Today we visited Northwest Bible Church. It was exactly how we expected. Very kind, loving people. The sermon was short because of they celebrated the Lord's Supper and had some very impressive choir songs.
I especially enjoyed the clarinet (I used to play as a child). At the close of the service, we visited with the congregation over fajitas from El Paseo's. They are very much a loving family and Jack and I felt honored to have 'broken bread' with them.
BTW, Dr. Pinto preached Chapter 15 in Romans. Love Romans.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Facing My Fears
Genesis 32:7 In great fear and distress Jacob divided the people who were with him into two groups, and the flocks and herds and camels as well.
So many times a day I am afraid. My heart races. My breathing deepens. My palms sweat. Anything triggers it. Feeling a lack of preparation; overwhelmed by upcoming events; confused by the Why's of life. But my biggest fear is making those decisions and hoping they are for God's will and not my own. Making the right choice, the wise choice.
Today in class we discussed wisdom. My student, Sarah Cruse, said wisdom meant the application of knowledge. Wow. How profound. We read Proverb 4. Proverbs 4 lists out all the things that the application of knowledge does. First it says to get knowledge and getting knowledge means reading the Bible and learning God's character. Once the knowledge is acquired, temptation will come. This is when we have the opportunity excercise wisdom (or apply our new knowledge).
It seems to me, no matter how much I read and learn, it will never be enough. I make choices everyday out of fear and distress because most times the end result of each decision is not clear. But I make them anyway. I know that comfort only brings the same; But this courage can bring glory to His name!
So many times a day I am afraid. My heart races. My breathing deepens. My palms sweat. Anything triggers it. Feeling a lack of preparation; overwhelmed by upcoming events; confused by the Why's of life. But my biggest fear is making those decisions and hoping they are for God's will and not my own. Making the right choice, the wise choice.
Today in class we discussed wisdom. My student, Sarah Cruse, said wisdom meant the application of knowledge. Wow. How profound. We read Proverb 4. Proverbs 4 lists out all the things that the application of knowledge does. First it says to get knowledge and getting knowledge means reading the Bible and learning God's character. Once the knowledge is acquired, temptation will come. This is when we have the opportunity excercise wisdom (or apply our new knowledge).
It seems to me, no matter how much I read and learn, it will never be enough. I make choices everyday out of fear and distress because most times the end result of each decision is not clear. But I make them anyway. I know that comfort only brings the same; But this courage can bring glory to His name!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Blogging should be illegal
I just spent two hours on the computer and this is the only thing constructive I have said or done.
BTW, I added a favorite scripture in my header. If only my front yard was so lucky!
BTW, I added a favorite scripture in my header. If only my front yard was so lucky!
Friday, March 14, 2008
My Testimony
Near to Me by Belinda Henson
I have always loved God. I have always been drawn to God and wanted to know about Him. In fact, some of my most vivid childhood memories happened at our local First Methodist Church in Centerville, Iowa.
Driving into Centerville, you may as well have driven into any other Iowa-farming town. Except this one actually had a “mall”. The mall was a grocery store and a Wal-Greens connected by a covered breezeway. In the breezeway were mechanical rides for a nickel and a few gumball machines. I seldom enjoyed these childhood luxuries.
Centerville had its stereotypical town square. The courthouse stood in the center surrounded by the doctor’s office, the Ben Franklin, and an Old Fashion Ice Cream Fountain. First Methodist stood gallantly two blocks west of the courthouse.
Sunday mornings at home were slow and comforting. Sometimes mom and dad would sleep in. Sometimes I would rise to the smell of sizzling bacon and eggs. Dad always read the Sunday Chronicle. My sister always read the funny pages. Sometimes I would catch my daddy reading the funny pages! And, well, I, at the ripe old age of five, dressed myself and trotted off to Sunday school.
