 
### A Perfect Love to Conquer Perfectionism

by

Jennifer Z. Wright

Scripture quotations in this book are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society.

Names have been changed to protect the identities of individuals.

Cover art by Jennifer Z. Wright

Copyright 2006 by Jennifer Z. Wright

Smashwords Edition

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1 - THE EARLY YEARS

CHAPTER 2 - THE TEARING OF FAMILY

CHAPTER 3 - DESCENT AND DELIVERANCE AT THE GREAT BIG UNIVERSITY

CHAPTER 4 - BAPTIZED WITH FIRE

CHAPTER 5 - THE SISTERHOOD

CHAPTER 6 - MY SHEEP HEAR MY VOICE

CHAPTER 7 - BIBLICAL INSTRUCTION AND SERVICE

CHAPTER 8 - MIRACLES IN A DESERT CONVENT

CHAPTER 9 - CARRIED ON HIS WINGS

CHAPTER 10 - THE PROMISED LAND

CHAPTER 11 - TERROR FROM THE PIT

CHAPTER 12 - FIRST DATES

CHAPTER 13 - TREASURED FRIENDS AMID TESTING

CHAPTER 14 - RELINQUISHING THE GOAL

CHAPTER 15 - LAYING DOWN IN GREEN PASTURES

CHAPTER 16 - ON A MANHUNT

CHAPTER 17 - FRIENDS AND THE SINGLES SCENE

CHAPTER 18 - FACING MY GOLIATHS

CHAPTER 19 - WHERE DO I BELONG?

CHAPTER 20 - JOINING A FRUITFUL MINISTRY

CHAPTER 21 - HOME ALONE

CHAPTER 22 - SPOUSAL REQUIREMENTS

CHAPTER 23 - A CLOSE ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER 24 - DRILL SERGEANT WANNA BE

CHAPTER 25 - INQUIRIES

CHAPTER 26 - A LEAP OF FAITH

CHAPTER 27 - SPRINT TO THE WEDDING DAY

CHAPTER 28 - ADJUSTING

CHAPTER 29 - THE UNEXPECTED

CHAPTER 30 - NO LONGING FOR THE SINGLE DAYS

ALSO BY JENNIFER Z. WRIGHT

**Introduction**

Initially, I was a bitter, hardened soul as a perfectionist child of divorce. I was in a spiritual battle for my life and my Savior Jesus Christ instructed me on how to defend myself against the onslaughts of anxiety and depression. I have been free from panic attacks for over twenty-five years. I am extremely grateful for the abiding peace I now enjoy.

A pervasive loneliness tormented me while a single adult in my thirties. After many years of dating confusion and trying hard to impress others, I eventually found true freedom when I learned to value my Creator's high view of me regardless of anyone else's shallow opinion. When confronted with Jesus' call to service and sacrifice, I was able to release unrealistic self-centered standards for a husband, develop trust and marry a devoted husband despite guardedness from past wounds.

Without trials I never would have enjoyed the privilege of witnessing His power as God answered many of my prayers with miraculous interventions of provision and words whispered to my heart to encourage and guide me. Solid Christian friendships, following truths from the Bible and sensitivity to the Holy Spirit helped me stay the course for godly living in a world of temptation.

The Lord also desires to reach into your heart to bring restoration and comfort, if that is what you need. He is able to work the miraculous in your life if you ask Him for help, submit to His will and wait patiently as He works. I hope the reflections I share about my life inspire you to aim higher and believe God is always there for you, too.

**Chapter 1 - The Early Years**

Born in Ann Arbor, Michigan in the early 1960's, I grew up with only a limited awareness that just a few miles away political unrest and innovative ideas were churning. The focal point of protests and speeches lay in the heart of the city where the central campus of The University of Michigan resides. The student body was primarily comprised of intellectuals who thrived on academic excellence, intense discussions and idealism. John F. Kennedy helped to inspire these young minds to strive for a better world when he presented his plan for the Peace Corps on the steps of The Michigan Union on October 14, 1960. Discontentment with the current state of our country grew among the students as they saw what was going on around our nation and abroad.

It wasn't long before Civil Rights demonstrations and anti-Vietnam War protests on the campus started drawing national media attention and, as a result, attracted more radical elements, especially from the West Coast. Like hoards of students in California, many broke with traditional morals and reveled in "free love" and illicit drug use. During that same decade, leaders of the Women's Movement came to speak to receptive crowds about equality for both sexes. In the midst of the upheaval, a primarily Catholic charismatic group, The Word of God Community, started gathering people from various mainline denominations to worship God in a deeper and more expressive way. The status quo was being challenged on all sides and large numbers in the city were interested in riding the waves of change in one way or another.

Though my father witnessed anti-Vietnam War protestors shouting atop the hoods of parked cars and throwing bricks at police near the building where he worked on the central campus, he remained merely a curious observer who kept abreast of the latest news reports. He primarily occupied himself with supporting a family and enjoying the great outdoors during his free time. On the other hand, my mother was swept onto the waves of the feminist movement and new psychological theories as she devoured book after book and listened to Gloria Steinem, Marlo Thomas, and Margaret Meade when they came to town.

It was just a matter of time before my parents' worlds collided. The fun-loving country boy who honored traditional values was not evolving along with the serious feminist. Though they had come from basically the same stock, their perspectives on life grew increasingly divergent. In addition, they had marked personality differences that presented ongoing challenges in communication. The ground beneath our family began to shake. I was oblivious to the tremors, however. I was busy being a kid.

My parents were both raised in small towns in Michigan's Upper Peninsula where family ties were strong and most of the men worked hard in the mining industry. Being Christians of Finnish descent, all of my grandparents attended Apostolic Lutheran Churches. Strict rules were laid down for the congregations, such as not lighting a fire for the sauna or playing cards on the Sabbath. Consumption of alcohol and going to the movie theater were forbidden. Owning a television was prohibited at my dad's church until it was discovered that the pastor had one.

It was a joy when I was a young teen to visit the remains of the dairy farm where my father grew up west of Marquette. All that was left was part of the house's foundation and bits of decades of wallpaper in the rubble. I imagined my dad rising at 5:00 a.m. with his oldest brother to milk the cows. Having viewed his old home movies, it was easy for me to picture his whole family in the fields gathering hay and running around, teasing each other. A short distance away in the woods stood a 7'x10' shack he had built as a teenager. He constructed it so well that it still looked sturdy after over twenty years. Since then the land has been mined for iron ore, leaving a sad, gaping hole surrounded by a fence.

The general store and gas station where my mother was raised still stands alone on a remote highway. Her family lived with her grandmother who emigrated from Finland in the early 1900's. She was a tall, robust woman with white hair plastered back in a bun. It is evident from her deeply lined face in old photos that she had put in many years of hard work. She looked as tough as nails, but I felt welcomed on her lap. I listened with envy to my mother's stories about the days when she was little and would sneak candy from jars on the store counters and meet all kinds of interesting people who stopped for supplies.

My mother married my dad at the age of 18, much to the chagrin of her mother who wanted her to go straight to college. She joined my father in Ann Arbor, glad to move to a larger city. Two years later, once I was a toddler and my sister, Claire, was on the way, my mother enrolled at a nearby university and eventually earned two degrees. With working part-time in addition to her coursework, she was often elsewhere. But when she was home, she frequently encouraged us to expand our learning and creativity. I loved reading, especially biographies of famous people, such as Laura Ingalls Wilder, Daniel Boone and various presidents from the America's early years. My mom set up a large desk in my room and placed shelves above it filled with paper and materials for art projects. I could spend hours reading or drawing.

As a reliable and amicable man, my father brought stability and playfulness to our family. I liked the fact that he spent a lot of time with me and my sister and that he was considerate. Even when we were young, my dad usually related to us in a manner that helped us feel as though our ideas were important – he truly listened. As a sharp contrast to Claire and myself greedily grabbing for the largest portion of a treat, I was always taken aback when my father habitually allow us to have the first pick from pieces of dessert. I also appreciated the fact that he took the time to teach me how to hit a baseball so I wouldn't be embarrassed in front of my classmates. We were regularly humored by his coin tricks and the funny voices he invented to dramatize the fairytales he read to us.

We attended churches with a modernized and much more lenient version of the Lutheran faith than what my parents had grown up with. My mom wanted to avoid the fire and brimstone sermons she had heard as a child. However, our faith in God was rarely mentioned outside of church, so it seemed to have little relevance to our everyday lives. Still, I said my prayers at night and sometimes wondered who God and Jesus really were.

I don't quite remember when it all started, but perhaps around the age of five my right-side-up world began to erode as my mother started yelling at me for things that obviously were not my fault. She had always been strict with me and I usually tried to be obedient to make her happy, but now I could no longer count on my good behavior to shield me from verbal attacks. I was too young to realize she had her own problems and was simply venting at me.

After awhile I blew off her repeated apologies because I saw no evidence that she was trying to improve her treatment of me. Born with a sensitive disposition, I was easily crushed by harsh words. I felt helpless and soon developed a root of bitterness and some insecurity. I would make vows in my heart never to speak to her again, but quickly discovered that I couldn't keep my resolve. After all, she was my mother and I needed her.

Besides my mother's moods being unpredictable, she had a habit of allowing her schedule to get out of control. Her free style approach to life frequently made me nervous since I wanted to do things in an orderly manner. Whenever it was time for her to take me to a swim lesson, my stomach would get in knots as I paced our front porch, periodically hollering with a glimmer of hope through the screen door, "Are you ready yet?"

I knew my mom was most likely trapped in front of the mirror doing battle with her thin wisps of hair, struggling to sculpt the voluminous hairdos of the late sixties. Amazingly, she rarely failed to look as though she had just stepped out of a salon. Our lives would have been much easier and more prompt if Jackie Kennedy had opted for a no fuss shag instead of a bouffant.

After a few years had passed, I started hearing about the new feminist and psychological theories that my mother was being exposed to. She felt inspired to achieve new goals and had become truly liberated. She even got a shag hair cut! Any resemblance she had borne to Elizabeth Taylor was obliterated, but at least she was free from spending hours teasing her hair and we were not quite as late for things as we used to be.

However, the theories that had liberated my mother embedded oppressive chains on my soul as she used them to psychoanalyze me. One evening my mom and I sat on the living room floor because she wanted to have a serious talk with me. She said I had to "loosen up" and get rid of my perfectionism. As I sat leaning against our stereo cabinet, her words shot at my soul as if they were a handful of cold knives, cutting away at my sense of worth. I was at a loss as to how to respond.

It was no longer just my behavior in a specific situation that was being addressed, but my mother had determined that my personality, indeed, my whole approach to life, was imbalanced. My head spun in confusion, trying to grasp what she wanted from me. All I knew was that I had been trying hard to be the best person I could be and do things the right way (except for occasionally tormenting my sister) only to discover that I had it wrong all along. How could she drastically change the game plan on me when I was already so in sync with the old one?

I felt like she didn't really like who I was because she wanted me to become someone I wasn't. I couldn't pretend day after day that mediocre schoolwork gave me any sense of accomplishment. And no matter how hard I tried, I knew I couldn't sigh with delight at the sight of my bedroom in disarray. I cried in despair.

But because I was a compliant child, I started draping my clothes on a chair instead of neatly putting them away every night. Even though I hated looking at that pile of clothes, I kept up the practice for many years until it became natural. That's as far as I went toward loosening up. I really had no idea what it meant to free oneself from perfectionism.

However, I maintained a hard-line when it came to my appearance no matter what my mom said about how I dressed. I insisted on keeping the top button of my blouses closed even though my mom would sometimes reach down in exasperation and undo them. Modesty was a part of my fabric and I tried my best to keep myself covered. I had no desire to go out in public looking like a hussy. I could hardly stomach wearing the surprise bikini my mom bought me one year even though I looked good in it. I insisted on a one-piece swimsuit every year after that. Even though we were very young, the boys my age didn't pass up opportunities to stare at a girl's exposed skin. Their eyes went straight for my exposed midriff.

Though my mother wanted to free me of my rigidity, it was the main reason for the favor I enjoyed with my teachers. I was the ideal student, especially for my second grade teacher. She routinely gathered us in a circle to drill us on when we went to bed and what we had for breakfast to make sure we were taking good care of ourselves. She listed the basic ingredients for a healthy breakfast and determined that 8 p.m. was the appropriate bedtime for all of us. As far as I was concerned, her word was law. So, of course, I became panic stricken one morning when there was no milk for my cereal. I would have to mar my spotless record and confess to the class that I failed to eat a healthy breakfast. My mom couldn't relate to my plight.

Even though another student's parents had eventually protested the daily interrogations and got the teacher to stop, it was too late for me. Her rules were already cemented in my brain. For a few years afterwards, whenever we were visiting someone in the evening – be it a weeknight or on the weekend - I would grow anxious if I couldn't talk my socially active parents into going home before 8:00 p.m. So I resigned myself to the uncomfortable task of asking the host where I could lie down. To this day some of my relatives will laugh when they remember me stopping my play and marching alone up their stairs to go to bed while everyone else continued to have a good time.

In spite of my strict, conformist attitude, school was usually fun since I enjoyed learning and I had many friends. All of my teachers liked me. Even the sternest teacher refused to be harsh with me. The day after I learned to hum, I was delighting in this newfound ability while we were all quietly doing our work. After a few minutes, the boy next to me raised his hand and complained to the teacher that I was humming. I had no idea that he could hear me. I thought this interesting sound I made was completely contained within my head since my mouth remained closed.

I froze in utter fear. I was the only student who never got their name on the board for bad behavior. I realized this could be my moment of dethroning and I, too, would have to bear the mark of shame like all the others. But the teacher just looked at me, smiled and said, "Maybe she's happy." Wow! At home I could be berated just because I was within shouting range. In school I was completely blameless even when I annoyed a fellow student while he was working! Yet I never hummed in class again.

My sister, Claire, and I were usually good playmates. Our imaginations conjured up far away places as we made houses out of an overturned boat in the backyard or by draping blankets over clotheslines. We also had a great time learning new games from the many neighborhood kids who were close to us in age.

We also relished our quiet, contemplative moments. Many a summer day was spent traversing the high, slender branches of our willow tree in the backyard where our parents built us a tree house. If we felt festive, we'd lounge above the housetops in our mother's colorful abandoned party dresses that cascaded to our feet. On windy days, we felt like free, soaring birds, swaying back and forth on our delicate perches. It was a delightful place to sit and daydream about the possibilities of life that lay ahead.

Being older than my sister had its advantages for getting my own way through manipulation sometimes, but it didn't mean I was always smarter. We often went camping with our relatives in Michigan's state parks where Claire and I loved exploring the grounds with our cousins. On one of our outings, we stopped to watch a fellow camper's TV because it showed a new child singing sensation. As I listened to the high-pitched voice sing the catchy tune, I thought the girl looked pretty with her thick, dark locks framing her face. Claire and I asked who this kid was and we were told it was Donny Osmond. We had never heard of the singer before and started debating if Donny was a boy or girl. Claire was so certain the singer was a boy and I was convinced the kid was a girl so we agreed to bet a whole week's allowance on the matter, which was a quarter.

When we were told Donny was a boy, I became indignant and wondered, "How could a boy have such long hair and sing with such a high voice?" Apparently, I had never heard The Vienna Boys' Choir. And it was now the 1970's when men's hair lengthened, their ties and sideburns widened, and fashion in general took a nosedive. I just wasn't up with the times. Humiliated by Claire knowing something I didn't, I reluctantly handed over the quarter as she beamed.

After that incident I wanted this Donny to disappear so I wouldn't be constantly reminded of my ignorance, but he kept becoming more and more popular. Young girls were swooning over him and the eight-year-old neighbor girl was no exception. She invited Claire and myself to listen to her latest Donny Osmond record. As soon as the music started, a dreamy smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes and slowly danced around the room as if we weren't even there. I thought the poor child had lost her mind. How could she be so in love with a boy she would never meet? Claire sang along and seemed to be enjoying herself. I stood there nauseated by the spectacle, squirmed through a couple of songs to be polite, then bolted, never to return to another Donny love-fest.

I knew where real love could be found: at my dad's parents' home where smiling faces and happy times abounded. My grandparents had a Christian faith that was evident in many aspects of their lives. I equated vacations at their home with visits to heaven because peace and love filled the air and I knew I would be completely accepted. Whenever we embarked on our eight-hour journey, my mind began spinning with delightful anticipation of loving arms, hikes in the woods, cardamom bread and stories about old photos. I was fascinated with the prospect of digging tunnels in snow higher than my head or of going in the cover of night to watch black bears dig for food in the local dump \- from the safety of our car, of course!

Taking great interest in each of his eight grandchildren, my grandfather nurtured our individual talents. He had several hobbies and I was delighted that the two of us shared a love for art. In his free time he painted beautiful watercolors of the northern landscape with waterfalls and birch trees. I'd watch in fascination as he expertly sketched cartoons. My eyes were glued to the paper as he gave me precise instruction on how to draw people in a realistic manner. His tips went a long way in helping me develop my artistic skills. Amid his many wonderful qualities, I was most profoundly impacted by the tangible love that emanated from him. Clear memories of his brilliant smile and playful demeanor have never left me. No one had ever shown me such a genuinely joyful love.

My grandfather frequently recounted his story about becoming a Christian to the extended family - much to the annoyance of some. He had left home at sixteen because he figured there were too many mouths to feed, coming from a family with twelve children. It was the early 1920's when he hopped an iron ore boat as it was leaving a dock in Lake Superior. He was late for its departure and literally grabbed a rope that was tossed to him, enabling him to clamber aboard. He was a sailor in the Great Lakes for awhile and eventually settled in Chicago where he worked odd jobs, such as making gold leaf signs for banks. It was not an easy life for him. Sometimes he found it difficult to make ends meet. He never wrote home during those tough years.

One day he kept hearing his parents' voices in his head saying, "Heaven or hell, heaven or hell..." He knew he had to choose one or the other. Tormented by these recurring thoughts, he eventually went to a downtown mission where he gave his life to Jesus Christ. God did a dramatic transformation in him. He decided to return home after four long years. His stepmother was stunned as she opened the door, laid eyes on him and exclaimed, "I thought you were dead!"

He soon married my grandmother whom he met at a church conference. Because of his desire to tell people about salvation through Jesus, he taught a Sunday school class in their home on a dairy farm until their area got a regular pastor for the church. I have a photo of him with over twenty-five local children who came regularly to sing and learn lessons from the Bible. As the years went by he remained very active in his church. He also learned the trade of an electrician as he labored in the iron ore and copper mines.

Even as a young child, I admired my grandparents' sincere faith and strove to follow their example. One day when I was about nine, my family and I returned from church and I was mulling over my Sunday school teacher's admonition to be ready for Christ's return someday. I took her words to heart and wanted my parents to be ready, too. When I told them of my concern, they surprised me with their laughter. They reacted as if I had swallowed some fairy tale. I was horrified about their possible fate and wondered if I might end up thinking like them someday.

I went to my room to pray. As I sat on my bed, I asked God to help me continue believing in Him even though I wasn't quite sure what being a Christian was all about. I figured it meant that I should try to be good and go to church and pray once in a while. I had heard about kids becoming wayward when they entered their teen years, so I asked God to bring me back if I ever became rebellious and left Him. God was listening.

**Chapter 2 - The Tearing of Family**

When I was in the sixth grade, our parents announced to Claire and I that they were getting a divorce. We were given no explanation as to why. Just like a kid is left aghast after his friend tells him with the utmost certainty there is no Santa Claus, Claire and I were left standing there, stunned by the revelation that we were not the sunny family we had thought. Had we been living in a fantasy? Were our parents merely performing defined roles until they reached a breaking point? Who were they after all? What did they really think and feel?

I thought my mom had been discontented primarily with me, not our dad. And I assumed my dad had been pleased with everything. The façade had been stripped away and we were left staring at the ugly empty hole of a love that had been pretend for who knows how long. With no control over the course of our lives, the two of us just had to go with the flow and try to make the best of a perplexing and scary situation.

I felt ashamed when I had to tell my friends the news. They nodded with some surprise and sympathy, but didn't make a big deal about it. I realized with dread that I was part of the growing statistic of children from broken homes. I tried to console myself with the fact that I wasn't the only one in class to suffer the same fate. Society was changing, particularly in Ann Arbor where progressive ideas were welcomed and the women's movement was in full swing, presenting new challenges to marriages.

We sold our house and my mom, Claire, and I moved a mile away to an apartment complex that had a stream running through a pretty setting. My mom tried to get us to be optimistic and excited about this new "adventure." She had an aversion to television, but wanted us to join her in watching a new comedy called "Rhoda," which was about a single woman having a good time living on her own. The show was funny, but it didn't help me get in the spirit of enjoying life without my dad at home. Couldn't my mom see that our new life was much worse than before?

Within a few months she started dating a couple of guys who were nice, but they didn't belong in our family. I eyed these intruders with suspicion when they would come to our place. Going on special outings with my dad every other weekend was ten times more fun than hanging out with the "dad imposters" who sometimes already had their own kids to love.

To the casual observer Claire and I were coping quite well with the divorce. The only apparent change in our behavior was our introduction of a form of civilized wrestling to our routine. For some strange reason we both felt the urge to grab and pull something in contrary directions. Why not use each other's limbs? On occasion we inflicted more pain on each other than we liked, so we agreed on rules to restrict us from all out combat: no scratching, biting, pulling of hair or eye-gouging (well, the last one was understood).

We faithfully adhered to our rules because we did not want to end up like the kids from a family we visited. With parents off in another room, tempers sometimes flared between the siblings during play and they would resort to guerilla tactics. With horror I had witnessed flailing fists clenched around clumps of extracted hair, followed by ear-piercing screams and more hair pulling. Claire and I were too delicate for that.

I also had more constructive ways to forget about my troubles. A journal entry from that time period described one of my favorite recreational activities - biking around the nearby neighborhoods:

"I have just returned from dad's house...wonderful dad. It has just stopped raining and there is a fresh, exciting and dreamy feeling in the night air. I'm riding the green bike I got yesterday. I ride swiftly down the slushy path beside the road. White and red lights fly by. I feel wonderful...like a bird soaring over the world. I see the backs of houses across the road. They seem so obedient and asleep. I look at mom pedaling her regular dull pace and Claire pedaling furiously on her small bike. It looks silly. I then ride slowly and gracefully sucking all the night air in. I'm so relaxed and happy that I feel like singing out loud, but I don't dare."

I wasn't entirely content, however. Recorded amid the joy were complaints about my mother's comments of frustration during the ride. My struggle with her lived on.

The divorce only lasted six months. My mom was the one who had wanted the divorce and now decided to return to my father. Still no information was shared with us as to what was really going on between them. I was happy that the divorce was short lived and I naively hoped to proceed as if nothing had happened. "Maybe my parents really did love each other after all," I said to myself. Little did I know what lay ahead, as I would witness my parents forge an impenetrable wall between them.

My father was not interested in seeking family or marriage counseling, perhaps because it had a stigma at that time. On the other hand, my mom was all for therapy, especially the newest types. I wasn't comfortable with her choice of therapy, however, because it encouraged very intense emotional expression. The goal of the treatment was to regress to one's childhood and achieve healing in one's soul by reliving painful incidents from the past. I became fearful as I overheard her efforts to attain emotional healing through wailing and hitting things from the bowels of our basement. Not knowing how to cope with my mom's expressiveness, my dad withdrew to some degree.

At a loss as to how to deal with the pervasive tension at home, I started experiencing frequent bouts of depression. I wrote in a journal addressing my entries to God, asking Him why He was allowing so much anger and hatred in my family. Sometimes I lay in bed crying at night while staring at the moonlit sketches of lions on my wallpaper as I kept asking, "Why?" I hoped that God would somehow speak to me and soothe my heart, but there were no divine intrusions on my thoughts.

Imaginary comfort seemed better than none at all, so I pretended to have conversations with the lions, telling them my troubles. They were not far off in the heavens somewhere like I thought God was. They were close and visible. I could stroke their flat manes with my fingers. They looked so serene as they lounged in their African scenes. I wished someone could hear me and understand my heart. I dreamed of the day when I would be old enough to be genuinely happy and at peace in my own home.

My frustration in trying to converse with God resembled how I felt one night years earlier when I was about five. My mom's mother was putting me to bed in her sewing room. As she stood in the doorway, she told me that God would talk to me as I said my prayers. I believed her, so after she left I excitedly asked Him a question, then waited to hear a response. I don't recall what I asked, but I expected to hear an audible voice as I strained my ears and gazed at the ceiling. As I kept asking and hearing nothing, I grew angry with God. If He talked to others, why wouldn't He talk to me, too? I gave up trying to hear Him.

But now years later my desperation and confusion moved me to knock at His door once more. Surely He was out there somewhere. Though I was unaware of it, God knew my sorrow completely and was listening attentively.

Perhaps I couldn't hear God's voice at that time because I was blaming Him in large part for the turmoil in my life. In my young mind I reasoned that, since God was in charge of everything, He was responsible for all that happened in the world - both good and bad. I had not grasped the concept that evil is in the world as a result of God granting everyone the freedom to make loving or hateful choices. I didn't think about the influence of Satan and his demons on people. I had not faced the reality that it is possible for God to be all-powerful, loving and completely good while the innocent suffer at the hands of the wicked. I couldn't demand that God grant me heaven on earth because we live in a world infected with evil.

Yet God did want to give me His peace in the midst of my troubles, just as He yearns to comfort anyone in sorrow. But the bitterness of my soul had blinded me to His concern for my situation. Plus, I didn't really know what it took to be in an intimate relationship with God in the first place.

We were living in a Detroit suburb where we had joined a larger, more impersonal church. My parents insisted that I attend confirmation classes for two years, but I didn't learn much about God or the Bible that I could apply to my life in a helpful way. One earnest girl asked our instructor, a young deaconess, how we can be certain that we are going to heaven. I waited with baited breath. After a moment of reflection and brow scrunching the deaconess replied, "Well, I'm sure if you are that concerned about it, you will be going to heaven." "What a lame answer!" I thought. Her words brought me no sense of direction or assurance. "If our teacher didn't know how to be certain of salvation, how could anyone know?" I concluded.

My first year of school as a seventh grader in the new place was rough because I had to work on making new friends. I had several casual friends, but only one really good friend. Near the end of the school year a small group of girls in my gym class decided to pick on me perhaps because I was not an aggressive volleyball or softball player and they could tell I wouldn't fight back.

One girl literally shoved me from third base to home plate because I wasn't running fast enough for her. The public humiliation was unbearable. To my amazement the teacher did nothing. I had never encountered any type of hostility from classmates before. I was bewildered and so were some of the other girls as to why this was happening to me. I became terrified about going to school, but I kept attending dutifully as I counted down the days to summer vacation which I hoped would make the bullies forget all about me.

But summer break didn't make the problem go away. I was dismayed to see the kingpin of the bullies in my English class. As she continued with her mockery, I pretended I couldn't hear her. I became the best student in the class since I loved writing and was highly motivated by our outstanding teacher. The bullies lost their ammunition and faded away. I was overjoyed.

But things at home only continued to get worse. My journal entries at age thirteen express some attempts to depend on God's strength in the midst of my trials. I don't know what inspired my faith as I wrote on one page encouraging words, a portion of which resembled Romans 8:28, "...in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." Maybe my confirmation class had a good effect on me after all:

"One can always find peace with God. God is love and inner serenity within. God will take care of me. God will make sure that everything that happens in my life has a good purpose and will improve my life. I want inner peace! Fear of nothing. Please God, stay close in my times of need – always. HELP!"

On the next page I'm suddenly in a state of desperation, alternating between looking to my own strength and then God's for deliverance:

"The stab of my parents' harsh, cruel bickering has set a wound inside me which only I can heal. I must fight for my sanity and my need for affection. STOP your fighting. Can't you see the wounds you are digging deeper and deeper inside our family? We need help! Talk our problems over together. We must gain happiness. Try hard to make fulfilling lives. TRY!! If our family breaks up, we will crumble to dust. We will experience the weight of hell's depression upon our shoulders. God, help us to pull through if this shall ever happen."

I suppose my overly dramatic statements were fueled by my sense that, as a child, I had little power to rebuild the harmony that I thought had once been in my family. I was floundering in tumultuous waters that were way over my head. Writing provided me with private venting sessions, keeping me from becoming explosive around others.

As a family therapy activity suggested by her counselor, my mom asked us to take turns describing each other in the roles that we saw typifying our family dynamics. Feeling awkward, we got up from the dining table and formed a circle. My mom had my dad on his knees in a begging position before her while she would alternate between helping him up and pushing him down. She viewed him as powerless. She had me helping him up and Claire was just standing there with our mom's hand on her shoulder.

My mother then said she saw me trying to solve our family problems, but she didn't want me interfering. She said the problems were just between her and dad. I explained that I wanted to help solve family conflicts because I was suffering from them and who wants to suffer? She replied that I should see the conflicts in a different way so that I wouldn't be hurt. She was asking the impossible and I knew it.

My dad's version of our family dynamics had us all arranged in a group hug. Such displays of affection were rare in our home. Maybe he was expressing what he desired to be the norm. Then Claire set me up on dad's side and her on mom's. I was offended that my mom and Claire had the kids divided. I saw Claire and me being hurt as we stood in between our parents while they argued. Maybe each version had some truth to it. Though it helped us to clarify our thoughts and feelings to some extent, the exercise did not bring any degree of healing to our splintering family.

I grew increasingly discouraged. When I was about fourteen I entered our kitchen one day and concluded that I did not deserve so much pain at home. I said in my heart to God, "You have not brought peace to my family like I asked, so I will not believe in You anymore!" What a dreadful and momentous decision I had made. I did not realize the devastating ramifications it would have on me over the next few years as I slipped further into depression. I had turned my back on my best source of help and comfort.

Since my mom had become the major source of my grief, I began to buck her control. I decided that she had dominated me far too much for too long. We had heated arguments where I refused to give in. We argued over how people should relate to each other, especially within a family. The first time I stood my ground on an issue, I was amazed that I had the courage to assert myself to such a degree. I had grown up as the extremely compliant child and now I was making it known that I had a mind of my own. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

Soon elements of a role reversal began to appear between us. I no longer felt like I could lean on my mother to the same degree. I was compelled to be alert and do my best to watch out for my own interests because I had become uncertain that my mom was doing so. My sense of security and stability continued to erode.

My dad and I didn't argue because our values were basically the same. We just wanted my mom to be content with the life we had. From my childlike perspective I saw that we had a modest, but nice house, a big yard with a pool and garden, and we had plenty of friends and relatives to enjoy life with. My dad worked forty hours per week, was home in the evenings and on the weekends, and helped out around the house. Wasn't that good enough? I didn't realize I was only looking at the surface of things.

By the middle of eighth grade my ray of sunshine became school. Like my experience in Ann Arbor, I had acquired many friends and favor with my teachers. I still did well in my studies even though my home was a battlefield. I must have been tightly wound at times, however, because a minor annoyance one day caused me to behave contrary to my quiet nature.

A boy walking by my desk decided to tease me by grabbing a pencil from my hand. Without thinking, I slugged his arm as forcefully as I could. He promptly dropped my pencil and retreated without a word. I was shocked at my aggressive behavior and so was my friend who started laughing hysterically. I desperately wanted her to just be quiet and help me by pretending nothing happened, but she was oblivious to my pleading stare.

