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By
Greg Boone
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For Craig who asked me why
and
Josh, who gave me a reason.
And if the light that is in you is darkness How great is that darkness
Matt. 6:24
We stumble and fall constantly Even when we are most enlightened
But when we are in true spiritual darkness We do not even know we have fallen.
Prologue
I was sitting in my rented home in Canada with two cats and a fireplace when a Voice told me to 'get my house ready,' and I "was going to land in another place". I didn't question it much. I sold everything and waited.
Three weeks later, an ad appeared in the paper beckoning me to move to China and work. So I told everybody I was leaving, grabbed a few things, left the house (gave the cats away) and came here to this very odd, very different place. "Can't you see you're doing the same thing you did before"? Viv told me. I don't blame him. He knew what had happened before. We've known each other for years, so I let the comment slide.
My oldest brother Tony was ripe with encouragement.
"What are you doing? You're not a teacher", he said with a cock-eyed glance. He was right about that. But the job interview had gone so well.
"Is there any mental illness in your family", the man on the phone had asked me. And "can you walk? There's a lot of stairs to climb".
I told him I wasn't crazy. The doctor had assured me not long ago when I went in to see if I really was looney. And not only could I walk, but run too, if the need arise.
"Great!" he said. "You sound like an articulate young man. We'll send you an airplane ticket right away".
I wrote to a teacher who had already been there for a couple of years and asked him what to expect. He emailed me back explaining how altered my world-view was about to become, and that I had better get used to living in glass houses and being a celebrity.
World view? I didn't have a world view. I barely had a point of view.
I don't recall talking to the rest of the family about leaving but probably did. Some of them turned out to say goodbye. The day I left, baby brother showed up at the airport, having traveled all the way from the far north in a mad flurry so he could say goodbye. I hadn't seen Roger or his family for a couple of years. He was standing there against the window, unable to pass the checkpoint. I walked back and held my hand up to the glass and he did the same, but the window was too thick to say anything, and we parted without words. I walked back to the plane, got on and flew to China.
I don't mind flying, even though I haven't always had the best of experiences with it. From Canada into Beijing, I ended up on a little plane that held about 50 people and we rocketed off every single cloud in space. A girl with white knuckles sat beside me. Her eyes were full of terror. The plane shook and moaned trying to stay airborne.
"My sister just died in a plane accident", she interjected between screams.
"Nice to meet you", I screamed back. It's comforting to know who you're going to die with. That you're not alone and the person beside you is just as you are. But the plane settled after a bit, and we did make it back to earth unharmed. They called it turbulence but it was more like poor airplane manufacturing. Sister knuckles and I ended up working in the same school, which was kind of nifty, our friendship cemented firmly in the living.
I once flew to England too. But that was a bad trip for other reasons. Its also part of this story you're about to hear. I was married to a British lady, and she left right in the middle of this terrific missionary journey we were executing. It finished (the marriage and the journey) when we were threatened with grand theft auto, (as if that's even possible in Canada). I told the British woman I was sorry, and she said to not let it bother me, that she'd stick with me. But she left and took both of the kids with her and never looked back. I haven't seen them in twenty years. Maybe longer.
I called my boy on his sixth birthday. It took about a hundred tries to get through because the phone number was complicated. "I haven't seen you for a long time", he said when we connected. I caught the next fateful flight over to England to find him. I packed a few clothes, threw on a leather jacket, and a fedora and flew over. But I only got as far as the UK customs when they locked me in a cell. I was put there by an old, portly customs agent who stopped me at the checkpoint, asked for papers, bank statements and my story. When I mentioned the kids he told me to "stand aside" and then took me to a waiting room. I probably shouldn't have taken my journal writings that explained, in detail, how I was going to find a place to live and reunite with the children. I stayed in the waiting room for twenty minutes until another agent came in. He was a young man with a crew cut and pressed uniform. It was his job to get to the bottom of my story. To find out if I was a threat to the UK.
"Why do you want to see your kids again", he demanded. "Now. After five years? After so long a time"?
I said, 'you don't have kids do you"?
'No!", he spit. "What difference does that make"?
"Cause if you had kids, you wouldn't ask such a stupid question".
That summed up our meeting. He threw me in a lock down where another chap was rotting on one of the cheap cots. He rolled off and started praying when I came in. I lay down on the other cot and pulled the blanket up over my head, but it was made of thin paper and ripped at the effort. I cursed and my bunk mate rolled off his bed and started praying again. I slept with one eye open that night. The next morning we were both put into the back of a white van and driven across the airport grounds to waiting planes.
"Don't let it bother you", an agent said as he took me to one of the aircraft. "We send a hundred people a day back from here". He seemed fairly pleased about that. Not just men. Women also. And kids, kids too, he went on, handing my passport to the frowning stewardess who shot me dead twice with her eyes when I looked at her.
Then why don't you send my kids back?
I settled into the jumbo and in spite of the failed visitation, enjoyed the salmon dinner served on board in the afternoon. It was the only decent part of the trip. But it was sad to think that the kids were growing up without a father, and probably moving around the countryside as their mother looked for another life. I hate that kind of existence. I'm 48 years old and have lived in 39 different homes. Maybe more. That's why I dislike moving here and there. There's no connection, only memories of the past. There are no roots, no sense of purpose and no history. I can't imagine what it's like to go home to a place where you see your parent's picture hanging on the wall, all aged and white, smiling down at you, and telling you life is progressing as it should. Or maybe it's your picture hanging there, alongside some significant other being.
Still, had it not been for the terrific missionary trip and the subsequent fallout, this story would not have been written and I wouldn't be looking for my kids, and not living in China full of questions. Do all things work together for good, like they say it does? It's peculiar too. Because some people believe that no matter what happens, there's a reason for it, based partly on the assumption a higher power is at work. Maybe you're being tested, or God is unhappy with you. Or who knows. Maybe on the extreme left, God, or Allah as He's known in some circles is rather pleased that you just took out a hundred and nine people using a small arsenal of weapons. Maybe He likes that kind of thing while the smoke rises and body parts fly and chaos reigns in the land. A few heads rolling here and there should earn a trip through paradise. Perspective matters. As in God is Great! (I'm going to take out this airliner) Great God! (As in shock and disbelief) God! Great..! (As in you just ruined my day)
Is He Great? Does He even exist? (What about those voices?) And if He does exist, does He care I'm ten thousand miles from home looking for a reason. Obviously many ask these questions or there wouldn't be religions. Who or what is God, and what does He require? What are the rewards if we meet certain requirements and the consequences if we don't? What religion doesn't ask? What person doesn't? Through dozens if not hundreds of different belief systems and philosophies, is there a single truth that you can hang your hat on, kick back your feet and, instead of a nuclear showdown, have a donut to go with that coffee? Is mankind in the center of divine revelation, unfolding throughout history as though it were a lotus bud with a few chaps in the middle east as the latest installment in God's Plan?
The Bahai's would say so. The Muslims confess one is all authority. Christianity awaits the return of Christ. But you may happen across some videos showing Jesus has been reincarnated down in Australia. Turns out he was working as a computer programmer or techy before discovering his true identity prior to the second coming. But Jesus of Australia who probably hasn't met Jesus of Brazil must also share the light with Jesus of the hills further south who says the other two are obviously deceived. Still, it's unlikely any one of these candidates is really Jesus, because if you believe the Muslim's, Jesus will come back to wipe Israel off the map, abolish Christianity, and set up an everlasting kingdom with Mohammed. (Who hasn't shown up on the scene yet). What are the chances he'd be somewhere else with so much to do in the Middle East? Evangelicals say these are a sign of the times.
Did not Christ say regarding the last days, 'many will come in my name, saying I am the Christ, and will deceive many".
We could go on, but for the purpose of this true story, and the incredible experience of discovering the 'why' of such matters, it is best just to start….
Chapter 1
In the Beginning
"Little John fell off the dam and drowned", my grandmother said as she placed the black volume back onto the shelf, while swiping at a random web attached to the wall.
"Who's John, Gram"? I asked. "Your cousin", she replied.
-only six years old, she said to father. They tried to grab him as he fell in the water. But the boys are too small. They couldn't reach him. One of the boys tried to grab him as he fell. Missed his hand by a couple of inches. They buried him on Saturday in the cemetery.
We drove to the cemetery. I stared at the grave for a long time. The little flowers lay across the new turned dirt. We're the same age. He should be playing right now. With me. I can't understand my sadness.
Where do you go when you die"? I asked Mom, turning to look at her as we drive back home, away from the cemetery and John. She stares straight ahead, uncomfortable.
They put you into a hole in the ground I guess, she says. I am disappointed. And doubtful.
At night, as I lay in bed, I imagine myself on the dam watching little John begin to fall. I reach, grabbing for his hand and stare at the gap, as though it is frozen in time. Didn't Gram say they missed his hand by a couple of inches? I will the gap to close, but he misses my hand, and keeps on falling. I see him in the water, doggie paddling, trying to stay afloat against the thrashing current that explodes out from the dam. His eyes are wide and white and he disappears. In an instant we are both back on the small wooden dam, and he is falling again. The gap stays the same and every step of a foot does that which it has always done, always will do, like an echo. I watch him drown a hundred times before turning away.
Light streams in through the window in the morning, awakening me from sleep. I stare out through the bedroom window, watching the large Elm trees bending slightly with the breeze. The swirling leaves sound like water pouring through a pile of brush. We're in Forest City, the birthplace of almost everyone I know. Pulling on my clothes, I move down the precipitous stairway one step at a time, as though coming down a ladder face first.
Gram is taking the book from off the living room shelf again when I enter. The black and solid volume has been positioned on that one ledge as far back as I can remember. She would take it down habitually, (careful to always place it back in the same location) but certainly on Sunday, place it in her bag and walk the short path that leads to a small white building with a pointed roof and a bell that rings once a week. No clock. A bell. I could see the people stepping out of their houses too, making their way slowly and purposefully, all in the same direction. Right in the middle of summer! Now what is it they're all doing there, anyway?
I asked my grandmother "if I may go" to the little building that is down the path.
"My dear. You certainly may"!
She picked the lint off my clothes and brushed my hair and we made our way along the hundred yards to the church. Inside, I was directed to sit with a group of other children on the right side of the small building. We sat in folding chairs while several adults sat on long benches, chatting amongst themselves. My grandmother joined them. There was a piano in the corner, and pictures of people on the walls. Most the men in the pictures had beards. A felt board on an easel was positioned in front of the chairs where I sat with the kids. I could smell the wood of the building. But it wasn't the forest smell I was so used to, more like the library at our school filled with wooden shelves and books.
My aunt Nancy stood near the front of the room, close to the easel.
As we sat, staring at the felt board, she began tell us there was a very short man named Zacchaeus who was so keen to see another man named Jesus, (one of the bearded ones) that he climbed a tree so he could see over the multitudes. Apparently, a lot of people turned out to see Jesus that day because she started putting a number of figures on the board. She also put a tree and a smaller man on the felt board. And then showed us how the man climbed the tree.
That caught my attention. I could relate to climbing trees. My older brother Pat and I did it every day. We tried taking Roger once, our younger brother, but he was so small that it left him half traumatized. He was having a hard time getting up the tree, so we told him that a bear was coming to eat him, and to climb faster. Faster! He was panicking by the third branch and crying. I felt sorry scaring him, but we were always doing something like that to him. One time we locked him in a deep freezer but fortunately, mother found him before he froze. And another time we broke his arm with a catapult. That was cruel. Pat and I had built a large catapult with a beam and a barrel and we needed to test it. There was a pile of pallets beside the catapult, so we talked Roger into standing on one end of the beam while Pat and I leapt off the pallets together. When we landed on the end, Roger rocketed into space. Upon re-entry, his bones met the earth in a most disconcerting way and broke. It's a wonder he played with us at all.
Neither Pat nor Rog had expressed any interest in coming to church and my oldest brother Tony was out with the bigger boys, so I sat there alone. But it didn't matter. Everybody knew everybody in the little building. There were only about fifty people who lived in the area.
So there was my aunt moving these little felt figures along a felt board, telling us how Jesus came strolling down the road and as it turned out, saw Zacchaeus in the tree and told him to come right down and have some lunch. She pushed a cut-out figure all dressed in white along the board. It was kind of interesting, I thought, the way Jesus saw Zacchaeus, as if he was expecting Zacchaeus to be in the tree branches.
"When he came down from the tree, he and Jesus went into his house and had lunch together", my aunt said.
My tummy rumbled at the thought.
The story finished with Jesus and Zacchaeus laughing and talking. Then we stood and sang a few songs using old blue books they called hymnals. The sun shone in through the windows, warming us with its rays.
It was about noon when we came out, stepped into the blazing daylight and made the short walk back to the house.
It had been my first Sunday school lesson.
Back home in Ontario, as part of a cub scouts movement, I'd been to church every week, though I didn't know it was such. We had meetings in the basement, but not in the sanctuary, so there was no religious overtone to the meetings, unless you can call talking to an old dried up wolf head a liturgy.
It was bizarre. We'd squat down in a circle with four fingers on the floor and chant something about Akela! and make a pledge of sorts. Apart from that unusual scout ritual, (which I never quite understood) scouts are awesome! There are lots of projects to work on including camping skills, wilderness survival skills, shooting arrows, and how to sell an apple. In fact, there is an entire handbook of different projects one can do. Getting the badges for the activities was the best part.
After completion of duties, and collecting the badge, we'd sew them on our cub shirts with further incentive to collect as many as possible. The guys with the most badges always had a confident aura about him, not that one needs a competitive edge to stay motivated in scouts. The projects are enough in themselves. Besides the cool activities, there are always the stories each year of the Cub and Scout boys who perform heroicdeeds by saving human lives and averting disaster. Always Prepared blazoned on every poster that adorned our space.
Among the many survival skills, swimming was high on the list. It was through scouts we prepared ourselves to enjoy water sports. And whereas our grandparent's home was surrounded by lakes and streams, through swimming classes and scouts, we fit into their environment quite naturally. I thought we had to sign up for a new badge every week, so in a very short time, I was swamped trying to earn two or three all at once. I especially wanted the Religion in Life Badge. That one was a combination of three; bronze, silver and gold. Each color represented a higher level. It was also bigger than the regular badges, so I wanted it.
During another blazing Sunday afternoon at the grandparents, Pat and I went for a dip to shake off the heat. Grabbing a mask and snorkel out of Grandfather's shed, we wove our way down through the tall grass and to the water's edge, about a hundred yards from the house. Streaming from the turbulent white waters into which Little John fell, the water shallows and slows a great deal, drifting in languid repose past my grandparents' home.
It is a perfect spot for swimming. In the summer, many people used the tiny river to pass deeper into Canadian territory. The river is used as part of the border line between Canada and the US. Beginning at the lake just before the dam, US and Canadian citizens would often portage around the dam, and continue on for miles past yet more lakes and camps and tributaries. However, because of its shallowness, the small river strip is a bit treacherous for paddling small rafts and canoes. Rocks and boulders littered the bed. Often an inexperienced canoeist would find themselves sputtering for air on the shore while their canoe tumbled and took on water, spewing contents across the water's surface. Sometimes these contents sank and wedged between the rocks near our grandparents home. If we saw the canoeist, we'd help them of course. I mean, we weren't thieves. But most of the time, we didn't know what belonged to whom. The canoeists rarely came back for their belongings, believing them to have been swept on half way to China.
Pat and I took turns wearing the mask and snorkel, and exploring near the rocks for fortune. It was our lucky day. Between a couple of mid sized boulders one particular day, a red bag had settled in for saturation. There was nobody around. No canoes or people.
Dragging it from the depths, we brought it up on shore, unzipped the bag and dropped the contents onto the grass. Treasure! A lighter. Some fish hooks. A book and a comic. J.D. Salinger's classic Catcher in the Rye was there. We stuffed the items back into the bag and walked back up to the grandparents, staring at the comic. It was a tiny one, no bigger than a hockey card. And it only had about a dozen pages. On the cover, a man stood before a large movie screen. Everything was in black and white. THIS WAS YOUR LIFE! was written in large bold letters on the screen.
Pat read it, and then handed it to me.
"Whatever", he said.
I read it as we walked. In the opening scene, a rich man is outside his home smoking a cigarette and drinking a dry martini. He looks smug. There's a sports car in the driveway of his mansion, and he is grinning as the smoke rises. Over the next few pages, he drops dead of a heart attack, has a funeral, and awakens to find himself being called out of the grave by a voice. He is astonished to find himself speaking and thinking, even though he's dead. He's accompanied by an angel into a different realm and soon stands before Almighty God where the books are opened and his life is reviewed, in full detail for all to hear. A large movie of his life plays, causing him to blush in horror at the vivid scenes. Scenes of his life show every word he had spoken while alive, and every detail of his eye, even his thoughts.
A large book is opened called the Book of Life. The angel says 'his name is not found in the Book of Life', so he is told to make tracks 'into the fire prepared for the devil and his angels".
In very plain black and white, he is shown in the last scene being cast into a crater of fire and brimstone where multitudes reach up in desperation and torment.
I looked up at Pat. That was odd.
The second half of the booklet then says "this could be your life" and goes on to show the same man, hearing a preacher speak.
For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten son, that whosoever beliefs in Him, will not perish, but have everlasting life.
The man bows his head, and for the remainder of the comic is praying, reading the bible, attending church, and doing good deeds for others. At the end, as he stumbles over towards death, his last words are "receive me Lord Jesus' and upon his arrival in heaven, is welcomed into a beautiful kingdom with the words, 'well done thou good and faithful steward. Enter into the joy of the Lord".
Well, that sounded like a better deal, to me at any rate. And though Pat and I never talked about it much, that small booklet found its way into my hands several more times over the years. We threw it into bushes as we walked into our grandparent's driveway.
Summer vacation was nearing an end, and we needed to pack our bags for the trip home. But I was happy enough to go back. After the customary kisses, waves and roar of dust we started our return.
Up the road, just past the cemetery and little John is a bend in the road. Father slowed down and stopped. We were parked in front of a large white building with a tall peaked roof. Large granite stone blocks were used as the foundation. Two doors adorned the front for entry and exit. "This used to be my schoolhouse" Father said. "I went here in grades four and five". I looked at the building and its massive rectangular boulders that the school house sat on. "Hasn't moved in a hundred years", he said, giving the rocks a pat. And almost as an afterthought, "if I ever get the chance, I'd like to buy this old place".
"If I ever got the chance, I'd buy it for you", I thought. We walked back to the car, got in and started on the road again. ( Ed. note: Little did we know that little excchange would come back to haunt us years later and nearly ruin our relationship.
Chapter 2
We lived a regular routine. School, play and the cub pack. Stepping into the basement's rooms, I trembled, wherein sat half a dozen boy scouts. This group was considerably older than the Cub Scout pack I was a part of. To my left, a piece of A4 was taped to one of the classroom doors used for Sunday school. Writing in bold letters declared: Religion in Life Badge.
I stood at door and knocked. None of the other boys were concerned that I was there. An older gentleman looked up. Please take a seat and we'll get started.
He opened a book up and began reading from it. I recognized not a character or word. I had no clue it was the same one on my grandmothers shelf. I don't remember him mentioning Jesus. But something about the stories he read compelled me to listen attentively. "Students, take notes as we go along", He said. "It will help you to review for the upcoming quizzes you will need to take in order to receive your badge".
This was obviously going to be quite different from giving the cat a haircut or collecting stamps so the leader could take a look at them. I did my best to comply, but my writing was hopelessly inadequate and began to slant horribly down one side of the paper. After our hour was up, the man took one look at my notes, and copied his entire message back onto my paper, placed it in my hand, and bid me good night. The other scouts had long since gone. My steps echoed throughout the building as I moved briskly back out into the night and returned home. Three blocks of glorious darkness.
But there was little to fear. I was familiar with the streets and other kids were meandering their way back home as well. My primary school was along the way where I'd been going for the past few years, and the trees, grass and sidewalks were as much a part of who I was as the front walk of our home. We knew the neighbors. There was pop-bottle head who had the police visit him most weekends, and Tim whose parents owned a pool right there on the corner, and Scott and Mike and even that weird little kid, Kosten. He was unusual. Always talking about beating somebody's mouth in. And there was the older boy who used to sit in his car a lot of nights beside our house and chew on his girlfriend's neck (which looked to me not a pleasant bit of fun at all, considering she never laughed much). But the chocolate guy, who happened to live in the same house as the neck chewing man, was a good guy who threw candy over the fence to us once in a while. We all liked him. He kept forgetting his keys to get into his house, and so would have one of the neighborhood kids climb in through his kitchen window and unlock the door. Sometimes the kids never came out for a while. They must have been eating chocolate.
Back home, in the safety of our living room, I flopped down on our old brown sofa with gold speckles and looked at my notes. I had no idea what the man was talking about.
"What two questions did Paul ask Jesus on the road to Damascus? Who was the first governor of Judea at the time of Christ?
Wha-aa? This thing is gonna be impossible. The things you'll do for a badge. I put my paper down and took up a white sheet of A4. The artists badge felt a lot easier. I had to sketch a picture of a boy scout. Father was in his study downstairs, banging away on an old typewriter, the kind where you have to jackhammer keys and slap the carriage to make it function. He slapped it like a pro. I took my drawing to him. As part of the requirement for the artist's badge, the sketch was supposed to be a life-like representation of a boy scout complete with uniform. Unfortunately, my character's crotch was square, and not at all in the shape of a V like a normal boy. I'm nervous when I show him, because I was actually half-traumatized through drawing.
That happened back in kindergarten.
"Friday is Father's Day kids, and as a special treat for our dad's, we're going to draw their faces. Won't that be fun? Do you like to give special gifts? I do".
The teacher's smiling down at us, holding onto a bag of Oreo's and promising the world.
"Each of your dad's will visit our kindergarten on his special day. Here are some crayons and some paper for each of you. Remember what I told you about sharing".
What about that cookie? We sit down at our little tables and go to work. In my mind, I visualize father's face, careful to get it right.
After all, he is a policeman. I sketch and color with all the enthusiasm of a miniature Leonardo. His hair, his eyes, the shape of his face all drawn in tender detail and colored brown or blue with select crayons. Upon completion of our earnest masterpieces, they're glued onto yet even more colored sheets of paper, and stacked into the bookshelf. Then the cookies started rolling out. A quick snack and a nap and we're on our way home. The next morning, excitement is streaming throughout the room. I'm watching. The teacher had taken our drawings and mounted
them side by side in a row along two classroom walls! There's a sound at the door. The dad's begin filing into the classroom, greet the teacher and stroll over for the viewing.
Perhaps he won't make it. To my delight, he appears. He's in full uniform, having taken time off work for the critical gallery of art, now on display. We walk over to his picture together hand in hand. For a moment he studies it. Doves are singing somewhere. He's smiling and looks down at my eyes.
"That doesn't look like me", he says.
I'm devastated. If I'd tried harder, what part did I miss? How could I have done better? The questions drop down into my gut from my head like rocks thrown into a burlap bag. I feel every single one of them hit bottom.
So I'm showing him this new picture. As expected, the response was less than satisfactory.
"What's this"? he demanded.
A picture of a cub scout", I said, "for my artist badge. Do you like it"?
"HOW MANY PEOPLE DO YOU KNOW HAVE SQUARE CROTCHES"?
-What's a crotch?
"There"! He said. "Right there! Do you have a square crotch"?
"No". (I don't know. Maybe I did. It felt square.)
"Oh Bill. Give the kid a break. He's only eight". mother said. I think she was a little nervous around him too. He sure could get high strung. It's a wonder he didn't drag out his revolver once in a while, and blow a few holes in the wall like Elvis. He never did though. He was quite careful with firearms. But he had a scorching temper that could singe eyebrows half a block away.
I erased the boy, drew him again and passed it in the following week at our meeting. I was awarded the artists badge the same night. I drew the picture a few more times on various scraps of paper, with perfect crotches and pant creases, and a belt buckle thrown in, to make sure there was no doubt a real crotch had some style to it.
So, the artist badge was sort of easy, but the Religion in Life badge was peculiar. It took reflection. Dutifully each week I attended the required Bible study where The Man copied notes for me, and added questions, which I would go home and stare at. But he must have appreciated my tenacity, attending meetings with a group four years my senior, for when the time came, I was told I had earned the coveted Alpha emblem. Blazoned in thick thread on a backdrop of bronze cloth, it was the largest badge in the scout's collection. Thus, the ceremony was rather grandiose too, held inside the main sanctuary of our church. As we walked to the front, chuckles began rippling throughout the audience.
why are they laughing? Are they laughing at me? Why are they looking at me? Maybe I'm not supposed to be here. I thought we were coming to pick up these badges. They're talking about it a lot.
There was applause and smiles and no little pomp. I kept staring at the badge on the table. It sure looked nice. I imagined how it would look on my shirt, sewn above the heart. With a handshake and a smile, it was handed over. Clutching it in both hands, I turned to find my seat again and began walking down the aisle. I noticed our neighbor, an old man who often chatted with mother and father. He lived right behind us. Mother told us he went blind from something he ate once but obviously had gotten better. I was happy to know that. Catching my eye, he smiled and nodded his head up and down. I gave him a small wave.
I looked down at the cloth in my hand. Bronze trim, and that large A right in the middle. What a prize! I could hardly wait to go for the other two that went with it. The silver and the gold one.
Along with the badge, and the accumulation of others I had acquired in short time, came a promotion. A yellow strip of cloth that is worn on the arm promoted me to the rank of Sixer. One step down from a cub-scout pack head. I sewed it on, and wore it for a month until the move.
Father had been given the choice to buy the house we were living in, or begin looking for another. The landlord needed the money. I understood nothing of rent, having taken for granted that where we lived was our home. I remembered nothing before it.
A large moving truck backed into the driveway, and our life was stuffed into boxes and carted away. Away from the cub pack, the scratchy sofa, primary school and home. Far away from the promotion, the silver and the gold and whatever childhood I had known up until this point. The roots acquired in the few short years on Snowden road, were yanked, driven along potted roads and dumped down on a hundred and fifty acres of woodland and grass on the other side of town, out on 5 Highway.
It would be the second of thirty-nine moves in subsequent years.
Thirty-nine.
Five Highway
What a difference a short drive can make in the life of a child! We may as well have gone to the moon. We zipped along a highway for 30 minutes until pulling off before a large bridge. Then we drove down a short winding road for about a hundred yards and into a dirt driveway that wound its way past a few trees, until we stopped in what looked like a campground.
