ConnieBrz

The part where the girl gets kicked out of church.

At twelve, I was living life in the fast lane. I threw away my clarinet (along with the nerdy stigma is carried) for a spot on the Jackson Junior High Drill Team. I snuck out at night to dance on the corner with the cutest boy in the neighborhood. I kissed a nineteen year old that should have been arrested.

Life was good, I was plenty enough saved (thanks much) and I had an almost-boyfriend with a dirt bike.

And then, Jesus showed back up. I felt Him sneaking around the perimeter, looking for a way in  the heart He saved all those years before.

He poked it with sticks.

He sung over it in the dark.

He let me feel afraid again.

Getting french kissed by a predatory nineteen year old might have had something to do with that.

The Charismatics Are Coming…

My parents started going to prayer meetings. The Charismatic Renewal was going great guns with Full Gospel Business Men hanging out on every street corner and Women Aglowing all over the place. Three of my preacher dad’s five brothers were neck deep in all sorts of hand waving, tongue-talking maneuvers.

This was naughty. Very, very naughty.

Now our denomination didn’t believe in much of anything. We  had few doctrines, but we did have a laundry list of no-nos. Tiptop on that list? No Speaking in Tongues. Clearly of the devil. Anyone who’s been in Church World any length of time can tell you Charismatics are particularly fond of speaking in tongues.

Back then, tongues were the new gift of choice and the newly baptized went around spouting off all over the place. Of course Dad being Dad, he got curious and headed in for some investigating. To find out what his brothers were up to, you understand.

Dad brought home a whole stack of books from a back table and hid them away so as not to corrupt the youth (that would be me.) I found Dad’s stash and read every single one in the walk-in closet while the adults watched Bonanza. Somewhere about halfway through David Wilkerson’s, Cross and the Switchblade, I realized I needed to know Jesus just a tad bit better.

Laying in bed one night staring at the ceiling, I told God that if this Baptism of the Holy Spirit business was real, then fine by me. I then proceeded to speak in tongues for ten minutes or so, shrugged my skinny shoulders and fell asleep.

Doctrines don’t mean much to twelve year olds.

My World Turns Upside Down…

All shoulder shrugging aside, something did happen that night. I fell deeply, passionately in love with Jesus.

Maybe not God, mind  you. God was still big and scary, up on a throne somewhere raining down thunderbolts on sinners, me being chief amongst them. Jesus, on the other hand, came to live side by side with us and got Himself crucified in the process. He loved sinners and laid into the religious hypocrites of His day—snakes and vipers He called them. He braided His own whip and drove the money changers right out of the temple. He even washed Peter’s stinky feet when by rights, Peter should’ve been down there washing His. 

But the best part? Jesus was alive. Alive! He wasn’t Storybook Jesus, hanging out by the Sea of Galilee making fish sandwiches. He was right there in 1973 hanging out in Conroe, Texas. He came in close, loved all over you and filled up the hurting places. He wanted to talk and He answered when you asked Him questions. Maybe not in words you could hear with your ears, but way inside, He spoke all quiet like.

And every time He came for a visit, He brought peace right along with Him. I was starting to really need some peace.

Oh my, I dearly loved that Man.

The End is Near…

Not long after, Mom and Dad joined the party and we started sneaking out nights to prayer meetings all over Houston. We raised our hands and sang worship songs and prayed in tongues with the best of them. We showed up an hour early just  to get a seat and basked in the glory of God, then crept home to our dried up little church in the country. We carried on this way a nice, long time until someone finally got wise.

And so, we got kicked right out  of church. Twelve year olds tend to rat out the family secrets when church snoops come calling. I told the church busybody they should quit being so hung up on denominational doctrine man,  and just love God. Why not ask Him for themselves? All that tongue talking-business was right there in the Bible, right? Having a particularly good memory, I quoted chapter and verse in case they wanted to look it up.

Turns out they didn’t.

Years later, I figured out tongues were just one of many gifts in God’s arsenal–a way to pray straight to His heart, bypassing the intellect and understanding.

I was about to need the grace bigtime.

Next: The part where the girl learns how many pieces a heart can break into.