[another insert before we left Rev. N's church]

My first heart attack --- how could I forget? As this is my spiritual journey, then I consider major medical events spiritually changing, and therefore life-changing.

It was a sunny summer evening. When I got home from work, the table was set, and Lois was preparing dinner. We were taking care of our (now) oldest grandson, and he and I dipped into a jar of peanut butter in advance of the meal. I recall being quite hungry. It didn't seem to curb my appetite, because I ate supper with a fervor.

Immediately after supper I went out to mow the grass, as I had done many times before right after a meal, whether it be wood-splitting or fence-mending. This time was different. As I started up an incline in the backyard, I began to feel a tightness in my chest. It felt like I was having an allergy attack, a familiar experience that would be quickly relieved with an antihistamine. So I downed a pill and sat down to rest a moment before finishing the mowing.

The tightness never lifted. In fact, it started to become painful, extending to my left shoulder and upper arm. Knowing the basic symptoms of a heart attack, I called the number for my doctor's office. The office was closed; the answer service said that whoever was on call would call me back. In a few minutes a female physician's assistant called back. I knew her; she attended our church. When I described the symptoms, she said that I was very likely having a heart attack. Because of our location outside the city, she recommended that Lois drive me to the emergency room rather than wait for volunteer emergency transport.

Lois strapped the grandson in his car-seat, and I climbed into the passenger side. As we traveled, the pain and pressure became quite intense, to the point that I began gnawing on the seatbelt.

Two humorous things happened on the way to the hospital. My two-year-old grandson was excited about the trip, continuously pointing out things to me. "Grandpa, look at the trees! Grandpa, see the doggy?" I could only wince and grunt. When we arrived on the hospital campus, Lois turned on a road that she thought led to the ER entrance. We ended up on the helicopter pad. I remarked, "Wouldn't it be interesting if I died because we went to the wrong place!"

A short turnaround brought us back to the ER. The physician's assistant had alerted them, and a couple of medical staff were waiting for me with a wheelchair. They took me into the trauma room and began to ply me with questions, while hooking me up to various pieces of equipment.

Two more people arrived shortly to provide spiritual assistance. One was Rev. N. He immediately took control of our grandson so that Lois could stay in the room with me. That single act was a godsend. The other savior was my doctor's associate (my own physician was out of town). He got real close and began to pray in my ear. I honestly don't know if it was the medication they were giving me or the spiritual support I received, but a tremendous sense of peace came over me.

I looked over at Lois and saw that she was sitting there calmly, not smiling, but not seemingly distressed. Didn't she think I was going to die? Why wasn't she upset? She told me later that she figured that if she had "lost it" (broken down), they would have her leave the room, and she wanted to stay with me.

The ER docs told me that they had administered a clot-busting drug and that I was stabilized. The were admitting me to the ICCU (Intensive Cardiac Care Unit) to watch me through the night. The ICCU visiting schedule was very limited, so I'm not sure who came in to see me. I was pretty foggy, but I remember someone coming in and kissing me on the forehead. Lois also told me the next day that a hospital staff member had approached her the previous night to get her to sign a release for my organs should I not make it. She was furious, especially since they asked her right outside my sliding glass door in the ICCU. I heard nothing.

The next morning the cardiac surgeon came into my room. He said that the clot-busters didn't do a good enough job and that they had to go in and take a look at my heart. They were going to start with a heart catheter, but needed my permission to take additional steps, including open heart surgery, if they find the situation warrants it. He gave me the odds of survival at each level of treatment. I asked if I could get a second opinion, like my doctor's associate. He replied that I could, but that his schedule was very tight, and if I waited too long, he would not be available until very late that night.

Dr. B came in, and I shared my concern that I had to make a quick decision. He said that the surgeon was the best around, and that he personally would recommend the procedure(s) for his relative. Then I asked if I could talk to my wife.

Lois came in. She assured me that I was in God's hands and that she would like me to do whatever would help my damaged heart. I signed the papers.

I was taken back for surgery within the hour. The result was that they only had to perform angioplasty in one artery in the lower backside of my heart. This involved feeding a tube through my upper leg into my heart, then inflating a balloon on the end of the tube. The procedure successfully opened the artery, and it remained open. I was out of work six weeks to recover. I was told that a myocardial infarction (heart attack) always left permanent damage to a portion of the heart, but that it was a very strong muscle that could recover and continue to function properly.

