Discussions of religion when I was in Oberlin, meant endless talk about "Is there a God or isn't there?". It was always easier to be cynical than pious, to be outrageous rather than stuffy. "Godless Marxism" as exemplified in Russia was more of a curiosity than a threat. Communism, Fascism, Democracy, Nazism, Technocray, the Oxford Movement, Christian Science, Catholicism, The Jewish Problem, Racial Problems were all lively subjects of conversation. No one knew the word "Racism" or "Homophobia". Feminism meant preferring a career over marriage to some, and to others it meant advocating better education for women so they could rock the cradle more efficiently and guide young minds of both sexes. The "Y" was a place where one could talk about applying Christian principles in one's own life and around the world. It was my main anchor to anything religious. I enjoyed being skeptical, but I knew a very few whose Christianity I really respected, and I came to the conclusion that the reason one tended to dislike pious people was because they had other character defects like smugness or hypocrisy. REAL Christians were not only admirable but very appealing too.

I wanted to be a REAL Christian. I wanted to have a blinding experience like St. Paul or like Charlotte Tinker, but all my prayers seemed to end up leaving me a somewhat more humble little rationalist awed by the Universe. So I settled for that, but when I took a compulsory Bible course with Dr. Graham on "The Synoptic Gospels", I was even more awed by the profound wisdom of Jesus. I saw in a flash of insight (if not a blinding light) that none of the systems like Marxism would ever work without motive power, and Christianity seemed more capable of supplying that motive power than anything else I knew. So I participated in Y activities, went to Vesper services and occasionally walked a couple of miles out to Dr. Ward's non‑denominational church. I was a pragmatic Christian but I shunned being "holy".

Then there was the great deepening experience after college when I read the Bible, felt the influence of Dr. Buttrick, and felt some very real answers to prayers, especially in my marriage.

I never wanted "to marry a minister" ‑‑ I was simply delighted to be married to someone who shared my values and who offered me endless ways of sharing the purpose of his life. And I was proud of being a minister's wife. I felt I could honestly support the program of the church and fulfill my need for a deep sense of purpose. I couldn't think of any greater purpose than to be teamed with a man who would help people to be Christians. On our honeymoon Bob found a copy of Frederick W. Robertson's sermons. He read several aloud to me, and, though they were published over a hundred years ago, the ideas seemed fresh and stimulating. Who would have dreamed that reading sermons on our honeymoon would provide us with a middle name for our third son. Yet it seemed symbolic of the profound part of our love and friendship for each other that we could be thrilled to grow in understanding together. (Years later we named our third son "William Robertson" in his honour.)

It was a privilege to be able to spend our first year at Union Theological Seminary. The chapel services were conducted by some of the greatest religious leaders in the country. "Neo‑ orthodoxy" was in fashion. To me it meant believing the great traditional truths filtered through the minds of the best scien-tific minds, an open ended search for truth. One believed because it was the truest option one could imagine.

In Benson, Arizona I had my first experience in dealing with people for whom my brand of Christianity was not acceptable. Benson was desert country. Our house faced the west and was shaded from the murderous afternoon sun by a porch with climbing yellow jasmine. There were no paved roads nor street signs. One of our predecessors had planted a cactus garden south of the house and it had taken over...beyond it lay sand and more sand. Our neighbor to the east was Mrs. Morrison, a 40 year old woman (who looked more like 60). She lived in a gray weather beaten shack with her only son. The son was the same age as my husband but had an I.Q. of a one year old, and, since our Charles was about that age, the sadness of the situation was very vivid to me. We scarcely ever saw her son because she kept him indoors. But she had to diaper him and feed him. She gave him large empty cartons to play with and in between tending to his needs she managed to keep her home spotless ‑ quite a feat with a dirt floor! Her religion was her great solace. Her husband had abandoned her when she refused to abandon their child, but she would say quite sincerely that she was thankful for what had happened because it had brought her to a knowledge of Jesus Christ.

Every week Mrs. Morrison had a Bible class meeting out on a bench in front of her house and I went to it pretty regularly. It was taught by a 7th Day Adventist and the women who attended were all pretty poor and ignorant. I soon realized that they loved to talk about Heaven, the pearly gates, what it would be like when Jesus returned to earth, etc. Sometimes I felt that it wasn't too surprising that people who had been so deprived in this life, would be quick to accept a gospel that promised the tables would be turned. I kept on meeting with them because I was interested in their problems and sorrows and I wanted to see why they thought the way they did. I learned how easy it is to manipulate verses of Scripture to say nearly anything one wants, and to use the numbers and symbols in the book of Daniel and Revelation to promote ideas that I was sure were never intended.

