Among Nations Bewildered
It is early March in 2026, and I am hunting for Bed & Breakfast rentals in Mena, Arkansas, for Easter weekend of 2027. It is two in the morning. I have to be strategic. I have less than $2 in each of my two bank accounts, so I have to find places that allow me to book for free and pay at check-in. Mena is not a big town. It’s not even a small town. It’s a tiny town. Its Wikipedia page claims it has fewer than six thousand residents. It was built as a through town for the railway and was named after the affectionate nickname of a wife of one of the town’s financiers: Mena. The town has been through reincorporation, big-time drug lords at war with the CIA, and a devastating tornado outbreak in 2009.
In other open tabs, I had websites with several white linen dresses pulled up; all ankle-length and shoulder-covering. But somewhere I read that I needed to wear dark clothes to protect my modesty, so I started looking up black dresses. Those somehow felt wrong to me. I couldn’t imagine being saved in a black dress. “No,” I thought, “That’s what Spanx are for.” Even if it meant being shoved into an uncomfortable body suit, then so be it. Everything had to be perfect for my baptism. Jesus tells us not to worry about the body or our clothes, that God will take care of us. Apparently, for me, normal Western beauty standards still applied to my salvation.
There used to be a Christian book store (or maybe it was an art installation, I could never quite tell) next to my school in downtown Tacoma that had a big hand-painted sign on the window that said “Christ Died for Your Savings!” and another that read, “33% off 3 books or more!” It seems that late-stage capitalism came for Jesus in the same way it has come for everyone else. It’s disappointing to know that Christ died for my savings, when I thought he died for my sins.
At thirty-six years old, I found God, or rather, God found me. I am still new to Him. It feels like courting a new relationship. His word has been whispering to me for years, but since I was fifteen, God had called upon me in different ways, and it was after my grandfather died that I knocked on His door and He answered.
My favorite Gospel is a two-volume collection called The Gospel of Luke-Acts, written circa 80-90 AD, so somewhere around 40-50 years after the death of Christ. I respect it for its historical analysis of Christ’s life. Luke covers the birth, ministry, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Christ is a title, meaning King. It’s not Jesus’ last name, which is what I thought for a lot longer than I’m willing to admit. His common name was Jesus of Nazareth, named for the town he grew up in, in Galilee (modern-day Northern Israel), though he was born in Bethlehem (modern-day Palestine; now destroyed), and he lived for a time as a child in Egypt. He was often called “The Nazarene.” Something to ground us all in the history and situation of the world of messianic prophets back in 100 AD is that there were, well, a lot of them.
According to Biblical scholar Reza Aslan, who wrote Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth, this culture was so compelling that it became a “caricature,” says Aslan, to the Roman Empire. Though some purported messiahs amassed meagre to medium-sized followings, all of them were assassinated by the Roman Empire, and none of them had teachings with any staying power.
So what made this peasant from Nazareth—who preached with the unclean, who wasn’t afraid to break bread with sex workers or touch the skin of lepers—have two thousand years of staying power? The simple utterance of the phrase “Today you listen, this Scripture has been fulfilled.” (Luke 4:20) marked him as the Son of God, both man and divine, revealing that he was fulfilling the messianic prophecy of Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible. Much, if not all, of Jesus’ life would come to line up with the prophecies foretold by Isaiah, Elijah, and God’s covenants with Abraham, Isaac, Moses, and the Kingdom of David. The Gospel of Matthew begins with Jesus’ ancestral line, meant to showcase that he is a direct descendant of David, creating the first clear path for his claim to the throne of Jerusalem.
Yet the word is not the life we live. It is only one part of the religion that is now known today as Christianity. Humanity has built some of the most beautiful cathedrals and created some of the most esteemed art in worship of Christ. We have also fought some of the bloodiest wars, brutally colonized, and committed horrific genocides in His name. All of this has been backed up by the word of the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament—witness testimony of a few men canonically linked from two thousand years ago and, except for Luke, not the actual authors whose names are penned. What is the Bible, and who is Jesus Christ? For that answer, I suggest picking up your own copy and drawing your own conclusions. My understanding of scripture and my relationship with God regarding this story are wholly my own.
***
A month or so before I was looking for B&Bs in Arkansas, I was experiencing one of the most tragic and transformative moments of my life. I was watching my beloved grandfather dying in a hospice house in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.
Watching someone you love die is earth-shattering, but it is also a curious experience. A new bond is formed if you allow it. I timidly sat next to my grandfather, my Papa, as I called him, and met him anew as a person who was sedated and would never again awaken. I talked to him in a calm, hushed tone. I made sure he was warm. Any time his blanket slipped off a foot, or off his hands or shoulders, I would immediately fix it so it covered him again. It became about preserving his dignity and keeping him comfortable. The hard choices were over. The soft choices could make themselves known.
Shepherding a loved one into death takes courage from both the living and the dying. The living must muster up the courage to see their loved ones cross the path and take their final breaths. The dying must decide to leave this world, and all their loved ones, behind. The hospice nurses kept telling me, “Hearing is the last thing to go.” So I talked to him and kept my voice calm and measured. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. It felt an odd sensation to do so. But I did something unusual for me: I prayed.
