My Journey: A Pilgrim’s (Very Slow) Progress

A couple years ago, I decided to share the story of how I met my husband. And why not? Meeting and marrying my husband was one of the biggest blessings of my life. I wrote it down not only to share but also so I could go back and remember.

But there is an even greater blessing, an even more life changing story I’d like to tell.

But you should know from the start… mine is a story not as incredibly dramatic, tragic, or obviously triumphant as some.

There are, to be sure, more exciting testimonies than my own.

Beautiful stories of lives suddenly and gloriously redeemed and freed from the chains of drug addiction, sexual sin, alcohol abuse and anything else one might imagine. Testimonies that will make you weep. Some people, perhaps like the apostle Paul, lived one kind of life in obvious and ongoing rebellion to God until a sudden salvation experience completely spun them in the opposite direction… not into a life of perfection, as sin is a life long battle, but into a life of complete certainty in Christ, without doubt, without question. They know who they were and it is unrecognizable to who they are now as a redeemed follower of Christ.

What an incredible blessing!

Oh, to see God’s grace bring such drastic and immediate change to the life of a new believer. 

But I’m beginning to believe that we might also need to hear testimonies that are not quite so radical, perhaps slower in bearing obvious fruit, and less satisfying if you’re looking for a compact, short story to read. I’d like to call it a Peter kind of story. One with moments of triumphant, God given strength awash with waves of uncertainty, doubt, and darkness to be overcome. And perhaps this story will resonate with someone sharing a similar experience.

And so, I’d like to share with you what I’m calling a Pilgrim’s (Very Slow) Progress.

A testimony and a long, bumpy road to sanctification from fear, apprehension, cynicism, intense doubt, and stubborn self-reliance.

We’ve just celebrated our sweet redemption, bought and paid for by the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

And I find myself in need of remembering…

Enter 5 Year Old Me…

“Excuse me, Ma’am, do you know Jesus?”

My seven year old brother looked up with earnest curiosity at the cashier checking our groceries through. This was his common practice. If he didn’t know you, the first thing he wanted to know was whether or not you knew Jesus personally. He’d been baptized at five years old and, though he wouldn’t discover his own true need for Christ until his mid teens, still he’d become a mini evangelist catching off guard every cashier we met. My mom (bless her) would usually step back and let him do his thing.

But I remember this particular cashier seemed unbothered.

“Yes sir, I know Jesus.” She replied kindly and then asked in return, “Do you?” 

“Yes ma’am!” My brother replied with sweet, child-like confidence.

I was intently watching this interaction until the inquisitive cashier turned her eyes to five year old me and asked the same question.

“What about you, sweetheart? Do you know Jesus?”

I remember turning to stare at the candy rack as my little face turned red. 

“No,” I answered in quiet shame. “Not yet.” 

I remember trying to smile a little to lighten the moment, but I couldn’t hide or bury the shame I felt in that moment. A little girl who doesn’t love Jesus, I thought to myself. She must think I’m terrible.

My big brother obviously had something I didn’t and surely she thought better of him than of me. I obviously needed to become a Christian if I wanted to fix this. 

But how?

Blessed Beginnings

I grew up in a strong, Christian household. 

From my first memory till I left home, my dad held some type of ministry position. From leading music, to youth ministry, to associate pastoring to lead pastoring. I was a preachers kid through and through.

Now, sometimes I know that seems to ruin kids. The expectations of the church or their ministry-focused fathers sometimes drives them away from Christ rather than to him. 

This was not the case for me.

My parents had a beautiful way of living the gospel out for my brother and I, not just on Sundays, but all throughout the week. 

My mom stayed home with my brother and I, homeschooling us and pouring all she had into us. She worked an occasional part time job, but there was never a doubt that we were her first priority.

She always said that while she cared deeply for our academics, her deepest concern was our spiritual education. I can remember many a conversation spent perched on the counter while she was stand across from me, helping me to work through whatever question or life situation was before me. She was always pointing me to Christ. God’s Word was by far her greatest teachers manual for our education. 

And as for my dad, he loved his family first and shepherded us as well as his church to the best of his ability. Ministry wasn’t simply a job to support us. There were many times he was bi-vocational. His work in the church reflected his earnest heart for people to know Christ.

When I needed to talk, my dad was the kind of person who could make me feel like he had days to listen even when he may have only had five minutes to spare. I think he made everyone feel that way.

The churches where my dad pastored were very traditional, conventional, southern baptist churches. Things were done the way they were done because that’s the way they’d always been done.

These were the churches known for frequent southern potlucks of fried chicken, fried ham, butter beans, creamed corn, mashed potatoes and casserole dishes. The dessert table was filled to capacity with countless delicious and dangerous delicacies. The sweet, older ladies would stand by the table to be sure your slice of home made seven layer chocolate cake was big enough to fatten you up a little. (The seven layers are no exaggeration and my mouth still waters at the thought.)

These were churches where most of the members were born, raised, and died while never even considering going anywhere else simply because generations back to great-great grandma lived in that community and attended there. 

In my experience, it wasn’t always so much about deep theology but often the question reigned supreme of whether or not you loved Jesus.

Perhaps, at times, the lack of deep theology contributed to a skewed view of Christ and true saving faith, which in turn created the danger of false faith. But there were many other times, I’m most certain, where the simplicity of faith was beautifully sincere, and people lived long lives, earnestly loving and serving the Lord. I have many memories of this that bless me to this day.

All in all I was raised in an atmosphere where loving God and trusting Jesus were paramount. Being saved was of utmost importance.… and the earlier the better.

Checking All The Boxes

So, there I was, the five year old daughter of preacher, standing in the check out line, facing the humiliating reality that I wasn’t a Christian. 

It wasn’t very long after, that I remember asking lots of questions about how to be saved. 

Every question my parents asked me regarding who Jesus was, and whether I believed that he died on the cross for my sins and rose again three days later were easily answered in the affirmative. Of course I believed that. My parents told me it was true. The Bible said it was true. So obviously, it was. 

Did I know I was a sinner? Yep. I did lots of bad things. No denying that. 

Did I want to ask Jesus to come into my heart?

Well, I wasn’t fully sure of what that meant, but if I could finally call myself a Christian like the rest of my family, that I could be baptized in front of the whole church just like my brother was, and that I would be making everyone around me excited and proud.

Yes, of course I did.

And that was that. I prayed “the prayer”. I was brought before the church as a new Christian and a member. I was so excited the day I was baptized. I remember skipping barefoot through the sanctuary before church, absolutely giddy. I was doing what would make everyone (and hopefully God) so happy, all eyes would be on me (I loved to be the center of attention), and now I was a part of something I felt I was meant to be.

Looking back, my parents said they were somewhat concerned about my decision, but they prayed that the Lord would reveal it to me if it wasn’t legitimate. 

Part of them thought that perhaps it was a true desire and conviction…

The other part of them knew that my decision might be more due to one of my greatest struggles.

Even at five years old, they already knew, I was a fearful and die hard people pleaser.

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Annnnnnnd, you guys know I can’t tell the short version of a story…

And since this is a blog, not a book, I hope you’ll come back for part two.