Over Forty Three Years of True Love

He saw her from across the crowded cattle truck that was about to take their youth groups up the mountain to Hartland Christian Camp. Nudging his friend, he pointed at her and said, "I'm gonna marry her some day." They were in 6th grade. He was convinced she was the one and she didn't know he existed.

Their senior year of high school he grew his hair out. Not shoulder length or anything (don't get crazy). He just went from a crew cut to a short cut. It was a matter of maybe an inch but it made all the difference because, as legend has it, she finally noticed him.

Five years later, on December 19, 1970, they got married.

And oh the fires their marriage has been through in those 43 years. I don't need to go into detail but suffice it to say, they had 3 "wonderful" children whom God used to refine them in ways I'm sure they never could've imagined.

They chose each day who they would serve and who they would love. My parents set and maintained their priorities: God, each other, and then us kids. We were never first or second on the list and that is a huge part of why they are still in love today.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad! You're the best parents I've ever had! :)

Heaven and Earth: The difference is a head tilt

With the slightest adjustment of my gaze, from looking below the horizon to looking above it, everything changes. 

All it takes is a head tilt and the things of earth really do grow strangely dim and out of focus.

And then I blink.
And find myself looking down again.

But, I'm reassured right before the blink that heaven is real and that in the twinkling of an eye we'll all be home.

Skydiving = ________? You fill in the blank.

I was looking through my nightstand and a paper fell out. I unfolded it to find these words. They apply to so many subjects…


I want to go skydiving. I really, really do. How many years have I been saying that?! 10? 12? I want to face my fears, be adventurous, and do it already!

Or do I?

I do the research, pay the deposit, talk to experts, and set a timeframe. I even tell people about it. Everyone's excited and supportive, EAGER for me to have this experience.

I'm nervous. Well, terrified actually. Turns out when given the opportunity, I'd rather stay in the plane where it feels safe and familiar. I like it up here, flying solo, it's what I've done for years and I'm pretty good at it. At least I'm good at acting like I'm good at it. I'm afraid of failure, embarrassment, and rejection. So I stay on the plane.

I think I need a push, a swift kick, someone to shove me out, or maybe a hand to hold on the way down. But I abhor feeling forced, pressured, or guilted into doing anything. My stubborness wells up in me like a flame that refuses to be extinguished. I resist even the most appealing, deepest desire of my heart. Why? Out of fear. Self defense. Protection.

I think I'm guarding my heart but what I'm really doing is sitting on a plane talking about how much I want to go skydiving.

Waiting in Line is Hard

Waiting in line is hard. I've never met anyone who loves to wait in line and certainly can't imagine there being a person who hopes to get as close as he can to the back of the line. Well, unless the line is leading to something horrible. But I'm talking about lines for desirable things, lines that we have a choice about being in. The line I'm talking about is the one leading to "The happiest place on earth", Disneyland.

I read an email today that sent me on a journey without a clear destination. The email was about Disneyland changing it's policy about who they give special passes to and why. The email spelled out ways that the special passes have been used and abused. People have faked being disabled and have taken advantage of a loophole that was designed to help people who literally cannot wait in lines.

Waiting in line for a ride at Disneyland is not as fun as riding the ride but most people can handle it. They wait 2 hours because they understand that there is a payoff at the end that they believe will be worth the wait. Most people are able to endure the long lines and still have the capacity to fully enjoy the experience of riding the ride. Most people.

Now try standing in that same 2 hour line with my brother Nathan or with someone else's sibling who has an 'invisible' diagnosis like say autism. Try waiting in line with them and I bet that after about 10 minutes you will wish one of things: either they should be let on the ride before you or you should be let on first. Either way someone needs to get some sort of pass to make the crying stop so that we can go back to believing we are all happy.

Should all the people capable of waiting in lines be punished for their ability by having to wait longer? Should people without that particular ability get to be rewarded for their disability by being allowed to walk right onto the rides? 

Are those the only two perspectives?

