A Funny Thing Happened on My Journey to Heaven

By Patricia Hartman

Funny is a funny word. It can mean amusing, curious, strange, comical, foolish or witty. Life is full of all them, but we especially like the funnies that bring happiness.

The Declaration of Independence claims that the pursuit of happiness is an inalienable right given by our Creator and that our government has the responsibility to protect that right. Where is that happiness found? In humor? In comedy? In love?

Patricia Hartman has lived a life that is often characterized by the pursuit and attainment of happiness. Those times are made up of funny stories that warm the heart and make us smile and laugh. But she also had some deeply troubled days which were not-so-funny at the time. In the midst of her pain, she learned her best lessons, including God’s role and purpose in them. These were not amusing/funny. But later, when the storms were long gone, a different kind of smile crossed her face as she saw that God had been with her in the valley. He had held onto her when she had lost the strength to hold on to Him. These stories are the ones that have taken her from a rebellious atheist to the woman of faith that she is today. Funny, huh?

Come and join Patricia on her journey through this book as she questions God and ultimately finds His truth, love and peace. You will not walk away from this journey the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patricia Hartman
• Release date: Jan 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781945975486

Patricia Hartman

Patricia Hartman is, of all things, a forensic CPA. Despite her profession, she always sees the lighter side of life, even though she has been through some deeply painful times, including divorce and single-parenting. He contagious smile and laughter brighten any room. Her stories reveal her authentic humility as she shares transparently how God brought her to where she is today. Patricia takes the complex and makes it simple. Her journey has taken her from:• Runaway to home again• Liberal to conservative• Atheist to Believer• Single-Mom to married empty-nester• Rebellion to Contentment• Financially broken to financially whole• Bus driver to CPA• Homeless to homeowner• Proud to humble• Lost to found• Sinner to ... well ...

Book preview

Chapter One

Funny is a funny word. Consider the contexts, definitions and synonyms. Some meanings can almost be at odds with each other… sometimes good, sometimes bad.

Humorous

Facetious

Curious

Droll

Amusing

Suspicious

Strange

Witty

Comical

Deceitful

Peculiar

Laughable

Ironic

Underhanded

Odd

Ludicrous

Providing fun

Insolent

Diverting

Foolish

Causing laughter

Impertinent

Ridiculous

Tricky

My favorite funny is the one that produces laughter… humorous, amusing, or comical, which goes along with my personality. Ask anyone and the common quirk that they will describe about me is always smiling or laughing. People know me by my laugh.

Facial expressions are an international language. It does not matter whether you are in China, Kuwait, or on the North Pole; everyone understands a smile.

What about those selfie smiles? We want to look happy, as if we are having fun.

Smiling is infectious;

You can catch it like the flu.

Someone smiled at me today

And I started smiling too.

~Author Unknown

A laugh is a smile that bursts.

~Mary H. Waldrip

Ralph Kozak painted my favorite pictures of Jesus. He’s laughing. His sweet expression portrays enjoying good company. It captures the joy of the Lord. I keep it at my desk as a reminder that God loves us and wants us to experience His joy.

While the word funny is not in most translations of the Bible, words like laugh, joy, and happy are in abundance. The New International Version (NIV) contains the words laugh, laughter and laughingstock thirty-eight times. Joy, two hundred twenty-two times. Happy, twenty-one times.

This book is a collection of funny stories... humorous, ironic, coincidental and not so funny at the time. But then, some of the best learning came from those hard times. Even so, when the lesson is learned, I end up smiling, because God is always in control and His plans are the best, aren’t they?

Me? Write a Book?

A funny thing happened one Christmas. My friend Pat gave me a journal. What’s funny about that? I’m a CPA. We do numbers, not journals.

It’s not that I didn’t want to journal. I did.

As a teenager, I got the typical girlie journals – you know – the ones with the lock and key, which of course would keep it secure from my older brothers’ purview. (Not)

I had also tried those journals which went with Bible studies to no avail. After three days, the dust began to collect.

