Gotcha! Part 2

My re-conversion story continues . . .

One day Della, my backdoor neighbor, invited me to come with her on a weekend trip to Richmond, Virginia for a business convention.  Durham to Richmond is only about 4 hours away, and with a 15-year-old and a 2-year-old in the house, I was ready for a getaway.  In the car, Della asked me why I was an atheist.  I knew that she was a Christian, so I told her about the babies and Phillip’s death; and I braced myself for the argument that I was sure was to come.  But it didn’t.  She listened respectfully and did not try to argue with me.  Della’s stock went way up in my book.  I didn’t know that it was even possible for a Christian not to argue about matters of faith (or lack thereof).

We had a nice weekend in which I heard lots of motivational speakers in a festive atmosphere at the Richmond Civic Center.  Then on Sunday morning Della checked us out of the hotel and announced that we were going to church.  I was furious.  “Didn’t you even hear what I said in the car?” I sputtered.  As we pulled up to the Civic Center she shrugged and said, “You can stay out here if you want to.”  I looked down the street and there was nothing open, nothing to do, and no people around.  I looked the other way down the street and it was the same thing—nothing at all to do for the next 2 hours.  So I went in with her, telling myself that this would absolutely be the last time I would ever go to church as long as I lived.  The music was 1970’s gospel rock and soul that I recognized from when I first became a born-again Christian.  They were playing songs from The Imperials, Keith Green, The Bill Gaither Trio, and Andre Crouch—songs I knew and loved.

As we found our seats, I was feeling relaxed because of the music.  The Civic Center was oval shaped, with theater seats.  There was no more than an inch of space between my knees and the seat in front of me.  Della was sitting to my right.  On my left there was an empty seat and then a couple, Fred and Joanne Smith, by the aisle.  The Smiths were friends of Della’s.  The business leader was behind a podium positioned at one end of the oval to my left, which means my head was turned left (toward the empty seat) to see him.

He gave a very entry-level sermon, starting with how Jesus had fulfilled every single one of the Old Testament prophecies.  He went on to illustrate how against the odds that was by saying that it would be like covering the entire state of Texas with silver dollars, marking one, tossing it into the state at random, and having someone blindfolded find the marked silver dollar.  I had heard this before, and being from Texas, I know very well just how enormous Texas is.  See how God set things up, with the music and including Texas in the sermon?  I smugly looked around, thinking that these other people were probably hearing this for the very first time, but I already knew it.

Then he talked about how the New Testament prophecies are being fulfilled today.  I had heard this before, too, and it made me very nervous.  To be honest, I had always believed that Jesus would return to rapture the Church during my lifetime—but I didn’t know if I would be ready or not.  I started thinking about what it would be like to be left behind, and it made me tremble.  And hell?  Well, I just refused to even entertain that thought, though I was aware of it.

Then to my very great relief, he gave an altar call, and I sighed.  It’s almost over!  That’s when I felt a hand—3 fingers—touch me on the left shoulder.  With my head turned in that direction and an empty seat beside me, I can say without a doubt, it was no human hand.  That touch set off a wave of power that crossed my body and had a definite back-slosh.  It got my attention.  Then I heard as an audible voice in my head: “Get up and come on.”  In my head I argued: “But I don’t believe in You!”  Obviously, I knew whose voice it was.  The Bible says that His sheep know His voice.  He didn’t say anything else.  He didn’t have to!

What happened next, I can only imagine, is that He must have stopped time for me as I struggled with the decision.  What went on in my head was something like this:

Wow!  This is God!

But I don’t want to go back to Christianity.

This is God!

But my life would have to change. . .

He loves me!

But I don’t want to change my life.

I don’t deserve His love!  (What I kept coming back to was that love.)

If I say no to Him, He will respect it and leave me alone.  (That thought rang in my head as clear as a bell.)

But if I say no it might be my last chance ever.

