(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************************
November 24, 2009
Visiting the house Sunday. I'm not sure how to describe it - sobering maybe? Sobering as far as life changes, growing older. Seasons.
I walked each room.
The room that affected me most was the closet upstairs. It's a cedar closet; I'm pretty sure it's cedar. Seems I would know something like that.
The closet is in an eave of the house, under the sharp-pitched 1930's roof. It's a walk-in closet. I wonder if Mom and Dad had it made after they bought the house? It seems odd a late '30s house would have a walk-in closet. As long as I can recall that closet has been full. Only after Mom died and we cleaned out the house have I, to my conscious knowledge, ever seen its real shape and the walls.
There is a light bulb in the socket in the ceiling of the closet. The bulb is exposed, there is no decorative cover. A string that hangs down controls the on/off.
I pull the string and there is light. For some reason I feel an almost-terror sensation.
I notice the pitch of the ceiling and the enclosed built-in bench-like seat-shelf structures on each side of the closet running its length from entry door to the back wall. Steel rods hang on hooks that are attached to the ceiling with what appears to be make-shift rods.
I walk to the back of the closet.
I have had repeated dreams over the past 10ish years about this closet. In my dream, the back wall has a door that leads to a secret part of the house. The secret area is large and has corridors. Often in my dream, I will know I'm dreaming, but will tell myself that I know this place and have been here in real life before.
I have dreamed a lot about houses since the late 90s. There is most always a part of the house that is unused, that I know exists, that I know I must at some point "get to." The houses are usually large in my dreams, and often it is the same house. I could draw a picture of the one often-dreamed-about house, with its gardens and auditorium, spiral mahogany staircase, hallways upstairs, lush bathrooms with skylights. In my dream I don't live in the rich part of the house, but rather in the dingy part which is downstairs. Oh yes, there is also the underground part of the house. I've not discovered much about it, but I know it is there. It has wide white high-ceilinged hallways; they slope downward and are never ending.
I stand in the closet this past Sunday and I cry. I feel creepy and like it was a torture closet. I walk to the back and on the wall (where in my dream the door to the secret part is located) is a board that has been secured like it is covering up a breach or something. The secured board is about three-and-a-half feet tall and is the width of the closet, from bench seat to bench seat. My dream comes to mind; however, I know that in reality beyond that board is insulation, 2X4s and then probably the chimney. If not the chimney, then the outside brick wall.
I look at the bench seats and imagine dead people in them; their height and width are the size of caskets and totally encased. Carol, you've watched too many movies, I sarcastically tell myself.
I later wonder why I had such a reaction in that closet. Perhaps I used to hide in there when I was little.
Perhaps I used to imagine monsters in the closet. Perhaps I used to think of Edgar Allan Poe's stories that my father used to read to us kids when I was little. Perhaps I imagined that closet as a place where inanimate dolls would come alive and do evil things; it seems when I was young that I watched one Alfred Hitchcock epidose where that happened. Perhaps I used to hide in the closet when Daddy would go into a rage.
I must ask my older siblings at Christmas, "Are there family secrets that I don't know about?"
I doubt it. Probably just my wild and vivid imagination.
Still. I don't like the feeling I had as I stood in that closet.
**************************
February 28, 2012
entry ~ chin up
(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
*****************************8
November 25, 2009
Rough day. Not horrible. Plenty to be thankful for. Just that energy is low. Headache. Flu-type symptoms. Foggy headedness. Want to cocoon.
In 2000ish when I was diagnosed with a herniated disc, confirmed with an MRI, and I decided to approach the ailment from an emotional angle, with the support and care of my osteopath, I made up a jingle to get me going and whenever a spasm would try to spaz.
Stand up straight; stand up tall
Let my back know I'm in control
Stand up straight and stand up tall
Let my back know I'm in control
Of course I'd also examine if there was something I wasn't handling emotionally and I applied my daily study and writing, etc.,
I've thought of doing the same with my hormone symptoms that still moan.
Stand up tall; walk right out
Don't let my hormones make me pout
Stand up tall and walk right out
Don't let my hormones make me pout
*****************************8
November 25, 2009
Rough day. Not horrible. Plenty to be thankful for. Just that energy is low. Headache. Flu-type symptoms. Foggy headedness. Want to cocoon.
In 2000ish when I was diagnosed with a herniated disc, confirmed with an MRI, and I decided to approach the ailment from an emotional angle, with the support and care of my osteopath, I made up a jingle to get me going and whenever a spasm would try to spaz.
Stand up straight; stand up tall
Let my back know I'm in control
Stand up straight and stand up tall
Let my back know I'm in control
Of course I'd also examine if there was something I wasn't handling emotionally and I applied my daily study and writing, etc.,
I've thought of doing the same with my hormone symptoms that still moan.
Stand up tall; walk right out
Don't let my hormones make me pout
Stand up tall and walk right out
Don't let my hormones make me pout
entry ~ dirty fingers
(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***********************************
November 26, 2009
Am I able to look at the rawness? Am I able to strip away analogy? Am I able to disregard the noble in the savage that is me?
Can I articulate the rage I've felt; the desire for revenge? What of the back and forth love-hate relationship? How can an online forum get so deep under my skin that it caused such extreme internal responses?
I became so very outraged regarding my experiences at Greasespot Cafe. There was a time I felt an almost hatred for the place, the administrator, certain moderators, and certain posters. But mainly toward the administrator.
I have partial answers, I think, to some of my questions posed above. I don't know how often us humans really have "whole" answers. It seems as soon as we think we 'know' something, the rules or the game or the vehicle or the scenery changes.
Some of the rage was most likely displaced; some was "justified."
Dirty Fingers was prompted by the rage I felt toward one of the well-respected posters at GSC. This rage was partially justified; if rage can be justified. Of course I never shared it with the person; don't know if I ever will. Maybe someday, if I ever communicate with them, we can converse about it. And maybe not.
Perhaps the poem gives a glimpse of the seethe.
****************************
Dirty Fingers
Hypocrite!
You point Your fingers
righteously at the sins
of the past of others.
Yet, what of
the repercussions
in my life
because You "willingly and willfully
sacrificed upon the altar of
Your idols?"
Perhaps You offered others
of which You are unaware?
That's the key, isn't it;
You were beguiled.
I guess that makes it justifiable,
for You.
I spoke;
my voice was dismissed.
Your spiritual prowess
took precedence.
Shortly thereafter,
my life spiraled.
And You have the
audacity to self proclaim
Your righteous acts,
condemning a man
who graciously shed tears
helping to redeem my own.
Nor am I the only one.
Does Your pureness and
holy assessments
allow no room for error?
Go fuck Yourself.
Then get Your own
god-damned abortion;
spend the next three decades
struggling for breath.
If there's a hell
I'll see You there,
and I shall laugh.
Bring Your oxygen.....
july 20, 2oo8
judithpiper
***********************************
November 26, 2009
Am I able to look at the rawness? Am I able to strip away analogy? Am I able to disregard the noble in the savage that is me?
Can I articulate the rage I've felt; the desire for revenge? What of the back and forth love-hate relationship? How can an online forum get so deep under my skin that it caused such extreme internal responses?
I became so very outraged regarding my experiences at Greasespot Cafe. There was a time I felt an almost hatred for the place, the administrator, certain moderators, and certain posters. But mainly toward the administrator.
I have partial answers, I think, to some of my questions posed above. I don't know how often us humans really have "whole" answers. It seems as soon as we think we 'know' something, the rules or the game or the vehicle or the scenery changes.