Friends gave me the most wonderful themed journals, scripture journals… you name it, I’ve bought them or received them as gifts, but I’ve just never taken to journaling.

It’s not that I didn’t like to write. I did. One of my greatest joys is writing our annual Christmas letters that recount the events of the family for that year. At work, I write reports for the business valuations. On the home scene, I write travel journals that capture the essence of our vacations. In college, I was the one that ended up writing the reports for group projects. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I loved to write.

What a beautiful journal, I said to Pat as I unwrapped the treasure, trying to hide my disappointment (not with the gift, but with my own inabilities to use it.)

I gave you the journal so you could write all those funny stories that you have – you know, the ones you put in your Christmas letter every year? She went on. You should be recording them, if for no other reason, for posterity sake.

Funny. We did have a lot of funny stories. And it would be good for me to record them for the family. But I know me… I’ll start writing in the journal and then put it down and never pick it up again.

As we drove home, God began His holy nudges. Maybe I don’t have to write in the journal. Maybe I could type them in my computer. Words pour out of my fingers on a computer. Then the ideas began to flow like mountain springs pouring from the melting snows – stories – peoples’ reactions to the stories – my love for good humor. Maybe I can do this.

As my husband Patrick and I talked on our drive home, we discussed how God uses those funny times to teach us lessons. But God also uses those funny times that are coincidental or out of the ordinary to teach us as well. And, at times, funny is just not funny at all – at least at the time.

With each wisdom wrinkle, I grow in my appreciation for how God uses it all for good – the humorous, the coincidental, the odd and the tough times. When the lesson makes itself known, I smile that broad smile of acknowledgement and say, So, that’s what You were up to, Lord. Then I smile again and wonder why God, my Abba Father, puts up with me at all.

This is part of my journey – a wonderful adventure… and He’s not done with me yet.

It is my prayer that, through sharing these experiences, you might be amused and amazed at how God has worked in our lives, recognize His work in your life, and that you might find God’s purpose in your funny stories.

Patricia Hartman

Second Go-Round

A funny thing happened on the way to republishing this book. I read the first edition of this book, which was published ten years prior. It was before I began my writing career or had any classes in writing, other than those creative writing classes from forty years ago in College 101.

I had spoken to Cheri Cowell of EA Books Publishing at the 2017 Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writing Conference about getting my book moved from its former publishing home to hers. We agreed a second edition was in store. A new cover, get rid of some end matter, eliminate a chapter or two, and the second edition should be good to go. I considered that the book might need some editing, but not having reread it since I published it, I believed it was in pretty good shape. I could just turn this over to Cheri, and get back to the re-write of my suspense novel. Easy-peasy.

Then a funny thing happened. I returned to my room at the beautiful Ridgecrest Conference Center nestled in the mountains outside Asheville. Settling into my chair at the writer’s desk, I located the file in my Google Docs, downloaded it to my laptop, and... Yikes! Who wrote that?

Well it turns out that in the ten years since I had written the first edition, I had learned there were rules of writing which had either changed since I went to school or that I had forgotten... like those misplaced modifiers. I had learned that there should be no more than two exclamation points, and even that is two too many. (My first edition was replete with them. Oh great book police, I pray I got most of them out, but there were some spots where I just couldn’t help myself!) There is still a controversy over whether there is a comma before the and in a series.

I had had no training when I wrote the first edition. In fact, I received my first copy of the first edition the week before I attended my first writer’s conference. Since then I have attended annual conferences, become the president of our local Word Weavers critique group, and read volumes on how to write, all while keeping my day job. I grew to love writing in a way I never dreamed was possible. It became my passion.

So (a word I learned that you need to try to eliminate), I updated it, made obvious changes and sent it off to Cheri so it could get back on the market. Hope you enjoy the updates and may God bless your journey.

