My new beginnings come every January, like the rest of the world; the beginning not only of a new year, but a new diet, new resolutions or goals, better habits, big plans, etc. But there’s more. The first month of each new year, I’m reminded of my relationship with God. We became “friends” one January, twenty-six years ago next week to be exact.
I had known God most of my life. I knew He had looked after me, followed me, convicted me, and protected me from the time I played Mary in our tiny preschool play. He was with me I walked to church a block away from my Grandmother’s house by myself, as my mom watched from the porch each week when I was in second grade. I frequently felt the tap on my shoulder of His invisible hand when I would start to do something I knew I shouldn’t. I walked away with a scratch on my nose after a terrible car accident that I caused. He was there. The hard labor of a baby who came into the world in bad shape- He was there again. I’ve felt his presence in my life more times than I can count. I was so undeserving of It- I’d done so little for Him. I felt Him there, but didn’t know Him.
I was taught the typical prayers from a long line of faithful Episcopalians- The Lord’s prayer, the Nicene Creed, and Apostle’s Creed, were a part of my weekly (or at least monthly) trek to church. I served as an acolyte and priest server. I sang my heart out in Christmas cantatas and went to vacation Bible school each summer. I was around God a lot of my life. I’ve loved Him from afar for a long time. He has given me lots of opportunities to befriend Him. But He became the biggest part of my world on a Saturday in January of 1999.
A friend I had become quite close to through a job I worked during college was a life-long follower of Jesus. She listened to only “religious” music, went to prayer meetings, raised her hands when she worshipped in church, and read her Bible a lot. At first, it seemed extreme, just weird, really. But still, she seemed normal, happy, social, and nicer than most, and well, too good to be true. What struck me as most unusual, as I got to know her more, were her friendships. She would drop everything to go help clean someone’s house. She would make a giant meal and deliver it to a family with the flu. She would spend an hour praying over the phone with a sad friend. I took mental notes without knowing I was taking notes. Peace was written all over her; peace with a smile. She miscarried a baby and was surrounded by people cooking for her and praying for her. She was sad, but not a “devastated” sad. She was a sad that had hope. It was so unfamiliar, this way of life.
She invited me to church often. There wasn’t pressure, but more of a “Oh, by the way, come to church with me tonight?”. They met in the evenings- another weird thing, as I has always been a Sunday morning girl. I was hesitant at first, but after multiple invites, I went on that cold, January, Saturday. I watched and listened and cried nearly the entire service. I had been moved before by sermons or hymns, but this was different. Much later I realized that that was the night I met the Holy Spirit. I would be forever changed.
That was 26 years ago, last month. I went to church with people I would have called “Jesus Freaks” and I’ve never left. My life is no longer my own. I’ve given it up. It belongs to Jesus. He talks to me, shows me where I need to grow, and puts people in my life to help me do so. I help clean people’s houses, make food for meal trains (though not very well), pray with sad friends, and the Bible is my favorite Book. Joy is not a big enough word for “being found”. I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m forgiven. And I’m His.
More confirmation of this came in the form of a sweet dream I had many years back. Struggling with a long line of fears, I slept inconsistently, but this particular night had fallen into a deeper sleep than usual. Walking along a rocky path in dark woods, afraid, alone, and crying, I suddenly sensed a presence coming from behind me. I felt a warm, comforting, and even calloused hand grip mine. He walking with determination, yet a softness. It was a big, strong hand. He lead me into peace and let me know that He was in it with me. I smile when I remember it. When days are rough, thinking of that hand in mine is a token of His faithfulness and that I never walk alone. I can still remember the actual physical feeling of His touch- so safe.
In weak moments of faith, I remember that dream, which was just the Lord’s way of letting me know that He’s got me. I am His daughter. And just like all good Dads, He will walk with me, holding on to me in valleys, as well as on mountains. I continue to have times of great fear, of worry, and I sometimes lack peace, but I don’t hang out there near as long as I once did. Finding a place, surrounded by people who won’t leave me there, who pull me from the depths into the Father’s presence has been one of my life’s greatest joys. Had I not eventually taken my friend up on her invitation, who knows how long my time in the valley would last- alone and lost.
But I’m found, and still guided by that calloused hand.
The B. Keeper 