This is my story. It’s not the whole story or even the biggest portion. It is, however, the most important–
It’s the sweetened- condensed version of how I met Jesus and came to love Him like thunder.
All my life, I’ve loved Jesus. These days, I call Him Yeshua.
Why? I don’t know.
Maybe Jesus became overused—a worn-out name without meaning. Like telling someone I-love-you a thousand times a day until the words dribble on the floor unnoticed.
And I really want to notice.
A Little Backstory:
I spent most of my years wildly vacillating between living correctly and loving extravagantly. Seldom have the two intersected for long.
My father pastored tiny churches full of the salt-of-the-earth kind of folks who say amen at all the right moments and play dominoes on Saturday night fueled by pots of black coffee brewed up one right after the other. We visited a different home every Sunday and ate more fried chicken than allowed by law, even here in the South.
We did not dance. We did not swear. We did not listen to worldly music or watch worldly movies or keep company with worldly people. Truth be told, we did not have much fun, unless you count the dominoes (which I don’t as back then, I wasn’t allowed to play.)
My older brothers decided to be hippies. They trashed their butch-wax and grew their buzz-cuts out long and shaggy. They threw on love beads and stopped wearing deodorant. Looking back, their lack of toiletries most likely saved me from a life of communes and love-ins, as they seemed to be having way more fun than I was stuck back home bouncing from one chicken-fried dinner to the next.
So with the option of Flower Child off the table, I came to one conclusion.
All this correct living was boring as hell.