Some of the rage was most likely displaced; some was "justified."
Dirty Fingers was prompted by the rage I felt toward one of the well-respected posters at GSC. This rage was partially justified; if rage can be justified. Of course I never shared it with the person; don't know if I ever will. Maybe someday, if I ever communicate with them, we can converse about it. And maybe not.
Perhaps the poem gives a glimpse of the seethe.
****************************
Dirty Fingers
Hypocrite!
You point Your fingers
righteously at the sins
of the past of others.
Yet, what of
the repercussions
in my life
because You "willingly and willfully
sacrificed upon the altar of
Your idols?"
Perhaps You offered others
of which You are unaware?
That's the key, isn't it;
You were beguiled.
I guess that makes it justifiable,
for You.
I spoke;
my voice was dismissed.
Your spiritual prowess
took precedence.
Shortly thereafter,
my life spiraled.
And You have the
audacity to self proclaim
Your righteous acts,
condemning a man
who graciously shed tears
helping to redeem my own.
Nor am I the only one.
Does Your pureness and
holy assessments
allow no room for error?
Go fuck Yourself.
Then get Your own
god-damned abortion;
spend the next three decades
struggling for breath.
If there's a hell
I'll see You there,
and I shall laugh.
Bring Your oxygen.....
july 20, 2oo8
judithpiper
February 19, 2012
Missing Pieces I
I know what subject I want to approach. But from what angle? From the beginning? I may have time and energy to actually go there. What if I start and don't finish? That's o.k. Carol; it's never finished anyway.
I'll fill in some blanks later, perhaps.
~*~
August, 2006
I was absorbed with GreasespotCafe, the ex/anti-Way online forum. I spent hours and hours there each day. Reading, posting, chatting. When I wasn't online, I'd think about the people there; I prayed for them. I connected via phone with folks who reached out to me; some who had been good friends 20 years ago. I was deeply grateful and felt indebted to the friendships and the forum.
In August, 2006, 10 months after I'd left The Way, I attended Christian Family Fellowship's Family Reunion. I had some face to face reunions there. Hillary. Deb. Jim. Kevin and Deb. Wayne, though I had seen Wayne the previous December and spoken with him a few times on the phone.
Deb asked where I was in my Way thinking and when I'd left the org. She was sipping coffee. She and I had been in the Way Corps together; I hadn't seen her since around 1983.
"October, 2005," I answered.
Deb gasped and her coffee came spewing out. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. We laughed.
I got to spend time with Hillary. We had been roommates in the Way Corps. After our hugs and greetings and cordial exchange I stated, "So I'm a regular at GreasespotCafe." Our eyes met. She knew I knew. She knew I'd read all the stuff. I had compassion for her.
"I can't imagine what you've been through," I stated.
Her eyes filled with tears. "If not for the Word Doctor taught me, my head would have imploded."
My husband was sitting with me. We both picked up on her inflection and emphasis on the "the Word." It was like she was stating that in spite of all Doctor's frailties, he taught her the very thing that kept her sane.
I had so many questions, but refrained. I didn't want to cause pain and didn't think it my place to ask.
She expounded a bit more about how she and her family had left; how Craig Martindale had kicked them off staff. Around 2000 Craig took the fall for The Way; at least in Way followers' eyes he was the guilty party. Other leaders stayed on, though they too were guilty of similar as Craig.
I had read on GSC that the Wierwille children were not allowed on their home place, The Way Headquarters, even after Craig was forced to resign. Even after Rosalie Rivenbark had taken his place as The Way International President and when the "mark and avoid" practice was supposedly dropped, when The Way supposedly became warmer and kinder. I wondered if it was really true, that the (non-Way) Wierwille family wasn't allowed to visit their mother or their home place. It seemed such a cruel mandate; surely Rosalie had lifted it. So I asked Hillary.
"It's true," she said. "Dotsy would have to come off grounds to visit the family. It was horrible. Plus they weren't caring for her properly during her dementia. The kids did finally get her in the nursing home for her last days of life."
Mrs. Wierwille (Dotsy) was The Way founder's wife. I had last seen her in 2000. She had come to NC to visit Dr. Rawlins. Doc Rawlins was also elderly, a long time Way believer, honorary Corps, and a much respected obstetrician in Way world and in the secular world. I loved Doc Rawlins. She was so funny. She was promoting breast feeding in the 50's and 60's and had started the Titty Committee, a breast feeding support group, revolutionary for the 50's/ 60's era. At that time she had a cat named Fritz so I think he became Fritz, the Kitty, of the Titty Committee, or something like that. Humor was healing quality and influence of Doc Rawlin's life.
I had read Mrs. Wierwille's biography "Born Again to Serve" to my children sometime around 1996. We each had written Mrs. Weirwille thanking her for the book. As her manner was she wrote each of us back; I still have the letters. In the letter to my daughter she shared that she was working on the second book. "Born Again to Serve" covered Doctor's life up until around 1961, when she and Doctor moved onto Dr. Wierwille's childhood home place, the headquarters home for The Way Ministry, to give their lives full time to move the new dynamic church.
I wanted my then 12-year old daughter to meet this 85-year old living legend, not to mention spend some time with Doc Rawlins, though we got to see her pretty regularly. I couldn't pass the opportunity for this one-on-one time with the Mrs., Doc Rawlins, my daughter and I. I took our copy of "Born Again to Serve" so Mrs. Wierwille could autograph it.
We sat around Doc Rawlins kitchen pleasantly conversing and listening. I also discussed my illnesses and health with Mrs.Wierwille. She had prayed for me a few times over the years and given me direction as far as my health. If I had only obeyed what she said, I probably wouldn't have ended up in the condition I had landed in.
I had only mentioned to a few people that Mrs. Wierwille had written my daughter that she was writing a sequel to the first book. In that letter Mrs. Wierwille stated that my daughter would be around 12 when the next book would be finished. My daughter was now 12, but I know how projects go. They always take longer than expected. Information about the 2nd book had not been announced in The Ministry, at least that I heard, in any fellowships or leader's meetings or Sunday Night Services.
Sitting around the kitchen bar, I asked Mrs. Wierwille how the 2nd book was coming along mentioning to her that she had written my daughter about it.
"It's a lot of work. I'm keeping the history department busy, busy collecting information and photos and documents. Another few years should have it finished," she responded, sounding rather tired but hopeful.
We had a memorable visit. I tried to impress upon my daughter the significance of Mrs. Wierwille's life. She was Doctor's wife. She was the woman behind that great man of God who had brought the accuracy of God's Word to our day and time, the first century church in the 20th. For us to have the privelege of time alone with her was an incredible moment in our lives, historical, monumental. Of course, my 12-year old daughter didn't get it. But later, when she was older, she would.
Hillary continued, "One of the best things for Dotsy was getting her away from HQ. She missed serving others; she wasn't allowed to do much around HQ once her health went downhill. She loved the nursing home. The family could visit whenever we wanted. At the nursing home, Dotsy was able to set a table outside her room and serve people cookies."
Hillary's expression was one of gratitude and warmth as she spoke fondly of Dotsy, who had passed away 11 months previously in September 2005.
She continued, "Dotsy's dementia got pretty bad. Sometimes she wouldn't know who her children were, but she could always quote scripture. It was her life and her comfort."
I wondered about the sequel to "Born Again to Serve." I had wondered if digging up all that history and reliving the years of Doctor's philandering contributed to his wife's dementia. I had become well acquainted with the physical torment that emotions can havoc on the mind and body. Could it have done the same to Mrs. Wierwille?
I didn't ask Hillary about the book.
