Timothy Kline: Thoughts and Reflections

Life's lessons are SO painful!

Since I’m having so much trouble sleeping tonight because my mind won’t leave me alone, I figure I might as well do something, and since I haven’t written in a while, this will serve as an update on my life, as well.

As I have discussed recently, I’ve had the amazing privilege of being reunited with now two of my three daughters whom I was essentially coerced into giving up for adoption by the State of Michigan some 19 years ago. It’s been nothing less than miraculous, really, and more than I dared ever expect—even though that didn’t stop me from hoping and doing what I could to get my name out there on the chance they might want to find me someday.

Be that as it may, it hasn’t failed to provide its own surprises, as well as frustrations—one of which I talked about in the previous entry.

I found out, for example, that I am a grandpa five times over. I didn’t, I admit, see that coming. My oldest daughter, Brandi, has three children, and my second-oldest daughter, Danielle, has two children. Insofar as I know, my youngest daughter, Melinda—whom I have not had contact with as of this writing—does not have any children.

Strange new territory, this being a grandpa so suddenly! But I’m very happy about that (and who wouldn’t be, really?) and looking forward to watching them grow and mature.

But that isn’t the reason why I’m sitting here writing at 2am in the morning.

It’s the realization that I’m coming into their lives after so many things have happened that might have been averted.

I’m frustrated because I can’t help but feel that it is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves. I want you to remember that, because I’m going to come back to it later on in this entry. But that’s later.

First, I want to elaborate on what I mean.

In getting reacquainted with my daughters after all of the years that I was forced to miss out on, I can’t stop myself from wanting to kick into what I’ve laughingly referred to when I’m with them as “Daddy Mode,” where the father in me kicks in and wants to set matters straight and get to the bottom of the mess as soon as possible. The catch is that I haven’t been a part of my daughters’ lives for 19 years. They’ve been raised by the adoptive family, and are a product of that environment—and environment that weighs as a heavy influence on their decision-making skills, morals, outlook on life, and even their view of themselves. I know that it’s unrealistic to think that I can come on the scene after all of that groundwork has been laid for them, and expect things to suddenly be able to shift direction. It doesn’t, however, stop me from wanting that to be how it goes.

So, it’s a learning process for me as I try to get acquainted with my long-lost daughters, encourage them where I can, help them where I can, and realize that they have their own lives that they are living. The way I explained it to them was “I’m not going to tell you what to do or how I want you to live your lives. But I will probably tell you how you should. I will offer advice, but it is your choice whether to follow the advice or do things your own way. Either way, I will never withhold my love from you.” I also told them, “I will not always agree with your decisions, but I will always be there for you and have your back.” To that, I added, “I do not expect you to jump through hoops with me in order to be approved by me. If I give to you, it is without strings attached, where I later hold it over your head.” But I also made one other thing clear to both of them: “I will do everything within my power to help you with whatever it is that you need; however, I will NOT carry you.” The way I explained it was that I won’t help them unless I see that they’re at least helping themselves.

And true to my word, I’ve been dropping fatherly advice into both of my daughters’ laps—sometimes delicately, sometimes plainly and bluntly. But it is SO hard to give advice and then let the matter rest, and watch them continue doing things the way they are used to or prefer. But the way I figure it, it’s their life, and they’re free to live it however they want to live it. The bottom line is that I’m going to continue to love that and endure whatever angst, frustration, and disappointment comes with that—as well as the bliss and memorable moments.

Years ago, someone asked me if I believe in unconditional love, if I thought there was such a thing. And typically, the answer would be no for most people. But I do believe in unconditional love, a love that is simply given—regardless of whether it is returned, acknowledged, or ignored outright. I know there is such a thing because I have children, because I have sons and daughters. But I also know there are parents who, unless their children live the life that the parents want them to live, or do things the way that the parents want them to do them, will withhold their love, or even stop interacting with them altogether, cutting them off from the family in some attempt at ultimate discipline. Perhaps they disapprove of the lifestyle, or the boyfriend/girlfriend, the career choice—whatever the reason or excuse they concoct to justify their simplistic, unloving approach to their own flesh and blood.

