At this point, I think I am about to wax controversial. It's because of an opinion that all pastors of denominations will no doubt oppose. Here it is. The reason for denominations is ultimately religion. I suppose its good to be religious about some things. I rather go for purity and do the right thing because it is in my heart to do so. We all know recognize, of course, we're not that good. But I will say this, that the attempt to replace love with traditions and rules is the harbinger of heresy, hypocrisy, and frustration. And, I think this story highlights that opinion. It started when Louis was a child, and ended when she once again became a child.

GOD OF MY CHILDHOOD
the story of Lois Bolejack

Religion was always uphill.

I sometimes thought my parents had the right idea. They never attended a church, never saw an Easter program even on television or read the religion section of the paper. Naturally, they never took me to church or discussed religion.

But some kids seem to have a "God sense." I did. It wasn't logical, but at age eight I would wander around our neighborhood looking for churches. I attended everyone I found. My favorite discoveries were the vacation Bible Schools. Whenever I found a sign for one, I made sure to attend. And I did it without any prompting from my parents.

I learned there was a God and I understood some of the works of Jesus. But throughout my teen years and up to age thirty-four I was more interested in friends, fun, travel and good food. Still there was a sort of intrigue about Christianity and I attended a wide variety of churches. God was just a weekend-when-convenient thing. Fun was first.

Then the fun stopped.

I was supervising 26 women, all with special needs. I couldn't relax. It was like I was carrying a stack of heavy books. Just thinking of small responsibilities like washing the dishes would add another book to the pile. I couldn't set it down, not even on weekends. Then my Father died, and I wasn't prepared. The weight became impossible to bear. I felt like exploding and ended up in Mt. Airy Psychiatric Hospital with a mental breakdown.

While there, the pastor of a local church became a frequent visitor. I was really down and welcomed his visits. He helped me understand Jesus and made me feel like one of his family. I needed to turn somewhere, and although the church was very strict, that's where the God of my childhood seemed to be.

A change was in order. The freewheeling woman, that I used to be, decided to be baptized and joined the church.

I tried to live up to their many rules, but always came short. After eight years I could see that I was never going to measure up to their standards. I quit attending, telling myself that the regulations wouldn't get me into Heaven. Besides, they seemed contrary to what I read in the Bible.

Like a fox without a hole, I could find nothing that satisfied my needs. After 12 years I settled on a church of a major denomination. But there again, the focus was on human failure and personal discipline. I would walk into the building like a child about to be beaten. After an hour of being thoroughly scolded, I'd walk away crying. I would vow to try harder, but the next Sunday I'd get scolded again. Where, I wondered was the loving God of my childhood? I was thankful for my brother who could make me laugh. Just being with him was fun. He always refreshed my torn and thirsty heart before the next Sunday's abuse.

After four years, like an unloved kid running away, I left the church.

That failure haunted me for eight years. My brother became the center of my life. Then things got a lot worse. My beloved brother died suddenly.

He entered Lutheran Hospital with a torn aorta. They rushed him into the operating room and repaired the damage. For thirty-five days I wept and pleaded for him. But he never regained consciousness; he never knew. My beloved brother died. He just laid there for thirty-five days and died. And my life was torn from me. . It was so final, so irreversible. And there was nothing I could do but weep from the pit of my soul.

Once again I turned to the God of my youth, praying more earnestly than ever for some kind of sense or meaning.

My beautifully sweet sister-in-law and I became real pals. She wanted to try a new church called Faith Bible Chapel West. We attended the 1997 Palm Sunday service and fell in love with the church. It was a warm, friendly place and the focus was on what Jesus did for us - the parenthood of God.

The next Sunday was Easter. I was there for more of the comfort I'd found the previous Sunday. My eagerness was richly rewarded as I watched the "Via Dolarosa" pageant. The crucifixion of Christ unfolded before my eyes. I broke down and cried, this time not for myself, but for my precious Lord.

This was the God of my Childhood, for whom I'd been searching so many years. For the first time I realized what He suffered as he was tortured on the cross. Things that never made sense were suddenly clear.

And my life was saved.

Because I also understood that I was worth more than all the world to God. Moreover I could go to any service and worship Jesus and walk out happier than when I entered. I love Sundays now, because I learn more of Him who is worth more than all the world to me. Following rules has become following Jesus, in a deep, loving relationship. That relationship is a lot like a father-child bond.

Jesus said, "whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life." That describes the kind of love he offers anyone who will come to him.

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