The 2nd book never got published, and I've never heard anyone mention it, other than Mrs. Wierwille in that handwritten letter to my daughter, and in her own voice while sitting around that kitchen bar in a small city in North Carolina.
~*~
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'll fill in some blanks later, perhaps.
~*~
August, 2006
I was absorbed with GreasespotCafe, the ex/anti-Way online forum. I spent hours and hours there each day. Reading, posting, chatting. When I wasn't online, I'd think about the people there; I prayed for them. I connected via phone with folks who reached out to me; some who had been good friends 20 years ago. I was deeply grateful and felt indebted to the friendships and the forum.
In August, 2006, 10 months after I'd left The Way, I attended Christian Family Fellowship's Family Reunion. I had some face to face reunions there. Hillary. Deb. Jim. Kevin and Deb. Wayne, though I had seen Wayne the previous December and spoken with him a few times on the phone.
Deb asked where I was in my Way thinking and when I'd left the org. She was sipping coffee. She and I had been in the Way Corps together; I hadn't seen her since around 1983.
"October, 2005," I answered.
Deb gasped and her coffee came spewing out. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. We laughed.
I got to spend time with Hillary. We had been roommates in the Way Corps. After our hugs and greetings and cordial exchange I stated, "So I'm a regular at GreasespotCafe." Our eyes met. She knew I knew. She knew I'd read all the stuff. I had compassion for her.
"I can't imagine what you've been through," I stated.
Her eyes filled with tears. "If not for the Word Doctor taught me, my head would have imploded."
My husband was sitting with me. We both picked up on her inflection and emphasis on the "the Word." It was like she was stating that in spite of all Doctor's frailties, he taught her the very thing that kept her sane.
I had so many questions, but refrained. I didn't want to cause pain and didn't think it my place to ask.
She expounded a bit more about how she and her family had left; how Craig Martindale had kicked them off staff. Around 2000 Craig took the fall for The Way; at least in Way followers' eyes he was the guilty party. Other leaders stayed on, though they too were guilty of similar as Craig.
I had read on GSC that the Wierwille children were not allowed on their home place, The Way Headquarters, even after Craig was forced to resign. Even after Rosalie Rivenbark had taken his place as The Way International President and when the "mark and avoid" practice was supposedly dropped, when The Way supposedly became warmer and kinder. I wondered if it was really true, that the (non-Way) Wierwille family wasn't allowed to visit their mother or their home place. It seemed such a cruel mandate; surely Rosalie had lifted it. So I asked Hillary.
"It's true," she said. "Dotsy would have to come off grounds to visit the family. It was horrible. Plus they weren't caring for her properly during her dementia. The kids did finally get her in the nursing home for her last days of life."
Mrs. Wierwille (Dotsy) was The Way founder's wife. I had last seen her in 2000. She had come to NC to visit Dr. Rawlins. Doc Rawlins was also elderly, a long time Way believer, honorary Corps, and a much respected obstetrician in Way world and in the secular world. I loved Doc Rawlins. She was so funny. She was promoting breast feeding in the 50's and 60's and had started the Titty Committee, a breast feeding support group, revolutionary for the 50's/ 60's era. At that time she had a cat named Fritz so I think he became Fritz, the Kitty, of the Titty Committee, or something like that. Humor was healing quality and influence of Doc Rawlin's life.
I had read Mrs. Wierwille's biography "Born Again to Serve" to my children sometime around 1996. We each had written Mrs. Weirwille thanking her for the book. As her manner was she wrote each of us back; I still have the letters. In the letter to my daughter she shared that she was working on the second book. "Born Again to Serve" covered Doctor's life up until around 1961, when she and Doctor moved onto Dr. Wierwille's childhood home place, the headquarters home for The Way Ministry, to give their lives full time to move the new dynamic church.
I wanted my then 12-year old daughter to meet this 85-year old living legend, not to mention spend some time with Doc Rawlins, though we got to see her pretty regularly. I couldn't pass the opportunity for this one-on-one time with the Mrs., Doc Rawlins, my daughter and I. I took our copy of "Born Again to Serve" so Mrs. Wierwille could autograph it.
We sat around Doc Rawlins kitchen pleasantly conversing and listening. I also discussed my illnesses and health with Mrs.Wierwille. She had prayed for me a few times over the years and given me direction as far as my health. If I had only obeyed what she said, I probably wouldn't have ended up in the condition I had landed in.
I had only mentioned to a few people that Mrs. Wierwille had written my daughter that she was writing a sequel to the first book. In that letter Mrs. Wierwille stated that my daughter would be around 12 when the next book would be finished. My daughter was now 12, but I know how projects go. They always take longer than expected. Information about the 2nd book had not been announced in The Ministry, at least that I heard, in any fellowships or leader's meetings or Sunday Night Services.
Sitting around the kitchen bar, I asked Mrs. Wierwille how the 2nd book was coming along mentioning to her that she had written my daughter about it.
"It's a lot of work. I'm keeping the history department busy, busy collecting information and photos and documents. Another few years should have it finished," she responded, sounding rather tired but hopeful.
We had a memorable visit. I tried to impress upon my daughter the significance of Mrs. Wierwille's life. She was Doctor's wife. She was the woman behind that great man of God who had brought the accuracy of God's Word to our day and time, the first century church in the 20th. For us to have the privelege of time alone with her was an incredible moment in our lives, historical, monumental. Of course, my 12-year old daughter didn't get it. But later, when she was older, she would.
Hillary continued, "One of the best things for Dotsy was getting her away from HQ. She missed serving others; she wasn't allowed to do much around HQ once her health went downhill. She loved the nursing home. The family could visit whenever we wanted. At the nursing home, Dotsy was able to set a table outside her room and serve people cookies."
Hillary's expression was one of gratitude and warmth as she spoke fondly of Dotsy, who had passed away 11 months previously in September 2005.
She continued, "Dotsy's dementia got pretty bad. Sometimes she wouldn't know who her children were, but she could always quote scripture. It was her life and her comfort."
I wondered about the sequel to "Born Again to Serve." I had wondered if digging up all that history and reliving the years of Doctor's philandering contributed to his wife's dementia. I had become well acquainted with the physical torment that emotions can havoc on the mind and body. Could it have done the same to Mrs. Wierwille?
I didn't ask Hillary about the book.
The 2nd book never got published, and I've never heard anyone mention it, other than Mrs. Wierwille in that handwritten letter to my daughter, and in her own voice while sitting around that kitchen bar in a small city in North Carolina.
~*~
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)
~*~
Marking Time
(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************
AWW: 10/01/2009
non-subject: "marking time"
My sister emailed the 16-page contract to me after she signed all of it. I initialed and signed the papers this past Thursday, then faxed them on their way to my brother. He autographed them Friday and than dropped the document by the office of the realtor. We are the seller and we agreed on a price with the buyer. The closing is set for October 29, 2009.
I hope all goes smoothly with the details. Don't I? Don't I hope we are rid of that empty house? Yes, of course I do.
I haven't yet been back to the house to tell it bye. I was last there in March, 2009.
Mom died January 31, 2009. Marcy and I then continued to clear out 48 years of stuff. It's one of the hardest jobs I've ever done, cleaning out every last cupboard and drawer and tiny box. Now some of the contents and furniture sit in my home; a disarray of boxes in my dining room awaiting my hands, the old furniture clumsily placed where it will fit.
I must clean up my own house of stuff so my kids aren't left with my burden of leftovers when I die. I'll get to it, at some point. I must keep that promise to myself.
