Salvation

     Yesterday (February 7) was the thirty-third anniversary of a very important day for me.  I remember it as if it were yesterday.  The story goes back a few days, though, to February 4, 1987--my fifth birthday. 

Me as a 5-year old

     I was very excited.  My mom was going to take my best friend and me to the circus.  I'd seen commercials for the circus, but had never been to a real one myself!  I was also excited that my age was a whole hand now.  When people asked my age, I could hold up all five fingers, no longer having to put the thumb down.  I felt very grown up. 

     Shortly before we were to leave, a frantic knock sounded on our door.  When we opened it, and found our eleven-year-old neighbor Christy, wild-eyed.  "There's a man in my house!  My mom's not home yet, and there's a guy trying to rob us!" 

     My parents had her come in, while they called the police.  It was scary, but the police arrived, and helped Christy and her family.  That situation sort of put a damper on the day.  Maybe it was a sort of sign.  Or maybe Satan was attacking because of what the Holy Spirit was stirring.

     Once everything was taken care of, my mom got me in the car, and we went to my friend's house (a few miles away) to pick her up.  We were riding along, when the car made a funny, popping sound. 

     "Oh no," Mom sighed, pulling our fifteen-year-old Pinto into the closest shopping center.  I wasn't terribly alarmed.  We had had this old vehicle as long as I remembered, and when it had problems, it always turned out to be okay in the end.  My mother, on the other hand, was very stressed.  When I became an adult, I came to understand that stress.  Car problems are hard to deal with at times, becoming vulnerable to a mechanic (who may or may not be telling you the truth), rethinking how you'll budget finances for the month, mentally rearranging all your transportation until the repair is complete, etc.  But I was only five, and this was part of the adventure.

Our car looked exactly like this picture of a 1972 Ford Pinto.  I didn't have a good picture of our actual car from that time, but I found this lookalike online.  With the more modern cars in the background, you can deduce it isn't from the actual time this story takes place, but you get the idea of the type of car we were dealing with.  It was old even then (1987)

     This was in the days when payphones were everywhere, and my mom promptly located one, at the far corner of the shopping center, right outside the grocery store.  She didn't want two little girls running all over the place while she was on the phone.  More to keep us safe than for any other reason, she told us, "While I'm on the phone, you are not to cross this line in the sidewalk.  She indicated a crack in the walkway.  Then she dialed the operator to call a tow truck. 

     Just to be funny, I smiled up at my mom and jumped over the crack she'd told us not to cross.  I wasn't even doing in maliciously.  Just being silly.  My mom, already stressed out, and engaged in conversation with a tow truck driver, reached out an arm, pulled me back, and swatted my behind.  At that moment, I became aware of something: my own depravity. 

     I felt shame.  It wasn't that my mom really got that mad.  Her tone hadn't changed at all on the phone.  She was simply under stress.  The Holy Spirit was convicting me of sin...not just the sin of crossing a literal line in the sidewalk, but the sin of who I was...everything I was without Christ.  I was a sinner, incapable of pleasing or knowing God on my own.  I might act good.  People might tell me I was good (many people did, because I was very well-behaved), but I wasn't good.  Not really.  Deep inside, at the core of who I was, I was a sinner.  I was incapable of being good.  With everything in me, I wanted to cross that line.  I knew that the sin in my heart was stronger than my resolve to fight against it.  I couldn't control it.  It controlled me.  There was nothing I could do to become free of the power sin had over me. 

    After my mom got off the phone, she hugged me and told me it was okay, I was a good girl, but I knew I wasn't really good.  The tow truck came, and we got in.  There were only two seats, so my mom held me on her lap, and we buckled in together, while my friend sat between us and the driver.  The end result was, we never made it to the circus, and to this day, I have never seen a real circus!  I don't know if I ever will. 

     My dad got home in our other car, and my parents took us to Chuck E. Cheese.  That was fun.  My friend spent the night, which was also fun.  But in the midst of all of this, I was wrestling inside with the conviction of my sin.  The hopelessness I felt in being able to overcome it. 

     This battle inside lasted three days.  A song began playing in my mind, one we sang at Children's Church, entitled, Do you know that you've been born again?  In my mind, I could hear our teacher, Mrs. MacFarland, singing it, with the kids' voices in the background.  It could hear it as if I were right in the room with all of them.  It wouldn't let up.  The question kept repeating in my head.  Did I know that I'd been born again?  I knew what it meant to be born again.  I was surrounded by the message of salvation.  My parents taught me about Jesus.  In fact, I don't remember learning John 3:16...I've always known it.  My parents said it to me every day since I was born.  I went to Sunday school, AWANA, Children's Church...you name it.  I was putting all these truths I'd been taught together in my heart and mind. 

     Finally, after wrestling for three days, on February 7, 1987, I knew what I had to do.  It was the only real option, if I were ever going to know peace.  I had to surrender myself to Christ.  He had given Himself for me on the cross, and I had to give myself to Him. 

     There was a very slight fear, because surrender is a death of sorts.  It's dying to self, to sin, to the person we are without Christ.  It's admitting I'm not good enough as I am, but with Christ, I am perfectly forgiven, capable of being everything God intended.  It is taking Jesus' death as my only way of salvation, placing my faith and hope for eternity on Him alone.  And that is what I did.  I settled it with God. 

    I approached my father and told him, "At church we sing a song that says do you know that you've been born again?  I want to do that."

     My dad later told me he had thought I was going to sing the song for him.  Imagine his surprise when I dropped to my knees and asked Jesus to come into my heart, take my sins, and let me be part of God's family from now on. 

     He was surprised, and wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing, so after I prayed, he tried to explain Jesus' death and resurrection to me.  I was kind of impatient and said, "I know that!"  I was frustrated he wasn't with the program here.  I knew about Jesus, and that's why I wanted His salvation.  But Dad just wanted to make sure I understood. He hadn't been living in my head the last three days while I wrestled with it.  I was ready to do it!  After my dad and I talked a few minutes, I asked him if I should tell Mommy. 

     "Yes," he said.  That was all I needed.  I jumped up and ran down the hall, where my mother was helping my little brother clean his room. 

     "Mommy, I asked Jesus into my heart," I exclaimed, a little shyly.  This was my first time sharing my testimony. 

     My mom was overjoyed, and pulled me into a hug.  That night, as she tucked me into bed, she told me to pray for my little brother and sister to invite Jesus into their hearts as well, which I did.  In fact, I witnessed to them every day after that. 

     February 7, 1987 was the most important day of my life.  It determined my eternal destiny.  It was the day I was born again. 

     How about you?  Have you been born again?  Are you ready for eternity?