***************************************
A website ran across my email screen earlier this week, again reminding me of the power of humor.
I am not a humor expert; but I know what causes me to laugh. Different folks prefer different types of comedy. My husband and I differ in our comic relief tastes; though we both enjoy a sense of dry humor.
I like sitcoms like Third Rock, with the purple-tube Solomon family, aliens sent to earth to study our species, living in Ohio as humans, fascinated with human emotions.
I enjoy the type of comedy like Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon; a China man turned cowboy in the Old West.
Comedy is one of the panacea-type tools in life's tool box. The Bible states that a "merry heart worketh an excellent cure." Books have been written on the healing power of humor including the biological impact humor has on our immune systems.
Laughter can cause tears, as can grief. Tears are good; they are our friends and help relieve our bodies and souls.
Humor can help in any type recovery, I think. Often times being able to laugh at ourselves brings a different perspective on a circumstance; helping to disarm some of the situation's punch.
As far as recovery from harmful religion, humor can help too.
Following are a few sites I've run across on the net addressing totalistic groups/belief systems.
For cosmic comic relief, one might enjoy Bob Tzu's Duhism. Bob is full of "impractical wisdumb."
Duhism
For comic relief from Way-type stuff, a taste from the drawing board of Nuff is sure to bring some stimulation to the immune system.
Nuff Said
For folks who prefer a bit of raw satire, Landover Church may fill the plate. I don't prefer Landover; yet I know others that do and the site has brought me a chuckle at times.
Landover Baptist Church
Regardless of what one thinks of Michael Moore or one's beliefs regarding homosexuality, this approach to Fred Phelp's group is brilliant, in my opinion. It is a bit (quite?) raw, but effective!
Michael Moore vs Westboro Baptist Church
Remember Carol, to offer a smile and/or a chuckle today.
Laughter, it's good for the soul and the body.
******************************************
September 30, 2009
September 29, 2009
Behind Closed Eyes
**********************************************
{The following are two journal entries. I don't think of them as 'memoir,' but they are authentic. After the first entry I began a memoir and stopped short. Some hours later I wrote the second journal entry. Writing has been and is a life-changing experience.}
************************************************
09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)
I was thinking today; about writing. What do I write about next? I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings. It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances. I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't. Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.
But still what do I write about next? I don't need to write anything sensational. What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web? A web. So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.
My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about. Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book. Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.
-------------------------------------------------------
[.......]
-------------------------------------------------------
09.27.09
Sunday
I awoke at 12:30 pm. I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so. I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say. That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me. I cannot write for an audience.
But all I can think to write about involves too much drama. I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens. Good stuff happens too. It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry? Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate. It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone. Am I? Is that someone others? Or is that someone me? Would people think I make it up? I don't make things up. I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently.
Why do those questions even matter? They don't, except that is how I feel. That does matter; how I feel.
Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night. I think my dreams affect me at times. Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.
It's o.k. to grieve Carol. It's o.k. to grieve.
***********************************************
Click here for Journey through Memoir (an index)
**********************************************.
{The following are two journal entries. I don't think of them as 'memoir,' but they are authentic. After the first entry I began a memoir and stopped short. Some hours later I wrote the second journal entry. Writing has been and is a life-changing experience.}
************************************************
09.26.09 ..late, late, late at night
Saturday/Sunday
(actually wee early hours of 9.27)
I was thinking today; about writing. What do I write about next? I have incidents run through my mind, different scenarios, serendipitous happenings. It's like a lifestyle for me; these designed-like happenstances. I've written before that maybe this happens to everyone; events that almost seemed planned, but weren't and aren't. Perhaps they happen to all of us, but sometimes we are too dizzy busy to notice; or we are worrying; or we are thinking about the next thing to do instead of noticing the moment.
But still what do I write about next? I don't need to write anything sensational. What is more sensational than a spider weaving a web? A web. So many webs in life. Some are sticky; some are beautiful; some glisten in the morning dew; some are a trap; some cause us to pause and listen, take note.
My mind wanders and it is difficult to choose which chapters of life to write about. Gosh, it probably wouldn't even be a chapter; it's more like paragraphs of a chapter of a book. Or portholes in a ship on the ocean.
-------------------------------------------------------
[.......]
-------------------------------------------------------
09.27.09
Sunday
I awoke at 12:30 pm. I am so depressed. I'm not terribly so...just so. I feel I have nothing to write about,nothing to say. That all my pennings are garbage and selfish; that I write for an audience..which isn't true writing to me. I cannot write for an audience.
