I’ve seen a freshly wiped dining table, Bibles reflected in the gleam, waiting. Heard the doorbell, smiled, guided, sat. Prayed inwardly while Tim spoke. Young men, dark suits, Books of Mormon. “Do you know for sure you’re going to heaven?” we asked.
Our preparation: the Christian Research Institute, which Walter Martin founded. Our story, before marriage, listening to dear Walter on cassette tapes in the car. Our hearts enlivened when he spoke with love for God.
One time the young men brought their elders with them. Good debate ensued. A Mormon elder told me I was quite a Bible scholar. “No,” I said, but inside I smiled.
A few years later, among new friends in a setting of seekers of truth, someone called me a real student of the Bible. My landscape shone. Every expression must come from this — root, bark, and leaf — I thought. This means everything.
I’ve heard Tim set kindling early in the woodstove, the crack of flame, heavy hinges creaking. I stumbled out to him, slippered and with tousled hair. Folded legs on carpet. It couldn’t be, yet, here, I asked it. “Will it be all right if I go into Orthodoxy with you?”
Reputation, if ever such was, disappeared. A step into mystery. Water and oil and wine. Believing a Body — spiritual, St. Paul wrote long ago — can feed me. Believing the Blood is holy, blessed, true drink. This, something greater than the Temple, out of sight of eye, but real. Gospel, in Person. “I am with you always.”
Knowing for sure I’m not heaven-worthy, this corrupted gleam, this blaze. I’ve glimpsed the end of dreaming, beyond my front door. I stumble. Again I climb.
Our preparation: the Christian Research Institute, which Walter Martin founded. Our story, before marriage, listening to dear Walter on cassette tapes in the car. Our hearts enlivened when he spoke with love for God.
One time the young men brought their elders with them. Good debate ensued. A Mormon elder told me I was quite a Bible scholar. “No,” I said, but inside I smiled.
A few years later, among new friends in a setting of seekers of truth, someone called me a real student of the Bible. My landscape shone. Every expression must come from this — root, bark, and leaf — I thought. This means everything.
I’ve heard Tim set kindling early in the woodstove, the crack of flame, heavy hinges creaking. I stumbled out to him, slippered and with tousled hair. Folded legs on carpet. It couldn’t be, yet, here, I asked it. “Will it be all right if I go into Orthodoxy with you?”
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| Glory to God for All Things |
Reputation, if ever such was, disappeared. A step into mystery. Water and oil and wine. Believing a Body — spiritual, St. Paul wrote long ago — can feed me. Believing the Blood is holy, blessed, true drink. This, something greater than the Temple, out of sight of eye, but real. Gospel, in Person. “I am with you always.”
Knowing for sure I’m not heaven-worthy, this corrupted gleam, this blaze. I’ve glimpsed the end of dreaming, beyond my front door. I stumble. Again I climb.
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