I remember the crisp summer Sundays. Mom always sent me off with a white cardigan and a gentle kiss. I remember the peace of those mornings. I never hurried to church. I dawdled as much as I pleased. I had no care or concern in the world. I was five and I walked with God on my way to church. If I wanted to run, I ran. If I wanted to pick flowers, I picked them. I remember it as simple, sweet, and serene; the epitome of peace and comfort.
Then my dad’s work transferred him to a city – Hot Springs, Arkansas – eight hours away from Centerville. Iowa was green with corn and soy plants. Arkansas was hill after hill of pine trees. They blanketed the entire land. You could barely even see the sky anymore.
About thirty thousand folks populated Hot Springs. It was a retirement community and a tourist attraction. And it was dying out. I didn’t live near any churches to walk to. I had to walk a mile and a half just to get to a gas station for treats. And the closest most interesting place to play was a run down trailer park.
By this time I was eight years old. I cried on my first day of third grade. The school was SO big and scary. Eventually I learned about a Wednesday evening children’s church program. A bus picked up all the program kids after school and took us to the church. We ate dinner, played games, and learned the hand bells. I guess I didn’t find what I was looking for there. So I stopped going. My parents didn’t mind because they had to come get me – and they didn’t like to get out very much.
So I didn’t attend church regularly anymore. I filled my days with kick-the-can in the trailer park or playing Barbie’s with my best friend across the street. Sometimes I would stay over at friends’ houses. They all went to churches and, of course, I loved it. I didn’t care if they were Catholic, Protestant, whatever. I got to be with God. It was the only way I knew I could be near to Him. I did not know He was already near to me the whole time. Drawing me near to Him.
One Saturday night I stayed over with my friend Amy. We attended a Baptist church. When I discovered they had a bus that would pick me up AND take me home for church, I was ecstatic! I don’t know how long I attended, but I finally heard the words I had been searching for - Jesus loved me back.
Everyone has sinned and everyone falls short of the glory of God. No one gets to heaven on their own. I am a sinner, and Jesus died to remove MY sins. It wasn’t up to me to get to heaven. When Jesus died and when he rose from the grave, He removed my sins. Gone. Cleansed. Bleached. He was thinking of me when He said, “Father, forgive them.” I found out the Truth -- I killed Him. Thou shalt not murder and my sin murdered Him. This was my sin.
Something inside me pulled at my heart. My hands started sweating. My mouth parched. I couldn’t catch my breath. I didn’t know what to do. So I walked down the aisle to a kind, smiling lady.
She led me to a small white room. It had two gray folding chairs. We sat down. My feet dangled above the waxed linoleum. A florescent light above us flickered. She asked, “Before we pray, is there anything you have done bad that you want to tell me?”
I was horrified at the question. I gently shook my head no. My eight-year-old mind raced with thoughts of moments of kleptomania or rude remarks. I thought of times when I lied or cheated. How could I tell her about those things? She made the mistake of not explaining. She didn’t explain that I could directly tell Jesus about these sins running through my head. And I sure didn’t want her to know about them. We bowed our heads. She prayed something. I did not ask God to forgive me. I did not understand. I did not return to the church.
Seven years later, my family and I were living in Fort Worth, Texas. I met a girl named Marti Glasco. I did not know it then, but she had recently asked Jesus into her heart. She was saved and ready to tell the world!
When I met Marti, I had stopped looking for God. I guess somewhere I figured it wasn’t important to my family. And once we moved to Fort Worth (population of over a million) it was impossible to search for God. Or a church to attend.
Marti gave me a miniature brochure. It basically asked, “If you were to die today, do you know for certain you will go to heaven?”
My answer was simple. No, I did not know for certain. How can you know for certain? So, I asked Marti. But she didn’t know the answer either. She invited me to a Thursday night Bible study. It was in a living room.
That night I sat and listened but I heard nothing. I kept thinking: “I need this. I need Him. I need to be forgiven. I didn’t kill him. He could have saved Himself. I mean, He IS God, right? He had the power to not be brutally murdered and ridiculed, but because He knew He would not be near me unless He did. Wow. Wow. I need this. I need to be forgiven. He loved me SO much that He died for me. He CHOSE to die for me. He died…to be…near me… for…all eternity. Wow.”