When the teacher (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Helen Reddy) was told of my attack, she stared at me with wide eyes in surprise. Suddenly I forgot to breathe and it was as if I was back in the second grade fearing that my name was going to be put on the board. Then a grin spread across her face. She seemed pleased with my show of force as she replied with a smile, "Maybe he deserved it." (I could hear Helen Reddy singing, "I am woman hear me roar...") After all these years I was still completely blameless in school regardless of what I did. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

I was following the advanced math track and by the time I reached ninth grade I often got the top scores in my class along with another student. What helped me do so well in math was my dad's enthusiasm. He would spend hours working on story problems with me. Sometimes we would be so stumped on a problem, even after investing a lot of time in it, that we could hardly wait for me to go to class and discover the solution. It was as if we were playing a fun, complex game of strategy.

I also got a sense of self-worth from being the best artist in my school. I didn't even have to try hard because no one else seemed to be nearly as interested in art as I was. I was dismayed, though, to discover that a girl who only drew horses was chosen as the most artistic for the yearbook. What an injustice! Most of the kids didn't even know I could draw because I didn't doodle like she did in the academic classes.

I liked a few boys, but was too shy to get to know them. When one boy I liked noticed me gawking at him, he started being very friendly. I was terror-stricken. What if he wanted to ask me out? Suddenly his dreamy blue eyes, tan and David Cassidy feathered hairstyle did nothing for me. In fact, I was repulsed. I stiffened and stammered. He walked away very confused. I didn't need to worry about him coming around me anymore. However, I felt badly and wondered what was wrong with me. Why was I so fearful of him? Boys had always seemed a bit dangerous to me for some unknown reason.

By the end of ninth grade my mom decided to divorce my dad again. I was relieved to hear the news because I wouldn't have to live in the midst of their fighting. It didn't occur to me that Claire and I would then have to hear them make negative comments about each other. Not much had been resolved or healed.

My mom chose to move back to Ann Arbor. I was not happy about having to leave my current friends because I had grown very attached to them and wasn't sure I could still fit in with my old friends from three years ago. We settled into an apartment across the street from my high school in a rolling setting with ponds, trees and miles of paths for me to explore by bike.

I had a happy reunion with my old friends and was surprised at how much they had grown up. Again I was the best artist in my school and I thrived on the attention. One of my art teachers went so far as to say I was the best artist the school had in ten years. I felt so valued. I had definitely found my reason for existence.

There were a few guys in my art classes who relished inane conversations. I felt comfortable laughing and talking with them as we drew or painted. That was about the extent of my male interaction. I didn't date anyone during high school, though I was always longing for a boyfriend. I wanted to be loved by someone, however, I had the same problem that I did in junior high. If a boy I liked responded with interest, I turned away in fear.

A couple of boys liked me, but there was one boy in particular who rattled my cage. He was an attractive dark-haired lifeguard at our pool who was a year older than me. He found out where I lived and came over unannounced one day with a friend when only Claire and I were home. He asked to come in and was joking around. Out of the blue he grabbed me by the throat and shook me back and forth as he demanded to know where we kept the alcohol. He didn't hurt me, but I was terrified, not having encountered such forcefulness before. I stammered that we didn't have any. After a little more conversation he left.

In school he made flirtatious gestures, but finally left me alone when he realized I was so enamored with a football player coming down the stairs that I didn't even know he was standing right in front of me. I was glad to be rid of him. His disturbing manner only reinforced my belief that boys were not safe if they got close. Dating was too risky of a practice.

Intellectually, I thought pre-marital sex was acceptable because many people around me were engaging in it and it seemed to be the norm. On the other hand, I knew that sex without marriage was a dangerous place to tread in regard to my heart and my future. I certainly did not want to get pregnant, become a teen mom and make it harder to obtain a college degree. Neither did I want to get used by a boy just for his pleasure and then get dumped like my two closest friends had been. Since our family had stopped attending church after the second divorce and I did not have a clear moral compass, I had just fear and some practical concerns to motivate me to hold boys at arm's length.

From my parents' example and trends in society, I expected to be divorced after roughly five years of marriage due me drifting apart from my future husband. Another impediment to me developing a healthy outlook on marriage came from a comment made to me by my mother's therapist. My mom thought a family session would be beneficial. I was doubtful because I knew that the therapist had gotten an earful of disparaging comments about me from my mom since we had not been getting along for years. Also, her approach to therapy and my experiences socializing with the aging "flower children" in my mom's therapy group made it clear to me that we did not possess the same mindset.

I sat on the couch with folded arms, not saying much. The therapist responded by mocking my body language and attitude. I acted indifferent to hide my hurt at being belittled. She told me that I was a closed person then stated bluntly, "You will never get married."

I was stunned that she had the audacity to make such a cruel judgment call especially since she hardly knew me. I already felt deeply hated by my mother. Why was her therapist trying to convince me that no man would ever love me enough to marry me? I didn't realize she must have thought I was such a guarded person that I would never let anyone get close to me. In any case, I was deeply offended.

I saw no point in just sitting there while this warped woman tore me to shreds with her words. My self-esteem was low enough and I wasn't about to let it be completely destroyed, so I stood up and headed out the door without a word. I marched home determinedly even though it was several miles away. I was livid. After the session my mom found me down the road and picked me up.

When my mom told the members of her therapy group that I had walked out on their therapist, they were amazed. The therapist had so much influence over them that they were afraid to contradict her. Even though I rejected her "curse" by walking out, her words would come back to haunt me during my years as a single adult.

While in high school I evolved into the opposite of my former fastidious self. Maybe the absence of my father in our home caused me to develop more of a "Who cares?" attitude. I was still studious, but I abandoned math and science during my junior year, feeling more geared toward history, art, Spanish and English. I had become an atheist, partly inspired by some of my intellectual teachers. I had also adopted a liberal mindset on social issues. I supported basically anything anyone wanted to do as long as it made him or her happy. Gone was my prim and proper appearance. I was still modest, but with an untamed lion's mane as a result of bad perms, I often looked sloppy in jeans and baggy shirts.

I had also cast aside my structured schedule. We rarely ate together as a family, so I threw together unhealthy meals at odd hours. My mom never gave me a curfew probably because I didn't have a boyfriend and I didn't show signs of substance abuse. Claire, on the other hand, had to contend with a curfew because she was dating.

My studies kept me home most of the time, but on occasion I hung out late into the night with my girlfriends or went to parties where we drank a little. My friends and I agreed that I had a pretty cool mom who trusted my judgment so much that she allowed me to make many of my own decisions, even though I would have been better off with wise guidance. Thankfully, I wasn't vulnerable to substance abuse since I always had career goals in mind. Also, parental pressure was bigger than peer pressure on many students in my school who had high standards to live up to.

I enjoyed hanging out with three different groups of students. One group was comprised of artists who were a mix of intellectuals and drug users. Another group consisted of my closest friends. We were obsessed with our schoolwork, often pouring over it as we ate lunch together in the halls. One girl had been the valedictorian of her junior high school. Another ended up becoming the valedictorian of our high school. That was no small accomplishment because we had many bright students with very intelligent parents who worked at the University of Michigan or in the hospital. The other girl was following in the footsteps of her father who was a computer genius.

The third group I spent time with included wholesome, kindhearted Christians. One of them invited me to a Young Life meeting. Part of me wanted to go, but when I heard a lot of the popular kids from school were in the group, I felt intimidated. I didn't like the idea of revealing who I really was in a close-knit group full of happy, well-adjusted youth. Many of these students were in the school plays and on the cheerleading squad and football team. They did fairly well academically and looked polished in their expensive "preppy" clothes. I dreamed of being like them, but knew I couldn't fit in, so I turned her down.

As my plans for my future progressed, I decide to take an excursion during the summer before my senior year with two friends to check out prestigious universities on the East Coast. Many of our fellow students were doing the same thing. One of my friends had applied to Harvard and I wanted to check out Boston University. I was enamored with Boston because it was like Ann Arbor, but on a much larger scale. I did end up getting accepted to Boston University and wanted to go, but the tuition was too high for my meager means and I had no desire to acquire massive debt, so I turned the opportunity down.

We continued on to Yale in New Haven. On the first night I felt as though I had just stepped into London as I marveled at the mysterious, old stone buildings shrouded in mist. We stayed with a couple of students who were very friendly and energetic. I attended anthropology and art classes. I kept my eyes pealed for the film actress Jodie Foster who was a student at the time, but I never spotted her. I was only mildly disappointed that I didn't get accepted there because my expectations were not high.

The University of Michigan was my back up school because I knew I met the entrance requirements and I could afford it through work-study, a loan, a grant and help from my parents. So after Ivy-League dreaming, I was remaining in Ann Arbor after all. But the appeal of the very high standards and ambition of the students I met out East would stay with me for many years. For now I just had one more year to endure at home and then I could be on my own even if I was only two miles away in a dorm.

Since my dad was no longer living with us, it seemed as though I took his place as the primary target of my mother's hostility. Life was no easier after their second divorce. I was still in the midst of a war zone, only the majority of the bullets were now aimed at me. My mother had not become any happier as a single woman. I rubbed her the wrong way because I had personality traits that resembled my dad's and I was openly disrespectful at times. Although I was fairly liberal, I was still more conservative than her and spoke disapprovingly of her values.

At home my mother seemed like two different people. I related well to her softer side. Sometimes we would have good heart to heart conversations about relationships and the meaning of life. At other times there were occasions when I saw so much hostility in her eyes that I came to believe she would prefer it if I were dead. Feeling so utterly rejected cut clear to the core of my being. In response, I used to fantasize about ways to kill her and myself in order to end my misery. I knew I wouldn't actually harm either one of us, but that was my heart's desire at times. A deep, dark pit was engulfing me and I felt powerless to pull myself out.

Without advanced warning, my mom said that I would have to immediately start paying for my own groceries for the final months I was at home before leaving for college. She informed me that since I had turned eighteen, my dad was no longer obligated to send child support checks for me. Her manner was astonishingly cold and calculating. I wondered if she had been tolerating me living with her for the past three years merely so she could receive the child support checks and use some of the money for herself. We were able to buy new things to decorate our apartment, which was in a nice part of town and my mom never lacked for new clothes. My dad, on the other hand, lived in a small house in the country that was in desperate need of fixing up. Even though he had a decent job, he had severe financial struggles for a couple of years after the divorce. He must not have had a good lawyer.

Lacking a car, skills and ambition to make extra money, all I found that summer was a volunteer receptionist job close by, so my funds remained tight, but the company surprised me with a check for a few hundred dollars on my last day there.

I felt like I had been ostracized from the family when I'd see my mom and Claire eating more interesting food as I ate the same thing every day. I didn't feel welcome in her home after that, especially when I discovered later that Claire had not been forced to pay for her own groceries once she turned eighteen. Since my parents' first divorce I had been painfully aware of a double standard when it came to how my mother treated us. Claire seemed like her daughter while I felt like a border whose presence was merely tolerated. The day to move into the dorm couldn't come fast enough.

**Chapter 3 - Descent and Deliverance at the Great Big University**

It was September of 1980. I had rejoiced with my classmates during graduation and survived a number of parties during the past summer and now the long awaited day of deliverance had arrived. I was moving into a dorm on the north campus of the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor near the engineering, art and music buildings. The towering pines and rolling hills were lovely to stroll through on my way to the bus stop or art school. Occasionally I'd sneak off to the music school to find an empty piano room and play my favorite classical pieces I had learned as a child. It was fun setting up my room and meeting the women on my hall.

While I enjoyed the north campus setting, the 1,200 or so primarily engineering and music students in my dorm and the sheer size of the structure did not create a very welcoming environment for me, however. I soon found myself wishing I had chosen a smaller dorm on central campus that was full of oddballs and intellectuals like myself. Some of my friends from high school lived in East Quad, so I ate lunch in their cafeteria sometimes.

My roommate came from a well-to-do family in New York. She was a sociable, pretty music student who attracted men like a magnet. This was beneficial for me in the beginning because she quickly corralled a few guys to build a loft in our room where we put our beds. We were lucky as freshmen to be placed on a sophomore hall where the ceiling height was greater than the three floors below us, enabling us to have room for a couch and my messy art supplies. But after a few months, I didn't enjoy being locked out of the room on occasion when she wanted privacy. Even though I was not a champion of clean living, I was sickened by the substance abuse and casual sex practiced by many in the dorm. A part of the prim and proper girl that I used to be still resided somewhere inside my soul.

In my art classes I immediately began examining the skill levels of the other students and figured that there were about three or four who were better than I was. Not shining brighter than the others made me slightly uneasy. But what was harder to handle was the realization that most of my professors were not enamored with my work. One in particular kept trying to get me to loosen up my drawing. I was disappointed that we were rarely taught the basic principles of drawing and painting. We were expected to develop our individual artistic styles even though we were all amateurs. I also disliked the heavily abstract bent of the school. Thankfully, one drawing and watercolor professor gave me some of the encouragement I so desperately longed for. She appreciated my attention to detail and realism.

I had only a couple of friends in my art classes. Many art students appeared to be lost in their own worlds. Some were on drugs. It was not a cheerful place to be. Occasionally I would wander upstairs to the architecture school and imagine working in a clean, orderly environment with people who appreciated the status quo and weren't always trying to break out of it. I attempted a drafting class, but dropped out, concluding that, "being meticulous about meaningless parallel lines and having to guess on correct line weight and length is for the birds!" My disposition determined that I was relegated to the free flowing lines of an artist and a world seemingly ruled by anarchy.

I felt quite at home at my work-study job in the Art History Department. It was the perfect job for me because I was assigned to the careful preservation of the slides used for lectures. We were told they didn't care how many slides we got done in a day. What mattered was that we were exacting. With no pressure about speed I was free to go at a relaxed pace while talking with the other students. We laughed a lot and shared personal stories.

Despite the nice atmosphere at work I didn't have a good support system, which I badly needed. I felt an enormous burden due to the high expectations I had placed on myself in terms of my artwork. One day as I walked around campus, it seemed as though I was holding the weight of the world upon my shoulders like the Greek mythological giant, Atlas, who supported the heavens. My shoulders were breaking under the load.

I had acquired a very sick perspective of how I was to determine my value as a person. Even though I was not a prodigy in art, I believed that I had to be almost as good an artist as Michelangelo or Leonardo DaVinci in order to be a worthwhile person. If I was not the best at something, I felt as though I was a nobody who was not worthy of love or the right to exist. I had incorporated destructive messages into my mind while growing up and I attributed most of them to my mother. In a journal entry from the fall of my freshman year, though my mother never actually said such degrading things, I imagined these were her true thoughts about me:

"You are ugly. I wish you weren't my kid. You could accomplish so much, but all you do is sit and worry. What a fool! Get your life together and live. Be daring. Run, ski and laugh. Be the president of your own company. I know you can do it. A lot is expected from you. Perform with perfection. If you are mediocre, you are worth nothing. You know everything. Why do you ask me for help? Do you think I have the time? Simply go and do it. When you bleed it's your own fault. How dare you try and accuse me! You awful person, get away from me. You're here to haunt me. I'll kill you first."

Though I had moved out of her home, she was still with me, tormenting me in my mind. With such destructive thoughts plaguing me, I wanted to leave my life and the world around me. I tried to numb my pain by watching my soap opera, "Guiding Light," which my grandmother got me hooked on. I would get myself a treat, stuff my face and the world would go away for an hour. I also watched "Nova" and sat mesmerized by Carl Sagan's explorations of the universe. I read science fiction and relished thoughts of life in the distant future full of strange contraptions that could give people otherworldly experiences. I desperately wanted out.

I thought about my deceased grandfather. He was the only source of genuine, untroubled love that I could remember. I recalled that he was a Christian and wondered if I should become one so I could have the same peace, love and zest for life that he enjoyed. On Christmas Day, I sat typing in my grandmother's basement on a desk next to his old typewriter:

"I feel quite similar to grandpa. I wish he wasn't dead. He was an exciting and loving person. He had many interests such as painting, electrical work, talking overseas on a ham radio, and a strong faith in God. I remember him teasing grandma a lot and laughing, like he did with all of us grandchildren. He was such a playful person who enjoyed life to the fullest. I admire him for that. He used to go on long walks to keep his health up and admire nature. It was on one of these walks that he became ill and died soon after. How I miss him. I want to tell him about all the new things I'm dealing with in art school."

Another factor that made me want to quit college and life in general, was my calculus class. An advisor had told me that the medical illustration program was one of the best ways for me to make a living as an artist since I was good at drawing details. The downside to the program was that half of my classes would be in math and science. I decided to get my math requirement done as quickly as possible by taking a calculus class that had as a prerequisite one and a half years more of high school math than I had completed. I would have done okay if I had been motivated to do the homework. I took notes in class, but since the homework didn't have to be turned in, I often skipped it. Perhaps once in my life I had received a "C" in a class, but now I was looking at a solid "D." I was mortified and anxious. I wouldn't find out my grade until early January.

I was also struggling with my conscience. I wrote in my journal about a comment my grandmother had made to me:

"I'm terribly conscious about using God's name in vain ever since grandma warned me against it. She whispered the commandment to me in the car after Claire and Uncle Ron gasped, 'Lord!' and 'God!' in moments of strong feeling. I'm prone to react strongly to any provocation of guilt, but I hold in my angry protests."

By the end of my first semester I was nearly depleted of my own strength and coping mechanisms. I confided in family members and my closest friend from high school, but sensed that they could only give me divided attention because they had their own problems. I also believed that my unhappiness was "too ugly for anyone to deal with." I joined a therapy group on campus for children of divorce and found a meager dose of support. I also saw a compassionate counselor for about two months, which helped a bit. Yet I felt myself teetering on the edge between sanity and a dark hole. One journal entry expressed my fragile state:

"When I'm in public I sometimes feel like crying. My eyes water and I have a hard time stopping myself. That's scary and could be embarrassing. This hasn't happened before. It must be quite serious. I want help. I hope I don't have a nervous breakdown."

During the Christmas break I was in agony at my mother's. I felt second rate as she ordered me around in a frenzy to get the condo cleaned for guests. I was miserable wherever I was and didn't know what to do with my life anymore. I did not want to return to college, but what else could I do with my life? I had little work experience and deplored the idea of working full-time at a fast food restaurant, being dirt poor and living in a tiny apartment. I was at an impasse.

A few days later, I was alone at my mom's and decided to watch some television. Since my mom disliked the TV, it was relegated to the dark basement, which was full of boxes. I flipped through the channels and an unfamiliar show caught my eye. People were talking about God saving them and working dramatic miracles of healing and performing other answers to prayer. I sat there stunned. I had never heard about God being so powerful and specific by working in the lives of individuals in our day and age. I was presented with convincing evidence that God is real and He intervenes in everyday life if we pray and believe in Him.

While growing up, I had been somewhat like a Deist because I thought of God as the distant Creator of the universe who pops down occasionally to hear our prayers. I doubted that He would provide answers to the types of prayers that required Him to change the natural course of things. I was still a bit incredulous and thought, "If what these people are saying is true, that would be SO WONDERFUL!"

Near the end of the show ("The 700 Club") the host, Pat Robertson, invited the viewers to say a prayer. He asked us to turn from a life of sin and believe that Jesus Christ's death on a cross paid the price to cleanse us from sin and His resurrection power would indwell us and give us eternal life. Then he told us to profess Jesus as our Lord and Savior, inviting Him to come into our hearts. I joined in with earnest, really wanting the prayer to work. I desperately desired to know God like these people did. Then Pat told us to read the Bible regularly and find a church to join.

I turned off the TV and immediately began digging in my mom's boxes because I remembered that she had an old black Bible buried in one of them. I was overjoyed to find it and laid it on the dining room table. Closing the heavy drapes created a dimly lit sanctuary shut off from the world. I was expectant as I prepared to meet with the living God of the universe. I don't recall what scriptures I read. I cried and poured my heart out to God for some time. I was very open and honest as I reached down into the depths of my soul and dumped at His feet all the pain and blackness that had been residing in me. Two days later I wrote:

"I was pleading for help. I said that my life was His. I asked for forgiveness for my sins. I was so desperate. God seems like a protective parent. Strangely, pleasant coincidences have occurred in great numbers in the past two days. I saw friends on the street. My best friend, Christy, from junior high, wrote back! I was so happy to hear from her. She wants to see me. I got a B- in Calculus!!! I'm so proud! I thought I'd get a D. The instructor must have raised everyone's grades equally when he saw how we all failed. (He wasn't the best teacher.)"

Just a few days prior my life was plummeting down a cliff into darkness. Then within an instant, as soon as I said a prayer, large hands broke my fall and gently lifted me back to safety. This dramatic change in direction hit me as I reached for the refrigerator door at my mom's within days of my conversion. My hand froze on the handle as I marveled at my amazing sense of optimism. I truly wanted to return to college. What happened to my defeatist attitude? It had vanished into thin air without me even having a breakthrough counseling session or an inspiring talk with a friend. I wondered if my decision to commit my life to God had resulted in Him working a miracle that completely transformed my outlook on life. I was confused, but definitely happy. Having watched "The 700 Club" sent my faith soaring and helped me believe that God really is loving and that He has the ability to work wonderful things in my life.

God had made me a new person. He miraculously delivered me from a debilitating depression within a matter of days. By imparting a supernatural hope to my soul, He enabled me to believe that I was being cared for by Him. It's not that I was suddenly an incredibly well-adjusted individual, but at least I was emotionally stable.

There was no way that I wanted to slip back into my former depression, so I was leery about spending much time with my family where my bad attitudes had originated. I decided to distance myself by not going home again until the end of the semester. I wanted to get strong in my faith and my positive outlook on life first.

On the day I was getting ready to return to my dorm after the Christmas break, my mom asked me to tell her what was bothering me. For once in my life I resisted opening up to her because my newfound strength from God told me to protect myself from her critical comments. So I simply said I was fine – I actually was.

I was not prepared for the onslaught that followed. She became furious. Perhaps she was realizing for the first time that she could not have complete access to my mind, try to influence my thinking and help me become a psychologically "healthier" person. Though we had been at odds for years, I used to be quite candid with her, even about my fears and weaknesses. It was as if I believed it was my duty to answer in detail all of her probing questions about myself so she could satisfy her desire to analyze every part of me. I had allowed her to become the judge and critic of the core of my being. This gave her great power to decimate my self-worth with words born out of some kind of psychotherapy that, though perhaps well intentioned, brought death to my soul. I had to put a stop to her playing my counselor or my well-being would be threatened.

I didn't mention my conversion at that time because I assumed she would be incredulous. After all, what severely depressed person can suddenly become a primarily content person without medication? Would she put a damper on my joy by claiming it wasn't genuine? When my mom realized that I wasn't about to pull out any dirty laundry, she gave up in frustration and shoved me away with, "I've tried to reach out to you. Since you won't talk about it, it's up to you to reach out from now on. I'm not going to do it." Later on I wrote:

"Boy, does she feel guilty. That was a very cruel thing for her to say. When she dropped me off, she didn't make any affectionate gestures, which is very unusual. I felt strange when she walked out. I felt rejected yet freer and happier. I covered what sadness there was with hope for the future. I had a stronger urge to reach out to others outside my family."

I felt bad about telling my dad that I wanted to stay at the dorm and not visit him for awhile. I'm sure he was perplexed, but he didn't protest. About two months later I felt freer to talk so we met for dinner. I told him about my new relationship with God and the hope and joy He had given me. My dad thought that all sounded nice and he was happy for me.

Watching the 700 Club each morning taught me some things about the Christian life, but I needed much more. As far as how I spent my free time, the only thing I recall that changed dramatically was that I lost my desire to watch my soap opera. Suddenly the previously captivating characters turned my stomach with their convoluted and bizarre lives. I quit the habit cold turkey.

I had not yet found a church, so I wasn't receiving the teaching I required in order to mature in my faith. I continued to write in my journal about such things as wanting to marry a rich man so that I could be free to paint all I wanted and sell my artwork. I still wanted fame and world travel. One day I wrote that I wanted to escape from everyone. What I needed were Christian friends and mentors. I saw ads for different churches on campus, but I couldn't make up my mind on which one to visit or muster the courage to go.

I still attended parties with drinking and drug use, though I wasn't interested in getting drunk or high. My art friends went to such parties, so I followed. One night we went to an "End of the World Party" in a large old house near campus. Certain planets were supposed to align with each other that night and then the end of the world would come according to some strange prediction. Of course, everyone made a joke of it. However, I was slightly concerned about what might happen to the universe someday as I looked around the rooms filled with creepy decorations. I needed direction and fast. God was on the way to guide me further.

**Chapter 4 - Baptized with Fire**

In March I received a flier under my dorm room door. Across the top bold letters proclaimed, "Realize Your Destiny." My eyes widened with wonder as I imagined the possibilities that lay ahead for me as an eighteen-year-old. "Was this a lecture about predicting one's future?" I marveled. It annoyed me that there was no description about the group sponsoring the meeting.

I had long been fascinated by depictions of the future regardless of the source. Scripture, psychics or science fiction authors could easily arouse my curiosity. My favorite book to read in the Bible had become Revelation because it spoke of end times with fantastic imagery. I decided to go, expecting to sit in an expansive lecture hall amid numerous students. Just before I walked out the door of my room, I felt like I should grab my concealer. I never carried my makeup around with me, yet for some strange reason that night I felt compelled to bring it.

When I discovered that the meeting was in a small banquet room in a hotel basement near the campus, I started to get uneasy about what kind of crowd might be there. Fringe groups at The University of Michigan in the early 1980's retained some of the radical edge that had existed among students in the 1960's. What was I getting myself into? I peeked in the doorway and saw less than fifty people milling about, talking and setting up sound equipment. It looked far too intimate for me, so I decided to leave.

Just as I turned from the doorway, one of the popular girls from my old high school yelled out my name with excitement. I felt trapped with no way out. I forced a smile and walked in, figuring I could endure one evening of pretty much anything. We spoke briefly and I sat next to her.

I was surprised to discover that I had happened upon a floating campus church that rented rooms for its meetings. Strumming a guitar up front was a man who looked like Elvis in prep school attire. The room gradually filled with young people. Then the worship started and I joined in.

Suddenly I was distinctly aware of being enveloped in a cloud of boundless love that fell from heaven upon us all. Even though I had never experienced such a phenomenon before, I knew it held the glorious presence of God. As I stood there captivated by the sense that large, divine arms were enfolding me, my battle weary heart began melting.

Waves of relief poured through me as I realized I no longer had to endure my life of empty isolation. This was the love I had been searching for all my life. I had never encountered anything so healing and wonderful. Nothing had ever penetrated me so deeply, not even my grandfather's love. This love brought new life to the deepest part of my soul. I realized that no matter what anyone did to me, the pain they caused paled in comparison to God's love and His ability to bring comfort. He didn't point out my shortcomings or make me feel ashamed. He merely poured Himself and His glory upon me.

Unstoppable tears began flowing from my eyes. Cold stone walls were crumbling around me and lush, green plants were growing in their place. What was happening to me? My tough protective exterior was vanishing, swept away by a mighty hand. It was as if God had spoken tenderly, "Your hard, lonely struggle is over. You can rest in My arms now. Everything is going to be alright." I longed to run to a small private room so I could bawl like a baby. I was embarrassed to have become such an emotional mess in the presence of so many strangers.

An energetic speaker told us that if we hadn't done so yet, we needed to make Jesus our Lord and Savior by coming to the front of the room. I had already committed my life to Christ, but I desired more of God. I wanted to go forward so badly, but I was too self-conscious. I prayed for God to have at least one other person go forward, then I would go. My heart leapt for joy when I saw a young man eventually go to the front, so I quickly followed.

The speaker asked us to tell everyone why we came forward. I had never spoken in front of such a large group before, but I was compelled by my encounter with the Spirit of God that night to share my story. With tears again streaming uncontrollably down my face I briefly summarized my struggles due to my parents' divorces and what led up to me going forward that night. I was astonished at my newfound boldness. Here I was the girl who barely breathed a word in class over the years and now I was baring my soul before a large group of strangers. The protective walls truly were crumbling down.

After the meeting, Hank ("Elvis") and his fiancée, Gwen, spoke to me and the guy who also went forward about getting baptized in water and in the Holy Spirit. They were surprised by my ignorance of scripture, but this realization encouraged them because they saw through my life the power of Jesus to reconcile to God someone who had been very lost. I agonized, as my tears simply would not stop. After awhile Hank gave up trying to explain scriptures to me and asked Gwen to take me to another room and talk with me one on one.

I eventually calmed down and changed into someone's jeans and T-shirt in the bathroom to prepare for my baptism that night. I was to get dunked in a big tub filled with water in a small furnace room across the hall. Now I knew why I felt moved to bring my makeup. Since I was going all the way in the water, I would have been distraught about having a blotchy face in front of everyone. I thanked God for preventing my embarrassment.

I believed the scriptures Hank and Gwen had shared with me about baptism and I was eager to comply because God had met me in such a powerful way that night. I knew that my encounter with Him had not originated with my emotions or anything within myself. God Himself broke into my world and initiated our glorious communion in response to my openness to Him (and in response to the prayers of my Christian relatives).

Since Jesus needed to be baptized "'in order to fulfill all righteousness'" (Mt. 3:15), who was I to think I was exempt from baptism? Even though baptism isn't required for salvation ("That if you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved." Rom. 10:9), it is a necessary next step for the professed follower of Christ. The purpose of baptism is described in Romans 6:4, "We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." Baptism is also "...the pledge of a good conscience toward God" (1Peter 3:21).

Even though I had been baptized as an infant, I considered that event as having had no significance in regard to my faith because I was incapable of comprehending salvation through Christ at that point. I knew I needed to get baptized now that I had made the choice on my own to give my life to Jesus. By going through baptism as a believer I was identifying with Christ's burial and resurrection and cementing my commitment to live by the power of the Holy Spirit the new life freely given to me through faith in Christ's atoning death on the cross.

I didn't quite understand the baptism in the Holy Spirit, however. I had heard of "holy rollers," but didn't know what they did or believed. From my relatives' accounts they were Christians who went a little overboard in expressing their enthusiasm for God. Was I now going to be thought of as strange by some people? I guess I didn't really care. Right after the meeting I had observed a group of people in the corner of the room who sounded like they were speaking foreign languages to each other. I was told they were praying in tongues. I hoped that I would be able to speak that mysterious language properly.

I got into the water and about fifteen people had stayed after the meeting to sing with the guitar players. They dunked me and prayed for me to be baptized in the Holy Spirit. I immediately felt a strong force rising up from within my spirit that wanted to speak out, but I feared that it would sound like strange gibberish, so I restrained it. That strong force was the Holy Spirit being poured on me in greater measure. Three people gave me prophecies that were words from God's heart to mine. I'm so thankful it was all recorded on tape. When Hank started to prophesy, he addressed some issues that only God knew about. The words brought even more healing to my heart. Some of Hank's prophecy went as follows:

"'Know,' says the Lord God, ' that I open My arms up to you and that I love you with a perfect and everlasting love. You were not created without a purpose, for I formed you Myself in your mother's womb and you are not an accident. I hand crafted you and I allowed you to be formed and I put My seal upon you and I said you are beautiful. I created you for Myself. I saw you as you grew up and I saw the toil and the hardship and I even saw your heart as it turned against Me. But I knew that I would call you again and speak to you. As you have turned to Me today, know that I am opening up your heart now to free you and liberate you and speak to you your destiny and your purpose. I sent My Son, Jesus Christ, for you. He knew you by name before you were born. He loves you and He forgives you. He has released you from the things of the past. He will bring you into fullness of emotions. He will bring you into the fullness of life. He whom the Son sets free is free indeed. The Son has come to give you life and give you life abundantly.'"

