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Blog 14: “Grace”

Yesterday, Laurie and I made our first visit across the bay to the island of Cozumel.
Half hour by ferry—they say if you’re prone to seasickness you shouldn’t worry about this trip. Half way across, I asked for the plastic bag, but thankfully, I didn’t need it. We went there for Laurie’s neurologist’s visit, but we had been given an incomplete address and several taxi drivers I spoke with had no idea where the doctor’s office was. So, I approached a police pickup and inquired. They didn’t know either, but they invited us onboard while they drove around and figured it out. And they did, getting us to the doctor with five minutes to spare. I reciprocated by buying the three of them lunch.

Afterwards, we taxied the twelve miles to Punta Morena, on the far side of the island, away from the tourists, much less developed, but far better beaches and ate fifty feet from the crashing waves. Laurie was in beachcombing heaven. On the ferry back, Laurie rode on the upper deck with the wind blowing through her hair, while I chose to read “The Good Years” by Walter Lord in the a/c, cushioned seats down below. I’m not sure where the term “Montezuma’s Revenge” came from, I’ll have to look it up.

In the gospels, there’s a scene where Jesus’ disciples want to know who will be greatest in the Kingdom. Jesus takes a child and sets him on his lap for a demonstration. Children in that culture were not viewed as they are today, like treasured things that adults revolve their lives around. In that day, children were not valued much at all. Another thing about children is that there isn´t one thing they can do, good or bad, to increase or decrease their parent’s love or position with them.

So, there were at least two reasons Jesus used the child to demonstrate God’s love. One: Jesus is not looking for the high and mighty who wear their blue ribbons of religious activities like prized bulls at the county fair. He’s far more interested in those whose halos are a bit tarnished, bent up out of shape, cracked, and occasionally sliding off their heads, but He has their heart. Also, God isn´t judging us by our perfections or imperfections but by His unchanging perfect righteousness that He is freely given to us.

Maybe this isn’t much of a revelation to you, but for me, having come out of a legalistic church group after thirty years, where you were judged by how many times you punched the time clock for church attendance, it is this grace that I desperately need. I remember part of a praise song from those days that went like this: “I have climbed up, that much higher, in that good old Gospel way.” Since we never heard any sermons on grace, it never occurred to me that you couldn’t climb up higher. They did, however, mock a church across town called “Grace Chapel,” for having “greasy grace.” But I need that grace, and I don´t care how greasy it is. In fact, I´ve got a lot of ”greasy grace” to catch up on, because my halo of self-sufficient religiosity has taken a hit.

If you´ve been battered by life’s circumstances, at least you know you’re in good company with millions of saints that have gone before. In fact, the godliest of them all suffered the most rejection, abuse by religious Pharisee’s, family rebuffs, misunderstandings, slander, betrayals, not to mention physical torture and death. Now, there’s a happy thought.

So, man up Buckwheat, the best is always yet to come. This world is passing like a comet, never to be seen the same again. Those who are clinging to it as if it’s the greatest necessity in life will be the ones holding onto empty hopes and dreams. Our hope is unfading, untarnished, unblemished, “which is reserved in heaven for us, that is beyond the reach of change or decay.” 1Peter 1:4

Blog 13 Father’s Day

I haven’ blogged lately because I’m doing the final edit of my novel: Working title, When Elephants Fight. It should be out in e-book by the end of June and I expect all three of you following my blog to buy ten copies each and tell fifty friends to do the same. Or not.

In shooting “hoops” this morning, a teenaged boy, who had been sleeping on the court, was awakened by my playing. He packed up his sleeping gear, and noticing a few coins I had by my stuff (I no longer bring my cell phone, for obvious reasons), he asked me if he could have a one-peso coin, about a nickel in U.S. change. I gladly gave it to him. Had he asked for much more he would have gotten it.
A recent sermon from our new pastor here at Cornerstone Church, preached recently on prayer. One particular statement he made has stuck with me: ¨When you pray, pray for large things. God likes to be challenged.” Just like that boy who only asked for a single peso, I know I have often asked too small of very large and generous God. So, Laurie and are asking for enough funds in our budget, after we visit family in Oregon, to be able to live wherever we like, in an English speaking Caribbean island, so we don’t have a language barrier.
Yesterday, as I was walking some distance to a pharmacy to get medications for Laurie, I felt God’s presence, actually I have felt Him closer for the past two months, ever since we arrived in Mexico and Laurie had her stroke. I thanked God for His presence, favor, and provision for our lives (the insurance company covered our medical bills). I felt Him speak back to me that He’s always been there. I knew this was true, in theory, but most of my forty-one years of salvation I’ve never felt Him this close. I don’t have anyone now between me and God interpreting this relationship for me, and that has made the difference.
Laurie received some wrong medications two weeks ago and it set her back physically. She’s back on the right stuff now and is much better again these past few days, the strongest she’s been since the stroke. She spent the entire day, church and a restaurant with no wheelchair, only a cane

