A Salvation Story.pdf

Originally posted by christ-on-a-stick, 19 December 2003: As requested by thescholar in this thread , I have written down (off the cuff on my lunch hour, so forgive any egregious grammar) my personal "salvation story". The larger topic that inspired this is the hotly debated question of whether (or not) one who has genuinely been "saved" (in the Christian faith) can ever then "fall away". Considering that I am an atheist now but was for many years a believing and dedicated Christian, as "saved as saved can be" in my view, it is my position that to apply the Christian version of the No True Scotsman fallacy ("then you were never truly saved") is a grievous error. So, I am more than happy to acquiesce to thescholar's request to have a gander at my personal "salvation story". It is my hope that it will engender a more fruitful and specific discussion on the above topic. (This is going to have to be posted in 2 parts considering its length. My apologies in advance if it seems that I am being excessively wordy; I didn't stop to edit and in any case it seems to me that the more detailed I can be will provide thescholar with the clearest possible picture of my life as a believer). *** I was raised by my grandparents (no need to get into that backstory, really) who are fundamentalist Christians and have been their whole lives. They were part of the original group of believers that, along with Chuck Smith, founded the first Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa, California. In my youngest years (prior to my recollection) we attended Calvary, but when I was about five they decided that a smaller "church home" would be better for me, as Calvary was growing extremely large at that time. We became involved in a local Assemblies of God congregation, and were active members there until I was 17. I don’t have many distinct impressions about church life and my family’s religious beliefs up until I was about five (probably due to a lot of turmoil surrounding my biological parents and siblings being at the forefront of my attentions.) When it came time for me to begin kindergarten, I was enrolled at a very small private Christian School (K-6, max 25 students per grade, only 1 class per grade). My earliest school memories are of daily Bible reading and prayer, lots of religious songs and a curriculum infused with Christianity. This seemed totally natural to me because my home life was also infused with Christianity through-and-through, so that is as natural as breathing to me and not something I really "thought about". It was just the way things were. I remember one song I enjoyed singing with gusto (it was catchy!) about Jesus’ "impending return" "Ten and nine, eight and seven, six and five and four; call upon the Savior while you may! Three and two, coming through the clouds in bright array, the countdown’s getting lower every day!!!" The topics of Jesus coming back "soon!", the Rapture, etc. were fascinating to me although I remember a few times, after having misbehaved in some way, experiencing a great deal of anxiety at the thought of the Rapture happening and being left behind (at which point I would pray and ask for forgiveness, somewhat obsessively in retrospect, so terrifying was that prospect to my five/six-year-old self). When I was seven, attending Sunday School at the church we had become members of, one year around Easter time our teacher had a very "Serious Talk" with the class. It consisted mostly of first "checking" to make sure that we had all given our hearts to Jesus (we had - it was a pretty small core group). She then asked if we remembered when we had done it, and many of us (including myself)

really couldn’t specifically; it seemed like an ingrained knowledge of something that we had done but couldn’t really recall in detail. She then explained the importance of the concept of the "age of accountability", and how we had arrived at it, and how very crucial to our salvation it was that we say the Sinner’s Prayer, accept Jesus into our hearts, and make him our Lord and Savior. As I recall without exception we were all eager to do so; I remember personally feeling quite eager and excited at the prospect of actually making this big step in a "grown-up way", now that I was old enough. She led us all in the prayer and I had a very real sense of jubilance - "I’ve got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart". She then explained the importance of water baptism to us to "seal the deal" (in other words of course) and instructed us to talk to our parents about it. Those of us who wished to be baptized would have it done at the following Sunday evening church service (there was actually a baptismal tank built into the altar/stage area in the sanctuary. Of course I was eager to affirm my dedication to the Lord and so it was that the following Sunday, dressed in a special white gown-type garment (over shorts and a tshirt), I was baptized "in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen" along with about 10 other children (individually, in succession). I distinctly recall, as the preacher’s hands (one on my collarbone, the other behind my back) lifted me back up out of the warm water to face the congregation as a New Creation, feeling overwhelmed with happiness and a sense of purpose. I now belonged to Jesus, my Heavenly Father, and I had done His will and consecrated my life to Him. The years passed quickly and between the Christian school I attended, multiple church services each week and all of my family’s friends being from church, I was essentially enveloped in a cocoon of fundamentalist Christianity and was quite warm and content there. I read my Children’s Bible regularly and prayed constantly. I also wrote quite a bit from a very early age, and many of my stories and poems (I have saved almost everything) had Christian themes. I was quite fond of the "parable" story form and created a few of my own. Due to the circumstances surrounding my being taken in by my grandparents, I was especially comforted by the idea of God as my "Heavenly Father" when upset or sad, I would often lie in bed at night and picture being held close "in His bosom" (a terminology used often at church), and feel a wonderful sense of peace. When I was 10, my grandparents decided to return to the mission field as volunteers (since they were early retirees - they had been once before in 1970). This was incredibly exciting news to me! I found the idea of flying off to a far-away land to "show the light of Christ" to natives still "living in darkness" incredibly appealing. We spent two years in Papua New Guinea, living in the coastal hills above Madang at the orientation course "Jungle Camp" that all incoming missionaries went through before being sent off to their villages for bible translation work. Needless to say, the years spent there were also a total immersion in evangelical Christian culture. They were, in fact, some of the happiest years of my life for multiple reasons, and I remember in my prayers "thanking the Lord" for giving me such a rare and marvelous opportunity at such a young age to be part of "His work" (by proxy of course through my grandparents). I still have the diary that I received for Christmas right before we left for PNG, which I kept the whole 2 years we were there. Many of my entries were a sort of prayer in written form - "letters" to God if you will. I believed with all my heart that I was a child of God, washed in the Blood of the Lamb, serving a Risen Savior. One of the most powerful experiences I had over there was an Easter "sunrise service" which took place in a sort of natural ampitheatre that had been formed by a bomb crater during WWII. As we all sang together "He is Risen", looking out over the jungle canopy into the valley and out to the Pacific dotted with innumerable islands, I remember feeling profoundly blessed. "Thank you, Lord, for saving my soul; thank you, Lord, for making me whole - Thank you, Lord, for giving to me - my sweet salvation, so rich and free".

**** We returned to the States when I was 12 so that I could attend junior high, which I did at the newly opened Calvary Chapel High School (part of and adjacent to the Calvary Chapel church in Costa Mesa). It was a small school and definitely fundamentalist in flavor, which was familiar to me. Each day began with prayer and Bible Study; science classes were heavy on and always tied-into "creation science", etc. We continued to attend the other (our "home") church and I was quite involved in the youth group there. Surrounded by other Christian friends and encouraged by my grandparents and church leadership in my "walk with the Lord", I was quite insulated from the usual influences associated with the onset of adolescence. Of course as puberty set in I was subject to the normal tidal wave of hormones and began to notice the opposite sex in a whole new way, but during the very cursory "sex-ed" class in 18th grade (abstinence only), I enthusiastically agreed to sign the "save yourself for marriage" pledge. There was not a doubt in my mind that I would never *think* of going against God's will for my life by indulging the "flesh"; my heart's greatest desire, after all, was to please Him. Immediately following 8th grade graduation, we flew back to PNG, although this time I would be living in a sort of youth dormitory-house in the Highlands to go the High School on the Wycliffe "base", while my grandparents again taught school at the coastal "Jungle Camp". This year (my freshman year) was also a wonderful time for me. It was fun to be living "away from home" (although we had houseparents at each dorm of between 10-14 kids) and the atmosphere seemed to me incredibly spiritually enriching. It was during that year that I had my first "puppy love" with a boy who was a senior, and although our relationship was incredibly chaste (I felt quite conflicted about even letting him kiss me), the relationship was severely frowned upon for the age difference and in retrospect, what I feel were racial and religious issues (he was Filipino and not a missionary kid but the son of a local diplomat who arranged for him to go to the school as it was the best one in the area academically). I recall praying fervently (and writing in my journal a lot) seeking guidance for how to reconcile my "madly-in-love" teenage feelings with the disapproval of "authority" (adults). During one school session break most of the student body attended a retreat - "Encounter 1988" held at the Jungle Camp location down on the coast; it was for all practical purposes a tent-revival-youth-rally type of weekend interspersed with recreational activities, and the "spiritual energy" in the air and at the evening meetings was palpable. The weekend culminated with a high-energy service that ended with a call for renewal and urging from the speaker to purge our lives of any sins of the flesh, "worldy desires" and recommit our lives to Christ. I was sitting in the back of the room, near the mail cubbies and small library I had perused as a bored 10-year-old, and as I listened to the speaker's exhortations and softly playing inspirational music I felt an immense wave of remorse wash over me. I just *knew* at that moment that God was speaking to me; I had to purge my life of the sin that was keeping me from drawing closer to Him, and that, of course (in racking my brain) had to be my relationship with Jim. How could I not have seen how wrong I was? After all, God had put various adults (my houseparents, teachers etc.) in authority over me, and if they believed the relationship was wrong, who was I to rebel against them? I felt overwhelmingly "convicted by the Spirit", and immediately after the service, tearfully (and somewhat hysterically) told a quite confused Jim that I just couldn't see him anymore. Although his puzzlement and distress pained me, I was resolute, and afterward felt an incredible sense of relief, as though I had dodged a bullet of some kind. After all (as I wrote in my journal), what was more important, a "worldly" relationship or doing God's will? I was steadfast in my commitment to make my walk with God the most important thing in my life, and "let Him lead me" even if that meant giving up things that were important to me.

That same night, a bunch of the other students who were generally considered the "bad kids", in a sort of group experience of also being "convicted by the Spirit", created a fairly impressive bonfire out in front of the dining hall. Onto it they threw all of the personal possessions that they felt were "of the world" and not "edifying to the Lord"; among them I recall specifically many cassette tapes of bands such as KISS and Metallica, and of course Matt Louis' coveted "Oingo Boingo" baseball cap. We all felt cleansed, renewed, and completely "on fire for Christ" as we headed back to Ukarumpa the next day. At the end of the school year, for various reasons, we returned to California for good and I began my sophomore year in high school. When we returned to California, I began my sophomore year at a public school for the first time in my life. To say that there was "culture shock" associated with that would be an understatement (especially having just returned from the mission field as well). While unfortunately I never really did assimilate to "normal" high-school life and was something of a wallflower there, I returned to my home church, became deeply involved again in the youth group and enjoyed an active social life there. Our activities were very much centered around our "personal relationships with Christ"; we did a lot of "missions" work and had intensive Bible Studies and prayer-and-worship meetings. Having been musical for most of my life (playing piano and singing), during this time I spent a lot of time and energy writing songs (what would now be called Christian contemporary music) and was asked to perform several times in different venues. For two summers, following my sophomore and junior years, a group of us went to New York City for two weeks to volunteer at Bill Wilsons's innercity church "Metro Ministries International" (www.metroministries.org). In teams, we hand-washed, sanded, taped off and painted the numerous big yellow school buses that were used to traverse the various burroughs of NY, picking up children on Sundays and bring them back to the Brooklyn church for Sunday School services. The second year, I was asked to play and sing one of the songs I had written at the main (adult) Sunday service. Despite being almost plastered to the floor with stage fright, I remember feeling very "humbled in the sight of the Lord" and honored to have what I felt was an opportunity to glorify Him. (The song was titled "Break Me" and after all these years the lyrics and tune are still fresh in my mind if you are curious, but I won't clutter this up

).

My faith remained strong and steadfast throughout high school, despite the typical adolescent distraction of infatuations and various influences at school. A couple of incidents of my faith being challenged stand out in my mind in particular; in one case, a group of us (from the youth group) had gathered at my house on a Sunday night after the evening service to watch a movie, eat popcorn, and ended up talking quite late about "spiritual things". One of the other girls, a recent "transplant" to the church, was obviously not nearly as certain of her faith as the rest of us. She talked about how the idea of Hell bothered her, and the idea that so many good people in the world that believed in the "wrong" religion would be condemned to it despite believing as fervently as we did that they knew the Truth. I personally did my best to argue circles around her, making appeals to God's "perfect justice" and insisting that even though it may not *seem* "just" to our limited human minds, we were not to judge "His ways" but instead needed to rely on the Scriptures in faith. I vividly recall my immovable sense of absolute certainty that I was arguing for what was right, and a sense of urgency in "helping her understand" the essential and unassailable truth of Christianity. There was not even the slightest shred of doubt in my mind.

In the second instance, my grandmother and I were sitting at the kitchen table, talking (soon arguing) with my sister (she was raised separately but came to live with us in high school), who had just begun college. She was also a believing Christian - active in the same youth group - but within a few years of graduating and attending college, went through a process of deconversion that seemed totally alien to me at the time (we were not close then as we are now). So, we were sitting there at the kitchen table, and my grandmother and I were trying in earnest to get her to understand that despite everything she had learned that she claimed caused her to realize that Christianity was not true, she just needed to have faith. I was incredibly upset - emotionally distraught to the point of nausea - by her insistence that I just "didn't get it", and my counter-insistence that she was just "hardening her heart to the truth". In truth, it was I who was not really listening to anything she was saying - her words went in one ear and out the other as my mind scrambled frantically for the right words to somehow, some way make her see that she was committing a grave error in "leaning on her own understanding" instead of relying on the Lord for wisdom. One of my journal entries from that time period (as her deconversion become complete) is so pained that in reading it I can still feel the despair that I obviously did then. As with many of my more youthful writings, it was essentially a "prayer" in written form, and I asked God to open her heart to the truth and show me a way in which I could be a better witness for Him. Little did I realize that about four years later, I would find myself quite unexpectedly facing the same crisis of faith. *** When I was 17, I graduated from high school a year early on account of having had an accelerated curriculum during my freshman year in PNG, and taking every possible credit I could back in California. About the same time, my grandparents decided to go back to PNG for another year-long stint at Jungle Camp. Since I was finished with school, I couldn't reasonably go with them and didn't particularly want to, considering that all my friends were here and traipsing around in the bush with a bunch of to-be missionaries just didn't hold the same appeal as it did when I was 10. After much discussion, it was decided that I would stay at home and a couple (also missionaries) my grandparents were friends with would "house-sit". At this time I had started attending the local community college and was also working part-time at temp office jobs and picking up some minorleague modeling work. Long story short, the "house-sitters" and I did not get along well AT ALL there were all sorts of heated battles over my level of independence, as they seemed to be under the impression that they were to "parent" me despite my grandparent's specific instructions that this was not to be the case. After many, many tearful and frustrated conversations across the globe (before direct connect via telephone was available, natch - it took about 30 minutes to connect and have the person in the one house with a phone fetch them from "up the hill"), it was decided that my uncle would co-sign on a studio apartment for me, although I would be responsible for my own living expenses. And so it was. A few months later I turned 18 and was on my own bona-fide, living independently, working and going to school. However, much to my dismay, the "core group" of friends that I had become close with through the youth group, one by one dispersed; many went away to various colleges (mostly Bible colleges), a few, once out on their own, seemed to adopt dramatically different lifestyles overnight, and the rest were so caught up in school/work life that our group quite rapidly disintegrated within a short

period of time. Although I still went to church when I wasn't working or going to school, I found myself feeling adrift without a lifeboat, and I began to feel disillusioned with my faith. In a gradual way, I slowly "slipped away" from my daily devotions/prayer/etc., and as I became involved in other "worldly" things (other threads give more detail on this) I eventually compartmentalized my faith and belief into something that didn't affect my day to day life. In terms familiar to Christianity, it would be accurate to say that I "backslid" (although I had been a lifelong Christian), or perhaps MORE accurately, became "of the world, and not just in it." This lasted for about a year, during which time I sporadically suffered deep pangs of guilt and great loneliness, which I hastily buried as quickly as they arose. My grandparents were still gone, I had few friends, and I developed a relationship with a guy (man?) who ended up being both verbally and physically abusive. Shortly after my 19th birthday, my grandparents returned, and in a quite sudden and life-altering decision, I cleaned out my apartment completely when my boyfriend was out of town and moved back into my grandparent's home in one day. About a week later (after dealing with the boyfriend's return, subsequent threats and recriminations), after doing a lot of thinking and soul-searching I came to the conclusion that the whole mess of trouble I'd found myself in was due, undeniably, to the fact that I had turned my back on God and fallen into a sinful, worldly lifestyle. I asked my grandmother (to her exhilaration) if she minded if I went to church with her that Sunday. Since returning from PNG they had begun attending Calvary Chapel again. Of course she was thrilled, and I returned for my first Sunday service in over a year overwhelmed by feelings of being a "Prodigal daughter", ashamed and broken, and spent days afterward in prayer and making plans for starting my young life anew, re-dedicated to my faith and serving the Lord. Then, in what I felt at the time was a "gift from God", I met my to-be husband, who happened to be in a somewhat similar place in life, at a Sunday evening service. OK! September, 1992. I am 19 years of age. My to-be husband is 27. It seems that we were, to each other, like a safe harbor in a storm; both returning to Christianity after bouts of rebellion, we were both fervently committed to renewing our relatonships with Christ and both felt that we had found a "soul mate" in the other. We were married in an impulsive Las Vegas style; my grandparents, while somewhat shocked, were pleased with my choice of a husband (if not my choice to get married so young) and we settled into a domestic life. We were deeply involved in various Bible Study groups through Calvary Chapel and our spare time at home was often spent reading apologetics or socializing with other young Christian couples from the church. We went on couple's retreats in nearby Murietta several times a year. About a year after we were married, I quit attending college to work fulltime as I fully anticipated that within a few years we would get down to the business of starting a family and I would (naturally in my worldview) be a stay-at-home mom. So it was that when I began working full-time, I happened upon a job at an insurance brokerage. I fairly quickly decided to procure my CA insurance brokers' license, did so, and developed a decent career for a non-college-graduate and relatively young. During this time, I was quite vocal (if not obnoxiously so, close to) about my faith to any and all that would listen, and as I learned later, was known for some time as "the one who brings her Bible to work". I endlessly encouraged friends I made there to come to church with me - notably Greg Laurie's Monday night evangelism-oriented services - and my life with my husband continued on this way for a while. I felt at peace; I felt blessed to have narrowly "escaped" a path of destruction in a worldly lifestyle, and I wanted more than anything to make amends for my errors by doing God's will and following His plan for my life. I still remember how pleased-as-punch my grandmother was when my husband and I exchanged new Bibles as our first-anniversary gift to one

another. But a funny thing happened on the way to a client meeting one day. I was riding with one of the producers from my firm to a client meeting a good half hour away from our office. As was my habit, I talked freely about my church activities and the conversation turned to some subtle but pointed questioning on his part as to the history of my belief. In short, he asked me a few questions (about doctrine relating to the history and plurality of world religions) and I realized, in a sudden and quite jarring way, that I had no idea how to answer his question. Although I mumblingly weaseled my way out of a direct answer on the spot, the exchange was like a dash of cold water in my face. When I went home that night and relayed the conversation to my husband, we discussed it and I came to a fateful conclusion (though I didn't realize it at the time). After much soul-searching, prayer and what I felt was the Spirit guiding me, I decided that if I was to be the "best witness possible" for Christ, I needed to know my stuff. With what I can only describe as single-minded purpose, I began reading voraciously not only modern apologetics, but the works of individuals such as Bertrand Russell and William James (The Varieties of Religious Experience, a must-read IMO). I surmised that if I were to be able to take on the skeptics and questioners, I needed to know their turf and speak their language. It was out of my desire to strengthen my faith and witness that slowly but surely, and in a profoundly unsettling way, the first cracks began to appear in the foundation of my world-view. The most frustrating part was that it was quite beyond my control; in spite of the hours I spent in prayer and reassurance that I sought from trusted friends "more mature in the faith", the information that I was absorbing was creating realizations in my mind that were as impossible to stop as the incoming tide. **** Without realizing it, I had opened a Pandora's Box of sorts that could not easily be closed again. Despite the questions that had begun percolating in the back of my mind, I was still determined to further my knowledge and felt absolutely certain that in the end, the information I acquired would serve to vindicate my faith and provide me with the "full armor of God" (another Christian school allegory) for rebutting the arguments of those who might seek to disarm me. As I read, studied, and read some more (on both sides of the argument), I found myself unable to keep many of the questions that arose to myself. Much to my consternation, the issues that I brought up with my husband served only to frustrate him - much as my sister's questions had frustrated me only a few years before. While I was still far from doubting the foundations of Christianity and still essentially seeking to gain a greater understanding of it for the purposes of evangelism, there was something about his reaction to my honest inquiries that struck a chord deep inside me, yet to be fully recognized. In retrospect, I realized that it was the same feeling I got when, as a child, I asked quite innocent and genuinely bewildered questions about certain seemingly contradictory elements of Biblical stories. For example, I recall that as a child it struck me as odd when I asked "why was it OK for Solomon to have so many wives?" (when clearly according to modern Christianity, monogamy was touted as God's ordained plan for men and women) and I received a convoluted and less-than-convincing response about how God didn't necessarily approve of that but it just didn't explicitly say so in the text. I had similar questions regarding the issue of incest (who the heck did Cain marry?) and why the modern Christian church seemed to selectively pick and choose those of Paul's writings to adhere to. When, as an adult, I again found myself struggling intellectually with a seeming labryinth of unanswered questions and was met with stonewalls of trite response and deflection, I began to wonder at an

elemental level exactly why it was that those I trusted for answers seemed either unable or unwilling to provide rational and reasonable answers. This "disconnect" between my husband and me planted a seed of discontent in our marriage that would, eventually, germinate into a full-fledged "battle of the ideologies" which sadly and inevitably, could not be "won" by either party in the truest sense of the word. *** So there was discontent between my husband and I. One of my clearest memories from those days, an instance of "total recall" if you will, was a conversation that we had while walking along the paths of Tewinkle Park here in the city of Newport Beach. It was a Sunday, after church, and we were taking a leisurely stroll along the winding paths of the park, across bridges that spanned a number of creeks and were lined by tall firs; all in all, a serene environment conducive (I thought) to the sort of in-depth discussion I craved. The topic on my mind at that particular moment was the seeming incongruity between Paul's teachings of a woman being "submissive" to her husband and the idea that when it came down to brass tacks, each individual human being (male or female) was as fully responsible for their own salvation and eternal destiny as the next. I.E.: I considered a scenario in which a wife, in deference to the Pauline mandate for a wife's submission, followed her husband's lead (believing him to be earnest in his faith) onto what ultimately proved to be a wrong path. Would this woman, in such a case, be judged by A) her obedience to the requirement for submission in conjunction with her good faith belief that her husband's judgement was sound, or B) her own conscience - in the sense that she "should have known" and would be held responsible for discernment of the "true path"? As I opened up the floodgates of my thought processes to him and wondered aloud if, in fact, Paul was merely a product of the times he lived in and more a messenger of the values of those times than a messenger of some inspired Truth, I was met with a resistance so unyielding that it shook me to the core. It was as though everything I was saying - even merely *suggesting* - was so unthinkable to him that he could not even truly absorb it, only reflexively deflect it, and at the time the irony was lost on me that it had not been so long ago that I had done the same thing. Sitting there on a wooden bench in that park, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss. Despite the fact that I still believed, still prayed with a faithful heart and felt certain that the answers to my questions would be forthcoming, I could not help but feel that I lost something I had until then taken for granted as a given "fact"; agreement between fellow believers, a common bond that would somehow have the power to bind us together and bridge any gaps that might arise through man's attempts at interpretation. I guess at the heart of it, I truly believed that God desired and WOULD ensure that "those who loved him kept his commandments", and it never occurred to me that there could be any genuine and sincere disagreement as to what those commandments were. *** I honestly don't know if there is any human emotion quite as powerful as hope. As they say, hope springs eternal; hope is something that we moor ourselves to when the seas of life are stormy and threaten to pull us under in a current of confusion and despair. Even as the questions that were stirring in my mind threatened to disrupt the placidity of my life as it was, I remained determined to pursue a deeper understanding of the beliefs I had moored my "destiny"

to. My conviction was firm that those beliefs, would, in the end, be affirmed and strengthened by my quest. It was with this goal in mind that my husband and I decided, around the time of our second anniversary, to take a two-week trip with our church to the Holy Land - Israel. It was something of a last minute decision, and we took the circumstances surrounding it a "sign from the Lord" that it was what we should do. With the trip only a few weeks away and fully booked, my aunt, who was active in the church, found out about a couple who had to cancel, opening up two spaces. However, we still didn't have the financial resources to pay for the trip on such short notice - until a few days later, when my husband received a completely unexpected bonus at work. It was almost exactly enough to pay for the trip. Since we'd been praying for guidance, we took these events as a clear directive that this trip was part of God's plan for us - and particularly for me, as I struggled with my faith. Things seemed to be looking up; I was reassured that God was speaking to me and leading me, and I was enormously excited at the prospect of "walking in His steps". I felt certain, as our departure grew closer and I spent time in prayer and reading the Word, that this trip would prove to quell many of the rising doubts. There was not a doubt in my mind that to walk where Jesus walked, follow the path to Golgotha, and be present in the Garden of Gethsemane would be a singularly powerful experience. At the time I didn't realize how right I was - but not in quite the way that I expected. **** We landed in Tel Aviv, took a charter bus to Jerusalem and checked into our hotel there. As luck would have it, about 24 hours after arriving I became sick as a dog, unable to keep anything down and running a fever of 102 - for some reason I often become ill after extended air travel and this trip was no exception. So it was that I missed almost the first four days of the trip - the first two I spent lying miserably in bed in the hotel, and the following two sitting miserably in the chartered coach while the rest of the group got out and saw various sites of interest. However, I was bound and determined to be recuperated by the time we got to the part of the trip where we would see the Jordan and have the opportunity to be re-baptized in it. I had given a lot of thought to the fact that while I had, of course, been baptized at age 7, I was an entirely different person as an adult having gone through my "rebellious period". I felt deep down that I was being "led", by having this unique opportunity, to be baptized again as an adult and "re-consecrate" my life to Christ. The Jordan wasn't nearly as larger-than-life as I had envisioned it in my mind, of course, but still, as we drew near the bank, I was overcome with a sense of awe at the historical magnitude of where I stood. This time, there was no special white gown; those of us who were to be (re)baptized wore shorts and tshirts and waited in a line kneedeep in the shallow waters for Pastor Chuck to perform the immersion. When my turn came, I was excited but also extremely nervous for some reason; I had a sense that the moment was very important, a turning point, and that I needed to take in every detail and commit it to memory. The Pastor spoke with me briefly, in a sort of shared prayer, and as he performed the immersion - in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit - I focused every ounce of my mental energy on trying to somehow "connect" with the Holy Spirit, as I felt I had many times before, so that I would somehow feel His presence and know as I rose out of the Jordan that I was, truly, a New Creation. Perhaps an equally powerful emotion to rival hope is that of disappointment. The water of the Jordan River in springtime was cold, to be sure, but I barely noticed the chill as I

returned to the riverbank, my baptism complete. My husband handed me a towel - he had gone first and it still pains me to recall the expression on his face, fairly alight with an expression of jubilance that I once had known, as he asked - "Wasn't that amazing, Lauri?" How can I describe how I felt at that moment? It was as though I was an "empty vessel, waiting to be filled". I almost felt as though I was in a state of shock - at once numb, but also hyper-aware of everything going around me. There was prayer, and singing, and smiling faces aglow with an indescribable joy - and yet I felt nothing, as though I were suddenly separated from these others by a barrier that could not be seen but was felt only by me. It really is more complex than I can adequately put into words here, but as I watched the line proceed and person after person get dunked into the water to the pastor's exhortations, at once it was as though I was on the outside looking in, observing some strange ritual in which everyone else felt a powerful spiritual significance. But there was nothing. Suddenly, I felt very cold inside, and Vincent said that I was shaking like a leaf, so we got back on the bus and were on our way to the next destination. *** Despite my best efforts to make it seem that nothing was wrong, Vincent was just perceptive enough in this instance to know that something was amiss with me. For the rest of the day, I blamed my quiet reticence on the fact that I was still recuperating from the nasty flu I'd had; he went along with it until we finally got to our new hotel late that night, at which point we had a long and painful conversation that in retrospect was something of a turning point for our relationship. Usually an extremely verbal person and able to easily translate my thoughts and feelings into words, I found myself for once at a loss for the right words as we talked late into the night. I struggled to express to him how desperately I had hoped, prayed and needed to feel something " anything " to confirm for me that the Lord was still with me. The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He lies down with me in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul. As I awkwardly explained to him the strange sensation I'd had of being "on the outside looking in", the utter absence of any feeling of the "Spirit" upon me, he became convinced that the answer was clear. All of the doubts and questions that I had (in his words) "indulged" prior to making the trip had obviously made me a prime target for Satan to take a "foothold" in my heart and harden me against fellowship with the Lord. Hearing him say this, and seeing the conviction with which he believed it, felt like a knife stabbing me in the heart; again, with a numb and sinking feeling, I felt powerless to explain to him just how desperately I desired that fellowship and how unceasingly I had been pleading in my prayers for the Lord to fill me with a sense of His presence. As I tried to communicate this, he became more and more stubbornly convinced that there was no explanation for my feelings other than that I had "invited" Satan to exercise influence over me by seeking the knowledge of man instead of placing my trust in God. As the night wore on, it became clear (to me at least) that we were reaching an impasse; the more I protested that I WAS open to the Spirit and DID want to be in fellowship with the Lord, the more certain he became that it just couldn't be true, or I wouldn't be feeling the way I felt. My frustration brought me to tears, and I truly understood what was meant by "the dark night of the soul". He didn't, wouldn't, or just couldn't understand what I was experiencing, and as we finally went to bed in the early morning hours, both exhausted, I felt more utterly alone than I ever had in my life. The next morning, I stayed in bed through breakfast, having hardly slept at all and fitfully at that.