But all I can think to write about involves too much drama. I'm not a drama queen; shit just happens. Good stuff happens too. It's not sensational; it's just I think, who would believe the stuff? Why can't I write about ordinary stuff, like the magic of hanging clothes on the clothesline to dry? Why do things come to mind that are so fucking complex? I think about or start to write and the web becomes too damn intricate. It begins to sound so very self-centered, or like I'm trying to prove something to someone. Am I? Is that someone others? Or is that someone me? Would people think I make it up? I don't make things up. I may get fine details mixed up at times, but I'll correct those when I learn differently.
Why do those questions even matter? They don't, except that is how I feel. That does matter; how I feel.
Sometimes I wish I didn't dream at night. I think my dreams affect me at times. Sometimes I miss parts of my past and the people; the way it was.
It's o.k. to grieve Carol. It's o.k. to grieve.
***********************************************
Click here for Journey through Memoir (an index)
**********************************************.
September 20, 2009
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
He was reading in I Corinthians, about the holy spirit field. His eyes and soft voice thrilled with excitement as he shared with me. I began to share in his enthusiasm and showed him how the word "gifts" in I Cor. 12:1 is in italics in the King James Version. I don't recall now if he knew or didn't know that italicized words in the KJV meant that those words were added, at least most of them. There are a few typos from time to time.
I had him read the verse in I Corinthians 12:1 leaving out the word "gifts." I told him the word "spiritual" is translated from the Greek word pneumatikos which means "spiritual matters." We continued reading the following verses in chapter 12. I shared about the manifestations, that these so-called "gifts" were "manifestations," or evidences, of holy spirit. All were part of the package when a person confessed Jesus as Lord and believed God raised him from the dead; it was available for every born again believer to operate all nine manifestations. Surprise and delight sparkled in his eyes. He was curious and a bit skeptical, but he could see what I was sharing.
It felt good to witness to him, to find someone who was genuinely hungry for spiritual truth. We must have talked for an hour or so. He asked where I went to church. He was in the process of searching for a spiritual home.
"I'm involved with some home fellowships. My husband and I are part of an international ministry that meets in the home."
"What's the name of the ministry?" he asked with anticipation.
"The Way International. Have you heard of it?" I responded knowing full well that mainstream Christianity considered us a cult. We were non-Trinitarian, which seemed to me the main reason churches didn't like us. There were rumors about brainwashing and eating out of trashcans; stuff I'd first read and heard when I had gotten involved back in the late 70's. I wasn't brainwashed, didn't believe in such a thing. Eating out of trashcans? That was crazy; I'd never eaten out of a trashcan.
Then there was the founder, Dr. Wierwille's sexcapades. I had heard some of the tapes that circulated in the latter 80's after Doctor died. At the time, my husband and I had to consider the accusations against Dr Wierwille. Were they true? My thinking was that yes some were probably true. Doctor was a man; he wasn't perfect. There were a lot of hippies that got involved in The Way in the 70's. It was on the heels of the free love movement. As a man, he probably had girls approach him, perhaps even seduce him. But I couldn't believe all of what was on those tapes. It seems the tapes stated or alluded that Doctor had even approached young boys? I think that's when I quit listening to them; such a suspicion was ludicrous. My husband had wanted to throw all the tapes in the trash. I told him we couldn't; they weren't our tapes.
John and Ralph and other top leaders were the outspoken accusers of Doctor. They were just power hungry; it happens after founders of a movement die. Then there was Chris. When I heard a conversation between he and Rev. Martindale on a tape I almost got sick to my stomach, the way he was manipulating Craig. I loved Craig; Craig sounded like a broken man on those tapes. It made me think of that Rock of Ages Festival when Craig read his teachings; after Chris had read "Passing of the Patriarch" which was supposedly about Doctor's final weeks of life and the private directives that Chris says Doctor gave Chris, about the Ministry and its future.
Ralph had been the country coordinator and a region leader for The Way. I liked Ralph; he was funny, down to earth, and dynamic; an ex-hippie. Someone told me that Ralph used to have long black hair, wear a black cape, and had a big black dog. Ralph used to call me "hambone," a take off of my maiden name "Hamby." I had baby sat Ralph's daughter at some leader's meetings in Wisconsin. Ralph had been the Trunk leader when I had gotten pregnant on the Word Over the World Ambassador field and had the abortion. I had a spiritual and brotherly fondness for Ralph, but when I heard the tapes I thought Ralph had been deceived. I thought the same of the other insurgent leaders.
