Nuthin' But Grace:  My Story                                                                    by                                                       Charles P. McGathy Home at Last    Wounded and emotionally scarred the Army sergeant leaned on the rail of the westbound "Liberty" ship.  Before him lay New York Harbor.  Greeting the battle veterans was the Statue of Liberty.  Resolutely facing the sea to welcome the "...tired, ... poor, ... huddled masses yearning to be free," those words had new significance for this weary, young man.   Only a few years before he left Alabama to defend his country and perhaps seek adventure.  He had his fill of both.  At last he was home.  While the others laughed and slapped each other's shoulders he whispered to the statue, "Lady, if I ever see your face again it will be too soon."  Before long he would board a southbound train, and try to leave behind the blood red battlefields of Belgium for the red clay hills of Birmingham. He was a child from a fractured family and had known his share of crushing poverty.  Birmingham, Alabama had suffered during the "Great Depression."  Poorly prepared to meet life's challenges, he became a prime candidate and was quickly drafted and then sent to fight an enemy with whom he had no personal quarrel.  At last, his long journey complete, the gaunt soldier stepped off the train.  He soon learned that nearly all his possessions and the money he saved had either been given away or stolen outright by his step sister.  With little more than a discharge paper and the clothes he carried, Pinkney Parrish McGathy was home at last. Eighty-two miles south of Montgomery, the Alabama capital city, is the small town of Florala.  Perched just north of the Florida state line it had served as an encampment site for Andrew Jackson's army a little more than a century before.  It was the home of Mary Kinsaul.  She was the eldest daughter in a family that included four brothers and one sister.  She had seen her brothers, one by one, go off to join the military.  An unusually bright girl, Mary completed Florala High School when she was sixteen.  She wanted to go to college to study interior decorating.  That however would never pass muster with her very practical, Baptist father.  He saw no value in women pursuing higher education. Perhaps that would have been the end of the discussion had it not been for her mother. The Center of Gravity Murtie Bowers Kinsaul was a distinctive woman with an independent spirit and in many respects ahead of her time.  She was born in Northwest Florida a decade before the turn of the century.  Walton County then was still an American frontier and sparsely settled due to the relatively poor soil, great heat, and pervasive threat of Yellow Fever.  It was a place and time that produced independent sons and daughters.  Murtie was one of them.   She remained that way all of her life and when she died in 1979, the year I entered seminary, it was as if the sun had been removed from the solar system that was our family.  We lost our center of gravity.  The inexorable force that brought us all together each June, uncles and aunts, and cousins so we could fight, and play, and laugh, and eat mullet and drink sweet ice tea. In a spiritual way my story begins with her. Grandma was religious and never fake.  She really believed and when I was with her so did I that God was close by.   The God that lived with my grandmother was loving and just at the same time.  He cared for people and he wasn't fooled by their silly "stories."  "Stories" was the euphemism we used for lies although I think it meant something slightly different.  Maybe it meant that we all are telling stories and some of them are closer to the truth than others.  They are at any rate the stories we can bear that we must tell to try and make some sense out of our existence. She was the only living grandparent I had.  To me she was the repository of all earthly wisdom.  Grandma made me laugh when she stuck her dentures out on her tongue.  She could make me cry when she spanked me, for my bad temper usually.  She would comfort me in her old rocker (a piece of furniture I kept for years until too many moves and rocking my own children in it left it an unusable eyesore.  So I got rid of it.  I still regret doing so.)  Mostly it was hope. Grandma was the hope that there was a better day and better place.  Somehow I knew that her role on earth was to remind us all to have hope.  I can't remember a single thing she did or said that made me feel that way.  It was just there.  I felt it in her presence.  I still feel it when I remember her.  For me she is not gone far away.  She is waiting on the front porch for me to come home and there's a pot of chicken and dumplings on the stove. Grandma wasn't a Baptist.  She was a descendent of Scotch Presbyterians who migrated through the Carolinas and Georgia to eventually become the first white settlers of an area known as Freeport.   She met my grandfather when she worked as a secretary at the lumber yard he ran in southern Alabama. I'm not sure how they worked out their religious life, but I do know they had some different views.  Baptists in those days genuinely believed that this would be a far better world if only they could rid it of the "Devil's Brew."  So my grandfather, of course, did not abide alcohol.   Grandma, however, did.  She made in fact, although not quite in front of my grandfather.  Now this always surprised me, because by time I knew her she was about as negative on drinking as anyone.  Years of dealing with her oldest son's drinking problem had left her on the dry side of the county.  But there was a day when grandma made her own "home brew."  The stories are still told of how she fed the chickens some raisins from a recently brewed batch and then had to keep from snickering when my grandfather surmised that the hens were ill from a poultry disease called "limber neck."   Truth was the chickens were just plain snockered on grandma's moonshine.   Once when the Baptist minister came to visit grandma was nearly found out.  Someone had told her that if she would bury the bottles they would cure properly.   Of course buried bottles are also out of sight bottles.  So that's what she did.  All over the front yard.  They lived in a house with wrap around porch.  It was a good place to sit in the shade, out of the heat and visit.  Which is exactly what Grandma was doing with the Baptist minister when a storm came up.  It began to rain and rain hard.  As they sat there the soil in the yard began to wash away and bottleneck after bottleneck began to appear.  I never could ascertain if the pastor noticed or what he did or said as a result.  As best as I can figure Grandma got away with it. Grandma was force of nature.  Whenever I was out with her running errands to the bank or grocery store I could not help but notice the deferential respect that "Mrs. Kinsaul" received everywhere she went.  I even learned after a while that if I said to anyone, "I'm Mrs. Kinsaul's grandson" I had instant credibility.  At times I wondered what Grandma had on them all.  I know now... character.  She lived as a Christian ought to live.  Without even trying she made a huge difference in this world.  She treated all people, black as well as white as God's children.  Grandma didn't tell me that, I saw it.  People mattered to her and because of that they loved her.  Her funeral was the last great gathering of family.   All were there but one uncle who was so distraught he could not attend.  Later we found out he spent several days in deep despair.  Apart from that I felt that the service was more of celebration.  Murtie Bowers Kinsaul had been here and the world would never be the same. So perhaps when I tell you that I think it was Grandma who made possible for my mother to go on to college you will understand.  Maybe it was a compromise, I can't say for sure, but Mary went to Birmingham to study nursing.  She would have been a great interior decorator though.  Even so I'm glad things worked out the way they did because it was in Birmingham she met my father. Epiphany When I was a kid I was convinced that there wasn't much difference between hell and working in a steel mill.  I got that impression from my dad who apart from having the German army trying to kill him, described working in the heat of the blast furnace as perhaps the lowest part of his life.  It was there he had his major epiphany.  Pinkney decided he would use the G.I. Bill he had earned and go to college.  About the same time he met my mom who was finishing her nursing degree.  They met on blind date, fell in love, and got married.  My brother Bill was born there in 1948.  My dad enrolled in the University of Alabama and they moved so he could begin his education that would culminate in his gaining a Law Degree. He practiced law for a time in Florala, but eventually he moved across the border to the town of Fort Walton Beach.   Fort Walton was one of several communities that bordered the massive Eglin Air Force base.  Pinkney got a position there negotiating government contracts for the Air Force. Contract law lacked the glamour of trial law, but it provided ample security in a national defense build generated by the "cold war."  Mary, Pink and Bill were the McGathy family.   Bill was the center of attention and recipient of all affection. When he was nine years old disaster struck his happy world.  I was born. A Shot Across the Bow On August 5, 1957 a new television show premiered.  Dick Clark's American Bandstand began with the Jerry Lee Lewis hit, Whole Lot of Shakin' Going On. For my brother Bill it was almost prophetic.  Having been the center of attention for nine years he had to adjust as the spotlight moved to the baby.  His life as well as the life of the entire family began to shift.  Two years later Elizabeth Anne completed the sibling circus.  Both my sister and I were born in Opp.  All my life I have enjoyed telling people that.  