I Know Whom I Have Believèd

Easter 2011

The other day my daughter-in-law, Krissy, posted a challenge on Facebook for everyone to “lift up God’s name and make a statement.” Never one to miss an opportunity to express my opinion, I decided to take up her challenge.

I come from a family of “church door” Christians. Every time the church door opened, we were there. I didn’t think much about it at the time; after all, there wasn’t much else to do, and, for the most part, church was fun. My cousins, friends, and I played, sang, giggled, and during the sermons wrote notes on the bulletins. When I got older, I played the piano and organ for services and, still to this day, love the old hymns. Both of my parents sang in the choir until my dad discovered that ushering from the back of the church offered a little more “flexibility” than sitting in the choir loft at the front. My brother was in the church scout troop.

Mine is a familiar story for people who grew up in the Methodist church. Questions were encouraged, and differences of opinion didn’t upset anyone. Looking back, I have to admit the questions weren’t particularly controversial, and most of us held the same opinions. What my church lacked in spiritual challenge, it made up for by providing a safe and loving environment.

Then my mother died. She wasn’t supposed to die at age 60; she was too young, too full of life, too many things still on her “one day I’ll get around to it” list. Her death sent me on a spiritual journey, the end of which I still cannot see 26 years later. The standard issue answers to the standard issue questions from all those partially heard sermons, Sunday school lessons, weeks at the Methodist Church’s Camp Sumatanga, and youth fellowship did not satisfy my broken heart. I needed new answers.

So, Krissy, this is my statement of belief.

God loves every person unconditionally—even the people I don’t particularly like. These people are not all nice, nor do they ascribe to a particular religious or political affiliation, nor do they necessarily live in the United States.

God created. He expects us to figure out how He did it and take care of his creation.

God has only a few rules; man dreamed up the rest.

Christians do not have exclusive rights to God.

My life reflects those things I value, and my actions have consequences.

I am accountable for what I believe.

My spiritual journey persuaded me that God is bigger, more powerful, and more mysterious than I could comprehend. I am committed to following the path that God lays before me and doing so with a keen eye to examining my life. Where there are failures, I will strive to do better. Where there are successes, I will celebrate. And I learned that I am not the first, nor would I be the last, to ask God to explain himself.

After the Civil War, Daniel Webster Whittle wrote I know Whom I have Believed. While the refrain is from the Bible, each verse is a testament to Whittle’s lack of understanding the why of God. Like Whittle, I continue to wonder, question, and at times, rail, but, in the end, I have come to understand that mostly I believe that God is able.

But I know Whom I have believèd,
And am persuaded that He is able
To keep that which I’ve committed
Unto Him against that day.

2 Timothy 1:12


I realize that these statements of belief are skimpy on the details and explanations. I have no interest in complicating matters for myself or others—the simpler the better.

I do disagree, however, with Krissy that Easter is not about bunnies and chocolate eggs. I have it on good authority that, while candy is not central to the message of Easter, God does have a sweet tooth.

An End to the Confusion

The time has arrived to clear up the confusion over the grandchildren. It crops up from time to time, but when the last little pollywog was born two weeks ago, people started asking questions. Now, to be perfectly honest, I think that few people care about my grandchild conundrum. But for those of you who do, I would like to set the record straight. Additionally, three of them are old enough to be confused themselves. All the little kids are my grandchildren regardless of the truth of the matter. Calling them pollywogs evens the playing field.

The #1 pollywog is Bryan, the six-year-old son of my brother, Ted, and sister-in-law, Shelley. He has never met a costume or stuffed animal that he didn’t love and takes creative license to a whole new level. Last week he sent me a letter requesting that I go to Build-a-Bear and buy him a treat. He included ten pictures cut out of a circular with pinking shears of possible purchases and a $5 coupon.

Tyler Lee, the #2 pollywog, is the son of my daughter, Rachel, and son-in-law, BJ, and big brother to Wynn, pollywog #5. At first Tyler seemed to like his new bike much better than his new brother, but he is beginning to come around. Tyler can remember anything if a number is attached to it, and he finally has two loose teeth. Bryan has lost seven teeth, a feat which has caused Tyler to discuss his situation with his dentist.

Our son, Jeremy, and his wife, Jennifer, are Anna Lauren’s parents. As pollywog #3, she is a precocious three-year-old who tolerates ballet for her mother’s sake, counts in Spanish, and gives her dad a run for his money. Last week, she squealed “weeeeeee” for several miles on the two lane road to the lake. Finally, Tim, ears throbbing, asked her what in the world she was doing. “I’m trying to cry wee all the way home.”

Keegan is nine going on 16 and was most recently concerned about a date for the school dance. Last June, Keegan’s mom, Krissy, married our son, Evan, and Keegan, who sang at the wedding, became pollywog #4. Because she is older than the others, she couldn’t quite figure out how she got the #4 spot. Chronological order, my dear, chronological order.

Our sweet baby, Wynn Talcott, is #5. His first word will probably be “grandmother.”

I’m glad that I cleared up everything.

Oh, by the way, I also call them “Boo Pie” when the spirit moves me. However, even I can’t explain that one.