You need no grand purpose to say what you need to say.
And if you think no one hears, dew mist has ears.
ʚ(⌒▽⌒)ɞ
Oh...and corn fields...LOTS of ears.
ʚ!!ɞ!!ʚ!!ɞ!!ʚ!!ɞ
"Say"
by John Mayer
Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put 'em in quotations
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Say what you need to say
Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off instead,
If you could only . . .
Say what you need to say [x8]
Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
Its better to say too much
Than never to say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open
Say what you need to say [x24]
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
June 29, 2010
June 23, 2010
Mandatory
Stan and I walked along the edge of Interstate 40. I don't recall why we were on the interstate instead of an on-ramp. It was illegal to hitch on the interstate. We were specifically instructed not to.
We had left Emporia, Kansas, Monday morning at 5:00 AM. We had a time limit to arrive in Tinnie, New Mexico - 36 hours. If we were late, we'd have to turn around and thumb back to Emporia. It was now 1:00 AM, Tuesday. We were in Oklahoma.
As Way Corps, we were to believe God for rides to arrive at our assigned destinations within allotted time limits. I can't recall all the different time limits between the various Way properties. Indiana. Kansas. Ohio. New Mexico. Colorado. I never thumbed to Colorado, but did all the other places. Back and forth.
On one trip, my hitching partner and I were late arriving to the Rome City, Indiana, campus from the Emporia, Kansas, campus. But we didn't have to turn around and go back. We were simply reprimanded and had to jump into the schedule and get right to class.
All classes in The Way Corps were mandatory.
Hitching partners were assigned, usually in sets of two, usually a man and woman. Though on two assignments, I was part of a group of three, two women and one man.
There were rules. Never hitch alone. On interstates, hitch only on the ramps, never on the interstate. Never leave your gear. Never leave your partner. Don't sleep at the same time; one partner always stays awake during a ride.
Hitch hiking was mandatory in The Way Corps.
Everything we did in The Way Corps was mandatory.
But I knew that when I signed up as a Way Corps volunteer. It wasn't called "The Corps" for nothing. We were God's crack troops.
I wanted to serve. I loved God. I loved The Ministry. I loved the people. I loved the Corps program. There was no greater calling on earth than The Way Corps. God had called me; He would see me through.
But not the devil. He would try his tricks to keep me from standing, to keep me from being faithful, to trick me out of my calling. The devil was the god of this world, orchestrating spiritual darkness that kept people from the Truth of the Word. He was once God's right-hand angel, the angel of light. He tricked people that way, counterfeiting his movements as light. "Designer causes." That's what Craig called them. Feeding the poor. Sponsoring homeless children. Charities. The Peace Corps. All that stuff. "Designer causes." Distractions to keep a person from doing The Word. After all, Jesus said, "The poor you will always have with you."
The devil and his devil spirits were always after the Word and The Ministry, especially the leadership. I was leadership. He would use others, the environment, even ourselves to try to talk us out of our calling. Doctor said that as believers, especially Corps, our temptation was no longer between good and evil, but rather between good and best.
1:00 AM. End of November. Cold. Crystal clear starry sky. Dark. Blustery. Distant shadows. Sagebrush rolled across the empty plain. If I was a coyote, I would have howled to the wind. Instead I pulled my synthetic fiberfill jacket hood tightly around my face. After three hours of numbing cold, at 4:00 AM, Stan and I pulled up a spot of grass on the side of the hill to get a couple hours sleep.
It was a hard decision, whether to sleep or not. What if we missed a ride? What if we ended up late to Tinnie? Were we being slothful by sleeping? Was it the best thing to do?
My synthetic fiberfill mummy sleeping bag felt warm. It felt good to lay down.
Zip. Wind howling. Grassy hill above the plains. Sayre, Oklahoma. Interstate 40. Hitch hiking to LEAD. Thirteen hours left to get there. The Way Corps.
I silently spoke in tongues as I drifted into sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
We had left Emporia, Kansas, Monday morning at 5:00 AM. We had a time limit to arrive in Tinnie, New Mexico - 36 hours. If we were late, we'd have to turn around and thumb back to Emporia. It was now 1:00 AM, Tuesday. We were in Oklahoma.
As Way Corps, we were to believe God for rides to arrive at our assigned destinations within allotted time limits. I can't recall all the different time limits between the various Way properties. Indiana. Kansas. Ohio. New Mexico. Colorado. I never thumbed to Colorado, but did all the other places. Back and forth.
On one trip, my hitching partner and I were late arriving to the Rome City, Indiana, campus from the Emporia, Kansas, campus. But we didn't have to turn around and go back. We were simply reprimanded and had to jump into the schedule and get right to class.
