My Life Part XV: The Calling

Ministers are said to be called by God. In my case, I received no phone calls, telegrams, or audible voice from God. Instead, I had a desire to serve beyond what church membership could afford. I wanted to serve God and help people. I had an idea of what that would be like, but reality is often different than our expectations.

Christians often fret about following God's plan for their lives. They believe there is one "right" answer to all of life's choices. They do not want to make the wrong choice.

However well intentioned this frame of mind is, it is not realistic. People drive themselves crazy second-guessing every decision. They judge each choice with its instant results. I tend to think God's will is a wider path. It is less important what we do than how we do it.

So I knocked on doors and pursued what I thought to be God's will. I based this on prayer, logic, counsel, and gut feelings. I figured if I were going the wrong direction, God would intervene and alter my course. My faith was; if I set out to find God's will, then I would.

In my way of thinking, nothing is wasted. Even if you spend time doing something you will not ultimately settle into, you learn something. I was learning in Illinois, but it was not to be something I would settle into.

From pastor to counselor

My position of Church Planter Apprentice was a two-year job. At the end of the two years I could either stay at the church I started, continue trying to start one if it was still in process, or leave.

As we began our work, we figured we would have a church going, but as time went on, it looked as if we would only have a small group of people gathered and no one with the ambition or financial commitment to make a new church a reality any time soon.

Scanning some of my letters from those days, I found evidence of my decision making process. There were two events that nudged me in the direction of counseling.

I already had an interest in counseling and psychology. Psychology was one of my college majors. I had to choose between graduate school in psychology and seminary. Of course I went the seminary route. There I met my wife and wound up in Illinois.

One of my seminary friends called me after I had been in Illinois for about a year. He was going back to seminary to work on his doctors degree in counseling and psychology. I was envious. The work in Rock Island was slow and the lack of results was difficult for me. I was questioning myself and my decision to be a church planter in the first place.

I knew I could do anything I wanted to do with God's blessing, but I wasn't feeling the fire of ambition. Counseling was appealing though. So a seed was planted that day. I could go back to school after completing the two years in Rock Island.

The second thing that took place occurred when I attended a training for ministers and counselors. It was to learn how to administer and interpret a couple of psychological tests. One was for marriage and relationships and it was called the PREPARE / ENRICH. The other one was a personality test named the Myers Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI).

You can Google Myers Briggs and take the test or a short form of it yourself, but don't expect it to change your life. There were many forces at work in my life at that time. First, I was struggling with the question, "What am I to do with my life?" Second, I was pressured by time and circumstance and third, God was at work in there some place.

Part of the seminar involved taking the test, scoring it, and listening as the presenter helped us understand or interpret our results. The test places you into one of 16 personality types. No one type is better than the other; just different.

The implications are to learn what you are and develop insight to know what other people are. If you can do this, you will communicate better and make better decisions. This is great stuff for counselors, employers, and for your own relationships.

Failure is not always about someone doing a poor job, but being placed in the wrong spot. A pro bowl quarterback might be a lousy offensive tackle. Studying my type helped me see that my strengths and gifts were less suited as a pastor of a church. Counseling was a better fit.

That test was the thing to solve my guilt problem. I would not be leaving the ministry to be a counselor if I chose to do so, I would be refining my place in it. I was called of God, but God calls people to do many things beyond preaching in churches or leading the music.

I believe that people who become police officers, nurses, doctors, counselors, ministers, and teachers are pursuing a calling. They are choosing to serve others and that it more important in their choice than how much money they will make. Later on we sometimes wish we had thought a bit more about making money, but not really.

The above list is not exhaustive. One may pursue any number of paths to follow a calling.

So the seeds were planted. I think I knew that day that at the end of my two years I would return to New Orleans and enter the doctoral program to begin preparing to be a counselor.

Life was exciting, and it was just beginning to get interesting. Our family was about to grow by one, but that is a tale for tomorrow.

Until the next time
John Strain

My Life Part XIV: Rock Island Baptist Chapel

I was 26 and had been married for 8 months. Barbara and I were leaving our friends and the familiarity of New Orleans to go where we thought God was leading us.

We looked at Rock Island and everything new through the eyes of optimism and adventure. We welcomed the new things and were hungry to learn about our new home.