Today was Father’s Day and she took me out for the biggest ribeye steak I’ve ever seen. The owners of the restaurant, 500 Gramos Grill, Josie the Italian chef and Maury from Chile, told us Mexico has great cuts of steaks, but they don’t know how to fix them (no argument from me). Truly, it was the best steak of my life. Happy Father’s Day to all.

Blog 13 “Mexican Justice at Dawn”

On the way to my pre-dawn basketball shooting routine, I pass by three mom and pop tortilla-making shops. Old machinery clacks away by the hour, stacking the corn tortillas that will supply the local restaurants. Other small shopkeepers are setting up their produce of fresh vegetables, fruit, and eggs in the narrow street. The bakery vender pedals his bike with a front-loaded basket on wheels, loaded with fresh bread and pastries, squeezing a toy horn to announce his arrival as he slowly moves through the neighborhood. A flatbed truck loaded with propane tanks cruises the streets, blasting recorded music through tinny loudspeakers, announcing its product to prospective customers. Workmen with reflective orange vests and bag lunches trudge toward their steamy ten-hour day. And then there’s me, an old white guy carrying a basketball, in shorts, tank top, and fluorescent orange tennis shoes. I catch their eyes and we nod and smile, greeting each other in our native tongues.

Yesterday morning´s shooting took a wild twist. He had been watching me and eyeing my backpack at the foot of the basket. He grabbed a trash bag and started helping the old maintenance man pick up trash, working his way closer to me as I was shooting hoops. I thought it strange; the old guy had never had a helper before. Did he just want to make a few pesos?

Then he made his move, from my left side. By the time I saw him, he was already rifling through my stuff. He went for my small backpack, an easy grab, but it was empty, but then he saw my cell phone under it and grabbed that instead. The race was on.

He was young and fast and bolted around the side of the court and into the street. One thing that he didn´t figure into his plan was how fast this old man could run. The thought of losing my phone in Mexico, a major hassle beyond just the expense, fueled my sprint, amazing myself, the thief, the elderly maintenance man, and several mothers who were walking their children to school.

Holding up my basketball trunks, that were not accustomed to this kind of speed, I kept yelling, “STOP, THIEF” to whoever would listen and care. After the first block, at which point I was totally gassed, a small posse began to form at the next crossroads. The thief hoped to allude them by bolting to the left down another street. Now, he was out of my sight and I feared he would get away.

I don’t remember if I prayed earlier, but now I shouted out to God, “DON’T LET HIM GET AWAY!” Whether it was angels or men who blocked his escape, I never saw them, but he quickly tore back through the intersection, back into my sight and into the next street, but now the net was closing in on him. My posse had fresh legs, and the thief had mostly used his up, but he made one last impressive surge to outrun them and he almost made it, before a young strapping man in a work uniform corralled him around the neck like a rugby front-liner and dropped him with an open-field takedown. Now, the posse formed around him like coyotes celebrating their kill.

When I lived in South Africa, I learned the term “township justice.” When the neighborhood vigilantes would run down a thief, they knew the police wouldn´t do much, so they owed it to the community to mete out the punishment themselves. Playing the role of judge, jury, and chastiser, they tied the thief to a tree and, well you can guess the rest.

My posse practiced their own township justice. As the thief laid on the ground, surrounded by four court members, they took turns punching and kicking him. Each time he pleaded his innocence, they kicked him again. By the time I finally caught up, I had missed the trial, but since it was an open and shut case, they didn´t need my testimony.

I yelled down at the thief, “WHERE’S MY CELL PHONE?” While the three others continued administering justice, the rugby front-liner thrust my phone toward me, as if he was presenting it as a trophy of his Mexican manhood. Winded, relieved, and grateful, I thanked the four of them, while they continued performing their duties.

Playa del Carmen is a safe area—all of the State of Quintana Roo, also known as the Riviera Maya, is fairly crime-free, notwithstanding the lone thief and the occasional cartel member. They know tourists live among them, and they welcome them, boosting their struggling economy, and they and the police are motivated to protect them.

