The House We Built

Being born again the summer before my senior year of high school was the most amazing and glorious experience I’d ever had in my young life. Though I continued to struggle with sin and still didn’t really know how to live for the Lord, I knew I was a different person than I was the day before I asked Jesus into my heart.

I continued to go to church and occasionally go out with Dan, knowing full-well that I didn’t want to live like I was living – a double life.  I acted like the “cool” girl I used to try to be when I was at school, and like the Christian girl I wanted to be when I was home, at church or with Dan.  It was a difficult way to live.  I was very displeased with myself, though I still had the joy of new salvation in my heart and still prayed and read my Bible, seeking God, though inconsistently, the best I knew how. 

Through this short season of my life – August thru December – I began to learn a bit about the conviction of the Holy Spirit; the need for daily connection with God and with other believers; repentance, forgiveness and spiritual cleanliness; the consistent, unconditional, uncompromising love of my Heavenly Father; and the nearness, teaching and correcting of Jesus, even in the midst of my sinfulness.

Then came the most amazing moment of my life so far.  The day the One I loved more than anything in the universe opened my eyes to the one I would love more than anyone in this world.

But before I tell you about that incredible day, let me give you a bit more of my background.

I was raised in a dysfunctional Christian home, though I had no idea of that until I was an adult and began listening to Dr. James Dobson on the radio.  This was a year or so after Dan and I began dating. Dr. Dobson became my parent, my mentor, and my pastor – though I had all 3 already – and my life was completely and irrevocably changed through his Focus on the Family daily radio broadcasts.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I was born, my dad was stationed in Morocco, Africa, in the US Navy, so my mom was left alone to not only to give birth to me, but was raising my 2 older siblings, ages 2 and 8, alone.  From what I’ve been told, my birth was a difficult one, and my mom must’ve been given a lot of drugs, as she was out for more than 24 hours, therefore always believing me to have been born the day after I actually was.

My mom lived near her mother, my beloved grandmother, and her younger brother and his wife, who gave birth to my cousin 3 months after I was born, so she had some help and support, though I’m sure things would have been much easier for her had my dad been around at the time.  My dad didn’t see me until I was 14 months old.  And I’ve been told the story of the first time I heard his voice, many times.  I was sleeping, as he came in late at night, and went straight up from my sleeping position of tummy-down, on my knees and cheek, with my arms between my raised legs, and into his arms.  I recognized his voice, I’ve been told, because my mom would play an old reel-to-reel tape of him speaking every night before we went to bed, I suppose so my older siblings wouldn’t forget their daddy’s voice and so I would learn it.  I guess I did!

After my dad got out of the Navy when I was about 3 years of age, he started driving a semi-truck, and was often gone for weeks at a time.  So, again, my mom was left to raise us alone. 

My mom was brought up in a mostly Christian home, and we attended the 1^st Assembly of God church in Webb City, MO, in my early childhood, along with my grandmother and great aunt, whom my grandmother had moved in with to care for after she had contracted polio, and later had taken a bad fall.  As nearly as I can recall, I asked Jesus into my heart at that AG church when I was about 5 years old, and always felt like I knew Him and heard his voice speaking to me, and believed Him to be my best friend.

We moved about 3 hours away from my grandmother 3 weeks before I turned 9 years old, and I became about as depressed as any 9-year-old can be.  So, after that first year away from her, my parents began allowing me to spend a few weeks of each summer with her, and that seemed to help, though I continued to struggle with depression all of my childhood and then again, years later as an adult.

My mother never settled into a church after we moved, but we attended a nearby AG church for a short time.  When I was 12 years old, I made the most impactful decision I’d ever made and my life changed for the worst, followed by several very painful years as my parent’s marriage problems escalated.  By this time, my dad had begun working at the nearby FAA (Federal Aviation Administration), and was working long, arduous shifts, rotating around the clock, so we never knew when he was home, or asleep or just grouchy from lack of sleep.  Our family seemed to be walking on eggshells more than ever before, which caused me (and all my siblings) a great deal of anxiety and fear.

