Breaking Ties

Breaking ties brings great freedom! As a counselor, I challenge my clients to respectfully question everything and to keep what is good and trash what is not. Live, learn, move on, help others, Praise God.

I would hope that if asked to list favorable attributes of mine, that friends would list loyalty among the top characteristics. Loyalty is certainly something that I look for in any type of relationship. However, old soul that I am, I find myself on a lifelong soul-search. One of the things that I've come to find about myself on my journey is that it's the blind allegiances that have held me back. I am learning that loyalty is admirable, but blind loyalty is stupid.

Growing up and into my formative years, I was blindly loyal to many things because I felt that I was supposed to be. I was certain that my denomination was superior. Ditto, my community, my county, state, and nation . . . and of course my region of the nation.

This allegiance was the same for the political party of which I was affiliated. Also, with friends and family. Even down to the type of music with which I most identified.

I believed that loyalty=good, disloyal=bad. With this narrow, limited mindset I found myself defending some very disturbing nouns - people, places, and things.

In my denominational loyalty, I found myself believing that people outside of it couldn't be saved. I was the elementary school child condemning young Baptists for their piano music.

Being a proud American, I felt that Southerners were the elite. Arkansans were even better. Randolph Countians better yet. Maynard-ians best of the best.

As a proud Democrat, I was excited to defend Civil Rights, the Environment, Health Care, Clinton's Economy, Education, and many other things that I prided Democrats in supporting. I squirmed when attempting to defend other parts of my party's platform, abortion primarily. (Not that I believe the opposition's all talk, no results is superior.) In fact, I would have difficulty defending either party's position on this, but that's another blog, another day.

With all of these loyalties, I had become someone I was not. I was a member of the Frozen Chosen Church who felt superior in my religion. I was an American who felt superior to those of other countries and a Southerner who was certain that I was better than the expletive Yankees. I was an Arkansan bragging about the Clintons, Johnny Cash, John Grisham, Sam Walton, General Wesley Clark, and depending upon my mood, I even claimed Mike Huckabee. With my musical loyalties, I even had to embarrassingly claim "Achy Breaky Heart" because it was within the genre that I was loyal to. I took up for family members and friends even when their actions were indefensible.

Make no mistake, I love what was good and right about all of the above. I learned much in my home church and my family's longtime denominational allegiance. I consider it a foundation, one that I've elected to build upon. I am so proud to be an American and the grandson of two WWII vets, though I don't find it unpatriotic to voice a concern about an action that our beloved country has taken (HELLO: Trail of Tears, Slavery!!). I love my native South for what I find so right about it, yet I despise parts of our history especially in the areas where it continues to needlessly repeat itself. Arkansas will always be my home and my beloved Northeast Arkansas will always have a hold on me. However, I refuse to buy into the inferiority complex that seems to grip the region. I won't be limited by geography. My last name and my upbringing will not dictate how I vote, how I church, or how I think.

Even with my music, I've allowed myself to have better taste. If and when country music is good, I love it, but I'm alright with saying that "beer is good, God is great, people are crazy" is pretty lyrically ridiculous.

Breaking ties has brought such freedom! I've discarded most of the aforementioned loyalties in search of absolute truth as opposed to the relative truth that I had settled for. In so doing, I've been able to focus on what I'm meant and designed to focus on and waste much less time in defending the indefensible.

The first of the Ten Commandments says (commands), ". . thou shalt have no other gods before Me." I notice that 'gods' is not capitalized, for there is One. In the Commandments, when we are told to have no other gods before Him, this isn't referring to other deities. Obviously, the Spirit who inspired the Bible would not acknowledge any such other god as real. However, as humans we do allow other things to rule us. I'm not saying this as an us/the church versus them/the world comparison. Rather, I am challenging myself and other Jesus-followers.