I remembered the last time I really prayed like that. A friend of mine down in New Orleans had a girlfriend who went missing. I walked over to St. Patrick’s Catholic Church on J Street in North Tacoma, and I prayed so hard that I didn’t have words in my head to pray anymore.
I wasn’t praying for Papa to get better. I was praying for safe transport. I was praying for him to meet Jesus, though he was a strong Christian man who read his Bible every day and prayed each night and at each meal, so I knew he would. What was strange was that I was praying for God to give me strength. I was asking a God I didn’t know I believed in to give me strength when I felt weak. This is where that courage part comes in. I began looking around for Papa’s Bible. He carried it with him everywhere. It was a staple of his. I couldn’t see it. My dad assured me it was listed among his belongings and locked away for safekeeping. But I couldn’t help but feel like the room had grown three times its size without it. Everything suddenly felt empty. Every side conversation was TV static. God was missing in that room, and I could feel the empty space.
I wasn’t there when Papa took his final breath. I am still angry about that. He stopped breathing at 1:40 am on February 7, 2026. I was asleep at the Airbnb. Before I left him, I told him how much I loved him and thanked him for giving me a beautiful life. My tears fell into his beard. His mouth was open and wouldn’t shut. His breathing pattern was what is often called the “death rattle.” He looked calm, peaceful. The only thing missing was the light behind his light blue eyes, which were now closed. He was Papa to the very end. He died surrounded by family, which was most important to him.
***
“Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matthew 7:7-8)
In the early hours of February 7th, my mother knocked on my bedroom door with a package in hand. It was Papa’s Bible. I was exhausted, elated, and taken aback that I could deserve to receive it. I felt I was receiving a gift of his life that was a key to his soul. I waited until the drive back to Tacoma to open it up, as it was protected in a soft-cover worship case. I felt as if I was staring into an artefact of my grandfather, who was gone, but it didn’t quite seem real yet. His Bible is like his diary–but more than that, it was his lifeblood. I had asked, I had sought, I had knocked—and someone had answered.
Some things I found inside upon opening:
The program from his mother’s funeral, my great-grandmother Lois, and her obituary.
The program from my uncle Jimmy’s funeral, Papa’s son, who died at age 42 from a brain aneurysm
Various programs from the funerals of friends from over the years in both Mena, Arkansas, and Coeur d’Alene, Idaho
Pictures and Christmas cards from families I did not know, who I wondered if they knew of his passing
Various bookmarks with prayers written on them, unclear if they were ever used or just given as gifts
A yellow highlighter for highlighting Bible verses
Page flags for flagging important verses
I thought that if I had all the pieces, I could put the man back together. My own Bible study was influenced by his. I was gifted my own Bible by my father (gifted is a loose term here; I just couldn’t afford to buy one), so I could start reading and studying on my own.
Once, as a young girl, I was playing at a friend’s house, and we found a dead bird with a broken neck. It was likely the bird had flown into the house and died. We decided to bury the bird and give it a proper send-off to the heavens, where it flew every day. With a shoebox casket and a Holy Bible, we dug a grave and gently put the shoebox inside. Then, neither of us knowing what to do next, we opened the Bible and started reading from Genesis 1:1, Creation. When it got to the point where neither of us, maybe nine years old or so, could understand what we were reading, we threw dirt over the grave, said a prayer, and left the bird in its shoebox casket to reunite with its bird family in God’s Kingdom.
When I started studying the Bible on my own, I felt like that little girl again. I started with Genesis 1:1: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” And soon arrived the names that sounded like dietary supplements–Methuselah being my favorite so far. No shade to Methuselah, but going from agnostic to a fledgling believer presented moments of comedy and clarity that were refreshing for my soul.
There was a stretch of two weeks when I read The Bible up to four hours a day. I felt a pressure to understand everything my grandfather did, everything he had years of trial and error to understand himself. I realized quickly that this practice wasn’t healthy or sustainable. Papa read his Bible for up to an hour a day. He made a famous (I do not use that term lightly) calendar for others to use to break up parts of The Bible and read it cover to cover in one year.
***
James Roger Zeorlin, known to his friends as “Jimmy Z” was born August 23rd, 1937, in Spokane, Washington, to Lois and Ralph Zeorlin. I’ll admit, it’s quite difficult to write this and not make it sound like an obituary. So, what can I say about my Papa that was not said in his obituary? Papa was smart as a whip. He could sell you the shirt off your back. He had a big, bushy red beard that made him a popular favorite to dress up as Santa Claus around the holidays. My sister and I were his first grandchildren, and as my mom puts it, we got “the best years,” as he and his Marine buddies, Jim and Bob, were staples at all of our birthday parties, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and more. I remember every time I went to Papa’s house, he always had jazz playing, and I now wonder if that’s really where I nested my love of jazz from. My dad recently told me that he loved Dave Brubeck, so we put on Take Five and just listened.