Vincent went down to the dining room for breakfast, was gone for quite a while, and when he came back seemed - distracted somehow. Not having the mental energy to pursue the matter, I simply got dressed and we went downstairs to join the rest of the group on the tour bus departing for the day's destination. We took seats near the front of the bus and were there a few minutes before the scheduled departure time, so we sat in relative silence as the rest of the group gradually straggled out from their rooms to get on board. At first I thought I was being paranoid - after all, I was going on only a few hour's sleep and hadn't eaten anything, besides being emotionally drained - but after quite a few of the people we knew semi-personally had passed us on the way to their seats, I was certain of it. I wasn't imagining anything; people were looking at me, well, strangely. I perceived an odd mixture of concern and pity in the eyes of a few of them, and suddenly, it was as though the proverbial light bulb went off over my head. He looked just like the clichéd deer caught in the headlights as I turned toward him and it was obvious that I knew. Never one to mince words, I asked him point-blank - "Vincent. Have you told anyone about what we talked about last night?" He didn't need to answer, at least not verbally. The expression on his face was all the answer I needed, and if I didn't know better, I would have sworn that the red-hot, burning flush rising from my neck to my face was going to spontaneously combust me at any moment. I have rarely ever felt so small; so humiliated, ashamed and even worse, wholly betrayed by the one person I felt I could fully trust. As a wave of nausea washed over me, still sitting frozen in my seat trying to comprehend what could have driven him to betray my trust in such a way, the wife of a man that Vince had become friendly with during the trip took the seat across the aisle from me. I sensed that she was looking at me, and met her eyes; when she reached across the aisle, set her hand lightly on my arm, looked me full in the face and said "We're praying for you", I wanted nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. It was essentially impossible for us to discuss this turn of events once the bus got rolling, though I have no doubt that the burning fire of shame on my face quickly turned to an icy chill quite noticeable to him within a few minutes of the initial shock. Internally, I was a jumble of emotions, shocked, angry, and overwhelmingly, confused. I didn't understand; how could he take my most private, personal, heartfelt thoughts and spiritual struggles, and share them with virtual strangers without my permission? Just the thought made me feel sick to my stomach (weird sidenote: even as I am writing this, the remembrance of that elemental betrayal of trust brings a twinge to my stomach. Some memories have quite the halflife.) I knew that it would be a while before we really had a chance to hash it out in private, so I silently but quite fervently prayed that God would bestow on me some measure of calm, and help me to get through the day without allowing my turbulent emotions to boil over in an inappropriate environment. *** The Western "Wailing Wall" on the Temple Mount, thought to be the last remaining wall of Solomon's Temple, is an impressive sight indeed. It is also a somewhat daunting trip to make, in that due to the risk of suicide bombings, vehicles of any kind cannot travel the road directly adjacent to the site. Instead, we were required to park a distance away and traverse on foot toward the area, which was eerily reminiscent of a combat zone by virtue of the Israeli Army's palpable presence. The morning's concerns abated somewhat in my mind as we approached the wall. It rather "boggled"

my mind, as I looked upon it, that this wall was not only over 8,000 years old, but was the actual place at which so many of the Biblical events I had read about over and over took place. The rich sense of history in and of itself amazed me, but I reminded (almost chided) myself that my purpose in being there was not to ruminate on the fascinating aspects of archeology and culture, but to open myself to the "word of the Lord", allow myself to be filled with His presence, and "seek His face" above all else. But a funny thing happened as I approached the Wailing Wall. The Wall itself has a countless number of cracks and crevices along its face, into which "prayers" written on slips of paper have been tucked, year after year, by the faithful and the hopeful. As I stood at the Wall and traced the ancient stone with my fingertips, I also observed those around me; there were other "tourists" such as myself, obvious Westerners seeing the Wall as a "sight", but there were also several groups of Hasidic Jewish men dotting the full expanse of the Wall; with their traditional garb and unique hair-growth customs, they created a dramatic sight; however, more dramatic to me was what I observed them doing. Almost every one of them stood at the Wall with head bowed and hands folded either up to their chest or behind their back, and they were rocking back and forth rhythmically, some with such intensity that their foreheads were striking the Wall itself - and they were moaning in their prayers, making perfectly clear from whence the term "Wailing Wall" came. The sound sent shivers up my spine; while I was loathe to be caught "staring", I could not help but be drawn to the portraits that they created of absolute devotion and heartbreaking supplication. It was spellbinding and unnerving at the same time. As we were called away by the tour guides to the next sight to be seen " the Temple Mount " I could not put out of my mind the theme of a conversation that Vincent and I had found ourselves having several times since the beginning of my "research" phase. It struck me as odd that our faith (or at least the "brand" of it that I was most familiar with) taught unequivocally that despite the stated fact that the Jews were God's "Chosen People", anyone - ANYONE who did not (given the opportunity) accept Jesus of Nazareth as the Messiah was destined to Hell for eternity. As I thought about this, with the images of the men at the Wall weeping and wailing in anguished prayer to Yahweh indelibly burned in my mind, there appeared another tiny crack in the foundation of my belief system. It was a crack that, little did I know, would before long grow into a fissure that would threaten to forever shatter every illusion I had held as truth. As I suppose anyone would imagine, when we got back to the hotel that night, we had it out in a grand fashion (short of throwing lamps or china). At the heart of it, my anger was borne of a very deep hurt. It still brings a lump to my throat when I allow myself to think of it too much. I felt as though my world had been turned upside-down by the fact that in my "darkest hour", the one person I had "tied my fortune to" and trusted implicitly felt a greater sense of "loyalty" to the cause of preventing his faith from being impugned than to me, his wife. Although it was not to be the last time that I somewhat naively put a greater measure of trust in someone than was warranted, it does still these many years later stand out in my mind as the first time since early childhood that I felt so - turned on, without warning. It's a feeling that oftentimes I would give almost everything to have never experienced, although my more rational mind counts it as a learning experience. I don't believe that our marital relationship was ever truly able to recover from the after-effects of that trip (not merely that one indiscretion on his part) - it's kind of funny that Biff the unclean wrote in a post before I got to this segment something about Vince writing "666" with a Sharpie on my forehead while I slept - because it truly was, from that day forward in varying degrees, as though by my very

daring to question, I had committed some sort of irreparable offense. Looking back, there was an emotional distance that began even before my beliefs changed much; it began to accumulate between us when I no longer felt that I had a trusted confidante in him. Skipping forward a bit, I found it incredibly sad that when we finally split and he moved out, I realized a few weeks afterward that he had taken with him every single one of my books that had to do with comparative religion, philosophy, etc. It was as though he could not comprehend that it wasn't the "evil influence" of inanimate pages of books that eventually "corrupted my soul", but rather the power of information, which could not in any case be "reversed" by the removal of certain volumes from my shelves. *** OK, next: The Garden of Gethsemane, the path to Golgotha, and the Empty Tomb. As I said before, hope is a very powerful emotion. Even after the deep disappointment of my re-baptism experience at the Jordan, and the frustration and unpleasantness of my discussions with Vince and his betrayal of my trust, I held out hope that my prayers would be answered in some way during the trips to the Garden and the "Empty Tomb". As we traveled through the city of Jerusalem, out through the city gates and to the outlying hills overlooking the city to the Garden of Gethsemane, I was again struck by the conspicuous presence of the Israeli troops everywhere and I found myself thinking about why they were there and the passionate belief on both sides that had inflamed the area for so many years. I already realized, of course, that the (religious) Jews on one hand and the Muslims on the other both held their belief of "rightness" fervently, but I had always, without ever really thinking about it, taken for granted (as I had been taught) that it was quite simple; they were both wrong, the Muslims worshipping a "false God" and the Jews erroneously denying the divinity of Christ as the Messiah. But as I observed the real people going about their daily lives around me and realized that the matter could not possibly be that cut and dried, it became harder and harder for me to reconcile my observations with my conceptual belief in such a black-and-white reality. I had often, throughout my life, heard the sentiment expressed by the Christians around me that the "power of the Christian message" was evidenced in part by the Biblical accounts of the church's persecution, the martyrdom of early Christians, and the fact that the faith has still flourished and spread throughout the world. Here, however, I was seeing for myself that there were others, again, real people and not one-dimensional theoretical "people" in my mind, who had fought bitterly and were STILL fighting in their utterly opposite convictions - many to the point of sacrificing their lives for what they believed in. *** The Garden was much smaller than I had imagined it. When we arrived there, I willed myself to stop thinking about all of these tangential issues, stop thinking "over-analytical" thoughts and instead focus on the spiritual aspects of the experience and why I had come here. The atmosphere was conducive to this; it was quite peaceful, our group was very quiet and attentive as Pastor Chuck gave a brief "message", and we were told to break off into either small groups of 2-3 or individually, find a quiet place, and seek personal communion with the Lord in prayer. I found a spot that I remember as being just near a low stone wall, with a patch of wild grasses I could

sit on and a filtered sunshine that kept me out of the direct rays in the mid-day. I told Vincent that I really needed to spend this time alone; I was desperate at this point to "seek his Face", feel His presence and pour my heart out about all of it - the puzzling questions, the confusion and the loneliness I was feeling. I thought of the song that had been one of my grandmother's favorites "What a Friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear; what a privilege to carry, everything to God in prayer. Oh, what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear, All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer." I carried every hope, disappointment, hurt and bewilderment I had in my heart to the Lord in prayer that day. It was probably about 45 minutes that our group remained there in the Garden, some finishing their "personal" time and gathering into small groups to talk, some of us remaining alone until it was time to go. On that day, forty-five minutes seemed to stretch on for an eternity, as I brought myself before God, humble and broken, and asked for guidance and "anointment". With every minute that passed, my heart grew heavier and more distraught; I had the strangest almost panicked feeling of being on a telephone with silence on the end of the line when you were urgently trying to reach someone. For the life of me, I did not understand why it had, over the past few months, become harder and harder - and now impossible - to feel His presence. When we left the Garden and reboarded the bus to the next stop - the path to Golgotha and empty tomb - I felt even more isolated - desolate - than I had before. In the next few hours, before arriving at the Empty Tomb location, I had many convoluted thoughts running through my head and a growing sense of uncertainty. None of this made sense; I had come here in an effort, seemingly "guided" by God in arranging, to grow closer to God and renew my faith. I couldn't sort out the feelings I was having, couldn't categorize them and place them into tidy pre-labeled boxes. My inability to make heads or tails of any of it gave seed to a new thought in my mind; what if Vince was right? That had to be it. The more I considered the possibility, the more sense it made; after all, I'd never experienced these kinds of feelings before I began allowing myself to question what was "truth". I'd experience what I felt certain were too many answered prayers and "signs" from the Lord to think that all of this didn't mean something, wasn't some sort of lesson that I was being shown, perhaps even some sort of "test" or burden to bear in order for me to grow in some way. It began to seem totally reasonable that perhaps God was trying to show me the reality of what life out of fellowship with Him was like, thereby encouraging me that I needed to remain faithful steadfast, not doubting and questioning Him. I didn't say anything to Vince right then, but stayed "to myself" as the trip continued. By the time we arrived at the site that is believed by many churches to be "the Empty Tomb", the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, I was beginning to feel a sense of certainty and resolve. I had been a fool - instead of relying on the Lord, "my Heavenly Father" and seeking *His* guidance for greater understanding of His ways, I had been arrogant and prideful in trying to seek knowledge from man. I began to feel, again, like something of a prodigal daughter; remorseful for having doubted my Father's ultimate wisdom, repentant and hopeful that if I turned from the path I was on, he would once again "shine His face upon me". At the tomb I hung back a bit from the rest of the group as everyone wanted to get up as close as possible to the tomb. I sat on a stone bench a short distance away from the milling people and came to a conclusion. When we returned home from the trip, I would truly dedicate my life to my walk with Christ, and seek to do His will for my life regardless of the cost. I would have to make my spiritual journey the biggest priority in my life. I had felt so blessed and anointed with the Spirit at other times in my life when I had made "serving God in everything" my main focus, that the more I thought about

it I began to feel optimistic. If I did so again, surely the Lord would draw me near. After all, I believed that He would never "leave me or forsake me". It was becoming clear; it was *I* who had forsaken Him, and I needed to turn back and repent of my prideful spirit now that I had seen and felt the error of my ways. Back at the hotel room that night, after dinner, I told Vince that we needed to talk. I told him, tearfully, that I realized he was right. I understood know that I had allowed Satan to "cast a shadow" over my heart by not relying on the Word as "sufficient in all things". I didn't want to feel so empty and alone any more; I wanted things to be the way they had been before. His relief and encouragement was like a flood. As he held me close, he told me that he just knew I was being drawn away from the Lord by worldly influences, and had been praying that God would soften my heart and lead me back to Him. Clasping my hands with his, he shed tears of what he said was an unbelievable feeling of happiness, relief of the fear that I was being deceived and led astray. Awash in waves of regret, I assured him as we embraced that I had realized my error. Perhaps this had been a test, but I was determined to "run the good race, and finish the course". We would return home, unified in our desire to live our lives as Disciples of Christ - "doers of the Word, and not hearers only". On the long flight home from Tel Aviv to NYC, then L.A., I filled almost half of a spiral notebook with journaling, written prayers, and plans for the things that I would do to focus my life toward a "closer walk with Jesus". I decided that I had been wasting too much time in "secular" activities that were not edifying to the Lord - watching TV and movies, reading merely entertaining fiction, etc. I vowed and was determined to from then on consider everything I did and whether it was something that would enrich me spiritually or not. By the time we arrived home, I felt optomistic for the first time since the first few days in Israel. *** It occurs to me that sometimes it is inevitable. Once cracks have appeared in a foundation, it is just as impossible for the "house" to remain standing as it is to keep a dam from giving way by plugging the holes with one's fingers - no matter how desperately and sincerely you try. No matter how honestly you want to; no matter how deep your determination. Things fall apart; the center cannot hold. *** Back home, I was faithful to my vow. I didn't get rid of my books on comparitive religion, but I put them away high on a shelf and instead went to the local Christian bookstore and bought books by Max Lucado ("He Still Moves Stones") and Charles Colson ("Loving God"). I also bought a book that featured a year's worth of Scripture passages and a daily "devotional" guide for prayer and reflection. I got up early almost every weekday morning or set time aside after work for my "personal time" and Vincent and I continued to attend services at Calvary on Sunday morning as well as joining a smaller Sunday evening Bible Study group/prayer group instead of going to the main Sunday evening service. Although initially, my experience of "coming to my senses" in Israel brought Vincent and I back to feeling closer, I realized to my dismay within a few weeks of our return that something had changed in our relationship, and it was something that I was feeling. I found that I was reticent to share my innermost thoughts with him, and in a way felt as though I was constantly being "monitored". (I was to

find out, much later, that I was not simply being paranoid; it was revealed by my very religious aunt, months later, that Vince had "confided in her" upon our return that he feared I was still vulnerable to losing my faith. Naturally ( ) she felt "led" to discuss it with my grandparents and a few of the women (who knew me) in her Leadership Group at Calvary, so not only did I have a slew of people praying for me, but I was constantly being observed. When I missed a week and half's week worth of church services due to a debilitatingly nasty bout of strep throat, I received quite a few somewhat surprising "concerned" phone calls from the women in our study group that I hadn't thought of as knowing well enough to expect phone calls from). Despite these strange "rumblings", I remained undeterred. About a month after our return from Israel, it was announced that one of the Wednesday night Bible Studies held at Calvary would be starting up at the beginning of a recurring series in which the congregation was led through a reading-and-study of the Bible from beginning to end. This struck me as a grand opportunity to really "dig into the Word" and gain a fuller understanding of the underpinnings of my faith. I was all over it. Using the same Bible my husband had given me as an anniversary gift less than 2 years before, I began attending this study every Wednesday. These many years later, I often ruminate on the innumerable "what ifs" of the paths we take in life and the ramifications of the directions we choose when confronted with a fork in the road. I often wonder where I would be right now and how things may well have turned out quite differently if I had not embarked on that weekly journey. Before I continue to the next part of the story, I wanted to post a few of my recorded thoughts from the time that I spent in Papua New Guinea when I was 10-12. (If this were a movie instead of a written story, this would be the "flashback" scene ). I've kept the diary from those years all this time (stored in a Ziplock freezer bag!) and occasionally flip through it as a way of accessing my the essence of my "inner self" at that time. When I got home this afternoon I was looking through it, and the following entry evoked a fierce and poignant memory of the powerful sense of communion with God that I often experienced. (Undated, but to the best of my recollection it would have been in the spring of 1984, when I was eleven). Last night Greg Gammon took the school-age kids on a bush campout. At night, it rained. Jamie, Sam, Colette Mark and I got the hammocks soaked so we sat out by the fire. That night + morning we sang and praised God from 10 pm to 4:30 AM. We really experienced the fullness, love and protection those hours. It was uplifting. Jesus is so real to me now. *** That particular night has always stood out in my mind as one of my most vivid memories from that time, and until I fished out and flipped through the diary again today I hadn't remembered that I wrote about it.

Even though we had an adult with us, I recall that in the inky darkness of the thick and fairly remote jungle-canopied valley, we were all a little bit scared even if we wouldn't admit it. I remember being awe-struck by the realization of just how isolated we really were - miles from any form of "civilation" and thousands of miles from the world I knew back in the States. Before and after the tropical cloudburst, peering through the openings into canopy cover to the vast expanse of star-strewn sky, I experienced a breathaking wonder at the beauty of the world I believed God had created, and I felt safe. I was unequivicolly certain that no harm could come to us as we sat around the small sheltered fire, for surely God, our Heavenly Father was watching over and protecting us, even in the deepest night. *** The very beginning of the cover-to-cover Bible study was partially unremarkable, as we went through the creation story and early chapters of Genesis. I hadn't yet, in my 22 years, been exposed to any knowledge of modern science that would cause me to blink an eye at the young-earth creationist worldview. However, much to my consternation, as I tried to focus on the "spiritual aspects" of the study, strange thoughts kept popping into my head. With increasing frequency, I found myself ruminating on perplexing questions that had never really occurred to me (or had popped up on my radar screen only to fade away or be dismissed). Why were Adam and Eve cursed for eating from the Tree when they were duped Satan in the form of the serpent? If they didn't yet have the "knowledge of good and evil", why would God punish them for being tricked? Moreover, what exactly was bad about having the knowledge of good and evil, or wrong about the desire for it? It seemed strangely illogical. Considering that all of humanity had originally descended from Adam and Eve, didn't that mean to Cain must have married one of his sisters? If incest had been okay back then but was considered sinful now, what did that say about God's unchanging morality? The story of the Noah and the Flood brought on its own virtual flood of questions; they rose, unbidden, in my mind and were impossible to dismiss. How could it be that to utterly destroy the world, killing everyone (and everything) save a single family, was the best possible way of dealing with the "state of affairs" the world was in? The reasoning that Noah and his family had been the the only people in all of humanity at the time that were worthy of living, suddenly seemed like a dubious concept. What about the babies, the children??? One of the stories that caused me the most mental unrest was that of Lot, his daughters, the angels in their home and the angry mob at their door. I had a passing familiarity with the story, of course, but had never really read and focused on it and pictured the scenario in my mind. As I re-read the passage again and again, a creeping sense of what I can only describe as revulsion came over me. How on earth could it be considered commendable for a man to willingly hand over his own daughters to be raped by an angry mob? I simply couldn't wrap my mind around it. Needless to say, my cognitive dissonance came into full bloom when we began studying the books in which the Israelites, by divine command, laid waste to the cities of their "enemies" and slaughtered every living inhabitant. Even more distubing where the passages in which they were commanded, further, to take all of virgins for themselves, and plunder the cities of their vanquished enemies. The pressure of this dissonance created more fissures in the basis of my belief. I couldn't put my finger on exactly why these questions were cropping up in my mind quite beyond my control, but it made no difference; they still came, fast and furious, and it was not within my power to make them magically

disappear. *** As the weeks passed, my inner turmoil served only to heighten my sense of isolation from Vincent and almost everyone else. I became conspicuously withdrawn and loathe to engage in the sort of open dialogue about my spiritual walk that I had previously. I was irrationally angry with myself; I didn't understand why I was having these thoughts when I was no longer "making myself vulnerable" to doubt by seeking outside knowledge. What was I doing wrong?!? I was obviously doing SOMETHING wrong! What else could explain the infernally unremitting slew of puzzling observations that came to me with almost every new round of study? Before long, however, I could no longer contain myself without feeling as though I might go insane - or burst. One Sunday night after a prayer meeting during which I found myself completely unable to focus, I broke down and told Vincent everything that I had been thinking and feeling in the previous weeks. I was fairly trembling with an unnameable dread as I confessed through my tears that I didn't understand why, but none of my studies or prayers seemed to be helping. I still didn't feel that God was speaking to me, and if anything I was more confused than ever. As I laid my soul bare to my husband that night, my fervent hope was that he would somehow understand, would sense how miserably conflicted I was, and know that I was honestly seeking "with my whole heart" to seek true understanding. Instead, his reaction was everything that I think I intuitively knew it would be. "What have you been reading?" "I knew something like this was going to happen." "Why are you doing this??? *** It's those metaphorical punches-in-the-gut that stay with you for the longest time, and when the blow is delivered by someone that you love, it can leave you reeling. After many tears, recriminations and mutual expressions of frustration, we came to an agreement. We would go the following month to a Couple's Retreat at the Murietta Hot Springs and while we were there, seek the counsel of church leaders who might be able to shed some light on this mystery of my insurgent doubt. It seemed that there was nothing left to do; my prayers had become repetitive, myopically focused in their pleading for some kind of revelation, or mere assurance that at some point, this would all be over. My hope still seemingly sprang eternal, but for the first time in my life, it was tempered with a looming fear. What was I doing. What was I doing? And more imporantly - could it, truly, be undone? *** As the Couple's Retreat at Murietta Hot Springs approached, I fell into something of a funk. The accusatory nature of Vincent's cutting words had left me feeling deflated and once again, terribly lonely. I was beginning to have a stronger and stronger sense of being somehow defective - as though

some previously functioning part of my spiritual self had suddenly just stopped working. Even worse, there was this "new" kind of weird activity in a part of my brain that had previously lain dormant. While I had always been an inquisitive and insatiably curious child, my beliefs about God and "truth" had been so deeply ingrained in my worldview and identity that they had naturally escaped scrutiny. Until now. One night not long before the retreat, I went to my aunt's home nearby to help her put together some mailings (she volunteered for years at Word for Today, Calvary Chapel's "multi-media arm"). As we stuffed envelopes with cassettes of sermons and applied mailing labels, she asked me probing questions about how things were going in both my marriage and my walk with the Lord. For the first time, I felt an actual sense of being invaded in a way; the knowledge that at this point, everything that I said was being dissected and judged, made me loathe to say anything for fear of rebuke. I did my best to try and steer the conversation to other topics, but she was not to be deterred; finally, she looked at me and said something I was not prepared for. "Lauri- I feel like I need to tell you, I'm concerned that your role in your marriage is part of the problems that you've been having". I was flabbergasted, but also felt a flash of irritation at the presumptuous intrusiveness of her words. Just as I had in Israel, I felt as though my most private inner struggles were being put on display for everyone around me to point at and judge, and now one of my family members was making an assessment about the state of my most personal relationship. At the same time, I wanted to know what she was alluding to. "I don't understand. What do you mean?" The discussion that followed, and the small nuggets of perception that I gleaned from it, would end up having far-reaching implications for the future of my entire worldview. Kathy explained to me that in her observation, I had not been faithful to the imperative that as a Christian wife, I humbly allow my husband - as the head of the household - to "take leadership" in our relationship and guide me through the difficulties I was having in my spiritual walk. The way she saw it, by trying to deal with my crisis of faith primarily alone, I was inappropriately subjugating his God-given authority and hindering God's intended plan for working through him. She was insistent that I needed to honor my intended role in our Christian marriage by not falling prey to a "prideful spirit", but trusting that the Lord could and would use my husband to lead me if I only gave Him the chance. I don't think that I said much of anything in response, other than to say that I understood what she was saying and would think and pray about it. Inside, however, I was bursting with questions and overwhelmed by even more confusion than I had been before. I knew all about the church's teaching of a woman's submission to her husband, and had always been a bit uncomfortable specifically with Calvary's teaching and policy that a woman was never to teach "mixed company" as it constituted "being in authority" over a man to do so. But this was a whole new issue; it just seemed flatly and obviously wrong to think that when it came to a matter of my personal beliefs and ultimately my individual salvation, I could be expected to rely on anyone other than myself to seek guidance from God. It just didn't make sense; wasn't I, after all, one of God's precious children in my own right? Was I not, ultimately, responsible for my own choices and the consequences thereof? I didn't WANT an intermediary to seek the Lord on my behalf, and it made no sense to me to think that I "needed" one by virtue of my gender. I had felt the presence of God before,

as far back as my earliest childhood memories of imagining being held close in His loving arms, and it struck me as nonsensical to think that now, just because I was married, it was wrong in any way for me to still seek that direct fellowship. The pressure inside me was building, and I didn't know how much more I could withstand before breaking. *** The weekend of the Couple's Retreat arrived and Vincent and I headed off to Murietta. The retreat center there, owned by Calvary Chapel, is on a site built around natural hot springs that was at one time a nudist resort and spa, among other things. Calvary Chapel purchased the center in the early 90's and did massive renovations, largely with volunteer labor, to create a conference and retreat center as well as a new home for their Bible College. It is indeed a lovely and tranquil place. The old Spanish mission style buildings were restored beautifully and the old fountains, lush landscaping and winding paths along the hot spring creeks make for a serene environment that I had always found conducive to spiritual reflection. We headed out on a Friday evening as soon as I got home from work, and arrived just in time for dinner. Much to my surprise, we ran into Joy, a girl I had grown up with at my small elementary school, and her new husband. I was happy to see her again and also relieved at the prospect of having another couple our age to spend some time with - most of the couples at the retreats tended to be a bit older, which sometimes made for less-than-absorbing dinner conversation. I was also relieved to have run into Joy because as we spent the time at the dinner table catching up on the past 10 years of our lives, it distracted from the palpable sense of distance between Vince and I that I'd felt keenly during the two-hour drive to Murietta. I hadn't said anything to him about my conversation with my aunt Kathy. While I still couldn't put my finger on what it was, specifically, about the discussion that was gnawing at me, I just couldn't think of a way to broach the subject with Vincent. Ironically, one of the few complementary aspects of our relationship - one of the few compatibilities that had attracted us to each other - was the fact that his personality was generally very mellow and easy-going while I was more of the "take-charge", assertive type. I felt that he might misinterpret anything that I said on the topic as an insinuation that he was doing something "wrong", by virtue of his natural temperament. Feeling unable to talk to him freely about the things swirling about in my mind only exacerbated my sense of loneliness, so the chance reunion with Joy provided a welcome distraction from my mounting anxiety about the weekend. After dinner and a brief break giving us the opportunity to go back to our rooms and freshen up, the first evening service got underway. It was primarily a praise-and-worship session, which I usually enjoyed because I loved to sing. Looking back, music and "praising the Lord in song" was always an integral and particularly meaningful part of my everyday spiritual life. I often felt closest to God, most touched by His presence and open to His guidance when singing either along with a group or alone. In a way it was like my personal "direct dial" method for feeling connected to the Lord, and it almost always did the trick. *** Many of my most vivid and fondest memories from the first trip to Papua New Guinea involve worship through song. One of my favorite Bible verses as a child was a portion of Psalm 100: "Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness; come before his presence with