Then my father died. February 11, 1948. The phone rang in the middle of the afternoon. It was my brother Paul in New Jersey. Such long distance calls in those days were reserved for dire emergencies. My first thought was that something had happened to Charlotte who had been having some female troubles. But when I blurted out, "How's Charlotte?", my brother answered, "She's fine, but I have some very sad news. Father died this morning." In my whole life that was my worst moment up until now. I had never been able to even put my mind around the possibility of losing my dear wonderful loving father. I barely controlled my emotions until Paul hung up, and then I flung myself on our bed, weeping violently. I would never have dreamed that I could act like that. Suddenly after what seemed like a long time I caught sight of little Charles (2 1/2) looking at me with panic‑stricken eyes. That snapped me out of it. I took him in my arms and tried to explain what had happened.

I was more than 6 months pregnant and couldn't think of going east. Bob was so dear and so comforting but for days I felt enveloped in my loss. Most of all I thought of my mother. I couldn't imagine her going on without Buzz. I wrote to her every day and she strengthened me by her courage and wisdom. Bob and I held a little private ceremony for my father at the same time as his memorial service and that was a comfort too. But the most important thing that happened was the very strong feeling that Buzz was near me, that he wanted to help me, that all the most precious qualities, that I had loved so much, could go on, were going on‑‑somehow even though Buzz had died, that essence seemed more alive than ever.

Six months earlier if the women in the Bible group had been talking about life after death and described such an experience I would have discounted it as wishful thinking. It was wishful thinking, but I suspect all thinking is somewhat wishful. The fact that these strong feelings gradually receded does not invalidate them. They say that there is an interval after death when a person's spirit is still in a state of transition, closer to those who are still living, and I'd like to believe that, and to believe that my father, who taught me so much in life, had one further thing to convey even after his death.

In every church we served I felt that we had a more sophisticated religion than most of our parishioners. Bob and I were fortunate to have grown up in such enlightened churches that we could give leadership and guidance. We were both very tolerant of simple souls who needed rather childish images to support their views, but we saw a tremendous need to appeal to the backbone of America‑‑the intelligent searching leadership in each community.

At Elmhurst we had another taste of a kind of fundamentalism that made us feel uncomfortable. Bob and I went to a Presbytery meeting where the candidates for the ministry were presenting their reasons for entering the pastorate. One young man told about how he had been a Chemistry major in college, but when he flunked Chemistry he realized that God meant him for the ministry. That struck us as the height of blasphemy‑‑to lay one's own weakness on the Almighty. I think it was the acceptability of this type of thinking in the Bay Area Presbyterian Churches at that time that encouraged Bob to look for greener pastures in the Methodist church.

While we were at Elmhurst I had a devastating experience that shook me up physically and spiritually. I had been burning the candle at both ends. Maja would come over after school and I would have dinner ready. Then I would get the 4 little boys into bed, do the dishes and go off to a meeting with Bob. Often I would have work left to do when I got home. I stoked myself with coffee whenever I felt too tired. On the night of my birthday, April 17, 1950 when David was about 8 months old, we were invited to Dick & Liz Stein's for dinner. They were a delightful couple and it should have been a perfect evening. But suddenly I found myself feeling a sense of panic, as though I was having an acute set of the jitters. I excused myself from the table and went to the bathroom to control myself. I had diarrhea which was almost unheard of for me. I knew there was something wrong. The rest of the evening was spent in agony trying to conceal my condition. As soon as we got into the car to go home I slumped down and told Bob I was not well. Somehow I pinned it on the coffee.

But the next morning when the doctor came he told me that coffee wouldn't do that to me. He gave me a mild barbiturate and told me to rest. The days and nights that followed were accomplished minute by minute. I know I was close to a nervous breakdown. But I was so determined not to fail Bob or our dear little four boys that I would say to myself, "I will at least wash the dishes before I break down," or "I will at least change this diaper before I break down." I said the 23rd Psalm over and over to myself as I had at the Steins while the rest were chatting. I had help from Bob, from Aunt Alice, from Maja and from friends. Bob took Billy to Mrs. Priester and David to our friend Emma Usinger for one week while I rested up at Alice's. All I wanted to do was sleep in the daytime. I never felt the barbiturates helped at all for I took my pill at night and then I couldn't sleep. The fear of failing, the fear of breaking down were the most agonizing part. A person who has never experienced this kind of sick anxiety cannot understand how terrible it is.