But for the house where I grew up from ages 2 until 17, then intermittently until my early 20's, I must say good-bye.
That house where corporal punishment, of which I have no recollection, was apparently a norm in my early childhood years. That house where I made love to lovers beginning at age 13. That house where 18-year Shawn used to expose his testicles to 15-year old me. I'd pretend I didn't see or notice when he would come out with a towel wrapped around his lower torso and sit and talk to me with his legs propped in just the right position. At the time I figured he knew my reputation of putting out to guys I was in love with. Incidents that shouldn't be and were never discussed, like they didn't happen. But they did.
That house where I lived out part of my unrevealed secret life during my promiscuous early 20s when I'd seduce whoever I desired, fucking and exchanging oral sex, endeavoring to numb myself, proving I was good for at least something, and pretending the encounters were instigated by someone else, not me.
That house where Ryan used to walk around naked, his adult male genitals in full view of my 6-year old eyes, his naked body that I'd drawn a picture of in first grade and then switched pictures with Susan when she wasn't looking as she sat in the school desk beside me. I knew I shouldn't be drawing pictures of naked men. I got in trouble from the teacher for the picture and the clandestine swap. To my knowledge the incident was never discussed beyond the classroom reprimand. The nude one-man strolls continued. I'd be afraid he might walk through the house in his emperor's clothes when I'd have friends over, but he never did. I'm not sure how old I was when the parades stopped, 10 years old maybe? The naked strolls were never discussed, like they never happened; but they did.
I am the youngest of the three children. My brother is four years older and my sister is six years older. I've wondered if the corporal punishment from the past was one reason, after Dad had his accident and was stricken as a quadriplegic, if that is why he wouldn't let my sister physically care for him. That care fell to Mom and to me, caring for his private parts and dressing him, of which I didn't mind. Marcy lived out of state after Dad's wreck; that probably had a bearing too. Whenever she'd visit he wouldn't let her help. Maybe it's because I had worked in a nursing home when I was in high school, or because I was more of a tom-boy in my younger years. I never went to a prom or entered any beauty pageants, which was fine with me. Though I don't recall the belt licks, I do recall Dad's fierce anger and him hollering "God damn it." I don't think Dad ever struck me though.
I sometimes wonder if my conception was an accident and I was born by default.
That house where we cared for Dad after his accident, a head-on automobile collision in 1983 when I was 24 years old. That house where Mom accused us adult children of neglecting her, moaning that we had left her to starve and die of thirst.
That house where, when I was in my 30's, I found Mom lying unconscious on the kitchen floor after she swallowed all the pills trying to put an end to it all. Another non-discussable subject, like it didn't happen. But it did.
That house where, as a teenager, I'd come home tripping and become one with the colors from the square-shaped strobe light that sat on the nightstand in my bedroom, Uriah Heep on the headphones, the wood grain in the wall-paneling dancing and morphing to my window pane commands. That house where, at 15 and 16 years old, I'd stagger down the hallway drunk, balancing my stagger with each hand on the hall walls until I'd stumble into the bathroom where I'd hug the toilet throwing up vodka, moonshine, tequila, or rum. That house where, when Mom and Dad were out of town, I'd have parties when I was 15 and 16; various couples in bedrooms drunk and humping. That house where I, at 14 and 15, used to sneak out of at night and steal Mom's car and drive to the Community Center to see if my 18-year old lover was around. More unmentionables, like they never happened. But they did.
That house where, as a little 6-year old buck-toothed curly-headed tom-boy pony-loving girl, I used to line my bed with stuffed animals for protection in case a murderer crawled through the window to shoot me. I had to protect myself, in case it happened. But it never did.
How does one relay all the memories? How can I remember? I wish I had more memories from my pre-teen years about my family in that house. I draw such damn blanks from my early childhood; so many blanks.
We moved to that house when I was around 2 years old, in 1961 or thereabouts. Prior to that Mom and Dad had lived in Daytona for about 15 years; all us children were born in Daytona, in Holly Hill. That was before Daytona was commercialized like it is now. I was told ponies ran wild through our yard. I don't know if that's true; I should ask my sister. In my 30's I discovered that I had been lied to about certain family matters; the ponies may be another lie. Though to Mom I don't think they were lies; I think she believed them. Shock treatments from the late 1950's and into the 1960's rewired her memory.
That house, in that neighborhood; that neighborhood which is now transformed. That house is a Hillcrest neighborhood fixture, one of the originals, before the post-50's houses that now line the streets where woods and pastures once thrived.
The woods are gone. The riding fields are gone. The trails are gone. The stables are gone; old man Abernethy's house is gone. The dirt road is gone. It's gone, gone.
My childhood landscape has been bulldozed and bricked.
Except for that house.
********************************************************
***************
AWW: 10/01/2009
non-subject: "marking time"
My sister emailed the 16-page contract to me after she signed all of it. I initialed and signed the papers this past Thursday, then faxed them on their way to my brother. He autographed them Friday and than dropped the document by the office of the realtor. We are the seller and we agreed on a price with the buyer. The closing is set for October 29, 2009.
I hope all goes smoothly with the details. Don't I? Don't I hope we are rid of that empty house? Yes, of course I do.
I haven't yet been back to the house to tell it bye. I was last there in March, 2009.
Mom died January 31, 2009. Marcy and I then continued to clear out 48 years of stuff. It's one of the hardest jobs I've ever done, cleaning out every last cupboard and drawer and tiny box. Now some of the contents and furniture sit in my home; a disarray of boxes in my dining room awaiting my hands, the old furniture clumsily placed where it will fit.
I must clean up my own house of stuff so my kids aren't left with my burden of leftovers when I die. I'll get to it, at some point. I must keep that promise to myself.
But for the house where I grew up from ages 2 until 17, then intermittently until my early 20's, I must say good-bye.
That house where corporal punishment, of which I have no recollection, was apparently a norm in my early childhood years. That house where I made love to lovers beginning at age 13. That house where 18-year Shawn used to expose his testicles to 15-year old me. I'd pretend I didn't see or notice when he would come out with a towel wrapped around his lower torso and sit and talk to me with his legs propped in just the right position. At the time I figured he knew my reputation of putting out to guys I was in love with. Incidents that shouldn't be and were never discussed, like they didn't happen. But they did.
That house where I lived out part of my unrevealed secret life during my promiscuous early 20s when I'd seduce whoever I desired, fucking and exchanging oral sex, endeavoring to numb myself, proving I was good for at least something, and pretending the encounters were instigated by someone else, not me.
That house where Ryan used to walk around naked, his adult male genitals in full view of my 6-year old eyes, his naked body that I'd drawn a picture of in first grade and then switched pictures with Susan when she wasn't looking as she sat in the school desk beside me. I knew I shouldn't be drawing pictures of naked men. I got in trouble from the teacher for the picture and the clandestine swap. To my knowledge the incident was never discussed beyond the classroom reprimand. The nude one-man strolls continued. I'd be afraid he might walk through the house in his emperor's clothes when I'd have friends over, but he never did. I'm not sure how old I was when the parades stopped, 10 years old maybe? The naked strolls were never discussed, like they never happened; but they did.
I am the youngest of the three children. My brother is four years older and my sister is six years older. I've wondered if the corporal punishment from the past was one reason, after Dad had his accident and was stricken as a quadriplegic, if that is why he wouldn't let my sister physically care for him. That care fell to Mom and to me, caring for his private parts and dressing him, of which I didn't mind. Marcy lived out of state after Dad's wreck; that probably had a bearing too. Whenever she'd visit he wouldn't let her help. Maybe it's because I had worked in a nursing home when I was in high school, or because I was more of a tom-boy in my younger years. I never went to a prom or entered any beauty pageants, which was fine with me. Though I don't recall the belt licks, I do recall Dad's fierce anger and him hollering "God damn it." I don't think Dad ever struck me though.
