William H. (Buddy) Phillips refers to himself as just an old tired, used-up, country preacher, now retired. He likens his life story to that of a Forest Gump on steroids. He had indeed lived a remarkable life filled with spills, thrills and misadventures before and after becoming a man of the cloth. For Buddy, as most call him, the story is not all peaches and cream as the elders used to say. If that is true, then the adverse is also true. Life is not all about gloom and doom or misery and hurt. In Buddy's words, "I stand at the edge of the dark retirement abyss with my toes dangling over the edge. When mounting enough courage to peer into the darkness, I see nothing. All I see is what is behind me. I have been called preacher, parson, pastor, and once priest for forty-two years. Before that, I was called an EMT, a Paramedic, and a First Responder. I have been called a father, Dad by the children and husband by my wife. I flew airplanes, so I was called a pilot. I rode a big Harley and was called a biker. I was called brother by two younger siblings. My two brothers were killed at an early age.

I feel like I lived a dozen lifetimes. I have been loved by many, but the most by one. I have been despised by many and hated by a few. Many have called me a friend. I was raised in a four-room, eight-hundred square foot house, became homeless, lived in a YMCA, and now live in a house nearly five times the size of my childhood home. In between, I have gone hungry for days numerous times. Once there was only a pair of faded jeans (not in style then), two shirts, a few socks, and a pair of suede high top Hush Puppies. I began work plowing for Gideon Smith at twelve for twenty-five cents an hour behind a mule. I pumped gas and was a bagboy. I have held numerous other jobs. I painted, fixed cars, welded pipe, managed multi-million-dollar budgets and went from one of the smallest churches in the conference to the largest.

I have held people in my arms and felt them die. But I also held the hands of others who found new life for their souls. I ate in the school lunchroom to dining in five-star restaurants. I have met the hobo, the bum, the derelict, the infamous, and the famous. I walked the halls of many derelict and crumbling buildings. But I also walked in majestic buildings like the curved halls of the United Nations and sat there in the General Assembly discussing Middle Eastern conflict. I remember staring at the podium where I, as a child, saw Nikita Khrushchev, in black and white, pound his shoe on the podium. There are far too many contrasts to put them all down. But I must say this. I have never been a saint. Only a full-blown sinner. As you will undoubtedly see for yourself.

I have been told, some stressful experiences. such as chronic childhood abuse. These are so overwhelming and traumatic; the memories hide like a shadow in the brain. At first, hidden memories that can't be consciously accessed may protect the individual from the emotional pain of recalling the event. But eventually, those suppressed memories can cause debilitating psychological problems, such as anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, or dissociative disorders. Repressed memory is a survival technique built into the mind. Add to that the sights and sounds that came with being a paramedic you will understand why my good friend who was a counselor, Dr. James E. Hunter, told me I was the victim of eternal PTSD and one of the "Burned of God."

So, when do you really start telling your story? A friend said, "Tell it all!" But I do not know that I can. I certainly do not know, except for maybe my family, that anyone would want to read it."

Prepare to meet a remarkable man, one of the smartest many will say they have ever known.