If you had asked me in early 2002 if I would describe myself as a Jesus freak, I would emphatically tell you, “Umm. No, I don’t think so.” However, that January I didn’t think that by July I would be on my belly looking up to the sky asking God, “What, what do you want with me?” with tears streaming down my face, my second marriage coming apart at the seams,and far away from family and friends. That July, I was at my wit’s end. For me, I had hit bottom.

Day after day, I got in the car at 7:30 am and cried for the entire 45 minute commute into the city. “Oh, God, I’m so broken. No one will ever love me.” Chest heaving, snot bubbles coming out of my nose, people glared at me as I drove down I-75 at 85 miles an hour. (People think texting and driving is dangerous. I think an emotional breakdown while driving might be more so). It was all I could do to hold it together. I was just barely able to slog through another day as a corporate minion and a second- time single mother. I didn’t know where else to turn. All I could do was look up.

For G.R.I.T.S. (Girl Raised in the South), looking up meant getting back into church. For years, I had run away from my staunch Southern Baptist roots. The hell-fire, brimstone, and hypocrites in big hats sent me running in the other direction. However, some of the fondest memories I ever had was going to church with my Grandma Gussie Mae.

Grandma paid me to be quiet by giving me stick after stick of Juicy Fruit gum. (Nothing calms restless little beasts in church like Juicy Fruit). I enjoyed the singing, the gum, and safe, shelter of my Grandma’s lap. The aroma of Juicy Fruit mixed with the Avon body powder that she wore meant safe harbor from the blazing eyes and loud yelling of Brother Lathan. Despite the hell fire and brimstone that was being espoused, the comfort that I felt curled up in my Grandmother’s lap on the church pew was what I needed most in my current emotional debacle.

I didn’t know how to get back to that safe harbor. It had been many years and one conversion since stepping foot into a real church with people who cared. I had converted to Catholicism to make my husband happy, but the church we sporadically attended didn’t comfort me or make me happy at all. It was plastic and dead. Stand up, sit down, three verses, and you were out the door. I had devolved into a “Russian Catholic”. You know…rush in and rush out right after communion and right before the tithing.

It also was not a very kid-friendly place to go to church. Whenever the topic of going to church came up, my youngest daughter who was about 5 at the time said, “I’m Jewish like Jesus. I don’t need to go to church.” I retorted, “No, you are catholic.” “No, I’m Jewish.” “No, you are catholic.” “Ok, ok, I’ll say I’m catholic, just don’t make me go to church.”

After that conversation, the decision was made. I needed to have somewhere the girls and I could heal, be “fed” God’s word and learn. So, we didn’t go back there. Instead, we went to school.

I arrived home one evening and picked up the local paper that was strewn on my counter. A small start up church had taken out an ad. It talked about a casual and kid-friendly atmosphere and met at my daughter’s school. I figured “why not?” It’s not like I’m otherwise engaged. The little start up church was right around the corner from our house. If anything weird happened like hand clapping, contemporary music or anything else that would be uncomfortable, we could beat a hasty retreat away from the fanatics.

The first Sunday the girls and I attended, the church put on a thing called ‘Kidstuf’. ‘Kidstuf’ was an ensemble of actors doing skits based Bible verses and biblical virtues. Of course there was also dancing and singing in jeans and tie dye shirts. Dancing and singing and people wearing jeans and t-shirts in church?! Grandma Gussie Mae would think we were three doors down from hell. However, it was all my self-proclaimed Hebrew needed. She was in and so was her sister. They went off to Sunday school; then Pastor Keith began.

The sermon he preached that day absolutely gripped my soul. The pastor spoke about how we behave when people hurt us. Then came the kicker….. he compared and contrasted our behavior to how Jesus behaved when people hurt him.

I was riveted to my seat and sucked in my breath as the pastor quoted passages of scripture.

Matthew 18
Then Peter came to him and asked, “Lord, how often should I forgive someone who sins against me? Seven times?”
22 “No, not seven times,” Jesus replied, “but seventy times seven!

Then he said, “Can you substitute your name for the word Love in this passage?” I was horrified.

1 Corinthians 13
4 Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud 5 or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. 6 It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. 7 Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.

“Love you see is not a feeling. It is a choice,” he said.

I knew he was talking directly to me. Just in case I was mistaken, I looked behind me to see if maybe he was talking to someone else. Nope. He was talking to me. Wait a minute, doesn’t God get it? Didn’t he understand that my husband just walked out on me? What? How in the ‘heckito’ am I supposed to forgive that? What about him?

With my heart palpitating and tears in my eyes, I began to look around. My eyes fell on a couple standing directly behind me. Ah, peace at last—friends. They were there for the first time, too. Although I was uncomfortable with the message I heard, I left that day knowing that the message was specifically for me. I also knew that I had found what I was looking for…a place to heal, grow, and learn. God confirmed it through His word and the unexpected presence of friends that we were in the right place for a new beginning.

For more of Robin’s writings, visit her blog at therealrobinjones.blogspot.com

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