6 PLEASE FOLLOW ME TO MY NEW WEBSITE FOR THE SECOND HALF OF MY LONDON/LETTER SERIES!

A big thank you to all my readers for keeping up with my lengthy posts and sending such encouraging comments and feedback my way. You have inspired me to keep going!  The story isn’t over, and I’ve set up my own new website to spread my writer’s wings and share even more with you. As well as the second part of my series, now called “Turn, Turn, Turn”, I’ll be posting poetry and other bits of whimsy, insight, observation and recollection. You can find it all on http://mkriete.wordpress.com . Or try www.purplesplashofglory.com . See you there — but please keep visiting Gloriopolis, too, and encourage Henry to add some new posts :). And don’t be afraid to read some of my poetry — trust me, most people are surprised how much they connect with it. Some of my poems are funny, too, if you just need a 5 minute bright spot, and you’re tired of camping in YouTube. Thanks again!

You are making my day, every one of you.

18 LONDON, THE LETTER AND LOOKING BACK (PART 13) — MARILYN KRIETE

STARTING OVER WITH MAVIS BEACON

My parents are self-described Luddites*. Well into their eighties, they live on the fringe of the 21^st century, never having owned a microwave, clothes dryer, cell phone, VCR, or computer. My mother still hangs wet laundry outdoors in sub-zero weather. At their self-built cabin-at-the-lake, 500 miles from their home, they ardently refuse to install a water pump or any semblance of plumbing, preferring to haul water by bucket up the steep path from the lake, or to melt snow over the woodstove in the winter. Any upgrades to this system will literally be over their dead bodies (sorry, Mom and Dad, if you ever wander into a computer and read this). We finally persuaded them to have a phone installed at the cabin after Mom had a stroke, a near- miraculous concession after 30 years of rational argument. And no, my parents don’t live in the Gulag; they live in Edmonton, Alberta, an oil-rich 21^scentury city abounding in all amenities. These are my genetic roots.

I say all this to explain why it took so long for me to confront my computer resistance. It wasn’t until the fall of 2003, facing that demon called “Job Search”, that I clicked my first mouse. And not till much later that I set up an email account and learned how to use it. But the best thing I did upon touching a keyboard was commit myself to the online lessons of “Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing”. Unbeknownst to me, the ability to touch-type would be a much-needed asset in my future career – and my later blogging aspirations.

Back to my story:  Henry, on the other hand, is more of a technophile (though he also claims to have “techno-demons”) and was still connected to church members and leaders via email. In June of 2003, he was contacted by some disciples in New York City, frustrated with how the Letter and its issues, particularly financial ones, had been handled by their main leaders. These devoted yet disgruntled members were forming their own groups (by borough) for worship and fellowship, disentangling themselves from the larger group. They were hurt, angry, confused, and sincere, and needed a safe place to vent and process their feelings. They also wanted inspirational sermons and lessons from someone they trusted; thus, they looked to Henry. For two years, three of these regional groups flew Henry back and forth from Vancouver to New York, where he spent days at a time in discussion, sharing, prayer, counseling, preaching and encouragement. The sessions were very therapeutic. For Henry, it was a golden opportunity to listen to others’ stories and process his own issues and reactions. We didn’t realize till later just how healing this was, or how much I struggled by not having such an outlet for discussion and support. I was living in Coquitlam incognito, not talking to anyone about the last 20+ years, and trying to fit in as a “regular Canadian”. (Still not sure I pass!)

While Henry was in and out of New York, I enrolled in a free, three-week program called “Career Builders”. It was a hands-on, interactive group course designed to help mid-lifers and others ‘between jobs’ discover a new, and hopefully successful, study-and-career plan. I went into the course as blank as a blocked writer’s page, and came out almost as blank as a dressmaker’s dummy. At least I knew there were others in my age group trying to start over with very few ‘credentials’ in the bank.