This is home? A large dormitory styled mansion filled part of the yard. A church was situated in a field to our left. The driveway continued on down a small path, over a short bridge that spanned a duck pond and fanned out beside a convention center. Stepping out of the car, we gazed on the largest house we had ever seen. Originally used by Ukrainian immigrants for lodging, it had been purchased by a private owner and the Ukrainian occupants had long since vanished.
And we were to rent it. It had outdoor tennis courts, two in-ground swimming pools, and more bedrooms, kitchens and living rooms than we could possibly use.
"Do we each get a bedroom"? Pat asked.
"There are thirteen. Take your pick". Father said.
We lived there alone. The six of us. It was like heaven. Boundless space and incredible rooms. My bedroom was painted top to bottom as one large Canadian flag with a huge maple leaf right in the center above the bed.
Throughout the year, groups of tourists would come through somewhere on the compound, pitch a few tents and have a rather large picnic that included roast pork soaked in wine, tender veggies and plenty of drink. Except for the old grounds keeper who kept an office in the shed outside, we were on our own. We bought a dog from one of the tourists who had no more use for her and called her Nasha, the same name they used. Its Ukrainian translation means "Ours". Magnificent animal. We played for endless hours with her outside. At least for us boys, we enjoyed the new grounds. It's hard not to like a place that has its own sunk-in swimming pool. We went to a school in the area, and kids being what they are, we had already made some friends. The family right up the road from us had 13 children, many of them our own age. Two of them had the same name. And the school wasn't far from our home, so we were able to see one or three classmates in the area.
Right around Easter my parents had this spectacular fight. In the past, I ignored such arguments. They were a convenient excuse to stay out later and play. But I was getting tired this night, and the argument had gone on too long. I felt relief when we were told to come in. Upon entering the veranda, dirt lay scattered about, along with a broken vase and a white lily I had bought for mom earlier in the week. I left it lying on the floor that night, scattered and torn among the shards and gravel. I thought about picking it up, but left it. The next morning, it lay wilted and desperate for water. I glanced at the torn petals, the twisted stock.
Maybe it will speak to them.
I stepped over the mess and continued on to school. It was gone by the time I got back. We were also told we would be moving back East, back to where the parents were born.
The day we moved, we filled a different truck with our belongings, tied a bunch of other bags and goods to the roof of our car, and filled every available space inside with books, food, drinks, comics and clothes. We gathered in, buckled up and opened the windows for air. One thousand miles lay before us.
"All set?" Father asked.
He fastened his belt and cranked the key. A dull thud sounded inside the engine. For the next twenty minutes we watched him picking the remains of a cat out of the motor where it had wound itself around the fan belt. Mother cried. My little brother Roger cried and of course, the cat was quite dead. I tried to cry too, but frankly, couldn't understand the fuss. I mean, it was a cat. And a stray one at that. Sure, we fed it every day, and maybe dangled some string in front of it once in a while. But it's not like we owned it or anything, or took it shopping or even named it for God's sake.
Chapter 3 Divided
The grandparents on mother's side had long since moved to the city. There was no electricity or toilet and their house was at least a hundred years old, set on the side of the road between two hay fields. Beyond the hay fields there was thick forest. From a mansion to a semi-farmhouse was significant, but at least it was familiar with the greying, nameless photos of dead relatives and color pictures of present family. It smelled like home.
It seemed fit that we should build a new house practically in its backyard. What a difference to imagine a house of our own! It took a while to get started, but once Father got back on the police force, construction progressed rapidly on the new place. The ground floor bedrooms went to Pat and Tony. Dad had his new office built downstairs in the corner room. I got the bedroom across from the parent's room. I picked the color of carpet too, a nice thick green slice of luxury. I loved watching mother putter around during the building, humming to herself. But that carpet. That was to be my own. Furthermore, the carpets were to be 'shag rug', thick coverings with long threads that snagged ragged toenails if one didn't walk flatfooted. Mother talked about shag carpet endlessly, looking forward to having a furry floor.
Funny, you never know what you don't have until you get it. So while keen on the whole experience of this new home, it never occurred to me that we ought not to have one, I mean, being nine and all, you don't really think like that.
We went to another new school, which was the same one mother attended as a child. In the winter time, we blanketed near the fireplace that crackled with the snapping, dead timbers of our environment. And during Christmas, Pat and I would take it upon ourselves to round up the family Christmas tree. We'd venture into the forest, partially cut an evergreen tree and then climb the 15 meters to the top and shake the tree until it came crashing down into the deep, fluffy snow that covered the forest floor. After careful inspection of the tree, we'd lop off the first two meters of the top and drag it home, or shear another one at the base, climb to the top and swinging and shaking back and forth, topple it to the ground with us in it. The snow was much too deep to suffer any harm.
On one occasion, we encountered a raccoon high in a tree top, not in the least impressed with our shenanigans. Nasty animal. We fought the beast with sticks for 20 minutes before giving up the battle and moving on to another spruce. The coon scowled us taking down another tree. We usually ended up with a fairly nice one to place downstairs in the recreation room that contained the brick fireplace.
Not a Christmas went by that our tree wasn't stacked from bottom to top with gifts and boxes, ornaments and lights. And stockings were filled with special gifts of chocolate and watches and gadgets, candy and an item for school. We received homemade donuts from our grandmother also.
And so in all points, it was normal. All the relatives lived within a five minute drive. Father's parents were no more than an hour away. Mother's folk were in the nearby city and most of our new friends lived along the same country road. For recreation on the weekends, we'd take shotguns into the forest and blow away every living thing in sight. Much of it was good food. The last thing I ever shot was a rabbit. It screamed and flopped and twitched so much that I never picked up another gun. Fishing in the small brooks that ran throughout the area was more enjoyable by far.
On a hot, thick summer night, as Pat and I lay on the floor of the basement, to stay cool from the temperature, a muffled sound startled me awake. I could hear the crickets outside. What was that sound? I glanced over at Pat. He lay on his side with his eyes open, his back to the sound. Near the wall, a figure was bent over, stuffing a bag with something. We listened as it worked, as though in a hurry to get somewhere. Neither Pat nor I moved, nor barely breathed. We dared not ask but we both had the same thought.
"Boys, your father left last night," mother said the next morning while we fried eggs. Tony and Roger sat at the table. And then mother wept. We remained silent and listened to her cry while our eggs crackled in the pan. And I thought about watching him pack his bag the night before.
Later on, we were told he needed to come by. So that expectant night, Mom cooked a large dinner consisting of roast beef and potatoes and carrots with some cake for desert. The house was polished, and lit up with the chandelier in the dining room and the table set and we put out the best forks. She had her apron on and did her hair and whisked through the place like a fresh broom, careful to set each detail in good order. But he didn't come that night. It was the following day to pick up some paperwork and clothes. We had eaten our roast beef in silence. The five of us. The chandelier had been turned off and we used a 100 watt light bulb in the kitchen to save power.
Time blended into emotion. The radio played. And continued to play for the following weeks and months that followed. Every sad country song imaginable filled the kitchen. "It's a Heartache" pulsed through our radio day and night. Alcohol mysteriously appeared in the refrigerator. I heard from Pat how father had chased mother up through a snowy hay field with a gun, her fleeing in horror wearing a pair of slippers and her nightgown. I had been sleeping that night, but Pat saw it and told me. I shivered when I thought how closely she must have come to dying, and how scared she must have been. I suppose father was hurting too. Once I watched him crying out in the driveway after a visit during which he and mother had argued. He stayed in the car, so Pat went out to see him, but to me, it looked fake, so I remained in the house. I wasn't angry, but felt compelled to show some response to mother who stood near the curtains watching.
"I hate him", I told mother. I didn't, but couldn't think of anything else to say.
"You watch your mouth", she said. "He's still your father".
But I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Aren't we supposed to hate the people that hurt us?
He had paneled the tiny office room downstairs with wooden décor and light brown trim. But now his desk was gone and so were his books and papers. There were scraps on the floor. I moved my bed into the empty space between the scraps. The carpet in the room was flat and red, not like the green shag rug in my abandoned bedroom. I stayed in his office all night, listening.
Father…father. Silence.
I heard the walls weeping and a hushed visitor creeping through the hallways. In the mornings, upon awakening, the air felt muddy and heavy, like an approaching storm front. Sorrow began
descending like torrential rains and flashes of anger streaked throughout our home. The divorce was a violent twister of biting words and strong winds that tore up the new growth and brought new meaning to the present. I could not bring the two distinct lives together. The present and what we had. When the walls come down, they all come down. Even the ones from the past. They were just a lie.
The days crawled from one to the next, pulling us along jagged, broken rocks that had once been the foundation of a family.
In school, I sat bleeding and in shock. At roll call, our family name became a sore noise, stinging my wounds. My flesh hung in strips, shame was my blanket. I had never known such sorrow and emptiness. My 39 year old dad, the hero of my life, the infallible one whose very word was law, had moved in with a 19 year old college student. And left us to live alone.
I was 12 years old.
Chapter 4
The Walls
Momma, when will I be big enough
and strong enough,
to play,
the games that daddies play..
I listened to the song wafting out of the gym. That day, we were being given a concert by members of the school. I strolled into the gym to have a better look at the performers. Among them was a young man named Chris Mischance, about the same age as me. He sat on center stage, looking down at his guitar and singing, in a nice soft flowing voice, deep and rich,
She searched her mind in desperation
Six long years of separation
Dimmed the words she knew she had to say
I hope you're never big enough
Or old enough or bold enough
to play The games that daddies play
Such emptiness being sung by a 13 year old boy, echoed inside me.
Do people live like this? Why?
I met Chris in school a few weeks after the gym, and his older brother Paul at their home. Chris and I had struck up a conversation, and invited me over. I noticed the guitar in the living room and he picked it up and strummed a chord or two. "We live alone with my mom, he told me between chords. She and dad are divorced". And he started to sing that same song again.
“I heard a kid singing that a few weeks ago in the gym", I said.
Chris cocked his head and cautiously asked, "What do you think? Was he any good"?
“Yea, I thought he had a great voice", I answered truthfully. Chris’s face lit up and he told me that it was indeed him on stage that day, and then sang the entire song again, front to back.
We spent a couple more hours just chatting, and I called mother for a ride home. It was a school night, and my homework was still not finished, if there was any at all.
I enjoyed my friends from school, but the lessons were becoming wearisome. The teacher’s attitudes progressively worsened as my motivation for learning sank. I sat at the front near the door, disinterested, moody, bored and sad.
“Get to work, Greg!” Mrs. Keenan told me for the fourth time that day. “You’re going to do it…dear", she said, tapping her pencil on my desk that held the sacred text of English.
Dear? Dear? I shot back. “I am not your dear!”
She dragged me out of the classroom, threw me against a row of lockers and taking my shoulders, shook them and shouted “Can’t you see you’re gifted"?
Gifted? ? I was weeping inside. I stood in the hall while she went back inside. Why would she say that? I slumped against the locker and stayed there the remainder of class. She never asked. Nobody asked.
The next day, I kicked the coke machine in the hall, trying to impress Tammy Foster, the gorgeous brunette who sat beside me in class. Her name fit well. She didn’t have a clue who her parents were, but I liked her attitude about it. She never looked unhappy. Once I heard her talk about the trouble of being adopted, and that was later on when we were both sixteen and she was vomiting out the back window of Johnny Pender’s car.
“Do you know what it’s like not knowing who your parents are"? she wailed and then puked. One other notable day, she laughed right in my face and told me I “look like a monkey". But that didn’t stop me from liking her or trying to make her laugh, or impress her by destroying a machine. The Principal wasn’t too impressed though. After receiving my rather rigid body (which was dangling from the arm of an irate teacher), asked me to kick him exactly like I kicked the coke machine. I stood in his office, trembling in fear and wondering if he was serious. What kind of person asks a question like that?
“You should have booted him one”, mother told me when I got home and relayed the story to her. I didn’t bother mentioning the part about Mrs. Keenan. But I did learn that consequences to bad behavior weren’t as frightening as once imagined. And that given the opportunity, I would most certainly kick the Principal’s knee cap right clean off next time. As it was, he gave me detention for a lunch time or two, and continued walking on two good legs. But I thought on it long and often. Maybe I’d kick the coke machine again to have another crack at his legs..
SMOKE
In a field behind the school that year, I watched my eldest brother Tony smoking a joint with one of the older school boys. Here was something new! I felt scared, like he was crossing a serious line, one laid down explicitly by father. On Snowden Road, father even brought home a display case full of illegal drugs to warn us of their dangers. He pointed to each one, explained what it was and warned us. Keep away.
‘Don’t do it’ I wanted to say, echoing dad’s sentiments. But I stood, nervous, watching the boys, watching Tony pushing back the boundaries and tearing down even more walls. The solid building stones of fathers words. But was he not gone now, no longer there to validate them, or to say what truth is, or if the walls even existed anymore? I watched the boys smoke it and then run idiotically through the field, pretending an imaginary creature had put them to flight. They shouted and laughed the whole time while I ran behind them, uncertain of every step, but fairly certain that they were faking it. At least, hoping they were faking it, as well as scared witless, and to some extent, fascinated.
Outside of school, nothing much changed in our day to day life. We ate dinners, drank cola and played regularly out in the forest. But I was missing dad. His absence was carving an undefinable longing. For some relief, I got a dog and called him Blue, named after the beer that appeared in our refrigerator, thanks in part to Frank, a new friend of mothers. It was an uncharacteristic occurrence, considering alcohol had never been seen in our home prior to the parents divorce. But Frank enjoyed it too much to leave it elsewhere. And so large quantities of it began to flow, as though someone had turned on a tap and snapped the handle off. It went everywhere with us. Fishing, a drive to town. A weekend at home. A weekday at home. For fun, instead of climbing trees, Pat and I would play bar by setting up boxes for a bar top, and line up a row of empty bottles. We’d pretend to take one swig apiece, set the bottle down, and then leap across the boxes to pound one another senseless in a ‘bar fight’, the dog yapping and nipping at our foolishness.
I’m not sure what prompted him, but he ended up shooting the dog when I wasn’t around. He took him down into the forest behind our home and executed the pup with a shot to the head.
“You shot my dog"? I asked him incredulously.
“Yea, you should have seen the smoke roll out of his head”
“What the hell’d you do that for"?
“Well, he knocked over a can of paint".
“He knocked over some paint, so you shot it??"?
“Well, Darrin helped".
“You took turns?"?
I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day and long into the next. Darrin, our cousin who happened to live a few houses away and was about the same age, decided it best not to visit for a while. But he didn’t stay away long. His father, our mother’s brother was a horrific drunk, consuming a quart of whiskey a day with some beer thrown in for good measure. He and Frank were pretty close. He died last year. I was going to send him a card, but never got around to it. I think he hated my guts. Really. One Christmas, while I was visiting, he threw the damned turkey across the room, and told me to leave.
Right on Christmas day. Imagine that. A perfectly good turkey.
Our bar fights didn’t last long however. It was quite impossible for mom to pay for a new house by herself, and take care of four kids, considering she didn’t have a job. She did eventually get one though as a cashier in a supermarket but for economic reasons, we then got to make a choice of which parent we wanted to live with. For me, the choice was clear from the start. I missed my father. And whereas Pat was already showing signs of shell-shock, you know, shooting dogs and all, it was not hard to talk him into coming along. The Green House no longer held any meaning anyway except some hard to swallow memories.
We moved into a small town called Hartland, along with our father and his new wife. He had taken on the role of Police Chief. For the moment, Roger and Tony stayed with Mom and Frank. Though Frank had his own apartment and Mom was still trying to hold the house together, our dream collapsed on the doorsteps of the mortgage broker. We never went back.
Chapter 5
Hartland
Hartland is the center of two major industries, potatoes and Christianity, each holding numerous variations of their product. In the center of town, spanning a large river is the world’s longest covered bridge. Built in the early 1900’s, it was originally an open bridge for pedestrians and horses. But the horses became nervous during the long walk across and so it was completely boarded in top and sides, all 1282 feet of it, forming an iconic tourist attraction that still stands today. It’s the center of town and ties it all together. That and the churches. And the potatoes I suppose.
We moved into a rather nice single level house that shared a back lawn with the Hawkes, a prominent family in the community. They had a daughter right around our age. They had three daughters in fact, but the oldest was two or three years our senior and the youngest was a toddler. Gayle, in the middle, was closest to us . She was fun, had her own car, and didn’t mind sharing. Many weekends, Pat and I would stop into her house, along with several other young teens from town.
As the weather warmed, groups of us would gather downtown on Main Street and sit on the benches or stand on the corner. There were two streets, so there was only one corner we could stand on. In bad weather, the covered bridge was our refuge.
On any given Sunday, during the summer the Pentecostal church near the corner would throw open the doors and windows of their building and sing Hallelujah at the top of their voices. The music wasn’t bad either. Led by a charismatic pastor, the church quickly grew to 100 members strong, and in the early evenings, while groups of us sat across the street on a park bench smoking weed, the church would shake that little white building with their singing, dancing and shouting.
Blackmore, the pastor, was a young man of about 28. He was short with jet black hair and a pace that implied he was ready at any given moment to break out in a sprint. He was also the star goalie of the town’s hockey team. Disciplined and sharp as a switchblade, he moved easily among the town people, having earned great respect for his untiring contribution to local sports, and the spiritual life of a growing number of people, both young and old.
I was curious about the place.
During one of their Sunday services, I awkwardly slipped in to watch the show, to see what all that shouting was about. It was nerve wracking making that decision. I was scared! Once inside, I felt better. A little. I happened to arrive as the singing was breaking into full passion, with a few older ladies dancing in the aisles, people with their hands raised and a cacophony of shouts, cries and song filling the small building. I had no idea what the shouting was about. But I had the distinct feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t anything like I’d seen before.
Nobody noticed me come in. If they did, they didn’t say anything. Usually there’s an usher or two at the door to greet people as they arrive. Maybe I was late, or they were busy shouting, I don’t know. All the same, I was thankful for the lack of attention.
The church was small; you could probably jump from one side to the other with a good run. It also had folding theater seats for pews. I grabbed one in the middle. A band of young people sat on the stage, accompanying Blackmore as he led the assembly in fast paced, almost rocking gospel music. The spectators clapped and sang along with the music, stopping occasionally to throw their hands up in the air and speak in tongues. Then it would all slow down to a low murmur, the entire body of people moving and swaying along with the sweeping rhythm, escalating back into a large noise with more clapping and singing. I sat, half petrified, half fascinated.
But Blackmore was cool. And confident. He’d thump on the pulpit; slap the Bible and point into the crowd waving the white handkerchief that he used to wipe the sweat off his face from getting so worked up. Not many said ‘Amen’ though, although once in a while, one would slip out. At the end of the thumping speech, several people left their theater seats and walked to the front of the church, kneeling in front of the stage. I heard them call it an altar. Later I was told the altar is a direct reference to the Old Testament structure that sat inside the holy place of the Jew’s temple. It is where sacrifice is offered up to God, and atonement is made for sin. It’s where people pray.
I didn’t go to the altar, but instead, back at home, began secretly reading the bible at night. I’d stash it under the pillow when anybody walked into my room. I don’t know why I’d hide it. I did. I read it frequently, absorbing the stories of past patriarchs who performed amazing deeds of faith. And Revelations that spoke of a future city. I even saw the story of Zacchaeus, the little man who climbed a tree.
While glancing through it one evening, I read for the first time, that "this generation will not pass away, until all things are fulfilled.”
The end of the world as we know it. I was startled and began scrolling over the text.
And as he sat upon the Mount of Olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, Tell us, when shall these things be? and what shall be the sign of thy coming, and of the end of the world?
And Jesus answered and said unto them,
Take heed that no man deceive you.
For many shall come in my name, saying, I am Christ; and shall deceive many.
And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.
For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes, in diverse places.
All these are the beginning of sorrows.
For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.
And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved: but for the elect's sake those days shall be shortened.
Then if any man shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.
For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs and wonders; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect...
I was in awe. Hadn’t I watched some guy down in Guyana who had led a bunch of people into Kool-Aid frenzy, killing 900 of them? He thought he was Jesus. I continued reading.
Now learn a parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh;
So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it is near, even at the doors.
In startled wonder I stared at the next line: Verily I say unto you, This generation shall not pass, till all these things be fulfilled.
The
words stood out, shimmering on the page, pulsating. So I am to see the return of Christ in my generation. I awoke each day with the thought, perhaps today would be the day of his return or the rapture of the church.
I decided to go back to the assembly again when I had opportunity. I told no one of my interest in the little church, or Blackmore or Jesus. Most especially, the people I hung around with. My dreams at night began to take on religious overtones. In the daytime, it was continually on my mind. My quirky behavior used to baffle a few friends a little I think, most notably a friend named Viv, or Blake as he is so named. Viv is his nickname. Blake, (or Viv) calls himself an atheist. So whenever the conversation of God came up, which it began to do more often, he’d scoff it off.
“There is no God".
Even his brother and his friends got in on the act, imitating Blackmore and the little church while they sat around watching sports on TV one Saturday afternoon. “Praise God” one would shout at a goal, and a few other young people in the room would chorus back, Amen!” “Glooo-rry to Gaaawd. Hallelujah, Amen". If somebody made a good move, they’d shout “Praise the Lord.!
Jimmy, a poor guy from outback in Shackville, where the floors were mud, dogs were frequent and sheep were nowhere to be found, happened to be visiting during one such game. I had walked over to Viv’s house with him.
He asked me; “Are they being serious"?? He was as puzzled as he could be.
“Naw, they’re being idiots”, I told him. At least Jimmy had some reflection.
Viv eyed me curiously. “What the hell makes you tick anyway"? he asked one day.
We were swimming in the town pool. I wanted to say something, but I hated being mocked or being ashamed. I was trying to avoid more rejection if at all possible, and so said nothing. He kept swimming and let the matter drop. I wasn’t sure I knew what the ‘tick’ was anyway.
In the evening, I dreamed of our old house on the 150 acres with the tennis courts and pools. My grandfather was sitting outside the old shed at the head of the driveway. Beside him was a bear, gutted and hanging upside down on the shed door. The bear’s side was completely open revealing the absence of guts and innards.
“Be careful”, he told Tony and I who were preparing for a journey somewhere. “Ol’ Satan is in the hills".
In the dream, we said our goodbyes and Tony and I moved further down the road until we came to a brook that ran alongside our path.
Ï need a drink”, I told my brother, and bent over to scoop some cool, clear water out.
“No, wait until we get there”, he replied.
And we traveled on, minus the water.
We arrived in an impressive wooded area, carpeted with plush grass. Not a leaf or twig littered the ground. The trees were tall and stately, each about the exact same size, growing at roughly equal distances from each other, all dark brown cedar like trees with magnificent full tops. None of the trees were more than a foot or two in diameter. There was no sky. Dotted throughout the forest were fine-looking mansions, all in perfect proportion to the trees. The mansions were neither too large nor too small, but rather appeared almost numinous, like they were alive. They were perfect, miniature mansions, but well-suited for one dweller I suppose. As was the forest, they were also faultless in appearance.
But there was an anomaly. Bears moved between the trees. Lots of them. They would vanish behind one and reappear from another direction. They stared at Tony and I with no fear, but they never stopped moving. I wished to go into one of the houses, and started for a door but at the same instant, a group of mutual friends arrived and bid Tony and I round the back of the house, to continue to wherever we were going. I followed them without going inside. In an instant, a grizzly rushed down upon us. I dashed back for the door, but the bear was too swift and easily overtook me as I reached out for the handle. As it struck, the forest, houses, trees, grass and people vanished in a white haze awakening me back into night, staring mystified around the bedroom.
High There
As with many small towns in Canada, drugs were quite common in the area. Crowds of young people got together in gravel pits, drive-ins and the back woods swimming holes, doing little else besides drinking and getting high. Me included. I was sixteen when LSD showed up on our doorstep in the form of a little square of white paper.
“White Blotter”, said Larry, our older neighbor. He was standing in our kitchen about an hour before midnight. Stopped in on his way home.
“It’s acid. It’ll send you on a trip for about 15 hours. I got a 4 square. We can each eat one”.
He took out a white, postage stamp sized piece of paper from his pocket and tore it into 4 small squares. Then he handed a piece to each of us.
I wasn't that fussy. We chewed it. All four of us. Larry, Tony, Pat and myself while Roger, Linda and dad slept upstairs. We sat all night watching TV shows, trying to be quiet while the walls bent out of shape and colors flashed throughout the room. Smoking pot will get you high, but this stuff twists. Our living room blended into the TV. We were watching The New Avengers. In it, a spy is killed by a single shot from a mysterious gun. When the male spy turned to the female spy and said, "99 percent of the time you’re okay, but it’s the one percent that kills you”, Larry turned white.
“It’s the one percent that kills you", he repeated.
We all agreed it was the most amazing television script we had ever seen.
About 5 in the morning Larry put a plastic cup over his hand and beat himself repeatedly in the crotch saying he couldn’t feel a thing. We decided it was probably time for him to go home and for us to go to bed.
Pat, Tony and I all slept in the same room. They had beds and I slept in a hammock strung across the room from corner to corner. But laying in bed didn’t bring the desired sleep. My heart was pounding, and a rushing motion started, as though the room were tearing up a path through space.
There was not a sound upstairs. We had done LSD in our own home, right under the bedroom of our own father. The chief of police. But my conscience was clear. After being shattered by the past four years, getting high was the proverbial golden gate to a better way. We were free to choose our own way and live according to the rules and parameters we set.
It was unsettling. I wanted to cry, but was too high. The divide was too large. There were no reference points. No voice of understanding. No pattern of life that called for conditions. The future was gone. It had imploded upon us. In the chaos of family values, it had become necessary to create from scratch. At 16, there was no end in sight. It was too far away. Inwardly wishing for the safety of home, and being confronted with the reality that it no longer existed, at least in my mind, intensified the confusion.
Yes, I could choose. I despised it all. Goddam them for killing us.
The last thing I saw before drifting off were the walls moving back into focus and the bedroom window pane glowing fluorescent green and the rising sun cracking through the morning fog.
Weeks Later
"Greg". It said. Disembodied.
Huh? God?? Ah, so he’s talking to me. I must be special. Gifted, the teacher said. This is obviously perfectly normal to hear the voice of God speaking out of the suspended darkness.
“Don’t you want me to love you"? the voice asked.
