke. The husband was working three jobs trying to keep his house warm and his kids fed.<\/p>\n Sounded perfect. I knew what it felt like to disappoint your family on Christmas. I asked my acquaintance for the address. He gave it to me, then said, \u201cHis name is\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, don\u2019t tell me,\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t want to know his name any more than I want him to know mine.\u201d<\/p>\n