Why I Believe

Elijah and I have *finally* established a routine for most school mornings (it only took 3 years).  After he gets dressed and I pack his lunch, he has breakfast at the little island in our back room.  I lug my mini-elliptical over beside him and while he eats I pedal away and read a chapter of the Bible aloud.  I’m sure this doesn’t remotely rival morning devos at the (Billy) Graham household, but it works for us.  In fact, I’ve come to treasure beginning each day with my buddy in this way.

Right now we are reading through Psalms.  We talk about their themes, similarities to other parts of Scripture, or ask each other questions about the text.  Sometimes we just pray.  The other day we finished up our reading pretty quickly, so I asked Elijah if he had any more questions.  He thought for a minute and said, “Mama, how do I know that God is the right thing to believe?”

Um, whoa.  Please keep in mind I hadn’t even had my coffee.  So obviously, I hadn’t reached “deep thinking” mode yet.  I wasn’t exactly prepared to address B.L.Q. (big life questions) while still in my ratty pajamas (especially when my fake librarian glasses were still upstairs).  But, bless my heart, I tried.  I stumbled over my words and stuttered out some Bible-y mumbo jumbo.  Admittedly, it was NOT my best showing (but -again- this happened before 8 a.m.).

Elijah kindly watched me do my mumbling train wreck routine and then gently said, “Well, my answer to the question was that you and Daddy taught me to believe.”

Oh my son.  He can stop me right in my tracks.  I know I should have felt honored by his answer and, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely do.  But I also felt a little uneasy about it. Let me explain.

I was immersed in “Christian” culture from birth.  Yep, I’m one of those who attended church whenever the doors were open (and sometimes when they weren’t, since Dad was the choir director and had a KEY!  Listen, our family is a big deal).  I graduated from Christian school and then went on to graduate from a Baptist university.  I can recite most D.C. Talk songs (the *good* ones) by heart.  I had a purity ring.  I went on missions trips.  You guys, I was serious about my FAITH.

But then I realized what many students realize while away at college (even a super conservative college!), that there’s a whole world out there.  You don’t have to be just a collection of your home town’s opinions and ideas.  There are myriad productive ways to think, speak, act, live.  People were free to disagree about stuff (Whaaaa?), to work out their faith with fear and trembling.  I reveled in this environment, stoking the flames of diverse thought and breathing in its fumes.  It sounds funny now to reconcile my crazy awakening happening in this semi-strict collegiate atmosphere, but that’s how it happened for me.  It was kinda like the Matrix, but with knee length skirts (of course, my skirts were camouflage print).

Then the epiphany got put on hold.  One day I was driving from a friend’s house back to college, using the 2-lane country road most of us frequented.  Another student, not seeing me coming, turned across traffic into her driveway.  To avoid hitting her, I swerved around her car into the other lane, skidding a bit into the neighboring cornfield, and then barely back onto the road.  Phew.  Except for the pickup truck now headed full speed towards my small Volkswagen.  Yeah, it wasn’t a pretty picture.  More like: Impact and game over.  I was (as my friend Rhett later dubbed me) the Jetta Slayer.  Or I would have eagerly claimed that title if I had been even slightly conscious at the time.

You see, the entire account of the accident is all rote memorization on my part.  I don’t recall a. single. thing.  Not the accident, not being air-lifted to the nearest hospital, not my friend Matt waiting for me there after witnessing the wreck, not my stressed parents arriving at the hospital after driving through the night to get to Ohio (Maybe it was good I was out for that last one, since I had just dyed my hair fire engine red. Ta-da! A parenting exercise in perspective).  I wasn’t traumatized by the wreck at all; I was blissfully unaware.  I could’ve died that day without ever meeting David, Elijah, or our daughter and would have been none the wiser.  Everyone else in my circle was shaken though.  They were the ones who saw the twisted metal of my car-smashed like a soda can.  They sat in the waiting room, longing for updates.  They prayed for their incoherent friend, daughter, sister.  But all I remember of that day, and many after, was blankness.  Sleep.  Snippets of familiar faces.  A near-death experience should probably have a little more impact on the victim’s psyche.  It just made me tired.

Hospital gown + Ugly facial expression = Maybe it was good David didn't know me yet!

As you’ve guessed, the value of this incident didn’t hit me (haha) until later.  I think everyone has at least one (if not more) "line in the sand" event occur during their lifetime.  These events don't only cause one to ponder the B.L.Q. (like we discussed earlier), they also tend to propel one into action and B.L.D. (big life decisions. Can you tell I really want these abbreviations to be a thing?).  They divide YOU past from YOU present.  For me, the accident stood as a beacon blaring the obvious: There is a reason I'm here because I should be dead.  

The clarity of that purpose was burdensome at times, but it sharpened my focus.  I realized everyone has a pickup headed full speed at them, our death imminent and inescapable.  This life is short, sweet, valuable.  We don’t have time to waste worrying about meaningless things.   So I learned to love Jesus in my own way, outside of the structures I grew up in.  I believe this is what I was made to do.  We are created on purpose with a purpose: To worship God.  I cannot fathom life without this truth, it just doesn’t make sense to me.  Otherwise we’re left with the after-wreck blankness.  Nothing.  And Jesus didn’t die for us to live in emptiness, or so I could spend my life trying to be good (Hint: I can’t).  He died so our short lives could matter--not merely for the here and now, but for eternity.  This worth is not derived from what WE have (or haven’t) done, but instead from what He’s accomplished for and through us.  The truest, most attractive form of worship is this: A fruitful life spent using our talents and abilities to serve God and benefit others.  “So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life--your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life--and place it before God as an offering.  Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for Him.”-Romans 12:1 MSG.

Talking religion at a Baptist university is a lot like talking Star Wars with a group of nerds (or my immediate family): Loud, annoying, lots of arguments, nothing gets accomplished.  Ever since those days, I decided to be done with arguing to prove a point, especially where Jesus is concerned.  You can lecture until you are blue in the face and have evidence stacked as high as Everest, but no one changes their mind in the heat of an disagreement.  And it’s not my job to convince anyone of anything, God is big enough to handle that on His own.  But I CAN share my story, my personal experience of (literally and figuratively) being saved for better things.  So even though my opinions remain open for discussion, no one will ever be able to dissuade me from my story.  Simply because it is mine.

After I got my early morning act together, I tried to condense this story for Elijah (minus the wreck part, I’ll save that for when he turns 16.  Ahh-parenting) while still pedaling fiercely on my elliptical.  I said, “Buddy, Daddy and I chose your name because the Biblical prophet Elijah was a ‘Man of God.’  And that is exactly what we hope you will grow up to be.  We are honored to teach you about Jesus, He is so important to us.  But as you get older, we want you to choose your beliefs -not necessarily because of we’ve told you- but because they are important to you too.”  Parentwise, that is probably the scariest thing I’ve ever said to my 7 year old.  But this slight relinquishing of control made me realize that I didn’t really have it in the first place.  Elijah’s story will be Elijah’s story, just as my story will always be mine alone.  And to avoid having a complete mental breakdown over this, I pray.  I pray both of my children will understand their placement in our family didn’t happen by chance -it was on purpose.  That they are loved like crazy.  That their Daddy and I want nothing but a good relationship with them, a chance to guide them towards their best possible life.  It is the simple but crucial things any parent hopes for their child.  However, doesn’t something about those desires ring true in your ears too?  They feel right, familiar.  Almost as if we were created to recognize those needs in ourselves.  Well, I believe we were.  Because they are exactly what Jesus wants to satisfy within you.