The Brightest Spot in the Journey thus far...

I loved Denver right from the start. It had been another one of my goals...to move to a large city...I had always loved big cities. I loved Kansas City and Chicago, two places my parents and I had gone on vacation. I love the energy of bigger cities.

I was still referring to being a Yogi as my 'religion of choice' when I first moved here...which was extremely naive of me, I know. I will never forget the time I filled out an application to work at what was then called Colorado General Hospital. During the70's the application forms usually asked you to specify your religion affiliation...and I boldly wrote _Yogi._ I've never forgotten the look on the Personell lady's face when she said "Yogi?" in a somewhat incredulous voice. I just smiled and nodded. I know now how ridiculous that answer was....but!--it served an in-the-meantime-purpose for me. I did NOT want to be identified with 'regular religion.'

We didn't go to church anywhere.... much to Lori and Mike's relief, since they never kinew what kind of ridiculous adventure I would involve them in next. Something we laughed at for years was their 'speaking in tongues' when they tried to talk me into doing something they wanted to do...This was left over remnants from the Catholic Charismatic adventure. They would get down on the floor, Muslim style, --hands and head up...then bow low to the floor and chatter away in some silly made up language...trying their best not to burst out laughing...although sometimes they did... We laughed about that for years.

The most life-changing event that happened to me shortly after our arrival in Denver was a magnificent dream that I had... I still vividly remember the dream. I dreamt that the kids and I, aboard in my yellow Pinto, were driving down Alameda...going West...when I came upon this extremely strange looking church. It looked like a big white spider. A large round bldg with white pillared arms extending outward and downward to the ground.

I walked into the church...it was empty...I looked around. No one was there. I walked into the sanctuary part of the church and much to my surprise, this round area had no pews. Not one.

It did have, however, a huge swing hanging from the beautiful round dome... The ropes of the swing--which was a one-seater swing--were covered with lovely, colorful flowers. The light in the sanctuary was beautiful... very glowing and penetrating. I hopped onto the swing and tried swinging... What struck me so odd is everytime I would try to make it 'go' and 'go faster' ...it would get all out of control...it was only when I Let Go...that it sailed back and forth smoothly. That would not really mean anything significant to me for a few years.

Even though I didn't turn around, I knew that a man...somewhat indistinguishable, who wore a gray suit, had walked up behind me. His presence felt safe and comfortable to me. I stopped swinging when he started to talk. "You are not quite ready yet to receive and understand what you are looking for...but what you are looking for, you will soon find."

He then just disappeared...I have never 'seen' anyone that looked like him or what I imagined he may have looked like.

I floated back and forth on the swing a few more times...knowing that when I tried to control the swinging, it would create a really erratic movement...but, when I just went with the natural rhythm, the flow of it...it was beautiful and effortless. That was one outstanding dream!

I woke up very excited...I hopped out of bed, and called to Mike and Lori...."Get up! We're going to church!".... they both just moaned and groaned and tried hiding under the covers....but I finally convinced them that they just HAD to do this!... and of course, they played along.

I had no idea where I was going...except that I knew I had to drive west on Alameda Avenue from the Broadway intersection. I had never driven west on that particular street before...but I just knew I had to go In Search Of ...

We drove for quite awhile...I was determined to keep going!--if it meant I'd end up on the west coast! ...and Lo and Behold!...there it was!! A strange structure just like I had seen in my incredible dream...The big white spider church with the white 'arms' extending from the top to the ground surrounded the round inner structure. We parked the yellow Pinto and in we went. There were people! Many of them. Everyone seemed nice and friendly and the energy felt good... We were ushered into the auditorium. The music was great...both as sung by the congregation as wello as some fellow and his wife who sang as he accompanied the son on his guitar... Seemed very secular...not very religious at all.

The sermon was mind blowing. The famous Dr. Fred delivered the sermon. He had beautiful white hair...and a phenomenal sense of humor. I had never EVER heard such a 'sermon' before ... it was more like a motivational talk. No threats of hell or damnation or doom or gloom.

What I found after the service, in the section where books were sold, would prove to be much more important to me that what I experienced during the service. I picked up a book that lay on the sales table. "Seth Speaks" ... It really appealed to me. Not sure why....although flipping through the pages I read a few lines about incarnation. That intrigued me. I bought the book.

That is how I became acquainted with who would be the greatest teacher I've ever had. Good ol' Seth... That was SUCH a bright spot in my journey. A very beautiful one. That was probably the most life-changing day I'd ever experienced...

Unusual Happenings via the Charismatic Catholics...a wild ride, indeed

The Charismatic movement of the Catholic church started in Great Bend, Indiana in 1967. Not so unusual...after all, it was the '60's... and many of the old institutions were challenged.
My children and I were still living in Miltonvale, Kansas and remained active members of the Catholic church, when much to my surprise I received a visit from this very nice couple saying they wanted to speak to me about a new movement going on within the church. At their gatherings, miracles were happening. There were reports of people being raised from the dead. A group of nuns from Concordia were even involved. I thought ....hmmmm....veddy interesting.
I attended a small gathering composed of about a dozen or so 'maverick' Catholics... all nice people and rather emotional during their prayers when they were embodied by the 'holy spirit.' They was to be a large convention (this was in 1972) in Scotts Bluff, Nebraska...would I like to go? Sure. Why not. It was a bit like joining a secret cult. I was always welcomed adventure... especially if it defied the establishment.
I wish I could remember the names of the newly married priest-nun couple that were in charge of this convention. They were very nice people. Excellent speakers. Not the Benny Hine type...more subdued than that...thankfully, but so inspirational. Maybe this would revive my enthusiasm for this religion. We stayed in a dormitory on some small college campus. There were workshops in the daytime and the 'big event' was in the evenings.
The word "charisma" is derived from the Greek meaning 'gifts of the Spirit'.... healing, speaking in tongues, casting out evil spirits, etc... The premise of the charismatic movement was based on the thinking that IF you were truly filled with the Holy Spirit...you could do anything ... including transcending the physical -- levitating, etc...
Some were able to receive these gifts. The energy was so strong during the evening events that weird was the norm!. People would start speaking languages that were previously unlearned by them. As for me, my one spirit filled accomplishment was being able to sing the scale... not the usual Gregorian scale...which is done in half-steps...like from a C to a C#, etc... but I was able to sing a Japanese quarter tone scales....I was so impressed with myself! I performed this for several people who were also impressed. My gift didn't last long before it just vanished. But it was fun at the time.
The guest-speaker priest also performed exorcisms, and as it turns out...yes, I was a good candidate for this! I did undergo some strange happenings during this exorcisms: including: saliva just running out of my mouth, seeing a creche (Christ crib) with brilliant white light emitting from it, a vision of the Virgin Mary who reached for me and held me to her... Yes, this DID all happen. This type of phenomena ... happens when the belief is strong enough and you attain certain vibrational levels in which you can instantly manifest or create. Probably somewhat like being on a good trip of LSD. This is scientifically proven... What gets spooky is when people strongly believe in the devil or evil spirits -- they CREATE them into a state of possession-- which makes exorcism 'necessary.' Its all in the belief.
Coincidently, the movie The Exorcist was released shortly after the convention was over... people from all over the country were suddenly possessed. Even Southern Baptists turned to Catholic priests for exorcism! Ah...the power of the mind. That's what it is all about... Belief: creation: manifestation. Creating your own reality in a somewhat out-of-control way.
I mostly enjoyed the convention but I didn't really feel like I fit in with that crowd. Once again I had the feeling of being an 'outsider.' That was very depressing.
I saw the movie "The Exorcist" along with Mrs. Beasely, the local highschool's English teacher (who was an alcoholic)...and Betty Sharp, the school's secretary. Mrs. Beasely talked so much during the movie that angry patrons moved away from us as far as possible...There was no way the movie had a chance of scaring me with her persistant yakking... Probably a good thing.
What did scare me, however, happened several nights later, I woke to the sound of some unusual stirrings. Lori --then 8 years old, had gotten somehow behind my bed...had her arms straight out, point between the bars of the headboard...making strange noises...but sound asleep. Naturally I had to 'cast demons' out of her. I found myself 'being aware of' demons'...and doing an awful lot of casting out. That got really wearisome after awhile.
Father Sheetz was angry with me for attending the Charismatic Conference. He told me that if I was having "a dark night of the soul" I should have come to HIM for counseling! That sort of put a wet blanket on our attraction for each other, although, nothing had ever come of that attraction. After he moved to Manhatten, we wrote a couple of times, and at one point I received a letter from him saying that it would probably be for the best if we severed all contact. I agreed. My ego smarted ...but...I totally agreed. So much for the Miltonvale Thorn Birds... sigh...
My children and I lived in Miltonvale for three years. We still regard it as our main 'home town' ...
The gypsy gene has always been in my blood... we, of course, moved again. Lori loved it. Mike would have loved to have stayed in Miltonvale forever.
I received an offer for a music teaching job in Oshkosh, Nebraska. The job there was OK... I honestly can't remember much about it ... which is weird because I have outstanding memories from all my other schools. The Catholic church masses in Oshkosh were very dull and uneventful. The only thing my kids and I remembered was "Funny Baby" ... this darling baby we liked to sit close to because this baby would make the most hysterically funny faces. That more or less perked up the otherwise very Sunday mornings for us.
Slowly but surely I was getting bored and disillusioned with the Catholic church and was starting to undergo some really very serious soul struggles. Very. My mass attendance started slacking off m and my anger at -- and fear of -- "god" once again grew to overwhelming proportions. All I knew was that the church that I thought was "THE" answer to all of my religious challenges and problems wasn't serving me well at all. Seems like I was always going back to square one.
I felt so horrible so often. So lost and hopeless. I remember one particular day which proved to be a pivotal point in my search and struggle. I drove to the Oshkosh gradeschool bldg on a Saturday morning to do some research on a project for the 7th and 8th graders... Standing in that building's library, I just seemed to suddenly snap. (good thing I was the only one in the building) ... I banged the books down on the library table, looked 'upward' and screamed at god that I would rather burn in hell than ever believe in him again!! Although my 'stand' was somewhat freeing... it would be years before I could say I truly ridded myself of the horrible god concept I was raised with. Actually, the scar remains.
How I came across the book "Autobiography of a Yogi" by Parahansa Yogananda ... I honestly can't remember. But it definately had a very positive effect on my life.
Another event that was to influence the lives of my children and family was meeting Sara Lynn . She was a waitress at a local cafe... such a nice person. She had weekend visitation rights with her little girl, Judy, who lived with her father in Denver (Westminister). Several times we would drive along to Denver with Sara Lynn to pick up Judy for the weekend, and drive back to Denver to return her on Sunday evenings.
I loved Denver! I was SO impressed the first time I rode down Colorado Blvd...at night. Broadway in New York could not have been more glitzy and grand! This was in 1975. You have to remember, I was from Kansas.
My children and I had also become acquainted with the Millers....a great family. The oldest son, John, was a hippie... they weren't religious at all... they had an adopted Indian daughter named Patty who w as personable but a weirdo...she lied a lot. And then there was Rex, the 8th grader.
There were three students I would never forget. All 8th graders. My favorites. All cigarette smoking rebels... Richard was an extreme genius...the son of the local vet; Rex, the Millers' son, intelligent and personable...and then there was Misty... Oh dear... what Misty lacked in the field of scholarhip, she made up for in sweetness... and a bit of ditziness. Those three, thought for themselves, in a way I never would have dared to do when I was their age.
I decided to move to Denver! The Millers helped us move. We found a one bedroom apt in the 300 block of South Pennsylvania. Myself. Lori, then 9, and Mike, then 6, and the sweet but goofy dog we called Teddy Bear.
My movement towards freedom and enlightentment would soon gain momentum... and oh, what a time we had.