But we had fun bumbling around together. Most of us were computer-challenged and lacking in post-secondary education. We got to take personality tests; in one of them, based on four color groups, I was the only one of twenty -plus test takers who landed in the Green Group. Greens love learning, working by themselves, reading and research. I had fun in my mini-group of one, writing an ode to being Green (nothing like Kermit’s) and presenting it to the class. Most of them wanted to be Green, too, after they heard my poem. (Just kidding!) We also took long aptitude tests, in hopes of uncovering hidden interests and affinities. The test I remember most put “Corporate Trainer” as my top career choice, with “ESL (English as a Second Language) Teacher in second place. I shrank from the word ‘corporate’, and didn’t seriously consider the second choice – yet. Almost all of us finished the course with more questions than answers, but the Zen-like instructor said this was normal, and we ought to keep ‘exploring’ our ethereal futures. Your answers will come, he said. Be patient.

As I waited for clarity, I considered cleaning houses for a living – there were lots of mansions on the plateau overlooking our humble neighborhood. I owned a vacuum and I like cleaning. The scrubbing might have been very therapeutic. But eventually I came back to the ESL teacher idea, and began looking for courses. I found a five-month night course starting in January. It was affordable – around $ 2500 – compared to other options. Another clear path. I continued to type by day with Mavis Beacon, and enrolled in the night course.

This turned out to be a sagacious (“of keen and farsighted penetration and judgement”) decision: once again, God had guided me through the fog with His sagacious wisdom, and He had plans that went well beyond getting me a teaching certificate.

And I was no longer a Luddite. Now I knew how to point, click, and find.

10 LONDON, THE LETTER AND LOOKING BACK (PART 12) — MARILYN KRIETE

Part XII  

The Krietes Pull Up Stakes for the 15^th Time*

*This was our 15^th move from one city, country or continent to another. Adding within-city moves, Henry and I have moved 25 times since getting married. The girl knows how to pack!

For the first time since 1985, we were free to choose our next city and neighborhood. We chose B.C. because three of my four brothers live here, and I hadn’t lived near any family since 1980. Henry had a welcoming cousin in the Vancouver area who offered housing till we found our own place. So those first pieces fit. But they were just two bits of a scattered jigsaw puzzle: a new picture of life we had to construct, without the help of a picture on the box.

We’d managed to accumulate a small container worth of stuff to be sent by sea, expected to reach Vancouver within 12 weeks (more like 20). Most of our household goods were in storage in Norfolk, VA, and the cheapest way to get them across the continent was by U-Haul. So Tassja and I flew with our London cat to Vancouver, and Henry and Daniel flew to Norfolk to load the truck and drive cross-country, joining us two weeks later. We’d been given a beautiful golden retriever in London named Sasha, but she wasn’t able to fly with us because of a mix-up: someone forgot to bring the regulation-sized pet carrier to the airport. (She stayed behind with friends, and we had her flown over five weeks later. Tragically, she suffered physical trauma on the plane and had to be euthanized within two days — another heartbreaking loss that nearly undid us. I wept for days.)

The green, green city of Port Moody, situated along Vancouver’s Burrard Inlet and nestled in the lush coastal mountains, was an oasis of tranquillity after all we’d been through. We walked miles every day, Tassja by foot scooter, me on foot, exploring and marvelling at this most beautiful place. God blessed us with perfect weather and lots of time to unwind. Henry and Daniel got to check out Mount Rushmore on their journey and arrived intact – though ironically, they made it all the way across the States without incident but had the truck broken into and robbed on their first morning in Canada. So much for crime statistics! By mid-May we were actively looking for an affordable rental in the world’s second-most expensive city for housing (Hong Kong is first). After perusing all the Lower Mainland (Metropolitan Vancouver), we chose Coquitlam. I remember pointing to a neighborhood as we drove around one evening, saying, “I wish we could find a nice little house right there!” Two days later, we found a cozy rental exactly where I’d pointed. God is good!