How can we identify as Christian when we are so plagued with other allegiances, be they political, familial, governmental, patriotic, religious, societal, cultural, economical? I hear people claim a position that is political or cultural in nature and refer to their stance as Christian and maybe they pepper a fitting (or often misapplied) Scripture verse to defend it, but the bulk of their defense smacks of very unChristlike rhetoric. Politicians of all stripes are guilty. Guilty, too, are the pastors and church leaders who claim to offer salvation or enlightenment through themselves or their church denomination, especially if your tithe envelope is overflowing! Ever notice how many politicians and pastors are driven my power and money? Neither are wrong unless it's the primary focus.

People and institutions are highly capable of manipulating us into right-seeming allegiances that should be reserved only for our Creator. How often have I found myself agreeing with much of what a Christian person or institution has said for the same to be upset with me or disappointed in me if there is an area where I don't agree with them. They reason if we say and believe that 'thus and so' is true and you believe it, then you should also agree with 'thus and so' position. Any person or institution that is not God will willingly or unwillingly lead you in a direction that is wrong. It is okay to agree with much of what a person or institution says or believes without drinking their kool-aid to the last theoretical drop.

My point is this: If we are blindly loyal to our religion, our politics, our culture and other seemingly important areas of our life, then we miss God. We are to have no other gods before Him. It's a command.

Can we really claim Jesus as LORD if we answer first to our religious or political biases? If in any way your response is "yes," then I pray that it's only secondary.

Prayin' Like a Black Woman

Elizabeth "Mama Boot" Johnson can sure put a stompin' on the devil's head when she's of a mind to. And let me tell you, she's been of a mind to ever since I've known her, starting back in the Summer of 2004 in a Fort Smith, Arkansas government housing complex. White flight had done happened long ago and she was livin' in the straigh-up 'hood.

Mama Boot and I became instant friends the day we met. Deon, her grandson and one of my best friends from my college days in Fayetteville, had predicted that this would happen. He knew that we were kindred spirits and he was happy to introduce us. He knew that she and I both loved us some Bill Clinton and we both loved Mexican food, and why didn't I just make the trip with him down to the 'Smith to meet this beloved woman who raised him?

Mama Boot didn't live alone, she informed me. She lived with God. Confined to a wheelchair and afflicted by numerous unheard of ailments and conditions, she endured much pain, discomfort, and loss of ability. Life in this complex was by no means glamorous. The noisy, gossipy neighbors were a welcome presence in contrast to the swindlers and ne'er-do-wells who all too often wind up in these places. This was my judgment, not hers. I saw thugs and drug-dealers; she knew first names and family histories.

The first time we hung out I got lovingly scolded, as only a black woman can do, for not washing my hands, and I got prayed for. Ms. Feisty set me straight in matters of hygiene and spirituality. (She later laughingly confessed that white folks not washing their hands was a stereotype she had that thanks to people like myself she has never been able to kick.)

The prayer, though, wasn't the standard rub-a-dub-dub-thanks-for-the-grub prayer. It was a bless-my-new-friend-James,-Oh-Dear-Lord,-and-bring-him-closer-to-You-because-I-sense-that-he-hungers-for-more-than-just-food kind of prayer. She interceded for me on the spot, calling gifts and provision down from Heaven, things that I didn't even know existed and things that I definitely did not know I needed. She peppered her prayer with in Jesus' Name and by the Blood of Jesus and talked to her Creator as if they were the best of friends.

At this time, I had not yet met nor did I even really believe in the actuality of the Holy Spirit. Intellectually, I did. In my heart, not really. I chalked Mama Boot's prayers up as those of a well-meaning, emotional black woman's. Emotionalism, Pentecostalism, and African-American culture was how I processed this, though she had managed to hit some nerves during her prayer.

We all scrubbed our hands down until they were red-raw and ingested some delicious Mexican take-out from an authentic little hole in the wall joint down the way. We talked politics, current events, education and God. She started many of her sentences with, "Me and God." Anything from, "Me and God watched us some T.D. Jakes this morning. . ." to "Me and God just been sittin' here waiting on our quesadillas." And if anything went well, though much in her daily life did not, she praised God for it. Attitude of gratitude personified.

