Growing up in church, I did as my peers: I attended Vacation Bible School, got a sheet of gold stars for memorizing scripture, learned the hand movements to camp songs, went on mission trips, and sang in the choir. I didn’t know then that several of these familiar Sunday faces from elementary through high school would stay in my life for the whole of my life. Most friends from my youth now have youth of their own; many are already bouncing grandbabies upon their knees. If there is a positive to social media, it would be the ability to keep in touch with people with whom you built roots but who have since branched out across the country.
The part of the church service held in the sanctuary was commonly known as “big church.” Big church was where you listened, sat up straight, used proper manners, stood up and down as instructed, dressed in “Sunday clothes,” and got your hand slapped if you doodled on the program while the preacher was talking. Dad would give me money to put in the offering plate, and I would get nervous, thinking I would mess up the timing of the entire pew after me if I did not quickly and correctly take the offering plate and pass it without incident like a baton in a relay race. Mom would be in the adult choir during big church, and I would catch her giving me “the stare” if I started to doze off or was caught passing notes with friends. Her stare frightened me more than dropping the offering plate.
I have always been a thinker. I never wanted to ride on the coattails of anyone’s belief. I have an organic faith that does not side with one side of earthly teachings; instead, I am simply a follower of Christ. Better put, I am a simple follower of Christ. Simple in that I am nothing without the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of Christ Jesus. Nothing. And if I am nothing, then I have everything to learn. I am not always right, nor is everyone else consistently wrong. If the church taught me anything, it is that we are all sinners in need of a savior.
There came a time when most of my friends were getting baptized. Some would even go to the front to confess their faith together, crying and hugging. I remember looking at them with sincere joy but not feeling compelled to join them. I eventually got dunked in the water in front of the congregation at church by a man wearing a white robe, but the gift of the Holy Spirit did not come to me that day. I did not receive Christ in a church building. The Holy Spirit came to me months before I stepped chest-deep into the glass tub of water. I went through the public baptism ceremony for the sake of accepted procedure, but I knew that I had already been accepted — I had already been baptized. I had received Christ in a field of haystacks. In truth, He received me. Christ had been waiting for me.
Months before the Sunday I got baptized in the church, I found myself bouncing in the back of a pickup truck over unfinished roads on a Saturday. I looked at my friend; her long black hair was tangling behind her smile like a web spun by the sun and wind. Her oldest brother was driving, and her other brother was in the passenger seat. Considering how fast they took some turns and rammed over potholes, I am fairly certain they forgot we were in the truck’s bed. I did not know where we were. I have always been bad at directions. I just knew we were somewhere between my friend’s house and lost. But it was a beautiful weekend, and getting out of town on a country road seemed like an adventure my friend and I couldn’t pass up. What I did not realize was how true that thought would become.
I had been keeping a journal of my petitions and praises to God. I had come to write to Him as if He were my father, but without the nerves of getting a whooping if I talked back. And there were some entries in my journal where I was angry at God. I let Him have it, and He listened. He took it, the good and the bad of me. He took my secrets, dreams, and fears. He took me as I was and saw me for who I was becoming. He let me have it sometimes too, and I took it. In time, I learned to listen and meditate upon His Word. I paid attention to what and who God wanted me to see, how I reacted, and from what place inside of me I was responding from. I reached a point where disappointing God felt worse than my mom’s stares on Sunday morning. God refined me, bathing me daily in grace, and I knew without a doubt that this was the best relationship I ever had and would ever have in my life.
I wanted to be as close to God and Jesus as possible, but all the gold-star sheets tacked to my bulletin board could not fill the space of what I was missing. I did not fully understand what I was missing, but I knew enough to know that only God and Jesus could give it to me. About 20 minutes into our country drive, I had an overwhelming sense of need. A need to run. Where? I was not sure. Why? I did not know. But the need burned my insides and made the sunlight blind my eyes. My vision cleared to see a field of haystacks on my right. I did not know what I was doing until I heard my fist pounding against the sliding window that separated the truck’s bed from the privacy of the cab.
As soon as the truck stopped, I jumped out of the pickup. I ran towards the fence line, climbed over, and sprinted full-on through the field of haystacks. The air was warm and smelled sweet. I tasted my tears, not realizing I was crying. My eyes blurred; all I could do was see in faith. In faith, I ran. In faith, I felt Jesus calling me to Him in a field of sun-capped haystacks. I envisioned Jesus on His knees, wearing white, arms reached wide, laughing with joy, and smiling: Waiting for me.
Waiting for me. Jesus knew me. He knew me.
I ran until my legs gave out. Falling to the ground, I cried until I was left with nothing but a prayer of praise. A continual prayer of praise. I repented, pouring out myself in exchange for the Holy Spirit. I was no longer missing something. I was whole; divinely forgiven.
My friend and her two brothers were waiting for me on the other side of the fence. When I came back to the truck, they looked confused.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
I wiped my runny nose and tears from my face. Before I could answer, the oldest brother said, “We were going to chase after you, but we couldn’t see you in the sun.”
My friend said, “We heard you laughing with someone.”
“How could you not see me?” I asked, looking at all the haystacks behind me. I didn’t remember laughing, but there were many details that I couldn’t place in an order that made sense to my mind.
The older brother became increasingly uneasy and impatient. “We already said the sun was too bright. Let’s go!”
I don’t remember one bounce on the way back to my friend’s house, even though I am sure there were many. Nothing has ever been the same since that day. Every unexpected turn and pothole since has been met with God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit with me and in me. As simple as I am, their strength is enough to allow me to face whatever may come. I am never alone.
We all come to know Jesus at different times and in different ways. No story is the same, nor should it be. Being in a relationship with Jesus is as unique as who God formed us to be. True love stories are never-ending and forever-evolving. What a joy to be with other Believers, living out the greatest love story of all time: returning home safely for eternity thanks to our savior, Christ Jesus. May we walk kindly beside our brothers and sisters, knowing we are helping one another home.
Tiffany Kaye Chartier
SGLY, dear reader.
(Smile, God Loves You.)
Tiffany Kaye Chartier, Author 