Maja told me she had gone through a very similar experience. She said what helped her was the realization that she "was doing what she wanted to do". An old Swedish woman counseled me that though she had never liked Roosevelt, he had said one good thing, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

This experience, painful as it was, proved to be valuable because it gave me understanding and enabled me to help other women going through similar crises. I became aware of how common such experiences are. It took me weeks, months and even years to recover completely from the anxiety, but I never did have to give up. Mother helped by writing me a wonderful letter. She told me not even to pray too much ‑‑ just give in and trust the Lord to help me. So this was a deepening religious experience too. The biggest insight for me was to realize that it was my pride (that old‑fashioned but stubborn Christian sin) that was my undoing. As one of my Elmhurst friends said, "The trouble with you, Carol, is that you've been trying to be the perfect minister's wife, the perfect mother and the perfect hostess and it can't be done." It was good for me to realize that I had limitations, that I could flunk something and the world would go right on, that the children didn't have to be perfect, that my husband and others needed old commonplace me more than idealized me.

When Bob was offered the chance to become a Methodist and move to Dunsmuir I was appalled. I didn't want to move to Dunsmuir. I didn't want to be a Methodist. Gordon Chadwick had said when we were children, "The Methodists sing through their noses..." I thought they were low brow. I thought Bob was throwing his career away. But I was too tired and too desperately trying to survive each day to argue very effectively. We drove up to look at the parsonage. All Bob saw were the mountains and all I saw was the barn of a house, hideously decorated. We stayed at the Oak‑Lo Motel and talked half the night. I gave in.

But looking back I think we had a more secure life as Methodists. I know their humor and lack of sanctimoniousness were what appealed to Bob and me. I think I was more realistic than Bob in feeling that there would be politics in the Methodist Church at least as bad as the Presbyterian. But as he put it to the committee who interviewed him, "When you get mad in the Methodist system, at least you know whom to be mad at," meaning that the Methodists might have a visible hierarchy, but the Presbyterians practiced a lot of more subtle influence peddling.

Seven years in Dunsmuir while our toddlers were developing into school boys were busy years, especially after I started teaching. But they included wild beauty ‑‑ majestic Mount Shasta looked down on us like a symbol of the Eternal. It was easy to say, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my strength..." It seems strange that a mountain that must have caused at least as much devastation as St. Helens in the past and that still has hot springs to remind us of its potential to do it again, can still be a symbol of God. One of the very few things I would change in my life if I had it to do over again would be to try to live near water or a great mountain. Certainly part of the deepening of my faith came from that awesome peak in all its many moods.

I've been helped by people who focussed on essentials. Chancellor Tully Knoles of the University of Pacific spoke for a School of Missions gathering just at the height of the enthusiasm for the Dead Sea Scrolls. It's hard to remember what a sensation the finding of the scrolls caused. Some thought it would destroy the credibility of the Bible; others thought it would add so much illumination that it would augment everything we already knew. Scholars looked for new insights like miners for gold. Dr. Knoles reminded us that he thought it was exciting and wonderful to have this development and that he too welcomed the discovery of the scrolls. But then he went on very soberly to say that through the ages people have chosen many ways of escaping the essence of the Gospel. It was easy to think that scholarship would somehow bring in the kingdom, but it would not. He said very flatly that there could be no discovery in the Dead Sea Scrolls that could really change or improve the fundamental simple message of Jesus Christ. He also mentioned people who escape through Cathedral building, music or many other worthwhile avenues. This wise man made me feel like cheering. He was so direct and straightforward and cut through the wordy pretensions of others. All the great Christians I have known have had an ability to focus on the central simple truth.

While we were at Hanford I was elected to a small study group and involved myself in putting together a study on modern trends in psychiatry. Marie Davis lent me a book called, "The Doctor and the Soul" by Viktor Frankl. Frankl, the Viennese psychiatrist who refined his views through the extremities of his experiences in Auschwitz, spoke directly to my need for a faith that could face any eventuality. Where Freud focussed on sex and pleasure, and Adler focussed on power as the guiding force in human life, Frankl saw man's need for meaning as all important. Though he did not write from a Christian perspective, I felt that his views were entirely consistent with a positive Christian faith. I had a number of opportunities to give talks on Frankl and to lead discussions about him. Later I was pleased to see a growing popularity of Frankl's works among our colleagues sparked by Dr. Robert Leslie's studies. But I felt in my heart that I had anticipated this trend. Frankl's principles became basic to my thinking in practical helpful ways.