Mama Boot would say things like, "I know you're saved, and you're a good boy, but Lord-a-Mercy I cain't wait 'til God gets a-holt of you, child." I knew that I was at a crossroads with God, either wanting more of Him or to be done with Him. How, though, did she know this? Because I didn't wash my hands? Had I said something? No, from one with "eyes to see" it was, as she said, all over me.

My first blog post detailed what I refer to as my first Holy Spirit experience. Of course, Mama Boot, was one of the first people that I told about this amazing, life-changing encounter. She reminded me just recently of something I had excitedly said that she still laughs about. I had forgotten it until she reminded me, then I knew it was me. "I thought the Holy Spirit was just for black folks and Pentecostals," I had blurted among the other details of my experience. Since I reasoned that the Holy Spirit (being under His influence) was basically just people getting all hyped-up for God, I had dismissed people's being under the influence of the Holy Spirit as being emotional, charismatic, excitable church folks. Truthfully, I thought they were putting on.

Mama Boot was not putting on and she was not the least bit surprised of my Holy Spirit encounter. She was excited. She got happy. She let out a shout. But she was not surprised. She told me of how she knew that I was anointed and set aside to do great things for God. She said that she knew that I didn't know it and that I couldn't grasp it, but that she had seen it all over me. From my new vantage point of seeing everything spiritually, I knew she was telling me the truth, but when she first met me, I would have no doubt insisted that this was sincere, yet senseless church-talk.

I considered then, but I know now that Mama Boot's prayers were the precursor to my Holy Spirit experience, which has changed the course of my entire life and existence.

God used a woman who had endured a lifetime of mistreatment by people of my race to pray for my well-being and livelihood. God used a woman who had been denied an education to encourage and pray me through mine. God used a woman who cleaned white people's houses for a living to pray for my financial well-being. God used a woman who was riddled with medical diagnoses to pray for mine and my family members' health.

The irony of our differences was immediately apparent, but has continued to speak volumes to me about the integrity of Mama Boot, but especially of who God is and how He operates. He intends for us - His kids, His Body, His Church - to get along despite our perceived differences.

Mama Boot has endured numerous surgeries and personal trials in the six years that I've known her. She has legally been pronounced dead several times, only to be brought back to life. She's had times when she cannot walk, cannot talk, cannot take care of personal matters. There have been times when I've hung up the phone or walked out of her room at the nursing home, that I felt certain would be the last.

Mama Boot is an absolute pleasure to hang out with. She's got no Master's of Divinity degree and she's never taken a theology course in her life, but she's got God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She doesn't talk about paradigms. She doesn't speak Christianese. She doesn't get distracted with denominationalism. She's not a part of Christian sub-culture. She just spends all day every day with God.

Lying flat of her back, she prays for those who are much less sick. Dependent upon the good will of others, she prays for financial success for her friends and family. By all definitions an invalid, she brings joy and sunshine to the techs, aides, nurses, and other residents of the nursing home where she lives. One of our prayers is for God to anoint her handshake, her hugs, her eye-contact, and her presence. God answers those prayers.

Every day that she finds herself still alive is a day spent praying her kids and grandkids, friends and relatives into the arms and Kingdom of God. Lying in a hospital bed, she sees visions that lead her to pray for her family's protection as the end times near. Before surgeries, she's seen angels in her room.

Mama Boot still prays for me on a regular basis and it was a relief to know that while I was on a recent short-term mission trip to Ghana and Uganda that she was praying for me. Missionaries and church folks who are in need of money say things like, If you can't give, just pray. It's a nice gesture, but the money is what is desired. The same was largely true with my attempts at fund-raising. I would think, You ain't gonna have nothin' to pray for if I don't get my white behind across that water. However, I can honestly say that Mama Boot's prayers were worth more to me than if she had been able to pay for the whole trip. Because, you see, she talks to the very God that I went to Africa to serve. They're tight. She knows how to get a word on up there. And if ol' no-shoulders thought he was gonna try something, then I can guar-an-tee (all 3 syllables)that he got a good old-fashioned butt-whoopin' Mama Boot style, gettin' sent back to Hell where he belongs . . and not without a proper tongue-lashing!