I sometimes wonder if my conception was an accident and I was born by default.
That house where we cared for Dad after his accident, a head-on automobile collision in 1983 when I was 24 years old. That house where Mom accused us adult children of neglecting her, moaning that we had left her to starve and die of thirst.
That house where, when I was in my 30's, I found Mom lying unconscious on the kitchen floor after she swallowed all the pills trying to put an end to it all. Another non-discussable subject, like it didn't happen. But it did.
That house where, as a teenager, I'd come home tripping and become one with the colors from the square-shaped strobe light that sat on the nightstand in my bedroom, Uriah Heep on the headphones, the wood grain in the wall-paneling dancing and morphing to my window pane commands. That house where, at 15 and 16 years old, I'd stagger down the hallway drunk, balancing my stagger with each hand on the hall walls until I'd stumble into the bathroom where I'd hug the toilet throwing up vodka, moonshine, tequila, or rum. That house where, when Mom and Dad were out of town, I'd have parties when I was 15 and 16; various couples in bedrooms drunk and humping. That house where I, at 14 and 15, used to sneak out of at night and steal Mom's car and drive to the Community Center to see if my 18-year old lover was around. More unmentionables, like they never happened. But they did.
That house where, as a little 6-year old buck-toothed curly-headed tom-boy pony-loving girl, I used to line my bed with stuffed animals for protection in case a murderer crawled through the window to shoot me. I had to protect myself, in case it happened. But it never did.
How does one relay all the memories? How can I remember? I wish I had more memories from my pre-teen years about my family in that house. I draw such damn blanks from my early childhood; so many blanks.
We moved to that house when I was around 2 years old, in 1961 or thereabouts. Prior to that Mom and Dad had lived in Daytona for about 15 years; all us children were born in Daytona, in Holly Hill. That was before Daytona was commercialized like it is now. I was told ponies ran wild through our yard. I don't know if that's true; I should ask my sister. In my 30's I discovered that I had been lied to about certain family matters; the ponies may be another lie. Though to Mom I don't think they were lies; I think she believed them. Shock treatments from the late 1950's and into the 1960's rewired her memory.
That house, in that neighborhood; that neighborhood which is now transformed. That house is a Hillcrest neighborhood fixture, one of the originals, before the post-50's houses that now line the streets where woods and pastures once thrived.
The woods are gone. The riding fields are gone. The trails are gone. The stables are gone; old man Abernethy's house is gone. The dirt road is gone. It's gone, gone.
My childhood landscape has been bulldozed and bricked.
Except for that house.
********************************************************
entry ~ more of a jounal entry (may, 2009)
(February, 2012: Working on indexing/categorizing pieces I've blogged. Transferring this piece from my once-public blog, versions.)
***************
From May, 2009:
This isn't a memoir. It's more of a journal entry.
I am now 50 years of age. In some ways I still feel like an adolescent. Don't people my age know by now their political stance and their religious stance? Those are the only two categories I can think of. Why?
Why are those categories so important? Is it because they have shaped so much of history? Have they? What other factors come into play?
What of the relationship stance, the family stance, the spirit stance, the morality stance, the psychology stance, the science stance? Do I have opinions on those issues? I do, more so than religion and politics. But why do I get such fog in my mind regarding politics and religion? Is it because of their complexity, or is it because they are so divided? I much prefer harmony over division.
Let me take one issue: the gay issue. Does it really bother me that Henry and Paul are lovers?
No, not in their private lives. But yet it would bother me to see them holding hands in public.
Yet, if two male friends embrace, I don't think much of it. It is a greeting betwixt friends. Why would the holding of hands bother me? It must be a cultural bias.
I listed religious and spiritual as two separate stances. Perhaps by "religious" I really mean dogmatic crusades. Maybe that is what turns me off: crusades.
Yet, when I write that I have a whispering thought, Nothing would ever get accomplished on a large level if not for a crusade.
Yet, the other issues also have division. Perhaps in my mind the other issues are not as divided; there is an intuitive sense regarding relationships, family, and morals. However science, spirituality, and psychology have divisions galore.
Crusades and I don't get along anymore. I tried to be a crusader for God. I don't know; I just get confused.
My next thought is to write Carol, write. Even if it doesn't make sense, write.
O.K.
When I connect with my heart by focusing in the area of my physical heart and asking, What do I feel? ....there is an intuitive sense of knowing. I don't have to prove anything to anyone. I can simply be in the moment without being forced into a decision, which is an opinion.
Also, I can change my mind on matters. It's o.k. if I am a fence sitter. So what? Perhaps if the world had more fence sitters, we would have more peace.
Work would still get done: crops planted, people fed, people clothed, music played, poems and essays written, houses built, animals tended, lovers loved, stories lived and passed along, etc. That is life.
I've heard it said that necessity is the mother of invention. Perhaps emotional necessity is the mother of belief systems. That is much too simplistic.
But maybe I'm grasping an element of unraveling the ball of yarn.
A ball of yarn
rainbow cords
each color a season
of life
All wound up into
one big orb
hiding the central
core
It takes time
to unwind
to lay straight
to notice the patterns
of colors
What lies at the center?
Only the other end.
And I was hoping for a
revelation
Ahh...perhaps that is
the revelation
The progress of
grasping that the end
and the beginning
look the same
That the discovery
is in the
unraveling
***************
***************
From May, 2009:
This isn't a memoir. It's more of a journal entry.
I am now 50 years of age. In some ways I still feel like an adolescent. Don't people my age know by now their political stance and their religious stance? Those are the only two categories I can think of. Why?
Why are those categories so important? Is it because they have shaped so much of history? Have they? What other factors come into play?
What of the relationship stance, the family stance, the spirit stance, the morality stance, the psychology stance, the science stance? Do I have opinions on those issues? I do, more so than religion and politics. But why do I get such fog in my mind regarding politics and religion? Is it because of their complexity, or is it because they are so divided? I much prefer harmony over division.
Let me take one issue: the gay issue. Does it really bother me that Henry and Paul are lovers?
No, not in their private lives. But yet it would bother me to see them holding hands in public.
Yet, if two male friends embrace, I don't think much of it. It is a greeting betwixt friends. Why would the holding of hands bother me? It must be a cultural bias.
I listed religious and spiritual as two separate stances. Perhaps by "religious" I really mean dogmatic crusades. Maybe that is what turns me off: crusades.
Yet, when I write that I have a whispering thought, Nothing would ever get accomplished on a large level if not for a crusade.
Yet, the other issues also have division. Perhaps in my mind the other issues are not as divided; there is an intuitive sense regarding relationships, family, and morals. However science, spirituality, and psychology have divisions galore.
Crusades and I don't get along anymore. I tried to be a crusader for God. I don't know; I just get confused.
My next thought is to write Carol, write. Even if it doesn't make sense, write.
O.K.
When I connect with my heart by focusing in the area of my physical heart and asking, What do I feel? ....there is an intuitive sense of knowing. I don't have to prove anything to anyone. I can simply be in the moment without being forced into a decision, which is an opinion.
Also, I can change my mind on matters. It's o.k. if I am a fence sitter. So what? Perhaps if the world had more fence sitters, we would have more peace.
Work would still get done: crops planted, people fed, people clothed, music played, poems and essays written, houses built, animals tended, lovers loved, stories lived and passed along, etc. That is life.