In the first century the same had happened to the Apostle Paul when he was coming to the end of his life; hardly anyone except Timothy stood with Paul. Craig, whom Doctor had chosen to succeed Doctor, was like Timothy.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~
I had him read the verse in I Corinthians 12:1 leaving out the word "gifts." I told him the word "spiritual" is translated from the Greek word pneumatikos which means "spiritual matters." We continued reading the following verses in chapter 12. I shared about the manifestations, that these so-called "gifts" were "manifestations," or evidences, of holy spirit. All were part of the package when a person confessed Jesus as Lord and believed God raised him from the dead; it was available for every born again believer to operate all nine manifestations. Surprise and delight sparkled in his eyes. He was curious and a bit skeptical, but he could see what I was sharing.
It felt good to witness to him, to find someone who was genuinely hungry for spiritual truth. We must have talked for an hour or so. He asked where I went to church. He was in the process of searching for a spiritual home.
"I'm involved with some home fellowships. My husband and I are part of an international ministry that meets in the home."
"What's the name of the ministry?" he asked with anticipation.
"The Way International. Have you heard of it?" I responded knowing full well that mainstream Christianity considered us a cult. We were non-Trinitarian, which seemed to me the main reason churches didn't like us. There were rumors about brainwashing and eating out of trashcans; stuff I'd first read and heard when I had gotten involved back in the late 70's. I wasn't brainwashed, didn't believe in such a thing. Eating out of trashcans? That was crazy; I'd never eaten out of a trashcan.
Then there was the founder, Dr. Wierwille's sexcapades. I had heard some of the tapes that circulated in the latter 80's after Doctor died. At the time, my husband and I had to consider the accusations against Dr Wierwille. Were they true? My thinking was that yes some were probably true. Doctor was a man; he wasn't perfect. There were a lot of hippies that got involved in The Way in the 70's. It was on the heels of the free love movement. As a man, he probably had girls approach him, perhaps even seduce him. But I couldn't believe all of what was on those tapes. It seems the tapes stated or alluded that Doctor had even approached young boys? I think that's when I quit listening to them; such a suspicion was ludicrous. My husband had wanted to throw all the tapes in the trash. I told him we couldn't; they weren't our tapes.
John and Ralph and other top leaders were the outspoken accusers of Doctor. They were just power hungry; it happens after founders of a movement die. Then there was Chris. When I heard a conversation between he and Rev. Martindale on a tape I almost got sick to my stomach, the way he was manipulating Craig. I loved Craig; Craig sounded like a broken man on those tapes. It made me think of that Rock of Ages Festival when Craig read his teachings; after Chris had read "Passing of the Patriarch" which was supposedly about Doctor's final weeks of life and the private directives that Chris says Doctor gave Chris, about the Ministry and its future.
Ralph had been the country coordinator and a region leader for The Way. I liked Ralph; he was funny, down to earth, and dynamic; an ex-hippie. Someone told me that Ralph used to have long black hair, wear a black cape, and had a big black dog. Ralph used to call me "hambone," a take off of my maiden name "Hamby." I had baby sat Ralph's daughter at some leader's meetings in Wisconsin. Ralph had been the Trunk leader when I had gotten pregnant on the Word Over the World Ambassador field and had the abortion. I had a spiritual and brotherly fondness for Ralph, but when I heard the tapes I thought Ralph had been deceived. I thought the same of the other insurgent leaders.
In the first century the same had happened to the Apostle Paul when he was coming to the end of his life; hardly anyone except Timothy stood with Paul. Craig, whom Doctor had chosen to succeed Doctor, was like Timothy.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
And then there was the lawsuit from 1999/2000. Craig had confessed to the household of believers that he had an extramarital affair. Whoever this had happened with had sued him, so Rev. Martindale (Craig) had stepped down as president and Rosalie Rivenbark had stepped up to fill his position. When I had heard Craig's confessional tape in 2000 to The Way Household, I thought similar to when I had heard the stuff about Doctor back in the 80's. Who's to say these women didn't throw themselves at these men? I sometimes wondered about sexual harassment accusations.