All classes in The Way Corps were mandatory.
Hitching partners were assigned, usually in sets of two, usually a man and woman. Though on two assignments, I was part of a group of three, two women and one man.
There were rules. Never hitch alone. On interstates, hitch only on the ramps, never on the interstate. Never leave your gear. Never leave your partner. Don't sleep at the same time; one partner always stays awake during a ride.
Hitch hiking was mandatory in The Way Corps.
Everything we did in The Way Corps was mandatory.
But I knew that when I signed up as a Way Corps volunteer. It wasn't called "The Corps" for nothing. We were God's crack troops.
I wanted to serve. I loved God. I loved The Ministry. I loved the people. I loved the Corps program. There was no greater calling on earth than The Way Corps. God had called me; He would see me through.
But not the devil. He would try his tricks to keep me from standing, to keep me from being faithful, to trick me out of my calling. The devil was the god of this world, orchestrating spiritual darkness that kept people from the Truth of the Word. He was once God's right-hand angel, the angel of light. He tricked people that way, counterfeiting his movements as light. "Designer causes." That's what Craig called them. Feeding the poor. Sponsoring homeless children. Charities. The Peace Corps. All that stuff. "Designer causes." Distractions to keep a person from doing The Word. After all, Jesus said, "The poor you will always have with you."
The devil and his devil spirits were always after the Word and The Ministry, especially the leadership. I was leadership. He would use others, the environment, even ourselves to try to talk us out of our calling. Doctor said that as believers, especially Corps, our temptation was no longer between good and evil, but rather between good and best.
1:00 AM. End of November. Cold. Crystal clear starry sky. Dark. Blustery. Distant shadows. Sagebrush rolled across the empty plain. If I was a coyote, I would have howled to the wind. Instead I pulled my synthetic fiberfill jacket hood tightly around my face. After three hours of numbing cold, at 4:00 AM, Stan and I pulled up a spot of grass on the side of the hill to get a couple hours sleep.
It was a hard decision, whether to sleep or not. What if we missed a ride? What if we ended up late to Tinnie? Were we being slothful by sleeping? Was it the best thing to do?
My synthetic fiberfill mummy sleeping bag felt warm. It felt good to lay down.
Zip. Wind howling. Grassy hill above the plains. Sayre, Oklahoma. Interstate 40. Hitch hiking to LEAD. Thirteen hours left to get there. The Way Corps.
I silently spoke in tongues as I drifted into sleep.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The Same Argument
aww ~ june 16, 2010
non-subject: "the same argument"
********************
The Same Argument. I draw a blank. I don't like arguing.
My father had such an anger streak, before the accident that left him to live his last 13 years as a quadriplegic.
When I was little, his face would turn fire red. His neck stretched tight and thick with ripples. I don't recall what he would get so mad about as the words, "God damn it to hell!" would spew forth uncontrollably. His voice, a bass tone, that on Sunday mornings would sing with the gospel quartets on the TV. He watched them most every Sunday. Our family mainly attended church only at Christmas and Easter, along with Camp Meetings in August. Our family didn't spend much time together.
I was scared of Dad, though I don't recall with clear memories as to why. Other than his red face, the bulging neck veins, the too-often-shouted "God damn it to hell!" and the fear that he'd walk around naked in front of my friends when they were visiting. Mom said his anger streak came from his Indian blood.
When I was around 6 years old, I stood in the living room gazing out the window, staring at Dad in the front yard as he practiced his golf swing, praying he would die. "I hate you," is all I could think. But I don't recall why.
I lived in my cocoon, my world of ponies. Ponies were safe.
Dynamite was my first pony, a grayish white Shetland who much preferred grazing to being directed by a bridle. Princess was my second pony; larger than Dynamite, female instead of male, chestnut with a blond mane. She liked to trot. Black Eagle was my third; black coat and mane with white socks, the size of a Welsh pony, larger than Princess. Black Eagle had a wild streak; but not as wild as Mary Jane, the horse I was riding and breaking in when I broke my arm after I fell off as she panicked, frantically galloping to escape the mini-bikes that had spooked her.
Mr. Phillips, our family neighbor, came to my rescue. I had a crush on Mr. Phillips. I was 10 years old. He used to take me riding on his motorcycle.
Ponies were safe.
When the Phillip's moved in next door, I was around five years old. I watched their house being built. Brick and sand and big machines. I watched a lot of homes as they were built in our neighborhood. New, modern houses. Not like our house that was left over from the 1930's.