When I was 19 years old I asked my parents if we could go to Disneyland. I thought it would be fun now that Nathan and I were adults to experience the magic. Actually I thought it'd be fun to get on all the rides without having to...wait in line. Well, well, well...look at this pot calling the kettle black. I wanted to take advantage of my brother's disability. My motivation wasn't for Nathan to have a good time. It was all about me and how I wanted to have a good time. I had this feeling that I would finally benefit from Nathan's disability. Finally! 

My plan totally backfired on me though because the only ride Nathan wanted to go on was Autopia. The one where you pretend to drive cars around a track and the only thing you have any control over is the gas pedal. The only rule is not to bump into the car in front of you. There were workers spaced out throughout the track to remind and enforce this rule. If you bumped the car in front of you, then  you could be kicked off the ride. Guess what Nathan called the ride? Yep, The Bumper Cars. And guess what he did every time we rode it (which was often because we didn't have to wait in line)? He bumped the car in front of him! "YOU CAN'T DO THAT! IT'S AGAINST THE RULES NATHAN!" I would yell and he would laugh. "YOU'RE GONNA GET KICKED OFF THE RIDE NATHAN! YOU CAN'T BUMP THE CAR IN FRONT OF YOU!" I would scream and he would act like he couldn't hear me.

The workers heard me though and they could tell something was different about him and me. And they would give him a free pass to bump people. It was an accident. He didn't do it on purpose. WHATEVER! I wanted him to get kicked off the ride so that he would be forced to ride Splash Mountain with me. 

That plan backfired too. big surprise.

I was mad at him about that trip for years after it was over. I hated the fact that he refused to go on rides that I wanted to go on. He refused to let me use his disability for my own selfish gain.

Okay, maybe he wasn't thinking that deeply but he also didn't care that I was mad at him. Every time I brought it up he would just turn his head and wave his hand at me like I should get over it. He didn't care to hear about it any more. His attitude only fueled my selfish fire.

So today, when I read the email about people finding a way to take advantage of the special pass and using people with disabilities for their own gain, I must admit, I was impressed. Not outraged. Typical sibling response. 

But I was also faced with the fact that the special pass does actually enable people to enjoy Disneyland and that without it they would not be able to go on any rides with lines (which pretty much covers all of them!). As an advocate for people with disabilities, I'd say check out the petition that can be signed here.  

Standing in line is hard but there's no need to make it harder. Maybe getting to the front of the line first isn't the only goal in life.

Each Other's Voices

Once upon a time there lived a boy and his sister. They loved each other very much. As children, they were almost always seen together. The boy’s name was Nathan. He was very friendly and loved to talk to everyone he met. If he saw someone he knew he would walk (sometimes run) across any size room to greet and connect with that person. 

Nathan’s sister, Beth, was quite the opposite of him in social settings. She would spot someone she knew, take note of her presence, and only greet her if it was unavoidable. Beth was very friendly in her own way but was often too uncomfortable to show it. She would tell herself that the person was too busy to talk to her. She didn’t want to bother anyone.

Nathan, on the other hand, had no hesitation or inhibition when it came to greeting people he knew or had been introduced to even once. He wanted to talk to them, wanted to have a connection, wanted to tell them (embarrassing) stories about how his favorite gospel quartet was coming to town and how he could hardly wait to see them. He wanted to say and share all these things. He didn’t feel like they wouldn’t want to hear about singing bass or about his latest medical procedure or about his newest CD. He didn’t second guess himself. He would just greet and share and enjoy the inevitable positive feedback that he would get from doing so. 

The only problem was that Nathan didn’t have a voice. At least not one that most people could hear and understand. He made sounds but his words were not clear. He said fragments of words, made some other incoherent sounds, used gestures and facial expressions, and avoided eye contact yet expected to be understood. 

Most people would acknowledge his friendliness with awkward yet genuine joy but have very little idea what he was actually saying, besides the obvious greeting. They’d smile, high five, laugh, nod, smile some more, and maybe even try, to the best of their ability, to guess what he was saying,. But how can people be expected to hear “my group” and “excited” and see lots of hand gestures, jumping in place, a lightening quick point to his shirt and understand that his favorite gospel quartet Acappella was coming to Visalia on the 20th for a concert and he wanted to get their autographs? 

