I received Jesus Christ as my Savior sometime during my junior high school years when I officially joined the Presbyterian Church. Because my family had not been active in participating in church events, including Sunday worship services in several years, I had missed being in the regular confirmation class with my friends of the same age. With my grandmother’s urging, though, my mother arranged for me to have private weekly sessions with the minister to prepare me for my decision to accept Christ. When the time came for me to stand before the congregation and to make my declaration of faith, I found that I was not alone. Several adults were also joining the church that Sunday.

I don’t remember many of the details about standing in the front of the sanctuary that day and making my declaration. But what I do vividly remember, though, is sitting in the pew immediately following the event with tears welling up in my eyes and running down my cheeks.

I was surprised and confused about why I was crying, and so apparently was the minister. He had walked partway down the center aisle toward the back of the sanctuary, while the new confirmands returned to our seats. As he then turned to go back up front, his gaze swept over the people in the pew where I was sitting. I can still clearly see the surprised look of questioning confusion that suddenly appeared on his face when he realized that I was crying.

I wish now that someone—anyone–had talked to me then about what was happening. But no one did, and I didn’t ask. As a young teenage girl, I was already uncomfortable that day in a sea of adults, and I didn’t want to stand out even more than I already did. Embarrassed, I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there until the time came to go home, and then I left.

Perhaps if I had understood that receiving Christ is the beginning of a new life and not a stand-alone event, the next several decades of my life may have gone differently than they did. Fortunately, though, the only time limitation that we have in this world for developing a personal relationship with God is the one that is marked by our last breath. In my case, even though I had accepted Jesus as my Savior, it would be many years before I would really begin to get to know Him.

As things then went, I finished high school and college with on-again, off-again church attendance. My grandparents had presented me with a Bible as a high school graduation present, but it would be many years before I would actually read it on a regular basis. 

After my sophomore year in college, my husband and I married, moved into our first home together, and found a church that we joined. Though neither of us realized so at the time, our church membership and attendance appear to us now to have been driven more by social expectation than by dedication to serving Jesus Christ. We really did think that we were doing okay, though. We both believed in God, and we believed that we were good Christians. And we were, too. We were good (according to what the word good meant to us at that time), and we were Christians (at least technically, if such a thing is possible).

A good number of years later, I would question whether I “truly” had been a Christian for all of those years or whether I had been one in name only—a name that I had taken upon myself. My Christian walk, it seems, might be better categorized as a slow crawl. Metaphorically speaking, I had only stuck my big toe into the waters of my faith. I  knew that I had a Savior, but I couldn’t have really talked much about Him. I knew of Jesus but I didn’t personally know Jesus. I had a long way to go in my faith walk, and I didn’t even know it. Neither did I know how amazing of an adventure that the learning would be.

[Ch 3 – The Progression]

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PART I: The Events
The Life of The Cross,  © 2008 (2nd ed. 2020), by Cathy Scott

Despite the glistening snow surrounding us, Liz and I soon found ourselves removing our outer layers of coats and sweaters as we neared the top of the mountain. Even though we had not walked far from the parking area, we were breathing heavily due to the altitude and the steepness of the climb.

Liz and I had become friends in this land away from home. Our husbands had received temporary work assignments in southern Spain; leading Liz and me to pack up and move our families across the ocean, having expectations of new and exciting adventures. We had both taken leaves from our respective careers: Liz from nursing, and I from teaching; for this opportunity to explore new lands and to make new friends. We had not been disappointed by our decisions, and we delighted in the blessings that we were experiencing.

On this particular day, we had driven our teenage children up the coast to a ski resort in the Sierra Nevada Mountains near the town of Granada. After getting our teens settled on the slopes for an afternoon of fun, we headed up a neighboring mountain for a view from the monument near the mountain’s summit. The cloudless sky shone bright blue against the white of the snow, and everything looked clean and pure. As we neared the monument, we stopped to catch our breath and to look out at the world around us.

The view was one of contrasts. Stretching out below the snow-covered mountain were the typical rolling hills of southern Spain, covered in a patchwork of the browns of arid, rocky soil and the greens of olive groves and pomegranate trees. The city walls encircling Granada stood as a testimony to their centuries of history and constancy, while the modern automobiles going in and out of the gates reflected the changing lives that had come and gone within those walls. Off to the south, a thin line of the dark blue Mediterranean Sea could be seen between the vastness of both the land and the sky. We looked at the world below us, knowing that three of the many small figures gliding back and forth across the slope meant the world to us.

The beauty of the moment could not have been more poignant. Yet the words that seemed to echo across the mountain as Liz spoke them were these: “How can God allow so much pain and suffering to exist in a world that is so beautiful?” The question hung in the air and swallowed all of our other thoughts. Silence reigned for several moments.

Liz and I were each aware that we had both dealt with the opposing extremes of human emotions within our respective careers. The rewards that our careers offered could not have been more meaningful to either one of us. But, at the same time, the needs of those in our care were more than time and physical limitations would ever allow us to meet. Joys of victory were celebrated and then quickly set aside to tackle the next set of needs. Deep regrets were acknowledged for those situations that had not ended victoriously, while the deeper sadness was in our general awareness that unaddressed needs surrounded us daily, some of which we would never even know existed.

In a world of unending needs, did our work make a difference? Did we make a difference? Could we somehow do more? The moment of contemplation was memorable. It allowed for both outward awareness and inward retrospection. The contrasts took up permanent residence within me.

Then Liz quietly asked, “Will you return to teaching when you go home?”

There was a moment of thought and then my barely audible answer. “I don’t know. Will you return to nursing?”

A moment later came her whispered response. “I don’t know either.”

We were not any different from the people we serve. Whether we were working in our homeland or traveling with our families half a world away, we were looking for answers that eluded us to questions that overwhelmed us.

But Liz’s first question that day was the one that continued to frame all of our other thoughts and questions. The question was indeed bigger than either of us, but so too is the answer.

[Ch. 2 – The Beginning]

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