24 October 2010 (4:00 p.m.)
I parked just off Mount Shasta Blvd and thanked the Lord for His deliverance. Then I walked around the city centre, struggling to make sense of how a town of 3500 people could support the concentration of pagan trinket shops I was encountering. On one block alone I counted about three mystic/new age-themed businesses out of the seven or eight storefronts that comprised it. Spiritually speaking--and what isn't spiritual?--I was in enemy territory. The Lord directed me to a used book store that had no external signs of neo-paganism, and I thought it might be useful to find a book that described the sort of culture (i.e. bondage) that had gripped Mount Shasta. I figured it would centre on the mountain as the object of worship, but there was no doubt in my mind that demons had overrun the city and created a bunch of myths concerning its significance. This was a very old tactic (cf. Acts 17:16-31).
I strolled through the book store while the owner assisted an older gentlemen, browsing the Religious section to see if there were any bargains I couldn't pass up. There were not. When the owner had finished assisting the gentleman, I asked her if she had any books on Mount Shasta. She responded with a question, wondering if I was more interested in history proper or the folkloric heritage of the town. She then probed to see if I knew anything about the spiritualism of Mount Shasta, much of which centred on the mountain, and proceeded to tell me of the Lemurians, a race of people contemporary to the Atlanteans, who once inhabited the land that was submerged when parts of an eastern continent collided with the west coast to form North America. Evidently, it was believed that the Lemurians (and several other races, for that matter), had taken up residence in the mountain when their civilization was destroyed. Like the Atlanteans, they were fabled to possess incredible technology--such as might enable them, for instance, to bunker up inside a mountain. (Ahem.)
As twisted as all this stuff was, it wasn't the legendary that concerned me most. She went on to talk about a certain doctor who had allegedly used some spiritual currents he was able to channel for the purpose of healing thousands of people. There were testimonies of those who had been cured of tumors, arthritis, and so on. As you might imagine, none of the above were credited to Jesus. I guess a bit of a Bible lesson is in order at this point.
First, genuine Christians will readily confess that Jesus performed miracles. In other words, supernatural healings are possible. There is no sense in placing any faith in Christ unless you believe He rose from the dead (1 Cor 15:13-19), and He who has been raised from the dead is the One who testifies to God's power by His deeds (including miracles) and words (John 10:38; 14:11). So why should we not just syncretize all these healings and conclude that, by virtue of the fact that some charismatic who didn't perform these healings in the name of Christ, miracles pool from a homogeneous source from which Christ comes but that Christ is not the only way? Stated otherwise, are Christians being pedantic in asserting that eternal life comes only through Christ? No. Let's examine what the Bible says about these other "gifted" individuals.
First, we see miracles performed by people who don't serve the Lord. In some cases, they are miracles the Lord gives His servants to perform, such as when Moses and Aaron petition Pharaoh to release Israel (Exod 7:8-23). In other cases, such as when Saul consults a spiritist, we see that black arts such as seances are indeed possible (1 Sam 27:1-14) and that wielding these powers produces disastrous effects (1 Sam 27:15-19). Paul and Barnabas, led by the Holy Spirit, rebuke a magician's abilities who has been frustrating their ministry (Acts 13:6-12). In other words, this stuff works. It is not a solution or a genuine cure for anything, but demonic powers, who have influence over the world, will manifest in a way that leads people away from God. God, in turn, allows it sometimes: If a prophet, or one who foretells by dreams, appears among you and announces to you a miraculous sign or wonder, and if the sign or wonder of which he has spoken takes place, and he says, "Let us follow other gods" (gods you have not known) "and let us worship them," you must not listen to the words of that prophet or dreamer. The LORD your God is testing you to find out whether you love him with all your heart and with all your soul. It is the LORD your God you must follow, and him you must revere. Keep his commands and obey him; serve him and hold fast to him. That prophet or dreamer must be put to death, because he preached rebellion against the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt and redeemed you from the land of slavery; he has tried to turn you from the way the LORD your God commanded you to follow. You must purge the evil from among you. (Deut 13:1-5)
But all these counterfeit miracles lead ultimately to death: "For false Christs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and miracles to deceive even the elect--if that were possible" (Matt 24:24; cf. Mark 13:22; Rev 22:15). And as Jesus so plainly states, "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, 'Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles?' Then I will tell them plainly, 'I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!'" (Matt 7:21-23).
What this all amounts to is this: it is not incredible that these testimonies are true, nor is it surprising that such powerful signs compel people to faith in empty things. But unlike the Lemurian or Yaktavian myths, which are beyond fantastical, it is possible to put a face on someone who has been healed by the power of someone who has not been serving the Lord. And an eternity of damnation is not worth some temporary comfort. Hence, these healings are extremely dangerous because they possess the potentiality to cost a person his or her soul.
So I found it rather interesting that this woman, who by her own testimony seldom speaks of these things, mentioned that she felt compelled to share them with me (but God grants His servants favour with nonbelievers sometimes). I told her that she could tell me anything because I was impossible to spook, adding that I was only in Mount Shasta because Jesus sent me there. She then responded that this illustrious doctor fellow had testified about how much he loved "the Christian God" but that he never would have wanted to be exclusively associated with Him. And herein is the deception! There are no other gods and no other powers, just keen deceptions. And if some of the elect will pursue such demonic forces, indulging what their itching ears want to hear (2 Tim 4:3-5), then there is little hope for the people of Mount Shasta who don't know the Lord. Except, of course, for the Lord Himself.
Knowing that I could do nothing about this but pray, I chose to do that. I decided to fast and walk throughout the town, praying that God would bind all demonic forces that had overtaken it. I prayed that no one would ever experience any kind of relief in this region unless it was in the name of Jesus Christ and for His glory and that all such cases (and that they would be numerous) would lead to the faith that brings salvation.
I purchased a book about these mythologies, not that it was a valuable way to spend my money but I wanted to be able to pray specifically against certain things. I knew the Lord would hear me in my weakness, yet I wanted Him to hear precisely what He had sent me to ask Him to do for the people of Mount Shasta, that they would be released from very particular kinds of bondage.
And I started to realize that, as a precursor to my own service in this way, He had been doing the same for me. I had been very sheltered as a child. When my sister and I were given bicycles, we were restricted to our property, never allowed to adventure. Dead faith takes no risks. And though I don't think it was intentional or deliberate, I had been imparted with a fear of everything that was uncertain, invoking God to spend Himself on breaking me (especially over the preceding ten months) so that I wouldn't be inhibited by everything I had assumed was normal. And here I was, having driven to Mount Shasta with no travel insurance, no real idea where I was in the world, and I was at my most vulnerable. And I was a pleasing aroma to God because I had placed myself in a situation where I could do nothing but depend on Him.
I found a motel room and busied myself reading about the things I would need to pray against the following day. It was hard to concentrate because I had missed several meals en route to Mount Shasta (and, if I'm honest, the days leading up to my departure). I hadn't exactly prepared for a fast. But here I was in a position of weakness and I believed that, whether I lived to see the crop it would bear, God would hear my prayers. To my shame, I had espoused these ideas about some big mountain experience, about camping at the base of Mount Shasta and having God peel back the heavens and answer all the questions I had for Him. It turned out, as it had been with the man on his rooftop, that He wanted me to pray for the lost. And it was a simple (and beautiful!) motive He had. So my dream was dying, giving way to an even better one.
An excerpt from my journal that day: "Now to Him who does not give His glory to another be praise and honour and might and dominion forever and ever--He in whom I trust even now--especially now ... Amen." (Yeah, I guess I've been reading a lot of Paul lately.)
Jeremiah 13:16: "Give glory to the LORD your God before he brings the darkness, before your feet stumble on the darkening hills. You hope for light, but he will turn it to utter darkness and change it to deep gloom."
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Road to Shasta (Day 3, part one)
24 October 2010
It was 2:17 a.m. and I was finally starting to drift off... wasn't I?
I had gone to bed at a reasonable time, but I couldn't fall asleep because my racing mind kept rehearsing scenarios of what might happen in California (never a healthy exercise). Bullets of rain were thwapping the Ponderosa Motel from all approaches, and I just wished for the sound of metallic hands clapping outside to fade into the odd drip in the gutter. (Being on the top floor was no advantage when the sky was falling into metal panels just above me.) It was also frustrating that I could hear everything happening in adjacent rooms because the insulation, if any, was so thin. But everyone eventually settles in, whether travelling on business or pleasure or honeymooning, and the guests seemed to have reached a consensus that it was finally quiet hour. And then the rain acquiesced. Finally.
I still couldn't sleep, though. Barring a crisis, I would arrive at Mount Shasta late afternoon or early evening, and the Lord was allowing certain temptations to test my mettle. Though He kept me from stumbling, I couldn't help but pontificate about how inconvenient it was that I was losing valuable repose. I consoled myself with the belief that, if He had indeed summoned me to Mount Shasta, He would see to my safe journey.
Okay then, no reason to be awake. After all, these were not new challenges, nor my thoughts new ones. I knew what my destination was, if not my mission. Details were not mine to iron out. So why was I so stuck on them? (Ah, sinful nature, go away!)
It was a hard fought battle, but the Lord prevailed in me. Then at 2:17 a.m., just when my mind was beginning to settle, I heard two trucks pull into the parking lot. I deduced from the number of distinct voices I could discern that there were two couples who had just gotten back from a night of drinking. I let ten minutes go by before I got up and peered through the blinds to see one of them briefly run into sight and then disappear again. It was hard to tell whether the two men were going to end up in a fistfight (so conveniently close to Isobel, no less!) or sing bar tunes with arms around each other. In a sense I was pleased it was the latter, but I imagine I wasn't the only one who was vexed to hear them pull out some acoustic guitars and belt out Sublime songs with 3:00 a.m. fast approaching. I sighed and went back to bed, thinking about how the enemy seemed to know where I was, too. And he was bent on keeping me awake as long as he could. About a half hour later, one of the truck engines started. The driver honked five or six times as he left the parking lot. It was very annoying, but at least it was over. Can't say how much actual sleep I snuck in, but I woke up in good spirits.
I left Goldendale around 9:00 a.m., after refuelling. The sky was a piercing blue and the temperature was about 8C, a welcome change from the cold rain that had fallen the night before. I drove through a series of mountains and saw several clusters of wind turbines. The hills were yellow, much like those in Saskatchewan this time of year, and there was a friendly blend of the foreign and familiar to fill me with a sense of comfort. Some of the mountain passes were so curvy and steep that I had to slow to 15 mph at some spots. The 97 even passed through this one community in particular that was built on the mountainside, so I was driving within feet of some people's houses. There were even three deer on the front lawn of one residence, and I was going so slow that I had a chance to see them eat a mouthful of grass. It was in this same area that I first saw fallen rocks to accompany the Rocks signs I'd seen before. I guess that beauty can be dangerous, because the landscape certainly was gorgeous. But man would it be tough to drive in the winter.
One of the most beautiful parts of the entire trip was driving near and over the Columbia River in Washington. I remember being addicted to video games before the Lord saved me, and one of my motives in spending so many hundreds of hours on such pointless media was the fact that it allowed me to vicariously visit exotic places. It dawned on me that real life could also bless a person with indescribable adventures, especially for those who serve Jesus Christ.
After a while I did start to despair a bit. The roads kept winding and it felt like I was no closer to my destination than yesterday. The map seemed to confirm this. I crossed into Oregon, which is a very cumbersome state to drive on the 97 South. The scenery just repeats itself and soon feels commonplace (though I suspect the coast is quite different and beautiful in its own right). It was cool to see a few redwoods (though not the massive ones of fame) but they hardly consoled me when I started to see snow mixed in with the rain that was falling. Isobel was telling me the temp had dipped to 2C; I had not planned on snow! [Sad face!]
I stopped in a tiny place called La Pine to fill my tank. Tried to get out and pump my own gas but the attendant said there were no self-serve stations in Oregon. I asked him if he knew how much farther it was to California, and he told me I was about two hours from Klamath Falls, which was about halfway. It was very exciting to learn that I would make it to Mount Shasta with the fuel that I had then, so I decided to stop and eat something. In homage to my childhood, I went to Dairy Queen and had a burger and fries. As I was eating my lunch, I think I overheard a woman at the next table whisper to her husband, "He looks like a Canadian." Must have been the lumberjack beard.
I was on the road again, this time with a renewed sense of purpose. Within a few hours I would fulfill a command that was given me fourteen months prior. I would, until He asked me to do something else, be right with God. I could die a free man. It was a big deal. It had been a big deal. It was here. And maybe it was in poor taste to be thinking about returning home, but for the first time I knew that I'd actually make it back to tell about this journey. It just didn't compute that perhaps God would not want these anecdotes shared. They were, as far as I could tell, the most significant thing He'd done in my life since plucking me like a burning brand from the fire.
I crossed into California. It wasn't a watershed moment. The state line was markedly not Mount Shasta--in geography and certainly in terms of my mission. But Shasta was near. The signage indicated that Weed, the closest town to Mount Shasta, was about 35 miles away. It was still raining, but it didn't matter. I did have a minor scare heading uphill when an SUV cut in front of me and flung a toonie-sized rock at my windshield. It was so big that I could see it from several feet out and I had enough time to cringe at the massive dent it would inflict in my windshield. God being as faithful as He is, it must have hit my [moving!] wiper blade because there wasn't even a scratch! I thought this was a pretty cool gesture on God's part. Though I know He sends angels to protect and encourage, they had done me a real solid in His name and I praised Jesus for His constant gaze and concern.
As I drove through Weed, California, the first significant settlement coming down the 97 South, I was elated to drive past several churches. It made me think the Lemurian garbage Laura and I had read about was just some special interest mumbo jumb. Besides, websites are pretty cheap nowadays and any nut can create one with the software that's available. Maybe I was being blessed with a spiritual retreat that would ignite a flame under me for the rest of my life and give me a renewed interest in my studies. Maybe I would see some powerful miracles. Maybe God had just set Mount Shasta on fire and wanted to use her people to teach and show me some cool things. If Weed was any preview, then that was surely to be the case. This thought freed me to enjoy the mountains on all sides, which were quite pretty. Not worthy of worship, but it was an aesthetically wonderful place to be.
Turns out, however, that Mount Shasta was a spiritual minefield.
