Manassa, Colo., to Pagosa Springs, Colo., — 100 miles from where I began is where I find myself today. So many off-roads I chose — some decisions made out of defiance, and some from the core of my being, but God had his hand on me protecting me through this mire of life.
I didn’t see how God had been there in my early days and what I saw I didn’t believe. I was not ready to open my heart to Him until I was 30. Yet, when I wasn’t even aware of his plans for me, He had already written my story and was making provisions, carrying me forward to this day.
The crazies of life didn’t make sense at the time. But when our hearts are open to God, they make total sense later. We finally get a glimpse how God knitted us in our mother’s womb and sealed us for our destiny.
It’s unbelievable that God gives us free will, yet we end up where we need to be. We’re not that smart, but He knows what we need.
I talk about God writing our stories. From that first sentence, when He jots down a few words, “Seeing isn’t believing. Seeing is seeing,” which we read in the feeding of the thousands in John 6. The rest of the story has been written, and, as we live, our days unfold.
On a day my father took his gun on a pheasant hunt, a drunk doctor stood ready to deliver me, and my mother — angry, furious and frustrated — brought me into the world. I was raised in a Mormon family with sister-wives and lots of cousins. I grew up in a stern household with religious principles that framed me. That was the beginning of my life, which had already been given grace, to live what I had been called to do.
Then, I fell in love with a young man, a staunch Baptist, who didn’t budge, and wouldn’t accept my religion. I refused to accept his. We fought many battles in the name of love, but wed on April 1, 1960. Everyone doubted this marriage would last, but it has continued over 66 years.
Not until 16 years later after our wedding day, eight months pregnant with my third child, sitting in a Baptist pew, but never fitting in, still believing I didn’t belong there, the Lord came for me.
He came to me in that little Baptist church in Las Cruces, N.M. The name of Jesus opened my heart and changed me forever. I yielded to Jesus as I listened to the teachings of the gospel.
Did I believe that my life was orchestrated all along? No. But the Lord knew the core of my being and what it would take to lead me to Him.
My Mormon family and I are still in contact with each other. I tried for so many years to be a witness to them about the true Jesus. And for years, they kept me on their church registry. My name had been added to their church roll when I was 8 years old and was baptized. They believe it is my entrance into heaven. I’ve asked to have my name removed, but they shudder to think I would lose my salvation.
In a way, Al rescued me, determined to make me a Baptist when I wouldn’t budge. I have opened the Word every day and taught my Sweet Al from the Bible. We’ve learned together about Jesus. I always told him I was getting Him ready for heaven. Yes, he sees and believes. His fragile mind is giving way, but he knows “Whom he believes, and is persuaded that He (God) is able to keep that which he (Al) has committed unto Him against that day” (2 Timothy 1:12, NKJV). Al says in his gentle, precious way, “I love Jesus.”
Final brushstroke: That day, when Jesus comes to us for the last time, we will understand He’s been there before we were conceived and brought into this world. For some of us, it has taken a lifetime to believe we fit in a life that was contrary to who we thought we were. When He returns, we will fall on our knees and cry, “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God almighty.”
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