There was Mrs. Phillips, a school teacher. Mr. Phillips, a city politician and banker. And their two sons; the younger was my age. After they first moved in, the big folks were sitting in lawn chairs discussing stuff big people discuss. I was standing with the younger Phillips boy. I decided I didn't like him; he was a sissy. I was tough, a tomboy.
To let him know my distaste for him, I scratched his face with my fingernails. I recall using my right hand pulling my nails down his face and drawing blood. For some reason, I felt he deserved it. He was weaker than me.
Surely I got in trouble for such a deed, but I don't recall that part.
I used to tear up my toys. My mother later told me that I had horrible temper-tantrums, that she didn't know what to do with me. At some point I grew out of them. I don't recall tearing up anymore toys after I was around six years old.
A few years ago, at age 48, I learned for the first time that Dad used to beat my sister with a belt. Her last beating was when she was 17; I would have been 10. He beat her for using his razor to shave her legs before the high school prom. He beat her in front of one of her friends. She didn't make it to the prom.
non-subject: "the same argument"
********************
The Same Argument. I draw a blank. I don't like arguing.
My father had such an anger streak, before the accident that left him to live his last 13 years as a quadriplegic.
When I was little, his face would turn fire red. His neck stretched tight and thick with ripples. I don't recall what he would get so mad about as the words, "God damn it to hell!" would spew forth uncontrollably. His voice, a bass tone, that on Sunday mornings would sing with the gospel quartets on the TV. He watched them most every Sunday. Our family mainly attended church only at Christmas and Easter, along with Camp Meetings in August. Our family didn't spend much time together.
I was scared of Dad, though I don't recall with clear memories as to why. Other than his red face, the bulging neck veins, the too-often-shouted "God damn it to hell!" and the fear that he'd walk around naked in front of my friends when they were visiting. Mom said his anger streak came from his Indian blood.
When I was around 6 years old, I stood in the living room gazing out the window, staring at Dad in the front yard as he practiced his golf swing, praying he would die. "I hate you," is all I could think. But I don't recall why.
I lived in my cocoon, my world of ponies. Ponies were safe.
Dynamite was my first pony, a grayish white Shetland who much preferred grazing to being directed by a bridle. Princess was my second pony; larger than Dynamite, female instead of male, chestnut with a blond mane. She liked to trot. Black Eagle was my third; black coat and mane with white socks, the size of a Welsh pony, larger than Princess. Black Eagle had a wild streak; but not as wild as Mary Jane, the horse I was riding and breaking in when I broke my arm after I fell off as she panicked, frantically galloping to escape the mini-bikes that had spooked her.
Mr. Phillips, our family neighbor, came to my rescue. I had a crush on Mr. Phillips. I was 10 years old. He used to take me riding on his motorcycle.
Ponies were safe.
When the Phillip's moved in next door, I was around five years old. I watched their house being built. Brick and sand and big machines. I watched a lot of homes as they were built in our neighborhood. New, modern houses. Not like our house that was left over from the 1930's.
There was Mrs. Phillips, a school teacher. Mr. Phillips, a city politician and banker. And their two sons; the younger was my age. After they first moved in, the big folks were sitting in lawn chairs discussing stuff big people discuss. I was standing with the younger Phillips boy. I decided I didn't like him; he was a sissy. I was tough, a tomboy.
To let him know my distaste for him, I scratched his face with my fingernails. I recall using my right hand pulling my nails down his face and drawing blood. For some reason, I felt he deserved it. He was weaker than me.
Surely I got in trouble for such a deed, but I don't recall that part.
I used to tear up my toys. My mother later told me that I had horrible temper-tantrums, that she didn't know what to do with me. At some point I grew out of them. I don't recall tearing up anymore toys after I was around six years old.
A few years ago, at age 48, I learned for the first time that Dad used to beat my sister with a belt. Her last beating was when she was 17; I would have been 10. He beat her for using his razor to shave her legs before the high school prom. He beat her in front of one of her friends. She didn't make it to the prom.
June 17, 2010
Hanging There ~ Zoloft, Clotheslines, Mr. Rogers, Limbs, and MIAs
aww ~ june 16, 2010
non-subject: "hanging there"
*********************
Hanging there.
A few images come to mind.
The time Dr. Rico dropped me as his patient, right in the middle of a time when he and I had agreed to take me off Zoloft because my moods were all over the place. We dropped the Zoloft to see where my moods took me without it. Was it making me worse? What was my baseline mood level? I had to drop the Zoloft to find out.
I walked in for my follow-up appointment and he informed me, "I can no longer see you as a patient."
I was stunned.