Now that my physical heart was on the mend, my spiritual heart was being treated. I received get-well greetings from a lot of fellow-believers. Church members visited me in the hospital and prayed with me. This was a plus from my fundamentalist background. If I had a heart attack today, few, if any, people outside my family would check on me. I think I would miss that.

I was very thankful for another chance at life. I was determined to be a better husband and father. But, unfortunately, with time and with life getting back to normal, the prideful me would not do anything in return for God adding extra years to my life.

My heart attack came two days after my 49th birthday. But it would not be my only one.

My mother died on a Friday. Normally a funeral would be three days later, but we wanted to allow as many relatives as could come the opportunity to do so. We planned the funeral for Sunday afternoon at my parents' church. My favorite aunt stepped in to help me and Lois with a lot of the arrangements. As I mentioned before, my dad just seemed to be along for the ride. He certainly wasn't in shock, but could possibly be feeling a bit of guilty relief. Their relationship in their senior years was rocky, at best.

We searched the trailer for her will, as well as any insurance policies that might help cover funeral and burial expenses. No will, and expired policies. This, of course, didn't deter us from proceeding with the typical arrangements: nice coffin, receiving/viewing at the funeral home, funeral support at the church and a nice double headstone for her grave (with a starting date for my dad already engraved).

After they had her body prepared at the funeral home, Lois, my aunt and I went to give our approval. She was laid out in a casket in an adjoining room from the family receiving area. Lois and my aunt went in first, then I went in alone. All of the typical cliches for this event ran through my mind. "They made her up well; she looks good." "Looks like she's sleeping." "Looks peaceful." What came out of my mouth was more like, "I know you're not in that body." "I miss you already." "I'm sorry that I wasn't a better son." "Lord, take care of my mother." Not a tear did I shed in that room. But when I rejoined my wife and aunt, the sobbing erupted. I don't recall feeling embarrassed --- just helpless.

My parents attended a United Methodist Church out in the country, only a few miles from where they lived. As Methodists go, the current pastor-du jour was a woman. My fundamentalist background had basically put me against women in leadership positions. The Apostle Paul warned about it (I Timothy 2:12), but God may have approved of it (Judges 4). My dad and I had a brief discussion on the subject. I pointed out the specific New Testament references forbidding women to have authority over men. He said that he had read those, but then he went to the Source. Yeah, like I'm gonna believe that God told him it's OK to have a woman preacher! Or did he?

The lady pastor was not very personable, in my book, but she was who we needed to conduct the funeral service. She called Saturday morning and, upon hearing that the funeral was to be the next day, asked if we could go over the details on the phone, because Saturday was her "laundry day." Boy, did that burn my hotcakes! Needless to say, I don't remember anything she said at the funeral. I had tuned her out, and I'm not proud of it.

I had never cried before my mother died. Well, almost never. I bawled after the car accident when I put three fellow teenagers in the hospital (see blog entry 10/6/2007). I never recall crying after that, no matter what happened. I think I saw it as being strong. But following my mother's death a new tenderness had sprung up in me. It would take many years for it to grow, but I would easily tear up over many things --- death, loving moments, even one of those squishy family movies.

The asked if I wanted to see my mom again before we left the hospital. I said yes. They took us back to a room in the ER, where her body was covered with a white sheet, but her head remained uncovered. The nurse cautioned me to not move the sheet, because they had not "cleaned her up yet." After another bout of crying, I approached her and kissed her on the cheek. It was still warm. My dad didn't seem to address her at all; it was as if he was just a friend, coming along with me for moral support.

We talked on the way home, and I fought the urge to scold him for scolding her at the meal. He was all I had left, and I had to maintain a good relationship with him. When we got back to the trailer, he began to scurry around, straightening up the place for the visitors and relatives who were sure to come. He asked me to go outside and do some weed-eating. I was glad for the opportunity to be occupied. While I was working outside, my uncle Otho from across the street came over and addressed me as Clinton, one of my dad's neighbors. It was then that I knew he was already in the clutches of Alzheimer's. I told him who I was, then I told him about my mother. Then he turned and walked away.