Nowadays, it's me who's praying for her. One operation after another. I guess one can only out-live the doctors' you-have-x-number-of-months left until you just start to disbelieve them. It's more than that, though. If God tells her she's gonna live and not die, she don't pay no mind to what the man in the white jacket says because with her, it's "Me and God."

Several years ago, noticing how my prayers had grown from religious-mechanical to spiritual-relational, she laughingly observed, "Boy, you're prayin' like a black woman."

• In 1958, Mama Boot was the first African American to graduate from Van Buren High School. She would have much preferred to stay in her "colored" school, but she wanted to set an example for her younger siblings, to pave the way for them to be able to attend the school of their choice. She was the only African American in her graduating class.


• Mama Boot is known locally in Ft. Smith and Van Buren for having practically raised many of the residents, white and black, including a former Ft. Smith mayor. She worked in many well-to-do white folks' homes and her housework often included a major role in child-rearing.


• Mama Boot was a founder of the Ft. Smith Boy's Club and volunteered hundreds of hours of her time over many years.


• Mama Boot was denied entry into West-Ark College (now UAFS) and still has the numerous rejection slips with the bogus explanations of why she could not attend. Her grandson Deon graduated from there two generations later with a 4.0.


• Mama Boot's son Arnold is an educator and a school administrator who applied tirelessly in Western Arkansas school districts, only for those jobs to go to more "qualified" applicants. He moved to Delaware and has won numerous awards for his service to education, such as the coveted Administrator of the Year state-wide award.


• Mama Boot was mentored by Little Rock Civil Rights Leader, Daisy Gatson Bates, who also mentored the Little Rock Nine. She worked in the Bates' printing press and contributed to their newspaper.
  


• Mama Boot's children and grandchildren serve in the fields of the armed services, education, nursing, and mental health. Many are musically inclined. Her proudest accomplishment is that all of her children and grandchildren are living for and serving the Lord.
  

Exposed and Redeemed

For quite some time now God has been calling me to set aside a special time each day for Him. Well, human/Adam-ite, that I am, I heard God calling me. I even listened, then I decided that I knew best. I am after all, me. I should know what's best for me, right?

My rationalization made so much sense to me. I spend lots of time talking to God each day. After all these years of being His kid, I've even learned to listen to Him. I talk to God on the road, in the shower, before bed, and whenever I have a spare moment. I really am in relationship with my Creator and I talk to Him. I thought that I would just continue to spend ample time with God and that gesture and effort should suffice.

Our Father is such a Gentleman. He heard my excuses and rationalizations and my reasoning, yet he continued to gently in that still-small voice, call me to set aside a special time just for us. I was praying recently and really asking God to reveal some things to me, asking for clarification, and direction. I was complaining that things weren't going the way I expected and planned. What's up?

He told me so clearly that He is a God of order, of systems, of laws, of principles, of organization. He shared with me that He understood that I am detoxing from a legalistic background of rigid rules and moral, godless checklists. He said that He had gladly smothered me in freedom and grace so that I could build relationship with Him and be free from religious rules. In effect, He was transitioning me from knowing God, but denying the power therein to knowing God and embracing Him in relationship. He's now teaching me that structure and routine and organization can be used to my benefit in Him as long as they are in the context of His love for me and my love for Him. Jesus is Lord; religion is not.

Finally, I consented and I set aside the first 30 minutes of my day for just me and God. No phone calls, no Facebook, no texting. Just me and God, uninterrupted. So many things have happened so quickly, thanks to this small step of obedience that was offered to me months if not years ago. Most of what He's placed upon my heart is not bloggable, nor that interesting if you're not me. We all have our things with God that should remain between us and God. Other things are for sharing.

Much of my prayer time with God in these special, set-aside times have been me praying that God will make me more Christlike and expose sin and self that is in my life. Wow, sometimes God answers prayers in the most annoying ways (only half joking).

I had an appointment today to get an oil change and a couple of minor maintenance things done on my truck. I needed an oil change, a bulb changed that illuminates my a/c settings, and my silencer pads on my shocks need oiled/lubricated as frequent cabin trips on gravel roads have made the truck squeaky. Simple enough.