But if Beth was there, she would translate. She would fill in the words that he left out. She would hear those fragmented sentences and tell the stories for him. She would plug those words into a massive database and do a keyword search. She knew his history. She was one of the only people that could see all his cues, interpret them, and really hear all that he was saying. He relied on her to be his interpreter and she relied on him to help her reach out beyond herself to connect with the community around them.

They were each other’s voices. 

Fascinating

I grew up watching Star Trek with my dad and two brothers. My mom would leave the room (probably to get some respite or sew me a new dress) while the four of us were glued to the TV for an hour of sci-fi entertainment. Nathan loved all things Star Trek (shh--so did I) but the theme song at the beginning and end were always the highlights for him. He would get as close to the screen as possible, blocking all of our views and evoking loud requests for him to "SCOOT BACK!!!" He'd move about a centimeter and there would be more yelling. We'd finally settle for him moving to the side of the TV in front of the speakers where he'd only be blocking half the screen. He was fine with that because it was all the better to have the music vibrate through him as he waved his arms wildly yet perfectly in tempo with the ballad.

When the actors and their names would start appearing on the screen he'd say, "name! name!" We'd take this opportunity to say, "We can't read it because you're blocking the screen. Move to the side...no way over to the side, and we'll tell you the names." Every one of us had long since memorized all the actors names but that was not the point. He'd move, we'd recite the names, and he'd repeat them as they flashed by.

Nathan can't read but he loves words anyway. He recognizes the ones that are most important in his world. His name, immediate family member names, dodgers, giants, volleyball, the group names of every gospel quartet, the scores in the sports section of the newspaper, and Star Trek.

One day he wanted to buy a Star Trek book. The one he wanted had a great picture on the front but was a 2" thick, small print novel with absolutely no graphics or pictures inside. Just pages and pages of tiny words. It didn't matter to him that he couldn't read it, he wanted it anyway. He must have had enough money, or made some kind of deal with mom, because he ended up buying it and happily taking it home.

A few nights later he came out from his room, sat on the couch, and opened his book to like chapter 3 or something giving the impression that he'd already covered some ground in the book. He sat there scanning each page and then turning them at a pace that made it look like he was taking in every word. We weren't paying much attention to him until he turned another page and, in a soft voice, said, "Fascinating!"

There was a collective gasp. I almost spit my water out. Heads whipped around and eyes focused on Nathan. What in the world?! Can he somehow tell what it says? Are there pictures in there that we hadn't seen before? Did we just witness some sort of strange miracle? What is happening?

All these thoughts are swirling around our heads and are about to come spewing out of our mouths when suddenly a sly grin forms and he starts giggling. He couldn't keep a straight face!! He had totally tricked us! We'd been punked! He had no idea what the book said. No literacy miracle had occurred but a comical one had!  It was as though he was showing us what we look like to him when we read and he was making fun of us. It was absolutely HILARIOUS!

We laughed and laughed and proceeded to re-enact that scene for years to come. He eventually stopped saying it on command but every once in a while he finds himself with a book and he can't resist. He looks to his right and his left to see if anyone is watching and that sly grin starts to form as he utters that famous word...fascinating!

Deal or Never

For several years there was a game show on tv called Deal or No Deal. It went something like this, a number chosen, a human interest story told, and an amount of money offered to the contestant. Then, at the height of the build up, the host would look the contestant in the eye and say, in the most compelling, deliberate, and measured way, Deal (dramatic pause) or No Deal?!? Thus throwing the decision at the feet of the contestant willing her to make the only wise choice. It was now up to the contestant to decipher just what the wise choice actually was. 

The music, the staging, and the lights made this choice feel like everything in the contestant's life had lead up to this moment and that it would define her for all time. This decision could only end in jubilee or in absolute ruin. So it is basically life and death. Oh the drama of it all! People are crying, screaming, and holding each other all while trying to project their choice onto the contestant. Each one wishing he had been offered a huge amount of money but grateful he was not the ones faced with this life altering fork-in-the-road dilemma. 


