Faith Censored

When next I heard about Sheila, it was disturbing news. She had been committed to a “mental hospital.” My mom was never one to spare us the hard truths of life, and she told me straight out what had happened.

Having no home of her own, Sheila and her kids stayed with her sister and brother-in-law after Pastor’s funeral.

Sheila’s brother-in-law was a psychiatrist; her sister, a woman without faith. While preparing her children for bed, Sheila was overheard saying, “It’s alright, my darlings. Daddy is in heaven now. Someday, we will join him there.” Mistaking her faith-filled words of comfort for the threat of infanticide and suicide, and using his connections in the mental health community, Sheila’s brother-in-law began the legal proceedings to have her institutionalized.

During Sheila’s imprisonment in the institution, her mother fought for her release and kept our church informed, asking that we pray.  I wrote letters to Sheila during this time, and she answered my letters. Living for those words, I was frustrated when some of them were crossed out in heavy black marker. My mother explained that Sheila’s letters were being censored, and that what I wrote to her was probably read before she received it. Even as a child, I felt the violation of these actions. I prayed that God would make those “bad people” see their mistake and let Sheila go home to her children.

I was told that Sheila’s refusal to renounce her faith, and her continued dedication in living it out, stood between her and freedom. When she spoke of Jesus as one who is alive, the doctors thought her delusional. When she tried to explain her hope of heaven, joining her deceased husband after death, being joined by the children when they ultimately die, she was met with hostility and scorn.

As a child living in America in the late 1960’s, I now understood religious persecution; and I was afraid. I remembered Sheila telling Bible stories about the persecution of Christ. I remembered her counsel that as believers, we would share in the suffering of Christ. Now, she was living out that suffering, and I was angry with God. 

My faith was young. The source of my instruction was institutionalized. Where was God in all of this?

The First Pothole

Those early days walking with Christ were thrilling to me. My soul was hungry to know him, and he gave me a spiritual mother who loved me and fed me the Word. On Sunday mornings, I sat in Sheila’s class with eyes fixed on flannel graph figures and ears open to the truths she taught me. Throughout the week, I’d run down to her house and sit at her kitchen table eating up her attention.

A dark cloud passed overhead, and those joyous days became shadowed by illness. Sheila’s husband, my pastor, was diagnosed with cancer. This was my first experience with the dreaded “C-word,” and my young heart wasn’t sure how to respond. I looked to Sheila for clues.

For months, Pastor and Sheila put on brave faces, holding fast to their faith that God would heal him. After all, he was so young. They had two small children, one really only a baby. They were making a difference in our little church. They were well-loved. God wouldn’t really take him away, would he?

The cancer gnawed away at Pastor. He became gaunt, with the pallor of sickness. Sheila’s sunny countenance became haggard, and she, who had no weight to lose, grew bony from weeks of fasting along with prayer. Bewildered, and feeling lost without the spiritual nurture I’d grown accustomed to, I tried to pray. I tried to believe all would be well.

Almost daily, I made pilgrimages to the parsonage with small, handmade offerings hoping to cheer Sheila and express my love. She rarely invited me in anymore. She’d take my offering, thank me and send me away with the excuse that Pastor was resting and needed quiet.

Then the trips began. For weeks at a time, Pastor and Sheila would be gone – seeking treatments that gave hope for life. In the end, Pastor did find life. As her white suit attested at the funeral, Pastor went on into eternal life…and Sheila moved out of my life.

This was the first pothole in my faith journey – a very deep hole that resulted in the first fissures in my faith. The questions were many. The answers unknowable. Would my faith survive?

God, My Helper

With nervous stomach and squinting eyes, I roamed from room to room searching for my glasses.  “Please God,” I sent up a desperate plea, “would you show me my glasses? Dad’s gonna kill me if I can’t find ‘em!”

 My father was packing the family car – getting ready to head south. Dad, a Tennessean by birth, was anxious to return to the family farm where Grandma still lived and had little patience for delays.  He already had a scowl on his face, so when I realized I’d misplaced my glasses I knew I’d catch the brunt of his impatience if I didn’t find them quickly!

I’d already swept through every room. With pounding heart, I returned to the living room. As I rounded the corner into the room, my feet came to an abrupt halt. Appearing as in bas-relief against the brown floral cushion were my tortoiseshell frames! Fearing that if I moved too quickly I’d lose sight of them again, I approached. Reaching out, I grasped my glasses and perched them on my nose. The room came into focus, and I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.

I’ve never forgotten that search. It was the first time I recognized, and believed, that God is my helper. He’s helped me many times since. I’d love to hear how He’s helped you!

So we say with confidence, “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?” (Hebrews 13:6)

Whiter than Snow

OK, OK, I know! The last thing we really want to think about is snow. We in the Midwest have had more than enough of the fluffy white stuff. Bring on Spring! I get it! But, I really can’t start this blog without beginning at the beginning, and the beginning happened in February, 1967 on a snowy, winter day.

My parents didn’t attend church. My younger sisters and I hitched a ride each week with the new pastor and his family. They had moved into the parsonage which happened to be on the block where we lived. Sheila, as she allowed us to call her, was the pastor’s young wife. She was also my Sunday School teacher. She had a degree in drama, and she really had a way with storytelling!

That Sunday she told a story about an orphaned boy who died and was received into the loving arms of Jesus. Something about this story seemed to make sense of the many Bible stories Sheila had told. After Sunday school, I sat through Pastor’s sermon and finally, the closing hymn.

In those days, the closing hymn was also an invitiation to the altar. The hymn was “Whiter Than Snow.” As I listened to my church family sing, Lord Jesus, I long to be perfectly whole; I want Thee forever to live in my soul; Break down every idol, cast out every foe; Now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow, I felt a tug in my heart. I wanted to go to that altar, but I was a shy ten-year-old kid. I didn’t have the courage.

When I was dropped off at home, I walked straight through our house from the front door, through the living room, down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Still bundled up against the cold, I sat on the top stair and looked out over the backyard. Fresh snow blanketed the expanse, sunlight sparkling like diamonds hidden there. Whiter than Snow played in my mind.

Suddenly, it seemed, I understood. Jesus. I understood… Jesus. With all the exuberance of a prisoner set free, I flung my arms wide, threw back my head, and with tears in my eyes gave thanks to the God who loved me so much that he sent His only Son, so that I could become whiter than snow.

Have you understood? Do you know Jesus? To learn more, click on “The Way” tab at the top of the page.