MY LOVE STORY (SO FAR), PART TWO: SWEET SURRENDER
“Oh, to tell you my story is to tell of Him.”
– “My Story” by Big Daddy Weave
October 22, 2000, is the sweetest date of my life.
For a year after I slipped the promise ring on my finger, I struggled with holding onto life on my own terms. I knew Jesus wanted more—deep down, I knew He wanted everything—yet I just couldn’t bear the thought of what that might mean, especially in regards to my love story. As mentioned in my last blog post, the infamous image of what life would be like if God took over haunted my imagination in vivid color: me, aging and miserable, stuck in a mud hut in Africa married to a fat, balding missionary who spent all his days nursing Coke cans in a broken-down recliner watching television. How on earth I thought a missionary in Africa could actually be fat or have time for lazy recliners, I never bothered to ask. All I knew was I couldn’t afford to take the risk. Sure, I wanted to go to Heaven when I died; I had sealed that deal as a six-year-old (though, truthfully, I sometimes wondered if it had stuck; “re-dedication” altars were a very familiar place during Middle School). I even wanted to please God. But I was too afraid to trust Him. Too afraid to let go of my love story. Too afraid to admit I was caught in a trap: a trap I had allowed satan to entwine me in with every secret sin I gave myself to. And so I tried to stay “on the fence”: tottering between being a “good Christian girl” and wanting all the pleasures the world promised.
And yet, even as I pushed Jesus away, I felt myself being drawn to Him. Especially from the moment I put that ring on my finger, it was as if the Holy Spirit of God started wooing my heart. It was subtle—so subtle I didn’t even know it was happening—but somehow between the iron grip of satan and the tyranny of my own flesh He just kept slipping in: whispering softly, calling me away, thawing my heart. One thing He used in particular: a simple little book called When God Writes Your Love Story by Eric and Leslie Ludy (find it here). A friend of mine loaned it to me during the summer of 2000 because she thought I would love it; in spite of myself, I discovered she was right. There was an honesty, a freshness to Eric and Leslie’s story my romantic heart just could not deny, in spite of their radical message of total surrender to Jesus. I began to wonder if maybe—just maybe—God didn’t want me to be miserable after all. What if He actually had a good plan for my life…
But I had to give Him complete control to find it?
It was a cool Sunday evening that October 22 of the year 2000. I had attended a special event with my family at South Laurel High School in London, KY, and, truthfully, didn’t want to be there. I was dressed in a skirt I didn’t like (a cardinal sin when you are fourteen and insecure), in a place I’d never been to, surrounded by a gym full of people I didn’t know, waiting to hear an old guy speak I had barely heard of. His name was Jerry Falwell and he was the President of some college called Liberty University, but that was all I knew. My only interest in the whole business was that my parents didn’t think I was old enough to stay at home and wouldn’t have allowed me the privilege even if I had been. So I came, counting each nano- second till I could jet out of that over-sized concrete building and dash for the car.
Until Dr. Falwell started talking.
It’s funny: to this day I don’t remember a thing about what he said except a political joke. “I don’t want to influence you,” he quipped, referring to the upcoming Presidential Election, “just vote for the Bush of your choice.” However, as he preached an undeniable something came over me. His words seemed real, genuine—as if the faith he professed actually worked in real life. But it was more than that. Far, far more. I felt God lay His great hand on my heart and ask for it yet again. Only this time I knew I had to make a decision. I had to choose—and that choice would stick. I could no longer put Him off or ignore Him.
My heart started to pound. As the “invitation” was given and the musicians on the stage started to play, a veritable war was raging inside of me. I could not trust Him—yet how could I live without Him? How could I face the reality of walking away from Him for good? For I knew that would be the consequence. The Son of God would not be shoved onto the back-burner forever. Either I surrendered to Him now or went my own way…the way of the world…the way of satan…understanding I would probably never have a chance to turn around.
And yet…
I hesitated.
Desperately, my flesh wrestled with my spirit. No! it screamed, Don’t trust Him! You can’t trust Him! Remember the fat missionary in Africa! What about the penthouse? The Ferrari? The millionare??? You can’t give all that up—for God! He’ll ruin everything! All He wants is to make you miserable!
I couldn’t argue, and yet…
I hesitated.
Live without Jesus?
It was the ultimatum I had been dreading, and the full realization of what I would lose if I listened to the flesh dawned on me like a terrible nightmare.
I would lose Jesus.
Perhaps not as my Savior. I might go to Heaven when I died. But my life on earth would be without His presence. Without His friendship. Without His smile. The love I had known all of my life—the one person I knew in my spirit I never wanted to live without nor could live without—would be lost to me. Horrifyingly and terribly absent from my life. The very definition of Hell. And it would be my doing. It would be my choice.
Jesus or my own terms? I could not have both.
As I stood there in a cold sweat, trembling, feeling as if I was being torn straight in two, I knew the moment of decision had finally come.
He was forcing me off the fence.
To this day, I shudder remembering how long I still hesitated before going forward. Even with knowing how desperately I needed to, I tried to make a deal with God that I would only go to the front if another person did. Just one more person! Was that too much to ask? After all, it was a strange gym full of strange people and all the lights were on at full capacity: how could I embarrass myself by going up all alone?
With every verse of the hymn I became more miserable and might have still waited too long had not my Mom leaned down quietly to whisper in my ear:
“You need to go forward, don’t you?”
At last, I nodded weakly.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
For a moment I considered her offer. That was what I was asking for. Then I realized if I didn’t have the guts to go down by myself I didn’t have any business pretending I was a Christian. Jesus left Heaven to die naked on a cross for me; the very least I could do was leave my seat and walk down a gym floor for Him. Shaking my head, I stepped out into the aisle. There were no fireworks. No light shows. The music being played wasn’t even my style. But I moved forward to kneel at the foot of that stage as if drawn by a magnet—and there, on that hardwood basketball court, I finally did it.
I surrendered everything.
I gave Him my hopes, my plans, my dreams. I gave Him my life and all of my “terms”. And, at the center of it all, I gave Him my love story. What kind of a man my husband would be, what kind of marriage we would have, whether or not I ever got married at all would be in God’s hands now, not mine. For richer for poorer, in sickness and health, surrounded by loved ones or completely alone, forsaking all others to cling only unto Him “ ‘til death” and beyond, all I knew was I could live without anything or anyone in this life…
Except my Jesus.
And when I finally stood up from that gym floor, I knew I would never have to…“for as long as we both shall live.” (which meant forever!)
What I didn’t know was the love story I thought I’d just given up for good had actually only just begun…
Until then, “Happy Valentine’s Day”!
Live EPIC,
CHRISTIS JOY
