non-subject: dark spell
AWW ~ 1/26/11
*******************
"God is light and in Him is no darkness at all."
Thus states the Bible in the Book of I John, chapter 1, verse 5.
As I write, my body tenses. My breathing stops. I tell myself to relax.
Why does writing out "God is light and in Him is no darkness at all" cause me to get tense?
Perhaps the answer is because I am letting go of certain long-held beliefs.
I took a "belief" quiz today; I had taken the same quiz twoish years ago. Two years ago, the quiz graded me as 80-something percent Protestant; with a leaning toward the conservative side, I think.
Today, the quiz graded me as 100% Secular Humanist. I was a little surprised, at least on the "secular" part; not so much on the "Humanist" part. I was definitely surprised at the 100%.
I don't know what I'll be two years from now.
"God is light and in Him is no darkness at all."
How can one know there is light without darkness? What is darkness?
Darkness doesn't mean pitch black, though it could. Typically though, we don't experience pitch black. I guess maybe with our eyes closed. But when my eyes are closed, I don't notice the darkness. My mind plays. Even when I used to meditate, I felt a voidness and fullness at the same time. But I wouldn't call it pitch black.
In darkness there are shadows.
I guess if a person is blind, they experience pitch black.
Yet even if one can't see, one can feel and hear and smell.
Darkness has gotten a bad wrap.
In my previous belief system as a true believer of the Bible, I equated darkness with death, with "negative" experiences. Darkness was being "out of fellowship with God," not being in the light. Darkness was a distorted view, taking away the colors of life fully lived.
It must have been around the year 2000. Myself, my ten-year old son, and my twelve-year old daughter were camping at Standing Indian Campground in the Nantahala National Forest in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. It must have been springtime, during the week as opposed to a weekend. The campground was sparsely populated. Because we home schooled, we were able to visit places when crowds were thin.
We were staked right across from a water supply spigot; a straight steel pipe came up about two feet out of the ground with a crook and faucet at the top. A one-stall shower house wasn't far away.
Campsites at Standing Indian were placed far enough from one another, with thick patches of woods between the sites, that we couldn't see or hear the people in the site below us.
2:00 AM I awoke to the sound of something crashing.
I lay completely still, getting my bearings. I was camping. My son lay asleep on my right, my daughter on my left in our tent designed to supposedly sleep six bodies.
What in the hell was that, I wondered. Was it a pop-up camper falling off the mountainside? Oh my gosh.
My eyes opened. It was pitch black, the darkest I ever recall. I put my hand in front of my face with my palm touching my nose. I could see absolutely nothing.
I lay still.
"Did anyone else hear that?" I stated aloud expecting no response as my son's soft snoring floated through the darkness.
"Yes," my daughter answered.
Surprised that she had awakened to the sound, I asked, "What in world was it?"
"Maybe it was a tree falling." my daughter stated.
"Ah. You're probably right. It sounded like a BIG tree."
We lay still in the silence.
"It's really dark," we both agreed.
Nantahala. A Cherokee word that means, "Land of the Noonday Sun." Yet, every night it gets dark, a canopy for creatures. A quiet through which giant trees slice, making known their presence.
**********************
January 26, 2011
January 24, 2011
Still Life on an End Table
I sit in my living room in an-off white upholstered wingback chair. My laptop sits in front of me on a wooden TV tray.
On my right is a curio end table, glass top and sides, embraced by what appears to be walnut wood. Resting inside the rectangular glass table top are one rose-colored, three-inch high, crystal vase which came from my now-deceased Aunt Flossie; an ivory-with-pink-flowers miniature china tea set; a pink silk flower from my wedding day; an ivory-with-pink-carnations china bowl from my now-deceased Mother; a pink ceramic rose from my Aunt Flossie(?); and a two-inch diameter, blue-embossed, miniature glass globe with a flat base.