Lois and the girls arrived just after dark. I was never more happy to see them. While it may not have appeared so to my daughters, I always missed them greatly when we were separated. And my dad was right. The relatives began to descend the very next day. From that day forward, and with the exception of my favorite aunt, they gave their condolences, then proceeded to ask what we were going to do with this or that of my mothers things. They also would assert the fact that this or that item was either promised to them by my mother, or that it was really theirs, and my mother had taken it. To make matters worse, my dad went around the room offering various things of hers to people --- while her body was still warm, so to speak!

Weeks before her death, we had visited my mom and dad, and at this visit she went through a modified soul-cleansing, if you will. One of the things she confessed was that she had given birth to what would have been a big sister to me, but the child had only lived a few days. I had already confronted them with my birth certificate many years before, citing that it identified one previous stillborn child; they both, at the time, claimed that the record was in error.

Also on this visit she strongly encouraged me to, upon her death, get a U-haul truck and load up just about everything, saying, "Your daddy doesn't need much to live on." I asked what he thought about it, and she said that he would be fine. I wasn't. Of course, she was concerned about the relatives (all on her side of the family) converging on her "treasures." I thought about this when it actually happened. When my dad died eleven years later, we rented the truck.

At first it appeared that my mother was choking, but it was immediately obvious that she was convulsing. My dad and I got her to the floor and began CPR. He did mouth-to-mouth, while I alternately did chest compressions. After a few minutes he said that I should call 9-1-1. The emergency operator wanted me to give specific directions and stay on the line until the rescue unit arrived. I had always thought that with the 9-1-1 system your address came up on a map and they knew exactly where you were located. Not true. My folks lived in the country, and this was a volunteer group.

I didn't feel that I should stay on the phone and leave my dad to deal with the CPR, so I recommended that I drive one mile to the main highway to show them how to get into the home. I jumped into my Mitsubishi and floored it. A moment or so after I stopped the car, I heard the siren of the ambulance. I remember praying that the Lord's will be done. I didn't want my mother to suffer, yet I wasn't prepared to lose her.

The rescue unit followed me to the trailer, where they took over CPR. I assisted by squeezing the bag valve mask while they did chest compressions. Two times I stopped for them to shock her with the defibrillator pads. No success. They placed her in the ambulance and continued to administer CPR while we drove to the hospital, the ambulance in front, followed by my dad and me in my car, followed by a 2nd rescue unit.

On the way to the hospital we got bogged down in heavy traffic on I-40. We were behind two tractor-trailer trucks who were blocking both lanes with no apparent intention to move over, even while an ambulance with flashing lights and blaring sirens was right behind them. I remarked how it was amazing in our country how all traffic will pull over to let a dead person pass on the way to a cemetery, but they can't seem to make way for a live person to get needed help in an emergency. As we finally passed the trucks, my dad yelled a curse at them out his window. I had rarely heard my dad swear.

At the hospital they took my mom back, but directed us to a small room off of the emergency waiting room. It was nicely furnished and had a phone on a single table. I told my dad that we shouldn't go in there, because nobody got good news in those rooms. We went in anyway. Shortly after, the doctor came in and reported that my mother had died. They had opened her up and tried to restart her heart, but to no avail. He said the condition of her heart indicated that she had likely died within two minutes of the attack and that she did not suffer. He offered the hospital phone for us to make calls and said that the nurse would come to get us after they had cleaned my mother up.

My first call was to Lois. One of the girls answered, and I said, "Let me talk to your mom." When Lois came on, I choked out the news of my mothers death. Then I broke down, and the tears flowed like a waterfall.

[This remembrance should be added in before we left Rev. N's church.]

My mother died on July 19, 1991. In my arms. Cardiac disrhythmia, the final act of congestive heart failure.

It was my annual trip to pick blueberries with my dad --- gallons of blueberries. This time we were also going to pick peaches, so I made it a 3-day weekend. Had never done that before, and I rarely went to visit my folks by myself.

I arrived on Thursday evening. We had a pleasant visit, shared a meal and proceeded to play our favorite card game, Canasta. The three of us played. My mom won. My dad went to bed, so my mom and I played another game. She won again. I had always considered myself a skillful player, but she almost always won --- probably at least 8 out of 10 games. Just seemed to always get the good cards. She also always brought out the chocolate covered cherries halfway through the game, I guess to soften the blow of my ultimate defeat.