Mileage: 2530 km
It was 2:17 a.m. and I was finally starting to drift off... wasn't I?
I had gone to bed at a reasonable time, but I couldn't fall asleep because my racing mind kept rehearsing scenarios of what might happen in California (never a healthy exercise). Bullets of rain were thwapping the Ponderosa Motel from all approaches, and I just wished for the sound of metallic hands clapping outside to fade into the odd drip in the gutter. (Being on the top floor was no advantage when the sky was falling into metal panels just above me.) It was also frustrating that I could hear everything happening in adjacent rooms because the insulation, if any, was so thin. But everyone eventually settles in, whether travelling on business or pleasure or honeymooning, and the guests seemed to have reached a consensus that it was finally quiet hour. And then the rain acquiesced. Finally.
I still couldn't sleep, though. Barring a crisis, I would arrive at Mount Shasta late afternoon or early evening, and the Lord was allowing certain temptations to test my mettle. Though He kept me from stumbling, I couldn't help but pontificate about how inconvenient it was that I was losing valuable repose. I consoled myself with the belief that, if He had indeed summoned me to Mount Shasta, He would see to my safe journey.
Okay then, no reason to be awake. After all, these were not new challenges, nor my thoughts new ones. I knew what my destination was, if not my mission. Details were not mine to iron out. So why was I so stuck on them? (Ah, sinful nature, go away!)
It was a hard fought battle, but the Lord prevailed in me. Then at 2:17 a.m., just when my mind was beginning to settle, I heard two trucks pull into the parking lot. I deduced from the number of distinct voices I could discern that there were two couples who had just gotten back from a night of drinking. I let ten minutes go by before I got up and peered through the blinds to see one of them briefly run into sight and then disappear again. It was hard to tell whether the two men were going to end up in a fistfight (so conveniently close to Isobel, no less!) or sing bar tunes with arms around each other. In a sense I was pleased it was the latter, but I imagine I wasn't the only one who was vexed to hear them pull out some acoustic guitars and belt out Sublime songs with 3:00 a.m. fast approaching. I sighed and went back to bed, thinking about how the enemy seemed to know where I was, too. And he was bent on keeping me awake as long as he could. About a half hour later, one of the truck engines started. The driver honked five or six times as he left the parking lot. It was very annoying, but at least it was over. Can't say how much actual sleep I snuck in, but I woke up in good spirits.
I left Goldendale around 9:00 a.m., after refuelling. The sky was a piercing blue and the temperature was about 8C, a welcome change from the cold rain that had fallen the night before. I drove through a series of mountains and saw several clusters of wind turbines. The hills were yellow, much like those in Saskatchewan this time of year, and there was a friendly blend of the foreign and familiar to fill me with a sense of comfort. Some of the mountain passes were so curvy and steep that I had to slow to 15 mph at some spots. The 97 even passed through this one community in particular that was built on the mountainside, so I was driving within feet of some people's houses. There were even three deer on the front lawn of one residence, and I was going so slow that I had a chance to see them eat a mouthful of grass. It was in this same area that I first saw fallen rocks to accompany the Rocks signs I'd seen before. I guess that beauty can be dangerous, because the landscape certainly was gorgeous. But man would it be tough to drive in the winter.
One of the most beautiful parts of the entire trip was driving near and over the Columbia River in Washington. I remember being addicted to video games before the Lord saved me, and one of my motives in spending so many hundreds of hours on such pointless media was the fact that it allowed me to vicariously visit exotic places. It dawned on me that real life could also bless a person with indescribable adventures, especially for those who serve Jesus Christ.
After a while I did start to despair a bit. The roads kept winding and it felt like I was no closer to my destination than yesterday. The map seemed to confirm this. I crossed into Oregon, which is a very cumbersome state to drive on the 97 South. The scenery just repeats itself and soon feels commonplace (though I suspect the coast is quite different and beautiful in its own right). It was cool to see a few redwoods (though not the massive ones of fame) but they hardly consoled me when I started to see snow mixed in with the rain that was falling. Isobel was telling me the temp had dipped to 2C; I had not planned on snow! [Sad face!]
I stopped in a tiny place called La Pine to fill my tank. Tried to get out and pump my own gas but the attendant said there were no self-serve stations in Oregon. I asked him if he knew how much farther it was to California, and he told me I was about two hours from Klamath Falls, which was about halfway. It was very exciting to learn that I would make it to Mount Shasta with the fuel that I had then, so I decided to stop and eat something. In homage to my childhood, I went to Dairy Queen and had a burger and fries. As I was eating my lunch, I think I overheard a woman at the next table whisper to her husband, "He looks like a Canadian." Must have been the lumberjack beard.
I was on the road again, this time with a renewed sense of purpose. Within a few hours I would fulfill a command that was given me fourteen months prior. I would, until He asked me to do something else, be right with God. I could die a free man. It was a big deal. It had been a big deal. It was here. And maybe it was in poor taste to be thinking about returning home, but for the first time I knew that I'd actually make it back to tell about this journey. It just didn't compute that perhaps God would not want these anecdotes shared. They were, as far as I could tell, the most significant thing He'd done in my life since plucking me like a burning brand from the fire.
I crossed into California. It wasn't a watershed moment. The state line was markedly not Mount Shasta--in geography and certainly in terms of my mission. But Shasta was near. The signage indicated that Weed, the closest town to Mount Shasta, was about 35 miles away. It was still raining, but it didn't matter. I did have a minor scare heading uphill when an SUV cut in front of me and flung a toonie-sized rock at my windshield. It was so big that I could see it from several feet out and I had enough time to cringe at the massive dent it would inflict in my windshield. God being as faithful as He is, it must have hit my [moving!] wiper blade because there wasn't even a scratch! I thought this was a pretty cool gesture on God's part. Though I know He sends angels to protect and encourage, they had done me a real solid in His name and I praised Jesus for His constant gaze and concern.
As I drove through Weed, California, the first significant settlement coming down the 97 South, I was elated to drive past several churches. It made me think the Lemurian garbage Laura and I had read about was just some special interest mumbo jumb. Besides, websites are pretty cheap nowadays and any nut can create one with the software that's available. Maybe I was being blessed with a spiritual retreat that would ignite a flame under me for the rest of my life and give me a renewed interest in my studies. Maybe I would see some powerful miracles. Maybe God had just set Mount Shasta on fire and wanted to use her people to teach and show me some cool things. If Weed was any preview, then that was surely to be the case. This thought freed me to enjoy the mountains on all sides, which were quite pretty. Not worthy of worship, but it was an aesthetically wonderful place to be.
Turns out, however, that Mount Shasta was a spiritual minefield.
Mileage: 2530 km
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Road to Shasta (Day 2)
23 October 2010
Day 2 was a heavy driving day, but just because I spent most of it in the car it didn't preclude God from speaking to me through various means. I left Great Falls as soon as it was light outside and continued down the 15 to Helena, the capital of Montana. On my way out of the city I stopped at a gas station and refuelled, seeing as I was way too exhausted and overwhelmed to do it the preceding evening. I also bought some salted almonds for the trip. (Got to have protein, baby!) I asked the gentleman cashier how long it would take me to get to Spokane, and he quoted a time and then told me not to pronounce a hard A in the second syllable because it made me sound like I was from the east. I smiled and told him that I was an easterner. It was a pleasant dialogue, though. I should also mention that, except perhaps for two people, everyone I encountered on my trip was nice and genuine. Some people in Canada have a stigma about Americans that simply doesn't reflect the truth. They are a very industrious and welcoming people, but, like everyone, they need Jesus.
Anyway, the road to Helena was a very special drive for me, during which I fell in love with this state. Being from the east coast, a lot of the Midwestern and western states seemed to mesh together in all cognitive images I'd seen from this part of the continent, but I can honestly say I would not lament if the Lord ever calls me to live and minister in Montana. The drive was pleasant all the way to Helena, but very mountainous. I imagined to myself that I would hate do travel that way during winter, seeing as there were many slopes with steep inclines.
As I approached the town of Helena, I decided that I would stop for a quick break, not that it was late in the day by any means. I tended to avoid cities, but since it was Saturday the traffic was quite thin, so I didn't think there would be any bumper to bumper action that would just leech time away from interstate travel. The road from the north seemed to run along the eastern perimeter of the city, and the first part I beheld was mostly residential. I was very encouraged to see a billboard with John 14:6 just outside the first exit into the city core.
When I got to Helena I followed a commercial street until I saw a little coffee hut that was not quite the size of my dorm room. They seem to have these throughout the states I visited, and it's cool that you can just drive up to them and get specialty coffees. I purchased an Americano with a flavour shot of white chocolate and asked the friendly girls who worked there how to get to Spokane (I pronounced properly this time!). They told me how to get to "malfunction junction" and how to get onto the 12/287, which saved me from having to dip south into Butte. From there I headed west on the I-90 toward Spokane, eating my almonds and drinking my Americano and praising God in song and prayer.
I stopped in Missoula for lunch because I didn't want to fall into the habit of missing meals while I was driving for such extended periods. There was this quaint little restaurant near a truck stop of the highway, so I went in and had a turkey and swiss sandwich with fries. It came with some pretty sweet apricot dipping sauce, and the waitresses were very nice and helpful in terms of suggesting which route to follow to get to Mount Shasta. I wound up not taking their advice and continuing toward Spokane instead of backtracking to Helena and heading south (though I would use this route to get back home).
En route to Spokane I passed through a town called Coeur d'Alene. I noticed an electric sign that paraphrased a few verses from Psalm 112, "The man who fears the Lord never fears bad news." I thought to myself that I hoped it wasn't an omen that foreshadowed some calamity ahead.
Spokane was very busy but seemed like a beautiful city. I drove through it and stopped at a Shell station just outside the western limit of the city. I consulted my map and decided to continue toward a city called Ellensburg, which seemed to intersect the 97 (a highway that went right to Mount Shasta). There was a man with a backpack who was wandering about the store, and he asked me if I could take him into the city, adding that he had barely missed the bus into town. I told him that I wished I could help but I was actually headed to California, and he replied that he didn't want to take me so far out of my way and hoped to go there too some day. In hindsight I kind of wonder if I shouldn't have been in such a rush to move to my destinations (cf. Heb 13:2), but I really didn't want to end up in the middle of Spokane and have to retrace my steps. Still, had I not been travelling alone I think I would have been more open to random detours. I know these are all excuses, but it's too late to change what happened, so I digress.
I felt led to stop again before getting to Ellensburg, so I pulled into a town called Ritzville, where I bought a banana, some protein bars, and some sesame seed crackers (trying to eat somewhat healthy in light of all the energy drinks I'd been consuming). I asked the woman at the counter for her opinion as to how I should get to the 97, and she indicated that she usually went south on the 395 down to "the tri-city area," which didn't interest me at all. It was nigh dinnertime and I figured that a cluster of cities would yield nothing but rush hour traffic to contend with. I continued west on the I-90 and felt convicted to stop again at a town called Quincy. There the Lord directed me to someone who advised me to take a certain road that allowed me to bypass Ellensburg, which seemed sizeable enough to slow me down. I drove through the city of Yakima, trying to read the signs and watch the road, which proved difficult because the sun was setting fast. Just outside of Yakima there was a weird junction that I missed and wound up heading east instead of south. I caught on to this fact maybe 10 miles down the road and pulled a U-turn in a two-lane highway that was flanked by cornfields, retreated back to the junction and finally found myself on the road to Mount Shasta.
The Lord deserves a special praise note here. He had encouraged me to gas up in Quincy, and I discovered by the end of the night that if I had not done so I might not have had enough in my tank to reach my destination for the evening. It was a weird situation when I got onto the 97 because the only services available were over 50 miles apart. And I was driving this mountainous highway in the dark. Oh yeah, and it was raining so the asphalt was reflecting and refracting every light to the point that they were almost blinding. Anyway, the signs kept suggesting that a town called Goldendale would be a suitable place to bunk up for the night, so when I finally reached this town I pulled off the highway and stopped at the first motel I could find.
I went up to my room and ate some of the items I had bought in Ritzville (I had been too focused on the road to eat anything in transit). It was a nice evening, but I was feeling the weight of the two days I'd been on the road. I went to bed quite early, after reading a chapter in Mounce about demonstrative pronouns, which didn't register at all.
I was reminded of this passage several times on day 2: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight" (Prov 3:5-6). He had. Many times.
Mileage: 1932 km
Day 2 was a heavy driving day, but just because I spent most of it in the car it didn't preclude God from speaking to me through various means. I left Great Falls as soon as it was light outside and continued down the 15 to Helena, the capital of Montana. On my way out of the city I stopped at a gas station and refuelled, seeing as I was way too exhausted and overwhelmed to do it the preceding evening. I also bought some salted almonds for the trip. (Got to have protein, baby!) I asked the gentleman cashier how long it would take me to get to Spokane, and he quoted a time and then told me not to pronounce a hard A in the second syllable because it made me sound like I was from the east. I smiled and told him that I was an easterner. It was a pleasant dialogue, though. I should also mention that, except perhaps for two people, everyone I encountered on my trip was nice and genuine. Some people in Canada have a stigma about Americans that simply doesn't reflect the truth. They are a very industrious and welcoming people, but, like everyone, they need Jesus.
Anyway, the road to Helena was a very special drive for me, during which I fell in love with this state. Being from the east coast, a lot of the Midwestern and western states seemed to mesh together in all cognitive images I'd seen from this part of the continent, but I can honestly say I would not lament if the Lord ever calls me to live and minister in Montana. The drive was pleasant all the way to Helena, but very mountainous. I imagined to myself that I would hate do travel that way during winter, seeing as there were many slopes with steep inclines.
As I approached the town of Helena, I decided that I would stop for a quick break, not that it was late in the day by any means. I tended to avoid cities, but since it was Saturday the traffic was quite thin, so I didn't think there would be any bumper to bumper action that would just leech time away from interstate travel. The road from the north seemed to run along the eastern perimeter of the city, and the first part I beheld was mostly residential. I was very encouraged to see a billboard with John 14:6 just outside the first exit into the city core.