I’m certainly not going to say that unconditional love is easy. It’s not. In fact, it will often run counter to every fiber of our being—because we as parents naturally want our children to obey us and comply with us. Sometimes, it’s for the simple reason that we know where they’ll end up if they don’t follow our counsel or advice. But as much as we want to protect our children, to save them from cuts, scrapes and bruises brought on by life, we have to let them crawl, walk, and then fly. And when (not if, but when) they stumble and fall, we will be there to help them back up again. They need to know that. They MUST know that, and we have to be the ones to tell them. And any temptation to say “I told you so” or “Well, if you’d listened and did what I said to do…” needs to be stomped out of existence, plain and simple. It is pointless and just plain evil.

All of this, of course, is a sort of preface to what has been bothering me since recently.

There are two things, actually, so I’ll start with the first part, and then get down to business with the other part.

Both of my daughters are in what I will settle for calling predicaments of their own making. And the more I think about their predicaments, the more I want to go insane, because it is SO crazy to me. I’m at a complete loss what to do about it to help them. I’ve offered each of them advice, of course, and made recommendations, but they seem determined at this point to do things the way they prefer or are comfortable with. So, I am having to let the matter rest and let them see where their way takes them, and wait to see what happens next.

There are the predicaments, as I said, but there is also that “groundwork” that I referred to earlier, laid by the adoptive family. Then, of course, there are the obviously unresolved issues related to the whole family upheaval and subsequent adoption placement. Abandonment issues, emotional trauma (at least for the two oldest girls), insecurities—not even to mention them being told for the past 19 years that their daddy was a molestor and their mom was nearly as bad with issues of their own—a subject that I address in the previous blog with much frustration.

So, I completely understand that there are numerous factors in play here. It’s actually, at times, overwhelming how messed up everything is about this whole situation, and how it could have all been so different. But I try not to spend too much dwelling on that because it can’t be changed now—all that I have to work with is the here and the now, and potentially the future—IF I don’t screw this up by scaring them off with my “Daddy Mode.” Finding that balance is HARD, let me tell you!

Now, just recently, I was able to spend the day with both daughters that I have been reunited with at this point. It was, on the one hand, the most wonderful day for me since I can remember—and on the other hand, it had the most gut-wrenching, heartbreaking moments since I can remember.

I suppose a lot of it is due to the fact that the more I become acquainted with them, the more I am uncovering or discovering, and I am absolutely gutted to see just how broken they are. People who have spent any time with me online may be familiar with that expression because I’ve used it from time to time, where I’ve made the observation that everyone is broken—it’s just that some people are better at coping with it than other people are. Be that as it may, I’m not talking about other people, or everyone here: I’m talking about my daughters.

I want to make one thing absolutely clear here: I signed a piece of paper 19 years ago acknowledging that the court had the right to terminate my parental rights and subsequently adopt my girls to another family. I acknowleged that I was releasing all parental rights in that declaration. But in my heart and in my heart and in my soul, where the court could never reach or compel, I refused to stop thinking of myself as their father, and I refused to stop thinking of them as my daughters. They were taken—I did NOT give them or abandon them to the state. So, in every sense of the word, they never ceased being MY daughters, I don’t care what a piece of paper says or how I was coerced into signing that paper. And they will ALWAYS be my daughters!

And I suspect, as I become reacquainted with them, that I had made my fatherly impression on them to such an extent that they remembered my love for them in their very core, and that for their entire life they have had an insatiable void that they have tried to fill through lost, misdirected choices and relationships.

Be that as it may, I can do nothing except try to put the pieces back together, to try to repair the brokenness and heal and salve and bear the pain throughout the entire process.

What makes matters even more difficult is that they seem to be able to point out the faults of one another’s life choices and each other’s boyfriends—but they aren’t looking at their own lives and focusing on what THEY need to be doing with their own life. That, to me, is both crazy and frustrating. I’m torn between laughing hysterically and wanting to pull my hair out of my head! Worse still is that there are uncanny resemblances with BOTH of their situations that I won’t go into here—resemblances that I wish SO much they could see. But while they don’t like how the other one is living their life, they aren’t doing very much with their own life, either.

Which just goes back to what I was saying earlier in that they have that choice, and must make it for themselves. I can’t tell them how to live their life—I can only tell them how they should live their life.

