I am a magazine;
my name is Guideposts;
this issue that you are reading marks my 15th anniversary.

When I came into being, 15 years ago, I had one primary purpose: to help men and women everywhere to know God better, and through knowing Him better to become happier and more effective people.
That purpose has never changed.

When you read me, you are holding in your hands the product of many minds and hearts.
Some of the people who speak through my pages are famous;
others unknown.
Some work with their hands.
Some have walked through pain and sorrow to bring you their message of hope.
Some are so filled with gratitude, for the gift of life and the love of God, that their joy spills out on the paper and brightens the lives of thousands whom they have never known, and will never see.

Fifteen years ago, there were no Guideposts at all.
This month a million Guideposts will circulate all over the world.
Experts in the publishing field consider this astounding.
They do not understand how a small magazine with no advertising and no newsstand sale could have achieved such a following.

To me, the explanation is very simple.
I am not doing anything, of myself.
I am merely a channel for something.

What is this something?
I cannot define it fully.
It is the force in the universe that makes men love goodness, even when they turn away from it.
It is the power that holds the stars in their orbits, but allows the wind to bend a blade of grass.
It is the whisper in the heart that urges each one to be better than he is.
It is mankind's wistful yearning for a world of justice and peace.

All things are possible to God, but He chooses -- usually -- to work through people.
Sometimes such people sense that they are being used;
sometimes not.

Fifteen years ago, troubled by the rising tide of materialism in the post-war world, a businessman and a minister asked themselves if there might not be a place for a small magazine in which men and women, regardless of creed or color, could set forth boldly their religious convictions and bear witness to the power of faith to solve the endless problems of living.

The businessman was Raymond Thornburg.
The minister was Norman Vincent Peale.
Neither had any publishing experience, but they had faith in their idea.
They borrowed a typewriter, raised about $2,000 in contributions, hired a secretary, persuaded a couple of young men to join them for almost no pay and began mailing out a collection of unstapled leaflets that they called Guideposts.

Compared to the big, established magazines, my first efforts seemed feeble indeed.
But from the start they had two important ingredients: sincerity and realism.
The people who told the stories were sincere.
And the stories they told were true.

For example, early in my life, when one of my editorial workers wanted to find out how churches and philanthropic organizations met the needs of New York's down-and-outers, he didn't just ask questions.
Len LeSourd went and lived in the slums as a sidewalk derelict for ten days.

That was nearly 13 years ago.
Len LeSourd is my executive editor today.

Many of you are familiar, I'm sure, with the story of my early struggles: the fire in January, 1947, that destroyed everything -- even our precious list of subscribers.
The help and sympathy that were forthcoming from everywhere.
The crisis later on when debts seemed about to overwhelm me.

That was when a remarkable woman, Teresa Durlach, came to my aid -- not so much with money, as with wisdom and courage.
"You're not living up to your own principles", she told my discouraged people.
"You're so preoccupied that you've let your faith grow dim.
What do you want -- a hundred thousand subscribers?
Visualize them, then, believe you are getting them, and you will have them"!

And the 100,000 subscribers became a reality.
And then 500,000.
And now a million January Guideposts are in circulation.

With our growth came expansion into new fields of service.
Today more than a thousand industries distribute me to their employees.
They say all personnel have spiritual needs which Guideposts helps to meet.
Hundreds of civic clubs, business firms and individuals make me available to school teachers throughout the land.
They say it helps them bring back into schools the spiritual and moral values on which this country was built.

Thousands of free copies are sent each month to chaplains in the Armed Forces, to prison libraries and to hospitals everywhere.
Bedridden people say I am easy to hold -- and read.
Three years ago it became possible to finance a Braille edition for blind readers.

Throughout these exciting years I have been fortunate for, although I have never offered great financial inducements, talent has found its way to me: William Boal who so ably organizes business operations;
John Beach who guides circulation;
Irving Granville and Nelson Rector who travel widely calling on business firms.

Searching for the best in spiritual stories, my roving editors cover not only the country, but the whole world.
Glenn Kittler has been twice to Africa, once spending a week with Dr. Albert Schweitzer.
Last summer John and Elizabeth Sherrill were in Alaska.
Van Varner recently returned from Russia.

Twice a month the editorial staff meets in New York for an early supper, then a long evening of idea-exchange.
Around the table sit Protestant, Catholic, and Jew.
Each contributes something different, and something important: Ruth Peale, her wide experience in church work;
Sidney Fields, years of experience as a New York columnist;
Catherine Marshall LeSourd, the insight that has made her books world-famous and Norm Mullendore, the keen perception of an advertising executive.

There are people who travel long distances to assure my continued existence.
Elaine St. Johns may fly in from the West Coast for the editorial staff meetings.
Starr Jones gets up every morning at five o'clock, milks his family cow, attends to farm chores, and then takes a two-hour train trip to New York.
Arthur Gordon comes once a month all the way from Georgia.

