When I was growing up, Mama told me that we were Protestant Christians. So I supposed religion was something I inherited, like green eyes and brown hair. I was thirty years old before I realized that “Christian” didn’t describe a church affiliation. It described a relationship with Jesus Christ.
Finally, I kneeled on my pride and asked Jesus if He really was the Son of God; if He really did pay the price of death for my sins the way Gospel billboards in subway stations said. I told Jesus Christ that I wanted to have a relationship with Him. It only took seconds for Him to let me know that the answer was “Yes.”
Soon, my husband John took the same step. A few years later, we joined a stateside missionary organization and served communities in rural America for eleven years. After that, God urged me to realize a long time ambition to write for publication. Each time one of my articles was accepted, I wanted to run up and down the road and cheer. Each time one of my seventeen books was published, when I led another retreat, spoke at another conference, or acted as lay counselor to one of the myriad of wounded people who rang my doorbell, I shook my head in disbelief at the wonder of God’s love.
I still do.