On top of the end table lay two books: the 2010 Appalachian Trail Thru-Hikers' Companion and a Bible. The Bible is a double-wide margin Oxford with gold-edged paper; some pages are torn. On the front is my name, Carol Hamby, engraved in gold. A tattered sticker of The Way Corps seal adheres to the front black leather cover. I think I bought that Bible in 1978; it's full of notes.
Alongside the books sit two clear gray coasters from Tupperware; a "Puppy Love" Hummel my husband brought me from one of his Germany trips in the 1980s; a black, cream, and rose colored ceramic vase which was a wedding gift; a flash drive; and the ripped-open package that once housed the flash drive.
In the ceramic vase are various pieces of Art-o-mat: a black and white photograph of the Eiffel Tower by Corey Hengen, cards by K. Shelly, a lenticular of an acrobat by Heather Lowe, a black-and-white photography book of American backyard sheds by Jennifer Watson, a fold-out black-and-white pinhole photography book of still scenes by Chuck Flagg, a black-and-white nude photography key chain by William Gentry, a picture-book entitled Volund by Nathan Boyer, and five colored-photo match books depicting five different landscapes of the United States.
Wow. That's amazing.
All that stuff inside and
on top of a curio end table.
Each item with a story.
Each, an art piece in itself.
Hands crafted each curve,
each angle,
each crevice and nook.
Or at least crafted the machines that
crafted the nooks.
I wonder how many hands? and
How many minds? and
How many countries? and
How many generations? are
Represented on and in this
one little end table?
An end table that has just taken me
to the ends of the earth.
As I sit here in my living room
in this chair with wings.
********************************
On my right is a curio end table, glass top and sides, embraced by what appears to be walnut wood. Resting inside the rectangular glass table top are one rose-colored, three-inch high, crystal vase which came from my now-deceased Aunt Flossie; an ivory-with-pink-flowers miniature china tea set; a pink silk flower from my wedding day; an ivory-with-pink-carnations china bowl from my now-deceased Mother; a pink ceramic rose from my Aunt Flossie(?); and a two-inch diameter, blue-embossed, miniature glass globe with a flat base.
On top of the end table lay two books: the 2010 Appalachian Trail Thru-Hikers' Companion and a Bible. The Bible is a double-wide margin Oxford with gold-edged paper; some pages are torn. On the front is my name, Carol Hamby, engraved in gold. A tattered sticker of The Way Corps seal adheres to the front black leather cover. I think I bought that Bible in 1978; it's full of notes.
Alongside the books sit two clear gray coasters from Tupperware; a "Puppy Love" Hummel my husband brought me from one of his Germany trips in the 1980s; a black, cream, and rose colored ceramic vase which was a wedding gift; a flash drive; and the ripped-open package that once housed the flash drive.
In the ceramic vase are various pieces of Art-o-mat: a black and white photograph of the Eiffel Tower by Corey Hengen, cards by K. Shelly, a lenticular of an acrobat by Heather Lowe, a black-and-white photography book of American backyard sheds by Jennifer Watson, a fold-out black-and-white pinhole photography book of still scenes by Chuck Flagg, a black-and-white nude photography key chain by William Gentry, a picture-book entitled Volund by Nathan Boyer, and five colored-photo match books depicting five different landscapes of the United States.
Wow. That's amazing.
All that stuff inside and
on top of a curio end table.
Each item with a story.
Each, an art piece in itself.
Hands crafted each curve,
each angle,
each crevice and nook.
Or at least crafted the machines that
crafted the nooks.
I wonder how many hands? and
How many minds? and
How many countries? and
How many generations? are
Represented on and in this
one little end table?
An end table that has just taken me
to the ends of the earth.
As I sit here in my living room
in this chair with wings.
********************************
January 19, 2011
Re-membering
non-subject: remembering
AWW ~ 1/19/11
**********************
Dis-member. Re-member.
Dis-lodge. Re-lodge.
Dis-count. Re-count.
Dis-connect. Re-connect.
Dis-play. Re-play.
Dis-charge. Re-charge.
Dis-pair. Re-pair.
Dis-comfort. Re-comfort.
Dis and Re.
Yin and Yang.