At Last~! The Catholic Church~!

CHAPTER SEVEN
I moved from Salina, Kansas to a little town called Peabody...where I would be teaching elementary through high school music. Peabody was sort of a limbo place... It was OK. My daughter's kindergarten teacher's name was Alice Cooper... just like the rock band. I liked the other teachers. A memorable experience was the band teacher -- Bob -- baked some marijuana brownies and took them to the teacher's lounge. It was the only day the crabby librarian ever loosened up and laughed and smiled. That probably was the closest to a 'religious' experience' I observed in that little town. I met a lady there who became a good friend..Her name was Joyce and it was through her that I heard about another little Kansas town which was fairly close to the Nebraska line. Miltonvale. The was a huge pivotal point in my life. I applied for a music teaching position there and got it.
Miltonvale, Kansas was the closest we ever came to claiming a 'home town' even though we were only there for three years. Those were very interesting years...and~! It had a Catholic Church! At last I would be really 'saved.' The religious journey I had been on finally had an 'end' of sorts in sight.
I liked nearly all the people in that little town...of about 1200 people. I especially liked the people in that Catholic church. The first Sunday I attended mass was sort of weird. There is a lot of kneeling, getting up and down, much ritual, etc... but I played along, enjoying myself. I spoke to the local priest who was incredibly nice and handsome -- and with whom I would have loved to have had a "Thorn Birds" relationship with.
He was delighted that I was a music teacher. Later on I became the church's organist. The organists in Catholics churches are usually 'hidden'... and with this church the organ was very atypically located in the balcony in the back. No one else sat in the balcony...except during weddings or funerals.
I made it known that I wanted to become a Catholic. Instead of Father Dan giving me instructions in Catechism... I was to receive several sessions of teaching from Monsignor LeMoine. My god, the man was weird. It was like he was constantly on stage. My first encounter with him was in his office in Concordia... He was wearing the tight fitting black robe with red edging and the little black hat that looks like those Russian winter fur hats...like the Jackie Kennedy pill box hat...kinda... He introduced himself to me...and then started pacing back and forth in front of me...quite furiously...the finger of one hand pointed against his cheek. He turned his back to me momentarily, then whirled around...swish!...and pointed that same finger towards me and rather loudly said: "What if I told you that God had no face!".... He screwed up his expression, waiting for my answer...I mumbled something like "Well, that's OK"... I don't think he was overly impressed. Basically, I remember nothing of what the man said. Most of it was theological drivel which simply was not impressing me at all.
Several weeks later, I with several other adults, were 'confirmed' in the Catholic church in Miltonvale. Finally. I was officially a Catholic. A member of the "one true church"... according to the dogma. I was "in."
It was kind of fun, actually... But it didn't seem as consistently mystical to me as I thought it would be. I thought I would feel more like the saintly, glowing nun in the movie "The Bells of St. Mary's"... but that didn't happen. But it was OK. I was more like I had been accepted into a pretigious sorority/fraternity of sorts. I had a sort of 'superior' attitude about religion now. But...that's what it was...religion...not spirituality.
I just couldn't get into praying to Mary or other saints. It was avoiding like The Head Honcho... and that, to me, wasn't exactly 'right.' After all, it was "god" I wanted to get in good with to assure my eventual entry into Heaven and avoid eternal damnation. The pictures painted by any of 'my churches' of heaven didn't exactly make it sound like a real fun, perpetual vacation spot. It sounded boring. Wearing white robes, carrying around a harp, walking the streets of gold and continuously singing praises to god didn't have much allure to it ... although it beat, if you pardon the expression, the hell out of the other place. Well. Anyway. Waddya gonna do.
I still felt something was missing.
Lori, who turned six years old, was now in the required Catholic catechism class... a sort of primer to the one that comes before Confirmation. Her's and Mike's Baptism into the Episcopal church was recognized as official by the Catholic church, as had my own Lutheran baptism.
The day that the little row of 6 year olds were to take the First Communion was quite memorable. None of the kids choked upon the taste of the wine, but Lori later remarked that the wafer had no taste to it. After the mass was over, pictures were taken. Lori stood beside her friend, Paulette Pacey, and each of the 5 children were holding 12" tall LIT candles. Paulette's candle lit Lori's white organdy veil on fire...which caused quite a stir for a few moments. Guess it was sort of like Lori's own personal baptism by fire.
Mike and Lori were both born old souls when it came to the religion thing...and nothing really 'took' as far as what I put them through. Thankfully.
I enjoyed everything about Miltonvale... the people, the job, the two cafes. I had absolutely great musical groups... It was probably the most creative of my teaching years. One high school group was made up of 8 students...an octet, made up of 4 boys and 4 girls... Not only did they sing well, but two played guitar, one a string bass, and another drums, when needed. We became fairly well known through several counties and were asked to perform for different organizations as well as churches. The one occasion which to me proved to be unforgettable took place in a neighboring town's Methodist church... We were seated (unfortunately) in two of the front pews where we were very much on display. On the altar of this little church was a carved wooden statue of the head of Jesus. It looked just exactly like Chuck Connors of the TV show "The Rifleman" ... I used poor judgment in whispering this to Mary Trahan, one of my singers...who thought it was too funny to 'keep'...and the word began to spread. Within a couple of minutes, the whole group know of my observation. Then. They all got the giggles (albeit silent ones)...and it was awful...People were staring both curiously and indignantly.
I was torn between knowing I needed to discipline them and knowing I was the one who had started the whole mess. Thankfully, the minister cracked a slightly funny joke during his sermon to which my group burst into laughter... No one was more shocked than the minister. It was a 'good escape' route for that pent up stifled laughter, however. I was never able to see a picture of Chuck Connors after that without thinking of that statue in the church.
I can't remember how I came across these people who were into 'the charismatic movement' of the Catholic church....but it was a 'vibrational match' that was meant to take place. That I know.
They came to visit me in my home one evening and asked me if I would like to attend this special conference of Charismatic Catholics that was to be held in Scotts Bluff, Nebraska. They told me of all kinds of miracles that took place during their 'meetings' which sounded as lively as any black church I had ever attended. Sure. Why not. They promised me it would something I would never forget. I didn't. Neither did Lori and Mike.