I talked with Dr McColloch, my psychologist, about Craig. My opinion was that if it was consensual, what difference did it make. Dr. McColloch was emphatic that it was ethically wrong. Craig was ordained clergy, in a position of trust; he violated that position. Craig was married and the woman was married. Dr. McColloch said it would be no different than he and I having an affair. It's wrong; no question in his mind. I trusted and respected Dr. McColloch and considered his viewpoint noteworthy, but I still wondered...what really happened behind the scenes with Craig's affair.
Within a year of Craig's dismissal from his presidency of The Way, he had disappeared. We in the household didn't discuss those times, where Craig was, what had happened. After all the scripture says to declare null and void the past, reach forth to those things that are before, to think that which is only true, lovely, and of good report.
The essence of those memories all crossed my mind within the few moments of my dialog about The Way with this hungering and thirsting man at that sacred table in Borders.
He answered, "No, I haven't heard of it. Seems there was a Bible version at one time called "The Way." Is it related to that?"
I shook my head. "Nah, we aren't associated with a certain Bible version or translation."
I wrote my name and phone number down for him and gave it to him on a small business-size Way witnessing card. I had bought the cards at some time either from the Way Bookstore, or maybe I'd bought them from Jim, a believer in Charlotte who had some printed to bless believers.
"Thanks so much," he said. We exchanged smiles as he got up to leave. "I'll look up The Way on the internet when I get home." He seemed enthused and excited.
I paused a moment when he said that. "Well," I replied, "The Way is controversial and there is information on the web that criticizes us. I'd appreciate if you find anything controversial that you'd give me a call, then I can answer any questions. It'd be sort of like straight from the horse's mouth that way."
"Sure!" He said. We smiled, both excited. I wondered what he would find on the web.
He never did call.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~
I talked with Dr McColloch, my psychologist, about Craig. My opinion was that if it was consensual, what difference did it make. Dr. McColloch was emphatic that it was ethically wrong. Craig was ordained clergy, in a position of trust; he violated that position. Craig was married and the woman was married. Dr. McColloch said it would be no different than he and I having an affair. It's wrong; no question in his mind. I trusted and respected Dr. McColloch and considered his viewpoint noteworthy, but I still wondered...what really happened behind the scenes with Craig's affair.
Within a year of Craig's dismissal from his presidency of The Way, he had disappeared. We in the household didn't discuss those times, where Craig was, what had happened. After all the scripture says to declare null and void the past, reach forth to those things that are before, to think that which is only true, lovely, and of good report.
The essence of those memories all crossed my mind within the few moments of my dialog about The Way with this hungering and thirsting man at that sacred table in Borders.
He answered, "No, I haven't heard of it. Seems there was a Bible version at one time called "The Way." Is it related to that?"
I shook my head. "Nah, we aren't associated with a certain Bible version or translation."
I wrote my name and phone number down for him and gave it to him on a small business-size Way witnessing card. I had bought the cards at some time either from the Way Bookstore, or maybe I'd bought them from Jim, a believer in Charlotte who had some printed to bless believers.
"Thanks so much," he said. We exchanged smiles as he got up to leave. "I'll look up The Way on the internet when I get home." He seemed enthused and excited.
I paused a moment when he said that. "Well," I replied, "The Way is controversial and there is information on the web that criticizes us. I'd appreciate if you find anything controversial that you'd give me a call, then I can answer any questions. It'd be sort of like straight from the horse's mouth that way."
"Sure!" He said. We smiled, both excited. I wondered what he would find on the web.
He never did call.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~
September 10, 2009
Ripening
I've not written in the past week. Ha. I often say I haven't written, yet I did compose/post the recent blog on "Subtlety: A Current Perspective of The Way International" Yet I don't consider that writing for me. I look at it more as sharing information, maybe?
I've had a difficult few days. I am in a mode where I feel on the edge of slipping. Yesterday I had wanted to work in my Dialectical.....Workbook. I never got around to it. Instead I lay on my bed, getting in touch with my inner personas...and visiting with myself. I then drifted into deep sleep for a couple hours. I arose after dreaming. My body ached; not a terrible ache. My teeth felt funny in their sockets. Not like they once did when my episodes were severe. I had that funny taste/smell within me, similar to a slow drip I.V. streaming a diluted substance into my inner network of complex tubing. My brain and body felt slow.
HALT. I had thought of it eariler, before I fell into sleep. Traditionally it stands for Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. Those states can trigger episodes and also can leave one vulnerable. I don't have trouble with Hunger typically; I have fasted regularly throughout my adult life, the longest being (I think) 10 days. Even with that I don't think I've ever experienced true hunger, but I get that aspect of the HALT acronym. Perhaps "Hunger" could also go beyond physical hunger. Hunger for love or knowing one's value, or other.
