For the Love of God

September, 2005, or there-abouts

It seems I worked the afternoon shift for Children's Fellowship. I can't recall now what children were in my group, my little fellowship which I oversaw for the few hours in the afternoon. There wasn't much to oversee really, since every activity was planned out in advance.

In The Way we were taught to "plan the adversary out of your life." The adversary was the devil, the dark spiritual force that "walketh about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour." We were to be ever diligent to not allow a crack in our hedge of believing, to allow no fear. It was through fear that the adversary could gain a foothold. If he got a foothold, he could gain deeper access to our lives, taking us "off the Word."

That's how devil spirits could get into our minds and even into our bodies causing diseases. But our positive believing could hold diseases at bay. If I couldn't believe to be healed in a category, I was at fault. But even then I was to have no condemnation. I would continue to confess the positives of the Word; that is how I could build my believing. That and by doing the five basics of witnessing, speaking in tongues, abundantly sharing, studying the Word, and fellowshipping with likeminded believers. Yet God was always the healer and was to always get the glory.

But by this Limb Day, I was doubting some of that doctrine. Why was it that since I had gone outside the Household of The Way I had gotten so much better in my physical and emotional health? It had to be my believing. It had to be that my reading and writing had somehow built my believing to allow God to work greater in my heart. But weren't all our needs supposed to be met within the Household? Craig had taught that if we are walking with the Father, that our needs would be met on a 24-hour basis. Sure some things took a bit longer, but most our needs should be met in that 24-hour period or sooner.

But Craig was gone now. The believers didn't discuss Craig anymore, except maybe in private conversations behind closed doors.

After the Saturday Limb Day evening event, whatever it was, Hubby and I met up with Linda ending up in her or our hotel room talking into the wee morning hours.

Linda had been in our Home Fellowship when John and I lived in Hickory. We had moved from Hickory in 1997 mainly because most of the Hickory Way believers had quit standing on the Word. Most had chosen to follow Mike and Jane who were made "mark and avoid" in 1995. The remaining people who chose to stand with the Household drove to our home for Fellowship from  Valdese or Morganton, some 15 to 30 miles away. All except Linda; she still lived in Hickory.

Linda and I had known each other since high school when we used to party together. But I wasn't the one that got Linda into the Word. My friend Debra had witnessed to Linda sometime in the early 1990s. At the time Debra was a single mom with three boys. Linda was a single mom with the three girls.

Though I wasn't the one that got Linda to Fellowships, I had witnessed to her back in the late 1970s or early 1980s. Linda still remembered when I had her and her then-husband listen to a cassette tape on which Craig taught "Truth versus Tradition." I had loved that teaching. I had loved Craig and how he taught with passion and how he confronted religion.

I didn't like religion.

Here we sat now, in 2005, in a hotel room discussing the Ministry and how it had changed. Linda shared how the Sunday teaching tapes were boring to her, but that it must be her. That she just needed to change her mind, because after all it, the teaching and the Ministry and all that entailed, was still the Word of God.

"The Word, the Word, the Word and nothing but the Word," Doctor used to say. The Word was always right.

I sat in the upholstered chair in the hotel room listening as she spoke. My gut had butterflies. My heart trembled. A hint of anger lie just beneath the surface, a hint that I would quickly dismiss. Anger scared me.

Should I say anything?

"It's not you Linda." The words seem to come out all by themselves. "I feel the same. The teachings are dead. I've pulled out some of the old teachings by Doctor. I've been listening to those instead. Sometimes I miss Craig. I miss his passion."

I dare not go so far as to tell her what I had read on Greasespot Cafe. Besides, I still wasn't sure what to believe about the stuff I'd read. And people there seemed so bitter and one-sided. I didn't want to be one-sided. I didn't want to be bitter.

Then Linda opened up about what had happened to her and her family in the Fellowship where she started going after Hubby and I had moved away from Hickory. It was with the same people by whom Eric and Debra had been publicly shamed. Linda and her daughters had experienced similar. But still, Linda continued to attend Fellowship. It was the accuracy of the Word that kept her coming back. That kept us all coming back. Where else was there to turn?