But regardless, I love them both, and care for them beyond words. So, it hurts when I see them at each other. It hurts when I know where their choices may take them. And it hurts to let them have their choice. Love hurts, and at the same time, I would never want to stop loving them—even though I know the worst of the pain, heartache, and frustration is still ahead. But as bad as this gets, I want them to know that I am not going to step away from this. They can, but I will not. I will never stop being their father, or stop caring, or stop wanting nothing short of the best for them. Ever.

Which brings me to the final part of this blog, and the motivating factor that set things into motion.

To preface the final, closing point, I need to lay down a couple things to provide perspective.

The same day that I met Danielle, she had asked me if I could take her to her new boyfriend’s place. It was out of my way, and I told her as much. After a moment or so, I offered a compromise: ride back with me once I picked up her sister for laundry day at my house, and I’d swap vehicles and take her to her new boyfriend’s place. She agreed, and I picked up Brandi, and we headed back to Perry. After we got to my house, I of course, invited Danielle in and showed her around, introduced, and that sort of thing, and then we were on our way to meet her new boyfriend, outside his ex-girlfriend’s place, where Danielle said he had been staying for the past few days. I dropped her off, and headed back to Perry.

A short while later, I got a phone call from Danielle, asking me if I could take her home because she was hungry and hadn’t eaten, and her new boyfriend wasn’t ready to go home and would be staying behind. Of course, I said I would but that I’d bring her back home with me and feed her lunch and then take her home the same time I took her sister home. She said that was fine,  and was on my way to pick her up.

And then, as I was heading to the town to pick her up, my cell phone rang. It was Danielle. She said that Jeremy was wanting to go home with her now.

My stomach clenched. I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was that I’m being played, either by Danielle or by both of them—and I didn’t care who was playing me: I did NOT like it.

I finally bit my tongue and said okay, and let her go. The rest of the way there, I battled with myself, angry at feeling like I had been played. Should I take them home after I had already invited Danielle back to my house for dinner with everyone, or should I take them straight home like Danielle and said they wanted to do. What to do, what to do!?

And this voice came out of nowhere, reaching into the back of my frustration. “Now you know how it feels for me.“

Now I’m not a churchy, religious, Bible-thumping Christian. But I am a believer and a man of faith. And I’ve had my fair share of moments in my life that could ONLY be explained through my belief in God. This had to be one such moment. There is no other explanation that fits. Now you know how it feels for me.

In that moment, I realized that it must suck to be God. To love your children unconditionally, and let them have their choices and have to deal with the consequences of those choices. And do you still remember what I told you to remember at the beginning of this blog entry?

It is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves.

I had been brought into this because God was wanting me to learn something about him. What it’s really like to be a parent—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And then letting me decide: do I want to be the sort of parent that He is, or the sort that I think I should be? If I’m going to talk about unconditional love, then I’m going to be put to the test, sure enough!

And sure enough, in that moment, I was. And yet the choice was mine to make. Nobody was going to make me choose or tell me what to do.

Now you know how it feels for me, the voice told me as I drove. You want to know how it feels to be a parent? You want to talk about frustration? Anger? Disappointment? About your children not listening to what you’re trying to tell them? But you know what? I never stop loving my children. I never said it would be easy for you, and you can still walk away from this. I’d understand. But I don’t believe that you will, and I want you to know that you won’t be alone in the tears or the happiness. I’ll always be here for you.

I can’t say that even then I wanted to do what I felt in my heart I should do. But the Voice stayed with me the rest of the way to Williamston, and once Danielle was sitting in the seat next to me, I made my decision. I AM in this, no matter what. Heartbreak and all. I love my children too much to do anything else.

So, I brought them back home with me, to have dinner with the rest of us.

But I did take Danielle for a walk with me as soon as we got the house, to tell her my gut feeling that I had been played and that I did not like feeling that way. I also did my best to assure her that I care about her, because I do.

Was I played? I’ll never know for sure. She explained things from her side, of course. But even if I was, I made my choice, and I accepted the consequences for that choice by having her and her new boyfriend come back to the house for dinner.

Besides, the remainder of the visit and day went fairly good, and in time I forgot about that initial frustration because my appreciation and gratitude for having two of my daughters together in my home at the same time was joyous and reward enough for me. If I had listened to by frustration instead, I would have missed out on that.

I think the way I worded it in a Status update on Facebook was that I had enjoyed a day with two of my long-lost daughters, and while are a few crinkles, kinks, and wrinkles needing to be worked out, I am SO thankful and grateful to have these two beautiful, amazing women back in my life.