I´ve been thinking about that scripture that says, “faith without works is dead.” In prayer, I needed faith to believe God for what I was asking for. I had demonstrated at least mustard seed faith simply by asking God. But I also needed to do the part God wanted me to do. Sometimes God wants us to “stand down” and just trust Him with our prayers, but I´ve usually found He wants us to get involved.

If I hadn´t chased the thief, but instead, stayed on the court and prayed for God to stop him, though God certainly could have done that, I doubt He would have. But because I was participating, I saw God move in a way that gave Him glory.

I mean, what kind of story could I write if the thief had escaped?

Blog 12 “Freedom”

I love worship music, the kind where the singer is not just performing, but his song is his prayer, from the soul. For those who live overseas and still want their worship music, download WiTopia and you’ll be able to get the worship music you´re used to from the States

During worship in church last Sunday, the thought came to me about “freedom,” and how grateful I am that I was born in America, the freest country in the history of the world, and one that has defended other nations’ freedoms as well. But for some reason I enjoy living outside the U.S. No explanation for that, other than a pastor once singled me out, publicly, at a large Bible conference and gave me a “word” that I had a “wandering spirit.” At the time I had just lost my first wife to cancer and was single-parenting two small children, and I think it was his way of telling me that I wasn’t focused enough on the church.

Having traveled and lived in other countries for much of my life, I have found that compared to other cultures and people, Americans possess an optimism and independence that most others don’t have the privilege of knowing. The origin of these freedoms can be directly traced to the fact that America was established by committed Christian colonists, who put God into its founding documents. No other nation other than for Israel has had such a godly foundation. And it is no coincidence that even today it is these two great democracies that are at the forefront in fighting an evil that is threatening, through terror, to rob nations of their freedoms and bring them under its 7^th century, repressive control and submission.

The other reason I feel grateful for my freedom is that I am a Christian. Many religions can make promises of having peace with their god or gods and offer its adherents some sort of hope of a glorious afterlife, but no other faith can actually deliver on those promises. In studying the gods of other religions, most are distant, at best, and constantly require appeasement of some sort to mollify their anger. And though I respect others whose faith is different from my own, I respectfully disagree with anything that contradicts God’s Word.

I ask you, what god would allow himself to be completely humiliated, spat upon, have his beard plucked out, and then die a slow, torturous death? And for what? To redeem sinful, weak, outcasts like us. Who does that? And this Man, Jesus, claimed to be God. And to put an exclamation point on it, after He was cruelly executed, over five-hundred witnesses attested to the fact that He rose from the dead, which kind of gives credibility to His claims. As someone once said, “You can debate your opinions, but you can’t dispute the facts.”

Another writer once said, “The search for happiness is largely an attempt to find a way to move from one state, the state of fear, to the other, love, and to stay there.” 1John 4:18 says, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out all fear.” But this is the part of that scripture that really speaks to me: “For fear has to do with punishment.” Probably because of my background in legalistic religion, I’ve had to battle against feelings of being punished when things go south in my life.

It’s been a rough week. Stroke recovery we’re told is not a straight line where you gradually get better on a predictable timetable. It’s more like a squiggly line, that zags forward and zips back, just when you thought you were moving forward. Knowing this helps with the sudden drops in energy and mobility. But today was still a banner day; we got to the Caribbean waters, physically, feet in it, for the first time. We found a beach that was wheelchair accessible, the one where the ferry docks for the trips to the isle of Cozumel, which we will take soon. After all, that was our original destination.

Thank you all for your prayers and love.

Blog 11: “Resting in Him”

The drug cartel has moved into Playa del Carmen, our adopted city of residence. I didn’t learn this from any personal experience, just word of mouth. When I saw a police pickup truck with its lights flashing, with one officer standing in the back of the truck, outfitted in a full SWAT uniform, I had to ask “why all the muscle?” When I saw a car being pulled over by the police, with one officer carrying an assault rifle while questioning the driver and another standing by looking all SWAT-like at attention, also holding an assault rifle, I wondered if there was going to be shoot-out.

The cartels had not been spotted here before, but we saw them in some of their activities while picking up some street food tacos. The cities of Cancun, Playa, Tulum, and others down the Caribbean Sea coast, make up the state of Quintana Roo, on the Yucatán Peninsula. To say tourism is their main industry would be like saying a cruise ship´s main function is to ferry rich vacationers around to luxurious seaports, that is to say, the economy here doesn’t have any other significant industry, other than I believe they make some tequila on the island of Cozumel. The police have only two main functions here: hunt for drug traffickers and protect the tourists. So, it’s a very big deal that the drug cartels have been spotted.