If I Don’t Look in the Mirror, Then I Must Not Be Fat

A funny thing happened when I was ten years old. I effectively became an only-child. I grew up with two older brothers who were eight and ten years older in small-town Virginia bathed in small-town Christianity. Everyone knew each other and their kids. If you did something wrong, you better believe your mom knew about it before you got home. Yes, moms stayed home to raise their kids in those days. Neighborhood streets were so safe we even left our doors unlocked when we left home.

Maurice is ten years my elder. That makes it easy for me to remember his age. That makes him, what? Oh yeah… really old! Moose (like me before I left for college), was a compliant child. When you asked Mom about Maurice, she would smile and say, He’s such a good boy. She always told of the one time she had to spank him in his high chair and how afterwards she cried.

Because he was the oldest, he often got stuck with driving me where I needed to go, like to the pool at our country club. He left for college when I was eight. He became an engineer and eventually settled in California, married, produced two kids and so far, three grands. He never gave Mom a day’s heartache.

Then came Gerald. He’s eight years older and is the poster-child for middle-child syndrome. When you asked Mom about Gerald, she said, "He’s such a sweet boy now, but when he was a child…" She couldn’t even finish her sentence. She made faces and shook her finger. He made her crazy. He was always getting into something. What frustrated her more than his misbehavior is that all the neighbors loved Gerald.

Gerald was the one that nobody wants to follow in school because he gave the teachers such trouble. Rumor has it that several teachers retired after having him. Each year my school season would start with the teachers saying, "Oh, so you’re Gerald’s sister." With that comment and the look that accompanied it, my work was cut out for me.

In college, Gerald was all over the board. He ran for college offices, competed and placed in the state weightlifting tournaments, and played golf against the likes of Lanny Watkins (and won). When he got pets, he gave them unusual names, like Peetack and Poteet for his birds. His baby alligators were fricasseed when he tried to warm them on his apartment’s radiator in winter.

After college, Gerald stayed close to home, eventually buying Dad’s wholesale beer business. Working slowed him down a bit, but he was still living the wild life. His college and early post-college days were filled with wine and women.

Eventually he married, settled down in Oklahoma, produced four kids and so far, no grands. He’s teaching at a Christian college, produced a kid’s video, and has his hands in a dozen other activities.

Being the baby, the only girl and the last child, guess who got spoiled. The entire family doted on me. I was the apple of my daddy’s eye.

I was a compliant child who never challenged my boundaries. I was a member of a high school sorority that honored God, in high school clubs, made honor roll, and played sports. I went to church with my friends, and generally gave my parents no trouble. Mom’s friends envied the ease with which she raised me.

I was also the informer, alerting my mother of every rule infraction. "Maaaa-uuuum, Gerald is trying to freeze the goldfish! Maaaa-uuuum, the boys won’t let me watch Shirley Temple! Maaaa-uuuum, Maurice won’t take me to the pool! Maaaa-uuuum, Gerald is shooting frogs with his BB gun!"

Dr. James Dobson, formerly of Focus on the Family, once warned on his radio program that the problem with compliant children is that they never have an opportunity to test boundaries while ensconced in their parents’ home. But when they leave home, watch out.

Indeed, trouble was looming for me when I headed off to college. It was the ‘70’s and the mantra of our generation was, If it feels good, do it.

Mom and Dad packed me up and drove me the two hours west on I-64 to the University of Virginia. We made our way to the dorm where we were welcomed by students serving beer from kegs. Unbeknownst to us, the UVA had a drinking-school reputation. In fact, Playboy magazine had ranked colleges for drinking and did not put UVA on the list, because it was a professional drinking school, and their list was for amateurs.

That was not bad enough. Mom took one look at my roommate and knew I was in trouble. Not that Mom had actual knowledge of this, but Karen was sexually involved with a boyfriend, as were most of the girls in my suite. In fact, one of my roommate’s goals was to sleep with every guy in college. I was not in Kansas – I mean Hopewell – anymore.

