This too is America...

6/26/20

I arrive at the little convenience store with three single gas pumps out front, and a drink machine with a full length Dr. Pepper front panel. The store sits at the intersection of state Highway 16 and Grassy Creek Road, right at the NC/VA border.

Oh good, the porta-jon is still out back.

I park Sir Edward, the 1999 Ford Explorer, in the dirt lot behind the store near the porta-jon, which I readily make use of.

It's a beautiful day. Vibrant blue sky. Fluffy white clouds. Temperature around 77 degrees F. Perfect day for a bike ride.

On the 1-1/2 hour drive up I had the thought, I'm feeling well. My epidural from last week is working. Maybe I should skip biking and just head up to Grayson Highlands. I wonder if I could actually hike to Thomas Knob Shelter?

Due to nerve damage, I haven't been able to do the shelter-hike since 2014. It's a rugged, 7-mile round trip with lots of rocks.

No, no way. I can barely hike two miles, much less seven. And on those rocks.

I open Edward's hatchback door and pull out Bleu, my Trek 820 bicycle. I balance her on her kickstand and drop oil on her chain. To distribute the oil along the chain, I kick up the stand and hold Blue's boy-bar with my left hand while spinning the pedals backward with my right. I then kick down the stand, and she balances on her own again.

I apply sunscreen to my arms and face and bug repellent to vulnerable body parts. I sit in the back of Edward, legs dangling over the back bumper, with the hatchback door raised. I pull up one leg at a time and place that foot on the bumper while I take off my Teva sandals and put on my Teva biking shoes, which technically aren't biking shoes.

I strap Bleu's headlight to her right handle bar and pull up-and-out her already-attached-to-the-left-handle-bar rearview mirror. I put my water bottle in the holder attached to her angled bar below her boy-bar. "Her" "boy-bar;" she's a true bi-cycle.

I lock Edward with a beep from my key fob. I hide the keys under the sheepskin on the driver's seat and close all his doors except the hatchback. Edward has a keypad entry. No need to carry keys with me.

I don my yellow-and-black biking gloves and strap on my screaming-yellow brain-bucket. I buckle my black hip pack around my waist and slide it so that the pouch is in the back.

Hip pack necessities include empty baggies for devices in case of rain, a baggie with tissue if I need to pee, a baggie to put any used tissue in, a little metal tin that holds stomach-acid relievers, my asthma inhaler, a referee whistle for bears or emergencies, an old driver's license for idee, a $10 bill, my bluetooth to listen to music, and a mask in case I need to have close contact with a person.

I turn on Blue's flashing headlight and flashing taillight. Grassy Creek Road is a lightly traveled, country auto-road, not a greenway. I take the motto "be seen" seriously.

I tap Cyclemeter on my phone-screen, the app to track my mileage and other particulars. My phone has no service up here, but the app works offline. My Pandora music app also has offline stations. I might listen to music on the last half of my ride. I strategically place a couple paper napkins over my phone-screen to protect it from overheating in the sunlight and stuff it in the zipper pouch that's part of my black carry-pocket attached with Velcro to Bleu's boy-bar. I leave the zipper part-way open to keep the insides from getting too hot for my phone.

My black carry-pocket holds a spare tire tube, two small air canisters with one small pump, and three tire levers for changing out the tube if I have a flat. I don't have the strength to change a tube. But trail-magic has worked both times I've had a flat when riding; an "angel" comes along adept at tube-changing.

I better check with the store folks to make sure it's still okay that I park in the back. The clerk is warm and friendly and gives me a thumbs up.

I bike around eight miles - six on Grassy Creek and two on Brook Green. Three cars pass, only one going my direction.