One crazy night when I was 12 years old, I was lying in my bed, ready to go to sleep, when I felt the Holy Spirit nudge me to say my bedtime prayers, as I almost always did, having been taught to do so from earlier than I can remember.  In my heart, I told Him “no”.  Again, I felt Him urge me to pray, but again I told Him “no”, then I flipped to my other side, effectively turning my back to Him.  The third time I felt Him nudge me, I told Him “No.  I’m going to try this (living) on my own for a while”, and I felt His presence leave me.  I felt empty and void when He left me and was saddened by this.  But I was a strong-willed and stubborn child, and I hardened my heart to this feeling and didn’t pray. 

That night was the beginning of a very troublesome time in my life, and in the life of my family.  Not only had I made the most foolish decision of my young life, but my parents’ fighting became increasingly angry and sometimes violent, with my mom periodically “leaving” my dad – we sometimes went to the drive-in theater to avoid seeing him, or we would head down to my grandmother’s for the weekend, with my mom often in tears as we were watching the movie or driving to Grandma’s house – and my dad periodically leaving my mom, threatening divorce on his way out of the house.

As my parents’ marriage seemed to be crumbling, I became increasingly distant from them and more rebellious toward them, spending more and more time with the boyfriends who led me down undesirable paths. 

Then came that amazing night at church that I told you about in my 1st blog post on here. I became born again by repenting of my sins and asking Jesus into my heart to be my Savior and my Lord.

Throughout those months between that life-changing night at church and the Christmas after that, I struggled to follow the faith I’d professed, returning several times to my old ways of allowing peer pressure at school to dictate my behavior.

But that Christmas, the Christmas of 1978, changed my path for the rest of my life.

Interestingly enough, my parents are both from small towns in southern Missouri, and Dan’s parents are from the same general area. With both our parents going to the Joplin, MO, area for the holidays to see parents and grandparents, Dan and I got permission to drive down there together in his awesome ’66 Mustang. He dropped me off at my grandmother’s house then went to his grandparents’ house to spend Christmas Eve. After the festivities with family he came back to where I was staying with my family and I went out to sit in his car with him and chat. I know I gave him a little something for Christmas, but I have no memory of what it was because of what he gave me – well, actually, what the Lord did in my heart through what he gave me – changed me and set me on the path I knew the Lord called me to in the blink of an eye.

He handed me a card with a pretty little summer-time flower on the front of it, which made me smile. And out of the card slipped a beautiful gold necklace, which I loved. But the inside of the card is what made my heart stop. When I read the words “I love you” underneath that card’s simple sentiment I had the sensation of a lightening bolt shooting through me from the top of my head all the way down and out through the tips of my toes, and I knew – I KNEW – that this young man didn’t mean what I’d thought he meant all the times he’d told me that before. I thought he meant he loved me like a sister; a sister in the Lord. No! He meant he loved me! And I knew in that moment that I loved him, too. I loved him like I’d known him all my life. Throughout all the ups and downs and struggles of transitioning from children to adults the Lord had knit our hearts together and we were soul-mates for life.

I was standing with my boyfriend at what I dubbed, in later years, the smoker’s corner – the area at the edge of the road in front of our local high school, designated for students who smoked.  We all – the smokers – congregated there before and between classes, when we had a few extra minutes to smoke a cigarette. 

It was a cold winter morning, and I was leaning into my boyfriend’s body, using him to block the icy wind, when I saw her drive up in her boxy little Audi, with Mr. Adams in the front passenger seat and his son, Dan, in the back.  Dan leapt out the minute the car came to a stop, practically loping away from the car and toward the front doors of the high school.  His dad, my typing teacher, got out after Dan, and I remember thinking, “Poor Mr. Adams.  He has to be married to such an old lady”, as Mrs. Adams, the driver of the little foreign car was as white-haired as any 90-year-old grandmother.  I learned, in later years, that she was actually about 5 years younger than her husband, who still had dark hair.

I remember Dan and his unique walk – his feet rolling up onto the balls as he walked, giving the appearance of a deer about to spring into a run – his crazy auburn-colored, long, fuzzy hair that wouldn’t lay down, but stood out in all directions on his head like an afro, the bright reddish-brown freckles that seemed to cover every speck of exposed skin, the longest, skinniest legs I’d ever seen, and his army-green puff coat.

But we were from different worlds. 