In spite of their doubts, Opp is a real town in south Alabama.  I know nothing about Opp except two things:  there is a statue there dedicated to the Boll Weevil and it was the site of the nearest hospital to our family physician, Dr. Paul O'Neil.  Dr. O'Neil was a retired Southern Baptist medical missionary (in those days foreign mission philosophy included sending physicians as part of the big picture of evangelism) which makes it possible for me to claim that Southern Baptists were the first ones to lay hands on me as I came into this world.  Even so my parents had me "baptized" soon after at Shalimar (Florida) Presbyterian Church. Fortunately the odd name of my birth town was completely offset by the unusual middle name I was given.  Charles Pinkney McGathy is a name I rather enjoy... now.  When I was a kid though I had my fair share of  teasing on account of that name.  In some way having my father's and his father's name before him connected me with the past.  Years later I'd give my son the same middle name for just that reason. Almost three months to the day I was born an important event happened that shook the world and would directly impact my family.  The Russians launched a satellite into outer space.  Sputnik was the "shot across the bow" that prompted America to win the space race by being the first to put a man on the moon.  When I was four years old  my parents packed us into the Pontiac and we headed west to Houston.  My dad had been given a position at NASA.  We lived there for five years, five of the best years I can ever remember. Jesus in My Heart Dad was involved in the space program, specifically the Gemini project.  Between Mercury and Apollo, Gemini was phase two of a three phased strategy to reach the moon.  Once again Dad worked with contracts, but he also used his public speaking skills to go to civic groups and promote support of the space program.  I loved it.  He brought home models of the spacecraft and photos, lots of photos.  I loved showing them to my friends at school.  One was a photo of my dad posing in front of a model of the Mercury capsule.  My friends would ask me if my dad was an astronaut.   Reluctantly I'd tell them no, but "he sure knows 'em." And he did.  I distinctly remember him telling me how much he liked Virgil "Gus" Grissom and he obtained for me Ed White's autograph after he completed the first space walk.  When they died in the tragic launch pad fire it felt like we had lost some of our own family. In Houston my brother completed High School and I began Elementary School.  In the five years we lived in Houston our family was active in Faith Presbyterian Church.  The church was like family.  We went camping together, worshipped together, ate together, but the best thing we did was the Christmas Nativity.  We would gather in front of the church and act out the Advent story.  People would stop by and watch in silence as the actors moved into place to reenact the first Noel.  I was allowed to play the role of a shepherd.  I took it seriously, perhaps too seriously.  I wanted to be sure that I got it right and the passersby would be adequately moved to faith. Another early memory I have of church is worship.  Presbyterian worship was very orderly and predictable.   Consequently, as a child of seven or eight years it was easy to put my head down on the pew and fall asleep.  That was okay for a while, but one Sunday my mom told me she wanted me to sit up and listen.  So I sat up.  I didn't listen.  On the way home my dad asked me what the sermon was about.  When I couldn't answer and was chided for it I thought I might try to listen a bit more intently.  I began to latch on to a few of the key ideas our pastor was trying to convey.   When I could report to mom and dad the ideas of the sermon they were impressed and full of praise for me.    Our pastor wasn't the only preacher I listened to.  We watched Billy Graham crusades, Oral Roberts specials, and Dad especially loved a local Houston Methodist named Charles Allen.  Charles Allen was described by my daddy as "dynamic."  Being rated "dynamic" was the highest complement a preacher could receive from my father.  Allen was a tremendous speaker and author.  In his thick Southern accent he brought the Jesus of the Bible to life in our living room.  He was simple and plain and hopeful in how he presented the Gospel.  Dad studied his books and used what he learned to teach Sunday School.  He would preach occasionally and even toyed with the idea of full-time ministry.  It was a step he would never take.  I've often wondered how different things would have been for all of us if he had. My favorite preacher though was one who had already passed on.  The Presbyterian preacher Peter Marshall was portrayed in a movie A Man Called Peter and we even had actual record recordings of his amazing sermons.  When I got older I read collections of his sermons in books like Mr. Jones Meet the Master again from my dad's library.   Marshall was a Scot who emigrated to America and eventually became Chaplain of the Senate.  His sermons attracted audiences for miles.  Folks packed the pews for a chance to hear this great orator present the Gospel.  His preaching was part poetry,  part story-telling, and part prophecy all combined into a mesmerizing package.  I've never heard anyone who could even approximate the delivery of Peter Marshall, though Calvin Miller (Southern Baptist preacher and author) comes fairly close. It was during our time in Houston that I made a conscious choice to accept Jesus "in my heart."  As much as I can remember it was natural and trusting.  I was asked one night by my mother if I cared to add onto the end of my bedtime prayer, "...and Lord Jesus come in my heart and stay there to live." I did and he did.   I also felt impressed, sometime after the experience of asking Christ to be my Lord, that he had something special for me to do.  In my mind the greatest adventure in all the world would be to be a missionary.  I thought:  missionaries tell people about Jesus.  I want to do that.  Our church didn't have altar calls, so I went around telling anyone who would listen of my intent.  I told Sunday School teachers, Elders, and of course my parents.  They were very supportive, though I did sense from time to time a bit patronizing.  I could almost hear some of the adults think, "Sure kid next week you'll want to be a cowboy!"  The sense of call never passed from me, though there has been some refining of it along the way. Dad also had a part time law practice.  He worked hard.  Often he would take me around with him on Saturdays while he ran errands.  Dad could get really busy talking to people.  I think I knew he was helping them.  Sometimes he would come back in the car after a long discussion.  He would sometimes say things like, "People think that a divorce will solve their problems, but that's just when their problems start."  He had a partner in his law practice.  The man was dishonest and cheated my dad out of some money.  Dad didn't complain much about it, but I knew it happened.  I think what I got out of the whole thing was the idea that your character mattered far more than money. We moved from Houston when I was nine years old.  We were going back to Florida to a place called Orlando. Spiritually Adrift My parents found a home in a suburb of Orlando called Maitland.  It was a large home and each of the kids had a room all their own.  We were surrounded by orange, lemon, and grapefruit groves.  The air was clear and at night the smell of orange blossoms made the air smell sweet ( a vast improvement over the petrochemical smell of Houston).  There was a lake in which to fish and a woods nearby to build tree houses. The school was a bike ride away.  I discovered when I got there that I was ahead of my classmates so I didn't have to work that hard.  One of my favorite things about our house was that you could go into our backyard and watch the mighty Saturn rockets lift off from Cape Kennedy (now changed back to Cape Canaveral) which was about forty miles to the East.  We joined First Presbyterian Church.  I really liked the preacher.  He was a good speaker. Things were not so great for my parents though.  My dad had been promised a promotion to come and work for the Navy at the Naval Training and Device Center.  Once he got there the person who made the promise died and so did the promotion.  Vietnam was raging and those with sons eligible for the draft were understandably afraid.  Bill, though enrolled in college was struggling.  I listened as they spoke in whispers and sometimes with volume about things I would only understand as I grew older.  Eventually the day came.  Bill had enlisted in the Air Force and was eating his last meal at home for a long time.  The tension in the house grew so intense I took off on my Schwinn  Sting Ray bicycle and sat under a big live oak until I thought it was safe to go home. When I came back Bill was gone.   I think my parents felt out of place in Central Florida.  It was not the South they knew.  It was a merging of cultures.  And it was there I first met Jews and atheists.  A lot happened, much of it not pleasant, to my family in the nine years we lived there.  I will not try to tell their stories but only mine.  I do need to say, however, that by the time I entered High School our family was spiritually adrift.  We no longer attended the Presbyterian church.  We went to a nearby Methodist church for a while.  It was there when I was a ninth grade student that I sat down with the pastor, a man named Bill Picket and discussed ministry.  I was writing a career report and needed to talk to someone in my proposed endeavor.   He was loving and honest.  I wrote my report poorly.  When I turned it in my teacher, a gruff, red-faced man who closely resembled the actor John Wayne, he looked at me and said "McGathy!  Stay after class I want to talk to you."  I was just sure I was about to be roundly scolded by this giant of a man.  