The Long Walk I Didn't Know About

Next Post Coming Soon: Point Number Two & What I Didn't Know

In the opening paragraph of his book "Blue Like Jazz", Donald Miller http://www.donaldmillerwords.com/ says this...

"I Once listened to an Indian on television say that God was in the wind and the water, and I wondered at how beautiful that was because it meant you could swim in Him or have Him brush your face in a breeze. I am early in my story, but I believe I will stretch out into eternity, and in heaven I will reflect upon these early days, these days when it seemed God was down a dirt road, walking toward me. Years ago He was a swinging speck in the distance; now He is close enough that I can hear His singing. Soon I will see the lines on His face" pg. 1

My first real encounter with Jesus came somewhere along my 8th year of life. I know it was real for at least two reasons. One, the leading up to the day of my first surrender to God's whisper in my ear was completely unrehearsed, unpredictable and devoid of any actual interest on my part. Two, at the moment my surrender came there was the most unquestionable transition in my thinking and the way I felt. Now, I know feelings can be deceptive, but for God's sake (really). When you meet the creator face to face and realize His love for you as fully as you are able to at any given moment... I think it certain that you should feel something. I mean, He created that ability to feel didn't He? And if this whole believing thing is supposed to be absent any feelings, based on reason alone, we're doomed. Because ultimately it makes no sense. But, more on that later.

Let me explain number one a bit. When I was eight my Dad was a pastor. We spent most of my childhood in small churches with earnest people. As I recall they were mostly old earnest people. I have very few remembrances of other children, though surely there were some. I have a very clear remembrance of a particular period of time when I was eight. I was the only kid in Sunday School. It was not very exciting. My teacher, whose name I cannot recall, was one of the old earnest women of the church. As I sift through some mental pictures I can see her gray hair and a navy blue dress. I can also recall that she was incredibly kind. I somehow know that I was not simply an obligation, but that she really cared about me. I don't remember a thing that she said.

At that same time, each Sunday after Sunday School, I would attend the main church service. We sang hymns, listened to organ music, people would pray, an offering would be received... and my Dad would preach. Like the Sunday School teacher, I do not specifically remember a thing my father ever said when he preached those Sunday sermons. I was hopelessly preoccupied with other things. Shortly after the sermon began I would invariably dig into my mother's purse to retrieve her Parker ballpoint pen. On the weekly bulletin I would use every available white space to draw shapes and lines that only on rare occasion resembled anything like a picture.

Sometimes, in the course of finding the pen, I would be rewarded with the discovery of a roll of Life Savers, Wint-O-Green of course. To this day the taste of a Life Saver will transport me back to my mother's purse. I can instantly smell the blend of her perfume and the tobacco from her cigarettes. I can feel the brush of her clothing across my cheek and see her small, slender hands as they supported her bible in her lap. And there I would sit, scribbling on my paper with her pen.

At some point, my father would end his sermon and begin what we called the "invitation". Many churches still use this same tradition which consists of a direct appeal to those in attendance to make a public statement of their decision to become a Christian by walking to the front of the church. Once there the pastor or other church member would counsel with the repentant soul and they would be presented to the church. On most Sundays, for as long as I could remember, the same thing happened. We would stand and sing, my father would make his appeal, we would sing some more, we'd stop, we'd go to lunch. Except that at one point, with no warning or precipitous event, each time we started to sing my little heart began to break. I wanted to weep. I was unable to sing because of the lump in my throat. I didn't know why, but I knew without question that I was supposed to walk down front. Somehow I even knew that God was wooing me to Him. That there was something transcendent of bible stories and hymns and church. God Himself was trying to elevate me to that something.

I know. Pretty damned heady for an eight year old. But I'm not kidding. I knew, week after week as I stood there white-knuckled on the back of the pew, that the reason my heart hurt so much for the last ten minutes of church was that God's finger was poked into my little chest and He was tugging on me. My father became a conduit directed at me of the mysterious, frightening, compelling presence of God. For some weeks I did not go. And He did not relent.