I was the next one to go to bed. I woke up in the middle of night feeling very warm. With my mother's condition, she always kept the house warm, even in the summer. When I was young, she kept the house like a meat locker. This night I was sweating. I got up to find my mother sitting in her big wingback chair, smoking. She had told me that she had quit smoking, but I knew she hadn't. A non-smoker can usually detect hints of smoking activity --- slight smells in the bathroom, a cigarette butt thrown where the owner thought it wouldn't be seen, etc.. I never confronted her about it and didn't tonight either.

I asked if she had a fan I could use in my bedroom. She produced a small, oscillating fan. I knew that she kept odd hours, but I didn't realize that this would be her last night on earth. I was very sleepy and missed the opportunity to spend that time with her.

My dad and I rose early at daybreak and went about three miles down the road to pick peaches. Our intention was to come back to the house for a meal, then go back out to pick the blueberries, some 8 to 10 miles away. When we arrived back at the house, my mother had laid items out to fix a late breakfast, but she herself was sitting in the wingback chair. She was wearing what looked like a new nightgown. She often wore nightgowns around the house, usually black in color, but this one was cream-colored. She had also taken a shower, which she rarely did in the morning.

My dad proceeded to fix the breakfast, grumbling as he went, and I visited with my mom. Neither of them would let me help with the meals on visits to them. I learned from my mother that she had run out of her fluid pills. These are required for congestive heart failure patients to reduce fluid buildup in the body, especially around the heart. I told her that she needed to contact her doctor immediately, and she replied that he had gone away on vacation. I said that the office was surely open on Friday, and that most doctors have someone covering for them, and that the office would be able to call in her prescription to the pharmacy. Then we would check with the pharmacy later, so that I could go and pick up the prescription that day. She followed my instructions and called the doctor before we sat down to breakfast/brunch.

My dad's grumbling was increasing. He had burned the biscuits, and he complained how he had to do everything around there, that she had never taught him how to cook things properly, etc.. I thought his behavior was odd, because I rarely heard him raise his voice. He was generally quiet and pretty easy-going (or so it seemed). I told him that the biscuits were fine, the breakfast was fine, and let's just eat.

We sat at the table. By now it was 1:00 PM, and my mother wanted to watch her "stories" while we ate. For as long as I can remember her whole life centered on soap operas and horoscopes. I had learned in my fundamental teachings that soap operas were bad, that they put on display lives of selfishness, pride and lust. My mother, along with her mother and my aunts were always avid viewers of the soaps. I would half-heartedly tease her by calling them As The Stomach Turns and The Young and the Listless. She would tease me back by reading out loud my horoscope for the day, knowing how it irritated me, because I had also been taught that divining your future from the alignment of the stars and planets was certainly a tool of the Devil.

We sat down to eat. I sat next to my mother, with my dad across from me. My mother said that I should move over one seat so that I would have a better view of the stories on TV. I muttered something about "not caring to see those things," but dutifully moved over. We ate. My dad continued to complain.

And then it happened.

Due to privacy I will skip over a brief period of my life, only to say that it brought me into conflict with my employer and my church. My family knows about it, along with a few select friends --- and especially God --- but sharing the details would only open old wounds, which God has healed.

I left Raytheon amidst a conflict with upper management. I'm thankful, however, that Raytheon respected my work ethic and secured my pension (at least so far). The end came with Rev. N's church over how to handle discipline within the church. Because I was respected by so many people there, I felt that the Lord would have me leave rather than be a source for contention and division.

The girls were much older, so concern for a youth group did not figure in with our search for a new church. After a brief period we discovered that the church that met at the YWCA was still in operation. The pastor there had left the church to take on a larger church on the coast. We learned later that he had died due to complications with a heart valve replacement in California.

We were welcomed back, and one of the older men and I began to take leadership responsibilities. We shared preaching/teaching duties and basically had to forgo Sunday school because of the diminished size of the church. We also discovered that we could no longer afford our space at the YWCA. We began to look around the area for another place to rent. We finally located a store-front in nearby Blountville.

An elderly church member allowed us to use her old rickety piano, and, after a laborious effort to move the beast in my little yellow truck, we finally gave it a new home in the church. I proceeded to press one of my daughters into playing hymns, figuring that she could use the experience, and the captive audience (they had to go to church!) would overlook her playing flaws on keys that were already musically challenged.