Instead he looked at me and told me he was proud of me (not for my excellent writing, but for my choice of career).  It was then I saw a tender heart behind this imposing guy and realized that God saw through us all. I entered Winter Park High School at tenth grade.  Soon I began to seriously question whether or not I really wanted to enter ministry.  There was just so much fun to be had and my Christianity was not really going anywhere. How Can You Be So Foolish? Once while standing around waiting for the school bus home a fellow student approached me.  I was surprised when he introduced himself and told me he was a Christian.  I told him I was a Christian too.  Then he asked me a really tough question: "Are you filled, controlled, and empowered by the Holy Spirit?"  I had no earthly idea what he was talking about.  So I said, "Yes!" That evening I reread the Campus Crusade for Christ booklet he had left with me.  I then began to struggle with God.   What did he really want from me?  I had really tried to live a "Christian" life but I seemed so bad at it.  How would I ever become a minister?  I thought I had to do better and do more to be okay with God.  And so I tried. And so  I failed.  I tried to pray and my prayers seemed only empty.  I tried to read my Bible but fell asleep.  I tried to experience fellowship at church but I felt like a stranger.  I even tried to witness to a friend, but I didn't have much to say.  I had failed as a Christian.  I was just about to quit trying.  In fact I was right on the cusp of that very decision when a friend of mine invited me to go to a Student Life meeting.  I wasn't sure what that was, but I decided to go all the same.  So I went and what I saw floored me. Student Life was a large group meeting of Christian students who were excited about their faith.  They were full of joy and life.  They had what I wanted and needed.  That night, before I went to sleep, I confessed to God that I had been like the Galatians whom the Apostle Paul admonished: "How can you be so foolish!  Having begun by the Spirit; do you now want to finish by your own power?"  I surrendered to grace.  My outlook and my life began to change at that moment. Dog Island At sixteen years old I had come to a crossroad.  In theological terms it was part of a larger process.  Though "saved" as a boy, I was now going through another part of the salvation God had planned for me.  I was saved, am being saved, and will be saved is the best way to understand the meaning of the idea as expressed in the New Testament.  Another way to put it is I rededicated my life.  Of course it really was something of a major discovery for me to realize that God wanted to be actively involved in my life, personally relating to me.  God, I had thought, wanted me to do the best I could on my own until I reached Heaven (hopefully) for the final report.  Now my concept of God changed.  "He walks with me and talks with me and tells me I am his own" made perfect sense.  I began to see how not only ministry but all my life would be different because of his grace.  Later I would come to term the whole idea as "nuthin' but grace," because if anything for his kingdom is going to be accomplished through my life it will be accomplished by grace and nothing else. I became involved in Campus Crusade for Christ which had a High School ministry on my campus.  We were heavily involved in personal witnessing.  That was really wonderful for me because I learned about my faith and how to relate to others.  I even saw God use me to bring others to initial acceptance of Christ as Lord.  One of the more unusual conversions occurred when I was training about a half dozen fellow high school students on how to share their faith.  I had selected an individual to demonstrate how to present the Gospel using the Four Spiritual Laws presentation.  At the end of the presentation the fellow student said, "I prayed that prayer to receive Christ."  I think I said something to the effect of, "fine, that is just what we hope will happen."  But he persisted, "No, I mean just then, for the first time I really trusted Jesus."  Of course we all rejoiced.  I think I really understood at that moment that it was not me that brought people to faith in Christ, but the Holy Spirit.  I was just a tool, sometimes an unwitting tool. In the summer of before my Junior year in high school I got a call from a friend of mine.  He invited me to attend a luau on Dog Island.  There would be food, girls, and water skiing.  There wasn't anything in that mix that I didn't love, so I agreed to go.  Dog Island was located in the middle of Lake Maitland.  Boats met us at the shore and took us out to the party.  The event was sponsored by First Baptist Church of Winter Park.  A brilliant youth minister, named Steve Cloud, had conceived and coordinated the event that drew hundreds of high school students.  It was at that event I met two of the most important people in my life, lifelong friends.  One was Steve Cloud and the other was Tim Benson.  I had actually met Tim years earlier when we were fellow campers at a YMCA camp near Fort Walton.  We did not realize it though until later we compared notes and determined that we had been at Camp Harold Baird at the same time years before.  A third relationship that began that day for me was with Southern Baptists.   In February 1974 I was baptized by Rev. Roger Harrington at First Baptist Church of Winter Park and accepted into membership.  My parents who no longer attended church came to see me get immersed.  I will never know what went through their minds that day, but I had made the decision to do this completely independent of their counsel or urging.   Sometime later they too were baptized and joined the church.  The pastor then was J.C. Mitchell.  J.C. was imposing man with silver white hair.  He often wore white suits and white shoes.  He looked like he had been dropped right out of Heaven.  I had a great experience at FBC of Winter Park, but upon graduation my parents moved back to Houston.   Dad was medically retired (high blood pressure) from the government.  We were on our way back to Texas where he was going to practice law and I was going to go to college. Mr. San Jacinto Dad had a massive stroke in August of  1975.  Although I had been accepted at the University of Houston I chose to attend San Jacinto College because it was closer to home and far less expensive.  I really toyed with the idea of working for a while to pay my own way through, but mom and dad managed to send me through college never-the-less.  I did well at "San Jack" (Harvard on the Highway) being selected for the National Junior College Honor Society.  I also was an officer in the Baptist Student Union.  I was missions coordinator and worked with mostly Middle-Eastern students who were sent there to study for petrochemical careers.  Burt Purvis the BSU Director nagged me into running in a popularity contest (I did not want to do it) for the title of "Mr. San Jacinto."  I won.  Fortunately, some campus politicos had another candidate in mind and swiftly and without announcement held a second ballot.  This time their candidate won.  No one was more pleased than me.  Besides anyone who cared knew who the real Mr. San Jacinto was!   The church I joined and attended was First Baptist Pasadena.  The pastor was Darrell Robinson.  I liked him though I began to sense that there were some profound differences in his understanding of Christianity, specifically Baptist Christianity and mine.  I began to inwardly question some of the biblical interpretations Darrell was making from the pulpit.  I asked myself, "does the Bible really say that?"  On more than one occasion I found that Darrell had "proof-texted," used the Scripture to support his opinion by removing it from its proper context and meaning as understood by the original audience.  The term, "Fundamentalist" began to be used by more and more Baptists to describe themselves.  I wondered if Darrell would identify with that term as well.  A few years later Darrell would be selected by the leaders of the "conservative resurgence" to lead the evangelism department of the North American Mission Board.       I was accepted to Baylor and planned to finish my degree in Waco.  I was working part time to try and supplement the private school tuition.  I traveled the three hours north to visit the campus.  Already I had friends there, some who were studying for Baptist ministry, which was what I wanted to do.  It seemed like the logical thing for me to go to Baylor and then to Southwestern Seminary (Steve Cloud had gone there and so I wanted to go there too).  After I arrived home from my Baylor campus trip I felt uneasy.  I prayed about my absence of peace and after a time of struggle I relinquished my dream of becoming a Baylor Bear.  There would be a different course for me to follow.  That course would be to return to Florida and enroll in the University at Gainesville. A "Cemetery Education" I left Texas and went back to Florida.  I later learned a quip that I think captures my feelings at the time:  "I came to Texas to learn how to brag, I went home to Florida to have something to brag about!"  Even so life in Texas was going to be part of my future.   The summer before I began my studies in Gainesville I served as a Youth Intern at Northwood Baptist Church in West Palm Beach.  Steve Cloud was pastor there.  Tim Benson was also serving on the Youth staff that summer.  We terrorized that church.  On a couple of occasions Steve had to call us down for our outlandish behavior.  We adored Steve and didn't want to disappoint him, but we still found ways to push the outer limits of his patience.  Once when returning from a youth beach trip on a Saturday afternoon, we discovered that there was a large wedding about to take place.  Somehow I got the idea that it would be really fun to go up in the baptistery which was located high up in front of the church and then placing our masks and snorkels on slip into the water.   