Do and Ti.
See and Saw.
I was thinking today about my dark side. I think I only have two secrets. Why are they secrets? Because they shame me.
One secret happened 20 years ago. Only a handful of people know.
One secret I indulge in most every day. I have revealed it to some people. My ex-therapist. My current therapist. My family knows. My best friend, Arial, and my friend Louise.
I wonder if Louise and I will remain good friends.
I met Louise through the Monday night support group. It seems Louise joined around January, 2010. The group had started in the fall of 2008 as an online chat gathering. It eventually moved to a telephone conference call.
Louise had been with The Way back in the late 70s and maybe early 80s. She had a deep disgust for The Way and Dr. Wierwille. I'm not sure why, other than she blames The Way for some of her mental health issues. Perhaps The Way is to blame.
Louise still believes in a devil.
My secrets, other than the obvious secrets most everyone has...like masturbation. At least I figure most everyone has that secret. Or secret sexual fantasies. I'm not ashamed of those, but neither do I share them.
The secret of which I'm most ashamed involves my daughter, when she was between two-and-a-half and three years old. My son was an infant.
I don't recall the exact circumstance that prompted my anger. I imagine it was my chronic ill health. Fatigue was a constant companion. Perhaps I was suffering with postpartum depression.
I just wanted my toddler daughter to go to sleep, to leave me alone.
She lay on our kingsize bed. The bedrail must have been on the left side, where it always was. But I don't recall leaning over it as I put the pillow over my daughter's face. Was she crying? I ache as I try to recall. I feel an intense anguish, a past wish that I never would have had children. Of wanting her, and me to disappear.
I held the pillow over her face. I was crying.
Then I stopped myself.
Walk away Carol. Walk away. Walk out the bedroom door. Close the door. Leave Hannah alone.
What the fuck is wrong with me? This is no way for a believer to act. No way for a loving mother to behave.
Just writing that much scares me. What if I hadn't walked away?
I wonder how much and if that one horrid action affected her, though I doubt she remembers the act. Does she recall a vague feeling?
Re-call. I have a foggy remembrance of cuddling Hannah after I'd gotten my wits back. Of letting her know how very sorry I was; that I would never, ever, ever do such a thing again.
It seems I have written about this incident before. But still, from a distance.
**************************
After thoughts...I realized a couple more "secrets." Probably even more lurk somewhere deep down. Another thing, a secret really ain't a secret if anyone else knows. As Ben Franklin said, "The only way to keep a secret between three people, is to kill two of them." Or something like that.
**************************
AWW ~ 1/19/11
**********************
Dis-member. Re-member.
Dis-lodge. Re-lodge.
Dis-count. Re-count.
Dis-connect. Re-connect.
Dis-play. Re-play.
Dis-charge. Re-charge.
Dis-pair. Re-pair.
Dis-comfort. Re-comfort.
Dis and Re.
Yin and Yang.
Do and Ti.
See and Saw.
I was thinking today about my dark side. I think I only have two secrets. Why are they secrets? Because they shame me.
One secret happened 20 years ago. Only a handful of people know.
One secret I indulge in most every day. I have revealed it to some people. My ex-therapist. My current therapist. My family knows. My best friend, Arial, and my friend Louise.
I wonder if Louise and I will remain good friends.
I met Louise through the Monday night support group. It seems Louise joined around January, 2010. The group had started in the fall of 2008 as an online chat gathering. It eventually moved to a telephone conference call.
Louise had been with The Way back in the late 70s and maybe early 80s. She had a deep disgust for The Way and Dr. Wierwille. I'm not sure why, other than she blames The Way for some of her mental health issues. Perhaps The Way is to blame.
Louise still believes in a devil.
My secrets, other than the obvious secrets most everyone has...like masturbation. At least I figure most everyone has that secret. Or secret sexual fantasies. I'm not ashamed of those, but neither do I share them.
The secret of which I'm most ashamed involves my daughter, when she was between two-and-a-half and three years old. My son was an infant.