I was a Southern Baptist minister, but I was not of the mind set that everyone needed to be a Southern Baptist. Rock Island did not have any Southern Baptist churches within its city limits, but there were churches of almost every other faith there.

I began the work by the book. Step one says to knock on doors and introduce yourself to the community. I had printed up a brochure about our new work, which I left with people. It introduced Barbara and I and what we were up to.

The object was to get a Bible study going, and then build on that to eventually grow a congregation. I don't know about you, but I am leery of people knocking on my door. I was amazed though at how many people would invite me in to talk.

If you have ever knocked on doors, you probably know what I am talking about. Some people are rude and slam the door in your face, while others are cordial.

In the summer, we were helped by out of town churches who sent mission groups to help us. These folks helped us run vacation Bible schools for the kids and assisted by knocking on doors.

I became involved in the church in Milan that was sponsoring our efforts. I also became involved in the surrounding Baptist Association. I did trainings for Sunday School teachers and other things.

I also got to preach some at area churches when their pastor was to be away on a Sunday. So I had some outlets to speak and do minister things even before we got our own thing going.

Slowly but surely, we got a few people together and we met in a little day care center on Sunday mornings. I printed up bulletins, led the singing, and preached the sermon. I was the chief cook and bottle washer, but I was having fun.

It would be a mistake if you thought of me as one of those holy ministers. I am a regular guy and I was never comfortable being treated like I couldn't hear any bad words or listen to any sordid stories.

A lot of times when people found out I was a minister, they would say, "Oh I didn't know you were a minister." I suppose that could be a compliment or an insult, but I took it as the former.

The first winter was one of the coldest in years. Barbara had only seen snow once or twice in her life. The first cold snap below freezing, she was suffering. I told her, "One of these days it will warm up to 32 degrees and you will think it is warm." My words were prophetic and I reminded her of them one day when she was running up and down the stairs to the laundry without a coat and the temperature a balmy 32 degrees.

Barbara had to learn how to drive in the snow too. I was some help. Although I didn't drive, I knew a few things about driving in the snow.

The following is a reprint of my December 2, 2003 post:

Driving in the snow
I do not drive due to being legally blind, but I grew up in Kansas City. Therefore, I am an expert at driving in the snow. Barbara was raised in Vicksburg and had virtually no snow driving experience. Shortly after we were married in 1983 we moved to Rock Island, Illinois, where I worked as a minister. I know, I know, I don't strike you as a minister. That is why I am no longer a minister, but that story will have to be another blog. Just suspend your belief for now and try to pay attention to the topic at hand. It took some convincing to get Barbara to leave the south and move to frigid Illinois, but it was early in our marriage and she was a good sport. Today she would probably tell me to take a flying leap. I tried to brainwash her by telling her things like "it's cold, but it's a dry cold" and "you'll get used to it easy" and "winter cold is overrated." It might have worked, but the winter of 1983-84 was the coldest in fifty years. The month of January, the mercury did not climb above zero. She began to question me as a source for reality. I kept telling her, "this is really unusual" and "I bet it is just as cold back in New Orleans" and "this is really unusual." I know, I used that one twice, but I ran out of explanations.

As many of you probably remember, the car you have when first married often lacks something to be desired; ours was no exception. We had an old Ford Mustang. The paint had oxidized and the right front fender was smashed from a yellow parking lot pole. Barbara maintained the pole hit the car not the other way around. It was a perfect pole imprint in the fender. We never got it fixed, because the money was always needed somewhere else.

The car had more than cosmetic problems. The neutral safety switch was also bad. What that meant, was the car would often not start unless the gear shift was jiggled and jiggled until contact was made. If jiggling the gear shift did not work, I had to get out, open the hood, and short across the solenoid with a pair of pliers to turn the car over. If that technical description did not paint a clear picture for you, let me try another way. We could be at a red light and the car might die. Turning the key would return nothing. Jiggling the gear shift might allow the car to start. If that did not work, my only recourse was to have Barb pop the hood, I grabbed a pair of pliers from under my seat, opened the hood and let it rest on my back (too much of a hurry to prop it up with the support), locate the solenoid on my side of the car and hold the pliers across the negative and positive poles enabling the car to start. Once running, I slammed the hood and jumped back in the car. I had to perform this operation once in the middle of a busy intersection. What a car.