Halfway through the prophecy I became overwhelmed with emotion because God was acknowledging that I felt like an accident. The tears flowed again. For years I had known I was the result of an unplanned pregnancy and I was the reason my parents got married. My mother told me that my existence was kept a secret from my grandparents until I was born because she was ashamed and feared her mother's anger. Even though I could understand her feelings to some extent, having been that hidden unborn baby caused me to feel unwelcome in this world. God wanted to make certain that I knew He welcomed me just as He does everyone.

I was intrigued by God telling me through the prophecy that He saw my heart turning against Him and that He would call me again. Hebrews 4:13 is so true: "Nothing in all creation is hidden from God's sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account." He saw me when I stood in my kitchen as a bitter fourteen-year-old telling Him that I didn't want to believe in Him anymore because He had allowed so much fighting in my family. He also saw me languishing in a deepening dark depression during my first semester in college. He knew He would call me back to Himself and that I would listen. I felt completely exposed before God, yet I took comfort in the awareness that He knows everything there is to know about me. Because of that knowledge, He can meet my needs and orchestrate the events in my life in a manner that is best for me. Therefore, I could place my trust in Him completely.

It wasn't until a few days later when I was in my dorm room putting something on my shelf that the Holy Spirit began to pour out of me as I started to speak in tongues. It was an intriguing and freeing experience as I felt the Lord's presence while I spoke the unusual, heavenly language. I soon came to find speaking in tongues to be an indispensable part of my prayer life. By uttering "mysteries" with my spirit (I Corinthians 14:2) I was edifying myself (vs. 4), that is, building up my faith through this prayer language that helped me focus on God and hear His voice more clearly. Praying and singing in tongues became a time of sweet communion with the Lord where my spirit could talk with and worship Him in a very intimate way.

I was now a member of a nationwide campus ministry called Maranatha. The movement had started over a decade earlier in Paduca, Kentucky. It was a nondenominational charismatic organization that strongly believed in the authority of scripture, sharing the gospel, and training new Christians in the faith through a somewhat controlling form of one-on-one discipleship. Through a newsletter and periodic Marantha Leadership Training Seminars, they taught us about our nation's Christian heritage and the need for Christians to permeate society in all areas, especially in the government and schools. By 1980 they had organized churches composed primarily of students on about 60 college campuses in the United States. Mature Christians trained new leaders who were sent to start new churches. Bible colleges and seminaries were not advocated for ministry preparation because there was a belief among the leadership that such institutions might dampen one's zeal for God by intellectualizing one's faith or encouraging gravitation toward a certain denomination.

Prophets and evangelists were sent on a regular basis to the Maranatha churches to help win souls and strengthen everyone's faith. When I went to my first meeting where a prophet spoke, at least half the people, including myself, received a prophecy. I found it all very fascinating to think that God Himself was talking to us through people like He did in the Bible. I was told that I would be a blessing to many girls because of the emotional healing God would bring in my life. It sounded like a good word to me.

At the end of the meeting the prophet started praying for people to get healed. Because I was a new believer, I was allowed to join a few others on the stage to witness a miracle up close. A member of our church had one leg that was about 1 ½ inches shorter than the other. They were invited to sit with their back flat against a chair while their feet rested on a chair facing them. The prophet was going to pray for the shorter leg to lengthen. I placed my head directly above the person's feet so that I could see the growth clearly and observe that they held their body still. As the prophet prayed, I was amazed to see the shorter leg grow like a plant in time-lapsed photography, sort of weaving back and forth a bit as if an invisible hand were pulling on the limb. It was freaky. Within a second or two the feet were even with each other. I could hardly believe my eyes. This was a group of churches that expected God to move supernaturally and He did.

It was easy to make friends in church. Two months after I joined Maranatha, five of us took a small camper to Georgia for Hank and Gwen's wedding. Since we were poor college students, we slept in the camper while someone drove or we stayed at various homes. On the way down we stopped at a Maranatha Church in Knoxville, Tennessee to wash up, eat and meet the people. Even though we were strangers, they welcomed us as though we were family members. I felt like I had loving relatives dotted all across America. God's Spirit really did enable people to break down all types of barriers.

When we arrived at the small country church for the wedding, I was appalled that there was no air conditioning. The heat was so intense that it melted the slender burning candles at the altar, causing the tops to bend toward the floor, dripping wax all over. I scanned the pews to see if anyone had passed out. Nope. How did people in the South endure living in such a furnace? It wasn't even summer yet! We sat and fanned ourselves in desperation as we waited for the bride.

Then she appeared in the little doorway with the sun streaming from behind her. I was watching a fairytale as Gwen glided down the aisle toward Hank. From behind her veil I could see that she was beaming as he sang to her with a voice choked with emotion. I believed theirs was a match made in heaven. Gwen was about to be joined with the man of her dreams. I was so thrilled for her. (Decades later they are still happily married with many children and some grandchildren.)

About a month earlier Gwen had told me she waited three years from the day God told her to marry Hank until the time he heard from God that he should marry her and proposed. I admired her patience, but such a long wait was ridiculous as far as I was concerned. She should have tried to manipulate the situation somehow to speed things along. There was no way I would wait three more years to get married. Why waste precious time? But since I had surrendered my life to God, He would determine my steps. Little did I know how long I would actually have to wait to get married. Maybe God wanted to make sure I acquired a lot of patience since I was so deficient to start out with!

I was glad that Gwen was assigned to disciple me. If I had any questions or just needed someone to talk to and pray with, I could meet with her. She was a tremendous help since I had a long list of questions and she had such a kind and gentle way of dealing with me. Though the general approach to discipling in Maranatha had the potential to be overbearing sometimes (such as telling someone who to marry and where to live), I did not receive such treatment from Gwen or anyone in the church.

I remember worrying about having quality prayer time with God and how to go about it. Gwen sensed that I needed to lighten up and suggested I talk to God while doing everyday things like making my bed. I was incredulous. From the preaching I was hearing in church about living a radical life for Christ, that kind of casual attitude didn't fit. Because of my serious nature and desire to please those in authority, I was like a sponge soaking in all of Maranatha's admonitions to have long daily prayer times with Bible reading and frequent church involvement. But since she obviously loved God very much, I gave some consideration to her words. Her easy going perspective helped me attempt to establish a balance in my relationship with God so that I wasn't driven to despair by a sense that I was never quite measuring up to the top notch Christian I often felt so pressured to become.

Besides working on my inner self with God to grow in my faith, I attempted to fit in at church by dressing more conservatively when I noticed that my hippie appearance was a little extreme. In the art school I usually wore jeans that became stained with a wide variety of colorful paint because I used my pants like a hand towel. I thought my jeans were cool because they were unique. They made it clear that I was an artist – well, at least that I worked with paint. I also often wore my dad's discarded oversized shirts. Realizing that I was a fashion disaster, I bought a few business casual clothes, which brought me compliments.

I admired the many members of my church who were bold about sharing their faith. Some would present their salvation stories along with the gospel while standing on a cement bench in the middle of the Diag, which was the intersection of several sidewalks at the heart of central campus where thousands of students walked on their way to class. This location was a prime spot for anyone who wanted to air their views and had been a popular locus for the political protests on the campus in the 1960's. I had heard an array of speakers there, including the sane and not quite so sane.

I was thrilled when I sometimes saw hundreds of students sitting on the grass listening to my pastor talk about Jesus. A couple of times I asked students what they thought of his message and they either said it was interesting or a little strange. It was a good thing he had been in the Marines because sometimes an irate heckler would attempt to shove him off the bench. I witnessed atheist professors arguing with him with great disgust that anyone in their right mind would believe in God. My pastor and the other brave members of my church had the courage to regularly deal well with such opposition by standing their ground and never lashed back in hate.

There were other areas on campus where we could be a witness for Jesus. When I took a course called "Jesus and the Gospels" with several students from my church, we soon became aggravated with the way our professor was chopping up the gospels and throwing out portions as if only certain sections could be considered authentic sayings of Christ. The book we had to read was based on redaction criticism and had no respect for scripture as being the inerrant and inspired word of God, so I barely read it.

When some of my friends would periodically stand up in the big lecture room and adamantly protest the professor's disparaging interpretation of scripture, I'd feel some embarrassment, but mostly joy. They spoke with firm conviction and an impressive lack of fear. They were inspired by sermons we had heard that were geared for Christian students at secular universities. Psalms 119:99 was mentioned from the pulpit a few times: "I have more insight than all my teachers, for I meditate on your statutes."

I was amused whenever the elderly professor sent a bewildered gaze our way as my friends asserted that all the sayings attributed to Jesus in the Bible were actually spoken by Him, not invented by the authors. I'm certain that it was the first time he had encountered such fiery opposition in his class. Judging by his lack of equally impassioned counterpoints, I believe he was impressed with their zeal and knowledge of the Bible. It was a great place to share the gospel because the room was full of students from all types of backgrounds and religions who were searching for more meaning in their lives.

I ended up getting a "C" in the class and decided I'd better find out the faith of the professor before I took another course in religion. I became intrigued when I heard that U of M had a Jewish professor of the Old Testament who had come to believe that Jesus is the Jewish Messiah. I later took one of his classes and absolutely loved it.

I was so excited about God's dramatic work in my life. I soon acquired a basic knowledge of key scriptures so that I could attempt to talk about Jesus in a simple, but concrete way. I was anxious to tell my friends how they could have the same joy and love I knew through faith in God.

However, I made the mistake of including too many of the new "rules" for holy living that I had been taught. My friends were perplexed as to why I would want to give up dancing, drinking, crazy parties and secular music. They couldn't believe that I had found a much better way of life and felt sorry for me as if I would be missing out on all kinds of fun. They hadn't realized how truly miserable I had been before my conversion. For me there was no comparison. Giving up a few old practices to help me focus on growing closer to God was like someone asking me to put down my slice of store bought cake so that I could sit down for an elaborate banquet prepared by a renowned chef. Life with Christ really was that much of an improvement.

I figured that if I could somehow get my friends to just come to a meeting, they would be filled with the same love of God that I had encountered. A good friend from high school was the only one I managed to talk into coming, and that was after I told her I had seen a reporter show up once to take notes for an article. She wanted to merely be an observer like the reporter. After the meeting I turned to hear her brief cerebral analysis of it. I was crestfallen as I realized her heart had not been changed by the singing or the message. I saw that it took more than merely standing in a glorious worship service to meet with God. One had to have an open and hungry heart for Him.

Some of my old friends wanted nothing to do with me once I started telling them about Jesus. I lost contact with my best friend from elementary school after I joyfully described my salvation experience, new church and clean life. It hurt me deeply that she could let twelve years of a good friendship end without a good-bye. I had later heard that her parents forbade her to return my phone calls. A friend in the art school would push her thick hair in front of her face if she saw me coming so she could pretend she didn't see me. I was wounded. However, I was consoled to some degree by the fact that I had made many new friends at church.

I'm certain that Maranatha's rule about no dating caused some to think I had joined a cult. But it was always made clear in their teachings that Jesus was our Lord and Savior, not any man, and that the Bible was our ultimate guide for truth, not any other writings. We were on the alert to test everything against God's word. A better way to explain their policy, though it was admittedly controlling, would be to say they encouraged singles to associate in groups where men and women could get to know each other in wholesome situations, significantly reducing the temptation to sleep together. Such a practice definitely has its benefits for maintaining purity. But the downside was that it was difficult to have very intimate conversations, making it hard to really know who was a wise choice for a mate. In any case, I didn't mind the rule for the time being because, even though I wanted to get married soon, I really wasn't ready. Knowing that no one was going to ask me out put me at ease and gave me the freedom to get to know the men as friends, which was a new and refreshing concept to me.

According to Maranatha policy, if I ever did feel like God was speaking to me about marrying someone, I was supposed to share that information with the woman who was discipling me. If the man I spoke of happened to tell the person discipling him that he believed God wanted him to marry me, we would all pray about the matter. If everyone felt that the Holy Spirit was in agreement with the "proposal," we had a "match made in heaven" and we could get married. Though the process sounded mysterious to me, I believed that as long as everyone was walking closely with God and hearing from Him, I would end up marrying the man God had chosen for me. I was eager for help from mature Christians in seeking God about such a serious matter.

Eventually, there came a time when I thought God wanted me to submit someone's name for marriage even though I didn't know the man that well. The couples in our church seemed happily married under the Maranatha plan, so I had little concern about exploring a potential spouse's past, their habits and how their personality traits meshed with mine.

I had asked God to speak to me in dreams because someone told me He sometimes does that. I soon had a dream that I was flying in a plane with my husband-to-be (who was unidentifiable) to New York City. When I got out of the plane, he disappeared and I looked straight up through a maze of expressways and saw a patch of blue sky. I sensed God telling me that the blue sky symbolized my future and that it would be full of His peace. Suddenly the letters of a certain state floated through the sky and I had a strong sense that I would live there someday. When I awoke I was so moved by the clarity and force of the dream that I was convinced God had spoken to me. I kept it to myself, waiting to see what would happen.

During a church meeting a few days later, a man stood up to announce that he would soon take a job in the state I had dreamed about. I immediately felt sick to my stomach because I wondered if God was telling me to marry this complete stranger. After the meeting I happened to speak with him and was struck by the glow of God's joy and peace on his face. I decided it might not be such a bad idea to marry him after all - if that's what God wanted. Since I preferred that God work out the matter without any manipulation on my part, I refrained from flirtation and I didn't tell any of my friends about my interest in him. We became casual friends and associated in groups.

After he moved, he kept in touch with the church and my feelings for him grew along with my imagination. I held off perhaps a year before submitting his name to my pastor's wife and then waited in anxious anticipation. In accordance with Maranatha's procedures, the pastor then asked the gentleman to submit the name of someone he thought God was leading him to marry, if anyone. When the man submitted the name of a different woman, he was asked to pray and try again. After several tries with my name not coming up, they gave up.

When I was told he had not mentioned my name, I was devastated. Up to that point I had completely convinced myself that it was God's will that we get married. Here I had been expecting to live happily ever after and, suddenly, I was hit with the cold reality that it was not meant to be. Apparently, I hadn't even been on his radar if my name didn't come up after a number of tries. That really hurt.

What shook me was realizing that I hadn't heard God's voice correctly. I was absolutely certain that He was leading me all the while. I had deceived myself royally, yet part of me felt betrayed by God. Why hadn't He told me I was believing a lie for so long? Of course, God would never deceive anyone ("God is not a man, that He should lie..." Numbers 23:19). I must not have been willing to surrender my will and honestly listen to Him. I have concluded that my heart was fixed on this man in a selfish, idolatrous manner, looking to him more than God to bring me happiness and meet my needs. I have to admit that I drew my own conclusions from the dream and never directly asked God if He wanted me to marry the guy.

Why did I have that strange dream a few days before his job announcement? I still don't know what to make of the dream except to say that our hearts and ears need to be very in tune with God's voice and His word. I should have heeded the advice in James 1:5, "If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him." Seeking counsel from wise Christians who exhibit godly character is also very helpful. It is dangerous to rely solely on dreams, circumstances and our feelings to guide us in major decision making. Seeking God's direction was new to me and I had a lot to learn.

God didn't leave me without His comfort, though. I told an older woman in the church about my great disappointment and she gave me a scripture that I would often reflect on during the ensuing years if I felt myself floundering in general. Isaiah 40:27-31 reminded me to look to God alone for my strength:

"Why do you say, O Jacob, and complain, O Israel, 'My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God'? Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

Some years ago I heard a pastor state that the Hebrew word for "renew" contains the meaning of "exchange." Thus the concept in verse 31 becomes much more powerful for me: those who hope in the Lord will exchange their strength for His. Since my strength is so small, I am glad that I can appropriate His strength and let it carry me.

Even though I had hope for my future and a knowledge that God was with me, I couldn't shake myself of the longing to be taken care of and shown love from a husband. There was nothing wrong with yearning to be married, but having grown up without an example of a healthy marriage to observe on a regular basis, I was sorely deficient in my understanding about self-sacrifice, clear and respectful communication, and trust. Looking back, if I had gotten married at that time in my life, no matter how wonderful the man was, it would have been a pretty rocky road. Marriage wasn't only about what I could get out of it, but also about what I could contribute to my husband's life. I didn't see that at the time.

God wanted me to spend more time learning to lean on Him during trials and see how He could take care of me while I remained single. By delaying my day to say, "I do," He proved to me that I didn't need a boyfriend or a husband in order to have my daily needs met or to feel worthwhile and loved.

While I remained single, I wanted to exercise wise discernment about who to consider for marriage. The apostle Paul expressed a fairly lenient view when it came to mate selection when he wrote 1 Corinthians 7:39, "...if her husband dies, she is free to marry anyone she wishes, but he must belong to the Lord." Even though scripture seemed to indicate that I could marry any Christian man I wished, I rejected the notion that God had several men I could choose from because I believed God had a specific course for me to take. After all, my life could be vastly different based on whom I married. I sensed that God had a particular calling on my life and I wanted to answer it. The atmosphere of my home could be so different depending on whether my husband had a strong, dominant personality or an easy-going one. Which personality type would I thrive with?

Since there are so many variables to consider when getting married, I hoped to have God's perfect foresight operating in my romantic pursuits so I might have the most meaningful life and marriage possible. I saw my husband and myself somehow working as a team to serve God and others. I kept my eyes and ears open should that certain someone cross my path.

**Chapter 5 - The Sisterhood**

During the first summer that I was in Maranatha I was asked if I wanted to rent an old house near the campus with five other women from the church who were all students. None of us knew each other well. In fact, most of us were practically strangers, but we were young and optimistic and believed our common faith would help us get along. The majority of us were new Christians. Even though we had to endure many adjustments in order to get along, I definitely preferred living with the "sisterhood" rather than in the dorm. We were like a family and stood by each other.

We were forced to be an organized household with cramped quarters – at least the rent was cheap! Initially, we decided that we would take turns cooking, then someone else would clean up. I agreed to the plan until I walked into the kitchen after a peaceful dinner only to be confronted with spaghetti sauce spattered across the yellow-orange walls as if an irate toddler had flung his dinner across the room. Beneath the dotted walls were so many piles of filthy pots and pans that it looked like she had cooked for everyone on the block. When I turned to her in protest, she muttered something about having difficulty determining which pots were the right sizes for cooking. From then on I only cleaned up after myself.

Unlike my splintered family's varying meal shifts during high school, my housemates ate dinner together almost every night so we could share about our day. It helped us develop friendships that we still enjoy decades later. It was during one of the dinners that I became aware for the first time in my life that I chewed with my mouth open as an irritated sister glared at me and loudly smacked her lips, trying to give me a hint. What a revelation! I sheepishly stared at my plate and immediately started chewing with a closed mouth. How could my refined mother have been so negligent about training me in table manners? Then I recalled her boyfriend laughing at how I ate my meal at a nice restaurant as if I were a famished animal, digging into the seafood with all fingers. I had been left on my own at home too much.

We desired to be a very spiritual house, so we prayed together almost every morning. Since I was anxious about getting the shower first, I had wake up duty. At least no one threw a shoe at me as I roused them. I don't recall how long we kept up the practice, but whatever effort we made honored the Lord and prevented small battles from blowing up into all out war among the very different personality types.

Not being accustomed to living with so many people, I found the dark, grisly basement to be a welcomed retreat for private prayer. I would close myself up in the cellar full of dust and cobwebs, sit on a chair with the lights out (after a spider check) and imagine myself soaring across the earth in the Spirit to pray for needy souls. God had placed a call for intercession upon my heart soon after I joined Maranatha. My sensitive nature made it easy for me to put myself in another's shoes and imagine their suffering. I believed that as I prayed, God was delivering people from unbelief, violence, illness, starvation, or whatever bound them.

I appreciated the sisters' aid in keeping me in line spiritually. We were required to trash our secular music, which I did while still in the dorm by stomping my records to smithereens over the doorstop. I said good-bye to Barbra Streisand (one of the best vocalists ever!), Bob Seger and The Eagles, among others. The purging was slightly painful since they had provided me with hours of tranquil escapes. But I was in strong pursuit of Jesus and I didn't want anything to distract me.

I hadn't purchased any Christian music yet, so I was vulnerable to the pull of a secular radio station on a rare afternoon when I had the old creaky house to myself and needed to liven things up. I attached headphones to make sure no one heard my wayward tryst with my old loves featured on a hard rock station.

I blasted the tunes into my ears, bouncing my head with delight as I watched for the return of my roommates. I was lost in a song when my covert rendezvous was abruptly interrupted by someone yelling, "Here comes the morality police!" I yanked my headphones off and realized with alarm that I had not inserted them all the way into the radio. I had unknowingly broadcast the raucous forbidden music throughout the whole house and onto the street. I was overcome with immense embarrassment as my surprised roommates laughed and joked. They blew it off as a temporary lapse in judgement and I loved them for it. I stayed the course after that and ended up missing the whole decade of eighties music, which wasn't such a bad thing.

There were other houses bordering the campus filled with students who attended our church. We often visited each other for Bible study, prayer meetings and dinners. Our frequent fellowship loosely resembled that of the first century church in Acts 2 (we didn't go so far as to have everything in common, however). The sense of community was terrific and I have often wished for a similar experience in churches I have attended since then.

The three houses behind us belonged to The Word of God community and they were filled with young men in love with God. Their organization had started in the 1960's in Ann Arbor and was made up of about 2,000 charismatic Christians, most of whom were students or young families at the time. I had heard good things about them. During my second summer in the old house, I slept in the back bedroom and loved being awakened early in the morning to their joyful worship songs accompanied by guitars. They would congregate on their balconies and sing song after song in praise to God.

One day they invited us over to get acquainted. I was overwhelmed as five of us sat across the room from their gathering of perhaps twenty men. They had prepared a list of worship songs to sing for us. I was in awe as the house resounded with their heartfelt praise.

Then they asked us to sing something for them. "They couldn't be serious," I thought. We had no preparation and no instruments so we had to sing a cappella. It was one of those moments when I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. Humiliation was inevitable since we were missing our strong singer. With tension in our voices, we eked out a barely audible song. I was certain they were appalled by our lack of vocal talent as Christian women. Our terror-stricken faces were far from alluring. We forfeited any chance of finding a husband there.

When my birthday arrived, my roommates threw a surprise party for me. I felt so loved when a large crowd from church paraded through the front door bearing gifts of canned tuna. Word got out that it was one of my staples. I was thankful to have a three month supply which helped my grocery bill. It was my best birthday ever because I was touched to see so many caring people who had become like family filling our home and singing Happy Birthday with bright faces. God's goodness had touched us all in powerful ways that year.

During that summer I worked part-time babysitting for professors who had two little boys that were abnormally well behaved. I marveled that there were no flying fists or screaming tantrums. They shared nicely and politely requested "gapes and yogit" for lunch. I enjoyed the peace and good manners. I had no car, so I walked several miles each day and had a lot of time to think. God still had work to do in restoring my soul. I wondered if I could trust Him completely with my life and pondered what He had in store for me. I wanted more direction and a sense of concreteness. I wasn't looking forward to returning to the art school, but I didn't know what else to do.

The name "Tobias" kept running through my head. I searched the concordance in the back of my Bible and discovered it was a Hebrew name which means, "God is good." I took the name to be God's special word to remind me to have faith in Him whenever I imagined that His heart was callused towards me. Even though I had been through some hard times in the past, God wanted me to know He is always good and that I can trust Him with everything. There is no evil in Him. As it is written in 1 John 1:5, "...God is light; in him there is no darkness at all." God wanted me to keep looking forward to my life ahead without fear.

He soon guided me to join the church's worship dance team. We choreographed our own dances using primarily movements borrowed from ballet and folk dances. My minimal instruction in ballet, modern and jazz dance during high school helped. We performed during worship in church and twice in public. I was self-conscious, so I had to remind myself to focus on honoring God.

One time we performed in the middle of campus on the Diag. As we did a folk style dance, I felt conspicuous as I noticed the sharp contrast between our cheerful prancing in ruffled skirts and the serious demeanor of the blue jean clad students that trudged by. I started hoping that no one would recognize me. Then much to my horror several guys from my art classes walked by and started leaping around us with their arms flopping about effeminately. I had to remind myself of what Jesus said in Matthew 5:11, "Blessed are you when people insult you...because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven..."

After they left, we started my favorite dance that one of my roommates, a former ballet student, had arranged. We floated over the pavement to a heavenly John Michael Talbot song about Creation. I felt like a flower opening to the sun and swaying in the wind. A small crowd started to gather. They stood silently, almost mesmerized, as if they were receiving the love of God through Talbot's soothing song and our twirls. At the end they clapped enthusiastically. After being ridiculed, I was overjoyed to see that some people had been blessed by our performance.

Another activity our church engaged in on the Diag was the carrying of picket signs to protest abortion. We certainly sparked some heated debates. I stood back as the outspoken members of our group responded to the angry protests. We proclaimed abortion as one of the greatest evils being committed in our nation because we saw it as the murder of many innocent lives for the sake of a woman's convenience.

When I first started attending Maranatha, my pro-abortion mindset was shaken to the core as I heard for the first time in my life a clear argument promoting the preservation of unborn life. For years I had allowed my culture to mold my beliefs and values. Without thinking I had swallowed the lie that an embryo was merely a blob of tissue, not a human being. Since Roe vs. Wade, medical science and stunning photography of tiny human features on embryos has proven otherwise. They have found that the heart begins to beat only three weeks after conception and ultrasounds can pick up the flicker of the heartbeat one to three weeks after that. The tiny baby has detectable brain waves and can feel pain within two months of conception. I felt betrayed by the media. I read Psalm 139, which details the intimate knowledge God has of each of us before we are even born.

(For those of you who have had an abortion, my heart goes out to you with compassion. I want you to know God freely welcomes you, forgives and restores. Support groups and help for post-abortion trauma can be found through websites like hopeafterabortion.com.)

Besides discovering the value of human life, I also needed to learn about the value of nurturing loving relationships from a biblical perspective. Within about six months of my conversion, I went to a Bill Gothard seminar and heard about the importance of attempting reconciliation with others, especially one's parents. I was determined to speak with my mom and dad.

First I prayed with my current mentor and told God I was giving up all of my resentment towards my mother. I pictured a black box in my hands that I was leaving at the throne of God for Him to dispose of. As soon as I did this, a tangible weight was removed from my shoulders and I felt a surge of God's joy within me. I was suddenly freed from a lifelong bondage and I was ecstatic. I basked in the pleasure of praising God for awhile.

It was strange to think that for so many years I had willingly born a needless and cumbersome burden. If I had decided not to be bitter towards my mother, I could have gone through my childhood with a much freer spirit. However, I could not have forgiven her on my own. I really needed Jesus.

I realized that once a person has received God's forgiveness, they have no excuse for withholding forgiveness from anyone who has wronged them, no matter how grievous the offense. Though we may think we have lived a pretty good life, we have sinned against God to a far greater degree than any human could sin against us. For example, God is aware of all our countless thoughts that are hurtful to Him and violate His holiness, yet He extends forgiveness for all of them. The debt God forgives us of is far greater than any debt another human being could possibly owe us.

Whenever I'm tempted to hold a grudge, I remind myself of the double standard held by the unmerciful servant Jesus spoke of in his parable in Matthew 18. The master, who had forgiven the servant his great debt, chastises him for being unwilling to forgive another man's much smaller debt saying, "Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?" (Mt. 18:33). Why would I think it's okay for me to receive forgiveness that I don't deserve, yet claim someone else who is just as undeserving can't be forgiven?

Forgiving doesn't mean we are expressing approval of wrong behavior. It just means we are releasing the person from the debt they owe us by choosing to love them freely because we have been loved freely by God. We still may have painful memories of past hurts, but they shouldn't prevent us from being loving.

Soon after my epiphany on the power of forgiveness, I took a trip to northern Michigan with my mom. I apologized to her for all of the angry things I had said to her in the past. I then told her that I forgave her for everything she had done and said to me. She started crying and apologized also. We hugged and I felt great relief.

Our relationship improved dramatically. There were still times after that when she hurt me deeply and I had to talk to her or just forgive her in my heart and let it go. But at least I was no longer permitting a root of bitterness to grow. Temptation to fall into resentment remained a weakness because of my past, so I had to be diligent to guard my mind against rehearsing offensive conversations or behavior. My conversation with my dad was less dramatic because we were rarely at odds. I'm sure he appreciated my gesture, though.

Less than a year after I joined our church the pastor made a bold move by deciding to be the first church to leave Maranatha and become independent. From what I understood, the primary reason was their dislike of the national leadership's tendency to be overbearing. Also, Maranatha promoted a cult-like belief that if you left the organization to attend a different church, you were turning your back on God. We were taught to believe that the Maranatha churches were so in tune with God's Spirit and so pleasing to Him that to join another church was to accept a lesser, compromising faith. We were supposedly part of the best church in the world, so why should we want to go to any other church? Many of us had been looking down on all the other Christian organizations on our campus because we thought they were not as sold out to Jesus as we were. It took us a while to realize how despicable our arrogance was in God's eyes.

Another possible catalyst to us leaving Maranatha was the abduction of one of the students in our church. His parents were convinced that he was in a cult, so they hired deprogrammers to whisk him off to a house in a city hours away where they tried to hammer "truth" into him using intimidation. After awhile his captors started to believe he was coming around, so they took him on an outing. While they were absorbed in a store display, he saw an open door for his escape and took off running. Our pastor and some guys had driven to the city hoping to rescue him. They managed to find him and brought him back to Ann Arbor. We thanked God for his safe return.

I considered myself extremely fortunate to have stumbled upon the powerful presence of God moving through those involved with Maranatha, but the expectations and regulations had become burdensome. When I first heard the announcement that our church was leaving Maranatha, I felt like a bird set free from a cage as shackles from the rules for holy living rolled off. No longer would everyone watch me like a hawk and pressure me to be "super-Christian": able to leap mountains in a single bound by faith, heal the sick, proclaim the gospel from any street corner, have a two hour prayer time each day and conquer the earth for the kingdom of God.

Maranatha encouraged many worthy evangelistic and holy living goals, but my focus had become more on trying to impress others with my spirituality instead of being personally led by God's love and the Holy Spirit. I had been afraid to step out of the mold of Christian perfectionism promoted by sermons, the organization's newspaper and leadership meetings. I was thankful that at least our church had been more lenient than others in Maranatha when it came to discipleship.

One of my roommates had been able to blow off many of the endless expectations placed on us thanks to her strong personality and the balanced teaching she received as a teen at her church back home, so it wasn't as dramatic of a lifestyle change for her. On the other hand, just as I took to heart my second grade teacher's rules for years, I would be bound internally by some of Maranatha's rules for a long time even though I was no longer a part of the organization.

For instance, it would be years before I would go on my first date. I was filled with trepidation because I didn't want to date a lot of men and fall into temptation or get my heart broken again and again. Being the idealist that I was, I believed that the first man I dated would be the one God wanted me to marry. I had heard of that happening to some couples, yet such an expectation made it very difficult for me to feel free to show interest in any man. I didn't want to attract the "wrong one."

The other churches were told by the national leadership not to associate with us so that we would be encouraged to repent. That was very hurtful, especially for our pastor and his wife because many of their friendships had to be severed. I accepted our departure as God's will as I heard about church after church leaving Maranatha to become independent. A few years later the organization completely disintegrated. When I look back, I greatly admire my former pastor's courage to be the first one to make a stand for our individual freedoms in Christ and suffer being ostracized for the benefit of his flock.

