Twenty Years A Christian

I was fifteen years old. Lost. Unaware of the road ahead.

I first trusted Jesus Christ in June of 2006. The Lord had been explicitly drawing me to Himself for months prior. In the first half of December 2005 I was invited to the church I lived next to -- a non-denominational, Bible-based community church. Though my family moved there when I was five, I attended my first service there about a month after I turned sixteen. That Sunday morning I saw joyful faces and heard a joyful noise. I'm sure I heard the gospel. It was different, and I was interested.

That June, though, is when I first expressed personal faith in the Lord. It came about through dramatic circumstances that I wouldn't have chosen for myself if God had consulted me. Praise Him that He didn't.

My mom loved me very much. Here we were at a pool in San Antonio. I was her only living child.
She carried my sister for eight months and delivered her, but she was born without kidneys.
Misha only lived for a few hours.

My parents were so far behind on mortgage payments that the mortgage company decided the house was no longer ours. Mom had done a good job of hiding our financial woes, and Dad didn't look for them. Tensions stemming from money problems had been high in the house for as long as I could remember, and things finally came to a head on June 22, 2006, when we were set to be evicted. Mom had taken the day off work and was home alone that day, surely knowing that this was coming. Dad had gone off to work, and I had as well. When the authorities were on their way to remove us from our house, Mom decided to complicate matters further by going into the backyard and killing herself via gunshot to the head. She used our 9-millimeter handgun, which, to my knowledge, she had never handled. She left the case and manual on the back deck, evidence that her final moments were spent not only contemplating suicide, but trying to figure out how to do it.

The last time I went into that house, it was wrapped with yellow crime scene tape. The last time I touched my mom, it was at the hospital. Her head was partially shaved, as they tried to give her medical attention. She was covered in those rigid knit blankets found at hospitals, nothing that was soft, warm, or inviting. I patted her foot, and it was stiff. She was gone.

My pastor was there. He read to me Psalm 61:1-2 through his own tears:

Hear my cry, O God;

Give heed to my prayer.

From the end of the earth I call to You when my heart is faint;

Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

And that is when I first believed. When my world came crashing down, I knew there was more to life than struggling and dying. Everything changed that day, on a variety of fronts. My family could never be the same; I could never be the same. I had heard the truth, but I had to make a decision about what to do with it. I was brought to a fork in the road, and I received the Lord. God truly brought life out of death, as He is fond of doing. 

Like many homes in the Lower Midwest, we had a large Bible on display.
I didn't know what was in it, but I knew that it was important.
I wish our family would have read it together.

That local church next to my house had been giving me the gospel repeatedly in the months leading up to that day. I was going to youth group off-and-on, asking lots of questions, and hearing the gospel. In fact, the youth leader at that time was the one who broke the news to me. He came to the grocery store where I worked, talked to my boss, and got me out of there so I could eventually make the 45-minute drive to the hospital. We waited in his truck until he was sure that my dad had heard the news. He told me directly, then started preaching truth to me, sharing God's word and comforting me in gospel hope. He is still a very important man in my life, along with my first pastor. They have continued to care for me up to the present day.

The twenty years since then have been radically different from the first sixteen. I have been discipled by faithful men and called to full-time ministry. I was witness to a powerful work of God in Dad's life. I got married, went to Bible College, moved to Utah as a missionary, and became a pastor here. I have written lots of articles and some books, invested in digital media, and sought to lead faithfully wherever the Lord has put me. God set my eyes on Him and has kept me very busy. I genuinely love this life He has made for me. 

My family got to visit my dad and his wife last year at their home in Myrtle Beach.
God is patient and kind.

Here is what I have learned: it is all of grace. Not a single good thing I have is deserved, earned, or based on anything I have done. My family, my ministry, my friends, my house, my office, my life -- none of them are actually mine. All of them are gifts from the Lord, and I am just His steward, called to care for His business until He clocks me out. God has blessed me immensely, far beyond what I would draw up for myself.

I have also learned that the Lord is faithful. When the night is darker than we thought it could be and the waves rage, our Rock is unmoved. He endures, playing the long game. We cannot see it all in a moment; we are overwhelmed by the moment. But the Lord is our future, having settled all the details. Nothing slips past Him and no one goes where they should not. He brings it all together according to His perfect plan, and He is faithful to every promise He has made.

I do not know all the details of your story. I do not know what the Sovereign has planned for you. But I do know that you must hold on to grace. I also know that you must keep His faithfulness near to your heart, that you would never forget His goodness. Keep turning your eyes upon Jesus, the author and finisher of faith, who is our Salvation.

Don't give up.

Don't do it yourself.

Don't rely on your own understanding.

Trust Jesus.

He will make your paths straight.