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Contents:
Providence,
Junction,
Redeemer, Wilson House,
4th Ward Clinic, Ending . . .
Providence
When I became older I questioned what was going to be my driving
philosophy in life. I knew there was a baseline of attributes I
wanted to reach for, consisting of my faith, my strongly
developed sense of justice, my desire for peace in the world and
harmony among people. From 15 until 19 I became one who had a
set of close friends who discussed such topics as where we’d all
be in 20 years, would there even be a world, Who or what is God?
And does God, if he does exist, have anything at all to do with
what we consider the church.
These thoughts
were with me as I willingly traveled to my first
intentionally religious meeting. Earlier that week my adult
friend, and probably the one minister I could most relate to,
Keith Scott; asked me if I wanted a religious experience.
Growing up in Grace Church meant going to Sunday School, Choir,
Youth group and it was all much more social than spiritual. You
could say secular, not so much an expression of faith, as a
place where “good people” went to be “better people”. So having
Keith ask me if I wanted a religious experience was like a whole
new idea. And he was low key, but lit a little from the inside,
and I knew it was something important to him that I go with him
to this meeting in Providence.
I remember
walking down a sidewalk along side the State House on a cold
windy October night and into Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church.
Inside were about 800 people.
Singing really
beautiful songs. They seemed to be singing and praying at the
same time.
Occasionally
they would slide as one into a cacophony of sounds which would
crescendo in waves, as if the Spirit of God was passing through
the church touching each person. It would quiet down again in a
singular orchestration and a person would stand and give
testimony of what God seems to be saying. Others would go to the
front of the church and share how God made Himself evident in
the midst of their difficulties that week.
I almost
immediately teared up, I was immediately smitten by the goodness
of God.
Well Keith was
right, this was a religious experience, and the likes of which
I’d never experienced. The meeting went about three hours and I
was sorry to see it come to an end. It was a junction in the
road, I knew my life would have to be different, I had to be
with God. God was no longer compartmentalized in my life, God
had to be all. If you were to ask me why at that point I would
have simply said that I had to go towards God and stop going
away from God. It dawned on me perhaps for the first time that
God exists. And if God was a God who cared for the problems of
these people in Providence, then he might even care about me.
But even that thought was secondary to the evidence, irrefutable
in front of me, right here, that indeed God is here with us. I
can feel His presence in this room; and I’ve never felt this
good in my life.
Junction
All would
change. My life was to be at Gods service. Whatever I did in
life would be a dismal failure unless I followed as best I
could, God. No-one put these thoughts in my head, I came to this
in a few seconds of being in the presence of that worshipping
community.
Within the week
I was visiting friends at a house in Central Falls with Bob
Robinson and Frank Fernandes. The girl whose house we were at
was a girl friend of my brothers before he went into the Air
Force and a little older than I, she had a girl friend and her
boy friend recently released from the Navy. It was a fun custom
in this household of ten kids to occasionally hold hands around
a table and call “Mr. Pigeon” back to life; an exercise that
started after “Mr Pigeon” appeared to certain members of the
family in dreams. They’d learned that Mr. Pigeon was at one time
the Mayor of Central Falls; known at that time as the most
densely populated square mile in the state of RI with about 100
or more liquor licenses. Yes it was “discovered” that Mr. P was
a bit of a drunk, and he drank himself to death in this very
house. When he appeared in one child’s dream he seemed to tell
the child that there would be something buried in the dirt floor
basement under the stairs. Naturally the kids excavated and
found a still for making liquor. (I know it seems that with 100
liquor licenses in a square mile outside your door…but this was
during prohibition and people did do such things as home brewed)
The kids in the
house got use to the idea, and would once in a while walk into a
cold room and know he was there. Doors would close by
themselves, other evidence would present itself and it was
generally accepted that Mr. P was part of the family.
I had second
thoughts about this new game, and asked if Pat had a bible,
which being a good catholic family she did. I quickly explained
to the crowd that my life had changed and I was now following
God and I wasn’t sure this was what I should be doing. So I
blindly opened the Bible to an Old testament verse which said in
effect “And David led the people away from idol worship and into
repentance” Hmmm… I decided not to place undue reliance on those
words but as a compromise I’d ask if the Bible could be put in
the center of the table while we made the call to Mr. Pigeon.
