This book is in mostly chronological order, so it begins with first steps. Maybe I worry too much, but if you feel impatient and skip ahead I won’t be offended. After all, journeys tend to start small. Faith journeys are no different.
In my case, the first steps occurred when I was very young.
In those days my family lived in Bingen (pronounced
“Binjun”), Washington. It sits on the banks of the Columbia River across from Oregon and the scenic Mount Hood.
On a cool day in January, 1957, a train pulled up to a depot. It was a scenario I would see again as I grew older.
After a train pulls up, a conductor grabs the handrail and swings to the ground. He then retrieves wood steps from the depot and places them next to the train. On this day, he helped a young woman and two small boys into the arms of her waiting husband. At eighteen months of age, I was the younger boy.
The railroad depot in Bingen, Washington as it appears today in Google Streets.
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Earlier, my parents graduated from Northwestern Bible College in Minneapolis where they met. They then learned of a group in Washington seeking a pastor. In response, as my father tells it, he booked a train west. The group then drafted a charter and chose the name, “Grace Baptist Church.” Not long after, my mother, brother, and I also made the trip, and moved moved into a small house on the river, near the train tracks,
Grace Baptist first met in a building on Bingen's main street and then moved into a large house. Some of my earliest memories include walking a few blocks on warm summer evenings to services. At those meetings, I recall annoying pats on the head, and playing in the back with my older brother Steve. During one service we were so loud that our mother pleaded with us, promising ice cream if we behaved. The gimmick worked, and visits to an ice cream stand became a regular Sunday evening treat.
However, to my brother and me, the most important thing was not church, it was trains. The trains ran past a half block in front of our house, and we would often watch them in amazement. Then, in 1959 Oregon observed their 100-year Centennial celebration of statehood. My grandparents visited from Wisconsin, and we attended. To a four-year old it was amazing. Steve and I were in awe when we rode a tour train, For months afterward, our little red wagon became that train. We would pull it around our yard so often that we wore a lasso shaped trail into the lawn – to the frustration of our parents.
It was as we pulled that wagon that I recall my first faith discussion. You see, in those days, Steve and I did not think faith was complicated. But on this day we strongly disagreed about a memory. After arguing, we finally agreed that someday in heaven we would learn who was right.
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We also believed that God could do anything. At some point, our parents led us in a simple prayer to ask Jesus to come into our hearts. For more than a decade, that prayer was the depth of my relationship with God. But even today I look back at those experiences as important first steps in a spiritual journey.
Grace Baptist Church moved from Bingen to White Salmon, Washington, into this Grange Hall building, also known as the Odd Fellows Hall. In 1960 it was white.
Some have questioned whether little children can be saved. But Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3). Little children simply believe and trust. Sometimes I think we try to overly complicate the path to God.
When I was five, the church moved up the mountain to the town of White Salmon. Our family followed, moving into a house on Spring Street. Services were held in the Grange Hall, also known as the Odd Fellows Hall. I can't believe I still remember those names.
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On Sunday mornings in Sunday School we learned Bible stories and songs, including "Jesus Loves Me," and
“Jesus Loves the Little Children.” After morning services, my brother and I would approach the pianist and ask for candy. She would then dig a couple of Hershey's kisses out of her purse. We thought it was wonderful until Mom told us that begging for candy was rude. After that, we no longer asked. But that wasn't the only treat church offered. We soon discovered that gum wads from the undersides of pews were quite tasty!
Grace Baptist Church as it appears in Google Streets.
Early memories
Winters in White Salmon were milder than the Midwest where I now live. Yet one blizzard dumped so much snow that I couldn't see over the edges of the shoveled walk – an experience I thought was incredible. The snow could also make driving on mountain roads treacherous. My dad would put chains on the tires – a practice I have not seen since in the Midwest.
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One treacherous road ran up the side of a mountain overlooking a lagoon. Steve and I were afraid of it, and would beg our parents to avoid it, but it was often the shortest way home so we sometimes lost the battle. I was still too young to understand how to release worries and place them in God's hands.
In 1961 we moved to Washington Street, and our house faced south. Through the front window we had an amazing view of the beautiful snow-capped Mount Hood across the river. It was a view my brother and I simply took for granted.
When I started first grade, my teacher's name was Mrs. Logan. I recall her insistence that we cut smooth curves with scissors, and I remember her frustration – and mine –
that I seemed unable to grasp the meaning of words on paper. Obviously, her efforts paid off, and sentences like
"see spot run" soon came alive. Then, before second grade, my dad accepted a position as associate pastor at Harbor Baptist Church in Hoquiam, Washington, a city southwest of Seattle and close to the Pacific beaches. So we moved.
All of this may not seem important to a spiritual journey, but journey's often begin small. Soon little miracles would come that would dramatically shape my young faith. •
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