I'm paged to the front to pay. They charge me for the oil change, tell me it'll be 700 bucks to replace the bulb because they'll have to replace the whole panel, and that they couldn't figure out what was squeaking so they didn't fix it. I got pissy and told them that they had pushed a $2500 warranty policy on me that they have never honored, but they would quickly offer to fix something that wasn't covered. They couldn't find record of my warranty, so I walk out in the pouring rain to get my copy out of the glove box. It expired at 75,000 miles, which I hit 2 days ago and have now gone over. Their sincere apologies, my foot. I got all Susan Seawel on them and told them in no uncertain terms in front of their other customers how disappointed and cheated I felt that they've given me the run-around every time I've come in and now that I'm over the mileage limit, they can't do anything. I didn't cuss them like I would have liked to and I wasn't even that out of line except for the fact that I let it bother me so badly.

I drive to see my next client at school. This little boy is such a brat. Crybaby, manipulator, pouter, whiner, blame-shifter. Oppositional Defiant out the wazzoo. Today wasn't the day for me to be backtalked and manipulated. I went 'round and 'round with a 3rd grader, meeting him on his level and he met his match in arguing senselessly. I stepped out of counselor role and into step-parent role. No worries, I didn't do anything bad, I just wasn't an effective counselor. I was more like a probation officer for a kid who's not (yet) on probation.

I got in the truck and immediately asked God what was up with me. I'm not usually like this. I've been crabby all day. What's the deal? I feel like I'm being EXPOSED. As soon as I prayed the word 'exposed' I felt it all over my body. If it was a movie, it would have been played in slow-motion with a deep "Exposed, exposed, exposed" echoing throughout the cinema.

Oh my God. This was an answer to prayer. I was being exposed. My selfishness had been exposed just as I had asked God to do. I was still confused, so I asked God just what exactly he was exposing. He said, you believe that you are your provider, that's why you got mad about that $2500. I AM your Provider. He said, you believe that you are your defender, that's why you got mad when they wouldn't listen or take you seriously. I AM your Defender. He continued, you believe that you are in control, that's why the little child's disobedience went all over you. I AM Sovereign; I AM in Control.

He had me to confess my selfishness, repent, and declare that He is my Provider, my Defender, and that He is Sovereign and has control of my life.

Needless to say, enduring some minor frustrations to get such an awesome, instant answer to prayer was totally worth it. I really felt as if I've grown up a lot today. It's refreshing knowing who He is and who I am in Him.

Confessions of a hypocrite: My journey to forgiveness

It has been said that what we most hate about others is what we subconsciously hate most about ourselves. I find myself agreeing with a lot of the things that are said about truth, but the thing that comes to the forefront of my mind at the moment is: the truth hurts.

For years, while identifying myself almost in a partisan or cultural sense as a Christian, I criticized religious leaders or politicians that claimed the title of Christian. I was critical to the point of being judgmental and even hateful.

On some level I knew that I, too, was a hypocrite, but therein lied the problem. I couldn't bring myself to self-forgiveness, therefore had little motivation to forgive others. I attended church regularly and at the private Christian university I attended, daily chapel attendance was mandatory.

Church and chapel services allowed me prime opportunities to judge others. It was as if I was keeping score of the guys that I knew, or more aptly had heard, of being involved in activities that once again I judged inappropriate or (ooooh) sinful. It was usually guys around my age whom I believed to be doing something as sinful as (wow, gasp!) drinking alcohol or sharing leave-room-for-Jesus intimate moments with their girlfriends.

Consequently, no matter how awesome a devotional or how profound a speech a peer of mine might lead or make, in the constitution that had formed with me, I didn't have to take or heed their advice if I had any inkling that they had recently bumped uglies, consumed alcohol, or had engaged in any of the other indefensibles on my self-righteous checklist.

