One Lousy Friday Before Easter: A Journey from Faith to Despair, and Back Again

© 2013 by Bob Keith Bonebrake. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/15/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0995-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1105-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1106-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901915

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 Finding Faith

Chapter 2 Marilyn’s Story

Chapter 3 The Problem of Evil and Suffering

Chapter 4 The Journey Back

Chapter 5 Do I Need Thee?

Chapter 6 Do We Need Thee?

Chapter 7 Let Us Reason Together

Chapter 8 Life Stinks, Then You Die

Chapter 9 Faith, the Bible, And the Body of Christ

Chapter 10 A Psalm of Life

About the Author

Notes

Foreword

Nearly forty years ago, I was a freshman in college. I had travelled more than a thousand miles to school, and literally didn’t know a soul. But within a few days, I met Bob and Marilyn Bonebrake, and everything changed. They were brother and sister, and since we were all studying communications, we started hanging out together and quickly became friends. They had grown up in a small town in Oklahoma, and I was a preacher’s kid from North Carolina, and our values, ideas, and interests pretty much matched.

My passion was film, and everything to do with a camera. But Bob was the storyteller, and we turned to him again and again to get the story down so Marilyn and I could go and film it. Our little films weren’t much to look at, but over those years we learned a lot from Bob about the power of a compelling story, and its ability to ask difficult questions that can eventually change people’s thinking.

We all graduated, and I eventually came to Hollywood, while Bob settled in as a writer in the Midwest. After stints as an editor with several newspapers, writing for numerous magazines, and then a book, we had no idea that all of this was a warm-up for his most important book of all—documenting his incredibly difficult journey through Marilyn’s sickness and eventual passing.

It wasn’t supposed to happen to Marilyn. She was the crazy one. The person everyone loved. She was funny, witty, and remarkably wise—which became even more evident after she gave birth to a child with Down syndrome. But with Marilyn, that was all in stride and she was an incredible mom from day one.

Then she got sick.

Now, all these years later, Bob and I are still close, while Marilyn is gone. One Lousy Friday Before Easter is the story of Bob’s journey through that valley. I was never much for books like this. The why bad things happen to good people question never engaged me, and I’ve never been much for questioning God.

At least until Marilyn died.

I think that’s probably the way it works for most people. We don’t really stop to ask the big questions until we hit a wall—or at least until we reach a place where we run out of answers. This remarkable book asks the questions I didn’t know how to ask, and helped me understand the very fallen, challenging world we live in, and why it matters.

Perhaps you’ve experienced that kind of deep sadness. It was the kind that eats at you and won’t let go. On the other hand, maybe you haven’t had that moment in your life, and to this point it’s been easy sailing.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here. What you walk away with after reading this book will be profound. If you let it, it can be the kind of experience that you will never forget.

—Dr. Phil Cooke

Filmmaker and author (Jolt, One Big Thing, Unique)

December, 2012

Acknowledgments

This is a story that for some time I talked myself out of sharing. First, because it involves the single most difficult experience of my life, events that still haunt me when I allow them. Second, because the broader story deals with subjects that I have always felt are better discussed by trusted public intellectuals or scientists, theologians, philosophers or Bible scholars. I am none of those.

Then, one day recently my wife and I sat down with a group at a Church event to discuss questions about our shared Christian Faith. Most of the questions were softballs, non-threatening concerns easily answered with Christian platitudes. Then, unexpectedly, a young man in the group began bringing up some very tough questions about the meaning of life and how the universe was created. Several people attempted to answer his concerns, with limited success. The name of a well-known atheist scientist and his contentions about creation were mentioned and one man attempted a Christian defense. The young man listened respectfully, but in the end made a statement that hit me hard. Bringing up the scientist again, he said (I paraphrase the quote from memory): I read that he has one of the highest IQs ever recorded. Why don’t we just believe him?

. . . I read that he has one of the highest IQs ever recorded. Why don’t we just believe him? Why indeed?

Why indeed?

The question to be answered is, is there a God, or isn’t there? This is an issue much too important to be decided on the opinions of one scientist, or one Bible scholar or one college professor, no matter how intelligent or learned the expert. Humans do and should live differently in a world with a God than in a world without one. So, I share this material hoping it will find its way to someone who is now asking her or himself this difficult question. There are no hard and fast answers here; just ideas that helped me find relief when I was in despair. It is a direction that worked for me. I pray it can work for you.

Just to be clear, let me also say that I am a Christian, and this book is written primarily for those who are or were Christians (Doubting Thomases perhaps) or for those who have at least some background in the Christian Faith. I have tried to keep the religious jargon to a minimum, but the story does assume a basic understanding of Christian principles. It recognizes the Bible as an ultimate authority for Christians; however, it attempts to first make a secular argument for believing in God before putting that argument to a biblical test.

