From Whence I Come

As a freshman in a new town, at a new high school, I attended a revival at the local Baptist Church.  This was a pulpit pounding, sweat slinging, arm flailing, soul stirring event. Think Benny Hinn with a Texas twang and a bolo.

My father was the Methodist minister at the church down the street. He didn’t go to the revival and I think the only time he pounded a pulpit in his career was purely accidental. I wasn’t into scaring people for the Lord but my posse was attending and I couldn’t miss out. And really, what else is there to do in small town Texas on Wednesday nights? First you go to church. Then you find a mom who will take everyone to Dairy Queen. Church then ice cream. It’s a rule.

I’d been to a lot of revivals as church was the family business. I knew what would happen.

First there would be singing, then praying, then more singing, then some scripture, then special music from a lovely 78 year old singer with her son accompanying on an out of tune guitar, a seriously long sermon for soul saving would follow, and then, drum roll puhlease:  The Alter Call.

I could almost say the words verbatim.

“With all heads bowed (inflection of voice up) and all eyes closed (inflection of voice down), raise your hand if”…there was a long list of ifs. If you need a savior. If you’re lonely. If you’ve sinned. If you don’t like your mother. If you’re not paying attention in school. I peeked. My whole posse had their arms raised high. I was ready for ice cream and then decided I needed to deliberate about the status of my salvation.

I was lonely. I loved my mother but certainly not all the time. I hated math. I had sinned; of this I was sure because the man wearing the turquoise bolo with a cross on it was hollering I had.

“Come forward for prayer if you need Jesus in your heart today.”

My posse went to the front of the church. Crap. I finally went, too, not because I was feeling especially moved to go, but because I didn’t want to be left in the pew by all alone.

My friends and I were prayed over and after the service there were congratulatory handshakes. Then ice cream.

Now remember. Small town church. Small town gossip.

The new Methodist preacher’s only daughter found Jesus in the Baptist church. This was scandalous news for my little town. My mother knew I’d been washed in the Baptist blood before I got home. All the teachers’ at the school knew by second period the next day.

It was official. I was saved. Hallelujah.

I never really ever felt IT, the soul blowing open, live your life for Jesus thing. I thought something was wrong with me. Then I heard a statement from Muhammad Ali, the great scholar that he is, which I will paraphrase for you.

There are lakes, rivers, ponds, and the ocean. They are all water.

This, THIS made sense to me. One God. Many paths. There was more to the story. I could keep searching and I wouldn’t end up in the fiery pit. Hallelujah.

Then

A few years ago I went to a remarkable personal growth retreat called Hoffman. It’s a week-long process that’s a little bit psychology, a little 1970s wackiness that included beating pillows while yelling the ‘f’ word about stuff in my life, and stupid thoughts I had about the stuff. There was also quite a bit of meditation and woo woo. Serious money I paid for this soul searching and worth every cent.

A significant part of my time at Hoffman was completely surreal. I left there with a new spiritual knowing quite different from the religious fervor I’d experienced 22 years prior.

Serious Woo Woo

One of the experiences at Hoffman involved walking through a cemetery. Yes, an actual cemetery where dead people are. Yes, I paid money for this, too.

I was given a sack lunch, a carnation, and instructions to find a place in the cemetery to have my sandwich. ‘You’ll know when to stop’. So off I went into an expertly manicured, bucolic, colossal cemetery to find a picnic spot.

Completely alone, I walked and walked until I found a headstone that read Hardin-Noble. My father’s name is Noble and his brother’s name is Hardin. Interesting I thought. Perhaps this was the place to plop myself and eat my sandwich. Cool breeze. Sunny mild day in the California wine country. Peaceful. Once I got over the whole being in a cemetery thing, it was lovely.

I ate. I marveled at the plethora of headstones and noticed a big one two rows over. Jim – Pop was the moniker.  My deceased brother is named Jim. Pop was my maternal grandfather.

This seemed an odd coincidence of my own family names in a small area of a very large cemetery. I began to study my borrowed slice of this eternal resting place more thoroughly.

From my sitting vantage point I saw Lizzy, my paternal grandmother’s name nickname. Buford, her middle name. I know. It’s hideously southern. My long gone grandfather is also named Hardin so that was covered. My middle brother, John Leonard there, too.

I ate a bit more and mused on these things while I smoothed the hair rising on the back of my neck.

I wondered if this was a spiritual set up of some sort. The proof to me would be the last two names, Dorothy and Verna. Dorothy, my mama, was one row back and two stones over from where I was sitting. Verna, her mama, was right there, too. Verna? Come on. What are the odds?

I was 98% sure of the whole spiritual set up thing now. This was just too weird but of course I asked for more. Just one more sign that this wasn’t something crazy I was dreaming up.

I walked 30 yards and found two more headstones right together. Mann and Watts. These are family names of the closest friends my parents ever had. Cue the goose bumps.

I went the next day to make rubbings from the headstones. As I worked on the one for Jim, the sprinkler system came on a soaked me. I laughed and laughed. Of course my big brother would play tricks on me from the beyond.

And Now

Much has transpired for me since Hoffman. Now is weird and wonderful. Now things are happening I’m scared to say aloud because sometimes I sound like a certifiable crazy person. (Read a super cool article on this topic by Slade at Shift Your Spirits). Now I’m voraciously reading books which previously made no sense to me. Now I’m longing to learn more and more and more. And, I’m trusting.

I trust that the people in the world who need to hear what I have to say will find me.

I trust that the people in the world from whom I need to learn will appear when the time is right.

I trust that the wackadoo, serendipitous, coincidental events happening to me are all delicious parts of this confounding extraordinary spiritual journey of mine.

I’m finally paying attention to my life. Hallelujah.