And MORE Churches to Join~!

CHAPTER SIX

What a path was unfolding before me! I know I 'chose it' with the decisions I made...but I also believe that much of what I experienced was definitely blue printed by me before I came into this particular incarnation.

Would I do any of it differently? Maybe. Maybe not. I don't think the point is 'doing it over and getting it right' ...I think the lesson is in the living and the 'seeing.' That's what its all about...the experience of it...not the perfecting of anything.

I had always had a mixed mind-set of caring what other people thought...and simply not giving a damn. I think what prompted a bit of my 'living on the edge of trouble' was prompted my rebelling against my terribly strict upbringing.

My falling in love with one of the town's James Dean characters didn't draw any criticism from anyone, oddly enough. Let's just say--that I knew of. His name was Mike and I was completely taken by him...enough so that I would quit my very lucrative teaching job and want to marry and follow him.

One evening, much to my surprise, I received a visit from his mother. I never felt comfortable around her. I think it was just not part of my life's plan to 'get along mothers' in this lifetime. I never felt 'good enough' for any of them. This unannounced visit from my future mother in law (after 8PM,) saw her carrying two cups of hot cocoa for us to share. Actually, this visit was more like an interrogation than a friendly chat. She had always interfered with her son's mistakes... never allowing him to suffer the consequences of his actions...thereby raising a son who would never believe anything was his fault or responsibility. But, good ol' Maurine was very religious. Very. Church of Christ. Very fundamentalist... This church's dogma was based on what you may NOT do; what you were NOT allowed to have, to do, to think, or to speak. She wanted me to know she raised her son with Christian principles. OK. I'd play the game.

Mike would be joining the Navy and was told he would be stationed in California. Another of the high school teachers, Barb, and I had this bright idea we would get teaching jobs in California, teach there for a year. Then I would join Mike after Basic and we would live in San Diego.

Barb was a weird person. Being a very dyed in the wool -- extremely naive Kansan...she kept saying over and over again..."So this is California" as if we had landed on some alien planet. She lasted less then a month in California, packed up her old Ford and returned to Kansas. As it turned out, I did NOT like the job that was offered to me in the La Puente school system... Mike called me, said to come back home, we'd be married in Springfield, Missouri where his parents now lived...Besides, his assignment was altered and he was now being sent to Texas (god help us all) after Basic Training. So. I hit Route 66 back to Kansas.

Before we could get married, I had to undergo 'counseling' by a Church of Christ minister on the sacredness and duties of marriage. Plus, I had to agree to be baptized in their church (my infant baptism into the Lutheran church didn't count...) THAT was one memorable Sunday. They are dunkers. You have to go WAY under into the water in order for the baptism to 'take.' On my baptismal day, I had to go to this small back room, strip, put on this white gown... All the while Maurine was prodding me to hurry! So. OK. Baptism time. I was thorough immersed, came up feeling not 'saved' but extremely cold and very WET... while the good Christian members were praising God and singing hymns. Done. Back to the dressing room. Have you ever tried to put a girdle on over a semi-damp body? All women wore girdles back then. Even me at 106 pounds...I was struggling to get the damn thing on!--and all Maurine did was bitch at me to HURRY!..."they are waiting, you are holding up the service, hurry, let's go...come on, etc." She was such a bitch. But a Christian bitch.

Oh yes...pianos were the work of the devil...no musical instruments were allowed in in the "true house of the Lord"... but I must say, they did a good job of singing acapella. I so disliked that religion...they were some of the most holier than thou people I have ever encountered. They kept emphasizing that they had a corner on the "real truth."

We were married in the Springfield, Missouri Church of Christ. The next day we immediately drove to Kingsville, Texas, where Mike's Sea Bee Naval Base was located, where he would report for duty. That place was hell on earth. Scorpions, cockroaches, ants. Another fun thing was walking past the illegally employed Mexicans (thanks to the King Ranch) as they lined the streets, clicking open their switch blade knives as I would walk by. Dusty. Dry. Awful. While we were stationed in Kingsville, I became pregnant with Lori, and she was born there. During this time I was becoming painfully aware that my now-ex was most likely was not going to be faithful spouse. We did, however, faithfully attended the Church of Christ church in Kingsville. Didn't seem to help either one of us...BUT!!--we could tell Maurine..."Yes, mommy dearest, we go to Church every Sunday."

My daughter's birth was the first real highlight of my life. She meant everything to me. And, she was the first 'blood relative' I had ever met!

When Lori was but 4 weeks old, we started out move to San Diego, California, because Mike had been transferred to their for a brief period of time before he would be deployed to Viet Nam. I was thrilled to be returning to California.

During this time, my life was fairly 'religion-free'... Mike was now in Viet Nam, and I moved from the apartment in Coronado, California to Point Loma, a suburb of San Diego where Lori and I lived with Johnny and Aggie in this Portuguese area where most people were big-time tuna fisherman. All during this time, my mind was so blissfully occupied by my daughter and I loved my surroundings; the occasional trips to the beach...therefore, I didn't spend any time doing any kind of religious agonizing.

Upon Mike's return from Nam, we were stationed in Ventura for about a year...and then released from the Navy... we returned to...and lived in Salina, Kansas. I had gotten pregnant with my son Mike while in California and he was born in Salina. My marriage could only be called an absurdity...he had one affair after another and then begged me for a divorce. Of course, I couldn't harbor that idea, because, after all: What God has put together, let no man put asunder, says the Good Book...and also -- a good woman 'suffers'. What a crock of do do I believed in... I reluctantly agreed to a divorce, thinking he would "come back to me and the children" someday...but I never wanted him back after a year or so. I honestly never turned bitter. I was devastated, hurt, and upset ... but I never became bitter. I had what I wanted: my children.

Now, alone with my children, I started in getting curious about religion again. I say religion, because the word 'spirituality' meant nothing to me...yet. A fellow teacher attended the Episcopal Church in Salina, and since there was no Catholic church for me to start my journey on my ultimate path to Catholicism... I attended Mass at St. John's. It was very Catholic like... and so I joined that Church. This was Church affiliation Number Five.

Father Willis was rather nice...strange...but nice... He had buck teeth, a crew cut, and talked with a bit of a lisp. Lori, aged 3 and Mike, 6 months, were baptised into the Episcopal Church in a private ceremony. I didn't have to be baptised again.. because this church recognized by original Lutheran baptism as an infant ...to be 'official.'

So... I was mostly OK with going to that Church...although the people were NOT friendly. The Church structure itself was beautiful, but instead of having pews, it had many rows of these joined straight-back chairs made of wicker...and the kneelers were made of wood and not even padded!...Eventually, I became an Episcopal church drop out.

My 'Respite From Religion' Years: College...and Early Years of Teaching

Chapter Five

The picture is that of "Old Main" ... the original first building of Bethany College in Lindsborg, Kansas...which had been one of the best music schools in the country.
I was delighted to go to college...not because I enjoyed studying but because I could get away from home and actually be on my own. That was a brand new experience for me in many ways.

Bethany was a Swedish Lutheran college. I wasn't Swedish or Augustana Lutheran, so was not an automatic member of the 'in crowd' ... but I've never been that anyway.

My college years were marvelously free of all religious agonizing for me. No pressure. A time of 'grace' for me. The only time I was even inside a church during those years was when a music group gave a performance.