I was surprised and amazed. I had been out for the evening, and was lying in bed, weeping for something. When it spoke, my thoughts cleared, and a perfect stillness filled the room.
I thought on the question for a moment.
“It’s hard", I answered. And waited. But nothing else transpired. The distress closed in once again, crashing down against the walls of my mind It never occurred to me to ask any questions to the voice, and mother was the one person I told. She was cruising along the highway in an old beater, with me in the passenger side during one of our visits. Startled, she looked over at me. "Maybe you’re doing too many drugs", she said.
He did speak. Why is that so hard to believe? But I didn’t mention it again, not even to Blackmore, who was in all likelihood, talking to God right now.
That week, a group of us sat on a park bench when we saw the police car across the bridge and near the river. We ran over to investigate. A crowd had already gathered. The father was splashing around frantically on the shore looking for his 8 year old son.
Grabbing some swimming gear provided by the crowd, Tony and I and one of our friends dove into the murky, brown depths of the St. John to help look for the young child. But the silence of the deep and the discarded appliances and garbage that had collected at the bottom sketched an eerie picture through the lens of the swimming mask. Forcing fear to overcome heroism, I abandoned the task. Coming up from the water, I noticed the dad stood ankle deep in the water, stunned, immobile, staring straight into the water. His face had no expression.
I moved past him without a word. Ashamed at my fear. I didn’t understand death, it was puzzling , beyond comprehension. Why did I give up? Why not five more minutes? Or ten? Or until we found him?
I’m sorry we couldn’t find your brother", I said to his sister Debbie a few days after his funeral. She was a member of the youth group in the same church Blackmore pastored.
“He is with Jesus now", she said. “And we’re praying for you too".
I got on well with Blackmore, and so I’d stagger into his house at all hours of the day and night, drunk or high, to test the sincerity of his belief. I figured if he’d put up with that, then he must have something real. On one particular evening, while visiting him, he said ‘C’mere Greg, I’ve got a movie I want you to have a look at…” and plugged a tape into the player. After the credits , the opening scene fades into view. A woman is startled out of bed by a noise and turns slowly to the radio. In shock she listens.
‘Millions have disappeared...cities are in chaos...dozens of accidents...some believe this is the rapture spoken about in the bible where Christ has returned and taken his church to be with him”.
She listens in wide eyed horror and then tears out of bed and in the bathroom where her Christian husband was a moment ago. The bathroom is empty, except for his electric razor, lying on the floor, still humming with power.
She screams. The rapture had indeed happened and she was left behind to face untold numerous horrors and perils. Subtitles flash across the screen.
‘Take heed, for in an hour that you think not, your master returns. Then two shall be in the field, and one left. Two women shall be grinding at the mill. One shall be taken and the other left".
That scared me. I joined the church not long after and made an appointment for baptism. Along with a few others, we were submerged in water with the pastor claiming in bold declaration.
Ï baptize you in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
The last thing I wanted was to be left by God.
Nobody from my home came. After the service, feeling very depressed, instead of going home, I hitchhiked 12 miles downriver to visit my ‘older sister’ Pam. She was sitting on an old, flower print sofa in her rented living room. There was no electricity, so she was surrounded by candles. A storm was forming as I arrived. A cup of tea sat on the crooked end table beside her.
I poured my disappointment out to her, and while the candles flickered in the living room, the storm raged outside flashing lightning and illuminating the room in brilliant white light and shadows. The room was charged with energy, the air itself alive, pulsating with the wind and snapping violence. In silence, we stared at each other while it swirled around us, mesmerized by the intensity, a surreal sense of energy and power.
God is here.
Sipping on her tea, and looking across the top of her cup, Pam said to me, "I think you’re looking for something".
“Well, what makes you think I haven’t already found it Pam"? I replied somewhat defensively. And marched off to the kitchen to wait this night out. After blowing out the candles, Pam awkwardly moved up the staircase and into her bedroom. I moved back into the living room, sat down on the ratty sofa, and stared out through the window, watching the sky light up intermittently between ear-cracking thunder and pelting rain.
Toronto
Several months into the church, I was growing restless with the mundane routine of going to ‘service’ and little else. Maybe a trip to Ontario would bring about some welcome change. The problem was, I didn’t have enough money to get there. I was about 20 dollars short of a bus ticket. But, I went to the bus station anyway and tried to get the teller to sell me one at a discount price, or at least advise me on how far I could get on the money I had. As it turned out, while I was standing there, debating what to do, a man I had worked with weeks previously happened to come into the store.
“Hey, Greg. How are you"? he said. I greeted him. “Listen, I still owe you 20 bucks from that last job. Glad to run into you here", he said, and handed over a twenty dollar bill. I thanked him and bought a full ticket to Toronto, one way, and stayed on the street for a week, interviewing beggars.
I had always been curious how a man or woman ended up begging or living on the street, so in the daytime, I’d wander around the city meeting homeless people, asking them how they ended up there. Nobody really ventured an answer worth repeating. One summed it up by saying "you ask too many questions". I also met a young guy named Daniel. He took me around the city a bit, showing me where people slept, how to get a good spot, where to eat. He told me he slept in an abandoned building somewhere near Younge Street.
While we were talking, he knelt down onto the middle of the sidewalk, threw his hands up into the air and prayed.
“What are you doing man", I asked.
He replied that he was letting his light shine before men.
“Now see here", I said. Taking out a rather oversized Black Bible, I pointed out a verse to him. “Be careful not to do your good deeds before men, to be seen of them. Verily, I tell you, you have your reward".
“Oh yea. See here", he said and read another verse that said to beware ‘of wolves in sheep’s clothing’ and vanished into the crowd.
I didn’t see him again that night, so I had to find a place to sleep on my own. Spying an empty bus parked in a lot, I stole over in the night, pried open the door and made my way to a seat somewhere in the middle. Leaning back, I slumped against the window for a nap when I heard steps coming towards me from the back of the bus. This is it, somebody’s going to knife me.
I was too scared to move so I kept my eyes closed and hoped that somehow, if it was coming, it would be fast and final. The steps moved closer and stopped right beside my seat. My eyes were fastened shut, and my heart was thumping like mad.
“Hey bud", a man’s voice whispered. "If you lean against the window, someone’ll see you and they’ll kick us both off. Okay"?
“Okay, man", I croaked back. I didn’t even look at him. He went to the back again and I stood up and moved out of the bus, back out onto the street where I spent the remainder of the night beside a bush, wishing for the day. At daybreak, I made my way to the bus station where at least one could sit down on a clean seat.
I was very low on cash at this point, barely enough to grab a coffee. Managing to find a cup for about a buck, I found a seat somewhere off by myself in the large station, away from people. Sitting down, I reached into my bag and took out the bible and began to read.
It was not long before another young man came over and sat in the chair directly across the table His hair was tatty and his clothes drab and grey.
“Whatcha reading", he asked.
I looked up. “Oh this. The Bible".
“The Bible eh? Yea, that’s a good book".
I smiled at him him. “yes, it is. Maybe this guy’s an angel.
“Yeah". He fidgeted for a moment. “I gave that to you. That book”.
I looked up at him. He read my thoughts. “Yeah, that’s right. I gave you that book", he repeated.
Now that was weird. I didn’t want to get drawn into some whacked out conversation with somebody who was clearly weird and unpredictable.
‘That’s funny”, I said. I was uncomfortable. “Can you tell me where the bathroom is"? Get away from this nut.
“Down there, around the corner and down the stairs", he said, pointing out a section of the terminal.
So I thanked my unexpected guest for his company, and moved out of the main room, through a large hall and down a flight of stairs in the apparent direction of the bathroom. The steps were actually two flights of steps with a landing in between as they took a right angle. About three steps from the landing, with full intention of carrying on, a clear single thought entered my mind.
Don’t go down there. The boy’s coming to rob you.
I was startled and stopped on the landing. Turning for a look behind, the young man I had encountered at the station came bounding down the steps. There was nowhere to run. I began to rummage around in my bag as though looking for something. Stalling. Whizzing past me he said, "down here” and kept going down into the basement.
“Yep”, I replied. As he vanished down the hall, I beat it back up the stairs and out into the relative safety of the street. Glancing over my shoulder, the boy was nowhere to be seen.
I was clearly in over my head to be wandering the streets of Toronto alone, with no money or place to stay. Placing a desperate phone call home, much to the angry annoyance of Father and the visceral fear of Mother, thankfully produced enough money for a bus ticket back.
Voices. Surely everyone who believes hears from God the same way.
College
After five years of working at construction, I looked around one morning while shoveling, and saw less of a future in the shovel than in school. My faith was doing well. I had not consumed any intoxicants for quite some time and had started dressing in pinstripes suits every Sunday for church. Blackmore was still thumping the pulpit when he wasn’t stopping hockey pucks. But this job had to go. The small crew I worked with was building the fast food section of a tiny strip mall the town had barely managed to finance. At six o’clock that night, I finished work, walked back up the hill to home and slipped inside father’s shed he converted into a work space and office. Sitting down at his wooden office desk, I made a simple prayer.
“Oh Lord. Put me in school please".
The following week I meandered down to the New Brunswick Community College and asked about getting in. The woman at reception told me, "The course begins in September, so if you’d like to go, you’ll have to pay your tuition now. It’s already late actually. The enrollment date closed about a week ago".
“How much is it"? I asked. “Five hundred dollars". Five hundred dollars??
I didn’t have that much money and told her as much. I certainly didn’t have it on me. But she said that was okay, on the condition I pay her when I got the money.
I signed up for the communications program because it had photography, graphic arts and journalism majors, as well as some study in law. The communications course also included Radio and film studies, two courses that became my favorites.
Assuring her the tuition would be paid, I went home, quit work and told father I had enrolled in school. He paid the tuition immediately and threw in a cheque for 89 bucks every month to boot.
The college was organized and enjoyable. The GED program could be done at one’s own pace. Students came from many different backgrounds, all striving to hit the same goal - grade 12. Vicky was one of them. She was 40 years old, a Christian and had a vivacious way of looking at you. She was fun, and her laughter was infectious both in the classroom and out.
“Why would God keep talking to me unless he has a specific reason for it”, I asked her one day.
“He loves you Greg. Or can you accept that"? she answered.
Maybe she’s right. But there’s got to be more to it than that. Maybe he wants me to do something.
With little to do on the weekends except go to church, I had significant time to reflect on faith. Youth group meetings filled in Wednesday nights. I spent each morning rising at four a.m. to pray and read for four hours. At 8 a.m., I’d leave and hitch hike to college. Once in a while, Vicky would give me a ride.
Sean eventually joined our little GED class at the school. Tall, good looking with a slopping smile and droopy eyelids, Sean’s cool exterior was marked with confidence and stature. I liked him immediately. We spent most lunch hours together, talking about our pasts and futures.
One afternoon, he was strumming on an acoustic guitar he had brought to school.
“I used to be part of a Satanic rock band", he mentioned casually. He was always coming out with something that sounded different or offbeat. I had my doubts.
“Yea, no joke. We used to have upside down crosses, spit blood, the whole show. We dressed up in bizarre costumes and did our hair. Wore makeup. That sort of thing".
“How long did you do that for", I asked.
“Maybe a couple of years. But it got kind of weird. One time at a party, some guys threw a buddy of mine out through a second story window. While it was still closed. That messed him up a little. I’ll bring you some photos".
Sure enough, the next day in class he shows up with full color photos of him and the band in full collared rags and painted faces.
"The guitar you see there, my father gave it to me on my birthday". He pointed at the acoustic.
‘That’s pretty nice of him", I ventured.
“Yea, he gave it to me the same day he left home", Sean said. “Your family is divorced? Do you ever see your dad", I asked.
“He still stays in Ontario. I think he wanted me to get an education so he sent me here to this school", he said. “I got tired of the band anyway. I live here with my grandmother".
Knowing Sean brought a friendship I had not known for a while. The teacher in charge of our program knew we were close, and that we probably needed a little encouragement along the way to score some education. In the office one day, he mentioned the journalism program to us. We had been writing a few stories for class and he liked our enthusiasm for it.
“What da ya think man, want to do it"? Sean said. “Why not"? I answered.
So we set the date for the following September after completion of our final exam. I spoke to Sean regularly about church. He had been attending a Catholic mass for a few months while I continued on with the Pentecostal church.
“Tell you what Boone, you come to a mass with me and I’ll come to your church for a visit".
I was nervous. I had never been to a different denomination (apart from the Baptists) but Sean was courteous, explaining the doxology as we went. “Now when you come in the door, you have to take some of the water in the bowl by the entrance, bow and then sprinkle some of it for protection. I thought I’d end up half possessed if I did anything too far left. It was enough to make it through the main doors of the sanctuary without jeopardizing conscience in the process. Inside, we took our place in a pew. The main sanctuary was very nice. High ceilings with arching wooden rafters bent in a slick curve becoming one with the walls. Along each wall on either side of us were lighted stain glass windows, each one filled with wooden carvings depicting the stages of the cross, from the trial of Christ through to his crucifixion. At the center of the cathedral, on the wall and raised halfway to the rafters was a large cross with a very dead looking Jesus hanging on it.
From the side, a large woman dressed in robes stepped in and moved towards the piano where she began to play soft music, eventually progressing into a song. We sang along using the hymn books conveniently located in the pew in front of us. There were pads by our feet for those who prayed. During the service, Sean would often kneel on his and whisper a few words and sit back again. I tried it once or twice but couldn’t get the knack of knowing when to get down and when to get back up. As the music faded, a man dressed in white, with black and red sashes moved into view.
"That’s the Priest", Sean whispered.
The robed priest was waving a small silver ball at the end of chain while making his way down the center aisle followed by other robes carrying a bible on a pillow, reading a Psalm and singing softly.
Smoke poured from the ball. “Incense".
It filled the church with its smell. I felt dizzy with the aroma. After a few minutes, the procession found its way back to the front, where everybody took a seat or faded back into their respective positions in the flanks. The priest handed the incense ball to a young man, took his place behind the pulpit and gazing at us, raised his arms so that the sleeves of his robe extended, draping down and forming the picture of an angel in flight.
He bellowed. “God be with you"!
“And also with you!” everybody responded.
“In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen". “Amen".
The sermon lasted its regular 30 minutes, interspersed with more kneeling, amen’s and same to you's. One more blessing with hands raised, a few people crossed themselves and we filed out, fairly orderly. So I remained un-possessed, thankfully.
Outside, Sean adjusted his jacket, took out his sunglasses and put them on and taking out a cigarette, tapped it on the package twice by the butt end and stuck it in his mouth. “I love church”, he said, cupping his hands together to protect the lit match in his hands and lit his smoke. “Let’s go grab a coffee".
I waited for him, but he never kept his word and visited our Pentecostal assembly. His grandmother was against it, he said. Didn’t like all the tongues and stuff. I had been telling him how people spoke in different languages, received messages from God and experienced miracles. At least, I read about those things. And I’d heard quite a few people talking in tongues at our meetings. He mentioned this to his grandmother and that he thought about visiting.
“Come anyway", I said. “You’re old enough".
“I don’t want to hear anymore about it", he flat out said, cutting his hand through the air sideways in a motion of finality. So I let it drop.
I finished the program we were in together earlier than Sean, and obtained the certificate. We parted ways, but promised to keep in touch with each other, so occasionally I’d drop into the school for lunch. I stopped by his apartment once towards the end of the summer. He was outside, bent over the engine of a new car he had recently purchased, tinkering with the motor. I decided not to bother him, as there were others milling about, chatting and smoking. Maybe next time.
Not long after, at the college, I climbed the steps towards our old classroom with the intent of inviting Sean for lunch. Arriving at the top of the stairs, there were no students anywhere. I moved towards the empty and soundless classroom. Where was everybody? Class should be in session. Behind me, a voice was calling my name. Everything felt slow.
“Greg".
I turned to look at the sound. It was the librarian. ”Didn’t you know about Sean"? she asked.
I swallowed hard. What was there to know? "I’m so sorry, she said. He was driving to PEI and fell asleep at the wheel. He hit a pole".
She blinked once or twice to hold the tears. “He’s dead".
I attended the memorial service at the same Catholic Church we had been to weeks earlier. I also met Sean’s father for the first time, standing outside after the service. I handed him a store bought sympathy card. He glanced down at the white envelope, turning it over once or twice. A flash of annoyance crossed his face. He was trembling a bit and then looked up.
“There’s something wrong with burying a son. It’s not supposed to be this way”, he said. And dropped his head again. I stood in awkward silence, but felt little compassion. A simple curiosity as to the last time he might have seen Sean and whether or not he held any regrets.
“He was a good guy”, was all I could muster. I shed no tears; felt no pain and little sadness. I didn’t know what to think. It felt odd.
Stepping outside the cathedral, I saw the school librarian wiping tears away from her face and blowing her shiny red nose. Is she faking it? She was the librarian. How does a librarian get attached to a student?
I regretted the stupid card given to his father and went home.
Chapter 6
Hast God said ‘ye shall not eat of the tree” And she answered, ‘yea, God hath said,
we shall neither eat of the tree nor touch it, lest we die. ye shall not surely die, said the serpent.
For God knows in the day you eat of it,
your eyes shall be opened, knowing good and evil.
The Potato Parade started at the top of the hill, not far from our house. A dozen or more floats, and dancers and characters wound its way down through the center of town, past hundreds of spectators. It was our annual small town celebration, culminating in the crowning of Miss Hartland, and Miss Potato Queen. I was dressed as a Roman soldier, along with other members of the Pentecostal youth group. Pastor Blackmore sat on the wagon, being pulled along by a half-ton truck while our group followed along behind it, choking on the truck’s exhaust fumes.
From the mounted loudspeakers, Blackmore’s voice rang out over the cheap speakers, mildly distorted. I wondered if anybody could even understand it.
"At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow, both in heaven and on earth. For there is no other name under heaven given whereby men shall be saved. For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life".
The curious eyes of people I knew followed our route. Hartland is a small town. About a thousand people live there even now. We all knew one another. Young men and women I had partied with
watched with idle amusement. I felt ridiculous dressed in a Roman skirt. Is this what church people do? I have to admit, I’d of never done this on my own initiative, but I didn’t question it either. The rest of the youth group didn’t mind. An unusual bunch. But they were certain of one thing. Faith and its accompanying works. And so, I refused to object to the spectacle, knowing that to question procedures would be to question authority, even God himself.
What does God require in order to make the grade, to be a better person, or in some cases, to be an extraordinary one. Ultimately, to be worthy of eternal life? Where had I read that?
I glanced at the Blackmore and back to the crowds.
I had asked this question a thousand times. What does it take to impress God? To bring the chances in my favor. Embarrassing myself with this ridiculous outfit has got to count for something. Sharply turning down past the Royal Canadian Legion and moving onto the last stretch of our journey, avoiding the stares of acquaintances, my thoughts moved along in tandem with the thumping of the rocking gospel music now playing.
Who is God? What is expected of me? What are the rewards if I fulfill certain expectations? What are the consequences if I don’t?
The last two questions appeared easiest to answer, but the first two, those answers are to be a diverse as the people who preach them. In our own denomination particular emphasis was placed on evangelism. The cornerstone of that particular duty comes from the final words of Jesus to his disciples. "Go into all the world and preach the gospel".
The second and equally important belief is in the rapture. The catching away of God’s saints into the air, where they are reunited with Christ and the dead who have inherited eternal life. This event, the rapture, can take place at any time. Even today.
Why did they think I was here? Brothers I show you a mystery. We shall not all die, but we shall be changed. In the twinkling of an eye, at the final trumpet, the dead in Christ shall rise, and we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them the air. And so shall we ever be with the Lord.
The third and final cornerstone of the Pentecostal is the baptism of the Holy Spirit with the evidence of speaking in tongues. That is, the ability to pray and speak in other languages without prior learning.
"And when they were all gathered together in the upper room, suddenly there came from heaven the sound of a mighty rushing wind, and cloven tongues of fire appeared on each of them and they began to speak in other languages".
"Boy, you keep praying like that, and you’ll get your baptism", the older lady was saying to me after a prayer meeting. I was offended. Why did she assume I had an ulterior motive for prayer? As though I wanted God to give me something?
“No. I’m not going to apologize for that", she barked when I told her idea that a believer is generally endowed with a predominant one, with maybe one or two other minor abilities.
Later, I was taught that the same Spirit holds the gifts, and we have the Spirit, so it logically follows that believers are potentially able to flow in all the gifts. My grandmother, who had a strong Baptist background, believed gifts had passed away with the original disciples, and that they were used to install the gospel on earth in the beginning. It seems to me that every denomination is an extension of something previously disagreed upon with another. You’re a Pentecostal, but I’m a United Pentecostal because we don’t wear makeup or jewelry. It’s forbidden. Well brother Noodles, I’m an Anglican Catholic with Presbyterian slants. But no matter, the tags will either blow off on the way up or burn off on the way down.
I can only go by my own experience on such matters. For example, once during a charismatic service, a guest speaker stood up, spoke for a minute in an unknown language and sat back down. Usually at this point, the church remains fairly silent waiting for someone to interpret. It as based on the admonition found within Paul's letters to the Corinthians, that if you were going to speak in tounges, "let all things be done decently and in order…and let another interpret".
While I was sitting there, I saw in my mind’s eye, very clearly, an entire written message of 150 words or so. And even more remarkable was that I could see it and understand it fully without the usual reading of left to right eye movement. At that precise moment, a man who generally regarded himself quite spiritual and desirous to ‘flow in the gifts’ stood up and spoke the apparent interpretation. (It was, in fact, almost the exact same interpretation he had spoken on similar occasions.) I said nothing, too scared to oppose him, but fairly certain that wasn’t it at all, based on the page I was seeing in front of my eyes.
As I sat there, too nervous to move, I considered that if indeed this was God’s way of speaking to us, and I was unwilling, then He’d find somebody else. As if to confirm my thoughts, a girl stood at the back of the room, and word for word, with the exception of one or two minor words, spoke the exact same message that I was now looking at in my mind. It had never happened to me before nor has it happened since that day.
I never saw the eyes of the blind opened, or the lame walk or deaf hear, although I read these stories as attainable miracles for those who truly believe. And so for many of us, we strove to believe. After all, we were Pentecostals. And everybody knew we were closest to the truth, even if they didn’t want to admit it. Shoot, just last week I heard about some charismatic guy in Africa who walked on water. Just blew the village folks away with his faith.
Terry and Michael became two of my closest friends in church. Michael’s house, once belonging to his father was a stone’s throw from my father’s where I was living. We’d often have youth gatherings in his home. Among the youth was Jimmy, a young man from Pole hill, the poorest section of our community. He began coming to church with us after visiting a service. Poor as he was, it didn’t stop him from buying a new baby-blue suit for Sunday services.
“Man, you look like a million bucks”, we’d tell him. He’d grin from ear to ear.
His brother Dean also joined us, his new wife, and Louise, who was to become my own wife, and a few members from the youth group. We’d talk and pray long into the evenings.
Terry, a master carpenter by trade, lived across the river but travelled into church regularly for the Sunday and midweek services.
Both Terry and Michael had remarkable zeal. Once, Terry, in a letter to a pastor, warned him of an impending division that would arise in his church, going so far as to spell out exactly how it would happen.
“How’d you see that"? I asked.
“I was in prayer, and saw the whole thing", he said. “So I wrote the pastor a letter and told him to keep it sealed until the appropriate moment. When a woman stormed into his office making false accusations, he opened the letter and read it to her. The woman fled in horror and astonishment".
I was impressed. This guy had something real. In the course of time, the two of them formed their own ministry called ‘Final Call’. (We all believed that the last days were upon us, and the rapture could take place at any moment.) Nevertheless, I didn’t join, being more interested in Louise and private bible study. Terry and Michael headed out into the surrounding countryside one day to perform an exorcism one day while I busied myself with other matters. They were excited to report back, that they had indeed cast something out of a woman who was a willing participant. I can’t remember the name of the spirit they defeated, but it sounded nasty.
I began to wonder what my gifts and calling were. Maybe I should try a few exorcisms.
“Let’s go lay hands on Ricky", I suggested.
Ricky was our local burn-out. Smoked too much weed. Did too much acid. Appeared to be quite fried. A good exorcism might do him some good.
“Excellent”, Mike replied. “Let’s do it".
So together we drove down to Ricky’s house, knocked on the door and waited. It took a couple of minutes. He moved quite slow. “Heeeyyy, guy’s. How’s it going"? Ricky said, with a half-baked smile and dropsy eyes.
“Great man. We’re here to pray for you".
“Ya. Man, that’s nice of ya".
“Well. We thought we’d lay hands on you, and then if there’s anything in there, we’ll cast it out".
Almost everybody has been exposed to religion in one form or another in Hartland. Ricky was no exception, so our request didn’t shock or surprise him much. “Ya, well, gee. I don’t know man. If you think it’ll do any good, go ahead".
We sat him down in a chair, danced and shouted and laid hands and him and cast everything out from a-z, especially the ‘spirit of weed'. (Every spirit has a name)
“How are you now Rick”?
“Ya, good man. Thanks a lot". “No problem".
We jumped back in the car, both of us mystified by the lack of convulsions and total absence of vomit. Everybody knows you’re supposed to vomit or something. Clearly, he wasn’t ready to be exorcised. Should we have prayed more before going? Or maybe fasted? Didn’t Jesus say certain spirits would only come out through prayer and fasting? Maybe it’s not our calling.
It didn’t matter. I wanted to be to be a pastor, anyway, and Terry (even though he didn’t go with us) was on the prophet trail because the healing thing wasn’t working out. He tried healing a girl who was in a vegetable state in our church. She was 12 years old, had contracted a massive fever that left her brain damaged, and had lain in the front of the church directly in front of the pulpit since before I began attending. Terry leaped out of his seat one Sunday morning, let out a primal scream, and yanked her to her feet.
“Be healed in the name of Jesus".
The girl flopped around like a rag before he gently laid her back down and knelt beside her for some time. She remained as she was. After a few moments, he stormed out of the sanctuary and went into the basement, mad at God. I don’t know when the transition happened, but later, he put full page ads out in the local newspaper warning people of an impending earthquake that would destroy bridges and topple buildings if people didn’t repent. He said it came to him in a dream, or maybe it was a vision. I couldn’t be sure. The earthquake didn’t happen either, which discouraged him greatly.
Mike didn’t claim any sort of office, preferring mostly to spend his time working and renovating his house with the occasional side route into evangelism for a time. Maybe he has the gift of handyman, I thought, although I didn’t see that as part of the ministry.