Within a minute you would think that someone learned how to put
the essence of misery and self loathing into a cold steam. We
were immediately in the presence of not only Mr. Pigeon but his
friend and gardener, there was no need to explain anything to
anyone, we all had it in front of us. A presence we all knew as
Mr. Pigeon rested into Bob and Bob became from his facial
features Mr. Pigeon. I suddenly knew that Mr. P needed to
know that he could go to God, that God was a forgiving God. That
a repentant heart was all one needed to be where one belonged,
With God, even now. I spoke to (Bob as ”Mr Pigeon”) and he/they
laughed at me and said half laughing you are foolish. There is
nothing after death but misery and regret. Mr. Pigeon himself
was the evidence of this, the Bible, the Church, God … all a
story, all made up to make us feel better.
As we broke
hands, because even Pat was freaked out, nothing like this had
ever happened, it’ had all been somewhat light-hearted up until
now. This was awful, really awful.
The sailor
picked up the bible and threw it on the floor across the room;
Frank and Bob were sad, really sad … I don’t even know how to
express the misery settled on their souls, on their
personalities. I was somewhat touched by the misery in the room,
but also having come from the meeting the week before, and
having taken an adversarial role during the séance, I was torn
and confused, and bummed but not irretrievably. We soon left the
house and drove home, Frank and I with me driving the bug. After
a few miles I said to Frank, I think we need to pray, I’ve never
felt so heavy in my life, and neither had he.
We said a short
conversational prayer along the lines of "Lord please touch us
and lift our spirits and forgive us for what happened back
there..." Within a mile we were driving along I- 95 in front of RI
Hospital and laughing. Deep wonderful full throated tears in
your eyes laughs, like a bolt of lightening out of a sky. Came
from God, Of this I have not a doubt..
Within a couple
of days we were down in Narragansett because Keith and Mary
invited us down for supper every Friday night. (I made onion
soup) followed by prayer, music and teaching. Frank and I walked
in and I said to Keith "what do you think of ghosts?" He looked
at me and said he’d been thinking about that earlier in the day,
and in his reading of scriptures came to a simple conclusion,
and that was “The devil masquerades” The devil masquerades as
whatever our imaginations want or whatever desires need
fulfilling in such a way that can draw us away from God. Mr. Pigeon didn’t live in that house, the enemy did, and he was
having a hay day with that once wonderful catholic family of 10
kids.
Oh my God, I’d
come to accept that there was in fact God, and hadn’t really
thought anything of the theological certainty of evil in the
world and the prince of darkness was an entity which now makes
sense of our time around the table. This presence had attacked
each of us according to our weakness. It had scorned my feeble
attempt at ghost-evangelism, in fact although Frank and I were
doing better, Bob never seemed to come to accept God, and being
prone to depression remained depressed for as long as I knew him
thereafter. Pat was last seen, Bob tells me, turning tricks at a
bar in Providence. In fact Frank continued to talk about Mr. P
coming to him in dreams, as did Bob.
Within a month I
was flying off to Houston to work in a clinic and be part of an
Episcopal Charismatic Christian Community. The prayer group at
St. Peters laid their good hands on me around the altar, prayed
and sent me to Texas. I’d just turned 19 a month before, I’d
spent about 16 months working at Roger Williams Hospital in the
Physical Therapy Dept and then in the hospital pharmacy. Before
that I was a camp counselor for the summer at Camp Meehan in
Lincoln, a day camp from the Smith Hill Center. I took with me a
profound knowledge that God is alive, cares about me, wants the
best for me; and the devil himself confirmed it by his show of
force at the scary little session in Central Falls. That was all
the confirmation I needed.
The day I was to
leave for Texas I felt an urgent need to say goodbye to my good
friend Bob Robinson. He was at work in the Physical Therapy Dept
of RI Hospital. Going to his department I was told he was
somewhere up on the floors, glancing at my watch I realized I
had maybe five minutes to find him in this big sprawling six-story
hospital. Improbably I went to the nearest elevator, pushed the
4th floor, took a right, went down a long hall, took another
right and walked into the room where he was giving a treatment
to a patient. Didn’t think much of it until the nurse drew the
curtain to the other patient in that room, a recent burn victim
and a brother to one of my parent’s best friends. I was given in
my mind an immediate recognition that God brought me to that
room to pray for Henry’s brother who nearly blew himself up in
his garage with a can of gasoline. As I hurriedly headed home
and off to the airport I realized that God was starting to lead
me around.