The highlight of our little church was the arrival of a young man named Kevin, who brought with him his wife and three small children. Kevin was a defrocked Presbyterian minister. His troubles began when he started questioning some points of the Westminster Confession in seminary. Despite his difficulties with his professors he finished seminary and was assigned a church that afforded a one-year residency period, after which he would be given full minister status.

According to Kevin his teaching at the starter church was not well accepted, and word got back to the Presbyterian leadership, and he was asked to leave the ministry. He was descended from a long line of Presbyterians, so this was a major setback in his life.

Like the Mormons, God continually puts unique people in my life, perhaps to test me, or, better yet, to show that anyone can have a genuine love of Christ, regardless of what coat they wear. Kevin and I almost immediately formed a friendship. The other church leader and I met with Kevin in a restaurant in Johnson City, and, following a brief interview, were considering asking him to be our new pastor. I know that we were concerned (at least I was) with his Reformed theology background (see blog 11/3/10), but I don't recall whether we chose not to pursue the offer, or if he declined. It was clear that we could not afford to provide enough monetary support for him and his family.

Lois and I felt that God was beginning to open our eyes to new ideas, and, looking back, we see Kevin's teaching role in that change. Like Rev. N, Kevin and I had many personal discussions on spiritual matters. I remember him saying at one point that belief is all about the packaging, that if we were honestly willing to open the packaging, we would be surprised how close to each other we are in thinking. The problem is that we accept our doctrines all bound up in impressive wrappings and are not often willing to even take even the bow off.

Kevin began to teach us about the end times. It was the first I had heard, or wanted to hear, about the position of Amillennialism. Millennialism refers to the 1,000 year reign of Christ as recorded in Revelation 20 (mill in Latin means 1,000). So the debate down through the ages was about when Christ would return for the saints --- before the thousand years (pre-mill) or after the thousand years (post-mill). Some broke it down even further with the tribulation period (seven troublesome years before the 1,000-year reign), whether Christ would return before the tribulation, after the tribulation or mid-way through the tribulation.

Kevin taught all of the positions, without showing a preference for a particular one. But on a personal level I found that he was most interested in the Amill position. This view held that Revelation was all symbolic and could be broken down into several sections that showed the entire Biblical, and mankind, spectrum ending with the church age, and the ultimate destiny of man.

This was my first experience of really looking at the Bible as possibly meaning anything other than what I had been taught for years. It began to awaken in me the idea that Biblical interpretation was both a blessing and a curse, that the Bible was written in a way that afforded just such a diversity of interpretations.

It turned out that Kevin came to us because he was finishing up his masters degree at ETSU, and then he and his family moved on to the midwest where he was from. While Kevin and I never came to a common ground on his Reformed position (probably due to my fundamental foxhole), we had a great friendship, and, yes, like the others, I wish I had kept in touch.

Shortly following Kevin's departure we realized that our small, struggling church was not going to make it. So we lugged the old piano back to its home, put the church stuff in storage, and limped along with some home Bible studies.

Before I talk about leaving Rev. N's church, I must relate a pleasant experience we had with the Mormons.

One Sunday morning a couple by the name of Jim and Lisa, along with their two children, were in attendance at our morning worship. In the course of getting to know the new people, it was discovered that they were Mormons. My cult defense system was immediately launched. But this challenge would be different.

I wondered why they were coming to our church instead of going to a Mormon church, which was less than 5 miles away. They didn't talk Mormon, act Mormon (see blog 9/16/10) or seem different in any other way. They were nice. Really nice. That was disarming. Their Christian demeanor brought down my defense shield and raised my curiosity antenna.

One of our daughters was performing in a musical group and had landed a couple of performances at a Christian coffee house in downtown Bristol. Lois and I noticed that Jim and Lisa were there and we quickly became friends with them. They were easy to talk to and were genuinely loving. We later learned that Lisa was suffering from a kidney disease and was on a transplant list. But instead of being gloom-and-doom about it, she was joyful and encouraging to anyone she met.

Lisa would fill in at the piano from time to time, and Jim and I would often work alongside each other at church workdays or events. We became very comfortable with them.

One evening when we had them over for dinner, I fired doctrinal questions at Jim. They had previously informed us that they were with the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (RLDS). This group today goes by the name of Community of Christ. I knew from previous studies that this group had broken off from the larger group of Mormons around 1860 and settled in Independence, Missouri.