And that was the thought that pushed me over the edge.  I made my decision, and amazingly, the altar call was continuing, though it seemed to me like half an hour had passed.  In my head I pointed out to God that the Smiths were between me and the aisle (remember the space was very tight).  As soon as that thought entered my head they stood up and I don’t know where they went, they just vanished.  Then I ran to the altar, hoping that I wasn’t too late because I was sure that a lot of time had passed.  There at the altar I rededicated my life to Jesus.

When I came back to my seat, Della’s face was covered in tears.

In the car on the way home, I asked Della where the Smiths had gone.  She said, “They didn’t go anywhere.”

“No!  They got up and left as soon as I decided to go to the altar.”  She repeated, “They didn’t go anywhere.”

“No, no, no!  They got up and left.  Ask them where they went.”  She shrugged.  About a week later, Della told me that the Smiths told her they never went anywhere.  I have no idea how I got by them so easily if they were there all the time, but it looks like God really cleared the way for me.  In fact, all along the way, He orchestrated every detail to make it easier and more desirable for me to say yes to Him.  God had invited me back at the very first moment when I was ready to return to Him—before I even knew it myself!

If you have someone you love that has walked away from the Lord, take encouragement from my story.  God knows exactly when and how to reach that person.  Don’t damage your relationship by always harping on their need to change or return to God.  Instead, pray prayers of faith and let your life speak to them of God’s great love and acceptance.  Loving and accepting them doesn’t mean that you love and accept their sin.  But remember that Jesus died for us while we were yet sinners, (Romans 5:8).  He is patiently waiting for just the right time to invite them back.  God is good!

Gotcha!

Part 1

As promised, here is the story of how I came back to God after 8 years of sincere atheism:

After having had a genuine experience of God (that is, born again, baptized in water, baptized in the Holy Spirit), I suffered a series of setbacks.  I was devastated the day my husband announced, “I don’t believe in God any more, and I don’t love you.”  This was only 3 years into our marriage, and we were already parents of a little boy.  He didn’t move out, but things between us had definitely changed.  He was a workaholic, so we settled into a pattern that kept the marriage together for another 30 years: He would usually say something hurtful to me on his way out the door, and I would cry and despair for an hour or so, and by the time he returned home about 12 hours later, I would be over the hurt, and things would be fairly pleasant until the next morning when it usually happened again.

Thus began a slow decline in my Christian walk.  We had recently moved to a suburb of Dallas and every church that I had tried seemed empty and dead.  One preached about money, money, money, and even posted on a bulletin board in the foyer how much money each person had given the previous month.  Outrageous!  It seemed like we had not only left our hometown, but also the Lord.  Finally, I just stopped going to church.

Not coincidentally, I also began to drink—a lot.  Before long, my drinking was really out of control.  So I was already far from God when both my sisters-in-law lost their babies within 6 months of each other.  Then I read in the newspaper about 3 women in New York City who had thrown their babies out the window.  I decided that either God didn’t exist or He was lazy.  I became agnostic because I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of God, but essentially, I had.

The final blow came when Phillip, my childhood sweetheart, was killed in a highway accident too horrific to describe.  Phillip had been the only person in my life to show me unconditional love.  With Phillip’s death I became a radical militant atheist.  If somebody tried to give me a religious tract, I would respond, “I don’t want that sh**!”

Looking back, I can see God’s hand on my life because just 3 weeks before Phillip died I had quit drinking.  This was God’s timing because when Phillip died I was so depressed that I wanted to crawl inside a bottle and never come out again.  I would have welcomed death except for the feeling of responsibility to my son, who was 7 at the time.  I had quit drinking because of having blacked-out at yet another party, waking the next morning to find my husband so angry with me that he refused to speak.  I knew that I must have embarrassed him, so I told him that I would quit drinking.  He (having grown up with an alcoholic step-father) said, “I’ve heard that before.”  And I’m sure he had, but not from me.  That statement made me so mad that I decided I would make him eat those words.  I didn’t have another drink for 20 years.

So although I was a radical militant angry atheist, I was no longer an alcoholic when Phillip died.  God allowed me to have my stew in my anger for almost 8 years.  It’s hard to sustain anger for that long, so little-by-little I became less angry at God.