singing". The second year at Jungle Camp, I was allowed to go on the "bush overnight". This was a three day foray into the jungle, quite literally hiking for a half a day "off the beaten path"using machetes to clear the kunai grass and undergrowth, then the campers (in groups) building shelters from the ground up using only the materials they could cut down and rig together (bamboo, vines etc.) Hammocks to sleep in were brought along in our packs as well as tablets to boil in the water to make it drinkable and rudimentary cooking supplies and food. We cooked over open fire and bathed (sex-segregated) in the river. It was a fabulous time. The second night, though, I insisted to my grandparents with eleven-year-old bravado that I wanted to hang my hammock up with a group of other kids over across one of the running streams that joined the river, instead of next to theirs with the rest of the adults. Since we really wouldn't be all that far away still well within "shouting distance" - they acquiesced to my pleas. I was terribly excited and feeling quite independent and grown-up, but as we settled into our hammocks for the night I quickly came down with a serious case of the heebie-jeebies. The sounds of the night jungle around us set my nerves on edge; weren't there those certain snakes that came down from above, slithering across the tree branches? A spider could probably make its way up the hammock tether and find a way in though the mosquito netting-tent. I was much too stubborn to either climb out and run back over to my grandparents' hammocks or call out something to one of the other kids, so I lay there in the deep darkness, listening to the sound of the creek running beneath me and willing myself to think "happy thoughts". As I peered up through my mosquito netting and through the canopy above, I was entranced as usual by the brilliance of the scores of stars, like handfuls of diamonds strewn across the black velvet expanse of the sky. It reminded me of one of my favorite songs, and I began to sing quietly to myself, though I didn't much care if anyone heard. Jesus, what a wonder you are You are so precious, So pure and so kind. You shine Like the morning star Jesus, what a wonder you are. As I sang, I felt my fears and worries melt away with the words. What on earth had I been afraid of? Jesus was watching over me - there was nowhere in the world that He couldn't protect me, nowhere that I wasn't being watched over. I was suddenly warm, content in the knowledge that even here I was "in my Father's hands", and sleep came quickly. *** On this first night of the couple's retreat at Murietta, though, the music and chorus of praise and worshipful singing around me was simply not connecting me to the feeling that I longed for. As I looked around at the other people, many with their hands raised high in the air, palms upward and with expressions of peace and joy on their faces, the sense of being somehow defective hit me with full force. After only a few minutes, I excused myself, mumbling to Vincent that I was not feeling well, and fled back to our room as tears began to flow. What was wrong with me? Why was this happening? I didn't know what more I could do, other than talk with some of the church leaders as we had already planned. Sitting there in our room alone, weeping and praying but feeling more desolate than ever, the

next day - and hope for some answers - seemed a thousand years away. One more of my favorite "musical memories"... My grandparents both have lovely singing voices - my grandfather's a rich tenor and my grandmother's a soprano in contrast to my alto. Oftentimes, on our boating and camping trips and church campouts around the fire, we would sing a favorite song in three part harmony, for ourselves or at the request of the other campers. If any man Come after Me Let him deny himself Pick up his cross, And follow Me Into life eternally... Deny yourself Pick up your cross And follow Jesus He is the Way, the Truth, the Life! Happy days For some reason, I still sometimes spontaneously break into "my part" of that song when I'm in an especially good mood (sometimes in the shower or just driving along, it just bursts right out of me!) *** Since I'm off work for a couple days I've had the opportunity today to go rifling through my "keepsake & memento" cabinet on a sort of archeological dig for additional writings from the precise time period I left off at. Coming across this one was a "whoa" moment. I didn't remember specifically writing it and it certainly brought a lot back for me, emotionally, from the weekend at Murietta. *D'oh! Ok, that didn't work - I scanned the notebook page but it's too big and I can't seem to reduce it while maintaining the clarity. SO: *** May 1995 Impossibly blue skies corrupted soul and mind reaching for emotions that once were there no longer available to me the door's been locked It must be punishment for

the depth of my wrong Yes, I am weak but I am strong I feel tired by the masquerade comfort and blunted, muted warmth sensation, highs, lows in betweens Still looking for a reason but I fear that one day I'll find there is none and know it's true, this time. *** *** That Friday night in Murietta, after fleeing to our room from the worship service, I decided to change into my swimsuit and go down to the large and somewhat secluded jacuzzi for a soak. I needed to relax, clear my head and somehow take the edge off my ragged emotions. I left a note for Vincent on the bed and made my way down the winding paths to the pool and spa area, set adjacent to the small man-made lake. As I soaked in the warm, bubbling waters diverted from the natural hot springs, my thoughts turned somewhat inexplicably to the year 1978. *** The People's Temple Full Gospel Church 1956- Peoples Temple founded in Indianapolis as an integrated church combining evangelical, enthusiastic religion and loosely socialist politics. Jim Jones, the founder and pastor of the church, preformed healings which attracted many members. The congregation was predominately black. 1961- The Peoples Temple Full Gospel Church, as it came to be called, became a part of the Disciples of Christ. Jones was ordained by that faith in 1964. 1965- Jones moved the Temple's headquarters to Ukiah, California, a city near San Francisco which he thought would be a safe haven in case of a nuclear war. 1967-1977 The Peoples Temple attracted more members and much favorable coverage in the press and from the political establishment as Jones himself and the Temple in general became more active in the community. Jones was even appointed to the San Francisco Housing Authority. It was also during this time that some questions were raised by people outside of the group as to possible human rights violations within the group. the organization of concerned relatives was formed

in response to reports of beatings and other punishments afflicted on members by Jones and the Temple's leaders. It was also during this time that Jones decided to move his congregation to Guyana. 1978- By the end of 1977, more that 900 Temple members were in residence at the commune in Guyana. At the end of the day, November 18, 1978, 914 members had committed suicide. *** In 1982, when I was nine years old, one Sunday at our church it was announced that for the evening service, a film about Jim Jones and the People's Temple would be screened. The congregation was advised, however, that the film and some of its fairly graphic content would not be suitable for the very young, so parents would need to excercise their own best judgement on whether to bring their pre-teenage children. Of course I was insistent to my grandparents that I was mature enough to handle it (and I could be a pretty persuasive kid!), so they agreed to allow me to attend with them. I don't remember having any particularly strong interest in the subject matter, really, as much as I just couldn't stand the thought of being left out or missing something. After all, if it was something "mostly for grownups", it HAD to be really interesting! The documentary-style film was haunting. Although it in reality was not all that graphic, the images were arresting - clips of Jones himself speaking, charismatic and eerily intense, a few interviews with the precious few survivors, news footage and of course the few heart-wrenching photos of the so, so many dead sprawled about and some stacked together like cords of wood. I was acutely affected by the film and was compelled to discuss it many times with my grandparents. The number of people who died that day boggled my young mind; how could so many people be so utterly deceived by this obvious madman? More importantly, why did God let such a horrible thing happen? Aside from the grim reality of the many adults who either voluntarily drank the cyanide koolaid or were forced to, the revelation that babies had been killed by having cyanide squirted into their mouths with syringes was almost too horrifying to contemplate. I was reassured by my grandparents that I had nothing to fear even in a world where such an atrocity had occurred. They explained to me that while tragically, the people who had gone with Jones to Guyana had been deceived by Satan into following a false prophet, those who truly put their trust in Christ and adhered to Scripturally sound doctrine would not be led astray. And I was reassured. In time the haunting images of Jonestown faded for the most part from my mind, but as I realized all those years later, the troubling question of how a believer was to practice discernment in assessing man's interpretation of God's Word would once again bubble to the surface of my consciousness. *** *edit, source for Jonestown chronology of events: www.rice.edu ***

As I soaked in the jacuzzi and reflected on these things, an idea began to form in my mind (and no, I wasn't suddenly seized by the fear that at this isolated "retreat center", Chuck Smith would metamorphosize into a raving lunatic and force us all to partake in an Unholy Communion). Simply put, it just occurred to me that perhaps I had been going about things all wrong. I knew, of course, that various sects, denominations and invididual Christian churches ascribed to various and sometimes widely differing doctrines of faith; what if I had, in reality, erred by "putting my faith in man, instead of God" not through my research but through depending too much on the church's teachings instead of my personal relationship with Christ? Calvary Chapel has long billed itself as a non-denominational body of Christ. Their "Statement of Faith" reads in part: The Calvary Chapel Church has been formed as a fellowship of believers in the Lordship of Jesus Christ. Our supreme desire is to know Christ and be conformed into His image by the power of the Holy Spirit. We are not a denominational church, nor are we opposed to denominations as such, only their over-emphasis of doctrinal differences that have led to the division of the body of Christ. We believe that the only true basis of Christian fellowship is His (Agape) love, which is greater than any differences we possess and without which we have no right to claim ourselves Christians. (emphasis mine) This Statement of Faith had remained the same for as long as I could remember. (My uncle - Kathy's husband, my bio-dad's brother - had for years owned and run a print shop and had the job of printing Calvary's weekly church bulletins. Many a Saturday my grandparents had dropped me off there to help him run and bundle the thousands of copies. It was fun!) However, my experience as an adult member of the church had run quite contrary to the overt claim of doctrinal differences being tangential to the faith. For as long as I could remember, any doubt or questioning of the YEC viewpoint was severly frowned upon; the idea of women being in submission and unfit to teach mixed-company congregations was not up for debate on pain of accusations of heresy. Individuals in "leadership" positions were required to adhere to strict personal-behavior standards. For instance, one night Vincent and I went out to a Mexican restaurant for dinner with my aunt and uncle. The three of us except for Kathy ordered a margarita each, and she explained that due to having recently been selected to serve on the Women's Leadership Board, she was strictly forbidden to have even so much as a taste of any alcoholic beverage. Even at the time this struck me as almost absurdly legalistic, and certainly not very indicative of tolerance for individual choices of conscience. Maybe this was it! I knew that the Calvary Chapel brand of evangelical Christianity had been described as "cult-like" by more than a few throughout its history. Could it be that I had, in my desire to be a faithful servant, become too focused on the teachings of man (through the church) and not focused

enough on my personal relationship with Christ? This would certainly explain why, the more I tried to buttress my faith with fellowship and seek understanding through the leadership's teaching, the less things made sense. I experienced a burgeoning sense of determination and again, the allure of hope. Perhaps all was not lost! Perhaps I still had that "direct connect", but had merely been getting static on the line due to relying too heavily on the interpretation of others. Perhaps I was not actually "losing" anything - but gaining a new perspective that would serve to guide me onto a path of deeper understanding. I didn't realize how right I was. *** While I was still sitting there in the spa rolling these things around in my mind, people began to pass by on the pathways above, signalling that the worship service had ended. A few minutes later, Vincent, Joy and her husband, Gavin, appeared in their swimsuits and coverups, toting towels. Vincent had seen the note I'd left and invited them to come with him to join me in the jacuzzi. They inquired as to whether I was feeling better, to which I replied that I was, and suspected I had merely eaten something at dinner that hadn't agreed with me. I was a bit worried that we would be over-run by a horde of enthusiastic hot-tubbers now that the meeting was over, but for some reason the other "retreaters" opted to stay in their rooms or in the main meeting hall, so we had the place to ourselves. As my companions also settled into the luxuriantly effervescent waters, we talked easily of carefree things, continuing in our childhood reminiscence and laughing over shared memories. Joy and Gavin seemed particularly mellow, and when I made an offhand remark about it, Joy exchanged a conspiratorial glance with her husband and giggling confessed that they'd stopped to "hit the peace pipe" a few times when they were changing clothes. I was a bit surprised but not too fazed, since she and some other mutual friends had been quite the Deadheads in high school - however, Vincent's reaction caught me completely by surprise. "I can't believe you guys are doing that stuff here!" He appeared genuinely - not angry, but appalled. They seemed a bit taken aback, but curious, and asked him what the big deal was. As an aside, Vincent (at this time nearing 30) had been quite the wild child throughout his early and mid-twenties - at one point flirting with addiction to cocaine and "china white" during a stint with a punk band in SoCal of the same name. However, since embracing born-again Christianity about a year before we met, he had vehemently renounced any and all drug use and believed that it was part and parcel with a degenerate and sinful lifestyle. It had never really been much of a topic of discussion between us, as I had never had much interest in any illegal drugs (I had tried pot a few times in high school at the behest of my biological dad and been quite underwhelmed). My ruminations during the time spent alone in the jacuzzi - particularly those relating to the legalism of the church as I was beginning to see it - caused me to suddenly feel a bit spunky. I've been known to be enticed by the prospect of a lively debate (even then) and since my genuine curiosity was piqued by the strength of his reaction, I chimed in by asking, indeed, why a little marijuana was inherently such a Bad Thing. The conversation that followed between the four of us was interesting indeed. We were there for several hours- intermittently having to climb in and out of the water to perch on the sides of the jacuzzi

to avoid becoming unbearably pruney and overheated. The topic of marijuana/drug use specifically evolved into a larger discussion on exactly what I had been thinking about before - the dogmatic position of the church on many contemporary issues, ranging from premarital sex and abortion to the recurring theme of women being "in submission". As we talked, I found myself drawn deeper into a sense of certainty that I was coming upon realizations that could inevitably change my whole worldview. However, I sensed with every exchange that Vincent was not only feeling mounting frustration, but a certain sense of disappointment in me. The way that he looked at me as I spoke my thoughts freely was almost accusatory. The conversation tapered off amicably, in the sense that we were all "still friends" and there was no overt animosity over the difference in opinion, but as it eventually got pretty late and we said our goodnights to go back to our respective rooms, I sensed that the previous few hours of discussion were not going to end there. t was one of those times that I really wished my instinct had been wrong. It was worse than I thought; I was taken completely off guard by the vehemence of Vincent's reaction to the things I had said in the jacuzzi. "I can't BELIEVE you were just "going along" with them!!!" At these words, something deep inside me sparked and began a slow burn - it was anger. Suddenly, it was as though a switch had been flipped and all of the feelings that had been churning inside me for months - the constant frustration, self-flagellation and self-doubt - had reached maximum capacity and I just couldn't take it anymore. This time, it was my turn to erupt, and the repressed flood of emotions did indeed erupt with full force. Hadn't I done everything I possibly could, everything I'd been advised to try, everything I had felt God was leading me to do? Had I not spent hours upon hours fervently praying for guidance, devoted as much time as possible to the pursuit of spiritual growth? Vincent's constant implicit (or overt) questioning of my sincerity had rubbed me nerves raw and I had reached my breaking point. I could not longer stand being insulted by the condescension of all these people's claims that it just must be something I was doing wrong, when I was expending every ounce of my energy to do what was right and seek understanding. As my anger welled up, it was as though some elementally self-preserving aspect of my personality resurfaced after being suppressed for years. I loved Vincent, and I still believed in God and wanted desperately to know how I should live, but I could no longer abide not being "allowed" to think for myself, no longer accept accusations of insincerity or "rebelliousness" just because I was daring to form my own opinions based on my own searching. As this torrent of words flowed out of me, much to Vincent's surprise, I felt simultaneously a huge sense of relief and a bizzarre, unsettling sense of alienation from everything and everyone around me. It was one of what would be a continuing series of "a-Ha!" moments - I felt like a fish out of water among these people and completely out of touch with my husband. I was a person, an individual, with my own mind and intellect, and it seemed as though everyone around me - my husband included - was asking me to just close my eyes and close my mind to my own thoughts and feelings, and follow blindly based on other's interpretations of God and His Word. I thought of the conversation that I'd had with my aunt in which she told me that God was "leading" her to share certain things with me, and it suddenly struck me as bizzarre and absurd to think that if God wanted to speak to me He would need to send the message through someone else. It was another almost sleepless night, and this time Vincent and I didn't even share the bed in our room - he was so angry at my outburst that he ended up eventually throwing his hands up in disgust, declaring that I was obviously a hopeless case if I wouldn't stop being so stubborn, and storming out of

the room. I heard him come back in much later but he took and extra blanket and pillow and slept on the floor. His refusal to even be near me - his obvious disgust - was as stinging as a slap in the face, and I found myself feeling that it was almost as though he didn't really care about me, as much as the person that he wanted me to be. And I honestly didn't know if I was, or ever could be, that person again - didn't know if I could ever go back, or if I wanted to. *** When I got out of bed that morning, Vincent still asleep on the floor with his back turned to me, I felt bitterly cold even though the sun was already shining brightly outside. Looking back on it many years later, I have a sense of empathy for how Vincent must have felt at the time. He was (is) an extremely sensitive and gentle man, but never able to deal with conflict well and he often found it difficult to express himself verbally. I can see that it must have been highly frustrating to him to feel as though he was somehow "losing me" to forces he did not understand - as though the person he thought he knew and loved was slowly but surely slipping away from him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was precisely because of his gentle nature that I found his words and attitude so hurtful; however, I truly believe that his demeanor toward me at that time was borne of his own hurt and sense of helplessness. While at one time we had found in each other a safe harbor in the stormy seas of life, it was now as though we were two ships drifting further and further apart, no longer sharing the same wavelength for communication. I went down to the main dining hall for breakfast, but with little appetite, had only some coffee and a few bites of a muffin. Instead of sitting inside where I was sure someone would approach me cheerily and ask where Vincent was, I went outside with my coffee and sat on one of the wooden benches near the large fountain outside the building our room was in. The sun was out, the sky was the brilliant blue of the high desert, and on any other day I'm sure I would have been soothed by the serenity of my surroundings. On that day, however, I could not seem to escape the burning question in my mind; how was this ever going to be resolved? Within a few minutes, Vincent came out of the building and down the stairs by the bench I was sitting on. He saw me sitting there, came and sat down next to me, but looking straight ahead with his hands clasped together, said nothing for several minutes. Finally, I looked at him and broke the silence. "So, what do you want to do?" He sighed, shrugging his shoulders defeatedly. "I don't know. I don't know WHAT to do. I just don't understand why you're doing this." Those words again. Why am I doing this. Why am I doing this? I fought back bile and again, a tide of my newly-awakened anger. I had to choose my words carefully; I didn't have any emotional energy to spare and the turmoil of the previous evening already had left me feeling nauseated and on edge. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "Look, Vince. I'm not "doing" anything. I cannot change how I truly feel, and I am not going to lie about my feelings to you because I'm afraid you won't like them. I can't just pretend to feel differently than I do and I can't imagine that you would want me to. I just don't understand why are you are making it sound as though I am intentionally doing something to hurt you, when I'm trying my best to be honest with myself - and with YOU - about what is going on with me."

Silence. A sigh. His difficulty with words. "Look, Lauri. I - I know you're struggling right now and feel like you're not finding any answers". With more strength - "But you know - I know you know this that Satan is always trying to deceive - " Whether it was the look on my face or something else that stopped him cold, I don't know, but at those words I knew I would not be able to contain myself and without saying anything I got up, went up to our room, threw my things haphazardly into my suitcase. He came into the room as I had just grabbed my purse and was heading for the door. At first he tried to block my way out and for the first time in our marriage I felt a real sense of foreboding - not that he would hurt me in any way, but that I was somehow trapped - surrounded by people who saw me as less than an individual capable of making my own decisions and moreso as a wayward member of the herd that needed to be "reined in". At the thought that he might actually try to stop me from leaving, panic welled up. "Let me go". "Where are you going?" "I'm leaving. Please get out of the way." "Lauri, you can't leave. Let me get someone and we can pray about this - " "Get OUT OF MY WAY!!!!!!!!!" Full fledged panic. Irrational or not, I could hardly breathe with the sense of impending doom. I had to get out of there, had to get out of there, had to get out of there. My sudden ferocity must have shocked him, because he stepped out of the doorway. As I moved down the hallway with tunnel-vision, I noticed a couple of people standing outside their room, obviously having heard the tail end of our exchange, fairly gaping at the me with expressions of surprise and a touch of disdain at my untoward outburst. Probably by virtue of an overactive imagination coupled with lack of sleep and the emotional turmoil of my exchange with Vincent, I felt as though the walls were closing in on me and if I didn't leave this place NOW I would be trapped, trapped by these people who would not listen to me, could not believe that I wasn't being influenced by Satan. I could hardly breathe normally again until I had walked - almost run - out of the front gates of the center and next door to the adjacent apartment complex which had a pay phone. I called a cab and was told that they couldn't make the trip all the way back to Orange County. I chose instead to have them take me to the Motel 6 on the side of the highway exit that led to the retreat center. *** Sometimes I forget how inconvenient certain things were before cell phones. Stuck there at the Motel 6 on the Murietta Hot Springs Road highway exit, I sat in the room I had checked into, head spinning, and tried to get a grip on my emotions and decide what to do next. I didn't want to keep Vincent worrying unecessarily for hours, but I was NOT by any means going back. I wanted to go home. Finally, after I had collected myself somewhat, I used the pay phone in the lobby to call the retreat center, where I knew someone in the main "lodge" building would answer. The woman who answered rang me through to our room, where no one answered. I called back again and asked if I could have him paged - the woman responded that she would do so, but that I might want to call back in about 15 minutes to give him time to get back to the main lodge if he was not there or in one of the buildings closeby. I hung up and waited - the time passing interminably slowly. After 15 minutes I called back, and she indicated that he had gone back to our room to take the call, and patched me through. He answered, sounding frantic.

"Where are you?" "I walked up the road to the Motel 6. I'm not coming back there, so you can either come get me and we can go home or I will try to call someone at home to come and get me." A brief silence. (I think he was, frankly, taken aback by the fact that I had seemingly grown a backbone overnight.) "Lauri.... you're acting crazy. Just let me come get you, we'll come back here, and - " "NO, Vincent - I am not the one acting crazy!" I was somehow surprised by the words coming out of my own mouth. "I've been telling you how I feel, being honest with you about the things I've been thinking about, and all you can do is keep acting like I'm posessed or something. THAT is crazy!!! I'm not being influenced by Satan just because I'm thinking for myself. I can't believe you actually believe that." And as I spoke, it seemed suddenly even more clear to me - almost crystalline - that it was, in fact, absurd. Bizarre. And frightening - simply because I had dared to question the church's dogmatic positions, they would claim that I was being influenced by evil forces. It was not conceivable (to them) that I was genuine in my searching and questioning and yet NOT being guided by something sinister as though I were merely a "vessel" and not a living, breathing, thinking person in my own right. The thought sent shivers up my spine and I felt all the more strongly that I needed to get away from these people. Before he could speak again, I laid in on the line. "Vincent, you can either come get me now, or I will call someone to come get me, or you can pick me up tomorrow on your way home. It's up to you, but I am not coming back there no matter what you say. I know we were supposed to meet with Jeff and Jeannie today to talk about stuff, but we can do it at home - I just don't feel comfortable being with you there when you won't even listen to what I am saying." After another brief silence, he sighed. "Fine. Let me get my stuff packed and I'll come get you." Click. Static on the line again. *** It was a long ride back to Orange County, the car filled with that thick silence of unspoken thoughts on both sides. When we finally arrived home and brought our bags into the house, I went into the bedroom and curled up on the bed, not knowing if I wanted to talk or not, but knowing that at SOME point the painful silence would have to be broken and we would need to figure out what the next step would be. These issues obviously would have to be addressed some time - we, or at least I, couldn't keep going on like this. When Vincent came into the room and sat down next to me, I bit the bullet. I told him that while I was still willing to talk with Jeff and Jeannie (a couple that was part of the church "leadership, basically laypeople who informally "counseled" or "mentored" those with questions) as we had planned, I could

no longer tolerate being constantly admonished that I simply had the wrong attitude or was not being sincere in my questioning. If anything, what I felt was the automatic deflection of my honest doubts only served to increase my "suspicion" that there was, in fact, legitimate reason to question the things I had been taught to take on "faith". The question again loomed in my mind; if the truth, whatever it was, would stand up to scrutiny, what was the harm or wrong in scrutinizing it? At first it seemed as though he was going to argue with me again, but thought the better of it. It seemed that my final outburst at Murietta had made a serious impression and that he finally realized that I was at the end of my rope. He agreed that once Jeff and Jeannie returned from the retreat, we would set up a meeting time with them for that coming week. Relieved, I then told him that I really didn't want to talk about any of this anymore until then, and just go about life as usual. He agreed, but I think we both realized that it was going to be difficult if not impossible to merely brush all of this aside until then. The next morning when we woke up, Vincent got up and began getting ready for church as usual. As I lay in bed watching him get dressed and ready, it occurred to me that I didn't want to go - in fact, couldn't abide the thought of going. The strange - creepy - feeling I'd experienced at the retreat center, of being surrounded by a group of strangers I was no longer "one" of, lingered with me. When he asked if I was going to get ready, because we were going to be late, I said for the first time ever that I didn't want to go. The look on his face was a mixture of both surprise and sadness, but also resignation. He said nothing, but "I'll see you in a while, then", and as he drove away, I was gripped by sadness and lay in bed crying for a while. After a bit, I pulled out my notebook and began writing as a way of trying to sort out my thoughts. I wanted to get out as clearly as possible the nature of the questions running through my head as a way of both clearing my head and preparing, in a way, for the meeting with Jeff and Jeannie. I felt that it was going to be important. Copied from that notebook: Is there a God? Yes. But what is His nature? What is His role in our lives? What is the purpose of our lives here on earth - how does He want us to live* our lives? *(twice underlined)

It was at this point that I was apparently "stuck" (nothing else in that page on the notebook other than some random scribblings.) The following page, though, gives me more insight looking back as to how tumultuous and bleak my emotions really were. What if life is completely and totally devoid of any REAL meaning? Then where the fuck am I going - what am I DOING? Is there any point WHATSOEVER? I feel like I am on a stage, acting out a charade that I don't even understand. Frustrated - with what? Confused - about what?