On Brook Green I encounter two sets of dogs, two dogs in each set. I dismount and walk my bike letting them know I respect their territories. One set belongs to a couple kids out playing. The kids come over to hold the dogs who look like mixed-breed spaniels, beautiful markings. The kids and I chat for a few moments as I walk by pushing Bleu. The other set of dogs look like mixed-breed pitbulls. On their second barking round I take off my helmet to look less strange. On their third barking round as I walk pass talking to them in a friendly, respectful manner and keeping my fear scent in check, the owner walks out of his dwelling and calls them back. We exchange a friendly chat. Once passed the pits' territory, I put my helmet back on, get on the saddle and ride.

On my return ride back to Edward, I was, as usual taken by the scenery.

Blue skies. White clouds. Rolling Virginia hills of the Blue Ridge. A gentle breeze kisses my cheeks. In the distance cows graze; a tractor rolls across a dirt field.

I dismount. I breathe in the scene, taking pause...

This too is America...

Such a contrast to what I read in some news' takes, right and left, about the "carnage," "destruction," "chaos," "war zones," "anarchy," and how "horrible" this country is, supposedly on "the brink of collapse." Exaggerations? In my opinion, yes. At least for now. And when viewed in a historical perspective.

I have no doubt that at some point there will be war, in the truest sense, on our soil. War that wreaks havoc strewn across our landscapes and concrete jungles. It seems inevitable, because that's what greed does.

But the scenes before me this day are hopeful.
Peaceful.
Holding their joys and sorrows from the past.
Survival.

Once back to Edward, I doff my biking gear and let it all air in the sun while I eat my turkey sandwich and orange as I sit on Edward's back bumper with the hatch open. The scene now in front of me. Worn metal storage units, an old VW Beetle, a dumpster. Dirt, gravel, green grass and trees. Blue sky, sunshine, white clouds.

This too is America...

After eating I load everything up for the 20-minute drive to the magical Grayson Highlands wondering what awaits me.

I'll get to visit my friend Grandfather Fir, my prayer tree...

Word Over the World: Scene One

I'm currently working on a personal project which involves editing/reworking my story, Seeking Life Along The Way, a three-part narrative I first wrote in 2008.

In refining the narrative I am dividing each Part into Scenes. Following is the first scene of Part 2.

(To read the reworked Part 1, click here: Why Would Anyone Join a Cult?)

~*~

Word Over the World
Scene One

After dropping out of college in December, 1977, I moved back to Hickory, North Carolina, my hometown, where I had just finished my first Power for Abundant Living class. Also called "PFAL" and "The Class."

I, my friend Janet who had taken The Class for her first time along with me, and Belinda who was serving her apprentice year for the ninth Way Corps moved in together to form a "Way Home." We would do our part helping to "move the Word over the world" by running Way classes and home fellowships (called Twigs), witnessing to unbelievers, daily praying together, reading the Bible and Way publications, memorizing scripture verses, and having "believers meetings." That's what you did in a Way Home.

A "believers meeting" is a gathering of at least three "fully-instructed" believers to "hear from God." To be "fully instructed" means that a believer knows how to properly operate the "inspiration manifestations of speaking in tongues, interpretation of tongues, and prophecy." One Way believer leads the meeting and calls on three or four believers, one at a time, to bring forth a message from God via tongues with interpretation or prophecy. The Way draws its instructions from various scriptures in I Corinthians 14.

By January, I'd landed a job at a local hospital in the laundry department folding human wraps, hot and staticky fresh out of the large industrial driers. Linens, blankets, gowns, towels, washcloths. One of my fellow folders, Michael, was my first Way recruit. Michael was a year or so older than I.

I spoke the Word everywhere I went, talking the Bible and The Class, inviting people to Twig, sometimes going "door-to-door witnessing" solo. One of my Twig leaders, when introducing me to Way state leadership, said "Carol witnesses to everything that moves."

Victor Paul Wierwille was The Way's founder and first president. He received his Bachelor of Theology degree in 1940 from Mission House College and Seminary (now Lakeland University) in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He received his Masters of Theology in 1941 from Princeton Theological Seminary in New Jersey. That same year he was ordained into the Evangelical and Reformed Church, which he continued with until 1957. In 1948, he received his Doctorate of Theology through correspondence work from Pikes Peak Seminary (now defunct) in Manitou Springs, Colorado.