I've heard it said that necessity is the mother of invention. Perhaps emotional necessity is the mother of belief systems. That is much too simplistic.
But maybe I'm grasping an element of unraveling the ball of yarn.
A ball of yarn
rainbow cords
each color a season
of life
All wound up into
one big orb
hiding the central
core
It takes time
to unwind
to lay straight
to notice the patterns
of colors
What lies at the center?
Only the other end.
And I was hoping for a
revelation
Ahh...perhaps that is
the revelation
The progress of
grasping that the end
and the beginning
look the same
That the discovery
is in the
unraveling
***************
February 14, 2012
The House Beside the Railroad Tracks
September, 1977: 18 years old. Hickory, NC. My first Twig Fellowship with The Way.
***
Over the summer Gretta and I had been on a spiritual quest, checking out various spiritual paths. I'd been looking into yoga, TM, Charismatic movement, Ram Dass, The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ. Gretta and I had even had our auras balanced together. That was a trip.
It was now the end of summer. Surely God had brought Dan and Bill to Hickory, just to meet Gretta and me. It had to be God. I had to check out Twig; to not do it meant not going where God might be leading.
That's what the fellowships were called, Twigs. I liked that label, Twig. It reminded me of nature. The analogy resonated with me. A twig is only part of a tree; without the other parts of the tree, that twig won't bear fruit or be healthy. It has to be nourished. Psalm 1 spoke of a tree planted by a river.
A number of Twigs together made up a Branch. The Branches formed a Limb, which was the state. All the US Limbs (states) formed the Trunk. The Root was The Way Headquarters. The Root was what fed the Way Tree, so it had the proper nourishment to grow. Each believer was a Leaf on the The Way Tree. In fact that was The Way emblem, a tree with an open Bible as the tree's crown.
The motto of The Way was "The Word of God is the Will of God." My heart thrilled. My specific prayer over and over had been, God, what is your will? How do I know your will? After all I was going to Bible college to get as close as I could to the 'original' biblical texts, so I could know, without a doubt, God's will.
I think it was the evening of the day I met Dan and Bill that I attended Twig at their house. If it wasn't that evening, it was within the next day or so. But I'm pretty sure it was that evening. I don't think Gretta came that night; I think I was the only new person. I think David, a Hickory local, was also there.
Their newly rented house was an older home near the railroad tracks, not far from quaint downtown Hickory. It had a front porch and wood siding. The home was orderly. I recall a couch against a wall and at least one upholstered chair in the fellowship room. There was a window. It seems the room was in earth tone colors.
Bill and Dan did not know that I had heard that The Way was a cult. But even with having heard that, I was curious and attracted. When I had spoken with Bill and Dan at the health food store our conversation had been so genuine and tangible. I felt it was like when Jesus had talked with the two men on the road to Emmaus. The two had stated, "Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?"
My heart had burned within me when Dan and Bill had spoken with me.
I entered with spiritual caution. Bill greeted me with a smile, a gentle embrace, and a holy kiss. Wow, a holy kiss...just like it states in Corinthians.
I don't recall the exact order of the meeting. Yet I will always remember the manifestations. (I learned later that speaking in tongues wasn't a gift, but a manifestation.) That first Twig I was a bit uncomfortable with how speaking in tongues and the interpretations were 'controlled'. I was used to Charismatic and Pentecostal type gatherings, where many people spoke in tongues at the same time. I mostly attended the Charismatic meetings because they felt calmer than the Pentecostal groups. There was more of a gentle flow to the rhythm of the Charismatic meetings; the Pentecostal ones could get too intense with a chaotic feel to them, like the devil was trying to get into the meeting and somehow the heightened emotions kept him at bay.
Twig was different though, not at all like the Charismatic gatherings where everyone spoke in tongues or sang in tongues or quietly whispered in tongues together. (I was a whisperer; my tongue language felt very private to me.) At Twig, the leader of the meeting called on people to speak in tongues and interpret. I tensed when I heard Bill tell David or Dan to, "Please speak and tongues and interpret."
How can a person control the spirit moving like that? No man can direct the Holy Spirit! The members need to be open and just simply move as they feel led. But not in The Way meeting; everything is decent and in order and overseen spiritually by the Twig leader. This caused me discomfort at first, but I didn't let on. I just sat and listened and thought it strange.
But I also recognized that Twig was run "decently and in order." I'd read that in Corinthians ("let all things be done decently and in order"), and had wondered about it. How could the Charismatics go against that scripture? But here in Twig, they practiced it. Wow....
After prayer and the manifestations I think Dan played his guitar and sang. Maybe it was Bill; one of them did. I really liked their music.
I had heard other Christian music that I liked: The Second Chapter of Acts, Honeytree, Andre Crouch and all those new Christian rock and folk groups. Dan and Bill didn't have that music; they had music by the Christian rock groups from The Way.
I think it was Bill that taught the Bible that evening. I keenly listened, keeping my spiritual ears alert at all times. I don't recall what was taught, but I do recall that my heart thrilled and that I spiritually began to relax. The teaching was taught with such confidence and love. God was REAL, really REAL. I felt like I had been embraced into the beautiful, loving womb of God's heart. God loved me; I felt it in that room. I knew it must be real.
These people weren't demons. They weren't a cult. All they did was teach The Word, the Word, the Word. They loved Jesus Christ; he was their savior. I was enthralled and enraptured. I had found the way; I had found it! This must be it; it felt so right. I felt protected and that I had a guide. Yet I had felt God move before; so why did I feel this was different?
After the teaching I opened my heart and shared about my cautiousness and that I had been told The Way was a cult. But all I had heard was the Word, the Word, the Word. All I felt in that room was the greatness of God's love. I was dumbfounded why anyone would call it a cult.
Dan and Bill explained to me that Jesus was also called a cult leader and that the first century church was first called 'followers of the way' and were of the 'sect of the Nazarene.' Yes, I was aware of some of that.
That first Twig, I hung around as long as they let me. I sat in an upholstered chair with headphones on. I closed my eyes as I listened to the music. It pulled me in; I was basking in the love of Christ.
Round and round the album played.
"...Open your heart and just give Christ a try...He's in love with you, he arose, to set you on high....You'll never know 'til you know that you've tried....His warm and tender love, always thinking of God's Son inside..."
It was beautiful.
"...And O God how we love you....loving everything you do, you do, you do....O God how we love you....we love you....we love you-oo-ooo..."
"...We are sons of God with power; raise your head and say it loud. The righteousness of God is ours; of our sonship we are proud..."
I didn't understand why folks called this love and this Word of God at the Twig a cult.
Dan and Bill told me about 'the class.' I thought, I can just do this research on my own and learn the same stuff. Just as I was thinking that thought Bill said, "You know Carol, you could do all this research on your own, but why not take a short cut? It's only 15 sessions." Wow, it's like he can read my thoughts. God must be guiding him.
The green sign-up card for 'the class' stated I would learn how to discern truth from error. I wanted that more than anything in my life. I had to be at every session on time. How could I ever do that? The class was 1-1/2 hours away from college. The Class costs $100.00. I didn't have $100.00.
Yet I felt like this was it; this was what I had been seeking. If God wanted me there, He'd supply the means to get me there. I prayed hard to see Him open the doors so I could take the class.
Sometime in the next few weeks at one of my visits, Bill or Dan gave me a Way Magazine. On the front was a photo of "Uncle Harry Awaiting the Return." Awaiting the return, I thought, what great words of hope. I returned to college with The Way Magazine in hand. I couldn't wait to tell my friends. At the same time I was a bit apprehensive.