My brother Nathan can invoke those same emotions and create that same sense of urgency when he makes a sales pitch about eating out. He stands up as though taking the stage, finds a coin, balances it on his thumb in flipping position, and says emphatically, "Deal (dramatic pause) or NEVER?!?" The tension and seriousness is palatable and suddenly I'm standing on that stage with the lights, cameras, and eyes all on me burning through my resolve to be anything close to rational. I laugh still my stomach hurts and exclaim, "Deal!!!"

Bedtime Stories

One of my fondest childhood memories is of the time, each night before bed, when my dad would read us stories. Bible stories, fiction books, math textbooks (hehe), whatever the book, he would make it come alive. He did the best voices and sound effects and tickled us at all the opportune times. We looked forward to this bonding time, craved it. On the couch, Nathan and I would snuggle up on either elbow pining his arms to his sides. This sardine like configuration was necessary for optimal picture viewing and page turning opportunities. We were literally on the same page, enjoying the same thing, at the same time. There were no disabilities or tempers. No patience required. It was magical.

I looked forward to passing this experience on to my own kids. I think this desire was the only one I had of it's kind because I almost never thought in terms of passing things down to kids. I've never been convinced I would even have children. But, I thought, if I ever do have kids, there will be bedtime stories.

Cut to 25 years later...

"You can't leave without telling us a story!" Isaac Foster yells as he closes, locks, and physically blocks the front door. (We then have a brief talk about how rude that sounded and he asks again, polietly this time. It sounds just about the same, except with a please somewhere in there.)

"Okay," I say, as if I'm Mary Poppins and I'm humoring the children, "let's go. The story can't start until you're in your beds." And we all race down the hall with huge smiles on our faces.

I sit on the floor in front of them and ask each one, "What character would you like in the story?"

Noah says, "The ghost of Christmas hotdogs!"

"What in the world?...Okay." I say and I look at Caleb.

"The Phantom of the Opera!" he says.

We all look at Isaac and he gets a sly grin. "Burt the Troll! Hahahaha!" he exclaims. Everyone laughs and rolls their eyes because we knew that was coming. He always picks Burt the Troll. Isaac interrupts his own laughter by saying, "Actually Christina. I want to change mine to Christina."

"Okay", I smile and review, "The Ghost of Christmas hotdogs, Phantom of the Opera, and Christina. Are those you're final answers?"

All three boys nod yes.

The story begins...usually starting off slow as my brain tries to stay at least one word ahead of my mouth. I'm never quite sure what will come out next. These particular characters took us on a path from a struggling playwright to a story of musical superhero proportions with a sprinkle of A Christmas Carol along the way, ending with Christina selling her play and it being made into a movie for which Ethan (the oldest Foster brother) is hired to compose the sound track. He becomes a multimillionaire and supports us all the rest of our lives. (Ethan doesn't sit in the room with us or choose a character. He is a teenager and far too old for such childish things. But I know he's listening, because by the end of this particular story, he is playing the theme song to the musical Phantom of the Opera. *smile*)
Everyone cheers and happily says goodnight.

Suddenly, I realize a cherished childhood experience has indeed been passed on, not to my own children but, to the Foster boys. And what makes it so good is not the amount of silly voices, the crazy characters, or even the moral of the stories. What makes it magical is the undivided and delighted attention given and received between adults and children who love each other. And it's that kind of love that allows us to follow each other down any path the stories take us. All the troubles of this world, all the stress of the day, all the fights we just had about bedtime, and all the tasks of tomorrow go away. And these three remain laughter, imagination, and love.

Just like that the act of telling stories to each other has become as important to them as it always was to me. Without fail, I walk out of their bedroom and feel like I've been given the rarest of gifts from the most unexpected of sources and I treasure all these things and ponder them in my heart.

my mom is the best

Glish, it’s what’s left over in the pan from dinner or what’s in the corner of your eye. 

