To Bear Witness – Part V

On my good days, I was saintly. But my bad days would throw me off entirely and it would be some time before I would pray again, returning to God as a repentant child. Those struggles, though, were all entirely mine. I shared them with no one. On the outside, I looked decently good. When a nine year old girl from the youth center would ask me for spiritual advice, I would tell her something that, though it was helpful and sounded wise, was not at all personal with me. My mental religion had yet to become a heartfelt relationship with my God. I struggled with this for months, barely surviving on the minute diet of Bible verses I already knew. I made demands of God and then felt abandoned if I did not receive the desire of my heart.

In October of 2007, I went to Deeper Walk. I typically avoided crusade type things like Deeper Walk but since this was for young adults and there would probably be an amazing worship time, I decided to go and see what happened.

The very first night, the speaker brought up the verse that basically says that if you seek God with all your heart, he will give you your hearts desire. As this verse was basically my anthem, I was instantly drawn to the message. The speaker went on the say that so many kids highlight the last part of that verse and ignore the first part. That they will do like the girl who walks into Tiffany’s and finds this absolutely gorgeous diamond necklace that is usually priced at $998.99 marked down to $19.99. It’s the last one there so the girl picks it up and parades to the front of the store, flaunting her find to anyone who looks in her direction. When she reaches the register, the salesclerk rings up $19.99 and the girl slides her a ten and then becomes infuriated when the salesclerk will not give her the necklace.

That night I realized that I was expecting God to give me the desire of my heart for free. All God was asking was that I entirely dedicate my life and passions to him and that he was longing to make my dreams come true if only I would seek him. And I was not seeking him.

That weekend was the beginning of my journey toward an intimate relationship with Christ. I started listening to music I would not have been caught dead with and reading books that I had previously avoided like the plague.

I was intrigued. The character of Christ was suddenly so beautiful to me and I longed to be like Jesus. So much changed in the way that I related to people around me. I fell in love with volunteering. I longed to pour what I had discovered in Christ out onto other people. I had never known that following Christ could be that intensely wonderful.

There is a song on Leeland’s Sound of Melodies album that describes perfectly how I felt at that point. The song is called “Reaching.” I love the way that the lyrics paint a picture of the Christ-seeker.

REACHING

Here in this place
With humbleness and brokenness
We seek all You are
We seek You
And it’s for You
It’s all for You
We’re leaping over walls to get to You
Would You pull us along
Pull us home

We are
We are reaching
We are reaching out
(And we’re calling for You, Lord)
We’re caught up in this hunger
Searching for Your heart
(And we’re calling for You, Lord)

Here on this earth
We lift our eyes to the stars
We seek all You are
We seek You
And it’s for You
It’s all for you
We’re breaking off our chains to run to You
Would you fill our hearts
Oh, fill our songs

Leaving the lights on, the lights on
We wait for you
This won’t be the last song, the last song
We sing to you

We are
We are reaching
We are reaching out
(And we’re calling for You, Lord)

Granted, I’m imperfect. Although I know that God is working in my life, in me, there are still unresolved issues. There are still parts of my life that I hesitate to place at the foot of the cross. But I find that as I lay my burdens down and passionately pursue Christ, there is an unmistakable freedom that is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever known.

To Bear Witness – Part IV

As strange as it sounds, I was saved by a crush. I had been more or less going out with a Muslim guy for a little while and though he had told me that he would not give up his religion and that it was very unlikely that he would ever marry me, I kept going out with him in hopes that he would change. My own belief in God was so shaky at that point that if it had come to it, I would most likely have converted to Islam. I even took the Koran out of the library and read a bit of it to educate myself about the religion.

Then I met a new boy. He was entirely different than the guy before him. He was all-American. He hunted and drove a truck. His parents were bumper-sticker Republicans. But most importantly, he professed to follow Christ and went to church.

Because of him, I began to meet other people who were Jesus people and who were not caught up in the appearance judgment I had been raised in and which had been so stifling to me. I met a woman who became somewhat my mentor in a time when I disregarded all the authority in my life. With the influence of these people, my rebellion slowly began to deflate. I added colors other than black to my wardrobe. I began to strive for a gentle spirit.

