Many years ago, when I was packing lunches for my husband to take to work, I would fill a glass jar with tea on a hot summer day, and then add ice cubes. The neck of the bottle was small, so I would just pound the ice cubes with my fist till they eventually broke through. One day I learned that glass jars sometimes break when you do that, and because of the jagged cuts on my hand, I changed my methods. When the cuts healed, I was left with a scar that looked like a “J.” I said that was Jesus’ mark of ownership. I wonder now what Jesus thought of that whole incident. Maybe He, observing, said to Himself, “There’s a foolish one, but since she’s aware of her foolishness, I can do something with her.”
Of course, Jesus saw all my life before I was even born, which earth-shattering event took place at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, D.C., October 1, 1956. I arrived about a month too early – not that I was a preemie, but I can do the math.
Over time, I grew weary of my mom’s story about how she and Dad got married and then nine months later, there I was, so during one such story-telling session, I told the hearer that it was more like eight months. Mom blushed and herded me to another room out of hearing distance to tell me that well, she and Dad had tried to get married, they intended to get married, but that things didn’t work out the way they had expected. It wasn’t like they had to get married or anything. That info didn’t really change the fact that I had been conceived when my mother was 17 and my father was 21, before they were married.
Mom and Dad were finally married at the end of January, 1956, by the Justice of the Peace in Washington, D.C. (a place now known as "The Swamp.") They had previously attempted to tie the knot in Maryland, but Maryland didn’t allow mixed marriages back then, and since Dad was a short Puerto Rican airman with kinky black hair who had just returned from Saudi Arabia with a nice dark tan, and Mom was a blue-eyed strawberry blonde, they were suspect. After that didn’t work, they drove into Washington, D.C., where there was less of an issue. D.C. didn't even require witnesses.
On my 50th birthday, October 1, 2006, I participated in a LifeChain event. If you’ve never seen one of those, it’s where pro-lifers stand along a major roadway for an hour, usually socially-distanced, very quietly, with signs, mostly praying and softly singing. The signs read “Abortion Kills Children,” “Abortion Hurts Women,” and “Jesus Heals and Forgives.”
I do this every year, but it meant a great deal to me to do it on my birthday, because the circumstances of my birth were such that had it happened even 20 years later, there would have been a much greater chance that I would never have seen the light of day, and never would have had a birthday. Instead of trying so hard to find a place to get married, my mom and dad could have found a place to do away with me, because killing babies in abortions was already available in some places, even if it wasn't exactly legal. Anyway, I held my sign on my birthday, cried, prayed, thanked God that my parents gave me the gift of life, and cried and prayed some more.
Growing up, I thought I led a fairly happy life overall, but I didn’t have many friends to speak of because Dad was a serviceman, and we moved a lot. That suited me fine because if I started having friend problems, I knew we’d be moving soon and I could start over. But there were never any close friends that way, none with whom I kept contact over the years. I never really learned how to mend broken relationships. I also had a pair of siblings who knew how to pester me: Rennie Marie and Daniel Jr. We didn't get along either, but they always came along when we moved.
We did go to a church or the base chapel, depending on where we lived. When I was in sixth grade, Dad had to train at Eglin AFB for a temporary duty assignment in Vietnam, so the five of us left small town life in Sgt. Bluff, Iowa, and hauled our tiny vacation trailer to Florida for two months, to be with him for Christmas and for my parents’ anniversary. We attended a real church there, a Southern Baptist one. The pastor talked too loud and had a microphone to boot. My siblings didn’t like him because they thought he yelled too much. But every week, my heart was pounding hard in my chest as he passionately declared my need to get saved.
While we lived in Florida, there were some problems. It was probably the first time I noticed anything going on in my parents’ marriage, but we were all in close quarters -- five people stuck in a one room vacation trailer, because it rained practically every day. My dad hurt his back in training. My sister and brother were loud and bouncy at ages 9 and 7, and I was just trying to get my homework done and a report finished with no possibility of even getting to a library. My dad forgot their anniversary and when he remembered, he brought home a cheap box of chocolates. As Mom was on a diet, that went over quite badly. I remember a lot of yelling and crying.
The school bus took me to a place I didn’t understand because being a "military brat," I had truly never experienced it. The white kids hated the black kids. I remember playing the game of Seven-Up, where seven kids would lightly touch kids in the rest of the class while their heads were down and their eyes were closed. Then the kids who were touched had to guess who their toucher was. Only, rather weirdly I thought, the white kids would not touch the black kids, so the black kids never got to play.
Then I found out that I was a target because I always knew all the answers to all the questions the teacher asked in class. They were rather easy questions because the material had already been covered the year before in Iowa, and I considered myself the good kid who raised my hand, while the other kids played pickup-sticks in the back of the classroom. Jealousy kicked in, and the other kids thought it was really fun to play tricks on the smart kid to save up “hits.” There was a game I didn't know, where if a kid was able to get me to look at them while they had their fingers cross-hatched over their eye, that would be worth three hits. Or, if they could get me to look into a circle, formed by the thumb and index finger, same thing. It was great fun for these kids to get in line behind me at lunchtime and beat on my back the required number of hits, as we raced to the lunchroom.
Home was tough, school was tough, and church was pleasant, even if my siblings didn’t like the amplified preacher. I needed a Savior and I needed someone to help me. I asked Mom about what I'd heard at church. She said I could get saved because of Jesus’ sacrifice for us on the cross. And then she told me I was supposed to “make a decision” for Christ and walk up to the front of the church during the invitation. But, I shouldn’t do it yet because she wanted Dad to be there and he couldn’t come to church till his back was better.
I wondered why I didn’t know this before now! What if I’d been killed in a tragic accident when I was nine and didn’t know Jesus as my Savior? I’d have been consigned to hell! But, instead of closing the deal at home, at my mother’s request, I waited a couple weeks till my dad’s back was better. Then I went with my family to church, ready to “go forward and get saved.”
When I slipped up to the front of the church during the altar call time, I was ready. The pastor asked me, kindly enough I suppose, why I was up there.
“I want to get saved,” I answered readily.
"Well," he said, "you weren't listening because I just asked the people who prayed in the pew to come forward."
But the pastor prayed the *Sinner’s Prayer with me anyway, and I knew it had “taken.” Probably it had already had taken at home, because I most definitely believed, but this was reassuring. Thank God, I was born again!
That night, December 31, 1967, I was back at the church for Part II: I was baptized in a white robe that covered my clothes. I don't know how much my siblings remember, but they were there, too, along with members of the church and my parents, who were all smiles and exuding pride in their oldest child. I was just a kid, but the Lord sought me out. I went through a fiery time those two months, but now that I had Jesus in my life, 1968 was more bearable. I applied those verses we memorized in Sunday School and I knew Jesus was there to help me. What’s more, I would need even more of Him in days to come.
*Sample Sinner's Prayer: "Jesus, I confess to You that I am a sinner. I believe You died on the cross to save me from my sins and rose again from the dead, to make a way for me to live in Heaven with You. I thank You for that sacrifice and ask You to come into my heart and take control of my life. I gladly receive You now as my Savior, and my Lord."
"... that if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." ~Romans 10:9
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