Glishy is how a substance can feel when it comes in contact with your skin. 

Oh Glish! is what you say when someone says ‘and then the toilet overflowed’. 

Also, glish is underlined in red every time I type it. Why? Not because it’s spelled wrong but because (gasp) it’s not a real word! This blog explains how I learned the truth. 

It was my senior year of college. I was standing in my dorm apartment talking to my roommates when, suddenly, I felt like the main character at the end of an M. Night Shyamalan movie. How had I not seen it?!? There were so many clues along the way and looking back they were glaringly obvious. 

She was the one that taught me the word. She was the only one I’d ever heard say it. I’d never seen it written or in print anywhere. She adjusted it’s meaning to fit any situation.
In that moment all the clues came together and I knew. She had made it up. It wasn’t a real word. 

I like to think that part of me knew it all along (just like I knew Bruce Willis’ character was dead in The Sixth Sense). The truth was, I was shocked and completely surprised. How could I not have known? How could this not have come up with anyone before? The looks on my roommates’ faces combined with their silence made my mind reel. That moment is frozen in my memory. It makes me laugh and shake my head every time it flashed through my mind. 

Here I was 22 years old using a word with such confidence only to discover that my mom made it up.

My mom is extraordinary and one-of-a-kind, that I know for SURE. I love that she makes up words and uses them in every day sentences. She’s never denied this habit of hers. She even acted surprised when I “confronted” her about leading me to believe glish was a real word. She never claimed it was real. She just said it one day and liked it so she kept saying it. 

This moment of truth was not unlike the moment I discovered store bought cookies, the moment i learned that other people buy jam, or the time I stared quizzically at a long line of people waiting to buy bread called zwiebach. Doesn’t everyone have homemade cookies, jam, and bread stocked in their freezers?!? Nope! The sad reality is that not everyone got to grow up with my mom. I am among a very select few and I am so deeply grateful. 

So here’s to moms that provide for us and support our every step in life...and even manage to spice things up with creative vocabulary!

Glish may not be in the dictionary but, as far as I’m concerned, it’s definitely a real word!

my reaction

I checked my email, read this forwarded blog post and my reaction was immediate and strong. (big surprise)

http://messymiddle.wordpress.com/2012/05/10/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/

I understand her point of view all too well but if I shared it, I wouldn't be able to celebrate anything with anyone. I'd miss out on the joy that comes from looking beyond myself and loving other people. And I'd be blinded to the glory of God in all things, even my single, childless life.

Right?

Surprised by grief

I knew it would hurt longer than one day but I keep getting surprised by grief. 

 I came home monday night, 3/11/13, and walked in the door and my dog wasn't there to greet me. Then I slept in my bed for the first time without my dog. I woke up the next morning and she wasn't jumping on and off my bed urging me to get up and let her out. I haven't opened the door from my bedroom to the backyard since she was here. I was expecting to feel sad at those predictable times but there have been so many more moments in the last two weeks when I've been surprised by grief.

As I made final preparations to leave for work on 3/12/13, my head automatically turned towards her bowls. (I always checked to see if she needed food and water right before I left for work.) But her bowls weren't there and I was surprised by grief.

Lunch time on 3/12/13 came and I couldn't go home. I didn't want to face the silence. or that ticking clock. So I ate out and went straight back to work. Then 5:30pm came and I couldn't go home. I was surprised by my compulsion to avoid the place I used to love to be the most. But that was before she died. So I went to a friend's house and hid for the evening. I thought I'd avoided feeling sad because I changed my routine. But when I got in the car at 10pm, I was again surprised by grief, and cried most of that 20 minute drive home.

Wednesday morning, two days after she died, I got through my morning routine and made it to work on time. But by 9am I was overcome. Sobbing in my cubicle, I knew I was getting no work done and needed to get out of there. So I got in my car and drove to my grandma's. I was not only completely surprised by grief, I felt suffocated and paralyzed by it. I didn't start breathing evenly until I was half way to Reedley. 