These rules that I held for others didn't necessarily apply to me because I wasn't up flaunting my Christianity behind a pulpit or on a chapel stage nor claiming to be a leader. So in my narrow, rigid mindset very few were eligible to be in leadership over me or to even offer guidance. I was cynical, sarcastic, and religious.

Part of what I despised about these hypocrites was exactly what I saw in myself. . . and what I couldn't seem to rid myself of no matter how much effort or prayer. I would set goals, try, pray, whine, pout, cry, and complain. Then, I'd give up for a season and try again. Repeat ad nauseum.

Life and God were really getting on my nerves. I never seriously flirted with suicide or atheism because there was much about life that I enjoyed and I did believe in God. I just felt that life often sucked and that God dangled the proverbial carrot in front of me teasing me with hope of a better life. I'd chase that darn carrot, getting ever-so-close to arriving . . . and it felt as if God would up the ante. I'd reach a goal, hit a religious milestone, get excited, and then it was as if God changed the rules. . . setting me up for failure. I'd get pouty and quit, trading in real prayers for the CYA-variety.

Spiritually, the above was the story of my life all of my growing-up years through my early-twenties. Some time in college, I began dissociating from the faith of my parents and of several generations of ancestors on both sides of my family. This filled me with hope and guilt, freedom and bondage, and numerous other paradoxes. I no longer believed much of what I had been taught so I abandoned it, but didn't know how to replace it. There was a giant freedom in the area of leaving something that I didn't believe, yet an equally large void where religion once had been.

There were some pesky Baptists and some hopped-up Charismatic influences in my life who talked of a relationship with Jesus and the Holy Spirit, respectively. How on earth does someone have a relationship with Jesus is what I wanted to know. Awesome marketing, for sure. Slick pew-filling slogan, but not too realistic I reasoned. As far as the Holy Spirit, was He really even real? C'mon, seriously? I kind of chalked the Holy Spirit up as a reason for well-meaning, and perhaps emotional, black folks and Pentecostals to get all riled up and have a pew-jumping good time. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

However, desperate as I was, I attempted a non-church-attending relationship with Jesus. Detox! I could no longer tolerate church, but had an unquenchable thirst for something more. In terms of my judgement, I had totally exhausted the church that I had grown up in as well as other churches that I had already refuted or shot down. Name a denomination and I could tell you my problem with, not only their theology, but also their leadership.

In spite of myself, I began to start to really like Jesus. I got in His Word and talked His ears off in conversational prayer, though at that point I talked way more than I listened. This man-God was really cool. Some of that stuff He was doing in the New Testament was way cool. The woman at the well would have never had a chance in the churches or chapels of my previous religious days, but Jesus really took a liking to her. In fact, he hung out with folks like that . . . thieves, sluts, liars. It was the religious church folks and political types that he rebuked. . . and I loved it when he did stuff like that. Some 2000 years later, I was cheering Jesus on from the sidelines. I started to really love and admire Jesus. More importantly, I started to really feel His love for me.

Some of the sarcasm and cynicism started to melt. However, I'd get cranky when confronted with my own junk - hypocrisy and being judgmental. I was justified and had good reason for my thoughts, thank-You-very-much.

Prior to accepting Jesus as my Lord and Savior, I was aware of roughly 1/3 of the Trinity. . . and that's a liberal estimate. I only knew the KJV Old Testament God who seemed to run around setting people up for failure. . . and turning them into salt? What in the world was that all about? Really? I desperately wanted to please Him and hoped to be good enough to get to Heaven some day, not because harp-music and angels were my cup of tea, but Hell! Good Lord, I was never one for extreme stench or heat. . . and teeth gnashing, who came up with that? I didn't have good teeth, but I darn sure didn't want them gnashed! I sure hoped I was good enough to get to Heaven, if only to escape Hell.

Jesus, though, had become my Lord and I was realizing that it was more of what He had already done for me on the Cross than it was about what I was to do. This helped immensely and allowed me to take some deep breaths and relax a bit and just chill. Though not as urgent or as intense, I still felt guilt for not being in church and for things in my past and present. I hated that I was beginning to love Jesus, yetcould still be so cranky about life and still had the same hang-ups and struggles. Shouldn't Jesus have done something about this by now? However, I had accepted Jesus even if I didn't understand Him. I was now operating with 2/3 of the Trinity.