***
Over the summer Gretta and I had been on a spiritual quest, checking out various spiritual paths. I'd been looking into yoga, TM, Charismatic movement, Ram Dass, The Aquarian Gospel of Jesus the Christ. Gretta and I had even had our auras balanced together. That was a trip.
It was now the end of summer. Surely God had brought Dan and Bill to Hickory, just to meet Gretta and me. It had to be God. I had to check out Twig; to not do it meant not going where God might be leading.
That's what the fellowships were called, Twigs. I liked that label, Twig. It reminded me of nature. The analogy resonated with me. A twig is only part of a tree; without the other parts of the tree, that twig won't bear fruit or be healthy. It has to be nourished. Psalm 1 spoke of a tree planted by a river.
A number of Twigs together made up a Branch. The Branches formed a Limb, which was the state. All the US Limbs (states) formed the Trunk. The Root was The Way Headquarters. The Root was what fed the Way Tree, so it had the proper nourishment to grow. Each believer was a Leaf on the The Way Tree. In fact that was The Way emblem, a tree with an open Bible as the tree's crown.
The motto of The Way was "The Word of God is the Will of God." My heart thrilled. My specific prayer over and over had been, God, what is your will? How do I know your will? After all I was going to Bible college to get as close as I could to the 'original' biblical texts, so I could know, without a doubt, God's will.
I think it was the evening of the day I met Dan and Bill that I attended Twig at their house. If it wasn't that evening, it was within the next day or so. But I'm pretty sure it was that evening. I don't think Gretta came that night; I think I was the only new person. I think David, a Hickory local, was also there.
Their newly rented house was an older home near the railroad tracks, not far from quaint downtown Hickory. It had a front porch and wood siding. The home was orderly. I recall a couch against a wall and at least one upholstered chair in the fellowship room. There was a window. It seems the room was in earth tone colors.
Bill and Dan did not know that I had heard that The Way was a cult. But even with having heard that, I was curious and attracted. When I had spoken with Bill and Dan at the health food store our conversation had been so genuine and tangible. I felt it was like when Jesus had talked with the two men on the road to Emmaus. The two had stated, "Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures?"
My heart had burned within me when Dan and Bill had spoken with me.
I entered with spiritual caution. Bill greeted me with a smile, a gentle embrace, and a holy kiss. Wow, a holy kiss...just like it states in Corinthians.
I don't recall the exact order of the meeting. Yet I will always remember the manifestations. (I learned later that speaking in tongues wasn't a gift, but a manifestation.) That first Twig I was a bit uncomfortable with how speaking in tongues and the interpretations were 'controlled'. I was used to Charismatic and Pentecostal type gatherings, where many people spoke in tongues at the same time. I mostly attended the Charismatic meetings because they felt calmer than the Pentecostal groups. There was more of a gentle flow to the rhythm of the Charismatic meetings; the Pentecostal ones could get too intense with a chaotic feel to them, like the devil was trying to get into the meeting and somehow the heightened emotions kept him at bay.
Twig was different though, not at all like the Charismatic gatherings where everyone spoke in tongues or sang in tongues or quietly whispered in tongues together. (I was a whisperer; my tongue language felt very private to me.) At Twig, the leader of the meeting called on people to speak in tongues and interpret. I tensed when I heard Bill tell David or Dan to, "Please speak and tongues and interpret."
How can a person control the spirit moving like that? No man can direct the Holy Spirit! The members need to be open and just simply move as they feel led. But not in The Way meeting; everything is decent and in order and overseen spiritually by the Twig leader. This caused me discomfort at first, but I didn't let on. I just sat and listened and thought it strange.
But I also recognized that Twig was run "decently and in order." I'd read that in Corinthians ("let all things be done decently and in order"), and had wondered about it. How could the Charismatics go against that scripture? But here in Twig, they practiced it. Wow....
After prayer and the manifestations I think Dan played his guitar and sang. Maybe it was Bill; one of them did. I really liked their music.
I had heard other Christian music that I liked: The Second Chapter of Acts, Honeytree, Andre Crouch and all those new Christian rock and folk groups. Dan and Bill didn't have that music; they had music by the Christian rock groups from The Way.
I think it was Bill that taught the Bible that evening. I keenly listened, keeping my spiritual ears alert at all times. I don't recall what was taught, but I do recall that my heart thrilled and that I spiritually began to relax. The teaching was taught with such confidence and love. God was REAL, really REAL. I felt like I had been embraced into the beautiful, loving womb of God's heart. God loved me; I felt it in that room. I knew it must be real.
These people weren't demons. They weren't a cult. All they did was teach The Word, the Word, the Word. They loved Jesus Christ; he was their savior. I was enthralled and enraptured. I had found the way; I had found it! This must be it; it felt so right. I felt protected and that I had a guide. Yet I had felt God move before; so why did I feel this was different?
After the teaching I opened my heart and shared about my cautiousness and that I had been told The Way was a cult. But all I had heard was the Word, the Word, the Word. All I felt in that room was the greatness of God's love. I was dumbfounded why anyone would call it a cult.
Dan and Bill explained to me that Jesus was also called a cult leader and that the first century church was first called 'followers of the way' and were of the 'sect of the Nazarene.' Yes, I was aware of some of that.
That first Twig, I hung around as long as they let me. I sat in an upholstered chair with headphones on. I closed my eyes as I listened to the music. It pulled me in; I was basking in the love of Christ.
Round and round the album played.
"...Open your heart and just give Christ a try...He's in love with you, he arose, to set you on high....You'll never know 'til you know that you've tried....His warm and tender love, always thinking of God's Son inside..."
It was beautiful.
"...And O God how we love you....loving everything you do, you do, you do....O God how we love you....we love you....we love you-oo-ooo..."
"...We are sons of God with power; raise your head and say it loud. The righteousness of God is ours; of our sonship we are proud..."
I didn't understand why folks called this love and this Word of God at the Twig a cult.
Dan and Bill told me about 'the class.' I thought, I can just do this research on my own and learn the same stuff. Just as I was thinking that thought Bill said, "You know Carol, you could do all this research on your own, but why not take a short cut? It's only 15 sessions." Wow, it's like he can read my thoughts. God must be guiding him.
The green sign-up card for 'the class' stated I would learn how to discern truth from error. I wanted that more than anything in my life. I had to be at every session on time. How could I ever do that? The class was 1-1/2 hours away from college. The Class costs $100.00. I didn't have $100.00.
Yet I felt like this was it; this was what I had been seeking. If God wanted me there, He'd supply the means to get me there. I prayed hard to see Him open the doors so I could take the class.
Sometime in the next few weeks at one of my visits, Bill or Dan gave me a Way Magazine. On the front was a photo of "Uncle Harry Awaiting the Return." Awaiting the return, I thought, what great words of hope. I returned to college with The Way Magazine in hand. I couldn't wait to tell my friends. At the same time I was a bit apprehensive.
February 3, 2012
Expectations: The law of believing
AWW ~ 2/01/12
non-subject: expectations
********************************
Dr. Wierwille taught truths from the scriptures:
"Believing equals receiving."
"Confession of receipt yields receipt of confession."
"You are where you are today because of your believing."
"Believing works for saint and sinner alike."
"Negative believing is believing in reverse."
"You know what killed that little boy? It was the fear in the heart of the life of that mother."
After all Romans 10:10 and 11 state: "For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation [or wholeness]. For the scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed [shall not be disappointed in their expectation]."