Now for the story. One snowy Sunday night after church we were driving home in the Mustang and it was having traction problems due to the light rear end. On the way home we had to pass through Black Hawk State Park and a fairly steep hill. it was like being in a Christmas card. The big snowflakes were floating to the ground falling silently. The snow stuck to everything making it look white and clean. We were making the first tire tracks as we entered the park and started up the long, gradual hill. Part way up the hill, the Mustang started spinning. Lucky for Barbara I knew how to drive in the snow. I told her to stop and let me out. "OK, I am going to push. Once I get you moving, just keep going or the car will slip again - don't stop." Now around the back of the car, I had poor traction myself in my leather dress shoes. I yelled at Barbara to give it some gas and at the same time I pushed and just like I told her, the car began to move. I pushed all the way to the top of the hill. I was a bit winded and ready to ride for awhile, only one problem, Barbara kept going. I remember standing there in the falling snow. The quiet beauty of winter, but I was not dressed for it and I was in no mood for a long walk home. I was watching the tail lights getting narrower as the Mustang kept going when something inside me said, "you better run like hell." So I did. I ran as fast as I could to catch the car. Snow covered the windows, so Barbara had no idea she was leaving me. I was gaining on it when she rolled down her window and yelled for me to get in the car. She thought I was horsing around and she was not amused. I was not amused either. I yelled back at her to slow down so I could get in, but she just kept driving (like I told her to do). Finally I got to the front door and opened it with the car still moving. She is still yelling. I am trying to get in hopping on my right foot while trying to get my left foot in the car. "WHY DON'T YOU GET IN THE CAR?" she yelled. "I am trying to if you would stop the $#@%&*! thing." Yes, sadly, a minister was cursing only moments after church. "STOP YELLING AT ME!" she screamed. "WHY DIDN'T YOU STOP WHEN YOU GOT TO THE TOP OF THE *^%#@#! HILL?" I yelled. "YOU TOLD ME NOT TO STOP!" she screamed. I said nothing and we drove the rest of the way in silence. When we got to our apartment, I got out and opened the garage door. Barb pulled the car in and we walked up the two flights of wooden stairs and entered our apartment. Once inside, I turned on the light and we caught each other's eye. Then we burst into laughter. The whole thing was so stupid and hysterical, we only needed a few moments separation to realize it.

We broke the whole thing down. She took me literally and I thought it was obvious she could stop once we crested the hill and started down. We laugh about this to this day and our friends request the story every time winter weather threatens. This winter will mark the 20th (now 23rd) anniversary of that fiasco, but it is as fresh in my mind as anything.

We do not have to worry about winter driving very often here in Louisiana, maybe it is for the best.

Until the next time
John Strain

My Life: Part XIII: Assignment and ordination

(If you want to look at previous chapters of "My Life", click the "About Me" tab at the top of the page.)

Barbara and I visited the Quad Cities on Labor Day weekend. The Quad Cities are Rock Island, Moline, East Moline, IL, and Davenport, IA. They are perched on the Mississippi River and the terrain is hilly and wooded. The maple trees provide spectacular fall colors.

The area was predominantly blue collar and it was hard times. The UAW had gone on strike and the two major employers, International Harvester and John Deere responded by moving their operations overseas.

Many of the people were bitter and angry. Work was hard to come by and most folks were having a hard time making ends meet. People there were staunch Democrats and I was a Reagan man.

The day we arrived was one of those chamber of commerce days. Perfect weather and a parade in progress. The people were out in force, bands were playing, flags were waving, and the smell of BBQ was in the air. It was that familiar wholesome Midwest feeling and we both loved what we were seeing.

The church that was sponsoring us was in Milan, IL, just across the Rock River from Rock Island. It was a small church of mostly the blue-collar folks I described above. They were nice and made us feel welcome.

Our job was to start a new church in Rock Island. We would have to do this with little more than moral support from the church. They had few resources; human and financial.

Long story short, they offered us the job and we took it.

That decision threw things into high gear. We had about a month to tie things up in New Orleans and move about one thousand miles up the Mississippi River.

Barbara's folks were going to make the trip with us. Her dad would drive the U-Haul, her mom and sister would drive their car and Barb and I would be in our old beat up Mustang.

