I am a born-again Christian. Before
you run for the hills, take a moment to read. I have some insights to share
with you.
I grew up in the Methodist Church in
the mountains of NC. I frequented church suppers with my granny and I went to
Bible school. My friends were old time Baptists, and I would frequently go to
church with them, and tense up during a service filled with hell fire and
brimstone. One time a lady in front of me got the Holy Spirit and started
shrieking as loud as she could. She flew up out of her seat like something had
bitten her on the behind. She scared the living daylights out of me and I
yelled out. So people thought I had the spirit too. Boy, was I glad when that
service was over. I was prayed over like I have never been. And I faked that I
had the Holy Spirit because I was afraid of what would happen if they knew
otherwise. Visions of fire and brimstone kept going through my head.
I lived across the street from the
Catholic Church, and I thought this was a really cool church. I would look out
of my window and watch the nuns in their black and white habits, and I used to
pretend I was a nun too. They seemed so mysterious to me. One day they came to
my house and invited me to vacation Bible school at their church. I was so
excited! I went every day for a week, and had a good time. On the final day we
were to have a little test to see if we had learned anything. The ones who
passed the test received a beautiful little prayer book. Well, the test was to
name the ten commandments....in order. I was fairly sure that I could name
them, but naming them in order left a bit of doubt in my mind. I was the third
person in line, so I figured that by the time they got to me, surely I would
know them just from listening to the others. So I sat and listened intently. I
watched each child hold out his hand and proudly receive his prayer book. When
I was finished, I was confident that I had named them all correctly. The nun
asked me to hold out my hand. I smiled and opened it for her. WHACK! Right down
onto my hand with a wooden ruler. It turns out that I had gotten the fourth and
fifth commandments out of order. I went home with my pride wounded and my view
of the nuns a bit tarnished. I never wanted to be Catholic again after that.
So I continued to go to the
Methodist Church. I truthfully never got that much out of it. I would
constantly look at my watch to see when it would be over. Sometimes I would go
back to the Baptist Church with my friends, and it didn't seem so bad since I
knew what to expect. And one thing was for sure. I surely did not go to sleep
in there, with people jumping and shouting. Goodness knows what would happen to
a person who fell asleep.
The Baptists were different than the
Methodist in that at the end of every service they had an alter call. The
preacher would talk about how you needed to get saved. Then he would explain
how you needed to ask God to forgive your sins and ask Jesus to come into your
heart. And then the music would start playing "Just As I Am". And as
the music softly played he would say, "Do you feel the Lord speaking to
your heart tonight? If you do, you better listen. You better answer the Lord's
call. Hell-fire waits for the ones who don't answer." Now, for me, this
was a lot of pressure. I mean, how was I to know if I was hearing the Lord?
Because my own voice could be telling me to go to the altar if I thought it
would keep me from the fires of Hell. So I would sit there and listen and
bargain with God in all kinds of strange ways. In my mind, I would think
something like this:
"God....if it is You talking to
me and if You want me to go to the altar call, then let the lady in front of me
rise up out of her seat and shout ' AMEN!" So I would wait, and nothing
would happen. Then I would say, "Well, if You want me to come up there,
then let me get a cramp in my leg so I have to stand up on it....and then I
will know." Again, nothing happened. So I would go home thinking that God
wanted some others a bit more than me that night. In a way, I was relieved. But
in a way, I felt like I was missing out on something.
It didn't help that my best friend
in the world was the daughter of the Methodist minister. I would go to her
house and visit almost every day. And the difference in her family and my
family was like night and day. They all seemed so happy and considerate of each
other. At dinnertime, they had a family devotion and prayer at the table in
which everyone participated and actually liked it. Nobody ever said bad words.
Everyone seemed to get along. Without going into detail, let me say that my
house was the exact opposite. At my house, we prayed on Thanksgiving Day, and
that was the ONLY day. If you heard God's name in my house at any other time,
it was not in a very pleasant manner.
When I was a teenager, my friend's
father was moved to another conference area, and I no longer had that positive
influence in my life. I was so sad she had moved. My life seemed to spiral
downhill, and right when I was entering my teenage years.
I began studying the occult. I
listened to heavy metal bands. I plastered posters all over my wall and I would
sit in my room for hours burning candles and black lights, meditating. My poor
granny thought I had lost my mind. My parents fought and drank. I withdrew
deeper and deeper into my own little world. I began shoplifting music from the
store. My parents began drinking heavily. My father began to sexually molest me.
I began turning boy-crazy, and looked anywhere I could for the love I was
missing at home. I became a food addict as well, trying to fill that emptiness
inside of me. I still went to church, but only to please my granny...and to
flirt with boys.
One day I was walking up on the hill
behind our house. It was a really beautiful place. You could see the Blue Ridge
mountains rising up in the distance. The hill itself was a big soft meadow with
wildflowers growing. I would go there to think or to rage or to cry. On this
one particular day, while on that hill....I heard voice speak to my heart. I
wasn't looking for this voice or asking for it in any way. I was just feeling
so much pain. And I knew that this was the voice of God speaking to me. And He
was telling me that He was there to fill my emptiness if I would only let Him.
So I put my face into the soft earth and asked God through my tears to forgive
me for trying to worship Satan...and for the shoplifting...and for all of the
wrongs I had done. And I asked Him into my heart. I felt a peace flood over me
like I have never known before.
And this was the beginning of my
Christian walk.
Photo by Cheryl A Williams.
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