Can we talk drugs? The number of kids that dropped speed to study blew my mind. These were supposed to be the brightest. Oh, did I mention streaking? It was popular on college campuses. All the things I grew up believing were immoral – all those things that I would never do – were happening in my dorm. My parents went home knowing it was the end of an era of peace. They were right.

I had attended two churches of differing denominations as a child. My parents never went to church. My brothers took me to the Episcopal church before they went off to college. My neighbors took me to the Methodist church in my teens. I was in a Christian sorority. I learned how to do church, but I lacked a foundation of faith.

This vacuum was quickly filled with my professors and UVA’s then liberal ideologies. The school even had a Gay Student Union, which considering the year (1975), was very avant-garde. I became a woman’s libber and defender of every liberal agenda. Existentialism was the way for me. I was like a child in a candy factory seeking every pleasure the world had to offer.

In my second year of college, I met and moved in with my future first husband. I partied as much as I went to college. I broke my dad’s heart. In my first year of college, Dad had written me every day. Those letters stopped. One of my life’s greatest regrets is how deeply I disappointed Dad.

Not that Gerald had led the way, but in many ways, I had followed Gerald’s path of worldly pleasure-seeking. Perhaps that’s why I found him fun and easy to be around… that is, until he became a Christian.

What, Gerald a Christian? Everyone was shocked, particularly me. He became such a weirdo preaching to everyone he encountered. Mom kept admonishing him to quit mixing religion with running his business, and she really got mad when he preached at her. But Gerald had always done things in phases, so we were all waiting for him to get back to his old fun-loving self. Mom said, Give him some time and he’ll be back to his old self and onto something else.

I tried everything to shake him out of it. I made fun of him. I mocked him. The worst part was that I didn’t feel comfortable around him anymore. I wanted my brother back on my team… whatever that team was.

Why did I feel uncomfortable? I loved my brother. I had been comfortable around him while he was sinning, but now that he was not, was his righteousness making me feel bad about what I was doing?

No. It was more than uncomfortable. I was offended. But why? If I didn’t believe what he did, why didn’t I just quietly not believe? Why was I offended?

Funny – here I was, a product of the If it feels good, do it generation, but I didn’t feel good around my brother who was trying to feel good about his faith. Why did that make me feel bad if the goal was for everyone to seek out what feels good to them? I think what it really meant was, do it, but only if you don’t make me feel bad about what I am doing.

Is there anything you can really do to make someone feel bad just by being who you are? Or are our bad feelings a warning bell that we need to pay attention, figure out what is wrong, and deal with it?

When I gain a few extra pounds, I don’t like looking in mirrors, because I know that I have eaten too much, and it reminds me of my eating problem. Funny thing is that avoiding mirrors does not correct obesity. But that is what I was doing in my life. I was avoiding the things of God and believing that I was okay if I did not look in the mirror. So, as long as I avoided mirrors… Gerald, church, Christians and the things of God, I was okay.

Almost forty years later, Gerald is still a Christian. The old Gerald never came back. That man is dead and buried. I had to learn to adapt to the new Gerald – basically avoiding the holy mirror. I missed my old brother. But I wasn’t going to let his new ways mess up the fun I was having.

Running Away from Home

A funny thing happened when I was a thirty-year-old mortgage broker. I stopped by to see Doug, one of the realtors who routinely sent me business. He was one of the kindest men I have ever met.

As we talked, Doug said, Hey, Trish, I was wondering if you would like to visit my church this Sunday?

Me? A self-professing atheist?

Of course, Doug did not know that. Oh, sure, I knew how to act like a good person, but I was far from a God-fearing woman. Other than certain obligatory events like funerals and weddings, I had not set foot in a church since I had gone off to college.

In fact, if he had not been a referral source, I would have barraged him with all the reasons I thought Christianity was a sham.

All the Christians I knew were hypocrites, acting one way on Sunday and another the rest of the week. They were a bunch of judgmental, weak-minded souls who feared death and needed a crutch to get through life. I, on the other hand was an intelligent, independent woman who was self-sufficient and didn’t need anybody or anything – and I certainly did not need God!