When I got to Helena I followed a commercial street until I saw a little coffee hut that was not quite the size of my dorm room. They seem to have these throughout the states I visited, and it's cool that you can just drive up to them and get specialty coffees. I purchased an Americano with a flavour shot of white chocolate and asked the friendly girls who worked there how to get to Spokane (I pronounced properly this time!). They told me how to get to "malfunction junction" and how to get onto the 12/287, which saved me from having to dip south into Butte. From there I headed west on the I-90 toward Spokane, eating my almonds and drinking my Americano and praising God in song and prayer.
I stopped in Missoula for lunch because I didn't want to fall into the habit of missing meals while I was driving for such extended periods. There was this quaint little restaurant near a truck stop of the highway, so I went in and had a turkey and swiss sandwich with fries. It came with some pretty sweet apricot dipping sauce, and the waitresses were very nice and helpful in terms of suggesting which route to follow to get to Mount Shasta. I wound up not taking their advice and continuing toward Spokane instead of backtracking to Helena and heading south (though I would use this route to get back home).
En route to Spokane I passed through a town called Coeur d'Alene. I noticed an electric sign that paraphrased a few verses from Psalm 112, "The man who fears the Lord never fears bad news." I thought to myself that I hoped it wasn't an omen that foreshadowed some calamity ahead.
Spokane was very busy but seemed like a beautiful city. I drove through it and stopped at a Shell station just outside the western limit of the city. I consulted my map and decided to continue toward a city called Ellensburg, which seemed to intersect the 97 (a highway that went right to Mount Shasta). There was a man with a backpack who was wandering about the store, and he asked me if I could take him into the city, adding that he had barely missed the bus into town. I told him that I wished I could help but I was actually headed to California, and he replied that he didn't want to take me so far out of my way and hoped to go there too some day. In hindsight I kind of wonder if I shouldn't have been in such a rush to move to my destinations (cf. Heb 13:2), but I really didn't want to end up in the middle of Spokane and have to retrace my steps. Still, had I not been travelling alone I think I would have been more open to random detours. I know these are all excuses, but it's too late to change what happened, so I digress.
I felt led to stop again before getting to Ellensburg, so I pulled into a town called Ritzville, where I bought a banana, some protein bars, and some sesame seed crackers (trying to eat somewhat healthy in light of all the energy drinks I'd been consuming). I asked the woman at the counter for her opinion as to how I should get to the 97, and she indicated that she usually went south on the 395 down to "the tri-city area," which didn't interest me at all. It was nigh dinnertime and I figured that a cluster of cities would yield nothing but rush hour traffic to contend with. I continued west on the I-90 and felt convicted to stop again at a town called Quincy. There the Lord directed me to someone who advised me to take a certain road that allowed me to bypass Ellensburg, which seemed sizeable enough to slow me down. I drove through the city of Yakima, trying to read the signs and watch the road, which proved difficult because the sun was setting fast. Just outside of Yakima there was a weird junction that I missed and wound up heading east instead of south. I caught on to this fact maybe 10 miles down the road and pulled a U-turn in a two-lane highway that was flanked by cornfields, retreated back to the junction and finally found myself on the road to Mount Shasta.
The Lord deserves a special praise note here. He had encouraged me to gas up in Quincy, and I discovered by the end of the night that if I had not done so I might not have had enough in my tank to reach my destination for the evening. It was a weird situation when I got onto the 97 because the only services available were over 50 miles apart. And I was driving this mountainous highway in the dark. Oh yeah, and it was raining so the asphalt was reflecting and refracting every light to the point that they were almost blinding. Anyway, the signs kept suggesting that a town called Goldendale would be a suitable place to bunk up for the night, so when I finally reached this town I pulled off the highway and stopped at the first motel I could find.
I went up to my room and ate some of the items I had bought in Ritzville (I had been too focused on the road to eat anything in transit). It was a nice evening, but I was feeling the weight of the two days I'd been on the road. I went to bed quite early, after reading a chapter in Mounce about demonstrative pronouns, which didn't register at all.
I was reminded of this passage several times on day 2: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight" (Prov 3:5-6). He had. Many times.
Mileage: 1932 km
The Road to Shasta (Day 1)
22 October 2010 (11:00 a.m.)
I think I had set my alarm for 7:30, but I slept in until 9:30. The Lord has still kept me from sinning against my body, but purity comes with the cost of lost sleep some nights. It had been one of those nights where my skin crawled, but I didn't want to risk grieving the Spirit or inhibiting the Lord's provision by setting a barrier between us, so I lay awake into the wee hours contemplating how afraid I was to actually leave. He assured me that He is faithful to those who obey, and I think I fell asleep somewhere around the 2:30 to 3:00 range.
I woke up and showered. It felt like the last moment of peace before I decisive battle, or as much as I imagine such an experience would feel like. My roommate Erik shared a protein shake with me because I needed a quick breakfast on account of how late in the day I was leaving.
I started to pack a few things: toothbrush, ginch, clothes suitable to different climates (because I would pass through several), and my Greek textbooks. I said goodbye to a few people. Laura had graciously prepared a packed lunch for me so I wouldn't need to stop to eat.
Erik prayed over me and Isobel (my Corolla) and I started the engine. My gas gauge was broaching on E, so I stopped at the Pilgrim Centre to refuel. I stared out at the same horizon I had looked at in April and listened to see if God would give me any insight as to whether it was the last time I was seeing it. Some people had commented in the days leading up to this one that I might not even make it to Mount Shasta. I wasn't so concerned about that. God had called me there and confirmed it through many agents. So I had faith in the first leg of the journey. But He wasn't giving me any insight into the second--if there was to be one. I pulled onto the highway and headed west. To this point I still had no travel insurance (and wasn't to get any), no cash, and no route planned. But there I was, off to a place that would be shown me. It occurred to me that, aside from my doubts and fears and hesitations, this was actually pretty cool!
Driving through the prairies was very calming and therapeutic. God had been working in me in that I started to value his children more than knowledge, and I had already been spending much more time with the church this year as compared to last. Discipleship was so much more enriching than the pursuit of knowledge, and it was starting to feel like schoolwork was an afterthought--and, if I can be so bold, something of a bane to work through. It felt strangely dead this semester. I wasn't interested in minutiae or trivia anymore. I wanted to minister. And I was a little giddy about the fact that it was too late to turn back and bring schoolwork with me to the United States. (I don't count Greek as work, for the record.)
I reached Medicine Hat around 2:00 and made what I felt was a wrong turn left onto Dunmore Road but found out that it had been a time saver when it took me right around the city, bypassing all the congested traffic, to the west side of the town. I gassed up near the southern limit of the city and continued on my merry way toward Lord knew where.
By the time I reached the town of Coaldale, AB I was getting nervous about not having any gas or food money for the other side of the border. I came to this particular intersection and the light turned red, and I thought it was a blessing because it gave me a moment to think of what to do next. Within seconds of deciding to find a bank, I turned my head to the left and saw a Scotiabank branch and took it as a confirmation that maybe I should get over my Abraham complex and just get some cash. I withdrew as much as I thought I'd need for the first few days and approached the teller to have it exchanged for US currency. The Lord has a way of granting favour to His servants, and they told me that they don't usually have enough by Thursday but today was an exception. I don't think they even charged me a fee for exchanging it, which was pretty awesome. What was especially helpful was the advice they gave me about a shortcut to the border crossing at Coutts, which I chose to follow. It felt like a divine appointment inasmuch as I hadn't planned to take that road but a stranger was telling me to do so. Such encounters would become so commonplace on my trip that it would be easy to neglect how the Lord was in the midst of these things.
After getting the money I darted across the street to the 7-eleven, where I purchased a few maps and some energy drinks (which I had given up, but I didn't want to fall asleep driving...).
It occurred to me about 30 minutes from Coutts that I couldn't bring a lot of the stuff Laura packed across the border on account of the laws about fruits and vegetables. So I started packing away as much food as I could because I didn't want to waste any, but I ended up having to dispose of some of it. As I pored through the things she prepared, I glorified God in speech and worship and asked Him to give her a special blessing for her effort. Maybe I shouldn't mention this out of respect for her generosity, but I want God to get the credit for having used such a genuine and obedient daughter of his to help me out in a time when I didn't have the presence of mind to think of meals.
I was able to cross the border even though the customs agent seemed a little perplexed at my responses to his questions. He also pointed out that I had neglected to sign my passport, which rendered it invalid. In any case, I was into the U.S. and started heading south on the 15. The signs suggested Great Falls was a few hours away, and I figured I still had enough daylight to get there. The skies were clear, the rolling hills were familiar for a time but gradually gave way to the beginnings of a certain mountain range. I went up these pretty steep inclines that went for several kilometres and then down similar slopes. It was just so surreal to see some of cliffs in the distance. The scenery started to seem less Canadian and it became evident that I was not home anymore. But what was home, anyway? I had come to think that God was the only hope I'd ever have, and this adventure was substantiating that premise.
Night fell and I continued on my course to Great Falls. By the time I reached the home stretch and passed over the last incline between me and the city it was legit nighttime. It was quite dramatic to see this expanse of street lights and billboards just open up in front of me, kind of like Leviathan was emerging from the frigid depths. I got incredibly lost in the city. I was so exhausted and had no clue where I was going. I wound up in the middle of this ghetto and started to bark at the Lord about how I didn't know where I was but He did and could He please find me a place to stay. After meandering for about 20 minutes I wound up pulling into the first motel I saw. It just so happened it was on the very street I needed to be on to get out of the city the following morning. I had a bit to eat and read for a few minutes but then just gave up on trying to study Greek. I thanked the Lord for who He was and all He'd done on my behalf that day. I fell asleep very much in love with Him that night.
Mileage: 830 km
I think I had set my alarm for 7:30, but I slept in until 9:30. The Lord has still kept me from sinning against my body, but purity comes with the cost of lost sleep some nights. It had been one of those nights where my skin crawled, but I didn't want to risk grieving the Spirit or inhibiting the Lord's provision by setting a barrier between us, so I lay awake into the wee hours contemplating how afraid I was to actually leave. He assured me that He is faithful to those who obey, and I think I fell asleep somewhere around the 2:30 to 3:00 range.
I woke up and showered. It felt like the last moment of peace before I decisive battle, or as much as I imagine such an experience would feel like. My roommate Erik shared a protein shake with me because I needed a quick breakfast on account of how late in the day I was leaving.
I started to pack a few things: toothbrush, ginch, clothes suitable to different climates (because I would pass through several), and my Greek textbooks. I said goodbye to a few people. Laura had graciously prepared a packed lunch for me so I wouldn't need to stop to eat.
Erik prayed over me and Isobel (my Corolla) and I started the engine. My gas gauge was broaching on E, so I stopped at the Pilgrim Centre to refuel. I stared out at the same horizon I had looked at in April and listened to see if God would give me any insight as to whether it was the last time I was seeing it. Some people had commented in the days leading up to this one that I might not even make it to Mount Shasta. I wasn't so concerned about that. God had called me there and confirmed it through many agents. So I had faith in the first leg of the journey. But He wasn't giving me any insight into the second--if there was to be one. I pulled onto the highway and headed west. To this point I still had no travel insurance (and wasn't to get any), no cash, and no route planned. But there I was, off to a place that would be shown me. It occurred to me that, aside from my doubts and fears and hesitations, this was actually pretty cool!
Driving through the prairies was very calming and therapeutic. God had been working in me in that I started to value his children more than knowledge, and I had already been spending much more time with the church this year as compared to last. Discipleship was so much more enriching than the pursuit of knowledge, and it was starting to feel like schoolwork was an afterthought--and, if I can be so bold, something of a bane to work through. It felt strangely dead this semester. I wasn't interested in minutiae or trivia anymore. I wanted to minister. And I was a little giddy about the fact that it was too late to turn back and bring schoolwork with me to the United States. (I don't count Greek as work, for the record.)
I reached Medicine Hat around 2:00 and made what I felt was a wrong turn left onto Dunmore Road but found out that it had been a time saver when it took me right around the city, bypassing all the congested traffic, to the west side of the town. I gassed up near the southern limit of the city and continued on my merry way toward Lord knew where.
By the time I reached the town of Coaldale, AB I was getting nervous about not having any gas or food money for the other side of the border. I came to this particular intersection and the light turned red, and I thought it was a blessing because it gave me a moment to think of what to do next. Within seconds of deciding to find a bank, I turned my head to the left and saw a Scotiabank branch and took it as a confirmation that maybe I should get over my Abraham complex and just get some cash. I withdrew as much as I thought I'd need for the first few days and approached the teller to have it exchanged for US currency. The Lord has a way of granting favour to His servants, and they told me that they don't usually have enough by Thursday but today was an exception. I don't think they even charged me a fee for exchanging it, which was pretty awesome. What was especially helpful was the advice they gave me about a shortcut to the border crossing at Coutts, which I chose to follow. It felt like a divine appointment inasmuch as I hadn't planned to take that road but a stranger was telling me to do so. Such encounters would become so commonplace on my trip that it would be easy to neglect how the Lord was in the midst of these things.
After getting the money I darted across the street to the 7-eleven, where I purchased a few maps and some energy drinks (which I had given up, but I didn't want to fall asleep driving...).
It occurred to me about 30 minutes from Coutts that I couldn't bring a lot of the stuff Laura packed across the border on account of the laws about fruits and vegetables. So I started packing away as much food as I could because I didn't want to waste any, but I ended up having to dispose of some of it. As I pored through the things she prepared, I glorified God in speech and worship and asked Him to give her a special blessing for her effort. Maybe I shouldn't mention this out of respect for her generosity, but I want God to get the credit for having used such a genuine and obedient daughter of his to help me out in a time when I didn't have the presence of mind to think of meals.
I was able to cross the border even though the customs agent seemed a little perplexed at my responses to his questions. He also pointed out that I had neglected to sign my passport, which rendered it invalid. In any case, I was into the U.S. and started heading south on the 15. The signs suggested Great Falls was a few hours away, and I figured I still had enough daylight to get there. The skies were clear, the rolling hills were familiar for a time but gradually gave way to the beginnings of a certain mountain range. I went up these pretty steep inclines that went for several kilometres and then down similar slopes. It was just so surreal to see some of cliffs in the distance. The scenery started to seem less Canadian and it became evident that I was not home anymore. But what was home, anyway? I had come to think that God was the only hope I'd ever have, and this adventure was substantiating that premise.
