You may have heard of George Müller. He was the German-born man who founded orphanages in Great Britain in the 19th Century and did not ask people directly for financial support. One of the more apocryphal stories I encountered in the biography told of the orphans, all three hundred of them, gathered for breakfast one morning with the cupboard bare. As was his custom, George prayed and thanked God for his provision. Shortly thereafter, a baker arrived with loaves of bread, saying he had felt compelled the night before to bake the bread for the orphans. No sooner had the baker left than a milk cart broke down outside the orphanage. Fearing the milk would spoil before the cart could be fixed, the owner took the milk off the truck and gave it to George and the orphans, who drank the milk down to the last drop! Now, here was an example of victorious Christian living I could follow! Just pray it in, right? 
 

Yet there I lay, coughing up my lungs, knowing in a few days it was back to Staten Island and delivering pizzas.
 
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself. I was 33 years old at the time and could point to a few accomplishments in life. I thought of the words of José Martí, the much-beloved Cuban poet, who said, “There are three things you must do to be a man. Plant a tree, have a child, and write a book.” (Ernest Hemingway would later add to the list: “and fight a bull.”) Well, I was on my way. I had a child. His name was Daniel.

I had some other credentials as well. I was an undergrad of the NYU film school and had worked for some production companies in New York. I had also joined WGA, the screenwriters’ guild. And most importantly, as my newfound Christian faith deepened, I was becoming increasingly aware I had a mission to fulfill. George Müller had his orphans; I had my movies! I’m sure there must have been a strange light in my eyes in those days as I looked off in the distance, and like an impassioned revolutionary leading the charge, imagined making films converting the heathen to a saving relationship with Jesus Christ. I believed wholeheartedly in the justice of my cause; I just didn’t know if I would live to see it.

If you’ve followed us at all over these last several years, you are aware that our new film is about a father and son. It so happens that I am the father, and my firstborn, Daniel, the son. Daniel has struggled with mental illness for more than half of his adult life now. I set out to tell our story without a studio bankrolling production, and without name actors in the leading roles. Now, we are near the finish line. Pray for us to cross over. I think we have a beautiful film to share with the world.

By chance, did you see the Academy Awards recently? Everyone has been talking about Will Smith slapping Chris Rock, but don’t let that detract from CODA, the small, independent film that had no stars, but won for Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor, and Best Adapted Screenplay. When Troy Kotsur gave his acceptance speech for Best Supporting Actor, he said (or signed), “This is dedicated to the Deaf community, the CODA community and the disabled community. This is our moment.”

Is it too great a stretch to think that Let Me Have My Son might likewise have its “moment” bringing awareness and heightening the dignity of the mentally ill?
  
We don’t need the Oscars, of course, to grant us that platform. We do need a well-made, heartfelt movie, and that, I tell you, is in the works. Will you pray for us to finish well? I do find myself weak and exposed at times, but you know what? He chooses to keep this little flame alive and nurse this bent reed. “His grace is sufficient, and his power is perfected in my weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). It remains a mystery, friends. I won’t try and explain it; I will just tell you that I am the beneficiary. I burn dimly and I’m bent at times by the load I carry. But I’m undeterred. I know he’s watching over me. He doesn’t laugh at me; he looks at me kindly and with love.

 
God bless you and thanks for reading.