CONTEMPLATIONS FROM A FULL LIFE/911-GOD

Art from "Genesis for Normal People" by Pete Ennis, PHD

During the course of my life, I often debated my belief system.  I am a white, middle class, American-born male child.  My generation was referred to as the generation of “war babies”, coming into existence during and immediately after World War II.  I am a Christian and lean decidedly Conservative in my political philosophy, as did my parents and grandparents, although there is no doubt that my standard of living and financial status is substantially improved over their own.

What I especially debated in my spring and summer years, was my belief in the Creator and Christianity in general.  My father and mother were wonderful examples and role models, attending church every time the doors were open, tithing the 10% the church and biblical guidelines called for even though it meant having less food to eat for them and their two sons and made any kind of paid entertainment a luxury usually beyond their means.  Both were Sunday school teachers and my dad a Baptist deacon, even gaining the status of guest preacher in his later years of life.  I was usually excluded from the requirement of going to church on Sunday evenings, Wednesday evenings, and the visitations and prayer meetings they both attended without fail.  But I was required to attend church and Sunday School every Sunday morning as long as I lived in their home.

In my late teen years, I began to resist attending, and it became a ritual of some sort for my dad, especially, to wake and goad me into accompanying them.  I was active in my teen class at Sunday School and was called upon at one point to write a contemporary play, direct it, cast it, and act in it.  It was performed for the substantial congregation of our local Baptist church, several hundred people, one Sunday morning and was well received. I felt I had purpose, belonged. My Sunday morning rituals began to be less stressful.

And then one Sunday morning, during the “call to Christ”, I had an overwhelming desire to reach out to God and Jesus for my salvation.  And I remember to this day, after my Baptism a few days later, that I have never felt so light, so happy, so…. pure?  Still, to this day.  It was an incredible peace.  And I was happy.  For a while.

I liked my teen counterparts in Sunday School and had more than a passing interest in several of the girls that attended regularly.  These were young teen infatuations, platonic, even if I fantasized for more intriguing relationships.  And these infatuations further helped my dad wrestle me out of bed on Sunday mornings and gave reason to attend services.

But I was having a deep resentment build up inside me that I probably wasn’t even conscious of then.  My dad had lost his job, my mother was recovering from her battle with breast cancer, mental anxieties and depression that resulted in a lobotomy and shock treatments, and dad had no insurance to help with any of the staggering medical bills.  We went from comfortable and “getting by” to an economically struggling household…. bills always in arrears, food always there but consisting of a primary diet that daily included biscuits and gravy for breakfast, cheese or bologna sandwiches for lunch, and beans and cornbread for supper.

My dad’s health wasn’t good either.  He was taking any job he could get, working from dark to dark every day, fighting a serious emphysema condition, worrying himself half to death about money and the welfare of his family, and our mother. Yet, he never missed church, never failed to calculate the 10% he would tithe to the church every week and deposit it in the offering plate.

I began to resent this.  I couldn’t help it.  We were wearing patched and hand-me-down clothes, eating such a bland diet that I would, in fact, develop an ulcer in my freshman year of high school.  The church was helping everyone else, why couldn’t one of the membership offer my dad a job?  We didn’t need or want handouts.  My dad needed work to take care of us.  That’s all.  I didn’t think this was too much to ask or expect when the preacher was wearing expensive suits and sporting a diamond ring and the membership on Sundays looked like the “who’s who” of Paducah, Kentucky...everyone in suits and ties and the women dressed up….for who?  God?  I didn’t think so.  Even I understood that at my age.

And where was God?  Surely a woman as based in faith and as good a servant as my mother didn’t deserve the pain that wracked her body and mind every day of her life. And God has never made a better man, heck, person, than my father. He was as good a disciple for Christ as any man that has ever lived.  I realize this is a biased contention, but it is my genuine belief now as it was then.  

And so, I began in earnest my doubts about the Creator.  At least this Christian concept of the Creator.  And in the final stages of my teen years, right before I left home for good for a job in St. Louis, I resisted stubbornly, to the point of argument, and refused to go to church with my parents on Sunday mornings.

During my time in St. Louis, I did not attend church.  In my brief stay back home before entering the Army, I did not attend church, and I did not go to services during my stateside tour of duty.  I was angry.  Where was God when I had needed Him?  

I was born into a Christian family, and I had no choice in that.  So, should I be a Christian, too?  Just because of this circumstance?  I began to doubt many things about my Christian upbringing, but that nagging fear of consequence prevented total rejection of God, Christ, and my religious education.  But the doubts were there.  And growing.

And so, one day after finishing my second level of advanced training in the signal corps in command level security and operations at Fort Gordon, Georgia, I received orders for Korea. Border skirmishes between the North and South had grown exponentially over the past year and we were funneling more and more personnel into the area to combat a potential major new outbreak in hostilities.

But this was the zenith of the TET offensive in Vietnam and with whole brigades of North Vietnamese troops now in South Vietnam and trying to overtake base camps, the U.S. body count was now in the hundreds every day.  And I had spent the past seven months preparing every day to use my training to assist in the Vietnam combat effort.  And so, I volunteered to go to Vietnam instead.

