Finding My Wings Part One

I've gone to church almost my whole life. Growing up in the bible belt and in a small Southern town, I didn't know many people who didn't go to church every Sunday. My mother would dress me in my Sunday best; a neatly ironed dress with a perfectly tied bow in the back and matching tights, complete with curled hair and a coordinating bow to top it all off. 

  

The church we attended was Baptist and formal. The pastor always wore a suit and stood behind a podium and never moved. Although I'm sure he had a great message, the preacher's voice would regularly put me to sleep sitting straight up and my head would fall to my chest, then bobble around. No one even dared to utter an "Amen." The choir would wear matching robes and often put on stellar performances. There were women in the choir who would put any opera singer to shame. I would stare at the stained glass windows, ready for them to shatter, and wonder why on earth anyone thought that singing in that high of a register and so loudly sounded pleasant.    

Church was just something we did. A part of our lives. I never got excited about it, but I never disliked going either.

As an adolescent and early teen, I pondered what asking Jesus to be my Savior would mean. Frankly, I was a little frightened about being dunked under water in front of an entire congregation. I didn't like the way I looked wet and I was mortified that I would be asked to recite words to let the congregation know of my decision. I would often weigh the risk of embarrassment of being baptized against the risk of embarrassment that I wasn't participating in communion. Sadly, I would determine that I could at least pretend that I was chewing when the preacher said, "take, eat, this is my body."

Church for me was a set of traditions and rules that had to be followed. I thought I had to look the part. Inside, though, I didn't feel so "Christiany". My narrow perspective only allowed me to see Christians one way. If this was what church was about, I wasn't thrilled about conforming to that way of life. 

I knew the Resurrection story. I thought that Jesus lived and died on a cross for our sins, and I believed what my parents and teachers told me to be true. Yet, somehow, I knew there had to be more to following Jesus than just words spoken or belief in stories. My decision was going to have to be based upon something deeper, if I was going to commit my life to truly follow Him. 

My friends who decided as children to follow Jesus, may have been okay with their half hearted decision, but I needed something more. I needed to be pursued. Awestruck. Who was this man called Jesus? And, moreover, why should I be motivated to obey his leading? 

Something happened when I was thirteen, though, that not only changed my perspective, but also changed my life and the way I viewed "church."

The summer before my eighth grade year, a friend invited me to a campground for a week. It was a Christian camp for teenagers and I agreed to go. I thought we would learn about Noah's Ark or Jonah and the Whale, do a craft, and call it a day. But, boy was I wrong!

Read part two of "Finding My Wings", scheduled to post week of June 16, to hear about my life-changing experience. To receive weekly posts in your inbox, enter your email address in the box "follow by email" located in the top, left corner of my blog.