And then livid as I slammed my stack of books on his office floor. Books I'd been researching to help aid myself in getting well. Books on depression, bipolor, nutrition, alternative and conventional approaches.
"WHY?!?" I demanded.
"When our relationship changed from professional to otherwise, things changed," he stoicly replied.
"We hashed that out over a year and a half ago," I seethed.
"Well sometimes the past comes back up," was his response. And that was that.
Hanging there.
Clothes on the clothesline in our back yard when we lived at Old Well South. The backyard with the cherry tree and dogwoods, lined with white pines like a fence border. They'd sway with the wind. The clothesline, three green nylon-coated wires stretched between two cemented sturdy steel poles that stood erect some 25 feet apart. The green wires about 5-1/2 feet above the ground. Another single green wire, only three feet above the ground, was attached to each pole. I'd added it for my kids when they were little so they could help me hang clothes on the line, except for bedsheets. Bedsheets on the line were for running in and out of, back and between, playing peek-a-boo.
There is something therapeutic about hanging clothes out to dry. Almost sacred. The unrushed activity of using the wooden spring clothespins to methodically hang garments to worship the sun and the breeze. Usually I'd hum a tune. But it was never as lovely as the coo of the mourning doves, always so distinct in the evening as I took the clothes off the line. The whole experience had a Mr. Rogers affect on me. I liked Mr. Rogers. The way he would take time to unbutton his cardigan and hang it up.
Hanging there.
My yellow backpacking food bag hanging 10 feet above the ground from a tree limb and at least one foot below the limb on which the bag hung, to protect it and me from bears and other wild varmints. To hang it, I tie my Swiss army knife on the end of a rope to weight the rope as I attempt to throw it over the limb. I never get it over in the proper place the first time. Then sometimes it gets caught on some other part of the limb and I have to find some sort of long stick to use as an extension to my arm and hand to get the knife and rope unstuck. I always say a little pray after hanging the bag. It'd be a real bummer to lose my food, and Pocket Rocket stove, and pots on the trail.
Limb. The term The Way used for states in the USA. The USA, the country itself, was called the Trunk. Other countries were also Trunks.
But there was only one Root. That was The Way Headquarters located on what once was the Wierwille farm. Dr. Weirwille and his brother Harry had donated the farm to The Way.
Way home fellowships were called Twigs. "The life is in the Twig," Doctor used to say. Each believer was a Leaf.
Healthy twigs bear fruit. Fruit were the new people in the Twig. Of course the health of a twig in nature is because it gets nourished from the sun and from the roots of the tree. God was the sun. That was never officially stated in The Way, that I recall, but the analogy fit. God is light. The Word is light. The sun is light. God's son, Jesus Christ, brought light to the world.
The sun in the sky. It appears to hang there too.
Hanging there.
MIAs and POWs. I just met a couple men here at Panera as I was taking a short break from writing this piece. I struck up a conversation as we stood at the coffee area, refilling our mugs and adding sweetener and cream. I prefer hazelnut coffee.
"I like your message" was my opening line. They new what I referred to - their attire. Vests with patches about MIAs and POWs. Their tee shirts, with the same. Tattoos on their legs and arms. I'm left with a hole in my heart. My eyes wet with tears. A lump in my throat.
The men were gathering at Panera with other vets, most from Nam. They are members of Rolling Thunder. Most of them are bikers.
They hold table ceremonies for the still missing.
******************
non-subject: "hanging there"
*********************
Hanging there.
A few images come to mind.
The time Dr. Rico dropped me as his patient, right in the middle of a time when he and I had agreed to take me off Zoloft because my moods were all over the place. We dropped the Zoloft to see where my moods took me without it. Was it making me worse? What was my baseline mood level? I had to drop the Zoloft to find out.
I walked in for my follow-up appointment and he informed me, "I can no longer see you as a patient."
I was stunned.
And then livid as I slammed my stack of books on his office floor. Books I'd been researching to help aid myself in getting well. Books on depression, bipolor, nutrition, alternative and conventional approaches.
"WHY?!?" I demanded.
"When our relationship changed from professional to otherwise, things changed," he stoicly replied.
"We hashed that out over a year and a half ago," I seethed.
"Well sometimes the past comes back up," was his response. And that was that.
Hanging there.
Clothes on the clothesline in our back yard when we lived at Old Well South. The backyard with the cherry tree and dogwoods, lined with white pines like a fence border. They'd sway with the wind. The clothesline, three green nylon-coated wires stretched between two cemented sturdy steel poles that stood erect some 25 feet apart. The green wires about 5-1/2 feet above the ground. Another single green wire, only three feet above the ground, was attached to each pole. I'd added it for my kids when they were little so they could help me hang clothes on the line, except for bedsheets. Bedsheets on the line were for running in and out of, back and between, playing peek-a-boo.