I learned about the "law of believing" as I sat through class after class - the same classes over and over all on cassette tapes. Or if we had believed sufficiently so that our believing enabled us to register at least the minimum amount of new students, we would qualify for a video class. "We" being the believers in a local Branch area or Twig fellowship.
I learned about the "law of believing" as I put away all other reading material except for the Word and Ministry publications. I studied the "collaterals" alongside my Bible. All the collaterals were books written by Doctor. They were called "collaterals" because they were accompaniments to the Word. We in the household of God didn't use commentaries; commentaries were man's interpretation of the Word. We were taught that the Word interprets itself. Commentaries could be useful, but one always had to discern truth from error. To be able to discern truth from error, one had to first know the truth. The collaterals taught how the Word interprets itself. The collaterals taught how to know the truth. The collaterals taught how to rightly divide, or straightly cut, the Word of God.
There was only one right and accurate cutting of that Word. Like II Timothy 2:15 says, we were to be "workman of the Word" studying to show ourselves "approved unto God" so as "not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the Word of truth." I wonder if that word "ashamed" in II Timothy 2:15 is the same Greek word "ashamed" that is used in Romans 10:11? I could look it up later using my Bible concordance and Greek lexicon, two other tools the Ministry taught me how to use.
Most believers seemed to really like the first book in the collateral series which was entitled The Bible Tells Me So, affectionately called "the Blue Book" because the color of the book was blue. I wonder why the Ministry chose blue for the first collateral? I really liked the third book in the collateral series. It was entitled The Word's Way and was red and brown, but no one called it "the red book."
I learned about the "law of believing" as I began to run scripture retemories over and over and over in my mind. After all, the way to "build my believing" was with the Word of God. Romans 10:17 states: "Faith [or believing] cometh by hearing and hearing by the Word of God." Proverbs states: "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he."
So the more I thought the Word and heard the Word, the more I got that Word into my heart and the bigger my believing. If I thought it and heard it enough, it would sink within my heart and my believing would grow. The bigger my believing, the better I could hear God's voice and bring deliverance to God's people.
I learned about the "law of believing" as I put the word into action in my life by not allowing my five senses or how I felt to guide me. If my senses told me one thing and the Word told me something else, I chose the Word; I "put the Word on."
Believing the Word meant acting on what the Word said.
Like the time in the Way Corps when I and an assigned partner hitchhiked from Emporia, Kansas, to LEAD Outdoor Academy in Tinnie, New Mexico, in November, in the frigid weather as I battled a cough and asthma. As Way Corps, we only had so many hours allotted us to arrive at our destination. If we failed, we had to turn around and hitchhike back to Kansas. If we failed, we failed because our believing wasn't sufficient enough.
I was not going to be ashamed; that is, I was believing and thereby would not be disappointed in my expectation. My partner and I would make it to Tinnie on time, even if I did have asthma symptoms in the frigid cold. By acting on the Word and going to LEAD in spite of my asthma, I was believing. My body would be healed. "Confession of receipt yields receipt of confession."
My partner and I missed the allotted time frame by a few minutes; we failed. We had to turn around and hitchhike back to Kansas. We weren't able to attend the LEAD outdoor rock climbing session.
I was disappointed in my expectation, so I must not have been believing. But by missing the time frame, I missed the seven days and nights in the frigid cold in the wilderness mountains of New Mexico. Frigid cold plus asthma plus wilderness could equal death or at the least, trauma.
I continued to suffer with asthma for the next fifteen plus years. But I still claimed God's healing.
I didn't want to be ashamed.
******************
non-subject: expectations
********************************
Dr. Wierwille taught truths from the scriptures:
"Believing equals receiving."
"Confession of receipt yields receipt of confession."
"You are where you are today because of your believing."
"Believing works for saint and sinner alike."
"Negative believing is believing in reverse."
"You know what killed that little boy? It was the fear in the heart of the life of that mother."
After all Romans 10:10 and 11 state: "For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation [or wholeness]. For the scripture saith, Whosoever believeth on him shall not be ashamed [shall not be disappointed in their expectation]."
I learned about the "law of believing" as I sat through class after class - the same classes over and over all on cassette tapes. Or if we had believed sufficiently so that our believing enabled us to register at least the minimum amount of new students, we would qualify for a video class. "We" being the believers in a local Branch area or Twig fellowship.
I learned about the "law of believing" as I put away all other reading material except for the Word and Ministry publications. I studied the "collaterals" alongside my Bible. All the collaterals were books written by Doctor. They were called "collaterals" because they were accompaniments to the Word. We in the household of God didn't use commentaries; commentaries were man's interpretation of the Word. We were taught that the Word interprets itself. Commentaries could be useful, but one always had to discern truth from error. To be able to discern truth from error, one had to first know the truth. The collaterals taught how the Word interprets itself. The collaterals taught how to know the truth. The collaterals taught how to rightly divide, or straightly cut, the Word of God.
There was only one right and accurate cutting of that Word. Like II Timothy 2:15 says, we were to be "workman of the Word" studying to show ourselves "approved unto God" so as "not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the Word of truth." I wonder if that word "ashamed" in II Timothy 2:15 is the same Greek word "ashamed" that is used in Romans 10:11? I could look it up later using my Bible concordance and Greek lexicon, two other tools the Ministry taught me how to use.
Most believers seemed to really like the first book in the collateral series which was entitled The Bible Tells Me So, affectionately called "the Blue Book" because the color of the book was blue. I wonder why the Ministry chose blue for the first collateral? I really liked the third book in the collateral series. It was entitled The Word's Way and was red and brown, but no one called it "the red book."
I learned about the "law of believing" as I began to run scripture retemories over and over and over in my mind. After all, the way to "build my believing" was with the Word of God. Romans 10:17 states: "Faith [or believing] cometh by hearing and hearing by the Word of God." Proverbs states: "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he."
So the more I thought the Word and heard the Word, the more I got that Word into my heart and the bigger my believing. If I thought it and heard it enough, it would sink within my heart and my believing would grow. The bigger my believing, the better I could hear God's voice and bring deliverance to God's people.
I learned about the "law of believing" as I put the word into action in my life by not allowing my five senses or how I felt to guide me. If my senses told me one thing and the Word told me something else, I chose the Word; I "put the Word on."
Believing the Word meant acting on what the Word said.
Like the time in the Way Corps when I and an assigned partner hitchhiked from Emporia, Kansas, to LEAD Outdoor Academy in Tinnie, New Mexico, in November, in the frigid weather as I battled a cough and asthma. As Way Corps, we only had so many hours allotted us to arrive at our destination. If we failed, we had to turn around and hitchhike back to Kansas. If we failed, we failed because our believing wasn't sufficient enough.
I was not going to be ashamed; that is, I was believing and thereby would not be disappointed in my expectation. My partner and I would make it to Tinnie on time, even if I did have asthma symptoms in the frigid cold. By acting on the Word and going to LEAD in spite of my asthma, I was believing. My body would be healed. "Confession of receipt yields receipt of confession."
My partner and I missed the allotted time frame by a few minutes; we failed. We had to turn around and hitchhike back to Kansas. We weren't able to attend the LEAD outdoor rock climbing session.
I was disappointed in my expectation, so I must not have been believing. But by missing the time frame, I missed the seven days and nights in the frigid cold in the wilderness mountains of New Mexico. Frigid cold plus asthma plus wilderness could equal death or at the least, trauma.
I continued to suffer with asthma for the next fifteen plus years. But I still claimed God's healing.
I didn't want to be ashamed.
******************