Night fell and I continued on my course to Great Falls. By the time I reached the home stretch and passed over the last incline between me and the city it was legit nighttime. It was quite dramatic to see this expanse of street lights and billboards just open up in front of me, kind of like Leviathan was emerging from the frigid depths. I got incredibly lost in the city. I was so exhausted and had no clue where I was going. I wound up in the middle of this ghetto and started to bark at the Lord about how I didn't know where I was but He did and could He please find me a place to stay. After meandering for about 20 minutes I wound up pulling into the first motel I saw. It just so happened it was on the very street I needed to be on to get out of the city the following morning. I had a bit to eat and read for a few minutes but then just gave up on trying to study Greek. I thanked the Lord for who He was and all He'd done on my behalf that day. I fell asleep very much in love with Him that night.
Mileage: 830 km
The Call to Mount Shasta (part 2)
I feel a burden to write all this stuff while it's fresh in my mind. We humans are so forgetful and prone to sin that I imagine I will need to revisit these posts at many points in the journey as a reminder of what God has done for me. I don't assume that this stuff is of interest to anyone else--though I hope the next series of posts will be, seeing as they will contain more testimony than personal items. That said, I feel it's important for the sake of the testimonies themselves to establish a bit of context.
It is no small thing to leave the comfort of my dorm and drive to California. I really covet the time I get to spend with my dorm mates (brothers and sisters), and I consider it a great sacrifice to have forfeited conversations and moments that took place in my absence. Yet, if one really wishes to affirm that Jesus is Lord, one needs to submit to His lordship and respond to Him. I grant that I only did so fourteen months later, but I hope in His sovereignty that He told me what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it so as to bring about the outcomes He desired. Looking back on the past week, I feel this was indeed the case. But as I noted above, I need to place these events within the scope of the last ten months.
I have several times remarked to God that this has been the absolute worst year of my life. He consistently responded that He would redeem it. The significance of what happened on the road and in conversation with the people I met is so much greater than face value would suggest. I hope the paltry summary I write below will enlighten this fact a little.
I wrote in an earlier post how God healed me of Celiac disease. I don't think I mentioned that said healing was about ten years in the waiting. It was only diagnosed in 2006 but I had been experiencing digestive issues since age 18 or so. But I had never experienced the kind of illness that afflicted me between January and May of this year. Being sick every day affects a person's quality of life, but when it has to do with digestion it can also restrict a person's mobility. There were two days in February that stand out in my memory and define the state of mind (and attitude) I had regarding my ailment.
The first happened on the Day of Prayer, a day our school sets aside once a semester when the entire student body devotes themselves to worship and prayer during class hours. I remember anticipating that day with the earnest belief and hope that, if only for one day, the Lord would grant me grace enough to worship Him without the distraction of constantly having to use the washroom. I participated in the morning activities and felt that I had adequate continence to do the second half, but as soon as I got home for lunch break I was suddenly stricken with the worst abdominal cramps. I wound up spending the next few hours lying on my stomach in bed (I couldn't rest on my back because even contact with my mattress applied enough pressure to my rectum that it frustrated the pain that resulted from frequent wiping). I returned to the worship activities just as they were ending and discovered that one of my best friends in the world, Ken Oginga, who I imagine will be a household name in Christian circles one day, was leading the entire school in song. The whole event had such a special international appeal that just oozed with unity and you could just see the global church manifesting in our sanctuary. And I missed it. I was so mad at the Lord for what I perceived as His failure to equip me to worship Him. This left me with a sour taste that led me to curse Him out several days later when I was in the washroom having another episode. I told Him that I would never answer any call that required me to leave my immediate surroundings because I wasn't even comfortable in my own house, let alone in a circumstance where I was distant from "home base." So I told Him I would surely refuse Him if He ever wanted to send me into any kind of missionary field, domestic or foreign. I uttered some other choice words, and as soon as I had finished cursing Him my body just seized up with every kind of pain I could remember having experienced: I had asthma as a child, and my lungs got tight; my back was suddenly crippled again; I had pains in my chest; and so on. It never occurred to me that I should consult a doctor because He was so evidently disciplining me for my blasphemies. As odd as this may sound to nonbelievers (and perhaps some believers), I got the impression even then that it was an act of love, that He wasn't willing to let me heap up sins so overtly. But I didn't want a reminder of His love; I wanted to be whole again.
As difficult and discouraging as it was to deal with the above, my health was like a year-old lamb without defect compared to my spiritual life. I had no discipline in prayer, nor did I desire any. God had become a burden to me. It seemed, in my disillusioned state, that things had been so much better back when I was suicidal drug addict. This started to turn around in March when my health got so bad that I couldn't maintain my intense study habits anymore and finally admitted that things were spiralling out of control. I surrendered to the fact that I couldn't maintain the course I was pursuing, nor the course load, so I dropped a class and started making time for discipleship (pouring into others and being poured into by others). I began attending dorm events, except in extreme circumstances when I had big assignments due. My studies had so consumed me that I was spending six hours painstakingly poring through reading assignments that weren't even worth anything, sometimes averaging three pages an hour. I had become so poor at time management that when it came time to work on assignments worth 30% of my grade that I had to pump my system full of energy drinks and other stimulants just to stay awake, and it was in these times that I kept even worse hours and sleeping patterns than had been my awful norm. But God told me in no uncertain terms that He wasn't pleased with my motives and told me to stop crediting Him with a GPA I had gotten at the expense of my desire to pursue Him.
So yeah, things started to improve. I even shared my feelings with someone I'd been developing a crush on since September, and I hadn't expressed such things to a woman since 2000. I chose to spend time with her (and many others), even though it meant I wouldn't have time to complete all the assignments that I was supposed to turn in for a modular class at the end of April (something I still don't regret to this day). In spite of dropping an assignment worth 15%, I still pulled a B in the class. There was something therapeutic and liberating about no longer having to maintain a perfect GPA, which success had been a source of unhealthy and unnecessary pressure I had put on myself. So it seemed that my proverbial morning was dawning. (See notes A and B pasted at the bottom of this post, which were originally published to Facebook during this time, and which I include here as an appendix that describes a gradual shift in my state of mind.)
As planned, I went home for the summer, but I had an odd feeling about it. In accepting the call to Bible college, I was leaving a church setting that met every Sunday for corporate worship and in which I was involved in a few ministries. I will never accept the way my church in Nova Scotia breaks regular ministries during the summer months, but I understand the necessity insomuch as the attitude of most attendants seems to be one of paying the pastoral staff to handle the affairs of God. This is the only way I can explain the fact that I observe 20% of the people carrying 80% of the burden. To go from this to being immersed in a living, active community, especially the dorm, was like going from the desert to paridise. The thought of making the opposite transition, however, from constant ministry support to regular life, struck me as a dangerous thing. And this is what I had to face as the time drew near for me to go back east. I don't know if it was intuition or educated fear, but I had a sense when I boarded the plane in Regina that I was stepping into a spiritual minefield. I was right.
It's hard to describe spiritual warfare, but I imagine it's the emotion that would sweep over a sentient mouse just as a cat is about to plunge her claws into the mouse's side. I imagine spiritual warfare is comparable to the fear that would fill its heart and mind as the she scoops it into her mouth to bite its head off. Only death never comes and this oppressive feeling gets sustained like a chord played on a synthesizer. In my case, it started as I landed and in Halifax and was a constant one throughout the summer. I had conceived a plan to prepare Sunday school lessons for the fall, but this motive quickly turned into self-loathing and extreme depression and fear and loneliness. I remember consecutive days of insomnia during which I would lay in bed all night getting pummelled with dark thought after dark thought, praying them away and rebuking them in the name of Christ. But they remained. The demonic presences were so real it felt like I could touch them. One time I awoke from a dead sleep convinced I had heard a lion roaring in my room and that I would, like the mouse, die upon waking. But then I opened my eyes and it was just the dead of night. There was nothing visible in my room, but I had a sense of disappointment in knowing I was still in this world and that I would face more such encounters. I became aware of how much the enemy hates the Lord and all who presume to pursue Him. I shared this stuff with any sympathetic ear I could find, but the few hours that people could spare did little to alleviate the fact that these guys were just pounding me into dust when no one's schedule would align with mine. But, unlike fleshly creatures, they don't get exhausted of the war and they don't need to rest from the onslaught they consistently fling at God's children like a monkey throwing a handful of its own feces. And much as I don't know why I've slipped into animal imagery, I find it so appropriate in describing the evil that confronted me all summer. They never left me alone. I could do nothing but watch as their propaganda burrowed into my consciousness to the point that I started to believe lies about myself and others, and it wasn't long before I was embracing old sins back into my life, such as pornography. Then relationships with friends and pastors began to crumble because my worldview had become so disturbingly twisted. And I was acting on it. And speaking it liberally. And I walked around with a drawn sword ready to be plunged into a church that had failed me. God, as you might imagine, is quite defensive of His bride. I was in many ways His enemy. That's the James who returned to Briercrest in September. I don't know to what extent I was lost, but I was certainly losing the battle. Satan, it seemed, was about to restore to his trophy shelf the lamb that had been plucked from it in 2007.
September was certainly the hardest month in memory. All summer I had told people that I longed to return to school, where I could walk down the hall and find someone to pray with. I should mention that a few people had made a genuine effort to see me through this time, but when I finally got back to Caronport all the life I had once felt inside had been leeched from me. The time of relief had come, but I had no desire to know the Lord or serve Him. I told Him several times to go away. At first in my mind but then out loud. My roommate Erik listened to me break down and rant just about every day during the first few weeks of school. One morning I was so broken that I had to skip class because I was such an emotional wreck. I remember wanting to just leave this place and find some mountain somewhere. School was my Jezebel and I wanted to pull an Elijah. Ironically, there was a sense in which I was, against my own will, saying the sort of thing Caiaphas did when he suggested it would be better for Jesus to die for the nation. I had intimated that I wanted to find a mountain, and God was nodding approvingly. "Yes, James, go to the mountain."
Toward the end of September I started to feel a change of heart. I noticed God was using my brokenness to minister to others. I suddenly had less of an attitude problem. I realized I had espoused some kind of superiority complex about the knowledge I'd gained, and it left me cold. I genuinely felt the pain of those who were going through painful experiences. The book of Second Corinthians became so poignant for me. So real. Unlike last year, I participated in an annual missionary conference our school hosts every fall. I developed a passion for the third world and had a strong desire to bring my teaching ministry to them. I got the impression in speaking with missionaries that, although it is difficult to move overseas, people in less materialistic cultures have a way of appreciating the few things God gives them. All the images I saw of them worshipping the Lord just looked so pure and uninhibited by selfish tendencies that come so naturally to Westerners. So I started telling people, and believing, that I would go to some impoverished nation and bring as much learning as I could to people who lack the resources we have here.
On 4 October, Erik convicted me about some sins that I hadn't dealt with. He prayed over me, asking Jesus to make it so that I had committed them for the last time. The very next day, a missionary from Jordan, whom God sent to Caronport to minister to Canadians, prayed with me after chapel and quoted a verse I had come across the night before in my studies: Isaiah 43:18-22. She had received a phone call that morning from the wife of the main speaker at the missions conference. This woman had prayed that she would help just one person that day. She spoke many prophetic things to me about footholds I had given the enemy and asked Jesus to bind my demons.
As I write this, I proclaim with fear and trembling that God has since kept me free from the sins that entangled me this summer. But it wasn't without the loss of sleep that He kept me pure. I have been without an outlet for certain pent up urges, but I have felt closer to Him in the process. It was within the context of all the above, and so many other details that I wish I could share (but are too numerous to include here), that I was reminded on 8 October that I still owed God a leap of faith in response to something He had powerfully confirmed fourteen months earlier: I never did go to Mount Shasta. It dawned on me that, unlike last year, I had a passport now. Unlike last year, I had my car in Caronport. For some reason, Student Loans had given me more than I needed for this year's expenses. Things woulnd't be so tight. He had provided. So I made the decision to obey. It seemed illogical and weird. So unlike me. But He had reduced me to ashes (or allowed it to happen to me) and was building me up again. How could I not go? It occurred to me that all the demons I had faced in the preceding nine months might have been a means of preparing me to do an even harder thing than suffer spiritual oppression, something that was so beyond my comfort zone that the very thought of responding filled me with a sense of anxiety. And awe. Part of me was dying, and it was getting louder and louder, pleading with me not to allow Him to put it to death. But the point was that I had said I would go. To not do so seemed even more risky (cf. Matt 21:28-31).
So I started to share with select people the plans that were beginning to hatch. I was confident that I would make it to Mount Shasta alive, but Jesus never said anything about making it back. I received so many weird confirmations after making the decision, though. I told a friend on 10 October that I felt like coming to Saskatchewan was like leaving Chaldea for Haran and that the trip to Shasta was like my Bethel. Then on 12 October, during the very next chapel session, the school chaplain read the story of Jacob in Genesis 28. I started to notice weird things that God was doing in my life as typologically represented in the Bible. I was Jacob. The name James derives from Jacob. It means "he supplants." Coupled with my second name, my identity reads "he supplants [or takes] a gift from God." I wasn't just Jacob; I was double Jacob. And little did I know I was about to engage God in one serious wrestling match.
There are other confirmations that were kind of cool. How the loonie reached parity with the US dollar in the days leading up to my trip. The words and people who met me in the midst of this approaching behemoth of an experience. It's been a wild ride, for sure. There is a sense in which the story of the redemption of James Wood began with all the above, and there is also a sense in which it began when Erik and Shami prayed over me. Day of Prayer was amazing this fall. So many godincidences have overtaken me recently. The Lord showed up. It was time I put my faith into practice.
But when I look back on things, they all seem to point to this trip to Mount Shasta. God was calling me into the desert, and He knew that I would face many demons there. Bigger ones than had afflicted me during the summer. Bigger ones than had enticed me to try to kill myself in 2002. Bigger ones than I knew existed. So He anointed me and, against my own will, sent me west at 11:00 a.m. on 22 October 2010. I had tried to secure travel insurance and had failed. I didn't have any American money on my person. I didn't have a map. I had never undertaken anything comparable to this. This was beyond me. My giftings wouldn't help me. It was going to be nothing but me and the Lord. This is the story of how I handed my life over to Him, and it's the story of how He gave it back.
(Tedashii: "I Make War")
NOTE A:
Even the birds were praying for me.