I just can't believe that is true. But I do believe that there is a God, and it seems that He has given us the gifts of intellect and the ability to reason - accordingly, to consciously CHOOSE to ignore these gifts in favor of blindly following others as an "easier way" of life seems to be an insult to the bestower of those gifts. What is it that I am supposed to do? *** Vincent left a message at Jeff and Jeannie's house, indicating that when they returned from the retreat we were still interested in setting up a time to get together with them and talk. They called back that same Sunday evening and it was decided that they would come to our house - I was adamant with Vincent that we would NOT meet at the church and I would feel more comfortable in my own home than at theirs. The following few days were tense in our household. Vincent seemed to be walking on eggshells around me, which saddened me - it seemed so unecessary that this issue was coloring every aspect of our lives and apparently driving a very large wedge between us in every way. I truly began to feel as though we were two strangers living in the same house, divided by an invisible chasm that neither of us had the first clue about how to cross. Jeannie and Jeff came over on a Wednesday night, following the prayer meeting at Calvary that they led weekly. They both greeted me warmly, which put me a bit more at ease as I had been nervous about what their demeanor would be since I didn't know how much detail Vincent had gone into about the nature of my "issues". It was disheartening to realize that I had to worry about it, but ever since his initial betrayal of my trust in Israel, I didn't feel that I could ever be sure of what he was saying about me when I wasn't there. I made some coffee and the four of us sat around the kitchen table in the small apartment we'd shared for the previous two years. After a bit of slightly awkward small talk, Jeff took the reins and asked the $64 million dollar question - "Well, Lauri, you know we're here to help in whatever way we can - so what exactly is it that you want to talk about?" Deep breath. Time to face the music and see where it led. I decided to start at the beginning, with the question my co-worker had posed to me and my decision to begin researching apologetics, going all the way through our trip to Israel, my subsequent efforts to seek God's guidance and ending up with the thoughts that had come to me at the retreat. It must have seemed quite the rambling monologue to the three listeners, but as I wound up with something like "... and right now I just don't know what parts of my faith are based on truth and what I have just been accepting because I was always taught that way", I felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders just by having finally said it all. There; out in the open. I was no longer masking my true feelings and doubting in silence; I had opened the door to openly questioning that which I had always held true, and realized that I had done so without guilt or apology. It was actually a liberating feeling, although I knew deep down there was much more to come. I'll never forget the first thing that Jeff said to me when I was finally finished. "Well, Lauri, it sounds like you've been through a lot and it hasn't been easy. You know, it's very

normal and human to have doubts and there's nothing wrong with it, but the first thing you have to remember is that all the answers to your questions are right there in God's Word - but you have to trust in it, and believe that it is true first - otherwise God can't speak to you and help you understand it better". Now where had I heard that before? As he continued, it began to dawn on me - still long before I had ever heard the word "presuppositionalism" - that all of the arguments and explanations I'd received thus far from those supposedly "more mature in the faith" boiled down to one thing: First you must believe, then you will understand. Perfectly circular, perfectly insular, perfectly nonsensical. The questions began to flow. As I peppered them both with more questions - Jeannie was mostly quiet, and only piped up specifically when I expanded on my frustrations with being told that I needed to be "in submission" to Vincent in order to be "right with God" - it became more and more clear. These people had no greater understanding of the why's of what they believed - the reasoning behind certain doctrines - than I did, that did not ultimately lead back around in a never-ending loop to "because the Bible says so". Every inconsistency pointed out was met with quotation of a Scripture that said, in essence, "lean not on your own understanding". Round and round we go. I struggled to give voice to my underlying frustration; finally, I abandoned all pretense and asked something I never imagined I would. "But how do we know that the Bible, the way that we put it together, is really God's Word? Didn't humans write it and decide what went in it? So much of it just doesn't make sense." *** As those words spilled from my mouth, I half expected them to be received with expressions of abject horror and our visitors to break out the crucifixes, garlic and splash me with vials of Holy Water. Much to my surprise, however, the only look of (muted) horror was on Vincent's face. Jeff and Jeannie appeared unfazed and actually, Jeff seemed to light up at my words. Apparently this was just the "break" he'd been looking for in order to sieze the golden opportunity to break out... The Reading List. "Well that's actually a really good question. It's true that the Bible as we know it was written and compiled by men, but there's good reason to believe that everything in it is compatible with the teachings of Jesus and His message of salvation. There are a couple books that I think would be a really good start for you..." A "must-read", and he even had his own copy to lend me: Evidence That Demands A Verdict by Josh McDowell. The second, Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. Weirdly, I had read Lewis' Mere Christianity when I found it while rifling through the dusty stacks of the miniature library in the main Meeting Hall at Jungle Camp in far-away Papua New Guinea. However, I was only 10 or 11 at the time and was mostly interested in it because it was authored by the

same man who wrote The Narnia Chronicles, which had captured my imagination growing up (favorite books in the series: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and The Silver Chair.) I hadn't absorbed the deeper theological implications of the book at the time so of course I was willing to read it again, along with the McDowell book which was totally new to me. My agreeableness to reading the suggested books seemed to ease Vincent's sudden high anxiety. It was getting late, so leaving the McDowell book for me, Jeff and Jeannie left, saying that they were really glad I had felt comfortable enough to talk with them and hoped that I had found the discussion fruitful. I thanked them for taking the time, and promised to read the books and let them know what I thought as soon as I could. Not til after the door had been shut and they drove away did I realize just how deeply my last question had disturbed Vincent. Feeling somewhat exhausted and thinking that we would turn in for the night and discuss the meeting the next day, I went into the bedroom and began to prepare for bed only to realize that Vincent was still in the living room, and hadn't said a word to me since Jeff and Jeannie left. A sense of trepidation coming over me, I went back out and found him sitting on the couch, head in his hands in a defeated posture. "What is it? Vincent?" He looked up at me with an expression that was heartbreakingly forlorn but also... ever so slightly pitying. For a moment he wouldn't say anything. I asked again - "Vince, what is the matter? Tell me what's wrong, please." A deep sigh and apparent searching for words. "I just don't understand. I mean, I know you've been having doubts and all, but I guess I just didn't realize that you were even doubting The Bible. I can't believe you didn't tell me that." Mixed emotions coursed through me. The tone with which he spoke was one that I would have thought reserved for a revelation like "Guess what, honey? I was actually born a man" or "Gee, sweetie, I'm sorry I ran over your cat". There was a flash of irritation that he seemed to be implying that I had been hiding something from him; I had tried so hard to be open and honest, and share my thoughts with him from the beginning, but had thus far only been met with resistance and criticism. Moreso, I hadn't really specifically realized that the Bible's reliability was part of the core of my doubts until I put it together in my head that very night. At the same time, as his words sunk in, I realized with a sinking feeling that this new turn in the path of my exploration was, in fact, a definite departure from the road that we had until then traveled together. I suddenly realized that not only could he not understand why I was compelled to take this "detour" from our neatly mapped-out journey, but that if indeed I chose to follow it, wherever it led, it would be a trip I would be making alone. That night was one of the few times I found myself at a complete loss for words. I felt my own sense of defeat. The fact that I had, finally, given voice to my doubt of one of the fundamental tenets of our shared belief was something that I could not undo - something that I did not WANT to undo. I only wished that I could somehow undo the seemingly irreparable damage it was doing to the closeness we had once had. But I couldn't, at least not on that evening, and so I went to bed and while I prayed as usual, the words I prayed silently seemed to ring hollow even to my own ears. ***

As promised, I dug into the books Jeff had recommended immediately, starting with Mere Christianity (which seemed more generalized to me.) At the same time, I began a new journal notebook specifically for the purpose of recording my thoughts and impressions as I read. Unfortunately, it's one of the few journals I've had throughout my life that I no longer have. Trust him not with your secrets, who, when left alone in your room, turns over your papers. - Johann Kaspar Lavater And that's how it was that my marriage, for all practical purposes, was truly over many months before it was OFFICIALLY over - long before papers were filed, in fact long before Vincent himself even agreed to a divorce. Whatever hope I held out that we would somehow be able to repair the fractured foundation of our marriage was shattered when, a few weeks later, I suspected and confirmed that Vincent had been reading the journal I began after our meeting with Jeff and Jeannie. Further, he'd once again been discussing "my problems" with my aunt, unbeknownst to me. It was quite a blow, a real sucker-punch, and I was the sucker. I could hardly believe it. When I noticed one evening that my journal was just slightly out of place from where I knew I'd left it on the bedside table, those icy tentacles of dread began creeping up my spine. Vincent's demeanor toward me in the previous few days had been even markedly more distant than usual, a pall having been cast over our home and our interactions becoming more and more rote. As I sat, feeling more and more nauseated as I waited for him to get home from his long workday, my conflicting emotions did battle in my mind. I didn't want to know. I had to know. I didn't WANT to know, to think that he would invade my privacy in such a way. I HAD to know. Couldn't stand not knowing, if my most personal thoughts were safe in my own home. He came home. I confronted. He confessed. No pretense. Are you ready to rumble??? Augh. The worst fight of our marriage ensued, culminating in my spending the night at my grandparent's house. I came home the next day after work and when he arrived home from work as well, I told him, feeling numb and flat, that I didn't see how it was going to work out. I felt utterly violated, seethingly angry, and without any sympathy whatsoever for his excuses of being "worried about me". Not yet having discovered that he had been talking to my aunt about it, when he asked that I at least consider marriage counseling before making any rash decisions, I said that I would at least give it a try. It was the beginning of summer, 1995, and by the beginning of 1996 I would find my whole world turned upside-down. *** June, 1995.

One session of "marriage counseling" at Calvary Chapel was one too many. "Wives, be subject to your own husbands, as to the Lord" (Ephesians 5:22) - and every possible variation thereof. "Well, I'm sorry but I don't buy that. We're here to try and resolve some issues that we have that have nothing to do with me "submitting" to my husband". "What do you mean you don't "buy it"? The Bible is very clear on the roles of each partner in a Christian marriage, and if you don't accept - " "Does "submitting" to my husband mean that I have no privacy? That I am not entitled to my personal thoughts and beliefs"? "But Lauri, you need to understand that the Lord has given Vincent, as your husband, a position to be of guidance to you, and while it may have been wrong for him to look at your journal instead of talking to you directly, you need to respect his feelings - " "I am my own person, and he needs to respect MY feelings too if we are going to have a partnership. All the stuff Paul wrote about wives submitting to their husbands is a load of patriarchal crap, and I don't believe for a second that God expects me to require my husband's approval for what I am thinking and feeling". "Look, if you don't have the right attitude toward your husband's leadership in your home, you're never going to be able to...." "You don't seem to be understanding what I am saying. If all you are going to do is tell me that I am taking the wrong approach by expecting my feelings to carry equal weight in this marriage, this kind of counseling is not what I am interested in." Impasse. Another ride home in stony silence. The space between us in bed becomes wider. At a family dinner not longer after, the other shoe hits the floor. *** We all got together at my grandparents' house for my sister's birthday. After dinner, I was in the study when my aunt came in and asked too-casually how things were going. I sensed something coming 'round the bend. "Fine, fine. Why do you ask?" "Oh, no reason, I was just wondering how your counseling session went, I was thinking about you guys". The expression on my face must have been a sight to see because no sooner had the words left her lips than she began to turn a decidedly uncomfortable-looking shade of pink.

I hadn't said anything to her, or anyone in my family, about agreeing to go to counseling at Calvary with Vince. Most families have a few of those big-ole-dramas in their shared history that everyone remembers. This was one of them - although it was done behind closed doors (as my voice rose noticed the volume of chatter begin to die slowly in the other room) I'm sure it was clear what was being discussed, thin walls and all. When I asked her, voice shaking, if Vincent had been talking to her about our personal problems and she nodded tentatively, I burst into tears. The frustration was too much. The thought of them talking about me, speculating on my private struggles and intentionally hiding it - especially Vincent, since I had made it clear the last time that I was NOT okay with him doing so - was more than I could stand. She tried to put her arm around me and comfort me, although I can't imagine how she could think that her words would be comforting - "Lauri, honey, he just loves you so much and doesn't know who else to talk to - " "ME! He should be talking to me about these things, and he KNOWS I don't want him talking about me behind my back to you or anyone else, so quit trying to twist it around! Besides, it's not your business to be giving him advice on how to "deal with me" - you KNOW how I feel about it, and if he came to you you should have told him you would respect my wishes even if he didn't. Why wouldn't you do that?" "Well, I'm sorry, but I felt the Lord was leading me..." "AUGH!!!! That's what you always say!!! There is no way that I can ever trust you, is there? It's always "what the Lord is telling you to do", with no regard for my feelings or any loyalty to me. Forget it, just forget it. If you wanted to find a way to make sure that I never confide anything to you ever again, well, you found it." As I stormed out of the room, Vincent was standing outside the door and it was clear that he had heard this last exchange. He had a guilty look on his face that only served to inflame my raw emotions further. I didn't say another word to anyone, but fled the house feeling like I was on fire - walking the short distance home, my thoughts whirling and tears falling, I wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Why was everyone I had trusted treating me like the enemy? I didn't understand what I had done that was so horribly wrong. When I got home, I called my grandparents and sobbingly apologized to my grandmother for leaving so abruptly. Hers were the first comforting words I had heard for a while. "I'm so sorry, Lauri. I heard what happened with you and Kathy. Please don't cry, honey... we love you. We didn't realize how bad things were going for you... you can talk to us anytime, okay? We are not going to judge you. We want you to be happy no matter what. That's the most important thing to us." Much as she had done countless times when I was a child, my grandmother's loving and accepting words felt like she was wrapping me up in a warm blanket and telling me that everything would be alright. Intuitively, I knew that she was telling me the truth; despite she and my grandfather's very deeply held personal beliefs, I realized that no matter what happened to my marriage or my own beliefs I would always be their daughter and they would be there for me emotionally. I wasn't entirely alone, and I was never more grateful for the unconditional love they had shown me since adopting me when I was only three. I will always be grateful to them for the kind of love they have shown others, whether inspired by their faith or just their own humanity, and at that moment it felt like a life preserver.

*** One might suspect that the conversation that Vincent and I would have when he got home would be a shout-fest to rival our previous "worst ever" blow-up. However, it was quite the opposite. After being calmed somewhat by my brief conversation with my grandmother, I sat and waited for Vincent to come home. I slowly began to feel a sense of acceptance of the decision I had become certain I had to make. The day's events had essentially "clinched it" for me, demonstrating that my suspicion of no longer being able to really trust Vincent was not paranoid but sadly, legitimate. It wasn't something I was happy about, and I dreaded saying to him what I knew needed to be said. I was, however, no longer deeply conflicted. When he walked in the door about an hour later, looking understandably apprehensive, I asked him to sit down with me in the living room because there were some things that I needed to tell him. His expression grew even more apprehensive - I think that the fact that I was so (relatively) calm in light of the circumstances unnerved him a bit. I'm sure that he didn't know exactly what to expect, but surmised that it probably wasn't going to be good. I was surprised by my own calm as I laid it all on the line, not having even decided ahead of time exactly what I woudl say, but being certain of the essence of what I needed to express to him once and for all. I told him that while I didn't want to make a snap decision to separate or get a divorce, I could no longer tolerate being treated like the enemy by my own husband merely because I was honestly searching for the truth in my own beliefs and not blindly following what others were telling me. I told him that his betrayal of my trust had cut me to the quick, especially since it was not just once but twice, and he knew full well how deeply it had hurt me the first time. I said that not only was I still willing to go to marriage counseling, but had decided that it would be absolutely necessary in order for me to be willing to try and work things out. The kicker, though: I was NOT willing to go to a Calvary Chapel "counselor" or any other Christian counselor that made religious issues the main focus of the counseling. I didn't care if the counselor WAS a Christian, but I was adamant that any therapy we received be neutral to our now-differering viewpoints on religion. His response was disheartening. I couldn't see how he could be opposed to the idea of going to a licensed marriage and family therapist to help us deal with the issues of trust and communication we were facing. But the very mention of leaving our religious beliefs out of it caused him to shake his head and protest, just as adamantly - "I'm sorry, Lauri, I just can't do that. My faith is the most important thing in my life and I'm not going to abandon what God wants for me to be faithful to and trust a secular counselor that is deceived by what the "world" thinks marriage is all about." Once again, it was my turn to be momentarily speechless. "Vince, just because a counselor doesn't base their approach on their client's religious beliefs doesn't mean they are pushing some kind of worldview that is going to conflict with your beliefs! The whole point of them being neutral on those things is that they can help us work on things that are important regardless of religion - " "I'm sorry, I know you don't understand, but I don't want to go to someone who is going to push a bunch of worldly views about how marriage is supposed to be. You know I believe that the Lord has to be the foundation of a Christian marriage and if you want to just throw that all away, I'm not going to go along with it. I guess I will have to talk to one of the pastors at church about how to deal with this - I

never thought that I would have to face the problem of being married to someone who wasn't walking with the Lord, and I'm not sure what God wants me to do." As we continued, back and forth, back and forth, it became more and more clear that we may as well have been speaking different languages. I suppose in some fundamental way, we were. *** In a manner of speaking, our marriage came to an end "not with a bang, but a whimper". After fruitlessly arguing for what seemed like an eternity over what kind of counseling we needed, I finally gave up and told Vincent that the decision was his to make. I wasn't going to change my mind, but I was going to give him time to think about it and do whatever he felt he needed to do to decide if he was wanted to stay married to me. He agreed, repeating that he intended to seek the advice of someone "more mature in the faith". I didn't have high hopes for what the outcome of such a conversation would be. It was that same night that Vincent began sleeping in the other room. With the exception of a handful of occasions over the next six months, we never shared the same bed again. *** As promised, the following week Vincent went to Calvary to meet with one of the male "elders" of the church and seek advice on what he should do. As I waited for him to return, on one hand I had a sinking feeling of certainty that his advisor was not going to look any more favorably on the idea of "secular" counseling than Vincent had. On the other hand, it truly boggled the mind that it could be viewed as a BAD thing to seek counseling for issues that, in my view, were completely separate from religion and would apply equally to any married couple, whether Christian, Catholic, Jewish, or Mormon. How could working on trust and communication be against God's plan for marriage? Were these things somehow a moot point in a "Christian marriage", unimportant as God would automatically intervene and somehow take care of all that if we simply trusted in him and adhered to our alleged roles? The idea seemed absurd and rather akin to an ostrich burying its head in the sand. And if I knew anything, it was that I was no longer willing to play the ostrich - not in my marriage, not in anything. As it turned out my sinking feeling was the prescient one. When Vincent arrived home, his demeanor toward me was not only more detached than usual, but as he sat down and started talking to me, his words dripped with such condescension that I could scarcely believe it. He started off by telling me that he'd been advised that while he had "legitimate cause" to divorce me based on Biblical guidance, as a loving husband, he wanted to give me the opportunity to come to my senses and would be "faithful and patient" with me - for a while. As I sat dumbstruck by the unbelievable arrogance of his words, he continued with a "stern-warning" sort of tone that he was willing to give me time to get myself straightened out and right with the Lord, and would of course be praying for me, but that if I didn't eventually agree to go back to counseling at Calvary he would have no choice but to leave the marriage. He didn't believe that it would be in line with God's will for his life to be "unequally yoked". Still choking on the sanctimony in his words, my only question was "So you're saying that a neutral

marriage counselor is out of the question?" He responded, dolefully, in the affirmative. I could say nothing else for the moment - I was too schocked, angered, and increasingly saddened by his attitude toward me. I had the distinct feeling of being casually discarded like a piece of malfunctioning equipment, no longer serving its purpose. The realization that he no longer seemed to see me as an individual, much less one that he loved and respected, hit me like a ton of bricks. My thoughts were too scattered right then and there to formulate a response, but by the next day I had come to a decision. His oh-so-generous proposal was not acceptable to me. I couldn't stomach the idea of living with someone who viewed me as "broken", only staying with me out of what could only be described as obligation. Perhaps he was willing to wait for me to "come to my senses", as he viewed it, but I wasn't. If he flatly refused to go to religion-neutral marriage counseling, MY decision was made; I wanted a separation. *** Vincent's reaction to my announcement that, things being as they were, I wanted a separation, was yet another stomach-churning drop in the roller coaster our marriage had become. "What do you mean, you want a separation? I already told you I'm willing to wait and give things time -" "That's just the problem, Vince. You are basically telling me that there's something wrong with me and I'm not good enough to be your wife unless I change back to how you want me to be. And you're not even willing to go to a counselor to discuss it, other than to try to force me to believe exactly the way you do again. I'm not going to be treated like some undeserving heathen that you're only staying with out of the kindness of your heart. I won't have you basically telling me that you're doing me a favor by not leaving me for having my own views. You say you love me, but it appears that you only care about whether or not I agree with you 100% and you definitely don't respect me as an equal. I'm sorry, but that's not what I want out of a marriage and I can't live with you looking down on me this way." He seemed genuinely baffled. "But I don't want to be separated, I want to give you some time - " "But I DO, Vincent. That's what I'm saying. If you won't go to a regular counselor and try to understand why the way you're treating me is so hurtful, then *I* want a separation." What he said next sickened me. "Look, Lauri, you have no right to ask for a separation. I haven't cheated on you, I don't abuse you, and I am not the one who's rebelling against God. I'm not going to agree to a separation just because you think you can do whatever you want and aren't taking your marriage vows seriously." Oh, it was all I could do to contain myself.... the expression "seeing red" took on a whole new meaning. Deep breaths, Lauri, choose your words carefully, don't freak out. Staaay caaalm. "Well, Vince, it doesn't really matter whether you think I have a "right" to want to be separated or not. I'm not your fucking possession, okay? I HAVE been taking our marriage vows seriously, whether you believe it or not. It doesn't matter; you can't force me to stay with you and I don't understand why you would WANT to. Look, I can't kick you out, and you know I can't afford to move out on my own right now, either, so you can either agree voluntarily to a separation and we'll figure something out, or I'll

have to wait until I can afford to make my own arrangements. And I will. The choice is yours, but from now on you can STAY in the other bedroom. I am not doing this anymore." The door to our bedroom slammed, the door to the other bedroom slammed. It was the first of many nights, over a period of several months, that I would cry myself to sleep, knowing that he was right there, but I could no longer reach him. We could no longer reach each other. *** His response to my unequivicol stance was just as resolute. He refused to leave, and refused to "help me" by discussing any mutually equitable arrangements for me to move out. Whether I liked it or not, he was staying put and in his words "remaining faithful and praying that I would change my mind". Of course, I realized that I COULD file for a legal separation and/or divorce and force him to come to terms with the fact that I was serious, but I didn't have the emotional energy to face that hurdle and I suppose on some level I was hoping that in fact it would be he that would realize the absurdity of the situation and agree to counseling. However, stubbornness turned out to be another of our shared traits. Many months passed - essentially the whole second half of 1995 - during which we lived as strangers under the same roof. However, it was during those months that my life began to change in other, deeper ways; living basically alone, no longer immersed in the church-going lifestyle and shunned by most of our Christian friends, I threw myself into what I had begun and abandoned once before - a no holds-barred search for the truth of what I believed. This time I placed no limits on my exploration, erected no barriers in my own mind to what were "acceptable" lines of inquiry. And the walls came a'crumblin' down. *** After initially discovering that Vincent had been peeking in on my thoughts related to reading Mere Christianity, I didn't do much reading or writing for a few weeks. After the dust settled and I tenuously adjusted to living alone for all practical purposes, I again picked up the book and my journal (although from then on I carried my journal with me when I was not at home.) I never went back to Calvary again, and at first it felt very strange to be at home on Sunday mornings and evenings. I remembered what my grandmother had told me once when we were on a camping trip and couldn't attend organized church services - she told me that since God was with us everywhere, it didn't matter if we were in a church building, our own house or out in the woods. Our prayers were heard just the same time. And so I continued to pray, not just on those newly "free" Sundays but every day - and also decided to use the time once spent at Calvary's church services and Bible study meetings to devote my energies to my search for truth. Mere Christianity was, to be blunt, a big disappointment as far as any eye-opening revelations were concerned. It struck me as a collection of nebulous and less-than-convincing contentions and "arguments" for broadly-defined Christianity, which I was already well-versed in. I wanted something with a bit more meat to it; something that would explain to me, in more detail, why I should continue to

believe that the Bible was to be trusted as the inspired Word of God. After all, that was the foundation of my faith and always had been. I moved on to McDowell's Evidence That Demands A Verdict. Ah.... now I was getting somewhere. *** In this book, McDowell focuses heavily on making a case for the Bible as being divinely inspired based on a number of criteria, including it having "harmonious themes" (or something to that effect) from beginning to end, even though it was written by a number of different authors and over a long period of time. This jumped out at me immediately as being suspect as "evidence". One of my main questions about the veracity of the Bible went straight to this point; after all the Bible, as we knew it, was compiled by a bunch of men, basically by a "committee" of sorts - wouldn't it make perfect sense that they would put the books together that "fit" to some degree and leave out anything that didn't? This was one argument that seemed to me, seemed so flawed on its face that I already wasn't buying it without something more substantive to back it up. McDowell also lends a lot of credence to, and tries to make a strong case for, the Bible's credibility based on "fulfilled prophecy". As I plowed through these sections, consulting my own Bible frequently, another thought came that had never even occurred to me before. Even setting aside the painful ambiguity of many of the supposedly "fulfilled" prophecies - wouldn't it make sense that the Biblical authors of "later" books would record events in such a way that they would fall in line with the prophecies of the past? After all, many of the events written about in the Bible were recorded there only - not recognized historical events. Was there any reason to believe that the biblical authors hadn't intentionally recorded events in such a way as to try to lend credence to the prophecies in the earlier holy writings? While these sections gave me a lot to think about, the two issues addressed in the book that affected me the most were McDowell's infamous "trilemma" - Lord, Liar or Lunatic - and his strongly argued assertion that the "personal experience" of Christianity is excellent evidence for it being true. The questions and doubts these points would raise in my mind were ultimately more troubling to me than I was able to accept for a while, but would also ultimately not be easily dismissed. *** As I read McDowell's section in Evidence That Demands A Verdict on the "Trilemma - Lord, Liar or Lunatic?" - again referring frequently to my own Bible - an uneasy feeling came over me. I knew, of course, the point he was trying to make. However, as I contemplated many of Jesus' words in the Gospels (I had one of those "red-letter" Bibles), a tiny little voice in the back of my mind piped up, seemingly unbidden. "Well, he does kind of sound like a lunatic!"

Whaaaaa....? I was suddenly overcome with the urge to wash out my brain with bleach or something. Where the heck had THAT come from? I could hardly believe that such a blasphemous thought had originated in my own mind and for a brief moment I did wonder if I was somehow being influenced by

Satan. But the memory of Jim Jones and the People's Temple again loomed large - had this man not been charismatic, made claims of divinity, and inspired hundreds to follow him even to the death? In addition to my surprising sense of there indeed being something akin to lunacy in some of Jesus' words, there was something about the "Trilemma" as it was posed that struck me as off - though this was long before I became familiar with the term "false dichotomy". That still, small voice disturbed my greatly - so I hastily quashed it. In retrospect, I think perhaps that I was not emotionally ready to even entertain such a thought; the idea of Jesus not only as God-becomeflesh but as my Redeemer, my friend, and loving Shepherd, was still deeply intertwined with my belief and of great value to me. Jesus loves me, this I know! What a friend we have in Jesus.... Jesus, what a wonder you are; you are so precious, so pure and so kind! I was not prepared, by any stretch of the imagination, to "go there". But the memory of that unfamiliar voice stayed with me, and would eventually return, speaking even more boldly, and louder. McDowell's argument that the personal experience of Christians was so unique, and had such reforming power, was also hard for me to swallow. It wasn't that I hadn't seen, in my own life, examples of individuals who did indeed seem to be "transformed" by converting to Christianity. The branches of my own immediate family tree were laden with members who had cast off destructive lifestyles and seemingly become much better people upon being born-again. However, I had also seen the same thing happen to people I was acquainted with who had converted to other religions. I was reminded specifically of a boy that had attended my youth group during high school; he was never one of the "true believers", probably attending only at his parents' demand, and was notorious for causing trouble on retreats and day-trips by bringing in liquor, smoking, sneaking out after curfews etc. After high school, I heard through the grapevine that for several years he had spiralled out of control into a life of drug use and petty crime. However, in our early 20's he was reported to have met a woman who was a devout Jehova's Witness - and ended up converting and completely turning his life around. So, I wondered, was the "reformative power" of that religion testament to it's validity? Everything I had learned told me that it just couldn't be the case. In addition, although my life had been very insulated and deeply immersed in Evangelical Christian culture, I had not remained entirely unexposed to people of other faiths. I was aware that there were people of other faiths - Judaism, Islam, etc. - who were just as devoted in their belief as we were in ours. I knew, historically, that others of other faiths had been willing to die (and kill) for their beliefs. Was their fervency of belief evidence for the truth of their religion? It just didn't wash. *** Finishing both Mere Christianity and Evidence That Demands A Verdict left me no closer to having any real "answers", and had in fact only introduced more nagging questions to the long list I already had.

When Jeff had loaned me his copy of McDowell's book and recommended Lewis', I had promised to read both of them and get back to him (and Jeannie) with my thoughts. Upon finishing the books, I was still more than willing to do so - however, I was to discover that the final blow-up with Vincent would prove to throw a monkey-wrench into that plan. This time, when I stopped attending services at Calvary with Vincent, unlike before when when Vincent had shared my "troubles" with others and I had received unexpected phone calls from "concerned brethren", there was nary a peep from anyone. None of the friends we had made in various Bible study groups and prayer meetings, none of the leaders or members of the women's groups I had attended, no one ever contacted me in any way - I surmised that Vincent had liberally spread the news of my Descent into Apostasy and sadly, it didn't really surprise me that I was apparently now one of Them and a lost cause, in their minds. I had seen it happen before, when others left the fold or were reported to have "fallen out of fellowship with the Lord". I'd never given it much thought before, but now that I was going through the same thing, I felt a great deal of remorse for having turned a blind eye to the same behavior when I was still a part of the "inner circle". I had never considered what some of those people might be going through, never even tried to imagine the loneliness and sense of isolation that they might feel as their entire network of support and community suddenly vanished into thin air. Now that I knew what that was like, I was ashamed of having been so self-righteous and insensitive. So a few weeks after I had finished the two books, I decided that I should keep my word and called up Jeff and Jeannie's house one weekday evening. Jeff answered. I was a bit nervous. I had no idea what Vincent has said to them about why I wasn't coming to church anymore or the status of our relationship, but I thought it was safe to bet it hadn't been anything discreet or vague - I had no doubt he'd told everybody I was hopelessly backslidden and our marriage was imploding over it. "Hey Jeff, it's Lauri (last name). I just wanted to let you know that I read the book you lent me and Mere Christianity too, and I know I'd said I would let you know what I thought when I was done so I wanted to let you know in case you still wanted to discuss them with me." A brief silence. Throat-clearing. "Oh, hi, Lauri." (Cough, rustle). "Um, yeah, thanks for letting me know. Uh - well, I appreciate your calling but I should tell you that I can't really continue any kind of counseling with you unless it's with Vince also, like before. I'm sure you understand..." I didn't, not at all, though I soon would. "I'm sorry? I don't understand what you mean." "Well, you know, Vincent shared with us that you guys are having some problems and aren't really doing things together anymore, and it just wouldn't be appropriate for to meet with you individually because Jeannie and I feel that our gift is to minister to married couples..." he drifted off. I got it. I was taken aback, but I got it. Sure, I understood that informally counseling married couples was what Jeff and Jeannie did primarily, having been married for many years and active in lots of couple's fellowships, but I was flabbergasted that he actually seemed to be saying he couldn't talk with me at all, even to follow up on the conversation we'd already begun, without Vincent being part of the equation. Apparently without my "better half" I truly had become persona non grata. Wow... so much for being a "sister in the Lord". I didn't know quite what to say.