At an opportune moment in the wedding we would rise and part the curtains and watch the proceedings.  Of course we would also be watched by the gathered congregation.  We were of course aware of this and thought it only made the whole project more appealing.  So we were on our way up the stairs to the baptistery when I felt a firm hand on my shoulder and a voice saying, "Don't do this."  It was Steve.  How did he know what we had in mind?   Never-the-less we did have a great summer of ministry and learned a lot.  And I'm almost sure we helped increase Steve's prayer life. My Junior year at Florida wasn't much fun.  In spite of the fact that Tim and I got an apartment with two other guys (God bless them) the transition was neither easy or happy.  I was on my own for the first time and facing some academic challenges as well as personal challenges.  I was taking Greek five days a week.  Our class that began with 35 students dwindled the "dirty dozen" by the end of the second quarter.  Frankly, it was a killer of a class. Later I'd take two additional years of Greek at the Masters level and passed with straight A's.  But that first year of Greek was little less than a nightmare.  I would sit and study long hours outside the professor's office just so she would know I was trying.  I thought she might fail me, but if she does I want her to feel badly about it!  Well I guess it worked because I got the "C" I needed.  I never rejoiced more in a grade than that "C." In the summer of '78 I was licensed for the Gospel Ministry by First Baptist Church, Freeport, Florida.  Freeport wasn't much more than a fishing and farming village in those days.  The folks at the church were friendly, though perhaps a bit suspicious of my academic aspirations.  More than once I was warned about the dangers of a "Cemetery Education."   One of my most powerful memories is of the Sunday I was licensed to preach.  I chose for my text Psalm 51, "Be merciful to me, O God because of your constant love.  Because of your great mercy wipe away my sins!  Wash away all my evil and make me clean from my sin!"  Throughout the psalm David expresses his remorse for his sin and his utmost confidence in God's willingness and power to cleanse him.  The only one who came to the church from my family on that occasion was my father.  I chose that particular passage because it was so meaningful to me.  My ministry, I hoped would begin with God's forgiveness and restoration; GRACE.  The day should have had it's greatest significance for me because the church was expressing confidence in my call and supporting my efforts toward ordination.  But, that took on a secondary importance when my dad responded to the invitation.  I can clearly remember him walking down the aisle from the rear of the church, his leg brace squeaking with each step and tears in his eyes.  Something was healed between us that day as we both embraced, just sinners at the foot of the cross. During my days in Gainesville I went to two different churches, each about as opposite as night and day.  First Baptist Gainesville and North Central Baptist were interesting experiences for different reasons.  First was the downtown church and traditional.  North Central had a country flare.  When they called an arch conservative as pastor I began to identify some of the same traits that concerned me about Darrell Robinson.  His name was Phil Simmons.  I think it would be fair to say that Phil would have agreed with W. A. Criswell that the pastor is the "ruler of the church."  He died tragically of a brain tumor in the early nineties.  Before his death he had become an active participant the "Conservative Resurgence."    I began my Senior year at the University of Florida more peaceful than I think I had ever been in my life.  I was actively involved in Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship as a leader.  While I was leading my Bible Study I met a coed from Pennsylvania.  Susan Dunkle was an aspiring nursing student.  Previously, she had been a scholarship student at Allegheny College in Meadville, Pennsylvania.  I had only intended to become more familiar with the members of my Bible Study, but I fell in love with her instead.  By Christmas of 1978 I was sure I was going to marry her but I didn't propose.  Susan sensed it too.  She announced to her family that she was going to change her major from nursing to psychology.  In order to do this she had to stand up to her father and his wishes.  This took considerable strength of character for her to do this.  He had, in fact determined that nursing was the best course.  When he accepted the change without much protest, Susan was very relieved.  As it was she told them of her plans only hours before we met.   So I was relieved as well.  As the plan further developed Susan figured a way she could graduate in the summer of 1979 and attend Southwestern along with me in the Fall.  In August we loaded our meager possessions into her dad's pick up truck and drove in our small caravan to Fort Worth. That summer, one week after I graduated from college, Fundamentalists within the Southern Baptist Convention began a deliberate effort to takeover all of the agencies of the SBC.  Though I did not know it at the time their efforts would greatly impact the lives of millions of Southern Baptists, including me. Southwestern I loved my three years at Southwestern.  I was challenged and inspired daily by the godly professors who had dedicated their lives to preparing others for ministry.  Robert Baker, Boyd Hunt, Virtus Gideon, John Drakeford, Bill Reynolds, Clyde Glazner, Gerald Marsh, Harry Hunt, Cal Guy, Oscar Thompson, T.B. Maston, Jack MacGorman, and of course Russell Dilday are just a few of the tremendous heroes of faith who contributed in some way to my preparation to share the Gospel.  While I was there I was fortunate enough to get to know Van Simmons.  He was my roommate in Ft. Worth Hall ("Purity Hall").  That was the men's dorm, quite a switch from the rollicking co-op days of U of F.  Today Van works for the North American Mission Board in Alpharetta, Georgia.  I was a member  at Gambrell Street Baptist Church.  At that time Joel Gregory was pastor.  His story would take some amazing twists and turns in the ensuing years.    My Grandma died in November of 1979.  When I arrived home for the funeral I found out that my dog had passed as well.  They found him dead the day I left for seminary and hadn't told me.  When I returned to Fort Worth I was feeling more detached from home than ever.  I was striking forth on a life all my own.  So I took the next big step that winter.   Susan's dad came to Fort Worth to deliver a car I was buying.  It was literally a car driven by a little old man "to church on Sundays." Susan's dad had discovered it and secured it for me.  It was a gift really because I paid far less than the car was actually worth.  I had been saving for a car and that burden solved I used the rest of my money to buy an engagement ring for Susan.  While he was there I asked her dad for permission (old fashioned, but he loved it) and then asked Susan.  Even though we were well aware that marriage was on the way, I still think I surprised her a little.   We waited nearly a year and a half before we got married on July 25, 1981.  The waiting was difficult, but I wanting to please her father waited until she graduated with her Master of Religious Education degree before we tied the knot at her home church, Berea Lutheran Church in Freehold, Pennsylvania. My last year of seminary we lived in seminary married housing.  We were near the railroad tracks and the pictures would rattle on the walls when the trains ran by, which was often. Tim Benson went to the same seminary as well, but he graduated the year after me.  In the spring of my last year I sent out about sixty resumes seeking an associate pastor position somewhere in Florida.  A few weeks before Easter I received a call from the pastor of Northside Baptist Church in Plant City, Florida. We traveled to Plant City over spring break.  I met with the pastor, R. L. Polk and the church.  About two weeks after we returned to Texas I was informed that the church had voted to call me to the position.  I would start immediately upon graduation.  I felt both honored and relieved to have a church to go to following the conclusion of my studies.  I could not afford to sit idle.  I had to work.  Unfortunately many of my classmates were not as fortunate.  The sad fact was that three years after completion of a theology degree two thirds of alumni were not in full-time ministry.  I was not going to be part of that statistic. Plant City, Florida When I first saw Plant City I fell in love.  It was and is a sleepy Southern town and just the kind of place I wanted to put down roots.  I hoped Northside, led by an experienced pastor, would be a place of refinement and learning.  That it was, though not all of the lessons were easy.  The two years I was there I loved and, I think, was loved in return by the church.  It was there in August of 1982 I was ordained for the gospel ministry.  I had a productive and positive ministry with the youth of the church.  R. L. and I were a different story.  I'll not describe all that took place there in this format, but to say that I think God used those experiences in a positive way to prompt me to do something that was the last thing on my mind.  I joined the Navy. It took some doing for God to change me into someone who would be willing to face long separations from loved ones and live in distant and strange places... like California! When my first set of orders came in placing me on forward deployed Destroyers operating out of Yokosuka, Japan I was flabbergasted and more than a bit apprehensive.  I had just learned that we were expecting our first child.  Would she be born while I was at sea?  Would there be anyone to help Susan? Would I be gone so much that my child would even know who I was when I did come home?  