The Prodigal Redux: Part II
Where was I? I mean, where did I leave off my third-to-last post? I talked about a spiritual quest that started when I was a teenager. Some might argue that it started when I was a little kid and in a Sunday school scene about how Jesus loves me. I had to be honest with myself, though—my church upbringing never talked about a personal relationship with God.
I'm not saying that all United Methodists are lacking that relationship. It was just something that had never been explained to me. I'm certainly not knocking the United Methodist Church. I’m sorry to those Methodists who might be reading this. It's a great church as denominations go. I have warm, fuzzy memories from growing up, especially around Christmas and Easter.
I'm wandering in the weeds… Let me get back on the path…
I was at my first duty station: Fairchild AFB, Spokane, WA. I was a scared kid who decided on his own after reading a pamphlet that it might help to let Jesus into my heart. I don't remember if the pamphlet taught me how to pray, but I can tell you that whatever I did worked.
It was a warmth, peace, and joy, a certainty that I wasn't alone—almost palpable. God's presence was in that dorm room. I wasn't scared or alone anymore. I read that pamphlet over and over and over. It's all I had. It had at least one biblical quote: John 3:16. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
It seemed pretty simple to me. It is simple, but I would learn that it is definitely not easy. I don't remember if the pamphlet mentioned hell. I would've remembered if my motivation had been a fear of hell. That wasn't it. I was lonely. I had a young airman's fear of dying in a nuclear fireball, but hell? No.
Avoiding eternal hellfire and brimstone is not my motivation. If that's what it takes, sure, but I don't think that avoiding hell should be anybody's motivation.
I'm straying from my story, though. I went about my business. There was a lot of in-processing to do, paperwork to bring me up to speed with the base bureaucracy, vaccines, and being issued more uniforms, especially cold-weather gear. I was assigned a mentor to drive me around to get everything done, walking through it, and taking me to my squadron headquarters, in one of the older aircraft hangars just off the flight line.
That reminds me of a practical joke that the veterans always play on the newbies. It goes something like this: one of the sergeants, usually the shop chief—the higher the rank, the more effective the joke—calls the newbie into the office and, with a very serious look on his face, tells the newbie to go down to the supply shop because we need X number of feet of Flightline.
I was just about to be the butt of a joke when my team chief stepped up and explained that I didn't need to look for any flight line. When I think back to those days, there were some of my happiest, but I was too young to appreciate the simplicity of life at that time. The Air Force was my parent, and my coworkers were my family. I was happy but too young to appreciate it – youth is wasted on the young.
Until now – but I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was tired after that in-processing day when I returned to my dorm room. I was still without companionship except knowing that the Holy Spirit was now in me. Being saved gave me a sense of peace I had never known. I wished that I had my Bible then. All I had was that pamphlet, and on the back was stamped: Faith Baptist Church. The church address was in the city. Spokane was about 15 to 20 miles away. I did not know how I would get to the church.
I wish I could tell you that I remember with clarity everything that happened back then, but that was long before I started journaling. Old age – I am 59 as I write this – fuzzy memory. Let's say that I somehow learned that there is a bus from that church that comes to base every Sunday and takes any airman who wants to go to that church.
Faith Baptist was a small church not far from downtown Spokane. When I close my eyes and try to remember, I remember that the pastor had to stammer. That stammer became pronounced when he got passionate in his sermons, which he often did. I was just a kid in high school a year earlier, and there I was, looking for answers and friends on the other side of the country.
There will be more to follow. MUCH more to follow in subsequent posts. I am editing this on March 19, 2025. A great deal is happened since then. Stay tuned!