I remember the class in World Religions during which I retained a marvelous DISinterest in anything that was said or taught. Actually, I don't remember anything being taught about Buddhism, Islam, Judaism... only various braches of the Christian church. I never questioned it, either. I just plain didn't care.

I have some odd remnants of memories about college, one of which was my horrid scheduling counselor, Miss Bertha McAllister, who looked like an old owl on steriods, --god, that woman was mean!... She didn't like me and I didn't like her.

We had to go to Chapel (compulsory) services every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. We had assigned seats. Some Casper Milktoast type would usually give the mini-sermon and prayer...I don't remember anything about any of it...which is GOOD. No BAD effects, thankfully. Only two things do I remember about Chapel. One memory was about a German Shepherd who managed to get into the building and sat down very nicely, facing the audience, beside Rev. Milktoast. Everybody laughed, including the preacher. That was unusual behavior for a minister, I thought. Laughing? No pounding the dog to death with a Bible.

The other memory was of this totally ditzy blond named Darlene Alseike. She was one of what was called "the music weinies"...( there were music weinies and art weinies...no, I don't know where the label came from)... And Darlene had this miserably irritating high pitched whiney speaking voice and giggle...You could hardly tell the difference between her singing and speaking voice. Naturally, she sang soprano. She always had this stupid, dumb looking smile on her face that made her look like she was high on something.

Our Choir was to give a performance in the Chapel for the Christmas service; and of course, we had to wear our robes... blue with gold trim. Everything went well but it was SO HOT in the building we thought we would just melt. The Choir marched out (from the balcony) after singing, anxious to shed those heavy robes. There was Darlene, disrobing... but she evidently forgot that she was only wearing a bra and panties underneath ... it actually took her a few moments to realize her predicament before she came forth with this shrill little scream. That was a great moment in Chapel history. I cackled inwardly.

It was during my college years that I first felt like I was able to get into some really good discussions with friends and actually relate to them. Strangely enough, I don't recall any 'religious discusssions'--they mostly dealt with psychology and philosophy...I met some interesting people here and there...but for the most part, college, to me, was a rather dull experience. But, it enabled me to get a degree so that I could teach music in schools...and THAT I was excited about.

My first public teaching job was in a grade school in Junction City, Kansas. The personell office helped arrange housing for new teachers and I got stuck in the same house with two religious nutballs (and fellow teachers) named Laura and Rita. My first hands on experience with Baptists.

I came home one evening from Methodist church choir practice, --I had to find my through Laura's darkened bedroom to get to my room...and I stumbled over something and fell down..boom...I mean I fell! Dumbass Laura was down on her knees praying and she never skipped a beat, even after I tripped over her...she Miss Pious stayed on her knees, never said excuse me, are you OK, or whatever.... She did tell me, later however, that they were always praying at that time of the evening and to please not step on them. I made up my mind that night to MOVE!.... which I did at the end of that month.

They tried a time or two to 'convert' me...but I wasn't interested. I went to the Methodist church because I was invited to sing in their choir...and it was a good one. Great director. Someone once told me that Methodist church was for people who didn't want to take relgious too seriously. Suited me just fine at the time.

A short little tubby guy named Dr. McGee was the minister. He was a jolly, smiley sort and I listened to his sermons with interest. Never threatening. He even cracked a few jokes. These Methodists were not frightening... that part was good... They served grape juice instead of wine for communion. That seemed weird. And plain old BREAD...instead of unleavened wafers. Hmmm...could that be blasphemy? But, I remembered that someday, when the time was right I would become Catholic. That was still looming in my future, beckoning me on to be truly 'saved'.

My father died the second year that I taught. My mother was becoming progressively more ill with cancer so she came to live with me. It was like I became a kid again. The only place I ever went to was choir practice with my friend, Donna... My mother approved of her, but I had to be home by 10PM...and there was no disobeying her. I had to account for everything.

One thing that my mother did during those two years she lived with me was absolutely wonderously mind-blowing...and it's a beautiful memory. Our grade school was to put on a carnival...and I accepted the challenge of making little hats out of those tins that pot pies used to come in ... I made a few and my mother said she would try to decorate a few, also. I gave her a bunch of arts and crafts stuff to work with... during the several days following she came up with the most darling, winsome, adorably decorated little hats I had ever seen. They were the hit of the carnival. They sold like hot cakes. It made her proud. This was so unlike anything she had ever done (although she did sewing and crocheting to perfection)... But THIS...this was over the top. I'm so glad she had that moment in the sun that night. She got so many nice compliments. I had never seen that aspect of her before.

I received an offer to be assistant music director to Don Miller in Chapman, Kansas... there music program actually exceeded their sports programs!! This was a real honor. I accepted the job and my mother and I moved to Chapman. I bought a 12' wide 2 bdrm mobile home and it was nice and comfortable, not too far from school. I had secured an ideal teaching job. My mother became progressively more debilitated due to the cancer. Thanks to three Aunts...her sisters...who would stay with us 3 weeks at a time to take care of her...I was able to continue to teach without having to put her in a nursing home.

One day, being very ill and in so much pain, she had to go to the hospital and remain there. I would drive to Junction City every day after school to be with her. She got to the place where she didn't even recognize me anymore, finally slipping into a coma, and mercifully dying. I remember going to the chapel in the hospital and praying that God would take her. He never made her well, even though I prayed for years about that... and I felt slightly guilty asking Him if he would allow her to die. Was this wrong? I didn't know.

After her death and another one of those dreaded funerals were over...which took place back in the Mennonite church in Lehigh, things started in to go ...the only word is 'crazy' for me. My mind became a swirling mass of guilt, fear, contradictions, and emptiness. Suddenly I was confronted by this God and I very much confronted him... somewhat like the Cowardly Lion confronting the great OZ... In spite of liking my job and meeting a few casual friends--I felt totally lost. So very, very alone. These were times when I started in directing pure hatred towards this 'God' ...taking my chances, knowing that he would lash out and punish me in some vile way. At one point I had decided to commit suicide....and I felt strangely calm about it. Which hell could be worse...the one I was going to -- or the one I was in? Who cared. I lost my father, my cousin who was like a sister to me, Kathleen, to a car accident, and now my mother all within three years time. I knew it wouldn't any real difference to anyone if I was dead of alive.

Standing there, in the bathroom, holding a razor blade in one hand...over the sink, of course; I didn't want to get blood on the new bathroom rug...I moved the razor towards my wrist, praying, (strangely enough) I could go through with it. At that moment, my Siamese cat, Taj Li, jumped up and rubbed against my arm, knocking the blade out of my hands. I broke down and cried my heart out. I knew I couldn't do it. I had to keep living.

I sold the mobile home and moved into a small rental house. When Taj Li heard my Volkswagen pull up after school, he would sit in the middle of where I wanted to park, and naturally, I would stop. I got him his own cat...a black kitten I named Jinxie. Taj raised him as good as any mother cat and they were inseparable.

I was adjusting to the community. It was during the end of my first year of teaching at Chapman that I met who was to become my future husband. He appealed to me, being the Jimmy Dean type. I think he represented the rebel in me that could not escape my religious fears. Suddenly my life had new meaning. I was older than he was, and he had been a highschool drop out, but his IQ was way above genius level, so who cared. In the meantime I was becoming good friends with Jeanette and Connie. Jeanette was a speech therapist, a goofy, funny redhead, and Connie, who had a dry sense of humor and a great laugh, was an English teacher. We would always go to the local cafe for coffee after school. We were really a motley trio. I heard the Beatles for the first time...The beginning of my kind of music.

I got along well with Mr Miller, who I know NOW was as gay as a bright pink flag, but I knew mothing ...absolutely nada...about gay people, even though as I now write this, most of my friends are gay... We used to think that Mr. Miller and the head English teacher, Mrs. Taiscraper, had an affair going. Now I know she knew he was gay and they were simply best of friends. I would of course, in years to come believe that being gay was 'wrong and against God.' It would take years before many of my twisted ideas were wrenched free of my fear based thinking. Now I struggle to even allow any kind of anti-gay sentiments or opinions be spoken in my presence without totally losing it.

Again, by invitation, I sang in the church choir of yet another Methodist church. It was fun, actually... Taj Li, had the habit of scouring the little village of Chapman, in order to find me and then want a ride home in the Volkswagen. Once he found me during church service. After the church choir finished singing, we seated ourselves, only to hear some kind of 'music' continue. It was Taj...sitting in the open window, behind the tenor section, just yowling his head off. Everyone started to snicker, and the minister said, "Betty, may I please suggest that you might take your cat home..." ...at which point everyone lost it.... Taj came bounding towards me, very smug and satisfied, jumped into the VW and home he went, upset that he was being locked in the house...then I returned to church.

