The Last Strand of the Tapestry

In 1997, I was a happily-married, stay-at-home mother of the cutest, smartest, most promising little girl ever born (because aren't they all?). My husband was in a career transition and money was tight, but all our needs were provided for, we lived comfortably in our own home and all had our good health. I had a very pretty little life. Except I had not Life.

The strands of the tapestry that is my conversion are here and here and here and here.

A lot of what I've written is, of course, understood in hind sight. In the moment, I didn't see what was going on because I didn't have any basis for understanding. I didn't know then as I do now that one must hear the good news message to be able to receive it -- but I was hearing it. I didn't know that the fact that He saved me to Himself in the middle of Mormon country would only serve as a mighty powerful testimony to His sovereignty and His authorship -- how incredible is that? And I didn't even know that love was a principle tenant of the faith -- but I was watching it in action in the lives of my cousins.

After I fell to my knees and acknowledged God that Saturday morning, I went about my business as if nothing much had happened. And really, compared to what was yet to happen, not much had. I was not saved just because I had encountered God. That moment would happen a few days later.

Husband went off to his new sales job one weekday morning and I was low. I can't remember what Fifi was doing -- perhaps she was being entertained by angels because they knew this was going to be a big morning for me. This was to be the morning of my inhertance: April 9, 1997. I started the morning by surfing the channels and landing on a prayer and healing service. It was new, strange, and intriguing. I watched for awhile and can remember thinking to myself, "That would be really nice if someone would pray over me." It was a mildly uncomfortable thought and I'm even a little shy about sharing it here, but I think the Holy Spirit was hovering over the black void of my dead spirit in that moment, much as He hovered over the watery void before God spoke the light into being; I'm not sure it was as much my thought as His prompting.

Yes, I wanted to pray but didn't know how or where to begin. I knew I needed someone to lead me. But how was that to happen? Who would I ask? And what exactly would I be asking for? My first thought was of my Grandfather, the pastor -- or Aunt #1. But no -- that wouldn't be right. They would just get excited thinking I wanted to "get saved," and since I had no idea what was happening to me, I decided not to call them -- for sure.

For the next 2 hours or so, I would argue back and forth in my head about what I should do and what I couldn't do -- what I wanted to do but was afraid to do. I just did. not. understand. Toward the end of this time, I remember "hearing" a name being called out to my psyche. It wasn't my name as one might suppose it should be if the Father is drawing; it was Jesus'. I didn't hear it with my ears, and I know full well that Jesus isn't the proper, authentic pronounciation for the Savior's name, but unmistakably that is the name I "heard," more than once as I tried --really tried -- to resist His grace.

And then out of nowhere the most logical of all prayer partners came to mind. Why had I not thought of her earlier? My father's younger sister (Aunt #2) was his choice to be our guardians, should anything have happened to them when we were young. He liked her -- even if she was a Christian. And she is likable. Very maternal. Friendly Southern twang with a deep abiding love for her Savior. So I called her. She asked how I was. I began to cry. She asked me so sweetly if I was ready to pray to receive Christ. I said yes. She led me in what to say and I said it. I was broken, emotional, embarrassed and truthfully -- a little confused. Maybe confused isn't the right word; I didn't have my heart and mind wrapped around what was happening and it would be a few weeks before I would have that AHA! moment in which the atonement made some sense to me. But I was saved -- that much I know -- and I knew it then, even if I didn't fully understand all that that meant.

Oh, yes...and many months later I would discover that right before my phone call, Aunt #2 had just finished listening to a sermon on tape all about how to lead the lost to Jesus. He had withheld her name from me until she could finish that teaching. She was ready.

Poor Aunt #2. After nearly 29 years of prayer, and in my embarrassment, I extracted a promise from her not to tell anyone. It was a shameful moment of pride as I remembered what a team mentality I had been taught to take over the whole issue of religion. It was "them and us," and I didn't want "them" to take any satisfaction in my crossing over from the "us" team. What a sad reaction on my part. A few hours later, I think she called me back and implored me to let her tell Grandpa and the rest. I relented. I hear that when he announced the blessed news to his small congregation at the evening service that night (must have been a Wednesday) there were gasps and cheers and tears as most of the church was made up of my extended family. They tell me that he exhorted them to pray for me and support me because, "She'll get none from her own family." He knew that better than I with that statement -- that's for sure.

I had the most wonderful "honeymoon" period with my Lord. My favorite thing of all was the sense of calm and assurance I felt when I contemplated the fact that He knew me. He knew me and He loved me and if no one ever understood me ever again, it was o.k. because He knew me. Oh, I loved that rest.

In those first hours and days I felt His presence strongly. There was definately an invisible Someone shadowing me. I also remember having the bible on my mind; night and day. I hadn't been told of its importance, but I dreamed of its pages flipping from cover to cover, and I had a strong desire to read it. He raised me slowly -- from infancy to toddlerhood -- showing me my sin and giving me His gift of repentance so that I could confess and He could cleanse.

But I didn't tell Husband right away. How do you tell your spouse of nearly 9 years that everything is about to change -- like it or not? I didn't tell him because I didn't know how to. But that very Saturday, a strange "coincidence"happened. Husband's sister-in-law called to chat and announced that she was being confirmed in the Episcopal church later that afternoon! She had been in classes for a full year up to that point, and we had no idea. It gave me a natural window of opportunity. "Honey? Speaking of things spiritual..."

He didn't react badly. He looked a little stunned, and I thought -- a little envious, as if He knew I had something that He didn't, and He would like to have it too. He came to church with Fifi and me once we found one that taught the Word, and the Lord weaved a tapestry for Him, too, within the year. God is gracious.

And He did send me friends of support. Many relatives (and their friends even) wrote me beautiful letters of welcome and invested in my Walk with resources they knew I would eventually need: commentaries, bibles, tracts and concordances. A few days before Father's Day of that year, I called my dad as a courtesty to inform him of my plans to fly out to Dallas that weekend to be baptized by his father. I don't know what I thought he would say. I should have expected it, but was surprised nonetheless that he seemed a little angry. He was measured and calm when he explained (something to the effect of), "You're going to grow to be sure that I'm going to Hell and I want to spell it out right here that you are not to speak to me about the Gospel or try to convert me. It's going to be hard for you sometimes -- very hard. But I don't want to hear it -- ever. Are we clear?" (Years later he would up that ante to include everything that even mentioned my love for God: Christmas cards, birth announcements and the like.)

Grandpa, who had suffered from prostate cancer for many years, baptized me under trying circumstances on Father's Day, 1997. He was weak and the devil was in the details, quite literally. Many things did not fall into place: the doors at the borrowed church were bolted and we were without a key; and Aunt #1 missed the baptism because she had been sent to retrieve a key, but meanwhile my uncle jimmied a lock; the font was low for the immersion service and my grandfather who spoke perfect Southern Spanglish forgot to "flip the switch" in his head and baptized me in a toungue that I didn't comprehend. But I understood enough. He said it was a great day for him. He choked up and I cried, and we persevered and made it happen (but not because my salvation rested on it, mind you, I don't understand the scriptures that way).

All of my cousins and aunts and uncles were there. I was Grandpa's very last baptism, and while that detail escaped the rest at his funeral, I feel blessed for the 6 weeks of fellowship by phone and fax that we enjoyed before he went Home to be with His Father.

I'm so thankful that the Lord did all that; I love my tapestry. I love everything the Lord creates because I love Him.