I don't recall the exact circumstance that prompted my anger. I imagine it was my chronic ill health. Fatigue was a constant companion. Perhaps I was suffering with postpartum depression.
I just wanted my toddler daughter to go to sleep, to leave me alone.
She lay on our kingsize bed. The bedrail must have been on the left side, where it always was. But I don't recall leaning over it as I put the pillow over my daughter's face. Was she crying? I ache as I try to recall. I feel an intense anguish, a past wish that I never would have had children. Of wanting her, and me to disappear.
I held the pillow over her face. I was crying.
Then I stopped myself.
Walk away Carol. Walk away. Walk out the bedroom door. Close the door. Leave Hannah alone.
What the fuck is wrong with me? This is no way for a believer to act. No way for a loving mother to behave.
Just writing that much scares me. What if I hadn't walked away?
I wonder how much and if that one horrid action affected her, though I doubt she remembers the act. Does she recall a vague feeling?
Re-call. I have a foggy remembrance of cuddling Hannah after I'd gotten my wits back. Of letting her know how very sorry I was; that I would never, ever, ever do such a thing again.
It seems I have written about this incident before. But still, from a distance.
**************************
After thoughts...I realized a couple more "secrets." Probably even more lurk somewhere deep down. Another thing, a secret really ain't a secret if anyone else knows. As Ben Franklin said, "The only way to keep a secret between three people, is to kill two of them." Or something like that.
**************************
Soap Dispensers
The more I hear of Knapp's antics, the more I think he is a con-artist. Tonight I again feel vindictiveness. It will pass as it always does.
Why do people whom Knapp has hurt with his manipulations give him a pass? They see Knapp as someone concerned about the healing of abuse victims.
Well, sure he is.
And leaders in The Way are genuinely concerned about delivering people from the clutches of the devil and bringing wholeness to all. The Way espouses such, and its followers are sincere in such.
But at what cost?
When is excusing or dismissing harms for the greater good acceptable?
I see no true healing in such.
Healing comes with openness, with all parties having defenses down to look at what is true, head on. All parties owning up to their error, even owning up to manipulations.
On the other hand, "healing" isn't dependent on the other party. Hm. Perhaps a better word for my previous paragraph is "restoration" instead of "healing." "Re-store," to again have sufficient supply. Brings to mind the word "re-member," to bring memory and even members back together.
It reminds me of a statement and question I've posed to some Way-doctrine followers who dismiss the injurious actions of the now-deceased founding president of The Way International, Victor Paul Wierwille. My statement and question has been, "The Bible doesn't hide the dark side of its prophets. Why hide or choose to dismiss the dark side of Dr. Wierwille?"
I know at least part of what my answer as a loyal follower was:
I'm not hiding or dismissing them. Doctor was human, like all of us. Only God knows the depth of Doctor's soul and all the circumstances surrounding Doctor's actions. God looks on the heart. As Psalm 103 states, God's mercy is great toward them that respect and reverence God. God is our Father and he casts our sins as far as the east is from the west, remembering them no more. Who am I to remember Doctor's sins?
God chose to record certain prophets' sins in His Word, for our learning. God didn't choose to record Doctor's sins. And how am I to know that Doctor even committed the stuff that some say he did? Doctor's dead and he can't speak for himself. Like all of us, Doctor will stand before God one day and all will be brought to light. God is the judge, not me. Plus, all my interactions with Doctor were tender and healing. Even if he did commit some of the acts that people accuse him of, his life had a deep and healing impact on me, and tens of thousands of others.
Sounds nice and forgiving.
Hardly. It brushes aside victims' lives as though they are non-persons.
As I've said before, in any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the organization is fraudulent.
Dare I add that if that expenditure is rationalized, the dispenser is corrupt?
"Dispenser." Brings to mind soap, which washes the outside so we are presentable and even smell nice. Kind of like deodorant.
One of my favorite brands of soap is "Kiss My Face."
******************
Note, 6/29/11: I replaced the pseudonym "Jarod" with the real name, "Knapp."