Shortly after we moved to Durham, North Carolina, we visited my childhood home in California for the first time since moving away 19 years before.  I had such good memories of that place and my childhood there that returning to real life in an abusive marriage sent me into the worst depression of my life to that point.  For the next several months I avoided the few friends I had made, and cried through my days.

Then I started having suicide hallucinations.  There were 2 of them.  It was always either taking the big kitchen knife and cutting my throat from ear-to-ear or plunging the knife into my heart.  Both were so frighteningly real that I didn’t know that they were not really happening.  In the middle of doing the most ordinary kind of household tasks (putting wet sheets into the dryer, setting the dinner table, bathing the baby) I suddenly had the knife in my hand and I turned it on myself.  I felt the sharpness of the knife, but no pain, and I felt the hot, sticky blood on my skin and smelled the copper-salty smell of it.  Then I would find myself back where I had been, with the wet sheets in my hands or the baby in the bath tub.  I would immediately run and hide in my closet, terrified.

One day in the closet I suddenly realized 2 things: 1. I didn’t want to kill myself (I would never do that to my children) and; 2. If I ever did want to kill myself, I would never do it with a knife.  And those 2 things led me to a 3^rd realization: these hallucinations were coming from someone, and it was not me.  Given that I sincerely did not believe in God, therefore I also didn’t believe in the devil.  But I was very aware that there was some kind of a presence, and it was not a good one.

I went for counseling, and I worked at counseling with all my might.  I wanted to get over this thing.  Every appointment I talked non-stop about everything that had gone wrong for me in my life.  If it hurt, I talked about it—every angle and every nuance.  It was like emotionally disemboweling myself week after week.  And my counselor offered no help, no insight, nothing.  She might have been a bobble-head doll, just nodding and taking notes as I vomited all the pain of my soul.  I told the counselor that I wanted 2 sessions a week because I shook, unable to sleep for 2 days before each session because they were so unpleasant.  So we went to 2 sessions a week, and that was actually better.  After a couple of months of that, I somehow came out of the depression and the hallucinations stopped.  At that time I quit going to counseling and instead started taking a creative writing class.

One day in the car I heard a Bob Dylan song that I had never heard before.  I only just today learned the name of the song: Positively 4^th Street, and it starts out, “You’ve got a lot of nerve to say that you’re my friend . . .”  As I listened to the song, it seemed that Jesus was singing to me, saying things like, “You say you’ve lost your faith, but that’s not where it’s at.  You have no faith to lose, and you know it.”  It was just like receiving a rhema word, only through a song.  And for a few months I started getting rhema words on billboards and in overheard conversation.  I knew that it was supernatural contact, and I knew that it was God, although I still sincerely didn’t believe in Him.  Now I know that He was wooing me, pursuing me, getting me ready to come back to Him.

To be continued, but until then, here are the lyrics to Positively 4^th Street:

You’ve got a lot of nerve
To say you are my friend.
When I was down you just stood there grinning.

You’ve got a lot of nerve
To say you’ve got a helping hand to lend.
You just want to be on the side that’s winning.

You say I let you down,
You know it’s not like that.
If you’re so hurt, why then don’t you show it?

You say you’ve lost your faith,
But that’s not where it’s at.
You have no faith to lose, and you know it.

I know the reason that
You talk behind my back.
I used to be among the crowd you’re in with.

Do you take me for such a fool
To think I’d make contact
With the one who tries to hide what he don’t know to begin with?

You see me on the street.
You always act surprised.
You say, how are you, good luck, but you don’t mean it.
When you know as well as me,
You’d rather see me paralyzed
Why don’t you just come out once and scream it!

Now don’t I feel that good
When I see the heartaches you embrace
If I were a master thief perhaps I’d rob them.

And though I know you’re dissatisfied
With your position and your place,
Don’t you understand, it’s not my problem.

I wish that for just one time,
You could stand inside my shoes,
And just for that one moment I could be you.
Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes,
You’d know what a drag it is to see you.