NINE DOLLARS WAS MORE THAN I WAS WORTH

Forgiveness is an idea which people interpret in different ways. Some assume forgiving a person means condoning their actions. I used to be one who believed that. Now I know that forgiveness means writing off a debt. It doesn't mean that whoever created that debt didn't sin against somebody in doing what they did.

If I still held to my former position on forgiveness, I would still be burdened with what my Mom did on a blisteringly-hot August day in 1970. After visiting Edmonton's Storyland Valley Zoo, as it was called then, Mom made Diane, Linda, and me walk through a wealthy neighbourhood called Rio Terrace. "Look at all these rich people's houses," Mom enthused. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to live in one of those."

I didn't care at all about those homes. All I wanted to do was get out of the heat. "Why can't we take a bus downtown instead of walking?" I complained as the sun beat down on us. "I'm so hot and tired."

"I want you to see these houses," she explained. "Your friend Randy lives in one of those. His dad's a lawyer, you know."

I felt better once we were in the bus depot, out of the ninety-degree heat. For our supper, Mom bought us each a hot dog and a bottle of pop from the cafe. After she purchased our tickets, we waited next to the Greyhound bus for the driver to collect our tickets.

As I stood with the rest of the family, the Diesel fumes made me feel queasy. Dizziness suddenly came over me and I saw what looked like ashes floating around in front of my face. I staggered around, knocking over somebody's suitcase as I fell to my knees. I heard cries of alarm from nearby passengers as Mom demanded to know what I thought I was doing.

Somebody from the security office helped me into a room and let me throw up in a waste bin. By the time I felt well enough to stand, our bus had left. Mom reluctantly hired a taxi to take the four of us to Fort Saskatchewan, about 20 miles away.

I went straight to our basement bedroom and lay down once we arrived home. As I rested, Mom stormed down the stairs and into our room. "You damn little shit," she yelled. "Why the hell did you have to get sick for? You cost me nine dollars you know. Damn that makes me mad. You had to be so stupid and embarrass me in front of all those people too." Then she stormed back upstairs.

Though I forgave my mother for being so hard on me when I was ill, the memory of her anger over the loss of nine dollars still hurts me but not so much as it used to. The same is true of others who unfairly condemned me. Read about how I was able to let go of past hurts in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. It's available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

SOMETIMES, A BROTHER JUST NEEDS CHEERRING UP

Have you ever done a good deed without realizing it at the time? I've had the blessing of being a blessing to somebody else quite a few times. One of those "divine appointments" happened on a Greyhound bus traveling from North Battleford, Saskatchewan to Edmonton, Alberta.

I had been visiting my sister whose husband worked in North Battleford. As I settled in my seat on that gloomy November day, a young man sat down next to me. Though I would have rather listened to my radio, we made small talk as the bus headed west.

"If you were to die tonight, where would you go?" he asked. Being a Christian myself, I recognized his question and what he had in mind in asking it.

He smiled when I told him that I was a believer. Throughout the rest of that five-hour trip, we spoke of how we came to Christ and where we attended church. We became so wrapped up in our conversation that the hours flew by.

As the bus entered the outskirts of Edmonton, my new friend said, "I feel so much better now that we talked. I was in a car accident so I had to take the Greyhound back home. Talking with you really cheered me up."

I felt astonished that I helped this dear brother in Christ. People throughout my life gave me the distinct impression that I wasn't much good at doing anything. I'm sure the Lord led me and this man to sit beside each other for the very purpose of building us up spiritually.

I wrote about the many times when church people discouraged me in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity/i>. Read how God led me out of that toxic church at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

MEMORIES OF TRAVELING IN STYLE.

Long distance public transit isn't what it once was. Passenger trains are almost non-existant and bus companies, such as Greyhound and Red Arrow, are cutting back on rural routes. If you're fortunate enough to have bus service, the ride isn't as pleasant as travelling by train once was.

I had the privilege of riding through the Rocky mountains four times during my lifetime on a train. In 1968 and 1969, my parents paid my way home from Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind so I wouldn't have to stay there during Easter. Though my vision was poor, I enjoyed the tall snow-covered peaks and icy lakes as they passed by. Even at night, I saw the moon shimmering on a river and similar delightful scenes

Though I had to sleep sitting up during the first two trips, the experience of train travel thrilled me. Instead of tinted green or brown windows like the busses had, the train windows were large and clear. Instead of crampt seeting, I had plenty of leg room. Being able to visit the dining car also relieved the boredom when I couldn't pick up any stations on my radio.

The dining car was like a restaurant on wheels. It had white table linnen, real china plates, and metal cutlery. Sitting on real chairs at proper tables added to the feel of being in a restaurant. Watching the mountain scenery as I ate added to the feeling of luxury.

Though the prices of the food shocked me, it tasted very good. On my first trip, my parents skimped on the ticket price. They also sent me a five dollar bill and expected that to suffice. By the time I arrived in Edmonton, I had spent all the money and eaten very little. Mom was astonished at how much the food on the train cost. She gave me a ten dollar bill when I boarded for Vancouver but I still couldn't eat my fill.

The second trip home was nicer in that my parents paid for a berth in the sleeping car. I had heard about falling asleep to the rhythm of the train wheels but I hadn't experienced it properly until then. I slept well on both the trip home and back to Vancouver.

Even the daily passenger train trips were pleasant. Having room to sit properly and watching the countryside passing by the large clear windows was a welcome change to riding a bus. Back in the nineteen sixties, most rural towns in Alberta had train service.

One by one, towns lost their daily passenger trains. Busses charged less for their trips than trains so people flocked to them. As more people bought their own cars, trucks, and vans, even the bus companies lost money. One by one, rural towns lost their stops. Even Radway, the hamlet I live in, no longer has Greyhound service.

I wrote more about my two Rocky Mountain train trips in Deliverance from Jericho, a memoir of my years at British Columbia's infamous deaf and blind institution. Please check it out at the left side of this page. How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity is my newest book. Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers distribute e-book and paperback versions of it.

DEMONSTRATING THE MEANING OF GRACE.

What does grace mean? It's unmerited favour. On New Year's Eve, 1977, this concept was aptly demonstrated for me by a janitor in the mens' room of a bus depot.

From my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, here's how God used a stranger to help me when I needed it desperately.

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Throughout my stay in Mexico and the journey home, I suffered from constipation. Some of the Bible school passengers periodically admonished me that I should be bubbling over with joy as a "good Christian" ought to. Hoping to cheer me up, they sang several rousing choruses of Count Your Blessings" while the driver negotiated the streets of downtown Calgary.

As soon as they let me off at the Greyhound bus depot, I strode into the mens room to deal with what really made me feel miserable. As with well-intentioned fools, I despised pay toilets. These required a dime for admission and I, not wanting to soil my clothes by climbing under the stall door, hesitated as I held a quarter in my hand. The bathroom door opened and the janitor bustled in.

"Do you have change for a quarter?" I said quickly. "I've just come from Mexico and I need to go real bad."

"That's all right," he said as he took a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

"Thanks," I gasped as I held out the coin.

"No, you can keep that," he said as he turned and began scrubbing the sinks.

I thanked him again and gratefully used the toilet. He was gone by the time I finished. "Thankyou Lord for helping me so quickly," I prayed as I washed my hands. As life's situations rarely worked out so neatly for me, I knew God must have orchestrated the janitor's timely entrance.

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How I Was Razed is the testimony of the way I was mislead by a cult church, how I turned my back on God after I felt he perennially failed to heal my eyes, and how he graciously brought me to my senses.

My previous books, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), are now available online by clicking here or by clicking here to e-mail me directly.