My Story: Part 1

{My experience with life, death, and Jesus}

If I had to use 2 words to describe my childhood they would be: happy & healthy. I grew up with 2 parents that loved each other, respected one another, and made their family priority. I knew that when my parents said something, they meant it. So whether it was love or discipline, it was consistent and that made me feel safe.

I kind of think I was a weird kid. There was probably no other child who organized their playtime as seriously as I did. Every morning, I fed my babies, changed their diapers, and put them down for a nap in my closet before I left for school. At school, I was definitely teacher’s pet. I delighted in things like textbooks, post-its, and overhead projectors. When problems would arise with classmates, my teacher would ask me to mediate and try to make peace or befriend people who were being teased. I begged to teach a lesson to my class in 5th grade, and my teacher let me! When I got home, I played school in my backyard every.single.day (just ask my little sister who had to sit and listen to me teach and/or yell at “Joey” the imaginary naughty kid.) If I wasn’t teaching school, I was organizing neighborhood clubs (making up all the rules and assigning our friends their roles) or choreographing roller-skating routines for all of us to perform for our neighbors at the end of our cul-de-sac.

A big part of our lives as a family was softball. We were traveling to someone’s game nearly every weekend. I had the BEST memories of growing up on the softball field. Playing with the other kids, barbecues after the games, playing in the park, so fun! The only thing with growing up on the softball field is that you’re gone on the weekends. Which means we didn’t spend much time in church.

I did not grow up going to church. The only experience I really had in church was when my aunt took us to Sunday School and all I can remember is people yelling and crying, running up and down the aisles banging on their tambourines, and falling to the ground. Needless to say I was a little confused and afraid about what it meant to be a Christian.

In Jr.High, I met some “Christians”. All I knew of them was that they told my Jewish friend she was going to hell for not believing in Jesus. I couldn’t believe people could be so mean, so judgmental, and so narrow-minded.

I remember people telling me all of the time “Don’t you know Jesus died for you?” To which I’d think “He died a long time ago. He didn’t even know me! What does him dying have to do with me??” I thought it was so weird; people always telling me about Jesus and how he died for my sins. Me, sin? I was “such a good person”, how offensive that someone would tell me I’m a sinner! Ugh . . . ignorant, close-minded, judgmental people.

I remember going to church with my boyfriend and his family in high school, and wanting to have a relationship with “God”. I tried. I had one Christian friend, sort of. We eventually caved into peer pressure and began a life of partying. The desire was there, I just don’t think I really knew what it meant to be a “Christian” and I don’t think I even knew anyone who had a real, authentic relationship with God. From then on, I really didn’t think much more of God.

Until one night in September 2002, when everything changed . . .