God wants to be sovereign over his people. I suppose whenever there is a phenomenal move of God, those in charge may be tempted to impose legalistic standards in attempts to hold the movement together and keep it growing and on track. But human restrictions eventually quench the unpredictable flowing of God's purposes which reach higher than any finite mind can comprehend.

After a year in the old house, I moved with three of the women into a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. Within a few months one woman transferred to a different college, so we looked for another roommate to help with the rent. We heard about a woman named Rose who just got released from a mental hospital and needed a place to live. I was so ignorant about serious mental issues that I thought nothing of sharing my room with her.

Rose was a few years older than me and had been working on her master's degree in history when she had her psychotic breakdown. While in the hospital, she wasn't interested in eating or drinking. She became so dehydrated that her skin started to wrinkle excessively. Two women from her church went to pray for her and she fell back in her bed, overcome by the Holy Spirit. They shared some scriptures with her and left. She kept reflecting on a verse about submitting to authority and decided she should follow her doctors' orders and start eating and drinking normally. That was her first step on the road to recovery.

Because Rose was on medication and received disability checks for a number of months, she spent a lot of time in the apartment where she prayed and read her Bible for at least two hours every day in an attempt to get better with God's help. I admired her faithfulness in seeking Him.

She was a kind person who was plagued with insecurity that started when she was a child living with negligent parents. One day when they left her home alone, she seriously injured herself and had a large scar to show for it. Rose also told me about her failed suicide attempt as an adult. God intervened at the last minute when He sent someone to her apartment just as she started to try to end it all.

Though my heart went out to her with compassion, I became overwhelmed with her frequent requests for affirmation: "Do I look okay?" or "Do I look fat?" She was very thin, but I couldn't convince her of that. I tried to encourage her in her faith and boost her confidence as best I could, but her neediness left me feeling so depleted after several months that I started to search for a cheap room to rent somewhere. I figured that I could manage two rents until the end of our lease. But God impressed upon my heart that I'd be better off if I spent more time away from home studying at the library. That did help.

He also told me to look at Rose through His eyes. Through faith I was supposed to see the well-adjusted, healthy woman that God would transform her into someday. He told me to relate to her as if she were already healthy and whole, and in that way I might be able to help her have a better self-concept. I did my best.

By the end of our lease a year later I was grateful that I had the opportunity to witness God's power as He transformed Rose from being plagued with self-hatred and fear into a woman of faith and sanity. Rose truly was changed. She eventually got involved in missionary work overseas. I keep her example in mind when I encounter women scarred by life's trials and look at them with greater hope as a result.

After two years in the art school I couldn't take any more of the dreariness. I didn't know what direction to go in. I sensed the need to slow down my pace and take time to hear from God and get to know Him better. I made a daring move and quit school, gradually building up my work schedule with babysitting, housecleaning and secretarial work. One guy in my church warned me that many students who quit college never return, but I knew I would eventually get my degree.

As I took more time to seek God, I had good prayer times, but also developed a strange ability to receive words in my mind that I had never heard before. I would look them up in the dictionary and discover that they were real words. I was intrigued by this and kept "hearing" more words. I'd write down their meanings and try to surmise what God might be telling me through them. I was reading scripture also, but I should have been concentrating on it more. I was drifting off into hyper-spirituality.

The words entering my mind soon became frequent and accusatory such as: clandestine, surreptitious, restive and indolent. I kept feeling like God was pointing out my evil motives and character flaws like a captor would interrogate a prisoner of war. I became more self-absorbed and distraught. Unaware of how to "take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ" (2 Corinthians 10:5), I became vulnerable to being tormented by Satan's false accusations.

I'm thankful that one of my roommates knew I was in trouble. She encouraged me to speak to the pastor's wife, so I did. I described the words I was receiving in my mind and she recognized it as a work of the enemy and prayed for me to be free of them. I believed God would protect me as a result of her prayer. I meditated on God's love and mercy as expressed in the Psalms. I also fed on uplifting words from a devotional book called Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman.

Because I became convinced that it was not God's nature to speak to me in a condemning and critical way that left me full of self-loathing, I was able to reject the harsh words if any floated my way. I learned that when God corrects us, He speaks in a firm, but loving manner while imparting His strength to do what is right. There is a distinct sense of freedom when the Holy Spirit points out a sin that we can be delivered from. God will never use an approach that leaves a person feeling trapped and lost in their wicked ways. I was truly free of the strange critical thoughts within a few weeks.

**Chapter 6 - My Sheep Hear My Voice**

Working odd jobs for a year had been a welcomed change of pace. It was now time to return to school and explore pursuing a new field of studies by taking classes in a variety of subjects. Since I didn't send in the forms for financial aid for The University of Michigan, I decided to try out nearby Eastern Michigan University because their tuition was half the cost and I could take the city bus.

I was nervous and excited about getting back into the routine of studies as I started classes in the fall. However, I ended up not enjoying studying at Eastern because the students didn't seem as enthusiastic about their classes as the students at U of M were. I wasn't sure I'd last long there.

On a Saturday morning a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I decided to walk to a Women's Aglow meeting. I was curious about this charismatic group of women. The guest speaker had an amazing testimony about God bringing her back from the dead after she overdosed on drugs. As she was descending into hell, she remembered being taught about Jesus as a young girl. When she cried out to Him, Jesus appeared immediately and pulled her out of the pit. Then He brought her back to life. Wow! She served Him with zeal from then on. I was inspired by her stories of extended periods of fasting and how God would reveal Himself to her and guide her in very clear ways. My heart ached to know God more intimately like she did.

As soon as she ended her message, she pointed to me and asked me to come forward. When I stood before her, she placed a drop of oil on my forehead and said quietly, "The Lord wants to minister through you." As she prayed for me, I sensed the presence of the Holy Spirit come upon me and I started to lean backwards under the weight of God's glory. As I floated to the floor, the Lord showed me a vision of my spine and His hands breaking it and He spoke to my heart, "This is not necessary." I knew He was referring to my own strength (symbolized by my spine), which was not needed in order for me to be fruitful in my service to Him. I was to rely solely on His power and be filled with His Spirit's anointing through time spent seeking him daily.

At this point in my life, my zeal for God had been waning a bit, so I really needed this "shot in the arm" to stir up my spirit again and compel me to move forward in God. I was very grateful for the speaker's word of encouragement and her prayer. I wondered exactly how the Lord wanted to minister through me.

I walked home feeling more alive in my spirit and aware of God's nearness. As I was about to ascend the stairs of my apartment building, the Lord gave me a vision in my mind of a large stone church I knew of on a street over a mile away. In it I saw a girl praying at the altar. The Lord said, "Go talk to her." I would have preferred going up the stairs to eat something after all the walking I had done that morning, but I felt compelled by the Spirit to go at that moment and not waste any time. God would strengthen me.

Sure enough, when I arrived at the church, there was a girl alone at the altar praying. I waited for her to return to the pew where her things were. When she came over I told her that God had sent me to talk with her. She was all ears as she took a seat next to me. I told her about the meeting I went to that morning and briefly summarized what God had done in my life recently. She opened up to me, telling me about her new faith in Christ and her struggle about whether or not to get baptized. I encouraged her to follow through with baptism and explained a little about its importance. It was a fruitful encounter. I was so glad that I had obeyed God's voice. It is amazing how God can give His children such specific directions when we need them.

I was inspired by the Aglow speaker's example of extended periods of fasting, so I decided to try a five day fast. I really wanted to hear from God and see Him move in my life. I ate a small breakfast each morning and drank a lot of water to give me some energy for walking around the campus. I had more time to spend in prayer. My hunger got to me sometimes, but not enough to deter me because God was empowering me to persevere. (By the way, do not break an extended fast by eating Thanksgiving dinner like I did unless you want to make sure you don't gain any weight from indulging yourself and you don't mind intestinal pain.)

Near the end of the five days I was hearing God's voice with more clarity and conviction than ever before. I was seeing things in my life that were not pleasing to Him and I received a greater awareness of His holiness. I felt God giving me the strength I needed to choose His will. It was as if a veil was being removed from my eyes and chains were being loosed from my soul. His path before me became quite obvious. One of my rare journal entries from that time period stated:

"I remember how I used to write to You frequently as a young teen. Since then, even though I'm now born again, I've been afraid to share openly with you. I haven't written You letters. I've only recorded word studies and such. How patient you have been with me! Show me your heart. I pray to be led by Your Spirit.

One day during my fast I went to work where I was a part-time secretary for a woman who sold cosmetics. Each time I stamped a catalogue cover, I had to see the face of the woman who founded the company. She seemed to sneer at me with her heavy makeup and sleazy clothes.

I became thoroughly sickened and was appalled that I was supporting such a person. I felt the grief of God's heart very strongly. I knew He was telling me to quit my job. The Lord had already revealed to me during my fast that He wanted me to return to U of M for the next semester. Since November was almost over, that left me one month to apply for financial aid. It was actually ridiculous for me to expect to get any financial aid by applying so late in the year.

Yet God's direction was clearly spoken to my heart. Would I trust Him enough to meet my needs even though I would be jobless? Would I have the faith to believe He could cover the cost of my tuition at a school that cost twice as much as my current one? The only income I could count on was a monthly check from my dad that covered my living expenses.

I decided to step out in faith and obey God. I quit my job in December and enrolled at U of M in business and language classes. As I approached the financial aid counter to turn in my forms, I told myself that I was crazy. But the Lord immediately said, "See how I will provide." His words boosted my sense of joyful anticipation. I thought, "It will be interesting to see how You maneuver this one."

For the next month, as I waited for my financial aid packet, it felt strange going to classes without the money to pay for them. I had no credit cards and I often feared getting in trouble because of unpaid bills. Then I would remind myself that God had told me, "See how I will provide." I hoped His answer wasn't a huge loan. Yet, it would be better than receiving nothing.

When I finally received my aid packet I could hardly believe my eyes. God had not only provided, He did so in the best way possible. I had been given a scholarship that covered all of my tuition! I had not received it the previous two years, so I was confused as to why I was suddenly eligible for it. I found out later that the award was related to a test score I had in high school. I was ecstatic and told everyone my good news. God was faithful and I had heard Him correctly. I was seeing the truth of John 10:4 in my life, "...his sheep follow him because they know his voice."

I had signed up for economics and Spanish which I enjoyed, but accounting was an entirely different story. Not everything was clearly spelled out for us, so we were forced to figure out some steps on our own as we did the homework. I wasn't as skilled at coming up with innovative solutions as most of the other students were. I had to exert extra effort just to stay afloat. The neat, orderly world that I hoped to discover in accounting was becoming a bothersome mess. With the exception of calculus, I had been spoiled in many of my classes because I rarely had to wallow in confusion or apply myself too much in order to get a good grade.

While I was toiling over my accounting homework one night, God said, "I want you to study My word with the same diligence that you are applying toward your accounting homework." In my mind's eye I saw before me a path that split and led in two different directions. Then Jeremiah 6:16 came to mind: "Stand at the crossroads and look; ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls." I was at a crossroad in my life. God was giving me the choice to stay where I was or walk in the way that would be good for me. As I vacillated, God imparted to me a deeper love for learning about His word and I soon felt led to transfer to a Bible College in the fall. I started investigating my options.

Besides God speaking to me about the plans He had for my life, He sometimes spoke to me about witnessing more often to unbelievers outside of my family. I had to overcome my fears and follow the leading of the Spirit. God led me to a young woman in my Spanish class who was very sweet. We would talk periodically. From our conversations I realized that she did not know Jesus personally. God kept giving me a sense of His deep love for her and He showed me the softness of her heart. I knew I had to tell her about these impressions because the Holy Spirit kept bringing her to mind. I was afraid that she might think I was strange, so I kept avoiding the subject. I felt terrible about it.

When it came time for our final exam, I knew this was my last chance to tell her about God's love for her because it would be highly unlikely that I would run into her again on the large campus. I repented of my procrastination and fear and asked God for one final opportunity to talk with her. Several Spanish classes were taking the exam together in a lecture hall. I eventually spotted her sitting near the front. I got nervous as students started finishing the exam and walking out. I wasn't done and wanted to finish before she left so I could catch her. I kept praying. Finally, I handed my test in and as I left, she happened to be leaving at the same time. I knew God was working behind the scenes and was overjoyed that He had given me another opportunity to obey His voice.

While outside I told her that I had been sensing for sometime that God saw her as very precious to Him because of her soft heart. Her eyes lit up and she started asking me a bunch of questions about my faith and my church. She didn't think I was weird at all. I was overwhelmed by her receptivity and got flustered. I answered her questions as best I could, but wished later that I had offered her my phone number if she wanted to talk more. I was fascinated that God had opened for me a little window into her soul. The fact that He kept pushing me to talk with her showed me how much He wants to reach people with His love.

One day while I was walking through a long dark covered walkway near the U of M hospital, God spoke to my heart to be aware that I would face a lengthy trial sometime in my future. He said, "A time will come in your life when you will go through dark and oppressive days, but they will have an end, just as this tunnel has an end and opens to the light." I wondered what He could be referring to. I felt a little uneasy, but not alarmed. I could take comfort in the fact that, because God knew ahead of time that it was going to happen, I could be assured that He would be with me through it all. Also, I felt some peace about His promise that I wouldn't be mired in the suffering forever, whatever it was. It was a word that made little sense to me that day, but would become evident within a number of years.

During the spring and summer God had to build up my faith for leaving U of M, my friends and church so that I could start out on my new adventure knowing He would be with me. He taught me the importance of praising Him and praying early each morning. I started rising at 5 a.m. to fit in at least an hour for communing with Him before my classes started. I would go to the laundry room in the basement of our apartment building for privacy, sit on the dryer and open my heart up to God. If the storage room wasn't locked, I'd go in there and get loud with my singing and prayer. I learned that praising God and singing to Him was a necessary form of spiritual warfare that helped prepare the way for me to follow Him. I enjoyed doing battle for His kingdom.

On one of those occasions God used Ezekiel 18:2-4 to give my self-concept a major overhaul:

"What do you people mean by quoting this proverb about the land of Israel: 'The fathers eat sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge'? As surely as I live, declares the Sovereign Lord, you will no longer quote this proverb in Israel. For every living soul belongs to me, the father as well as the son – both alike belong to me. The soul who sins is the one who will die."

Here God is reprimanding Israel for excusing the fact that they had adopted the heathen practices of Canaan because the previous generations had done so. Everyone will give an account of himself before God someday, so no one can point to their parents and say, "It is because of them I have chosen the wrong path."

I believed I was destined to imitate many aspects of my mother's behavior – good and bad - simply because I was her daughter. But that day the Lord made it clear that even if my mother had a propensity toward certain harmful behaviors ("eaten sour grapes") that caused me suffering ("set my teeth on edge"), I didn't have to be negatively affected by her behavior anymore. Righteousness and wickedness are not hereditary. God had given me the freedom and duty to choose what was right in His eyes.

Neither did I have to "die" in my soul and continue to suffer as a result of her sins. Jesus came to preach the good news and "bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives" (Isaiah 61:1). Jesus had given me His comfort and set me free to be the woman I was created to be. My mother will be accountable to God for her choices just as I will be for mine. We were separate people.

As I sat on the dryer reflecting on the verses in Ezekiel, God continued to open my understanding. I saw that my mother's controlling manner combined with my passivity had resulted in me becoming overly focused on making her happy. Even though God had been transforming me over the past few years, I still needed my motivation in life transformed. Jesus was braking through the bondage, presenting me with a firm call to follow His example, not my mother's. He wanted me to work for God's glory and purposes, not hers or my own. I felt encouraged as more chains slipped off of my soul and I determined to imitate Christ more and leave old harmful ways behind.

In order to become more like Christ, God had to keep reminding me to develop a listening ear for His voice so I could gain His perspective and direction. Verses like Psalm 139:17-18 encouraged me to believe that God had a lot to say to me and to anyone who will listen to Him:

"How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand."

It was easy for me to imagine endless grains of sand from my countless walks in the dunes along Lake Michigan. How could God have so many thoughts that He wants to share? The prospect was exhilarating and overwhelming. What encouraged me even further to press in to hear God's voice was that the psalmist David described God's thoughts as "precious." God's words are our very life. As Moses said, "man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord" (Deut 8:3).

Without the inspiration and guidance that come from reading God's word and listening to His voice, our spirits can easily become dreary from the cares of this life. What thrills me is the assurance that God knows just how to speak to each individual to help them. He even knows what tone of voice works best for each person and their situation, so there's no reason to be fearful of approaching God for answers or to just bask in His welcoming presence.

A very busy lifestyle can be a huge hindrance to developing a listening ear. Since God wants to communicate with everyone, we have to believe there is a block of time each one of us can carve out somewhere in our schedules to be quiet before Him and read His word. If we never hear God say anything, we can convince ourselves that God doesn't have a strong opinion about most things or that He rarely speaks today. Early morning prayer worked best for me before everyday distractions invaded my thoughts.

I can picture God looking down at the people on earth with an intense aching in His heart to communicate His thoughts of love, guidance, admonition and hope. Of course, it's not always easy to hear His voice and we cannot expect to understand everything God does, since He is far greater than our finite minds can grasp, but I believe we are often missing out on many divine words of encouragement as we rush about.

During another time of prayer the Lord clarified my call to intercession by reprimanding me through Jeremiah 21:12-14:

"Administer justice every morning; rescue from the hand of his oppressor the one who has been robbed...I am against you, Jerusalem, you who live above this valley on the rocky plateau, declares the Lord – you who say, 'Who can come against us? Who can enter our refuge?"

Since my life was going fairly well, I was content to focus on praying for my needs, the concerns of my family and friends and sometimes our nation or other areas. I felt like Jerusalem in Jeremiah's day before their exile to Babylon - safe on a high plateau. Why should I be overly concerned about suffering strangers in the valley? God called Jerusalem to "administer justice every morning" which I took as His call for me to pray earnestly each morning for doors to be open in the spirit realm for His justice to be manifested in various places on earth.

Every Christian is obligated to be faithful to help others by using the unique abilities they have been given. My primary call was to pray on behalf of others. It was easy for me to belittle the importance of prayer as a ministry because, though I saw God answer specific prayers and work miracles occasionally, I usually didn't see the immediate tangible results. God could be moving invisible mountains as the result of my petitions. I needed to proceed in faith. If I was lax in following His call to intercession, I knew God would have to discipline me in order to remind me to be more conscientious about it. He had given me a responsibility that I shouldn't take lightly.

Much of the course of individual lives and nations is directly affected by the churches' prayers as we don our battle gear of truth, righteousness, faith and God's word to war with "the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms" (Ephesians 6:12). I purposed to be more intent on praying for His kingdom to be spread on earth.

God soon impressed upon my heart the necessity to pray for my pastor and my church about a half-hour each day. I knew God wanted to work in greater measure and sensed that the life of the church might be at stake for some reason not made clear to me. One time as I started to pray for the church, I was suddenly aware of the presence of several heavenly beings in a ring behind me (though I saw nothing) and they shouted in unison with great urgency to my spirit, "Pray!" I assumed they were angels and they imparted to me their heavy concern that souls were at stake. I fell forward on my knees in prayer with greater fervor and cried out for God to work in hearts.

Another time during prayer the Lord gave me some scriptures and thoughts to share with my pastor as a daughter would respectfully share with her father. He received the words well and I was glad I had ventured to say something (I can't recall now exactly what I shared, but it was something about pursuing God).

I did not continue in prayer for my church once I moved and I'm sad to say it ceased to exist a few years later due to some leadership problems. Some people were disillusioned and seemed to have lost their way. So I saw why there had been a need for serious intercession. At least the church had enjoyed a number of years of close fellowship with the Lord. Independent churches really need to band together tightly for support. We had two reunions where everyone had a wonderful time reminiscing.

In the meantime, the Lord kept pushing me to attend Bible College. It was hard to relinquish my scholarship at U of M and the prospects of a useful degree in business from a prestigious university. However, God told me that if I were to pursue a degree at U of M, I would have to do it all in my own strength. He would not give me His grace to do it. I knew by then that I didn't have much strength without Him (especially when it came to accounting), so I prepared to transfer to a Bible College in the Detroit area.

I sent in my financial aid application wondering how I was going to afford the tuition at a private college minus my scholarship which I assumed could only be used at state schools. I pleaded for God's help. I kept reminding myself of how God provided free tuition for me during my last semester.

When I received the financial aid notice I was amazed. Not only was my scholarship applicable at the Bible college, it was doubled! Again God had provided far beyond what I expected. My tuition for all three years was free. God is so good! I accepted work-study to cover a few other expenses.

I hated having to tell my parents that I was leaving U of M. Their disappointment came as no surprise. I had to overcome my sense of shame and tell myself that pleasing God was all that mattered. I was so grateful that my dad offered to let me live with him rent-free and commute to the college.

I feared that I might experience a little persecution as a charismatic at a school with a primarily Baptist bent. Knowing my concern, God told me to go for a walk and He would give me some kind of reassurance. I wandered near the farmers' market area in Ann Arbor and ran into a woman from church. I told her where I was planning on going to college and she said she had some friends who went there and now had fruitful ministry jobs. That was God's encouragement for me. He knew my primary aim was to engage in meaningful ministry after graduation, so He enabled me to hear about others who did just that. I had more peace about transferring.

One time as I was in prayer, God gave me an unusually precise vision about the next church He wanted me to attend. In my mind I saw a map of Detroit and the Holy Spirit highlighted a spot in the suburbs not far from my mother's house. He showed me the interior of an Assembly of God church and the size of the congregation.

Next I saw a young, single pastor standing in front of me and all of my desire went toward him. I wanted to marry him because I believed he would fulfill me. Then Jesus stepped between us, fixed His gaze on me and proclaimed resolutely, " **I** will be that for you." He was giving me a firm, but loving rebuke to remind me to keep Him first in my heart. I realized with some discomfort that I was supposed to set my strong desires for total fulfillment on Christ, not on any man. After all, only Christ can satisfy all of our longings completely.

I had not fully accepted Isaiah 54:5, "'For you Maker is your husband – the Lord Almighty is his name....'" Whether single or married, God is our ultimate husband because He knows best how to constantly show us love and meet our needs and refine us through the "washing with water through the word" (Ephesians 5:26). A man could fail me just as I could fail him because we were both human. But God would never fail me.

I started speculating as to what else Jesus might mean by, "I will be that for you." I feared that Jesus was saying I wasn't supposed to ever marry anyone. Then I wondered if the Lord meant I could marry that minister, but I should be careful to keep Jesus as my first love. The third possibility was that God had someone else in mind for me and I shouldn't even let myself get sidetracked by this pastor. It would take awhile, but I would eventually have my questions answered.

**Chapter 7 - Biblical Instruction and Service**

My dad lived in a modest house set back from a busy road on the outskirts of the Detroit suburbs. Peaceful fields stretched for a few miles beyond his backyard where we cross-country skied or hiked.

My dad was so kind to get me my first car. It was a used Bobcat that served me well during my long commutes to Bible College. It has been my most impressive car to date because it always got me where I needed to go even though it was well worn, had been through several accidents and was missing a headlight. I loved the raised eyebrows its crushed front end sometimes inspired.

I soon found the church God had shown me in my vision. There just so happened to be an Assembly of God church with the type of building I had seen and it was in the location I was led to on the map. I was amazed and grateful for such clear direction and knew this would be my home for awhile.

As I looked up front at the pastors, I spotted a red-headed, energetic young man seated among them and found out that he was single. I remembered God's warning that He alone could be the one to fulfill my deepest desires, yet I dove headlong as I fixed my heart firmly on the pastor who was over the youth.

I was taken with his dynamic personality, but I was so nervous around him that I could hardly talk. For the first time in my life I had a problem with stuttering and embarrassed myself beyond belief a couple of times. God's warning to guard my heart created a battle within me that made it hard to think straight. The pastor was gracious enough to gloss over my inane ramblings, but I'm sure he thought I had a screw loose, which wasn't far from the truth because I continued imagining that I was his future wife.

Early in my attendance in the church's singles class I met a nice guy who was not the least bit attractive to me, so I was able to make friendly and intelligent conversation. I treated him like a brother, just like I did the men at my old church where dating was still entered into very cautiously. Hardly any of my old friends in Ann Arbor had been dating. I figured most Christian men were just as slow and careful. But these men had never been introduced to a ban on dating.

Unbeknownst to me, I was in the "real world" now where men read into warmth and friendliness as possible signs of romantic interest. After a few minutes the guy asked, "So, what are you doing Friday night?" My brain froze, then it started reeling. I wanted to say, "Are you kidding? You just met me! How inappropriate!"

I had never been asked out before except by a drunken guy at a high school party who was standing by the door asking every woman who passed by, "Will you go out with me?" He must have heard, "No thanks," twenty times that night. So I had no practice in responding to a genuine inquiry. Behind a stiff, pleasant face I finally said I would be busy with my studies. He got the message.

I was unaware that it's common for large singles ministries to have a few men who habitually ask the new women out without exercising much discretion. I assume they are desperate to find a girlfriend and want to make a move before some other guy does. These men are rarely successful in their pursuits because they appear predatory and shallow in their reasons for dating.

In a short time another guy who hardly knew me asked me out. He oozed sleaziness and needed someone to set him straight about his behavior. After that I determined to be more businesslike among the men. Most of them were good, decent guys, but I realized with dismay that my protective bubble was gone and I had to make sure my Holy Spirit radar was on so I could deflect potentially sticky situations gracefully.

Though I occasionally had issues to contend with in the singles group, it was easy to focus on the Lord during the services where God's presence was tangible. I was impressed with the senior pastor's preaching and my heart rejoiced when I saw people respond to the altar calls for salvation. The church offered a good variety of classes for adults, home Bible studies, prayer meetings and opportunities to help out in different departments. I quickly became very involved and usually went to church four times per week. I made friends with people of all ages and learned a lot about the Lord. I felt so blessed to be where God's Spirit was moving to transform lives.

Because my Bible College required that I serve in a different ministry each semester, I got a taste of many aspects of the church. I worked with elementary aged children in a couple of different settings, but I became the most attached to the innocent two-year-olds as I helped teach their Sunday school class. Month after month we sang to about twenty-five children, most of whom just stared at us like little zombies. Little did we know that they were singing the songs at home. The most rewarding moment was when one mother told me her daughter had pointed to me and whispered in her ear, "I love her." I had no idea I was having any impact on the shy child who stared at me with large, brown eyes as I read Bible stories.

Later on, I became one of the Bible study leaders for the College and Career group that usually had a couple dozen in attendance. It was an intimate setting that encouraged strong, godly ties because we all liked to talk about what the Lord was doing in our lives. It was in that group that He first started using me to give prophecies after our worship time. No one else would prophesy even though it was a common practice among the older saints in the main services on Sunday mornings. I wondered why prophesying had been so common among the college students from my church in Ann Arbor, but was unheard of among these twentysomethings.

I was most challenged when I led a Bible study with about fifteen women who were part of a rehabilitation program that was sponsored by the Assemblies of God. Most of the women were in their twenties and from different parts of the country. They struggled with overcoming addictions or destructive home environments. The success rate of those who completed a year in residence was far higher than secular rehabilitation programs. They also had a separate men's program that was much larger. Everyone attended frequent Bible classes on site, finished their GED if need be, worked off site in various jobs under supervision, and did household chores in a very structured setting.

After the study I would have private conversations with women who had been involved in substance abuse, witchcraft, same sex relationships, domestic violence, etc. I saw the power of Jesus in their lives as they fell in love with Him and were changed. There were three or four women who were quite excited about growing in their faith. They joyfully participated in the studies I led and I was very grateful that they kept the discussion interesting. Most of the women, however, were on the quiet side, probably glad for a little break in their busy schedule where they could just sit and listen. There were usually one or two who would nod off. I tried not to take their slumber personally.

While I adjusted easily to my new church, the contrast between the extremely liberal sea of over 35,000 students at U of M and the claustrophobic conservative Bible College with about 450 students was a jolt on my mindset as a student. I couldn't believe that displays of affection between men and women were tightly regulated. They couldn't even hold hands! I had flashbacks of Maranatha. I balked a little over the prohibition against wearing jeans. What bothered me also was the policy on taking attendance. I had previously found comfort in being a nameless face in a large lecture hall in Ann Arbor where I wasn't accountable to anyone but myself. Here the professors and fellow students would actually come to know me as a person. I quickly came to appreciate the close knit community where people supported each other and enjoyed joking around or conversing about the new things God had been teaching them.

I majored in Bible and Psychology. After surviving the rigors of U of M's classes, the coursework at the Bible College was disappointingly simple, sometimes even easier than my classes had been in high school. My studies were time consuming only if a lot of reading had been assigned.

The most difficult professor taught an engaging systematic theology class. I frequently received the top scores, so he sat with me for lunch one day to ask why I, as a charismatic, did so well academically when my kind of church often discounted education. He was intrigued when he heard I went to U of M. I wondered how he could have been so prejudiced about charismatics.

Then I recalled the ministers in my church referring to seminaries as "cemeteries" because they thought many formerly strong Christians graduated with a dead, intellectualized faith. I had no fear of education being a threat to my faith. And why was it that Bible College was often considered acceptable in my church, but seminary was not? I would think that any continued pursuit of the study of God's word would be a good thing as long as the student was on guard against heresy and arrogance.

One day when students from my class were appointing their peers for student government, the position of social director came up. Someone nominated me and I immediately heard the Lord say, "No!" But not wanting to turn down any kind of honor and thinking that the position would not require much work, I agreed to take it. Yet, it continued to bother me that the Lord had sounded so loud and adamant in my spirit.

A couple of weeks later I was told I had to write a humorous skit to be performed in the chapel. Suddenly I knew why God had said, "No!" I didn't know the first thing about telling jokes let alone writing them for skits. If I ever made anyone laugh, it was by accident. They would be hard pressed to find a person more serious than myself. Nevertheless, it was my new job, so I made an attempt at a script that I thought was fairly amusing about the Christian life using scriptures from Revelation.

When I handed the script to the dean, I sat down with my eyes fixed on him, waiting expectantly for the first chuckle. But as he scanned the pages, a furrow started to develop in his brow. I don't think he laughed once. He thanked me for my efforts, but I understood when he said they'd better quickly search for someone else to write a new skit who was familiar with the quirky aspects of the professors' personalities and what was humorous about our student life. I had just started attending the school and wasn't aware that there was anything to joke about. I thought college was all about studying.

I quickly resigned as social director much to the student government's annoyance. They didn't realize I was doing them and the whole school a favor by just sticking with my studies. I learned that life is much easier if I take to heart what God says to me, especially when He uses such an urgent tone. It's never beneficial to rationalize and come up with excuses when clear directives come from heaven. God always knows what He is talking about.

The "persecution" I feared from the noncharismatics was brief. The worst hit came from a professor who declared to the class that charismatic gifts were from the devil. I could hardly believe my ears. He knew that people from various denominations were present, yet he dared to make such an offensive comment. He probably thought he was doing the Lord a service by attempting to turn the charismatics from their "evil ways."

I decided that I should find the scriptures that led me to believe that the charismata (gifts of the Holy Spirit) were for today. The primary scripture that I felt applied to my use and understanding of prophecy and tongues in particular was 1 Corinthians 14:1-5, especially verses 3-5, "He who speaks in a tongue edifies himself, but he who prophesies edifies the church. I would like every one of you to speak in tongues, but I would rather have you prophesy."