Frankl liked to quote Goethe saying, "If you treat people as they are you make them worse ‑‑ if you treat them as they ought to be you make it possible for them to become what they are capable of being." "Say yes to life in spite of everything," was one of his simple statements that he was able to apply to terminal illness, old age and other difficulties. This became a part of my religion. I'll always be glad that we got to hear Dr. Frankl in person. I felt he was a gift of God to me.

An experience that still glows in my mind was the night of our anniversary in 1970. I was due to go into the hospital the next day for a week's tests to see if I had a brain tumor or what was causing me to have difficulty in controlling my right leg. The older four boys were getting ready for a Sierra hike and there was a mad scramble at home. They didn't seem at all preoccupied with what had suddenly become a nightmarish worry for me. Paul at 9 1/2 looked so precious to me and I wanted to be his mother and raise him! It was hard to suppress pessimistic thoughts. Bob and I finally got off for a late dinner at a restaurant at Pacifica. It seemed too good to be true that we were seated at a booth looking directly out on the Pacific Ocean, and it happened to be a full moon with some of the most spectacular surf I can remember. I don't remember anything we said. We ordered an exotic Hawaiian drink and we shared our love for each other. I had such an overwhelming feeling of it's being "all right". Whatever happened I could trust in God and the future and the dear husband by my side. It felt so good to be able to face anything with him.

Most of the high points in my life are connected with a person. One who radiated an aura of light and power into my life was Howard Thurman. It happened this way. Bob and I were invited to a District Ministers' Retreat at St. Elisabeth's ‑ a Catholic retreat center in Marin County. It was a hot September Monday, and, as we drove toward our destination, Bob and I were discussing the problems of the Millbrae adult program. There was some interest in having a Bible study class and I remember saying vehemently that I was sick of the study books we had been using. "When we have a Bible study class, everyone reads the study book‑‑they don't even know what's in the Bible," I said, "I'd rather throw the study book away and just read the Bible itself...I'd be willing to teach the class on that condition...people need to see the Bible whole, not just in fragments..."

I was tired and tense. It was blistering hot when we got there and I muttered to Dink, "The only women who come to these things are the ones who are too dumb to have a job..."

And there was Dr. Howard Thurman. This black, ugly, beautiful man opened the afternoon session. It would have been a perfect time to fall asleep, but I did not want to miss a single word. He spoke of our kinship with all of life, about how elephants stand silent for a period in the morning and the evening. No one but Howard Thurman could make the subject "Elephants and Prayer" meaningful. He mentioned a dog that disappeared every day at sunset ‑‑ seated himself on a knoll watching the sunset ‑‑ "an eerie, unworldly openness to the dying day."

"The professional tends to be victimized by love boiled down to a methodology..." One must establish a psychological distance between himself and involvement. He cited the example of Hinduism having worked over itself until "the good was worked out of it with no ethical pull." It became separated from the great agony and identity with the life that gave it birth. Buddhism was born to bring back compassion and tenderness. There is a dilemma for the professional who ritualizes prayer until he isn't ever praying. He becomes more and more alien to prayer: "I looked everywhere without looking anywhere." It takes months and years to let HIM in to certain areas ‑‑ Thurman confessed that "until the day I die I'll always be trying to impress HIM...once in a while I'm able to strip."

"There is a tendency to read about prayer, to study the psychology of prayer, to talk about it, but not to pray...The prayer life of the religious professional cannot be left to accident, emergencies: it involves careful conditioning and training of the nervous system which is the great ally of the prayer life...One can raise the threshhold of tolerance for silence." He told of a 6:30 to 8:00 a.m. silent chapel service at a seminary where he was teaching. He assigned his students to write a short statement on their reactions entitled "What Happened to Me" (during the meditation). One student wrote seven or eight pages. Thurman called him in to his office and handed him the paper torn in pieces saying, "Now go home and write an honest statement." The boy was furious but came back humbly a few days later with a paper that read, "...What in hell am I doing here? Did I lock my car..."

