This week I felt compelled to share my story, to write of the ends and outs that shaped me, and the weaving of years and circumstances that make up the tapestry of my life.
I was born in a small town in West Tennessee. A quiet and quaint university town, so humid and hot that the pavement beneath your feet acted as a giant frying pan scorching the tops of your head and sending trails of perspiration down your back. It was not always that hot however, it certainly wasn’t in winter, but even the cold winter couldn’t send you begging for the sizzling months of summer.
I lived in a small brick house surrounded by other brick houses, not in the normal neighborhood layout, but equally clustered. It was just big enough for our little family of, at the time, four and even had a backyard large enough for my little sister and I to have a play set. Four years of wonderful memories were made in that house. When I was four my family moved. My parents felt God had called them to help with a church plant in North Carolina that two of our current pastors would be starting. The months leading up to the move and the ones proceeding it were anything but easy. I still remember how badly I missed my dad when he had to go to North Carolina, to start his job, a few months before we were able to join him. I remember after the move the ache of loneliness that suffocated me in seclusion and drowned me in my own tears. I remember all too well the pain that comes with change, but just like most changes that take place in our lives, the Lord brought joy out of the pain.
The small group of families that gathered every Sunday began to become a source of community and overtime, as our church began to grow, the feeling of being utterly lost in the newness of life began to fade. When I recall the memories of the early days of my time in North Carolina I’m sent into a foggy haze of scenes and feelings both familiar to the moment and ones that come with the assurance of looking back. I feel the longing for community I felt then, the thankfulness I felt when I gained that community later on, and the horrible gut wrenching pain of being hurt by those very people. All these feelings, mixed into one brief scene, mark just a moment of the life stretching both in front and behind me. It’s the little things I remember, the small acts of kindness that brightened the life of a lonely little girl, the pure joy of being remembered in a letter by a friend from my birthplace, and the small moments of sweet serenity that were felt at the caress of the wind, the feeling of fresh grass on my toes, and the warmth of the sun on my face. This is the picture my early life portrays, one of sunshine, childlike trust, and the sweet innocence of an ignorant child who had been blessed to be shielded from some of the great evils of the world.
My rearing was one of grace and love, the kind that reflected that of the Heavenly Father’s. Because of this I never struggled picturing God as my father, for my earthly one was a marvelous example of my heavenly one. I did struggle, however, with trust. Even as a little girl I struggled with being anxious. So it was hard for me at times to trust God’s plan and timing. Lucky for me there weren’t many heavy topics I had to deal with as a young child, but what I did worry about were the things completely out of my control, things I had to trust God with. Things such as being in a car accident, a tornado, a fire, being kidnapped, or coming down with a fatal illness. Even more than I worried for myself I worried for my family and friends, it would be worse to lose a loved or watch them suffer than it would be to be the sufferer. The possibilities of these things terrified me and crippled me in my fear. When I was really young I would place blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals around the edges of my bed, creating a fortress I viewed as being reinforced by angels.
I was a contemplative child and I often pondered my future, read my Bible, engrossed myself in wholesome classics, and prayed for anyone and any situation that was placed on my heart. I wasn't an perfect child, of course, but I was quiet, well mannered, and contemplative. I have always been passionate about the three things; singing, writing, and ministry. I think the first time the seeds of my calling were ever really instilled in me was the time that lead me to the foot of the cross. I was six years old, so young to accept Christ and understand the meaning of the Gospels, but I knew what my Savior had done for me and I was completely convinced of my faith. This event took place when my family and I were driving home one night from a Christmas gathering. I was beginning to feel that lump, that surge of anxiety pushing against the dam of faith built up by my childlike trust and roots in scripture. The enemy whispered thoughts, thoughts that drifted unsuspectingly into my mind, but thoughts that were intended to destroy, yet never had the power to. I pushed all the lies out of my head and centered my focus on Jesus. Than as clear as anything I’ve ever seen, if not clearer, there was an angel-like form. It shone in the midst of streetlights crowning the interstate, making it seem as though it disguised itself to others in this form. This angel seemed to be peering into my soul and at the sight of it a voice inside me boomed, echoing in my heart and seemed to say,
“Look at my hands, look at my feet, and see what I have done for you.”
It called in foreign songs so beautiful and comforting to my soul. It called to something in the depths of my being and spoke to a need stronger than any earthly desire. It planted in me a love for God, an appreciation of my Savior, and a calling so beautiful that nothing could ever replace it.
In that moment I knew the enemy had lost. I knew that Jesus had conquered death. I knew that I had been saved, and I knew that I wasn’t going to live my life going through the motions. I was going to be a champion for the Lord no matter if it cost me my acceptance, my safety, or my life.
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