Part One

I lost my faith in God in my twenties, aware at the time that it was slipping away, but helpless to do anything to stop it. When I sought support from a range of pastors, they all said the same thing. The fact that I was talking to them about losing my faith meant that I actually had faith, else I wouldn’t be worried about losing it.

Which was just stupid on so many levels.

By the time I walked through the red doors of Westminster Presbyterian Church on February 7, 2016, I hadn’t had a committed relationship with a church or God in 30 years.

On that rainy Sunday in Portland’s Irvington neighborhood, sitting near the back, behind a pillar, in my rain-soaked anorak, wracked with ever-present anxiety, the sum total of my faith would have fit in a teaspoon.

Then, Pastor Gregg began the service with a smile, and these words, “God loves you.”

My heart leapt in response.

I was stunned by my little road to Emmaus moment and captured by love for the next eight years. My heart belonged to Westminster.