And I mean every word of it.

There can be only one...

The campaign signs decorate yards and roadways. Daily and hourly polls are recounted continuously and published instantly across the world. Television ads populate the airwaves of radio and television. Devoted supporters make their rounds, dropping of flyers and encouraging people to get out and vote. The hands of every clock drives inexorably the American people relentlessly forward–even the recent falling back of an hour did little more than momentarily stall the inevitable.

On Tuesday, November 4, 2008, sometime after the polls close at 8:00 p.m., barring unforeseen circumstances, the United States of America and the world at-large will have discovered who it is that will become their leader during the tenure as the next President of the United States of America. For better or for worse, America will be wedded anew to that President.

Both candidates proclaim themselves to be the proverbial Best Man, best suited to restore America to its former days of glory and prestige on the world scene. Both have spent massive amounts of money in order to ensure that their campaign promises are heard near and far. Both have raised sometimes audacious claims about one another in an attempt to elevate their own suitability. Indeed, both men have a distinct vision on how they want to save the United States.

But in the end, there can be only one. One will win the 2008 Presidential Election, the other will concede defeat. It’s possible, of course, that the results of the election will be contested, much as has happened in the previous two elections. The stakes are so high that such a possibility may even be inevitable. This will serve to delay a final determination, of course, as to who won the election.

But, someone will win and someone will lose. For the supporters of the losing campaign there will doubtless be feelings of being disenfranchised and cheated. For the supporters of the winning campaign there will be elation and hope and a renewed conviction that Democracy has once again won the day.

It’s impossible to say at this point how long the healing will take, when both sides are able to look at one another from across their respective sides and speak with a united goal and purpose. In fact, it may not happen at all. Many lines of decency were crossed during the course of this election, and it will be a seriously difficult task to somehow then act as though such things were only said in the heat of a passionate campaign run for the highest office of this country.

There is an unsettled air in this country that has been fertilized by the unceasing rhetoric and often acrimonious speeches, complete with a cacophonus backdrop of epithets and shouts from the attending masses that has gone unchecked by the one delivering the speech. Even if the losing presidential candidate somehow manages to portray themselves as accepting of the other’s victory, there is a moral obligation to continue in their role as a former presidential candidate to act as a leader to hopefully assuage the high, heated emotions that have been stirred up during the course of this presidential race. To fail to exhibit leadership at this delicate stage would be tantamount to moral irresponsibility. Again: the losing candidate must make the time to continue in their role as the leader of their campaign, and work hard to wind down the emotions of their ardent supporters. To do any less than that is to invite potential conflict–possibly even tragedy. Loyal supporters that are stirred up will undoubtedly be willing to go to extensive lengths to show their support for their candidate–and for the “cause” that has been promoted by that candidate’s campaign.

The fact that Americans are, for the very first time, looking at their first potential African-American president has surely reawakened deep-seated fears and resentments that typically only find their way into the open through regional cultures and subsequent dialogue. But nobody should think for a moment that such bitterness and resentments can remain buried and guarded forever. The conflicts and social unrest that were borne from the late Martin Luther King Jr.’s appeal for real equality has only been subsided. But only insofar as it is just beneath the veneer that we all socially operate behind. Privately, longheld views make their way to the fore, making it clear that there remain a great many issues that have yet to be resolved when it comes to differences in skin color and culture.

It is equally certain that this election could very well be the spark that reignites the conflict, opening up old wounds and deep-seated prejudices to such an extent that we will see an enormous social upheaval on the heels of this election. Indeed, there are indications that this may be more of a reality than even I suspect.

Regardless, the times are changing for us. We find ourselves standing in a momentous time in history. Cataclysmic events are rocking the financial and corporate world, people are turning to their governments for a way out, and the majority are clinging to a way of life and status that no longer can work in this ever-changing world. We are being dragged kicking and screaming into that change. We may have to make great sacrifices in order to ensure that our children have a future. We may finally realize that national boundaries are no longer a sufficient division between Men, that we must act as a cohesive whole and stop holding onto outdated and outmoded philosophies. Rather than defining our prosperity by the amassing of goods and products, we should define our prosperity by a determined intent and focus to stamp out the very causes of poverty, disease, and yes, even war.