My "God" and I Go Through The Teen Years

CHAPTER 4
It was impossible for me to have separated religion from my everyday life in my adolescent and teen years; because my views of God and all that I chose to do, think, and say, were so completely tied up in worrying about what God was thinking about me at any one given moment. Was I doing something right...or wrong? This fear was with me during all my reflective moments.

Funny. In spite of all the great emotional struggles I went through, I absolutely loved life itself. I took great refuge in my day dreams, my imagination and enthusiasm for life itself. I knew, somehow, that life could ...and would be...wonderful. The great love and curiousity I always had about life, I believe, preserved my sanity and kept me from 'breaking.'
As I write this, it is important for my readers to know that I do not blame my mother for the role she played in my life. I did, however have to come to terms with her influence, be brave enough to become really angry with her--and then be finally willing to release it all, and see it everything in a new light.


Growing up under the ever present cloud of Fear and Guilt Conditioning is something one never completely 'get's over'...and perhaps we are not meant to 'forget about it' either. It all becomes a part of Who We Are and All That We Have Learned... and this is something I would eventually learn to ACCEPT...and not retaliate against. This, I learned, is how we are able to go forward...to flow downstream rather than struggle upstream, as Abe would say.
Buddhism emphasizes what we resist, persists. Once we learn what the Universal Law of Attraction is all about ...we are able to comprehend what Buddha, Jesus, and other great teachers were talking about.
Many wonderful eye-opening, heart warming, mind opening elements of Light and Truth would be revealed to me in future years that would help me to heal the fears that lurked in the corners of my mind. Seth taught us that we possess many conflicting beliefs...The stronger of the beliefs always 'wins' and is what manifests into our lives. So, in spite of being continuously afraid of this angry, wrathful god... I was able, somehow, to separate the dreaded fearful influences from the positive ideas: the happy thoughts, the genuine Lust for Life -- and still be able to turn into what most people generally seem to observe about me: that I am a positive person. My talent for my 'acting ability' in high school proved to be a saving grace, because, as I would learn later: how you 'act' is one way of manifesting it. My talent for music was also a saving grace, because it was one of the only ways I could safely express my emotions without fear of condemnation.
I believe I got some good out of learning to be a People Pleaser, also...because it did...it genuinely did make me Feel Good to help others be happy... though it was just momentarily. So even though pop psychology would teach that I only would do that for reasons of approval and self-validation-- I had to learn to say: Screw Them. You know what works for you. Nobody else does.
My ideas of what "God" was, became the single most harmful and self-damaging belief system I have ever contended with in this lifetime. I realize, perhaps, my name is Legion as I say this. I was never taught that God was 'love', or kind, or compassionate, or understanding...let alone any of the other ideas that other people may have had. To me God was this all powerful man one needed to 'obey'... He was much bigger than any human man. He was always angry, always wrathful, always seeking to punish you for even the tiniest little 'bad' fleeing thought. There was absolutely no pleasing "Him." There was only the hope of doing enough things 'right' --so that I would temporarily be spared from his wrath. My idea of LOVE was not a 'heavenly father' who would be willing to cause his innocent son to die a pitifully painful death. That whole story is SO horrendous. Even as 'symbolism' I have no respect for it--at least not in the way I was able to understand it. There was NO real forgiveness of any kind from this God. None. I never really trusted that 'blood of Christ will save you' bit. Everything was written down by God and remembered. As my mother continuously reminded me: Someday you'll pay for it.


My mother constantly using God as a whipping board against me, as well as the other threatening tales of punishment, prevented me from seeing any kind of loving acceptance from this God. I now am able to see that my idea of God...and what my mother was to me ... were identical. Neither one ever loved or accepted me 'just as I was.' I was never, ever good enough. Regardless of how hard I tried, how many awards I won in music or acting competitions,, she never once...not once...said: you did a good job. It was always exactly the same thing: "It was alright.. next time you can do better." She was never proud of anything I did. Ever. "Next time do better" ... Having no idea then about reincarnation, my chances of pleasing God were nil. One life. One chance. One heaven. One hell...and there was little doubt of where I would end up...knowing I was bound to 'pay for it.'
The Dogma that any church teaches doesn't exactly give you the warm fuzzies. I thought this dogma came straight from God. I had no way of knowing it was all man-made. I am now able to see just how bloody primitive religious dogma and all fear based beliefs actually are. Basically no different than a cave man praying to a volcano in hopes of it not erupting and causing death and destruction. Isn't it amazing how a person can thing he is complimenting another by calling another 'god-fearing.' Oh my.
I remember attending a few revival meetings with some friends. Came the time to 'raise your hand if you want to give yourself to the lord' I would gingerly raise my hand, not knowing if I would feel 'good and saved' or be struck down by God for messing around with this kind of stuff. Anyway. Nothing ever happened.
I envied my friends often for never seemingly going through any of these soul struggles. They simply always seemed at peace and content. Of course, that meant they were 'good' and I 'wasn't.' What other interpretation could there possibly be?
Accidently finding my adoption papers (on one of those infamous Sunday afternoons while my parents napped) both shocked me as well as confirmed to me that maybe there was a good reason why I was always so 'different.' Confessing to them later that I had found them proved to be an interesting time. My mother didn't seem to react too much to this 'news.' Greeting Daddy happily (I was 14 years old) as he came up the kitchen porch steps with "Guess what, Daddy, I found out I was adopted and it's all OK"... made him momentarily turn pale and then he just hurried past me. Later my mother accused me: "You made him cry." Daddy had spotted who he thought was my birth mother peeking down the steps of the maternity home when they came to pick me up when I was but 11 days old. He described her in a nice way as small, pretty, with dark hair. His kindness in telling me this made me feel good.
Knowing now that I was adopted gave my mother further opportunity to often say, "SHE didn't want you. It was ME that changed your dirty diapers!" ...so even as a baby I was dirty. The one and only good thing she ever said about my very earliest years is that I liked it when we walked outside through the flowers. I treasure that one 'good' memory. I wondered if God loved me when I was a baby. I'd never know.
Part of the reason that I believe she honestly hated me at times, was because she strongly and very mistakenly believed, at times,that I was actually my father's biological child. During his brief escapades, with his drinking buddies, to Kansas City, these visits included the company of prostitutes. Sadly, he came down with syphillis and she martyred herself, nursing him back to health, and never, ever, ever let him forget what all she put up with. My mother had always thought sex was a low-life, filthy act long prior to that occasion and would tell me "All men are animals." ... I really hoped that my father's flings were fun and enjoyable.
I know it for a fact. You DO cling to the abusive parent. I vowed to always take care of her. I would reassure her after her telling me many times about 'what he had done.' She liked it and smiled when I said that she could STILL leave him and I'd look out after her.
The college I would be going to was already chosen by my parents, and I was looking forward to that ...to become a music teacher...also pre-chosen for me, because my biological family was very musical and of some fame in the midwest. As for me, I was looking forward to leaving home and out from under unbelievable strictness.
I had no idea how much of 'home' I would be taking with me.

Religious Events That Left Lasting Impressions

CHAPTER 3

Strange, isn't it, how there are some happenings in our lives that stand out in memory so clearly, as if they took place a matter of weeks ago. That is how I feel about the stories I will now share with you. All connected to 'religion.'
As a child, I believed that everything had a consciousness. I still believe that... but I look at it in a much differently now. I believed that the pictures of Jesus that graced our big, two story house -- actually contained a divine consciousness and that Jesus was watching me. He was still, however, a 'good guy' and so that didn't bother me too much. We also had the original edition of the book "Dante's Inferno" of The Divine Comedy. It contained very graphic drawings depicting the various hells. They were horrible.
Our 'big family Bible' rested on its own table in the back room next to the living room. Later in life I would laugh so hard watching an episode from All In The Family in which Archie discovered someone put some little object atop the Bible!! (most likely Meathead :) Archie yelled loud and long about it. The same strict rule applied in our house. No one could put any object on top of the big Bible! This made my imagination run wild, of course...and I would place something on the Bible, then run to the next room and hide to see 'if something would happen.' It didn't. But I'm sure God was watching and keeping score. Bad girl.

I became well acquainted with superstition. Sometimes things 'came true'...Like a bird flying against one's window screen meant death was eminent...and sure enough...it would happen.