Still I was convinced that this was the step that God wanted me to take and so in April of 1984 I reported to Navy Chaplain School in Newport, Rhode Island. Chaplain School I arrived in Newport on a rainy and cold New England day.  I had never been this far north before.  The nip in the air seemed out of place for this time of year and helped me understand the local affinity for a steaming bowl of clam chowder.  A strange sense of excitement overwhelmed me.  This new and exciting journey was beginning and I had no idea where it would end.  I had 21 classmates, all ordained clergy from different faith groups.  One of them was Jewish, there was one woman and she happened to be married to an individual who was also a minister and classmate.  Oddly enough there were no Roman Catholic priests in our class (priests are in short supply and when they do enter the Navy are frequently over taxed).  The rest were some type of "Protestant."  Protestant is terminology the Navy uses rather loosely to mean any non-catholic who is not a Jew (there were at this time no Muslim or Buddhists chaplains).  In that mix called Protestant there were about three or four of us who were Southern Baptists, a couple of Presbyterians, some Lutherans,  some African Methodist Episcopals, a National Baptist,  a Wesleyan Methodist, a Seventh-Day Adventist and I forget the rest.  The Adventist became my roommate. Chaplain School was as much a test as it was training.  They were preparing us to be assigned with the Navy and Marine units as well as possible duty with the Coast Guard and Merchant Marine.  The Sea Services were our parish.   We were to be ready to handle any environment the Chaplain Corps could throw us into in ten short weeks.   A Marine Corps gunnery sergeant, undoubtedly doing penance for some past sin, was assigned the unenviable task of getting us in physical shape.  We had to keep up with young men and women hardened for combat who were in most cases a lot younger than we were.  I was lucky, I was twenty-six years old.  Others in our class ranged up to thirty-seven and the demands of the Gunny stressed them more than me.   In addition to the Physical Training there was the classroom time where we studied everything from Naval History to Naval Etiquette.  There were tests of our writing skills (a very important subject for all Naval Officers) and how to properly wear a uniform.  The supreme test, the test that was not always formal but was indeed ubiquitous was the measure of how we would adjust within a pluralistic setting.  At the time the motto of the Chaplain Corps was "Cooperation without Compromise."  It was drilled into us that we were to be faithful to the tenets of our respective faith groups while at the same time we were to cooperate one with another to either provide or facilitate the provision of the free exercise of religion. The "Golden Rule" guided me through this as I committed to caring for those who had different faith perspectives from my own as I would have my colleagues care for the Baptists in my absence.  Not all of the chaplains being trained could or would make that adjustment.  Their success in the Navy was predictably limited and so were their careers. Most of us though seemed to grasp the concept that has empowered and made possible a chaplaincy within the American military for over two hundred years.  It requires both professionalism and respect.  Underpinning the chaplain concept is the Constitutional guarantee of "the free exercise of religion."  Without chaplains, servicemen and women could not expect that their constitutional rights to worship freely or abstain religion from would be protected and supported.  As I looked around at my fellow Lieutenant and Lieutenant Junior Grade chaplains I beamed with pride and the realization that I had entered a very competitive ministry where we would be compared one against another for retention and promotion.  I could see it was going to be tough to make it with these odds for twenty or more years.   (Looking back on it now I can see that I was indeed right about that.  Of the twenty-one original chaplains less than a third made it to Commander or above. The ones who failed to select for promotion, in most cases had excellent records, there just was not enough room to promote everyone.)  I would be willing to bet that not a single one of my instructors at Chaplain School would have thought I would have been one of those who would succeed and rise to become a Commander, at least not initially. Sea Duty The saying, "the proof is in the pudding" can be changed in the Navy to "the proof is in the fleet."  It was at sea that I began to show my suitability for the demands of Navy ministry.  I was assigned to ride destroyers of the U.S. Seventh Fleet.  We were on arduous sea duty.  The ships stayed at sea most of the time and when we went home it was briefly.   I worked on a hard working staff and even when we were in port I was expected to be in the office or on the ships seven days a week.  Amazingly I really didn't mind.  I had a parish of about twelve-hundred sailors plus their families.  There were always needs to care for and I was their chaplain.  I was there to help sailors and their loved ones, whether in Japan or back in the States, adjust to the demands of "Cold War" sea duty.  I married couples (once underway in Tokyo Bay), counseled couples on the verge of divorce, and on a couple of occasions even saved lives of sailors contemplating or attempting suicide.  It was hard in that kind of environment to think that I didn't need to go to work, there was such great work that had to be done. Life at sea was particularly demanding.  I missed my own family.  When the ship left port I would go below decks until we were well out of sight of land.  I couldn't let the dreariness of deployment cripple me.  I had to help others who did not know that God loved them and would see them through.  I discovered that in helping others I myself was helped.  It is a counseling secret that has stayed with me ever since. My first child Erin was born on December 5th 1984.  Fortunately I was present for the event.  My mother-in-law was also there.  Erin nearly didn't make it and I prepared to lose her, but the girl is a fighter and she survived and thrived.   Having a baby at home made it that much more difficult to go to sea, but I was confident that I was doing God's will and so I threw myself into my special ministry with total commitment. "The Stumps" My next assignment was quite a switch.  Without an ocean in sight I was assigned to work with Marines in the Mojave desert in a place called Twenty-nine Palms, California.  It may sound like a resort, but I can assure you it is not.   Summer temperatures frequently rise over one hundred and twenty degrees and can easily kill a healthy man who is unprepared for the environment.  That happened too, while I was there a young Marine became disoriented and lost.   When they found his desiccated body months later it was determined that he had gone insane before his death.  The Marine Corps needed this harsh environment though to train for combat.  This was pre Gulf war and Iraq war and undoubtedly thousands of combat casualties were avoided because of training environments like Twenty-nine Palms and Fort Irwin (Army), California.  I was assigned to work at the Family Service Center and then at Headquarters Battalion.  My main duty though was as pastor of the large worship service at the Protestant Chapel. In spite of the hard work and harsh desert conditions  "The Stumps" was a great duty for me.  My son Michael was born there on September 11, 1988 and from hence forth and forever will be known as a "Desert Rat."  At his dedication in chapel his sister stole the show by wandering the chancel area.  When I went to get her she insured my humiliation was complete by latching onto the choir barrier and toppling it as well as microphones on their stands. One of the microphones actually struck my fellow chaplain who had graciously accepted the task of dedicating my kid. Everyone laughed except her mother and I.  Eventually we did too. I worked on a staff there.  The head chaplain was a tough minded and even tougher spoken Irish Catholic from Boston.   Fr. Ed Kelley was not easy to please. He demanded results (namely increasing worship attendance) and was unlikely to accept any excuses for empty pews.  Some of the other chaplains on staff hated the pressure of Fr. Kelley's demanding style.  In contrast I took it as a personal challenge.  Moreover, I believed it was a worthy goal to grow the church and I felt that I was well suited and trained in that regard as a Southern Baptist, especially as a Southwesterner.  I was cooperative with his efforts and in spite of his gruff exterior I saw a sincerely dedicated man of God who cared deeply for the people in his charge.  Ed Kelley knew I was supportive and rewarded my loyalty with both training and increased opportunities.  In the end most of my colleagues came to understand, though admittedly for some it was too late.   Never-the-less the religious program expanded and the attendance grew as a result of God using our efforts in ministry. I Believe Because of Ed's confidence in me I was given a tremendous opportunity on my next assignment to go overseas yet again.  This time I was bound to Naples, Italy to serve as the assistant Director of CREDO, Europe.  CREDO which in Latin means "I Believe."  In Navy jargon it meant "Chaplains Response to an Emerging Drug Order."  It was begun in the post Vietnam years by a Navy Chaplain, Don Williams to combat the underground problem of drugs in the Navy.  Back then no one was looking at the underlying causes of drug use much less trying to address them.  CREDO started there, but it did not stop there.  CREDO eventually ministered to men and women and teenagers as well who desired to experience personal growth on any level.  We still had those struggling with substance abuse, but we also had the abused, the lonely, the depressed, under achievers and of course over achievers.  