From Chapter Three:

The Doctor arrives in town on a sunny afternoon in mid-October.  The air is warm with a faint hint of Indian summer.  Oaks and maples are turning gold, orange and red. Pumpkins and storefront paintings of Halloween scenes line Main Street.  This is the first year I haven’t participated in the annual Halloween window- painting contest. Now that I’m in the ninth grade, I’m too old for that sort of thing.   But this is still my favorite time of the year.  It’s even better now that I know Who is responsible for it.

We have been eagerly waiting all day. I spent the last week posting flyers around town, announcing the arrival of the Teacher and an open meeting he will be holding at Dr. Tully’s Presbyterian Church. “The man of God is coming.  The man of God is coming,” we tell everyone. My science teacher is especially interested.  She lets me tell the whole class what a man of God is.  I stand up in front of the Periodical chart and challenge everyone to name the One who made it up.  Not Mendeleff, I say.  God made the elements!  And the Teacher is coming today to teach us about God.

The Teacher.  The Doctor.  Victor Paul Wierwille.  He has many names.  I am most surprised when I hear his assistant, Leroy Flynn, address him as “V.P.”.  Leroy is a slumping rail of a man dressed in cowboy boots, beige polyester pants and a brown leather jacket.  His gaunt face and long sideburns remind me of a cowhand in a John Wayne movie.

They ride in on motorcycles, which takes me by surprise.  I imagined the teacher of my class to be someone who drove a VW bug and attended Vietnam War protests.  Kind of like a cross between Timothy Leary and Parson Pease-Porridge from one of my childhood books. I never imagined James Dean with a Bible.

The Doctor drives a raspberry-colored Harley Davidson with a green “The Way” bumper sticker plastered across the windshield.  He seems tall, towering, though he is only slightly taller than I am.  At 5’7”, I am already at my full height.  He also wears cowboy boots, brown polyester cowboy pants and a beige-plaid cowboy shirt with a cotton scarf around his neck.  His hair is blown back from his face  (he doesn’t believe in helmets because God is with him) and his skin is leathery and tan.  He has piercing blue eyes that squint when he smiles, which is a lot.

“Well, God bless you, kids!”  His voice booms as he holds out his arms to hug us all.  I stand patiently next to his bike, the motor still clicking from its long ride East. I’m holding a cat-o-nine tails I picked up on the way to greet him. It seems fitting, I mean, I know they waved palms for Jesus when he came to town. I’m wearing my best long peasant skirt and a peasant blouse.  My curly hair is loose and flows over my shoulders.

He turns to me.

“And who’s this?”  he bellows.  He reminds me of the Wizard of Oz in cowboy boots.  Larger than life and as loving and marvelous and from so distant a land as Ohio. Anything west of the Hudson River seems exotic to me.

“I’m Kris Skedgell.  I wrote you that letter,”  I say.

“Oh, so you’re the one.  Yes, I very much appreciated that letter.  Yes, it is radical what we’re doing.  And you have to BE radical to believe the Word.  The best kind of radicals in the world.  Keep going, honey.  That’s what life is all about.”
I wrote the Doctor a letter after finishing the PFAL class.  I wanted him to know how much I appreciated it and how revolutionary I thought it was.  He wrote me back a short thank you on The Way letterhead and signed his name “Victor Paul Wierwille.”  I beam with importance.  John Pope stands nearby and smiles.  He is the one who encouraged me to write in the first place.

The Doctor hugs my shoulders and releases me.  His grip is strong, firm.  Not like my father, who never hugs me anymore.  I am starved for the attention of an older man, of a father.  For years, I’ve laid out the shoes of my devotion before any man who would step into them.  Every male teacher I’ve had has been a potential surrogate father.  

In sixth grade, Mr. Schwartz, scolded me for having so deep a crush on him. I was starting to cheat on homework assignments just to gain his favor. After class one day, he told me that not only was my behavior wrong, but my affections were inappropriate.  My face turned bright red as he lectured me and my right foot scraped the floor back and forth in embarrassment. I felt so humiliated that I barely looked at him the rest of the year.

But here was The Doctor. “V.P.,” a willing substitute. In my mind, I christen him “Dad.”  The Dad I lost has come back to me.  And he’s better than any father I could imagine.  He’s brought God with him.


                    ************

From Chapter Sixteen:

Picture this.  You’re on a cruise ship sailing through the Caribbean.  The weather is balmy, bright afternoon sunshine, soft breeze, not too hot, not too cold.  Just right.  You’re on the deck sunning just as you’ve been doing every day for fifteen years.  You wear a shocking pink two-piece bathing suit to offset a dark tan.  Your book, a mystery, lies open face down on the floor next to a dripping pina colada.  Your eyes are closed under dark sunglasses.  

Late in the day, clouds start to roll in.  The water becomes choppy.  The captain hobbles by and greets you.  You do not notice his peg leg and the black patch over his right eye. He says a storm is blowing in.  It would be best if you went down below.  You thank him, as you have done every day for fifteen years, and you gather your things.  He is such a nice captain.

Only this day is different.  This time, when you open your eyes, you take off your sunglasses.  You look up.  You notice a black flag with the white skull and cross bones flying overhead.  Has this flag always been there?  Where is the American flag that was there yesterday? Something is wrong.  This is not the Love Boat.  This is a pirate’s ship.  

You ask your husband, a crewmember.  Do you see the flag?  Do you see what I see? He aspires to become First Mate. He does not want to see it.  You tell him you and he should leave. He does not want to leave.  He becomes angry when you tell him what you have seen.  He does not believe you.  You take off his dark glasses.  Tell him to look.  He sees the flag.  He confronts the Captain.  The Captain hands him a sword.  Arm yourself, my boy, says the Captain.  Protect the Queen’s one true flagship.

This is how it happens with Alec and me.  By this time we are living in Portland, Oregon where we have decided to work on our marriage and run a small fellowship, a twig. Joshua is two months old and we are living in a condo north of Portland.

On this particular day, I am sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book about faith and art by Madeline L’Engle. I have started reading writers outside of The Way, not just secular authors but other Christians like L’Engle. Her book resonates with me.  I want to be a writer; I want to keep the faith.  She shows me how.

But I know I need to come clean with Alec.  After the miracle of Joshua’s birth, I must confront the cloud of hypocrisy we have been living under. The Word says “the truth will set you free.”  The Doctor always taught that the “truth” referred to God’s Word.  Only speaking the actual words of the Word would set us free.  In other words, as long as you quote Scripture, you can tell any lie you want.  It’s the Age of Grace.  But today I’m doing something radical and new.  Today I’m telling the truth of my own experience.  

Alec arrives home a little after five.  He is happy.  He gathers Joshua in his arms and lifts him over his head.
“How is my little man today?” he says and covers him with kisses.  I worry sometimes that he will be too rough with the baby but he adores this child.  He would never hurt him.

“Alec, we need to talk,” I say, putting down my book.

“Oh, no, what is it this time?  Can’t you at least wait until I take off my jacket?”

“It’s important, Alec.  What I have to say may change the way you look at God and the ministry forever.”

He looks at me, examines my face.  He can see I am serious.  I am not going to criticize or accuse him of anything.  This is about the ministry.  This is important. He returns the baby to its basket and takes off his jacket.

“So what is it?” he says.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“I can hear you standing up.  I want to know what you’re talking about.”  He tosses his jacket onto the couch and it slips to the floor. Neither of us rises to pick it up.  My heart is pounding and my face feels red.

“The ministry isn’t what you think it is.  Dr. Wierwille isn’t who you think he is.”