I leaned over and whispered in Marti’s ear. “I want what you have. I want to be saved.” She grinned ear to ear.
“Stay here.” She replied. I watched her maneuver through the crowd of teenagers to a girl sitting in the back. Stacy motioned for me to come over. I bumped and hobbled my way through to her. She took my hand and led me to the back porch.
Sitting in lawn chairs, she asked, “What do you want to pray about?”
“I want to be saved.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Yes. It means I am certain I will spend eternity in heaven with God.” I answered.
“That’s right. Do you want to say it?”
“Say what?”
“The prayer.” She replied softly. “I don’t know how.”
“Then can I say it for you. You can echo the words. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” And then we prayed.
“Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross for Belinda’s sins. Thank you for loving her and drawing her to You. Your word says that if she confesses with her mouth that You are Lord, then she will be saved. Thank you God for saving her and we ask in Jesus name that you will come into her heart and save her from her sins and from hell. We love you. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
And my life began. I was fourteen and I was finally near to Him.
Stamped Condemned:
A forgotten building.
Carefully crafted cobwebs in corners
and crooks
and crannies.
Flaking paint on doorways
And wooden window panes;
Mold, deterioration,
A building beyond repair,
Beyond love.
Big box companies bulldoze over them
Instead of fix them.
Please, don’t give up on me.
Don’t demolish me!
Not yet.
Stamped Condemned.
Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, 2because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death. (Romans 8:1-2)
Between the ages of 14 and 21, I went to college, got married, graduated from college, and moved away with my new husband to Amarillo, Texas. During those years, I studied and grew in the Word of God. I ministered and shared God’s love with others. I obeyed God as much as I knew how to.
But once in Amarillo, my emotional health began to decline. I worked hard to graduate cum laude from the University of North Texas and, yet, I could not get hired for anything other than Old Navy.
But, I worked hard at Old Navy, like “working unto the Lord”. My husband also worked hard at his job. He taught school during the day and worked evenings and Sundays at a church as an underpaid Music Minister.
I guess because I was lonely, or maybe life stopped following my predetermined plan, I began to feel condemned. I struggled inwardly with Romans Chapter 8. God’s Word says there is no condemnation for those who abide in the Spirit. I questioned, “If the Spirit has abided in me for the last ten years, then why did I feel condemned? Am I not truly saved? What can this mean? Why do I feel like I need to escape? Why do I want to die? Why do I so genuinely hate myself?”
I would lie for hours prostrate and crying out to God. Evening, morning and noon, I cried out, yet my tears and prayers did not seem to even penetrate the ceiling much less hearken the Almighty’s ears.
But I believed EVERY word of the Bible – not just the parts I liked or the parts I understood. My faith in God’s Word sustained me. My pain showed me God’s Sovereignty. I began to realize God did not owe me an answer to these questions. He did not owe me anything, but rather I owed Him. My payment of sin was death, not life. He gave me life when I did not deserve it. He did not owe me an answer.
So I sought out scripture to hang onto. I relied on stories like Noah. He spent a hundred years building a boat to save a people that had never seen rain. God spoke to Noah only two times and Noah obeyed.
I relied on stories like Moses. Moses wandered for forty years and died, never seeing the promised land. God allowed David’s son to be killed because of David’s sin despite David’s genuine repentance and grief. Paul the apostle was beaten, humiliated, jailed, and killed. John was exiled until death on the Isle of Patmos. Jesus was beaten, stabbed, crucified. Who the hell was I? God owed me nothing.
Yet when I hoped for good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness. Job 30:26
In the middle of all this, I decided I needed more purpose in my life. So Jack and I began a family. We had our first-born son, Ethan, on March 6, 1999. I became more suicidal and distraught. Ten months later, a friend and doctor, diagnosed me as clinically depressed. I began medicinal treatment. For a year and a half, I took an antidepressant that didn’t even work. By this point, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to feel, so I didn’t know it wasn’t working.