Also keep in mind, this book comes from the level of the information consumer, not the information purveyor. In Christian terms it comes from a layman, not the clergy.

Sharing this story, so many years after the fact, required the help and input of a host of kind and generous people. Let me mention a few to whom I will be eternally grateful.

First, I must recognize the family of my late sister Marilyn LaPointe, including her sons Chris, Patrick and John Clayton and her husband Wil, who went through the difficult process of reading and discussing this story with me, reliving some of the most difficult days of their lives. I would also like to thank our mother and brothers and sisters, who contributed remembrances and emotions to this effort. My supportive and patient wife Valerie also has spiritual and intellectual fingerprints all over the manuscript.

Another person to whom I owe an enormous debt is my wise and perceptive young editor and researcher Jay Wise. Jay is one of those priceless individuals who combine rare talents needed for this type of work. Jay, a Wesleyan minister, understands the philosophy, theology and emotions dealt with here. At the same time, as a college librarian, his organizational and research skills were perfect for filling in potholes that threatened to slow the project down.

I can’t forget my Chinese Christian friends, Nancy Qian and her daughter Rachel, and Nancy’s sister Thelma. They provided encouragement, feedback and beautiful stories about God’s miraculous work in the world. Their lives and testimonies put the lie to the contention that Christianity is a dying belief system destined to disappear in a secular world. They give me hope.

Also, the daughters of my old neighbor and friend the late Dr. Bernard Guenther, Susan Wingfield Ritter and Julie Guenther Evans, supported the project and agreed to share memories of their wonderful father. They always freely shared their generational blessing.

Rev. Vep Ellis, the current pastor of my boyhood church, Sheridan Road Assembly of God in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was also helpful with my effort to recall the past.

I must mention my Peruvian friend, Maria Teresa Salazar, who my wife and I claim as a member of our family. M.T., as we call her, read early drafts and provided needed encouragement. A talented artist, she dashed off the little flautist angel icon, lovely in its simplicity, to be used to illustrate the interior of the book. And, a thanks to my friend Keith Philpott, an amazing professional photographer, who agreed to do the cover photos on very short notice. A side note, the calendar shot on the cover is of the actual calendar that hung near my desk in 2001 and the notation on that Good Friday the 13th was made just a few days after my sister’s death.

Special mention goes to my old college friend Dr. Phil Cooke, a best-selling author and television and film director, who wrote the foreword for the book. He was one of Marilyn’s cherished friends, and one of the few who seemed to understand what I was going through after her death.

Thanks to my spiritual family at Oral Roberts University, especially Ossie Mills, Jesse Pisor, and the university president when this project began, Dr. Mark Rutland. They all worked to help me set up the Marilyn Bonebrake LaPointe Scholarship Fund at the university. One of my prime motivations to complete this project was the hope that it could be used as a way to benefit that scholarship fund.

Bob Keith Bonebrake

December, 2012

More information about the Marilyn Bonebrake LaPointe Scholarship Fund at Oral Roberts University, this book, the underlying story and Christian apologetics in general is available online at www.OneLousyFriday.com.

Chapter 1

Finding Faith

I am reminded of your sincere faith, which lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice, and am convinced that this faith also lives in you.

—II Timothy 1:5 (ISV)

The human memory is a mysterious thing—sometimes troubling, sometimes beautiful. A few years ago, at Christmastime, I witnessed the mystery of memory in a profound way. An elderly great-aunt, much beloved in our family, had for some time been losing touch with reality. She had been having fits of dementia and gradually the world was becoming an unfamiliar place for her. Her children, my cousins, were becoming strangers.

Her youngest child, a daughter, who at this point was an adult woman with children of her own, decided she would bring her mother to a holiday party for our extended family. It was held in a small, rented rural community center with a large kitchen. Tables were spread with ham and turkey, pots of vegetables and homemade pies. Someone made up a plate for my aunt, but I don’t believe she ate more than a few bites. Several relatives tried to engage her in conversation, trying with only limited success to remind her of happy memories of her past. Within the family she was addressed as Aunt Garnett, Garnett being her maiden surname. The family story was that when she met her future husband, my Grandmother’s younger brother, he began referring to her as Lady Garnett, because of her regal nature. She didn’t favor her real first name, Audrey, because many in that area pronounced it Ord-ree, so the Garnett name stuck.

After Christmas dinner, the family moved into a large entertainment room with a television, some couches, and an old, out-of-tune upright piano.