Christianity was a religion defined by a bunch of rules, and, while some of them were good, like thou shalt not kill, most prohibited the good stuff of life… the fun stuff, like sex, drugs and rock and roll. I made enough money that I could do almost anything I wanted. I was single and free. What right did anyone have to tell me how to live? After all, my behavior wasn’t hurting anyone. I was pursuing all that life had to offer – big toys and lots of fun.

Go to church? Ha! How long would it take those narrow-minded people to start meddling in my affairs and trying to get me to be like one of them? What a ridiculous idea!

I looked at Doug. But I couldn’t tell him how I really felt. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Besides, he was a referral source, and if he knew who I really was and what I really believed, I was sure he would stop sending me business.

What do I say?

Begin tap dance. Yeah, Doug, that sounds good. Maybe I’ll give it a try, knowing full well that hell would freeze over before I went to church with all those mindless clones.

Well, if you decide to go, it’s just over on Federal. The big church with the tall steeple. They have two services on Sunday morning. There’re about 8,000 members at the church.

8,000 members? Visions of handing out my business cards to thousands of Christians poured through my consciousness. As a mortgage broker, I knew that professing Christians typically had better credit than non-Christians, which translated to more mortgage approvals. What a money-making networking place to be. Now that had appeal. Ka-ching!

Okay, let’s rethink this… maybe I can put up with those people. I’ll just slip in to the church and pretend to be like them. I knew how to act in church from my childhood church-life. It was time to buck up and do this awful thing.

* * * * *

Sunday morning arrived.

What to wear? I stared into the closet. Boy, I had not done this in years. I had a lot of business clothes, but Sunday clothes? Hmmm.

Memories of putting on my church clothes to go with my brothers flashed through my mind. I still have an Easter picture of me at the age of six with my two brothers all dressed and ready to go.

I remembered my friend Liz’s mother complimenting us on how nicely we dressed and behaved at church. I guess we were all really good at doing the church thing. But it’s funny, I don’t recall learning anything real or meaningful about God.

As I slipped into my shoes, I wondered if God would strike me dead when I entered the church. The life I led was far from holy.

I’m not a bad person. I always help people out. In fact, in many ways I’m better than those hypocrites who lie about who they are. I’m truthful, giving, loving. If God exists, surely He will let me into heaven…

What am I thinking? I don’t believe in God or heaven. Why am I worried about being struck down by a god who doesn’t exist? Right? It’s just a building, after all.

So why was I so nervous?

Eying myself in the mirror one last time, I decided that I looked the part. Time to go.

The drive was only fifteen minutes. Images of the mindless people popped into my mind. Women dressed to the nines and men in coats and ties. Nice people. Smiling faces... or at least while they are at church. I knew they were really hypocrites who smiled and acted like saints. But I knew who they really were – liars who had less-than-honorable business practices. So-called Christian men who cheated on their wives or were abusive. Hypocrites. Where was God in that? If there was a God, why wasn’t he striking all these people dead? It’s all just a lie made up by men.

This is stupid. Maybe I shouldn’t go. I don’t believe in God.

Wait a minute. If God doesn’t exist, then why am I so agitated?

Breathe.

Why am I doing this? Oh yeah… to hand out my business cards. Take a deep breath. Get yourself together. It’s no big deal. Everyone at church will act nice, and you just need to meet a few people. It’s called networking. One hour and you will be out of there.

Breathe.

Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church sat prominently on Federal Highway. I had passed it hundreds of times. It was a beautiful monument of man’s creation. Set in a tropical paradise, it originally stood as the tallest structure in Fort Lauderdale. The steeple rose hundreds of feet above the narthex. Its cross atop the steeple stood as a beacon over a lost city and as a mariner’s guide on the navigational charts off Fort Lauderdale beach. Of course, that Sunday, I did not see the steeple pointing the way. What I saw was a beautifully constructed and ornate building that must have cost a small fortune to build.