There were teachers, pastors, evangelists, healers, and prophet offices to be filled. Maybe Mike would make a good leader. The idea of being a prophet never crossed my mind much. Or a Missionary. They went through some horrible ordeals. Wandering through deserts being pursued by kings and queens bent on killing them. Thrown in cisterns. Lonely. Isolated. The idea of being an evangelist wasn’t too appealing either. Living off in some foreign country in straw huts, wandering through jungles trying to convert some helpless pygmy. What a bizarre lifestyle! No. I preferred the nice suit and tie. Standing in the pulpit on Sundays, basking in the glory of some riveting message.
“I’m going to tell you the story of Paul Yoongi Chow from Korea", Pastor Blackmore said one Sunday morning during our regular service. “Now this man has one of the largest churches in Korea
today, but it didn’t come overnight. He had to learn a few things. He especially had to learn a significant lesson in prayer. That is, to pray and ask for things specifically".
He paused for effect. The weather was thick, but we listened intently. He continued. “This brother Chow had been asking for a bicycle from God for a long time, but received no answer. When he questioned God, God said to him, "you didn’t say what kind of bicycle".
That was a new thought.
“And furthermore”, Blackmore continued, "he didn’t get an answer until he told God the make, the size and the color. After he gave all the details, he got his bike. Now God was trying to teach this man something. That is, be specific in your praying. Know what it is you want exactly and be bold about it".
It wasn’t long before I tested that theory. Dad and Linda had built a new house twelve miles upriver, and had left me alone in our home. Roger had since joined the army and Pat and Tony were living on their own. I was broke, had one frying pan, a fork, no plate and a mattress to sleep on. I offered to let Jimmy stay there, but he had no money either.
And I was hungry.
“Oh God, send me some food", I prayed one day while Jimmy was away. The story of the Korean pastor came back to mind. “Please make that a chicken dinner Lord", I added. “Amen”.
I sat on the steps of the house and waited. Nothing came. By four-thirty, I was becoming concerned.
“What time do you normally eat"? The question materialized in my mind without effort.
“Five o’clock", I answered out loud.
At five, a knock came to my door. A friend from church, Roy, who also happened to be Jimmy’s uncle dropped in. “What are you doing"? he asked.
“Nothing”, I replied. “C’,mon in. Sorry, I’d offer you something, but there’s nothing here".
“No worries", he said. “Let’s go down to Dixie Lee. I’ll buy you a chicken dinner".
I told Roy I had just asked for one, and he chuckled as we walked downhill to the greasy chicken joint.
-----
That summer season while we were working out our salvation, among televangelists were a number of scandals ranging from misappropriation of funds to stories involving outrageous behavior with secretaries, that ‘gave the enemy great opportunity for ridicule and blasphemy'. God was shaking his church we were told. And if judgment must begin within the house of God, then where the sinner?
Where indeed? For a brief moment, I considered that the closer one gets to the light, the less one sees. And the deeper the consideration of all things spiritual, the less observant we become.
Didn’t it appear obvious something was askew when the guy bought a 40 thousand dollar, air-conditioned condo for his dog?
But the roots were going deep. And ideology has a way of creeping upon one’s mind, until what’s left is a vine that has grown enough foliage to shut out reason and common sense. Why wouldn’t God want his people rich? Is that a sin? Doesn’t the Bible say that we are to "prosper even as our soul prospers"?
Power and Spirit. Lots of bucks. All this and Jesus too. God is blessing his church people. Send me 29.95 for your free gift today. Not blessed? Financial troubles? Sow your love gift today. And reap a hundred fold. Lift your hands. Claim it in the name of Jesus. Right now.
Amen.
Amen, brother.
I had no television in the house. (The pastor had thrown his out and replaced it with a fish tank) There were no magazines. With the exception of college texts, I read no books if they didn’t have a religious theme. Again and again, I reaffirmed the works of God in others lives by pouring over old literature of men and women who did marvelous deeds in the name of God.
The difficulty in experiencing miracles and wonders wasn’t so much the question of whether God could do these things, the question was would he? And if he didn’t, based on teachings at the time, or the interpretation of those teachings, was the underlying assumption that more faith was needed, or a greater commitment. I began to fast, at one point fasting a week every three weeks. I knocked on doors to tell others about Jesus and opened a small church in the country where we had a total of three services before closing because of the cold. And always in the back of my mind were the nagging questions. Does God accept me? Is he pleased with my effort? And the ever present fear that Jesus would come back and leave me here if I didn’t make the mark. Acceptance shimmered in a mirage, always beyond reach. "Take heed, for in an hour that you think not, your master returns. Then two shall be in the field, and one left. Two women shall be grinding at the mill. One shall be taken and the other left".
Chapter 7
And as they walked in the way, they discussed among themselves, who was the greatest among them. So the sign outside our assembly read that first Sunday morning a new church had opened up river. There, they would lay hands on the sick and watch them recover, speak to God on a one-one basis, and prophesy about up and coming local and world events. They also opened a bible school that was a replica of Noah’s Ark.
Those were the rumors.
I hadn’t heard of the place until we were being warned about it from our own pulpit. I wasn’t much interested in it either, not until our Pastor Blackmore was removed and I began searching for a new church to attend.
Some of the leadership of our church felt Blackmore was too dogmatic, too controlling and that he needed reeling in a little. Board meetings became heated. Angry words were exchanged. To cap it off, a young woman in the small choir claimed he had made improper advances towards her by ‘brushing her buttocks with his leg as he passed by'. Real or imagined, it was the coup de grace and Blackmore had to leave, along with his wife and small son. He traveled a thousand miles into Ontario where he started another small congregation.
I suppose the whole thing should have been avoided with patience. I went to one of the board members who was annoyed at Blackmore’s approach to religion.
“How can we claim to be Christians if we don’t forgive one another and seek reconciliation” I asked him.
“I don’t want him to think he’s right", he answered. His tone was apologetical which further puzzled me. This board member was also the Human Resources supervisor for a large machine company, and used to dealing with personality conflicts on a daily basis with the rugged men who worked at the shop. Do not the same principals of conflict management apply here also, in the realm of religion? Or are we operating on a different set of rules?
He also thought Jimmy Swaggart was an excellent preacher. I’d never heard of Swaggart until I started attending the Pentecostal church. He probably was a good preacher, right up until the nasty hooker incident. And then there was Jerry Falwell, Jim and Tammy Baker and Jan and Jon and several others who were falling from grace on TV faster than they could count their money.
Nevertheless, in spite of the belief that Jesus had saved everybody from the smoking’ furnace, it was easier to draw the line at personality and kick the Pastor out.
So Blackmore moved.
Maybe it was his lucky fate that he did. Within a short time of arriving in Ontario, his wife fell deathly ill and was rushed to the hospital where it was discovered she had been harboring a very unusual and rare disease. There happened to be a specialist on duty the night she was brought in, was standing at the door upon her arrival, diagnosed her and saved her life. The outcome would have been much different in our small town hospital.
In a letter to me later, Blackmore stated. “We hold no hard feelings towards the members of our previous assembly".
“Were you scared that night you rushed Dawn to the hospital"? I asked.
It was the darkest, most frightening night of my life” he answered. “You can’t imagine the promises I made to God. But if you trust Him Greg, everything works together for good".
Chapter 8
I shouldn’t have said anything.
“Jimmy’s been stealing money out of my pocket at night",
“Get him out of the house”, father demanded.
I did. He hung himself a week or two later. So I went to his funeral, where I was all dressed up like a somebody, shaking hands with the family like I was running for office, staring at their disbelief and shock at the whole event. I didn’t think much one way or the other, except the knowledge that the pinstripe suit I was wearing probably looked pretty sharp for a pallbearer.
Jimmy was wearing the baby blue suit he bought to go to church.
“We commit Jimmy into the hands of the One who understands all things, and surely the God of Holiness will do right”.
I glanced up at the preacher and moved towards Jimmy open coffin. He lay there, the rope burns still showing on his neck. A single hair had blown down over one of his face. I reached over and snapped it off. Louise happened to be standing nearby.
“Have you seen a lot of bodies", she asked.
Looking at her, I wondered if she was shocked or puzzled by the act. The truth was, I’d never touched a body before, and wanted to try it. But I said nothing. It was just curiosity. We said our goodbyes, left the building and walked together in the sunshine. I was grateful for the preacher’s message.
“Surely the God who understands all things will do right. We commit Jimmy into his hands",
I hadn’t told Louise yet, but in the past few months we’d spent together in youth group, and at Michael’s was awakening a deeper longing for more than church. I was falling in love. We continued to see each other often.
Late in the fall, I borrowed Father’s car and took her for ride across the covered bridge and into the park. We stood on a platform overlooking the river. It was a warm evening, and the park was already dark. We were alone. Across the river in town, I could hear the bells of the town clock chiming out 11. She stood behind me while I looked out over the river. She stood behind me on the platform with her arms around my waist. Turning, I looked at her.
“Let’s get married", I said.
She looked shocked. “Are you asking me to marry you"? she replied.
Then I got nervous. Up until that moment, I was certain she’d say yes. “Uh...yea, yes...that’s what I said", I stammered.
She stood blinking and looking at me, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. I couldn’t stand it.
“Umm. You think about that", I said. And left the platform and walked over to a statue where I knelt down and prayed. I looked up once to see what she was doing. She stood there with her head down. Within a minute of two she came slowly down off the platform. “I’ll marry you", she said. We set the date for eight months later.
That night after dropping her off home, I went back to my own place and prayed some more. “I asked Louise to marry me God. What do you think of that"? Opening the bible, I glanced down and read the first verse I saw. "See that you do not deal treacherously with the wife of your youth. I the Lord hate divorce".
The day of the wedding, more than a hundred people showed up. While I was sitting in the church office waiting to go out, her father popped his head in the door. "Any advice", I asked.
“Yea. don't do it", was his reply.
“Right. Thanks".
The ritual proceeded. Singing. Vows. Signatures. Dinner. My legs shook constantly. After almost three hours, we filed out of the church into the worst blizzard to hit us all year. Streets were packed with snow. The wind drove drifts across the street. We bounded for the car and slipped sliding away, went off on our honeymoon.
The baby arrived within the first two years. In labor at the hospital, watching her go through her contractions, we had several visitors, among them, our new pastor and his young son who watched wide-eyed while my wife sweated it out. I ordered take out chicken and sat in the room with her after they had left. Finishing the meal, and pushing the remains to the side, I stood up and looked at her. A distinct voice filled my entire thoughts.
In your life, you will have two boys and a girl.
It was as though somebody had spoken the words right inside my head.
In a short span of time, Louise became pregnant again. While in labor, a nurse walked into the room to check on her.
“What do you think you’ll have? A boy or a girl", she asked. “The last one was a girl, so this one will be a boy", I replied. There was no doubt in my mind.
Once married, Louise was having some misgivings about my zeal.
“Look man, if you decide one day God’s told you to sell our kids off or something to a missionary, forget it. I tell you, I’m really nervous that you could do that", she said.
I’m not exactly sure what she had in mind. She was probably familiar with Hannah of the Bible, who couldn’t bear children and so staggers into the temple one day and promises God that if He’ll grant her a son; she’ll dedicate him into His service for life. As it turns out, the woman does conceive, has a son and dedicates him to temple service at a tender age. He grows to become one of the leading prophets of the Old Testament, bringing God’s message to Israel and scripting prophecies that find fulfillment in the latter days. The boy’s name was Daniel.
Dedicating your children in such manner certainly appears as a passionate commitment to a cause. It did in our church. There is also an Old Testament law that states "every first born male shall be dedicated to the Lord", In the Pentecostal assembly, it is called ‘baby dedication’ where the parents bring the child to the front, and they have a prayer with the pastors and the elders. It is primarily a tradition based on these stories and others like them. It’s not a requirement, though the social component can make it into one.
I wasn’t as much interested in traditions as about finding fulfillment and acceptance here and now. And working hard to be saved and stay saved. But certain questions were niggling away at the interior. Like a burrow worm. What was it God wanted me to do? What was his plan for my life? The single life was over. Mike had gotten married by now, and Terry was writing a book. But to me, the way to win God’s favor was to become a pastor. I had been working at various jobs for a few years at this point. It was time to make a decision.
Noah’s Ark and the School of the Spirit
Noah’s Ark was ready to receive students. I wanted to be the first student enrolled. To get on with the business of discovering a purpose. The school was built by the same group Blackmore taught us to avoid. But desire is a hard mistress to tame. Her seduction runs deep. An appointment for enrolment was made and the acceptance was granted.
The first class was on the second floor of the middle partition. Enough to seat maybe thirty people, a teacher and the keyboard player. Flanking both sides was a long row of what looked like mobile trailers. Upon closer inspection, they were revealed to be old motel buildings, complete with rooms, beds, and a small desk and mirror. These were to be used by international students. The classroom was directly above a common area and a small office where Director Dan did his thing. Surrounding the entire building (the composition of these several buildings put together) was ongoing construction, slowly forming the parts into a replica of Noah’s Ark, albeit on a smaller scale. It was originally intended to be a full scale model used as a world-wide outreach and healing center but cash and faith were in short supply, so the smaller one was built. Right across the parking lot from their newly constructed cathedral.
About 25 of people had signed up for the first day of bible school, some coming from as far away as Africa, and others crossing the border of America and Canada had come in for their education in the Spirit. A buzz of excitement hummed in the room, while we waited for our first teacher to conduct the class on finances. He bounded the steps and walked briskly to the front of the room. Dressed in a light green sports jacket, black pants and bright red tie, he looked out of place in our casual attire. He had sharp cropped blonde hair and narrow slotted eyes. He was going to teach us about finances? But he was highly recommended by the pastorate and was a used-car salesman by trade after all.
“Good morning, my name’s Vern. And I’ll be your finance teacher for the next few months. Now some of you are probably wondering what finances have to do with learning in the Spirit, but if your finances are out of shape, you’ll stumble over your calling".
Oh this is going to be good, I thought. He whirled around in a flash.
“Somebody said to themselves, ‘Oh this is going to be good’ and you’re right, it is".
I suddenly felt very exposed. Now here was something new. A man that can read minds. The message was forgettable, but the experience was not. But part of the lesson stuck.
As it is, we all have the spirit, so we all have the gift.
what gift?
All of them. You can flow in all of the gifts of the spirit. Exercise them.
And so I did.
Our agenda determines our interpretation of scripture. The freaky finance class was just the beginning. What do you say to a man or woman or who claims to have a ‘revelation from God’ or a ‘word from the Lord’ for you? It was not uncommon for us to speak to each other in this manner at bible school. In fact, it was the norm. We practiced it every day. Going so far as to line people up at the front of the classroom so we could practice our ‘gifts’ of prophecy.
“What is the first word that comes to mind when you look at the person in front of you"? we were asked. “Don’t try to think about it, don’t try to control it. - let it come”.
And this is where it really started to get weird. And the first step into a shadow world that cost everything and produced in me a struggle between reality and darkness so deep, that even death itself became welcome. That first step, in response to the ‘word that comes to mind’ opened up a chain of events that witnessed the brutal slaying of a friend, the loss of my own children and wife, my mind and my own life as I knew it.
The influence of doctrine, at least the way we saw it, began to grow. During one session of teaching, of which I happened to not attend that day, an ambulance came whistling into the compound, heading in the direction of the seniors residence. The senior’s residence was part of the overall structure of the development. My grandparents happened to live in the same complex. Janet was teaching class at the time the ambulance came through. The entire class looked out the window to see the action. It stopped in front of one of the small apartments. With zeal, the entire class rushed down the stairs, out the door and ran over to where the ambulance attendants were preparing to take a senior to the hospital. Several of the students insisted on laying hands on the patient, for the sake of healing. The senior, clearly disturbed, refused, much to the disappointment of the class, though they tried their best to persuade her. It was the religious equivalent of lawyers chasing accidents.
During the entire year and a half that I was in school, I hitchhiked back and forth the 20 km’s distance between my trailer and the ark. A job was in order to pay for our living expenses but I opted rather to live off the good graces of the government. Some call it welfare. It would have been humiliating if not for the great faith by which I tried to live. For all the poor decisions made during that time, there were still some remarkable events that transpired. For example, I came home early one afternoon to discover my daughter in a bathtub full of ice. A fever had taken hold, and her temperature was hovering near the danger zone. We were getting seriously worried. Even with the ice, there was no change. I ran into the living room and began praying, seriously praying for God to heal her. Incredibly, I heard the words, ‘when I left the world, I left my power to you. YOU go heal her". That was disturbing. I stood up and walked into the bathroom. I was shaking, mostly from what I was about to do.
“Close your eyes", I said to my wife. I didn’t want her to see me humiliating myself.
“I command this fever to come out my daughter’s body in the name of Jesus”, I said. Frankly, I have to admit, I felt a bit awkward doing it. I left the bathroom immediately and went back to the living room. Living room and sat down. I was still very concerned. Within five minutes, my wife came out and said, ‘her fever’s dropping", We were both relieved beyond measure. During the next hour, her fever continued to drop and vanished altogether. Ice, prayer, faith? At that point, we were happy to have her back to normal.
Regardless of what happened, I was beginning to slip towards a very dangerous way of living. That is, I wanted and needed to hear the voice of God speaking and advising me on everyday issues.
“You hear from God more than I hear from my wife", a pastor told me during a visit to his church. It made me chuckle. It also made me wonder what was wrong with him, that he wasn’t hearing anything.
On one particular occasion, I was convinced God had asked me to sell everything and give the money to the poor. There’s a very similar story in the bible where a rich man comes to Jesus and asks Him how he may inherit eternal life. Jesus tells the young man. You know the commandments, keep them. I have done all these things, what do I lack. “Jesus looks at the man, and says ‘sell all that you have, give the money to the poor and come follow me'.
So am I to take that literally? Well, I wasn’t rich. Nor was I asking Jesus how to inherit eternal life, because as far as I knew it, I already had it. But I felt I ‘heard’ him tell me to do it. And you cannot reason with a man who begins or ends a conversation with ‘God told me". Right or wrong, it is very unlikely you’ll change their mind. That would be mean disobeying what they think is the commandment of God. Things become very polarized. God told me and you’re contradicting it. That means that you are not from God, but from the devil. And you are trying to make me lose my faith or trip me up.
While I was loading the entire contents of my house onto a rented truck, the pastor who married us stopped in. "What are you doing“? he asked.
“I’m selling everything and giving it to the poor".
“Why are you doing that"?
“God told me to do it”.
“No. He didn’t", he said. “You’re wrong".
“Really"? I answered. “What would you know about the spirit of God? You probably wouldn’t know him if you tripped over him". He had been a pastor for more than 40 years.
“All right. Have it your way. But you’ll know the truth when your family breaks down, your kid gets sick and you lose everything".
I ignored him.
Along about this time, during a period of mediation, I became certain I was to move into the next town and open a youth center. We gathered what was left of our belongings, which wasn’t much, left the trailer and moved into a rented apartment. Across the street was an abandoned department store, two stories high and large enough to lose yourself in. I called the number posted on the ‘For Rent’ sign. The landlord agreed to meet me later in the day to show me the place. We met at three o’clock that afternoon.
Unlocking the door, he asked, "what do you want to do with the place"?
"I want to open a youth center. Hopefully, we’ll start a high school program for youth at risk and probably have a few Christian meetings".
The landlord was also a Christian. “That sounds interesting. How do you plan on financing the place"?
“Donations. Actually, I don’t have any cash right now. Will you give me the place to use until we are able to pay. Shouldn’t take too long to get it together".
He looked at me, probably wondering whether or not I could be trusted. But I was so certain as to wanting to open the place, that he must have figured I’d be able to do on enthusiasm alone. Whatever the case, he gave me the keys and allowed me to take control of the building. I went inside, sat down on the steps and pondered exactly what I would do with the place. I tried to envision it. Within a few days, I had set up an office in a small room. Upstairs on the second floor was full of clothing racks and hangers. There’s a thought. Sell second hand clothing. So I bought a piece of large Bristol board and wrote on it: Used Clothing Wanted. Drop off your old clothes here.
Taping it to the window, I stood back and gazed at it. Already the vision was developing. I spent some time in prayer and went off to the final class for the day at school. The following morning, I went over the ‘’youth center’ to drop off a few books or something. Outside the door were about half a dozen or more large green garbage bags. I opened one and looked inside. They were all filled to breaking point with used clothes.
A young man I had recently met in town stopped by while I was carrying the bags inside. Jay, a handsome young man of about 19 had moved to the little town several months before from a larger city in central Ontario. Tattooed on the side of his head in palace script were the words, ‘the wild one’”. I liked him. Kind and helpful, he would spend the following days helping me out around the building taking care of minor repairs and setting up chairs for our first youth meeting. I set the date of the first meeting for the following Friday night and posted an advertisement on our window. Nobody came except Jay. But I wasn’t deterred. We had the meeting anyway. He sat in a chair on the third row and stared at me while I preached my guts out.
"Where do you want to be in five years"? I asked. His answer was quick and direct.
“Standing where you are", he said.
“You mean you want to be a preacher"? I asked.
“Yea, I want to do what you’re doing".
“Well, first you need to become a Christian. Let’s pray together".
In the days that followed, the youth center began to attract some attention. The local newspaper showed up and interviewed me, asking what the purpose of the new initiative was.
"A lot of things are missing something. We want to provide that something", I answered.
A local pastor by the name of Dryer took an interest as well. He pastured a small church not far from the center, and in the course of time, my wife and I began attending his assembly. Dryer was a large man, careful in his Christian doctrine, and was well respected by his congregation. He had already been its overseer for more than a decade. He was also involved in youth at risk as a part-time probation officer. He was there when the newspaper conducted the interview and as I had asked him to join in its development, also gave some purpose and direction to our answers.
"What we mean, he clarified, is that we want to help develop the whole person here. To minister to their needs, body soul and spirit".
Nevertheless, the youth center still lacked a clear and definite plan how to execute such a noble goal. I spent days considering it. During one of our planning sessions, I outlined part of a program I wanted to introduce. The idea was to have tutorial classes for youth that had dropped out of high school. We would tutor them in several subjects and then send them to the community college to write a Grade 12 equivalency test. Upon completion, students would be given a diploma certified by the New Brunswick government. The second part of the plan was to sell the clothing, which by now had grown to capacity on the second floor. The third and final part was to have Christian youth meetings of course.
Jay, a high school dropout himself, thought the plan marvelous. He would often travel the 5 or 6 km’s on foot. I was delighted when for the first time, he brought along his girlfriend and two year old son. Our families became good friends. Though he was about 7 years my junior, our friendship developed into a strong one, and I think, for the first time in his life, he felt a part of something special, though he never actually said that. I continued on with my studies at the ark and spent evenings puttering around the building. I called several confectionary companies including Coke, Hostess and Cadbury and had them deliver goods to our door for resale. By this time, many of the youth from Dryers church had started to come and visit us on the weekends. Most didn’t have a lot of money.
I thought an account of sorts would help them develop responsibility, so they were allowed to buy snacks from our newly constructed canteen on credit. Jay and his girlfriend would come in, look over the clothes, and bag what they wanted. He was 19, unemployed and living on government subsidy. I didn’t have the heart to charge them money for the clothes. And most of kids ended up defaulting on their snack bills. But at least we were making progress.
On a sunny Saturday afternoon, I strolled across the street to the youth center. It still didn’t have a name. My wife had gone out earlier with our two small children. As I crossed the street, I looked beside the building where the dirt parking lot extended. My wife was pushing the stroller and our little girl was following close behind her. She was out getting some air. I had not a clue as to what was really going on in her mind. No doubt, as most mothers would have been, she was becoming increasingly concerned about the lifestyle we were living. Was God really telling me to do all these things? Financially, we were broke and living on government subsidies. Pastor Dryer has approached the Community college I attended to ask for assistance. Their answer? "Sounds bizarre". Still, I had no intention of work now, or in the foreseeable future. I was following my bliss. The responsibility of them weighed heavy on my mind though, causing confusion between duty and faith. Most alarming of all, I was becoming more detached from reality and living in a world of the paranormal and supposed supernatural. Indeed, not a day went by in the ark that one student didn’t approach another with the utterance, “I have a word for you from God", superseding the expectation that should God so desire, he could tell that person himself, and by pass the personal prophet. I did it too. Telling others this and that and frequently using the phrase "God said” or “I feel to tell you",
Still for all its dysfunctional usage, some remarkable occurrences did take place.
On example that stands out in mind happened during a regular class on prophetic teaching. I noticed a young lady of 30 sitting over on the side listening intently to the speaker. After class I approached her and after pleasantries, I began, Ï see you hanging onto the end of a rope. Below you are children but there is no man around. Are you waiting for someone"?
The woman began to sob. She nodded.
“You’re waiting for your husband aren’t you"? I asked. Again she nodded, and sobbed some more.
“Does he drive a truck? Is he a long distance driver"? That was probably more of a shot in the dark than anything, as trucking is one of the prime industries in our province.
Again she nodded and began digging around for tissues to wipe herself.
“The Lord is going to bring him home", Ï said. She smiled and said thank you.
“He may lose his job”.
“Oh don’t say that”, she shuddered.
“It’s no problem, the Lord will give him another and he will be home each night". The woman looked up from her chair at me and continued to dab at her nose. I was finished with what I had to say and went back and sat down.
Such happenstances were normal, so no one thought it unusual in the least. Indeed, we began to look forward to, even desire that someone at some point in the day would ‘have a word for us’ too. At least I did.
Before class ended, Vic came up to me and bending over the desk, laid one hand on my head. “I see you in a car with your family. You’re driving too fast and you’re coming to a turn. Slow down".
Slow down? Can I help it if God is God and he’s leading the way?
I paid his words little heed, as I had no idea what he was talking about anyway. But a frightening picture flashed into view. Louise walking down a road of dead, rotting trees. She was going to go.
“Do not do what you are planning to do", I said to her later at home.
We were both sitting in the living room of our apartment. The rent was overdue; the youth center payments in arrears. She didn’t ask me what I was talking about. Instead she replied that she could do it “as long as we don’t divorce".
I continued in the belief that we were fulfilling the will of God, and that we were hearing, or that I was hearing correctly. Was my faith being tested?
