Panel Wagons and Speaking in Tongues

With all my heart I craved to know God, like a hunger that couldn't be satisfied. That's the main reason I broke my engagement with Frank.

God.

A passion burned inside of me, an internal driven madness to become one with the Creator, one with the Universe, one with the Divine.  To reach God Consciousness. I couldn't give all my heart to a man and love God at the same time. I had to choose one or the Other.

I chose the Other. I chose the Divine.

God.

Plus Frank believed in an eternal burning hell for people who never confessed Romans 10:9-10. I had tried to believe. Sunday after Sunday attending church and singing "Just as I Am" in that twangy country choir and going forward to the altar in tears of unworthiness. Wednesday after Wednesday attending the Vashti Victory Baptist Bible study as we went historically through the Old Testament and the New. I found nuggets of Truth; maybe there was something more in these pages.

Sitting in the little Vashti Victory Baptist Church watching that movie about the motorcycle rider who wrecked and was sentenced to the lake of fire, "The Burning Hell." I looked around the country church sanctuary; children, as young as five years old, were watching the young man in the movie being sentenced to an eternity of fiery damnation.  My stomach turned.  What was I doing sitting there in silence? Didn't that mean that I joined in condoning this?  But there I sat, trying to believe, telling myself this was the truth; yet, my gut churned. Off. On. Off. On.

God.

It was so odd. Frank the handsome hippie with blond hair, blue eyes, and a gotee who played Neil Young on his acoustic guitar, who owned and raised chow dogs and drove a panel wagon hippie van where I'd give him blow jobs and we'd make love in the back of the wagon when we'd go wagon camping. This beautiful man with whom I was awestruck and so wanted to please, who loved nature and hiking.

Frank and I lived in a cabin that had no running water and no heat except the wood stove.  We took our dogs and visited West Virginia in winter, the Dolly Sods Wilderness and some of Frank's friends who lived in Horseshoe Run where sits, what I was told, the smallest church in the lower forty-eight.  Horseshoe Run in winter. Lots of snow. Quiet. A pub on the corner. A general store. Frank and I rode in a horse drawn sleigh; it was a regular in the winter in 1976 in Horseshoe.

God.

It was odd. Frank with whom I visited Skyline Drive with our dogs. We stayed somewhere close to Front Royal in a large old house of one of Frank's friends; I think his name was Dave.  The house had no indoor plumbing and was heated with a wood stove.  A fire road went up the back property and intersected with Skyline Drive.

It was odd.  This man I loved and was going to marry, this hippie four years older than I who liked the fact that I didn't shave my legs or underarms and that I didn't drink or smoke dope, though he did.  He talked of peace and love, yet believed that a loving God would punish people in an eternal blaze if they didn't except Jesus as their Savior.

God.

My desire for God Consciousness was greater than my desire to please Frank. So, at 18 years old, I moved out of the little cabin at the base of  Rocky Face. My heart ached; I had to cut my ties to Frank. I had to. If I was going to find God.

God.

I moved in with Tula, in her home to help care for her.  I stayed with her for about eight weeks.

Tula was in her 80's. Every Wednesday was laundry day.  Together Tula and I would use the wash board and the wringer washer on Tula's screened in wooden porch. She lived right outside Taylorsvile off Highway 16 going toward Wilkesboro, not far from Rocky Face Mountain and Vashti.  Tula and I would scrub and wring Tula's clothes and then hang them on the line to dry.

I returned to Transcendental Meditation for a bit, repeating my mantra over and over, attending a weekend of TM rounding in the luxurious golf haven of Pinehurst, North Carolina, in the eastern part of the state. Through the month of June, I'd lay on my bedroom floor in Tula's home listening to Ram Dass on a 33 LP...round and round.  "Be Here Now."  I'd go over to Larry and Sues in Vashti and help with the organic strawberry farm. Larry and Sue who were from New York and had come to the North Carolina Mountains to homestead, in a sense.

God.

I spoke in tongues later that summer; in July, 1977.  The Vashti Victory Baptist Church had taught speaking in tongues was of the devil.  But what I heard, at Resurrection Lutheran that July weekday morning in Charlotte at a gathering of about 20 women and Pastor Mirly, sounded heavenly. A few ladies gently singing one at a time in beautiful languages. I was captivated.

God.

Panel wagons, twangy choirs, eternal fires.

Wooden porches, wringer washers, speaking in tongues.