We have also seen the power of faith at work among us.
Rose Weiss, who handles all the prayer-requests that we receive, answering each letter personally, has the serene selflessness that comes from suffering: she has had many major operations, and now gets about in a limited way on braces and crutches.
Recently, John Sherrill was stricken with one of the deadliest forms of cancer.
We prayed for John, during surgery, we asked others to pray;
all over the country a massive shield of prayer was thrown around him.
Today the cancer is gone.

Perhaps it is not fair to mention some people without mentioning all.
But, you see, those who are not mentioned will not resent it.
That is the kind of people they are.

Perhaps you think the editorial meetings are solemn affairs, a little sanctimonious?
Not so.
Serious, yes, but also much laughter.
Sharp division of opinion, too, and strenuous debate.
There are brain-wracking searches for the right word, the best phrase, the most helpful idea.
And there is also something intangible that hovers around the table.
A good word for it is fellowship.
A shorter word is.

Each meeting starts with a prayer, offered spontaneously by one member of the group.
It takes many forms, this prayer, but in essence it is always a request for guidance, for open minds and gentle hearts, for honesty and sincerity, for the wisdom and the insights that will help Guideposts' readers.

For you, readers, are an all-important part of the spiritual experiment that is Guideposts.
I need your support, your criticism, your encouragement, your prayers.

I am a magazine;
my name is Guideposts.
My message, today, is the same as it was 15 years ago: that there is goodness in people, and strength and love in God.

May He bless you all.

Havana was filled with an excitement which you could see in the brightness of men's eyes and hear in the pitch of their voices.
The hated dictator Batista had fled.
Rumors flew from lip to lip that Fidel Castro was on his way to Havana, coming from the mountains where he had fought Batista for five years.
Already the city was filled with Barbudos, the bearded, war-dirty Revolutionaries, carrying carbines, waving to the crowds that lined the Prado.

And then Castro himself did come, bearded, smiling;
yet if you looked closely you'd see that his eyes did not pick up the smile on his lips.

At first I was happy to throw the support of our newspaper behind this man.
I am sure that Castro was happy, too, about that support.
Diario De La Marina was the oldest and most influential paper in Cuba, with a reputation for speaking out against tyranny.
My grandfather had been stoned because of his editorials.
My own earliest memories are of exiles: my three brothers and I were taken often to the United States "to visit relatives" while my father stayed on to fight the dictator Machado.

When it was my turn, I, too, printed the truth as I knew it about Batista, and rejoiced to see his regime topple.
None of us was aware that the biggest fight was still ahead.

I was full of hope as Fidel Castro came into Havana.
Within a week, however, I began to suspect that something was wrong.
For Castro was bringing Cuba not freedom, but hatred.
He spent long hours before the TV spitting out promises of revenge.
He showed us how he dealt with his enemies: he executed them before TV cameras.
On home sets children were watching the death throes of men who were shot before the paredon, the firing wall.

Castro's reforms?
He seemed bent on coupling them with vengeance.
New schools were rising, but with this went a harsh proclamation: any academic degree earned during Batista's regime was invalid.

Economic aid?
He had promised cheaper housing: arbitrarily he cut all rents in half, whether the landlord was a millionaire speculator or a widow whose only income was the rental of a spare room.
Under another law, hundreds of farms were seized.
Farm workers had their wages cut almost in half.
Of this, only 50 cents a day was paid in cash, the rest in script usable only in "People's Stores".

A suspicion was growing that Fidel Castro was a Communist.
In my mind, I began to review: his use of hate to gain support;
his People's Courts;
his division of society into two classes, one the hero, the other the villain.
But most disturbing of all were the advisers he called to sit with him in the Palace;
many came from Communist countries.

What should I do about it, I asked myself?
I had watched Castro handling his enemies before the paredon.
There was no doubt in my mind that if I crossed him, mobs would appear outside our windows shouting "Paredon!
Paredon!"

What should I do?
I was proud of the new buildings which housed Diario now: the rotogravures, gleaming behind glass doors;
the thump and whir of our new presses.
Here was a powerful, ready-made medium, but it could speak only if I told it to.

Then one day, early in January, 1960, I sat down at my desk, and suddenly I was aware of the crucifix.
It was a simple ivory crucifix which my mother had given me.
I had mounted it on velvet and hung it over my desk to remind me always to use the power of the paper in a Christian manner.
Now it seemed almost as if Jesus were looking down at me with sadness in His eyes, saying:

"You will lose the paper.
You may lose your life.
But do you have any choice"?

I knew in that moment that I did not have any choice.
From that day on I began to write editorials about the things I did not think correct in Fidel Castro's regime.