For me "H" in HALT stands for Hormones. That always seems a factor in my life, hormones. Having ingested 1000's (not an exaggeration) of doses of steroids to treat asthma and keep me breathing; having been on other asthma drugs regularly; imbibing in alcohol; fulling embracing street drugs in my teen years; walking a tight wire of perfection for decades, living with my foot on the gas and break simultaneously; chronically knowing sleep deprivation for decades. All of it taxes the endocrine system. Not to mention the stressors of the unprecedented exponential evolvement of modern life (ie: "progress") and the regular traumas of being human and the ever changing aspects of womanhood.
Geez, that sounds like a pity party. Yet my point to myself is, my hormones. Thus "H" in HALT stands for Hormones to me, not Hunger.
After arising around 7:15 pm from my nap, I never did look at my workbook nor pay the bills.
After a night of dreaming, I finally arose today at 11:15 am. My mind throughout my upper torso was swimming with all sorts of thoughts.
I must work this afternoon; catch up on emails. My personal emails (non-work) have taken great neglect. I want to write. I want to continue the memoirs I started in Woodstock; they are coming in a chronological sense now. I want to complete my NY entries; how will I convey what happened at the end of my journey there? It may have to wait. I can still write it and save it, but leave out parts for any public eyes until later, until it's time. I need to start back exercising. I need to organize my home; stuff from Mom's is still scattered; I need to visit the homeplace and tell it bye. If I do, I bet it will sell. Why do I avoid it? *tears* I need to eat. First up is that I must work....no, I must write. Yes, I must write.
There was a time when I retemorized scripture verses (see "retemory"); I had a scripture for everything it seemed. If I wasn't retemorizing I would be speaking in tongues silently or witnessing or teaching; always accomplishing.
I'm sitting on my back porch right now. There are a multitude of birds honoring life. All sorts of tones and pitches and tunes. A symphony. Figs on the fig trees are ripening. The sky is overcast, but in a good way. The weeping willow has dropped most of her leaves. I enjoy my backporch and the woods beyond the lawn which is partly carpeted with soft Zoysia grass.
Life is good. Deep breath, sweet aromas, stories that live in time...
Chuckle. The lawn mowing next door has started. Must be time to go to work.
Timing, sometimes it's 'everything...'
***********************************************
I've had a difficult few days. I am in a mode where I feel on the edge of slipping. Yesterday I had wanted to work in my Dialectical.....Workbook. I never got around to it. Instead I lay on my bed, getting in touch with my inner personas...and visiting with myself. I then drifted into deep sleep for a couple hours. I arose after dreaming. My body ached; not a terrible ache. My teeth felt funny in their sockets. Not like they once did when my episodes were severe. I had that funny taste/smell within me, similar to a slow drip I.V. streaming a diluted substance into my inner network of complex tubing. My brain and body felt slow.
HALT. I had thought of it eariler, before I fell into sleep. Traditionally it stands for Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. Those states can trigger episodes and also can leave one vulnerable. I don't have trouble with Hunger typically; I have fasted regularly throughout my adult life, the longest being (I think) 10 days. Even with that I don't think I've ever experienced true hunger, but I get that aspect of the HALT acronym. Perhaps "Hunger" could also go beyond physical hunger. Hunger for love or knowing one's value, or other.
For me "H" in HALT stands for Hormones. That always seems a factor in my life, hormones. Having ingested 1000's (not an exaggeration) of doses of steroids to treat asthma and keep me breathing; having been on other asthma drugs regularly; imbibing in alcohol; fulling embracing street drugs in my teen years; walking a tight wire of perfection for decades, living with my foot on the gas and break simultaneously; chronically knowing sleep deprivation for decades. All of it taxes the endocrine system. Not to mention the stressors of the unprecedented exponential evolvement of modern life (ie: "progress") and the regular traumas of being human and the ever changing aspects of womanhood.
Geez, that sounds like a pity party. Yet my point to myself is, my hormones. Thus "H" in HALT stands for Hormones to me, not Hunger.
After arising around 7:15 pm from my nap, I never did look at my workbook nor pay the bills.
After a night of dreaming, I finally arose today at 11:15 am. My mind throughout my upper torso was swimming with all sorts of thoughts.