My grandma gives me hope. No matter what is going on in my life, she always gives me hope. I know that is why my instinct was to flee to her that morning. I had lost it. I was in a hole and couldn't find a way out. So she jumped in the hole with me and was my guide because she's been in that same hole before and knows the way out. 

You see, my grandpa died in 1994 and she has been without him for over 19 years. She still misses him everyday.  Her advice to me was that it is okay to feel sad, it is good to grieve, but it is important to keep from feeling sorry for myself. In other words, sit in the middle of your pain but then get up and walk through it. She said that with time my routines would change and everyday life would get easier to bear. Wisdom that soothed my suffocated soul and allowed my heartbeat to regulate.

I told her some of the things I am thinking about doing now that I won't need to be home to take care of her. I can volunteer, go back to school, join a gym (yes, i was feeling that desperate), get more involved in church, etc. My grandma totally validated all of those options and was even excited for me at the new possibliities in front of me.  That's when I felt the hope return and that's how she guided me out of the hole.

With every first that has happened without my dog, (my first lunch at home, first cheezits, first pizza, first Friday morning off, and today, my first Saturday at home), I am still surprised by grief as the waves keep on coming. I mowed my back lawn today and half way through I started crying because it was the first time I'd mowed the lawn or even walked around in the backyard since she died. She wasn't anxiously waiting at the door to be let out to see and sniff out how I'd changed her territory. She won't be patrolling the yard or barking at the neighbor dogs through the fence. 

I have to constantly remind myself that she wasn't just a dog and that 10 1/2 years together is a long time. It's okay to be feel the loss and it's okay to be surprised by grief.

Worst countdown ever

As I type the clock is counting down. 3 hours 10 minutes until I have to say goodbye to her. It is a uniquely painful feeling to know the day and hour of my dog’s death. She has been my constant companion for 10 1/2 years, for all of my adult life. all.of.it. 

Sure, she’s tried (and succeed) to escape now and then but she always comes back. always. When she follows me around, sits at my feet, and curls up next to me at night, I am no longer alone. I feel her presence and it calms me. She studies me, even now, seems to wonder what I’m doing and then sits down next to me, content because she knows where I am. I fill her bowl with food every morning just in case she gets hungry while I’m at work but she never eats until I’m home. 

It’s difficult to fathom how I will be motivated to get out of bed without her wet nose in my face to convey that urgency. I’m not even sure how I will get through this day. 

But because HE lives, I can face tomorrow and the next 2 hours and 54 minutes...

When 'cute' becomes a Four letter word

Cute: defined as possessing physical features, behaviors, personality traits or other properties that are mainly attributed to infants and small or cuddly animals.

If you ever want to get a reaction out of me, just refer to an adult with a developmental disability as 'cute'. Call them scary, weird, or even annoying because those, while being harsh (not to mention politically incorrect), are sometimes true. But they are NoT CuTe! Adults are not infants or small cuddly animals, they are grown people with years of life experience. Calling them cute is one of the most demeaning and insulting descriptors you can use because it effectively strips them of dignity and respect, making them less than and never equal.

Treating adults like children is not loving.

Neither is allowing children to do whatever they want because they have Down syndrome.

All small children are cute, okay most small children are cute. But most parents agree that cuteness is not a free ticket to do whatever you want to whomever you want whenever you want. Boundaries are a essential in communicating love and respect. The same is true for adults, able and disabled alike.

Bottom line: The problem is not really the word cute. The problem is the tendency for people to stop at that word and not work to see past that label to the person. When you look past the label you are daring to be equals with that person with a disability. Suddenly they aren't cute anymore. They are stubborn, messy, loving, aggravating, wonderful people just like you.

My testimony

My story begins when I was 4 years old. My oldest brother Edward and I had spent the night at our grandparents house. We both woke up early the next morning and didn't think we should get up yet so we stayed in bed and starting talking. My brother has never really liked small talk so he jumped right to the deepest subject, Jesus and the salvation He offers. I don't remember everything he said but I do remember him asking me if I wanted to pray to ask Jesus into my heart. I said yes and we prayed. As I prayed I physically felt a void being filled inside of me. Jesus really came to live in me! And there was great rejoicing! Right? Well no, at least not inside of me.  