We are entering into the hot and rainy season, the off-season, when all the sensible snowbirds have flown back north to avoid the heat. It doesn’t feel so hot, but I believe the humidity is around 150%. The sun is so intense, you have to shield your eyes and squint, even in the shade with your sunglasses on. I shoot baskets at an outdoor covered court as dawn approaches and come back as drenched as if I just walked out of the ocean. Then, if I get back before 7, I can race to the 5^th floor roof and the pool before the maid comes up to clean. It’s the most beautiful time of the day for me; it´s cool, the water is cold, the ocean breeze is a natural air conditioner, and you can see the cruise ships coming and going from the island of Cozumel. I would love to share it with Laurie, but she won´t be up for two more hours. It’s now after 1, and it’s so hot I haven’t been out since.

Laurie reached a milestone yesterday, she got out of her wheelchair and walked with a cane.

But between that and her physical therapy and her pool exercises, it takes a lot out of her and she sleeps a lot, sometimes as much as sixteen hours a day. Experts say it’s normal. The brain normally takes up about 20% of our energy, but for a stroke survivor, it’s much higher. When neurons in the brain make connections, it creates over 100 trillion synapses. These synaptic connections are working at reconnecting what was disconnected and new cells are replacing the ones that suffered trauma. So, the affected parts of her body are learning like a baby how to function again. And what her body is learning in physical therapy, her short-term memory is transferred to her long-term memory while she sleeps. So, day and night, God is slowly healing her. I say “healing” because I believe she is recovering quicker than the natural process.

I´m also reading the three-volume set The Christian in Complete Armor by William Gurnall. It´s literally the only three books I brought with me from my massive library that I sold off or gave away before I left Portland. (Everything else is on Kindle). When I sold my roll top desk, a grievous undertaking for a writer, a woman, a lover of Gurnall´s books, bought it and so it helped to medicate the pain of my loss. As for Gurnall lovers: it’s a very exclusive club, so far, I just know about her and me.

I cried out to God this morning and He spoke encouraging words to me through Gurnall. He wrote, “we can´t stand the time of trial and testings in our own strength.” Of course, I’ve always believed and preached that, in theory, but I know prior to this trip I was depending mostly on my own strength to navigate through life. Finances were fine, I was doing some writing and driving for a retirement community once a week and doing a Bible study there. Laurie was working as a florist (until she totally burned out on it). I was relatively comfortable and coasting, which led to a diminishing purpose in life. I still prayed and read the Word in the morning, as has been my habits for over forty years, but quite honestly, I didn’t feel I needed Him too much—I was doing OK. But then life just didn’t have the right flavor.

Much of this trip has been designed by God to correct this. Like other such seasons in my life, I know I´ll be thankful for it, especially when it´s over. Then I read Gurnall´s words: “The one who abandons faith in the midst of a spiritual drought can be compared to the fool who throws away his pitcher the first day the well is dry.”

I know my frailties and know my soul needs to stay under God’s protection to overcome the fears of things we are facing, things mostly in my head—projective fears, fears of things that haven´t happened yet. It´s a strange thing about fear: a) We can use it as a shield, like if we`re faithful to worry about something we`re doing our part to fix it, and b) If we don´t worry, I guess we just don´t care. And there´s always the right answer on the quiz: c) We´re not worried because we are trusting God.

He comforts me, even though my faith is weak. I sometimes dispute the mercy of God and wondering if He has forgotten us and will fail to rescue us. If I keep surrendering my doubts and fears, He sends His relief in many small and sometimes larger ways. Two scriptures come readily to mind. Jesus said that not even a sparrow falling to the ground escapes His notice. That being true, how much more does He look out for His own people? And then He adds, “Oh you of little faith.” (Ouch) In other words, why worry about something that He is already in full control of? And the other one: ¨My God shall provide all of your needs according to His riches in Christ Jesus.”

Mark Twain once said, “I´ve had many worries in my life, but most of them never happened.” I believe he would agree with Jesus.

Blog 10: It’s Not How You Fall, It’s How you Get Up.