There is something therapeutic about hanging clothes out to dry. Almost sacred. The unrushed activity of using the wooden spring clothespins to methodically hang garments to worship the sun and the breeze. Usually I'd hum a tune. But it was never as lovely as the coo of the mourning doves, always so distinct in the evening as I took the clothes off the line. The whole experience had a Mr. Rogers affect on me. I liked Mr. Rogers. The way he would take time to unbutton his cardigan and hang it up.
Hanging there.
My yellow backpacking food bag hanging 10 feet above the ground from a tree limb and at least one foot below the limb on which the bag hung, to protect it and me from bears and other wild varmints. To hang it, I tie my Swiss army knife on the end of a rope to weight the rope as I attempt to throw it over the limb. I never get it over in the proper place the first time. Then sometimes it gets caught on some other part of the limb and I have to find some sort of long stick to use as an extension to my arm and hand to get the knife and rope unstuck. I always say a little pray after hanging the bag. It'd be a real bummer to lose my food, and Pocket Rocket stove, and pots on the trail.
Limb. The term The Way used for states in the USA. The USA, the country itself, was called the Trunk. Other countries were also Trunks.
But there was only one Root. That was The Way Headquarters located on what once was the Wierwille farm. Dr. Weirwille and his brother Harry had donated the farm to The Way.
Way home fellowships were called Twigs. "The life is in the Twig," Doctor used to say. Each believer was a Leaf.
Healthy twigs bear fruit. Fruit were the new people in the Twig. Of course the health of a twig in nature is because it gets nourished from the sun and from the roots of the tree. God was the sun. That was never officially stated in The Way, that I recall, but the analogy fit. God is light. The Word is light. The sun is light. God's son, Jesus Christ, brought light to the world.
The sun in the sky. It appears to hang there too.
Hanging there.
MIAs and POWs. I just met a couple men here at Panera as I was taking a short break from writing this piece. I struck up a conversation as we stood at the coffee area, refilling our mugs and adding sweetener and cream. I prefer hazelnut coffee.
"I like your message" was my opening line. They new what I referred to - their attire. Vests with patches about MIAs and POWs. Their tee shirts, with the same. Tattoos on their legs and arms. I'm left with a hole in my heart. My eyes wet with tears. A lump in my throat.
The men were gathering at Panera with other vets, most from Nam. They are members of Rolling Thunder. Most of them are bikers.
They hold table ceremonies for the still missing.
******************
June 9, 2010
The Cult that Snapped ~ Chapter 13
I don't recall what was suggested last week, as a non-subject for writing. I feel I need one to help me start writing.
I am hesitating continuing the GreaseSpot story. And I haven't even gotten to the GreaseSpot part yet; I'm still writing the exiting The Way part.
Exiting The Way. I thought I'd never leave what was my spiritual family. I thought I'd never doubt the belief system with which I'd indoctrinated myself.
*********************
Last night as I read a section of "The Cult that Snapped," a section in which the author, Karl Kahler, transcribes various parts of a teaching and discussion, I heard their voices. In my mind's ear. The voices of Craig and Doctor and Walter. I heard their inflections and tones. I could see Doctor's eyes and expression.
And I felt.
I felt I was back in a Way Corps teaching or an Advanced Class teaching. Teachings only for the mature, the initiated. Serious biblical students for whom "It Is Written" was their breath.
I felt the grand purpose of the Word, the unique position of The Way to accurately know the scriptures. So much so that even without final verification of a text we in The Way could figure out the right-dividing of that scripture. We could orthotomounta (straightly cut) that Word because of the feel we had for the Word. Doctor had worked the Word for decades mining truths that had not been taught since the first century. Doctor was passing that legacy to us.
But it wasn't just Doctor teaching us; it was God. God within each of us had brought us here. This legacy was larger than any one person or any organization. Yet it could only live via people and a structure in which to function. We were the people. The Ministry, the Way Tree, was the structure.
Doctor taught us how to read the Word. The immediate context. The remoter context. To acknowledge the culture of Biblical times. To utilize concordances and lexicons to get the feel for the words that God used. To have an awareness of figures of speech of which there are over 200 in the Bible and up to 40 varieties under one figure. Sometimes I'd wonder if any of the Bible was not figurative, with so many figures.
Doctor taught us that the Word was absolutely perfect as it was originally given and that it would always fit like "a hand in a glove" and with "a mathematical exactness and scientific precision." If there was ever an apparent contradiction, it was due to translation or to our lack of understanding. Doctor taught us that the Word always interprets itself; no man had a right to interpret it. If the Word was wrong, then Doctor was wrong.
