My First Duh Moment

                I want to be real. I’d like to give you fair warning and let you know that I have fairly large feet and therefore they tend to get stuck in my slightly small mouth. But I want you to know me; I want you to know my heart. That’s why I want to share my full testimony with you. Unfortunately, that story involves a lot of people and I don’t have permission for full disclosure. There are some things I won’t be able to go into detail on. I think I need to start as close to the beginning as possible (don’t worry, I don’t mean from birth)…

                About nine years ago, at the age of eleven, I moved into a new town and started at a new middle school.  I was an Air Force brat so at the time this was my third move. As some of you know, when you move to a new place you get to be a new you! The me I decided to be was definitely different. You could call it a naivety, you could call it immaturity; either way, it was just a phase.  I think the picture does an alright job of summing up this phase I went through (I'm in the middle). Some would call it punk, or goth, or emo; you can take your pick.

                The real turning point of this whole story really hit in seventh grade English class.  Mrs. Hoover’s English class was the bane of my existence with the acceptance of one person in particular, Michael Robert Marrotte.

                So what was is exactly about Mike that made me tolerate English class and the best worst teacher of all time? Mike was just a well-liked guy. He was genuine, kind. He just had this type of greatness about him that is difficult to describe. At the time I didn’t understand that God was just using Mike to show me a glimpse of His greatness; all of these qualities that I was so drawn to in Mike were qualities of God just shining through.  As you have most likely already assumed, I developed a massive crush on him.

                I promise you all of those facts will become relevant later on in this story; but now I’ll shift focus to my home life. This part of the story is where I’m going to choose to be really vague. In seventh grade something happened that kind of sent me a red flag and I realized something wasn’t right. After a certain sequence of events my home-life became entirely different. There was never fighting or yelling or anything like that, there was just a noticeable tension in the air. Unfortunately, seventh grade was not the end of my troubles and middle school continued.  In eighth grade my parents alerted the rest of our family to the fact that they were apparently experiencing marital issues.  As I said before, I knew there was tension; but, there was no fighting so I was still very caught off guard when my parents announced their separation in November of that year. My dad was going to move to our old house in Bealeton and my mom was going to stay in our current house with my siblings and me.

                Then summer before high school began. I had Christian friends like Mike and his friend John, and near the end of summer they had invited me to their youth group. Upon first being invited I remember the negative connotations I had associated with church. Honestly, I think my biggest concern was my image at the time. Like I had said before, I was going through a phase where I thought I was B.A or something and obviously a cookie-cutter church act just wouldn't fit with who I was trying to be. But then I talked to my best friend Rachel about it and we decided that if cute boys were going to be there then it was probably the place to be. So I admit this much, the only reason I ever stepped foot into a youth group in the first place was because I was thirsty. I was about to join marching band in high school so obviously the thirst was more real than it had ever been.

                Rachel and I went to youth group on one summer night about a month before school had started. I have absolutely no recollection of what the speaker spoke about. All I can remember is we were all told to go off in a corner and pray at the end of service. I don’t think this was the first time I ever prayed but I remember the cathartic feeling that followed. I walked home with Rachel and I remember telling her how I was going to go back again. Youth group was a place worth exploring and an avenue worth traveling down, regardless of my public image.

                I began to pray that my dad would come back home. I didn't want my parents to get a divorce obviously, but most of all I just missed him. Bealeton is a forty-five minute drive from Leesburg and because of the long distance we didn't even really get to see him very often. I prayed every night before I went to bed just praying that he would come home. I wasn't even a Christian at this point; I didn't really know who God was. I think I thought of God a lot like Santa Claus and just believed God would want me to be happy all the time and therefore he should bring my dad back home to me. I’m not sure how long it took but eventually one day my dad came into my room and told me Bealeton was too far, he missed seeing his kids, and he was going to come back home.

                The second my dad left my room I remember looking upward past the ceiling, past the roof of my house, and just saying “You did this for me.” I earnestly believed that God brought my dad home to me. I immediately decided that since God brought my dad home to me, I believed in Him.

                I think I thought that made me a Christian.  I wouldn't say that this was the day I was saved and I can’t recall an exact date when I actually was saved. This is not the end of my story.

                If I can remember correctly I think my dad lived with us until the summer before my junior year of high school. When I turned sixteen I was informed that my dad was going to move out again and my mom was going to start seeing someone. Luckily, my dad had found a house foreclosure and it was maybe a mile from my mom’s house, so he wouldn't be that far this time. I kept going to youth group and I think I might have started going to Sunday morning church at this time too.

                The first holiday season with my parents separated was swiftly approaching. I remember I wrote a prayer card during youth group that had mentioned how difficult the holidays were going to be with my parents separated and what not. I think some time after I had mentioned that my youth pastor said something to me that really got me to realize how I needed to adjust my view of God. I don’t remember the context or when he said it but I just remember him saying something about how I couldn't base my salvation or my faith on an event or on the fact that God did one good thing for me one time. I can’t remember the exact words he used, but I wish I could because his words really helped me understand how my view of God had been wrong for a while. I had based my entire faith on the fact that God brought my dad back to me. I needed to base my faith on the fact that Jesus died on a cross and took on my sin and shame in my place so that I could have a relationship with God through Jesus. I could have a relationship with a God who was holy and just and loving and merciful.

                Like I said before, I’m not sure of an exact date; but, I don’t think I believe that salvation is a one-time thing. Salvation seems to be a gradual process to me and there are always parts of me I am praying to improve upon and grow in. You can allow the Holy Spirit to fill your heart once, or you can take up your cross and be filled daily. Duh.