Another friend from church knew a little bit of my situation and knew a lot about anti-psychotic drugs. She worked as a Special Education teacher for the local school district. She inquired about what I took and suggested I get off of it immediately. I went to my doctor and told him what she said. He switched my medicine and, after a week of detox from that drug, I began to feel not so sad.
Christopher was born on September 21, 2001. My new medicine seemed to continue to help but I was still struggling. I was still praying. But this time, my prayers were different. I became content and “okay” that I had no answers. I prepared myself to never hear from God again. It had to be enough that I was obedient with prayer and Bible study without feeling the Spirit’s presence in my life. He owed me nothing. I owed Him everything. I clung to His word and His sovereignty.
I also began praying to be healed knowing that I may never be healed; Knowing that I did not deserve to be healed, but asking all the same.
One Sunday, I woke up, and I knew it was over. It was January 2002. I knew. I knew. I knew. I woke up and decided to walk to the front of the church for prayer and to thank God for healing me.
Walking to the front of the church was not a small decision. Trinity Baptist had a large membership. The sanctuary had a balcony. This is where Jack and I sat. Trinity Baptist also never had people come to the front to pray. It was not characteristic to the Church. The idea of walking alone from the balcony down the stairs up the aisle to the front for me to bow my knee on the steps in front of the entire congregation and next to my pastor was huge. But I committed to Jesus I would do it before I even left for church that day.
I don’t remember the sermon. I prayed for strength to walk forward the whole time. Then the invitation came. The invitation when no one ever comes forward. The invitation that is always empty. The invitation, that this time, filled up with people. One, then two, then six, then twelve…more and more people kept walking and bowing. I panicked. I did not want to go. I did not want to go because so many others were going. I knew God could hear me from my seat in the balcony, and began to reason my way out of it. You see, I don’t like to do things just because other people do it. I did not want to be considered a follower. But then I remembered that I promised I would go. So, I obeyed.
The next thing I remember; I was weeping at the steps.
Pastor Dave spent the next 26 weeks teaching Romans 6 through 8 calling the series “The Security of the Believer”. I came to understand some basic theology. Most theologians believed that two things must occur for salvation: faith in Christ and forgiveness of sins. Some theologians believe these occur at the same time. Others believe it can occur separately. I don’t know which is true, or if it even matters. But for me, I came to an understanding. When I was fourteen, I came to faith in Christ. When I was twenty-seven, I was finally able to lay my pride down and be forgiven.
It’s a journey. A pilgrim’s progress. A disciple’s training. A lifelong apprenticeship.
Since then, God has used me in ways unimaginable. Twice I have been to Ireland to proclaim God’s word. I have completed my Masters in Education and ministered to inner city children for two years. Today, I disciple young Christians at a private school teaching them to go out and share the Good News and home school Ethan and Chris. And we just had a new baby girl, Anna Marie, born August 12, 2005.
It has been almost three years since I added to my testimony.
I have always loved God. I have always been drawn to God and wanted to know about Him. In fact, some of my most vivid childhood memories happened at our local First Methodist Church in Centerville, Iowa.
Driving into Centerville, you may as well have driven into any other Iowa-farming town. Except this one actually had a “mall”. The mall was a grocery store and a Wal-Greens connected by a covered breezeway. In the breezeway were mechanical rides for a nickel and a few gumball machines. I seldom enjoyed these childhood luxuries.
Centerville had its stereotypical town square. The courthouse stood in the center surrounded by the doctor’s office, the Ben Franklin, and an Old Fashion Ice Cream Fountain. First Methodist stood gallantly two blocks west of the courthouse.
Sunday mornings at home were slow and comforting. Sometimes mom and dad would sleep in. Sometimes I would rise to the smell of sizzling bacon and eggs. Dad always read the Sunday Chronicle. My sister always read the funny pages. Sometimes I would catch my daddy reading the funny pages! And, well, I, at the ripe old age of five, dressed myself and trotted off to Sunday school.