As I read last night, between the lines and the words, I entered the scene. I was back in the Corps. I was one of the called, one of God's elite.
And I felt.
Surety. Clarity. Purpose. Resolute. Confident. Enveloped. Sanctioned.
Craig. Doctor. Walter. Their voices in my mind's ear. Voices that gave birth to images, almost simultaneously, in my mind's eye.
I eagerly sat among the audience of disciples to drink in the deep, sweet waters spoken by these men of God, Doctor and Craig as they sat in upholstered chairs in a living room-type setting on the carpeted podium platform, sipping beverages as they conversed. They were not in a hurry, not trying to prove anything, as they shared thinking out loud through the logic of the Word and what must be the proper interpretation of Ephesians 6, in order for the imagery of that Word to fit with the rest of the Word regardless if there were any texts (yet found) to substantiate what they knew must be. An air of meekness, these men who could hear God's voice more clearly than I, who tantalized my spiritual taste buds. If I were truly enlightened and meek, I could digest the meat of the Word that Craig and Doctor would lay before me, God opening the eyes of my understanding to the richness of the banquet.
Craig Martindale, the second president of The Way. His voice and presence confident and sure. His words intelligent, yet down to earth. An intense man, driven. Craig, who would think out loud sharing his thought processes with us explaining words and meanings. Always apt to teach, being an example of what we as leaders were supposed to do, supposed to be. I'd heard Craig say jokingly, "Ask me what time it is and I'll teach you how a watch works." Though I don't think he knew anything about watches.
Doctor, Victor Paul Weirwille, founder of The Way. His voice grandfatherly, strong and resonate. His eyes lit with excitement. His expression thrilled with the Word. Eager to share and dig it deeper. For the Word was life. "The Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word," as Doctor used to say. Doctor was a perfectionist, but admitted that he wasn't perfect. "I wish I were the man I knew to be," he had said. Yet, he heard God's voice clearly; he spiritually walked a tight walk with the Father. Doctor used to say that our temptation as believers (and especially as Way Corps, God's crack troops) was no longer between good and evil but between good and best. Even so we were to have no condemnation toward ourselves or others; all humans fall short. I'd heard him say quite a few times, "People are to be loved; things are to be used."
In my mind's eye, the living room setting switched to another image. A six-foot, rectangular conference table with the three men seated on the back side of the table facing the audience. Doctor in the middle. Craig to Doctor's left and Walter to Doctor's right. Each with a glass of water and Bibles open on the table. Walter with a stack of research books, maybe three or four. Doctor and Craig with a couple different Bibles. The podium decor felt of a scholarly essence, important and serious.
Walter Cummins, head of the research department. His mother had married Uncle Harry, Doctor's brother. Uncle Harry who was the first secretary-treasurer of The Way and financed much of The Way's inception. Walter was mild-mannered, academic without a stuffy demeanor.
Serious stuff. Working the Word. There was nothing more important than that Word. No family. No person. No other cause. To rightly divide the Word of God was the highest calling on earth.
The Way. Its self-importance was that of arrogance. Obsession. Hubris. All guised in authority given from God. Cloaked with clever words. Laced with sweetness.
*****************************
After reading Kahler's words and entering the scene and traversing my own responses as I read, I felt separate from my self. I felt like I had been in a movie. But it wasn't a movie; it was my life.
I chose not to linger with the separate feeling for if I engaged too deeply, I felt scared.
I am hesitating continuing the GreaseSpot story. And I haven't even gotten to the GreaseSpot part yet; I'm still writing the exiting The Way part.
Exiting The Way. I thought I'd never leave what was my spiritual family. I thought I'd never doubt the belief system with which I'd indoctrinated myself.
*********************
Last night as I read a section of "The Cult that Snapped," a section in which the author, Karl Kahler, transcribes various parts of a teaching and discussion, I heard their voices. In my mind's ear. The voices of Craig and Doctor and Walter. I heard their inflections and tones. I could see Doctor's eyes and expression.
And I felt.
I felt I was back in a Way Corps teaching or an Advanced Class teaching. Teachings only for the mature, the initiated. Serious biblical students for whom "It Is Written" was their breath.
I felt the grand purpose of the Word, the unique position of The Way to accurately know the scriptures. So much so that even without final verification of a text we in The Way could figure out the right-dividing of that scripture. We could orthotomounta (straightly cut) that Word because of the feel we had for the Word. Doctor had worked the Word for decades mining truths that had not been taught since the first century. Doctor was passing that legacy to us.