My mother told me never to eat bread during a thunder storm...God might strike me with lightening. Naturally!--I had to test this out, too. During a particularly loud and noisy thunder storm, I took a piece of bread and quickly ran into my mother's bedroom closet...hiding way in the back (it was a huge slanting closet) I ate the bread, wondering what would happen to me. The heat and stuffiness of the closet prompted me to emerge...carefully...but I would jump at every sound of even the distant thunder. God spared my life...evidently. I was wisely learning not to tell my mother of some of my 'trial runs.'

I loved going to the grocery store. Got me out of the house. I felt so free during those walks. I was standing in line, waiting to pay Mrs. Banman for the items, when I overheard her telling a small child of 3 or 4, (I was 9 or 10 at the time) why people in Africa were black. Mrs. Banman said, in a rather hushed tone, that the reason they were black is because they lived in sin. I thought maybe the their main sin, according to the pictures in the National Geographic magazines, was not wearing enough clothing.

One rather nice thing she told me one day, looking up at the sky when I was about to leave store....was about the clouds... The clouds were patterned in rows made up of many little clouds. She said that reminded her of Moses leading the children of Israel to the Promised Land. That was good. I liked that. To this day, I think of her and Moses when I see that kind of cloud formation.

Shortly after my Confirmation I had one of the most beautiful dreams ever. I dreamt I was sitting on the top step of the kitchen porch, all alone, when Jesus came walking down out of the clouds, looking very kind. I kept staring in absolute wonder. As he approached me, he extended his hand and said "Come, Betty Ann"... I took his hand. He led me towards this huge, shining silver castle like structure in the sky. It was all so warm and beautiful. I liked the feel of walking on the soft clouds. I can't tell you how often the remembrance of that dream gave me a feeling of hope and comfort.

I woke up, very startled from this dream, sat straight up in bed, mainly wondering if I was dead! Had I died and actually gone to Heaven? It took me a couple of minutes to realize that I was alive, in my body... The whole thing was so enchanting, so beautiful. I sat up in bed til morning, unable to lie back down and go to sleep. That was one...in fact, my only ...really good religious experience during my early years, for which I was so grateful.

It was my duty to pray before every meal. I always prayed in German...the way I had been taught. Thing is...I had NO idea what I was verbalizing. Later on I figured it out. I also had to say my prayers before I went upstairs to bed. I really did NOT like "Now I lay be down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, If I should DIE before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take." This, of course, taught me to be afraid to go to sleep. My nighttime prayers also included having to ask God to forgive me for all my sins that day and to make me a good girl--and to bless my parents. I was having to constantly pray for forgiveness of "my sins" even though I wasn't always sure what I had 'done wrong.' So there was no doubt I was 'sinful.' The nice part after prayers, was I always blew a kiss to both sets of grandparents up to heaven-- in the direction of where their houses were. I liked that. That was nice. That made me feel good.

I spent nearly all my childhood and teen years being terrified of the dark...this is no exaggeration. I kept a little cross under my pillow and prayed earnestly for protection against--what--I am not sure...but something had to be there. There was NO WAY my mother would allow me to have a night light... Sometimes I was so afraid it was hard for me to breathe. Sometimes I would risk getting scolded in the morning, and crept quietly down the stairs to sleep on the chaise lounge...even in the winter time with no blankets. If the creaky steps gave me away...I was sent straight back upstairs. I was always relieved to find I was alive and well in the mornings.

A great, but somewhat embarrassing-at-the-time experience with prayer was the first time I remember being invited over to the Reddicks for supper. They were a nice family. Mr. Reddick drove the milk truck. Dorothy was my age and one of my very best friends. I remember especially that Mrs.Reddick always smiled a lot....when supper was ready, we all gathered around the table, and I sat down...the ONLY one to sit down...and was told, nicely, that we stood for the prayer...I wasn't used to people saying mealtime prayers using their own words, either. No body was mad at me for sitting down. That was impressed me. I think God liked that family very much. I know I did. I can't remember a thing about the prayer, but the chicken noodle soup was SO good.

My dear Daddy bought this big prayer book...sometime during my early high school years. We started a routine of reading the evening prayers as he and Mama and I sat in the living room. I eventually memorized those prayers...even though they were long. After the prayer, I would always play "Sweet Hour of Prayer" on the piano. My father was a true spiritual seeker. I know he internally struggled a lot. He was such a good man...but I'm not sure he thought so... no more than I thought that I was 'good' either. Even though I was adopted, my father and I were so much alike.

Whenever someone died, it took forever to finally get them buried. There were four separate services: beginning in the person's home (yes, casket and all), then in the funeral parlor, next at the church, and then finally at the cemetery. There were at least Four Funerals to every Wedding in Lehigh!...opposite the popular movie. Everybody made such a big deal about the casket and 'how natural the person looked.' Ha! To this day I can't stand the sight of quilted satin...which always lined the caskets.

Ever hear Bill Cosby's stand up routine on that? He totally captured it. "Looks just like he's sleeping." "Look how natural she looks." "Look at that nice smile." Oh yeah? Right! Try really dead looking and UNnatural with a pound of make up. We'd always sing "Asleep in Jesus" during a funeral service. I never understood that. And then the old thing about "The dead will rise again"...like what kind of a chance did they have, six foot under, in a sealed coffin to 'rise again'? No one could ever answer my persistent questions about that situation.

One night I had a horrible nightmare that I was buried in the same casket with my Sunday School teacher. I came back alive and was yelling and crying, trying to get out of the casket. When I woke up, I was so scared. Needing to relate this nightmare, my mother advised me to "Go back upstairs and go to sleep...it's just a dream." Sure. OK. You betcha.

Cremation was nearly unheard of. Some talked of it as a 'sin.' How were those bodies going to rise from the dead on Judgment Day. I couldn't conjure up a picture of that even with my wild imagination! Totally beyond me. The inevitable long line 'waiting to be judged by God'...often prompted me to rehearse some words that I hoped might sound good to God and he would go a bit easier on me.. No court appointed attorneys up there!

Cemeteries, however, fascinated me. I loved Decoration Day. I would make SO many little bouquets of flowers to place on graves. It made me feel good to do this. I especially was drawn to a doctor's grave. My father (and some others) was sure he was murdered by a couple of brothers in Lehigh because their sister had died during surgery. They made it look like a suicide. Since he was a 'suicide' he couldn't be buried near the 'good Christian folk' but was stuck way in the far north corner of the cemetery. No headstone. Only an iron fence around his grave. I always made sure he had flowers. I felt so sorry for him.

One of the most romantic things, to me, were the graves of my Uncle David (Daddy's brother) who was accidently shot by his future brother in law... and that of Julia Herbel...his fiance...who simply pined away and died a year later. They were buried side by side and their tall monolith type tombstones leaned towards each other. To me that was such a romantic tradgedy. I always placed identical bouquets on their graves.

Visiting in the cemeteries on Decoration Day was fun. Strangely enough, it was a bit like the Day of the Dead in Mexico, when people gather to celebrate and be happy about the lives of their loved ones who had gone on. That really makes a lot more sense. Decoration Day in the cemetery was a lot more fun than the services in church!

Besides Mennonites and Lutherans, our surrounding communities had what was called "Holdermans"... an offshoot of the Quakers. Those people seemed so perfect. They never did anything wrong. They never said anything wrong. They were sort of like smiling zombies that just sort of floated around, being perfect. They wore those little black caps, VERY plain clothing with no trim.

Mary Ellen Koehn was a Freshman when I was a Sophomore. I was so impressed with her radiant goodness. Since it would be awhile before I could become a saved Catholic I thought I'd give Mary Ellen's 'way of being' a good go. She had a brother named Vernon. He always wore blue overalls and smiled a lot.

I started in to act as much like Mary Ellen as I possibly could. Hmm...I wonder if my folks would consider getting a horse and buggy and getting rid of our fancy car? Probably not. Anyway, my actions and speech patterns changed drastically. I tried being as PURE as I possibly could. At home, too. My mother just sort of pawned it off to more of my 'hopeless case' persona... but even my father said, "What's wrong with you...why are you acting so strange?" I just said I was trying to be 'really good' ... he just shook his head. Probably struck him funny. During that time I didn't even wear lipstick! I wondered if God was taking note.