Moving back to Canada was essentially a decision to step out of the ministry, at least for a while – a decision neither of us had ever anticipated.  By now the Letter had swept through the church worldwide, leaving turmoil and change in its wake. We were oblivious to most of the commotion during our lengthy moving and set-up time. But Henry got back online once we moved into our little house (in mid-June), and was bombarded with emails and messages by the thousands. In this way, he stayed involved on a personal level, talking to leaders, members, ex-members, nannies and ‘personal assistants’, as well as current and former administrators in the ICOC.( For what it’s worth, he estimates that 90% of the feedback he got from the Letter was positive. Of course, the other 10% had extremely strong opinions, but he tried to communicate with both sides.) The unsavory consequence of hearing people’s stories was exposure to even more incidents of worldliness and abusive leadership. As time went on, Henry felt his passionate concerns and outcries about the organization were amply justified. He shared some of his new knowledge with me (usually without names attached), but kept most of it to himself. I was shell-shocked and overwhelmed when I thought about the church, past or present, and tried not to think about it. (I do have some excellent ‘blocking’ techniques in my How-Not-to-Deal-with-Trauma Arsenal.)

What made this avoidance technique easier, in a weird way, was the local church members’ reluctance to initiate any meaningful talks with me. A small contingent of super-supportive brothers rallied round Henry when he arrived – the only members, in fact, to give us a hand with moving our belongings in and out of storage. Their zeal made Henry uncomfortable at times, but at least he had involved brothers who wanted to talk. But no one in the church ever mentioned the Letter to me, or asked anything about our London (or previous) experience. The women were generally friendly, but not inquisitive. What was I to make of this? Tassja and I were greeted from the pulpit when we first arrived, but not a word was said to or about Henry when he started attending. He sat near the back, week after week, as if he were invisible. We attended the Vancouver church for about two years after returning to Canada, and eventually Henry was invited to teach a midweek class, receiving a stipend for doing so. We were doing our best to cobble a living together a living, and this opportunity was much appreciated. In spite of this, I  still felt we were languishing on the fringes of the fellowship. Perhaps some of this was the sudden transition out of the ministry after 20+ years in.

For those readers who are surprised that we continued to worship with an ICOC church, I want to point out that the Letter was a call to reform, not to destroy or abandon the church. We still hoped for change, still loved our brothers and sisters, and still couldn’t imagine going anywhere else for fellowship. We hosted a Bible Talk in our Coquitlam home. Went faithfully to the midweeks. Built new friendships. But it was like living in a time warp: the Vancouver church, geographically isolated from other congregations except for Seattle (nearly four hours away), felt very disconnected from the larger fellowship. Henry and I hadn’t been around during their open forums and much of the discipling structure had since dissolved, but the church felt like a blurry entity. We were there, but we weren’t really there. I knew people in the church, but I didn’t really know them, nor did they know me or my background very well. The Letter’s aftermath loomed large, but unacknowledged. This lack of discussion and openness only added to my isolation and emotional detachment.

I used to joke that I was like someone in the Witness Protection Program: no past life, no cohesive identity, no deep connections, no anticipated future. But to be honest, I wasn’t really joking.

37 LONDON,THE LETTER AND LOOKING BACK (PART 11) —MARILYN KRIETE

Part XI

Execution: One Hundred and One Redundancies

If there had been a prize for the Most Miserable Job of 2003, it would have to go to the unfortunate Administrator of the London and U.K. churches, a kind and humble man who had no idea what the fulfillment of his duties would entail by March of that year. Amid the clamour and frustration of the failed ‘rescue op’, the failed negotiations, and the subsequent disillusionment of the church members, Henry’s letter had – surprise! — little to no impact in London. It was as if a manifesto had been delivered after the revolution was in full swing: nothing could stop the implosion now. The members had completely withdrawn their financial support and the writing was on the wall. Our hapless administrator was left to deal with the fallout.

Here’s the part that still shocks me: all but one of the 102 people on the London and UK church payroll were laid off. Or, as they say in England, “made redundant”.* Our Administrator had the unpleasant task of going to every individual to formally deliver the news and disclose their severance package. I must say  he did this with kindness, sensitivity, discretion, and valor. The last person he ‘executed’ was himself. The one person left standing was the Children’s Ministry Leader – I often wonder how he felt, finding himself spared – and alone. He too was a humble man, in a lonely place once the dust had settled.