But it wasn't just Doctor teaching us; it was God. God within each of us had brought us here. This legacy was larger than any one person or any organization. Yet it could only live via people and a structure in which to function. We were the people. The Ministry, the Way Tree, was the structure.
Doctor taught us how to read the Word. The immediate context. The remoter context. To acknowledge the culture of Biblical times. To utilize concordances and lexicons to get the feel for the words that God used. To have an awareness of figures of speech of which there are over 200 in the Bible and up to 40 varieties under one figure. Sometimes I'd wonder if any of the Bible was not figurative, with so many figures.
Doctor taught us that the Word was absolutely perfect as it was originally given and that it would always fit like "a hand in a glove" and with "a mathematical exactness and scientific precision." If there was ever an apparent contradiction, it was due to translation or to our lack of understanding. Doctor taught us that the Word always interprets itself; no man had a right to interpret it. If the Word was wrong, then Doctor was wrong.
As I read last night, between the lines and the words, I entered the scene. I was back in the Corps. I was one of the called, one of God's elite.
And I felt.
Surety. Clarity. Purpose. Resolute. Confident. Enveloped. Sanctioned.
Craig. Doctor. Walter. Their voices in my mind's ear. Voices that gave birth to images, almost simultaneously, in my mind's eye.
I eagerly sat among the audience of disciples to drink in the deep, sweet waters spoken by these men of God, Doctor and Craig as they sat in upholstered chairs in a living room-type setting on the carpeted podium platform, sipping beverages as they conversed. They were not in a hurry, not trying to prove anything, as they shared thinking out loud through the logic of the Word and what must be the proper interpretation of Ephesians 6, in order for the imagery of that Word to fit with the rest of the Word regardless if there were any texts (yet found) to substantiate what they knew must be. An air of meekness, these men who could hear God's voice more clearly than I, who tantalized my spiritual taste buds. If I were truly enlightened and meek, I could digest the meat of the Word that Craig and Doctor would lay before me, God opening the eyes of my understanding to the richness of the banquet.
Craig Martindale, the second president of The Way. His voice and presence confident and sure. His words intelligent, yet down to earth. An intense man, driven. Craig, who would think out loud sharing his thought processes with us explaining words and meanings. Always apt to teach, being an example of what we as leaders were supposed to do, supposed to be. I'd heard Craig say jokingly, "Ask me what time it is and I'll teach you how a watch works." Though I don't think he knew anything about watches.
Doctor, Victor Paul Weirwille, founder of The Way. His voice grandfatherly, strong and resonate. His eyes lit with excitement. His expression thrilled with the Word. Eager to share and dig it deeper. For the Word was life. "The Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word," as Doctor used to say. Doctor was a perfectionist, but admitted that he wasn't perfect. "I wish I were the man I knew to be," he had said. Yet, he heard God's voice clearly; he spiritually walked a tight walk with the Father. Doctor used to say that our temptation as believers (and especially as Way Corps, God's crack troops) was no longer between good and evil but between good and best. Even so we were to have no condemnation toward ourselves or others; all humans fall short. I'd heard him say quite a few times, "People are to be loved; things are to be used."
In my mind's eye, the living room setting switched to another image. A six-foot, rectangular conference table with the three men seated on the back side of the table facing the audience. Doctor in the middle. Craig to Doctor's left and Walter to Doctor's right. Each with a glass of water and Bibles open on the table. Walter with a stack of research books, maybe three or four. Doctor and Craig with a couple different Bibles. The podium decor felt of a scholarly essence, important and serious.
Walter Cummins, head of the research department. His mother had married Uncle Harry, Doctor's brother. Uncle Harry who was the first secretary-treasurer of The Way and financed much of The Way's inception. Walter was mild-mannered, academic without a stuffy demeanor.
Serious stuff. Working the Word. There was nothing more important than that Word. No family. No person. No other cause. To rightly divide the Word of God was the highest calling on earth.
The Way. Its self-importance was that of arrogance. Obsession. Hubris. All guised in authority given from God. Cloaked with clever words. Laced with sweetness.
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After reading Kahler's words and entering the scene and traversing my own responses as I read, I felt separate from my self. I felt like I had been in a movie. But it wasn't a movie; it was my life.
I chose not to linger with the separate feeling for if I engaged too deeply, I felt scared.
June 3, 2010
Connected in Places
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aww ~ june 2, 2010
Then she introduced me to a dog she called Cinjy. Cinjy had followed them 9 miles from Hampton, TN. Since I was heading to Hampton, the gal wondered if I would mind taking Cinjy along with me, back to Hampton.
aww ~ june 2, 2010
non-subject: a certain place
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I feel rusty writing tonight. Sometimes I avoid entering the story. I don't know why that is.