Listening to Linda further confirmed my doubts. But how could I ever leave? When and if I leave, do I tell Linda?  What about my family? How could my children get the accuracy of the Word if I left the Household? How could they know the truth? How could they function in life without the Household? How could we stay a family if we all weren't likeminded on the Word?

The next morning, after the Sunday morning service, I helped with clean-up from the Limb Weekend. I loved the saints, the believers in the Household.

I loved God. I loved the Ministry.

Six weeks later, I left The Way.

Multiplication Factors

I'm currently sitting at Joshua's Cafe in Woodstock, NY.  With free wifi! Ha! ;-)

Daughter and I spent two nights backpacking south of here along the AT. It was a short trek from south of Perkins Tower on Bear Mountain, north to the Graymoor Monastery ball field, and then back to Bear Mountain Zoo. Funny how the AT goes right through a zoo. I enjoyed camping in the ball field, the bells tolling from the monastery, reminding me of the hours, of time. More later perhaps, about the trek. I did compose one poem, or some would say "prose." Hopefully I'll get it posted on my poetry blog today.

I thought much along the trek about what am I to do with my life now. What direction do I take? The recent fall out with my previous counselor has prompted me to re-examine my focus. My focus comes back to the story.

The story. The story. The story.
Stories within the story.
My story. Your story.
His story. Her story.
Stories in which I'm guilty.
Stories in which I'm innocent.
Paths winding in and out.
Life crossings.

Happenstance hinges which swing doors and windows, opening new corridors and landscapes.

That is my driving passion still. To continue to write my story, to discover and rediscover that story. To embrace it and hopefully by doing that, another can embrace their story. By owning our stories, do we not get to  know ourselves more intimately? By that, perhaps we can love ourselves more? Perhaps we can more easily allow the same for others? Perhaps mutual respect rises? Perhaps more acceptance of another's truth?

As I was working on an activist project in the past fourish months, I had gotten somewhat away from my story. That was my choice as I had only so much time and energy in a day. Now that that project has been aborted; I will get back to my story. At least that is my inkling at the moment.

I've pondered whether or not to remove a recent "anger" rant from toss & ripple. I waffle back and forth. Why would I leave up a rant? As I consider the why and whether or not to let it be, I lean toward letting it stay. It sits as a witness (so to speak) to that small snippet of the story. A small snippet that may seem insignificant to others. But it is not to me. It was how I felt at the time of writing. Those feelings will dissolve and will be integrated into my life. Adding more to the story within the story, which changes as I change. [Added note a few days later: after a few more nights in the Catskills, my leaning changed and I've put the anger rant blog entry in draft.]

I know myself well enough to know that it will take me time to move through the scenario(s) of the recent conflict. Aborted relationships involving folks who I am close with take me time to process. It's not unusual for the process to last a couple years. I was counting the relationships that have affected me deeply like that. Relationships that have ended without specific closure. There have been six. Three, I chose to end. Three, the other parties ended. Two were with females. Four were with males. With all except one, it took me one to two years to move through the residual emotions. The "except one" took much longer. How long, I'm not sure.

If ever another dual (or more) relationship presents itself with a mental or healthcare provider who I am seeing professionally...well, I just don't know if I'll approach that. The two times I've had various dual relationships with those type providers, both times ended in disasters with the other party abruptly ending the relationship. Three common factors were me, the other party had provided professional service that involved intimate knowledge, and the various dual relations with the two different providers. There are probably other common factors.

Common factors abound in multiplication problems.  Relationships abound in complexities that sometimes seem to multiply all by themselves. But they don't multiply all by themselves. There are always identifiable factors.

Primal Beings

Not sure what will roll off my keyboard right now. I just feel I should allow some words to flow. Maybe like a stream of consciousness type writing.

I worked a lot again this week. We've been busy, busy for over a month. That's good I guess. As long as we are able to keep up with the growth.

When I get home from work, if Yerba hasn't been with me at work, she licks and licks me. It's like she is giving me a bath.  Probably just slurping in all the salt from my sweaty skin.