I did not consult anyone, much less pray for guidance.  In fact, prayer was probably the last thing I would have thought of at the time.  Prayer wasn’t in my tool bag.

Prayer first reoccurred to me while at my first stop in Tan Son Nhut airfield in Saigon awaiting my duty station orders.  Charlie launched a couple of .122 mm rockets in our general direction one night and the impact was close enough to send me and everyone else under their duffels until the dust cleared.  A synchronized swimming team could not have performed more perfectly. And I caught myself talking to God again.  With some substantial fervor.

Over the next week or so I caught myself wondering about this.  Why would I do that?  Automatically?  Instinctively?  Especially if my belief system was that eroded?  Why, when my mortal existence was threatened, was this my first recourse?  And then I began exploring the idea that I was not the first person to resort to asking the Creator for my preservation in times of impending death. No matter the name or the dozens of languages used to invoke it, I realized this was a recurring theme for the humankind since the beginning of time, repeated millions and millions of times.  If there was no Creator, no God, why would all people in times of physical duress, look to the heavens and make the oft repeated plea for help and salvation?

As much as I thought about this, I still didn’t make communication with God a component of my daily program.  

Perspective is often gained through the living of life.  And in my case, through facing possible death in a number of instances over the time of my service in and out of the Di An forward base camp over the next year.  Every one of those experiences involved examination and reflection leading me to the conclusion that I was but a spark of conscious energy in a cellophane wrapper. Every one of those reflections highlighted the realization that I, in those moments of mortal fear, had become very friendly, chatty, and intimate with God, and in my case, Christ.  I had dialed, without hesitation, 911-GOD.

I am still jaded.  I still have reserve and suspicion of the church. I am working on it.  But in my old age, I talk with God every day...several times a day.  I no longer pray based on the immediate need to preserve my mortality.  In fact, it just never comes up. My prayers are for family and friends, hope for mankind, and this wonderful country, its leaders, and those who wear the uniform to safeguard the liberties I enjoy and endeavor to secure those liberties for all who--- in their most fearful and troubled of times--- reach out to us in pursuit of freedom and peace and escape from persecution.  And, without fail, my prayers have at their center the heartfelt thanks I have for the life I have been given, and for the people God has chosen for me to share it with...my birth family, and my life family…. the one He chose for me, and the wisdom imparted that resulted in the one I have chosen.

Why should I believe in God?  Be a Christian?  Because of where I was born and by whom I was taught and raised?  You know what?  I have no problem with that.  My family and my heritage are Christian for hundreds of years, suffering the persecution for those beliefs, enduring the hardships of life and death, turning to their religious teachings to create the guideposts for their morality, and all finding their Creator available to take their own calls when things got too rough.

I was planted here.  I grew here.  I will die here.  In America, the greatest country on earth, even with its many faults.  My moral foundation is strong. Because of the parents God provided me for role models--because of the grandparents, and many wonderful aunts and uncles that always shared faith by their songs, testimonies, blessings and prayers of thanksgiving. Because I AM a Christian. As were all of my grandmothers and grandfathers as far back as history can trace my roots.

I am Caucasian, of primarily Scotch, Irish, and Welsh ancestry.  My Gaelic/Celtic roots are deep. This was God’s choice, along with the choices made by my many grandmothers and grandfathers.  My mother and father loved people and I was brought up without racial or cultural bigotry.  I am grateful for that.  It has taught me to base my friends on their moral composition and personality, their outlook on life, and not their color or life choices.  I am not perfect in this.  And I suppose I am not without prejudice at some levels, as are all people whether they admit it or not. But I want to respect all people who show me the same respect.

So, am I the result of circumstance in my placement in life?  Maybe. Maybe not. But I have the intelligence to know this...I have lived this life in this body and experienced it like no one else can.  I am happy with my placement.  I am the result of my heritage more than anything, but also have a full data bank on what life has shown me and taught me.

I am happy and fortunate with my placement.  I am happy and fortunate with my heritage.

And I will conclude these ramblings by stating, I have great peace in knowing, through my journey in this life, through those experiences and what has been taught, that GOD WILL LISTEN WHEN I PRAY today.  He will not grant me everything I wish for, and He will not eliminate all that I suffer.  That is not the value of the prayer.  The value is inherent.  Because I know, without any doubt, that it was He that I turned to without fail in all the hardships of this life...that He is there…. listening, when I need to talk to Him.  He was there even before my beginning, at my beginning, during the joyous moments and during the darkest of my hours, and He will be there at my journey’s conclusion.  

I was taught in my religious upbringing…"we are saved by faith...not by sight”. I have nothing of a physical nature to prove God and Christ.  But, by instinct and faith, I have turned to them at every crisis of my life.  There has to be cause for this.  Instinct?  Faith?  Does it matter?  

I was planted here, I have grown here, and I will die here.  I am thankful to God for all of it. Most of all, I am thankful to know Jesus Christ as my Savior.

Keith Wayne Ragan

January 14, 2016

copyright by the author, Keith W. Ragan