********************
__________________________
Note: To access an ongoing index, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
______________________
Why do people whom Knapp has hurt with his manipulations give him a pass? They see Knapp as someone concerned about the healing of abuse victims.
Well, sure he is.
And leaders in The Way are genuinely concerned about delivering people from the clutches of the devil and bringing wholeness to all. The Way espouses such, and its followers are sincere in such.
But at what cost?
When is excusing or dismissing harms for the greater good acceptable?
I see no true healing in such.
Healing comes with openness, with all parties having defenses down to look at what is true, head on. All parties owning up to their error, even owning up to manipulations.
On the other hand, "healing" isn't dependent on the other party. Hm. Perhaps a better word for my previous paragraph is "restoration" instead of "healing." "Re-store," to again have sufficient supply. Brings to mind the word "re-member," to bring memory and even members back together.
It reminds me of a statement and question I've posed to some Way-doctrine followers who dismiss the injurious actions of the now-deceased founding president of The Way International, Victor Paul Wierwille. My statement and question has been, "The Bible doesn't hide the dark side of its prophets. Why hide or choose to dismiss the dark side of Dr. Wierwille?"
I know at least part of what my answer as a loyal follower was:
I'm not hiding or dismissing them. Doctor was human, like all of us. Only God knows the depth of Doctor's soul and all the circumstances surrounding Doctor's actions. God looks on the heart. As Psalm 103 states, God's mercy is great toward them that respect and reverence God. God is our Father and he casts our sins as far as the east is from the west, remembering them no more. Who am I to remember Doctor's sins?
God chose to record certain prophets' sins in His Word, for our learning. God didn't choose to record Doctor's sins. And how am I to know that Doctor even committed the stuff that some say he did? Doctor's dead and he can't speak for himself. Like all of us, Doctor will stand before God one day and all will be brought to light. God is the judge, not me. Plus, all my interactions with Doctor were tender and healing. Even if he did commit some of the acts that people accuse him of, his life had a deep and healing impact on me, and tens of thousands of others.
Sounds nice and forgiving.
Hardly. It brushes aside victims' lives as though they are non-persons.
As I've said before, in any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the organization is fraudulent.
Dare I add that if that expenditure is rationalized, the dispenser is corrupt?
"Dispenser." Brings to mind soap, which washes the outside so we are presentable and even smell nice. Kind of like deodorant.
One of my favorite brands of soap is "Kiss My Face."
******************
Note, 6/29/11: I replaced the pseudonym "Jarod" with the real name, "Knapp."
********************
__________________________
Note: To access an ongoing index, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
______________________
January 5, 2011
Homestretch
non-subject: the homestretch
AWW ~ january 5, 2011
**************
I don't want to write about The Way this writing round. Yet, that is usually what comes to mind when I write - Way stuff.
But then, I guess if I'd spent 28 years devoted to horses, I'd probably write about horses.
I did spend at least seven years of my life with horses. As young as I can recall ponies and horses were my best friends. But I gave them up, for the most part, by the time I was 13. I wonder if they missed me.
I would often canter at the homestretch of getting back to the stable after I'd been riding in our neighborhood.
Times have changed. Fields, where I once roamed with my four-legged friends, now display mansions instead of long grasses and wild flowers. One can buy a home there for as little as $250,000. The Pines II is the development name. In The Pines I, a mansion can be had for as little as $375,000. Pines I has been around for eternity.
Homestretch. I think of Mom's last days of life. She lay in the bed at the nursing home. Her mouth wide open as she drew her final breaths. Her eyes vacantly staring beyond me. Except when I told her that Jane, her good friend and neighbor, had passed away. Mom's eyes suddenly became conscious and she moved her mouth like she was trying to say, "Thank you." Shortly thereafter myself, and my brother, and my sister, each took time separately to tell Mom it was o.k. to die and that we loved her.
The phone call came within 24 hours. The date was January 31, 2009.
Mom chose to die alone. I probably will too.