In fact, deep inside, a descending darkness was beginning to envelop me, making it hard to breathe. A creeping loneliness began to grow. I had started on this path, and had no idea how to get off it even if I wanted to. There was nowhere to go except to follow it through. I had long ago abandoned common sense and sound reason, though at the time was unaware of such concerns. There were no budgets to follow, no reflection that some of our financial difficulties were the result of poor planning. I moved from one word to another, from one prophecy to the next. When they were not forthcoming, or money, food and clothing were in short supply, I would tell myself to remain strong. It’s a test. To wait on the Lord. And in due time, he will make provision. I would tell Louise the same. I began my 4 a.m. routine again.
To consolidate expenses, we moved into the youth center. At 1000 square feet, it was large enough to hold a family. There was no consulting the landlord about the move. We picked up our scant belongings and carried them across the street. Our school project hadn’t really taken hold. But we continued on with the Christian meetings.
One evening, the church youth were invited to an evangelistic style meeting. The guest speaker was a young man from the Ark. He was nervous. And ill-prepared. To compensate, he clomped back and forth on the hard floor, stamping his workboats with each step, while he mouthed rhetorical questions regarding the state of each young person’s salvation.
The meeting, scheduled until nine was a total disaster. A gathering spring storm was quickly turning into a blizzard outside, and at one point in the meeting, the guest speaker pointed at a young man who was unsure of faith matters and told him point blank "then you’re going to hell".
The young man, visibly upset and angry fled outside into the darkness and swirling snow. The entire group ran after him, and by the time the parents arrived, most of the young people had disappeared into the night. Fortunately, they were all rounded up within a short time, but the experience left a bad taste in their mouths towards our gatherings.
For our part, we congratulated each other on the ‘powerful message’ given the young people. Still, I was embarrassed at the lack of control we had, considering that we lost most of the kids in a storm. And it wasn’t really that they were wandering around in a blizzard that was disturbing, but rather the expression on one of the parents faces that I saw.
He was looking for his daughter with some obvious fear and concern. He glanced at me but said nothing. That was the worst part. I think I would have felt better if he had scolded me, but he didn’t. He wanted to get his daughter back. I felt as though he thought it would do no good to say anything. Whether he did think that or not, I thought it. In the midst of the madness, cracks of light were beginning to stream in, however brief. I instinctively felt the inadequacy of my ability to be responsible for another. Though I wanted to ignore it, that parent’s face was a clear sign pointing to an anxious fact.
I hadn’t a clue what I was into.
The following week, we prepared for our graduation. It was to be held in the main sanctuary of the church, set on the same grounds as the Ark. A dozen of us filed into the church, and after a few formal declarations and singing, we were escorted to the front where we were handed our certificates of completion. I was irritated that I wasn’t ordained along with the other students, but tried not to think about it during the proceedings. Ordination meant the leadership recognized potential pastors and wrote the graduation certificates accordingly. Mine said I was ordained to baptize people. But nothing else.
My wife sat in the crowd, catching my eye and straightening her back to tell me to stand up straight. I felt like an outsider. While we stood, praying, a single word blazed across my consciousness. It was to change everything. Climbing back into our recently purchased car, we drove back to the youth center in silence. The two children rested in the back. As we no longer had an apartment, we piled the kids onto the sofa I had set up on the main floor of the building and let them rest.
“I heard something during the service”, I told my wife.
“What was it”? She asked.
A single word. “Go”.
She looked at me quizzically. “What does it mean"?
Oh, that was an easy one. “I think we are to travel across Canada on a missionary trip. We’ll speak to people on the way. We’ll fulfill the Great Commission".
Chapter 9
Whether Louise was too tired to argue, or had reached the end of her own wits was unclear. In any case, after a brief argument, she agreed to plan. We would put the children in the car along with a few of our belongings, and start out across Canada in the next few days. We had five dollars exactly and very little gas in the car. Yet I was convinced we were to do it based on that one thought that occurred during the graduation ceremony. It wasn’t totally baseless, The word “Go" is the cornerstone word in many full-gospel assemblies based on Jesus’s command to go into all the world and preach the gospel. It summarizes the entire duty of the apostolic Christian, to seek out the lost and convert them to the truth. It made sense to me that such a command should come during a graduation ceremony from a bible school. Isn’t that what we trained for? And what of the absence of cash and gas, God will provide. He never leads where he will not provide.
As we loaded our clothes and children into the car the next morning, we bowed our heads and asked for God’s help. For a brief moment, I considered taking the children to the grandparents home a few kilometers back in the opposite direction. But the consideration of gas had become a factor. What if we ran out of gas taking them there? Better to try for the 3000 miles in faith than 5 miles in presumption. Better to throw our selves into God’s hands than try to explain this to suspicious grandparents.
I locked the doors of the center, took another look around and climbing into the car, turned the ignition, hit the gas and headed west. I began to weep as we left. I was full of fear. But the crying wasn’t because I was scared, or that we had started on a fool’s errand. Every step, every decision took me further away from something that I had wanted since I was little, but had never felt.
The precarious balancing act between making mistakes and the greater sin of negligence was persistent. What if He spoke and I did not hear, or I heard and did not do.
It wasn’t long before we ran out of gas. We travelled 20 miles along the highway when the car coughed twice, sputtered a second and then died. It had taken us further than I thought. We coasted to a stop on the side of the trans-Canada. To our left was a wall of forest. To our right was a potato field that separated the highway from a small village. I told my wife to stay in the car with the kids, which in hindsight was a remarkably stupid thing to do, leaving them alone on the side of the road.
It was early afternoon. I walked to the field and noticing a wide path, traveled down through it past rows of new ploughed ground, past the farmer’s house and into the village. I wondered curiously if our purpose might be found in this tiny village. Maybe God wants us to start a church here or something.
As I moved along one of the narrow streets, a voice behind me called out. “Hey, where are you going""?
I glanced around. Two young people were had come out of a side Street and noticing a stranger in town, called out. I stopped and waited for them to catch up.
“Hi” I said. “I ran out of gas on the highway, so I thought I better come down here and have a look around to see if I can get some gas".
“There’s a gas station not far. You can buy some there”.
“Yea. That’s the problem. I don’t have any money to buy gas. five bucks".
The two kids thought for a moment and then said, “Maybe we can help. Wait here".
I waited for an eternity, but they did return as they said they would. In their hand was a small cup of gas. “We turned over a few lawnmowers and collected it for you. We can use it to start your car and then you can drive it down here".
Ï was touched. Disappointed but touched.
“Where are you going anyway", they asked. "We’re the first and last town for some miles in either direction".
I figured it didn’t hurt to tell them. “On my way across Canada. I’m preaching the gospel".
The boy became quite excited at that idea. “Really! He said. “My dad’s a Christian. He can help you".
The three of us walked back through the potato field with the cup of gas. I had been gone more than an hour. The wife and children were still there thankfully. “Get some gas?" she asked.
“Ÿea. These kids have given us enough to get it started. I think we should take it into the village".
Priming the car, we managed to get it started long enough to move out into the field, which fortunately, had a small decline into the village. But the cup wasn’t enough and the car sputtered within a minute or two of starting. We coasted down through the field on the decline, coming to rest in front of a huge 450 gallon tank of gas the farmer used for his equipment.
Praise God! Gold! Can you sell me some gas I asked the farmer, who came out to meet us. He didn’t look pleased, but agreed. I gave him the five dollars. To my surprise, he gave us five dollars’ worth of gas. This is a miracle? After some furious pumping on the gas pedal, the car came to life and we moved out of his space and into the town. It was getting late by now. We parked the car and got out. As we talked about the idea of being on a TransCanada journey with the two youth, a car drove along side of us and then slowed down.
“Hey! There’s my dad now"! the boy said. He ran over to the car and spoke with his father for a moment or two. The man got out of his car and walked over to me. "Out of gas?"
“Yep. Fraid so".
“He says you’re travelling across Canada"? The man looked at me rather quizzically. He gazed at my wife and two small children sitting in the car.
“Yes, that’s the plan. We haven’t made it too far".
"Clearly. Let’s get a bit of gas for your car first, then we’ll talk some more".
We drove over to the gas station, where the man asked the attendant to put ten dollars’ worth of fuel in our car. “Listen”, he said. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. Why don’t you follow me home and you guys can stay the night. You’re not going to get too far on ten bucks worth of gas. I have a place not far from here. It’s out in the forest, but it’s comfortable enough".
Now there’s a request you don’t hear every day. If somebody asked me that now, I’d likely think he was a serial killer or other equally raunchy individual. However, at the time, it was a reasonable request, seeing whereas we were on a TransCanada mission and all things work together for good. So we went. We followed along behind him for about a quarter hour. Eventually we swung off the small road we were on, up through a dirt road into the forest, eventually stopping in front of a little cabin. Climbing out of the car, my daughter began exploring the surroundings. Small poplar trees dotted the property. There was no landscaping, the natural weave of the trees, broken branches, leaves and plants surrounded by more forest. The cabin itself was small, but large enough to be comfortable, even for six people. The man offered us a room set off by itself up a small flight of steps that led to a loft. I dropped our bags there, and went back down for a cup of coffee with him. Louise had gathered the kids, and weary, laid down with them on the loft bed. The man’s son had stayed in town to spend the night with some friends.
“So how is it? Comfortable"? he asked me while we settled down at the kitchen table. He poured a cup of coffee for each of us.
“It’s very nice. Thanks”, I said. “Do you live here alone"? I was mostly curious about the mother’s absence.
“My son stays here with me. The mother and I broke up some time ago".
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that".
“It’s been a while. We’re doing okay". He watched me while I stirred some sugar into my coffee.
“What’s your story"? he finally asked. ‘Where are you going? You said you’re planning on travelling across Canada"?
“That’s right", I said.
“Why"?
“Good question. Well, I graduated from a bible school, and we both felt that we were being called to go and reach young people across Canada. So we’re moving out in faith".
He studied me for a moment. “Do you believe God told you to go? I mean, what if you heard wrong, or are kind of following your own thought"?
“So far we’ve done well”, I said. “We met you. That’s providence”. I smiled at him. We sipped on our coffee for a moment or two before he spoke again.
“Where’s your first stop"? he asked. “Besides here, I mean. What’s your plan"?
“We plan on travelling down into southern Ontario to look for a friend. From there we’ll decide what our next move is".
“Have you ever been to Ontario before"?
I assured him that I had, and had actually lived there before. “What’d it cost you last time you went"?
“I don’t know. Maybe a hundred bucks I guess".
We drank our coffee and chatted about general family things, Christianity and some about his cabin before he finally thought it late and I should get ready for bed as tomorrow would arrive soon enough. At the end of our chat, he reached into his billfold and handed me a hundred dollar bill. “I have to leave early in the morning but will be back in the afternoon. Stay here until I get back, ok"?
I looked at the hundred dollars in my hand, thanked him and assured him we would wait. We said our good nights and went to bed. The following morning, we awoke to a beautiful day. We ate some bread left on the table, made a cup of coffee and stepped outside. We Were alone in the forest. While the children played, Louise and I began cleaning around the cabin with a couple of rakes we found leaning against the side of the building. We didn’t speak much and sort of whiled away the morning while I pondered how long we may end up staying here. It turned out to be shorter than I expected. As noon rolled by, a car rumbled up the dirt track towards the cabin. Our host had returned. Stepping out of the car, he waved to us and looked around the yard. It was quite tidy. We had spent a few hours on it already.
‘Thanks for doing he cleaning”, he laughed. We put our rakes against the building and went inside while the kids played in the leaves outside.
“I popped back because I wanted to say goodbye before you left. I have to get back to work after lunch".
We prepared a small lunch together of sandwiches and eggs and while eating, chatted about our work back in the little town we left and plans for the journey. We would travel first to a place called Kitchener where a friend of mine lived and then probably continue our journey westward from there.
“Are you planning on leaving immediately"? he asked.
“Oh yes, I think we should get going right after we eat. It’s already noon and we have a fair amount of driving ahead of us".
After our lunch, we piled the kids into the car, and prepared ourselves for leaving. Before I got into the driver’s seat, he handed me a brown paper bag.
“I told an old lady at our church your story”, he said as he handed me the bag. “she wanted to give you this to take along on your travel". I opened the bag and looked inside. It was full of peanut butter cookies. On top of the cookies was a twenty dollar bill.
"Wow. Peanut butter. My favorite”, I said. It was a kind gesture and lifted my spirits to think we had been given support by perfect strangers. Surely God was in this!
He wished us good luck. Somewhat relieved to be on our way again, I pulled the car into drive and headed out of the forest and back onto the highway where we continued travelling west. The thought of turning around never crossed my mind. Nor did the thought of making any phone calls to tell people where we were going. That would prove to be a mistake, especially considering that the car we were driving was not ours to begin with. It had been given to us by a friend on the assumption that we would change the registration and insurance into our name. Procrastination has a way of unravelling even the best of plans. But I was a master of faith. Maybe even an apostle. It would be in bad taste to deny the miracles of that town.
Chapter 10
We drove the short distance to Judy’s house where she stayed with her mother and stepfather. She was quite pleased and surprised to see us. She greeted us warmly, and we spent the better part of the morning talking and reminiscing. After some general banter she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “You have to stay for lunch, okay? “she said. “I’m going to run out and grab a few things. Be back in a minute".
While she was out shopping and the kids were watching cartoons with Louise, I sat on the porch with her mother. We were quite familiar with each other. I had been fairly close to Judy and her brother Doug, and on occasion spent the night at their home. She wasn’t at all surprised by my admission that I was on an apostolic journey preaching the gospel. Maybe she didn’t even hear it. I don’t know. She looked distracted and seriously worried about something.
“You know, Hector got in an accident with his truck”, she said quietly.
Hector was on one of his trips, she explained, when a loaded car pulled out in front of him. He rammed them broadside killing several of the occupants.
“He has to go to court soon. I don’t know what’s going to happen".
I was silent while she spoke of this dark cloud that had descended upon her family before introducing the idea of faith. I desperately wanted to pray with her. We did not speak of miracles or bread from heaven. But we did discuss the possibility that there was help beyond the flesh and blood that we see on a daily basis. When all props are gone, you’re more willing to consider it. “Maybe I need something like that", she said quietly.
Judy’s car was pulling into driveway, and our conversation finished.
Climbing out of the car, she beckoned us in for lunch and we chatted again about the troubles we found ourselves earlier in our teens, school, and the drive-in and other general chatter. I told her we were going to visit a friend further on down the road, and so after lunch, we finally said good-bye. After some hugs and such, Louise, I and the kids climbed in, sort of pointed the car westward and continued on. I had no idea where we were going next. But I felt nothing. No anxious longing. No regret and certainly no fear by now. But neither was there any purposeful direction. We were living off the events as they happened. At any exact moment, our destination was the highway. Ironically, that’s probably the one variable that stopped us from losing total touch with familiarity and sense. It will probably come as no surprise that I never looked at a map the entire trip thus far. Who needs a map when you have faith that you are being led? Was not the tapestry of our lives being woven as I was assumed they would be. But In truth, they were unraveling, thread by shiny thread. It came as a bit of a shock to learn we were actually on the wrong highway to begin with for such a trip. We were not going west. We were going south-west.
After filling up with gas, and buying a few groceries for the road, and a map, we were back to square one. No real destination in mind, broke and heading for the southernmost tip of Ontario. But the conviction of circumstances ‘working together for good’ and recent events were confirmation of the trip’s validity. Already we had made it almost a thousand kilometers on 5 dollars and a bag of cookies. The youth center back in our little town had vanished from thought. Though it still held all our worldly possessions, I gave them no consideration, having ‘left all things for the sake of the Gospel'. They would look after themselves and maybe after we’ve completed our mission, we’ll go back for them. I don’t know. Let them rot. Praise God. I’m practically walking on water as it is. And ‘he shall supply all of our needs according to his riches in Glory'. Praise God. I was close to cracking. To get across Canada, you most certainly do not travel south west.
We made a quick stop as we neared Kitchener, to let our friend know would be arriving soon and then continued on with no rest. We had been snacking on peanut butter cookies, drinking water and some small fruit for the past 11 hours or so. Upon our arrival, we simply piled out of the car, into the house, and after some small talk, fell asleep on the blankets on the floor Blake had prepared for us.
He was staring at me quizzically the next morning as the sun streamed through the living room windows. Louise and the kids were still sleeping.
“Coffee"? he asked.
I blinked up at him. My head was groggy from all the driving. “Umm".
He went into the kitchen while I stumbled into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face and brought some semblance of organization to my features. After dressing, I moved out into the kitchen where we sat down and sort of blinked at each other once or twice. He had grown up in a fatherless home and his repeated assertions of atheism left me wondering if the role of a father and the concept of God had any connection. In any case, we remained friends.
Over coffee, I laid out the purpose of our trip. He was concerned. And in his perpetual way said, “You’re fu--ng whacked. You know that don’t you"? Years later, when I told him of my intention to travel to China, he said. “Can’t you see you’re doing the same thing"? The difference however, was in the results that followed both choices. Nevertheless, looking back, his was the clearest voice that spoke up to that point.
I smiled at him. I knew it would do no good to try to explain our reasons and purpose, especially to a man who didn’t believe in God in the first place. I told him of the miracle of the cabin and the two young people. He wasn’t convinced. "Ï don’t know man, sounds cracked me. How the hell you gonna finance this thing"?
The Lord will provide for us”, I said.
“Uh-huh".
The splash of water in the bathroom signaled that our brief chat was over, and the new day had begun. The kids were understandably hungry, and while Blake went about preparing a bit of breakfast, I gathered our things, folded up the blankets and let him know we would be leaving right after breakfast to get an early start on the road. He chatted with Louise briefly while I tended to the kids and prepared for the next leg of the journey.
"Ï don’t get it at all, but here, if this will help” he said while handing me about 17 dollars. He was shaking his head a bit while he spoke, as though to say, this is so completely beyond my comprehension.
I didn’t even want the cash in fact, and told him so. We had enough gas and money to get us to the end of Ontario. But he insisted, and so I took it, albeit, somewhat sheepishly.
It was getting late. We were both weary from the road. And the kids had been travelling way too long. “Oh God, give us a hotel for the night so we can rest".
I was asking for real this time and not to advance any cause other than some blessed rest. In the distance, off the highway on the right hand side, I could see a silhouette of a cross, shining white in the dark. I steered the car in its direction at the next off-ramp and followed it.
A church was winding up an evening service and people were milling about the yard. Some were still sitting in the pews chatting. I stepped outside the door and motioned for Louise to come in with the children. We took a seat near the back. A man was eyeing me curiously. I noticed him when I came in. His hair was quite long, and he wore a shaggy beard. He was dressed in baggy pants and grey-green shirt that was fairly rumpled. Maybe he was a prophet or something. Either way, he came over to introduce himself. “Hi. Welcome. You guys haven’t been here before, have you? My name’s Dave".
“No, it’s our first visit here, I said. We’re passing through. I saw your cross from the highway, so we thought we’d stop and have a look. We’re actually on our way to Windsor".
“Windsor eh"? Wow. You still have a little ways to go yet then".
“Yep. Thought a pit stop would do us some good". I was exhausted in fact.
The music was starting to warm up, so Dave gave us a parting smile and returned to his spot beside the door. We listened to the music for another 45 minutes or so, and after a brief message, got up and made our way out through the crowd, climbed in the car and began to pull away. Dave came running out the doors waving frantically to us.
“Hey! He hollered", pointing directly at us by the hand of God. “You will be staying at MY house tonight"!
We followed Dave through the labyrinth of dark streets and pulled into the drive of a duplex.
“C’mon", he said. We followed along behind him. Upon entering the house, his wife who happened to stay behind that night from the meeting, met us in the living room. She glanced at Dave.
“Hi honey, I met these guys at the church tonight". He told his wife our names, and after making ourselves comfortable, he said. “I have to pop out for a bit, but I’ll be back shortly", and then he vanished out the door and into the night. It felt like hours before he returned.
“I’m losing the fight against fat. I’ve been dieting and everything but nothing works". His wife’s voice was echoing in my ears. “I’m so discouraged about it".
I’m not even sure how we got on the topic.
“But you’re not fat at all", I gushed. “You look great". In fact, she was about 40 pounds over her ideal weight. That’s what she said. I believed her. There was no reason to doubt the evidence. My wife rolled her eyes a bit. “You didn’t have to be so enthusiastic about it", she told me later.
Dave finally came back. “Sorry it took so long", he said. “I had to go see my parents. You’ll be staying at their place tonight. They own a motel and have some extra room. Is that okay with you guys"?
Indeed it was. We stayed for a week. As it turned out, Dave’s brother was electrocuted in a tree a short time before and the entire family was in mourning. He had been cutting trees when one fell against power lines. With no grounding, the charge killed him almost instantly.
“We sat in stunned silence for the first few moments when we heard the news”, Dave told me. “We were all sitting around the living room together, and we were all silent. “He paused and looked at me intently. “I think the first words at such a time are most critical”.
“What did you say”? I asked cautiously.
He smiled at me. I said, "Well! Praise the Lord anyway”.
“I don’t know", the voice was saying. “There isn’t any substance there. And he has such a lovely wife".
I happened to catch the one-sided conversation Dave’s mother was having with one of the church members on the phone. It wasn’t intentional. I had come into the office to ask her something forgettable. I was offended. And embarrassed. How many times had I heard that over the past couple of years? And he has such a lovely wife too. Yes. Yes. Shame isn’t it. Poor chap. And what of those poor children.
I strode back to the room and brooded on the bed. What of those small children? They were resting on the bed. Louise was watching TV. But that woman’s comments. They were disturbing. I got up from the bed and stood outside the door, looking around. The motel was average, but it was a safe haven. Why were her comments so unsettling? I hear them quaking in a dark place, somewhere in the past. I began walking across the yard, to avoid a large pay-loader coming down the drive in my direction. My daughter climbed out of bed and began rattling the door.
“Daddy. Daddy! Wait for me!” She whisked the door open, and stood outside, hesitating before the rapidly moving machine. At the last moment, the driver switched gears, sounding out a massive roar that caused her to jump straight up. She bolted towards me and I caught her as she jumped to my arms.
“The trac-trac get me”, she said. I wanted to cry. The picture of her standing in fear of the tractor while I stood on the other side blazed onto my consciousness like a hot poker, scorching deep, past the foundations and into a place reserved for the child. I was divided. Protection and calling?
Later that night, Dave’s father came and knocked on the door.
“Got a minute"? he asked. I solemnly followed him into the reception room where we sat down on the lonely chairs.
He was gentle and cordial. “How are things going for you"? he asked. There was concern in his voice.
“Okay, I guess. We’ll probably be leaving in the morning".
“I see. Where do you think your next stop is"?
“I’m not sure. I guess the Lord will lead us". All I could see was that tractor, playing over and over in my mind. The flames were dancing.
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Go home Greg. Go home. Take your family and go back the way you came".
He said it with such compassion that any reserve I had against contradictory words faded into black. I knew exactly what he was saying. He was telling me that up until now, my trip had been a fool’s errand. “Go home son".
“But what of the miracles"? I said. “Aren’t they proof that we are doing the will of God"?
He shook his head. “It’s mercy that brought you here. He was being merciful to you".
We packed our things, and said goodbye in the morning. They watched us go. Dave was not there to see us off. His mother and father stared at us as we pulled out of the driveway. There was no goodbye. They were living their own moment of trouble in the cloud. We drove into Oshawa city center and began going in circles around the city. I climbed into the back with Rachael and talked to her, lying back with my head as far down on the seat as it would go. She looked at me. Puzzled at my behavior. If she could have spoken, what questions she must have had. I was looking for something, anything that would tell me what to do next. A silence hung over my soul and emptiness from within began to rise like a massive bubble until it engulfed my senses. I felt weightless, groundless, struggling to find bottom with my feet in waters that had turned ugly. That light, empowering bubble of protection, covering my mind was evaporating rapidly, like hot mist on the grass. Instead of finding green pastures underneath, there was asphalt and confusion. Where has your hand gone Lord?
After an hour or two we happened by a soup kitchen. I pulled the car alongside the curb. Staring at it, I looked at Louise. “I think we better go in and get something to eat".
I was nervous. Louise looked past me at the decrepit building. It was a single story structure, visibly on its last mission. We climbed out of the car and moved towards the door. Taking a breath, I pulled the door open and we stepped inside. The tables were full. Several people looked up at us. Against the far side was a canteen style trough where you placed your tray so the staff could fill it. After a brief surprised pause, two men practically leapt from their table and moved towards us.
“Here, please. Take these seats". Their faces registered both compassion and concern. Both were probably in their early forties, but it was hard to tell. Greying facial growth added years, and the rumpled clothes suggested that an iron was nowhere near their daily necessities.
I was too tired to argue. I took the chairs wearily, and after seating Louise and the kids, went to get a tray and some of the food on display. Near the trough was a sign: Oshawa Emergency Social Services.
It had a phone number and an address. I took mental note of the address, grabbed some food, and settled down at the table where we ate our lunch in silence. After the bread, we thanked them and moved back onto the street, and into the car.
“Where are we going"? Louise asked.
“To emergency services”.
The office was an unimposing office building situated in a poorer area of the city. Climbing the steps, the four of us moved slowly into the outer office where the receptionist took our names and asked us to take a seat. She gave us a number. There were several people ahead of us by number. Some were standing at the front desk, staring through the bullet-proof glass that separated the receptionist from the applicants. Others were sitting. An officer, who came out of his office to escort another applicant into his office saw us sitting there. He spoke a few words to the receptionist and glanced back at us. I couldn’t hear anything for the glass. Within a few moments, he came out and asked me my name and asked to look at our number. We hadn’t been sitting very long as it was, so I was surprised when he asked us to come back to his office. It was unusual for an entire family to be in the office apparently. Usually it was one of the parents if children were involved, or a single applicant. But to see an entire family must have caught his attention. Especially one so young. I told him nothing of our journey, merely that we were indeed homeless, broke and in need of assistance.
I wasn’t lying. Looking at my strung-out wife and two small children, he made an immediate decision. As remarkable as it is, this wonderful man arranged an apartment, fifteen hundred dollars in cash and had a social worker to take us over to view the little apartment within three hours. These apartments are listed on their files as available to social assistance recipients. The landlord also happened to have his own small painting crew, working on duplexes throughout the city.
“Maybe you can get a job with him”, the social worker was saying as we went downstairs into the tiny apartment. It was a reasonable enough place. Everything was white, the bed, the fridge, the walls and the floor and cupboards.
“We’ll take it"", I said, as though we were in a position to refuse.