I must work this afternoon; catch up on emails. My personal emails (non-work) have taken great neglect. I want to write. I want to continue the memoirs I started in Woodstock; they are coming in a chronological sense now. I want to complete my NY entries; how will I convey what happened at the end of my journey there? It may have to wait. I can still write it and save it, but leave out parts for any public eyes until later, until it's time. I need to start back exercising. I need to organize my home; stuff from Mom's is still scattered; I need to visit the homeplace and tell it bye. If I do, I bet it will sell. Why do I avoid it? *tears* I need to eat. First up is that I must work....no, I must write. Yes, I must write.
There was a time when I retemorized scripture verses (see "retemory"); I had a scripture for everything it seemed. If I wasn't retemorizing I would be speaking in tongues silently or witnessing or teaching; always accomplishing.
I'm sitting on my back porch right now. There are a multitude of birds honoring life. All sorts of tones and pitches and tunes. A symphony. Figs on the fig trees are ripening. The sky is overcast, but in a good way. The weeping willow has dropped most of her leaves. I enjoy my backporch and the woods beyond the lawn which is partly carpeted with soft Zoysia grass.
Life is good. Deep breath, sweet aromas, stories that live in time...
Chuckle. The lawn mowing next door has started. Must be time to go to work.
Timing, sometimes it's 'everything...'
***********************************************
September 7, 2009
Subtlety: A Current Perspective on The Way International
I recently read some comments by a Way Corps grad who had served as a Way staff member and who left The Way within the past year, 2009. Their words so well describe part of my perception when I exited The Way in October, 2005, after 28 years of loyalty. My husband, who officially broke ties with The Way in March/April, 2006, also read the comments and felt the same as I. Neither of us were Way Corps grads or staff, but we had served for decades as volunteer lay-leaders on the field.
Some say The Way has changed from its past manipulations and hypocrisy which Way believers mainly blame on The Way's second president, Craig Martindale, not realizing (either ignorantly or by denial) that the root of The Way's abuses goes back to its founder, Victor Paul Wierwille. And The Way has changed; manipulations are a bit more subtle now.
Way followers' experiences differ depending on many factors such as length of time involved, which Way president was heading the helm, one's own temperament, local leadership, life experiences, and more.
[The following is shared with permission. The reference below to Donna still "being married to the President" does not refer to her if-they-are-officially-divorced ex-husband, Craig Martindale, but rather figuratively to Donna's relationship with the current Way President, Rosalie Rivenbark.]
The above was shared with a Way Corps grad who left The Way around 1998. When I asked permission to share the above, part of her response was the following. I think it is an apt description of current top Way leadership:
[....] what are they going to do Mark and Avoid me again??? [...] Oh yeah, they don't do that any more. I guess they just make life so horribly degrading that you leave...both are evil mental games that leave the victim in the same mental state of questioning their fellowship with their father. It reminds me of the evil step mom after the Dad dies and she beats up his children with the bullshit that 'Your father would be very disappointed in you.' To manipulate them to do things. Masters of mental abuse.
Some say The Way has changed from its past manipulations and hypocrisy which Way believers mainly blame on The Way's second president, Craig Martindale, not realizing (either ignorantly or by denial) that the root of The Way's abuses goes back to its founder, Victor Paul Wierwille. And The Way has changed; manipulations are a bit more subtle now.
Way followers' experiences differ depending on many factors such as length of time involved, which Way president was heading the helm, one's own temperament, local leadership, life experiences, and more.
[The following is shared with permission. The reference below to Donna still "being married to the President" does not refer to her if-they-are-officially-divorced ex-husband, Craig Martindale, but rather figuratively to Donna's relationship with the current Way President, Rosalie Rivenbark.]
"The idea of decentralizing the teachings was that it would eliminate the worship of 'The Teacher'...(as if that was root of the problem...geez). Yet Rosalie runs EVERYTHING, controls EVERYTHING. After the fiasco with Craig they have demanded of the W[ay] C[orps] and staff especially to speak up over any questionable behavior unless it has to do with Rosalie and her squad of 'Men Hating Woman'...Donna being 2nd only to Rosalie in that fellowship...I asked if there is lesbian activity and the comment was Donna is still married to the President of the ministry. The cabinet consists of yes men or women that are not allowed to speak up or argue a point. Rosalie being the school teacher that she was...(when was she one and how long? She has a been on staff forever)...runs the ministry like a school and if you displease her she punishes by taking responsibility and privileges away like making you live in Founders Hall or gives you a responsibility out on the field. She does this even to the old timers...the ones who have bled the Way International...Mitlers, Panerellos...people of unbelievable character and quality. She has no respect for what they have done for the ministry. Her wings have been clipped severely with all the stuff that Craig did like she doesn't yell because that would be 'abusive' so in turn she teaches and takes away responsibilities and would rather yell and do it all the old way.