That is where I came in.  CREDO dealt with me, the workaholic chaplain. I began with the help of my friends called team members to understand the difference between a human doing and a human being.  CREDO freed me in many ways.  I think it saved my marriage to Susan which at that point was under a great deal of strain.  I also began to really understand the theology I had carried inside me for a long time.  I had epiphany after epiphany in the three years I served at CREDO that resulted in my life being forever changed.  God's grace was powerful on those retreats and I have never forgotten those experiences.  Again and again I saw God melt the hardest heart so that forgiveness and restoration became real.  It was on one such retreat that I saw a man whose life had been wrecked by alcohol receive Christ.  It was very powerful because of the way he did this.  It was within community.  At the end of a worship we had a time to experience forgiveness.  Part of that was the sharing of brief embraces from one another.  When he came to me and embraced me he just sobbed.  All of the years of waste, regret, and guilt came pouring out of this sailor.  When it was over it was as if he was a brand new man.  He looked years younger.  Even though he still had to return home and deal some fairly difficult situations, he did not return alone.  This time he walked with Christ and for perhaps the first time in his life he had real hope that God would provide all of the answers he needed. Desert Storm One Sunday afternoon as I returned a group home from a retreat I learned the news, Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait.  We began to prepare for war. CREDO operations were suspended a few months later as we prepared for potential terror threats.  Being in Italy we were few in number and pretty easy to pick out.  American Forces stationed in Italy in those days were particularly vulnerable because we lived without the protection of a base (Naples was considered a Naval Activity) and terror cells were known to be active in Italy. I was given MOP gear and told to keep the equipment near me at all times.  I was on a twelve hour "tether" meaning I should be able to get on a plane and deploy with as little as twelve hours advance notice.  Worst of all I was restricted from sharing the information with my family.  I spent a miserable Christmas Day that year wondering how much longer before I'd have to go.  I happened to turn on television about one in the morning the night Desert Storm began.  Not long afterward there was a knock on my door.  I was on my way to Saudi Arabia. I was sent as the chaplain (me and me alone) to the King Faud Naval Base in Jeddah.  Jeddah is on the Red Sea and significant to Muslims as the gateway to Mecca.  I was there to minister to U.S. personnel many of whom were facing personal crisis over and above the present reality of war.  One example of the situations I was seeing was the sailor who had left his wife behind to deploy on an aircraft carrier.  She, as many were doing at the time, tied a large yellow ribbon on the tree in front of her home to indicate her spouse was fighting overseas.  Unfortunately a rapist took that as an advertisement of an opportunity and took advantage of her. This sailor was in my care for about a day and a half.   He had nothing to do but worry, pass from guilt to anger, and question God.  I had a unique and extended opportunity to listen to him and offer a word of hope. Fortunately the war was short and I returned home much sooner than I expected.  When I returned from war I discovered that our ministry had lost all of its momentum and one of our support staff (exactly half our strength) had been raided by a predatory chaplain who was trying to build his own kingdom at another command.  We had to start our ministry from the ground up.  It was hard work but in a year we had built together a stronger ministry than in the prewar days.  I transferred from CREDO with an enormous feeling of satisfaction.  The Navy acknowledged the previous work as well.  In the summer of 1992 I was promoted to Lieutenant Commander. A Tension In The Air I was next sent to Fort Worth, Texas.  I had been given a year to study under the Navy Scholarship Program the subject of Ecclesiastical Communications.  I returned as a student to Southwestern Seminary.  While I was there I earned a Navy subspecialty code that would have a great impact upon my Naval career because it would determine future assignments.  I also was able to renew my association with Clyde Glazner who would be my pastor at Gambrell Street Baptist Church.  Southwestern was a wonderful year and I achieved a personal goal of making straight "A's" in every class.  Still there was something else, a tension in the air.  Something was wrong at SWBTS.   I discovered what it was the following year.  By that time I was stationed at the Naval Training Center in Orlando, Florida.  One day just before our weekly staff meeting I learned the unbelievable news: Russell Dilday had been fired!   Not just fired but locked out of his office and the locks changed under armed escort.  When asked why, the trustees who had taken this action, merely responded that they did it because they could do it.  This demonstrated an egregious use of power and a lack of Christian ethics in my mind.  At that time we had two other Southern Baptist chaplains on the staff, one a traditional and the other a fundamentalist.  Both men, however abhorred the actions taken against Russell Dilday.  I, however, was the only Southwestern.  It made me angry.  I also realized that the Southern Baptist Convention had changed more radically than I ever imagined.  I also realized that I was not alone.  A new group of like-minded Baptists, all from the Old SBC had formed a mission sending agency.  They were calling themselves the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. In spite of the turmoil in the SBC my two years in Orlando were some of the happiest years I've had.  We lived near Susan's parents who had moved to Winter Haven to retire.  I was near the beach and fishing.  Orlando felt like home.   The widow of one of my high school teachers was a member of my congregation.  I had a joyful ministry with an irenic flock.  Unfortunately the Base Closing Commission decided to end the Navy's love affair with Orlando opting to train sailors in Illinois.  So I also saw the sorrow of a congregation who knew their days as a church were numbered.  Midway through my Orlando tour I was shocked to receive a phone call from the Chief of Chaplains office in Washington D.C.  I was being "short toured."  I was going to Hollywood. I Cried I arrived at the Armed Forces Radio and Television Service - Broadcast Center in August of 1995.  The operation was in process of moving from Sun Valley (near Hollywood) to Riverside and March Air Force Base.  We settled just south of there in Temecula, California.  In October a severe hurricane, Opal, struck near my mother's home.  I drove home to assist her and I arrive just after the road was cleared to her house.  I helped her for a week, including rebuilding her pier.  I had a lot in my mind, for when I got home Susan was facing surgery.  There was a lump in  her abdomen and it was suspicious.  Just before the end of October we learned it was cancer. When I took Susan in for surgery that day I nervously talked about my career how it was going and what our next move would be.  On the long drive home from the hospital I cried.  All the way from San Diego to Temecula about a one and a half hour drive, I cried.  All I wanted was for my wife to live.  I did not care about anything else.  I prayed for her life. Chemo therapy followed surgery.  It was successful.  Life began to return to normal.  Ministry there was wonderful.  My job was unusual and fun.  I was working with broadcasters and loving it.  The biggest thing I learned though was that first and foremost I was a pastor.  The Broadcast Center became my church and I found new ways to reach out to my flock every day.  In Temecula we were active in First Baptist Church and for a while life seemed normal again.  Susan remained cancer free.  Still there was the very real threat of a return of cancer.  For that reason I did not seek a sea tour for my next assignment. I knew it would end my career, but it was the only decision I could live with.  As it turned out I made the absolutely right choice. The First One In June of 1997 I went to Dallas and then to the Pentagon on a business trip.  While I was in Dallas I stopped in to visit the Southern Baptist Convention which was meeting there that summer.  The Fundamentalist leadership had gained so much.  By this time they were firmly in control of nearly all the agencies of the SBC.  Grady Cothen even wrote a book entitled The New SBC  to highlight the effect of takeover.  I wanted to find some consolation, I suppose, some glimmer of hope that now the obvious objective had been realized that there would be some attempt at reconciliation with the brothers and sister Baptists who had lost.  I wanted, no I expected to see an olive branch extended to the "losers" who would have to settle for convention that was hard over to the right for the moment.  Perhaps the next swing of the pendulum would begin to mitigate the two decades of hurt feelings.  This was on my mind. I arrived a the key moment, the president's address.  What I heard and saw sickened me.  The crowd seemed more like a mob.  They cheered and snorted as the president made it quite clear, "We still have battles to fight, we still have wars to win."  He wasn't describing fighting against intolerance, injustice, poverty, disease, or spiritual darkness.  He was describing the fight against other Southern Baptists.  Me!  I finally got it.  There was not going to be any room in the SBC tent for folks like me if he could help it.  The Fundamentalist forces were not going to quit.   I left the floor of the convention.  