To Bear Witness – Part III

Seventh and eighth grade were the years when all the kids I knew would come to school spouting stories of their intensely emotional and poetically beautiful conversions at the front of a revival meeting tent. Although I detested tent meetings and scorned the people who got over emotional there, my own story (a private prayer prayed with sheer terror as I clutched my pillow when I was seven) lacked luster and drama. So I often scratched that for a more recent, exciting version.

Those were also the years of Bible studies and sleepovers at which occurred mass conversions and outpourings of the deepest feelings of the heart. But mine was rock hard. To be completely honest, I wanted nothing to do with God at that point. I was merely biding my time until I could escape. I dreamed of a life and career far away from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I was disrespectful. More than once, my sarcasm genuinely wounded. I was so fed up with trying to look perfect, that I could have cared less about my behavior.

I had always been one of the smart kids and in high school, nothing changed. I loved to argue and was always thinking of perfectly legitimate questions. And though they really should have been discussed, I presented them in so rude and sarcastic a manner, that I was simply told to stop being ignorant.

I made friends with kids that argued with their parents as much as I did. I dyed my hair black. I stopped wearing jumpers and started wearing eyeliner. I skipped the whole “Christian rock” thing and started listening to secular hard rock. I started swearing like a sailor.

I became a very good actress, behaving in a contrite manner when it suited me, then laughing at the people who bought it. I developed relationships with people that only made me hate my Mennonite upbringing more. I compromised my standards. There are decisions I made that will haunt me well into the future.

It is difficult for me to write about this time of my life. There are so many things I wish I could have done differently. I was trying to live my life on my own terms. But at the same time, I was discontent. I wanted more.

I remember my dad telling me when I was very young that when he was a boy, he and my uncle would go visit their grandparents-my great grandparents. Mommi and Daudy would kneel and pray with the boys, praying for them and their children. Praying that none of their descendants would live without knowing Christ. They were praying for me. And although I was trying to run away, God hears the prayers of his people and he wasn’t about to let me go.