I always felt so extremely different from everyone. And not just because I was adopted. Beings I was adopted, however, I was definately thought by many of as being 'less than' others. "You don't know what kind of blood she has in her." In highschool I was told by two boys that their parents told me they couldn't date me because I was adopted so I couldn't be trusted. To some people, I might have well have been black. I know all about prejudice.

I envied my friends and classmates for their simple acceptance of 'the way things were.' They never seemed to question anything about God or the things they were taught. They seemed so at ease with everything. I remember trying hard to find the right words in asking Dorothy and Ethel (we were all 9 years old at the time) if they ever went through these 'soul struggles'...but they both just looked at me.

Ethel lived catacorned across the street from me. Another really nice family. They had some kind of strange religion. They didn't go to church. These people would come over to their house and they would sit around and read and talk. Ethel couldn't explain it to me. I was invited to attend once. I remember sitting on their sofa between Ethel and Donna. I couldn't figure any of it out. I'm not even too sure if English was spoken...it could have been German. They were happy people, though.

To me, 'happy' as a family was not commonplace. My dear Aunt Eva was an angel in my life...of this I have no doubt. She was always SO kind of me. She was always smiling. She would sometimes sing as she walked from her home (down the alley from house) to the grocery store (we called 'downtown.') All of my cousins from Aunt Eva and Uncle Fred were so nice. I was in awe of AnnaMarie. Harvey and Kathleen were like a brother and sister to me. Once, when I was only 6, I took a few marbles from my cousin Harvey's big glass chest of marbles. Walking home my mother knew I was hiding them and became very angry with me. We turned right around and marched back to Aunt Eva's house where I had to apologize and confess. I felt scared and just awful. I knew Aunt Eva felt sorry for me and she weakly attempted to defend me and say it was 'alright'...She even said I could keep those 4 marbles, but my mother said NO, it was stealing and that was a sin. I will never forget the look of compassion on Aunt Eva's face. Never. I cry even now, as I write this, remembering how good and kind she always was to me.

Thankfully, we do remember those kindnesses.

The "Religious Wonder Years" Adolesence and Teens

CHAPTER TWO

My own personal wonder years went from wondering and wanting to give it all a chance...to wondering if I would survive any of it..because I knew that I most likely would not 'survive after death' being some sort of a happy heavenly camper.

My wonder years encompass...give or take a few...ages 11 through 17...or so... I wanted so much to actually enjoy religion...but that never happened. I was born very mystically-minded and very much wanted my religious experiences to be beautifully mystical.

Going to church never seemed to do anything 'good' for me. It didn't make me feel better for ever having attended. Sunday after Sunday. Many of the preachers' sermons were, however, extremely disturbing and frightening.

Later on, during the 70's, someone would coin the phrase "God is Love" ... Love!? Are you kidding me!! God was nothing but mean, punishing, wrathful, snoopy, spy in the sky, totally unfair and unjust, --someone who only rewarded those who were what I would call mechanically perfect in everything they thought, said, or did. If you missed the mark in any of those areas even a little bit, you would be punished or suffer the consequences. Now you could

beg for forgiveness.. if you really meant it...if you were 'contrite' enough... you could be forgiven of your sins. Because, after all, God had this deal going ...'he gave his only begotten son to die for your sins'...so he had to hold up his end of the bargain, too. But did he? Really? I never knew. All I knew for sure was that the meanest most horrible presence in my very existence -- was this thing called "God."

My mother gave a whole new meaning to "just wait til your father gets home" .... To me, my father was just the opposite of God... My father was sensitive, kind, loving, helpful to others, and had a good sense of humor... I never could blame him for getting drunk. If only God could have been as nice and loving as my father was...who I KNEW actually did love me.... everything could have been sp different. My mother had a terrible time accepting me for who I was. I don't want to make her the focal point of this entire story, but it was from my mother that I received the whole distorted concept of a mean God. I was continuously threatened with "God will punish you" for disobeying or disappointing her in any way. There was never a time when I was really and truly 'good enough' for her.

She continuously reinforced my already fearful ideas of what a forever burning hell was like and never once alleviated any of my growing fears that I would be 'going there' to burn in pain forever.

The Lutheran church teaches you are "born sinful, dirty, and unclean" and in need of being saved...which requires baptism and taking communion.... (and a few other 'duties' that didn't make that big of an impression of me.) I remember looking at little babies being baptized and thinking ...wow...they are sinful and will burn in hell if they don't get sprinkled with that water. Amazing.

About Jesus. I always liked Jesus. In many ways I had actually felt very sorry for him. We could have commiserated on being the the subjects of bad parenting skills! Later I would learn how churches (nearly ALL) would distort the teachings of Jesus. Whether or not there was a 'real historical Jesus' or not, made little difference to me. I chose to believe there was a 'real Jesus'...but I also believe he could have been a compilation of many teachers who appeared at the beginning of the Piscean Age when people were at a 'readiness point' to expand their consciousness.

I would come to find out that throughout all of recorded history (which we now call 'mythical') ...there was always a 'Holy Family' as well as a 'Trinity' of sorts. The newly formed stories, holidays, and symbols of the Christian religion were primarily based more upon ancient Egyptian and pagan religions...as disturbing or horrifying as that may be to some good Christian folk.

When I was 12 years old, I built a makeshift altar, in my upstairs bedroom, from an old apple crate, a white dishtowel, a picture of Jesus, and two candles. I would kneel and pray to Jesus before this altar. When my mother discovered it she became angry and made me dismantle it and promise to never do such a thing again. She refused to give me a reason why.

Every Lutheran child is obliged to take catechism classes in which you learn the indisputable laws of your church. Then you are Confirmed...and you take your First Communion. This makes you an official 'adult member' of the church. Kinda like a Protestant Bar Mitzvah. Catholics get to go through that business at age 6....and the 'training' isn't real intense, but!-- you get to "drink the blood and eat the flesh" earlier than Lutherans.

Playing the old-but-new-to-us, upright piano (after the old pump organ gave out) for Church services helped me to survive the whole thing since I would concentrate on the music itself. If, during the liturgy, old cranky Rev. Dantaschek didn't think my timing for the musical responses were 'just right' I would suffer his dirty looks. Once, when I must have been daydreaming and totally missed my cue...he actually yelled at me to pay attention. Danteschek and God were an awful lot alike. Both were mean, self-righteous, and exacting ....heavy sigh....

When I was 14 I developed a real curiosity for the Catholic religion. There was this big Catholic church in Tampa, Ks (a village not too far from Lehigh) where nearly everyone was Catholic. When the Lehigh folks would talk about Catholics it was rather similar to the way some non-believers now talk about 'aliens.' That peaked my curiosity. It fascinated me because the Catholic kids seemed so "wild"... they smoked and some drank, they had cool clothes and hair-do's...kinda like on Happy Days. It was, after all, the '50's...but there was nothing in Lehigh that resembled anything like they portrayed on Happy Days!

The kids from Tampa just seemed so much more 'free'...and sometimes to my way of thinking: very naughty and sinful!... It was then I thought there must be something about the Catholic Church that was worth checking out. Sort of like the Fobidden Fruit.

I remember making a necklace with this blue green colored plastic crucifix I got out of a Cracker Jack box. I would always be sure to wear it when I was around the kids from Tampa in hopes of impressing them, and they might think I was Catholic, too. Thus, my first real signs of wanting to 'belong and be accepted as being OK'... started to surface. I can see that now.

Asking my parents about the Catholic church must have been akin to today's Christian child expressing curiosity about El Quada, The Taliban, and Islam!...I was NOT to talk about it...especially to my mother.

One fine and very memorable Sunday afternoon (I loved that day and time of the week!) --which is when my parents always took a long nap -- I either drew, painted, or 'got into things.' ... This one life-changing day, I decided to quietly rummage through the old steamer trunk that was tucked away in the attic. Amongst other old books, I found a small blue book...and took it to the light by the window. It was entitled "A Catholic Catechism." I remember having chills of excitement rush through me. Forbidden knowledge! I never told either of my parents about finding that book. I successfully kept it hidden away.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I was standing in the kitchen beside the table, flipping through the small pages, not able to take everything in fast enough!...when I came across the teaching question: Will all people who are not Catholic go to hell? ...and the answer was "Yes." I remember going totally dry-mouthed with terror. The only people who would, however, be 'exempt' from hell would be those souls who had never heard of the Catholic church. This turned my already precarious religious world for a total loop.

Naturally...my goal would be to become Catholic. So!! God was even more 'picky' that what I had pictured him to be! The 'one and only true religion,' it claimed. Sheese! It would seem hell was gonna be a really crowded place!