As I reached the street I doubled over with pain.  I'd of gotten sick on the sidewalk if I'd of eaten that morning. The next day I flew to Virginia.  After my business was completed at the Pentagon I drove to Manassas.  There I visited the Civil War battlefield of Bull Run. I walked and I pondered not only the SBC but also Southern history.  I kept asking the same questions, "What would have happened if Robert E. Lee had chosen to fight for the North instead of the South?  How many lives would have been spared?  Perhaps our nation could have ended slavery without enormous blood cost ?" Then I pondered my own decision. On the one side was my loyalty and love for my SBC family.  On the other side was my Baptist principles and others in my SBC family who were now estranged.  I too, had to make a difficult decision. I think it was Susan's cancer that finally convinced me to act.  I saw her determination and courage everyday.  If she could face that, then I could face the truth before me.  When I returned from my trip I went to an Associational meeting with my pastor.  The Director of Missions said he wanted a report from everyone who went to the convention.  Then he asked who had gone.  Of everyone gathered only a prominent pastor of a large ultra-conservative church and I admitted to attending.  The prominent pastor spoke first.  (That was the year that the SBC voted on a course of action that ultimately proved to be not only useless, but downright embarrassing, namely the Disney Boycott.)  The pastor spoke how he wanted everyone to fully support this boycott so we could show Disney we meant business.  I then waited for my turn to speak.  I wanted to point out that Jesus effected culture change one heart at a time.  He changed the world then and still does because of love, not power politics.  I thought the boycott was a bad idea and we should seek to end it.   But I was never called upon to speak.  Later when I asked my friend, himself a fundamentalist, why I had not been given the floor he said, "Because he (the Director of Missions) didn't know what you would say."  That did it.  I had permission to represent the SBC as a chaplain, but not to disagree with the leadership of the convention?  That was not the SBC I was educated in and ordained by.  When I got back to my office I wrote Daniel Vestal, Coordinator of the CBF.  The CBF at that time did not endorse military chaplains.  I offered to be the first one.   I wasn't the only one.  At least two others, Captain Jim Harwood and Commander Jim Pope were also desiring to change their endorsement to CBF as well.  Endorsement change is not easily understood.  We were not wanting to change from being Southern Baptists.  Just the opposite.  Our mutual conclusions were that the SBC was changing and in fact had changed.  Eventually we saw a day when even military chaplains, themselves not paid by the SBC, would become targets of Fundamentalist's efforts.  (This came true only a few years later.) In October I met with Dan Vestal at a Baptist Center for Ethics conference in Birmingham.  My old pastor, Joel Gregory was there.  He had gone on a rather interesting journey himself that left him used and abandoned by ultra-conservatives.  Now as a divorced and remarried preacher he was of little use to them.  He was in the process of putting his life back together.  I urged him, one of many voices no doubt, to preach again.  His is a truly unique gift. He asked me to remember him in prayer, which of course I did. (As of this writing he has just accepted a position at Truett   Seminary as Preaching professor.) Jim Pope and I expressed to Daniel Vestal our regret that the SBC had taken the course it had.  We also confirmed our mutual though independent conclusion that things were not likely to change for the better in the foreseeable future (we were in fact quite correct in that conclusion).  We desired to remain faithful to the Baptist principles we believed when we were ordained. Those principles included the priesthood of all believers; separation of church and state; non-creedalism; and the autonomy of the local church.  Our observation of the SBC was that these principles were in peril since a more controlling and intrusive form of leadership had  "taken charge" of the convention.  Daniel told us that he understood and that he hoped we (CBF) might have capability soon to endorse military chaplains.  That  became reality in August of 1998, but two months before at the CBF General Assembly held in Houston, Texas, I was privileged to be the first commissioned (by the former director of the SBC Foreign Mission Board Keith Parks no less) military chaplain endorsed by CBF.  I was given the distinct privilege to address the entire assembly (about five or six thousand as I recall).  I could not help but notice that no one reviewed or approved or edited my remarks.  Quite a switch from only a year before when I was denied an opportunity to speak before twenty-five pastors at an associational gathering. At the Bottom and Empty In July of 1998 I transferred to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego.  We moved to Rancho Bernardo about forty miles due south of Temecula.  In August I received word that I was promoted to Commander.  In October we bought our first home.  Susan and I were thrilled to have a place of our own.  Even more exciting is that we found a wonderful church, so far the best experience we had in church in years.  North Star was a church begun by Phil Hester.   We became friends and helped lead the church begin to partner with CBF.  At work I was made the Deputy Command Chaplain a position that carried tremendous responsibility.  I was leading a large staff in one of the most dynamic ministry environments possible, Marine Corps boot camp.  We were three years cancer free and I was feeling confident and optimistic about life. One day in January while driving home I began to pray about my next assignment.  Perhaps I'd go to an aircraft carrier.  That would put me in a good position to be promoted to Captain.  I asked, "Is this what you want me to do, God?"  I had my answer within an hour.  When I got home I learned the cancer had returned. The first week of February 1999 I was promoted to Commander.  It was a quiet ceremony in General Osman's office.   Susan wasn't there.  When I finished greeting the small assembled crowd of well-wishers I left and drove through the rain to the Naval Hospital at Balboa Park.  Susan was undergoing chemo therapy.  All the way there all I could think of is how I'd happily give up this and every other promotion if it would save my wife.  It was not to be though.  That day began an increasingly painful journey that took me to her death on October 15th 2000.  There is too much to say about that experience, than I dare try and describe here.  Suffice it to say that grief for me did not wait to begin the day she died.   It began when the cancer returned.  Together we faced death and separation every single day.  When it finally came there wasn't much left of me.  I couldn't pray, not because I was angry at God, but simply because I had prayed so long and so hard for a different outcome, I had nothing left to say to God... I was at the bottom and empty. Down the Ladder and Into the Boat     My children who were 15 and 12 at the time Susan died were hit hard too, though differently.  A friend of mine who preached Susan's funeral told me that he lost his mother at about the same age and that his grief lasted until his thirties.  It was periodic though.  Not all at once, but reoccurring like a nightmare.  I think this was and is the most horrible aspect of the loss for me.  My utter helplessness to save my children from their pain.  Sometimes they have been angry at me too.  They thought I deceived them about their mother's condition, they thought that perhaps I could have done something to make it less painful for them, and then the ultimate sin, they thought I married again without regard for their feelings.  None of these were true.  Someday, I hope, they will understand and accept that I really did the best I could for them. Several months after Susan died I began to clear her things out of the house.  People often talk about how hard that is to do and they are right.  I called a friend of mine who had lost his wife to cancer a few years before.  I told him that I still felt married.  He told  me he felt that way for a long while too.  I received wonderful pastoral care from many in the Chaplain Corps.  They called me, wrote me, and most of all prayed for me.  I could feel their prayers, really.  It made a tremendous difference.  Some people, I know question whether or not women can be pastors, but one woman served as my pastor in those days.  Chaplain Karla Seyb-Stockton took time for me nearly everyday.  I don't recall anything specific she said, she was just there for me.  She helped me to heal. Grief is a lonely walk.  There is just no other way.  There will eventually come the lowest moment, when sadness becomes overwhelming and threatens to  extinguish the last flicker of joy in the soul.  I experienced that moment five months after her death.  I had dreamed of her once again and when I awakened to bitter reality I felt paralyzed.   I lay in a fetal position in my bed, unable to muster the strength to get up and go on.  Inside I knew none would blame me. They all felt sorry for me.  They didn't expect much from the young widower.  I could lay there forever. Right then something else kicked in.  I believe it was God's Spirit.  "You can still choose to live," was the message.   Slowly and with great effort I pulled myself out of bed, showered , shaved, and drove into work.  I made it through another day.   Afterward I knew I had to process what had happened to me.  I felt it was key to understand what feelings I had passed through a few mornings before.  So I began to talk one by one to my trusted counselors.  I tried to find a way to describe my experience.  It took about two days for me to talk it through.  