(…continued from God of My Story, Part 3…)

It was so hot in the little lodge that I felt like I could hardly draw a breath.  Sweat Lodge, indeed.  This was more like a let’s-suck-every-bit-of-moisture-out-of-you-then-some-more-while-you-try-to-pray-and-have-a-spiritual-experience lodge.  More water was poured onto the hot rocks in the pit in the center and steamed gushed upward and around us.  I was encouraged to lean down to the edge of the lodge wall and breathe in fresh air before I passed out.  Cool, sweet air…oh, what relief…

This was a way to get closer to God?  The Great Spirit?  ‘Cause it sure is hot in here!

We could only walk in one direction around the fire outside and upon entering the lodge and around the pit inside.  I do not remember everything, but I remember being worried about the details.  Would I get it right?  Would I do a part of the ceremony or actions wrong and anger someone or something?  But I’ll do my best; my dad is here and he’ll help me.  I want to try, I want a spiritual experience.

The people we met who participated in these ceremonies were so friendly and caring, seemingly unlike some of the hypocrites we had met before.   They were so in tune with the world and nature – so why couldn’t it be a perfect match with the God I had grown up with?  He created the world in seven days, we had learned.  Surely, this was the same god?  These people are so good!  How can they not get into heaven, too?  And who am I to say whether or not they will get into heaven, really?  How dare someone say for sure whether or not I was getting into heaven! 

Thoughts like these dominated my mind as I grew from high school into college.  You know, that stage in life where you have no idea who you are or what you believe in and are trying to figure it out.

I continued to compromise my morals and ethics and beliefs in my own mind, but God had His Hand on me the entire time.  Whether I was in questionable or potentially dangerous situations with men, drugs, alcohol, driving (not much to do when you live in the sticks), or what-not, I was always protected somehow.  To this day, I give my God and Savior the glory for that.  Truly amazing.  I will even say unashamedly and unabashedly that I was a virgin on my wedding day.  And that was indeed God’s protection.  I’ll probably never know how much, but I have an idea.  I never tried the drugs either – it was amazingly easy to say no and let them get over it.  I was a poster-child for the Just Say No campaign!

God’s protection there also?  Absolutely.  Look for the hindsight, people, it’s there in your life, too.  You’re reading this, aren’t you?  Perhaps He’s prompting you to look…

I held my own quiet rebellion as I headed off to that Baptist-college-I-rejected-but-God-chose.  I dressed a little differently than everyone else.  (If you know me personally and see me on a regular basis, I am sure that is hard to believe.)  My freshman year composition class I insisted on writing two papers about tattoos and the Bible.  Oh, my sweet professor, I just loved her.  What patience she had!  (She admitted I proved my thesis well.  That makes me grin even now.)  Then I would do things like help circulate a petition against the school cafeteria because the food was horrendous and they charged way too much money for it.  (I was easily let off the required meal plan the next year.  Hmm…wonder why?) 

The quiet rebellion became more permanent.  The weekend before heading back to school for my sophomore year, my mom went with me to get a tattoo.  It doesn’t get much more permanent then that.

Yes, I have a tattoo.  It’s of an angel holding a rose with a moon in the background.  I was fascinated with angels at the time.

Yes, it hurt.  But, I usually forget I even have it.  (My kids call it a “pretty picture.”)

But throughout this quiet rebellion, and my arguing and my challenging of all the Baptist-ness and Christian-ese around me, Jesus Christ was planting seeds.  There was a concert one night at the large Baptist church near campus and I was invited to go along with several of the other students and new friends.  It was a Christian group, sharing the message of salvation.  (I think they are a popular group now.)  I do not recall the words, but I remember being strongly affected.  As we walked back to the campus that night, I was so glad it was dark so no one could see my tears. 

I just wasn’t ready for surrender yet.  Pride, so much pride.

There was another event later that year – Tony Campolo if I recall correctly.  I wasn’t particularly fond of his style of communication, but at the “invitation” to surrender your life to Christ someone next to me wanted to go down to pray and asked me if I wanted to go as well.  I said, “Sure!”  I prayed the prayer of salvation, and apparently that was it.  I was saved!

Um, ok…not so much.  Pride again. 

I had only said the words.   Oh, how many times had I said the words over and over and over again over the years!  But I had not surrendered to truly letting Christ into my heart and my life, letting Him take over and walking into the freedom of a relationship with Him!  I would not know the difference for another three years. 

Oh yes, I continued to argue.  And challenge.  And observe.  And question.  And take it all in.

Then I got a job as a part-time staff organist at a Baptist church near the campus. 

God has a sense of humor with me, remember?

…to be continued…