God has graciously drawn me since I was very young.
I do not know why.
Why does He draw someone? And why does someone else struggle so, to hear and to believe?
One of my first memories is of being a small baby, and being carried to my crib. I did not want to be put into my crib, this I know. I remember the feeling of dread, how I clung to the adult but was peeled off and placed in the barred crib despite my most passionate protests. I remember remembering the horror of the ongoing routine of screaming and crying for someone to come back and get me, but nobody coming. I remember the soft crunch of a plastic mattress liner under the sheet over the crib mattress, and the taste of the varnish on the wood of the crib. I vividly remember the hot scratchiness of the screams that tore my throat, and the strain of clutching the crib rail, pulling myself up, striving, straining, flexing every muscle in panicked fury until I was in veritable pain. And I remember a calm voice that spoke to me, although perhaps not in words, because I don't think I was verbal. Maybe it was just an idea that washed over me from Someone outside of me. "You don't have to fight," this Presence told me. "It's okay. You can just lie down. It doesn't have to be like this." I remember lying down, gently, almost as if an angel slipped me into a new position with comforting hands. I clearly remember a comforting warmth that spread over me as I let go of my angst, my striving. My tempest melted away in a blanket of warmth, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up to happy parents.
You may not believe it, but I remember this. Somehow, I've always known it was God there that day, telling me, "You can just lie down. It doesn't have to be like this."
I remember a day when, as a school-aged child, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the living room in front of the oak bookshelves that surrounded the descending staircase. Green carpet, oak shelves, the World Book Encyclopedia volumes bound in black and white leather, the set of beloved Childcraft books. I sat in that spot often, considering what to read next. But that particular day, I felt the presence of God, and I wondered why I was so blessed. Why did I have a nice, solid house and nice, clean clothes and good food to eat, when the world was full of suffering, starving people? Why did I get to go to church and learn about Jesus, when people all around the world had never heard of Him? Why did I have a mom and dad who taught me about God? Why did I have a bookshelf right in front of me with numerous Bibles in various translations at my fingertips? Why indeed? I thought of the maps inside the pages of the volumes of the encyclopedia, and I imagined all the distant places and people groups they represented, and I thought about the largeness of the world, even the Universe. In those moments, the Spirit of God was doing something in me, opening my mind to a vastness beyond myself. Not that I understood it, but I was aware of it. I pondered the Universe, and how I was so small within it, and yet so inexplicably blessed.
I remember being a bit older, a young teenager, walking home from school with friends. I was sharing about something that had happened, something I didn't like. I don't remember the particulars, but it had to do with authority and punishment, and I was upset. The others listened sympathetically. They were kind to me. Supportive. "That isn't fair at all," they said. "You don't have to accept that." They admonished me to fight, to resist, to rebel. It felt good. I felt validated. And then, suddenly, I realized the hollowness of it. Although I do not remember the exact subject, the words, the details of the situation, I remember a sudden awareness that it was wrong. I remember, accompanying the awareness, the curving slope of the green autumn grass down to the road (if you know Anoka, it was Green Street). This part of the memory is as clear as the day it happened. That Presence--the one that had been there since I was a baby--was suddenly in me again, and although the words of my friends had been soothing and affirming, I knew that I could not listen to them, that they were not right. I had a fleeting thought about how it was a shame that I couldn't go on being validated, there on the green, grassy lawn. The regret was followed by a chilling sensation as I understood how strong the temptation was to believe a lie. I don't remember what happened afterwards, in my physical life, with the people. I don't remember how the conversation may have closed. All I know is that God was there, and He pointed me away from the alluring validation of my sin, from words and ideas that seemed so appealing, but were not true. They simply were not true.
Those are three specific, memorable times when God communicated with me as a child. To this day, I do not know why He did.
Why should I be blessed to be able to sense God's presence and respond to Him? Why should I be blessed to love His Word, and through His Word, Him?
Oh, dear Lord, may others have this blessing. Please open hearts, as I know you can, as only you can.