As I read about the many outpourings of the Holy Spirit in the first century church which were accompanied by prophesying and speaking in tongues in the book of Acts and noted documentation throughout church history, I saw no reason to believe that those gifts of the Spirit stopped with the apostles. Many of the Early Church Fathers such as Irenaeus (A.D. 185), Justin Martyr (A.D. 165) and Augustine in his City of God (A.D. 426) refer to the Holy Spirit working miracles and inspiring prophecy. Many more accounts of the Spirit's work can be found in Martin Luther's writings and other's descriptions of revivals through the years.

When I prayed in tongues I definitely felt edified or uplifted by God's Spirit because it became much easier to hear His thoughts. I was never taught that prophecy in the church was on par with Scripture because we were fallible and only received partial insights intended to encourage each other as we followed Jesus. My search that was inspired by the professor's comment caused that aspect of my faith to be strengthened. For that I am grateful.

It was rare that students would mock the charismatics as being overly emotional. On more than one occasion I had seen fellow students shake their hands in the air and start babbling and laughing. I knew that if they had been flooded with the Spirit of God as I had been on the night I got baptized, they would quickly change their tune. They were firmly convinced that the charismatic gifts of the Spirit passed away with the first century church, so I wasn't interested in arguing about it. However, I did make it known that I was one of those "weirdo" Christians.

**Chapter 8 - Miracles in a Desert Convent**

One morning near the end of my first year in Bible College, I awoke to the sweet presence of God as he spoke Jeremiah 31:3 to my heart: "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." For a few moments I felt as though I were swimming in a warm pool of God's love. My faith was boosted and I believed that He would protect me no matter what. A few days earlier my mother had asked if I would move out west with her. These words from God's heart to mine gave me the peace I needed to consider her offer. He then said, "Don't be afraid to go with her."

God knew I was nervous about traveling and living with my mom because I was aware that being in such close quarters with an unbeliever would naturally cause tension. Also, we still sometimes had our misunderstandings due to our personality differences. To top it off, she had no idea where she wanted to settle – just somewhere out west. So much was up in the air. I hoped that wherever it was, there would be a Bible college nearby for me to transfer to. In spite of all these concerns, God had spoken with such a reassuring tone that He made it easier for me to trust His leading. I decided to launch out into the unknown.

My mom had started dating a doctor named Max when I was in high school. Claire and I saw him occasionally on weekends at his place or at nice restaurants. He never wanted children and had enjoyed the unfettered lifestyle of a bachelor for many years. My mom moved in with him after Claire left for college. Now three years later she wanted out of the relationship, was packing a small U-Haul and heading out west to make a new start.

For the past year I had been watching the Richard Roberts show and acquired a strong desire to attend Oral Roberts University because of the many testimonies I heard about God working in amazing ways there. I longed to see the campus, so we headed toward Tulsa, Oklahoma. We traveled through Springfield, Missouri on the way so that I could whiz by the Assembly of God colleges. As we continued on in a southwesterly direction in search of a place to spend the night, I cowered as I saw dark, ominous clouds fill the mountainous pass between Missouri and Oklahoma. I was unaware that we had entered a popular path for tornadoes in the spring.

We didn't have much money, so my mom packed a tent. We found a small campground with a peninsula that stuck out in the middle of a lake. The storm was building, so I kept my ears fixed to the car radio. Tornadoes were headed our way as they destroyed whatever lay in their paths just southwest of us. Of all the places we could stay overnight, why were we on a hill in the middle of a lake? It was too late to find another campground. I decided to sleep in the car. My mom eventually joined me as the winds picked up. There were a few others camping on the hill with us.

The newscaster mentioned a house that was flattened except for a lone closet that held an elderly woman and two children inside who had been praying. "Wow! God was merciful," I thought. I prayed hard for God to spare us and others. The storm got rough, but the tornado passed a few miles from us and I was very relieved and thanked the Lord.

When we arrived at Oral Roberts University, I was mesmerized by the futuristic design of the campus. The prayer tower was the most unique structure as it stood on its narrow base and pointed to the sky with a ring of gold spikes about two thirds of the way up. The gold windows on the buildings gleamed all around me as they reflected the bright, hot sun. I felt like I was on the set of Logan's Run or in a Jetson's cartoon. I loved it. I envisioned this being the ideal Christian community filled with wonderful people. I wanted to be a student there as soon as possible, but I kept sensing that God was telling me to wait for some reason. It was so hard to be patient when this seemed like a place where God was moving very powerfully.

My mom decided that we would stay at her friend's condo in Phoenix for a week or so and then explore the California coast while we figured out where to settle. I was entering territory that was entirely new to me. On the way to Arizona I was fascinated by the changing scenery as we approached the desert in the Texas panhandle. Billowing black storm clouds towered over the expansive horizon. As they raced our way, we nervously hunted for a refuge. A lone 1950's diner off the highway had to suffice as the raging winds whipped around us. I half expected the tiny building to be blown to bits, but it survived.

Our second campsite was atop a hill in a quiet desert near Santa Fe. When I awoke the next morning and peered out of the tent, I was awe-struck by the beauty of the pale morning mist that floated over the barren landscape. The world was a peaceful, gentle place as the sweet melody of songbirds greeted the soft glow of the sunrise. So far my mom and I were getting along okay. I was glad that I had heeded God's voice and embarked on this adventure.

Soon we were in Phoenix. I was a long way from the frequently overcast skies of the Midwest. For the first week the heavens were a perpetual bright blue without a cloud in sight. It felt wrong. This wasn't earth, as I knew it. I imagined that I had stepped onto the pages of a science fiction novel as I gazed at a protective sky-dome that might be pierced by bizarre aircraft at any moment. In the distance several jagged mountains shot up from the flat terrain. The tiny lizards darting on the exterior walls of the condo put me on high alert. As I sought God's face for direction, I felt Him telling me to pray for the salvation of the people in that city as if it were my current assignment in His kingdom.

I was quite impressed when I visited Phoenix Assembly of God with my mom. I had never seen such a large church before. Their bus ministry for the poor was extensive. Pastor Tommy Barnett's preaching emphasized God's loving and holy nature and I was uplifted. Back home I had been inundated with sermons that focused on what I needed to do to overcome my weaknesses and become a better Christian. Pastor Barnett's sermons offered me a good balance by helping me focus more on God and His greatness and less on myself and my shortcomings. I decided that I wouldn't mind settling in Phoenix.

One night when my mom went to church with me, Pastor Barnett gave a moving message which included an explanation of the gospel. When he called people to approach the altar to seek God and surrender more wholeheartedly to Him, my mom surprised me by accompanying me to the altar. Perhaps she felt drawn by His loving presence there. She looked more at peace, but when she described her prayer time, I was disappointed to hear that she still hadn't committed her heart to the Lord. At least she moved a step in the right direction.

On a couple of occasions I had shared the gospel with my mother, but she was not receptive, claiming that she could never become a Christian because she had gotten a divorce. Perhaps some of the very strict Apostolic Lutheran teachings she heard as a youth still caused her to feel judged and distant from God. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't convince her that Jesus' death on the cross paid the penalty for every imaginable sin. I explained that God's abundant love covered everything as long as we repented and gave our life to Him. I was heartbroken and perplexed as she resolutely shook her head in unbelief and walked away.

We still wanted to explore California's coast, so after we moved our things from the U-Haul to a storage locker and were refreshed from a week's rest at the friend's condo, we headed farther west. Soon we were in the Mojave Desert where I spotted small groups of bleached blonde youths with their Jeeps and tents camping in the middle of the empty rolling dunes without bathrooms. That did not look fun.

We headed for San Francisco and explored the area with delight. Then we drove south on Highway 1 all the way to Tijuana. The coastline was spectacular – too spectacular, in fact, because my mom kept pointing to different vistas for me to marvel at as she drove. All of her head twisting and arm waving gave me visions of our car careening over the side of a cliff, but I couldn't restrain her distracted driving.

My concern about having to find a job to support myself and wondering where I was going to live combined with the fear of imminent death became too much for me. I developed a headache and had a good cry. I told my mom that, even though all of the sightseeing was fascinating, I needed to settle down as soon as possible to reduce my stress. Unfortunately, her freewheeling spirit still had more land to explore. I did my best to enjoy it.

While we spent a night at the home of one of Max's friends along the coast, Max got a phone call through to my mom. He wanted her back and was willing to do whatever it took. I started to panic. What would I do if she went back to him? I didn't want to go through all of the effort to move out west just to turn around and go back home. I had my hopes set on trying something new. I tried to talk her into sticking with her original convictions, which had sounded valid to me, but she wavered.

In the meantime, we had an itinerary to complete. Each beach town had its own appeal. My favorite cities were Carmel and San Diego. I pictured myself becoming a part of the easygoing lifestyle. We also visited my great aunt and uncle in Santa Barbara where we toured a beautiful mission. It was wonderful to finally meet the couple who always sent me treats for Christmas when I was a child. In San Diego we visited an inspirational church. I was glad my mom could hear more good things about the Lord.

After spending a week along the California coast observing the blonde surfers who looked perpetually happy, I decided to bleach my hair - as if that would increase my fun. I couldn't afford to have my hair done at a salon, so I bleached it myself. I wasn't too concerned if I ruined my hair because no one knew me out there. After a few minutes of waiting with the cream on my hair, my heart sank as I saw my dark brown hair turn to varying shades of orange. It was a far cry from the blonde I had envisioned. Since the ends were much darker than the roots, I chopped them off. I was left with a fiery orange ball of hair. I sighed and figured the quest for more fun would have to wait for the time being.

Then we were off to Tijuana, Mexico. I had no idea that my flaming bob made me stick out like a sore thumb until I hopped on a bus and saw about thirty dark-haired people staring at me in shock. I tried to hide in my seat. When we arrived at a shopping area, I kept flinching when the store owners hollered out at us to come and buy their goods. As we walked along my heart broke when a frail small girl with a baby strapped to her back asked if we'd buy the candy she had. My mom learned from her travels around the globe that such children would have to give all of their money to the adult who put them up to such "work." Then we encountered a blind woman begging on stairs leading to a shop. Dire poverty was all around us.

I had been feeling poor because my cash was almost gone. but our visit to the border town made it clear that I was very wealthy in comparison. I had it pretty good in America where it wasn't hard to find a menial job that would enable me to pay for shelter, food and clothing. It was good to have my eyes opened to the reality of suffering in the world so that I could be a more grateful person and, hopefully, less greedy.

The travelling made it difficult for me to have privacy, so I wasn't having sufficient prayer time. One day I managed to have time to sing songs to the Lord and I felt the His presence fill and strengthen me. I desperately needed a word from God to keep me pushing forward as I worried about where to work and live. One morning I was reading my Bible at a campground and my eyes fell on Proverbs 23:18, "There is surely a future hope for you, and your hope will not be cut off." The words jumped out of the page and into my spirit, creating faith in me. It was as if God was speaking directly to me, telling me not to worry about my future because he had good things planned. I had more peace as I kept reflecting on the verse.

By the time we returned to Phoenix my mom had decided to reconcile with Max and it wasn't long before they were married. She felt bad for dragging me out of Michigan and offered to pay half my rent for a nice apartment for a few months. Since God had led me out west, I was determined to stay there with or without her, so I accepted her offer. With no job, no car and just about broke, I knew I needed God's help in a big way. I cried out to Him daily for His aid and thus began a series of miraculous answers to prayer.

The job search was my first priority. I located a Christian job placement agency. With little experience, my options were limited. I already sensed God telling me to baby-sit. As I flipped through the card file of childcare jobs, I heard the Holy Spirit telling me to take a particular job, so that was the only interview I went on. I told them I could commit to just the summer months, expecting to return to college somewhere in the fall.

I thought the interview went well, but the agency told me they had chosen someone else – probably someone who could work for a year or more. I was distraught. Had I heard God accurately? Yes, I remembered hearing Him speak clearly to my heart. I was confused and prayed for more direction.

I heard the Spirit say, "Be willing to do light housekeeping." After a day or two I got a call from the agency saying that the family I interviewed with wanted me to work for them if I was willing to do light housekeeping. "Oh, how good God is!" I thought. He was so specific with me that I could be absolutely certain that I was following His path. I agreed to the added stipulation and started working the next day. The family told me the first woman didn't stay because she didn't like the long hours. I didn't mind the hours as long as I had a job.

I had planned on taking the city bus, but the couple had an extra car that I could use. What an unexpected blessing that was! They had one little boy who was a good-natured darling. During his naptime it was a pleasure to sit by the inground pool with the baby monitor and read inspiring Christian biographies. I was happy that God had made a way for me to stay in Phoenix for the time being.

My mom insisted on a nice apartment since she would be spending a couple of weeks there. I was relieved that she left a couple pieces of furniture that she would pick up on a later trip.

It was not easy for me to cover my half of the rent on my small income, so I put an ad in the paper for a female Christian roommate to split the cost. God came through again in record time by sending a young woman who merely needed a room to store her things temporarily while she stayed with her aunt. Knowing how difficult it can be to find good roommates, I was struck by God's faithfulness in sending me an honest, reasonable woman who was the first response to my ad.

The summer was unbelievably hot for a northerner. Some days it got up to 114 degrees. Since the car was given to me primarily for work, on the weekends I tried to walk to the library and other nearby destinations. I often felt as though I was literally baking in an oven as the heat radiated up from the pavement. Sometimes I feared passing out, so I didn't go far. I drove to a couple of Assembly of God churches where I made a few casual friends through the singles groups. The activities were limited, however, and I suffered from loneliness.

I spent most evenings at home sprawled on the floor because I didn't have a bed or couch and the intense heat drained me of energy. I used the air conditioning as little as possible to save money, but being on the second floor with a cathedral ceiling made the apartment suffocating. My bed consisted of a thin exercise mat with my clothes stuffed beneath it for some cushion. I kept the rest of my clothes in large garbage bags since I didn't have a dresser. It was strange living so primitively in a gorgeous apartment complex. It was the first time in my life when I appreciated long work hours because I could avoid the mid day heat in a cool house.

One day while touring the grounds, I noticed an ad for a Bible study on the office activity board. I was excited about meeting other Christians and decided to go. When I called the number, a man answered who did maintenance for the apartments. He offered to drive me and I accepted, believing that anyone who posted a Bible study ad and had access to the whole complex had to be trustworthy.

I quickly started to regret my naivete as I entered a rusty old van and listened to a gnarly man talk about his ex-wife while we sped down the dark highway. His suppressed anger and regret were palpable as he described their recent divorce. The oncoming headlights gave me glimpses of his glaring eyes as he talked about starting over with someone new and having children. Was he thinking about having them with me? I began to feel sick to my stomach. I had just met this man with a disturbing demeanor. I realized with growing trepidation that I was an idiot to get in a vehicle with a complete stranger who could be capable of violently assaulting me for all I knew. Where was he really taking me? I prayed in my heart for God's protection.

My tension eased when he pulled up to a little house with a few people seated around a table who looked very meek and clean cut. My driver was one of their recent converts. After some discussion on the Bible lesson, I found out they were conservative Baptists who believed that people who spoke in tongues were filled with the devil. I didn't like hearing anyone say that the gifts of the Holy Spirit were from Satan, so I gently explained that I spoke in tongues and how I believed scripture supports the practice.

Their eyes grew wide with fear as if they expected me to start hissing and jump across the table to claw them. I was dumb-founded. How could they expect me, an innocent looking goody two shoes, to harm anyone? Maybe it was my unnatural looking orange hair that made me suspect. I was at a loss as to how to convince them I was safe. They were nice enough to me and tolerated me being there until the end of the study. I made certain I didn't invade anyone's personal space and breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived safely home. I steered clear of the activity board after that.

I sometimes wondered what I was doing in Phoenix. Besides receiving the call to pray for the city, what was God's intention behind dropping me off in such a fiery furnace? I came to believe that He had put me in a place of partial isolation so that I could focus on Him. I felt as though I was living in my own desert convent where I could seek God. I had few outside distractions, so it was easier to concentrate on spiritual matters, deepening my understanding and trust in Him so I could live a more fruitful life as a result. I read the Bible more often and immersed myself in several faith-building books.

The maintenance man, who turned out to be okay after all (though I kept my distance), took it upon himself to find literature on the local Bible college and kindly brought it to me one day. I considered transferring there, but I later sensed God telling me to return to the Bible college near Detroit. It was mid-August by that time and I had only two more weeks left to work when my employer told me they didn't need me to baby-sit anymore. She had found a replacement for me who wanted to start work right away. I had the option of working in her office for the same pay that I received babysitting, but it was much less than a secretary should make, so I turned down the offer.

I was hurt by the sudden dismissal and the abrupt manner in which it was handled. But as soon as she finished speaking, the Holy Spirit said to me, "This is of Me," and I was greatly comforted. I had been counting on the two weeks pay, but God preferred that I have a two week break before returning to the rigors of school. I took the time to pray and started boxing my belongings for shipping.

I flew home by the end of August. A rainstorm had just passed when I exited the airport in Detroit. I felt exhilarated as I soaked in the cool, moist night air. The green leaves on the trees lining the streets were so lovely. The dry desert had caused me to forget how wonderful rain and lush, green plants are. I was so glad to be home where the landscape was familiar and I could walk outside without oppressive heat.

My time in the desert held valuable lessons that I still carry with me decades later. God's power and voice became profoundly real as I experienced him meeting all my needs when I had next to nothing in a strange place where I had no one to rely on except Him. I learned that I could live without some things that I had taken for granted, like a comfortably cool home, a dresser and a cozy bed! It was exciting to hear God's specific instructions for major decisions, even though waiting for Him to come through was difficult and sometimes scary. That's when faith grows exponentially. Because I was frequently in great need that summer, He had many opportunities to prove to me that He is always faithful in any situation.

**Chapter 9 - Carried on His Wings**

Back at school in the fall I grew more discontented with my psychology classes because our curriculum included the theories of secular psychiatrists who often contradicted scripture. I kept fighting the desire to transfer to Oral Roberts University. Deep down I believed God wanted me to wait to go there.

I proceeded with my course work, oblivious about my GPA until I discovered midway through my last year that I was close to graduating summa cum laude. I hadn't even known there was such a thing as receiving honors for grades in college. Now I had the chance to go through graduation with four other seniors who were about to enjoy the privilege of wearing a gold cord around their shoulders. I started to hunger for that honor and put myself under a little pressure to get all A's. Thus my quest for academic recognition began.

I was very faithful in my studies, but I had a habit of ignoring the Lord's frequent requests that I keep a journal to record events in my life along with thoughts He gave me during prayer and Bible reading. I had a sense that God wanted me to use some of the entries for teaching or writing a book someday. Also, just as God called the Israelites to recount His acts of deliverance in the past (especially the Exodus) to remind them of His love and power, so recording His miracles in my life would help me remember His love for me. I think to some extent journaling is beneficial for all Christians for that reason.

One day a group of young people went to an older woman's house to listen to her teaching and socialize. I was told that our hostess had a gift of prophecy. After having snacks, she told us to sit on the floor in front of her. I thought her request was more appropriate for a group of children, but I complied.

She spoke to a few people to encourage them in their walks with God. When she got to me she had a rather stern voice as she said that God was calling me to record the thoughts that He gives me and I should not ignore His voice. It was as if my soul had been ripped open and laid bare before her. I didn't like her harsh tone, but I had to agree that she was right. Her admonition stuck with me over the years to remind me to return to journaling when I got slack, not only to build up my own faith, but perhaps to strengthen the faith of others someday, too.

God gave me many good reasons for journaling as He was often delivering me from difficult situations. One incident happened in the dead of winter when I was driving to church on a slippery expressway. The snow was several inches thick and still coming down. Plows are often slow in clearing the streets on Sunday mornings in Michigan, so only one lane was somewhat packed down from the little traffic that had been out. The car ahead of me was going at such a crawl that I decided to take a chance and go about 45 mph in the snow-covered lane to pass it.

As soon as I started passing, one of my tires exploded. My car immediately spun rapidly in tight circles over the slick snow. I saw that I had just missed the car next to me and feared I might hit cars just behind me. I felt like I was in a centrifuge gone crazy. I took my hands off the steering wheel and pedals since there was nothing I could do. I cried out to God to deliver me and instantly His peace descended upon me like a gentle cloud. I knew that I would be all right as I continued spinning.

My eyes were still closed when I felt the car start to straighten out, bounce down a ditch, then level out. I figured it was time to open my eyes and hit the brakes. The car stopped a few yards from a fence. I was okay, but my body was trembling. I had spun across a lane of traffic without hitting anyone. I thanked God for watching out for me and the other drivers.

Right away a car pulled over and a man jumped out, crossed the ditch and asked if I was all right. He was all excited as he described seeing my car spinning so fast that it seemed like he was watching a movie. Too bad I couldn't watch a replay and enjoy it like he had.

He asked if I wanted a ride. I was leery about riding with a stranger after my outing with the maintenance man in Pheonix, but this man was well dressed and polite. Since it was cold, I was miles from a phone and I didn't sense the Holy Spirit prohibiting me, I nervously got in his car. Then I looked down and saw some Christian music tapes and quickly felt relief. I mentioned the tapes and he said he was a pastor on his way to his church. Wow! Not only had God sent someone safe, but he sent me a pastor who could take me to his service so that I didn't have to miss church that morning. To top it off, my mom offered to pay for a tow truck to come and change my tire. The whole incident ended up being fairly painless.

God also worked a miracle of deliverance for me when I froze up during an important exam. A few months before I was about to graduate, I started sensing so strongly that I should be majoring in Biblical Literature (Hebrew and Greek studies) that I feared I had chosen the wrong major for my Bachelor's degree. Then one day a fellow student said with enthusiasm, "You should go to graduate school!" As he spoke, the Holy Spirit inside me jumped with joy.

I had not considered graduate school before. I just wanted to get married and serve in the church in some capacity. The minister I had been so enamored with had married the beautiful daughter of a wealthy board member in the church), but I already had my sights set on a very proper man there with whom I had occasional conversations. Yet I knew when the Lord was inspiring me to do something. I still had a desire to attend Oral Roberts University, so I applied to their Graduate School of Theology to pursue a Masters in Biblical Literature. Suddenly my conviction to study the biblical languages made sense.

As an entrance requirement for the seminary I had to take the Graduate Record Exam. Because I had to prepare for my senior paper and current classes, I didn't find time to study for the exam. I had no idea what to expect. When I looked at the analytical section filled with impossibly complicated story problems and realized there was no way I could process every problem within the time allotted, I became so panic stricken that my mind went blank and anxiety threatened to incapacitate me. I saw the future God had planned for me spinning out of reach. I imagined failing the exam and never going to the school of my dreams. I prayed in desperation for clarity of mind. God broke through my fears and helped me regain my composure. I would take it one question at a time.

I had whizzed through the vocabulary, guessing on a few, and went a bit slower in the math section. I chastised myself for not spending at least an hour brushing up on simple formulas. I needed supernatural intervention in order to pass the analytical section, so I asked God to guide my guesses with the multiple-choice answers. I didn't even read ninety percent of the story problems. I simply marked "A," "B", "C" or "D" according to what I surmised the Holy Spirit was telling me to do. Of course, this is no way to take a test unless one is absolutely desperate like I was.

God had mercy on me and worked a definite miracle. I ended up scoring above average in every category! Getting an above average score for the analytical section where I didn't even read ninety percent of the questions definitely goes against the odds of probability. Later on, I realized that if I had known ORU was not nearly as tough as U of M when it came to admitting students, I would not have been so anxious.

The other hurdle I had to overcome was the expense of graduate school. When I received the financial aid notice and discovered I'd have to borrow about $11,000 over the next two years in addition to work study (in the late eighties that was substantial for someone with few job prospects), I laid the papers on the kitchen counter in defeat. I had paid off my loans from U of M with earnings from my office job that summer and did not want to go back in debt.

As I stood there with a troubled heart, the Lord told me to turn on the TV. As soon as I turned it on, Jerry Falwell started talking about how important graduate school is. Then God said, "Believe that I will enable you to pay back the loan once you are done with school." There was my confirmation. God could not have been clearer. I prepared to move to Tulsa.

My old car wasn't up for the trip to Oklahoma, so I let my dad sell it. My mom had offered me her used car for a mere $100 – it was a gift, really.– But I didn't know how I could afford insurance and gas, so I turned down her generous offer and decided to rely on the campus shuttle and my legs. I shipped my things by UPS in about ten boxes. The apartments were furnished, so I didn't need much. Not knowing a soul where I was going didn't concern me because I assumed it would be easy to make friends at a Christian university. I was excited to have my heavenly Father carrying me as I embarked on another new episode of my life.

**Chapter 10 - The Promised Land**

As I started my first semester in the Graduate School of Theology at Oral Roberts University, I rejoiced that my dream was finally a reality after waiting three years for God to open the doors. I was now a part of what I envisioned as the ideal Christian community where people were zealous for Christ, growing in their faith and willing to go anywhere for Him. I loved my professors, classmates and the immaculate, modern buildings wrapped in large gold windows that blazed under the hot Oklahoma sun. I was excited about visiting the area churches and other thriving ministries I had heard about. I was well on my way to heavenly bliss - well...for the most part.

My patience was tested early on with my new roommate, an older undergraduate student who was unusually adept with irritating monologues. All I had to do was nod and say, "Oh," or "Wow" and she could drone on for two hours at a time. I'd creep toward my bedroom door and uselessly hope she'd get the hint that I wanted to study. I was so nice and kind that sometimes I couldn't stand myself.

Since I lacked the courage to slam my door in her face, she imagined that I was her newest disciple captivated by her endless stories about the depravity of men she dated. She had so many bad encounters that she had become convinced that all men were no good vermin unfit to walk the face of the earth. Little did she know that she was speaking to a woman who had never dated and believed that most men were good guys, especially those who walked the halls of ORU. I was convinced that I would soon meet an incredibly wonderful man of God who would sweep me off my feet. Since she never paused even when taking a breath, I didn't have a chance to get a contrary word in edgewise.

Banks were next on her verbal hit list. On many occasions I'd stare in disbelief as she stormed about the apartment ranting and raving about the incompetent idiots at her bank whenever they notified her of yet another bounced check. In her mind it was impossible for her to be the cause for the insufficient funds. I would just nod and look perplexed right along with her as she pounded her bank statements on the table. Somehow she was able to keep paying her share of the bills. That was all I cared about.

What grated on my nerves even further was her strange habit of rising at 5:00 a.m. to bang numerous pots as she prepared to cook chicken for breakfast. Why it required so much banging I could never figure out. Perhaps she wanted me to wake up and listen to her latest tirade. My requests for early morning silence fell on deaf ears.

Then I was terrorized one night when she returned after midnight loudly spewing slurred words as two strange men she had met at a bar carried her into the apartment. I bolted out of bed and locked myself in my bathroom and prayed. The men didn't stay long. I should have reported her since students signed a paper saying they wouldn't drink alcohol, but I didn't want to get embroiled in a mess.

Hot lava had been boiling beneath my serene surface for over a month and the day inevitably arrived when I couldn't hold it back any longer. It was in our tiny kitchen that I let it blow. She had made one male-bashing comment too many and I exploded with a list of complaints regarding her behavior and monologues. Her eyelids flew open wide as her jaw hung open in disbelief. Her sweet disciple had not appreciated her wisdom and was in rebellion. She apologized and toned things down a bit, but old habits die hard and I plotted my escape.

Through a class I met Carrie, another prisoner in her home. Her roommate had hit her arm during a disagreement. As a result, she was living in fear. I was dumbfounded as I listened to her story. We made the necessary arrangements and two months into our first semester we became roommates. We were so relieved to have a peaceful, sane home.

I enjoyed the prestige of being one of the teaching assistants for a brief stint. I was assigned to an Old Testament class. It was a challenge for me to speak in front of a group of over twenty students at a time and make up my own lectures and quizzes from the material. Being treated with such respect was foreign to me. Since teaching was sometimes stressful, I wondered if God had counseling or discipleship of younger women in mind for me as an occupation down the road instead. I got much greater pleasure out of a student confiding in me about their personal life than I did instructing.

Once in awhile I heard fellow teaching assistants discussing in their offices the poor theology of this or that famous preacher. I wasn't accustomed to such bold protests from charismatic Christians about other charismatics. These students condemned the materialistic and self-serving veins of popular teachings within our circles. I had to admit that in the chapel sessions we had heard a few speakers encourage Christians to become successful and wealthy in worldly terms in order to prove to unbelievers that we serve a good God. These preachers reasoned that the lost would be more motivated to serve God when they saw our possessions and accomplishments.

To combat this mentality Psalm 49:16-20 was a favorite of the professor I served under:

"Do not be overawed when a man grows rich, when the splendor of his house increases; for he will take nothing with him when he dies, his splendor will not descend with him. Though while he lived he counted himself blessed – and men praise you when you prosper – he will join the generation of his fathers, who will never see the light of life. A man who has riches without understanding is like the beasts that perish.'

The point was not that a Christian could not be rich. The professor wanted students to be careful that we didn't automatically equate wealth with God's approval and poverty with His disdain. He also wanted to make sure that his students didn't feel obligated to make it their goal in life to become rich.

I had to admit that I still struggled with the concept that a Christian had to be successful in something in order to prove to the world and the church that God was with them. I wanted exceptional grades, a prestigious job, a nice house and the applause of others. But the apostle Paul did not point to circumstances as evidence of God's approval of him as is clear in Philippians 4:12:

"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."

Paul had a solid faith in Christ because he was happy and knew God loved him regardless of his circumstances. He was not about to challenge God to prove His goodness by making the apostle's life comfortable. No matter what happened – good or bad – Paul's faith was anchored in the truth that God was always faithful because He met Paul's basic needs and never abandoned him. I was thankful for the balanced theology the professor provided.

Christmas break was a welcomed reprieve from studies. I stayed with my parents in Michigan for almost a month. I was already pressuring myself to graduate from seminary summa cum laude to maintain the high standards I started in Bible College. I assumed it was God's will that I become one of the top students, then I could easily enter whatever school He may have me attend next. I also liked the admiration I received from others. I was finding my worth in my accomplishments, which was my old weakness, only now I was focused solely on grades to the exclusion of art. My free, creative side would be put on the shelf for quite a few years as a result.

As I prayed one day during my vacation, the Lord clearly told me, "Do not be so academic." I assumed I had been doing His will, so I was surprised by His chastening. I pondered His words and struggled with the idea of releasing my concern over getting all A's. I stood at a monumental fork on my road of life – only I failed to fully realize it.

I lacked the conviction to make a decisive change in my heart and return God to the place of supremacy. Instead, I attempted to meld a devotion to Him and to academics. But Matthew 6:24 is so true, "No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other." I thought I could love God while focusing on earning straight A's. But when it came down to it, my fear of losing the admiration of others superceded my concern over pleasing God. I had no idea how much destruction my compromise would wreak in my life in the near future.

During the first semester I was a little lonely because I was still getting to know people, but by the time I returned for my second semester, ORU had become my home. I had more wonderful friends who deeply loved God than I ever had in my life. I was excited to hear about their callings from God and plans for the future. I enjoyed talking with students from places like Korea and Africa and all over the United States.

Many well-known missionaries and pastors came to speak in our chapels and at the church that used the university's auditorium. Famous Christian singers came to lead worship. I was greatly inspired on a weekly basis by all of the amazing testimonies of God's power to heal, deliver and provide. I felt like I was in the best place on earth.