I had such a peace as I lay in bed, like a seagull gliding on the currents, having bid the land adieu. The horizon ever summoning but always the same distance away. For the first time in life I felt truly surrendered. My thoughts, usually so cacophonous, normally rush hour in space, just congealed into a gelatine awareness of myself. Like walking that razor's edge between death's lonely sting and the spread of the toxins. No more fears, no more desires. Just. Peace. My eyes were glazed over, probably. All's I knew, my vision had that soap opera tint. Glowy. I still had Jehoram's curse on me, but suddenly it felt like God was about to roll the credits on my life and just release me from the battles of flesh and mind. How else could they have ceased, bleeding so effervescently into... peace. This prophesied new chapter of my life had just been a motive. The kind of message God places on the lips of the empathetic. I had even gotten to experience a bit of it. But it was just the kind of bait that would coax me into this very moment, having completed the story that God wrote for me. And because I knew I would meet him soon--perhaps any moment--I was wholly and perfectly stricken with peace. I wanted to post something on the web about how I owned nothing and nothing owned me. Stake your claims now, ye friends of mine. Who wants my books? My albums? My clothes? Not my ginch, though; that's disgusting.
I hadn't eaten yet. I had resolved not to. As soon as I got home from class, I excreted what felt like napalm. Sitting down, as it often had been, was my greatest foe today. I lay in bed on my stomach for the first hour at least. I flipped over and tried to sleep. Sleep, though, seemed as if it required too much energy of me, so I just lay there. Next I knew, I'd missed dinner.
The following moments were bitter. Yesterday, I went out for coffee to perk up my afternoon. When I bumped into a friend, God led me to walk the extra mile with him, letting him rant for almost three hours. It was one of those encounters that a person walks away from knowing he hasn't wasted an ounce of his time on it. One of those afternoons where the Lord was permitted to steer the whole thing. Sure, it had crept into my thoughts that I was sabotaging my Revelation paper, but, in the grand scheme, this was the Mary. So Martha was taken captive and bound. And yet, for all this willing submission, for all this service, for all this change of heart from the previous months, all I got in reward was more pain. And as I came to grips with just how sick I am, I wanted to call curses on the name Yahweh but I just handed myself over to him, and gave up. And all I got in return for that was... freedom. And peace. Freedom feels peaceful. They are irreducible. Trust me.
I went back to bed for a bit and felt this odd heartbeat of a compulsion to eat. I wasn't hungry, though. I had this image of walking to the Point in a daze and never making it back. Or making it back and having wasted a few dollars on something that doesn't matter. "Why, Lord, if I am to be called home any moment, should I indulge the hunger that my stomach has consumed?" But then it growled, so I dressed and went.
It took all my concentration to descend the stairs that face the highway. I started to feel my otherworldliness fade with every step. Something about this little jaunt was rocking my world. There was a presence about me that just didn't love me like the Lord once had. Perhaps, in my own foolishness, I had been led astray by some of the morbid visions my mental projector had conjured when I was back in the dorm. But these didn't strike me as morbid. They didn't strike me as anything. They were just images, and in my peaceful, conscious slumber, in the haze of what my existence had sublimely become, I felt absolutely nothing about them. I was dead tired, if not truly dead; a walking coma, if not a legitimate one--and the only thing that knocked me out of my living fantasy was the fact that, here it was, after sunset, and the birds were shouting at me like I had a pack of demons tracking me. Maybe, for the sake of not reading too much into things, I actually did.
When I got to the Point, I bumped into my friend, who wanted to meet me again. We arranged to meet tomorrow, which sort of suggested I might live to see it. God, it seemed, was not calling me home. I still had at least one appointment. But maybe this was just one of those tests where you get to the point of slicing Isaac's jugular and then God pulls the plug. Maybe he was just testing me to see if I would still say yes in spite of the fact that my body was vomiting me out of it like some straggler Canaanite. But then it dawned on me that, if I happened to live to see the sun again, I would prefer to rouse from my mental vacation to find I had done some research tonight. I bought a few energy drinks then approached the Subway counter.
Someone I knew from church then approached me and asked if he could pay for my dinner. This was, for lack of a better description, the most perplexing question someone could have asked me at that moment. Was God reaching out to me? That couldn't be, because it would beg the question as to who had been suggestively guiding me all stinking night. I replied that if he felt led to buy my salad, I didn't want to step on God's toes. Then he asked me a couple questions about how I was doing, but his expression said, "Dude, you look like walking death." This was just a few moments ago, and I really couldn't begin to recall what I said. So I won't try.
It turns out, though, that I had intuitively told him that we should meet for coffee sometime. The "coffee meeting," as any North American will tell you, is like the idiosyncratic, "how are you doing?" It's just something you say; isn't it? But I had said it. I know this because, after he and his wife dropped me off at Sundbo (sorry, Satan, no ambush on the way home tonight), he called the third floor payphone to make an appointment. Marshall knocked on my apartment door, and then, just as he was going to knock on my room door, I opened it. This about knocked me out of my skin. He told me the phone was for me, and I told him I hadn't given anyone the number. (Nor do I know it!)
So here's my theory. It's just a theory. I'm just a very average guy who spent most of his life coasting. I'm not going to become the president or foreign diplomat of anything. (Insert comment about the gospel, because there's always one person who doesn't have enough tact to know this is not the time to correct my theology; cf. 2 Cor 5:20). In other words, I don't need any fanfare or confetti or parade if, as I felt earlier, in sheer exhaustion, I had pretty much run out the clock. So why, then, would God be reaching out to me tonight? What happened between praying with my roommate last night, feeling like God had planted me on top of the restored Zion, and today, feeling like all my life had been absolutely leeched from me? Maybe, because he is infinitely more faithful than I realize, I was finally paying the price for all the abuse I had wrecked on my body these last 30 years, but am not really Jehoram but Hezekiah. Or maybe I'm really effing tired and imagined the whole thing. I am, as this semester has taught me, human, after all. Maybe God doesn't want to cut me from the vine, seeing as I've finally found a few reasons to embrace it.
But I will say this to all you stubborn people out there: Don't shun his first attempt, or first few attempts, to teach you something. He will come back with something much, much harder. And it just may follow you around. But he loves you enough to break you. Don't be the kind of person who needs a good pruning. As much as you can help it, of course.
NOTE B:
A few minutes ago I was walking to the local convenience store to get some food, when the Lord spoke to me really clearly. (Heh, local convenience store. That’s vaguer than I could have been, but it’s how it came out. I guess I’m halfway into a Maritime headspace again.) So I’m walking toward the highway (only takes a few minutes), and I’m being pelted with droplets. The air is so humid that the horizon looks fuzzy. Not like those cold, merciless days when the wind stuns you into a walking coma, and not like those summer days when you can see the air jostle about like it’s trying to cool itself. Nay, this is a genuine, hovering mist. (Again, I might as well be home.)
Asides aside, this place is distinctively Saskatchewan. I can see the horizon spill into itself. To stare into the distance, it’s like a mostly empty canvas God would have painted, but then He noticed it was already beautiful. And it crossed my mind that my world is about to be turned upside down for four months.
I’m reminded of Paul tonight. (But then, if anything is going to remind me of Scripture, it’s probably going to hearken the man who most messed with my thinking.) Now, I ain’t no apostle, but I know from reading about his travels that he was never at home. Ever. Once he planted a church, it became like a child to him. Having many children by the time he returned from his first missionary journey, his heart was scattered in pieces all over the dang empire. And it hit me again tonight that, from now on, no matter where I go, a piece of me doesn’t come with.
So I’m walking, and I’m wondering, and I’m acknowledging that the Lord has done a lot for me this year. I don’t need to think too far back before I don’t recognize myself. And here I am, getting rained on in the driest part of the country, and the Lord blasts me with some parting advice: “Hope.”
Yeah, I say. I know.
A second time, his frustration coming through: “Hope. Recklessly.” (If He were preaching—well, I guess He was—this is where his fist would strike something.)
Long story short: Come what may, I’m going to do my best to obey.
It is no small thing to leave the comfort of my dorm and drive to California. I really covet the time I get to spend with my dorm mates (brothers and sisters), and I consider it a great sacrifice to have forfeited conversations and moments that took place in my absence. Yet, if one really wishes to affirm that Jesus is Lord, one needs to submit to His lordship and respond to Him. I grant that I only did so fourteen months later, but I hope in His sovereignty that He told me what I needed to hear when I needed to hear it so as to bring about the outcomes He desired. Looking back on the past week, I feel this was indeed the case. But as I noted above, I need to place these events within the scope of the last ten months.
I have several times remarked to God that this has been the absolute worst year of my life. He consistently responded that He would redeem it. The significance of what happened on the road and in conversation with the people I met is so much greater than face value would suggest. I hope the paltry summary I write below will enlighten this fact a little.
I wrote in an earlier post how God healed me of Celiac disease. I don't think I mentioned that said healing was about ten years in the waiting. It was only diagnosed in 2006 but I had been experiencing digestive issues since age 18 or so. But I had never experienced the kind of illness that afflicted me between January and May of this year. Being sick every day affects a person's quality of life, but when it has to do with digestion it can also restrict a person's mobility. There were two days in February that stand out in my memory and define the state of mind (and attitude) I had regarding my ailment.
The first happened on the Day of Prayer, a day our school sets aside once a semester when the entire student body devotes themselves to worship and prayer during class hours. I remember anticipating that day with the earnest belief and hope that, if only for one day, the Lord would grant me grace enough to worship Him without the distraction of constantly having to use the washroom. I participated in the morning activities and felt that I had adequate continence to do the second half, but as soon as I got home for lunch break I was suddenly stricken with the worst abdominal cramps. I wound up spending the next few hours lying on my stomach in bed (I couldn't rest on my back because even contact with my mattress applied enough pressure to my rectum that it frustrated the pain that resulted from frequent wiping). I returned to the worship activities just as they were ending and discovered that one of my best friends in the world, Ken Oginga, who I imagine will be a household name in Christian circles one day, was leading the entire school in song. The whole event had such a special international appeal that just oozed with unity and you could just see the global church manifesting in our sanctuary. And I missed it. I was so mad at the Lord for what I perceived as His failure to equip me to worship Him. This left me with a sour taste that led me to curse Him out several days later when I was in the washroom having another episode. I told Him that I would never answer any call that required me to leave my immediate surroundings because I wasn't even comfortable in my own house, let alone in a circumstance where I was distant from "home base." So I told Him I would surely refuse Him if He ever wanted to send me into any kind of missionary field, domestic or foreign. I uttered some other choice words, and as soon as I had finished cursing Him my body just seized up with every kind of pain I could remember having experienced: I had asthma as a child, and my lungs got tight; my back was suddenly crippled again; I had pains in my chest; and so on. It never occurred to me that I should consult a doctor because He was so evidently disciplining me for my blasphemies. As odd as this may sound to nonbelievers (and perhaps some believers), I got the impression even then that it was an act of love, that He wasn't willing to let me heap up sins so overtly. But I didn't want a reminder of His love; I wanted to be whole again.
As difficult and discouraging as it was to deal with the above, my health was like a year-old lamb without defect compared to my spiritual life. I had no discipline in prayer, nor did I desire any. God had become a burden to me. It seemed, in my disillusioned state, that things had been so much better back when I was suicidal drug addict. This started to turn around in March when my health got so bad that I couldn't maintain my intense study habits anymore and finally admitted that things were spiralling out of control. I surrendered to the fact that I couldn't maintain the course I was pursuing, nor the course load, so I dropped a class and started making time for discipleship (pouring into others and being poured into by others). I began attending dorm events, except in extreme circumstances when I had big assignments due. My studies had so consumed me that I was spending six hours painstakingly poring through reading assignments that weren't even worth anything, sometimes averaging three pages an hour. I had become so poor at time management that when it came time to work on assignments worth 30% of my grade that I had to pump my system full of energy drinks and other stimulants just to stay awake, and it was in these times that I kept even worse hours and sleeping patterns than had been my awful norm. But God told me in no uncertain terms that He wasn't pleased with my motives and told me to stop crediting Him with a GPA I had gotten at the expense of my desire to pursue Him.
So yeah, things started to improve. I even shared my feelings with someone I'd been developing a crush on since September, and I hadn't expressed such things to a woman since 2000. I chose to spend time with her (and many others), even though it meant I wouldn't have time to complete all the assignments that I was supposed to turn in for a modular class at the end of April (something I still don't regret to this day). In spite of dropping an assignment worth 15%, I still pulled a B in the class. There was something therapeutic and liberating about no longer having to maintain a perfect GPA, which success had been a source of unhealthy and unnecessary pressure I had put on myself. So it seemed that my proverbial morning was dawning. (See notes A and B pasted at the bottom of this post, which were originally published to Facebook during this time, and which I include here as an appendix that describes a gradual shift in my state of mind.)
As planned, I went home for the summer, but I had an odd feeling about it. In accepting the call to Bible college, I was leaving a church setting that met every Sunday for corporate worship and in which I was involved in a few ministries. I will never accept the way my church in Nova Scotia breaks regular ministries during the summer months, but I understand the necessity insomuch as the attitude of most attendants seems to be one of paying the pastoral staff to handle the affairs of God. This is the only way I can explain the fact that I observe 20% of the people carrying 80% of the burden. To go from this to being immersed in a living, active community, especially the dorm, was like going from the desert to paridise. The thought of making the opposite transition, however, from constant ministry support to regular life, struck me as a dangerous thing. And this is what I had to face as the time drew near for me to go back east. I don't know if it was intuition or educated fear, but I had a sense when I boarded the plane in Regina that I was stepping into a spiritual minefield. I was right.
