Tuesday, January 11, 2022 My Story, Part 1

As I wrote earlier, I wanted to take some time this year to tell the story of how I came to faith in Christ – the truest story I can tell. So here is the first installment.

Our first meeting was not propitious. At least it wasn’t for me. He was the subject of a painting in the entryway of the church, and I was the timid girl who had to pass by Him week after week. It was one of those paintings in which the eyes of the subject on canvas seem to follow you as you move. How do artists do that, anyway? It’s really creepy. At least it was for me. But I was only three or four years old, maybe five. My mother was the church organist – or was she the church choir director? – so this was the church we went to at the time. I have vague memories of being taken down to the basement of the church for Sunday School lessons. No doubt someone was trying to impart some scriptural truths to us, but I do not remember any of it. My lasting memory was of running past that painting of Jesus as fast as I could. I did not like Him looking at me, His eyes following me. I did not know that you cannot run from God’s gaze as easily as you can run from a painting.

An atheist is one who denies the existence of God, or of any kind of deity. I have heard it said that an atheist has two primary tenets:
1. There is no God.
2. I hate him.

Ha ha! Let me just state for the record that I was never an atheist. All through childhood if you had asked me if there was a God, I would have probably looked at you blankly, but I had an instinctual sense that there was someone to cry out to in times of trouble, the kinds of trouble that a young person in my relatively safe universe encountered. I would make silent pleadings to whomever might be listening when I was frightened, when I was late for the bus and didn’t want to miss it, when I desperately wanted to win someone’s favor or attention, when I was confused and/or lost. I didn’t know if anyone was listening, but I wanted to believe that there was an invisible someone who could be applied to in time of need that had the power to do something for me. Someone who saw me, who heard me, who knew me. And when I lied or did something wrong, I also had an instinctual sense that even though no one else knew, Someone knew. This is the common grace of my conscience at work, of course, but our consciences are created things, part of the way God made us. We ignore them to our peril.

The extent of religion in our home was that of singing grace before supper. “For health and strength and daily food, we give Thee thanks, O Lord.” We were a musical family and sang it as a round, which was fun. I don’t remember the Bible ever being read or talked about, but my parents were very moral people and certainly taught us the difference between right and wrong. I didn’t know anyone else that talked about religious things, either, until third grade at the elementary school. Enter Sharon Stendal, a new girl that it turned out was just back in the United States for a year while her parents were taking a year sabbatical from their missionary work in Bogota, Colombia. Sharon spoke to me quite openly about faith in Jesus Christ, but in quiet, natural ways – it was just a part of her life. I didn’t pay much attention to it, actually, but something must have sunk in, since I’ve never forgotten her. She and I were very close friends – what a sorrow it was for me to say goodbye to her at the end of the year. We promised to write to each other and I think a letter or two did go back and forth between us. I wish I still had those letters; I wish we had not lost touch.

Our family changed churches when my mother got a job directing the choir at a different church. I got my first Bible there, given to me by Reverend Conover, for learning all the books in the Bible. He had a funny joke that he used to use on all of the kids – he’d ask us to find the book of Hepzibah and then he’d slap his knee and laugh, for there was no such book. I didn’t place much value in that Bible, but later on, it became important, which just goes to show you that God never lets His Word return to Him empty.

When I was in fourth or fifth grade there, I unfortunately got swept up in what was called “Confirmation Class.” To say that I hated it would be an understatement. I didn’t know any of the kids at this church – they were in a completely different school district – and from my perspective, they were a very close-knit clique-y group. I felt excluded and being naturally very shy, I didn’t try very hard to fit in. I had no interest in the content of the class, either. Then Lori G. came along, another misfit. She befriended me and quickly persuaded me that neither of us need suffer the tortures of Confirmation Class any longer. She had done some reconnaissance and discovered that the nursery was not in use during our class time. We hatched our wicked plan and carried it out: each week we’d meet in the hallway outside the class and then make our way surreptitiously to the nursery where we’d shut ourselves in and play quietly. At the end of class time, we’d go and meet our parents and nobody suspected a thing. Ah, those were fun times. My conscience bothered me a little at this hooky playing – I was an inveterate rule follower – but Lori was made of bolder stuff and it was easy for me to ride the Hooky Train with her at the controls.

We went on in this way for weeks, but inevitably the teacher took note of our continued absence, made some inquiries, and we were found out, much to our dismay. We had to slink back into class as known law-breakers. My mother asked me about it later at home, perplexed at this uncharacteristic behavior. I still remember the conversation – we were in my Mom and Dad’s bedroom. I told her how much I hated the class, I cried and begged her not to make me go to it. “Please, please don’t make me go!” What would you have done if you’d been her? To my surprise, she gave in and I was given a glorious reprieve. Oh, happy day! Looking back, I realize now that she didn’t put a whole lot of stock in the whole religion thing and was probably very sympathetic to my feelings. I was done with God for the time being.

But God wasn’t done with me yet, not by a long shot.