I remember the crisp summer Sundays. Mom always sent me off with a white cardigan and a gentle kiss. I remember the peace of those mornings. I never hurried to church. I dawdled as much as I pleased. I had no care or concern in the world. I was five and I walked with God on my way to church. If I wanted to run, I ran. If I wanted to pick flowers, I picked them. I remember it as simple, sweet, and serene; the epitome of peace and comfort.
Then my dad’s work transferred him to a city – Hot Springs, Arkansas – eight hours away from Centerville. Iowa was green with corn and soy plants. Arkansas was hill after hill of pine trees. They blanketed the entire land. You could barely even see the sky anymore.
About thirty thousand folks populated Hot Springs. It was a retirement community and a tourist attraction. And it was dying out. I didn’t live near any churches to walk to. I had to walk a mile and a half just to get to a gas station for treats. And the closest most interesting place to play was a run down trailer park.
By this time I was eight years old. I cried on my first day of third grade. The school was SO big and scary. Eventually I learned about a Wednesday evening children’s church program. A bus picked up all the program kids after school and took us to the church. We ate dinner, played games, and learned the hand bells. I guess I didn’t find what I was looking for there. So I stopped going. My parents didn’t mind because they had to come get me – and they didn’t like to get out very much.
So I didn’t attend church regularly anymore. I filled my days with kick-the-can in the trailer park or playing Barbie’s with my best friend across the street. Sometimes I would stay over at friends’ houses. They all went to churches and, of course, I loved it. I didn’t care if they were Catholic, Protestant, whatever. I got to be with God. It was the only way I knew I could be near to Him. I did not know He was already near to me the whole time. Drawing me near to Him.
One Saturday night I stayed over with my friend Amy. We attended a Baptist church. When I discovered they had a bus that would pick me up AND take me home for church, I was ecstatic! I don’t know how long I attended, but I finally heard the words I had been searching for - Jesus loved me back.
Everyone has sinned and everyone falls short of the glory of God. No one gets to heaven on their own. I am a sinner, and Jesus died to remove MY sins. It wasn’t up to me to get to heaven. When Jesus died and when he rose from the grave, He removed my sins. Gone. Cleansed. Bleached. He was thinking of me when He said, “Father, forgive them.” I found out the Truth -- I killed Him. Thou shalt not murder and my sin murdered Him. This was my sin.
Something inside me pulled at my heart. My hands started sweating. My mouth parched. I couldn’t catch my breath. I didn’t know what to do. So I walked down the aisle to a kind, smiling lady.
She led me to a small white room. It had two gray folding chairs. We sat down. My feet dangled above the waxed linoleum. A florescent light above us flickered. She asked, “Before we pray, is there anything you have done bad that you want to tell me?”
I was horrified at the question. I gently shook my head no. My eight-year-old mind raced with thoughts of moments of kleptomania or rude remarks. I thought of times when I lied or cheated. How could I tell her about those things? She made the mistake of not explaining. She didn’t explain that I could directly tell Jesus about these sins running through my head. And I sure didn’t want her to know about them. We bowed our heads. She prayed something. I did not ask God to forgive me. I did not understand. I did not return to the church.
Seven years later, my family and I were living in Fort Worth, Texas. I met a girl named Marti Glasco. I did not know it then, but she had recently asked Jesus into her heart. She was saved and ready to tell the world!
When I met Marti, I had stopped looking for God. I guess somewhere I figured it wasn’t important to my family. And once we moved to Fort Worth (population of over a million) it was impossible to search for God. Or a church to attend.
Marti gave me a miniature brochure. It basically asked, “If you were to die today, do you know for certain you will go to heaven?”
My answer was simple. No, I did not know for certain. How can you know for certain? So, I asked Marti. But she didn’t know the answer either. She invited me to a Thursday night Bible study. It was in a living room.