Jimmy Z was known for his larger-than-life personality. He was a staple in the Tacoma community for years. He perfected a salmon chowder recipe that could feed hundreds. He worked with local organizations like Relay for Life and the March of Dimes to feed volunteers and participants during large charity events. He was also well-known for his position as Parade Director for Seattle’s annual Memorial Day Parade. He had white coveralls made up for himself and his team, all embroidered with their names, their title, and the parade’s logo on the back. They walked around with matching white hard hats. I had the chance to see his Parade Director suit after his death, and I understood why everyone called him a “Ghostbuster.”
Papa could build anything. From a picnic bench to an entire church, if you gave him the materials, he would build it for you. He was at Habitat for Humanity in Tacoma every weekend, so much so that the local homeowners developed a nickname for him, “Crazy Jim,” because of how quickly he could put up a home built on a solid foundation. I used to drive around Tacoma with him, and he would point out all the homes he built to me. He once built homes with President Jimmy Carter, and he was awfully proud about that.
***
Papa built the church in which he was baptized. Located in Spanaway, Washington, the grey, medium-sized church still stands off of Highway 7, and I remember the day we went to see him be baptized. He was dressed in an all-white linen tunic and white linen pants. He gave a short speech beforehand, a “testimony” as it’s known in the church, and was given the baptismal procedures by the pastor. He was then fully immersed in a large tub of holy water. His head was held underneath for a moment or two while the pastor prayed, and when he came up, he was something glorious, someone new. I must have been eleven or so at the time, but I remember that moment with crystal clarity. Papa was in his late sixties then. He came to faith late in life, and on that day, he was saved.
I think of Matthew 3:13-17 when Jesus asks John the Baptist to baptize him. John is initially caught off guard, wondering why the Messiah would not baptize John instead of the other way around. Jesus tells him “Allow it for now, because this is the way for us to fufill all righteousness.” (Matthew 3:15) I think back on my grandfather: a carpenter, who built the very church he would be baptized in. A man who had led a complicated life, but a man who came to Christ in all his imperfections on that day. I think of his linen tunic and his linen pants and of his testimony and the prayer of the pastor and his arrival as a new soul, and I think: I want that.
***
“Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6:9)
When God chose to start the world over again by flooding it with great rains for forty days and forty nights, he instructed Noah to build an ark and to take every animal, both clean and unclean, in pairs, into this ark. The animals came to Noah, so he did not have to find them. Noah and his family locked themselves inside the giant ship while the rest of the world was washed away.
In 2009, while Papa lived in Mena, Arkansas, devastating tornadoes struck the town. Like Noah, Papa started to build–or rebuild–the town. The animals came to him, symbolically. Even though FEMA denied rebuilding costs to people who had lost everything, Papa called Lowe’s, Home Depot, and other hardware companies to bring the supplies to start rebuilding the homes himself. He rebuilt homes and churches in Mena. He even developed a special construction called “high wind framing” and wrote a paper that was distributed throughout the United States. Yet here is where we come to a very important part of his story. Papa met a man, a pastor, named Ron Tilley.
***
Pastor Ron Tilley is an unassuming man with the commanding presence of a good shepherd. I was chomping at the bit to meet him at Papa’s funeral. When Papa lived with me in Tacoma, he was always on the phone with Ron Tilley. Ron Tilley, he always told me, “was just a kid,” which in Papa’s eyes could have meant anything from the age of seven to seventy. If Papa was not reading his Bible, watching NCIS, eating Jimmy Dean sandwiches, telling stories about his days in the Marines, he was doing one thing: talking with Ron Tilley.
Pator Tilley, a man in his 50s, flew from Mena, Arkansas, to lead the funeral ceremony for James “Jim” Zeorlin on February 28th, 2026, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The funeral included speakers, singers, the presentation of an honor flag for Jim’s military service, and a full 21-gun salute. The night before, my sister, mother, aunt, and I went through hundreds of photos of Papa's life and chose the best ones to create large photo boards for the ceremony. He was a man who loved a lot. He was a man who lost a lot. Most importantly, he was a man who lived. He left an indelible mark on this world, not just through the buildings he built, but through the eight children he fathered, the sixteen grandchildren he loved, and the two great-grandchildren that he still showed up for.
Jim Zeorlin was not a perfect man. He was not a perfect Christian. What I have learned from reading his Bible is that even though we aren’t perfect, we can find resonance in stories and scripture, and we can always strive to be better people. That is the lasting legacy that my grandfather has taught me. God will always have a place for us in His heart. Pastor Tilley said the day of the funeral that when Papa took his last breath on Earth, he took his next breath with Jesus. This, I believe.
After the funeral was over, I nervously approached Pastor Tilley with tears in my eyes. I said to him, “I think this is the wrong time to do this and the wrong thing to say, and this sounds like such a big ask, but Pastor Tilley, I was wondering if I could fly down to Mena to be baptized by you?”
He welcomed me with open arms. His wife, Amy, told me, “Remember, when it comes to your faith, nothing is too big an ask.”