It's hard to describe spiritual warfare, but I imagine it's the emotion that would sweep over a sentient mouse just as a cat is about to plunge her claws into the mouse's side. I imagine spiritual warfare is comparable to the fear that would fill its heart and mind as the she scoops it into her mouth to bite its head off. Only death never comes and this oppressive feeling gets sustained like a chord played on a synthesizer. In my case, it started as I landed and in Halifax and was a constant one throughout the summer. I had conceived a plan to prepare Sunday school lessons for the fall, but this motive quickly turned into self-loathing and extreme depression and fear and loneliness. I remember consecutive days of insomnia during which I would lay in bed all night getting pummelled with dark thought after dark thought, praying them away and rebuking them in the name of Christ. But they remained. The demonic presences were so real it felt like I could touch them. One time I awoke from a dead sleep convinced I had heard a lion roaring in my room and that I would, like the mouse, die upon waking. But then I opened my eyes and it was just the dead of night. There was nothing visible in my room, but I had a sense of disappointment in knowing I was still in this world and that I would face more such encounters. I became aware of how much the enemy hates the Lord and all who presume to pursue Him. I shared this stuff with any sympathetic ear I could find, but the few hours that people could spare did little to alleviate the fact that these guys were just pounding me into dust when no one's schedule would align with mine. But, unlike fleshly creatures, they don't get exhausted of the war and they don't need to rest from the onslaught they consistently fling at God's children like a monkey throwing a handful of its own feces. And much as I don't know why I've slipped into animal imagery, I find it so appropriate in describing the evil that confronted me all summer. They never left me alone. I could do nothing but watch as their propaganda burrowed into my consciousness to the point that I started to believe lies about myself and others, and it wasn't long before I was embracing old sins back into my life, such as pornography. Then relationships with friends and pastors began to crumble because my worldview had become so disturbingly twisted. And I was acting on it. And speaking it liberally. And I walked around with a drawn sword ready to be plunged into a church that had failed me. God, as you might imagine, is quite defensive of His bride. I was in many ways His enemy. That's the James who returned to Briercrest in September. I don't know to what extent I was lost, but I was certainly losing the battle. Satan, it seemed, was about to restore to his trophy shelf the lamb that had been plucked from it in 2007.
September was certainly the hardest month in memory. All summer I had told people that I longed to return to school, where I could walk down the hall and find someone to pray with. I should mention that a few people had made a genuine effort to see me through this time, but when I finally got back to Caronport all the life I had once felt inside had been leeched from me. The time of relief had come, but I had no desire to know the Lord or serve Him. I told Him several times to go away. At first in my mind but then out loud. My roommate Erik listened to me break down and rant just about every day during the first few weeks of school. One morning I was so broken that I had to skip class because I was such an emotional wreck. I remember wanting to just leave this place and find some mountain somewhere. School was my Jezebel and I wanted to pull an Elijah. Ironically, there was a sense in which I was, against my own will, saying the sort of thing Caiaphas did when he suggested it would be better for Jesus to die for the nation. I had intimated that I wanted to find a mountain, and God was nodding approvingly. "Yes, James, go to the mountain."
Toward the end of September I started to feel a change of heart. I noticed God was using my brokenness to minister to others. I suddenly had less of an attitude problem. I realized I had espoused some kind of superiority complex about the knowledge I'd gained, and it left me cold. I genuinely felt the pain of those who were going through painful experiences. The book of Second Corinthians became so poignant for me. So real. Unlike last year, I participated in an annual missionary conference our school hosts every fall. I developed a passion for the third world and had a strong desire to bring my teaching ministry to them. I got the impression in speaking with missionaries that, although it is difficult to move overseas, people in less materialistic cultures have a way of appreciating the few things God gives them. All the images I saw of them worshipping the Lord just looked so pure and uninhibited by selfish tendencies that come so naturally to Westerners. So I started telling people, and believing, that I would go to some impoverished nation and bring as much learning as I could to people who lack the resources we have here.
On 4 October, Erik convicted me about some sins that I hadn't dealt with. He prayed over me, asking Jesus to make it so that I had committed them for the last time. The very next day, a missionary from Jordan, whom God sent to Caronport to minister to Canadians, prayed with me after chapel and quoted a verse I had come across the night before in my studies: Isaiah 43:18-22. She had received a phone call that morning from the wife of the main speaker at the missions conference. This woman had prayed that she would help just one person that day. She spoke many prophetic things to me about footholds I had given the enemy and asked Jesus to bind my demons.
As I write this, I proclaim with fear and trembling that God has since kept me free from the sins that entangled me this summer. But it wasn't without the loss of sleep that He kept me pure. I have been without an outlet for certain pent up urges, but I have felt closer to Him in the process. It was within the context of all the above, and so many other details that I wish I could share (but are too numerous to include here), that I was reminded on 8 October that I still owed God a leap of faith in response to something He had powerfully confirmed fourteen months earlier: I never did go to Mount Shasta. It dawned on me that, unlike last year, I had a passport now. Unlike last year, I had my car in Caronport. For some reason, Student Loans had given me more than I needed for this year's expenses. Things woulnd't be so tight. He had provided. So I made the decision to obey. It seemed illogical and weird. So unlike me. But He had reduced me to ashes (or allowed it to happen to me) and was building me up again. How could I not go? It occurred to me that all the demons I had faced in the preceding nine months might have been a means of preparing me to do an even harder thing than suffer spiritual oppression, something that was so beyond my comfort zone that the very thought of responding filled me with a sense of anxiety. And awe. Part of me was dying, and it was getting louder and louder, pleading with me not to allow Him to put it to death. But the point was that I had said I would go. To not do so seemed even more risky (cf. Matt 21:28-31).
So I started to share with select people the plans that were beginning to hatch. I was confident that I would make it to Mount Shasta alive, but Jesus never said anything about making it back. I received so many weird confirmations after making the decision, though. I told a friend on 10 October that I felt like coming to Saskatchewan was like leaving Chaldea for Haran and that the trip to Shasta was like my Bethel. Then on 12 October, during the very next chapel session, the school chaplain read the story of Jacob in Genesis 28. I started to notice weird things that God was doing in my life as typologically represented in the Bible. I was Jacob. The name James derives from Jacob. It means "he supplants." Coupled with my second name, my identity reads "he supplants [or takes] a gift from God." I wasn't just Jacob; I was double Jacob. And little did I know I was about to engage God in one serious wrestling match.
There are other confirmations that were kind of cool. How the loonie reached parity with the US dollar in the days leading up to my trip. The words and people who met me in the midst of this approaching behemoth of an experience. It's been a wild ride, for sure. There is a sense in which the story of the redemption of James Wood began with all the above, and there is also a sense in which it began when Erik and Shami prayed over me. Day of Prayer was amazing this fall. So many godincidences have overtaken me recently. The Lord showed up. It was time I put my faith into practice.
But when I look back on things, they all seem to point to this trip to Mount Shasta. God was calling me into the desert, and He knew that I would face many demons there. Bigger ones than had afflicted me during the summer. Bigger ones than had enticed me to try to kill myself in 2002. Bigger ones than I knew existed. So He anointed me and, against my own will, sent me west at 11:00 a.m. on 22 October 2010. I had tried to secure travel insurance and had failed. I didn't have any American money on my person. I didn't have a map. I had never undertaken anything comparable to this. This was beyond me. My giftings wouldn't help me. It was going to be nothing but me and the Lord. This is the story of how I handed my life over to Him, and it's the story of how He gave it back.
(Tedashii: "I Make War")
NOTE A:
Even the birds were praying for me.
I had such a peace as I lay in bed, like a seagull gliding on the currents, having bid the land adieu. The horizon ever summoning but always the same distance away. For the first time in life I felt truly surrendered. My thoughts, usually so cacophonous, normally rush hour in space, just congealed into a gelatine awareness of myself. Like walking that razor's edge between death's lonely sting and the spread of the toxins. No more fears, no more desires. Just. Peace. My eyes were glazed over, probably. All's I knew, my vision had that soap opera tint. Glowy. I still had Jehoram's curse on me, but suddenly it felt like God was about to roll the credits on my life and just release me from the battles of flesh and mind. How else could they have ceased, bleeding so effervescently into... peace. This prophesied new chapter of my life had just been a motive. The kind of message God places on the lips of the empathetic. I had even gotten to experience a bit of it. But it was just the kind of bait that would coax me into this very moment, having completed the story that God wrote for me. And because I knew I would meet him soon--perhaps any moment--I was wholly and perfectly stricken with peace. I wanted to post something on the web about how I owned nothing and nothing owned me. Stake your claims now, ye friends of mine. Who wants my books? My albums? My clothes? Not my ginch, though; that's disgusting.
I hadn't eaten yet. I had resolved not to. As soon as I got home from class, I excreted what felt like napalm. Sitting down, as it often had been, was my greatest foe today. I lay in bed on my stomach for the first hour at least. I flipped over and tried to sleep. Sleep, though, seemed as if it required too much energy of me, so I just lay there. Next I knew, I'd missed dinner.
The following moments were bitter. Yesterday, I went out for coffee to perk up my afternoon. When I bumped into a friend, God led me to walk the extra mile with him, letting him rant for almost three hours. It was one of those encounters that a person walks away from knowing he hasn't wasted an ounce of his time on it. One of those afternoons where the Lord was permitted to steer the whole thing. Sure, it had crept into my thoughts that I was sabotaging my Revelation paper, but, in the grand scheme, this was the Mary. So Martha was taken captive and bound. And yet, for all this willing submission, for all this service, for all this change of heart from the previous months, all I got in reward was more pain. And as I came to grips with just how sick I am, I wanted to call curses on the name Yahweh but I just handed myself over to him, and gave up. And all I got in return for that was... freedom. And peace. Freedom feels peaceful. They are irreducible. Trust me.
I went back to bed for a bit and felt this odd heartbeat of a compulsion to eat. I wasn't hungry, though. I had this image of walking to the Point in a daze and never making it back. Or making it back and having wasted a few dollars on something that doesn't matter. "Why, Lord, if I am to be called home any moment, should I indulge the hunger that my stomach has consumed?" But then it growled, so I dressed and went.
It took all my concentration to descend the stairs that face the highway. I started to feel my otherworldliness fade with every step. Something about this little jaunt was rocking my world. There was a presence about me that just didn't love me like the Lord once had. Perhaps, in my own foolishness, I had been led astray by some of the morbid visions my mental projector had conjured when I was back in the dorm. But these didn't strike me as morbid. They didn't strike me as anything. They were just images, and in my peaceful, conscious slumber, in the haze of what my existence had sublimely become, I felt absolutely nothing about them. I was dead tired, if not truly dead; a walking coma, if not a legitimate one--and the only thing that knocked me out of my living fantasy was the fact that, here it was, after sunset, and the birds were shouting at me like I had a pack of demons tracking me. Maybe, for the sake of not reading too much into things, I actually did.
When I got to the Point, I bumped into my friend, who wanted to meet me again. We arranged to meet tomorrow, which sort of suggested I might live to see it. God, it seemed, was not calling me home. I still had at least one appointment. But maybe this was just one of those tests where you get to the point of slicing Isaac's jugular and then God pulls the plug. Maybe he was just testing me to see if I would still say yes in spite of the fact that my body was vomiting me out of it like some straggler Canaanite. But then it dawned on me that, if I happened to live to see the sun again, I would prefer to rouse from my mental vacation to find I had done some research tonight. I bought a few energy drinks then approached the Subway counter.
Someone I knew from church then approached me and asked if he could pay for my dinner. This was, for lack of a better description, the most perplexing question someone could have asked me at that moment. Was God reaching out to me? That couldn't be, because it would beg the question as to who had been suggestively guiding me all stinking night. I replied that if he felt led to buy my salad, I didn't want to step on God's toes. Then he asked me a couple questions about how I was doing, but his expression said, "Dude, you look like walking death." This was just a few moments ago, and I really couldn't begin to recall what I said. So I won't try.
It turns out, though, that I had intuitively told him that we should meet for coffee sometime. The "coffee meeting," as any North American will tell you, is like the idiosyncratic, "how are you doing?" It's just something you say; isn't it? But I had said it. I know this because, after he and his wife dropped me off at Sundbo (sorry, Satan, no ambush on the way home tonight), he called the third floor payphone to make an appointment. Marshall knocked on my apartment door, and then, just as he was going to knock on my room door, I opened it. This about knocked me out of my skin. He told me the phone was for me, and I told him I hadn't given anyone the number. (Nor do I know it!)
So here's my theory. It's just a theory. I'm just a very average guy who spent most of his life coasting. I'm not going to become the president or foreign diplomat of anything. (Insert comment about the gospel, because there's always one person who doesn't have enough tact to know this is not the time to correct my theology; cf. 2 Cor 5:20). In other words, I don't need any fanfare or confetti or parade if, as I felt earlier, in sheer exhaustion, I had pretty much run out the clock. So why, then, would God be reaching out to me tonight? What happened between praying with my roommate last night, feeling like God had planted me on top of the restored Zion, and today, feeling like all my life had been absolutely leeched from me? Maybe, because he is infinitely more faithful than I realize, I was finally paying the price for all the abuse I had wrecked on my body these last 30 years, but am not really Jehoram but Hezekiah. Or maybe I'm really effing tired and imagined the whole thing. I am, as this semester has taught me, human, after all. Maybe God doesn't want to cut me from the vine, seeing as I've finally found a few reasons to embrace it.
But I will say this to all you stubborn people out there: Don't shun his first attempt, or first few attempts, to teach you something. He will come back with something much, much harder. And it just may follow you around. But he loves you enough to break you. Don't be the kind of person who needs a good pruning. As much as you can help it, of course.
NOTE B:
A few minutes ago I was walking to the local convenience store to get some food, when the Lord spoke to me really clearly. (Heh, local convenience store. That’s vaguer than I could have been, but it’s how it came out. I guess I’m halfway into a Maritime headspace again.) So I’m walking toward the highway (only takes a few minutes), and I’m being pelted with droplets. The air is so humid that the horizon looks fuzzy. Not like those cold, merciless days when the wind stuns you into a walking coma, and not like those summer days when you can see the air jostle about like it’s trying to cool itself. Nay, this is a genuine, hovering mist. (Again, I might as well be home.)
Asides aside, this place is distinctively Saskatchewan. I can see the horizon spill into itself. To stare into the distance, it’s like a mostly empty canvas God would have painted, but then He noticed it was already beautiful. And it crossed my mind that my world is about to be turned upside down for four months.
I’m reminded of Paul tonight. (But then, if anything is going to remind me of Scripture, it’s probably going to hearken the man who most messed with my thinking.) Now, I ain’t no apostle, but I know from reading about his travels that he was never at home. Ever. Once he planted a church, it became like a child to him. Having many children by the time he returned from his first missionary journey, his heart was scattered in pieces all over the dang empire. And it hit me again tonight that, from now on, no matter where I go, a piece of me doesn’t come with.
