I believe

This will be the first in a two-part series. 

I was having a conversation with my daughter a week or two ago. And I can't remember everything that was said but I recall we were talking about salvation. And she told me that she had never heard my testimony. Which is basically a fancy way of saying why I believe what I believe. So I told it to her, and I wanted to share a short version with you. I also want to clarify exactly what I believe, because I had a friend point out that they had no idea what I believe when it comes to my faith, and that saddens me. I should have done a better job representing my beliefs, I suppose.

I grew up in a Christian home. I can't remember us ever going to church regularly. It just wasn't something that we did. But I also can't remember a time that we didn't study the bible or just know that God existed, and that Jesus died for us. There was a lot of vacation bible school, and I remember a church near where we lived once picked us (the kids) up for Sunday service.

When I was 26 years old I had a series of very disturbing dreams. Most of them about the end of the world. I remember in one I could feel Jesus calling my spirit. And I felt it trying to leave my body but something was holding me back. In another these huge meteors were raining down from the sky, destroying everything. I could see someone standing on a hill looking down. I thought, at the time in the dream, that it was Jesus. And I can't describe what he looked like to you, because I can't remember. I just knew it was him. Kind of like you know your parents or your children. The thing that I took away from these dreams was that I wasn't who I thought I was. To me, at the end of each dream, I always knew that I wasn't a Christian. I hadn't accepted Jesus as my Lord. Having grown up in a household where Jesus was just always present, I had assumed that by simply knowing him, I was a Christian. I knelt by my bed after the second dream and asked God to forgive me. I accepted Jesus into my heart that night.

Meteor by Brandon Stricker

Now a few years later Hubby and I were members of a little non-denominational church. I was basically running the youth group, but he had the title. Because this was a church that believed women should know their place. (And it wasn't as a leader in the church in any way) We had been members there for quite a while and were very active. I sought out anything that I could do to serve the church, telling myself I just wanted to be a witness for God. It wasn't until years later that I realized it wasn't God's approval I was seeking. At the time I was good friends with most of the members, as this was a small church. When I would sing they would tell me what a great job I had done. They would say they appreciated my work with the youth group. Which honestly had a varying number of people, but never over six. I was eating the praise up. The more they bragged on me, the more I wanted. I began to write poetry to read in church. It felt good to have people tell me what a great job I was doing. I loved the attention and craved it.

Easter Sunday one year I wrote a poem about the crucifixion. Hubby asked to read it before we went to church, I told him he could wait and hear it with everyone else. I was so sure of myself. I stood at the front of the church and cried reading it. I would post it here for you to see, but it was long since destroyed. I remember, clear as day though, the part that finally made me realizing I wasn't living to serve God, I was living for the accolades. There was a line in this point that said something about bones broke, my sin he bore. You know what didn't happen to Jesus on the cross? None of his bones were broken.

I knew this. But I had gotten caught up in making this poem as dramatic as possible. I wanted people to be in tears, as I was when I read it. And I wanted, most of all, for them to tell me how much it had affected them. When I finished reading, I looked up and the entire church was silent. I hadn't even realized my mistake at this point. I took my seat smug in the knowledge that they were all speechless in the emotion that I had elicited.

When church was over and I asked hubby, "Did you like my poem?"
"Most of it"
"What didn't you like?"
"There were no bones broken during the crucifixion, honey."
My house of cards came tumbling down. My embarrassment was a palpable thing. Why didn't I think? In my search for a pat on the back, I had made a fool of myself. To the church's credit, none of them judged me. We continued going to that church but I slowly melted into the back ground. All of a sudden attention wasn't nearly as important to me as it had been.