The morning started just as any other.  Who could have known that in just a few short hours I would have an encounter that would set me on a path for life and alter my destiny forever?  As all others began, so too this Saturday was a care free mix of helping my father and brother do the yard work of our manicured wannabe expanse known as the suburbs.  Enjoying a summer morning helping them, and trying to stay out of the house and away from my mother’s wrath occupied me this day.  The summer was shaping up to be as unremarkable as each that had proceeded this summer of ’69, I was twelve years old. Free from school and free to roam with my friends, this set of neighborhood kids were a far cry from my regular gang, for I existed in two colliding world’s.  The “good” kids, that I played sports with during the school year, and these juveniles bordering on delinquent, occupied my summer with varying spheres of influence.

On one such typical day, I planned to walk to my friend’s house as my bicycle had a flat.  We didn’t have the luxury of being driven hither and yon by uber mom’s bent on providing for our every desire, ensuring that our self esteem would develop properly.  No, we were told to “get outside and get the stink blown off ya.  You want a ride, call a cab.  Ya goin’ to your friends house, you’d better start walking cause it’ll be dark”…you get the idea.  Indulged we were not.  Making my way to my friend’s house, I walked down streets and by various landmarks that served as a backdrop to some teenage shenanigans. By age twelve I was sniffing glue for the psychedelic high, and getting the attention I craved that comes easily when you give in to boys, even though they made me sick. I was a star athlete as a junior high schooler, so you wouldn’t expect this increasingly reckless and dangerous behavior from a “good kid”.  But reckless I was.  It’s only in maturity and hindsight that I am able to recognize the first seeds of self loathing that permitted me to offer myself up to strangers and to lose myself in the colorful haze of hallucinogens.  I was ready for the next thing, anything.

Passing the edge of the woods where more than youthful sexual dalliances occurred, I continued walking down Ventosa Drive as I had numerous times. What happened next changed my life from that moment on, for in the midst of my emptiness and searching, and with an unmistakable tug on my heart, God spoke to me in a still, small voice.  Suddenly I sensed His presence, not in a roll on the floor and shout “PRAISE GOD” kind of way, but in a steady assurance and a longing to know Him more deeply.  We were not church people.  I had attended Sunday school only once, and all that I can recall from those experiences were the refreshments in the church hall afterwards, the aroma of strong, black coffee brewing, and the cinnamon graham crackers.  I thought those little squares were so exotic, sprinkled ever so liberally with cinnamon sugar.  I was aware of basic religious doctrine, but our house was void of any relationship.  God making his presence known was a completely surprising experience.  I decided that I wanted to attend church on Sunday morning. My father drove me to the local Presbyterian Church and dropped me off. Perhaps he drove me out of some sense of guilt, having laid claim to Agnosticism his entire adult life.

As the summer droned on, characterized by utter teenage boredom on one hand, and a deepening desire for spiritual growth on the other, I continued to pursue God.  One day in prayer, I knew that my life belonged to Him.  My “chance” encounter with God was transformed into the very fulfillment I longed for.  I didn’t feel as alone. I knew something special had taken place within me. It would take almost forty-five years of suffering through faulty religion and theology before I learned that we are the beloved children of God however. That journey to wholeness traveled along a very difficult path before I began to experience healing.  People have come and gone, loved ones have passed, and through all the years God’s unfailing love has been there, even when in my twenties, I turned my back on Him and followed selfish ambitions, ultimately leaving me empty and drugged out.  Self-hatred followed me, masked as confidence, and fleshed out in self-destructive behavior, and a mindset of negativity and distrust.  Attitudes instilled by a mother who blamed me for her failing marriage, and the fact that my father wanted me in his bed, not her.  Daily she indoctrinated me in a culture of shame, and blamed me for our crumbling family, falling apart at the seams.  I believed her lies. I ate her piercing words and they became my sustenance. I believed her when she assured me that everything was my fault, and that I would never amount to anything.  I believed her.  The root of those self-fulfilling lies going deep into the soil of all that was me, and giving sprout to a plaguing, incessant longing and discontent. I seek His guidance and healing every day, and have found peace from the war that raged within.  More days than not, hope abounds as I learn that I am a beloved child of God. Most days the hope is abundant.  But one thing is sure, it all comes down to gratitude.  Beginning each day with a grateful heart, goes all the way up to my mind, and thinking the good thoughts of who God says that I am, and choosing to believe the truth about myself. Today, as it did more than forty-five years ago, that still, small voice continues to call me into relationship, to keep pressing on. It is said that victory belongs to the last one standing. This morning started out like any other, on a spiritual journey, an encounter with God.