"Um, okay, I guess I understand what you're saying. I.... should I just give your book back to Vincent though and he can return it to you at church this Sunday?" "Sure, Lauri, that'd be great. Hopefully we'll see you around again soon, okay? I gotta run, but take care. Bye." Message received, loud and clear. You're either with us or against us. Let us know if you see the error of your ways and want back in. Til then, there's the exit and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out. *** After my conversation with Jeff, it began to really sink in. This was it. Questioning my beliefs - and not hiding it - was going to have profound consequences in my life, and yet I knew deep down that it was too late to turn back even if I had wanted to. I had taken a bite of the apple, and my eyes had begun to open - but I was not yet sure that I much liked what my newfound vision was revealing to me. Over the next several months - most of the remainder of 1995 - I gradually fell deeper and deeper into a black hole of depression. While maintaining a tenuous grasp on everyday functionality - the bare minimum of getting up every day, showering, dressing, going to work - for all practical purposes I became a hermit. I ate and ate and ate some more - gaining upward of 20 pounds over a three-month period - and slept far too much, sometimes going to bed by seven o'clock each night and still struggling to awaken each weekday morning for work. As the days grew shorter and the holidays approached, my outlook grew bleaker still and I wondered in many of my journal writings what the point was of going on anymore. Vincent went about his life as usual, spending very little time at our home, working up to 12-hour days and attending church and prayer meetings during most of his free time. We spoke very little and he never commented on the change in my demeanor until about a week before Christmas. Thanksgiving had been a surreal affair, as we both went to my grandparent's home for the traditional gathering but no-one said a word about the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the corner. I had the sensation of being underwater; people spoke but their words were muffled. If I was drowning, I wasn't sure that I any longer cared. *** About a week before Christmas, Vincent came to my room one night after I had already gone to bed. I was a bit startled, as we had become almost invisible to each other, and he hadn't come into what used to be "our room" for what seemed like eons. It turned out that he wanted to say goodbye. Sitting next to me on the bed, he told me haltingly that he had made his decision. It was clear that neither of us was going to change our mind about the counseling issue, and as he put it, he'd come to realize that it wasn't God's will for his life to be in "this kind" of marriage. There was no longer any anger or accusation in his voice, and he began to cry when he told me "I love you, Lauri. I'm sorry". And so I cried as well. My emotions had been rather flat for some time, and at first as he revealed his

decision I didn't feel much of anything, but those tenderly spoken words - the first I had heard from him for so long - filled me with a sorrow so acute that I felt as though my heart might break. All the memories of our meeting, the intensity of our connection, our wedding and countless happy times together washed over me like a tidal wave. "I'm sorry too, Vincent. I do love you. I just wish...." But there truly were no other words and the expression on his face told me that I didn't need to say anything more. I think that at that moment, for the first time in a long time, we actually understood each other. We held each other for a long time, until both our tears had subsided. We talked for a while longer about practical matters very generally; it was decided that we would continue living in the same house for a few months in order to make financial arrangements for him to move out that wouldn't put either of us in a bind. Emotionally drained once again, it felt strange to be talking about the nuts and bolts of really separating, but I knew that it had to be done and felt a faint sense of relief that we had finally reached some point of decision. But I still had no idea where I would go from there. Instead of feeling as though I had come upon a fork in the road, I had a sense of being lost in a deep forest without a compass. I knew what path I would not taking any further, but beyond that I was still disoriented and not sure how much more energy I had to keep trying to find my way out. *** January, 1996 The world is round, and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning. - Ivy Baker Priest *** Shortly after the New Year, we broke the news separately to our respective families. My grandparents were saddened and concerned for me, but ultimately supportive. Although I expressed my desire not to get too deeply into the personal details of our problems, they did ask if I would at least consider getting some sort of marriage counseling - at which point I revealed that it was, ironically, that very issue on which we could not come to agreement. I never had occasion to see Vincent's family again after that Christmas - they were not a tight-knit bunch in any case - but I did receive a phone call from one of his older sisters, with whom he was closest, a few weeks after the "announcement". Her approach was vitriolic to say the least. I was shocked by her attitude toward me - with no pretense of small talk and without pulling any punches, she came right out and told me that I was a cruel and callous person for breaking Vincent's heart - that he loved me desperately and had been willing to do whatever it took to save our marriage, but that I was obviously being "incredibly selfish" and just wanted to be free and single again so that I could "do my own thing".

The conversation left me reeling and physically ill. What on earth had Vincent told them? I could not understand how she could have arrived at these conclusions. I was torn between confronting him, in order to find out what exactly he had told his family that would cause his sister to make such accusations, and just letting it go. It occurred to me that he probably felt a deep sense of personal failure at the failure of our marriage, and had perhaps been motivated by embarrassment or shame to foist the "blame" upon me. In the end I decided I didn't really care. I didn't have the energy to care - still enveloped in a fog of depression, it was taking more and more energy every day, it seemed, just to take care of my minimum daily responsibilities. At the end of January, I ran out. One grey Monday morning I did not go to work. I called in sick; I spent the day in bed. Although for several months before the holidays I had grossly overeaten and gained quite a bit of weight, in January I had gradually found my appetite waning and eventually disappearing completely. So I lay in bed that day, not showering, not eating, sleeping on and off, and wishing in the back of my mind that I would quit waking up. I called in the next day as well, and the one after that. Vincent was oblivious due to the fact that his job required him to leave early in the morning, before I would normally even awaken, and not return home until well after I would have. However, on the third day that I called in sick to work, my grandmother happened to call me there and when they told her that I was out for the third day in a row, she got in her car and came straight over to check on me. Despite the fact that for days I had felt virtually nothing - not hunger, sadness or pain, just a terrible hollowness - my grandmother's reaction to the pathetic state I was in seemed to cut through the thick fog of my indifference. I honestly have no idea what would have happened if she hadn't come over to check on me that day. I do know that I will always be grateful to her for once again being there for me in my darkest hour, in a way that no one else could have. *** My grandmother was aghast at the sight of me, disheveled, three-days-unshowered, and obviously having barely left my bed in as much time - but not otherwise "sick". She knew that something was very, very wrong. She lay down beside me on the bed and held me as she had so many times when I was a child. "Lauri.... honey, what is wrong? What is going on? Please - let me help you". That was when I lost it, broke down, snapped. Lying there as I had for days, but feeling the immense comfort of her arms around me and hearing her caring words, I cried like a baby, so hard that it became soundless and the tears eventually ran dry. I felt as though I might choke on my own sobs and could not release the pain enough.

But eventually there came release; and as my breath returned to me, I let it all out - I told her how utterly alone I felt, how I didn't understand why any of this had happened, and sometimes felt as though my life was over and there was no purpose in even trying anymore if only to continue feeling this way. I told her that I didn't have the slightest clue where to begin in picking up the pieces and moving on, and that I no longer knew if I had the strength to move on. I simply could not see a light at the end of the tunnel. Through it all, she simply listened and held me. And then, when I had exhausted my words, she helped me begin to see the light at the end of the tunnel I was in. "Lauri, I know how hard this is and how much it hurts. But you are a strong person and you have always been, and I know that you are stubborn too. You can get through this, I promise - and you are not alone. We love you - and we want you to be happy. I know this sounds hard, but you just have to pick yourself up and keep moving - force yourself to do it - and don't give in to this. You are young. You have your whole life ahead of you. I promise you that someday, this will all be in the past and you WILL be happy again." I so very much wanted to believe her. I knew how very much she and my grandfather loved me, having taken me out of a horrible situation when I was only three and sacrificing their own retirement years to raise another child, and while at that moment I still didn't feel the truth in her words, I knew that I had to try. They had given me so much and I knew that my unhappiness was hurting them as much as if it had been their own. I didn't want to disappoint them after everything they had done for me. I knew I had to try. And so I did. I got out of bed and took a shower, my grandmother still there. When I was dressed and looking slightly more human, she insisted that I allow her to take me out to lunch. We went to a coffee shop (Coco's) and she insisted that I order my favorite thing from that restaurant, that I had missed terribly while we were in Papua New Guinea - cream of broccoli and cheese soup and a fresh blueberry muffin. I could barely eat, but as we talked and reminisced about some of our travels during my childhood, I began to feel something - a very tiny ray of hope peeking through the dark clouds. She continued to encourage me - I had a good job with potential, I was independent, and I could still do anything that I wanted to do. I had my whole life ahead of me; I was 22 years old. I think on that day I allowed myself to begin to believe that maybe, just maybe, she was right. This did not have to be the end of any happiness in my life; perhaps it could be, instead, a beginning. *** And so I did what my grandmother said I should - though I didn't magically "snap out of it" or start feeling a great deal better immediately, I did pick myself up, dust off and just force myself to go back to work and struggle through the feelings of hopelessness. At my grandmother's suggestion (with a touch of insistence) I also began walking with her several evenings a week after work, which improved my appetite and energy, and prevented me from isolating myself entirely. Within a few weeks the clouds were beginning to lift every so slightly, but there was still something missing and something almost gnawing at me deep inside. During the months leading up to the worst period of depression in January, I had all but abandoned my

reading and studying relating to my faith, although I did continue to pray and write in my journal. However, the feeling of fellowship with God that now seemed a thousand years past remained elusive. As I began to feel better, my thoughts once again returned to The Question that had been so affecting my life for over a year now: What is it that God requires of me? I decided that perhaps what I was missing was the fellowship of a church body. However, it never occurred to me to go back to Calvary, because I had already decided that their dogmatic fundamentalism and disapproval of questioning was untenable to me. I still believed in what I saw as the essentials of Christianity, but I had opened that Pandora's Box of questioning the inerrancy of the Bible and fundamentalism's interpretation of it, and I was not about to put myself back in an environment that would not tolerate my honest inquiry. I was reluctant to tell my grandmother that I had decided to try a different, more liberal church, but she was fully supportive of whatever I wanted to do and even offered to go with me a few times so that I wouldn't feel too terribly out of place. I decided to try a relatively small local church not far from my home that I knew was fairly liberal and "progressive" - a woman that I had once worked with had attended there occasionally and mentioned that the there were quite a few young adults in the congregation and they were very welcoming to newcomers. I decided to give it a shot; after all, what did I have to lose? *** I went to the new church for the first time on a Sunday morning, to the late service. As promised, my grandmother attended with me. During the beginning of the service, I filled out one of the little cards that are provided in the backs of the pews for new members, circling "single" for marital status, and "young adult (21-30 unmarrieds) ministries" for potential interest in other weekly meetings. It was hard to draw that little circle around "single" with the tiny pencil; despite having had months to adjust to the seeming inevitability of it, it was still difficult for me to wrap my head around the fact that it was really over. I enjoyed the service and the atmosphere of the new church. The music was upbeat, and the Pastor's message (they didn't call it a "sermon") was very "modern" - basically talking about how a particular principle of Christianity applied to our daily lives. This was definitely something that appealed to me; for a long time I had been wondering what, exactly, God wanted from me as His follower, and how my faith should guide me as I sought to do His will. "How then shall we live?" I was extremely encouraged by having found a potential new church home. That same week I attended the "Young Adults" Wednesday night Bible Study and was welcomed warmly. It was a wonderful feeling to be greeted enthusiastically and without judgement after feeling so shunned and isolated since my departure from Calvary Chapel. I quickly made a few friends, most notably Leanne. She was a bit older than me, in her late 20's, had also gone through a divorce a few years before, and was new to the church. We began hanging out quite frequently, often going out for brunch after the Sunday morning services and coffee after the Wednesday night meeting. As we got to know each other better, I felt more and more comfortable sharing with her the details of how it came to be that I had left Calvary and my marriage had imploded.

It was wonderful to have a friend again, and she was an excellent listener and sounding board. As it turned out, she could personally relate to many of my experiences; although her upbringing had not been quite as infused with fundamentalist Christianity as mine, during her high school and college years she had been deeply involved in a fundamentalist church in Texas, where she grew up. She had moved to Northern California with her husband, whom she had also married very young, and the marriage had fallen apart when she discovered his serial adultery. After their divorce, she had moved to Southern California for a job opportunity and so had found herself in a new place, with few friends outside work and also seeking spiritual guidance for her life. Ironically, she had chosen a "more liberal" church after relocating because of her previous church's reaction to her divorcing her husband. Apparently, even in the face of his reluctantly admitting that he had been cheating on her for years with a number of women - some long-term - she was counseled to "practice forgiveness and pray for his healing from sexual addiction" - but that divorce, while technically permissible according to Scripture, would be the "weaker option". As we shared our experiences more and more openly, we had many interesting conversations about the teachings of the New Testament, particularly Paul's writings, and how they applied to the life of a Christian woman. Or did they? I remembered thinking, years before, that it seemed strange that many of Paul's writings focused so heavily on the feminine role in marriage, as well as sexuality in general, and that his words were taken as divinely inspired when they seemed so obviously influenced by the cultural mores of the day. After all, even the most fundamentalist churches I had visited hadn't heeded Paul's teachings that women must cover their heads in church, and should dress modestly but not wear jewelry or "costly array". What criteria, exactly, was being used to determine which of Paul's exhortations were divinely inspired truths of God's will for how women should live, and which were merely "cultural"? As we discussed these things it became painfully obvious to me that every church I had been to merely picked and chose what was convenient, dismissing the rest as unimportant. It struck me suddenly, clear as day, as not only patently absurd but also so disingenuous as to make me more than a bit angry. I'd had it hammered into my head for years, albeit subtly at times, that women were essentially secondclass citizens, and I bought it! I'd listened to those that I trusted and respected, when they'd told me over and over that "wifely submission" was God's will for me as a woman, and now that I realized there was really no legitimate basis for it other than a selective application of Paul's mysogynistic teachings, I felt sort of.... tricked. But wow... what a feeling. When that light bulb went off over my head, I think my sense of self-worth as a human being increased dramatically almost overnight. I felt, in a word, liberated. I began to wonder if it wasn't this sort of interpretation and teaching of the Word that had been holding me back from spiritual growth... after all, if I was one of God's children in my own right and had been relying too heavily on the parts of the Bible that were really man's teachings, it would make sense that my spiritual life had sort of "stalled". I was an adult now, not a child, and perhaps it was merely that my childhood faith was like a suit that no longer fit. I began to shed the first of many layers of fundamentalism like an old skin. *** One by one, I considered and discarded many of the beliefs I'd always held true without really thinking about them - some of the so-called "moral truths" I'd been taught to embrace now seemed so archaic

and obviously nonsensical that I was almost embarrassed that I'd so fervently defended them in my youth. I was no longer uncomfortable around people who drank alcohol (although I still didn't imbibe, as I'd never acquired the taste for it) - while I'd always thought it was "acceptable" to have a very occasional glass of wine or cocktail, I'd viewed with suspicion anyone who had more than one drink and especially those who did so regularly - so indoctrinated had I been to be extra-wary of such "indulgences of the flesh". I stopped agonizing over whether it was too much "of the world" to go to the movies and read popular fiction when I could be reading the Bible or Christian-oriented material, or going to church or a related activity. I found that I began viewing new people I'd met in a different way - I no longer wondered immediately "but are they born-again Christians?" and formed judgements of them based on whether their lives conformed to the standards of what I had always been taught was the "one and only way". I was no longer able to take or even understand the black-and-white view of "Us vs. Them" that had once seemed quite natural and "right". And there was another deeply-ingrained "taboo" that I ended up addressing on a very personal level. Leanne and I became very close friends, possibly closer than I had ever been with any female friend before. Our similar life experiences and ability to be there for each other during what was a period of great change for both of us created a pretty intense bond. As our friendship grew, though, I found myself struggling to suppress my own acknowledgement of feelings that I had noticed at times before, since my pre-teen years; I had both emotional feelings and sexual attraction toward her that were more than platonic. For as long as I could remember, since I was about ten or eleven, I had at times noticed having certain "feelings" toward other girls that were similar to those I sometimes had for boys - "crushes", if you will, combined with the blossoming of sexual desire as I passed through puberty. However, I intuitively knew that it was not something I could talk about. After all, even on the Christian-school playground the words "lez" (lesbian) and "fag" were tossed around as epithets, and the only time adults spoke in hushed tones about "gay people" there was a definite undertone of serious disapproval. And so for many years, throughout high school, I had actively suppressed and ignored these feelings when they arose. After high school, when I went through my year-long period of "rebellion" and dabbled in a more worldy lifestyle, I found myself a handful of times in a situation to experiment very briefly with those feelings - and felt a crushing amount of guilt and severe self-loathing. After marrying Vincent, I confessed to him both that I sometimes had these feelings and that I had acted on them to a minor degree before we were married; his response was to assure me that while I was more than certainly "forgiven" I just needed to be extra vigilant any time I had those thoughts, and pray to God for healing from such sinful desires. But now Leanne, and these feelings again. And now I wasn't sure what to believe. I was torn by conflicting feelings and a battle raged within me between my emotions and the deep sense shame I'd always had about them. For weeks that seemed to stretch on forever, confusion reigned supreme. *** As far as I knew, my conundrum wasn't a matter of whether I would be sinning or not by pursuing

these feelings with Leanne specifically, as I had no reason to think that she was anything but 100% heterosexual. It was that I realized that these feelings weren't going to go away - and would surely arise in the future just as they had always returned in the past - and I needed to figure out, for my own sense of sanity, what to do with them. Would I have to resign myself to struggling against them for the rest of my life, or was my belief in the inherent sinfulness of homosexuality another one I had never really examined? And of course I hadn't. It was, in the worldview I'd always had, Res Ipsa Loquitur - "the thing that speaks for itself". Believing as I still did that God had created sex as a means of procreation and also a "gift" for the expression of intimacy between a husband and wife, homosexual feelings and/or behaviors seemed plainly "unnatural". And of course, the Bible explicitly condemned homosexual acts as abominable. But I didn't, couldn't understand why, from such a young age, these feelings had come so naturally. I knew I wasn't a "man-hater" - quite the contrary - and it certainly didn't feel like something I had consciously chosen, which contradicted the Christian assertion I'd heard so many times. "They choose that sinful lifestyle." "It comes from moral degeneracy/Satan's influence". I was pretty sure I hadn't been morally degenerate as an eleven-year-old girl. I went out on a limb. I could hardly believe I was doing it, but I approached Stacy, a woman I worked with fairly closely, who I knew was in a long-term lesbian relationship - and a professed Christian (Episcopalian). We were pretty friendly, and so one day - heart hammering in my chest - I asked if she wanted to go to lunch. She didn't seem surprised or anything - we'd gone to lunch a number of times - but I was quite certain that she'd be a little more than surprised at the conversation topic I had in mind. Sit down. Order salads. Talk shop. My palms were actually sweating. My fork became annoyingly slippery in my grasp. It became apparent to Stacy that I was uncharacteristically nervous about something. She asked, in a concerned tone, what was on my mind. Was there something I wanted to talk about? Was something wrong at the office? Nervous laughter from me. "Um, no. Nothing to do with work. I was just wondering... I wanted to talk to you about...well, sort of about your relationship with Cora and your faith and stuff...." To say that she was indeed surprised would be an understatement. While she didn't hide her sexual orientation or relationship, it was not a subject we had ever directly discussed and she later revealed that because she knew I was a fairly fundamentalist Christian, she intentionally steered clear of the topic with me. She asked, quite bluntly, why I was asking and what I wanted to know. Haltingly, awkwardly, I explained that since my split with Vincent my religious views had undergone some changes and I had found myself in a situation where I was wondering what, if any, basis there was for the belief that homosexuality was morally wrong. I didn't come right out and explain my "situation", and she was tactful enough not to probe further, but she was one smart cookie... and I knew she knew, or at least suspected. "Ooohhhhh. Ok. Um, well, I guess it's kind of like this...." It ended up being a two-hour lunch, but probably the most impactful two-hour lunch I'd ever had with a

co-worker, of all people. I was engrossed by our discussion; I don't think I took more than a few bites of my salad. As she explained, and seemed so forehead-slappingly obvious after she pointed it out, the Old Testament condemnations of homosexuality can hardly be considered any more legitimate as divine mandate than any of the host of other "laws" that we now consider patently ridiculous. Intercourse with a woman on her menses causes a man to be "ritually unclean"? Superstitious, more than a little phobic. The mixing of milk and meat (kosher law)? Irrelevant! - says Modern Christianity. Mixed fibers, pork, shellfish, the whole kit-n-caboodle - obviously things that were strictly verboten in those long ago times had long since been discarded as archaic signs of the cultural times. Why had fundementalist Christianity picked out homosexuality for special treatment? Because of course there's Paul, the guy that definitely seemed to have a pebble in his sandal about all things relating to sexuality. Paul was really starting to get on my nerves. The more I thought about it, the more nonsensical it seemed - and Stacy pointed out much to my embarrassment that indeed, Jesus himself never addressed the topic of homosexuality. I felt rather stupid for not remembering this, despite having read the Bible and particularly the New Testament more than once in its entirety. So what did that leave us with? Paul again, and some of the other NT writers. In the hours after this lunchtime conversation that I thought about these things, it seemed more and more curious to me that if homosexuality was such a grievous sin, Jesus wouldn't have thought to mention it. He hadn't, after all, been a shrinking violet when it came to speaking of vice and virtue, sin and salvation. As I chewed on and digested all of this, I was almost afraid to allow myself to contemplate the thought that was bubbling up to the surface in my mind. What if there was nothing wrong with me, after all? What if I wasn't "broken", sick or twisted? Could it be that all my self-loathing had been for naught? Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is a freedom. - Marilyn Ferguson *** *** In March of 1996 I turned twenty-three. There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. - Anais Nin *** I'd been wrong in thinking that my deepening feelings toward my friend, Leanne, were unreciprocated. We'd begun spending more and more time together; I often spent long evenings at her house, since Vincent was still living with me, and I was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable with the situation. In January, we'd agreed that we would make preparations for living separately as quickly as was financially feasible, but by April I sensed that he was dragging his feet in taking the final steps of looking for an apartment and actually moving out. I was reticent to push the issue and began to mentally explore the possibility of being the one to move out instead. As I began to spend more and more evenings over at Leanne's, my feelings for her intensified, and I

began to sense in subtle ways that the inclination toward something more than purely platonic friendship was mutual. However, I was scared witless that perhaps I was imagining it, projecting, or just hoping. But one night it was just there, at first unspoken but clear as day, and we both felt it, and acknowledged it, and were overwhelmed by it. But sometimes being overwhelmed brings with it fear, and just as hope can be a powerful emotion, so can fear. Fear of a hundred things. Fear of what your family will think and say, if they could possibly accept something so foreign to them and odious within their belief system. Fear of what your co-workers, friends and even strangers will think. Fear of change, of not only dipping your toe in the unknown waters but the thought of actually jumping in. And neither of us were ready to take that particular plunge. Years later I was reminded of Leanne and our friendship by the writings of one of my sister's favorite authors, for whom her youngest son is named. Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day. - Rainer Maria Rilke, "Letters To a Young Poet". *** Fortunately, our friendship remained intact, although we both "pulled back" a bit in realization of the fact that if we didn't, it would be an exercise in futility to try and not go further down that path. I continued to attend my new church. For a time, it seemed that the seas of my life were beginning to calm. I felt comfortable, for the first time in a long time, with my beliefs and not worn down by a constant battle raging between my intellect and the tenets of my faith. Liberal Christianity seemed to fit where the dogma of fundamentalism had chafed. And then I had to go and read a book. *** 1984 - Jungle Camp, Papua New Guinea In the main meeting hall at Jungle Camp, there was a very small library, mostly filled with mildewed volumes on apologetics that had been there for years, but with a smattering of relatively new paperbacks that had been brought over by the newly arrived "campers" each session. Between sessions, with the previous group of campers away doing their month-long stint at "Village Living" and before the arrival of the new group, Jungle Camp could get pretty boring for an elevenyear-old girl. Without television, movies, radio, other kids to play with or even other kids in school other than the fellow staff members' kids, I invariably became bored after the first few weeks. So I read

a lot - I read everything I could get my hands on (hence my first reading of C.S. Lewis' "Mere Christianity".) One day as I sifted through the dusty stacks of the tiny library - more of a cubby in the back of the building that served as a meeting hall - I came across a most glorious treasure. A NEW BOOK!!!!!! I could hardly believe my good fortune. And it was a fascinating book - "Through The Narrow Gate" by Karen Armstrong. It was the story of her life focused primarily on the seven years she spent in a convent, entering the order at only 17 years of age. Her narrative style was engrossing and it was unlike any story I'd ever read! At that time, I hadn't read many autobiographies and I found hers singularly compelling. It was the best book I ever found in that little library and much of its imagery stayed with me for many, many years. *** And so of course, when I found myself perusing the Comparitive Religion section of Borders Bookstore in California 12 years later, I was surprised but delighted to see a new book by Karen Armstrong. Checking the back cover confirmed that the author was one and the same. I purchased it immediately. It was "A History of God - The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam." *** After my reading of Through The Narrow Gate so many years before, I wasn't aware that Karen Armstrong, upon leaving her religious order, had obtained a degree from Oxford University, become a professor and begun writing books on religion. I just knew that this woman's first book had been a fantastic read and I wanted to see what she was writing about now. A thing long expected takes the form of the unexpected when at last it comes. - Mark Twain In the grand scheme of things, I think it's fair to say that my deconversion really began in the Holy Land in 1994. Up to this point in 1996, however, the changes in my belief had been relatively gradual no overnight 180's or mind-boggling, all-encompassing epiphanies. Until now. I'm a pretty fast reader and often find myself unable to stop reading a book, once engrossed in it, til I reach the end. Sometimes little things like work, sleep, and the need for food get in the way of this, but I've been known to forgo the less important of them (namely, sleep) when a book has cast its spell over me. This one was no exception; I read it in about 3 days, utilizing every spare moment I had to dig back in. I was suddenly almost disoriented; each new chapter brought forth a new crop of questions in my mind. When I got to the end, fairly reeling, I still felt somehow - knocked off kilter. So I read it again, this time taking a more leisurely pace, really digesting it instead of devouring each new chapter will still chewing on the one before. And that's when it happened. A new dawn was creeping over the horizon. This one wasn't about the writings of Paul and whether or not he'd possibly just been a misogynistic control freak. It wasn't about the church's hand-wringing and legalistic nit-picking over the interpretation of the Bible's many vagaries and how they applied to us as modern Christians. And it definitely wasn't about how I was perhaps so "deficient in faith" and unworthy of the Holy Spirit's reassurance that I was stalled in my spiritual growth for no good reason. It was about me finally getting a full view of the rich tapestry woven throughout history, that now

