I was seventeen years old with one baby in the crib and another one on the way, I suffered from morning sickness throughout the day, and I had a husband who didn’t care about me or the babies he had fathered. In his mind, I was a failure in the kitchen—I didn’t cook like his mother—and I was a failure in the bedroom—I was not the sweet young thing he wanted me to be. I was exhausted, depressed, and uncomfortably big with child.
The mobile home we lived in sat on a bluff miles from town, mirroring the isolation I felt. My high school friends had gone on with their lives, but mine seemed to have come to an abrupt halt in the middle of nowhere. About the only thing I knew was that I loved my babies.
One October morning, I remember opening up the little half-window on the back door of our trailer because I had just finished another round of vomiting and needed some air. I stood looking out over that bluff for a few minutes—breathing in and out—and then lifted my eyes and spoke aloud these words (and I remember them as if it were yesterday): “God, if You are up there . . . please do something.”
Now those were not words common either to my thinking or speaking. I was not raised in a religious setting and knew virtually nothing about spiritual things. I was reacting out of desperation to some deep anguish and hopelessness within me. I must have closed the trailer window and walked away without giving it another thought—until a month or so passed, and I found myself sitting in a Baptist church in the little town where I had gone to school. Someone had invited me to visit, and I had attended several times.
At the end of this particular service, the pastor simply stated the following: “If you are here and don’t have Jesus in your life but would like to, come forward and I’ll pray with you.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I found myself with the almost-to-term baby in my womb waddling down that aisle to be prayed for.
After he had prayed and dismissed the congregation, he shared a couple of things with me (which I don’t remember at all). It was then that a high school friend of mine, who was in the choir of that church, approached me and said she was so happy for me and that several of her family members had been praying for me. It was then that I told her that I had wanted to come forward before but just hadn’t. The words were no sooner out of my mouth when I heard a still small voice inside say to me, “No you didn’t. That’s a lie.” It startled me, not only because it was true—I had just lied—but because a voice I had never heard was coming from inside me. The Voice didn’t shame me, it instructed me.
I have thought back over that incident so many times, and I’m so thankful that the Lord used my lie to prove to me that something of significance had just happened. Over the years, I have come to understand it more fully.
We are created in His image (He is Three in One: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). When we are born naturally, we are three in one also: the spirit, the soul, and the body, but our spirit is dead—none functioning as God intended. The soul is the faculty that allows each person to operate the three great powers given to us at birth: to think (the mind), to feel (the emotions), and to choose (the will). Our body acts as a tent to cover the person we really are.
When I came into agreement with God that Sunday morning about who He is and who I am, something happened to me. My spirit was quickened—His Holy Spirit came into my spirit—and I became His child. The Spirit in me has opened up a way for communion to take place, for my conscience to function as intended, my intuition to be heightened. I have spent the decades since then coming to know Him, even as I am known by Him (and have been all along).
That Sunday morning, my life was changed. I didn’t do anything to deserve it or to make it happen, other than to cry out in my need. Need does that to a person.