****************
AWW ~ january 5, 2011
**************
I don't want to write about The Way this writing round. Yet, that is usually what comes to mind when I write - Way stuff.
But then, I guess if I'd spent 28 years devoted to horses, I'd probably write about horses.
I did spend at least seven years of my life with horses. As young as I can recall ponies and horses were my best friends. But I gave them up, for the most part, by the time I was 13. I wonder if they missed me.
I would often canter at the homestretch of getting back to the stable after I'd been riding in our neighborhood.
Times have changed. Fields, where I once roamed with my four-legged friends, now display mansions instead of long grasses and wild flowers. One can buy a home there for as little as $250,000. The Pines II is the development name. In The Pines I, a mansion can be had for as little as $375,000. Pines I has been around for eternity.
Homestretch. I think of Mom's last days of life. She lay in the bed at the nursing home. Her mouth wide open as she drew her final breaths. Her eyes vacantly staring beyond me. Except when I told her that Jane, her good friend and neighbor, had passed away. Mom's eyes suddenly became conscious and she moved her mouth like she was trying to say, "Thank you." Shortly thereafter myself, and my brother, and my sister, each took time separately to tell Mom it was o.k. to die and that we loved her.
The phone call came within 24 hours. The date was January 31, 2009.
Mom chose to die alone. I probably will too.
****************
Slide Show
I wonder if The Way will ever really acknowledge its underbelly?
____
2001, Thanksgiving.
I think that was the date. I'll have to find my notes some day.
In one of the luxurious ballrooms at the Wyndham Anatole Hotel in Dallas, Texas, I sat in my metal chair with the padded seat watching the big screen. Lights were low as the slide show blended from one scene into the next, displaying the history of The Way, this ministry which I loved dearly. This ministry which had gone through the fire, having survived tumultuous years of unrest and loss, and was now emerging stronger, more mature, more compassionate, more open.
At least that was my hope for The Way. I wanted it to thrive. I wanted it to get back to the freedom I had experienced when I first got involved in 1977. We seemed to be on the right track now, a road toward healing.
The Anatole's walls were graced with artwork - large canvases with ornate frames. Large sculptures and statues caught my attention as I walked the echoing marble floors. Elegant. Rich. Cultivated. Exquisite. I recall two baby-grand pianos in two different large open public corridors; anyone could sit down to play a tune. Couches and rich upholstered furniture were had by passers-by as the black and whites harmonized and as sky entered the galleries through tall windows.
I felt wealthy in this hotel. I enjoyed the indulgence. At the time I thought, The Ministry always does things right.
~*~
I'd run into some folks at this Advanced Class Graduate gathering. Two of those folk being Vera and Vicki. At least I think I saw Vicki at this 2001 gathering and not at the one in 1997. Both these women had my respect and love. They were open, honest, down-to-earth. We could talk about most anything.
I knew Vicki from the mid -1990s when she and her husband served as Way Corps in North Carolina. Our children used to play together while Vicki and I would hang out and chat. Vicki's family had moved to Wisconsin after their year in North Carolina. It was good to see her again.
Vera and I chanced upon each other in the spacious Anatole mezzanine. Our eyes met; there was a spontaneous deep connection and understanding. We didn't have to talk of the years of trial; we had lived them. I stated with deep gratitude how good it was to see her, that so many of the old faces had left the Ministry. "We're still here Vera." She nodded in agreement, resonating the same indebtedness for the Ministry, for God, for faithfulness. Vera had been one of my roommates back in the early 1980s when we were in-residence in the Way Corps at Emporia, Kansas She and her husband now lived in Florida, having moved back there in the latter 1990s after living some years in North Carolina.
~*~
I sat in my padded metal chair along with five hundred other saints in the elegant ballroom sitting on their padded metal chairs awaiting the slide show, an overview of The Way, 1942 through 2001. Lights low, pictures began to roll across the screen. I don't recall any music being played with the slides, but there was narration. It seems Rosalie narrated. Rev. Rosalie Rivenbark, the third President of The Way International, with her thick accent from Eastern North Carolina. I was proud we had a woman president. And she was from my home state. North Carolina had a rich Way history. Some of the first Way leaders from the 1960s came from East Carolina University.