Not knowing anything about their doctrine, I questioned Jim on several things that the Mormons believed. On each major point he replied that they either didn't believe it literally or that they were open to it becoming more clear at some point in time. Toward the end of the questioning I remarked, "Jim, you're fast becoming not-a-Mormon." He laughed and said that if we visited their home church, we would be surprised to find that it wouldn't feel like a Mormon church --- or at least what we would envision, having never been to one.

After a year or so, Jim got a job transfer back near their hometown, and we had to say goodbye. There was one follow-up visit after their move when they had to come to Bristol to finish up some business. We had a great visit with them. They have truly been an inspiration to us.

We had built some great relationships over the years, but, to our discredit, we failed to maintain them, even from a distance. While it remains a touch of sadness, our hope is that we will see them again, if not in this life, maybe in the next.

More close relationships would come and go. Some of them would be affected by the change in our belief system.

In searching for a new church, Lois and I did consciously make an effort to find one that had a good youth group for the girls. At most of the churches we visited, one would have a friend that a daughter was in the same school with, and another would have a friend of a different daughter. That made it difficult to decide, and it seemed that the girls weren't that interested in youth groups. But of course who can get enthusiastic going to a new place, being with people you don't know?

We visited a church that was meeting in the King College cafeteria. The pastor was a young man who turned out to be the youngest son of Joseph Bayly. Mr. Bayly was an author of several books and articles. Two of his popular books were The Gospel Blimp (later made into a movie) and View From The Hearse. Rev. N. had been the full time youth leader at a local community church, but, following a concern about the elders, felt led to start an interdenominational church.

Again the reception to me and my family was warm and welcome. Rev. N. had a friendly smile and a warm, positive disposition. He battled cystic fibrosis, but in later years succumbed to esophageal cancer. He and I spent many hours discussing spiritual matters over coffee. Before long I was leading singing and teaching a Sunday school class. We were encouraged to join the church because Rev. N. really felt that I would be a good candidate to fill an opening on the elder staff. Some time after becoming an elder I accepted the position as treasurer.

The church eventually bought a home and renovated it into a sanctuary, office and Sunday school rooms.

On the downside, Rev. N's sermons tended to be confusing (Lois and others felt so too), and his remarks at elder meetings were lengthy and somewhat disjointed. I remember asking him one time why he used so many words to make his point. He replied, "So that later I won't have to eat them." I liked that, and it was a great reminder to me to not let my passion trump my wisdom.

One of Rev. N's brothers had visited from another state, and following my Sunday school class, Rev. N came into the room to look through some papers on the shelf. His brother went over to him and I overheard him saying something to the effect of that he liked my teaching, and was I Reformed?. Rev. N replied "no," but that I was "getting there." This came as a surprise to me because I had never heard Rev. N preach or teach about the Reformed doctrine.

John Calvin and his mentor, Martin Luther (both lived 1400s to 1500s) were opposed to the workings of the Catholic church and began to develop their own doctrines. Probably the greatest subject on which they differed was the method or plan of salvation. Luther believed that faith alone, combined with good works assured professed Christians a spot in heaven. Calvin developed a theme centered on the total depravity of man, with God predetermining a select number of "elect" who would go to heaven. So, by default the rest would spend eternity in hell.

When I confronted Rev. N about this doctrine, he said that he purposely avoided teaching it in order to uphold the structure of the interdenominational church. He felt that the preaching of the gospel was essential and was universal to all Christians and that God's will would be fulfilled, no matter what we believed.

Sometime later another elder was added, who was more outspoken about the Reformed doctrine. On some occasions he and I would have spirited discussions (if not heated debates) about God's role in our lives. At one point I asked him how he could believe that, if all people were born into sin and thus incapable of saving themselves, how then could a merciful God predetermine that they would burn in hell forever simply because they were not the elect. He replied that it was a mystery of God, beyond our level of understanding. I thought the response was hogwash then, and still think so to this day.

I began to grow more uncomfortable with that church. Lois was eager to leave, but I was determined to stick it out. Wives can often be good indicators of what the Lord's will is, but husbands can easily keep the blinders on.

However, upcoming private issues would lead to me leaving my job and my church.