Redeemer
I arrived in Houston the first week of January 1972. I called
the church for a ride in, still somewhat mystified that there
was no sign of any city while circling the airport, horizon to
horizon just tree’s, that’s it. I then discovered that Houston
International was actually planted 60 miles out of town. That
would be like landing in Boston to get to Providence.
Anyway a lady by
the name of Wanda Baker asked me who had invited me. Seemed a
strange request on her part. Here I was ready to give my life to
this church, live like a servant, pray like a saint, subsist on
minimal food, give up pleasures … even my 1 pack of Marlboros a
day habit. And she acts like I needed an invite. Well Let’s see,
Dr. Bob Eckert wrote back to me to come down, that was it! OK,
she’ll find someone to come pick me up, she found a household
willing to put me up, or was it put up with me? And I would move
right in and meet with Dr. Bob, and Dr. Bob would show me the
clinic and with wise grateful eyes shake both my hands and thank
me for the gift of my commitment.
Actually it took
3 days to chase Dr. Bob down and another couple of days to be in
his presence in his car heading for a prayer meeting in Temple,
Texas. He talked about his Karman Ghia, why he loved it so much.
It had to do with all the work it needed all the time, how we’re
like that, we constantly need work but every time the car get’s
fixed he loves it more. And our relationship with God is like
that. God loves us even though we need constant work and
attention.
It was time to
meet with the elders at the Church of Redeemer. This news was
delivered to me in such a way as to suggest that it was going to
yield life-changing consequences.
If it was up to
me, I would have met with them on the way back from the airport,
it excited me somewhat to deliver to them the good news that I
was here now and everything would be OK. I was sure it would
pick up their day.
Since I’d
arrived I’d taken part in daily Eucharist and teaching, driving
in with my new friends Roy Pettway and Cathleen Thomlinson to
the church where they went to work in the print shop. This was a
wonderful time for me, sort of an ultimate retreat where
everyone I met believed deeply in the healings surrounding us,
and Gods doing wonderful things in our sight. It helped that Roy
was off his rocker, in a nice way. The first night there at the
Minors he introduced me to the 6th floor roof of the U. of
Houston dormitory building while we watched two storms converge
on two separate horizons, Roy stood up close to the edge and
conducted a symphony using thunder and lightening to great
effect. I had to ask, where do these people come from? There
were dozens of people I’d come to know, and know deeply in my
first week there. They were incredibly interesting people from
all over the world. I did dishes nightly with a fellow Christian
from Israel who was singing a Christian song while Dr. Bob and
Bob West were walking down a street in Jerusalem wondering why
God had sent them there. It appeared to each of them that it was
in order to meet this guy and bring him back to Texas.
Another evening
was spent with the "Symphony of Souls", a group of artists and
musicians from NYC who’d recently arrived in a colorful bus. The
guys all wore blue jeans and faded blue denim shirts with
crosses around their collective necks, the women wore hand-made
peasant dresses and sandals. They each seemed to play at least 3
instruments and composed music in the moment. You’d have to call
it spirit driven improvisational worship which allowed anyone
and everyone in, no bystanders, no audience, all went along for
the ride. Launched with a scriptural reading we’d find ourselves
in ancient Jerusalem, horns honking, burrows braying, shop
keepers selling, prophets prophesying, bells, sitars, guitars,
flutes, a calliope of sounds crescendoing to voices of many
different languages, none of them English lifting the room
spiritually almost physically into a realm of otherworldliness.
And that was
before dessert.
Everyone took
everyone as a friend in their shared journey. I felt at home.
I waited in the
downstairs office for my meeting with the elders. There was a
woman crying, and expressing fear that she’d end up after this
meeting out on the street. There were others in the room
obviously wrapped up in other concerns, the air was heavy and
those waiting were anxious. Finally it was time for me to walk
up those stairs.
The window was
open, I wondered if anyone had taken the leap.
Basically the
greeting was a hug, and then, Who are you and why are you here?