That night I sat and listened but I heard nothing. I kept thinking: “I need this. I need Him. I need to be forgiven. I didn’t kill him. He could have saved Himself. I mean, He IS God, right? He had the power to not be brutally murdered and ridiculed, but because He knew He would not be near me unless He did. Wow. Wow. I need this. I need to be forgiven. He loved me SO much that He died for me. He CHOSE to die for me. He died…to be…near me… for…all eternity. Wow.”
I leaned over and whispered in Marti’s ear. “I want what you have. I want to be saved.” She grinned ear to ear.
“Stay here.” She replied. I watched her maneuver through the crowd of teenagers to a girl sitting in the back. Stacy motioned for me to come over. I bumped and hobbled my way through to her. She took my hand and led me to the back porch.
Sitting in lawn chairs, she asked, “What do you want to pray about?”
“I want to be saved.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Yes. It means I am certain I will spend eternity in heaven with God.” I answered.
“That’s right. Do you want to say it?”
“Say what?”
“The prayer.” She replied softly. “I don’t know how.”
“Then can I say it for you. You can echo the words. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” And then we prayed.
“Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross for Belinda’s sins. Thank you for loving her and drawing her to You. Your word says that if she confesses with her mouth that You are Lord, then she will be saved. Thank you God for saving her and we ask in Jesus name that you will come into her heart and save her from her sins and from hell. We love you. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
And my life began. I was fourteen and I was finally near to Him.
Stamped Condemned:
A forgotten building.
Carefully crafted cobwebs in corners
and crooks
and crannies.
Flaking paint on doorways
And wooden window panes;
Mold, deterioration,
A building beyond repair,
Beyond love.
Big box companies bulldoze over them
Instead of fix them.
Please, don’t give up on me.
Don’t demolish me!
Not yet.
Stamped Condemned.
Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, 2because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death. (Romans 8:1-2)
Between the ages of 14 and 21, I went to college, got married, graduated from college, and moved away with my new husband to Amarillo, Texas. During those years, I studied and grew in the Word of God. I ministered and shared God’s love with others. I obeyed God as much as I knew how to.
But once in Amarillo, my emotional health began to decline. I worked hard to graduate cum laude from the University of North Texas and, yet, I could not get hired for anything other than Old Navy.
But, I worked hard at Old Navy, like “working unto the Lord”. My husband also worked hard at his job. He taught school during the day and worked evenings and Sundays at a church as an underpaid Music Minister.
I guess because I was lonely, or maybe life stopped following my predetermined plan, I began to feel condemned. I struggled inwardly with Romans Chapter 8. God’s Word says there is no condemnation for those who abide in the Spirit. I questioned, “If the Spirit has abided in me for the last ten years, then why did I feel condemned? Am I not truly saved? What can this mean? Why do I feel like I need to escape? Why do I want to die? Why do I so genuinely hate myself?”
I would lie for hours prostrate and crying out to God. Evening, morning and noon, I cried out, yet my tears and prayers did not seem to even penetrate the ceiling much less hearken the Almighty’s ears.
But I believed EVERY word of the Bible – not just the parts I liked or the parts I understood. My faith in God’s Word sustained me. My pain showed me God’s Sovereignty. I began to realize God did not owe me an answer to these questions. He did not owe me anything, but rather I owed Him. My payment of sin was death, not life. He gave me life when I did not deserve it. He did not owe me an answer.
So I sought out scripture to hang onto. I relied on stories like Noah. He spent a hundred years building a boat to save a people that had never seen rain. God spoke to Noah only two times and Noah obeyed.
I relied on stories like Moses. Moses wandered for forty years and died, never seeing the promised land. God allowed David’s son to be killed because of David’s sin despite David’s genuine repentance and grief. Paul the apostle was beaten, humiliated, jailed, and killed. John was exiled until death on the Isle of Patmos. Jesus was beaten, stabbed, crucified. Who the hell was I? God owed me nothing.