On the way, we stopped at my mother's house in Willow Springs, MO. I was to be ordained at the church where I had made my decision to enter the ministry.

Ordination in the Baptist faith is a recognition and a blessing of sorts. It amounts to a church saying, “This guy has demonstrated that he is called of God and we are giving our stamp of approval to this observation.” It merits a special afternoon service. In addition to the regular church members, other ordained individuals are invited.

The minister leading the service usually says a few things about ordination, then he says a few things about the one being ordained. At one point, all of the ordained folks come to the platform and surround the candidate for ordination. They place their hands on his head and shoulders and prayers are said.

It is a powerful moment. It is a rite of passage. I was aware of being one in a long line of men and women who have come before me. I was aware of my responsibility and the privilege I was being given.

On October 2, 1983 the folks at the First Baptist Church of Willow Springs, MO recognized me as a minister. I was ordained into the gospel ministry.

The next morning we pulled up stakes and headed north. We got as far as Galesburg, IL before stopping for the night. It was a short distance from there and we made it to our apartment around lunchtime the next day.

We had a nice little apartment at the top of two flights of wooden steps. Those steps were a curse when we had several loads of laundry or groceries to ferry up and down the climb. On the other hand, they provided good exercise.

Barbara and I were the youngest people at the apartment complex. Most of the residents were widows. They were curious about the “young couple” that was moving in. They worried about loud music and parties. It seemed to calm their fears when the apartment manager told them we were in the ministry.

In the two years to come, we would do a lot of favors for those ladies. I dug gardens, shoveled snow, carried heavy packages, went to the mailbox in the cold, and whatever they needed. Barbara was a chauffeur for our next door neighbor, Mrs. Wilcoox. She liked to go get a donut and a cup of coffee after grocery shopping.

We were given a week to move in and get settled. We were on the job now and it seemed we were in a nice location surrounded by pretty decent people. The leaves were changing and the cloudy apple cider was in the stores.

There is nothing like a warm glazed donut and hot cider on a cold rainy autumn day. We would have a few of those to enjoy.

Barbara was about to get a lesson in what winter was all about. It was all a big adventure to the two of us.

I'll get into those adventures in the next chapter.

Until the next time
John Strain

Help's on its way

There was a time once when baseball was heating up for me about this time of year. Kansas City Royals fans have had little to cheer about since George Brett and the 1985 World Series.

I have had to concern myself with other things, but help is on its way. As I write these words, men are in camp. They are studying plays, lifting weights, practicing their craft in the summer sun, and welcoming rookies to the NFL.

Football is in the air. I love the sound of a football game on Saturday and Sunday. It is like a heartbeat. It is the background noise that makes me feel like I am home.

The pageantry, tradition, and drama are just around the corner. I can't wait.

I will be pulling for the LSU Tigers in college football. The NFL teams that garner my enthusiasm are the Chiefs and the Saints. When the Chiefs play the Saints in preseason, I will be pulling for the Chiefs.

What lies ahead are days of great joy and great sorrow, but the contest is decided in three hours. We don't know who will win or how it will happen, so we watch. We watch and witness what may someday be historic.

We will someday be able to say where we were when so and so played so and so. We can regale our comrades with our version of the incredible plays. We will grill burgers and drink beer. We will participate in something deeply ingrained into our culture - football.

Help is on the way. Cue the Rolling Stone’s song Start Me Up.

Until the next time
John Strain

The ultra bug

I have been bitten by the ultra bug again. I am toying with the idea of entering an ultramarathon in March of 2007. It is called the Brew to Brew 44 mile solo or team run.

One runs from the Boulevard Brewery in Kansas City to the Free State Brewing Company in Lawrence, Kansas.

I haven't run a marathon since April and I am getting the itch. September 3rd is my next race and is in Tupelo, MS. Let me know if you need any Elvis souvenirs.

44 miles may not sound like much, but it will amount to about 7 hours or more of running. On top of that there is some climbing up and down river banks just to make it interesting.

Do I want to do this? I th th think so.

I am not saying yes now, but if one person dares me to, I'll have to do it to save face. Call me a pussy and I will go to extraordinary lengths to prove I am a moron instead.

Today is only 11 miles in the heat. 11 X's 4 is 44. Maybe that is a sign.

Here's to biting off more than you can chew.

Until the next time

John Strain