Lyfting Me Up

In two weeks it will mark 40 years since we loaded all our belongings—along with four kids, two cats, three cars, and my dad’s freight truck. We had also commandeered my sister Rita Jo to help. She can still describe our move from a six-bedroom furnished parsonage into a three-bedroom, one-bathroom house on an acreage. I had accepted the call to become pastor of First Christian Church in Alamosa, Colorado.

Let me back up to 1981.

After a brief but deep clinical depression, I found myself living in my parents’ basement back in my hometown of Pueblo. Charles Whitmer, the senior pastor of 24 years at Central Christian Church, convinced me to return to pastoral ministry as his associate.

In my first meeting with him that previous June, after he asked me to come help him, I told him this:

“Charles, I am not sure I even believe in God right now.”

My plunge into grief over the recent loss of my brother Don, along with the end of my marriage, had finally caught up with me.

His answer I will never forget:

“That’s OK, Mark. I know God, and I know you, and it’s going to work out. I need your help.”

Earlier that year, 50 families had left this large congregation because it was not “spiritual enough.” I started part-time on July 1.

In September of ’81, I went with Charles to a regional ministers gathering in Alamosa. I will never forget sitting in that run-down fellowship hall with curtains made out of bedsheets and thinking:

“You would have to really screw up in the Kingdom of God to end up here as their pastor.”

Five years later, there I went—off to an 11-year chapter of my life that remains precious to me.

Alamosa sits in the center of the San Luis Valley—from here on simply called The Valley. It is the world’s largest alpine valley: sixty miles wide, 120 miles long, completely surrounded by 14,000-foot mountains. The Valley floor sits at 7,500 feet in elevation, and the Rio Grande bisects it on its way toward the Taos Gorge.

It was like living in a giant terrarium.

Its stark beauty is unmatched. Summers there are short and glorious, and the winters are HARD.

In the winter of 1991, The Valley got two feet of snow on Halloween. This caused an anomaly where, for 91 days in a row, it never got above zero—day or night. The artesian water from the Valley floor created a thick cloud canopy that blocked direct sunlight for nearly three months.

It was brutal.

The sociologist in me found the various histories and cultures that made up the Valley’s 50,000 residents to be one of the most diverse collections imaginable.

In one part of The Valley you had Crestone, a hangout for Shirley MacLaine and bands of New Age seekers. There were at least five distinct layers of Hispanic culture and history. Some of the wealthiest farmers you could imagine lived alongside thousands of what we might call the working poor.

What that meant was that people made a living however they could—from woodcutting, construction, and seasonal farm work to indigenous art.

Being a pastor’s kid is no easy thing.

“Guess what, kids? We are giving up the comfort of this big prosperous church—and your own bedrooms—to help rebuild a church that currently has 25 members.”

It did not go over well.

On top of that, they were moving into middle school in a culture built on suspicion of outsiders. It was hard.

And yet, looking back on it, The Valley ultimately welcomed all of us, and it became home.

Perhaps what an almost 77-year-old does is look back at where he has been.

I am asked every so often which of my seven ministries was my favorite. I always say:

“I have nine grandkids… they are all my favorites.”

My time in Alamosa was rich beyond measure.

I got to watch a church go from being an afterthought to becoming a center of energy and transformation. A few years after I arrived, a former disgruntled member said—in a manner intended to get back to me:

“Well, of course they are growing. They will take anybody!”

Guess what made it onto the church marquee:

“Come Join Us… We Will Take Anybody… Even You.”

I mostly hear about The Valley now from the 9News weather at 10.

Yes, it still gets thirty below there. Yes, the wind can blow for days. But it is the one place I ever lived where, when I walked out at night and looked up at the sky, those were not clouds—but the Milky Way.

No, Mark, you would not have to screw up in the Kingdom of God to land there.

It was more like grace.

Onward and Upward,

Mark