• Abstract and Figures
• Public Full-text

Small Groups A help Guide ClaudeTremblay Les Éditions Jaspe Copyright © Claude Tremblay 2009 No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, either electronically or mechanically, including photocopies, recordings, or any other form of data transmission, for lucrative pur- poses, without the written permission of the author. Published by: Les Éditions Jaspe Québec, Canada [email protected] Translation: James, Lorraine and Heidi Gray Front Couver: André Lefebvre / www.creativeforge.org Illustration section 1: "Jesus and the lamb", Katherine Brown / www.askart.com Illustration section 2: "Jars of clay", Rik Berry / www. rikberry.com Illustration section 3: "Esther", Bernard Racicot / www.bernardracicot.ca Illustration section 4: "Cup of cold water", Rik Berry / www.rikberry.com Illustrations from "A Closer Look": Martial Maltais /[email protected] Legal Deposit(French version): National Library of Québec 2007 Legal Deposit(French version): National Library of Canada 2007 ISBN (French version) 978-2-923296-02-9 Published in Canada Forward I grew up in a farming village in North-Eastern Quebec. My parents adopted me when I was three months old. I had been placed in an orphanage, born to a single mother from Three Rivers, an unwanted pregnancy. Mederic and Albertine weren't wealthy, but they loved each other very much. The small vil- lage where they grew up, to put in plainly, was barely two steps beyond the Middle Ages. On their farm there were no automobiles, no electricity, no sophisticated sewage system, no radio or television, and no running water. They would go fetch their water in barrels pulled by oxen, the same cattle they would use for working the fields. They went to the village by horse-drawn buggy. Over the winter, my father left the farm to spend many long months in the woods working as a lumberjack. My mother and grandmother looked after the household. We weren't wealthy, but we lacked nothing, and we children laughed and played together around our large dinner table. In those days, everyone went to church. Things weren't perfect of course, but my parents believed in God, and passed their faith on to all their children. My grandfather would respectfully take off his hat as he stood in his field and asked God's blessing on the crop he had just sown; just as his father had done, and his father before that. Each night after supper, the family would kneel in the kitchen to pray. Before going to bed, Father would kneel again beside his bed, sometimes for a long time. When I was alone with him, he would talk to me about God. He would tell me never to forget to thank Jesus for his good- ness to us. My father always remained true to his beliefs until the day he died. I was fourteen years old when he passed away. The loss of my father disturbed me greatly. Prior to that, I had always attended church regularly, and had even been a choir boy at one time. When I was nine, I remember waking up very early to attend morning mass before going to school. In those days, the priest said the mass in Latin. In my young mind, I didn't understand all of the rituals and such, but I was captivated by the ornate paintings and artwork that deco- rated the interior of the church, depicting the life of Jesus. As I gazed at them, I sensed the presence of God. 3 I went to confession regularly, like all the other schoolchildren. The aging priest, who was slightly hard of hearing, would have to ask us to repeat all our wrongdoings so loudly that we feared our classmates, who were just outside waiting their turn, would be overhearing it all. We all found this quite funny, and of course often joked about it amongst ourselves. I have many cherished memories of my younger years and always kept my deep desire to know God. As a teen, my interest in the church began to wane. There were no Christian activities other than mass to feed my faith. My family eventually left the farm to move into town, and modern life was very attractive to me in many ways. I quickly became caught up with 'Beatle mania' and the whole "Rolling Stones fever". A few months after my father's death, I decid- ed to quit school, and by the age of sixteen, I was smoking hashish with a girlfriend on the beaches of Morocco. What followed were many years of disappointments that I deeply regret today. The concept of "peace and love" was never able to give me back that indescrib- able feeling I had during my childhood years as I spoke to Jesus. What's more, because of the books I was reading at that time, I had completely turned against Christianity. Jesus became just another "Guru" among many others, and I lost all interest in communicating with him. Fortunately, during a trip I took to Kansas City, I met two protestant Christians whose testimonies upset all my thinking. These two young men were very committed to their faith, and also to the needs in the community. These two fellows struck me as decent, honest guys, and I knew they didn't belong to a cult of any sort. They never even tried to get me to go to their church. They simply sought to tell me that Jesus is alive today, and able to do work in my life if I merely invited him to share in it with me. A few hours later, as I sat alone in my van, I decided to say a little prayer to Jesus. It wasn't a very long prayer. I simply asked that if he really existed, he show himself to me and come be part of my life. He heard my prayer. Instantly, I felt the presence of God all around me. I can't quite put it into words, but I knew beyond all doubt that Jesus was real, and that he knew me completely. It even felt as though he spoke my name. I broke down in tears. I could tangibly feel the love and forgiveness of God being poured into me. He did not scold me in spite of my not paying him any notice whatsoever for all those years. All I felt was a sudden conviction with regards to the kind of life I was leading. 4 From that moment onwards, I was never the same. I had been reborn. I had rediscovered Jesus and would never leave him again. I began to have an unquenchable spiritual thirst, and a desire to read and understand the bible. Even my manner of speaking changed. I had been in the habit of "cursing like a sailor", but was suddenly no longer able to blaspheme using the Lord's name. I had fallen in love with Jesus, and the honeymoon still continues after thirty four years. Following this, I returned to Quebec, was married and had four beautiful children. When we arrived in Montreal, we joined a small Protestant Evangelical church on Woodland Street in the city of Verdun. The pastor and his wife were very warm, simple people. They welcomed us joyfully, in spite of our hippie ways and appearance, which were not easy things for the rest of the members of the church to accept. Over time, our morals adjusted gradually to those of the Gospel, and all was fine. I thank the Lord for having directed me to that little church where I was able to discover the importance of studying the bible, and the joy of sharing my faith with other believers. At that time, we were witnessing a sharp decline in attendance at Roman Catholic mass in this province, which made me very happy back then since I was convinced that the Protestants were going to save Quebec. Towards the end of the 70's, the French Protestant church experi- enced a significant period of growth in this province. Many little churches were started in many cities. Of course, God was moving, and the most adequate means available at that time for him to work through were these groups where it seemed the Gospel was shared the most freely. Near the end of the 70s, I joined a youth movement that did evangelism in schools using theater and drama. We performed for full auditoriums on many occasions. Students were deeply touched by the gospel message being presented to them in such a colorful artistic way. Then, I signed up for a four-year program to get my Degree in Theology, which I completed successfully. I worked as a pastor for a period of eight years and as the director of a small publishing house for ten years. mn In 1997, my entire world turned upside-down. I was confronted with the most difficult trial of my life: the suicide of my oldest child, my nineteen-year-old son. His death left a huge gaping wound in my heart that was very slow to heal. I believe the scar from it is still visible today, but I am able to touch it now without it being too painful to bear. 5 Writing a book in which I was able to express my pain proved very beneficial for me. However, to externalize my suffering in this way was near-impossible to me. It was only through virtual "thrusts of the soul" that I was able to draw it out… often very awkwardly. God was the chief element in my healing process. The next thing I needed to do was to begin to take small steps in the right direction.

Load more

  495

Copy Link