The social worker looked over at me. She was all business. “The rent is 700 dollars. You can pay that directly from today’s assistance. In the morning, I would suggest you come down, and formally apply for benefits. It’s not much, but it will help you get back on your feet until you get some work. Also, you need to have an address to collect benefits, so it’s probably better that you stay here. I called the landlord. He should be home around five o’clock".
Thank you", I said. And she was gone.
I asked Louise to stay with the kids while I went back outside. We were in a neighborhood of small houses, and rather small apartments no more than three or four floors high. I walked for an hour up and down the street. It was a typical city subdivision, not quite on the lower end of town, but close to it. The streets were clean and lined with tall trees at short intervals. Past our block on a side street, were a few older shops selling mostly cigarettes and confectionery. A 7-11 was nearby. After grabbing a couple of snacks, I walked back to the apartment. The daylight was beginning to fade. I found Louise and the kids huddled on the floor of the kitchen with a washing machine in full swing. Rachael stood up and tried to stuff in another shirt and Louise spoke sharply to her.
“Don’t holler at her", I said. “What’s with the washing machine anyway?"
“I want to be normal", she answered. There was desperation in her voice.
“We’ll give your parents a call in the morning to let them know where we are", I said. “I picked up a few snacks at the 7-11 around the corner. Let’s have a bite to eat and try to get some sleep".
Early the next morning, I went back over to the 7-11 and bought a phone card. Stopping into a phone booth a few dozen yards from our apartment, I punched the parent’s numbers in and listened to the ringing on the other end. My heart was pounding a bit.
“Hello"? and expectant voice sounded on the other end.
“Hi Janet. It’s Greg".
“Where the bloody blazes are you?"
“We’re in Ontario".
She sounded more than rather annoyed at that grand revelation. “I know you’re in Ontario. Where in Ontario?"
No. Not annoyed. Pissed.
“Oshawa", I said. "How’d you know we were in Ontario"?
Somebody from a church called your bible school and asked them what the bloody hell you’re doing".
She was starting to somewhat testy there too.
I pondered for a moment. My best guess is it must have been Dave as I had told him of the bible school back east and its name. I found out later that he had a discussion with his pastor, as at that point, we were still staying in his parent’s hotel. So the whole world knew what we were doing by now. Louise’s mother continued her blast.
“You better call that guy you got the car from", she said. “He’s bloody mad. Where are Louise and the kids”?
“Back at the apartment. We rented one. I’m going to look for a job in the morning".
“Bloody hell".
I hung up and the phone and called the owner of the car. “Hello".
“Hi. This is Greg".
“Greg! What are you guys doing? I heard you were travelling"? He didn’t sound impressed either.
“Yea. We’re in Ontario".
“I know. I called Louise’s folks. She told me the same thing. What about the car"?
“What about it"? I was starting to get a little peeved myself. What did we, commit a crime or something for God’s sake?
“Did you change the registration like I asked you? I know for a fact you didn’t. And that you have no insurance on it. You didn’t, did you"?
Hmmm. Maybe we did commit a crime.
“So”? Brilliant comeback Greg. How to live those convictions.
“So? SO? that’s your answer? Listen man, if you get in an accident with that car, I’m the one responsible. Not you. When are you coming back"?
“I don’t know. We haven’t decided".
This isn’t quite working out the way we planned it at all. Not looking very good at all.
He was really fired by now. “You know, I should have listened to my wife when we gave it to you. She said she had a bad feeling about it. I’m telling your right now, you got 24 hours to get that thing back here or I call the RCMP and report it stolen? You got that"?
“Whatever". I am so screwed.
“24 hours man". Click.The receiver went dead.
I began to break down on the way back to the apartment. Fear surged through my whole being. I felt utterly abandoned, as though God’s hand was suddenly and forever lifted. I had lived so long being led, that I had no clue what to do next. Not a single clue.
Louise had lain the children down on the single bed, and we sat together on the floor while they slept. I poured out the whole sordid story, how we had to take the car back. How her parents were mad as hell. And how we had 24 hours or the police would be on our tail. She listened intently. The frustration welled up, and tears moved to her bottom lids. I thought she had enough. But it was her words that stunned me the most.
Shaking her fist, she said. “They’ll be sorry when we’re famous and they see the work we’ve done".
In wonder, I watched her face, listening to the words pouring from her mouth. This wonderful woman who in all respects was much wiser and much smarter, speaking such words. Her features began to change as she spoke, and her voice sounded strangely familiar. This beautiful lady, who opposed me in the beginning, talented, smart Louise, the one whom everyone loved, brainwashed! My God! She’s brainwashed. She really believes this stuff. Oh oh, wait a minute. If she’s brainwashed.., what am … I?
And at that exact moment my world imploded, and every scrap of doctrine and every move we’d made for the past seven years came crashing down. Because in her voice, I heard my own. And on her face, I saw myself. In one sentence, she summarized it all. Fame and Glory. To be somebody. To be called. To be affirmed. To have found identity. It was all there. I wasn’t looking
for God after all, I was seeking my own way. A carefully constructed set of beliefs that fit perfectly in line with snatching that illusive dream. To hear ‘well done thou good and faithful servant'. Too impress God. My heavenly father. My father.
Father. Oh father! Where have you gone? Don’t you see the darkness is swallowing me?
I sat naked and in shock, staring at my wife as though I had seen her for the first time. I looked at the kids on the bed. I looked around at the white apartment, the floor we were on, even at my own body. What happened? I started to get up slowly. I felt weak and had no strength to stand. Methodically, I started packing our bags. Trickles of water were running from my eyes. Everything feels so strange. So very wrong. I cried the entire time it took to drive back. Fourteen solid hour’s non-stop. Nothing else mattered but to make things right. Louise touched my arm on the drive.“I’ll support you. I’ll stand by you", she said. But within two weeks of our return, she was asking me to sign a paper that said she had no part in the responsibility for our outstanding bills. She and the children stayed with her parents. I was not welcome.
Chapter 11
I would travel back to Ontario, use the rented apartment and would get a job. I wasn’t being headstrong at this point. I honestly wanted to get a job. I dropped the car off to its rightful owner, who thankfully, did not charge us nor accuse me, but rather simply took the keys, and bid me a pleasant life. I assured Louise we would get back on track. I’ll go to Ontario and quite possibly get a job with the landlord, as I had several years of painting experience from before the church days. A friend in town drove weekly to Ontario in his freight truck. I called him, made arrangements and after saying goodbye to Louise and the kids, I climbed in, took a seat and went back. There were no illusions and no miracles this time. The landlord didn’t give me the coveted job. Maybe next week was his answer. I was getting desperate. If I don’t get that job, what can I say to Louise when she arrives? She told me she’d be able to make it back in a short period of time. I called her on the phone and asked her when she was coming.
She wasn’t. And there was no discussing it.
“I want you here at this end of this month"! I barked. I was scared.
This isn’t looking good either.
“I am not moving those kids again”, she shot back.
I was practically screaming into the phone by this time with fear and panic. “No, no!”
“Oh for God’s sake!“ she said. “Go get a cup of coffee". And hung up.
COFFEE?? I stared into the dead receiver. My GOD. She’s left me. She really did. I felt it with every fiber of my being. It felt like the soul had been ripped right out me. I swung like a madman in the phone booth, both arms up and hands on the side of the glass, staring at outside. This can’t be happening. But it was. And I knew it. I tried calling again and again, but nobody answered. I was a dead man. I’m dead. I stared at the sidewalk outside, and to hold together the last shards of thought, concentrated on the solid straight lines of the cement as I followed them along down the street and back to my apartment. I went in, and noticing the Bible, tore it up, slammed it on the floor and collapsed in a heap on the cold tiles, and broken pages. Time stopped.
A peculiar sensation began moving over my body. Warm and comforting. I rose to my knees, with my head bent. The warmth moved from my head and down my back, wrapping me in its embrace. A distinct impression someone was covering me with a velvet cloak took over. My senses began to settle and my mind became peaceful. A staggering vision filled my mind. In the adjacent room was a thick water pipe that ran horizontally across the ceiling. I was hanging from it by a necktie. I watched my body. There was no fear, only an inquisitive sensation of soft peace. My breath started slowing down and I could sense the air moving in and out, in time and on purpose.
I will die. It felt good. Everything was falling away. My sorrow was melting. I will hang myself.
My body moved towards the act. In the moment between vision and decision, a voice spoke. It was audible, behind me and to the right. “I will never leave you, nor forsake you".
My head jerked a little in response, snapping my thoughts back into consciousness and back into reason.
The velvet cloak was gone. I crawled into the bed and stayed there for the rest of the night.
Upon awakening in the morning, I lay still for a moment, my eyes adjusting to the light streaming in through the basement window above the bed. Did I dream everything?
There’s a presence in the room I can sense him. But there’s nothing left. Nothing. I’m suffocating with loss. I gaze blankly in the direction of my unseen visitor. He is not five feet from my bed.
“Who are you"? I croak out. Identify yourself! Tell me what I have been seeking". Silence.
“What is it you want"? I ask.
“To be your friend”, the disembodied voice said.
I was neither surprised nor afraid of the presence. And had no response to the answer. Nor were there any expectations or doctrines or verses of scripture flooding my mind. I was void, except for the crushing weight of reality that was settling upon my very being in spades. I had met death. I also knew this one here persuaded me otherwise. But why? And why should he care?
I sat up on the edge of the bed, doubled over and held my mid-section, and began rocking back and forth. The bowels inside of me were shaking uncontrollably. But there were no tears. They were dry. I was stunned and in shock. Seven intense years were crashing and shattering against the shores of my new reality. Broke, wifeless, childless and a fool.
I looked up at the presence. I felt raw. Lied to. Looking for one crimson thread of truth.
“I have read that you love me”, I ventured, my words stumbling over themselves in the first true words I had spoken in years. There was nothing left to lose.
“I have read. I heard. But others have said the same thing and they left me. What is to say that you will not do the same"?
For the moment, my guest said nothing to lift my guilt and sadness. I glanced down at the crumpled bible on the floor and out of respect, bent down and started picking up the pieces. As I stood, the bible opened in my hand. I looked down at the open page. A single verse caught my eye. I had read it a thousand times before.
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him, shall not perish, but have everlasting life.
The words began to pulsate, vibrating with power and understanding. I was seeing something totally new. Had I really perverted this simple truth? Had I carried this within my hands for years, spoke of it and yet never understood its meaning? A child could understand this.
The words fastened themselves inside of me. And a bright light radiated around me, larger and brighter and stronger unlike anything I had ever felt or heard or seen. And my sight traveled upwards into a central position. The room and apartment faded into nothing. All that remained was this light that radiated far above me. I was engulfed. I stood gazing directly into it. And then, like a movie, my life began playing before me. Every message I spoke. Every action I performed in the name of faith and God. And I understood. I spoke of what I did not know. I stood, speechless with shame and blank humiliation.
Part Two
Darkness was bleeding into day. I hadn’t slept. Glancing up at the narrow window punched into the cement, I could see the blades of grass bent over from the heavy dew. I slept in the basement, ate in the basement and took care of necessities there. The window in my bedroom was four feet above the bed. What was that girl’s name? In the restaurant the day before?
"They call it rock bottom”, she was saying. It’s not so bad, not like they say, once you’re there anyway.
I gazed at her, thinking maybe she was actually a shade of sanity here amongst the crushed and wounded. I grunted something unintelligible so she went on. “It’s the journey down that most terrifying, and the end comes in a moment, boy, don’t I know it. And when you see it coming, that’s the horror, like plummeting down an elevator shaft or seeing a car about to ram you from behind. You know it’s going to hurt, but how much it’s going to hurt is what’s so freaky".
I wanted to ask her if there was any hope, but she started sobbing, burying her face in her hands, groaning out a disheartening ‘why"?
I glanced around the shop, a small, dusty box of a shop settled somewhere in the midst of Oshawa’s back alleys. We were the only customers. I looked into the cup of coffee the waitress set down. The cream was curdled.
"When I say rock bottom, I mean the absolute bottom". (She was fairly weeping by now) "Not the kind where you are sad or depressed or even grieving for that matter. I’m talking about the
kind that shatters and turns your thoughts, props and illusions into crap. Where there is nothing left but blinding truth. The truth of what you’ve become, what you could have had, and...". Her voice trailed off and she sat holding onto to her face to keep it from falling off. Looking up she brushed her hair back, stood up and said, "There is no way around it or over it. You gotta walk right through the middle". She sliced her hand through the air for effect.
And then she was gone. I sat in the restaurant staring down into coffee. Maybe I should have at least learned her name. She probably said it. But then again, I didn’t really care that much. What I did care about is whether or not the soup kitchen had any food left. It was near dinner time.
It wasn’t far from the apartment. I meandered over to have a look at the place. A large sign outside the side door of the building read Patrons. Please go to the front hall of St. Mary’s and buy a meal ticket before entering. Tickets. 1 dollar. Thank you.
The emergency funds had run out, and I was switching to regular benefits. That left the tidy sum of about 150 bucks a month to do with as I pleased. I knew I couldn't go back to New Brunswick. Not yet. I needed some cash. And it would be nice if Louise changed her mind and returned however implausible that was shaping up to be.
It felt strange buying the meal ticket. I kept getting these questioning looks from people. A kind of ‘you don’t look homeless enough to have to eat here’ look. Great. Now I’m getting paranoid on top of the schizoid moments. Is this nightmare ever going to end? Or even more unthinkable, maybe it’s just getting started.
Still, there’s something astonishingly primal about being shattered on so many different levels. You have nothing left to hide. And that opens up the gates of friendship that are closed otherwise.
Roland was the first one. I met him at the soup kitchen right after I got my food. He pranced over to my table. Though it could have been a wiggle too, I wasn’t quite sure. He looked in my direction with a delicious look of surprise and licked his lips on the way over. I pretended not to notice him, but it was useless. He stopped in front of me. He stood ramrod straight, had greasy black hair, and was dressed head to toe in black leather with a few cheap silver chains hanging here and there. He couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds.
“Hi, my name’s Roland”. He said it like it was a formality that needed to be kicked aside.
I nodded at him and went back to unwrapping the fork.
“So what are you doing later tonight"? he asked.
I looked up from my tray the volunteer had placed on the table. The food didn’t look half-bad. “What"? I said, with as much non-commitment as could be generated, which wasn’t too difficult. Perhaps he’ll go away. I tried eating the potato on the tray.
But he continued. “Tonight. Are you busy"? he asked.
I glanced up at him. “What do you want"?
“I’d like to be friends with you”, he said.
“Are you gay?", I asked.
He rolled his eyes in answer to my question, closed them and smiled with a now-what-would-make-you-say-that-mister kind of look.
“Nooo. I’m not gay".
I sized him up. “You’re gay".
“Be that what it may, he said.
“Sooo-oo are you or are you not"?
“Am I what? Flamin’ gay"?
“No. Silly. Busy. Are you BIZzz-y"? he oozed, drawling out the first syllable by pulling his lips back over his teeth and extending his head.
“Yea, I’m bizz-yyyy”, I said. What the hell was with this guy? Good God, we’re eating in a soup kitchen.
“Mind if I join you for dinner"? he asked. I didn’t care. I was too tired. Sit down.
Within a few moments, he called over an older gentleman sitting by himself. “Dean, come over and join us”, Roland hollered across the room. About 60 years old, Dean had been living on and off the street for years. He was part native, tall, had long grey hair and wore his glasses at a thirty degree angle on his nose.
He picked up his tray and walked over, nodded at me and said, "Pleasure to meet you", I nodded back. We ate in silence while Roland chattered on about nonsensical matters.
“He wears the same outfit most days", Roland explained when Dean had excused himself to the bathroom. “And that bag he carries? It’s one of his homemade, genuine native purses. Carries it with him wherever he goes. He suffers from asthma too".
Does this guy ever shut up?
After Dean came Jane. She was about 30 years of age, obese, and lived in the attic of someone’s house not far from the kitchen. She looked like she was in perpetual pain. The tone of her voice cracked with emotion when she spoke. There were others coming to the kitchen, but I didn’t learn their names.
Not satisfied with dinner, Roland wanted my address too.
“Hey, you got a pen"? he asked the man in the table next to us. The man looked up surprised.
“Yea. I got one. You want one"? the guy said.
“Well, do you or do you not got one"? Roland said.
“Yea, I said I got one", the man answered. “You wanna make something of it"?
Roland turned back, shaking his head and continued with his meal, eyeballing the last sliver of meat on my tray. I flipped it onto his plate and he started crying. He really was an emotional chap. Thankfully, he let the address request slide, and didn’t bring it up again.
On the Street
One night, the church responsible for the soup kitchen put a show on, allowing people to showcase their talent. About 20 of us milled about the room set aside for the show while the band played. To the side stood a young lady who was enjoying the music. I moved over to introduce myself. Extending my hand, I told her my name. She turned to greet me. Her right arm was missing and there were three fingers on her left hand.
I was shocked, and somewhat embarrassed with my hand held out, waiting for her to shake it with the non-existent arm. She noticed my uncomfortable look.
“Train", she said. “Jumped in front of a train".
“My God! Why"? I asked.
“They were trying to take my baby, the social workers. Said I was unfit, you know. An unfit mother. I tried to get out of a witch coven I was in but it messed up my mind. The demons would attack me at night, and it was too much".
“That’s a hard life for such a pretty girl", I said. She blushed and ran out of the room.
I turned my head, happening to look in the direction of Roland. He was banging a tambourine as though the dawn of enlightenment was scorching his eyes. He was categorically having a moment. I stood watching the show. I felt sorry for him. I wasn’t gay. I think he was hoping I was or that I’d change my mind. Our ‘relationship’ spanned all of two weeks.
Dean stood and watched the show. He leaned over towards me. “I’ll introduce you to the director of the drop in center after we eat tomorrow. “It’s right around the corner".
The drop in center is where a good portion of the soup kitchen recipients would spend their leisure time. There wasn’t much to do there, but at least we could find social programs available in the area, job postings, or have a general chat with one of the workers. Maybe even get a cup of coffee. The director, a heavyset gentleman of about 50 with a graying beard and semi-formal clothes greeted me along with a younger male staff member. After some pleasantries, he excused himself and left me to chat with the younger man. I told him my story.
“Hey", he shouted to the director. “That stuff we read about? Well, this guy lived it".
The director came back over and listened for a while as I repeated the story of the journey, and the subsequent crash and burn that accompanied it. Not to mention the fact my wife had left.
"Did you write her a letter"? he asked.
“I already did that. Told her what I was going to do".
“No. you must let her call the shots. Tell her you’re willing to do whatever she says".
I felt confused. And desperate. “I don’t know if anything will work".
“Write the letter", he said. And then as an afterthought he said, “Why don’t you come in on Wednesday night and share your story? It may do you some good to get some of that stuff off your chest".
I agreed to do so.
The following day, I met Jane on the street around the same area as the drop-in center. I was glad to see her. She wore the same clothes as the day before, and the day before that, a tattered array of various colors. “We’re having a meeting tomorrow night Jane. Are you coming"? I asked.
“No. I don’t go to meetings”, she said.
“Why not"?
“I don’t go. I don’t want to go", she said. Her voice had a strange cry to it. She sounded on the verge of cracking again.
“I’d really like to see you there if you can”, I said.
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I get so tired. I’m not sleeping well these days", she replied, her voice rising in pitch, taking on a strained, choking sound.
“Why aren’t you sleeping well"? I asked. "Where are you staying? Same place"?
“Yea, but I don’t have a bed. So I don’t sleep that well at night".
“You don’t have a bed"? I asked. “What are you sleeping on"?
“Oh, I put some cardboard down on the floor and some blankets. But it is still hard".
“Why don’t you get a bed then"? I asked. A quick phone call to any local anti-poverty group would probably bring her a bed in a short time.
“God doesn’t want me to have a bed”, she said.
And there it was. What is the truth of the matter?
“Ridiculous”. We joined hands, right on the sidewalk and asked God to send her a bed.
She came to the meeting too. I gave her a bible and asked her to read a psalm from it. She opened to the Psalms and began reading. And along with the reading, she began to sob. Whatever pain she had stuffed inside, was released in part from the fear she had of public speaking. She read an entire psalm, her weeping gaining intensity with each passing sentence. It was the first time I saw her cry the entire month.
When it was time to speak, I stood up in front of the assembly of people and looked out over the small crowd. Roland and Dean were there. As well as a couple dozen other people who frequented the kitchen and church. I spoke of that lurid moment of suicidal darkness, and I could see in the group, many nodding their heads, with their eyes closed and their head slightly down. They knew what I spoke of intimately. They were acquainted with suffering. They knew grief. And they knew what it is to be crushed. I could see it in their faces.
Chapter 12
The landlord gave me the painting job I needed so badly. But the crew I worked with smoked pot every day on the way to work in their van, while I lay in the back with a blanket over my head to ward off the smoke. We had been together a few days now, long enough to paint the trim on a few dozen townhouses. While painting one day, I noticed a car stalled alongside the secondary road we were working beside. A group of people gathered behind it in an attempt to push it up a small incline towards a gas station. I left my ladder and went over to lend a hand, standing behind the car with a couple others and pushed enough to get the car rolling.
"Are you crazy"? one of the men exclaimed me when I came back. "You don’t help spics".
I glanced around at our crew. A Mexican, an Indian, a young man from Ontario and myself. Our boss was from South America somewhere.
"Are you racist"? they asked me.
"Apparently not or I wouldn’t be working with you guys".
“What the hell makes you tick anyway"? the youngest guy asked me.
“Yea, you really want to know"? I asked crossly.
“Yea. Really".
I came down off my ladder and marched over to him, set down my pail and brush and stood up and looked into his eyes. They were black as burnt firewood.
I cared not whether he believed. Not my problem. I tried to sound brave. “I don’t need your drugs. I don’t need your sick jokes or language. As far as I’m concerned, if there is a God, He doesn’t need it other. Live the way you please. But leave me alone. Alon-er".
He stood for a moment, looking at me. Unimpressed, but somewhat startled by the sudden response. He watched as I climbed back up the ladder to resume painting the trim.
“Well, I think God put me here to party” he said and danced a few steps back towards his own section. He remained quiet for the remainder of the day, occasionally whistling to pass the time.
The following day, I stayed in bed, tired and sad while the crew jumped in the van to go back to the job site. They were a dozen miles up the highway, puffing weed and cracking jokes, like any other day. Without warning, a car in the oncoming lane lost control and spun wildly across the street, slammed into the highway divide and showered their speeding van with glass and metal. The divider saved them from serious accident or worse. Collectively, they decided it best to stay straight in the future for the ride to work. There was no word on the other driver.
The job wasn’t a bad job in fact, aside from Sanchez demanding excellence in his product and care of supplies. Make sure you wash those damn brushes and rollers spotless, the young fella told me while we hosed them off after work. Sanchez will throw a fit if you don’t.
So while we scrubbed and chattered, my cleaning partner said Sanchez was going to grow the business and branch out. Each of us should get a crew. For the five of us, it was a patient thought. But it wasn’t happening that summer. One night after work, and after the other boys had left, Sanchez passed on a message from one of the home owners, a lady who stood watching from the windows while I painted.
“She said you were extra careful and was impressed with the job". It was a nice compliment, told from a guy who didn’t give them that often. “Maybe you should think about sticking around, even seeing over a crew when the opportunity arises”.
But the rush of losing so much in such a short time, and settling into a new city was overwhelming. I needed to go home. Sanchez understood.
“You’re screwed up", he said. Only in stronger language. "And so is she. You can go home and try, but don’t expect too much".
I felt torn in two, as though the womb had been dragged out of my soul. My bowels quivered with fear. They literally shook, cowering for shelter. But none was forthcoming. The youth center was closed by now, cleaned out by Louise with the assistance of father. And there was nowhere for me to live, should I return. I considered Sanchez’s proposal, but in the end, even the safety of having a job and address couldn’t persuade me to stay in that place. Not after a month of living with and observing the homeless.
I wore shades to hide behind. And to cover the grief that was consuming me. But then everybody I met wearing sunglasses looked like they were hiding something. So I rocked myself at night, sitting on the edge of the bed while holding my legs, rocking back and forth trying to settle my guts, crying from the pain. I saw a lady doing the same thing on the front step of an apartment one afternoon. Was she suffering too? People don’t rock for nothing. At night, sirens made me want to stand up and scream, ’you’re out of order!’ for the whole world had turned upside down on its axis and was spinning out of control and command. The foundations were out of line. And the emergency sirens suggested a hard truth. We are all suffering, on some level, caught between the lines of hope of despair. Insane, driven and searching. I would listen to the cackle of the homeless in the kitchen. The laughter sounded hollow, like a large bubble spit into the air begging for some intangible substance to fill it, where it could be breathed back in for substance and joy. The bubbles bounced around the room, competing for space and attention.
Though I had a little cash from the job, I needed to save it for the return home, and also the rent. So I continued to eat at the kitchen. That week, I ran into Jane. She was quite excited. About three in the afternoon, some people had come beating on her door. They had a bed. It was an anti-poverty group, or some members of a church or something. I don’t know. I didn’t call them. She said she didn’t either, and that they just showed up. “I went home, and there they were. Said they had a bed for me".
We laughed a little together, and it was the first time I’d seen her smile.
She said ‘you know what I’d really like? To be dressed all in black. From my head to my toe. Do you think God would do that for me"?
So we prayed. And asked for new clothes.
I never saw Jane again, but sometimes I like to imagine what must have happened to her. How she found herself all dressed in black, staring at the mirror in amazement, happy as she could be.
I scrapped together what little cash I had and made preparations, which included telling Roland and Dean goodbye. I met Roland for a cup of coffee and told him. It’s not that it was essential or anything, but he was happy that he’d made a new friend, and it seemed the decent thing to do. I knew he’d be wondering why I wasn’t seen at the kitchen or the street mission. But when I asked him to reconsider his lifestyle out of genuine concern for his health and safety, he stiffened and sat bolt upright. Banging the table with a fist, he hotly declared, “I am Gay!” Roland never talked about illness, but Dean had hinted once or twice that Roland had acquired HIV. I didn’t press the issue because I didn’t want to know.
And that was it. He stopped talking and stared straight ahead while I got up, wished him luck and left him sitting there, his eyes moist and his chin shaking a bit. I left with an uneasy concern that Roland was moving on a path that had a very dark end. Without medical care, expensive medical care, I wondered how many days he would be able to bang like that at all.