Nostalgia arose within me as I watched the slides merge one into another. Uncle Harry. Dr. Wierwille. Mrs. Wierwille. Headquarters. Rome City. Emporia. Howard Allen. Saints still living; others who had died and were awaiting Jesus Christ's return. I would see them again.
I felt sadness for the faces not shown: those who had deserted the Ministry, those who had turned their backs on the men and women who taught them the Word, those who accused The Way and Doctor of evil. Out of pride they had fallen, starting their own ministries, robbing saints from the Household. The Ministry was always diligent to not show slides in which the tripped-out leaders were depicted. There was no profit in bringing up those negatives from the past.
I waited and watched, listening to the narration, wondering how Craig Martindales's almost-eighteen-year, now tainted, tenure would be presented. Craig had served as the second president of The Way from October, 1982, through April, 2000. He had shamed The Way's name by his adulterous actions which had led to a lawsuit. The Ministry lost thousands of followers under his leadership, and that was before the lawsuit.
Only two slides were shown to acknowledge Craig. Both were from Craig;s 1982 installation as the second President of The Way. Neither photo showed Craig's face, but rather the back of his head and body.
One photo was of Doctor pouring the anointing oil over Craig as Craig knelt in front of Doctor. Doctor's hands stroked the oil across Craig's hair. My eyes momentarily landed upon Doctor's elderly gentle face. The other slide was of Doctor placing the mantel around Craig's shoulders, again from the angle depicting the back of Craig's body, not the front.
I was immediately taken back to that 1982 inauguration and installation. In my mind's eye I saw Doctor's gentle smile and eyes full of pride as he gazed upon Craig, like Craig was his own son. Their was a hint of sadness though, in Doctor's eyes. A hint of concern about the unknown future of The Way. After all this was Doctor's life's blood; he had given all for the Ministry, for the Word, for God and God's people. As Doctor stroked Craig's locks and placed the mantel over Craig's shoulders, his hands seemed nervous; perhaps they were.
The narration to the two slides caught my attention bringing me back to the present. "The Rev. L. Craig Martindale was inaugurated as the 2nd president of The Way in 1982, and served in that capacity for eighteen years, resigning in 2000."
I felt a lump in my throat. That's it? I thought. All those years in two slides and a sentence? My heart hurt. My stomach contorted.
I immediately arrested my thoughts and inner responses, renewing my mind to the Word. Well, I guess that is the best way to handle it, the most loving way. Forgetting the past and reaching forth to those things which are before. The love of God covers a multitude of sins.
____
____
2001, Thanksgiving.
I think that was the date. I'll have to find my notes some day.
In one of the luxurious ballrooms at the Wyndham Anatole Hotel in Dallas, Texas, I sat in my metal chair with the padded seat watching the big screen. Lights were low as the slide show blended from one scene into the next, displaying the history of The Way, this ministry which I loved dearly. This ministry which had gone through the fire, having survived tumultuous years of unrest and loss, and was now emerging stronger, more mature, more compassionate, more open.
At least that was my hope for The Way. I wanted it to thrive. I wanted it to get back to the freedom I had experienced when I first got involved in 1977. We seemed to be on the right track now, a road toward healing.
The Anatole's walls were graced with artwork - large canvases with ornate frames. Large sculptures and statues caught my attention as I walked the echoing marble floors. Elegant. Rich. Cultivated. Exquisite. I recall two baby-grand pianos in two different large open public corridors; anyone could sit down to play a tune. Couches and rich upholstered furniture were had by passers-by as the black and whites harmonized and as sky entered the galleries through tall windows.
I felt wealthy in this hotel. I enjoyed the indulgence. At the time I thought, The Ministry always does things right.
~*~
I'd run into some folks at this Advanced Class Graduate gathering. Two of those folk being Vera and Vicki. At least I think I saw Vicki at this 2001 gathering and not at the one in 1997. Both these women had my respect and love. They were open, honest, down-to-earth. We could talk about most anything.