I had made friends with some people who were very spiritual, but not Christian, and privately I really admired their outlooks on a lot of things. They were so calm and mellow and open and accepting. They weren't cranky, religious Christians with rules and checklists. They weren't judgmental. They were spiritual - influenced by Buddha and the Great Spirit and maybe some mushrooms and marijuana for good measure, of course. I was a preacher's kid from Arkansas and this should not have appealed, but it had tremendous appeal. I didn't want to run around and eat vegetables and wear Birkenstocks, but I did want to be carefree and love others regardless. These sandal-shod, flower-loving, tree-hugging hippies got me thinking in spiritual terms. I thank God for them.

Obviously, I knew that God the Father must be spiritual, but He didn't seem spiritual. Jesus, the Son, seemed like a man and therefore not a spirit. I started wondering about the role of the Holy Spirit, but wasn't He lyrical at best and dead with the last apostles at worst? I had heard a lot of nonsense about the Holy Spirit and didn't know what to believe about Him, but secretly I started appealing to Him to help me out of messes that I'd get myself into or for Him to prove to me that He was real. When He would reveal or prove Himself, I would reason that it was my effort or explain it as simple psychology, but my mind was at least partially open to His existence, but I absolutely did not want to get all blow-dried televangelist creepy if He was real. I just wanted to know, then use the knowledge to my own advantage. . . like to get A's on tests or to have the ability to have really clever conversations and appear deep and spiritual . . . because chicks might just dig that. My own little cosmic bellhop is kind of what I had pictured in my mind.

Through a series of events, mostly painful, tragic, faith-testing life events, I was coming to the end of the road with God, Jesus, and Christian spirituality. I kept failing and I wasn't feeling anything. Relationships weren't working. I was mildly successful in career and education, but nothing much really mattered. Life was flat, dull, blah. . . and showed little sign of getting better. God should really do something, I thought, because this sucks. Nothing is working out and, frankly, I'm hopeless and bored.

Enters the Holy Spirit. He used a wise man and two friends of mine to ever-so-gently confront me. Hungry and desperate for more of God, I cooperated. Somehow this wise old, gray man knew all the right questions to ask me. In mere moments, I was confessing fears, worries, sins, anxieties, many of which I had forgotten about or hadn't realized that I was still holding onto. I couldn't believe how this kind, old man knew all of this stuff. . . and I darn sure couldn't believe that I was telling him the truth. Twenty-five years worth of filth just spewed forth from me accompanied by that many years' worth of grief-stricken tears. I confessed, I repented; and it was real. I was truly convicted. No longer was it a save-my-butt prayer, but a full-fledged Oh-My-God-I'm-so-sorry-please-forgive-me prayer of repentance. It was as if the world were being lifted from my shoulders and fears were evaporating as if into thin air. I had an incredible moment, the defining moment of my life that I now refer to as my first Holy-Spirit-experience. I had an encounter that 20 minutes prior, I would have denied even being possible.

The Holy Spirit, 3/3 now, came in and revealed Himself. God -Father, Son, and Spirit - came full circle. Now, that I had the Holy Spirit in my life and was allowing Him to live within me, God the Father and God the Son made much more sense to me and became even more real to me. Though, now the Holy Spirit was showing the Father to me not as some Old Testament Control Freak, but as a Loving, Doting Father and He showed Jesus to me as not just a Friend, Playmate, or Confidant but truly as my Lord, my Savior, my Redeemer.

My personality and sense of humor still contain bits of sarcasm and cynicism simply because I find amusement in their qualities, but I am not held in their grips and I don't wallow in negativity. I've long since forgiven those college boys, my old peers, who were either doing the same sinful things as me, or doing things that I desired but didn't have the wherewithal or confidence to make happen. I've even forgiven myself for being such a self-righteous, judgemental jerk.

The truth really doesn't hurt so much anymore. It set me free.