"Honesty is the hardest thing in human relations and in prayer," Dr. Thurman added. Then he told the story of Lincoln Steffens' son Peter who knew his father was in great pain. When a visitor greeted him by asking the usual "How are you", Steffens had answered, "Fine."

Peter said, "How come you say 'fine' when you've always taught me to be perfectly honest." Steffens explained, "Well, you see adults have agreed that on some things we will lie to each other." The courtesy of deception tends to be carried over into our prayer life.

After dinner the 60 members of the retreat were crowded into a living room that scarcely held us all. It was still hot enough to make one perspire. Dr. Thurman stood up holding a Moffatt translation of the Bible in his hand. He waited until there was a hushed silence of anticipation. Then he said, "This evening I'm going to read you the Gospel of Mark." And that is what he did. I am sure there were some ministers who wished they could escape. I wonder if there was anyone who was unmoved. He read unhurriedly for an hour and three‑quarters, and every word had a special radiance. I cannot explain what happened in that room, but I was spellbound. It seemed as if it was an answer to my restless conversation with Bob earlier in the car.

As luck would have it I was seated next to Dr. Thurman or across the table from him at three of the meals. I had had such a wonderful conversation with him at dinner that I edged away the second and third time, but it seemed as if I was meant to be there. Just to be in the presence of such a great man was a transcendant experience. I will never forget it.

Shortly after that Bob and I became involved in a Meditation Group. We hosted this group for a year. And it did a great deal for me. For me meditation was never in conflict with Christianity ‑‑ it was simply spiritual training, first to concentrate one's attention so that one would not be distracted, then to open oneself to listen. One thing I liked about meditation was that one did not have to perform. One was free to have a high experience or a shallow experience. Because our group was not specifically a part of the Millbrae Church, I felt no responsibility. I felt great inner peace and strength. In retrospect I can see where meditation like everything else (including prayer) is subject to abuse. But in my deepest experiences I never saw anything but good. However, if a person approached it with hatred or malice I can imagine that it might concentrate that malevolence.

At the end of that year we moved to Grace Church, Stockton. And it was while we were there that another incident had a lasting effect on me. One September Monday morning in 1972, Bob and I had decided to drive up to the foothills to explore. Just as we were about to set out, the phone rang. It was Bertha Burnett who said she and her husband would like to stop by. Bob had married them and although we hated to postpone our trip, we invited them over for coffee. By the time we had chatted and coffeed, half the morning was gone and the mail had come. In the mail was a letter from Charles saying that he and Keiko were to be married in Japan on October 10. This was very much of a surprise to us though we knew they were making plans.

When the Burnetts had left, Bob looked at me and said, "You're going." (The previous spring I had noticed a KQED ad for a 25 day charter trip to Japan leaving in September and had idly remarked to Bob, "Let's go." Bob, in a rare mood of exasperation had told me that I knew we couldn't afford it, and I had protested that I was only joking anyway. So it was even more dear of him to immediately chase up the ad and point out that the flight would leave 4 days hence.) Bob couldn't possibly go because the Bishop was due for a ceremony to burn the church mortgage, etc. If the Burnetts had not delayed us, we would not have received the mail until too late to do anything about it. It seemed as if there were many coincidences that made it possible for me to make this special trip.

As it was we scrambled into the car to go to San Francisco to get my passport renewed, then to get a visa, shots etc., etc. And before I knew it I was off on the plane bound for Tokyo. The cable we had sent to Charles did not arrive until barely time for him and Keiko to meet my plane. But Keiko managed to be there with a bouquet of five roses for me.

As soon as I had recovered from jet lag, Keiko wanted to take me to the Meiji Shrine. We took the subway but got off at the wrong stop so there was a long walk in the misting rain to reach it. I was too proud to tell Keiko that the walk was too much for me, and as I climbed the knee high stone steps of the Shrine, I stumbled and fell, dropping and breaking Bob's camera. The film rolled down the wet steps. The huge holes in my stockings revealed two bloody knees (I would have to spend much of that 3 weeks on my knees for there were no chairs in Keiko's home nor their apartment.) I sat there on the wet steps grimacing in pain as Keiko fluttered over me saying in her limited English, "Oh Mother, Mother..."

Before I left home I had been reading Caruthers' book on the Power of Praise which advocated thanking and praising God for everything, even what seems negative at the time. I was very skeptical of that kind of simplistic religion, but I couldn't knock its positive approach, so I was saying to myself, "Thank you God for my bloody knees and the broken camera."