This is supposed to be a travel blog of sorts, but since Laurie’s stroke, traveling has been reduced to grocery shopping, church, and physical therapy. But it is what it has become, not by choice. I was thinking how much I like retirement, especially that you don’t have to kiss up to a boss in order to get paid. I just go to Mr. ATM, give him my card, and he spits out the money. He never makes me greet him in a certain way when I’m having a bad day. There is no time- clock, so I can come and go as I please. There’s no “one-down” relationship to deal with—Mr. ATM treats me as his equal. And although Mr. ATM doesn’t smile, he at least doesn’t yell and get all worked up about something he thinks I did wrong. He’s actually very even-tempered.

I love shopping locally, picking out fresh fruit, vegetables, eggs and milk. Makes you feel like part of the community. These people are so poor and work hard, seven days a week to make ends meet. And they so appreciate your business, much more than Walmart. And the their food is much better. There’s nothing like a sun-ripened mango.

In my down time from caregiving, I’m reading Toxic Faith by Stephen Arterburn and realizing how grateful I am that God delivered us from that type of organization. People who know me know what group I am talking about, and if so, I apologize for any offense you might take from my post, that is not my intent. I fully realize that there are many sincere believers in this group, and that God is using their lives in wonderful ways.

For the vast majority of those who don’t know me, I don’t mention the group because God may very well want them to stay, and I don’t want to do anything that would interfere with that.

I’m just beginning to understand the anger I’ve had against them since leaving ten years ago, which is helping me let go of it. It’s this: They started out as a supernatural move of God in the “Jesus people” movement, where hundreds of hippies like myself got delivered from a life of drugs, insanity, and aimless illusions. Never thought I would ever use this word, but it was organic, (that hurt), free-spirited, and our pastor was called a “brother.” But then it slowly changed. We didn’t notice it much at first, because we were ministering either in Canada or South Africa for 15 out of 17 years. But each time we came back for furlough, we began to see things that made us more and more uncomfortable.

In a word, it became “controlling,” even though God was still using them to bring hundreds of souls to Christ. The word “headship” was introduced, and with it came a new sense of being dominated, which over the years has led to much spiritual abuse. The problem lies in the “headship” maintaining a “one-down,” parent-child relationship with the member. I liken it to raising a teenager until about the age of sixteen, and just as the teen slowly begins to break away from their parental influence and begins the natural and healthy process of becoming their own adult, the parent clings on to them and demands that they stay in a child-parent relationship.

So, the organization is a good place to be converted to Christ, if you don’t mind having a false spiritual authority placed over your lives, commonly referred to as “heavy shepherding,” an authority completely foreign to New Testament leadership principles. The Bible does refer to “headship” in the church, but it is always in reference to Christ being the head of the church. And in a real sense, these leaders have replaced Christ and His authority. In our first service at our new church, the pastor addressed the small congregation and said, “what a privilege it is to be your pastor.” We knew we were in a healthy church.

Back to my anger that I’m letting go of. If they hadn’t changed, I would still be enjoying the wonderful church experience I once enjoyed, the worship, the preaching, the fellowship, not to mention my career as a preacher, none of which I have ever regained. Ronald Reagan was once criticized for leaving the Democratic party for the Republican. He responded, “I didn’t leave the Democrats, they left me.” Likewise, I didn’t leave this religious group, they left me. So, the anger I’ve had with them is over the way they became more heavy-handed and intimidating, which shattered us and our children–all they stood and gave their lives for overseas, trashed in a moment of time. Children don’t recover from that sort of thing as quickly as adults, sometimes never. And we’re just one of hundreds of such families. But knowing where this anger was actually coming from, them departing from the healthy place they came from, is helping me deal with it.

This has been day 34 of our challenging Caribbean get-away. We have unmistakingly seen the hand of God in all of this. If Laurie had had her stroke one day earlier, in Portland, we would have never gotten to the Caribbean Sea, so our dream would have stopped right there. She loves the sea and the sun and can relax here better than anywhere. It happened in the city of Cancun, and we ended up at a hospital where a Christian nurse named Lucy is doing the laborious work of gathering all the endless hospital documents for the insurance and disability claims. She is emailing them to my daughter Rachel, another wonderful nurse, and she’s sending them on to all the right places. This takes an enormous load and frustration off us so we can concentrate more on Laurie’s recovery. These two women can’t imagine the incredible blessing they have been to our lives, in spite of own their jobs and own homes to run. And finally, unable to find a place in Cancun to live, we moved down to Playa del Carmen, where I believe we found the church God has for us and a home that’s perfect for physical therapy, with a rooftop pool and a very motivating view of the sea.

Thank you, Jesus, and all those who are praying. God is good.

