Gypsy Bags & Traveling Jackets

He had waited years thirty-eight years for me, through Starhawk and Convergences, God’s hand guiding and protecting me on my search, biding His time. I had been knocking on spiritual doors, now one had opened and I was terrified to walk forward.

I have no recollection of driving home. I was too busy arguing with God. The voices, both mine and His, were battling it out in my head. Me: “I don’t have to go up there to be saved.” God: “That’s true. But YOU have to go up there.” Me: “Fine, I’ll go the early service. It won’t be as crowded.” God: “No, you’ll go to the 10:00 service like normal.” So much for the encouragement of the Mentor.

April 15, 2001, journal entry--
Easter Sunday. God and I had a lengthy discussion in the car on my way home from church. I must humble (humiliate) myself and step forward to publicly proclaim my choice to follow Jesus. I agree that I have taken the cowardly way out. I admit that I am full of empty pride and that I will never get over myself unless I walk up to Pastor Ron and publicly admit to being a sinner and wanting to start new. God give me the courage next Sunday to be the first person to move. I want to be vulnerable and humble.

The arguments continued. I was not going down (or up) without a fight! Every argument I raised was met and dismissed—not a flippant dismissal like the ones received when someone is simply too tired to argue—no, my arguments simply became lame in comparison. Humility is not one of my virtues, but when I finally acquiesced, I asked for silence to the constant urgent insistence that I could wait no longer. Quiet, please!

With this heavenly silence, I wrestled all week with a vague, unsettled feeling. Like one of those frustration dreams where you see the thing you are chasing, but you can never quite get there—so close, yet so elusive. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of my reluctance. Pride, which I possessed in ample supply, was not the source since I had already decided to risk humiliation in front of several hundred people, most of whom I didn’t know. Whatever “it” was, hovered just beyond sight, its presence felt, but shrouded in mystery. And God was not talking. At my request.

The big day arrived. I showered and carefully planned my outfit. Control freaks are expert planners, examining all aspects of intended actions, planning accordingly to avoid missteps that might cause embarrassment. Careful wardrobe planning ensured that I would make the trek unencumbered by my purse since I never saw anyone standing up front holding their purse. I wore a jacket to hold my car keys and planned to lock my purse in the trunk of the car (which I apparently considered safer than leaving it in my seat of the church). I was determined to make this commitment even if it killed me, which, I mused, it very well might.

I had to know the source of this haunting, invisible reluctance, so I prayed, “God what is it?” Feeling invisible arms holding me in a firm, steady grip, like the kind you provide to someone at a funeral grieving a loved one, I heard this gentle voice whisper in my head, "Because you know what out-of-control looks like."

A wave of emotions surfaced. Memories flooded back. I was fourteen years old all over again. I most certainly knew what out-of-control looked like, and it was terrifying. Pent-up memories of my Dad’s drinking binges were scary, embarrassing and hurtful. Mom’s stoicism was her defense, leaving us to find our own way to handle the situation. Adults acted like children and I, a child, assumed the responsibility of adulthood. Unshed tears, years of trying to control the uncontrollable with the “buck up and deal” philosophy gave way. Collapsing in a broken heap on the floor, unable to stand up under the weight, tears poured out in rivers of pain.

***
A good friend once described me, more to her amusement than mine, as someone surrounded by a huge brick wall, with an iron gate padlocked by a heavy chain, and rolled concertina wire on the top, carefully constructed to keep out intruders. All of this because we were in a downtown club and I wasn’t being asked to dance! I wasn’t offended, nor did I argue with her assessment. I knew it was true. It was my fortress of defense. I responded that I was waiting for someone courageous enough to come over the wall. We were in a bar. No one fitting the description showed up. Until now.

Breaking through my contained, self-sufficient encasement, Jesus was not threatened by the fortress I had built, nor intimidated by the iron gate with the heavy chain and padlock. When Jesus kicked that wall down, He saw a frightened fourteen-year old inside, looking fierce.

Undeterred by walls, He extended His hand in invitation, the nail print proved that His love was strong enough to overpower the toughest barriers, even those encased in concertina wire. On Sunday, April 22, 2001, at the 10:00 a.m. church service, I stepped into the aisle at the invitation. As I stepped into that aisle, I don’t remember taking a step. Instead, I went up with such force, I thought I would end up in the drum set.

The choice was not easy. Control freaks don’t give up easily, and badly damaged hearts take awhile to heal and trust again. Someone standing next to me put their arm around my shoulders as I looked up at the Pastor with that deer-in-the-headlights look. We prayed. I heard the applause of the congregation and was ushered into a little room to meet with a prayer partner who assured me that the conversation with God the week before was normal. Whew!

I did not float home on some tidal wave of euphoria. I left the church exhausted. I wrote in my journal, “I did it!” and wondered if it “took,” since I felt no overwhelming desire to tell everyone I saw about Jesus.