I was a bit of a rebel – not a loud, in-your-face type rebel, but a quietly going-to-do-my-own-thing rebel.  It got me into trouble sometimes. 

He was a teacher’s kid.  An athlete (I presumed).  A straight-A student (I also presumed).  Liked by all (again, I presumed).

I didn’t give him a second thought that day.  I saw him get out of his parent’s car and go into the school building. 

I remember it, now, like it was yesterday; like a moving painting hanging on my wall that I glance at every time I walk by.

That time in my life was a very troubled time.  My parents were having serious marriage problems.  Our home was never really your a-typical happy American family.  There was a lot of love, of course.  But there was also a lot of fighting between my parents, from my parents toward their 5 children, and of course, between all of the siblings.

During my teens, though, things escalated between my parents and there was a lot of serious and sometimes violent fighting, threatening, separating and talk of divorce.

As a result, I was much happier to be with my not-so-good boyfriend, who led me into all kinds of sinful and even harmful behavior – drugs, alcohol, sex, lying and cheating, skipping school, and all manner of “bad behavior”.

During this time in our family’s life, my mom sought out a local pastor to help her find peace again, and began attending his tiny church.  We called it “the church above the flower shop” because that is where it was located – in the upstairs area of an old brick building on the corner of Main and Elm in what is (once again) our little town, up above the local flower shop.  This pastor had just started a non-denominational church – one of the first of its kind, especially for our small-town area in Kansas – and my mom began attending, oftentimes dragging me, kicking and screaming, along with her.

Turns out, Mrs. Adams, the white-haired wife of my typing teacher, was my mom’s new best friend.  She and her son, Dan, attended Blessed Hope – this new little church – as well. 

I found this church interesting and slowly gravitated toward not hating it as badly as I had at first, but I was still not convinced about the whole “Christian” thing. I was brought up to believe in Jesus, but I had turned my back on Him and wanted nothing to do with Him anymore, or so I thought.  There was, however, a very cute boy whose mom also attended this church, and I dated him for a short amount of time.  He, too, was a bad boy and pushed me into more bad behavior. 

But, unbeknownst to me, I was being wooed by the Holy Spirit.  The Lord Himself was drawing my heart toward Himself and my heart was softening.  I was also becoming weary of the bad boy scene, felt empty, and lacked any vision for a future for myself.  I needed something.  I needed some One.  But I still didn’t know what or whom.

I did know, though, that I liked cars!  And that cute son of Mr. and Mrs. Adams had a very cool ’66 Mustang Coup and I wanted a ride in it!

About 3 weeks before the start of my senior year of high school, I was sitting on the front porch steps of the old 2-story farm house my family lived in, and I heard the sound of a very cool, albeit noisy car coming down our road – Main Street in the tiny town of Edgerton, Kansas.  I heard it slow down as it approached our home and I saw that cute son of Mrs. Adams, in his very cool ’66 Mustang, looking at me as he coasted by. 

I was, at that time in my life (just turned 17 years old) rather shy and cautious when it came to interacting with anyone I didn’t know well.  But that hot August day, with another school year, and the peer pressure to do things I didn’t want to do, rapidly approaching, I threw caution to the wind, jumped up off the concrete steps of the porch and jogged out to the street.  By this time Dan had slowed to a stop as I came around the back of that awesome car and up to his window, which was already open, and he was gazing at me through his slightly crooked eye glasses, with a genuinely caring look, though I was too jaded and hardened to boys to notice that at the time.

I said a quick hello, then asked him if he would take me for a ride in his car. 

He didn’t even flinch at my outrageous boldness, but told me to go tell my mom where I was going and he would then take me for a ride.

I was sold at that moment, though, again, I didn’t realize it. 

Every boy I’d dated or been with had always prompted me to sneak around behind my parents’ backs or blatantly lie to them, to get me where they wanted me so they could take advantage of me in one way or another. 

This boy seemed to genuinely care about me and my well-being, and as foreign to me as it was at the time, he seemed to care about having the respect of my parents.

I don’t remember a thing about that car ride that day, probably because I was mortified by my own behavior – chasing down a boy and asking him to give me a ride in his car!  It must have gone well, though, because soon after, we went out on our first date. 