revealed a picture of the three Abrahamic traditions as splintering branches of man-made belief influenced by time, culture, and the human struggle for truth in an uncertain world. EUREKA!!! *** "I have found it". But what on earth do I do with it? So far in my life there have been two books that were instrumental in inspiring a "quantum leap" of change in my beliefs and view on religion, both in and of themselves and by prompting me to dig deeper and seek out even more information. This was the first one, but it is difficult for me to describe what I "became" next, using familiar terms. Clearly, I had abandoned fundamentalist Christianity. However, I wasn't sure if I could even call myself a "liberal Christian" anymore. I didn't doubt the existence of a historical Jesus, as I hadn't even begun to research the topic - at that point, I didn't even realize it was a debated topic! However, it no longer seemed reasonable to believe that he was God-become-flesh, crucified and raised from the dead to ascend into heaven as atonement for the sins of the world. After all, having realized the absurdity of a literal interpretation of the creation myth, it no longer "followed". No apple, no original sin, no "redemption" required (especially through a bizarre concept of human "sacrifice" that wasn't really a sacrifice in the big picture). It seemed infinitely more reasonable to believe that Jesus had been an itinerant preacher, perhaps even a "prophet", and something of a revolutionary for that time and place. He'd had some new and different things to say, to be sure - and some of them eventually got him killed by the authorities on account of being heretical. At this time - and for a fairly lengthy period of time afterward - I did not actually discard, with certainty, the essentials of Christianity - I merely no longer believed with 100% certainty that Jesus was God, came down to earth in human form, died for the sins of all humanity, then rose again. It would be most accurate to say that I became agnostic with regard to the specific claims of Christianity, but remained a theist. I still believed in a (single) personal God who had created the universe, though probably by means of evolution, and cared for His children in some way, as opposed to a completely uninvolved and uninterested deistic sort of God. I just wasn't sure how He cared for us, and what He cared about. The question remained: "How then shall we live"? *** Now this was a stumper. I'd spent my whole life seeking guidance and direction from the Bible, the advice of those who claimed to be able to speak for God, even events and situations I saw as "signs" in response to my prayers. Now how was I supposed to figure out how God would want me to live my life? I thought of the many times I had prayed for guidance over the years, and how the "answer" had always come (or so I thought) in a round-about way - through a coincidental turn of events, a particular Bible verse seeming to take on a new meaning, or someone I trusted claiming that God was "leading them" to

communicate something to me. I thought about how odd it now seemed that for all those years, I couldn't remember any time when I felt that God was speaking to me clearly, unequivicolly and without a doubt as to what the message was. Sure, I'd had feelings and emotional responses that I interpreted as the Lord leading me, the Holy Spirit guiding me, etc., but I also now realized that members of what I had previously dismissed as "false religions" often had the same experiences, and felt just as strongly that they were being spoken to! I began to realize that it would be the height of hypocrisy to cling to the notion that my "personal revelation" was good reason to believe anything if I simultaneously dismissed the personal revelations of others, from different faiths, as being merely deluded. It was really starting to hit home that everything I'd believed about what was right and good or wrong and sinful had been based on one of two things - other people's say-so, and the Bible. I'd never allowed myself - or been encouraged to - critically examine those beliefs, because the warnings were many and dire. The church had done an excellent job of keeping me insulated and protected - all lines of inquiry were re-directed in a neverending circle back to the inerrant Word of God, and when that seemed fuzzy, "the Lord works in mysterious ways". I was starting to feel quite foolish for never having thought to step outside the circle before, and a little bit resentful of having been actively discouraged from doing so. I remembered how I had been inspired, years before, to seek deeper understanding of my faith in order to be able to defend it, and how my questioning and search for knowledge had been so vehemently discouraged. Now I knew why. It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows. - Epictetus June 1996 Finally, six months after he came to my room to tell me that he'd decided to opt for divorce, Vincent moved out into his own apartment. We were able to come to agreement on all of the practical matters with little argument. It seemed that the time had come to just "hurry up and wait" - in California, once divorce papers are filed there is a six-month waiting period before the judge rubber-stamps the petition and the dissolution is done. I didn't foresee any complications. Things didn't really seem that different, at first, with Vincent now physically gone - other than the big empty room that had once been furnished and called a "living room". I still, for some reason, felt so badly about everything that had happened that when it came time to divide up all of our material accumulations, I told Vincent to just go ahead and take everything except for the bedroom furniture and a few other things I'd already had when we got married. For several weeks the only thing in the living room was a big chair and ottoman that the neighbors were giving away and asked if I wanted upon seeing everything being moved out in a U-Haul. As the weeks passed, though, I realized that something was different - not just the absence of a peripheral awareness of Vincent's comings and goings through the house, but a stark realization that I

was really on my own again. This was at once frightening, liberating and guilt-inducing - the guilt springing from the sense of liberation. The prospect of living alone for the first time was daunting, but I also at times felt relief wash over me in waves when it occurred to me that I was finally free to explore my own path without constant, palpable disapproval casting a shadow over me. I began to socialize more, mostly with friends from work and some from church, and allow myself to indulge some of the interests I had previously not allowed much time for - namely reading (other than religiously oriented material) and music (other than only Christian music for the first time). To combat the still-lingering depression, I joined a gym and began working out regularly. For a while, after having had my "Eureka!" moment, I put the thoughts of religion, faith and belief, that had occupied almost every waking thought for several years, on the back burner. Day by day I found that I was beginining to actually enjoy life again. In September, Vincent called me one evening and asked if there was any way we could try and work things out. Yikes. He didn't actually say over the phone that he wanted to know if we could try again, but from the tone of his voice when he requested that we get together and talk about something important, I just knew. We met at a Natale' Coffee, a small, cozy coffee house near what used to be "our" house. It was a weeknight, quiet inside, and just about a week after what would have been a wedding anniversary for us had we been celebrating it. After a while of making the awkward kind of small talk that is unique to once-intimate partners now estranged, I could no longer wait. I blurted it out: "Vincent, what is it that you want to talk to me about?" He was having trouble meeting my eyes, fidgeting with his hands, and stammered slightly over his words. "Well, um, you know, I've been praying a lot about things and I guess I just feel like I am supposed to ask you if you would be willing to try and give our marriage another chance". An avalanche of confused and conflicting emotions knocked the breath out of me. Red-faced and somewhat nauseous, I stared into the bottom of my coffee cup as though I might find the answer floating there among the grounds. It took me a while to be able to speak, but when I did, I looked at him and asked a simple question. "Have you reconsidered whether you will go to a regular, non-church-affiliated marriage counselor with me?" He didn't have to speak for me to know what the answer was - from the way he immediately looked away from me, and the flush in his own face, I knew that nothing was going to happen that night to change anything.

"Lauri, I'm sorry.... I just can't do that. I know you felt strongly about it before, but I've been praying so much about this and I just feel so strongly that God wants me to ask you this, but I know that's not what He wants me to do either... I'm just asking you, please consider going back to chu - " I am out of my chair. I am in the parking lot. I am walking down the street toward home, vaguely aware of Vincent behind me, startled by my bolt from the table, trying to catch up. When he caught up with me, it was all I could do to contain myself. "Look, Vincent. I do NOT want to talk about this right now, okay? I am really, really angry, and I don't want to fight with you and I just can't be calm right now and explain to you why I'm so upset. Please just let me go home and we can talk later, ok?" It was a rhetorical question, really, because I was going home to be alone and clear my head no matter what. Looking defeated, he asked quietly if he could at least drive me home, around the corner - he didn't want me to be walking alone at night. "Fine. Look, I'm sorry, we can talk about this more later but I just don't want to say anything out of anger or frustration, ok?" "Okay, I understand". A short and silent drive to my doorstep, and goodnight. Not that I was going to sleep anytime soon. After pacing around the house a bit purposelessly - or for the purpose of blowing off some steam - I made myself some tea, changed and got into bed to try and relax and calm down. I struggled to identify the source of my anger. What, exactly, in Vincent's words had incensed me so deeply? I ruminated, tossed and turned, knew that I would be unable to fall asleep. It occurred to me that I was angry because I felt that Vincent had long since ceased to see me as a person worth even trying to understand. He viewed me through the prism of a belief system that rendered me as hopelessly lost unless I was willing to "come back to the other side". I felt invisible to him as my true self, someone honestly seeking answers, instead appearing to him as a caricature, "one of Them". The backslider, the wayward sheep, the poor soul somehow lured into temptation, my motives and desires already pre-assigned and determined by people who didn't even know me. His mind was made up - or rather it seemed it had been made up for him. I truly felt as though when we spoke, he was looking right through me and seeing, instead, what he was being told to see. Encouraged to see. "Led" to see. After all, he had claimed that upon prayer and reflection he was "led" to feel that he should ask me if I would try again; however, curiously, what he was "led" to feel always seemed to fall neatly in line with what the church and the brethren strongly advised. I realized that he hadn't said anything about what he wanted - only what he felt he "should" do, what "God wanted him to do" - and I had to wonder why, then, in my many months of praying for guidance, I hadn't received the same divine instruction.

Were God's wires crossed? Was the message to me getting misdirected? I truly didn't think so, but still, I was torn. On one hand, I was repelled by the thought of putting myself back in a situation where I felt constantly reviled and disapproved of for voicing my thoughts and opinions openly. On the other hand, I felt a great deal of guilt - would it be right for me to say "no, I won't try again" when I had made a serious vow, for better or for worse? Would it be better for me to agree to try again and hope that I could somehow get Vincent to understand and least accept where I was coming from? Would I be making a huge and horrible mistake by refusing to give it one more shot, and letting my marriage end permanently? But even as I weighed these things against each other and had moments of emotional vacillation and uncertainty, deep down, I knew. I just couldn't do it; that self-preservation instinct was not only there, but had begun to grow a bit stronger, and I knew, at my very core, that to turn back now was not genuinely possible. I was still lonely much of the time, and a part of me still mourned the loss of what I had expected would be - a long and happy marriage. But in the end I realized that I did not want to live a life based on fear - fear of the unknown, or even fear of the known. *** Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live. - Dorothy Thompson *** So it was decided in my heart. Actually getting up the courage to cross the bridge - and for all practical purposes burn it behind me - was another thing altogether. Still, I procrastinated for days. I dreaded the finality of it, and I've always hated, almost more than anything, being the bearer of bad news and the irrational guilt of hurting someone by having the unmitigated gall to do what is right for myself. I don't know where this comes from. I guess mostly, I just want everybody to be happy. Finally, I decided that instead of calling Vincent or meeting him in person, I would write a letter. (I cannot produce what it contained, exactly, here because it was given to him, obviously.) I told him that just as he remained steadfast in his determination not to participate in marriage counseling with a non-church-affiliated therapist, I felt equally strongly that it would be absolutely necessary in order for me to agree to an attempted reconciliation. If he remained unwilling, once and for all, to participate in that counseling with me, I had no choice but to say "no - I'm not willing to try again". I elaborated - I suppose in a last-ditch effort to try and help him understand why I felt so strongly about it - by saying that I felt the trust issues we had encountered clearly transcended matters of religion. Even as I wrote it, though, I felt fairly certain that it wouldn't get through - after all, he'd been reassured by those he trusted most that this thing, trust, was legitimately superceded by The Higher Authority that if he felt (or was counseled by an "elder") that God was impressing upon him that I was wrong, wrong, wrong, it was right, right, right to go ahead and toss aside the promises he'd made to me. I told him that I could not, would not be treated as less than an equal - and that regardless of what the church, any church claimed, I did not believe that God intended my "role" in marriage or any other relationship to be less than equal. I had come to realize that regardless of the presence or absence of

romantic love, a basis of friendship, passion or philosophical agreement - I could never be happy in a marriage devoid of mutual respect. Putting it all onto paper, and signing it with the knowledge of its finality, was keenly dissonant. I simultaneously experienced a deep sense of loss - and the feeling that I was, in a way, signing my own release papers. *** First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do. - Epictetus *** And that was The End, for us. Vincent never responded to my letter specifically, and I didn't have the heart to bring it up; his silence was its own answer, and I knew him well enough to know that it reflected his pain. Despite my anger on that evening at the coffeehouse, I had also been acutely aware of the hurt that he was experiencing. I knew that he, too, was often lonely, and genuinely, deeply bewildered at how things had could have gone so wrong. For several years after the last time we spoke, I wished that I could somehow ease the burden that I knew he, too, carried, by helping him understand why I had to change, why I could not help but change... and that I never meant to hurt him. There just came a time when not changing - and being discouraged from changing - was hurting me. I took a different path, but it was not with the intent of leaving him behind; it was for the purpose of finding something, that I somehow knew was out there, waiting to be found. *** Not long after our divorce was final, while we still had occasion to speak once in a while about practical matters, Vincent told me that he doubted if he would ever feel "sure" enough to ever marry again. Knowing how much our split had devastated him was painful for me, but I tried to assure him that I knew he would find love again - with someone who was better suited to him, who could be the person I couldn't, what he wanted and needed. I told him "Someday, you will look back at this and realize that it was the best thing for us both, even though it doesn't feel that way now." His response was "I doubt it". He was thirty-one years old at the time of our divorce, and wanted badly to be settled down - and starting a family. By the time I began dating and was eventually engaged to be married again, he still hadn't come to a place of feeling ready to try his hand at love again. But not long before my second wedding, I heard through the grapevine that he'd met a lovely young woman at church - a widow with a three-year-old daughter whose husband had died terribly young and suddenly of brain cancer. Within a few months, they were engaged to be married the following year. When we spoke on the phone a few times and he talked about her, he sounded truly happy again for the first time in a long time. Shortly after my wedding took place, I spoke to him for the last time, and it was a conversation I'll always remember. I'd received some mail that had mistakenly been delivered to my address, and I called him to let him know. We chatted briefly; he asked if my wedding had already taken place, which

I confirmed. Then I asked him - "What about you? When is the big day for you and Sandra?" "Oh. Well, that's - I broke it off. We're not getting married." I had a horrible feeling, as though my heart had dropped into my stomach, but I asked anyway "What?! Why?" He said that he just couldn't do it - couldn't go through with it, was scared out of his mind to make that commitment again and have it fall apart - didn't know whether he could stand to lose someone again if she changed her mind, and have to start over yet again. It was as though his words twisted a knife, that little knife of guilt that I still had stuck in me for not only the end of our marriage but for having moved on, fallen in love again, gotten married - all while he still mourned the loss of what he had desperately wanted, and lost, still too afraid to take a risk again. My reaction surprised him a bit, though. "Vincent!!!!!! What is wrong with you? Look, I know it has taken you a long time to get over being scared to "put yourself out there" again. I know it is a risk, a big chance to take because you're right, you can never be 100% SURE that nothing bad will ever happen. But look - I know this woman loves you. I know you love her. You love her daughter and you both want to have a family. Don't let fear of what might happen keep you from living the rest of your life, and taking those risks - if you do, you'll only be making sure that you never find what you want. If you want to be with this woman and the only thing stopping you is your fear of getting hurt again because of what happened with us - I think you're making a big mistake." His response was to change the subject, and didn't speak of it further - or ever again, for that matter. But that next February of 2000, my aunt told me that he and Sandra had been married at Calvary Chapel and had plans for him to adopt her daughter. They currently reside in the home they bought near Murrietta Hot Springs, have welcomed their first son into the world, and are active in the Calvary Chapel church. *** September Once it was all said and done with Vincent, all over but the waiting for the final papers, my life began to change very quickly. In the months after my "Eureka!" moment, I'd begun to gradually feel less and less comfortable attending the new church I'd joined. It was a pretty liberal church, but I still felt increasingly like a fish out of water - no longer able to relate to the constant talk of having a "personal relationship" with Jesus. The biggest reason for this inability to relate was that I was beginning to realize how very odd and almost inherently absurd these concepts of the "supernatural" were beginning to seem. While I still hadn't figured out with certainty whether or not I believed in a historical Jesus as represented in the

Bible, I no longer found the Resurrection Story even remotely plausible. It therefore seemed kind of ridiculous - and more than a little creepy - to talk about having a "personal relationship" with someone who had been dead for more than 2,000 years. It wasn't long before I stopped going to church altogether. Around that time, I had a conversation with my grandmother about it - she was inquisitive, although not obnoxiously probing, about why I had quit attending the new church I'd seemed to feel very comfortable at. How the heck was I going to answer that??? My reticence to just come right out and explain, bluntly, why, was due to the fact that I simply didn't want my grandmother to be somehow hurt by the fact that I had no longer believed in many of the things dear to her heart. I didn't want her to think that I now felt she was stupid or deluded, and I certainly didn't want her to experience any distress worrying about my eternal destiny or anything like that. At the heart of it, I did not want to disappoint her. I wanted to be honest, and never genuinely feared that she would love me any less no matter what I believed, but a big part of me really wished that I could just keep all of this struggling to myself. When I finally told her that I no longer believed in the claims of Christianity, she was sitting in her favorite pink reclining chair in the living room I'd grown up in. It was a Sunday afternoon; I'd come over for brunch when they returned from their morning church services. As we sat and talked I mentally noted that she was beginning to show her age in her face, or maybe I just hadn't noticed it before. I wondered fleetingly if it wouldn't be better just to say nothing, play along with the whole thing when they were around, allow her to be happy knowing I was still "saved" for as many more years as I was lucky enough to have her in my life. I knew I couldn't do it though. Ironically, it was she who had instilled in me a fierce sense of independence and strong desire to do what was "right". And I knew it just wouldn't feel right to live a lie that way. It wouldn't feel right to wear a mask, a façade of belief, with someone that I knew loved me unconditionally anyway. So I told her. I danced around it for a bit, struggling to find the right words, but finally just came out and said it. "It's just that I don't believe in the idea of Christianity being the "one way" anymore. You know, that all the stuff in the Bible really happened and the only way to God is through Jesus Christ." As I said this, she began to cry. Not openly, and I could tell that she was trying very hard to hold it back, but nevertheless tears welled up in her eyes and I felt like someone was stabbing me in the gut and twisting the knife slowly. "Please don't cry, Grandma - there is nothing to be sad about. I'm fine - I'm feeling better than I have in a long time. I promise, you don't need to worry."

But I knew she would worry. We talked for a while longer, I hugged her tightly - wishing that there was something more I could say or do to help her realize that I was finally more at peace than I had been for ages, and that in many ways I felt as though a huge and heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I wished that it didn't feel somehow as though I had transferred that burden to her. I never had a similar conversation directly with my grandfather, although I assumed that my grandmother would share our conversation with him. In any case, neither of them ever really brought it up with me, at most making the occasional comment about me being in their prayers in general (not with regard to my salvation or spiritual status - the usual sort of "have a safe trip, we'll pray for you".) They never brought it up at family gatherings and their relationship with me continued as always, very loving and supportive. It was another story with a few of my other family members. *** A bit more background on my tumultous relationships with my biological parents is in order. My biological parents met at Shiloh, a commune in Oregon founded and "run" by hippies of the "Jesus Freak" variety (and affiliated with the early Calvary Chapel) in the late 60's. My mother was 16; my father 18. She had already borne her first child at 15, my eldest (half)sister, in New Mexico where she was from. He'd gotten into quite a bit of trouble as a teenager - having problems with drugs and being expelled from several high schools - when he again "found Jesus" through the early Calvary Chapel movement and my grandparents approved of his going to Shiloh to continue keeping his life on track and maybe even train to become a pastor. They met and by all accounts fell in love. It wasn't long before she turned up pregnant, at 17, with my middle sister - although they were not yet married. That was soon remedied. Shortly thereafter they moved back to Orange County in anticipation of the birth - the somewhat backward living conditions of the commune were not ideal for birthing and caring for a newborn. When my middle sister was less than 2 years old, she was 19, he was 21 and they decided to intentionally procreate yet again (

). And that's how it came to be that I was born.

I have no clear memories of the five of us living together as a family, although many of the family photographs from that period seem to show a happy, if ridiculously young little family. Unfortunately, when I was about 2 1/2 - in 1976 - my mother's past problems with drug and alchohol abuse returned once more and one day, she left. She didn't come back, ever, although she "surfaced" a few months later - wanting visitation with us, her three daughters, but not wanting to reconcile with our dad. At this time, my grandparents were in Papua New Guinea on their first mission trip. My grandmother, several years ago, compiled a notebook she titled simply "1976", consisting of all of the letters back and forth between them and both my dad, mom and aunt, as well as all of my grandmother's diary entries from that time, as a way of helping us (the three girls) to possibly gain some insight into exactly

what was going on during that time since we (as adults) often received conflicting stories from the various parties involved. Before long it became clear that they wouldn't be getting back together - my mom had already shacked up across town with another drug-addled character named Skip, who I remember most vividly for his Donald Duck-voice impression and gifting me with a board game called "Forest Friends". Once, when I was about five, they went to the movies and left the three of us girls locked in the back of his pickup truck with a camper shell. I wasn't scared for the first hour or so; I got a bit freaked out after that though, and when they finally came back to three young girls in tears and hysterics, I remember him trying in vain to calm me down using the Donald Duck voice that always made me laugh. I was not amused. Then, in the summertime, before my grandparents had returned, my dad met a woman who was a dead ringer for Cher, at the pool of the apartment complex we were living in. She was twenty, also going through a divorce, and had a 2-year-old son, about a year younger than me. They moved in to our apartment with us the next day. Love at first sight, they maintain. Needless to say the three of us girls were a bit taken aback and none-to-pleased with this turn of events - still missing our mom, not wanting a replacement mom who, quite frankly, didn't seem to like us very much. It was not a good situation. Since I was the youngest and least able or likely to protest, a lot of the frustration my would-be stepmother experienced by virtue of being 20 years old with a toddler and three stepdaughters, was taken out on me. She imparted me with the gifts of a life-long aversion to pre-nose-job photos of Cher, and two small scars on my face that at age 30, are now barely noticeable but still seem deep to me when I look in the mirror sometimes. My grandparents got wind of the fact that things at home were Not Good. They returned from Papua New Guinea. My grandmother tells me that when they returned from PNG, she came upstairs at our house the first night they were back, where I was taking a bath. She says that I seemed confused at first; staring at her, somewhat befuddled, with an expression that said "You seem familiar... but who are you exactly?" I hadn't been yet three years old when they left. She says that she said "Laura, honey, it's me! Grandma!" and I reacted with an almost hysterical sense of relief and clinging to her. While I can't claim to remember what I was thinking or feeling that evening, I can only imagine that I was overwhelmed by a sense of some safety having arrived. Within a few weeks it was decided that I would stay with my grandparents temporarily, perhaps for a few weeks. A few weeks turned into a few months, and eventually it was agreed that it would be best for me to stay with them, essentially, permanently -although for some reason, my father would never agree to actually allow them to adopt me. A legal guardianship was arranged. Thing were weird for a couple of years, between the years of four and seven years old for me. When I was six, my stepmother (they married as soon as their respective divorces were final) decreed that our oldest sister, whom my father had legally adopted, had "no place' in the reconstituted family, since after all "she's not even your real daughter, Gary!" Never mind that he had been the only father she'd ever known. She was eventually shipped back to New Mexico to live with our maternal grandparents, and I

saw her very little for many years. In those interim years, our mother had visitation with us sporadically - meaning, she would often be scheduled to pick us up for either a day-long, overnight, or weekend, but would fail to show up. I can't count the number of times we would sit together on the front porch, waiting for hours after she was supposed to have arrived, before our grandmother would insist - with her own sense of resignation, but trying to cheer us - that it was time to come inside, everything would be ok. There must have been an emergency. It was usually after dark. Most of the weekends that we did spend with our mother were more accurately spent in the living room of her new apartment, while she spent time with Skip in their bedroom getting stoned or doing "adult things, don't bother us". We spent a lot of time playing outside in the yard, making our own fun. We played that board game, "Forest Friends", a lot, although that was only my personal favorite because of the cute woodland creatures it featured and my older sisters usually only played along because I was the youngest and they liked to make me happy. On my seventh birthday, after my oldest sister had been sent back to New Mexico, my mother came by to give me a birthday present. She arrived several hours late on the back of some guy's Harley - Skip was no longer around. The birthday present was a book I had wanted called "Best Loved Children's Poems". I was happy, but confused when after about 20 minutes of visiting she insisted that she was sorry, but she had to leave, and hugged and kissed me. From the large picture window I cried as I watched her fade off into the distance on the back of that Harley, not even realizing that I would not see her again until I was 16 years old. Turns out mom drove off into the sunset and ended up moving back to Alamagordo, New Mexico, where her parents still lived and her eldest daughter had gone to be raised by them. She spent the next decade working as a waitress at various establishments, drinking and drugging herself into oblivion, racking up DUI's and twice attempting (and failing at) rehab programs. My oldest sister, at one point, lived with her instead of the grandparents, but an end was put to that when it came out that she was often left home alone all night (at the age of 12) while mom went out drinking with friends and/or male companions. I did not understand. Often, I still don't. I remember most clearly, one morning very early, crawling into bed between my grandparents, inconsolable with grief for some reason. I was about eight or maybe nine; perhaps I'd had a bad dream, or maybe a good dream, like that my mom was coming to visit me, only to wake to the harsh reality that the likelihood of that happening was slim to none. I held tightly to my grandma and asked her over and over, why? Why doesn't my momma love me? What did I do? I think she hurt as much as I did. She cried too. She didn't know how to explain to an eight-year-old "It's not you; your mother is a drug addict. You didn't do anything". She did what she could, though, and she did it well; she (and my grandfather) loved me completely and I never felt alone or afraid with them. As the years passed, I gradually began to stop expecting - hoping - that one day she would show up on

our doorstep, wanting to see me. She sent birthday and Christmas cards, most years anyway, and eventually I just adjusted to her absence as a fact of life. It was just The Way Things Were. But when I was fifteen, after we had returned from Papua New Guinea, the questions began to nag at me once again. What was she doing out there in New Mexico? Did she ever think of me? Why didn't she want to see me - or was it that my grandparents didn't want me to see her? They assured me that this wasn't the case, but seemed at a loss to explain why, then, so many years had passed with no visits. It wasn't as though my mom had moved to London or Timbuktu; New Mexico was only a day and a half's drive away, less than 2 hours by air. I was not aware of what went on behind the scenes that brought it about, but one day, near the end of the school year, my grandparents sat me down and told me that if we wanted to go, it had been arranged that my sister and I could go to visit our mother and maternal grandparents in New Mexico. (Our oldest sister wouldn't be there, as she had joined the Air Force and gotten the heck out of there the minute she graduated from high school). I was somewhat stunned, overwhelmed, and terribly excited. A million thoughts competed for attention in my mind all at once. I was actually going to see my mom again. Would she recognize me? Of course, she'd been sent pictures. But I had only been seven years old the last time she saw me in the flesh. Would I recognize her? I hadn't seen any current photos of her in the eight years that had elapsed, and my memories, even when aided by photographs from my early childhood, had become fuzzy over the years. I could picture her quite generally in my mind's eye, but couldn't get a focus on any details of her physical presence. I was almost too nervous to eat or sleep for a few days prior to our departure. What would she think of me? What would I think of her? Would it be awkward, strange, bizarre the first time we saw each other as I stepped off the plane? I was about to find out. It turned out that the most awkward part, when we stepped off the plane, was the fact that I had grown to tower over my mother by a good 7 inches. I had reached my full height of 5'7", while she stands barely five feet tall. I had forgotten about that too, since she always looked tiny next to other adults, but had of course never seemed short to me. And so this time it was me leaning down to hug her. She looked so much older than I remembered, than how the old photos from my first years depicted her. I'd turned sixteen a few months before, which would had made her 35 at the time, but she seemed closer to 40 - at least. It was her smell that triggered a powerful "memory recognition" of her - as though it had only been a few days since the last time she had her arms around me. Heavy with smoke in her clothes, hair, skin, slightly boozy - floral scented body talc. Same as it ever was. The visit went well, albeit very quickly and sometimes in a blur. There was so much about my sister and me, our lives for the many preceding years, that she wanted to know about. She had very little to say about what she had been up to all this time, and we didn't ask. We were just happy to be with her again, that she seemed to care, to really love us and want to get to know the individuals we had become. It never occurred to either of us to question or confront her about anything; at that point, we were still all too willing to forgive and forget the past. Our mom had re-appeared, and that was all we cared about for the moment.