Pikes Peak Seminary was located in a 4500 square-foot house, had no resident instruction, no list of faculty and no accreditation. The legitimacy of Wierwille's doctorate is questionable. But, at the time, that didn't matter to me. Jesus had few, if any, worldly credentials. And he was the Son of God.

I first met Wierwille in February 1978, at a large Way gathering called a Heartbeat Festival held at the Omni Hotel in Virginia Beach. I waited, alone, sitting in an upholstered chair in a dimly lit alcove outside a conference room where Wierwille was meeting with the Word Over the World Ambassadors. At midnight, he walked out of the room. I stood up, walked over to him, introduced myself, and said, "I want to go WOW this year." (WOW, an acronym for Word Over the World, was The Way's main lay outreach program, volunteers serving for one year, from August to August, wherever assigned by The Way.)

The next morning, I sat on the front row in the large meeting of hundreds, if not a thousand or more, people. At the end of his teaching from the stage, Doctor pointed at me and said, "You're going WOW next year; aren't you honey?" I nodded my head yes.

And then he asked, "Have you signed up yet?" I shook my head no.

He responded with a bellow, "Well come on up here!" He motioned his arm for me to join him on the elevated stage, which I did, and he personally signed me up to go WOW.

As I stood with him on the stage in front of the sea of onlookers, he again enthusiastically bellowed, this time to the whole audience, "Who else wants to go W.O.W!?!"

 As people came up to the stage, I helped hand out the blue WOW sign-up cards.

Little eighteen-year-old me, on stage with the "man of God of the world," our "father in the Word." "Doctor," as followers affectionately referred to him. I felt large and small at the same time. Privileged. Awed. Humbled. I was doing God's will for my life.

It was intoxicating, but not in a scary or uncontrollable way. I was high on the "love of God." I thought there was nowhere else on earth where one could experience this unique oneness, unity of purpose, synchronicity. I later came to call it "the chewy, caramel center of God's heart." It was almost tangible and was a feeling that would be duplicated at Way functions multiple times in the following decades.

Before going WOW in August, I jumped on board with The Way's statewide summer outreach program, WONC - Word Over North Carolina. I was assigned with three other young ladies to Fayetteville, North Carolina, the home of Fort Bragg Military Base. We witnessed to a lot of soldiers and ran one Power For Abundant Living Foundational class. I got a job driving a taxicab. My second Way recruit was one of my passengers, Velton, a teenager about a year younger than I.

I was nineteen years old.

~*~

Click here for Scene Two.

From my ride on June 8, 2020...

Little boy solo,
pedaling the winding boardwalk.
Trees, like gentle giants,
watch over him,
providing shade,
dappled with sunlight.
Trust...

Made a new friend, Rufus.
Smiled for his pic.
It was his twelfth birthday...

Bleu leans.
Watching Rufus
in the distance.
It's a long and winding road...

Resentment 2020: Part Two, 3/31 & 4/01

Click here for Part One.
~*~

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

I have felt resentment the past week.
And anger.
Not toward the virus, but toward the able-bodied.
And it has been fierce at times.
Not rageful; but fierce.

May you, the able-bodied, never again minimize situations in which you know nothing, or little, about. You might think you understand. But maybe now you have a taste of the emotional toll of being forced to go solo, just one of the complexities of living with disability or chronic illness.

May you never again sit in some sort of absolute judgement of those less able-bodied or able-minded than you.

May you never again judge another's motive based on your limited assessment of that person's life.

May you never again place your so-called intuition, or God-working-in-you, or God-revealing-to-you your unsolicited so-called counsel and concern.

Stop it!!!

And that goes for me too, for I also am human with my biases.