Yet when I hoped for good, evil came; when I looked for light, then came darkness. Job 30:26
In the middle of all this, I decided I needed more purpose in my life. So Jack and I began a family. We had our first-born son, Ethan, on March 6, 1999. I became more suicidal and distraught. Ten months later, a friend and doctor, diagnosed me as clinically depressed. I began medicinal treatment. For a year and a half, I took an antidepressant that didn’t even work. By this point, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to feel, so I didn’t know it wasn’t working.
Another friend from church knew a little bit of my situation and knew a lot about anti-psychotic drugs. She worked as a Special Education teacher for the local school district. She inquired about what I took and suggested I get off of it immediately. I went to my doctor and told him what she said. He switched my medicine and, after a week of detox from that drug, I began to feel not so sad.
Christopher was born on September 21, 2001. My new medicine seemed to continue to help but I was still struggling. I was still praying. But this time, my prayers were different. I became content and “okay” that I had no answers. I prepared myself to never hear from God again. It had to be enough that I was obedient with prayer and Bible study without feeling the Spirit’s presence in my life. He owed me nothing. I owed Him everything. I clung to His word and His sovereignty.
I also began praying to be healed knowing that I may never be healed; Knowing that I did not deserve to be healed, but asking all the same.
One Sunday, I woke up, and I knew it was over. It was January 2002. I knew. I knew. I knew. I woke up and decided to walk to the front of the church for prayer and to thank God for healing me.
Walking to the front of the church was not a small decision. Trinity Baptist had a large membership. The sanctuary had a balcony. This is where Jack and I sat. Trinity Baptist also never had people come to the front to pray. It was not characteristic to the Church. The idea of walking alone from the balcony down the stairs up the aisle to the front for me to bow my knee on the steps in front of the entire congregation and next to my pastor was huge. But I committed to Jesus I would do it before I even left for church that day.
I don’t remember the sermon. I prayed for strength to walk forward the whole time. Then the invitation came. The invitation when no one ever comes forward. The invitation that is always empty. The invitation, that this time, filled up with people. One, then two, then six, then twelve…more and more people kept walking and bowing. I panicked. I did not want to go. I did not want to go because so many others were going. I knew God could hear me from my seat in the balcony, and began to reason my way out of it. You see, I don’t like to do things just because other people do it. I did not want to be considered a follower. But then I remembered that I promised I would go. So, I obeyed.
The next thing I remember; I was weeping at the steps.
Pastor Dave spent the next 26 weeks teaching Romans 6 through 8 calling the series “The Security of the Believer”. I came to understand some basic theology. Most theologians believed that two things must occur for salvation: faith in Christ and forgiveness of sins. Some theologians believe these occur at the same time. Others believe it can occur separately. I don’t know which is true, or if it even matters. But for me, I came to an understanding. When I was fourteen, I came to faith in Christ. When I was twenty-seven, I was finally able to lay my pride down and be forgiven.
It’s a journey. A pilgrim’s progress. A disciple’s training. A lifelong apprenticeship.
Since then, God has used me in ways unimaginable. Twice I have been to Ireland to proclaim God’s word. I have completed my Masters in Education and ministered to inner city children for two years. Today, I disciple young Christians at a private school teaching them to go out and share the Good News and home school Ethan and Chris. And we just had a new baby girl, Anna Marie, born August 12, 2005.
It has been almost three years since I added to my testimony.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Recent Email
I received a forward today that had this paragraph in it:
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?
I am planning to see if I can find some documented research about it.
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?
I am planning to see if I can find some documented research about it.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Wednesday
Wednesdays are appropriately named 'humpday'. I roll out of bed, usually already late and behind schedule. School never gets started by 8:30 am on Wednesday: nine is more like it. It seems all day we push and pull and pull and push up the hill of 'wednesday'. And then, we reach the end of school: It's 4 o'clock. The rest of the day spins down hill so fast, I never get everything done!
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