One spoke while the other two drilled their eye’s into my soul.
No-one was smiling. Why did they need three guys I wondered to
myself, and then realized I had to answer their question. I was
sure they didn’t want to hear about how I found God and he
seemed to direct me here, that after all was everybody’s story,
nothing new.
So assuming they
knew more than what I needed to tell them I told them that I was
part of the St. Peters charismatic community in Narragansett.
Having reached a certain age (Draft Age) and being available to
have Richard Nixon send me over to Viet Nam as fodder for the
war machine I opted out of their plans for me by declaring
myself a conscientious objector, and although I was not likely
to be called up due to my draft sweepstakes number of 101.
I felt an
obligation to serve my country in some capacity, and given that
I was with some confidence in the loving arms of Christ and
getting direction from God on a daily basis I felt led to come
here and work in the Fourth Ward Clinic. This much direction
came from my pastor Keith Scott, and was further confirmed by
letters from and a meeting I had with Dr. Bob Eckert in his
Karman Ghia on his way to Temple Texas.
I waited
probably 20 seconds for a response, though it seemed longer. I
looked at them for awhile, then out the window, would have
whistled but felt it would be impolite. Finally one of them
summed it up. So you’re coming here to use us for a couple of
years?
I thought to
myself, (Huh?, How’d they get that from all my well expressed
good intentions? How does anyone get from here to there? From an
honest expression of following God, as they are, to something
almost dirty, a phoniness, an attempt to offend, abuse, use? I
said nothing, finally one of them said go back to the Minors and
keep coming to teaching and Eucharist and find some alone time
to pray. Ask God if He’s calling you here, if He is then you are
on his schedule and it’ll have nothing to do with your plans. If
you here Him calling you here, then you’ll be here until He
calls you somewhere else, which could be never. You have to be
willing to stay here and live out your life in this community.
We will pray for you. We prayed together, and I left, a little
heavier than before, but a bit more thoughtful about the
seriousness of this calling.
My take away
from this meeting, was that these were serious elders. Serious
and prayerful and completely given over to the grave
responsibility of hearing God for those God puts in front of
them. There were no snickers and high fives when I left the room
there was prayer. (This thought stayed with me when 2+ years
later Cherie and I submitted our decision to get married to the
discernment of the elders, though by that time who the elders
were became a moving target.)
Wilson House
That Friday evening John Farra came running down the aisle
looking for me to let me know that the elders had heard that I
was called to Wilson House in the 4th Ward. Huh? Oh, OK…busy
weekend coming up how’s next Monday look? No you don’t
understand, when you are called, you go. So it was after the
Friday night meeting, about 10:00 as I recall that we took all
my stuff over to one of the shabbiest streets in Texas. Although
nearly in the shadows of downtown, Wilson Street was a narrow
dirt road with shotgun shacks leaning this way and that, chain
link fences, everywhere you looked needed paint.
The smell was
earthy in a way that actually smelled like I imagine the dirt
under an outhouse would smell. Walking up the outside porch
steps to a rooming house, then to a second floor 10x10 room with
lights out so as not to disturb those who’ve already turned in,
I sensed on the other side of my tiny room a massive hulk in a
tee shirt heaving heavily and giving grunts which would give a
hardened rodeo rider second thoughts.
Downstairs the
welcoming committee was Howard Curtis and Laverne his wife.
Howard was interesting, a certifiable NY Hippie with credentials
from Haight-Ashbury, finding God while searching for and finding
and smoking magic mushrooms in rural Mexico and ending up at a
Bible College in Kerrville, Texas where he met his complete
opposite and married her. His faith was matter of fact flavored
with high intensity relational gifts of being able to talk to
anybody about anything yet bringing it around to God's grace in
his life. He was a true believer and you were attracted to his
counter-cultural presentation Laverne's was borne out of a quiet
certitude with a life lived in small town Texas, she was sweet
and faithful. Their son was 3 years old. Also in the household
were Charles and Gloria High and their 2-3 year old. Wanda
Baker, Donna Hollis, in all there were 6 blacks, and 6 whites
living together in Christian unity. We all lived very
transparently with our neighbors to the right - the Houston Branch
of the Black Panther party - and the left, a fellow named Mr. Jim
who sat in his driveway greeting everyone who passed.