But damn it folks, keep a check on it.
Consider what your life would be had you walked in the person's sandals on whom you pass your self-righteous declarations.

~*~

April 1, 2020

Writing now, I again feel the anger in my body.

Stop Carol.

Breathe.

Heart-soak the resentment so that it softens.
Allow it to dissolve.
Breathe in gratitude.
Breathe out resentment.

Recall those first years of your current chronic-illness life. After you had to drop out of socializing, even online. Drop out, for the most part, of grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, making anything with your hands, working, hiking, reaching out to help others, conversing with others...

You have had time to adapt.
This is your normal.
So Carol, Easy. Easy.
Reign your judgement.
Temper your anger.

And yes, I know I'm not "completely alone" in managing my illness...

I have a husband who comes home every night, unless he has a trip out of town. Monday thru Friday he leaves for work at 7:00 AM and gets home around 6:30 PM. His round-trip commute is at least 2-1/2 hours each day. He also does most all the laundry and grocery shopping. He used to take care of the yardwork and housecleaning as best he could. But once I began receiving a disability check, I hired a housecleaner and a lawn maintenance crew. That freed up some of his time and eased his care load. In the warmest seasons, he joins me on many-a-Saturday bike ride.

Nor am I "completely disabled"...

I don't have to use a wheelchair; I use trekking poles or a rollator. I can even ride a bike.

Am I complaining? That's up to the reader to judge; all-be-it remember the above from my Tuesday, 3/31, journal entry...keep a check on your judgement.
Am I asking for advice? No, I'm not. So please, don't give any.

This resentment and anger has taken me by surprise, an unexpected reaction to the current circumstances.
Over the years I have felt resentment and anger at times about my disability; it comes with the package.
But I don't recall it being so persistent and fierce, so widespread.

~*~

Resentment 2020: Part One, 3/13 & 3/16

Friday, March 13, 2020

Worked six hours at the studio yesterday. Way too long.
Awoke today with severe pain in my right lower back.
It then spread to my right flank area.

This morning I thought, I must have pulled something sitting for so long. I know I shouldn't work over four hours. And really I should only work two at a time. The price I pay in symptoms is too high.

The conversation from Wednesday night with John didn't enter my thoughts.
The conversation about Covid-19 and me feeling a kind of resentment(?) toward the able-bodied.
I knew the resentment was just a feeling, and I tempered it with logic.
But that really didn't help much.

And two days later, I have back spasms.

~*~

Monday, March 16, 2020

I stop riding for a moment.
I stand balancing Bleu, my Trek 820 bicycle, between my legs.
I look around at Jamieson Park.
Jamieson is located at Muddy Creek Greenway.

It's more quiet than usual.
Covid-19 is happening.
Folks are starting to shelter.
It feels like a physical-distancing incubation period.
Like folks are acquainting themselves with sheltering.
I understand that.

A sentence appears in my brain,
The playing field has been leveled people.

I breath deeply, slowly...
In and out.
One time each.

Carol, that's a terrible thing to think.

I try to identify what I'm feeling.
Breathe...
In and out.
One time each.

What are you feeling?

Resentment. Anger

Both are an unexpected response.

~*~

Click her for Part Two.

Why would anyone join a cult: Scene Six

Project in process...
To read Scene One, click here.

~*~

Why would anyone join a cult?
Final Scene: Six

I enrolled in The Way's Power for Abundant Living Foundational and Intermediate classes which, at that time, were combined as one class. The fee at the time was $100; a one-time, non-refundable "donation" paid to The Way International. New students had to attend every session and arrive on time; there were no make-up sessions. If a new student was late or missed a session, she would have to drop that class but would be able to attend the next class starting over at the beginning. Once a student completed the class, she could take it as many times as desired without further payment.

I drove a three-hour round trip, from Montreat to Hickory, to attend the fifteen three-hour audio sessions. The class was held in an apartment on a lower level. There were around thirty attendees; most were repeat students. Seven of us were first-timers. I was good friends with two of the new students, Janet and Gretta.

