The Start of My Travels

These next numbers of posts will contain my life's journey up 'till now. My Testimony, as it were. I hope you will enjoy the written journey as best as you can, since you were not there for most of it. Feel free to use your imagination to picture the locations, situations and motivations I am attempting to present. Putting one' s life into black and white has taken a considerable amount of time and thought, and hard as I try, almost impossible to color it the way I remember, both in language and style. I can only hope that at the end, you will know me a tad bit more and yourself a little better, because we always see ourselves in someone else's story.

Traveler’s Wandering – The Early Years: Part 1

This is my life in capsule form. Taken in small doses, it can be enjoyable, but be careful not to overdose. I was born on February 15, 1964, the day after Valentine's Day, in West Covina, California. I guess I'm just a leftover sweetheart. For the first 5 years of my life, I lived in California with my mother and father. I recall bits and pieces of that time but nothing that I consider life shaping.

During my fifth year of life, my mother divorced my father and moved back to her parents home in Michigan. One of the things my mother unknowingly taught me was the importance of tenacity, which was in evidence upon the trip to Michigan. She drove from California to Michigan in a rented U-Haul truck, pulling an old '64 Rambler behind it and in the cab with her were her 3 small children. Not an undertaking for the faint of heart. Yet, she made it. She settled in Owosso, Michigan and did her best to raise 3 small kids on her own. She worked often and we spent lots of time with other caretakers, some bad and some very good. Grandma Carpenter was one of the good ones. She ran an in-home daycare facility. She could be stern but was also loving and really cared for me and my brother and sister. I started at a local public school and would go to her house after school. Much about that time is blurry and memories usually consist of remembered snapshots or of specific instances, single pictures in the album of my mind.

Through a mutual friend, she met Don Weita and within a year and a half, had remarried. The now newly formed family, (really a His, Hers, and future Ours family), moved to my new stepfathers hometown of Warren, Ohio, which would become my home for the next 15 years. Warren was a typical mid-western town, full of bicycle riding children, two story houses with basements and two parent families. I grew up in the family as the oldest boy, the second oldest child. I have 4 brothers and 3 sisters. Being the oldest boy, I usually was the local whipping post and lighting rod. When trouble struck, it usually struck me. I was stubborn and rebellious as any young boy is inclined to be. Trouble followed me like a plague. But I guess I always had the most fun, too. All the other kids waited to see if I would happen when I did something. If I got away with it, so could they. I never seem to learn my lessons. I was sharp-tongued and often mean. But hindsight seems to indicate that I was just compensating for being in a somewhat dysfunctional family. Blended families are never easy or clear cut and the best of intentions don’t always work out the way it is planned. The blending of individuals is never easy under the best of circumstances. I have learned much from my growing up years. I hope my efforts with my own family will reflect what I learned during those formative years.

One night, as I sat on the edge of the bed waiting to have my behind whipped for another infraction of family code, my stepfather,( who I'll refer to as Dad, for he really was the only father I’ve known), took some time to share with me about his relationship with a person named Jesus. On the verge of getting a spanking, I listened intently to every word that proceeded from the mouth of my Dad. But as he spoke, thoughts of punishment disappeared as my young mind grasped (for the first time), the concept of a loving God who cared for me and wanted to have a relationship with me and could forgive my sins and trespasses. And that night, I gave my heart to the Lord. Despite the fact that I was young and lacking in knowledge and reason, this incident left a mark upon me that is still evident in my life to this day. But despite my inward marking, it was many years before the commitment I'd made took hold and bore fruit. To this day, I still can't remember if I got spanked or not!

During our early years in Warren, we attended a Finnish Lutheran church. My Dad’s mother was from Finland and happened to be the church’s organist. So that’s where we went. I cannot remember even being in a church up until that time. The only memory I have of any contact with a church up to that point was on my journey from California to Michigan with my mother. I distinctly remember waking up one morning in Albuquerque, New Mexico to the sound of church bells. They were very beautiful and I remember them well. We were parked in a supermarket parking lot and had been sleeping in the back of the 1964 Rambler we were towing behind the U-Haul. Funny, what makes impressions on you at a young age that sticks with you for the rest of your life. Back to the Lutheran church. This time was very instrumental in life, although I would not recognize it until much later in my church going life. What I gathered, but didn’t realize it at the time, was an understanding of the mystery and holiness of God. There was something about being in that church, with the stained glass windows, the priestly robes, the candles, the liturgy and the formal music of the organ and choir that impacted my young life. It would not be till years later in my church worship life that I would come full circle and reconnect with the liturgical heritage that I had as a young child. I served as an acolyte and remember well the presentation of the Eucharist, the recitation of the Nicene Creed and the pattern of liturgy found in the Lutheran prayer books. The pastor was tall and grave, with a kindly smile and gentle manner. I remember the respect I had for him. I especially loved the special candle light services we had on Christmas Eve and New Years Eve. We would sit in the balcony and look down on the service below us. The tall, fragrant Christmas tree almost touched the roof, the beautiful singing rolling to the rafters, the sanctuary lit brightly with only the candles we held, the smell of candle wax. Beautiful and holy and magical those times felt to me. The Mystery of God the Father played out before my very young eyes. Unbeknownst to me, the Master was already creating pattern on the core of my being, the beginnings of an ongoing and never-ending painting.

Peace on the journey!
Traveler