Much of this Catechism was like the Lutheran one....but that one teaching set it totally apart. That was the clincher that would change the already tumultous religious course of my life.

OK. At least now I could formulate a plan. If I would have to become Catholic...I could be 'saved from hell.' Finally. there was some kind of hope for me!

The Very Beginning... in this particular LIFE

CHAPTER ONE

This is as good of a picture as any to start my story telling of my rather wild and woolly tales about my experiences with the many different religions I have had in this particular lifetime. Let's say that caption on this particular picture was to be very 'prophetic.'I'd like to insert as much humor into what will actually be 'the real truth' of my experiences, even though, goodness knows, not all of it was 'funny.' Humor is probably one of the most healing elements we can favor ourselves with. Trying to seek out the lighter side...rather than all of the 'bad moments' is, I believe, very much to any one's advantage.

If I can, in any way at all, help anyone else by sharing my own dramas... that would make me feel good. Hopefully my story will help others to overcome what (being serious here now) could have proved to have been some very, very challenging experiences that were difficult to overcome.

OK. Ready. Set. Go.

My parents, who adopted me when I was but 11 days old, were Lutheran. German Lutheran. Our Synod (the Lutheran church had many synods usually based on ethnic groups) was called the American synod. When I started in actually paying attention to what my folks were talking about, church wise, the mention of the Missouri Synod was always talked about in strange tones. They were stricter. No Masons allowed. No dancing allowed. I never knew why.

My little farm country hometown of Lehigh, Kansas, population of around 250...which likely included cows, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats... was made up of all German people. You were either a Lutheran (in the minority) or you were some form of Mennonite. Regular Mennonite, Mennonite Brethren, or Kansas Mennonite Brethren...all becoming more strictly austere in their appears and "what they didn't do." No lipstick, severe hairdos, plain clothing, etc... In ALL Mennonite Churches, the women sat on one side and the men on the other. Funerals were the exception. Guess God gave them special dispensation for those times.

The first thing I remember learning about the Mennonites was their menfolks didn't have to go and fight in the war. They were CO's...Conscientious Objectors. As a child I absorbed the views of other Lutherans. Lutherans would call them 'cowardly objectors.' CO's were given stateside jobs at military bases...like cleaning bedpans in military hospitals -- was what I always heard talked about. Anything demeaning to make up for their cowardice in refusing to 'serve their country.'

Little, then, did I know how my OWN views would change in regards to wars. Wars, in movies, were always nearly romanticized...The bloody, ugly, savage, insane truth of war remained far removed from the silver screen.

My earliest memories of 'church' was when I was age 4 or 5. My Sunday school class was taught in this little cramped room that held the preacher's vestments. It had one straight little bench that we sat upon, side by side. A very kind lady named Mildred Dies (pronounced Dees) was our teacher. She continued to be our Sunday School teacher for many years. I mainly remember learning about the typical, common Bible stories that I couldn't even begin to relate to: Jonah and the Whale, Daniel in the Lions Den, Joseph and his brothers, ...the atypical ones. It was always streesed that we were supposed to "be good! and not sin." So, right from the get go ... I was to understand that we were 'not good' by nature but 'had to learn to be that way.' Even though the Bible stories did not really make a lot of sense of me... thankfully Mildred was a kind, patient lady and taught us in a kind way. A lot more so than "God" ever was. God was always 'up there in the sky someplace.' He knew every move we made, every word we said, every thought we had... and He kept count!! He kept a record of all the things you did wrong, and when you died you'd have to stand before his throne, he would review 'your book' and either allow you into Heaven (when sounded miserably boring) or send you to Hell where you would burn forever and ever. That theory was doubley, tripley, and quadrupley reinforced in me by my mother. Quite often.

The beginnings of my comprehension of 'God' were pretty awful. God had nothing to do with "love"... but everything to do with fear and demanding obedience or else!...Good old fear and conditioning. Those were my religious roots.

Our little church was one of those old, atypical music-box, old fashioned little wooden churches with a steeple that had a little bell tower. I always liked it. To me it was a magical, mystical place (in spite of this mean God) They rang the bell on Sunday mornings before the service...and they also rang the bell (which could be heard all over town) when someone died... even if they weren't Lutheran. I guess Mennonites didn't believe in bells. Not sure why. Too frivolous, I guess.

My little white church had very uncomfortable wooden pews. I remember well how they looked, how they were stained and varnished. Altogether there were 12 pews. Six on each side....and then two smaller pews in the front, facing the altar and podium. The podium had to be surmounted by 5 steps so the preacher could get a GOOD view of the congregation. On the other side of the altar was where the little pump organ was located... the one I would start playing for the church services when I was only 12 years old.

At the front of the altar hung a crucifix. That was disturbing. We had a big picture of Jesus hanging on the cross in our little Sunday school room, too. It was just something 'that was.' It didn't even mean that much to me. I don't remember thinking, gee, I wonder if that hurt?... or anything like that. It was the way I viewed hunting. If you are raised with the idea that you take a rifle and go and shoot rabbits or pheasants or chop the heads off chickens... it's just the way it is. It isn't right or wrong. It's the way it is. That doesn't mean I LIKED that picture. I didn't like it at all. Flowers would have been better.

After Sunday school was over, all the children were expected to sit with their parents and be very quiet! And you did NOT turn around and look around! Church services lasted about an hour. I played a lot with my little red patent purse, my little white gloves, and my hankerchiefs that I would try to make into little dolls. The singing was just gosh-awful. Lutheran hymnals contain the dullest sounding music ... no different that Catholics or Episcopals. And oh GOD some of the women had these high pitched, droney voices...it would take like minutes to get through one short verse! It's a wonderful the coyotes didn't wander into town on Sunday mornings. Many of the words to the hymns were scarey, too. A lot of stuff about suffering and blood and pleaing and dying to be saved. And of course, much 'praising.' The hymns...except for Onward Christian Soldiers which had a real beat to it!--were not much fun to sing. Of course, who was supposed to have FUN, for heaven's sake!

Now I LOVED Christmas in that little Church. That is one of my best memories. I had a good singing voice almost from the time I could talk. When I was only 3 years old, I sant "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve in that little church. I honestly do truly remember that.

Christmas programs were FUN. We all had little recitations to memorize. We sang songs. Always "Away in A Manger" doing all the hand gestures. The Christmas tree always reached to the ceiling, beautifully decorated. Sheer magic. It was always best when it was snowing outside. I w as always told that Santa Claus would bring gifts to your house while you were in Church on Christmas Eve. It always seemed to happen. The Christmas Eve Service would always end with everyone singing Silent Night. That was one of my most precious and best loved memories. That is indeed a beautiful song. Nothing about hell or sin...just love. I still get tears in my eyes when I hear it sung on Christmas Eve. I believe its one of the most beautifully spiritual songs in the world. I could even sing it in German!

I remember only two ministers. Reverent Bartke... who was bald and had a shiney, big, kind of square head and he was rather obese... He sometimes needed help getting up and down the steps to the podium. Later I was to find out he was often drunk on Sunday mornings. Poor guy, undoubtedly an alcoholic. He would preach unbelievably long sermons, flipping through Bible pages, and Mr. Steinle and Mr. Spremberg would sometimes fall asleep... To me it all 'sounded' like Charlie Brown's teacher in the cartoons...wah wah wah wah...wah wah... I liked it in the winter time because I would snuggle up to my mom, and loved it when she wore her fur coat. That felt so good. That was a good memory.

The other preacher was one of the meanest men that walked the earth. Reverent Danteschek. I don't believe that man EVER smiled!...let alone laugh. He had a perpetual scowl on his long drawn face and he more or less just barked his answers to everyone. He had a sweet, quiet, lovely wife.

Rev. Danteschek's sermons were full of fire, hell, brimstone, punishment...and he would pound on the Bible, slap it down on the podium...and POINT at people. Once my friend Doris Sietiz and I got called down for talking. We were sitting in the back pew and we WERE whispering! Anyway, I can still hear that man loudly say: "Doris! Betty Ann. Be quiet and stop talking!"... I knew I would catch it when I got home.

The members of the congregation would have to take turns inviting the preacher and wife over for Sunday dinner after church. My mother just dreaded her turn...She spent as much time and energy warning me about behaving myself!-- as she did in preparing the meal. How that mean old preacher man even managed to open his MOUTH and never break that scowel...still amazes me. He never had anything nice to say as far as I can remember. He was one miserable old coot!