The next morning at breakfast in the Japanese Inn where I was staying I was brooding over having broken Bob's camera. "I can't go home without any visual record of this fascinating experience," I thought. And then I looked out the window and started to sketch the stone lantern...the simplest thing I could see. It was the beginning of my sketching in earnest. I had sketched before but in a totally haphazard way. Now I had a purpose and for the first time I was able to submerge my ego which tended to say, "if you sketch, people will watch you...and they will think, 'does she think she can sketch?'" I was thinking of Bob instead of my own unimportant reputation. The second thing I learned was that all sketches I ever start will look poor to me at first or at some time along the way. I never sketched in pencil. And I try not to throw any sketches away. The challenge is to see that something comes out no matter how poor. Frequently I would be surprised to look back at what I had done and think, "well that's not so bad after all."

I also had to confess that this experience opened several doors. For three years I had been fighting the neurological problem that made walking difficult. Even though it was not a devastating physical handicap, it was a great stumbling block for me. I realized that I didn't mind if other people limped or stumbled, but I simply couldn't and didn't accept that that was my fate. Suddenly sketching became both a symbolic and a very practical example of how closing one door could open another door. If I kept a sketch book with me I could always encourage Bob or whoever was with me to go on and hike the place I could not go, for I would be happy sketching.

I have never quit sketching completely since then. There are weeks when I do it much more consistently, especially on vacation or when there are long meetings. It has whiled away moments that would have been wasted like sitting in a doctor's office where I used to fidget...now I could hope the doctor would keep me waiting a little longer until I finished sketching the old man in the corner or the child in its mother's arms. A number of times I have entertained a restless child and given him the sketch. And I have made a number of interesting casual friends and encouraged a number of young people to follow my example.

I'm reluctant to say that the experience at the Meiji Shrine was a "religious experience". And yet I believe it was in the best sense. It turned a corner in my simple acceptance of the fact that there were answers waiting for me. As Viktor Frankl liked to say, "Say YES to life in spite of everything."

While we were in Stockton we enjoyed a wonderful group of Intervarsity college students who attended our church and met for breakfast and Bible study every Sunday morning in our living room. Chris Nichols, whom we had known as a little boy in Hanford, was responsible for bringing his friends from the University of Pacific and that got the group started. I was surprised and delighted at their strong convictions and earnestness. I felt that a number of these students wanted a religion that would give them strength to withstand some of the temptations of modern life. And I found this refreshing after some of the liberal wishy‑washy attitude toward moral relativism. At times I shocked them by trying to help them believe that while the Christian revelation might be the only way for them, that God was so much bigger than any of us that we shouldn't be too judgmental of other beliefs.

My difficulty with labeling experiences was emphasized soon after we moved to Redding. We found there several members of our church who were impatient with the old Methodist rituals and very much taken with an ecumenical charismatic group that met at the Catholic church. A Catholic psychiatrist, Dr. David Gassman, was one of the leaders. Bob and Marguerite Clover from our church were very active and very critical of the "spiritually dead" Methodists. As usual I felt curious to know more about their experience and we visited the group a number of times. I had no difficulty believing that Marguerite's experience was a valid one. And I had no difficulty in participating in the rather emotional sessions and feeling that there was power being generated‑‑I could have persuaded myself that I too was on the edge of, if not actually, speaking in tongues. But I never felt that this was my calling. I liked what a famous Jesuit Charismatic said at one of the Earl Lectures (roughly paraphrased), "There is NO highpoint of religious fervor that doesn't trail off after a while."

When the church sent us to Madison, Wisconsin to participate in the Bethel Bible program, I felt the power of good Bible scholarship combined with fervor. Bob and I came back and I participated in and taught the Bethel program for six years. But again I felt more of a mission to help people see the wonder of the best Biblical history rather than to zap them with an emotional binge.

The whole idea of being "turned on" is fraught with danger. I love the exhilaration of the high points in my life. And I have been grateful for experiencing times when I was ecstatic. But demanding to be turned on seems phony, whether one uses drugs or manipulation. I feel that one thing that has saved me from false or hysterical types of experiences (besides common sense) has been a strong belief that mind, spirit and emotion must work in harmony and humility.

It's still baffling to find myself struggling with some of the same spiritual problems that haunted me a half a century ago. But I don't feel negative about it. Life seems to be for coping rather than for arriving.