Dean was nowhere to be found, and it was time to go.
I gathered up my bag or two of clothing, and walked over to the bus station where I purchased a ticket. Suddenly, I could hear my name being shouted. It was Dean. Roland had told him I was leaving and he knew the bus back east left at this time each day. He was out of breath, suffering from asthma and the short flight of steps into the bus station had intensified his condition. My bus was leaving within thirty minutes, so I was glad to see him one last time.
“Can I get you anything"? he asked. He stood there, puffing and wheezing and dressed up with one of his homemade bags and the same colorful vest he always wore.
Without thinking, I said, “Man, I could sure use a good cup of coffee".
He bolted like a jackrabbit back down the steps and out into the street. Fifteen minutes later he returned with a cup of coffee in his hand. He asthmatic panting took him to near collapse as he pushed it into my hand and bent over to catch his breath.
“I wanted to say thank you", he said, between inadequate mouthfuls of oxygen. I honestly thought he may drop over. “You showed decency to Roland", he wheezed.
I was moved by his kindness and not a little guilty as I saw him breathless and winded. But he recovered within a reasonable time and I gave him a hug when we said goodbye. He felt like a block of wood, arms straight down, and awkward, like trying to hug an old tree.
Sanchez went on with his painting. I checked on him years later and he had a slick website with accolades and references and pricing indexes. He divided his crews out into an entire range of painting services.
So he pulled it off after all.
Chapter 13
The second letter, written at the director’s advice had the opposite affect. Louise wasn’t impressed that I left my job in Ontario or with having me so close. So while she locked herself away in the security of her parent’s home, I took a room in a seedy motel about 20 miles away.
Seedy is probably being kind. The room stank and the carpets were sticky. There was a double bed in the single room, and a small bathroom. No windows. It had one small night stand and a TV that had two channels. Pay for Porn and the news. The couple that stayed in the room next door would return each night; whereupon the man would beat her senseless and then they’d have sex. Every night. The walls were thinner than the glue used to hold them together.
I had a guitar with one string and an old toaster oven my grandmother had given me. I tried doing the laundry in the bathroom and drying the socks with the toaster, but turned the heat up too high, burnt the socks and filled the room with smoke.
I had no visitors, ever.
To pay for the place, I got a job in a grocery store, bagging people’s groceries for them and carrying them out to their car. At night I’d help unload the trucks and stock the shelves. I suppose all in all, it wasn’t such a bad job either. But considering that in one summer, I’d graduated from a bible school, went on this peculiar journey, ate in soup kitchens and was now living in a seedy hotel, made it a bad job.
On one particular day, a woman came through the doors of the mall where the grocery store operates. As the shop is located beside the entrance, I could see her before she could see me. It was the same woman in the bible school a few months previous. The one whose husband was a truck driver. I tried to turn away, but she saw me and came over.
“Hey, you’re that guy from the bible school aren’t you"? She was smiling and pleasant.
“Yes. How are you? Long time no see". I tried not to look like I felt. Crushed. Dead.
“You know, after I went home that day, my husband came home the same night. He told me he got fired from his job. And I said, hey, this guy at the bible school told me that could happen, and blah, blah, blah. Do you know, three days later, he got a job as a short haul driver".
“So he’s home every night"? I asked.
“Yes. Thank you for the word that day".
I watched her go and went back to bagging groceries. I was having a hard time getting my mind back to full usage, and was still very shaky between daily life and the unseen realm.
Listening to her story was encouraging, and troubling. What if Louise thinks I’m still into this stuff? The weeks were slipping by with no sign of reconciliation with her and the kids. Of course she needs more time.
One cloudy afternoon, as I was slipping some non-nutritious food into a paper sack for a customer, a woman appeared at the checkout. “Mr. Boone"? she asked.
I looked up at her. She stood there with a brown office sized envelope in her hand, half raised. She already saw my name tag, so I hardly had to tell her yes before she was pushing her delivery into my hands. I took it. She offered no congratulations, no sympathy. Nothing. She cared for none of it. Her task was done, and she turned and disappeared into the hallways.
I opened the envelope, took out the paper and read: DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS.
Legal this and legal that. A host of jargon and by-laws, followed by more legalese.
Sign within thirty (30) days deadbeat.
If you don’t sign, it goes into effect regardless.
Regardless? And the point of delivering it was what?
I stared at it for a moment, shoved it back into the envelope and finished packing the bag. My life was over. Again. And I thought of the delivery woman. How can that person be unmoved by this.
After work, I returned to the motel. The sex addicts were at it again. Grabbing the one-string guitar, I smashed it against the floor, the toaster oven, and the walls until it fell apart and I buckled cursing and swearing on the floor. My self-pity was rising. What had I done that was so wrong? “My God, why is your hand so heavy on me"?
Up until this moment, I could have counted the number of times I swore on one hand. At least since going to church. I felt remorseful for the cursing. But within a moment, a sound, a whisper coming through my spirit. formulated inside.
“I see that language in your heart, but you are only aware of it now".
I rose to my knees, and looked towards the corner of the room. Energy pulsated from it. My visitor had returned. I stared at him for a moment. Clarity wound its way past emotion, and transported me back inside that white apartment in Oshawa, where the first question had gone unanswered.
Invisible, yet present with no form or body. As real as the sun that touches your skin or the wind that moves the leaves.
Why do we complicate things so?
“I know you. You’re Jesus", I said. “You and the Holy Spirit are the same person".
I had always wondered about the Trinity. How can they be one? Its simplicity had escaped me. How can the Father, Son and Spirit be one? At the moment, it wasn’t a mystery any less than ice, water and snow were a mystery. The essence remains the same.
Quite clearly, He spoke “Greg, if you will give yourself to prayer, I will fulfill every desire of your heart. At the end of your life, there will not be one left undone".
As I think about it now, sometimes I wish I were bolder to have asked a few questions during those times. What would you say if the Lord himself came and spoke to you? Would you ask him to explain the puzzling aspects of your life? How to make a million dollars? What is the secret recipe for the perfect burger?
For the second time in as many months, I crawled off the floor and onto the bed, perplexing over my friend’s words.
Chapter 14
Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard? Our everlasting God wearies not. There is no searching of his understanding.
An article about the little town where I’d opened the youth center caught my eye. I was visiting one of my previous acquaintances from church, and noticed the paper on his coffee table. It told the story of a murder trial underway. That was news. Murder trials don’t often happen in little hamlets like that. I think the last one was 50 years ago.
But the curiosity turned to horror when I realized that the victim was none other than Jay, my youth center partner.
Leaping up, I said to my acquaintance, "you must take me to Centreville immediately". He was shocked at the explanation. We made the trip to Jay’s former home. Francine opened the front door and stuck her head out as I was coming in the walkway.
“Jay’s dead", she announced.
“Ï know. I read about it. What happened"?
Upon learning of the ill-fated trip to Ontario, Jay had grown discouraged Francine explained. He called a member of the church, the same one who had ‘sold’ us the car, to say that ‘things are difficult and I’m having a hard time with faith.
The car man replied, "Well, how hard did you try"? Jay cursed and slammed down the receiver.
He went to a party the following week where he raised the hackles of a certain boy by flirting with his girl. They drank themselves half blind and he climbed into a half ton truck along with the irate boyfriend, the girl and one other boy from the party. The boyfriend, who was driving, pulled into a forested area, stopped the truck and pulling out a small pistol, reached across the seat and shot Jay in the head.
He then got out, walked over to the passengers side, opened the door and dragged him out onto the forest floor. The party boy and the girl were told they had to shoot as well. Petrified, and no doubt fearing for their own safety, they pumped two more shots into Jay.
All three were convicted of murder charges in one degree or another and sentenced to prison. I attended part of the trial, but as an observer. I quit going when they brought out photos of Jay on a slab as evidence. Louise had been at the trial during the first few days too. I didn’t see her when I went.
“Jay is in heaven today, because of you”, Francine said when I went to see her again after the convictions. I couldn’t help thinking that if I’d been there, one more time, maybe it could have been different. We talked long into the afternoon. It was painful. Later that year, Jay’s elder brother died in a knife fight in Ontario. His mother heard of my conversations with Francine.
“How can he say he’s lost anything"? Jay’s mother wailed to Francine. “Or compare it to the death of a son? He speaks as though divorce is the same as death".
“Pain is pain, and loss is loss” Francine said simply.
I walked back through the small village, staring at the empty youth center. In wonder, I considered Jay’s last conversation with me.
“I saw something strange last night on the way home", he had said during one of his frequent visits.
“What’s that Jay"? I asked.
“I was walking along the country road and looked up at the sky, he said. Through the stars, two hands were reaching out for me". What do you think it means"?
He wants to see something special. I felt warning bells inside. He’s learning this from me.
“No idea", I answered.
Pastor Dryer came to visit. He looked angry, glaring with those thick, bushy eyebrows furrowing together into a solid line.
“Why did you leave off helping me at the youth center"? I asked after we had greeted one another, not unpleasant like.
His stormy response was quick and cutting. “How about the fact that you have been completely out of touch with reality"?
Well, you don’t have to be nasty.
“Furthermore, there are three things God won’t bless", he said, stretching out his hand, and banging his fingers in rapid succession. “Pride, arrogance and ignorance".
He counted them individually, banging out the syllables of each word. Driving it home. After venting at least some of his fury, he softened somewhat. I stood there.
For a moment, there was silence. ”Jay’s death is not your fault”, he finally said.
Chapter 15
I went back up to the bible school and asked if I could stay with them for a while in one of the spare rooms. I had nowhere else to go. Dan, the director, was gracious enough to let me stay without any rent. I attended a few of the classes and one or two of the church services, but it had changed. At least for me, and so I spent most of the time in my room, paralyzed with grief. Stunned at the horrible events. A visiting pastor who was holding classes at the bible school came to see me one afternoon. Peering his head into my room he asked if he could come in for a visit. I said sure. He set down on the chair next to the window, and looked at me for a moment. After some brief conversation about not much, he told me to “Do it”.
“What, buy a pair of Nike shoes"?
He smiled. ‘Whatever it is that you need to do".
The reconciliation that I had hoped for was by all appearances dead in the water, and so packing up my clothes once more, I left the School of the Spirit and decided to move back down to Fredericton. At the very least, it was familiar territory and better than living in sleazy hotels working at pitching broccoli and boxes in the middle of the night. Or so I thought. Jobs weren’t easy to come by. Especially for somebody who had spent the last several years asleep in the light, tripping on some kind of altered reality.
It’s ironic I suppose, that my father’s house was about 200 yards away from the youth center, though he had never set foot in it the whole time, except to clean it out. And my grandparents lived in the compound where I went to bible school. Even with such close proximity, I wonder if they were even aware of the mess unfolding. I think they had some indications that certain things were not quite right, but how far wrong they were apparently escaped them.
As far as I recall, nobody said anything about it. Though we lived in the same area, I don’t remember father visiting our home either, although I did come by his once in a while. It’s not that we were estranged, or had a falling out. More like indifference. I would much rather have somebody hate me outright than to be indifferent. You become a nobody then. A non-entity. Perhaps he’d grown weary of watching his kids stumble from one disaster to the next.
That was the problem. I had no idea what he thought. He never really said. Maybe he was too busy to notice. His own life was already full of an intensive study of family history. The family tree extended into England, and father had managed to trace, person by person, though graveyards and old records, back over a period of at least 500 years. It is a remarkable piece of work spanning the migration from England, into America and finally down into the little province where we all presently lived.
When he wasn’t doing that, he busied himself with the customs job he held with the Federal government, and as a ranking member of the Masonic lodge in New Brunswick, it is conceivable that he didn’t have enough time to do the things I had hoped for, but never really experienced. Regardless of the reasons, I was on my own.
In Fredericton
It was grim to find a suitable job, one that paid well and didn’t require a magnificent amount of education. After years of absolute immersion into a personal belief system, coming back up was a laborious task in decision making and struggle. Desperate to prove some worth in case it made a difference, I was willing to take the first jobs I could find.
Among the first was a job selling hotdogs on the street. In the summer, that may be a model condition to occupy the evening, but during the dead pan cold of a January night, standing outside of bars at two o’clock in the morning touched on psychotic.
At midnight, I’d walk across town to unlock a garage door, drag the portable cooking cart out and push it several blocks to bar alley. One wheel on the front stayed frozen most nights, requiring a fantastic amount of willpower and effort to keep it from slamming into the curb enroute to the bars. It was irritating. And freezing.
But the job had its perks. The hotdogs provided by the company who owned the carts were the exact same American style dogs sold at baseball stadiums. They were long, red and delicious. And the oversized German sausages were even more delightful. I ate them every night as part of the ‘benefits package’.
The cart was a steel framework with two pans inserted on the top for boiling water. Underneath, a propane tank provided the gas for the flame. Once the flame was lit, I’d empty two or three large jugs of water into the pans, place a wire rack on one pan, throw the sausages and dogs into the water and boil them. The second pan with the wire rack was used for steaming buns. On one side of the cart was a rack for condiments.
There was no need for drinks, as the customers coming from bars, mostly drunk, were not interested in cola. Late February, temperatures plummeted to minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit. The water in the jugs froze solid. The condiments turned to large bullets. The air crackled with frost. I grunted and shoved the cart several blocks towards my first bar stop. With little gratification, I banged each jug onto the ground until the ice inside had crushed into shards small enough to pour out through the top.
While I was shattering the ice and warming the water, a customer happened on by, joking with his buddies.
"If we wait long enough, we might be able to get a sausage from this guy".
His buddies thought that real funny. My finger tips were freezing, and the penetrating cold was numbing my body. Witty tonight aren’t we?
I did in fact, cook a sausage. One. And after melting the condiments and steaming the bun, slapped the sausage in the bun and ate it. Then I dragged the cart back to the garage and quit.
The second job wasn’t much better, at least initially. I answered an ad from the local manpower office. Somebody was looking for a commercial cleaner to assist in the ‘day to day operations of a cleaning franchise'. I called the man, was hired before he even picked up the phone and strolled on down the street to meet him. He was a nice enough fellow. Short, middle aged, smiling. He had purchased a brand new truck, and was cleaning pool halls, banks and the odd shopping mall.
Well, I needed a job, so this would have to do. Early the next morning, which happened to be a Saturday, he picked me up, and we drove over to one of two pool halls that we were to vacuum and clean. Part of the job was to clean the bathrooms also.
"It’s not a question of what the job is, as much as how well one performs their duties", he told me. "Whether you’re cleaning toilets, collecting tickets at a booth or doing clerical work, it all comes down to the same principal. Taking pride in your work".
"Yea, okay", I said. "What do you want me to do"?
"Take this bucket and mop and start with the girl’s bathroom. Then I’ll get you to do the rugs. Here are a few rags for you too".
John, (as he called himself) handed me the tools of the trade and went back outside to bring in the vacuum cleaner from the truck while I moved towards the girl’s bathroom. Knocking, and then pushing open the door, I staggered at the sight. The doors of every stall, the walls, floor and toilet, were plastered with the most vomit I have ever encountered in my life. Ever. It is impossible to puke that much. No human being can puke that much. No ANIMAL can throw up that much. The damn stuff is alive and has bred itself into alien life form. It even covered the sinks. Even the sinks! I dropped the bucket and fled from the room. He doesn’t need a bucket, he needs a fire hose and a flamethrower!
I stayed outside in the hallway. Maybe I should quit and die now. After the shock had worn away, I decided to just fill the bucket with water, soap and disinfectant and forget the rags or the mop. I started with the first stall and heaved gallon after gallon of the soapy solution onto the walls, toilets, basins, and stayed at it until most of the mess had finally washed its way down the drains. It didn’t really take that long. And I was surprised by the results, that the bathroom was salvageable. Imagine that.
John liked my work, and made it a point to explain again at the end of the day, no matter what one does, to “do it with your whole heart, and take pride in your job".
I was grateful for the lesson that day (not really) and remained with him for a number of months, cleaning floors, toilets, sinks and carpets. I did a bunch of other odd jobs too. Drive a truck. Pump gas. Paint walls. Worked on a census. Practically anything to stay busy and feel productive. And there was always the hope that Louise would change her mind and come back, though by now, we had already been divorced for some time. I never did sign the paper. It was, after all, only paper and words.
I moved into a large house on the North side of the city. I happened to see the rental ad one day while combing the classifieds in the city newspaper. I decided to give it a try. The three occupants of the large house were all Christians, and all attended the same assembly. The owner lived in his own private house beside the shoddy mansion. He said he didn’t want to fix our dilapidated boarding house because it would increase his taxes. He was a computer programmer by trade. The ‘mansion’ had an indoor swimming pool before, but he filled it in with cement and set up an office. He would sit out there in the winter time wearing thick clothes while he worked. Kind of an odd fellow, but nice.
The house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac. I walked up to the main entrance, past the brown, dead bushes and pushed the door bell. A large papal gong sounded throughout the house. A man I had met earlier at a church I visited happened to answer the door. He was short, bearded, about 44 years old and meticulously dressed in brown khaki pants, red flannel shirt and black vest. He took me into the house and showed me around. It was prime real estate in its day, with heated floors and enough space to house a family of about eight quite comfortably. The split entry separated the upstairs from the down.
On the lower floor were the bedrooms, a living room and full shower. My bedroom was in the basement in the far corner. There was no window in the bedroom, so it was dark as a tomb day and night. Bill, the bearded man, was in the bedroom directly across from it. He explained it was temporary while he “waited for the wife to make up her mind".
Bob, an ex-con turned Christian had the master bedroom upstairs. He was a massive man, with a bald head, huge torso and no neck. His head just sort of blended into his shoulders. The third roomy was Randy. Randy’s room was also in the basement somewhere. He was an interesting guy. He stood well over six feet tall, with jet black hair and a small mouth. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic, taking regular shots once a month to keep the paranoia tame.
They invited me to attend church with them. Set on the top of Smythe Street hill in the city, the Cathedral is a large building housing more than 300 members, all with very different backgrounds. Monty Lewis, an amazing man who also spent many years in prison, attended there. He was converted by a little Salvation Army officer who visited him in jail once. Laying naked and wet on the cement floor, Monty was ready to listen. And to change. He later formed a prison ministry that now stretches around the world, was given the order of Canada and is a counselor to police departments nation wide.
Many prisoners have attended this assembly over the years.
The pastor of the church, Verner Drost, comes from a long line of preachers. His father was a well-known preacher known as Bill Drost the Penetecost. I’d heard of the Pentecost man back in Hartland. The church has also become a place of worship for the homeless, the poor, addicts, bankers, lawyers, rich and middle class. Its yearly Easter portrayal of the death burial and resurrection of Christ has turned into a full blown opera performance complete with pyrotechnics, flying angels and an amazing moment when the actor portraying Christ lifts off the stage and goes straight up for 40 feet before disappearing into a cloud. I was in awe the first time I saw it.
But even with all the new, I cried every single day. I couldn’t seem to stop it. Two years. Every single day. At least once.
Chapter 16
The mansion was damp inside. And a chill moved through out my body. Old habits die hard.
I turned to an old custom of Nostradamus:the practice of divination using reflections. He chose a bowl of water. I used a mirror. But I wasn’t thinking of him. If it worked at the school with strangers, what’s to say I couldn’t do it with myself? I would stare into the mirrors, working my way into a self-induced trance until pictures would appear that I would watch like black and white clips from a movie. On one occasion, while on a job hunt, I tried it to see what may come of it. Turning to the mirror at home, I watched until a picture came into view. I was moving in and out of a truck, making deliveries or taking orders for something.
The following day, my younger brother called. “There’s a job I heard about at a building center. I’ll be in tomorrow morning to pick you up and take you. Be ready".
We went together in the morning and met the owner. “What kind of work are you looking for he asked me. “Journalism", I replied.
He smiled. “Well, can’t help you there. But if you’re interested, I need a man to make deliveries for us. Think you can handle that"?
I needed money. I took the job.
Later that night, I stood in the corner of my bedroom, watching my body sleeping on the bed in the dark. I was scared. I wanted to go back to the bed, but couldn’t move. During the day, depression hung over my body like a wet blanket. I groaned inside by the hour, longing to see my kids again. I couldn’t accept the fact that they were gone. In solid grief, I cried out one afternoon while walking down the sidewalk. “My God! What should I do"?
A single word flooded my mind. Sharon.
What? Sharon? I don’t know any Sharon. Maybe you mean share. As in, talk it out, like I did back in Ontario.
So, I started going to meetings at the local street ministry office led by another Smythe Street member. He was an affable man, but my constant presence annoyed him. At least that was the impression I got. During one meeting that Bill and I attended together, he asked Bill to leave because he refused to allow people to put their hands on him while praying. The moment the door closed, a woman broke out wailing claiming we had grieved the Spirit of God. While the street minister didn’t come right out and ask me to leave, he wasn’t the most cordial while I was around, and within a short period of time, our sessions ended.
The same month, while Bill and I sat at the kitchen table in our run down mansion, a young lady came tearing through the kitchen, chattering non-stop the entire time, said hello to me while still prattling on about something else, grabbed a bowl of cereal and streamed back out of the kitchen as fast as she came in.
“What was that"? I asked Bill.
He laughed. “Fern’s new secretary. Sharon".
*******
“We’re having an intervarsity Christian fellowship night for some of the university students", she said. "Why don’t you come with me"?
Sharon was looking at me as she spoke. Bill and I were sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee and some toast. I wasn’t much interested in going, but turning her down for another night of doing nothing wasn’t appealing either so we went. Bill stayed at home. He had been telling the story of his ex-wife and how the “whole city was shocked when she said she’d come back to me". I had my doubts that the whole city really cared. And honestly, I was getting tired of so much depression and lethargy. So it was with some relief that Sharon and I travelled together to the bible study.
The meeting was held at a student’s home. About a dozen people or more had gathered in a living room, where a young man about 25 years old was reading a passage from the bible. After listening to the passage, we all prayed two or three minutes and then broke into various groups to discuss meaning. It was like being in a classroom. I was bored silly.
After we had dissected and analyzed the passage we read, we began discussing our various jobs and career goals.
“So what do you do Greg"? a short, plump young man in the group asked me.
“I’m working in a gas station right now. I used to go to a bible school, but graduated a couple of summers ago. So I guess I’m kind of hanging around til the right thing comes. "You"? I asked.
“Studying mapmaking", he said. “Third year".
“Mapmaking? “why would anybody study that"?
“Yea, it’s my dream", he smiled. “To make topographical maps".
I couldn’t conceive of a Christian who considered anything not associated with Church and faith. But here was a guy who, while attending a bible study, confessed his real desire in life was to make maps. The apparent contradiction shook my sensibilities about what Christians do, or ought to do. I asked them about their goals. And one at a time they answered; Physics, Social work. My major is accounting. Arts. Political Science. Law. Education. Biology. Psychology. I was stunned. For almost a decade, I had thought of nothing else but Christian service as it was called. Even the educational aspect of the youth center had stood on the center piece of proposed evangelical meetings.
I could see Sharon smiling as she waved goodbye to me later after the meeting. I watched her go, wondering if she really knew how much of an impact that group made on my fractured mind. To hear a guy, especially a Christian, say that his dream in life was to make topographical maps, “cause they’re so interesting", was almost too much to grasp in one meeting.
This was something I had never considered before. It was astonishing.
Chapter 17
Back at the house, Bill was in his own state. His wife had decided not to come back after all. He stood in his large white bathrobe, looking drawn and haggard. "I’m going to bed". He said.
In the morning, long after randy, Bob and I had climbed out of bed and were scrambling a few eggs and making plans for the day, Bill came wearily up the stairs. He looked terrible. His hair was standing straight up; his face was drawn in and was a ghastly grey color.
“What happened to you"? Bob asked. "Didn’t sleep well"?
"No. I slept too well. I called Kath last night and told her I was going to kill myself. You know what she did. Hung up on me".
“What’d you do"? Bob asked.
“Took a whole bottle of sleeping pills. God. I can’t even kill myself right".
“Yea, well, get your clothes on and come and have some breakfast then", Bob said.
After twenty years in prison, Bob wasn’t an easy pushover emotionally. He was concerned for Bill, but not too alarmed. I wasn’t convinced Bill wanted to kill himself either. Sometime later during a heavy rainstorm at night, Bob and I sat in the downstairs living room chatting about the day, ladies, money and general stuff.
“What were you thinking when you robbed all those banks or places Bob", I asked him.
“Same as you”, he said. “You get up and go to your job. I got up and went and robbed something. Same thing. I looked at it as a job. That’s how I lived".
We were laughing about how he used to buy new shirts, wear them for a day or two, and instead of washing, throw them out and buy new ones after his next “job”.
“Our last job was going to be a big one", he went on. There was a mobile bank set up on a tractor trailer bed. So we were going to get a truck, back in and steal the whole bank".
He smiled. “Praise God!” (He said that a lot.
Bill walked into the middle of our conversation, wearing a fleece jacket with the hood pulled up and a rope in his hand. “Going onto the bridge to hang myself boys” he said.
“Really? Sure you want to do that? It’s a nasty night out”, Bob said.
“Yea. I’ve had enough". He flung the rope over his shoulder on the way through the hall, nice and somber like. And walked out the front door.
“What do you think we should do"? Bob looked at me.
“Well jeez. I dunno. Maybe we should pray". “Yea. Good idea, let’s do it".
So while we stood there praying, Randy came out of his bedroom to use the bathroom. Looking at us and the front door still half ajar, he asked. “What’s going on"?
Bill went to kill himself, we explained.
And what are you guys doing", he asked. Rather sarcastically too I thought.
“Praying".
Randy’s annoyance was immediate. “Boys, I wanna tell you something. There’s a time to pray and a time to do something".
He grabbed his jacket from the rack on the wall, and bolted out the door after Bill. Bob and I followed along, but the weather was so bad, we couldn’t see very far in front of us and it took more than twenty minutes to get to the bridge from where we lived. Bill was nowhere in sight. Not a soul was on the bridge. Walking across, we looked for a rope tied to the railing, or maybe over the edge on one of the piers. But there was nothing.
“We better go to the police station and report it", Randy said.
The three of us tramped into the station on the other side of the bridge and told them of the situation. They didn’t say much. Asked what Bill looked like and told us they’d look into it. There wasn’t much else we could do, so we walked back into the driving rain, across the bridge and finally to the sanctuary of our home.