I continue dealing with the repercussions of the events with my ex-therapist. I'm still stunned by it. And I think, who would believe this? I know some would. My psychologist is continuing to read through the emails, weighing stuff out, seeing objectively what transpired. I wonder if my ex-therapist even gives a shit? I gather he doesn't. Why would anyone recommend someone on Twitter that they say they can't trust, like my ex-therapist still recommends other folks to follow me, but he doesn't trust me? I don't understand that.

I sometimes wish I had a "don't care" switch. I could just flip it and wouldn't care when people are mean and cruel and liars. Liars. We all lie to some degree. We blind ourselves to certain things in order to survive, in order to function. Isn't that a bit like lying?

I was talking today with a lady, at the restaurant. She and, I assume, her husband sat in a booth next to ours, where John and I were eating. They had a 5 month-old boy with them. He wanted to see all around him as he furiously sucked his pacifier. He and that passy reminded me of Yerba and her bones. Primal, instinctive needs.

His mom, the lady I was talking with, had a tattoo on her back. It was of the back of a girl who appeared to be standing with the wind blowing back her hair.  The lady's dress was covering most of the tattoo. But I could see enough to know I liked the tatt. It brought to mind an image of Nanna. Nanna, who lives in my heart life.

I inquired, "What does the tattoo represent?"

"It's Cosette from 'Les Miserables,'" she responded. "I saw the play four years ago in New York, on Broadway. Some of the original cast were in it. I love the music and the play."

She shared a bit more and I could see she was passionate about it. I sang a couple lines from the only song I know from the production. "Do you hear the people sing...singing the song of angry men..it is the music of a people who will not be slaves again..." Her eyes lit up. Yes, she knew the song well.

I wonder what her son will do when he grows up? I'm sure he won't be sucking that passy.

Giants and the Roan

I stood on the rock. The wind brushed my cheeks. I closed my eyes.

The breeze enveloped me, rocked me. Gently, yet wildly.

I opened my eyes.

I gazed across the Balds. I gazed at Roan one ridge over. I gazed over the ocean of mountains.

Again I closed my eyes. I allowed my heart to feel. Tears rippled down my cheeks. I entered within.

And there was my friend, John. The gentle giant gardener whom I first met years ago in my dream. I love this gentle giant.

He was glad to see me and that made me smile. We sat in a swing, a porch swing for two. But it wasn't on a porch; it was on a swing set stand like used to be in my parent's back yard when I was little. The one I used to stand on the side bar and pretend I was the Captain of a pirate ship. Sometimes I'd be the Captain. Sometimes I'd be a kidnapped princess.

John smiled gently. He assured me that it was o.k. to cry. Understandable.

"Understandable." Dr. McColloch used to say that to me, in real life. Not in my heart life..where my friend John the gentle giant gardener lives.

I looked around, across my heart, my inner playground, and the Tender was there. He looked younger than last I saw him. More agile, though he is still elderly. He was energetic as he oiled the gears at the water wheel. He performed his work with joy and was so glad to see me.

And Abe. And Nanna. And Gremlin. And Sally. All came around to say hi. All were glad to see me. It made me feel good...all these parts of me doing well. Maybe I was doing o.k. Maybe I wasn't a destructive person...a phrase from real life that kept looping in my head.

I opened my eyes. The sun warmed me. The wind still blew. The Appalachian Trail called. I hearkened.

The rest of the day was glorious. I saw sections of the Balds I hadn't witnessed before. Hump Mountain was huge. A giant bald stretching toward the sky as it led across other ridges of balds. Yerba loved the tall grass as we hiked up Hump. The overgrowth on the trail was up to my shoulders in one section. Yerba would run and jump...chasing butterflies or something.

I saw only a few people on the trail after Overmountain Shelter. Well, only three people for the next eightish miles. And two snakes.

In the 1970s I used to wonder why all the talk of over-population. I'd visit the mountains and bask in all the open space. I guess Josh is right that the issue really wasn't or isn't overpopulation, but rather over-concentration.

Sometimes I over concentrate.