4th Ward Clinic
I was put to work at the clinic in the lab with Shirley
Mitchell. It was then called the Kennedy Brothers Clinic and was
located in the adjunct rooms of a one-time 4th Ward Church, of
which there were at least a couple of dozen others. This church
became the offices of a Community Action Agency. The
collaboration between the clinic and the community action
organization was not going well. It seemed the agency wanted us
to give some of those high paying jobs to local people in need
of work. It also seemed that aside from meeting and taking
pictures of each other, and printing a newsletter, the agency
was totally ineffective in addressing the needs of the
community. In fact the work we were doing seemed to be their
only claim to fame. They should have been nicer to us, Bob
seemed to not have a lot of patience with the race card being
overplayed. A meeting was held and the word was passed, Dr. Bob
found a new location for the clinic. Seems Bob noticed an old Weingartens store had gone empty about ½ mile away on the corner
of West Dallas and Waugh Dr. He made an appointment with Mr.
Weingarten. Walked into his big office and said in effect, I
want your building for a clinic. Mr. Weingarten said the rent on
a building of that size in that location is going to be pretty
high, can you afford it? No. But my father can. Oh? Yes He owns
the cattle on a thousand hills. The deal was struck with an old
testament reference to an old testament believer.
We were to move
the entire clinic after dark. This I’m guessing was to keep the
Community Action agency from going public with a story that
could have been interpreted according to whomever was doing the
telling. We left all 8 rooms clean as a whistle, I was doing the
last of the sweeping and I noticed a book in the waiting room;
The Great Escape. Every publication got trashed but that one.
That one I left on the counter, we put a sign on the door
directing our patients down the street. For the record, we did
hire folks from the neighborhood, and while we didn’t take
salaries ourselves, we did pay some salaries to those who needed
a living wage and were not in community.
The clinic was
12 feet tall in debris from all the other Weingarten’s stores.
It seemed Mr. Weingarten didn’t like to throw things away, so
they were delivered to this location instead. The parking lot
was crumbling, the building was crumbling, the walls were
crumbling, and it heated up like tin roof Texas outhouse. Air
conditioning was not an option, this place took up half a block!
We did haul in attic fans and mostly we drank a lot of water and
got used to heat. There was no air conditioning at Baldwyn House
or at Wilson House, only Wanda’s 15 year old Plymouth Valiant
had AC.
This lack of AC
actually worked for us in the 4th ward, because it was actually
safe to walk around at night. Everyone pretty much say out on
their steps. And being polite you had to say Hi. My name, due to
my lab smock became Doc. "Good evening Doctor" was a great
greeting for a bearded 19 year old with esteem issues. And the
sense was nobody messes with those people, they run the clinic,
and they follow God. And the 4th Ward was evangelized to beat
the band. These were primarily country folk who moved into the
city, they had gardens on their tiny lots, and they had respect
for each other and above all they were God fearing.
Now their kids
and grandkids, not so much on the God fearing side, but they did
what their Momma told them. In part because of what they called
the switch. A small branch which is so necessary when you’re
walking (not a lot of cars or ability to afford one) with your 5
kids you need to have something that’s going to sting, simply to
keep them literally in line. But boys will be boys and hormones
ruled the day, so Cherie’s average OB patient (Young mothers)
was about 14. So we often had 28 year old grandmothers, bringing
in girls just out of elementary school.
The only "A"
word as far as we were concerned was Adoption. And the attorneys
in the community often worked to place children with adoptive
parents. Sometimes connections would be made with other
charismatic communities.
In the lab,
Shirley Mitchell did a wonderful job of teaching volunteers how
to do everything she did. She had a wonderful heart, which had
been broken often enough for her to be able to relate well to
anyone. She had a burden for patients who were showing up with
Sickle Cell Anemia and she went about putting together an effort
with zero funding to reach and test as many people as possible.
This meant working with a renegade from a drug company who
shared the formula (wait a minute, not going there)
This meant
working with all kinds of good people including our neighbors
the Black Panther Party. We collected glass tubes from area
hospitals, had Texas Southern University School of Medical
Technology do back up tests, and formularize a screening test,
and it meant we reached literally thousands of Houston’s blacks
for sickle cell anemia.