When I was backpacking last week, when I was alone, I noticed that I felt separate from my body.
My physical body moved forward. It had to; there was no other way to get to the next road, to get to the next people. I so much enjoyed the people on the trail. I was a Southbounder; most backpackers are Northbounders on the Appalachian Trail.
I walked toward the spring right after Vandeventer Shelter, which is around 7 miles north of Watagua Lake Shelter, the spring I'd been told was a bitch to get to so I predetermined not to make the halfish-mile descent to the water. As I approached the halfish-mile descent trailhead, a young woman sitting on the AT awaiting her backpacking buddies to bring up some thirst-quenching beverage, exclaimed, "Southbounder!"
My immediate feeling was that she thought it awesome to meet upon a Southbounder.
I had run into only one other Southbounder, Stairway; that's his trail name. I got the impression that Stairway is homeless and lives on the trails all year. He hiked Florida and Georgia in the winter months and now was hiking southbound from Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. Every month he gets a direct-deposit government check, not much but enough to sustain anyone on the trail. Not a bad way to be homeless, if one has to be. Stairway is a regular attendee at Rainbow Festivals around the US. I'm not even sure what Rainbow Festivals are. I had thought they were gatherings for something to do with gay rights. Stairway shared that the gatherings are for artists, writers, and musicians and that Jerry Garcia had left the Rainbow people something like 23 million dollars to help fund them and carry on the tradition.
Stairway had a very Southern hillbilly-type accent and he talked a lot. He wore jeans and carried a Marlboro backpack with his guitar strapped on the outside. His below-shoulder length hair was disheveled and gray, with a beard to match. A hippie right out of the 60's. When I met up with him, he talked almost non-stop; I just wanted to unload my pack and lay flat on the nearby picnic bench. So I did while I listened with interest to Stairway's stories including how much his government check was every month.
I had met Stairway some eleven miles north of the Vandeventer Shelter, back where the trail crossed State Route 421. He was standing in a gravel parking area with a picnic table beside a spring; a pipe allowed the flow of the crystal clear water from the ground. The gravel parking area was small, room for maybe two cars. Stairway was pondering thumbing a ride into Boone, about a 45-minute trip via vehicle, to buy some boots. He prefers hiking boots. I prefer hiking shoes.
After a 20-minute rest, I left Stairway back at 421 with a cordial thanks and farewell and maybe I'd see him again on the trail.
The folks I met up with at the Vandeventer watering hole were young adults, not hippies from the 60's. "Southbounder!" The gal sure seemed excited.
The folks I met up with at the Vandeventer watering hole were young adults, not hippies from the 60's. "Southbounder!" The gal sure seemed excited.
Then she introduced me to a dog she called Cinjy. Cinjy had followed them 9 miles from Hampton, TN. Since I was heading to Hampton, the gal wondered if I would mind taking Cinjy along with me, back to Hampton.
Cinjy. She looked like a herding dog. Short legs. Long hair like a collie except that it was reddish-brown, like the color of a dachshund. Friendly personality.
"Sure; I'd love the company." I had gotten lonely on the trail. "I just ate my last jerky. Do you have something I can coax her with?" The Northbounder willingly gave me some coaxing jerky.
She also gave me the phone number of Cinjy's owner, Mark.
The hikers had gotten Mark's name and number by calling the phone number on Cinjy's tag which connected to Cinjy's vet who gave them Cinjy's owner's number. The lady had talked to Mark but he didn't seem concerned; Cinjy regularly followed hikers. But this group had been feeding her and now she was 9 miles from home.
The hikers had gotten Mark's name and number by calling the phone number on Cinjy's tag which connected to Cinjy's vet who gave them Cinjy's owner's number. The lady had talked to Mark but he didn't seem concerned; Cinjy regularly followed hikers. But this group had been feeding her and now she was 9 miles from home.
Perhaps 18 miles is a short distance for a dog.
Cinjy, the trail dog. I wonder if anyone had given her a trail name. She could be "Wander Dog." "Wander" with an "a" instead of an "o."
Cinjy, the trail dog. I wonder if anyone had given her a trail name. She could be "Wander Dog." "Wander" with an "a" instead of an "o."
Cinjy walked in front, looking back and stopping from time to time to wait for me. She liked to snap at bees.
Well, so much for entering the story and writing what I had in mind. I thought I was going to write about the first time I met Dr. Wierwille, the founder of The Way. I've written it before; it was on my mind again today.
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