I started volunteering, first as a camp counselor then a few nights a month at the Honeybrook Youth Center. I was thinking through faith and was making lots of decisions about what I personally believed. I had stopped wearing a veil and the relationship between my parents and me improved. I no longer felt as though I had to appear to be something I wasn’t and suddenly my behavior had to indicate that I was a follower of Christ rather than the way I dressed or what I wore on my head.

I also was convinced that if I was going to be a follower of Christ, I wanted there to be a relationship rather than a religion. If asked, I told people that I was a follower of Jesus rather than a Christian to avoid affiliation with the institution that had suppressed and killed in the name of Christ. I did not want to be ignorant about my faith, only going through the motions. I wanted to know the history, the weaknesses and the strengths. I wanted to know what I believed and why.

Although I was learning more-thinking more-there were still times when I felt utterly helpless. There were “dry times” during which I felt absolutely no connection to Christ so I would stop praying. I would become unbearable and depressed. Then I would pray again and it would be as if a breath of fresh air had swept into a musty room.

I wanted more, however, than just this cycle of dry and rainy seasons. But I had no idea what to do differently. I had no idea why God wasn’t answering my prayers.

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.

To Bear Witness – Part II

Second grade was about the age that most kids that I grew up with made the decision whether they wanted to go to heaven or hell when they died. Maybe there were some second graders out there who understood it better than I did. But for me, it was that simple. I remember the peer pressure to ask Jesus into my heart. The kids that were praying the prayer were the smart kids. I was a smart kid, so I prayed the prayer too.

Then came the anxiety that I wasn’t in yet. That I had missed a crucial word and if my house burned down in the night, I would go on burning for eternity. I re-asked Jesus into my heart countless times as I lay in my bed, terrified that some stroke of fate would have me dead before morning.

But despite this fear of random death, I was developing into a very strong-willed child. The next two years of my life go by in a blur of friendship clubs that quickly turned into intense-dislike-of-anyone-not-in-my-friendship-club clubs. There were teary eyed (teary eyed because I only cry when infuriated) arguments about why I could or could not be friends with a certain girl that week. Teachers tried to discourage then banish cliques, but when admonished, I only rebelled more intensely.

I had gotten over my nightly petitions to ask Jesus into my heart in case I died and although I knew that my behavior and attitude were wrong, I had pretty much given up trying to change. It was just too hard and I didn’t really know what to do differently.

In fifth grade there was the drama of a church split. I don’t really remember all that was involved but I do remember that I began to dress differently than the kids that had all once looked and dressed like me. But even though I was allowed more than most of the other kids (I was allowed to wear a veil instead of a bucket covering), I was still extremely upset when I was not allowed to “poof” my hair and that I had to wear jumpers while another girl that went to my new church was allowed to wear skirts and t-shirts. I began to resent my mother’s authority in addition to the authority of most of my teachers.

To Bear Witness – Part I

I had a fantastic childhood. I had a brother a year older than myself and a younger brother and they made wonderful playmates. We built forts in the line of trees beside the Our Holy Mother of Lourdes Catholic Church. We valiantly fought the Handyman who chased us in his John Deere army tank/lawn mower with intention of murder. We contemplated vandalizing the idols in the elaborate flower garden in front of the church. We just climbed the Virgin Mary statue like she was a mountain to be conquered instead. We spied on the Red Lady and the Grey Lady when they took cigarette breaks in front of the church and reacted as though we’d been shot if they spotted us. We created sand people and inspected dead crows in the sandbox. We peeled the shells of insects off of the oak tree religiously. My brother pulled my hair and I made him dinner in my little plastic kitchenette.

I still remember the musty smell of the Sunday school rooms at Pequea Amish Mennonite Church. I remember the thrill of looking out the window and seeing the tops of the trees. I remember the bare lightbulb that hung above the table. I remember running across the meadow between the church and the preacher’s house to play on all manner of childish delights. A wooden train, at least two swingsets, a playhouse. Oddly, I never inspected the cemetery.

Then there was first grade at Weavertown. Donuts for “D” and marshmallow igloos for “I.” Story time and filling my bubble gum machine with every aced spelling test.

At this point in my very short existence, the only really heavy thinking I had done concerning heaven, hell, and God was that the Red and Grey Ladies and the Handyman were going to hell for smoking and that Heaven was on the cloud that turns dusty pink and golden late in the afternoon and beams of light pour through the holes.