The Letter—August 17, 2026

If you’re reading this—The Letter—then you already know.

We’re gone.

Me. Your kids. A few of your friends, probably. My cousin Milton. (He lived for this!)

You’re likely asking the same question millions are asking this week: “Where did everybody go?”

So let me tell you before the enemy spins his usual lies and leaves you in further darkness.

I didn’t simply disappear. I was taken. And I’ve been waiting my whole life to go home like this. I never wanted to go on the bus of cancer or old age, or a bad heart. No, this is the bus I’ve waited to board: the one that idles in the clouds.

You know me as Dad—from the bottom looking up. You never knew me as a child or teen, so I’ll give you a peek at why this letter, this day, is one of the biggest in my life.

In high school, in college—for as long as I can remember—I have been fixated on God. Can’t explain it. I only enjoyed it.

I was the one thousandth member of St. Mark’s United Methodist Church in Raleigh. Mom and Dad helped found the church. They left when Malloy Owen started his television show. Thought him too big for his britches. Praise Jesus, they never lived long enough to see YouTube and TickClock and all. We then helped form North Raleigh United Methodist. So all the while, I’ve been in church.

But it wasn’t until I went to State that I really gave my life to Jesus. I was baptized into His Holy Spirit in the auditorium of D. H. Hill (Daniel Harvey Hill, major general in Bobby Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia). Soon afterward, I felt compelled to be water baptized in the pond at New Life Camp, a couple of miles from our house. From that moment on, I have read, studied, listened to, and waited for the coming of Jesus.

And now that day is here—at least for me.

So no, I’m not—as I’m sure some in the media are reporting—part of some survivalist cult that retreated into the mountains. I’m not writing this from a cabin in Montana with a six-year stash of peanut butter and ammo. I’m writing this from our Green Room on another hot, humid day in North Carolina.

By the way, the bird feeders need filling. Also, cut the grass or pay someone to cut it. You know how I loved to keep my lawn looking green and clean and mowed.

Maybe you’ll dismiss this letter—but I don’t think you will. I know you always thought your dad was a little out there. Too quick to say what I believed to the wrong person at the wrong time. Kidded around as if life wasn’t all that important. But I’m being serious now. This letter is my heart, and it may be my last chance to bring you with me where I am.

The Letter—Why Now?

I hope you’ll read to the end. Because this letter was written and mailed a month before you received it and a week before I vanished. I intentionally mailed it from a remote town that only collects mail from its sidewalk box once a week. Remember those postcards your mom mailed from Cinque Terre, Italy, that arrived three months after we got back home? That gave me the idea. I wanted you to know that I knew—or had a pretty good hunch—that I was about to be “caught up” to be with Jesus.

And even if this letter never reached you, there’s the email I scheduled in Gmail to go out the last week of September. And there’s a text coming around the same time that says all this, only shorter. Getting that text scheduled took a little more effort, but with the help of AI, I figured it out.

The Letter—How Did I Know?

You may be wondering: how did I know?

Jesus said no one knows the day or hour of His return (Matthew 24:36). I never claimed I did. But I would tell anyone who’d listen that Jesus was coming in September 2026. Most warned me to be careful. That everyone who’d ever said something like that was wrong. But Jesus also said we would know the season (Matthew 24:32–33). And for those who’ve been watching, the seasons have been shouting for years.

2026 was not a random number. Based on all my studies, 2026 marks 2,000 years since Jesus began His ministry.

Yes, I know others say His ministry began in 30 A.D., but I go with what the Gospel of Luke says (Luke 3:1–2). Since Herod died in 4 BC (or thereabouts), and Luke mentions a census under Quirinius, I believe Jesus was born around 4 BC. 4 + 26 = 30—the age at which a prophet begins his ministry.

But there’s also this.

From Adam to Abraham? About 2,000 years.

From Abraham to Jesus? Another 2,000.

From Jesus to now? You guessed it: 2,000.

And there’s that strange but beautiful line in Hosea 6:2:

“After two days He will revive us; on the third day He will raise us up.”

And Peter reminds us in 2 Peter 3:8 that a day with the Lord is like a thousand years.

Two days—two thousand years—we’re revived.

The third day—another thousand—we reign with Jesus on earth.

Then the end comes. The third day ends. And so does time.

The calculations may not be exact. Calendars vary. And like Jesus says, no one really knows, but…

Each time God shifted how He related to mankind, it came with warning, mercy, and judgment. We’ve been in the long pause—the Church Age—for two millennia. But the pause is over. Israel is back in her land. I believe the Time of the Gentiles is coming to a close.