Open to Change

I find myself as a caretaker for my wife in a wheelchair, moving at the speed of woman. Now I know why women take so much longer to get ready to go out than men—things I really didn’t want to know. And Laurie is actually low-maintenance compared to most women. For me? Put on my shorts, a shirt, and sandals and I’m out the door, but my wife, well, you married men know what that’s about. Not complaining, but I feel I’ve just solved one of the mysteries of life for men. Next, I’m tackling why men can’t find anything in their wife’s purse.

We listened to the song, “10,000 Reasons” (Bless the Lord) by Matt Redman this Sunday morning; I’m about to say something pretty sappy about it: I had goosebumps down to my heart. I warned you. I believe one of the lines speaks of praising God in heaven and goes something like, “10,000 years and then forever more.” It speaks to me of permanence. We left Portland four weeks ago with two backpacks and a suitcase full of meds for old people, like pilgrims passing through this world. Won’t it be great when our pilgrim days are over and the “forever more” begins.

Even following American politics from a distance, it’s plain to see one party is preparing for the mid-term elections with a “lights-out” surge toward naked socialism: reparations for African Americans, income handouts, guaranteed jobs, and other redistribution of wealth schemes.

I personally have had some second thoughts recently about my hardcore opposition to what I’ve seen as the “erosion of American capitalism.” Since my post-hippie days, I’ve worked hard all my life, mostly as a pastor and missionary, now defrocked, and later at a variety of low-skill jobs to make ends meet, but have little to show for it, at least on the financial side. We lost our home in the 2008 crash, but mostly because of losing my thirty-year career as a preacher, and we have never recovered financially.

Now, before you think I’m hitting you up for a “fund-me” campaign, I’m just trying to set you up for what I want to say next about socialism. Living now off my social security and a VA pension, and with my wife disabled from a stroke, the thought of a guaranteed living wage, universal health care, and other government handouts, not to mention the possibility of less pop-up advertisements on my laptop, well, it’s all very appealing. Those who are younger, skilled, and able to earn greater amounts of income, helping those on the other end of things, from where I’m sitting, that’s looking pretty good.

Until recent stories like twenty-three-month-old Alfie Evans from the U.K. surface from time to time. Alfie was born with an undiagnosed degenerative neurological condition and was living on life support. The doctors gave him no chance for recovery and chose to disconnect him from life support. So, the parents wanted him removed from the Liverpool hospital to a Vatican hospital in Rome, with the Pope’s blessing. The Italian government even made the extraordinary gesture of granting Alfie Italian citizenship, so he could freely fly to Rome. But the U.K. courts and the European Court of Human Rights denied Alfie’s parents the right to do so and instead have offered Alfie a “dignified and compassionate” death at their own hospital. After he was unhooked from support, he died just today.

So there’s the bait and switch. Socialism comes garbed as the ultimate solution to inequality, suffering, wants, and injustices of all natures. And who doesn’t want that? But with this “benevolent compassion” comes a hook: the loss of many basic personal freedoms.

If only socialism was the large-hearted, philanthropic system its promoters claim it is, but it isn’t, it’s a decoy. With the powers to supply all one’s needs, come the powers to dictate what is deemed unlawful speech and how many official genders exist. Swedish daycares are experimenting with boy toddlers wearing dresses and given dolls to play with, while girl toddlers are given G.I. Joes and toy trucks, in hope of breaking down the “unnatural stereotypes of the genders.” Are these the people we want imposing the limits on religious expression and what kind of car we can drive? Because these are the same people that denied little Alfie’s parents the right to remove their sick child to a religious environment, where they could find comfort, solace, and hope of a miracle.

William Shakespeare in King Richard III said it best in the words of his lead character:

“And thus I clothe my naked villainy,

with odd old ends stolen out of holy writ,

And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.”

This was our second Sunday at the Cornerstone church. The pastor taught on Abraham being tested, when God asked him to sacrifice Isaac on Mt. Moriah, the same mountain Jesus would be sacrificed on for our sins many years later. And just as God supplied a substitute for Isaac with a ram, Jesus was the substitute for us on the Cross.

Abraham was changed forever after his experience on Mt. Moriah. God changed the world with His Son’s sacrifice on Mt. Moriah. Abraham didn’t know much about God at this point, just that He was a good God. He didn’t know how God would intervene, but he believed God’s promise that through Isaac He would multiply Abraham’s seed as numerous as the stars in the heavens.