On down time, we
went to area parks. One of our favorite places for the young
unmarrieds of the Medical Community was out in Spring Texas,
Picture a river down a long leafy path with snakes and free
range bulls. Then we get to this sandy wide river, over there
are the water moccasins so keep splashing, up on that bluff you
can hang your Mexican hammock, down here in the sand we threw
Frisbees. This was Catholic Diocese land, and one of my best
friends in community, Father Jack McGinnis talked his bishop
into allowing us to go through the gate, along with Vietnamese
boat people who moved trailers onto the semi-tropical paradise.
A good part of
the time I spent with Father Jack was at the Juvenile Detention
Center where we went once a week to talk to the kids about how
we lived, why we lived this way, and what it has to do with
them. How faith works, how faith can actually lead you out of
trouble and into a better place. The guards called it “church”
and insisted that they all come. Murderers, prostitutes,
thieves, drug addicts they all went first to this center. To us
it was a sharing generally ending with kids asking us to pray
for them, and not a dry eye in the room.
Other times we
went into the city to enjoy the big air conditioned lobbies of
the big beautiful hotels and people watch. The week of the Super
Bowl was surrealistic with rich, rich rich guys with rich rich
rich women doing rich rich things and getting interviewed by
local TV stations. You can’t outdo Houston for opulence, and it
was fun to watch.
Which brings us
back to Mr. Jim, the fellow next door fixing toasters and fans.
He was
integrally part of the 4th Ward community. After Cherie and I
were married we became somehow his last-of-kin according to
hospital records, and it was left to me to figure out how to get
him buried.
He apparently
was put into a hospital whereupon he became lost in the shuffle,
we were his sole visitors and as such it came to us to make the
arrangements. We were presented with a bit of a dilemma, Jim as
stated was black, we were white. Funeral parlors were
Segregated. Through an old girlfriend of Jims we discovered his
only living relatives were from Shreveport Louisiana. We
contacted them and their church took up a collection to put them
on a bus to Houston. She was ancient, the nephew was “shell
shocked”. The local undertaker, Jimmy Pruitt, got on the phone
with Jim's sister and said if you all don’t show up with $2000
then I’m gonna have to send him over to Baylor College of Medicine to have him experimented on She handed me the phone in
between sobs she told me what it was he wanted. We would not be
dealing with the local black funeral director. So I shopped Jim
all over the place, finally found a white director who was
willing to bury him, graveside service, and he’d even throw in
some calling hours; although he knew no-one would show up, and
he was right. Then the problem presented itself as to what
graveyard would do business with a white director, answer: none.
And in 1974 Houston a black man was not going to be buried in a
white cemetery. A little bit out of town I found a lady who
managed a sweet looking cemetery, and although for six years I
never picked up a southern accent, I was able to come up with a
serviceable black southern accent. We took up a collection at
the clinic and many of us attended the graveside services of our
friend and patient, Jim. Joe Byrne presided as I recall.
Long before we
buried Jim I’d helped welcome an infant into the world, Laverne
did the heavy lifting I did the catching of Samuel David into my
insulated jacket. He was the second child of a young black lady
Charles brought home to Wilson House. Her first son, Troy came
with her. Her name was Covetta. My job was to get us to the
hospital on time, but there’s an awful lot of one way streets in
downtown Houston and the best I could do was the Hospital
Parking lot .The delivery room was Howards VW minibus. As the
early morning mist was burning off the hoods of the car a
stretcher with garbed medical personal made it’s way to the
correct minibus. The one with the beautiful black mother and the
ashen colored driver.
For my bravery
and not for my ability to make appointments on time, I was
awarded naming privileges, thus Samuel David. Samuel David was
adopted by a family in Michigan. He’d be nearly 40 now, I hope
he knows how much his Mother loved him.
So
Many Other Stories to be Told . . .
There were many other adventures related to Wilson House, our
neighbors over at Montrose House, and the clinic. This to me was
my golden age of Community. As idealistic followers of our
faith, always imperfectly, we basked in the difficulties before
us, not noticing really that we were working many hours, eating
healthy but limited diets, sensing that the journey we were on
was to be the direction the church would be taking world wide,
it would have to. A future of limited resources, War, moral
decay…all of this would be literally driving the church into
community. Wouldn’t it?
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