And I held my tongue as she told me, “Son, fear is the heart of love.” So I never went back.

 

It’s amusing that I’d forgotten what it was like to hear about Jesus for the first time—I mean, the Truth.  I “knew” who Jesus was for as far back as I can remember, but I went a long time unaware of what He did for me, how He would change me.  It feels like I’ve known Him my whole life now, though.  I guess that’s half true.  He’s known me my whole life.  And He’s been the root of any life I’ve ever known.

I first heard the gospel presented in a hint of its glory when I was 14 years old.  For 14 years prior to that, I wasn’t interested in anything God was offering.  I played the church game; if I remember correctly,  I called myself a Christian—threw the term around loosely, not grasping its meaning even slightly.  But I knew He wasn’t for me.  And I didn’t have many friendly encounters with His “kids," either.  My mom would force us to go to Mass every once in a while, and I’d get my gold star attending Sunday School.  In one minute, I was serving at the altar in service- and in the next, debating with the teacher the actual significance of any of the “garbage” she was teaching, never acknowledging the hypocrisy streaming from my words.
She would tell my whole class what we needed to do to get to Heaven.  She would tell me that if anything, I should be afraid of what would happen if I didn’t serve God.  She told me that if God was love, fear was at the root. All I could hear was how I was wrong, how I needed to ask forgiveness of all my sins.  But I had way too much fun provoking them with my “bad behavior.”  And what did repentance even mean, anyway?  I laughed through my first Confession, and Father John told me I could cure my unbelief with 10 Hail Mary’s and an Our Father.  Maybe God was God, but I was too far gone for Him to pay any attention to me.  I didn’t get His systems and rules—there was no way I could commit to all of them, and that was that.

I recount these things, and feel slightly ridiculous.  And for the record, I am in no way trying to hate on the church I grew up in.  There are plenty of people from that church that I can look back on now and know that they served God, or genuinely had my best interest at heart.  Much of my misunderstanding and misconceptions of who God is was born from ignorance and my disinterest in seeking actual Truth.  All of this to punctuate the following events. 

God, the Puppet Master, just wanted to pull the strings on everything in my life and control what I clearly had in control; I wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction.  So imagine my surprise, when walking into a classroom in my high school’s math wing on a random morning of the first semester of my freshman year, I hear people talking to Him.  There wasn’t a priest.  And they weren’t praying a prayer I’d ever learned.  (Let me tell you, when you’re getting ready to make your Confirmation, you learn those prayers.)  This wasn’t one of them. 

And that was it.  One seed planted.  To grow… to this. 

It began with pure curiosity.  I didn’t get it; these Christians weren’t anything like the judgmental, condemning stereotypes I’d squeezed them into.  The opposite, actually.  And the story was different than the way I’d heard it.  They were making it sound like God was… for me.  They were preaching this story of hope, and of redemption, and love.  I’d never heard anything so crazy.  But they looked like they believed it.  Their lives reflected this compassion that agreed with the lessons they were teaching, They lived like they believed the stories I sat in a crowded basement to listen to every Thursday night, soaking it all in like a sponge, coming back for this unexplainable fill every week.

And it just kept growing, over four years, a never-ending cycle of failing over and over only to sit in His love and be reminded of how great He is, and how much less I needed to be on my own.  The most amazing part is His persistence.  He has pursued me.. all my life.  And I was never willing, but He didn’t need me to be.  I have always been stubborn, set in my ways, slow to admit the ways I’m wrong, but He captured me.  I fought Him all the way here, and He didn’t give up.  He let me throw punches like a child throwing her tantrum, and stood there waiting for my fits to cease.  Every time.  I’m amazed at His patience.

I remember reading the letters for the first time, and Acts.  I remember falling in love with Paul’s story, with how God transformed his heart—just like He’d transformed mine.  I remember realizing the power of transformation of the heart as I read that I was something entirely new, no longer defined by what I did or what was in the world, but instead by Christ. 

I remember the first time I read Isaiah 40-44, and was just overwhelmed by a God that was first and foremost before anything, and everlasting. I remember looking at the words before me that shed light on the history of Israel, God’s people, and I recall being captivated by His faithfulness to a people that were so unfaithful.  Because I was Israel. And He told Israel to fear nothing; He told Israel of His love for her; He told Israel there was only one savior and that He was there for redemption.  To redeem her, to win her back, to restore her forever.  I read how He was the God who would “blot out” my transgressions and how He’d throw them out, remembering them no more (Isaiah 43:25).  I sat in comfort knowing that I didn’t have to win His affection; I didn’t have to work for His love.  He just gave it to me. 

I think it’s important that I recall this often, that I remember exactly how He rescued me.  Because I am that girl.  I’m His girl.

I’m the girl He called to Him, the girl He freely redeemed, the girl He loved before she knew what love could be.

I read of His promise to me:

Behold I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;  your walls are continually before me.
-Isaiah 49:16

And I, an Israel of sorts, write on my hand:

“The Lord’s,” and name [myself] by the name of Israel.
-from Isaiah 44:5