That’s a pretty lofty goal, some may say. A pie-in-the-sky dream that does not match reality. And they would be correct. But should that stop us from at least trying? I mean really trying.

The candidates talked a pretty good game. But once it’s time to make good on those campaign promises and hours of rhetoric, will they have the wherewithal to truly induct change into the world?

A part of me hopes that they will, but another part of me is convinced that it will be business as usual once the ballots are counted and the winner is declared.

What, then, will this election mean? It will mean the potential for true change, but the lack of true, cohesive  determination to actually try to make it happen. Humankind’s history is replete with what starts off as “good intentions,” but then fails utterly and miserably. My heart goes out to those who really are placing their hopes in what they have been promised by their respective candidates. I say so because every time we are disappointed, it becomes a little hard to believe the next time that it will be any different. And, if you are disappointed enough times, you begin to just settle for what meager portions you can get. After all, we console ourselves, something is better than nothing.

Take of life's waters free

I first became familiar with the Bible when I was very young, as far back as my memory will carry me. I remember the large, oversized ivory-colored family Bible on the table in front of the sofa, with its holographic picture embedded into the cover, a portrait of a long-haired Jesus that would shift to another picture where Jesus was standing at a door and knocking.

I remember pulling back that thick cover to reveal the pages, and I remember being captivated by the pages of red-letter text on many of the pages toward the back of the Bible. I was too young at the time to read, so it was the coloring that first grabbed my attention. That, and the utterly beautiful illustrations that had been placed throughout that Bible.

I remember staring into those pictures for the longest time, taking in the exquisite attention to detail. A whole story unfolded from each singular moment captured on canvas. Some were joyous, others were evidence of despair; yet all of them together constituted my first impressions of the book that so many hold dear: The Holy Bible.

In time, I learned to read, as children often do. I remember unmeasured hours poring through the pages of a series of books called “The Bible Stories,” published by the Seventh-Day Adventists. I was living in Lake Odessa, Michigan, at the time, and apparently, the Seventh-Day Adventists–who were based in Battle Creek–were going door-to-door selling their various books which included Ellen G. White’s thick volumes of exposition about the Bible, the aforementioned Bible Story books, and the Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories collection, which were stories with a moral or lesson to be learned. That was around the same time that my mother purchased a complete set of World Book Encyclopediae.

The Bible Stories collection was a remarkable piece of work and in many ways it still is. The artwork is stunning, and the writing level makes for very accessible reading to a wide range of ages. They capsulized much of what I had always been drawn to in that family Bible. I learned about Creation, and Adam and Eve, as well as the story of Cain and his brother Abel. I learned about the Flood and a righteous man named Noah. I learned about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who were the founders of a great nation called Israel. And, of course, I learned about David, Solomon, and Daniel. Not to be forgotten were the stories about Jesus and the men who believed what he taught about God’s Kingdom, men who faced hatred from their own people yet stayed the course in order to teach others about Jesus and the promise of God’s Kingdom.

Of course, the more I learned, the more questions I asked. A lot of them, apparently, because my mother decided that attending church as the answer (at least for her, because she was an agnostic and had no interest in all that “religious” stuff.

The first church I attended was the Nashville Baptist Church, in Nashville, Michigan. It was their Sunday School, to be more specific. The bus would come by early on Sunday morning and pick me and my brothers up and take us–along with a few neighborhood kids–off to Sunday School. There, I learned how to look up verses in the Bible, the books of the Bible, and how to read the accounts in the Bible straight from the source rather than from books like The Bible Stories. It was a lot different, reading raw text and having to visualize things, and I would often summon up the imagery from the books and use them as a foundation, and fill in the details from there using the Bible.

Of course, Sunday School also included child-friendly sermons on such subjects as being “saved,” who Jesus was, baptism, and other niceties. But it was all taught at a level that matched the comprehension of children, and I was one of the few that seemed to appreciate it while other kids fidgeted and found pageflipping to be a worthwhile distraction.

One particular memory that I still have to this day is that of a challenge that was presented to my Sunday School class. We were to memorize the 23rd Psalm, and in exchange for our hard work we would receive our choice of 1) a fishing pole; 2) a gift certificate to some restaurant; or 3) a metallic cross, in either silver or red, on a chain necklace. Each subsequent Sunday, one of us boys would take our turn at the recitation. The Sunday School teacher would help the person when they faltered, until the Psalm was recited. Afterwards, the boy would be given his choice, and upon making his decision, the reward was given.The majority of the boys chose the fishing pole, probably because it was the most expensive “prize” being offered.