I knew Vicki from the mid -1990s when she and her husband served as Way Corps in North Carolina. Our children used to play together while Vicki and I would hang out and chat. Vicki's family had moved to Wisconsin after their year in North Carolina. It was good to see her again.
Vera and I chanced upon each other in the spacious Anatole mezzanine. Our eyes met; there was a spontaneous deep connection and understanding. We didn't have to talk of the years of trial; we had lived them. I stated with deep gratitude how good it was to see her, that so many of the old faces had left the Ministry. "We're still here Vera." She nodded in agreement, resonating the same indebtedness for the Ministry, for God, for faithfulness. Vera had been one of my roommates back in the early 1980s when we were in-residence in the Way Corps at Emporia, Kansas She and her husband now lived in Florida, having moved back there in the latter 1990s after living some years in North Carolina.
~*~
I sat in my padded metal chair along with five hundred other saints in the elegant ballroom sitting on their padded metal chairs awaiting the slide show, an overview of The Way, 1942 through 2001. Lights low, pictures began to roll across the screen. I don't recall any music being played with the slides, but there was narration. It seems Rosalie narrated. Rev. Rosalie Rivenbark, the third President of The Way International, with her thick accent from Eastern North Carolina. I was proud we had a woman president. And she was from my home state. North Carolina had a rich Way history. Some of the first Way leaders from the 1960s came from East Carolina University.
Nostalgia arose within me as I watched the slides merge one into another. Uncle Harry. Dr. Wierwille. Mrs. Wierwille. Headquarters. Rome City. Emporia. Howard Allen. Saints still living; others who had died and were awaiting Jesus Christ's return. I would see them again.
I felt sadness for the faces not shown: those who had deserted the Ministry, those who had turned their backs on the men and women who taught them the Word, those who accused The Way and Doctor of evil. Out of pride they had fallen, starting their own ministries, robbing saints from the Household. The Ministry was always diligent to not show slides in which the tripped-out leaders were depicted. There was no profit in bringing up those negatives from the past.
I waited and watched, listening to the narration, wondering how Craig Martindales's almost-eighteen-year, now tainted, tenure would be presented. Craig had served as the second president of The Way from October, 1982, through April, 2000. He had shamed The Way's name by his adulterous actions which had led to a lawsuit. The Ministry lost thousands of followers under his leadership, and that was before the lawsuit.
Only two slides were shown to acknowledge Craig. Both were from Craig;s 1982 installation as the second President of The Way. Neither photo showed Craig's face, but rather the back of his head and body.
One photo was of Doctor pouring the anointing oil over Craig as Craig knelt in front of Doctor. Doctor's hands stroked the oil across Craig's hair. My eyes momentarily landed upon Doctor's elderly gentle face. The other slide was of Doctor placing the mantel around Craig's shoulders, again from the angle depicting the back of Craig's body, not the front.
I was immediately taken back to that 1982 inauguration and installation. In my mind's eye I saw Doctor's gentle smile and eyes full of pride as he gazed upon Craig, like Craig was his own son. Their was a hint of sadness though, in Doctor's eyes. A hint of concern about the unknown future of The Way. After all this was Doctor's life's blood; he had given all for the Ministry, for the Word, for God and God's people. As Doctor stroked Craig's locks and placed the mantel over Craig's shoulders, his hands seemed nervous; perhaps they were.
The narration to the two slides caught my attention bringing me back to the present. "The Rev. L. Craig Martindale was inaugurated as the 2nd president of The Way in 1982, and served in that capacity for eighteen years, resigning in 2000."
I felt a lump in my throat. That's it? I thought. All those years in two slides and a sentence? My heart hurt. My stomach contorted.
I immediately arrested my thoughts and inner responses, renewing my mind to the Word. Well, I guess that is the best way to handle it, the most loving way. Forgetting the past and reaching forth to those things which are before. The love of God covers a multitude of sins.
____