The consensus is that it is dieing [sic] and everyone wishes it would just die and be done with. My heart aches for those who are still involved and abused by it and not in the same way others have been but in the suffocating, life-sucking, controlling Way. People involved are still saying...'if something better came along I would go.' Bless their hearts, they don't realize NOTHING is better. It was always suppose to be 'Just God and I'...isn't that the heart of the word 'Godliness - a true vital spiritual relationship with God.' First and foremost I need to have it together with my Father before I am an asset to the Family. There is life after The Way and God is still your God and He still opens the eyes of your understanding and answers prayers and loves you. How sad after all those years of learning God's Word they don't believe that. They don't know they can walk away and be in the world with their God and not 'belong' to anything and still grow and fellowship with God."
The above was shared with a Way Corps grad who left The Way around 1998. When I asked permission to share the above, part of her response was the following. I think it is an apt description of current top Way leadership:
[....] what are they going to do Mark and Avoid me again??? [...] Oh yeah, they don't do that any more. I guess they just make life so horribly degrading that you leave...both are evil mental games that leave the victim in the same mental state of questioning their fellowship with their father. It reminds me of the evil step mom after the Dad dies and she beats up his children with the bullshit that 'Your father would be very disappointed in you.' To manipulate them to do things. Masters of mental abuse.
September 4, 2009
Journal Entry: Each Voice Matters
*****************************
8/28/09 11:38 pm Woodstock/Bearsville, NY
I'm here, at the Authentic Writing Workshop. It is such an honor to hear the stories of these peoples' lives. So much rich history, depth of life, poignant present, unknown future. Each attendee has a strength that inspires.
Fred facilitates with integrity and a humble brilliance and grace hewn by years of experience. He isn't above the attendees, he is one of us, attending to his own story, sharing it, the same as each of us. I feel that my voice matters. I feel my response to others matters; it matters. It matters. Each voice matters.
[............]
Matter. Matter has form and shape and texture. Art.
Matter. Each voice matters; each voice has form and shape and texture. Art.
A bond is made with these faces. The laughs, the tears, the accents, the inflections, the lives, the histories, the present. I'd love to read each person's life's essays. This is what makes the world go round. People as individuals.
Thanks for letting me live. I treasure breath.
************************************
8/28/09 11:38 pm Woodstock/Bearsville, NY
I'm here, at the Authentic Writing Workshop. It is such an honor to hear the stories of these peoples' lives. So much rich history, depth of life, poignant present, unknown future. Each attendee has a strength that inspires.
Fred facilitates with integrity and a humble brilliance and grace hewn by years of experience. He isn't above the attendees, he is one of us, attending to his own story, sharing it, the same as each of us. I feel that my voice matters. I feel my response to others matters; it matters. It matters. Each voice matters.
[............]
Matter. Matter has form and shape and texture. Art.
Matter. Each voice matters; each voice has form and shape and texture. Art.
A bond is made with these faces. The laughs, the tears, the accents, the inflections, the lives, the histories, the present. I'd love to read each person's life's essays. This is what makes the world go round. People as individuals.
Thanks for letting me live. I treasure breath.
************************************
September 2, 2009
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Greasespot Cafe. The online anti/ex-Way internet forum became my umbilical lifeline shortly after I'd exited The Way in latter 2005. I'd exited alone, without my husband and children. During our last years with The Way, my husband John and I had a strained relationship on the brink of divorce. We didn't fight or holler or carry on. As my 15-year old son had stated John and I were like two people being carried by a river current, each manning our own little raft. John and I had shared with our children when they were 14 and 17 that we might separate.
Greasespot Cafe, the online anti/ex-Way internet forum was named due to the second president of The Way spewing from the podium how anyone who left the "household of believers" would end up a "grease spot by midnight." The forum was a drive-by for some ex-Way followers, a haven for others, a toxic brew for some, and anathema for loyal Way followers. As followers we had been explicitly directed to stay away from those type sites on the internet; people who frequented them were possessed with devil spirits. The adversary, the devil, would like nothing better than to destroy God's ministry. I was loyal so I obeyed...up until around 2003.