All students sat in folding, metal chairs which were arranged in straight rows; new students sat on the front row. The voice of The Way's founder and first president, Victor Paul Wierwille, with his Ohio accent played through the speakers from cassette tapes while a Way volunteer sat at the front of the class flipping eight-and-half-by-eleven inch sized charts provided by The Way, a visual to illustrate what Wierwille's voice was sharing. New students were not allowed to take notes. We each received a syllabus and Way books authored by Wierwille. We were instructed to write down any questions we had. If the questions were not answered in Wierwille's teachings over the fifteen class sessions, we could present them at the end of class.

I was rivetted by Wierwille's teachings. Finally, I was getting answers to many of the questions that plagued me. Apparent contradictions in the Bible were explained. I learned that scripture "interprets itself in the verse, in the context, and used before." I learned the importance of understanding biblical customs and mannerisms in order to allow the Word to interpret itself, and the importance of the precise usage of Greek and Hebrew words. I learned that I was righteous before God and that I had "sonship rights." I began to "retemorize" King James scripture verses, repeating them over and over and over in my mind, convincing myself of "the truth." I believed with all my heart that I was learning God's will for my life; it was all revealed in His "rightly-divided" Word.

In my college Old Testament History Class I wrote an answer in response to a test essay question asking to compare Old Testament faith with New Testament faith. My essay was based on Wierwille's research. I received an A+ with a handwritten note from my professor, Dr. Newton, "Excellent research. I have questions about some of your findings." Having been warned The Way was a cult, I felt too uncomfortable and insecure to approach him on the matter.

My prayer-group friends were concerned about me and staged a type of intervention. The six of us met in a small classroom. Some of the metal school desks had been arranged in a semi-circle facing the chalkboard. Matt, our group's leader, stood at the chalkboard and opened with prayer which included ridding the room of any demons. I was seated. The others sometimes sat and sometimes stood.

My friends took turns speaking at me, sometimes hollering perhaps in an attempt to wake me from what they considered my delusion, to save me from the "cult." They each tried to convince me that Wierwille was a false prophet. On the chalkboard Matt wrote scripture references trying to prove to me that Jesus is God. But their words, regardless of how loud they declared them, did not match my experiences with The Way nor what I saw as truth from the scriptures. Yet I also knew that the devil comes in sheep's clothing, Was I being deceived by The Way?

I left the room filled with self-doubt and fear, trying to weigh and sort out my different experiences, and asking myself, Was this the love of God?

Not long after the attempted intervention my college roommate, Grace, who suffered with mental illness, was found in the parking lot on her hands and knees trying to pick up "the sparkling diamonds" that twinkled in the pavement. She had also recently begun using the window, instead of the door, to enter and exit our college dorm room. My prayer-group friends blamed me for Grace's state of mind and bizarre behavior. I had tainted Grace causing her to get "possessed with demons," all because I was attending a Way class and fellowships. I was the only student at Montreat involved with The Way.

These were the people warning me The Way was a "cult." Their approach, for obvious reasons, sent me running in the other direction, to The Way, where my spiritual, mental, and emotional hunger was being fed. One of my favorite Twig Fellowship songs was, "I'm so glad I'm a part of the family of God..."

I mailed a handwritten letter to Dr. Wierwille whom I had listened to for over forty hours on audio tape. I shared with him what had happened with my prayer-group friends. I never expected to hear back. But I did. I received a typed letter in an envelope with a return address from "The Teacher" in New Knoxville, Ohio. He commended me for my bold stand and wrote, "When people throw dirt at God's Word, all they do is get their hands dirty."

I finished my first semester at Montreat-Anderson and then dropped out of college to study and serve with The Way. Jesus promised, "Seek and ye shall find." I had found.

I was still eighteen years old.


~*~

Click here to continue to Part 2, Word Over the World: Scene One.