I was glad that Oral decided to give a series of messages to the students during my first year there. I didn't know much about him prior to attending the school. My faith in God soared as he recounted years of tent revivals where he witnessed many healings. Unfortunately, after repeatedly lifting his hands to pray for long lines of people, he eventually developed shoulder problems. (I saw him in the student gym once receiving instruction at a weight machine on how to strengthen his muscles.) I admired his endurance as he withstood repeated opposition from those in the traditional church when he ventured out with his tent and TV ministries, and then with construction on the university.

I wondered how it would have felt to be in his shoes as he walked the grounds of the campus before anything was built, praying and believing God for the money and workers to be sent. The Lord had placed many grand visions in his heart and he was obedient to follow through with them in spite of the personal sacrifices involved. I hoped to acquire a measure of his courage and ability to trust in God.

Though Oral was certainly inspiring, my favorite speaker was Dr. Yonggi Cho from Korea. Unlike many of the popular charismatic speakers I had heard, he felt no need to flail his arms, stomp around or shout to get our attention. As soon as he started talking, it was evident that this senior pastor of the largest church in the world had a very intimate walk with Jesus. I was all ears. He was astoundingly humble as his small frame stood calmly behind the pulpit while he described God's past dealings with him during an illness that left him bedridden for about ten years.

While preparing to lead a Bible study at a church a couple of years prior, I had read his book, Successful Home Cell Groups, and latched on to his approach to church structure and discipleship with enthusiasm. Like Moses, he learned to share his authority effectively so that trained lay leaders could minister to many people in their homes. I was also greatly impressed with his church's heavy reliance on a well developed prayer ministry. I firmly believe that all major works of God and revivals start with the extended periods of earnest prayer and fasting that his church practiced.

On the other hand, there were a number of chapel speakers whose sermons didn't meet the exegetical standards of the seminary students and professors. We would sometimes return to class and find scriptures to present what we considered to be a more biblical theology. God had placed within us a strong desire for the truth of His word to be preached accurately. We were enthusiastic about honing our newly acquired skills for considering the grammatical, literary, and historical aspects of scripture. First year seminary students can be zealous and highly opinionated, so discussions were fun, especially since we challenged each other to think and we usually came to some form of agreement.

In Bible College I was the minority as a charismatic, but at ORU I was delighted that I fit right in. The fact that I was one of a handful of women in my program wasn't a problem because the men included me in the conversations as if I was one of them. Most of the men were married and a little older than me. Some had already been pastors or pursued a secular career until God called them to seminary to prepare for the ministry. They were very easy to talk with and jovial in the face of the pressures of school and trying to support their families. I attributed their joy to God's grace and call on their lives.

Even though there weren't many young single men in the seminary, there were a few. I figured that ORU would be the ideal place for me to meet my husband because we would most likely have a lot in common, but much to my dismay no one asked me out. Halfway through the first year, my fairly new contact lenses irritated my eyes so badly that I had to throw them away. I couldn't afford another pair because of my prescription so I got new glasses. I have no idea why my sister and mother told me to pick a pair of thick black rimmed glasses. I looked like a female version of Clark Kent, especially with my boxy business attire and an extra ten pounds. I was not making the most of a great opportunity to meet my special someone. With my somewhat reserved personality I needed the help of a better appearance.

Yet one gentleman expressed some interest in me during the first year. He would often smile at me sweetly and just stare. Getting the hint, I made the effort to talk with him on a number of occasions, but he would clam up. I couldn't figure out how he could be so articulate when he had to speak before a large group of people, but resort to brief comments when I would stop to talk with him. I liked everything about him except his inability to talk to me, so I gave up in frustration. After enjoying so many engaging conversations over the years with single or married men in church or college, I couldn't tolerate his guarded demeanor. Now when I look back, I realize he may have simply been shy and I was sadly lacking in patience.

With only a few diversions such as biking along the nearby river, going to church on Sundays and hanging out with friends, school had definitely become my main obsession with Jesus as a distant second. I dutifully prayed daily and read the Bible regularly, but I felt as though I absolutely could not live without a 4.0 GPA. My old enemy of perfectionism was rearing its ugly head, claiming I wasn't worth anything without being the best at something and winning the praise of others.

One day in the middle of my second semester I was sitting in class listening intently to my New Testament Theology professor. It was the only class that made me a little nervous because I wasn't certain that I could get the "A" I thought I so desperately needed.

As I sat there, I suddenly became aware of a spirit of acute fear hovering in the air in front of me. In an instant it darted toward me and lashed my soul with sheer terror. For a moment God seemed powerless and far away. Pure evil from the pit of hell had paid me an unexpected visit and I was profoundly shaken by the encounter. My heart pounded in my chest as I sat still, pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Oddly, the spirit departed as swiftly as it had come. I was quite aware that the fear originated from outside of myself and had attacked me with a vengeance. Never having experienced anything like it before, I was very disturbed and perplexed. Little did I know at the time that I had just entered a dreadful battle in the spirit realm without being adequately equipped with powerful scriptures imbedded in my soul for defense. Since God was no longer preeminent in my heart and I believed my worth depended on my performance, I was vulnerable to being attacked by fear. I was about to experience through a slow and very painful process the truth of Proverbs 16:18, "Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall." I proceeded with my life as usual, but started being plagued with occasional chest pains that troubled me. I knew they were a result of stress, yet I was blinded to the path of peace because I was stubbornly clinging to my goal of getting straight "A's."

As it turned out, I completed the first year of seminary with the 4.0 GPA I wanted so badly. When the professor of the difficult class told me I got an "A," I was so overjoyed that I gave him a hug. He was taken aback, but smiled politely. Maybe I had I been too exuberant. I left his office basking in a sense of great relief because I had proven my worth for the time being. So far seminary had been exhilarating, but also draining because of the pressure I had placed upon myself to achieve. I was eager to return for my second and final year in the fall because I would be even closer to my goal of getting the beloved Master's degree.

**Chapter 11 - Terror from the Pit**

I flew to Michigan to live with my dad for the summer and did secretarial work. One day I heard that a relative had been ill. The chest pains I had been enduring for the past two months caused me to get nervous at the mention of anyone's illness because I felt like I was on the verge of having a heart attack. I had heard of people in their twenties getting them. I had in my favor the fact that I exercised on a regular basis, yet I still worried.

I awoke the next morning around 5 a.m. and experienced my first full-blown panic attack. I didn't know what was happening to me. I didn't even know there was such a thing as panic attacks at that time, but I had the classic symptoms. My heart was pounding uncontrollably and it felt like the world was closing in on me like a dark box wrapped in chains. I struggled to bring my body and mind back to peace and normalcy, but everything seemed to be spinning out of control. My breathing was labored and I wondered if I should awaken my dad to have him take me to the emergency room.

I pleaded with God to tell me what to do. Somehow I was still able to hear His voice. He assured me there was no reason to go to the hospital. I kept praying and started to feel a little better. I wondered if God was chastising me for letting my prayer times slip in length and intensity. I still prayed every day, but my devotion to the Lord was not as apparent as it had been before I started seminary. I had definitely cooled in my zeal. Maybe I should have paid more attention to my pastor's jokes about seminaries being cemeteries so that I wouldn't be overcome by intellectual pride. I determined to have longer prayer times.

Soon after that terrifying episode I went to see a doctor at a walk-in clinic who practiced general medicine. I really should have had my heart checked out at a hospital to set my mind at ease, but this doctor was convenient and I didn't know what else to do with my meager means. I told him about my physical symptoms and fears and he gave me a prescription. Not knowing anything about the medicine, I decided to play it safe and only took half a pill the first night.

That night I had a nightmare that I couldn't remember who I was, so I was unable to fill out a job application. When I woke up, I still couldn't remember my name for a moment and I was horror-stricken. When I finally got my brain flowing, I determined never to take that medication again. I investigated its uses and was appalled to discover that it was for treating psychosis. I was furious with the doctor because it was obvious I had no psychotic symptoms. I was fully in touch with reality and could function well in the tasks of everyday life. That drug had a better chance of making me psychotic rather than bringing me any kind of healing. After that I was afraid to try any other medications.

(As a side note: if prescribed by a competent psychiatrist, the right medications can help reduce anxiety, but that wasn't an option I wanted to explore. I didn't envy someone I knew who endured many combinations of drugs before finding the right mix to fight psychosis and the side effects were bothersome, but tolerable. Max gave me Valium to try, which felt great the first day, but just 1mg made me very lethargic after that, so I took nothing.)

I tried speaking to my pastor's wife about my anxiety because I felt more comfortable sharing with a woman than with a man. Shortly into my session with her, she was checking her watch. With a sinking heart I realized that her mind was elsewhere. She was probably planning the lunch she would make for her husband. She had so little advice and encouragement to give that I felt even more discouraged after meeting with her. I left the office wondering why she was serving in the ministry.

I didn't know who else I could talk to for free. I couldn't afford to pay a counselor. I thought it was tragic that there were no women in our large church with the gift of counseling who had made themselves known and available to help other women sort out their issues. I determined that someday when I got better I would be such a woman for hurting women to confide in and get prayer and scriptural advice from.

My mom and Max suggested I see one of his doctor friends to see if anything was physically wrong with me. They warned me that he had a bad bedside manner. I was very leery since I was feeling fragile, but his services were offered free of charge to me as a favor to Max. I didn't have a better option without health insurance. As predicted, the doctor started making insulting and unsympathetic comments that had me in tears as he examined me. He didn't order any tests. He just took my blood pressure, listened to my heart and felt around my abdomen and couldn't find anything wrong with me. I was a wreck by the time I left his office.

I recovered quickly, but shortly afterwards my mom approached me and said I should see a psychiatrist. I told her I couldn't afford the steep fees without insurance, but she kept pressing the issue. Finally, she said the doctor I saw told her that he thought I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown and she believed him. Though she meant well, her words stabbed my soul like a slew of black arrows shot from a band of demons. My mind started reeling and all sense of stability and security started to give way from under me. Being told I was about to go crazy terrified me. It was as if my mother had pronounced a hideous curse on me. I wanted no part of it, but I felt powerless to combat it.

I ran to the bathroom to cry out to my heavenly Father for assurance. I wanted to know how He saw me. As I quieted my soul after crying for awhile, the Lord told me that I did not have to fear suffering a nervous breakdown. He showed me that the doctor and my mother were wrong. Why swallow the assessment of a doctor who was known for his ability to upset patients? Seeing myself from God's perspective brought immense relief. I may have been suffering from anxiety, but I was not about to collapse. I felt the solid Rock, Jesus Christ, beneath my feet again. He showed me that with His help and the help of the church I could make it through this trying time and still function in society. I didn't have to be hospitalized.

To assuage my mom's fears and to satisfy my curiosity, I made one visit to a Christian psychiatrist since my mom offered to pay for one session. The man was nice and listened closely. He responded to my description of the stress and panic attacks by calmly pointing out God's desire for us to enjoy the beauty of His creation and rest in His abilities. His words were pleasant and refreshing, but what I really needed was some serious prayer for spiritual deliverance and the truth of the word of God spoken into my spirit to dispel lies that had made me a driven person. I also could have used some practical advice about my diet, schedule and goals in life. I knew his positive talk lacked the power required for a genuine transformation within me, so I kept in mind the couple of helpful points he gave me and did not return. I certainly did not have $90.00 per session to invest in barely perceptible improvements.

The panic attacks were continuing a few times per week and I was often on edge, so I continued searching for relief. It was quite apparent that I had entered the dark tunnel God had warned me about while I was walking by U of M's hospital about five years prior. I had to keep in mind that He said there would be an end to the tunnel someday, so that I could have hope and endure. I had thought that a Christian wasn't supposed to have such prolonged periods of struggle and pain. I wondered if the fact that I had brought this misery upon myself (by rejecting God's advice six months prior to be less academic) made it more difficult to find my way to a quick solution. The walk of faith wasn't as simple and easy as I had expected, but I was determined to persevere. God had shown Himself faithful to me so many times over the years that there was no way I would consider giving up on Him. Where else could I go? I knew Jesus was my only true refuge.

I shared my troubles in a Bible study group at church. God's power was released on my behalf as these believers went to battle in the spirit realm through prayer. For a brief period I felt more peace and enjoyed the support, but I knew I still had a long way to go.

The group's leader shared very helpful verses that I held on to for dear life at times. One passage was Hebrews 2:14-15, "Since the children have flesh and blood, he too shared in their humanity so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death – that is, the devil – and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death." When I would get struck with the fear of dying, I had to meditate on this verse and the truth that Jesus' death has freed us all from the fear of death. I had to realize that Jesus has destroyed the devil's hold on us as expressed in 1 John 4:4, "You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world." I started to search for many scriptures to plant in my mind so that I could pull them out and conquer the panic when it rose up with the truth of God's word. Just as Jesus fought off Satan's temptations in the wilderness by saying, "It is written..." (Mt. 4:4, 7, 10), so I could dispel the enemy's lies with the sword of the Spirit, the word of God.

Even though I was getting equipped with God's word, I still wanted to find someone to talk to who would simply pour God's love on me without judging me or asking anything of me. I longed for a safe place of acceptance where I felt no compulsion to prove myself. I found that place in the home of my friend's mother. She went to my church and clearly possessed the "unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit" (1 Peter 3:4) that Peter advises women to have.

As I spoke and cried, she listened as though she was walking with me in my pain. I don't recall what she said, but her unfeigned acceptance of me and her willingness to join her heart with mine through her empathy brought me great relief. Others had offered useful help, but at arms length. I could tell that they cared, but I knew they wanted to remain a safe distance from my agony. I saw the importance of Paul's advice to the Roman Christians to "mourn with those who mourn" (Romans 12:15) because such emotional identification with another truly brings comfort.

Through the ministry of those in the church and meditation on the scriptures, my belief that God loved me in the midst of my trials grew. Though I was developing better ways of coping with the panic attacks, they were not diminishing and I started wondering about changing my diet. I was gradually stumbling upon information about hypoglycemia (low levels of blood sugar) and became intrigued when I saw that I had some of the symptoms.

For years I had eaten primarily carbohydrates with very little protein. My sugar intake had risen since I started seminary because of the stress of teaching and my studies. I had episodes where I would feel as if I was going to pass out, not realizing it was due to not eating for long periods, resulting in low blood sugar levels. At first I started drinking juice in an attempt to keep my blood sugar levels from dropping, but I didn't know I was only aggravating the problem. It wasn't until almost a year later that I got enough information to realize I should be eating protein every few hours, which helped.

The panic attacks continued through my second year of seminary and I noticed a pattern to them that is common to other sufferers. They usually happened while I was sitting in church during the service or when I was in line to buy groceries because I felt physically trapped. I could not simply get up and leave whenever I wanted to without people looking at me and wondering what I was up to. I also feared that having a panic attack in public might cause me to lose control and holler and shake like a crazy person. Neither could I handle movies or conversations about death or illness without my heart starting to race.

On a daily basis I feared dying from a heart attack or collapsing as my frequent chest pains and dizziness continued. But I refused to let my fears prevent me from attending church or going about my daily life. I suffered through them and cried out to God for deliverance as the attacks kept coming and going. It helped to sit near the back of the church where exiting would be easier and less noticeable. I only had to get up and leave during the middle of a service once. In the grocery store I prayed in quiet desperation and always managed to stay in line despite feeling hot and faint and longing to run to my car.

Though I had blood sugar issues, I saw the spiritual element as the primary battleground for ridding myself of the panic attacks. It was a little easier to deal with attacks while I was awake as opposed to when I was asleep. Occasionally, I had dreams where I experienced disturbingly real demonic manifestations. I saw hideous creatures whose intent was to choke and kill me. Their grotesquely deformed and roughly textured bodies were revolting, but the purely vile and vicious intentions that emanated from their beings was the most terrifying aspect of my encounters. At times I could feel their evil fingers tightly wound around my throat. I would wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air with my heart pounding and my head aching. On other occasions when I was asleep it felt like they were covering me and pressing down to smother me.

Because my salvation experience had been so dramatic and I firmly believed the truths of God's word, I never doubted that I belonged to Christ. Yet the demons somehow had the ability to fill my soul for a few moments with the horror of eternal damnation. I had visions of myself on the brink of hell as though I had one foot in God's kingdom and the other about to drop into the fiery pit.

Either during a nightmare or when I would awaken from one, I would proclaim the name of Jesus and the cleansing power of His blood that covered me. Usually within seconds I was able to make the demons flee. I stood on faith in Jesus' words in Luke 10:19, "I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you." I also clung to Romans 8:38, "For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons...nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord." I would then sing praise songs to establish God's presence in my room again so I could fall back to sleep in peace.

During the day I saw no images, but only sensed a demonic presence for a few seconds here and there when I got panic attacks. No one had to know what I was going through if I didn't want to tell them. I could hide it quite well, but it was with a torment that remained veiled beneath the surface. I needed further instruction about how to apply the scriptures to my life so God's peace could be established firmly in my soul.

I am extremely grateful that someone recommended I read From Prison to Praise, by Merlin Carothers. In his book he documents numerous incidents where people stopped complaining and chose to praise God in the midst of their trials. In response to each changed heart, God soon worked some kind of miracle. Often people were delivered from debilitating bitterness and their circumstances were amazingly improved. On occasion, if their situations in life didn't suddenly turn out for the better, at least they felt closer to God and received His strength to walk through their difficulties instead of collapsing in defeat.

I learned that I should thank and worship God no matter what was going on in my life because God is always worthy and good. I realized with stark clarity how sinful a complaining heart was and purposed to guard against it. After all, unbelief, expressed in perpetual groaning against God, was the reason why the first generation of Israelites who were delivered from slavery in Egypt were doomed to die in the desert without entering the promised land (Numbers 14:22-23). How could I expect God to deliver me if I was lying despondent in a pool of misery and unbelief or repeatedly shaking my fist at Him?

I was also greatly inspired by the account in 2 Chronicles 20 about the effectiveness of spiritual warfare. Judah's king Jehoshaphat proclaimed a fast and sought God for direction when he discovered they were about to be attacked by vast armies. Heeding the words of Jahaziel the prophet, "For the battle is not yours, but God's." (20:15), the king believed God would fight for Judah and acted accordingly:

"Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the Lord and to praise him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying: 'Give thanks to the Lord, for his love endures forever.' As they began to sing and praise, the Lord set ambushes against the men of Ammon and Moab and Mount Seir who were invading Judah, and they were defeated." (2 Chron. 20:21-22)

What an odd battle strategy! Putting singers at the head of the army meant Israel was calling for God's angels to go before them and fight their enemies. I had learned years ago about the importance of worshipping God as a part of walking in victory over Satan, but now I realized I needed to engage in worship with greater zeal because my life depended on it. I had to start each morning with praising and thanking God as part of my battle plan for the day. I pictured Him sending His mighty angels ahead of me to prepare my way and protect me. As I exalted God, His presence would come upon me and I could feel my faith rise. I sang portions of the Psalms by putting the words to my own awkward melodies. I recalled the many good things God had done for me and thanked Him. In addition, I sang songs I learned in church or I simply sang in a free flowing style using my heavenly language.

I had good times with the Lord, but I was still plagued with bouts of fear because I had not completely changed my motivation for going to school. I tried repenting of everything I could think of. Yet, I wrestled with my desire to complete seminary with a 4.0 and continue on to Harvard even though I knew these goals were the main cause of my stress. Such is the battle with a stronghold that has taken root in the soul.

It would take a few years for me to completely regain the peace I had lost and receive total deliverance. I had dug a deep hole for myself during the previous one and a half years by being consumed with selfish ambition even though God warned me to resist it.

I considered quitting seminary to get rid of the stress, but then I didn't know what to do with my life. So I left myself vulnerable to periodic attacks. I continued to earn all A's during my second year at ORU as my body suffered. I couldn't find an instant fix like when I was instantly freed from depression after my conversion at eighteen. Yet I pressed on, believing that the day would come when I would be completely restored. Though I had difficulty walking around the campus because I felt so weak and dizzy at times, I pushed myself and always made it to where I had to go, knowing Jesus was by my side upholding me. I never did collapse.

**Chapter 12 - First Dates**

By my second year of seminary I was twenty-seven-years old and still had never been on a date in my entire life. On one hand, this fact caused me to seriously doubt my desirability and worth as a woman because I had only been asked out by two men who did not interest me at all. Maybe only half of the single students in the seminary were dating around, but I still felt left out.

On the other hand, I kept telling myself that God had a special someone for me and it was good that I was walking the straight and narrow while waiting for him to come along. Being the idealist that I was, I still believed that God would have me marry the first man I dated. That put a lot of pressure on me to carefully screen any potential offers and attempt to discern God's leading if I found myself becoming acquainted with an eligible man.

It just so happened that two couples operating independently fixed me up with two different men from the seminary for double dates on the same weekend. What were the odds of two dates in one weekend when I had never been on a date before? God obviously had a hand in the timing to show me that I couldn't box Him into my program no matter how good it seemed. According to my theory, I should have fallen in love with and married Mark, who was my first date, because I went out with him on Friday. Cliff would be Mr. Wrong because I met him the following day.

When we stopped to pick up Mark, I was surprised at how relaxed I was. I felt little pressure to impress him because I figured God's purposes would come to pass regarding the course of the relationship no matter what. At the other end of the spectrum, Mark looked quite distraught as we sat in the backseat while our friends were up front.

I was so tempted to shout to the wholesome Beaver Cleaver guy, "You are my first date ever!" But such a revelation might have sent him hurtling onto the pavement for he already had a vice grip on the door handle as if poised for an emergency exit. His small hunched frame was plastered to the car door as his bulging eyes stared at the back of the driver's seat (I'm not exaggerating). He had seen me in the chapel services, so I knew my appearance was no surprise to him. What was his problem?

Maybe it was his first date, too.

As the evening progressed, he started to relax. He turned out to be a good conversationalist and we had a nice time. He planned on becoming a missionary, which was admirable, but I wasn't overly excited about him.

When I met Cliff the next evening I was immediately enamored with his intelligence, slick appearance and wit. He had worked for a politician, which fit perfectly with my desire to minister to people in Washington D.C. down the road. I believed God would either have me marry a minister or an attorney who desired to fight for the preservation of religious freedoms. Therefore, if an unmarried gentleman spoke of ministry or politics, I was all ears.

This guy was so engrossed in conversing with me, I assumed that he was definitely interested even though I had also surmised he was disappointed by the fact that I was a little overweight. I had been told that his former girlfriend spent a lot of time at the gym. As we covered many topics, it was as if the other couple wasn't even there at times. I was happy to toss my theory and set my heart on Cliff even though he wanted six kids and I wanted none. God would help us work out our differences somehow.

Then reality set in. Mark wanted to see me again, but I was so taken with Cliff that I wouldn't consider it. A week later I was told Cliff had no interest in me. I couldn't believe it! I was furious to discover that he had merely been enjoying my company that evening. Why had he been so friendly? Why had he spent so much time describing his accomplishments as if he really wanted to impress me? Apparently, his ego had been feeding on my attention to bolster his self-esteem after a recent break up. I was new to the game of love and was easily wounded because I had opened my heart to a stranger, fully anticipating acceptance. I desperately needed to learn how to proceed slowly and not jump to conclusions.

I felt used and painfully deceived. Perhaps there was some truth to my old roommate's rants about the evils of men. I wanted to close my heart to all men to avoid being hurt again because I didn't feel tough enough to handle repeated rejections. Years of anticipating God working a miraculous encounter with my future husband made it hard to blow it all off right away. I had tried to be careful to follow God's leading by guarding my interactions with men for so long, assuming my self-control was inspired by sound wisdom.

But I was actually far from wise when it came to matters of the heart. When presented with what looked like a promising opportunity, I wanted to leap blindly into the unknown – a virtual stranger's arms. I had been so excited that I didn't ask the Lord how to proceed when presented with the opportunity of the double dates. On reflection, if I my heart had been more secure in Christ and sensitive to His voice, maybe I could have made new friends from the encounters, especially if I had been less preoccupied with my needs and wants.

When I shared my pain with God, He replied gently, "I will open your heart to the right man." I felt some peace knowing that He would help me trust the man He had for me. I had renewed hope for a good marriage someday because the Lord had a plan for my life.

**Chapter 13 - Treasured Friends Amid Testing**

I had a wonderful roommate during my last year of seminary named Allison. She was a Biblical Literature major also, so we had some classes together and shared a love for studying God's word. She had grown up on a ranch and had served in the airforce. She was kindhearted and tough.

I was embarrassed when I would borrow her bike and she would insist on carrying it down the flight of stairs for me (as an older model it did weigh a lot). After spending my first year at ORU carrying my groceries for half a mile in all kinds of weather, I really appreciated her generosity in driving me to the grocery store every other week. She was faithful and reliable and I greatly treasured that in a friend, especially when I was not feeling my best.

By the last semester I did my best to cope with the chest pains and a fear of dying. I kept plodding forward, completing my degree requirements. The Lord mercifully gave me words of encouragement during prayer. In the spring I recorded:

"This attack will not bring you to utter defeat, but will remind you of the need to be constantly clothed in Me and directed by My Spirit, which is capable of bringing you through any difficulty. I will protect you and guard your life. I will carry you. My arm is not too weak that it should ever falter. Trust Me fully and you will witness mighty victories."

I had a heavy course load that included working on my thesis with my most difficult professor. I wanted to graduate by that summer to complete this leg of my academic journey as soon as possible, so I packed everything in. My thesis was based on the High Priestly Prayer of Jesus in John 17.

I had a big problem with my professor wanting me to approach the scriptures from his perspective. He believed that, because John wrote his gospel almost sixty years after Christ's death, he didn't necessarily record the actual words of Jesus, but altered them to address specific needs of the church in his community around AD 90. Beyond his obvious need to battle gnostic heresy in the church, this perspective involved too much surmising about John's congregation for my taste. Conversely, I wanted to treat the prayer as the actual words of the historical Jesus because that is how John presents the prayer. I believed that the Gospels were written as historical books and, even though the authors were addressing different audiences in their day, they remain collections of actual events and authentic teachings of Christ arranged in a manner to speak to all people groups throughout history.

My professor and I could not arrive at a satisfactory compromise even though we kept discussing the matter periodically. If I cried, he would back down. If I came to his office looking stronger, he would push his perspective again. I was at my wit's end. I was also overwhelmed by all of the details I had to deal with in a sixty-page paper. My joy regarding the opportunity to research the topic of prayer was rapidly disappearing.

This same professor suggested I apply for a master's degree program at Harvard or consider working on a doctorate at some other distinguished university. My ears perked up at the mention of Harvard because for the past year I had already been nurturing a strong desire to attend there. I took his words to be God's confirmation for my next step.

From my twisted perfectionism, I believed that God's best plans for me required that I obtain a 4.0 GPA so that I could attend the most prestigious university in America where I would meet the most accomplished and, therefore, "perfect" husband. Then we would minister to politicians in Washington D.C. That was my idea of making the most of my life and I figured it was God's idea, too, since that seemed like the most fruitful way to spend my life. If I received a B or C in a class, I feared I might be throwing away my opportunity to attend Harvard and thus, I would forfeit God's best for me.

I had strung a tightrope out before myself that allowed no leeway or mistakes – no opportunities to be human. In my mind, to accept God's "second best" for my life was abject failure. I should have taken to heart the apostle Paul's admonition to the Galatians: "You who are trying to be justified by law have been alienated from Christ; you have fallen away from grace" (Gal. 5:4). But instead of trying to follow Old Testament law, I had written my own rigid regulations.

My concern about pleasing God through my performance far outweighed my concern about pleasing Him with the attitudes of my heart and a life of servanthood that Christ exemplified. Pride and selfish ambition drove me to spend hours in the library where I was far away from the soup kitchens and needy in the city where I could have been making an eternal difference serving a few hours a month while I was in seminary. I visited a home for young pregnant women once during my time at ORU. That was it. I had become very self-absorbed due to a deep-seated belief that I had to earn acceptance. I had lost sight of God's unconditional love that has nothing to do with accolades.

So I applied to Harvard and no other school. (I didn't realize until later that their School of Divinity had "evolved" from its strict Christian heritage into an institution where they now studied various religions.)

A week before I received a response from Harvard, I recorded in my journal:

"Last Thursday in chapel during worship God told me to be willing to give up Harvard and getting my thesis done and even put aside a Master's degree so that He could be my first love. In my mind I let them all go and felt amazing relief. I awoke the next morning with peace and marveled that I didn't have to work up the peace through prayer and worship."

But my resolve to give up all of these things didn't last long because my desire to earn the degree ran so deep. Harvard rejected my application and I had very mixed feelings. I was greatly disappointed that I had been blindly pushing myself in the wrong direction for so long. How could I trust God's leading if I could deceive myself so easily for over a year? Yet, I was relieved because I yearned for a reprieve from eight years of full-time college. I wasn't entirely surprised that they had rejected my application because I assumed I was too conservative for them and not well rounded enough as far as my service in the community and such. Now I was faced with the question, "What would I do after seminary?"

Valerie, a dear friend I came to know during my last year, prayed with me periodically and was a great encouragement to me. We had a lot in common. She was artistic also and showed me impressive photos of her interior design work. I loved her daring use of bright colors and angular modern furniture. I especially appreciated her ability to get in tune with the heart of God. She sought His will in everything.

One day we were praying together about my stress regarding my professor and the thesis. Suddenly our eyes widened as the Holy Spirit spoke the same thing to our hearts simultaneously: I should not let anyone control me to the extent that the professor was. It was as if I had allowed him to usurp the place of Christ's lordship in my heart by granting his words an inordinate amount of weight in regard to the course of my life.

When you allow someone other than God to rule over you, it's easy to become subject to all kinds of fears because a fallible person, no matter how good their intentions are, does not possess the degree of wisdom and love that God does. In addition, being a people pleaser makes it harder to sense the leading of the Holy Spirit. I was passive in nature, particularly with teachers because I valued their opinions so much. That was wrong. God wanted me to put Him back on the throne of my heart.

Valerie and I both felt the Lord's joy as we received this insight. Looking back, I should have requested a different professor to advise me, but I didn't realize I had the option until I was almost finished with the paper.

Near the end of my second year, my faith that God could sustain my body was stretched once more. I had to take a fitness test because ORU believed in developing the whole person: mind, body and spirit. I could run, swim or bike and I chose the latter since it was the easiest for me. Yet I wasn't sure if I could complete the seven miles without suffering a heart attack. I had been biking regularly, but usually for shorter distances and this test would be timed. I feared the pressure would put me over the edge.

With Bible in hand, I asked God what I should do. I didn't have a doctor's note to get me out of the fitness test. My eyes fell on Mark 5:34 where Jesus spoke to the woman with the issue of blood, "Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering." So on that word I went in faith to bike the course.

As I pedaled my roommate's heavy tank of a bike I kept rehearsing Mark 5:34 and other scriptures in my head. I continually prayed for God to strengthen me. To my amazement I didn't drop dead. I was exhausted and one of the last students to reach the finish line, but I had made it. I thanked God for carrying me through and protecting me.

Even though I had been placing too much importance on academics, many times over the years God had shown me mercy by answering my prayers with miraculous help so I could get good grades. He showed me where to focus in my notes and books as I prepared for my tests. At other times He helped my recall during exams. His last intervention was the best.