I’ve seen a side of God I hadn’t seen before. Going through this experience with my wife’s stroke and not knowing how financially, mentally, and spiritually we’re going to make it has changed me.

God spoke to me: “You take care of Laurie, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Anyone who knows me knows I’m not the caretaker type. I didn’t realize how selfish I was. It wasn’t so hard giving to people what I want to give them, which made me feel good about myself. But to give to someone what that person actually needs is another thing. He’s given me a deeper love for Laurie, and there’s a joy in serving her, which I know has to be from God.

Laurie says she never knew or felt how much God loves her since having the stroke. She was never able to receive God’s love before, not like this.

Blog # 8: Playa del Carmen

Laurie and I couldn’t find a decent place to stay so we moved on to Playa del Carmen, about an hour south by taxi from Cancun. A Craigslist post from a expat American from Georgia named Jason landed us in a budget-stretching one bedroom, ten minutes from the beach, with a rooftop pool overlooking the Caribbean Sea and the distant island of Cozumel. Sound like paradise? We needed the pool for Laurie’s physical therapy and the view of the Caribbean Sea to keep her spirits up, at least that’s what we tell ourselves.

But to keep this from sounding like your typical social media blog, which would normally contain the top five greatest hits of the week and none of the flops, one of our laptops apparently picked up a virus and is rendered useless until we can find a tech. guy, (Joseph, where are you?). Laurie temporarily had her wheelchair stolen at Walmart, she caught the flu from a coughing doctor in ICU, hospital and physical therapy bills threaten to rob our nest egg unless we get reimbursed, even though we’re trying to trust God, we have fears around Laurie’s recovery. We’re not super-saints by any stretch, just two older people learning daily to stay in the moment and trust the One who has never let us down, even when sometimes it appears that He has.

I’m reading Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, who as a five-year-old Somali girl, endured compulsory female genital mutilation, and as a teenaged girl escaped marriage to a man she barely knew by fleeing her African home and obtaining asylum in Holland. She began doubting the righteousness of her religion when she first learned what the Quran meant when it said to “wage war on the unbelievers,” that it wasn’t just referring to the seventh century battles of Uhud and Badr, but that the massacre of September 11 was also fully justified by Allah and the Prophet. She said most Muslims don’t study much theology and rarely read the Quran, which is taught to them in Arabic, which few Muslims understand. So, when the people are told Islam is a religion of peace, they take it at face value from their leaders, who are deemed infallible.

I thought of how the history of Catholicism is similar in one way. For 1,000 years, commonly referred to as the “Dark Ages,” the Bible was locked away in the Latin language where only the elite could read it. As a kid growing up in a strict Catholic home, I won’t say we were discouraged from reading our Bibles, but we were told that only the priest could properly interpret it, and so, although we had a huge family Bible, complete with full-page pictures, it was never actually read, even once. So, we also just took “truth” at face value from our leaders. And since the Pope was “infallible,” you couldn’t argue with God.

In the “heavy-shepherding” Christian cult Laurie and I were a part of for thirty years, there were also some similarities to the above. Biblical “truth” was filtered through the interpretations of the esteemed leaders. I believe for the most part, they were sincere, or is that being too kind? We used to joke about being “brainwashed,” and our response was, “well, my brain needed to be washed,” which it certainly did. Our former leaders had their own brand of “infallibility,” and you would be labeled suspect if you questioned it. Case in point: During a particular teaching session, one of the top pastors taught that Samson, since he had ultimately committed suicide, had gone to hell. When someone in the congregation timidly asked how one of the “Heroes of Faith” from Hebrews 11 could end up in hell, he was met with a reddened face and an angry “stare of death.” Contradiction was as the sin of rebellion—cross that line at your own peril. The leaders ruled liked Old Testament kings.

Laurie is able to leave our apartment, go up the elevator, climb the five steps to the roof level, and get into the pool for a swim, all without her wheelchair. Of course, that means inching along in a tight hug with me, and more than once we’ve been told to get a room. She has always wanted me to take dance lessons with her, and so this may be her answer. People here have been extremely helpful—special mention to an expat named Paul from Ottawa, Canada, who always seems to be around when we need a little extra lift into the pool.

We also found another excellent church last Sunday here in Playa. Other than the twenty-three steps to the second floor, sandwiched in between four brawny men from the congregation—these men took their jobs very seriously, no one was falling on their watch, it was good, simple worship and a biblical, well-prepared teaching with good revelation—we’ve found our church home.

Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

Connecting

Charlie and his beautiful wife and two teen-aged daughters picked us up for church last Sunday morning. Friends of Lucy. This was one reason we came to this tourist haven; not just to enjoy the sun, the beautiful Caribbean Sea, which we haven’t seen yet, and to escape the cold of Portland, both weather-wise and spiritually. but to find a church that believes in miracles and one we could be a part of and do something for God.

They met in a rural area, a small, chalk-white building, cut into the tangled jungle, white plastic chairs and Mexican smiles, hugs, and kisses by the dozen. During the worship, Laurie felt faint, so they transported her in her wheelchair to a car parked by the entrance, where she could rest in hear the music. The preaching was mostly in Spanish, but Cecil, a retired airline pilot with Japan Airlines, sat next to me and translated, and then I sent him out to the car to translate for Laurie.

At the end of the service, they carried her in her wheelchair up the nine stone steps back into the church and to the front to be prayed for. The worship and music was intoxicating. They pulled her up from the wheelchair, and with support, she walked for about 10 minutes. If love alone could heal, she was healed a hundred times. She definitely felt a supernatural strength flowing through her body when they prayed, and her legs noticeably strengthened from that point onward.

God heals in several ways. One: Miracles. These are instantaneous, supernatural acts of God. I believe the main reason Western Christianity has gone Laodicean is what I call “the death of Pentecost.” I’ve seen far too many miracles in my own ministry in South Africa, including a dramatic healing of my own back, that doctors said without surgery I might never walk, to ever have doubts on the subjects. Good Christians differ on this doctrine, but to me, it’s not a doctrine but a living reality. Two: Healing. This is where God heals you quicker than the natural healing process. Three: Doctors. God uses doctors and medicines to heal people. Four: When we get to heaven.

Right now, we are believing for a supernatural healing, as Laurie is doing physical therapy and feeling a little stronger every day, but we’re still believing God for a miracle.

After church, Charlie and his family hosted a food fellowship with half of the church. Laurie was up for eight straight hours, by far her longest.

I’ve posted a video of the church praying for her, which follows:

Spiraling

So, who is this woman I married? Shy, a bouncing blonde ponytail, with her vivacious six-year-old daughter, a diligent caretaker of ten stray kittens. I had no idea who she was, not really. What man ever does to begin with? She loved Jesus, she was so beautiful I wanted to weep, I had two small children left to me by my first wife’s death from cancer; it was a match that had to be.

Who is she? I asked myself this when, as I was hopping her on one leg to her wheelchair, she said, cheek to cheek, “I’m glad this has happened.” I rested her against a wall, “What?” She said it brought us closer together and closer to God. It’s what we wanted. but I thought snorkeling on the Caribbean Sea and praying together again in the morning would be sufficient. No half measures with God. Living in Portland was like spiritual Sodom. Moving here, we were volunteering to make our lives available to God and now He is preparing us for what He has for us. I told a friend, jokingly, I wished my blog was “NOT changing from glory to glory TOO MUCH,” but he was relentless and responded, “Nothing is too much to be conformed into God’s image.” I wanted to tell him to lighten up.

I’ve seen Mexican men and women working incredibly hard here, not always true in America, where their votes are bought by food stamps. I saw a young gay man lounging by the pool. I remembered how I used to respond in my legalistic, judgmental church days. That is, “If I befriend him, he will think I approve of his life’s choices,” right? I know the Scriptures, but since my name isn’t Jesus, I treated him with respect. I tried to explain to him why Obama was not the savior of the world and why Trump was not the Beast of the Book of Revelations, even if he looked and acted the part many times. After I was more delivered from my judgmentalism, someone asked me what I would do if a homosexual walked into my church? I said I would sit him with the rest of the sinners. After all, God hates religious pride above all else.
We were shunned by religion as if we were gay, Laurie and I, because our sin was equally grievous, at least in the eyes of our church leader: we stood on principle against a false religious movement, that was invading by a coup attempt to take over our fellowship in South Africa. My church leader at the time sided against us. That was ten years ago, and that didn’t have a happy ending. That is why I write novels on spiritual abuse. My novel, “The Grass that Suffers,” is being readied for publishing, hopefully within a month.

I guess I’m getting into the habit of naming each blog. “Spiraling,” because after “launching” and “splatting,” we are now spiraling to a place of finding a new and present reality, physically, mentally, and spiritually. On the spiritual side, through our friend Lucy at the hospital, we met a group of beautiful miracle-believing Christians, and went to their church yesterday morning. That will be my next blog.