The severance packages worked out to one month’s pay per year served in the ministry, enough to keep families afloat for a while, but hardly a golden parachute. For Henry and me, the conditions were different. Because we’d only been in London for a year, we received one month’s salary, plus moving expenses, even though we’d both served in the fulltime ministry for twenty years. This wasn’t a punitive action on the church’s part; we understood that funds were limited. Some generous members gave money out of their own pockets to help us out, particularly one amazing brother who gave us a substantial chunk of the proceeds from selling his house. We were humbled by these kindnesses, and the money went a long way as we started a new and very uncertain chapter in our lives.

Being made redundant affected the ministry staff in different ways. I think all of us were stunned that things could go from ‘pear-shaped’ to ‘completely disintegrated’ so quickly. While in our “stop doing the ministry” holding pattern, we still got together to talk about the state of affairs, and sometimes discussed the “What would you do if you weren’t in the ministry?” question, not realizing this would indeed become our next real-life decision. Most of us had half-baked, vague or fantastical ideas, because the full-time ministry really was our first choice. I used to say I’d become a counselor, so I could still work closely with people. (By the time I actually was rethinking my career, I was so shattered that the last thing I wanted to do was listen to other folk’s problems.) Most of us couldn’t imagine doing anything but the ministry, even in our pain. We still loved God and we still loved people.

Someone in the States has written that Henry and I were “fired” from London. This is patently not true. In fact, members of the zone we led asked if they could independently rehire us. (This happened in other regions and zones, too. Not right away, but I heard that quite a few staff members were rehired by their own groups.) We did consider staying, but by then my spirit was broken. I was weary of the drama and intensity, and tired of living under visas. After so many moves, the prospect of going back to our own country – where no one could kick us out or refuse to let us back in – was enticing. Our son was miserable in his brats-with-neckties school, and wanted to live in one place for his final three years of high school. We’d been away from Canada and our families for more than twenty years, except for two years in Toronto. For these and other reasons, we turned down the invitation, and began looking at Canada, our home and native land.

As for the rest of the London staff, they were scattered like popcorn in a wok. Some moved away, erasing themselves from the scene. Observers might consider this evidence of guilt or wrong motives, but don’t be so quick to judge: for those in the epicenter, the implosion was devastating. The staff had been judged with broad brush strokes, not as individuals with different leadership styles. Some were intense leaders, but many were not. Each one had begun the journey as a disciple intent on the Great Commission (Matt. 28: 18 – 20). But the loss we each experienced was immeasurable. To lose your spiritual base, career, friendships, reputation, livelihood, identity and aspirations in one fell swoop is no small thing. I know this firsthand. To want to take cover and disappear for a while – or longer—is a very human response to loss, shame and blame. Moses did it. He came back stronger, a changed man, but it took forty years. I hope we can witness the same power at work in those who fell hardest. May we extend grace and the benefit of the doubt to those who need it most. In the end, only God can know our true hearts, and only He can judge in absolute truth.

This is not the end of my series, although it is the end of the London Story from my firsthand perspective. I welcome those from the U.K., who lived the rest of the story and are still living it, to share what happened next. As my next few articles will demonstrate, I did a stellar job of isolating myself after we moved to Canada. So I too would like to know the silver linings and the surprise ‘endings’ in the London/UK part of this saga.

If you want to email me at mkriete@telus.net, I’ll be happy to include some highlights with my future posts.

My own story will continue in upcoming posts. I’ll be sharing about starting over and the long process of acknowledging, grieving, and grappling with shattered faith and trust. I’ll try to keep it real and include a little levity when needed.  Please keep reading! And keep commenting – your comments keep me strong!

*The terms “laid off” and “made redundant” have such different connotations for me. “Laid off” sounds like you’ve been turned into a slacker; “made redundant” sounds like they didn’t need you in the first place. Neither sounds nice, or feels fair.