Inside, hanging on the rack on the wall was Bill’s jacket, dripping wet from the rain. The unbroken rope also was hanging on a hook. We checked to be sure, but he was quite alive, snoring away in his room while the three of us stood in his doorway, drenched to the skin, considering whether or not we should just kill him and end the pain.
We didn’t talk about it much the next morning. There wasn’t anything to say. We’d all been there. And he was still alive.
Chapter 18
“Never been in jail before have you"? the guard asked. He was squatting down on a small block of wood, looking up at me. I turned around and looked at his face, listening to the tone in his voice. It was kind enough.
“No”.
“Better get these handcuffs off the dangerous criminal", he said. He went back to his stump. Now what? Get down and do a few pushups? Jog on the spot? Sing some Johnny Cash?
“Can ya get the cash"? he asked.
“I don’t know".
After 20 minutes, we went back to the cell. The door slammed shut and he sauntered off. The children were heavy on my mind. They were already an ocean away with their mother. I had to see
the judge on Monday. I could imagine. But your honor does it not matter that she has taken my little wee ones out of the country, indeed to a distant land, has provided me with a false address and has not returned, lo, these past few years.
The audacity! Judgment Day.
“No you lowlife fleck of dog feces”, he screams. It does not matter.
A weekend in jail is forever, especially when they say, “there’s a possibility that you could be in here indefinitely”, which they did, in fact, say right after my heralded arrival. A couple of days ago, two deputies showed up at my delivery job, Friday afternoon mind you, cuffed me and took me to jail. Then they transferred me here. So now I’m standing in the warden’s office wherein sat himself and two or three cronies.
“Sit down", he said, nice and cordial like, as if I had dropped in for tea. I sat down on the wooden, pillow less chair and stared around the room. It was small, and smelled like smoke. He was already aware of my case and why I was here. His cronies sat and stared at me with smirking grins.
“You know", he began. ‘If you aren’t able to pay your arrears on Monday when you go to court, there’s a good chance they’ll throw you back in here until you do get the money. Could be a vicious circle".
He took a drawl off his smoke and looked at me, sizing me up. He knew exactly what he was doing. He could smell my fear, I’m sure of it.
“On the other hand, if you manage to come up with the cash now, they’ll probably let you go".
I was practically pissing myself. I called my boss. I called my old man. I even called people I didn’t know. I got the same answer from all of them. No. Naturally. Deadbeats have no friends. Well, I had ten bucks but that wouldn’t do, so he threw me in the four-corner cell, where I would sit until the bricks decayed, the building split from neglect and the doors rusted off the hinges. I was very much a martyr. I told them, "I’d like to have a bible please". They probably felt guilty when I said that. If they had asked me what I wanted for a last meal, I’d have told them ‘take out'.
Monday came. The judge took his good old time. It was the middle of summer, but I felt cold. You’re always cold in court. The bench I was sitting on was made of solid wood and stretched for 90 feet in both directions. There were a few attorneys milling about, looking bored, but I didn’t notice anybody else. The place was downright dull, in fact. It smelled stale and dusty and inky. Another small town justice department. Not that I was so experienced with them. I wasn’t. The last time I had been inside one was over ten years ago to pay a fine. It smelled the same then too. Like dead wood.
The judge came in, took a seat, and shuffled a few papers while everybody stood at attention, including myself.
“Let’s see what’s on the menu. Boone. Ah yes. Back payments. Child support". He glanced up at me and over to someone in a long black robe.
Did he say “menu”?
“You’re honor, the defendant has agreed to turn over his salary in lieu of arrears”, a court appointed attorney spoke up a moment or two after the judge called my case.
I really did say that too. I’d said anything to get out of jail.
“Yes, yes”, he said while scribbling on the pad in front of him. “Right. Uh-uh".
I could feel my knees knocking so I rocked a bit back and forth to keep from looking scared witless. Send me back. Let me work. Let me out. You can keep the salary.
Whap! The gavel smacked the desk like a rifle shot. Next!
So they let me go back to my puny life. They opened the front door and let me walk out broke except for the ten dollars, and 70 miles from home. They didn’t offer a ride even though they were right pleased to bring me here. I stopped into the Salvation Army on my way home, bought a pair of used cowboy boots with the ten bucks and started walking. And then hitch-hiking. I ended up in yet another office back in my hometown about a week later, to arrange payments. This office was larger, plush; wood paneled and had a look of authority to it. A gentleman named Abu sat at a large, red mahogany desk, smelling of books and aftershave and wood. He had a look at the previous judge’s decision, thought it excessive and slashed it by a few hundred dollars per month. I was grateful. I had no idea who he was. I didn’t care.
“How old are your kids” he asked while scratching out a smaller shafting.
Two and three years old”, I said.
“Wow. You’re going to be paying a long time”.
“Take a cheque?" I asked.
“Oh no. We don’t accept cheques of any sort. Just cash".
Well, how about a direct deposit into an account or something online? As if that was going happen.
“Nope. Sorry", Abu said. “We’re not set up for that. Cash. You can make your payments at the wicket downstairs. You’ll see it on the left on your way out".
I saw it.
Dutifully the following month, I climbed the white granite steps of the courthouse and heaved those massive wooden doors open and proceeded to the ground floor, which is where all the deadbeats go. Stepping up to the wicket, I gave the woman behind the bullet proof glass a pathetic smile and told her “I’m here to make a payment". That should impress her. She moved her eyes in my direction. She did not look impressed. She looked scary. That annoyed me. That’s right lady. I’m divorced. One of the chosen ones. “Name? worm".
"Greg”.
“No. who are you paying it to"? she asked.
“You guys. I’m paying it to you guys", I said. Is she toying with me?
“Payee"? she asked. “Who’s the payee? Better yet, give me the case number”.
I looked down at the slip of paper in my hand Abu had written on earlier and pushed it towards the glass. She managed to turn her head slightly so as to zero in on it. “Slide it through the opening here”, she said. I complied. She punched a few keys, gazed at the screen for a second, back at me and then gave the paper a smack with a stamp, handed me the receipt and pointed to the exit sign.
My business was done. Get out scum. Better than going to jail I guess.
The bagpipes startled me out of my dreariness. A small band was marching its way up the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. The city loves them. Something about our heritage. This is the same city where my parents met. And where they married. And where I was born as well as two older brothers. The exception to our family was the youngest boy who happened to be born in Ontario. The hospital where most of us were born is right up the street from the courthouse. Actually, everything’s right up the street from the courthouse, including the soup kitchen, the local detox center and the town hall. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell which is which.
Down the street are large mansions built for the original settlers? The mansions were later used as homes for legislative members. Over time, they turned into private homes, boarding houses and a few bed and breakfast holiday homes. I rented a room in one of these large residences because I really needed some space away from the madness. Bidding Bob, Bill and Randy adieu, I moved. The new place didn’t lessen the offbeat characters, but it was a nice room. It was on the corner of the house, had its own porch entrance and a queen sized waterbed. Because of my past odd-job service, I became the in-house handyman.
The woman who owned the mansion was eccentric. She wasn’t particularly rich, but that didn’t stop her from trying to speak like British nobility whenever she was being nice and uppity. She’d call my name, drawling out the syllables caught in her nose. “GRAY-gor-eee” she’d say, and pull her eyelids way back and wrinkle up her forehead for effect.
“Pleezze. Would you care to take care of the shed. Have a look at the dawwrr". I called it a door, she called it a d-awr, as it sounded much posher than it really was.
She would ride up and down the stairs of the mansion to the second floor on a specially built lift attached to the wall because she was too fat to walk. She ended up missing the chair one day, and rolled down the stairs, across the landing and out the front entrance. It took six men to get her on the stretcher.
She used to raise these purebred Persian cats too, before she took the long roll. They were pretty cute. She’d raise them right in her own bedroom because the rest of the house was rented out to transients. While I was living there, a guy from Pakistan took a room in her mansion. He was so damn happy to be out of his country, that he’d come in the house every afternoon shaking our hands and grinning like a Cheshire cat. After a couple of months, he started getting depressed. He’d still shake our hands, though not with so much passion. I took his picture once while I was sitting on the roof of the mansion, thinking maybe he’d like it. He did not. Staring intensely at the photo, he pointedly asked who took it and for what purpose? He mumbled a couple of things, handed back the photo and moodily went to his room. I don’t know what his problem was.
By the time summer approached, I was growing weary with the cleaning and odd-jobs and needed a new development. Back in the mansion, Patricia had asked me if I was interested in painting her house. I thought about it for a while and then agreed to scrape and paint her entire house on the outside, including the roof. That’s how I ended up taking a picture of my Pakistani friend.
The roof was an insane task.
The house stood about 80 feet at the highest peak and the slope of the roof was more than 60 degrees in parts. Plus it was the dead of summer and the ol’ girl wanted the steel sheeted roof painted glossy black. Also, the top was impossible to reach in certain places because of the various cuts and angles to it. It wasn’t a simple roof with two slopes. It had turrets, peaks, a chimney in the center and steep angles from one section to another. I had painted before, but nothing like this.
During the first day, I put an extension ladder up against the towering wall and tied a robe to a wooden ladder built especially for hanging on a roof. These ladders have two hooks on one side to slip down over the peak of a house and keep the ladder in place.
But it had to get up there first.
Climbing to the top of the steel extension ladder leaning against the wall, (which in full extension, barely reached the edge) I pulled the wooden ladder up as far as I could off the ground. It weighed as much as a stack of lumber. The steel ladder shook, my legs trembled and thoughts of death by stupidity crossed my mind. By the time the ladder cleared the eaves, my body was wet with sweat. And the ladder still had to be slid twenty-five feet up the roof at an outrageous angle. Letting it fall hard over onto the roof, I pushed it the remaining way up. The hooks snagged on a steel piece covering the peak, which meant I had to wrestle the ladder back and forth, which was also causing the steel ladder I was standing on to shake and move. I wanted to spew. I could hear my mother’s voice screaming in my head something about “being two bricks shy of a load".
Finally the two hooks slipped into place over the peak. My heart was beating like a jackhammer, and the heat was practically cooking the hide right off me. I looked up at the top and began to scale up, one rung at a time. Halfway up, I lay flat against the roof at such a pitch and in such fear, that I stayed there for a number of minutes before finally working up the courage to look around. Nothing but sharp angles, peeling paint, rust and loose nails.
How am I gonna paint this?? It needs platforms to walk on, ropes, climbing apparatus, not to mention large buckets of paint hoisted up, sealant, nails…
But it was also an ideal antidote to the paralyzing sorrow that had been swallowing me whole for months. On the roof, there was no room for error, and no time to dwell on other issues.
Make a network of ropes. Fix the nails, set up platforms. Wear safety belts. Bring up the supplies. Do one thing at a time, one day at a time. Go slow. Be sure of your steps. I made one move at a time through the process.
It took weeks, but it got done. I even had lunch up there once or twice. For the first time in a century, I was feeling healthy and able to function daily without some form of minor breakdown.
There were about a dozen of us living in that house. Most of the others were university students as we lived quite near the campus. There was a common kitchen where some would cook, but I never did. Not often anyway. Usually I’d go out and buy some processed food and microwave it, or eat at the soup kitchen. I asked the tenants offhandedly once about an escape plan in case of fire. The windows in each room were sealed and there was one way out of the room. What would they do in case of fire? One of the boarders reported it to the authorities so the old heifer who owned the house had to cough up some cash for safety features.
She was not impressed. But I didn’t care much about that. I had made enough money by now to get my own apartment.
As luck would have it, not long after the roof, another handyman job came up. Some kind of government tourism project. A magnificent bed and breakfast directly up the street was looking for someone to take care of the necessary tasks and repairs. I applied for the government funded job and was hired.
The Carriage House, as it was called, once belonged to a founding member of the city of Fredericton and had been purchased by another family. They in turn converted the house into a profitable guest home for travelers. Each week the family matron submitted my work records to a provincial office which issued cheques for a salary.
The family was nice enough to work for. A young couple, Jim and Shell took care of the house. Shell told me she used to teach English overseas in Korea and had really enjoyed it, but wanted to come back for one reason or another. To get married I think. Her husband Jim was a computer programmer. For both of them, the business was their first love. They put a lot of time into it. Shell was my boss, which suit me fine. She was personable and easy to get along with.
My ‘office’ was in the cellar, where I threw winter wood in through an open window and piled it in a corner of the basement. The wood powered the heat during the brisk months of fall and winter. Besides piling cords of wood, there were windows to fix, rooms to paint and dozens of light fixtures full of bulbs that needed constant changing.
While going through the wood stack one early evening, I discovered among the broken timber, a once beautiful old night stand. A leg had broken off and the parts had been thrown onto the wood heap to be used for kindling. What a shame to waste it.
“Hey man, if you wanna fix that old table, go ahead", Shell told me. "Give you something to do".
Recovering every square inch under the thick skin of buildup took patience, time and no small amount of sandpaper. Fixing the leg wasn’t so hard, but scraping the entire table with a small piece of glass, as I had seen my father do years earlier, required taking strips off, each barely a quarter of an inch wide. I tried working with an acid-like formula. But the sandpaper kept gunking up with the foaming varnish. I used knives, chisels, more glass and thicker sandpaper.
And so thus I spent my days. Mostly alone in a cellar tinkering away at broken things.
One strange day, a man stopped to see me. He was quite a serious guy, but likable. He started a rural workers association in New Brunswick to help people get back into the job market. I don’t remember where we met, but he’d stop by once in a while to say hi, and see how my employment situation was progressing. I was fixing a window outside, and he came waltzing in the driveway and breezed up to where I was working. We exchanged greetings.
“I’ve got an appointment with the Premier later but thought I’d drop by and say hi first. How’s the work going?” he asked.
“It’s not bad", I replied. "Not getting rich or anything. What are you seeing McKenna about"?
‘Oh, I’m going to see about getting some money for my program", he said. “Hey, you should come along. You still doing that senior citizen thing"? he asked. He was referring to a ‘program’ I started once for elderly people. I’d give them my phone number, and if they needed anything done around the house, they could give me a call. “Maybe you can get some money from McKenna too", he suggested.
That didn’t sound like a half-bad idea and he did have an appointment with the Premier after all. It was almost quitting time so I went with him. That was the first mistake. The second was believing him. What emerged at the Premiers office was an extraordinary scene straight out of a bad comedy.
Hitting the button on the elevator that took us to McKenna’s floor, Mr. Rural Worker immediately stormed out of the doors as soon as they opened, and straight into the main reception area.
“Where’s Mckenna"? he demanded.
The secretary stared at him, eyeballing him up and down. “You can’t see him today", she responded coolly. "He’s in a meeting".
I stood outside the glass enclosed reception area, listening to this guy start on a rant. I’m not sure what he was on about, but this wasn’t looking good and so I decided to retreat back to the elevator and escape. McKenna had the same idea when he heard the commotion outside of his office. Apparently he wasn’t in a meeting after all, and was hiding behind his office door. He slipped out of a side door in his office and took a separate hallway to the elevator, where we happened to meet. He stood waiting with three or four other men. I didn’t speak. I was clearly in the wrong place judging by the looks on the men’s faces.
Rural Man came running back out of the secretary’s space, spied McKenna and proceeded to make demands for more money, before his program shut down, people suffered, welfare payments increased, and other such calamities ensued.
McKenna, who had obviously dealt with this man before, pointed at him, saying “I am not going to keep giving you money, so you and some…(he glanced in my direction) some of your buddies can have a job.
C’mon floor, swallow me now..
My ‘buddy’ hollered a few more nasties, as the elevator doors opened taking our Premier and his entourage away from us, leaving us standing there on our own, staring at one another.
“Well, I guess that’s probably the last hurrah for my program", he finally said.
“Yes, I’m guessing that probably is".
We waited for the elevator to return, got in, returned to the bottom floor and walked out the front door of the building. The Premier was nowhere in sight.
“Well, I better be heading back. Catch you next time", Rural Man said.
I stood watching him go. Is that guy for real? Is there no end to the whackos in this world? How could I have been so stupid to believe he actually had a meeting with the premier of our province?
Glancing down at my clothes, I flushed with embarrassment. I had not even bothered to change my clothes. They were filthy and covered in paint and dust. Starting back to the Carriage House, I glanced at my watch. Five thirty. The work day was finished.
Four months later, the contract also finished, and I was unemployed. I spent day after night missing Louise and the children. It was about to get worse.
Chapter 19
It was Chris’ sixth birthday. Louise had moved back to England with the kids. I had received yet another notice from some hotshot lawyer who boldly declared "that in my opinion, she doesn’t need your permission to return and will do so without your consent”.
She said she’d be back every six months. She didn’t come back. But she did give me a phone number and an address, without the area code or country code. I took the crumpled paper out of my pocket and started dialing number combinations in England. An older woman answered the phone. “What address are you looking for"? she asked.
The thing about England is, when they answer the phone, they often give the address or phone number along with a ‘hello’. As in “Butterfield. 619. Hello"?
Her greeting matched neither the number nor address. “Who are you looking for"? she asked.
When I told her, and said I was looking for my kids, she replied, “Oh, that’s right down the street from me. Do you want me to go have a look"?
Now that was highly unusual. But she did sound kind of old, and I was kind of desperate. So if I give the address of my kids, is it likely to be a maniac I’m talking to on the other end? And if she is a maniac, would it matter whether she had an address or not? Don’t maniacs do random murders and kidnappings? I gave it to her. I’ll give you a call back in about 20 minutes okay"? I told her.
“Righto”, she said and went off on her mission.
I sat there tapping my paintbrush for 20 minutes or so waiting to give this woman a call back. I was working in a hotel doing renovations. And had my own apartment. This handyman stuff is alright. Better than the toilets.
The boss was a short, fat guy who had to manage three of us. Most of the time, we’d be tearing out walls as fast as we repaired others. There was one guy named Marty who used to work there with us. He was okay, but ended up robbing me later on. I let him stay at my place, and one weekend while I was out, he stole the VHS player and pawned it for some cash. Then he got drunk. He came back a few days later to apologize and shake my hand. Why do drunks always want to shake your hand?
There was another guy working with us, I forget his name, which broke up with his girlfriend and sort of lost his mind in the bathroom at work. I’d heard some horrible banging coming from a far end of the hotel and went to investigate. The Nameless One was destroying a bathroom with a steel crowbar. When I walked in, he was bent over from the effort and covered in dust. He looked up at me with a twisted grin. A picture of Jack Nicolson hacking his way through a door with an axe flashed into my mind.
Come to think of it, the boss was a little off center too, claiming that he had retired from work and was only doing this job because the hotel really needed him. I think he was thirty-five years old. Marty threatened to burn down his house once, and he about popped an artery right there in the lunchroom.
When the 20 minutes were up, I hit redial on the phone and gave the old bird another call. She answered on the first ring. “Hi, how’d you make out"? I asked.
“Ooh”, she said, drawing out the 'oh’ in a low tone as if in the middle of conspiracy, and was about to let me in on a dark secret. “There’s nobody there” she breathed. “Except an old woman".
“An old woman”"? I repeated. What the…?
“Ewww..It’s like an Agathie Christie novel isn’t it"? she said, enjoying the drama and mystery of finding out this poor saps kids were not to be found where they ought to found and in their place, an old spinster woman.
My God! What has become of them?
I managed a few pleasantries and drew myself away from the conversation and the phone, but not before reaffirming the old sleuth’s address, and assuring her I’d be in for tea the first chance I got.
I dialed about a dozen other numbers, and by some small miracle, hit the right combination. Louise answered the phone. There was no address this time or number given. "Hello"?.
I said nothing about the trouble of trying to call. And introductions were useless. May as well get to the point. “Can I talk to Chris"? A brief muffled dialogue followed on the other end. Chris came on the line.
I tried to sound cheerful. “Happy Birthday Chris”.
“Oh. Thank you".(Pause) “I haven’t seen you for a long time”, he said.
That did it. He was right. It had been too long.
Within two weeks, I was catching a plane over to England to go find him.
I only got as far as the UK customs when they locked me in a cell. As I had mentioned earlier in this tale.
“Why do you want to see your kids again”, the young super agent had demanded. “Now. After five years? After so long a time"?
And as you know I said, "you don’t have kids do you"? to which he replied…“What difference does that make"?.
What difference does it make?
The older gentleman came back into the office. "We found your wife", he said, "but she’s out for the weekend visiting with some friends and won’t be home. We also contacted the parents but it doesn’t sound too promising. They don’t wish to see you".
"She knew I was coming", I said. “I told her before I left".
“Doesn’t matter” he replied. “You’re going back".
Chapter 20
Are you sad? She asked looking up at me. She was about 5 years old.
“Maybe a little", I said.
"Where’s your home? Do you sleep outside in our tent"?
"Yes. I do".
She wrinkled her brow a bit at the consideration of this. "Where’s your family"?
“Oh, they’re not here dear. The're somewhere else".
She blinked some more, and looked up at me. “Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf anyway", she said.
I move out of the house and into the yard where my heart is being crushed under my shirt and pouring out blood like cheap wine onto dirty carpet. My body is weeping without the benefit of tears. Why do children have to be so honest?
Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf baby? My two little lambs are gone honey, and my heart is torn where he had to rip it apart to get at them. They’re really gone and he stole them because I wasn’t watching. Daddy wasn’t watching. And now it’s too late. It’s too late. And he stole my blood, and my soul and my body.
The cries of children on the street are confusing me. Maybe they’re mine, and I glance trough the crowds of people, hearing their strains and the songs of ‘Daddy! Daddy! Over here! I’m a ghost. I stand outside and watch them as they run into the arms of their father, and nobody sees me or hears me. And so I curl up at night, and hear the echoes, imagining myself to be writing the Psalms or seeing the miracle of beauty in the face of their mother, who has forgiven me and come back home.
But there is no forgiveness this time. And there is no home. Just shadows of yesterday straining across the landscape, blanketing tomorrow’s sun.
And it’s peculiar, because some people believe everything happens for a reason.
Epilogue
The journey from the West is too long, and too expensive to fly into England, but living in China brings me to this side of the ocean.
Perhaps there’s a slim chance that I can travel during the holidays and find Rachael and Chris. It’s cheaper to live here in China, and English is so much in demand that people bring large wads of cash, and drop it at my feet if I’ll but talk to them. I have green eyes, and brown hair and I’m from Canada, so I’m an expert in language. The Chinese, Korean and Russians line up for my time. Sometimes I charge them ridiculous amounts. Often I talk for free. It depends on how I feel, or how much money I have in my pocket, or whether I want to buy a new toy. I don’t think about the future much.
Fourteen years pass over my eyes. Classes come and go. Students by the hundreds move in and out of my space, my time. There is joy, and trouble with every life. “I can’t do it teacher", the boy at the back tells me. He’s been sitting there for the past year and a half. He looks up at me, and in his eyes I see a mixture of hope and despair. He has given up. So I tell him my story, and he wonders at the mystery of suffering and sorrow.
“Pain is pain”, Francine said. And she was right.
“But you’re ok” says the boy. An hour later he knocks on my office door, and pulls a folded paper from his wallet. He smiles and hands it to me. It is the first time I have seen him smile in two months.
I take the letter, thank him, and after he leaves, go back to my desk, unfold the small note and begin to read:
Teacher,
Before I tak tell you somehing something about me, I should tell you, sorry. This question I will tell you on this paper. My English is pool, some sentence maybe will make lots of sen mistake…
I feel nervous because I will tell you many my secrt for you. I really give up. Everyday I feel this pain, everyday unhappy, everyday angry with my life. Everyday was worried about anything. No time to play, no time to enjoy myself, everything became bad. Even my family. When I nine years old, they do it. I can’t choose my life. No one can help me, long time I can’t find answer, why I can’t be my own? God!
Teacher, your life made me surprise. Why you can happy? Your heart, made me surprised. I want to meet someone can listen my story and give me help.
My parents worried about me, I don’t know how to do and my life is dark a long time, so I was angry with many things about me. My classmates, my life…
In his letter, he says he think he can make it now.
The next day he is sitting at the front of the classroom, to the side, listening to today’s lesson and taking notes. He is smiling.
Its summertime and school is closed for the two month vacation that widens into the waters and streams of Forest City. My attractive Chinese wife is sitting on a rock dipping her toes into the crystal waters of Grand Lake. It’s the first time she has traveled outside her country to another land. She’s staring at the blue sky filled with balls of cloud that look like cotton. At the dam, the water is roaring out in frothy jets. Gazing down into the turbulent stream, it is difficult to imagine a small child trying to swim against its sheer power.
“Can I go for a swim in there"? My son’s words snap me out of the daydream. He’s looking up at me. He is six years old. In his eyes, I see his mother. He was born in China. The third child. One of two boys and a girl in my life.
“I knew a boy who fell in here once”, I tell him. “It’s not safe for small children".
"He fell in"? His voice registers a small shock. "Oh", he says. "Then what happened"?
‘Well", I begin, trying to sound gentle. “He didn’t make it. He drowned".
He ponders this for a moment. “Then what happened"?
“What do you mean"?
“Where did he go after that"?
Well son, they dragged his lifeless body to the shore and put a new suit on him and buried him in the earth. I clear my throat. “He went to live with Jesus in heaven".
He seems to accept this, and we move away from the dam towards the shallow water. Back towards his momma. I can see he is still thinking on the matter though. I wonder if he understands.
Towards the end of the day, we walk back to our summer home. It’s a lovely old building known as the Old Schoolhouse. My own father went to school here in his primary years. Through his kindness and heart, he and his wife enabled the lovely Jo and I to purchase this property to which we return each summer. “Hasn’t moved in a hundred years”, he told me once. It’s a remarkable dwelling. The large granite blocks are still firmly in place. The inside has the original hardwood flooring and the entire building is decorated inside with pine boards.
The cemetery where my grandparents and relatives are laid to rest is along the way, as you know, near the bend in the road and so Basil and Jo and I walk through the graveyard to pay our respects. Our beautiful son is named after his grandfather, whom I loved so much. After visitation to the late Basil Boone’s grave, and my grandmother Mamie, I go over to visit a tiny gravesite alone. It is small and shaded by large oak trees that protect it from the elements. A short granite stone stands at its head. Stooping over, I trace the pattern of the tiny lamb that has been carved into his rock. Under the lamb, ‘Our Little John'. What are you doing now, Little John?...I look up. My son is staring at me.
“Does Jesus drink cola"? he asks.
It’s amazing. Some people believe that everything happens for a reason, like a scarlet thread that ties your life together into nice, neat little packages.
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