She drank a lot. I was nervous when she was driving a couple times, especially on the way back down from the local mountains one evening; we had driven up the mountain, had a late lunch at which she ordered beer after beer. She seemed fine, sort of, maybe only slurring a little bit when saying goodbye to her friend who was the bartender, but I still gripped the sides of my seat in her car tightly the whole way down the winding mountain road. I wondered why she drank so much. I put the wondering out of my mind. For the next several years, the remainder of my high school years and up until I was 19 and married Vincent, I visited once or twice a year. Sometimes she would call me late at night - I had my own phone in my room - very weepy, and not making much sense, telling me how sorry she was for everything and how much she loved me. This seemed weird to me and I didn't understand it until once I went to visit and and we went to meet a girlfriend of hers at a bar. I was only seventeen but they let me come in and sit with them because all the bartenders and owners knew my mom. The three of us were there for many hours - I thought I might burst from drinking so much Sprite - and the two of them put away a good amount of beer and liquor. After meandering home (another white-knuckle ride) I was getting ready for bed when I heard my mom getting on the phone, calling some friend or other - and getting weepy and sentimental. The light bulb went off. I'd never heard the term "drunk dialing" before. She didn't come out to California until I was twenty. She stayed with Vincent and I for about a week, and we had a really nice visit - she was thrilled to see the ocean again after so many years and we took quite a few long walks on the beach. Vincent and I invited her to go to church along with us several times, but she declined, saying vaguely that it "just wasn't her thing" anymore. I told her I understood and made note to continue praying that she would someday "get right with God" again. Ironically, it was around the time that I began to deconvert that my past prayer "was answered". About a year later, after not hearing from her for a while - and around the time that things were starting to go south for Vincent and I - I received a long letter from her. Apparently, she'd gone into rehab (again - this was perhaps her third or maybe fourth trip) and was now clean and sober. Part of her 12-step recovery program (Alcoholics Anonymous) post-rehab was to be willing to "make amends" to those she had harmed. This long letter was her way of admitting to me how very badly she had screwed up when she walked out, and acknowledging how deeply it had hurt and affected me. I had no idea how to respond. Part of me was, quite frankly, shocked. I had pretty much given up any hope that she'd ever sober up. I was also uncomfortable with her long confessional, not because I found it insincere, but because for many years I had quite intentionally put these things out of my mind. I did not necessarily want to be reminded of the turbulence she'd left in her wake when she left us, and in the years of sporadic contact following. But of course I was glad that she had finally been able, apparently, to take control of her life and start down the path to a healthier and happier life. Instead of calling (she had included her new phone

number), I wrote back and told her that I was very happy for her, and thanked her for the letter. And I was happy for her. I also hoped that this significant change in her life would make it possible for us to grow even closer. I did not anticipate that we would both be experiencing even more radical changes in our lives changes that would drive a wedge between us instead of drawing us closer together. As the months passed, she wrote more often, and I would write back. Despite the fact that my struggles with my faith and relationship with Vincent were intensifying, I never mentioned either of them in any of my letters or the very occasional phone calls, partially because I did not feel close enough to her to confide these sorts of things, and partially because it was clear that she was going through enough on her own without needing to be troubled with my problems. Somewhat gradually, her letters began to contain more and more frequent religious references - rather vague, speaking of "God's will" and the like, but very noticeable nonetheless since she had for so many years ignored the matter of her former faith entirely. Eventually I asked her about it, during a phone conversation that occurred after I had quit going to Calvary Chapel, but was still living with Vincent. She told me that the Alcoholics Anonymous, 12-Step Program she'd begun after completing rehab had opened her eyes to the fact that she did indeed need to acknowledge a Higher Power in her life, and that since doing so she'd been "blessed" with a new measure of inner strength to deal with her continued recovery. She also said that she'd recently begun looking for a new home church in the town she was living in and was leaning toward a small Episcopalian congregation that seemed very accepting and laid-back. Once again, I was surprised, but this sounded pretty good to me. Although I didn't say so out loud, I had been a bit worried that she may have once again embraced fundamentalism and about how, if so, it would affect our relationship when she learned that I had left it. I told her, honestly, that I was glad she was finding strength for her journey through a renewed relationship with God. I divulged just a little about how I had stopped attending Calvary, not going into detail and not including anything about the problems with Vincent, and she responded very supportively. For a brief time, it seemed that we were, for once, on the same wavelength. *** Our correspondence continued during the months in which my marriage was entering its death spiral and my faith was slowly but surely crumbling. I never wrote or talked about either of these things to her, until the very end when Vincent and I were really through. During this time, her letters and our occasional phone conversations had become markedly infused with talk of God, Jesus, and her "walk with the Lord". She said that while she really liked many aspects of her new church, the Episcopalian one, there were a few things she wasn't totally comfortable with - namely that they allowed women to be ministers (priests). A little warning bell went off in the back of my mind - "don't get into this one, Lauri". I changed the subject. She didn't pick up on the fact that I was no longer attending Calvary, because she never asked assuming, I suppose that I was attending as usual - and I never volunteered it. She wasn't in contact, at

that time, with any of the other members of "my side" of the family, so there was no one else to hear it from. When the time came to tell her that Vincent and I had split up for good, I decided it was as good a time as any to drop that bombshell too. Two for one, what a deal. She was surprised, to say the least. "Why didn't you say anything about this before?" I didn't know how to explain why. She was saddened by the news about me and Vincent - she had only met him a few times so they weren't close or anything, but she had understandably liked him a lot - he was a very likeable guy. Without going into a lot of detail, I told her that we had simply gotten to the point of no longer being compatible; our worldviews and beliefs had become almost so diametrically opposed that whatever common ground we'd shared was now lost. She didn't comment on this much, other than to say vaguely "I understand", and I didn't press her for her thoughts. When she asked what had caused me to leave Calvary, I told her that I didn't really want to get into it right then, but would explain more later, perhaps in a letter. The conversation ended on a somewhat stilted note; while I was relieved to have finally gotten that out of the way, I knew that I was going to have to eventually make good on my promise to explain things more fully. About a week later, before I had a chance to decide how to go about doing so, I received another long letter from her. This letter read more like a personal testimony, ending with an "altar call", than a correspondence intended to initiate dialogue. It was long and winding and told the tale of how, in her new perspective, the previous twenty-some years of addiction and despair had been essentially caused by one thing; her willful decision to "walk away from the Lord". As she saw it, she'd been deceived by Satan all those many years before into thinking that "the world" had more to offer than marriage and child-raising, and the Evil One himself had used the demon alcohol, drugs and various Bad Men to entice her away from her family life, hence the going-out-forcigarettes-and-never-coming-back trick. She said she now realized that for more than twenty years she'd been trapped in a vicious cycle of "denying God", fueled by the irresistible draw of the temptations of the flesh, which hardened her heart to the Holy Spirit's influence and of course, being deeply miserable due to being separated from God, made her want to numb her misery with even more substance abuse. She believed her previous attempts at rehab to have failed because she hadn't yet opened her eyes and heart to the Truth - that she couldn't do it by her own strength, but pridefully believed that she could and continued to resist surrendering to God. She wrote that during the brief periods of sobriety following each rehab, she even made the dire mistake of investigating other religions, like Buddhism and Taoism, but that because they are "false and deceiving" religions, she inevitably returned to her old ways. But then, after the last rehab, when she went to her AA meetings, she was blessed with a sponsor who began to share with her and gradually help her to realize what she'd really been missing - a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. She said that at first she was resistant to this idea, having abandoned her once-fervent "born-again"

faith so long before, and initially chose instead to acknowledge only God as her Higher Power. That was why she had initially chosen the more liberal and laid-back Episcopalian congregation for a church home; in her words, she wasn't ready yet to "return to her first love". I recognized the phrase, of course. In the 70?s, there was a band called Love Song, fronted by Chuck Girard, that formed in Costa Mesa, California out of the just-beginning Calvary Chapel fellowship of self-identified Jesus Freaks. They knew my grandparents and one of them, Phil Keaggy, rented a room in their house (that was later my room) for a while and the band sometimes practiced in the garage. Although they disbanded in 1974 when I was only a year old, my grandparents of course had their albums and I grew up listening to them. One of the songs, which I loved (and still catch myself singing sometimes) contained the following lyrics: Return to your first love Put Jesus first again The love in your heart You had when you first started Can be there again. Return to your first love. Apparently, those words had stuck in her mind all those years too. The last page of the letter, the part that read like an "altar call", got me feeling sad, irritated, frustrated and angry all at the same time. First, she "wondered" what might have happened to cause me to feel this way. Had someone in the church done something that caused me to become disillusioned with, or distrusting of, the church? If so, it was important that I realize that the church is made up of flawed humans and I shouldn't let their mistakes or actions interfere with my personal relationship with the Lord. Or was I angry at God for some reason, feeling that He had abandoned me or let me down? Had I talked with anyone in the church about it before leaving, made an effort to seek the counsel of a trusted church leader about whatever my concern or problem had been? If not, would I consider doing so now? She then expressed that she could relate to the confusion I must be feeling, because she'd been there. She wrote that she had no doubt that the Lord would eventually lead me back to Him, but that for my own sake she hoped that I didn't take "the long road home", like she had. She told me that she loved me very much - and would pray for me. I sat there holding her letter for a long time, hardly able to even pinpoint exactly what emotions I was experiencing. I decided that irritation and frustration were in the lead. I eventually set the letter down on the kitchen table and went for a long walk, to clear my head. I needed to chill out and get a grip on my jumbled emotions before even thinking about how I was going to respond. I gave myself a few days to digest the contents of the letter and decide how I was going to respond. I ended up deciding to write a letter of my own.

My letter wasn't nearly as long as hers had been, and I tried to keep it simple and straightforward, not going into excessive detail about the reasons for the changes in my beliefs. Primarily, I wanted to address her speculative questions about what may have prompted the shift in my views. I explained that I had originally begun a deeper study of my beliefs in order to be a better representative of my faith - not because I was, at that time, already questioning it. I wrote that my studying had raised a lot of troubling questions in my mind, but that ultimately I had still been determined to find answers to them and had committed myself fully to seeking understanding and following God's plan for my life. However, I explained, the deeper I dug, the more I realized that the foundations of my faith were, in fact, built on shifting sands and not "solid rock" as I'd always assumed. I answered her that yes, I'd sought the counsel of leaders within the church, and that I'd read some books that they suggested, but that in the end my questioning had only intensified. I wrote that it was after this, and some personal matters that transpired between Vincent and me, that I had quit going to Calvary Chapel. I also told her that no, I hadn't left Calvary simply because of something someone there did or said, but that many of the beliefs practiced and encouraged there had indeed contributed to my decision to quit attending there. And I made it very clear that I wasn't "angry at God". I still believed in God; I just wasn't sure anymore what my relationship to Him should be like, what He expected from me, how and to what extent He was really "there", personally involved, in my life. And that was about it. I signed off, sealed and stamped the envelope and sent it off before I could get cold feet or start second-guessing myself. It was off to New Mexico, and time for me to wait and see what would happen next. I didn't have to wait long for a response, but when it came it was not really a response to what I had written. It was more of a bizarre regurgitation of the first letter, albeit shorter, that totally failed to address what I had written and left me wondering if I'd unwittingly written my letter in invisible ink. "Prayer is such a powerful thing, and I just know with all my heart that if you really seek the Lord, He will answer you?" "Questioning your faith is totally normal, but you just have to stay strong through it and don't let yourself be deceived?" "It's so important to remember that it's not the world's wisdom that we need to rely on, but God's?" I thought I might choke on the condescension, which I knew was not intended but nonetheless grated on me. It was as though she had not really read my letter but had instead perhaps skimmed it, then dipped into the handy stockpile of EZ Answers For Christians and haphazardly tossed a bunch of them out in the hope that one or two of them might find its mark in my reprobate mind. How the heck was I supposed to respond to this? Part of me, in frustration, felt even more urgently that I needed her to understand what I was saying - how could I explain it better? - and another part of me

felt like throwing up my hands and saying "screw it". I was peeved that she didn't seem to have "heard" a word I'd said, and a little bit insulted by it as well. It was just another round of the pat answers and tired old clichés that I'd heard a thousand times before, and I was beginning to find her newly fervent style of writing kind of creepy and unnerving. It was as though she was becoming an automaton when it came to talking about religion - repeatedly spitting out the same stock answers and catch phrases regardless of the incoming information. I decided not to write back, but instead tell her over the phone that we could discuss it more when she came to visit, if she wanted to. She was scheduled to come out for a visit a few months later, and I thought perhaps it would be easier for me to explain my point of view in person, face-to-face. Anne drove off into the sunset once again, New Mexico-bound, and I continued to contemplate this new twist in the rocky road of our relationship. I found myself becoming quite agitated every time I replayed the conversation in my mind, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why. This nagging question in the back of my mind began to seem like a pebble in my shoe, something ever-present and bothersome that I couldn't seem to shake loose. It spurred me to doing some serious reflection that I hoped would bring some sort of answer to why I was so deeply disturbed by this turn of events. I hit on it eventually, as I wrote long journal entries and turned it all over in my mind. I was still hurt, and angry, and my mother's response to the things I had shared with her - making myself somewhat vulnerable, once again - had re-awakened a sense of resentment that I had purposefully suppressed for a very, very long time. When she first re-appeared in my life, there was that child-like part of me that was simply so happy that my mom had finally come back, that I was all to willing to forgive and forget, let bygones be bygones and forge ahead toward rebuilding a new relationship. I never had any illusions that we would have a real "mother-daughter" type relationship, because as far as I was concerned my grandmother was my mother and that was all there was to it - but I did hope that we would be able to form some sort of authentic familial bond, or at least become friends. At the time there was never any "what the hell were you thinking?" or "why did you leave and then turn into such a flake for so many years"? I also realized that when she first re-entered my life, when I was 16, I was deep in the fundamentalist mindset and strongly believed that almost-unconditional forgiveness was a virtue, not thinking that it might actually be unhealthy to wave off the past and dive right back into a relationship without addressing the residual issues from what had gone before. Around this same time, I wrote the following in one of my numerous notebooks: The child's pain never quite goes away. It lurks quietly in the darkest corners of your heart, and you may think it's been erased, purged or somehow healed over and safely locked away, but the moment will come when you realize it's still there, as fresh and fierce as it ever was, when you first felt it at two or five or seven or however old - the sting of a parent's rejection that made you feel ugly inside. Unlovable. Unworthy. Unwanted. And I realized that I was feeling that again - but this time, perhaps because I had grown into myself and a decent sense of self-worth, it was pissing me right off.

I realized that it I was very angry about the fact that after all this time, when I had in my own view made a fairly decent life for myself despite having some hard times growing up, my mother was coming back and essentially saying that because I had taken a different path, I was somehow broken, deficient, lost. The belief system she had again embraced necessarily implied that in my current state, I was less than whole - and here she was again, with attempted motherly concern and the best intentions, telling me that none of my struggling meant a thing. She knew better. She, after all, had seen the light, come to her senses, been saved from her wretched self by the Lord himself - and if I would only listen, and follow, He would save me too! Wouldn't I let her help? It struck me that she was essentially clinging to the Ultimate Cosmic Cop-Out: The Devil Made Me Do It. Literally. And it rankled. Never mind that she had, herself, been raised by two alcoholic and emotionally abusive parents; that wasn't it, no-siree. She'd found The Way as a teenager, then lost it for a long time, but by golly she'd found it again and now wanted nothing more than to share the Good News with the daughter she'd abandoned, seeing as how that daughter had inexplicably also been deceived by Satan!!! The blinders-on arrogance of it ("la-la-la, I can't hear you") struck a nerve deep inside me. Anger is rooted in either hurt or fear. I was no longer afraid, but I was still hurt. It hurt that it didn't seem to matter one whit to my mother that I had grown up okay, maybe even strong and independent, without her and in spite of the various obstacles along the way. The way she saw it, all of that was unimportant in the face of the fact that I had the unmitigated nerve to take a critical look at what had been spoon-fed to me from birth. Obviously a sign of a deeply flawed character. It was a brand-new and elemental rejection of everthing that I was and had become, a full-on diss. Same song, second verse. Same as the first. "You'd be a good person... if only you believed what I believe." These realizations came over me gradually but quickly, not overnight, but rather like waves lapping at the shore of my consciousness until, finally, it was high tide. Ignoring the rising waters ceases to be an option when you are in danger of drowning. And I said to myself, quietly, "Fuck that noise". *** After my mother returned home to New Mexico and I realized what had bothered me so much about our interaction, I withdrew somewhat emotionally from what had been our developing relationship. In hindsight, it was probably not the best or most mature way to deal with things, but at the time, with everything else that was going on in my life, I had simply run out of emotional energy to deal with it in any other way. But there was one more thing that would happen to further drive a wedge between us, even though it was an invisible wedge in the sense that I don't think she ever realized how deeply it affected me. A little while after all was truly said and done with Vincent - after he'd moved out and the divorce

papers were well on their way to being finalized - I received a phone call from my mother. We hadn't spoken nearly as frequently since her last visit and when we did, the conversations were usually pretty short at my choosing. This particular phone call was to be no exception, but it knocked my socks off and not in a good way. From her tone, I could immediately sense that there was something she was leading up to say, so I gave her an in after the obligatory chit-chat. "So, what's on your mind?" "Oh. Well. I guess you can tell, huh." Laughter that was a little nervous. "Yep. So what's up?" She started off by telling me, a bit fumblingly, that she hadn't been entirely honest with me about something from when I had originally broken the news that Vincent and I were splitting up. My curiosity was piqued. She then proceeded to tell me that it was about how she had told me she "understood" when I had mentioned that one of the issues we'd had was my rejection of the idea that I should be submissive as part of God's will for my role as a wife. My stomach began to churn ever so slightly. Basically, she said, she'd been feeling "convicted" that she needed to be honest with me, and tell me that she did in fact believe that to be true - that in a Christian marriage, it was important for the wife to submit herself to her husband in order for God to bless the marriage. She felt that it had been wrong for her not to be honest with me about this, but that at the time she didn't want to hurt my feelings by just saying that she thought I was, in fact, in error. She was sorry for not being more honest with me about her true feelings, and now felt strongly that the Lord was leading her to be open with me so that our relationship could be authentic and not based on dishonesty. You could have knocked me over with a feather. For some reason the lyrics to one of Don Henley's songs ran through my mind - "Kick 'em when they're up, Kick 'em when they're down." I hadn't the slightest idea how to respond to this. After a brief silence, I found myself responding with biting sarcasm. "Well thanks so much for telling me that, especially now that it's all over and in the past. I guess it's always good to know that there's one more person that thinks you're making a big mistake. Wouldn't want to be under the false impression that you were actually supportive of my doing what is right for me if that's not the case". There was more silence and I immediately regretted my words, if only because I knew instinctively that it didn't make any difference and wasn't bound to be productive. Then again, I was beginning to feel as though nothing I said would be productive anyway. I'd tried before, only to have the distinct impression that I was talking to a brick wall, and so I was nearing the end of my rope. "Look, I'm sorry, I guess I just don't understand the point of telling me this now?" "Well, like I said, I just don't feel that it's right for me not to be honest with you about how I really feel - if we're going to have a relationship."

"Ok, you're probably right. I certainly don't want you to lie to me just to protect my feelings. Seriously, I'm not trying to sound sarcastic now, but I guess I don't want to be thinking that you are supportive of my decisions if you're not. That's fine, you don't have to be. I guess we just disagree on this and that's it." "Alright, but I really don't want you to feel that I don't support you just because I don't support your decisions." "Yes, I get it. Okay, I gotta go, but I guess I'll talk to you soon. Bye." *** As I thought about it afterward, it wasn't that I couldn't understand the concept of disagreeing with someone's choices while still caring for them and supporting them as an individual. I'd certainly been in situations with friends and family where I thought that a wrong choice was being made, and would have said so, but still respected the person's right to choose and still cared for them. I was primarily dismayed by our conversation because it highlighted and reinforced what I had already begun to realize - that, as with my aunt, my mom's every opinion and feeling was now inevitably dictated by the tenets of the fundamentalist faith. Everything has to pass through the filter of what the church taught. There was no pretense of using her own reasoning to form an opinion; the authority of the fundamentalist interpretation, laid out so neatly in black and white terms, was an easy fix to the problem of having to think for herself. Grab on to that and hold tight, we've got your answers for you right here. I simply couldn't help but wonder, with such a fundamental disconnect between us as to the way in which we each viewed the world now, how we could possibly build our relationship. It wasn't as though we had a solid foundation to build on, as I did with my grandparents; with them, I had a strong bond based on a lifetime of love, caring, shared experiences and respect even when our belief systems diverged. I found myself realizing that with none of those things in place, and only a tumultuous and painful history behind us, it was becoming more and more difficult for me to come up with any reasons for wanting to further the relationship. Any desire I'd had to do so had certainly waned if not yet totally vanished. But how do you express that to someone who you're "supposed" to love and want a relationship with, especially when the feeling is not mutual? I never did express it to her, not verbally anyway. For the next few years, we occasionally spoke and she visited a few times, but I gradually drifted away as my life changed and I charted my own course for the first time. *** For the next few years, I went about my post-divorce life putting my yet-unresolved questions about religion on the back burner. I continued working full-time in the same field, although I was becoming more and more dissatisfied with a corporate position that was lucrative, but extremely stressful and uninspiring to say the least. I met and began dating the man I would end up marrying. He had been raised nominally Catholic (in a "Catholic-by-tradition", but not devout, family) and was personally apathetic toward religion. It fit well at the time.

It was in 1999, when we were planning our wedding, that the lingering issues of belief and doubt returned to the forefront of my mind. He proposed after we had been dating a year, and I accepted on the condition that we have at least a year-long engagement, which was fine with him, and so it was decided. We didn't start wedding planning in earnest until about four months prior to the date, since we had already agreed on a relatively small ceremony and reception at his parent's home, but there was still the question of where to have the ceremony, and who would officiate. And so the issue of religion came up. Getting married in a Catholic Church wasn't an option in any case since I wasn't Catholic and there are apparently all kinds of hoops you have to jump through to in that case, which neither of us were interested in. His family being fairly "casual" Catholics, they wouldn't have any issue with the ceremony being held in a Protestant church. However, there was one small problem; I knew immediately, as we began to discuss it, that there was no way I could stomach being married in a church of any kind. It was difficult for me to explain why, exactly, I was instinctively against the idea. Particularly because we were not members of any church, it just struck me as contrived to "pick a church, any church" and have some stranger (the pastor) officiate as though to make a show of it, because weddings are "supposed" to be in churches. How impersonal could you get? I told my fiancé that it would feel entirely phony and impersonal to me to do that, just for the sake of "tradition" and who says a wedding has to be in a church? I was long since done with doing things a certain way just because "they" said I should. An outdoor wedding sounded like my kind of thing, though. This still left the question of who would officiate. After giving it some thought, I had the idea of asking one of my former youth pastor to do the honors. We'd had a very good relationship when I was back in high school and had kept in touch in a way through my grandparents, over the years - when he saw them at church he would always ask about me and pass along good wishes. He knew that I had been married and divorced and had stopped going to church but never seemed to pass any judgement on either. I recalled that even back in high school he had been the most "liberal-seeming" of the various youth pastors. So I called him up, told him what I was thinking and invited him out to lunch to discuss further what I was looking for and whether he would interested. He accepted. We met at a Mexican restaurant near my office, on my lunch break, and had an interesting and productive conversation. It was that conversation that I recalled after the wedding was over, and it resparked my interest in examining Christianity and my beliefs again and figuring out what I believed and didn't once and for all. I began with picking up a book by Charles Templeton, titled Farewell to God, while browsing the Comparative Religion section of Borders one evening. It jumped out at me very specifically because of the subtitle: "My Reasons For Rejecting The Christian Faith".

I figured, how much more to the point can it get? It is a very straightforward book, written in layman's terms and in accessible language, which appealed to me greatly at the time. I'd already delved into a few volumes of "higher-level" philosophical material, but for the moment wanted something a bit more basic. Templeton set out very concisely and compellingly - his reasons, as promised in the subtitle, for why he had ultimately rejected Christianity in any form. Templeton was one of Billy Graham's first preaching partners, but he ended up taking the road less traveled. They worked the revival circuit together for a while, and he pastured a church in Toronto for seven years. During this time he began to experience doubts, and eventually left the church to attend Princeton Theological Seminary for three years. After leaving Princeton - no longer a fundamentalist but privately considering himself agnostic - he nonetheless remained involved in evangelism, in various forms, before "losing his faith" entirely. Farewell to God was actually his last published work, having written a number of books in the years following his final deconversion and leading an interesting life working in television and newspaper journalism, among other things. From his obituary ( 2001 ): As he reached 80, Alzheimer's was already affecting him. Yet he managed to publish one last book at that age, a non-fiction work called Farewell to God. Sort of an updated Why I am not a Christian it went into great detail about all the reasons he had departed from his earlier career. He wrote it because he felt there were a large number of people out there who were struggling with a faith that was pushed on them as a child. He thought these people, who largely attended church out of habit if at all, would seek out something that could release them from this implanted faith. I don't know if there were a lot of those folks, but the book did stir some good controversy, and I was shocked this year in Boston to find it still prominently displayed in, of all places, the airport bookstore. I was definitely one of "those folks". After a biographical-sketch intro, there is a brief first section, titled "The God Myth", which discusses in more general terms the fact that throughout recorded history there has been a multiplicity of gods and scores of religions, all making claim to "Truth". However, they have all been based largely on underpinnings of superstitious and magical thinking, and often, premises that modern science has proven false one by one. He points out the fact that the Bible (along with many other "Holy Scriptures") is chock full of blatantly unscientific silliness, rife with internal contradictions along the same lines, and shows no real consistency (unsurprisingly, in consideration of its multiple authors and often indeterminate authorship.) I wondered along with him if such a book could be considered by any reasonable person to be the work of an all-knowing and all-powerful God, and reliable as the revelation of any sort of "ultimate truth". Then he gets down to business with regard to the claims of Christianity in particular. Starting, aptly, with The Beginning - the Genesis account of the Creation and The Fall. Having long since realized that a literal interpretation of Genesis is an intellectually untenable position, I figured (as a liberal Christian and then agnostic vague-theist) that it was an allegorical myth. This still left the

tricky question of what "redemption" was needed for humanity if the story of The Fall had no basis in reality. Templeton addresses the incoherence of the Apple Story and concept of original sin; he put into words quite well some of the same questions I had asked many times. If Adam and Eve didn't yet have the knowledge of good and evil, how could they be held culpable for the "sin" of disobedience in their ignorance? In any scenario, was their "punishment" - and the cursing of their descendants in addition even remotely just by any definition of the word? Didn't the whole story paint a picture of a God who was more inept as a Creator than all-knowing and wise? After all, things didn't seem to go as He had planned, or if they did, the question was raised as to whether His intentions could be characterized as benevolent. And then, after the Creation and The Fall, there’s the story of Noah and The Great Flood. When my grandparents and I returned from Papua New Guinea after our first trip, I attended seventh and eighth grade at the recently opened junior high school affiliated with Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa. I remember clearly that eighth grade science class was primarily focused on what they called Creation Science. I don’t remember much of what was taught anymore, but I do recall that a lot of time was spent during one quarter on learning about the “evidence�? for the Flood. Obviously, it never occurred to me at the time that my teachers, of all people, at an accredited school, would be permitted or would even want to make use of what was supposed to be a learning environment to instead indoctrinate us. That there was an agenda at work, never mind giving us a solid base of education. In hindsight, it angers me even more that this school (and so many others like it) charge a pretty penny in tuition for what is supposed to be a first-rate private school education – and while they do extremely well in many areas, when it comes to anything that conflicts with The Agenda, you’d better believe that The Agenda is going to come first. I am often still slightly embarrassed about the fact that I ever actually believed a story as patently absurd as that of the Great Flood. As I read Templeton’s section about this scientifically impossible and wholly unbelievable tale, it seemed almost impossible to believe that people actually still believed in this story as a historical fact. I knew, of course, that they did – many of my own family members among them – and this highlighted for me why it is indeed so vitally important to fundamentalist Christians to push their pseudo-science as education. The myths of the Old Testament – the Creation, the Fall, Noah and the Flood, etc., are foundational to the faith; if it is conceded that the foundation is fundamentally faulty, there is then the possibility that the whole structure will collapse like a house of cards. The next topic was the story of the testing of Abraham. I’d read this story many times, of course, and heard sermons and "lessons" incorporating it too numerous to count. It had often been held up as an example of Abraham's "amazing faith" and courage for his willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac, which hadn’t ever made a great deal of sense to me but I also hadn’t ever thought about too deeply. But now, I was beginning to see all of these stories through new eyes, and what I saw was something truly disturbing. How could asking someone to murder their own child as a "test" be considered anything but purely sadistic? Moreover, how could it possibly be considered a good thing for Abraham to have been willing to murder an innocent human being to show his obedience? To try and turn this sordid scene around, and interpret it as being anything other than sick and twisted, now struck me as a perfect example of intellectual gymnastics.

