From the Beginning

I keep thinking about something, so the best thing for me to do is write about it. I can organize my thoughts as I type--while I can't seem to do so on paper. It's very frustrating for me. I wish that I could just keep a notepad with me at all times. That way as thoughts come I could immediately write them down. However, I seem to need a laptop. I can only compose via computer.

So, today I kept thinking about my life — my past, specifically, but not my recent past or even my past from a few years ago. No, I've been thinking all day of my past, which was a long, long time ago. I'm not sure how much I should share. I'm not sure if what I share will hurt others. So how do I tell you something without crossing a boundary? And you know how we psychology types are about crossing boundaries! It's hard for us; we battle internal battles. We talk to ourselves and weigh each thought — running the sentences through our minds — will this hurt them? Will that be too much? Can I disguise it somehow?  

So, how do I tell you how it all began? How do I explain the before-and-after?  I guess all I can do is try. And then I'll read it back to myself, make adjustments, and hope it all makes sense in the end. That you somehow get the gist of what I am telling you. I hope it makes sense, and I pray that it does not offend. It is never my intention to offend, only to share my life--from the beginning.

When I was 6 years old, my life changed dramatically. My parents became Christians in the truest sense of the word. They became followers of Jesus Christ. They made the decision to accept Him into their hearts, and go to church and read the Bible, and that's where my story should begin, but it doesn't. My story begins at birth (well everybody's does I guess)  and after that, it begins with what I remember and I remember a lot. Everything, really, mostly--from the age of 2. I was a very observant little girl, always silently watching. And what I saw and lived through wasn't fun or normal. Without encroaching on my parents' privacy, let's just say that my father drank a lot and he gambled, and that my parents fought viciously.  No other details are necessary. Just believe me when I say that God did not live in our home. Not in any way.

I was a very frightened little girl. There were many nights when I wondered if I would get something to eat, if the lights would work, or if we would have running water. I knew that sometimes my dad did not have a job, and sometimes my mother did.  To be blunt, and very honest--I hated the first 6 years of my life. They were very unsettling for me. In adult terms, they made me nervous. Always jumpy and unsure. Disconcerting. 6 years of fear. I have to be honest, I have to say it. It was horrible. And yes, there was so much fear locked up inside of me that I wondered how I would survive. I know I sound like a drama queen here, but you weren't there; I was.

And then one day, my parents started going to church. There is a long, complicated story about how that happened, but it is their story, not mine. I am only sharing mine — for now. As a 6-year-old, I wasn't at all sure what that whole church thing was all about. Church? Stories? Songs? Crafts? More church? 
I remember thinking--I guess I could get used to this stuff, after all, it was kind of fun. However, I wasn't sure I could get used to the difference at home. I'm not sure if I sat there scratching my head at 6 years old, but I do remember wondering — what's going on? Why aren't they yelling, hitting, fighting, screaming, and hating? And just who is this God person?

Her name was Mamie. That's what she told us to call her anyway. She taught the 1st grade Sunday school class at the church we were now attending as a family. I was painfully shy, so during story time she'd let me sit on her lap while she read the stories about Jesus and others in the Bible. I felt so safe with her, and one day, as she was talking about Jesus, she said that He could come and live in your heart.   And that He would take away all the pain and fear--that I'm sure she saw that in my eyes--I just knew that I had to meet this Jesus. She prayed with me that Sunday morning, and from then on, Jesus has lived in my heart, and I have served God.  I became a Christian that day. I can close my eyes and still picture that moment vividly in my mind.  The day I met God, the day He became my real father.  The day my life went from hell to heaven, with just one prayer. And now 50 years later, nothing has changed. He lives in me.

I've heard people say it's too hard to be a Christian. Really? Tell that to a 6-year-old. There isn't one complicated thing about it. It's simple.  And that's how it was for me from the beginning. Simple, easy, holy, fearless, loving, awesome, safe, and sweet--a sweet life from the beginning--after I met God.