It was finals week and because I had a habit of procrastinating, I had to pour on the steam and spend almost every waking hour studying. I had not applied myself too much in my Hebrew class because it interested me less than Greek since it was so different from English. I preferred studying the New Testament anyway. I really needed to review the material. I was carrying an "A" up to that point. My mom was flying in early for the graduation ceremony and I had to spend precious time picking her up from the airport and going out to eat.

When the evening before the exam arrived, I knew it was not humanly possible for me to have enough time to review all ten passages from the Old Testament that the professor would choose from for us to translate. I feared failing the final and maybe getting a B- or C in the class. As I laid the myriad of cryptic sheets of scripture on my bed, I cried out to God for direction. The professor told us he would choose three passages of scripture that would each count for about one third of the points. I desperately needed a short cut. The Lord soon told me to spend most of my time studying one passage in particular and to briefly look over several others. It didn't make sense to me to spend so much time on just one, but I decided to go with it. I didn't even glance at half of the passages. I was taking a big risk. I kept hoping that I had heard the Lord correctly.

When I sat down in class and read the exam I was ecstatic as I saw that not a third, but the majority of the points were given to the passage God told me to focus on! The other passages on the exam were among those I had reviewed. I ended up getting an "A" on the final after all. What a merciful God!

By the time graduation came along, I had completed all of my courses – except the thesis - with a 4.0 GPA once again that I was extremely proud of and thanked God for. By granting me the miraculous "A" in Hebrew, the Lord proved to me that He had been with me throughout all my studies and all that I had accomplished was done entirely by His strength and mercy. I would have to continue work on my thesis in Michigan over the summer and return to Tulsa in the fall to submit it and do revisions. That was fine with me.

I beamed as I stood in the chapel service with the handful of seminary students who were also graduating summa cum laude. I was allowed to go through the graduation ceremony with everyone, but, of course, I could not have the degree in hand until I finished the thesis. My heart pounded as I stood again, this time before a massive crowd in an auditorium, for the summa cum laude honor. I was a little panicky, but the Lord got me through it. I couldn't fully enjoy the applause as I stood with several other students because I knew my work wasn't complete, but the experience was still fun and rewarding. In spite of my suffering, at that point I felt that all my hard work had been worth it.

**Chapter 14 - Relinquishing the Goal**

I was thrilled to be finished with everything except the thesis. I returned to Michigan that summer to work on it at a slow pace and try to recuperate from the previous hectic year. I was too slow, however. I rarely went to the library. All of the note cards overwhelmed me and I was miserable just trying to survive each day as the spiritual battle raged in my soul and my body took the blows from the onslaught.

I so longed to be free from the nightmares, panic attacks and weakness, but they wouldn't let up. When I stayed at my mom and Max's, I slept on a cot in the basement for some privacy. While lying there in prayer one day I asked God why I wasn't completely delivered from my torment even when the majority of my external pressures were now gone.

I got a vision of a horizon with large clouds billowing above it and the Lord was riding them in power and heading straight for me. He was a good distance off, but He was coming and still working in response to my prayers for help that started just over a year ago. It would take Him awhile to bring about my full deliverance because of various obstacles that I didn't fully understand, but I could be certain that He was always working towards freeing me even if I didn't see it in the natural realm. He gave me Deuteronomy 33:26-27 to help sustain me whenever I felt like I was about to fall into the pit of hell:

"There is no one like the God of Jeshurun, who rides on the heavens to help you and on the clouds in his majesty. The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms. He will drive out your enemy before you, saying, 'Destroy Him!'"

These verses still speak to the depths of my being when I read them and recall God's desire to rescue me. Just because we aren't released from a trial, doesn't mean He doesn't care or that He isn't doing something about it while we wait in faith. It was an immense comfort for me to picture God's huge, loving hands always cupped beneath me to catch me when I got attacked. I could trust that He was on my side, driving Satan away bit by bit.

Around that time the Lord also gave me a verse in James that states, "the prayer of a righteous man accomplishes much." These words encouraged me to believe that my prayers, as a child of God, could open the way for God to do great and miraculous things in my life and the lives of others as I continued in prayer.

I had not completed the thesis by the end of the summer and I didn't know how I was going to pay for living expenses when I returned to ORU in the fall. I kept calling out to God. My mom talked with Max and he agreed to give me $1,000 as a gift. I was so grateful. My dad was very supportive also and loaned me his new Tracker to drive down to Tulsa for the semester. I could hardly believe how good God was in blessing me through my family.

I plodded through the thesis in agony and finally completed the rough draft by November. I was so broke that I didn't want to pay the typist to edit my paper, which was a big mistake. I turned in the paper warts and all and had to wait for the professor to have time to read it.

In the meantime, I was struggling to have enough money for basic living expenses. Even though my parents had occasionally sent me money while I was there, I never wanted to ask for it. At one point my funds got so low that I was inquiring of God about what to do. I did not have credit cards that I could go into debt with, so I felt stuck.

As I read the Bible over the next few days, I kept coming across scriptures about people giving away their possessions, such as Acts 2:45: "Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need." The only things I could sell were my few pieces of real jewelry. I had a lovely pair of freshwater pearl earrings in spiral gold settings that my mom gave me for my graduation from Bible College. I also had a couple of dainty necklaces and a ring. I could hardly bear to part with these sentimental items, but I kept feeling like the Lord wanted me to prove to Him that nothing in this world had a hold of my heart and that I could part with everything.

I went to a hockshop and laid the items on the counter, naively hoping to get half the original cost of the items. When the man offered me a measly $70, I was crushed and through tears agreed with the price. I didn't have the wherewithal to bargain or try to sell them elsewhere. I was not in the best frame of mind. I left very sad, but at peace about having done what I believed God wanted me to do.

When I received my thesis back from my professor, my head spun as I looked at all his corrections for punctuation and content. I certainly had not been prepared for such an onslaught. I listened to his analysis and wondered how I was going to deal with the whole mess.

My stress level was exceptionally high. I was breaking under the pressure and my body felt like it couldn't take much more abuse. I worked on some of the revisions and prayed for God's help, but the mountain looked insurmountable. I was entering the thick of the battle for my health and sanity and felt like I was being crushed under the enemy's weight. Irrational, demonic fear kept threatening to engulf me. Yet I wanted the Master's degree in the worst way and I was willing to end up in the hospital if that's what it took to push the paper to completion.

Then God confronted me. As I prayed in my room He spoke to me the words He had used to stop the apostle Paul in his tracks and turn his heart away from a course bent on destroying the church. Acts 26:14 reverberated through my spirit, "It is hard for you to kick against the goads." In other words, it was hard for me to insist on a path that was contrary to the will of God. It was as if I had been repeatedly hitting my head against a brick wall, not realizing that I would never be able to break through it.

God spoke to my heart very clearly and lovingly, "Your well-being is far more important to Me than anything you can accomplish for Me." That was a profound revelation. He cared greatly about the fact that my health was deteriorating and He wanted me to stop and take care of myself before it was too late. My heart had been hurting with greater severity and I had no health insurance. No degree was worth ending up in the hospital with no way to pay for it.

I was in great turmoil. How could I abandon my hot pursuit of the reward I had been working so hard to attain, especially when I was SO close to it? How could I let down my family who had been providing financial support? How would I deal with the shame of telling everyone I knew that I was a quitter when they had such high hopes for me? I couldn't stand the thought of being regarded as a loser – someone who started a course, then abandoned it because they couldn't handle the pressure.

I battled within my soul as I considered what God had spoken to me. I was immensely comforted by the fact that He didn't need me to have a Master's degree in order to please Him, but I didn't want to face the disdain I would receive from everyone once I told them of my decision. I had to forge ahead and obey the Lord and simply deal with the fall out. The demonic torment at night was getting unbearable. I realized that God knew what He was talking about and I finally listened.

I was quite upset with myself and felt as though I had thrown away a promising future that God had planned for me by getting so out of balance. I had obviously neglected the importance of the commandment to keep the Sabbath Day holy by resting. I don't think God expected me to be rigid about not doing any kind of work on Sundays, but I should have been taking more time off from schoolwork to relax and have fun and think about the beauty of the world God had created. During the school year I almost always had the pressure of studies on my mind, even if I was doing something else. I had thought that I could handle the stress. I was so wrong.

Yet, God gave me hope. I told my friends at ORU that I was quitting work on my thesis. They assumed I would pick the paper back up within a year or so when I felt better, but I wondered if that would ever happen. I associated immense fear with that paper and never wanted to return to such misery. As I was walking through the graduate student housing one day, the Lord said to me, "You can still fulfill My purposes for you even without the Master's degree. If you earn the degree someday, consider it a gift from Me, not a requirement that I have placed on you." His words brought relief and freed me from a heavy burden of condemnation and a sense that I had been a huge disappointment to Him.

I was leaving Tulsa with the wealth of experiences I had there plus all the possible benefits of the education offered since I had completed the coursework and had written the thesis. All I lacked was the perfected and approved version of the thesis, the actual degree and the esteem of my family and friends. I briefly looked for a job in Tulsa because I didn't want to leave my precious friends and the many thriving churches, but I found nothing. I had just enough money to return to Michigan where I could live with my parents rent-free for just enough time to get back on my feet.

**Chapter 15 - Laying Down in Green Pastures**

I was back living with my dad and feeling like such a mess in every aspect of my life. I couldn't make it through a day without taking long rests once or twice in the middle of the day. My body was that exhausted and the area around my heart often hurt. I didn't know how I could hold a full-time job when I required that much down time.

My parents showed little sympathy and couldn't tolerate me being a freeloader, even for a week or two. They had been understandably let down by my news of quitting seminary. They weren't about to let me quit on life in general. In their eyes my debilitated condition was no excuse for me to take much of a break. So, even though they rarely spoke to each other, they had collaborated and agreed to push me to get a full-time job. They told me that they would put me out on the streets if I didn't find a full-time job within a couple of weeks.

Though I'm sure they meant well, I was absolutely crushed. I had been blindsided. Psalm 27:10 had new meaning for me: "Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me." I pictured myself living with the homeless. I now had greater empathy for them. I could see how personal tragedies and no one to turn to must have caused many of them to wander the streets. Even though I believed I could have counted on some of my friends in Michigan or Tulsa to help me, I didn't want to go through the humiliation of asking if I could move in with them. I was going to do what I could to get a job and quick!

I threw myself at the Lord's mercy where I had always found help in the past. For a couple of months I had been feeling like God wanted me to return to childcare. It was an almost unbearably humiliating prospect, especially after my Harvard and Washington D.C. dreaming, but I knew I couldn't handle a job with more stress. I was not in a position to be particular.

One night I felt the Lord tell me I had to pray hard for quite awhile for a breakthrough in the spirit realm. I was desperate and complied. The next day I scanned the want ads for secretarial or childcare jobs. I called one job about babysitting, went on the interview and was hired. God came through with amazing speed! The fantastic part about the job was that I only had to work for two weeks and then I could have a whole month off (with reduced pay) while the family went overseas to visit relatives. God saw my anguish and provided the rest I needed in a manner that enabled me to live with my parents in harmony for the time being. I was amazed at how He lovingly worked everything out.

During my month off I prayed and read and relaxed. I had no desire to touch my thesis. I feared that the demons of hell would descend on me if I opened its pages. I had such terror of doing anything remotely related to college studies that I couldn't picture myself ever finishing the paper. My professor called me around Christmas to plead with me to complete it, but through a shaky voice I told him I was not capable of dealing with it. The binders filled with all of my hard work would merely collect dust over the years. I determined that I had a weakness toward a deadly perfectionism when it came to college studies and I was NEVER going back there.

I spent the next six months living with my parents, jumping back and forth between their houses while I took care of a baby girl and a rambunctious five-year-old boy named Roger. My dad bought a used car for me under the agreement that I would pay it off in increments each month. I was so grateful that I had the opportunity to take a little break in the middle of the day and recline on the couch to rest when the baby took a nap and Roger was busy with something nearby. That was the only way I could function on the job.

It wasn't long before I became wary around Roger. I was told he had the habit of standing on a chair to hide behind a wall and wait for his little old grandmother to walk by. Then he would jump on her back and practically knock her over. Because he was big for his age, I was fearful about him trying that with me. I had attempted to pull him off of his father's shelves one day when he was trying to sneak candy and I almost collapsed under his weight. I marveled that his grandmother hadn't been flattened yet.

One day Roger demanded French toast, which I regretted fixing when I saw the bread floating in a lake of syrup on his plate. This intense child did not need to overdose on sugar. So when he demanded pancakes the following day, I refused, which led to a sight I had never witnessed before. The large boy proceeded to kick and scream and thrash about on the kitchen floor. I was bewildered and appalled. I walked out of the room without a word, not knowing what else to do. I had unwittingly done the perfect thing by walking out because that was the end of his tantrums, though he still tried to order me around.

Roger wasn't completely belligerent, though. Once when he was misbehaving, I was clearly at a loss as to how to deal with him and he looked at me in perplexed disgust and said, "Don't you know about 'time out'?" What kid assists an adult in administering discipline to him? I had to stifle my laughter so I wouldn't lose complete control of the situation. Having been sequestered within the confines of college for so many years, I had to admit I had never heard about "time out." In fact, I had been so out of touch with children at times that I remember staring at a baby in a cart at the grocery store and being struck by how long it had been since I had seen one.

The worst day of work occurred when they decided to get a puppy. I was upset for several reasons: I did not like dogs; they had not warned me about its arrival; the puppy was not housebroken and it was winter so he could not be left outside for long. The mother told me her son would take care of the dog. Was she serious? I took it out a couple of times, but naturally Roger was distracted with his play and wasn't monitoring the situation. With poor supervision, the dog eventually pooped on the kitchen carpet. I stood there in dismay wondering why anyone would have wall to wall carpeting in a kitchen with two young children and a puppy.

I called Roger to have him clean up the mess since his mom had assigned him dog duty. He was slow in coming. In the meantime, the energetic puppy had stepped in his poop and then headed straight for me with bright eyes, tail waging and stinky paws ready to make contact with my clean pants. I searched in a panic for refuge, then leaped onto a chair just in time while the dog pranced around, spreading the poop everywhere. I had a phobia of feces when it wasn't in its proper place and wanted no part of this kitchen turned outhouse.

By that point there was no way that Roger could restore the floor to its previously sanitary state, though he was trying as he smeared the gooey carpet with paper towels. I couldn't bear the sight and I was too afraid of getting contaminated to step off the chair. I was about to explode. Fortunately, my chair was near the phone, so I called his mother and insisted that she come home to take over. She did. I monitored the dog like a hawk after that.

After a few months Roger miraculously turned into a very agreeable child. He stopped trying to order me around. He quit trying to sneak cigarettes in the bathroom. He accepted his role as the child, not the boss. His parents had a talk with him and I don't know what else happened, but the transformation was amazing. We had fun playing his video games and basketball when the weather got nice. I took great pleasure in teaching him how to read for the first time. He was excited, too, as the strange letters started making sense to him. But my time there would not last long.

My parents wanted me to move out and I wanted that too, so the following summer I looked for a live-in nanny position, figuring that I could not afford rent for an apartment until I paid off my college loans. Since I could make just as much money babysitting for wealthy families as I could in an entry-level secretarial position, I decided to stick with childcare, especially since I deplored typing. Typing reminded me of staying awake into the wee hours of the night working on endless term papers at the last minute and developing immense back pain from the tension. I also still needed the option to rest in the afternoons.

With only a bachelor's degree in counseling, the best I could hope for was a job in social work. But I was incapable of helping others find practical solutions to serious problems when I was still having panic attacks regularly. I knew I didn't have many marketable skills, so I didn't see any other option except to continue being a nanny for the time being. I felt ashamed about telling my friends and family that my temporary work situation was becoming a career choice for the time being, but after my three-year stint of selfish ambition in college, I was due for some humbling.

When I told my mother of my plan to stick with childcare for awhile, she became exasperated and said, "Then who will want to marry you?" She might as well have slapped me across the face and told me I was worthless. I asserted that one's career doesn't completely define them as a person, but in her eyes it meant almost everything.

Her words stung for a long time. How could my mother, who should know I have other desirable qualities besides my job, believe that no decent man would want to marry me now? I agreed that some men would not consider marrying me because of my lower class job, but I also knew there were quality men out there who wouldn't care about what I did for a living as long as it was an honest job. I had to forgive my mom and move on with my life believing that God saw my worth and still had a special someone for me.

I only had to make a few phone calls, go on one interview and I got a job as a live-in nanny. God was so faithful in coming through for me quickly. He also worked out the timing perfectly so I could have continuous income because I found a short-term babysitting assignment that ended the week before the live-in job was to start.

I was happy to move to an exclusive neighborhood near a chic town with trendy shops and nice parks. It was disappointing that my basement room had no windows, but I would be making more than enough money to pay my bills, I had my own full bath, health insurance and free food. It had only been seven months since I had been imagining walking the streets of Detroit with a bag holding my belongings as I looked for the nearest homeless shelter, so my own dark basement room and private bath was a great alternative. I really felt fortunate.

My employers, Dana and Fred, had a two-month-old girl named Josie with dreadful colic that was hard to listen to. There were many times when we were all helpless when it came to relieving her pain. After a couple of months Josie's colic subsided and she became an incredibly delightful child to care for, but her parents' work schedule grew longer and longer. They both held high-pressure positions. I came to realize that they never intended to honor the time frame presented at the interview. It became a challenge for me to make plans with my friends on weeknights when my schedule was always unpredictable. I sometimes had to wait until 8 p.m. to get off work. When I confronted Dana about this issue, she retorted, "If you don't like it, you can leave." I was crushed by her coldness. Since I was highly dispensable, I had no voice. I was not accustomed to someone speaking to me as if I was a nobody.

What a height I had fallen from. Less than a year ago I was admired by my fellow students, professors and everyone in my life. Now I was beneath them all. I had lost all semblance of any status I had earned in society. Since all my belongings were already in their basement and I didn't have a lot of money or better job prospects, I felt that my best bet was to put up with Dana for the time being.

God comforted me with Proverbs 18:23: "A poor man pleads for mercy, but a rich man answers harshly." He saw what I was going through and He cared. All the Lord required of me was that I do my job well and act in a respectful manner. I was no longer in the protective Christian bubble I had enjoyed in seminary. I had to show God's love in the face of indifference and hostility. My Christian faith and educational background helped unbelievers trust me with their young children, but they were not interested in hearing about Jesus, so I had to witness through my actions and attitude.

During the interview Dana and Fred had voiced their desire for me to become part of the family. Even though they had been pleasant at the time, I had difficulty seeing how a married couple and an unrelated single woman about the same age could really live closely together.

One chilly night when I walked through the front door Fred cheerfully offered to have me join them in front of their blazing fireplace. Too bad he was so clueless. Unbeknownst to Fred, Dana gave me the look of death, which said, "Don't you dare ruin our romantic evening together!" I can't say that I blamed her since couples with demanding jobs and young children rarely get time alone. I made an excuse and retreated to the basement.

What became annoying after awhile, however, was the fact that Fred had a gift for gab and Dana was more reserved. So usually when Fred engaged me in conversation, Dana would stand there and glare at me. I came to really dislike the dynamics among the three of us, so I stayed out of their living space as much as possible when they were home.

Since Dana had shown no concern about my schedule, didn't care if I stayed or not and didn't like me hanging around to talk, I felt like an intruder in their home. I was around for their convenience. I believed they desired a live-in nanny because their jobs were so important to them that they wanted to be absolutely certain they had childcare every workday and for as many hours that their duties dictated. If I was sick, I was there and still could take care of Josie.

During my free time I made myself scarce. Between a Baptist singles group and my old church, I had many friends who lived close by, so I enjoyed a busy social life. But every time I had to drive back to Fred and Dana's house, a sense of gloom would fill me. I had a room there with everything I needed, but I did not have a home. I repeatedly cried out to God for a place of my own. One day He said to me, "I will give you your own apartment someday if you agree not to have a TV." God knew I might be tempted to waste too much time watching TV when I could be reading something useful. I agreed to His stipulation and waited in faith for His provision.

After a few months I decided to quietly search for a ministry job. I sent out about fifty resumes to Christian Colleges across the country in an attempt to get a position as a women's dorm director. I expected that they would hire those who had graduated from their own institutions, but I thought I'd try anyway.

I inquired at my former Bible College, but they only had a part-time position. I certainly didn't want to work at ORU where I would be ashamed to show my face. The only college that called me as a result of my search was connected with the Assemblies of God in Missouri. The woman interviewed me briefly on the phone, but let me know I was competing against others who had their masters degrees. I couldn't believe it. Apparently, many young people graduating from seminaries were desperate for employment. She did not call back.

I also tried Interchristo, a Christian job placement agency, but the jobs they matched me up with usually involved youth pastor positions or live-in counselors working with troubled youth. Being a youth pastor would have been just as bad as making me the social coordinator at my old college. I abhorred most of the cool games and outdoor activities youth thrived on. The positions with troubled youth had requirements such as, "Knowledge of self-defense techniques." Forget it! I had a hard enough time sleeping without having to fear waking up with a knife at my throat.

After job hunting for half a year, I gave up, concluding I was stuck as a live-in nanny for awhile. I couldn't think of any reasonable way out of it. It was difficult to swallow the fact that I had worked hard in college for eight years, preparing for the art field or a ministry job, only to find myself looking at childcare as my occupation for the next few years. It was as if I was in my own wilderness wandering like the Israelites until I grasped the lessons I needed to learn.

I consoled myself by being grateful that I had extra money for clothes and eating out and I had an easy job because Josie was a dream child. I enjoyed the relaxed pace and the luxury of not having a boss breathing down my neck while I worked. Plus, I didn't know many nannies that had health insurance. I did meet spoiled nannies who had their own guest house or the privilege of driving nice cars for their personal use. One nanny I met made the unbelievable salary of $50,000. The family she worked for wanted so badly for her to stay with them that they offered to double her pay. Still, I had it pretty good since I only had one child to care for and I enjoyed the freedom to arrange the majority of our daily schedules as I pleased.

The downside was that I got bored at times and felt isolated. I especially did not like the image the job gave me. I cringed every time I met someone and they asked what I did for a living. I felt humiliated when some people would change their demeanor when I told them I was a nanny. I had never experienced such repeated public shame before. I was primarily surrounded by professionals at church, among relatives and in the mom-tot classes I had to attend, so I felt out of place almost everywhere.

But in His love God was purging me of the attitude of superiority that I had developed during college as it became crystal clear how very hurtful it was to others. When I looked down on those with a poor education or low skilled jobs, I most likely caused them to feel worthless, just like I was now feeling around certain people. I had to learn that, since all of my abilities have their source in God, I cannot boast in myself even within my own thoughts because Paul advises: "'Let him who boasts boast in the Lord'" (1 Cor. 1:31).

While I took care of Josie, God used Psalm 23 to show me that I should appreciate this time in my life to move at a slower pace in order to experience full restoration. By forcing me to stay in a nanny position, God was being my shepherd who "makes me lie down in green pastures" (vs. 2). As I sat by a stream one day, I pondered "he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul" (vs. 2-3). I was becoming more in tune with God again as He poured His love into my weary soul.

Now that my days were filled with peaceful walks pushing Josie in the stroller, tending to her needs and learning how to nurture her, for the first time in my life I started to value motherhood. Free from the constant push of studies, I could relax and be charmed as I watched a growing child take delight in the simple beauty of the world around us that I had lost sight of. Quacking ducks and darting birds at the park became fascinating. How water moved in a stream or in her tub inspired giggles. Going back and forth in a swing was exhilarating! Seeing the world through the wonder of a child's eyes was therapeutic and my panic attacks were subsiding, but it would take a couple more years before I was entirely free of them.

I worked in an area where many families had nannies, so it was easy to connect with several of them and form playgroups. Their friendships reduced my sense of isolation during the day and provided the children with fun times together. We didn't have much in common besides our jobs, so we usually talked about the kids and the families we worked for. As we got to know each other better, we shared more about our personal lives.

I was usually the only Christian in the group, so it was a good place for me to be a witness for Christ. I sometimes talked about my church and God's influence on my life and they listened politely. I met one live-in nanny who had moved from the West Coast and was very isolated. I brought her to my church a couple of times, but she got pulled into the Jehovah's Witnesses through their door-to-door evangelism and persistent friendly visits. I was dismayed when she started arguing with me, saying that Jesus was merely God's Son, but not God. I kept praying for her. We kept in touch after her job ended and she moved back home. Just a year later someone brought her to a church and she gave her life to Christ! I was so happy to hear her news. I had been a seed planter and someone else brought in the harvest.

As Josie got older, I noticed that she was highly intelligent and observant so that led to some amusement. Josie was so sharp by the time she was three that she would notice if I changed even one word in a lengthy children's book that had been read to her before. She would protest with a smile and tell me the word that really belonged there. It became a game we played. Many things stirred her curiosity. One day she stared at her legs in the sunlight and inquired, "What is this fur stuck on me?" I laughed and explained that it was little hairs.

Since she was so well behaved we often enjoyed outings to many parks, libraries, the zoo or restaurants. Sometimes my mom, who lived nearby, would join us. The best part was that Josie even behaved in women's clothing stores. Our excursions to the consignment store were supposed to be a secret. I assumed that she was too young to tell on me, but at breakfast one morning when her mother asked what we did the day before, Josie told all. I froze in fear as I awaited a scolding, but Dana graciously moved on to another topic.

When the time came that I realized I was completely delivered from my panic attacks, I repeatedly thanked God with all of my heart. I have to come see that having His peace as the anchor of my soul is far more valuable than pursuing anything that could rob me of it. When I recall my days of fear and torment, I am so grateful that God pulled me out from my deep pit and has made my life so wonderful by comparison.

Even if I go through the stress of a job loss or the painful death of a loved one, all of that is more tolerable than the horrific glimpses of hell I had. If I have God's peace, He can comfort and sustain me through tragedy. Facing uncertainty and sorrow with a sense of God's nearness is infinitely better than having the world on a platter mixed with sheer terror. As Jesus promised, the satisfaction of the soul is abundant when we are completely His. I have experienced so powerfully these words of Christ, "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full" (John 10:10). The thief had tried to destroy me, but Jesus came through and helped me fight off my enemy.

After improving my diet and casting aside selfish ambition, I simply had to ignore any irrational waves of fear that tried to interrupt my thoughts. I was able to see God as all-powerful and the enemy as weak and not worthy of my attention. I practiced the admonition in James 4:7 "Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." Satan was definitely fleeing with a simple turning of my thoughts to scripture or other encouraging things.

I had not known that such a thing as panic attacks existed until I had suffered from them for a few months and then found out my disturbances had a name. Since that time I have been amazed at how many people (predominantly women) I have met who have been through the same thing. If I meet someone who is still bound by them, I tell them about all the things God did in my life and what He taught me in case any aspect of my experience can help set them free. I have tremendous compassion for those in such bondage and want so much to see them released because I know how awful it is.Soon after my emotional healing I met a woman who taught a class at a church on how to be free from panic attacks. About twenty-five sufferers were in attendance. She herself had gotten victory over panic attacks primarily through behavioral therapy and positive thinking. I told her my story and she asked me to assist her during class.

She presented the help available through certain medications, change in diet, relaxation techniques, positive thinking, prayer and Bible reading. The class especially latched on to the teacher's relaxation techniques because the activities gave them something concrete to do. The instructor provided tapes with soothing music and encouraging peaceful thoughts that they could play as they drove or sat at home.

Our approaches overlapped a little in the area of diet and spiritual disciplines, but I really emphasized the latter. I told my story of deliverance, emphasizing the following changes in behavior and attitudes that worked for me:

1. Make God the first priority in your heart and submit to His schedule for your day and plans for your life.

2. Pray and worship God in private on a daily basis as your primary defense against demonic influences.

3. Fellowship and pray with other Christians on a regular basis.

4. Meditate on and read out loud comforting scriptures so you can bring them to mind whenever fear hits.

5. Give thanks to God instead of wallowing in complaining (there's always something to be thankful for).

6. Improve your diet (especially if you are hypoglycemic) by including healthy proteins several times per day. Make an effort to replace sugar, white flour, juice and pop with fresh fruits, vegetables, legumes, whole grains and water.

7. Resist perfectionism and rigidity by being more accepting of your shortcomings.

8. Reduce stress levels by engaging in regular exercise, cutting back on commitments and setting aside several days per month to do fun things.

9. Practice some type of Sabbath rest that helps you focus on God's goodness and spend time doing something that truly refreshes you.

The people in the class listened intently to the various steps toward peace that we recommended. I saw hope in their eyes as we told our stories of how we enjoyed complete freedom from panic attacks with God's help. I was heartbroken as I heard how some of the people had become very debilitated by their attacks. A number of them could no longer drive on the expressway for fear that they might not be able to get off the road should an attack hit a couple of miles before an exit ramp. Some could hardly get out of their houses, so agoraphobia was often a factor. Many were perfectionists. They looked like such broken people after trying for years to live up to unrealistic standards. Almost all of them were on some type of medication.

I was grateful that I had never been consumed by fear to such an extent that I couldn't function normally. I dreaded the thought of what could have happened to me had I been controlled by my phobias to such a degree. These people were fortunate that they had family members who helped meet their daily needs while they worked on their issues.

The instructor advised that the class take baby steps in the areas of their phobias. Those that tried it had some success. We heard stories of people driving a few miles on the expressway and not panicking. Then they would gradually build up the distances. I was happy about their breakthroughs, but wished we could incorporate prayer for individuals into the sessions to see even further progress, but the teacher had her agenda already set.

To illustrate the importance of my third point mentioned above (prayer and support from other Christians), I will recount the story I heard from a former panic attack sufferer. This woman got so filled with tormenting fear that she could not sleep for days. It was at night that the demonic attacks intensified, so she stayed alert and on guard. She got so frazzled after almost a week of this that God told her she had to call women she knew from church and ask if they would take turns spending the night at her house to help strengthen her and give her a sense of peace.

One friend after another jump at the chance to come to her home, each with her own surprise to help calm the weary woman. They brought candles and soothing music as they gave her facial massages or prayed with her. Over the next couple of weeks a dozen women showed up to creatively minister God's love and she soon was able to sleep through the night without fear.

God then showed her that she had been living life feeling like she had to hide her negative feelings so that people would love her. When she went through a prolonged major trial, her own strength couldn't carry her through like it had in the past, making her vulnerable to demonic attacks. Having received comfort and prayer from her friends and learning about how God wanted her to feel free to be herself around others, she was well on her way to emotional healing. I believe she had a quicker recovery than I did because she was bolder and more persistent than I was about asking for support.

Then an unexpected door for sharing about the Lord opened up after my stepfather, Max, had a bone marrow transplant. It is very frightening to go through such a procedure because removing the unhealthy marrow brings a body close to death. Then the bones are filled with the life giving marrow from a loving donor with hopes that it will thrive.

When I visited him in the hospital I was alarmed at how emaciated he had become. As a skeletal Jewish man helplessly lying there as a victim of a disease, he stirred up shocking images of photos I had seen at the Jewish Holocaust Memorial near Detroit. This formerly strong downhill skier and scuba diver was now barely able to stand. I grieved for him and told him my friends and I would be praying for his healing. I knew God would have to work a miracle because few people at his age survived such an ordeal. He looked as though he was at death's door. My mom was very stressed out trying to deal with it all.

To encourage Max to cling to God, I drew an image of a scroll with Psalm 107:20 written on it, "He sent forth his word and healed them; he rescued them from the grave." Once he was strong enough to return home, I gave it to him. He thanked me for the scripture and set it on his shelf. He still appeared to be half his former self as his large stuffed leather chair engulfed his hunched wiry frame. Only a few wisps of hair were left on his head. He seemed like a broken man, stripped of his power and authority.