My aunt shuffled slowly into the room, holding to her daughter’s elbow. I still don’t know if what happened next was inspiration or happenstance. My cousin, Sue, brought her mother to the piano bench and helped her sit down. Without a word or hesitation, my aunt expertly placed her feet on the piano pedals and her fingers on the keyboard. To everyone’s shock she began playing a beautiful old Christmas carol. From somewhere deep in her brain, or heart, or wherever those types of memories reside, glorious music emerged. Her hands glided across the keys, note after note played perfectly. We all knew my aunt was a talented pianist, with the kind of natural, artful flair that can’t be taught, but everyone thought that ability had been lost. Hymn after hymn proved us wrong. Everyone gathered around and watched in amazement. Someone started to sing. An impromptu choir developed and my aunt varied her pace like a professional accompanist. Sadly, someone finally said, I think she’s getting tired. The light left her eyes. We all became strangers again as the present slipped away. We lost my Aunt Garnett, at age 90, not long after that. No one who was there ever forgot that while we couldn’t always reach her, the beautiful pianist that we all had loved still lived somewhere inside her.

No one who was there ever forgot that while we couldn’t always reach her, the beautiful pianist that we all had loved still lived somewhere inside her.

On any given day in my life, I seem to experience, to a lesser degree, memory’s same selective nature. I find it impossible to remember all the little things I need to make my life run efficiently. Important mail that arrived last week unexpectedly slides out from under my car seat. I wander around the house looking for car keys I used just the night before. Books or papers that I would have sworn were on my desk hours before seem to disappear. I lose track of my morning cup of coffee, only to find the cold cup days later on top of the hallway armoire. But as I roam about looking for lost things, if you would ask me about one particular day of my life, one that I lived decades ago, I believe you would be stunned at the level of detail with which I can remember this one relatively uneventful bit of ancient history.

I can remember clearly the weather of that cold, cloudy day. I can visualize in ultra clear High Definition the little clapboard house in central Oklahoma where I spent the day. I can see the squeaky old metal bed where I lay, ill and frightened. I can clearly picture the tufted white chenille bedspread that covered me. I can close my eyes at this moment and see my late maternal grandmother caring for me. I can see her old house dress, her kind eyes, and her smile.

I had been at my grandmother’s house for several days, being nursed through a rather serious case of the measles. I had been taken to her house to prevent infecting my two younger sisters. Apparently, I had picked up the disease, like most children of that age, from my schoolmates. There I lay, covered to the chin with the old cotton bedspread.

The day was cool, and so was the house. Central heat and air weren’t common at this time. Even if they had been, I doubt my grandmother would have felt that they were worth the expense. She had gone through the Great Depression of the 1930s and, like many from that era, she was amazingly frugal.

The fact that I was covered to the chin with heavy blankets had nothing to do with the weather, however. The disease had hit me hard and at the time I was running a fever and was having chills, had blotchy skin, and itchy eyes. I was in need of nearly constant care. Before I was taken to my Grandmother’s, my very young and overwhelmed mother had reached her wits’ end trying to keep my sisters healthy and away from me.

Granny set me up in the front bedroom of her tiny house, and spent most of the next few days nursing me back to health. Periodically a tall, gray-haired doctor in an expensive looking wool top-coat would visit, carrying a brown leather bag with a hinged top that split in the middle. In it were a few medical instruments and bottles of medicine. But Granny did the bulk of the healing work. She brought me broth and popsicles and set up elaborate steam humidifiers. She pulled hot towels from pots boiling on the kitchen stove and applied petroleum rub to relieve my stuffed nose and sore throat. She took my temperature almost constantly. Yet, despite the hours she spent with me, and her hard work and care, the high fevers continued, disturbing my sleep with troubling nightmares.

As the years have passed, one of the few things I have forgotten about this period are the monsters that inhabited those dreams. I clearly remember that at the time, they were terrifying.

I also remember one particularly difficult early evening. I woke with a start, sweating, frightened and confused, alone in the room and terrified. I began crying out. Granny ran to my bedside, this time bringing cool cloths for my forehead. She tried hard to console me, hugging me, patting my hand, singing. This time, it was just more than I could take. I was beyond consoling. I continued to cry, increasingly frantic.

Granny quickly left the room and came back with the big, black Bible she kept near her bed. She sat down beside me, flipped through the book quickly, and began reading the 23rd Psalm very slowly, in a strong authoritative voice.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

It took awhile for the words to cut through the fear. I continued to cry and kick at the covers. Then, gradually, the words began getting through.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

The word pictures were so clear in my young mind. I could see green pastures and still waters, a quiet and protected environment.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

I doubt that I was ever in any danger of dying during that period. At the time, the stress of the sleep terrors haunted me into believing that I might never see my mother, father and sisters again. A valley of death seemed so real at that moment. Was I alone? Granny’s words said no. Someone—she and someone else besides—was with me, protecting me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I stopped crying. Granny rubbed my head and changed the cool compress. She began quietly singing a little