Der Ungläubige (The Infidel)

The Evangelists vs The Doubter: Destination, Davos Switzerland

Vintage Postcard of Davos Switzerland

What does it mean to be “Saved”?  In the Winter of 1977, my older sister April and her merry band of Born-Again’s would try their damndest to do so to me while we lived in Cold War Era Germany as a US Army family of five. Their evangelistic attempt involved going on a forced skiing trip to the picturesque town, of Davos Switzerland.

 Our church catechism classes kept speaking of “God’s Plan.” I did not buy into this idea whole-heartedly, but was also at a loss for what was moving the Universe in the favor of some and the misery of others. How could some people be “blessed” and others “cursed”? We were living on a land where the Jewish people during the Holocaust--God’s Chosen People--had almost been wiped off the face of the Earth. Was this part of God’s Plan?

Mom shared that, “the whole God’s Plan thing is a product of Vatican II. I was schooled in the idea of free will. People are flawed, Mare. We can only do what we can do.”

What was this supposed to mean? Who was going to answer all these questions for me?

April (my older sister) took it upon herself to “enlighten” me as often as she could. She was a force, and Mom had decided that her influence was one I could use. This force was made stronger by her involvement in a school group called “Agape.”

It was explained to me by April that it meant “Friendship Love.” Hmmm…why do we need a group for this? I soon came to understand that a major requirement of the members was to go out and recruit others.

I guess I fit the bill as someone who benefited from their saving, as Mom was totally on board with me investing some time with them. I did not particularly gravitate towards those people at school, or in April’s case, at home, so what made anyone think I would benefit by spending more time with them outside of school?

An Agape-sponsored ski trip to Davos, Switzerland seemed like the perfect compromise. I had never been skiing and was pretty sure there would be no time for holy rolling.

In preparation for the trip, Mom suggested that we borrow ski goggles from the  gorgeous Motsko boys, who were heavy into skiing. This seemed like a marvelous reason to go to their house! I volunteered to go over and get the requisite goggles.

Nick showed up at the door, goggles in hand and said, “Don’t crash into any trees” with a wry, fabulous smile punctuated by his bushy, brown mustache.

“I’ll try not to.” That was it. That was all I said. Why was I so tongue-tied around boys? I didn’t have time to debate this with myself, as I had ski trip to do. April had a stylish, waist-length ski jacket. I had my bulky, cover your butt, purple down jacket. One of us looked trés chic and the other like The Michelin Man.

With no ski helmets back then, the topper for my head was a scratchy wool hat that visually elongated my head more than it already was. April had a wool beany that fit her head perfectly. She gave me strict instructions for how I was to behave on this trip.

“Although we will be skiing, we are joining in fellowship to celebrate the love of Christ. You are not there to scope out boys. You are there to learn and live the word of God.”

Yeah, right. You go ahead and tell yourself that. How is a ski trip learning and living the word of God? I really didn’t care and was just glad to be going somewhere in the middle of winter-almost-spring.

Enter the snow-covered Swiss Alps, wooden chalets, quaint streets dotted with cafes, and the trip was looking up for me. Our group stayed in a small mountainside cottage where April and I shared a teeny tiny bedroom. I was just glad I didn’t have to sleep with people I hardly knew. April was irritating but a known irritant. I could deal with that for a day and a couple of nights.

Mom had packed us a classic Sylvia McKnight lunch with gobs of food and drink lest we get hungry. It was only a two-night trip, or so it was in terms of actual time. The hand-holding prayers at the communal dining table was cringe-inducing and time stopping. I did lower my head at their behest, but peered around at the others as they babbled on in thanks for the food, the trip, the mountains, the chairs,…oh my god, the food was getting cold!

One night down and it was skiing day. First came the fittings for boots and skis. I was given K2’s, which I guess were good because the other God People were oohing and ahhing. It was only because I had big feet and short legs that I was assigned these special boots and skis.

After I was all geared up, it was off to my first lesson on the Swiss equivalent of the bunny slope. I have never been too coordinated, and skiing just reinforced that. But, being a McKnight with one ski lesson complete, I was convinced that I could go to a higher part of the mountain and ski down. I had watched the Winter Olympics before, and it looked like something I could do.

Now to get up said mountain, I had to take the ski lift. I had imagined that it was going to be a chairlift like the classic winter scene skiing postcards from the 1950’s. Not so--it was a “J bar.” April briefly instructed me on the procedure, but about halfway up, my legs were getting tired from putting all my weight on them. My thigh muscles were shaking, I was sweating from every pore, and needed a break.

I soon learned that you do not sit on a J-bar, for I promptly fell over backward after doing so, tumbled down the mountain (remember, this is the Swiss Alps--not some dinky man-made hill), and finally stopped with one ski planted straight up in front of me--foot still in the bindings--and one ski planted straight up in back, with my foot still in the bindings.

Small Swiss children without ski poles whizzed by me laughing hysterically. My own sister came skiing by me, laughing with equal hysteria. They had to stop the entire ski lift to disengage me from the skis. A ski patrol guy helped me out. “Bad luck for you. Next time, don’t sit.” Thank you, Swiss Patrol Guy.

He encouraged me to go up the rest of the mountain and ski down. So, with my wounded ego and bruised and battered body, I got back on the now-functioning ski lift, and arrived at the top. April was already back at the top of the mountain, ready for another run.

I was feeling a bit more confident, snow-plowing pigeon-toed down the mountain and suddenly gaining speed that I was not ready for, when I came to a bump (a mogul, unbeknownst to me) which sent me flying into yet another sprawl. Same damn Swiss kids laughing at me again. The only reason my sister wasn’t laughing was because she was way ahead of me.

Another ski patrol guy dislodged me and told me to “Watch for the moguls.” I had no idea what he was talking about--thinking he was perhaps  referencing   rich oil barons, and nodded my head and smiled my best smile.

Down the mountain I went again. I encountered yet another “bump,” only this time as I was tumbling, everything turned WHITE! I could not see four inches ahead of me. This was not the relaxing “swish, swish” down the mountain I had imagined.

People kept on skiing. I figured they were implanted with some kind of Swiss sonar that I was not privy to. April came up and said, “Oh, watch out for the moguls.” “What the hell is a mogul!!!!????” Once the “white out” cleared, I made it down the mountain, avoiding the bumps and the jeering Swiss kids, to spend the rest of the day in the lodge.

That night, I slept as deeply as I had ever slept--exhausted physically and mentally. I did manage to escape the Bible meeting that night, as I was limping and bruised from head to toe. I’m sure they prayed for the “bumbling heathen” as I slept. I have not been skiing since. I wasn’t anymore “saved” than I had been pre-Agape ski trip, but I was certainly ready for more adventure.

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