I was sitting in Borders which had become a regular safe place for me to journal. I'd go almost every day and spend hours writing and reading...and then feeling guilty for 'wasting' all that time on myself. I'd asked my psychologist if I was a narcissist; I spent so much time writing and writing and writing and writing...about me. It seemed selfish and unproductive, yet I knew my life had changed dramatically since I'd taken this dive with the pen onto parchment. Because of journaling I'd been led into areas I would have never ventured previously, corridors I still pretended didn't exist. Sometimes it was like I'd peek around a corner but run back to another safer area of the maze, where I knew my way out. Sometimes I'd get so totally lost and have dirt caked in my fingernails from trying to climb out of the hole...that deep dark damp hole. So often at the top awaited that god-damned boot to push me back down into my proper place. That laced gigantic army boot belonging to some obscure face that I never saw, only felt. That boot that uttered so loudly without ever saying a word, "Shut the fuck up you moron!"
Was I a narcissist? Why did I have to write so much? What would I ever do with all these journals, with all this chicken scratch? Wasn't it just some selfish act of survival, time I spent away from my family and kids, time better spent working the Word, or teaching, or slaving for a buck, or housecleaning, or cooking, or perfecting something tangible? What the fuck was wrong with me? Why couldn't I just walk through and get on with life? Why was I always so fucking sick?!?
I sat at Borders again that day around 2003 at the table in the back. I didn't much like the cafe area; it wasn't sacred enough. But here in the back at the table surrounded by travel books, there was something holy about it for me. A grotto. There were other folks too, poets and journalers, who found refuge in this corner amidst the world of cheap or lush traveling logs.
On this particular day a black man sat beside me at the table. I was writing and probably reading some book, which one I don't know. I was always in process of reading some self-help or biblical book. He was reading his Bible with a pen and pad in hand.
As my manner was, I struck up a conversation.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~
Greasespot Cafe, the online anti/ex-Way internet forum was named due to the second president of The Way spewing from the podium how anyone who left the "household of believers" would end up a "grease spot by midnight." The forum was a drive-by for some ex-Way followers, a haven for others, a toxic brew for some, and anathema for loyal Way followers. As followers we had been explicitly directed to stay away from those type sites on the internet; people who frequented them were possessed with devil spirits. The adversary, the devil, would like nothing better than to destroy God's ministry. I was loyal so I obeyed...up until around 2003.
I was sitting in Borders which had become a regular safe place for me to journal. I'd go almost every day and spend hours writing and reading...and then feeling guilty for 'wasting' all that time on myself. I'd asked my psychologist if I was a narcissist; I spent so much time writing and writing and writing and writing...about me. It seemed selfish and unproductive, yet I knew my life had changed dramatically since I'd taken this dive with the pen onto parchment. Because of journaling I'd been led into areas I would have never ventured previously, corridors I still pretended didn't exist. Sometimes it was like I'd peek around a corner but run back to another safer area of the maze, where I knew my way out. Sometimes I'd get so totally lost and have dirt caked in my fingernails from trying to climb out of the hole...that deep dark damp hole. So often at the top awaited that god-damned boot to push me back down into my proper place. That laced gigantic army boot belonging to some obscure face that I never saw, only felt. That boot that uttered so loudly without ever saying a word, "Shut the fuck up you moron!"
Was I a narcissist? Why did I have to write so much? What would I ever do with all these journals, with all this chicken scratch? Wasn't it just some selfish act of survival, time I spent away from my family and kids, time better spent working the Word, or teaching, or slaving for a buck, or housecleaning, or cooking, or perfecting something tangible? What the fuck was wrong with me? Why couldn't I just walk through and get on with life? Why was I always so fucking sick?!?
I sat at Borders again that day around 2003 at the table in the back. I didn't much like the cafe area; it wasn't sacred enough. But here in the back at the table surrounded by travel books, there was something holy about it for me. A grotto. There were other folks too, poets and journalers, who found refuge in this corner amidst the world of cheap or lush traveling logs.
On this particular day a black man sat beside me at the table. I was writing and probably reading some book, which one I don't know. I was always in process of reading some self-help or biblical book. He was reading his Bible with a pen and pad in hand.
As my manner was, I struck up a conversation.
~*~
Missing Pieces I
Missing Pieces II: Grotto Journaling
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 1)
Missing Pieces III: We All Stand Together (Part 2)
~*~