When my turn came up, a few weeks later, I blushed and stammered and stuttered my way through it. It was harder than I had imagined it would be–my first evidence that I did not have the gift of public speaking, that’s for sure! But I muddled my way through the ordeal, I was asked to make my choice and I timidly said that I wanted the cross necklace. Several of the boys snickered because a necklace was considered a sissy’s prize, but the Sunday School instructor ignored the snickers and asked me if I had a preference for color: the silver or the red. I said that I wanted the red one, because it represented for me the shed blood that Jesus gave up that I might live forever. The instructor told me that I would receive my prize the following Sunday School, because he had only brought the fishing pole and gift certificate with him, since those were the only ones everyone seemed interested in.

Sure enough, the following Sunday I was handed a small gift box, and inside it was the metallic red-colored cross hanging from its lightweight chain necklace. I wasted no time in putting it on; I didn’t care what the other boys were whispering and giggling about, and I wore it all of the time. I was very proud of that piece of jewelry, because deep within my heart I knew what it represented to me, and that was all that mattered.

That same morning, the instructor also handed me my very first personal Bible, a red-leather King James Version, complete with Jesus’s words in red text. It became my companion for a very long time.

That summer, the church pastor was arranging for baptisms to be carried out at the Jordan Lake in Lake Odessa, and inviting the public to the sermon that would be given before the baptisms were performed. Without hesitation, I made up my mind to be one of those who were baptised.

The day arrived, and it was a perfect day. The air was warmed by a slight breeze, the lake was welcoming the crowd with its gentle wake upon the beach. The pastor spoke from one of the pontoons, and when he was finished, he invited all who wanted to be baptized to step forward. I was one of the dozen or so who stepped forward, and if memory serves me correctly, only one of three children.

I won’t soon forget how warm the water was that day. It was like entering a bathtub. The breeze that had been blowing earlier was now stilled, as if the whole world was watching this scene of people getting baptized in Jordan Lake, myself included.

I was led out into the water with the person holding my hand and arm to give me stability. When we were out to the proper depth, the person asked me if I accepted Jesus as my savior and had repented of my former sins and was dedicating my life to serving God. I told him yes, and he told me to pinch my nose closed, and that he would be tipping me backwards into the water until I was fully submerged. I did as instructed, and a few pounding heartbeats later I felt myself plunged beneath the waters of Jordan Lake. All sound went muffled as I found myself in a state of sudden weightlessness. And then, just as suddenly I was raised back up.

It was an immensely powerful moment in my life, one of those moments when I felt closest to God. It had such a deeply spiritual impact that I now look back at it with a sense of appreciation that I could never have had before now. In that moment of my coming up out of those waters, at the tender age of seven, I felt renewed to such a degree that I think the majority of people could never possibly relate to. From being that young tyke who was first drawn to the family Bible, to having access to the Bible Stories books, to Sunday School at the Nashville Baptist Church, it all played a role in my life, in establishing a foundation upon which I would build my Life. That moment when I rose up from those waters, I felt such a sense of being clean and approved and alive! I felt, dare I say, the very presence of God’s holy spirit. It was a comfort beyond the words of a seven year old, but no less real.

Years later, there would come a time when some would try to belittle that experience and convince me that it meant nothing, that that moment when I said without reservation that yes, I did accept Jesus as my savior, that I did repent of my sins and that I did choose to serve God with my whole heart, mind, and spirit–that that moment amounted to little more than a lie.

But the reality of what happened to me the day I was baptized at the age of seven, the witness that was borne to me by my God when I was but a child yearning to learn about Him, could not so easily be undermined. To this day, it stands as a testament to my profound tenacity, even as a child, to take the need I have for God in my life to be as serious–if not more so–than anything else. And it was not an experience that was duplicated at my second baptism many years later, a baptism that I underwent at the behest of those who insisted that my earlier baptism was insufficient and invalid. But I will touch upon that more in a future entry.

In any event, in spite of the learning, probing, and questioning that went on up to that day at Jordan Lake, the day of my baptism proved to be only the beginning for me in my ongoing quest for insight and understanding about myself, others around me, and about the God that I serve and worship.