I
knew as soon as I walked into that crowded church basement
that I didn’t belong. I could tell by the smiles on their
faces, the tone of their voices, that these weren’t my kind
of people; this wasn’t my kind of crowd. These were the
Shining Ones that, by comparison, made me appear even
darker than I already felt. But I was stuck. The friends I
had come with had disappeared and I had no way to get home
without them. So I stayed.
I had been raised in church but not this kind of church. My
religion was all about rules – rules I couldn’t keep no
matter how hard I tried. When I left home at 18 I turned my
back on religion, wanting freedom from the crushing weight
of guilt and the certain knowledge that I could never
measure up. Although I avoided church, I couldn’t escape
the guilt. My shame accumulated as I continued to make more
poor choices.
So what in the world was I doing at a Christian crusade?
Simply put, I had nothing better to do. My roomies enticed
me with promises of food and fun. For free! What
impoverished college kid could resist that? Off I went.
Seated in the stands of the arena with thousands of others
I saw various people step onto the stage. Some told their
own stories of getting saved – “From what?” I wondered, in
ignorance of the evangelical jargon – others sang about
God. The Main Event was a preacher whose message I didn’t
understand. At the end of his talk he invited people to
come to the front. Since I had lost interest and was no
longer listening I missed the details of this invitation.
You can imagine my surprise when my roomies, with tears
streaming, left their seats and made their way down to the
open area in front of the stage.
Marooned in the bleachers, I waited. But instead of
returning to “claim” me, my friends disappeared through
doors at the back for further counsel. What now? That’s
when I overheard some teens nearby say they were going to a
coffeehouse in the basement of the church across the
street. I got up and followed the crowd.
Following the crowd had become a habit. When I wanted to
make up for lack of personal attention at home, I followed
the crowd of troublemakers in school whose rowdy behavior
guaranteed they could not be ignored. When I wanted to be
more popular with boys I followed the crowd of girls who
found ways to get noticed – ways our parents did not
approve of. When I looked for answers after the unexpected
death of my 19-year-old sister and found none I followed
the crowd of those who lived for the weekend and medicated
my senses in order to get relief from the pain of life.
“At last I can eat something,” I thought with relief,
having been too rushed to eat supper. I squeezed through
the boisterous crowd toward a refreshment table. Coffee and
donuts. Nothing else. What did I expect from a
“coffeehouse”? Even though I had discovered the wonders of
caffeine during many all-nighters before university finals,
I had never developed a taste for coffee. And donuts gave
me gut pain. So much for that idea.
I sidled away from the table empty handed and darted
glances around the room -- trying to look natural,
comfortable, like I belonged. But my heart was racing and
once again I was that ungainly child who woke up one
morning in a woman’s body at age 11, feeling like a hulking
freak amid the dainty, spindly, doll-like girls in my Grade
Six class.
The inner voices hollered, “Too big, too clumsy, too brash
– you don’t fit in!” My default position had always been
toughness. Stay cool, act tough, don’t cry, don’t blush,
keep your head up, smile and nod, smile and nod, smile and
nod…I’m sure I looked like one of those wooden birds that
bobs up and down until it dips its beak into a water glass
and stalls for a moment.
After what seemed like hours but was only minutes, someone
I knew entered the room. It was Jo, the only other female
from Math class. She wasn’t exactly my type but since she
was the only girl in a room full of men we sat together. At
that moment she looked like the cavalry coming over the
hill!
“What are you doing here?” Jo asked. I had missed enough
Monday morning classes with a hangover to convince her
church wasn’t my usual hangout. “Are you a Christian?”
I had always thought I was – wasn’t every Canadian? I mean,
wasn’t this a Christian country? But I wasn’t sure anymore.
I had never seen so many people who looked like they were
partying but they had none of the elements I thought were
needed for a good party – heavy music, illegal substances,
low lighting and locked doors. These people knew something
I didn’t and I wanted to find out what it was.
“I don’t know…maybe I’m not,” I admitted. “What do you mean
by ‘Christian’?”