How much did all this cost? How much money are they going to want from me? I’ll bet this is another Christian scam to pry money out of its parishioners.

I parked, took another breath, and headed for the door.

Outside, women dressed in their designer suits and dresses with engraved tags proclaiming their names greeted me. Smiling, we exchanged our niceties.

Peeling off some tape from a ribbon, a smiling blue-suited woman placed a visitor tag on my jacket.

Oh no, now they’ll all pick me out. They’ll ask me a bunch of questions. What will I say? Will I tell them that I don’t believe in God? No, I’ll just smile and nod. I’m sure it won’t come up. Oh, well, I guess I want them to notice me so I can hand out my business cards.

As I entered the doors, I was stunned by the magnificence of the sanctuary that housed what I later understood to be one of the largest pipe organs in the country. Diane Bish, one of the finest organists of our time, worked her hands and feet. The sanctuary was clothed in crimson red carpet. There were ornately carved wooden pulpits and tables. Palm trees lined the dais.

More money. I’m sure they are going to pass the plate and want me to pay for it. I’ll put something in to look good.

Hello. Welcome. An usher dressed in a gray suit approached and offered to escort me to my seat. All the ushers were dressed in those gray uniforms. They appeared professional, and yet sincere. Handing me a bulletin, they seated me in row ten, center aisle.

Are everyone’s eyes on me or am I imagining that?

Having been raised in churches, I felt a familiarity with the order of service listed in the bulletin. I found the hymn book in the pew, and book-marked the music that was going to be sung. I wanted to look like I knew what I was doing.

I watched each person as they were seated. I was relieved that no one came up to me and said anything. Hundreds of people. Cameras on platforms to record the service. That was different.

Will I be on camera?

The organ’s prelude stopped, and a loud voice boomed throughout as if God himself were proclaiming a judgment. This is the Day that the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

I later learned that was Dr. D. James Kennedy, and that he started every service with this scripture verse. Very sobering. His commanding voice demanded you sit up and pay attention.

A man emerged from a side door at the front of the church and motioned us all to stand. The organist’s hands and feet frantically moved playing a processional. Sixty or seventy blue-robed choir members marched up the aisle and took their positions in the choir loft.

Dr. Kennedy and an assistant pastor brought up the rear with Dr. Kennedy going to the left pulpit and the other pastor to the right. Dr. Kennedy motioned for the congregation to rise. Obediently we did.

Then he asked, Christian, what do you believe?

The Apostle’s Creed was printed in the bulletin, but having recited it many times as a child, I was confident I could do it from memory...

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only begotten Son, who was born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried. He descended into Hell. On the third day He rose again from the dead and He ascended into Heaven and sitteth upon the right hand of God the Father Almighty, from whence He shall judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen."

Funny – the words coming out of my mouth were not what I believed, but I looked good. (Now, who was the hypocrite?)

As the service continued, I took in the beauty of it all – music, colors, and organ. The blue robes against the red carpet and white backdrop. Just stunning. In the midst of all the sights and sounds, I couldn’t help but feel a familiarity – as if I had been there before, or had seen the service there before. Then it came to me. I had seen this pastor on TV when I was a child. I don’t remember why I watched him, but I remember a feeling of comfort when I did. It wasn’t because my parents watched. They didn’t. I had chosen to watch him week after week by myself while my parents were off in other places reading the Sunday paper.

After several hymns, a prayer or two, and a couple of recitations, Dr. Kennedy, dressed in his royal blue robe, climbed into the ornate wooden pulpit and began his sermon. As this man stood in that pulpit and preached, I was convinced that he was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent men I had ever heard speak in any forum. There was no wavering in the message, and my heart recognized Truth.

How could it be?

I cannot tell you what he preached that day, but I was shaken to the core. Tremors began to shake and crack the foundation of my belief system. My heart was moved. My soul was drawn. What is going on?

I had spent years carefully constructing my belief