So I’m walking, and I’m wondering, and I’m acknowledging that the Lord has done a lot for me this year. I don’t need to think too far back before I don’t recognize myself. And here I am, getting rained on in the driest part of the country, and the Lord blasts me with some parting advice: “Hope.”
Yeah, I say. I know.
A second time, his frustration coming through: “Hope. Recklessly.” (If He were preaching—well, I guess He was—this is where his fist would strike something.)
Long story short: Come what may, I’m going to do my best to obey.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Call to Mount Shasta
Sometimes the Lord's unfolding plan only makes sense in hindsight, so if it seems like I'm bouncing around in terms of topic or chronology it's because I am a sinner and perceive things dimly for now. Anyway, as I alluded to in my previous post, the Lord communicated with me in a special way through books following my conversion. It was through this medium that He chose to initiate the call to Mount Shasta. The details follow.
In February of 2009 I was working as a personal care attendant and studying in my spare time. Because my schedule was quite predictable, unlike when I worked as a magazine editor and designer, I agreed to read a book my friend Gary wanted to lend me. (I am not trying to withhold details here, but I am hesitant to cite which one, seeing as Gary let me borrow three books at once and I don't at present remember which one it was that mentioned Mount Shasta.) In any case, I read a few chapters and then relegated it to my shelf where it sat untouched for six months.
In June 2009, after injuring my back (though I think it was quite deteriorated before I took on the care attendant job), I had to give notice that I would need to withdraw from my position and then decided to apply to Briercrest. A year prior, the Lord had told me He would bring me to Bible college some day, but, as was my custom, I decided to hang tight for a while instead of responding immediately. My plan was to work a few years and raise enough money to pay for school, but that wasn't to be. Anyway, I was accepted into the Biblical Studies program at Briercrest and began to plan for the move to Saskatchewan. Naturally, I fell into the habit of telling people about what the Lord was working out in my life.
One evening in August, less than a month before my departure, I stopped at Tim Horton's on my way home from visiting with someone, presumably the last time I'd see them before Christmas. My intention in stopping at Tim's was to grab a coffee then return home to study (I had downloaded a bunch of syllabi for my classes and had ordered a bunch of textbooks online). The Lord, being sovereign as He is, had directed me to walk into the store instead of simply using the drive thru, which was never busy at that hour. Instead of a quick turnaround, I ran into my friend Paul and we talked for a few hours on a wide range of subjects, such as how important it was that I not become too academic and lose my first love (how ironic!). Then he perked up and told me to wait a moment while he retrieved a book from his car, adding that I just "had to" read it (okay so I paraphrased this). I politely told him that I appreciated the gesture but I had a stack of books to get through, including some unfinished ones that had been lent to me in February, so I declined his offer. He was persistent, though, and said the chapters were short and the print was large and that someone like me could read it quickly. So I reluctantly accepted. For the detail-minded, I will add that it was Norman Vincent Peale's In God We Trust.
I would have preferred to use the time to gain ground in reading textbooks for school but recognized that I couldn't keep these loaners forever, so I submitted to rushing through them even though I felt, in a sense, that they had been thrust upon me. And so it was that I found myself alternating between the Peale book and one of the books Gary lent me, reading a chapter in one and then in the other. In light of the circumstance and the heightened sensitivity to how God had historically used books to communicate with me, I thought it really significant when, within the span of a half hour I saw the same place mentioned in two different books given me by two different people that were in no way related and which I had received six months apart. Had I been diligent in reading Gary's book, I would have long since returned it and never would have made this connection. But the Lord worked things out in such a manner that I would read about a place I'd never heard of before or since: Mount Shasta, California.
Now, some of you will think it rather weird to embark on a cross-continent journey just because of the above. My tendency is to agree, though I can't do so with an entirely clear conscience in light of how much the Lord has gone out of His way to emphasize certain things to me using books. Though I wasn't convinced to go, nor did I know when to go or how to get there, I couldn't simply dismiss this.
A few days later I phoned my friend Leslie and asked him if he'd like to accompany me to town so we could grab a coffee and chat before I left. We went through the drive thru and parked by the Yarmouth Harbour on the south side of Water Street. It was about 30C outside, so I lowered my window to try to cool off. We prayed to the Lord about many things, and I asked Him bluntly if I should pursue this "Mount Shasta thing" or if it had simply been an odd coincidence I shouldn't dwell upon. I didn't hear a response.
I asked Him a second time if He wanted me to go to Mount Shasta. I don't think He said anything, but I recognized that it was hard to concentrate on account of a crow that was cawing loudly in the trees, maybe 20 feet or so behind my car. I continued to listen to see if the Lord would respond yay or nay, but I didn't hear anything He might have said.
Finally the crow was silent, so I asked Him a third time, "Lord, do you want me to go to Mount Shasta? If you don't respond, I will let this go on the assumption that it's just a coincidence. I have all these plans to go to school that you confirmed before I ever heard about Mount Shasta, but I can't help but take seriously that I discovered it in a way you have often used to communicate with me. It's truly up to you, Lord, but I will disavow myself of this unless you make your will known to me."
I waited. And He didn't respond [that I could hear].
To be honest, I would have preferred not having any obligation to go to California. I knew nothing about this mountain, and I felt as if I lacked the means to do anything any alleged call to go there. I didn't have a passport, and what little I had in savings was now allocated for school. So I was quite pleased that He didn't respond. Yes, such an attitude reflects a lack of faith, but I was still quite young in my discipleship (less than two years at the time).
Finally, I told the Lord in no uncertain terms, "Okay God, if you want me to go to Mount Shasta, have the crow caw four times."
Within a few seconds I heard, "Caw, caw, caw, caw!"
And there was silence.
Stupefied, I paused for a moment and reflected on what had happened before saying, "God, if that was really you, have the crow caw three times."
A few seconds later, "Caw, caw, caw."
Again, silence.
I was too perplexed to say anything, but I wasn't dimwitted enough to ask for a third sign. Nevertheless, I got an additional confirmation, as the crow began to caw in a four-three pattern, pausing for about ten seconds between each set. I finally told the Lord that I would keep this in mind and go to Mount Shasta someday. Not that I understood how or why, just that He said so.
A brief note: Some people who read this may fancy themselves scientific thinkers. I certainly did and do. I studied sciences throughout high school and have what I would describe as a decent grasp on scientific theory. Now, many will suggest that science and faith are incompatible and/or mutually exclusive. As G. K. Chesterton so astutely wrote once, "Somehow or other an extraordinary idea has arisen that the disbelievers in miracles consider them coldly and fairly, while believers in miracles accept them only in connection with some dogma. The fact is quite the other way. The believers in miracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence for them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly) because they have a doctrine against them." To this I would add that it is entirely scientific to assert that, if I address someone and He responds, He exists. It is, I think, beyond the realm of absurdity to assume that a crow should indulge me in such a manner unless God were not only real but sovereign. Science does not take such a big leap as to presume that this was a coincidence. That is not scientific in the least, given the data, and though I disdain the "Christian science" movement (which I regard as a sect), I affirm that faith is not only scientific but reflective of reality, which science seeks to understand and express.
Second, the Christians who read this may find that I am a bit bold in how I deal with the Lord. I've been told that I am downright irreverent. To this I would respond that I was not "raised in the church" and thus have not been indoctrinated with a bunch of prima facie Protestantisms that don't reflect the God of the Bible. As such, I thought nothing ill of treating God the way I learned about Him in reading my Bible as a new convert (I have read it twice in its entirety, taking five and two months to do so, respectively.) If I have been bold in putting out a fleece, I would like to add, therefore, a particular note on the context in which I did so. It must be pointed out that I put out fleeces to receive confirmation on things He initiated. I have received many such confirmations when that was the case. I have never, however, received confirmation when it was with regard to something I demanded to know about. I think this is consistent with Scripture, and I don't consider it the least bit bold. He asks that we pursue Him. There is no need to defend my approach.
Anyway, as mentioned, this all took place in 2009. My next post will describe the situation leading up to my decision to follow the call this past Friday.
In February of 2009 I was working as a personal care attendant and studying in my spare time. Because my schedule was quite predictable, unlike when I worked as a magazine editor and designer, I agreed to read a book my friend Gary wanted to lend me. (I am not trying to withhold details here, but I am hesitant to cite which one, seeing as Gary let me borrow three books at once and I don't at present remember which one it was that mentioned Mount Shasta.) In any case, I read a few chapters and then relegated it to my shelf where it sat untouched for six months.
In June 2009, after injuring my back (though I think it was quite deteriorated before I took on the care attendant job), I had to give notice that I would need to withdraw from my position and then decided to apply to Briercrest. A year prior, the Lord had told me He would bring me to Bible college some day, but, as was my custom, I decided to hang tight for a while instead of responding immediately. My plan was to work a few years and raise enough money to pay for school, but that wasn't to be. Anyway, I was accepted into the Biblical Studies program at Briercrest and began to plan for the move to Saskatchewan. Naturally, I fell into the habit of telling people about what the Lord was working out in my life.
One evening in August, less than a month before my departure, I stopped at Tim Horton's on my way home from visiting with someone, presumably the last time I'd see them before Christmas. My intention in stopping at Tim's was to grab a coffee then return home to study (I had downloaded a bunch of syllabi for my classes and had ordered a bunch of textbooks online). The Lord, being sovereign as He is, had directed me to walk into the store instead of simply using the drive thru, which was never busy at that hour. Instead of a quick turnaround, I ran into my friend Paul and we talked for a few hours on a wide range of subjects, such as how important it was that I not become too academic and lose my first love (how ironic!). Then he perked up and told me to wait a moment while he retrieved a book from his car, adding that I just "had to" read it (okay so I paraphrased this). I politely told him that I appreciated the gesture but I had a stack of books to get through, including some unfinished ones that had been lent to me in February, so I declined his offer. He was persistent, though, and said the chapters were short and the print was large and that someone like me could read it quickly. So I reluctantly accepted. For the detail-minded, I will add that it was Norman Vincent Peale's In God We Trust.
I would have preferred to use the time to gain ground in reading textbooks for school but recognized that I couldn't keep these loaners forever, so I submitted to rushing through them even though I felt, in a sense, that they had been thrust upon me. And so it was that I found myself alternating between the Peale book and one of the books Gary lent me, reading a chapter in one and then in the other. In light of the circumstance and the heightened sensitivity to how God had historically used books to communicate with me, I thought it really significant when, within the span of a half hour I saw the same place mentioned in two different books given me by two different people that were in no way related and which I had received six months apart. Had I been diligent in reading Gary's book, I would have long since returned it and never would have made this connection. But the Lord worked things out in such a manner that I would read about a place I'd never heard of before or since: Mount Shasta, California.
Now, some of you will think it rather weird to embark on a cross-continent journey just because of the above. My tendency is to agree, though I can't do so with an entirely clear conscience in light of how much the Lord has gone out of His way to emphasize certain things to me using books. Though I wasn't convinced to go, nor did I know when to go or how to get there, I couldn't simply dismiss this.
A few days later I phoned my friend Leslie and asked him if he'd like to accompany me to town so we could grab a coffee and chat before I left. We went through the drive thru and parked by the Yarmouth Harbour on the south side of Water Street. It was about 30C outside, so I lowered my window to try to cool off. We prayed to the Lord about many things, and I asked Him bluntly if I should pursue this "Mount Shasta thing" or if it had simply been an odd coincidence I shouldn't dwell upon. I didn't hear a response.
I asked Him a second time if He wanted me to go to Mount Shasta. I don't think He said anything, but I recognized that it was hard to concentrate on account of a crow that was cawing loudly in the trees, maybe 20 feet or so behind my car. I continued to listen to see if the Lord would respond yay or nay, but I didn't hear anything He might have said.
Finally the crow was silent, so I asked Him a third time, "Lord, do you want me to go to Mount Shasta? If you don't respond, I will let this go on the assumption that it's just a coincidence. I have all these plans to go to school that you confirmed before I ever heard about Mount Shasta, but I can't help but take seriously that I discovered it in a way you have often used to communicate with me. It's truly up to you, Lord, but I will disavow myself of this unless you make your will known to me."
I waited. And He didn't respond [that I could hear].
To be honest, I would have preferred not having any obligation to go to California. I knew nothing about this mountain, and I felt as if I lacked the means to do anything any alleged call to go there. I didn't have a passport, and what little I had in savings was now allocated for school. So I was quite pleased that He didn't respond. Yes, such an attitude reflects a lack of faith, but I was still quite young in my discipleship (less than two years at the time).
Finally, I told the Lord in no uncertain terms, "Okay God, if you want me to go to Mount Shasta, have the crow caw four times."
Within a few seconds I heard, "Caw, caw, caw, caw!"
And there was silence.
Stupefied, I paused for a moment and reflected on what had happened before saying, "God, if that was really you, have the crow caw three times."
A few seconds later, "Caw, caw, caw."
Again, silence.
I was too perplexed to say anything, but I wasn't dimwitted enough to ask for a third sign. Nevertheless, I got an additional confirmation, as the crow began to caw in a four-three pattern, pausing for about ten seconds between each set. I finally told the Lord that I would keep this in mind and go to Mount Shasta someday. Not that I understood how or why, just that He said so.
A brief note: Some people who read this may fancy themselves scientific thinkers. I certainly did and do. I studied sciences throughout high school and have what I would describe as a decent grasp on scientific theory. Now, many will suggest that science and faith are incompatible and/or mutually exclusive. As G. K. Chesterton so astutely wrote once, "Somehow or other an extraordinary idea has arisen that the disbelievers in miracles consider them coldly and fairly, while believers in miracles accept them only in connection with some dogma. The fact is quite the other way. The believers in miracles accept them (rightly or wrongly) because they have evidence for them. The disbelievers in miracles deny them (rightly or wrongly) because they have a doctrine against them." To this I would add that it is entirely scientific to assert that, if I address someone and He responds, He exists. It is, I think, beyond the realm of absurdity to assume that a crow should indulge me in such a manner unless God were not only real but sovereign. Science does not take such a big leap as to presume that this was a coincidence. That is not scientific in the least, given the data, and though I disdain the "Christian science" movement (which I regard as a sect), I affirm that faith is not only scientific but reflective of reality, which science seeks to understand and express.