On the contrary, this particular story once again reflected the fact that "the nature of God" is depicted in hopelessly contradictory ways throughout the Bible. The following stories addressed in the book - the Israelite’s slavery in and escape from Egypt, the bloody invasion and conquest of the "Promised Land", and the testing of Job – only further illuminated this for me. It's really not surprising to me anymore that especially during the childhood years, the Sunday School lessons and stories told were carefully chosen to help create a particular image of God in the child's mind. God the loving Father, God the ultimate protector, "He's got the whole world in His hands". It's little wonder that the stories depicting God as a bloodthirsty, vengeful tyrant are generally skipped or glossed over; even little children are bound to notice something elementally wrong with the notion that their loving Heavenly Father ordered His followers to murder even the little babies among their enemies, and take the virgin women "for themselves". Numbers 31:7 And they warred against the Midianites, as the LORD commanded Moses; and they slew all the males. 31:8 And they slew the kings of Midian, beside the rest of them that were slain; namely, Evi, and Rekem, and Zur, and Hur, and Reba, five kings of Midian: Balaam also the son of Beor they slew with the sword. 31:9 And the children of Israel took all the women of Midian captives, and their little ones, and took the spoil of all their cattle, and all their flocks, and all their goods. 31:10 And they burnt all their cities wherein they dwelt, and all their goodly castles, with fire. 31:11 And they took all the spoil, and all the prey, both of men and of beasts. 31:12 And they brought the captives, and the prey, and the spoil, unto Moses, and Eleazar the priest, and unto the congregation of the children of Israel, unto the camp at the plains of Moab, which are by Jordan near Jericho. 31:13 And Moses, and Eleazar the priest, and all the princes of the congregation, went forth to meet them without the camp. 31:14 And Moses was wroth with the officers of the host, with the captains over thousands, and captains over hundreds, which came from the battle. 31:15 And Moses said unto them, Have ye saved all the women alive? 31:16 Behold, these caused the children of Israel, through the counsel of Balaam, to commit trespass against the LORD in the matter of Peor, and there was a plague among the congregation of the LORD. 31:17 Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. 31:18 31:18 But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves. I can assure you they never told that lovely little story in Sunday School. You won't find any of those verses on an inspirational quote-of-the-day calendar, or a coffee mug. Of course, there is always a convoluted apologetic explanation for these types of things, an intricately choreographed dance around the question of how a loving God could order and approve of such behavior. I simply got to the point where I didn't want to dance anymore, and when I finally stepped back and observed it from a different

perspective, it came into sharp focus and I could see it for what it really was. An endless circle. "God is perfectly good because the Bible says so, therefore anything God does is good. Even if it seems bad, it's just because our limited human minds don't understand God's ways. How do we know God is all-good? Because the Bible says so! How do we know the Bible is true? Because it says right in there that it is God's inspired Word, you see. Simple, really. If you just have faith, God will show you. You'll see. No, He can't show you so that you can then have faith! You have to believe FIRST. Believe and receive!" Round and round it goes; Where it stops, nobody knows. The next section of Templeton's book is entitled "The God Men Created" and focuses on Jesus - the "active ingredient", of course, in any form of Christianity. I was reminded of that "still, small voice" that had piped up years before when I had been reading Josh McDowell's book - the one that had suggested, to my discomfort, that from a more objective point of view Jesus did seem to be more of a garden-variety lunatic with a Savior complex than a God-man. It was still difficult to completely shake off the deeply ingrained "image" of Jesus as the shepherd, lovingly wrapping the wounded lamb around his neck and taking it back to the safety of the flock... the gentle man who encouraged children to "come unto him" and the courageous savior who, against all instincts for self-preservation, willingly suffered and died out of his incomparable love for humanity. The precious Lamb of God... whose blood was shed for me. But that picture was no longer clear. As I contemplated the purported miracles of Jesus, I realized that they read just as much like fanciful tales as any of the Grimm Brothers' fairy tales I'd also read growing up. Loaves of bread and fish don't magically multiply any more than snakes talk. Water doesn't change into wine, people aren't raised from the dead. There is simply no reason to believe that magical and miraculous things happened way back then, when they don't now - and no reason to believe that the tales of this nature recorded in the Bible are any more "true" than any of the other amazing stories that have been recorded throughout history, which we automatically recognize as mythmaking. I realized that this aspect of Christianity was based on selective suspension of disbelief. Jesus wasn't the first man in history, by any means, to come along and claim divinity; he wasn't even the first to have allegedly died and risen to life once again. Additionally, in referencing my old "red-letter" Bible, I noticed that Jesus' own words - heralded and revered as being profound and "radical" - were neither particularly unique or especially coherent. Instead, he seemed to border on schizophrenic at times and the words attributed to him often seemed more nonsensical than deeply insightful. When I'd been a fully believing Christian, reflecting on the story of Jesus' crucifixion and the Resurrection had always been very emotion-inducing. Sermons focusing on these events (usually around Easter) were always heavily geared toward reminding us how horribly he suffered, how unparalleled his sacrifice was, and how it was all for us... to cleanse OUR sins, pay the ultimate price

for OUR sinfulness, and take OUR punishment upon himself so that we could have eternal life. Essentially, a heavy-duty guilt trip, meant to inspire an immeasurable sense of gratitude and wonderment at just how much God much love us to allow his Son to go through such undeserved torture and death on our behalf. And it had worked, for many years. Now, though, it seemed not only implausible - the Resurrection part, at least - but hardly a Great Plan devised by an all-wise and all-powerful God. Of course, if Jesus had actually lived and died as recorded, it was no doubt a horrific death - but it just didn't make any sense as some kind of Ultimate Sacrifice. Why all the physical torture and bloodshed? How could one part of the Trinity (a whole other can of worms) "repay a debt" to another part of it? Throwing the magical and miraculous Resurrection into the mix, why would Jesus' temporary suffering and death be an adequate substitutionary sacrifice for the eternal punishment humans supposedly deserved and would receive if they were not somehow "redeemed"? Even though these were all puzzling questions, I had already crossed a great divide that made them somewhat irrelevant. I'd already come to the realization that the fantastically supernatural tale of the Resurrection was quite simply and literally un-believable. If a historical Jesus had existed, and even if the events recounted in the New Testament had any basis in historical fact, there was simply no adequate reason to believe that he had done anything other than eventually decompose after death like every other human being. I no longer believed in miracles not because I had stumbled across any particular reason NOT to - but because I'd realized that all along, there was no reason to believe in them. I could no longer pretend that there was any more reason to believe that Jesus came back to life than to believe that the woman down the street with the flashing neon sign could communicate with the dead. While I hadn't yet come across the expression that "extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence", it became obvious to me intuitively. I'd believed in magic all those years because not only had my family believed in it, pretty much everyone else seemed to believe in it too. It was, to borrow an Old Testament phrase, a powerful delusion indeed. The section of Templeton's Farewell to God entitled "The Christian Church" addresses such topics as the "Plan of Salvation" (and how throughout history, Christians have never been able to come to some kind of consensus on what exactly it entails), the illusion of the "power of prayer", and (just some!) of the dark history of the Christian church. The topic of the method of acquiring "salvation" was of particular interest to me. Throughout my youth, I'd always been curious about the fact that different denominations and churches held different positions - sometimes pretty widely disparate - on the issue of what, exactly, was required to be saved. The Assemblies of God church I grew up in mainly definitely believed that baptism was essential for "securing" your salvation, but some friends from my private Christian school went to other churches that disagreed. During my ninth grade year in Ukarumpa, Papua New Guinea, it was especially interesting to note the differences due to the fact that individuals and families came to work with Wycliffe and other missionary organizations from a very wide range of denominations - much wider than I had experienced back home. Back in the States for the remainder of my high school years, I recall having several spirited discussions with my fellow youth-group-goers about the "once-savedalways-saved" belief vs. the belief that one could indeed lose their salvation through the dreaded "backsliding".

When I returned to Calvary Chapel at 19 and re-embraced fundamentalism temporarily, I still wondered about these things but fairly quickly accepted and embraced the party line position that while the church was non-denominational, naturally Calvary's interpretation of what constitutes the "biblical fundamentals" is the sound one, and other churches are clearly mistaken. In retrospect, it's amazing that I didn't see the absurdity of the doublespeak; one one hand, Calvary made a very big deal about being non-denominational and often implicity criticized other churches for focusing too much on doctrinal differences, but on the other hand, turned around and did exactly the same thing - insisting that certain things were not open to interpretation when they were far from clear and explicit in the Bible. The whole idea of the "power of prayer" had also been something I'd taken for granted as being real and true for most of my life. I'd heard over and over again that God always answered prayers - it was just that the answer was sometimes "yes", sometimes "no", and sometimes "wait" (i.e. when nothing happened either way). It finally dawned on me that - wait a minute! - as far as intercessory prayer was concerned, these were the same exact three possible outcomes in any situation whether one prayed or not. If you requested something, either you'd get it, you wouldn't, or it would be left up in the air or undetermined in some way. It hit me like a ton of bricks that there is absolutely no difference between praying for something and wishing for it, except for in the case of praying for it there was the false hope that something other than chance (or your own or other's actions) could influence the outcome. Seeing it in this way clearly for the first time, the world actually made a lot more sense; without having to fall back on rationalizations such as "the Lord works in mysterious ways", it was suddenly clear that indeed, "...the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike". There was a time when this view seemed totally alien to me, and I simply couldn't fathom the idea that when good things happened, it wasn't necessarily some sort of cosmic reward, and when bad things happened it was because you had done something to deserve it (or were being "tested".) But now it seemed ridiculous not to realize that much of life is a matter of chance, luck, or coincidence; that bad things happening to good people, good things happening to bad people, and bad things occasionally happening to everyone regardless of their beliefs is simply a part of life in a universe indifferent to our particular species. The idea of our little planet in the vast universe as a grand stage in which we as humans are the star players, with God as the Director (behind the scenes, no less), now seemed the height of arrogance and egocentrism. It's not that I didn't - and still don't, to an extent - understand how believing in the power of prayer can be an enormously comforting thing. The world can be a scary place and it's quite natural and human for us to feel helpless, powerless and frightened at times. However, I have come to believe that whatever measure of comfort comes from clinging to the hope of being watched over and assisted by a benevolent power greater than ourselves, ultimately comes with a greater price. That price is that people who believe in a "personal God" often spend their whole lives deferring to a nonexistent and (obviously) silent deity. They "pray for guidance", "seek His will" and base decisions on the ancient writings of a bunch of goat-herders! In short, they end up approaching life passively instead of truly acting as masters of their own destinies, so to speak. They give the helm of their ship up to an imaginary Captain. Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces. - Sigmund Freud Templeton's book also included a section entitled "Women" and touched on the topics of women in the

Bible and women in the Church. These issues were of particular interest to me since they had been some of the first things to spark serious questions within me several years before. The Church's teachings on women's "place" within society, and within the Church itself, had always been somewhat troubling to me even as a believer, and in many ways my questioning of those issues had been the tip of the iceberg in my gradual deconversion process. The final main section, "Evil and Good", explored the concepts of good and evil, the doctrine of Hell and some thoughts about the incompatibilities between a dualistic, supernaturalist worldview and the realities of an essentially impersonal natural world. Templeton closes with a thought-provoking list of "Questions to Ask Yourself" (generally aimed toward those finding themselves in the situation of reexamining their beliefs). I finished the book with a sense of having arrived at an intellectual crossroads of sorts, once again. The book itself was relatively simple and straightforward, not going into excessive depth or detail on any of the related topics, but I had found that the general conclusions expressed summarized many of my thought processes very concisely. The question was, then, whether to leave it at that - and remain essentially agnostic for lack of enough information to take a more solid position - or dig deeper. Despite Templeton's inaccurate definition of atheism at the outset of the book, I already understood that atheism meant quite simply "without theism" - a lack of belief in (a theistic) God. I was not quite ready to go there - but was inching very close. As far as Christianity was concerned, I had reached a sense of certainty (the cliched 99.9% stage) that its claims were without merit; however, something inside me still felt the need to have the information and knowledge to feel "100%". To be honest, I don't know if I would have ended up taking the time and energy of buying or checking out books, researching various topics, etc., if I hadn't experienced a very specific turn of events at the time that my interest in the issue was high. After many years in the commercial insurance industry, I basically burned out and made the decision to leave it permanently, taking a lower-paying but immeasurably less stressful position with an ESL organization at the collegiate level. In this new job, I had a lot of down-time in a very relaxed and low-pressure environment - and for the first time, I discovered the Internet. So one day, with a long break between classes and nothing else to do, I decided to use the Yahoo search engine to see what I could find with the phrase "ex-Christian". Suffice it to say that I had *no* idea of the wealth of information I would find simply by entering "exChristian" into Yahoo's seach toolbar and hitting Enter. Articles. Webrings. Collections of deconversion stories. Support sites. Sites with links to a bunch of other sites. I was amazed and a bit overwhelmed, not having the slightest clue where to begin since I hadn't expected such a high number of results to sift through. After browsing around a bit, I found a few sites that particularly interested me. One was called "Internet Infidels", and I discovered that it contained a Library section full of both modern and historical documents, as well as articles and debate transcripts, on a multitude of topics concering theism and Christianity in particular. There were also essays, debates, etc. on the topic of the existence of God in general. I read, and read, and read some more.

About the same time (summer of 2000) I purchased my first home computer and got online. For the better part of a year, I ravenously devoured every morsel and crumb of information I could find relating to the topics. In 2001, I realized that the Internet Infidels site also had a discussion board, but although I browsed around a bit, reading and absorbing, I felt much to intimidated to actually post anything. However, I discovered a site called WalkAway, which had a MUCH smaller forum, and it was designed specifically for those in the process of "walking away" from Christianity. I truly don't remember when exactly I came to the definite conclusion that Christianity simply wasn't true. However, at some point after the realization was finally "complete", I began to experience a range of emotions when thinking about my former beliefs and the journey that had led me away from them. Much of the time, I felt almost exhilirated by the sense of pure freedom - freedom from constant worry about whether I was "good enough", unnecessary guilt over perfectly normal desires and feelings, cognitive dissonance arising from the chasm between what seemed to make sense intellectually and what I was told I must believe "on faith". I also felt liberated by the fact that I no longer viewed the world in what was essentially a deeply negative way; instead of viewing everything "not-Christian" in the world around me with suspicion or fear, I realized I was free to embrace the beauty of diversity in culture and explore all the experiences that life has to offer. Sometimes, though, I felt a distinct sense of what I can only describe as betrayal - as though I had been tricked... and I suppose I was. While I've never doubted the good intentions of the many people in my life who contributed to my indoctrination into Christianity, I still couldn't immediately shake the sense of resentment that comes when someone realizes that they've been lied to. Of course, I realized that the people who "taught" me truly believed what they were teaching; however, what rankled most was the recollection of the countless times I'd been discouraged from questioning of any kind, shielded from any dissenting opinions or information, and flat-out told that there was something wrong with my desire to seek knowledge outside of the tightly constructed box of belief. I eventually came to the view that there is no good, or defensible reason to discourage the questioning of ANY belief - the only reason is fear. Any belief system that has something to fear from open inquiry and critical examination is worth being suspicious of, and all of my experiences have led me to believe that any exhortation to employ "blind faith" is likely to be synonymous with an assurance, in hushed tones, that "there's no need to look behind that curtain. Just believe in your heart that it's the Great and Powerful". I also don't recall the exact time frame of when I first self-identified (even within my own mind) as an atheist, but it would have been sometime in the year 2001. After participating at the WalkAway discussion board for quite some time, I eventually came back to IIDB, and after dipping my toes in the water tentatively at first, began to participate actively. Somewhere along the way, it just occurred to me naturally that is was the most accurate descriptor for my lack of belief. It was somewhat like coming upon something in the corner of a room that didn't quite seem new or out of place, but that you hadn't really noticed being brought in. It was just there, and it fit. Now, identifying as an atheist out loud - to other people - was a whole other kettle of fish. Other than online, my husband was probably the first person to hear it - and being a fairly apathetic agnostic himself, naturally he didn't recoil in horror. In fact, as I recall we didn't really discuss it much at all (the fact that I'd logged countless online hours at a site called "Internet Infidels" probably clued him in to the possibility.)

Within a relatively short period of time, it became as natural as breathing to respond openly and truthfully when the topic came up or the question was asked. "I'm an atheist." *** In the Present I am now thirty years old. In looking back on the past 12 years of my adult life, I can honestly say that I am now - as an "out-of-the-closet" and unashamed atheist - happier than I ever was before. Leaving behind my faith, and belief in God, was not an easy thing to do and it has certainly not magically made life any easier than it was before, in and of itself. However, it has had a profound effect on my life. I now realize that I am free to live my life, pursue happiness, and work to become the person that I want to be, no longer shackled to the dogma that so often caused me to doubt my self-worth and second-guess my own ability to reason and make good choices. At the same time, I - and I alone - am ultimately responsible for those choices and whatever consequences they bring; because I do not abdigate responsibility for my decisions and their consequences to powers beyond my control, I am spurred toward making every possible effort to make this life one that I can look back on without regret. After all, it's the only one I'm getting. The last few years have brought some challenges and hard times that some might imagine would be more difficult for someone who has no belief in any "guiding force" or the principle that "everything happens for a reason". I have not found this to be the case. When I try to imagine dealing with some of those things while still holding my previous worldview, I truly believe that they might have been not only difficult but emotionally crippling. As it is now, I understand that the end of my second marriage was not a moral "failure", but an unfortunate mix of circumstances that I can learn from instead of remembering with regret. Instead of being dogged by the fear that bad things that have come along could be cosmic "punishments" or "tests" of some kind, I know that everyone experiences bad situations, some bad luck and painful events. It's all part of the human experience and the roller-coaster ride of life on this strange and lovely planet. It is incredibly liberating to know that there is no subject, no area of study or topic of interest, that is taboo or off-limits based on someone else's say-so or an antiquated, dogmatic moral code. I am free both to seek knowledge and understanding wherever it leads me, AND to pursue the development of a personal code of ethics in accordance with my own conscience (tending towards a humanistic worldview). Ironically, I no longer have any particular fear of death. *** Coming "out of the closet" as not merely a non-churchgoer but a real, live atheist has affected my relationships with some of my family members, to varying degrees (but not always negatively!) It's been something of a non-issue with the vast majority of my friends, although more than once when religion has come up in larger-group conversations, they've joked "Uh-oh, don't start talking religion

with her unless you're prepared - she knows her stuff!" I've taken it as a hard-earned compliment. My relationship with my grandparents has remained unaffected. To this day, they still never cease to amaze me with the depth and generosity of their unconditional love and support. If I still believed in God, I'd thank Him for the gift of them every single day, but instead I am simply immeasurably and continually grateful for the good fortune that brought us together as a family unit. My older sister, who deconverted at about 20 while she was in college, was very supportive throughout the process of my shedding my belief. In a way it brought us closer together, since we can now talk about pretty much anything on the same “wavelength�?, uninhibited by the previous disconnect in our worldviews. Also, since we are the only two non-believers in our family (not counting her two naturalborn-atheist sons), we have each other for support and understanding when the incessant God-and-Jesus talk at family gatherings becomes almost unbearably annoying. My biological father and his wife are an interesting (read: bizarre) case themselves. For the majority of my life, their lifestyle was decidedly non-religious. Although sometimes when extremely intoxicated he would wax philosophical about the existence of a generic god, and she fancied herself a mystic of sorts with the ability to see angels and such, they were highly critical of Christianity and pretty much any organized religion. They both drank heavily and smoked pot not just daily but quite heavily, and through the years vascillated between that excess and periods of swearing it off completely (usually lasting only a few months at the very most). But a few years ago, for reasons unknown to me, they somehow got it in their heads that returning to Christianity – and fundamentalism, at that – was the thing to do. Since then they have gone deeper and deeper into what I can frankly only call seriously wacky cultism – he is convinced that he has the “power of healing�?, she still claims to receive visions and revelations, and as recently as a few months ago, he told my sister that he had a prophetic dream in which both of his daughters not only returned to Christianity but began “fruitful ministries for the Lord�?. When my sister’s younger son was diagnosed with mild autism, they asked her if she would let them come over and “lay hands�? on him in prayer so that he might be healed. She told them that pigs would fly before she’d think of subjecting him to that kind of cultic ritual – but just a few months ago, when the progress report from his behavioral therapy came back with outstanding results, they ecstatically praised the Lord for answering their prayers. It would probably be an understatement to say that I avoid contact with them whenever possible. My relationship with my biological mother has probably been most affected by the opposite paths that we have taken. Shortly after my sister’s first son was born, our mother decided to move back to Southern California from New Mexico to help out, since my sister’s then-husband did a disappearing act about halfway through the pregnancy. I had mixed feelings about it because our relationship had been somewhat stagnant since the breakup of my first marriage. We’d maintained sporadic contact, but I was again disheartened when on the occasion of my second wedding, she decided not to attend at the last minute because of conflicting church-related obligations. Still, I was glad for my sister because I knew the help would be sorely needed, and I still held out some

hope that my mother and I could find a way to work through our differences and build some sort of relationship. But it was not to be; within a year of her move, I reached a breaking point. Her constant and unrelenting proselytizing was one thing, but something else happened that contributed to my eventual decision to break off contact with her. We had a conversation during which I spoke frankly about the residual hurt that I still felt with regard to much of the past. I had begun some personal counseling and realized that I was still carrying around a lot of that old baggage, and I hoped that perhaps by speaking with her openly and honestly about it, I could move toward letting it go once and for all. At her first opportunity to speak in response to everything I had said, she said that she understood perfectly why I was still bothered by these things, and that there was no explanation or excuse that she could offer except to admit and be responsible for the truth – that she had been lost, separated from God in her rebellion, and therefore influenced by “the world�? and Satan to behave like the hopeless sinner that she was. But I needed to understand that she was a new creation now, and if God could forgive and forget, couldn’t I? I suppose it was then that for me, the door was shut. Time to move on. *** During one conversation with my mother after I had stopped believing in God entirely, I attempted to explain to her that it wasn’t a matter of “denying�? God or being angry with him while still believing he existed. I tried to express that when I said goodbye to my god-belief, it wasn’t as though I was flipping him the bird or shaking my fist at the heavens. It was more like I was saying goodbye to an imaginary friend that had once seemed to be a faithful companion, until the passing years made it clear that he had only been in my mind all along. Although the analogy failed to get through, it prompted me later to write something in an attempt to illustrate the feeling more clearly. I will mark the end of my long and winding tale with it. The Forest I suppose that I must have been born in The Forest, because I don’t remember being Anywhere Else before it. All of my earliest childhood memories were there, and I grew up living there with my parents. The rest of our family and all of our friends lived there, too – in fact, everyone we knew lived in The Forest! I was happy there; it was safe, and comfortable, and everyone else seemed happy too. People even talked, a lot, about how much better The Forest was than Anywhere Else, and how glad and thankful they were to be allowed to live there. So I was happy and thankful too. When I got to be old enough, my parents and a lot of other people helped me to understand exactly who I should be thankful TO for my wonderful life in The Forest. They explained to me that besides for the father that I lived with, I had another father – and he was also The Father of everyone else who lived in The Forest! We couldn’t actually see him or talk to him in person, although it was said that people living in The Forest a long, long time before sometimes did – and we were very lucky, because some of those people had written down stories about their experiences with The Father so that we would know he was real. Also, we could talk to The Father anytime – and even though he wouldn’t talk

back so that we could hear him like we heard other people, he had promised that he would always listen to us and he would answer by showing us signs or giving us special feelings deep inside. There were lots of stories that I learned growing up in The Forest, about The Father and important things that had happened a long time ago. I listened to them and learned them all, even though they didn’t always make sense. I trusted that my parents knew best and that whatever they told me must be true. Besides, everyone else believed the stories too, so I figured that if I didn’t understand parts of them it was just because I was still young and had much to learn. I’d always been told that the Other Places – basically, anywhere outside The Forest – were not places that anyone in their right mind would WANT to go. They were said to be scary, ugly and dangerous places, especially dangerous to anyone who lived in The Forest. Sometimes, people we knew talked about loved ones who had left The Forest and never came back. They were always very sad, and hoped that the loved ones would someday come back. Sometimes they talked to The Father and asked if maybe he could find a way to help bring their loved ones back. Sometimes they did come back, and everyone was very happy again. Some of those who came back told us, very seriously, that they had discovered for themselves how true all the bad things we heard about the Other Places were. They always seemed very happy to be back in The Forest, and warned the rest of us not to be fooled like they had. Sometimes they talked about Someone Else that we couldn’t see or talk to, sort of like The Father, except for that he was very bad and instead of loving us and watching out for us, what he really wanted was to hurt us and make us want to leave The Forest. They said that he even had friends, like The Father, who had some special powers, and that they were especially dangerous because they were always trying to find ways to trick us into thinking bad thoughts and maybe even wanting to leave The Forest. I was pretty scared of them. Sometimes I had nightmares about them coming to get me, but my parents told me not to worry because The Father’s special friends were stronger and would surely protect me from any harm. Other than when people would tell stories about it, I didn’t really think too much about the Other Places until I got older. And I became very, very curious. One day, I just couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. Even though I felt very guilty, I went to the edge of The Forest and found one of the paths that led to the Other Places. At first, I just peered out through the dense trees and caught a glimpse of what was on the other side. It didn’t look scary or ugly, but I felt very bad because I was doing something wrong and so I went back home. But I found myself drawn back to the path, and after I’d peeked out at the path beyond The Forest a few times, I decided that maybe it would be okay to walk out just a little way. I was very, very surprised! And it was confusing, because as I made my way down the path, it wasn’t really ugly or scary at all. I even met some people who said they had been living out there for a long time, and they seemed very happy. They didn’t seem to have any desire to live in The Forest, even though they knew where it was and that they would be welcomed there. I didn’t know quite what to make of this; I’d always been told that everyone living on the outside was very unhappy, even if they didn’t realize it. But these people didn’t seem to be pretending, or deluded either.

For quite some time, even though I still lived in The Forest, I began visiting the Other Places more frequently. After a while I started finding out some very interesting things, things that didn’t fit in with everything I’d been taught in The Forest but that made a lot of sense. The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn, and so I continued further and further down the path, seeking out new information along the way, until one day I realized that I had gone too far to go home to the Forest. I was a little scared, but I knew that I could always go back eventually if I wanted to. As time passed, I discovered that all the stories I’d learned growing up in The Forest really were only stories and hadn’t really happened. At first, it was hard to understand why everyone there believed them and taught them to their children, if they weren’t true. But I figured out that there were a lot of people who were born in The Forest and never left The Forest, so they truly didn’t realize that the stories were made up. When they grew up and had children of their own, they naturally passed the stories on because they had been told that it was the right thing to do. I even found out that there were OTHER Forests besides the one that I had come from, and that the people who lived in them did exactly the same thing! Their stories were usually a little different, but they believed in them just as much. As I traveled further down the path, I eventually began to wonder about something other than the stories. At first it was just a little question in the corner of my mind, and I didn’t really want to think about it too much because I’d always been told it was a silly question, one that only bad or stupid people asked. But I couldn’t help it, and I didn’t think I was bad or stupid. So I let myself think about it, finally. After all, I’d come so far that The Forest seemed to far away to ever return to, even if I’d wanted to. There was nothing to fear. And I realized that The Father was only made-up, too. At first this made me feel a little foolish, but I realized that it wasn’t really because I was foolish that I had believed in him. I’d simply believed – and trusted, as children do, in what I was taught. If I hadn’t followed the path out of The Forest, I would probably still believe. I knew that I had passed the Point of No Return. So I turned and looked back, toward the place I’d come from… The Forest. Although I could no longer actually see it, it was still there in my mind’s eye, as clear as ever. Looking back in the direction of that now far-away place, I found myself imagining that I could see The Father standing there at the entrance. Of course, I’d never actually seen him, but even so I could visualize what I’d always thought he would be like – with warmly welcoming arms for his children, and an aura of gentle kindness. Just for a moment, I was sorry that he wasn’t real. But I knew what I had to do, and so I raised my arm to wave goodbye. As I waved, he began to fade away. It was to be expected, of course, since he was just a vision, but it still felt a little like saying goodbye to an old friend. When the illusion had faded entirely, I turned back around and continued down the path, toward whatever was yet to come. I was seeing the world around me with new eyes, strange and wonderful at the same time, and I had the sudden sense that if I wanted to, I could fly.

*** I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ~ Robert Frost

~ THE END