In order to describe it I used an analogy.  I felt like I was on a great ocean going ship.  It was a beautiful vessel, finely furnished, the food was good, and music divine.   But the ship had struck an iceberg.  It was sinking.  It could not be saved.  There I stood at the rail staring out into the inky darkness wondering what to do.  At last from down below I saw a small light.  Voice called up from a life boat, "Come down, join us, and live."  But I couldn't.  I clung fiercely to the rail.  I looked behind me, the ship was brightly lit and warm.  I didn't want to trade what I had for a life boat full of strangers on an unpredictable sea.  Still the strangers in the lifeboat beckoned me to climb down the rope ladder and go with them.  I struggled at the rail, unable to move.   There the vision ended.   After two days of describing these feelings I realized if I can describe it, I can do it.  I crawled down the ladder and got into the boat. "Joy Comes With the Dawn" As the days warmed and turned into the spring of 2001 my outlook began to change.  My dreams of Susan either stopped or I couldn't remember them when I woke up.  I started running again.  Everyday I made my way to the beach and I ran miles and miles and miles.  There was something about watching the tide change that soothed my soul like nothing else.  I began to renovate my home.  I replaced the entire downstairs floor.  While I was doing that I'd listen to music and allowed myself to feel something I hadn't felt in a real long time, hope. One Sunday while attending a church social I met a single woman who had just been hired to play piano for worship.  It felt good to talk to her.  I spent the meal time just sharing stories with her.  When I looked up I noticed that we were being watched.  It felt good to talk to her and odd because now I suspected that everyone was speculating what it all meant.  A few days later I decided to try a new service where I could meet single women on line.  Nice, safe, slow and CONTROLLED was how I would have described it. On the other side of San Diego a woman named Dawn had through a strange set of circumstances entered the same email service.  The events that brought her to this point are her story to tell so I'll not try, however I will say that she was as surprised as I was to be talking to the opposite sex again.  Quickly I became fascinated with this mysterious woman.   Although I had other women with whom I was corresponding, it was Dawn who captured my imagination.  Soon I began to realize she had become an obsession.  I had trouble sleeping, eating, and concentrating.  I needed to end all of this so I asked her again and again to give me her phone number.   Finally she gave me her work number.  Dawn is an extremely private person, so it took some doing just to get that.  I called her at San Diego Hospice where she worked as a nurse.  The call went well because I convinced her to go out with me.  We would meet at Mission Beach just beside Life Guard station number 14 on Tuesday at 1:00 p.m..  I never believed in love at first sight before.  I did from that day thereafter.  The controlled, deliberate, and planning individual that I was could be completely overwhelmed.  I fell in love with her and have remained in that state ever since.  She was literally my Dawn, and as it says in the Bible, "Mourning lasts through the night but, joy comes with the dawn!" Blending Families Of course there was now the incredible change to deal with in our lives.  She had never imagined falling in love with a minister.  Frankly I didn't advertise the fact that I was a minister.  The two things I didn't want to happen was some one to avoid me because I'm a minister and worse someone to pursue me because I was!  If you ask her today she will tell you that she didn't marry a minister, she married a man who happens to be a minister.  For me the big surprise was blending families.  It is a joy as well, but the neat lines that had existed for me in the past were no more.   We married on August 17, 2001.  Not everyone was thrilled.  In fact, the day I ceased mourning and began to live again I had to face a number of adjustments.  Sometimes loved ones and other "concerned individuals" have offered both advice and criticism.   Much of both has been either ill informed or just plain unfair. I have since learned they don't have to be pleased with every decision I make, though I will confess learning that lesson has been one of the most difficult of my life.  On November 3, 2001 we celebrated before the church with a chapel ceremony. Together Dawn and I are doing the work of raising a family together which now includes her mother.  Our home is a lively place as we are forging our family into a single unit.  God is on our side though and we believe his promise will not fail. Coronado    I reported aboard as Command Chaplain at Naval Base Coronado just after the horror of the 9/11 terror attacks.  NBC is the world's largest naval base.  The Command Religious Program ran six weekend worship services out of two chapels.  I had a staff of about a dozen working for me.  While I was there we saw some very good things happen in the religious community.  There were also some difficult times too.  I had a disgruntled chaplain accuse me of religious discrimination.  Although the charge was completely without merit an investigation was begun that lasted from February to August of 2003.  In the end I was vindicated and the accuser was reassigned to a minimally taxing assignment in order to await his departure from the Navy.  It would be easy to become bitter about the experience if I looked at it as an unfair accusation for self-serving reasons (evidently he wanted a basis for a lawsuit to overturn his Fitness Reports and thus obtain an undeserved promotion).  Instead I choose to see the good.  I took what amounted to a courageous stand and did not buckle when threatened with legal action.  The other chaplains and enlisted support personnel on my staff supported me when disposed by the Judge Advocate on the case.  They told the truth and demonstrated the quality of our religious program when faced with a false accusation. In February 2004 I received orders to report to Spain the next fall.  That began a tremendous legal battle.  In order to move with my step-children we had to obtain the permission of the court.  In August permission was finally granted and we moved out of our Rancho Bernardo home.  We arrived in Rota, Spain on  September 15, 2004. That was one year ago.  Today Dawn and I are living on the base in Rota.  With us are Michael, Liam, Kevin, Noel and Nora (Dawn's mom who is now my dependent).  I serve as Senior Protestant Chaplain leading Protestant ministry with a chaplain team of a Lieutenant Commander and three Lieutenants.  Together we are reaching out to bring servicemen and women into a personal relationship with God through Jesus Christ.  My family is happy and doing well and I've never had finer ministry or team of ministers to work alongside.   I will make this my last tour.  My decision not to go to sea, as I predicted, resulted in my not being selected for Captain.   Although I'm eligible to stay in the Navy for five more years, I am convinced that just as God led me to come into the service, he is now leading me out.  I'm not sure where I will land, but as long as he is leading it all will be well.  When I went through the crisis of death and grief and recovery as well as every other challenge two realizations have seen me through:  First, I know that God loves me.  Second, I know he will provide a way.  In the end it is nothing but grace that gets us through. Epilogue Two special friends I mentioned are Tim Benson and Steve Cloud.  Tim is a pastor of a church in South Florida and has something of an interesting small business raising and selling snakes. Steve has just retired in Columbia, South Carolina.  He had years of successful ministry.  Even though he does not identify with CBF many of the things he shared with me when we were together make me think we are not so far apart.  Though we do not speak regularly now, I wrote him about a year ago.  He remembered me.  How could he forget? Of my family of origin Mom lives in Freeport, Florida just a mile down the road from where my grandmother lived.  Dad died in 1988 a few months before my son Michael was born.  I miss him every day.  I often wish for him when I've had to face those character building experiences of manhood.  It is my belief he would say, "I'm proud of you Big Chief Charlie Horse!"   My brother Bill is a successful businessman in New York City.  He and his wife Jennie are expecting their first child any day now.  My sister Elizabeth and her husband live near Freeport.  She has two boys David and William.   My daughter Erin lives in San Diego.  She is finding her way right now trying to decide between acting and college.   My family that lives with me are Dawn, Michael, Liam, Kevin, Noel, and Nora.  We do stay busy between church, school, and the extra curricular activities.  Life is good and seldom boring.  Most of those who dished out criticism regarding my remarriage or size of my family have ceased.  Either they have found something else to review or the fact that we have been successful for over four years has silenced most of their comments.  I love them anyway, and always will.  We all need grace.                                                                                                                           Charles P. McGathy                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         September 2005   Eplilogue In November of 2005 I submitted my request to retire from the Navy after serving for 22 years. On Easter Sunday 2006 First Baptist Church of Madison, North Carolina called me to become their pastor. I began ministry in North Carolina in August 2006. On the first day of September I was officially retired from the Navy and the next chapter of my ministry was already underway. Nuthin' but grace!