Second, the Christians who read this may find that I am a bit bold in how I deal with the Lord. I've been told that I am downright irreverent. To this I would respond that I was not "raised in the church" and thus have not been indoctrinated with a bunch of prima facie Protestantisms that don't reflect the God of the Bible. As such, I thought nothing ill of treating God the way I learned about Him in reading my Bible as a new convert (I have read it twice in its entirety, taking five and two months to do so, respectively.) If I have been bold in putting out a fleece, I would like to add, therefore, a particular note on the context in which I did so. It must be pointed out that I put out fleeces to receive confirmation on things He initiated. I have received many such confirmations when that was the case. I have never, however, received confirmation when it was with regard to something I demanded to know about. I think this is consistent with Scripture, and I don't consider it the least bit bold. He asks that we pursue Him. There is no need to defend my approach.
Anyway, as mentioned, this all took place in 2009. My next post will describe the situation leading up to my decision to follow the call this past Friday.
Odds and Ends
God is often in the negligible things. To cite a recent example, I walked around Caronport last month just waiting for him to reveal himself to me. I paused to look at everything from paw tracks to the horizon to the ministry of butterflies that were circulating in groups of four or five in the brush. They looked like they were harvesting something, drifting from plant to plant. It was a lovely day. Grasshoppers would dart in and out of the shrubs in front of me as I followed the town perimeter. Birds would thrust themselves from concealment but then dive back into the safety of the uncut grass when they hit gusts of dusty prairie wind. The day seemed ripe for God to part the clouds and condescend to give me words of life. But He was silent. I finally gave up on seeking Him and took one of the rutty dirt roads back into town. I was watching the ground so as not to plunge my foot into the fresh rainwater that had collected into puddles in our neglected side streets when what did I hear but some stranger’s voice calling for help. Some man was fixing his roof and had just discovered that his ladder had been knocked down by the wind. I helped him descend from his roof by holding the ladder in place and told him to have a blessed day. He wished me the same. As I made my way toward Sundbo (the mature dorm) I told God that I had really wanted to hear from Him that day. He said that wasn’t such a bad thing but He had just intended for me to help that guy off his roof. So yeah, God is a tender spirit for such a powerful one. And He has a tendency of communicating with me through simple things. But in really, REALLY special ways. That’s kind of the occasion for these posts.
Shortly after He brought me from death to life, I developed a thirst for learning about him. I bought books on theology and biblical studies faster than I could read them. I was the guy who dropped out of university in 2001 and read two books over the span of the following six years. And those two were a struggle for me. I just didn't have the attention span, and the drugs I did to self-medicate no doubt contributed to my lack of focus. Even now I sort of wonder if knowledge wasn’t just an “acceptable drug,” fundamentally identical to the illegal ones but for the fact that spiritual learning has a certain religious commodity to it. My intentions and enthusiasm seemed really genuine at the time. But it was uncanny how, because I had books to peer into, I would get urges to pick one from the shelf and open to a random page and read it. I would read the same thing twice in a day in different books that were never meant to be studied concurrently. Within a day or two someone would have a question about what God had directed me to read. He was building a teaching ministry in me at a very early stage in my walk with Him. It made me seem a lot smarter and educated than I really was, and He deserves all the glory for the times I had (or ever will have) an answer for someone. Anyway, after this happened many times, I became sensitive to it. So my spirit perked up when, in August 2009, less than a month before I left for Briercrest, it happened again. But this one was different. It was for me. It wasn't the kind of thing that can be taught. It just told me of the existence of a place I'd never heard of.
But anyway, now seems like a good time to close this post since I've filled in some of the gaps between last year and now. Unfortunately, He's done so many wonderful things (and many many that I wasn't made aware of) that I've fallen way short of my goal in starting this blog. Nevertheless, the story of my trip to Mount Shasta, California will have to wait one more post so I can explain the call to go there.
Shortly after He brought me from death to life, I developed a thirst for learning about him. I bought books on theology and biblical studies faster than I could read them. I was the guy who dropped out of university in 2001 and read two books over the span of the following six years. And those two were a struggle for me. I just didn't have the attention span, and the drugs I did to self-medicate no doubt contributed to my lack of focus. Even now I sort of wonder if knowledge wasn’t just an “acceptable drug,” fundamentally identical to the illegal ones but for the fact that spiritual learning has a certain religious commodity to it. My intentions and enthusiasm seemed really genuine at the time. But it was uncanny how, because I had books to peer into, I would get urges to pick one from the shelf and open to a random page and read it. I would read the same thing twice in a day in different books that were never meant to be studied concurrently. Within a day or two someone would have a question about what God had directed me to read. He was building a teaching ministry in me at a very early stage in my walk with Him. It made me seem a lot smarter and educated than I really was, and He deserves all the glory for the times I had (or ever will have) an answer for someone. Anyway, after this happened many times, I became sensitive to it. So my spirit perked up when, in August 2009, less than a month before I left for Briercrest, it happened again. But this one was different. It was for me. It wasn't the kind of thing that can be taught. It just told me of the existence of a place I'd never heard of.
But anyway, now seems like a good time to close this post since I've filled in some of the gaps between last year and now. Unfortunately, He's done so many wonderful things (and many many that I wasn't made aware of) that I've fallen way short of my goal in starting this blog. Nevertheless, the story of my trip to Mount Shasta, California will have to wait one more post so I can explain the call to go there.
Healed From Celiac Disease
18 November 2009. What a special night.
Depriving myself of sleep and food hadn’t become a habit yet, but I was gradually conforming my habits to the demands of the academy. But I did have some precious moments with brothers and sisters before knowledge and the almighty GPA would oust Jesus from the special place in my heart he had recently--and finally (and rightfully!)--claimed. There was a week around that time, mid-November, before or after the eighteenth I can't say, when I could practically hear creation groaning. It seemed like every maudlin topic we covered in Intro to Theology gave me a new context in which to share how I struggled to understand God’s grace. And I did share, as my classmates could attest. I hated sin. I grasped how it brought death and death alone. During that really exceptional phase I drenched my pillow with tears every night, mourning my transgressions until I passed out from exhaustion. I see in hindsight that all I was doing was lamenting the fact that I couldn’t atone for myself, but I had been deceived by my false motives of wanting to repay God for saving me. If I can be so bold, I think I had a genuine (though misguided) desire to do something that might please the Father. And there is, I posit, nothing wrong with wanting to please one’s parent--especially when one has been adopted into God’s household.
So yeah, 18 November. I had a lot of work to do, but I accepted an invitation to watch a meteor shower from the outskirts of Caronport, SK. The shower was less than spectacular, but I discovered that, even though I had inhabited a tiny place for most of my natural life, Tusket (pop. 300) was still too big to see the Milky Way--the real one, with so many stars that even Abram couldn’t count them. So it didn’t matter that we saw few streaks in the heavens. We saw the heavens. And it was heavenly. And they were heavenly. And it was soon after that I became the product of my own design: desperately sick in body and spirit. I believed what the devil told me about myself, that I was as good as my knowledge of the Word. So I isolated myself with it. I burned both ends so I could read everything thoroughly. I spent upwards of 40-50 hours on some assignments. I missed meals. I missed events. And the consequences were not subtle.
All I remember about Christmas 2009 is that I spent the whole time wanting to get back to Caronport. We have a much better library in Caronport. Oh yeah, I brought work with me. So it wasn't as restful as it might have been, and I needed rest. My failure--nay, refusal--to recouperate over Christmas made second semester distinct from the first in that I didn't begin class with enthusiasm or a desire to understand God better. I was already tired of learning. I grew increasingly tired of knowing Him. But I had to do it. (Wonder why pride is so dangerous?)
I had diarrhoea every day my second semester at Briercrest. Well, that’s not true. Let’s say between five and six days a week. More than five, less than six. And it happened multiple times a day. Even the people I’ve told didn’t know how bad it was. I would wear long johns to class, even when the weather heated up, just in case I had a mishap walking to class. My stomach was like napalm; you shake it, you brake it. The long johns, for their part, did a decent job absorbing any "accidents." They became so commonplace, too. Every morning I needed to change my underwear. It was like my Montreal trip all over again (during which I became so ill that I finally had my digestive issues investigated and was diagnosed with Celiac disease). But that was 2006, and three years later it seemed like I had either accumulated even more allergies. Or perhaps worse. For all I knew I had some malignancy that was causing my leaky pipes. But stallions couldn’t have pulled me to a doctor. And don’t get me wrong here. Though I was prone to the macho thing, avoiding the hospital as if the whole place were quarantined, afraid of what the professionals might discover--though I wrestled with all that stuff, there was one reason I couldn’t be bothered: I didn’t have time. My assignments had to come first. But when one reaches a point where assignments can pre-empt sleep and meals, is it really that surprising that I had no time for doctors?
So yeah, the whole point of this blog is to glorify God. Because I believe testimonies belong to Him, I think we are thieves when we keep them to ourselves. So I share details that some might classify as humiliating because I believe it they enhance the glory due Him when I joyfully declare that He cured me this summer. I had a CT scan and blood tests done in May. The CT scan revealed inflammation in my intestines that was blocking passage for food, which caused the leakages I experienced. I was put on medication and referred to a specialist. The specialist decided to do a massive investigation of my insides, so he booked me for a scope through both ends and asked me to go on a gluten diet to see how it was affecting me (I had suspected that there was a lot of contamination at the cafeteria at school but I was more deliberate in consuming it for the next few weeks). To make sure we had a genuine reading of what was happening with my system, I also went off the meds, which had really helped for the couple weeks I took them.
A month later, after going off the meds and eating everything that historically made me ill, there was no inflammation and I had been cured of Celiac disease. My symptoms disappeared well in advance of these medical confirmations, but I must confess it felt good to have some kind of scientific confirmation.
Of course, it shames me that it's taken this long to post this here, but the Lord is due some major glory on account of this blessing and I pray that this entry will inspire many hearts to praise His name.
Depriving myself of sleep and food hadn’t become a habit yet, but I was gradually conforming my habits to the demands of the academy. But I did have some precious moments with brothers and sisters before knowledge and the almighty GPA would oust Jesus from the special place in my heart he had recently--and finally (and rightfully!)--claimed. There was a week around that time, mid-November, before or after the eighteenth I can't say, when I could practically hear creation groaning. It seemed like every maudlin topic we covered in Intro to Theology gave me a new context in which to share how I struggled to understand God’s grace. And I did share, as my classmates could attest. I hated sin. I grasped how it brought death and death alone. During that really exceptional phase I drenched my pillow with tears every night, mourning my transgressions until I passed out from exhaustion. I see in hindsight that all I was doing was lamenting the fact that I couldn’t atone for myself, but I had been deceived by my false motives of wanting to repay God for saving me. If I can be so bold, I think I had a genuine (though misguided) desire to do something that might please the Father. And there is, I posit, nothing wrong with wanting to please one’s parent--especially when one has been adopted into God’s household.
So yeah, 18 November. I had a lot of work to do, but I accepted an invitation to watch a meteor shower from the outskirts of Caronport, SK. The shower was less than spectacular, but I discovered that, even though I had inhabited a tiny place for most of my natural life, Tusket (pop. 300) was still too big to see the Milky Way--the real one, with so many stars that even Abram couldn’t count them. So it didn’t matter that we saw few streaks in the heavens. We saw the heavens. And it was heavenly. And they were heavenly. And it was soon after that I became the product of my own design: desperately sick in body and spirit. I believed what the devil told me about myself, that I was as good as my knowledge of the Word. So I isolated myself with it. I burned both ends so I could read everything thoroughly. I spent upwards of 40-50 hours on some assignments. I missed meals. I missed events. And the consequences were not subtle.
All I remember about Christmas 2009 is that I spent the whole time wanting to get back to Caronport. We have a much better library in Caronport. Oh yeah, I brought work with me. So it wasn't as restful as it might have been, and I needed rest. My failure--nay, refusal--to recouperate over Christmas made second semester distinct from the first in that I didn't begin class with enthusiasm or a desire to understand God better. I was already tired of learning. I grew increasingly tired of knowing Him. But I had to do it. (Wonder why pride is so dangerous?)
I had diarrhoea every day my second semester at Briercrest. Well, that’s not true. Let’s say between five and six days a week. More than five, less than six. And it happened multiple times a day. Even the people I’ve told didn’t know how bad it was. I would wear long johns to class, even when the weather heated up, just in case I had a mishap walking to class. My stomach was like napalm; you shake it, you brake it. The long johns, for their part, did a decent job absorbing any "accidents." They became so commonplace, too. Every morning I needed to change my underwear. It was like my Montreal trip all over again (during which I became so ill that I finally had my digestive issues investigated and was diagnosed with Celiac disease). But that was 2006, and three years later it seemed like I had either accumulated even more allergies. Or perhaps worse. For all I knew I had some malignancy that was causing my leaky pipes. But stallions couldn’t have pulled me to a doctor. And don’t get me wrong here. Though I was prone to the macho thing, avoiding the hospital as if the whole place were quarantined, afraid of what the professionals might discover--though I wrestled with all that stuff, there was one reason I couldn’t be bothered: I didn’t have time. My assignments had to come first. But when one reaches a point where assignments can pre-empt sleep and meals, is it really that surprising that I had no time for doctors?
So yeah, the whole point of this blog is to glorify God. Because I believe testimonies belong to Him, I think we are thieves when we keep them to ourselves. So I share details that some might classify as humiliating because I believe it they enhance the glory due Him when I joyfully declare that He cured me this summer. I had a CT scan and blood tests done in May. The CT scan revealed inflammation in my intestines that was blocking passage for food, which caused the leakages I experienced. I was put on medication and referred to a specialist. The specialist decided to do a massive investigation of my insides, so he booked me for a scope through both ends and asked me to go on a gluten diet to see how it was affecting me (I had suspected that there was a lot of contamination at the cafeteria at school but I was more deliberate in consuming it for the next few weeks). To make sure we had a genuine reading of what was happening with my system, I also went off the meds, which had really helped for the couple weeks I took them.
A month later, after going off the meds and eating everything that historically made me ill, there was no inflammation and I had been cured of Celiac disease. My symptoms disappeared well in advance of these medical confirmations, but I must confess it felt good to have some kind of scientific confirmation.
Of course, it shames me that it's taken this long to post this here, but the Lord is due some major glory on account of this blessing and I pray that this entry will inspire many hearts to praise His name.
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