George Bush: Decision Points

Two weeks later, I was in my office in Midland—I had been shuttling back and forth to Dallas—when I got a call from Dr. James Boyd. He was in charge of Laura’s care, and he was not big on chitchat. “George,” he said, “you are having your children tomorrow. I will deliver them at six in the morning.” I asked about Laura’s health. He said she would be okay. “What about the girls?” He said, “They will be five weeks premature. They will be fine. But the time to move is now.” I called Laura to tell her how thrilled I was. Then I called her parents in Midland, my parents in Washington, a bunch of our friends—and, of course, the airlines.

I’ve been to some exciting events in my life—presidential inaugurations, speeches in front of huge crowds, throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium—but there was nothing like the moment those girls were born. Laura was in bed and sedated. I stroked her head. Before long, the doctor held up a tiny red body. The baby screamed, and the doctor proclaimed her healthy. A nurse cleaned her and gave her to me. Little Barbara. And then the same for Jenna. We wanted our girls to carry the names of two fine women, so we named them after our mothers.

Barbara Bush and Jenna Welch holding their namesakes.

I had thought about those girls for so long that I could barely believe they were in my arms. It was the day before Thanksgiving 1981. And thankful is exactly how I felt. I was thankful to God for their lives, thankful to the skilled medical team for their excellent care, and thankful to Laura for her determination to carry our girls long enough that they could be born healthy.

Holding Barbara and Jenna for the first time was a moment of incredible clarity. I had been given a blessing and a responsibility. I vowed to be the best father I could possibly be.

One relieved and happy dad.

Those early months provided a wakeup call. The girls would cry in the middle of the night. I would pick them up, one in each arm, and walk around the house. I wanted to sing them a lullaby, but I didn’t really know any. Instead, I usually went with the Yale fight song “Bulldog Bulldog, Bow Wow Wow.” That would calm them down, maybe just because they didn’t want to hear me sing anymore. Whatever the reason, it worked. I would lay them in their cribs and go back to Laura as one happy dad.

As Laura and I were adjusting to life with our new family, I was running a new business. In 1979, I started a small energy exploration company in Midland. I raised money, mostly from the East Coast, to finance drilling in low-risk, low-return oil and gas wells. I made some respectable finds, including some that are still producing. I also drilled my fair share of dry holes. Running a small business taught me a lot, especially that market conditions can change quickly, so you’d better be prepared for the unexpected.

As oil prices softened in 1983, I decided to merge my operations with two entrepreneurs from Cincinnati, Bill DeWitt and Mercer Reynolds. I would be the eyes and ears on the ground in Texas, and they would raise funds back east. The business did well for a couple of years, and we became close friends. But in early 1986, the price of oil plummeted from twenty-six dollars to ten dollars a barrel. A lot of people I knew had borrowed heavily and were now in dire financial jeopardy. Fortunately, we had kept our debt low, and we were able to merge our business into a larger publicly traded company, Harken Energy.

The mid-1980s were gloomy years in Midland. There was a sense of anxiety, and many were searching for purpose. Religion had always been part of my life, but I really wasn’t a believer. I was baptized in Yale’s nondenominational Dwight Hall Chapel. When I was young my parents took me to First Presbyterian in Midland, St. Martin’s Episcopal in Houston, and St. Ann’s Episcopal in Kennebunkport.

I went to church at Andover because it was mandatory. I never went at Yale. I did go when I visited my parents, but my primary mission was to avoid irritating Mother. Laura and I were married at First United Methodist in Midland. We started going regularly after the girls were born, because we felt a responsibility to expose them to faith. I liked spending time with friends in the congregation. I enjoyed the opportunity for reflection. Once in a while, I heard a sermon that inspired me. I read the Bible occasionally and saw it as a kind of self-improvement course. I knew I could use some self-improvement. But for the most part, religion was more of a tradition than a spiritual experience. I was listening but not hearing.

In the summer of 1985, we took our annual trip to Maine. Mother and Dad had invited the great evangelical preacher Billy Graham. Dad had asked him to answer some questions from the family after dinner. That was typical of Dad, always willing to share. It would have sent a signal of importance to have had Billy to himself, but that is not George H.W. Bush. He is a generous man, devoid of a big ego. So there we sat, about thirty of us—Laura, my grandmother, brothers and sister, first and second cousins—in the large room at the end of the house on Walker’s Point.

The first question was from Dad. He said, “Billy, some people say you have to have a born-again experience to go to heaven. Mother [my grandmother] here is the most religious, kind person I know, yet she has had no born-again experience. Will she go to heaven?” Wow, pretty profound question from the old man. We all looked at Billy. In his quiet, strong voice, he replied, “George, some of us require a born-again experience to understand God, and some of us are born Christians. It sounds as if your mom was just born a Christian.”

I was captivated by Billy. He had a powerful presence, full of kindness and grace, and a keen mind. The next day, he asked me to go for a walk around the property. He asked about my life in Texas. I talked to him about the girls and shared my thought that reading the Bible could make me a better person. In his gentle, loving way, Billy began to deepen my shallow understanding of faith. There’s nothing wrong with using the Bible as a guide to self-improvement, he said. Jesus’ life provides a powerful example for our own. But self-improvement is not really the point of the Bible. The center of Christianity is not the self. It is Christ.

Talking with the Reverend Billy Graham, three decades after he deepened my understanding of faith. White House/Paul Morse

Billy explained that we are all sinners, and that we cannot earn God’s love through good deeds. He made clear that the path to salvation is through the grace of God. And the way to find that grace is to embrace Christ as the risen Lord—the son of a God so powerful and loving that He gave His only son to conquer death and defeat sin.

These were profound concepts, and I did not fully grasp them that day. But Billy had planted a seed. His thoughtful explanation had made the soil less firm and the brambles less thick.

Shortly after we got back to Texas, a package from Billy arrived. It was a copy of The Living Bible . He had inscribed: “To my friend George W. Bush, May God bless you and Laura always.” He included a reference to Philippians 1:6: “And I am certain that God, who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns.”