Jo found us seats at the corner of a crowded table and
leaned in close so she could be heard above the din. “I
grew up in a religious family and always thought I was a
Christian,” Jo began, echoing my story right from the
start. She talked about her feelings of alienation during
grade school and her fruitless search for meaning in Junior
High. I was riveted as it sounded like she was using cheat
notes from my own past.
Finding no answers to life’s painful realities she chose a
different path than I had. Instead of trying to drown her
pain by following the party crowd she did something
radical: she followed a Christian crowd and enrolled in
bible school. By the end of the first week she knew she was
not like everyone else and she wanted what they had. That’s
when she heard, for the first time, about a personal
relationship with a living God.
“What do you mean ‘personal’ relationship?” I interrupted.
“It sounds like you’re saying you can be friends with Jesus
just like we’re friends. How can you do this with someone
who has been dead for two thousand years?”
“That’s what I asked too,” Jo continued. “Let me explain
using this tract.” Taking out a small booklet she began to
go through it one page at a time, reading bible verses and
explaining their meaning.
“All have sinned,” she read. I was living proof! I nodded.
“The wages of sin are death.” I didn’t like the sound of
that.
“The free gift of God is eternal life…” Free gift? This was
news to me. I thought you had to earn your way into heaven
by being good – something I couldn’t seem to do.
“…through Jesus Christ, God’s Son, our Savior.” There was
that word “save” again.
Jo told me all I had to do was ask Jesus to come in and His
Holy Spirit would take up residence in my heart. Jesus
would give me the power to make the changes I had never
been able to make. He would walk with me – personally –
from that moment until I died and beyond, into eternal
life.
“How do I do this?” I asked, skeptical.
“You start by confessing your sin.” I knew there had to be
a catch! I hung my head, suddenly flattened. How could God
ever forgive the things I had done, the people – especially
my parents – I had wounded? Jo reached out and took my
hand. “God promises in the bible that if you confess your
sins He will forgive them. There is no sin that is too big
for God to forgive.”
Feeling the need for more privacy, Jo suggested we move.
The only place available was a dark broom closet where we
were forced by rancid mops to hold our noses and make
haste. Jo prayed and I repeated the phrases after her –
never having prayed other than a rote prayer out loud in my
life, I was uneasy and doubtful.
I said I was sorry for my life of sin and I asked for His
forgiveness. I expressed my (yet shaky) belief in the
reality of a living Savior and invited Him to come in to my
messy world. “And good luck!” I thought, but didn’t say as
Jo said “Amen.”
We stepped out of the stinky closet into a crowded foyer
and Jo immediately recognized the pastor standing nearby.
At least six foot five, he was impossible to miss. “Pastor,
I’d like to introduce you to a brand new Christian.” When I
heard Jo’s proclamation and saw the pastor who beamed at me
from his great height, something supernatural happened.
Even though, theologically speaking, the Holy Spirit had
entered the instant I invited Him, when I looked up at that
smiling preacher I “felt” that spiritual transaction. It
was as real as if a sudden gust of wind had flung wide a
poorly latched door. I was reborn. And I knew it. The tears
I had held back for so many years overwhelmed me and I
covered my face and wept.
That was November 19, 1973. And boy did things change! Did
I become sinless overnight? No. I still have plenty of room
for improvement. However, as my old friend Jack Conner used
to say, “God changed my want-er.” Once I began following
Christ, I no longer wanted to pursue those things that had
simply added to my growing burden of guilt and shame.
Many changes were instantaneous. My foul language was
replaced with outbursts of, “Praise the Lord!” That helped
clear out the last of my old friends who thought I was
nuts! New vocabulary, new haunts – I found a church and was
baptized by Henry Blackaby and every time the doors were
open, I was there. This gave me plenty of new friends, many
who were also new believers. Jo gave me a bible and studied
it with me. I learned about God and got to know Him –
personally – through His Word.
Everything Jo told me was true. Jesus is real. He is alive
today and He wants to be involved in every part of our
lives. The Holy Spirit is our personal guide and the Bible
is our guidebook. If you would like to know Jesus
personally but don’t know how, click on this link and
follow the steps.
Becoming a
believer..