You remember those feast days I used to talk about? Well, maybe I didn’t talk about it with you, but I did with others.

The Jewish feasts:

• Passover? Jesus died as the Lamb of God—during Passover.
• Unleavened Bread? He claimed to be the Bread of Life—during the Feast of Unleavened Bread.
• First fruits? He rose from the dead—and became the first fruit of salvation.
• Pentecost? The spring harvest—the gathering in (to Himself!)—fell on the exact day Jesus poured out His Spirit on believers.

So what’s next on the Jewish feast calendar?

The Feast of Trumpets

It’s the first of the fall feasts. It’s called Yom Teruah—the day of the awakening blast.

The day of shouting, of trumpets, of gathering the final harvest of the year.

The day no man knows—because it depends on the sighting of the new moon.

Look it up. Check out 1 Thessalonians 4:16.

“For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first…”

In Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians (1 Thessalonians 5), he warns that the coming of Jesus for His own will precede horrific times. While the world is saying, “Peace and safety!”, we will be snatched away.

See ya!

Paul and Jesus both confirm that His coming is like a thief: suddenly, without warning. But Paul goes on to say we should not be surprised. If we’re watching, we’ll be ready. In fact, both Paul and Jesus command us to watch, be ready, study, keep looking…

It’s like when Mom used to pick me up from school. Most times, I’d be the last kid at school when she’d finally pull up from delivering Tupperware. But she always came for me. That’s this for me—a long life of watching.

This moment reminds me of the parable Jesus told of the ten virgins (Matthew 25:1–13). They were waiting for Jesus. Then, in the dead of night, they fell asleep. Five had lamps and oil. The other five only had lamps. When Jesus came, the five with oil trimmed their lamps and joined Him. The other five missed out. They were shut out of the wedding feast.

God’s Word is a lamp to our feet (Psalm 119:105)

God’s oil is His Holy Spirit (1 Samuel 16:13, Zechariah 4:6)

Those filled with His Holy Spirit sense that He’s coming soon. We’re staying in His Word. In fact, we’re obsessed with it. For me, His Word has become like a really nice bottle of cab—something I can’t get enough of. That’s His Spirit in me, fueling a constant, eager expectation of His return.

That’s why I wrote this on August 17, drove to a remote location, and instructed a friend to drop it in his town’s corner mailbox on Labor Day. 

Labor Day… Monday, September 7. Feast of Trumpets: Friday, September 11—9/11.

“All these are the beginning of birth pains.” – Jesus (Matthew 24:8)

“The whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.” (Romans 8:22)

“While people are saying, ‘Peace and safety,’ destruction will come on them suddenly, as labor pains on a pregnant woman.” (1 Thessalonians 5:3)

I may be stupid, but I’m not dumb. I’d have to be an idiot to miss the connection.

If I’m wrong, you’ll be reading this and rolling your eyes and thinking: This is so Dad.

Like the time I bought that trimaran, then paid ten grand to turn it into a floating treehouse that couldn’t sail into the wind. Or the time I painted the roof of my car with exterior house paint. Or how I sprayed weed killer on the yard and killed the grass and three trees.

But if I’m right…

If your kids are gone and you are not…

If the world is panicking…

Then go to my house. Get my Bible. It’s on the floor by the couch in the Green Room. I’ll leave it to the two of you to figure out who gets to read the most precious thing I own. Or maybe the two of you will decide to read it together and then come up with a plan about what to do next. Buying a sailboat and getting as far from land is what I’d do, but that’s me: a sailor and surfer. Everything you need to know about what to do next—and what not to do—is in that book.

You still have a chance to be with me, but it will come at a huge cost. I wanted to spare you, but your hearts were never ready to believe what I knew.

You were raised in the church. At age twelve, you both said you wanted to be with Jesus. One of you even walked the aisle at a Franklin Graham event.

But if you’re reading this, that seed never really took root in your heart.

I love you two. And I know you love your kids. Both are with me now.

Because of their age, your kids caught a break. Jesus said, “Let the little ones come to Me. To them belongs the kingdom of God.” So your kids are fine. But if you want to see them again, you’ll have to man up, read up, and live up to the call that was once in your heart.

Raised in the church, been through Bible Study Fellowship, counselors at Christian camps… You had the word and chances. So how is it you’re reading this letter?

Now is the time to receive for real and believe with your whole heart.

Love you.

Hope to see you soon.

But if I don’t, then I never knew you. 

Sorry, but it has to be that way. Knowing that you’re suffering eternal torment would be pure hell and I’m in heaven.

Dad