I had never been out on a date with a “good” boy, so I don’t think I really knew what to expect.  I wore a favorite shirt, which wasn’t actually mine, but one borrowed from my little sister’s friend, that was bright yellow, rather form-fitting and said, “Take me, I’m yours” across the front of it.

He came to the house in tan wide-wale corduroys and a tan Henley t-shirt.  I can’t remember if he had his signature Converse shoes on, but I’m guessing he did, because he always did! 

He had decided that we needed to go play miniature golf.  But I’d never done anything like that, and my fear of failing in front of someone I barely knew forced me to insist we do something a little less scary, like the movies.  And I had been dying to see the new Beatles movie, Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.  Now I’m dating myself, aren’t I?  It was released in 1978, about a month before our first date.  I think we must’ve gone to Taco Via, a favorite of Dan’s, before we went to the movie, and that was also a first for me.  My family simply didn’t eat out much, so I hardly even knew how to order for myself.  My kind-hearted date did the ordering for me, setting my anxious heart at ease for the evening. 

We went out a couple of times before the start of the school year, talking about various things in our lives, trying to overcome the awkwardness of getting to know each other.  The two things we had in common was the high school we both attended, though Dan had been out of school for a couple of years, and the church we both attended along with our moms.  Dan was a Christian, I could tell, and was all-in.  I was still observing and considering the path I’d take, though I knew I didn’t want to continue down the one I’d been on, and with the start of school and knowing I’d be around the same bad influences from the past, I was ready for something to change, though I didn’t know what or how. 

I still remember very clearly a conversation we had one afternoon as he was driving me home.  He asked me if I’d ever been baptized.  I looked over at him and said, “Maybe.  I don’t know.  I’ll ask my mom”, thinking he was talking about some kind of water baptism when I was a baby.  I knew Dan’s mom was previously a Catholic and that he had been raised Catholic, so I thought that question was coming from something in his Catholic background.  But he was talking about being baptized in the Holy Spirit – something I knew nothing about, and caused me to wonder about his sanity.  But that conversation planted a seed in my heart and mind. 

Just before the start of the school year, our pastor preached a sermon during a Wednesday night service about some rather ungodly things – witchcraft, Ouija boards, rebellion, manipulation, and other such things.  I wish I could sound a little more Christian and say I remember him saying something about Jesus, but I can’t!  I can only remember hearing him talk about the things I was involved with at the time.  The things I thought it was fun to dabble in, but knew in my heart was nothing of the kind. 

My heart was convicted.  Deeply convicted. 

When Pastor Harvey gave an altar call at the end of the service, I knew I had to go forward.  I knew I needed to be forgiven for the godless things I’d been involved in, and I knew I wanted Jesus in my heart.  I needed Him in my heart, desperately. 

I was told, after the meeting, that there was a tangible presence of the Lord with us that evening, and that most of the congregation stayed late to pray with me and our pastor as I poured out my heart to the Lord, asking Him for forgiveness for my sins, as I wept before Him.  After many minutes of intense confessing, repenting, and praying the prayer our pastor led me to pray, I got up from my knees feeling like I’d shed a weight I didn’t realize was too heavy for me to carry.  I’d never felt so clean, light and free before in my entire life.  I was truly forgiven, loved and filled with the Holy Spirit of God, and I loved Him intensely for saving me from the wretched existence I’d been living before that night.

My husband and I are beginning to realize that we have lived a long time; probably much longer than either of us thought we would 40+ years ago when we first met.  We’ve lived a lot of life and done a lot of things together, and I want to share some of our story with anyone who wants to read it.  I’m guessing that it probably won’t be profound, and sometimes it might be downright boring and/or confusing. But it might also be interesting and insightful.  I will probably learn some things, as I almost always do when I write, remembering the ups and downs, good times and bad, ridiculously happy and tragically sorrowful. 

I will, as I often do, see the hand of God in our lives as I muse on our times together building, learning, growing, teaching and pressing on through all of it.  Both Dan and I have been Christians since we were each 17 years old, so Christianity and the things of God will be woven throughout our story as naturally as we breathe.  But I do not intend this blog to be “preachy”.  I’m just saying, it’s going to be in there, because He’s in our lives……our story……The Story of our Lives.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I will enjoy sharing it.

“Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” Psalm 127:1