I thought it was too soon, even at 4 years old, but I knew my decision was my own and that I wanted Jesus in my heart. I felt sealed and preserved. I would never know life without Him. But part of me was sad. I desperately wanted a before and after story. An I once was lost and now I'm found shout-it-from-the-rooftops-and-everyone-in-your-household-gets-saved story. Instead, I got a once was lost and then I turned 4 years old story. I complained to Him about it because I felt like I had no testimony. I questioned His wisdom and His plans for my life. And from the very first day that I was saved, I doubted God's love for me. 

So began 13 years of questioning and doubting God. 

I grew up in the Dinuba Mennonite Brethren Church and had this reputation for being obedient, nice, and a good sister to my brother Nathan, who has a developmental disability. You can ask me more about that later. But this goody two shoes reputation felt like a huge lie. I was obedient because it was easier and I was too lazy to be disobedient. I was nice to people because I was allergic to conflict so I'd rather be nice than risk having to run away from you when conflict arose. And I was a good sister because I was the youngest and figured, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em! Right?

In questioning and doubting God's love for me I had this was my (faulty) logic: God knows me better than I know myself so that means He sees my ugly, sinful heart and therefore He couldn't possibly love me. I was unworthy and there was no chance that I'd ever become worthy because I was committing the worst sin of all, trying to overrule God as though I had it right and He had it wrong. Such stubborn arrogance mixed with a very low self-esteem made for a depressing inner dialogue.

I thought I was being gracious in saying to God that I didn't want to be a burden. I didn't want to bother God with my problems. He, like my parents, was busy taking care of other people. I had the Lord but I didn't want to need Him. My mindset was "God, you've got me. You've had me since age 4. You don't have to worry about me anymore. Feel free to focus on all the other people who don't know You yet. The key difference between God and my parents is that God doesn't need anything taken off His plate. He doesn't need a break or for me to be on His team to give Him support. God doesn't need me. 

In August of 1998, I went to camp and He met me there. It was Wednesday night and I was sitting in the amphitheater at Hartland Christian Camp listening to a speaker talk about God's love. At the end as about 80% of my peers left their seats to go make new commitments to the Lord, I was still sitting in mine. I didn’t think anything would penetrate the thick concrete wall I’d built around my heart. 

But then came a life changing moment:

My head was bowed and my eyes closed when I heard God say “I love you.” 

I said, “No.” (but the wall cracked)

He said again, “I love you.” 

I said, “Maybe.” (a chunk falls off the wall) 

For a third time He said, “I love you.” 

And I said, “I finally believe You.” 

I WEPT as my wall crumbled and God’s love flooded my heart. I accepted salvation at age 4 and accepted God's choice to love me at age 17.

When I was 24 I wrote my own version of what Paul wrote in Galatians 1:13-16:

‘For you have heard of my previous days at DMBC, my family heritage, how I worshiped, served God, and tried to be a good Christian. I was advanced in my knowledge of the Bible and was involved in ministry with the youth group, choir, worship team, etc. I was zealous but at the same time conflicted about Your love. But then God, You chose to reveal Your grace to me and were pleased to give Your Son’s life for mine so that I might know what it is to be truly loved, valued, and cared for. Thank You.’

Now at age 36 God is helping me appreciate my heritage and my 32 years with Him. Last year I was doing a bible study with a friend and was referencing different stories in the Bible to explain something and my friend turned to me and said, "How do you know all of this stuff?!?" It caught me off guard because I really couldn't pinpoint when or where I'd learned it because I didn't remember not knowing it. "I guess I learned it at church or from my parents at some point",  I said. Then she said something that changed my perspective on growing up as a follower of Jesus and on growing up in the church. She said, "Well, I think you should go home and thank your parents for teaching you all of this because I've never heard it before! You're so blessed to have a Christian family!" And I think, for the first time in a long time, I agreed with her.