Then Max stunned me when he asked me to pray with him. Years earlier when I became a Christian, he told me he noticed I had become much more peaceful. I was encouraged that he had witnessed God working in my life. Even though he had been raised in the Jewish faith, as an adult he decided there was no God. Now he wanted us to talk to God together.

The two of us had endured a somewhat tense relationship over the years so I pleaded with God to direct me. We bowed our heads and I prayed for Max to know God and His peace and to receive complete healing, but I refrained from leading him in a specific prayer for salvation because he had not requested that. I feared being pushy. He received the prayer gratefully.

During the months that followed, my mom told me he tried praying on his own in his own way, but he never asked me for any more spiritual guidance. As my friends and I kept praying, Max grew stronger and stronger. The day came when he was able to downhill ski and scuba dive again. It was as if he had never been ill. It truly was a miracle. I thanked God for His mercy and continued to pray for Max to know Jesus as his Messiah.

**Chapter 16 - On A Manhunt**

Things were not going quite as well as they used to at my church. About twenty of us were too old for the college and career group, so an older singles group was started. It was not as active since it was small and new and the assistant pastor who headed it up had other things on his mind. I had a handful of female friends there. We played tennis and sometimes joined the married women for prayer meetings.

By the time I turned twenty-nine I became alarmed that I was almost thirty and had never had a boyfriend. I hadn't even been on what I considered a full-fledged date where the man asked me out on his own. Flirting was just too awkward so I decided a makeover would help me get a date.

I had enough money to get contact lenses again so I joyfully set aside the Clark Kent frames. I didn't have the will power to diet, so I got in shape by eating healthier food and exercising more, which was better for me than starving myself anyway. Besides biking and playing tennis, I joined a gym and was faithful using cardio machines and weights. Even though I didn't lose many pounds, I went from a size ten to a six within a year.

No more clothes from the Salvation Army store! Instead, I bought clothes from a consignment store in a wealthy neighborhood and filtered through the 50% off racks at Neiman Marcus and Saks 5th Avenue where I found feminine classic suits to wear to church and conservative evening dresses for parties or dinner dates. My wardrobe improved dramatically.

I took the plunge and went to a salon to get highlights and a cut. I was relieved to see that my hair was truly blonde this time without a hint of orange. To go with my blonde hair I leased a sporty red Eclipse and found a sleek used black fur to wear in the winter. I was a completely new woman on the outside.

My efforts paid off. Even before I had made it through my entire transformation, Emilio, the swarthy doctor in our singles group, asked me out. I was only mildly happy, however, because I had my eye on one of the deacons. Everyone thought Emilio would marry his serious girlfriend, but she had recently broken up with him, so he was on the rebound.

I was open to seeing if God would put Emilio and I together because he seemed like a nice guy with godly character. He took me to a lovely restaurant. I enjoyed hearing about his life in Italy where he was born, but my pounding migraine from dehydration after a rigorous bike ride in the heat made me wish I could just collapse at home. Even though I wasn't the best company, he was gracious so I decided that I'd go out with him again if he asked.

A few days later a friend told me that she saw Emilio at a party at his former girlfriend's house after our date. He had not bothered to tell me he was going there after we parted. I felt publicly humiliated because a number of the people there knew Emilio and I had gone out for dinner that night.

I wondered why God allowed me to go through that painful situation. I would have been happier had Emilio not asked me out at all. I told God that I didn't like the whole process of dating and preferred that He just bring my husband to my doorstep. I was very sensitive since I had high expectations for feeling special on my first real date.

Perhaps had I inquired of God before accepting Emilio's invitation, He would have told me not to bother dating someone who recently came out of a long-term relationship, but I had told myself I was in no position to be picky and should accept all reasonable offers. Or maybe I just needed to lighten up and learn a few lessons along the rocky path of dating. I turned him down when he asked me out again because I wasn't interested in competing with anyone for a man's affections and I didn't feel much of a connection with him.

I determined to persevere and be open to the next opportunity. I really envied women I knew who were led to their spouses on their very first dates. They never had to date anyone else. Why was God making me wait so long to get married?

When He didn't move on my timetable it was helpful to remember when the Israelites wandered in the desert for forty years and were forced to rely on no one but God to guide and provide for them. A direct route to the Promised Land of Canaan would have taken only eleven days, but God knew His people would turn back to Egypt when they encountered war along the quickest, but populated route.

As the Israelites were about to enter Canaan, Moses reminded them of the purpose behind their wanderings: "God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands" (Deut. 8:2). As I waited for marriage, God needed to humble and test me so my character would be refined. I was only vaguely aware of how self-serving my reasons were for being interested in various men.

One day an acquaintance asked if I'd be interested in dating an engineer she knew. I agreed when she said he was a good Christian man and volunteered with the local Republicans...and he had a large house in an exclusive suburb. I met him at his stately church where the wealthy worshipped. I didn't let the fact that he was eighteen years older stop me from going out with him.

He made me dinner and set our plates at opposite ends of a long formal dining table. I felt like I was eating with some forgotten count in his 1970's décor manor. After his divorce years ago he had given no thought to updating the house. My eyes combed the rooms planning how I could easily improve the ambiance. The conversation was tolerable, but far from engaging. When he suggested that we play a dull board game after dinner, I declined and wondered how to graciously excuse myself.

We definitely had a generation gap to contend with. I kept saying to myself, "He is your mother's age! What's wrong with you?" I cringed when he proudly showed me his daughters' photos. They were only a few years younger than me. To add to my developing nausea, I couldn't get Jimmy Carter's image out of my head every time I looked at him. What had I been thinking when I agreed to go out with him? His money and paltry political involvement were not enough to keep me seeing him after all.

A few months later my mom and Max wanted to help jump-start my love life, so they offered to pay for me to join a dating service. I hesitated, but thought I should at least see if they had any Christian men in their books. I flipped through some of the files and was disappointed to realize that very few of them appeared to be devout Christians. I decided to take the risk anyway since the payment wasn't coming out of my pocket and maybe, just maybe, my special someone was there.

I used the service for half a year and ended up meeting six men. On the first dates I immediately knew that four of them were not Christians though they had claimed to be, so I turned down their offers to see them again.

I strongly suspected that one man was sporting a toupee. He was nice enough, but odd.

The second man was a lawyer eighteen years older than me. (Again? What were the odds? Apparently, I had not learned my lesson yet.) He sauntered over to the table as if he thought he was hot stuff meeting a much younger woman for dinner. He was interesting, but it turned scary as I watched him forcefully impale his peas while he bitterly recounted the ways in which his former live-in girlfriend of many years managed to swindle him out of a hefty sum. He later called and offered to go to church with me, but I had no interest.

Another lawyer was attractive and engaging, but I was grieved to hear him describe how he turned away from the strong faith he had in his twenties and concluded that he no longer needed God. He mentioned his high salary and bragged about how self-sufficient he had become. I couldn't deal with that kind of arrogance.

My fourth date was a sweet engineer from England who wanted to include me in his circle of friends. He seemed like a very decent man who went to church, but he clearly didn't have a personal relationship with Jesus. He just stared at me blankly when I talked about my faith.

One day when I was perusing the files of single men in the office, I ran into Christy, my best friend from junior high who had grown into a beautiful woman. I was delighted to meet her for dinner to catch up. However, I was immediately heartbroken to hear she had unknowingly married into a very bad situation and was recently divorced. We exchanged stories about men we met through the service and had some good laughs. She had gone out with one guy who rejected my request to meet him. I was shocked to hear that he tried to get her to sleep with him on the first date. He had listed his faith as Christian, but some people have far too broad of a definition for it. God had protected me in that instance. A year later I ran into her again at church when there was a guest speaker. I was glad to see her pursuing God.

Of all the men I met, there was only one whose faith seemed genuine. He was nice, but on the quiet side and a bit moody. He still lived with his parents and had just started graduate studies. I enjoyed riding on his boat, but I wasn't comfortable when he had a shot of hard liquor at the restaurant.

We met again at a polo match my parents were attending where Micky Dolenz from the 1960's show, The Monkees, was playing. Micky played like a pro. The event was festive and it was amazing to feel the ground shake when the thundering hooves raced our way, but I was bored with my date. Also, since I was hoping for someone who didn't have to wait several years before he could support a family, I didn't encourage him to pursue me and he didn't.

Even though the men I met were not good matches for me, each one had a few good things going for him, so I could finally conclude that I wasn't as undesirable as I feared I was when all of them wanted to see me again after the first date.

Ken was the one man from the dating service with whom I got involved. He resembled a warm teddy bear with a crew cut. Even though it became obvious that he wasn't the Christian he claimed to be, I was sucked in by his laid back, confident personality and the fact that he was very interested in me. He was talkative, funny, and highly intelligent with the ability to put me at ease. He was doing well as a financial planner, so I knew he could support a family quite comfortably.

Within a few dates I started crafting a strategy for winning him to Jesus before I got serious about him. Because Ken liked me so much, I foolishly assumed that dating him would be a good evangelism tactic. He hadn't attended church since he was a child and he possessed our culture's mindset in many ways. However, I felt so loved when he told me he wanted to marry me that I was willing to go through the agony of trying to turn him into a devout Christian. At last a man with several attractive qualities (except the best one) actually wanted to marry me! I was lovable after all! I could feel the years of self-doubt starting to melt away.

From my early Christian days I was made well aware of God's prohibition against closely intertwining my life with an unbeliever found in 2 Cor. 6:14: "Do not be yoked together with unbelievers. For what do righteousness and wickedness have in common?" I knew the Lord wanted my heart to be free from idolatry and darkness so that He could "live with" me and walk closely with me as my Father (6:16, 18).

But my desperation to feel loved by a man superceded my convictions as I made God take a back seat. How ironic that in my quest to feel more loved, I set my sights on someone who obviously was not capable of truly loving me because he didn't know God, who is love (1 John 4:8). Yes, Ken was nice and considerate, but he didn't know the first thing about living out Christ's sacrificial love by laying his life down for another person. After being showered with Jesus' abundant healing love during my first worship experience at Maranatha, how could someone who lived in unbelief bring me more fulfillment?

As I compromised God's principles while being "yoked together" with Ken as his girlfriend, I was actually hindering his conversion by acting like a half-hearted Christian. If I had been true to Christ, I would have asked Ken direct questions about his faith on our first date and then shared the Gospel with him, not worrying about what he would think of me. Then I would have invited him to church without dating him. That way he would have stood a much better chance at getting saved. Unfortunately, I was looking out for my interests, not those of Christ by slowly pulling him along.

It appeared that Ken's experience as an altar boy in a Catholic Church had seriously scarred him. When he agreed to attend a pleasant Nazarene church with me, the convertible driving Mr. Suave turned into a nervous wreck as he sat in the pew. His eyes darted about, keeping a close eye on the polite ushers as if one of them might suddenly smack his head from behind. At one point he leaned over and whispered, "Those ushers look very mean." I was able to read people quite well and couldn't see what he was talking about as I examined their smiling faces.

I held his hand just like we did elsewhere, but Ken would have none of it. He dropped my hand after a few seconds and scooted over, leaving a gaping hole of at least a foot between us. "Was his conscience smiting him?" I wondered as I watched him fidget nervously and cower whenever he saw a dark suit pass by. After the service, he bolted for the parking lot as if he expected a bolt of lightning to hit him before he left the sanctuary. I went to church alone after that.

When we were out on the town Ken kept me entertained by taking me to a variety of interesting and pretty places. We had fun going out with his buddies who were as crazy about racecars as he was. It was a treat to accompany him to a newscaster's gala where I met the famous Detroit weatherman, the always humorous Sonny Eliot, whom I had grown up watching on TV. Of course, he told us a joke, but I couldn't laugh because it was a little inappropriate. I wasn't much fun at parties.

When Ken noticed that one of the veteran newscasters – who had a roving eye -glanced my way, Ken possessively wrapped his arms around me. At the end of the party he gazed at me like a mesmerized puppy as if the newscaster's "approval" of me made me special. "How shallow," I thought. He's not seeing the real me. But his infatuation vanished by the next date when I criticized him again about some worldly practice of his. I just had to clean him up!

After a month of dating I brought him to a friend's wedding where a woman I had counseled boldly asked him if he was a Christian. I braced myself for inevitable embarrassment. He replied confidently, "Yes, I was an altar boy." There was an awkward silence. My friends and I knew that was far from a declaration of saving faith in Christ. Now they knew I had brought a heathen as my date. I was setting a bad example as the supposedly strong Christian woman of the group who used to prophesy. Sensing that he was out of his element, Ken ran for the bar where he polished off several drinks. I really had my work cut out for me.

Ken was so internally conflicted while dating me that he took to consuming large blocks of cheese in a single sitting accompanied with nearly a whole bottle of wine. My convicting presence in his life was driving him to excess. He read his little Gideon Bible a few times and tried to pray, but he just couldn't live up to my expectations without a genuine conversion.

One day I saw a magazine cover in his living room with a bikini clad woman. Shocked (well, not really), I insisted that he remove it, but he was resistant. I left his place telling myself there were better men out there. I didn't have to put up with someone who would cheat on me in his heart by lusting after others. I was getting more and more convicted by the Holy Spirit that this dating situation was hopeless.

To top it off, Ken believed like most people that sex outside of marriage was acceptable. I had made it clear early on in our relationship that I was determined to maintain my virginity until my wedding. Thankfully, I had enough sensitivity to the Holy Spirit to help me remain solid in my conviction, which most likely made me even more attractive to him. Knowing the wisdom of Proverbs 16:6 "...through the fear of the Lord a man avoids evil" made all the difference.

I saw marriage as a sacred ceremony in which God participates as He joins together a man and woman for the rest of their lives. I wanted to abstain even if I was engaged because I planned to say my vows with a clear conscience before God. I believed that my "body is a temple of the Holy Spirit" so I was no longer my own, because Jesus had bought me by His death on the cross (1 Cor. 6:19-20). Also, I had heard of two stories where one person called off the wedding when it was a mere week or two away, so I wasn't going to give myself to someone only to have him possibly leave me. That would be too devastating.

(As a side note: of course, there is complete forgiveness and emotional healing for those who have sinned sexually and God can make the repentant completely pure, holy and joyful again: "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow..." Isaiah 1:18b. And God promises in Isaiah 57:15, 18, "'I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite...I have seen his ways, but I will heal him; I will guide him and restore comfort to him...'"

If you are feeling pressured to do things you are not comfortable with for the sake of acceptance, trust God to meet your deepest needs and hold out for a far better life with someone who will treat you with more respect. Sexual immorality should not be engaged in lightly because it is the only sin that is done against your body and Jesus wants to spare you the resulting heartache.

As Paul wrote to the Ephesians:

"No immoral, impure or greedy person – such a man is an idolater – has any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God." (5:3, 5)

Furthermore, in 1 Thessalonians Paul exhorts Christians to purity:

"It is God's will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you should learn to control his own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the heathen, who do not know God; and that in this matter no one should wrong his brother or take advantage of him...he who rejects this instruction does not reject man but God, who gives you his Holy Spirit." (4:3-6, 8)

If you are struggling to live for God, pray as Jesus taught His disciples to pray, "and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one" (Mt. 6:13). God is there to give you strength to follow His ways if you ask for help. By the power of the Holy Spirit we can overcome sin: "So I say, live by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the sinful nature" (Gal. 5:16). With convicting scriptures planted in your mind, at just the right time they can jump to the forefront of your thinking with a force that can stop you in your tracks: "I have hidden you word in my heart that I might not sin against you" (Psalm 119:11).

Lastly, don't put yourself in situations that make temptation unbearable. Meet only in public places if necessary. Those who accept our culture's lenient view of sex would find the choice to save it for marriage archaic, ridiculous and nearly impossible, but "nothing is impossible with God" (Luke 1:37). The benefits of peace with God and the chance of sharing a deep love far outweigh the necessary sacrifices.)

I soon reached a point when I faced the fact that I had compromised my beliefs. How far had I wandered from the Lord that I would have even considered getting involved with someone who was not serving Jesus? I became revolted by my behavior. And if Ken did become a Christian, it would be disheartening for me, as a long-term committed believer who had attended Bible College and seminary, to be married to someone who was just starting their life with Christ. Ideally, the man should be the spiritual leader in the marriage, which doesn't mean he needs to be saved longer, but he should be solidly committed to the Lord and willing to take the helm, gleaning wisdom through diligent Bible study and prayer. Surely God had someone more compatible for me.

Only one friend exhorted me to leave Ken. He had been a fellow student at Oral Robert's seminary and had settled in the Detroit area with his wife to start a ministry to Muslims. God bless him for his willingness to be faithful to God's word and risk our friendship by confronting me! I considered him to be a better friend than all the others because he lovingly endured the discomfort that comes with addressing sin in a fellow believer's life and focused on my well-being to turn me from the error of my ways. I reflected on his admonition and the Holy Spirit's frequent call to obedience and determined I would end the four-month relationship.

Then Ken told me he was selected for one of the top positions in his company and would receive a much larger salary. I was impressed. He said that if we got married, I wouldn't have to work. He took me to a beautiful neighborhood where we could live someday. I gazed longingly at the huge new homes and the pristine golf course weaving through the subdivision. Those estates looked far better than my dreary basement room with no windows.

Then I quickly snapped to my senses, became ashamed of my greed and knew I was simply being tempted. I kept my resolve and left him. After all, how much could I enjoy a lovely home if my heart was continually grieved by my husband's lifestyle? I didn't want to live in a state of constant battle in the spirit realm. I knew that once a husband rejected or seriously compromised the gospel, I would have to continue witnessing through "the purity and reverence" of my life (1 Peter 3:2) and express the love of Christ in the face of his indifference while persevering in prayer. I wanted to be spared the pain of such a lonely marriage, so I set my heart on believing that God had a genuine Christian man for me somewhere.

I had learned my lesson and promised God I would never date an unbeliever again and I didn't. I knew of a few Christians who were able to convert their boyfriends or girlfriends to Christ and have a happy marriage, but their stories were rare. If I had been in their shoes, I would have doubted the sincerity of such a conversion and would want the man to prove it was genuine over a period of a year or two before getting married.

Around the time I left Ken I started realizing how alone I was at church. A number of my friends had married or left the church, so the singles ministry was unbearably small. It was painful to hear the new senior pastor talking so much about family life when I often sat by myself in the pew, hoping and praying to start my own family. I decided that I might remain single for the rest of my life if I stayed in that church since I had only one date during the five years I had been there. I was overdue for a change.

I had heard about a young adult singles group at a Baptist church that had around 200 in attendance. It sounded promising so I gathered my courage and went. I already knew a couple of people there, so I felt somewhat at home.

I ran into my old roommate from Bible College who I hadn't seen for three years. Since I was the new me, I figured I'd have a little fun and find out if she could recognize me. Smiling, I approached her and said, "Hi, Lisa. Do you remember me?" She studied my face and squinted, searching her memory banks. "No," she admitted. I slept in the bunk above her during the few months I lived in the dorm, yet she had no idea who I was. I was intrigued that I had the ability to present two very different "selves" to the world. I told her who I was and she laughed with surprise.

I quickly got involved in the plethora of activities. I joined a Bible study, did work projects on old houses in Detroit, and attended many parties. I was impressed with the camaraderie in the group. They were like a big happy family that banded together to lend a hand when someone was in need. I even had a good time joining a dozen people to help someone move, which happened often. Building friendships was easy because everyone went out to lunch almost every Sunday at a nearby mall where we talked long after our meals were gone. I was very happy that I had found so many singles in a church that welcomed me with open arms.

At one of the lunches my ears became riveted to the conversation of a man named Ed who was recounting an incident in a history book he had been reading. I joined in and we talked for awhile. He was stocky with blonde wisps framing an intense gaze behind a sharp pair of glasses. He asked me to his work party and then we started dating. I was taken in by his complex personality, the way he pursued me in earnest and I admired the fact that he was an ophthalmologist.

Ed soon expressed an interest in marrying me, which made me feel good, but I was less giddy this time at hearing such news. I knew I had to get to know him much better before I could discuss the topic seriously. Lisa warned me that he had a reputation for being a jerk, but at the time I just thought she was jealous, so I blew off her comment.

I warmed up to Ed when he made it clear that he supported chaste behavior and had a very biblical theology. He was generous with his compliments like, "You are the most attractive woman I have ever dated" (which was probably a line he knew worked well with women) and he praised my intelligence. This guy was looking very promising.

One day Ed gave me some money and asked if I'd pick up a Christian book on relationships for him. My schedule was more flexible than his, so I agreed. Then he asked me not to read the book. I just stared at him without nodding. His strange request made me determined to read it quickly before delivering it to him. What was the big secret? The book was interesting and helpful. He never asked me if I read it, so I didn't tell him.

About a week later we went to a Christian concert. We chatted as we waited for the music. Ed started talking about some "profound" insight he recently came up with about relationships. The insight came directly from the book, but he gave the author no credit. I kept listening with amazement as Ed then had the nerve to use the exact phrase from a song the author quoted to illustrate his point, claiming that the song had popped into his head. I didn't want to anger him by admitting I had ignored his request by reading the book, so I just took note that I was dating a conversational plagiarizer who must not feel enough confidence in his own ability to sound interesting. My balloon was seriously deflated and I lost some respect for him. Honesty was very high on my list of expectations for any relationship.

As we walked out after the concert, Ed asked me to stand still for a moment while he locked his eyes onto a beautiful woman's leg exposed by a very high slit in her skirt. Then he informed me that he likes that type of skirt as if I should wear one, too. I wouldn't be caught dead in such a skirt.

I was in dumbfounded. This supposedly godly man who said he wanted to marry me, took his time to drool over another woman right in front of me and acted as if he had done nothing wrong. I had just witnessed a blatant violation of Christ's warning, "...anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Mt. 5:28). I shook my head in disbelief and should have told him off. But like a desperate woman with little self-respect, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, even though there was no doubt about what he had just done. I left the concert by his side without saying a word.

Another example of his perplexing behavior happened just before Christmas. Ed continued to make comments about us getting married, so I concluded that he was quite serious about me. One day he took me to buy Godiva Chocolates as a Christmas present for a young single co-worker of his. He said she had done him a favor at work, so he wanted to show his appreciation. He bought $70 worth of chocolates for her. Wow, that was extravagant! What was he going to get me?

He told me about the large sums he was spending on his family members. My hopes kept rising as I witnessed his generosity toward others. I figured that I'd better get him a nice present, so I picked out two designer dress shirts.

Just before Christmas we went out to dinner at a posh restaurant. Afterwards, he handed me my present. It was two music tapes worth about $10 each. That was it. I stared in astonishment at the meager present.

He had set me up. He made certain that I knew exactly how much he spent on everyone else in his life so I could have a clear comparison when he gave me my present and realize that I should not expect much from him as his wife. He was more concerned about impressing a co-worker than he was me, yet he wanted me to marry him. He was a sick man and I was even sicker to stay with him.

I started crying, not knowing how to make sense of his twisted gesture. As he patted my back, he said, "I wanted to teach you to be less materialistic." I couldn't believe my ears. I had never asked him to take me to expensive restaurants nor had I requested pricey gifts. Perhaps he thought I was materialistic because of my nice clothes. I was too confused to think straight. If only I had dropped the tapes on the couch, grabbed the shirts I bought him and walked out the door never to return. But, alas, I was thirty years old and desperate to make things work out with someone who had expressed a serious interest in me, even if he was a jerk.

For the first time in my life, Christmas was a depressing holiday. Even though Ed was elsewhere, gloominess hovered over me as I opened presents with my family. "Maybe this is how it is to work through difficulties in marriage," I told myself, "You have your ups and downs and this is just a down time. I need to persevere."

To add to the insanity, Ed casually said one day, "I have the potential to hit my wife." I silently soaked in his threatening words as we tooled along in his rickety car. Even though he had a nice home in a lovely suburb, he drove a junker. He said he wanted to see how many miles he could put on it before it completely fell apart. That was not a goal of his I admired. I feared for my safety every time we took his car, so after a few weeks I insisted on driving my car for our dates.

The next time I saw him, I asked Ed why he said such a strange thing. He tried to minimize it by claiming, "I said I was capable of hitting my wife just like any of us is capable of committing any sin." I didn't buy it. He was really giving me a warning so he could feel justified once he started beating me after we got married.

(Tragically, many women have been victims of violence from a partner. If you are currently being abused or know someone who is, I urge you to contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233 where you can receive guidance and support. There are many resources on their website. You can learn what a healthy relationship looks like. It is never God's will for you to be abused. The Lord loves you and has a much better and safer life available for you.)

Breaking up had been a messy business with Ken because he didn't see my reasons as valid and tried to talk me into staying with him. I suspected the same thing might happen with Ed, so I took some time to prepare my case and wait for a good opportunity. I wanted to be gentle and as straightforward and rational as possible because I'd have to see him every week at church in our singles group. I didn't want to create a lot of animosity.

A few days later as we sat on his couch, his eyes remained closed as if he was in shock or the pain was too much to bear as he listened to my reasons for leaving him. I wondered if rage was escalating beneath his calm exterior. I was poised to flee because I feared he might kick me or something, but his rigid frame remained motionless. He looked pale and barely said a word when I got up and walked out. All I could think while driving home was, "If he liked me that much, why didn't he treat me better all along or apologize?"

We saw a counselor shortly after that who confronted Ed about his tendency toward cruel behavior. It appeared that Ed had a recurring subconscious urge to sabotage his relationships. Why? I could only guess that it had something to do with his family dynamics, which I did not know much about. I got the impression that Ed was a mystery even to himself.

The counselor had us take a personality test. Ed tested very low on empathy and I tested quite high – we were at complete opposite ends of the spectrum. Suddenly, it was obvious as to why my feelings were getting hurt so severely and frequently. Ed never said he would work hard to change his ways. He had so far to go in learning how to be a loving husband that he had no business dating anyone at that time anyway. Our tumultuous relationship didn't last more than two months. At least I was progressing in the right direction toward self-respect.

The day after I left Ed, I became aware that a dark cloud had been swept away. I could feel the love of God again. While I had been dating him, I was blinded to the constant heavy oppression that had been gradually seeping into my soul, attempting to wrap its destructive tentacles around me. I'm grateful that I was not so desperate for a husband that I would have settled for the hateful treatment Ed dished out. I knew a wife should be cherished and protected by her husband. She had to come second in his life, after God, not in the final position after everyone else.

After our breakup Ed was clearly in mourning because he wore an obnoxious oversized bright yellow sweater to all the singles events for awhile as if the glare would cheer him up. He'd draw an empathetic woman to a corner while he reclined on something and talked to the ceiling as if he was on a therapist's couch. I felt badly, but not bad enough to approach him. Ed soon tried to talk me into returning to him. There was no way he could change my mind because I had learned too many hard lessons while seeing him.

Several months later I was happy for a chance to visit an old roommate from my Maranatha days at the University of Michigan. She had returned to U of M for graduate studies and invited me to a Graduate Christian Fellowship party. That sounded like fun.

That night I enjoyed playing games and chatting with all the guests. I was reminded of how stimulating it had been interacting with the numerous intellectuals I met as a student in Ann Arbor years ago. One man with a boyish face gave me lots of attention and I was eating it up. I was captivated by his warm smile and I admired the fact that he was working on a Ph.D. in history. I sported a 1950's black sweater with white beadwork that contrasted well with my voluminous blonde hair. I was flattered when he asked me if I operated my own hair salon.

He was so engaging in conversation and gazed at me with such delight, that I started to fall in love with him. I was convinced that he was completely taken with me. Never before had I felt such an emotional high in the presence of a man. I left the party with excited anticipation about what lay ahead in the weeks to come.

At last I knew what everyone was singing about in the love songs on the radio. Now that I was in love, the veil had been lifted. For the first time in my life I could see the world through eyes glazed by giddy joy. I soaked in all the beauty around me as I waited to hear from my new found love. I figured it would take a couple of days for him to ask my friend for my number and then call me.

I had an appointment with my dentist the next day. Normally I was terrified to have a drill stuck in my mouth, but that day love's enveloping cloud gave me complete peace. It was as if I was on Valium without the side affect of fatigue. It was amazing. Being in love was a powerful drug that made even the most dreadful experiences like a day in a field of flowers! I was really living at last.

A couple of days passed with no call from my friend or Mr. Wonderful, so I decided to call my friend and see if my future husband had asked for my number yet. She replied with annoyance, "He already has a girlfriend. She just wasn't able to make it to the party." I was flabbergasted. "Then why was he so friendly with me?" I asked. She had no explanation. She wasn't the least bit empathetic and even acted like his behavior was my fault. Why hadn't she said something to me at the party? I was crushed.

The love cloud vanished as quickly as it had come. My being in love had merely been infatuation and was not based on anything concrete or lasting. We didn't really know each other. We had merely spoken at a party. Now I saw the man through a totally different light. He never intended to do anything about pursuing me. Why would he flirt with me when he already had a girlfriend? He was just having fun at my expense. I still had a lot to learn about guarding my heart and the importance of getting to know a person well before jumping to conclusions.

A year later I met Rick at a friend's party. My ears perked up when I heard him mention his former job with a politician in Washington, D.C. and I immediately joined the conversation. He was a tall, charming lawyer who looked like a young Frank Sinatra. He was confident, captivating and seemed well-adjusted (I was on the lookout for personality disorders after dating Ed). I still wondered if God wanted me to marry a lawyer, so I thought that Rick might be the one for me.

Within a week we were having a marvelous time talking about a variety of topics at a romantic restaurant. Rick was so enchanting. I could picture him standing before me with arms open wide crooning like Sinatra, "All of me...why not take all of me? Can't you see I'm no good without you?" Oh, yes! I was ready to take all of him. Even though I was falling for him, I avoided a full-blown infatuation attack because I sensed that he was only cautiously interested in me. He seemed to be every woman's dream man even if he did have a habit of lining things up perfectly in his apartment. I could live with some obsessive compulsion.

I started imagining what living as Mrs. Sinatra would be like as I invited Rick to the Christmas party I was throwing at my mom and Max's while they were on a trip. I spent hours rearranging furniture for a large caroling crowd and created a festive atmosphere including red streamers wrapped around the foyer pillars, turning them into giant candy canes.

A bad snowstorm didn't keep the spirited singles away. Everyone had a grand time consuming decadent desserts and singing a host of holiday and worship songs accompanied by a keyboard and guitars. It was glorious hearing the laughter all around. I was on a hostess high busy tending to everyone's needs. Rick was an attentive guest until he ran into the petite elfishly cute Julie, who was an expert charmer. "Oh, dear," I lamented, "I should not have introduced him to my singles group until he got to know me better."

I stupidly invited him to another singles party and he asked if Tinker Bell – or Julie - would be there. She had not been invited. I took offense at his inquiry and knew I didn't have any fairy qualities to help him stay focused on just me. My friends confirmed that he was somewhat flirtatious with them, too, so I discouraged him from pursuing me any further. I concluded that it would be safer to avoid men who had the capacity to make many women swoon.

With the exception of Rick, my slew of disappointing male encounters coincided with my two years of being bleached blonde, so I assigned partial blame to my hair. I was tired of having men of questionable character approaching me with the expectation that I'd be fun and enticing. While the increased attention was fun for awhile, it was also emotionally exhausting as I tried to figure out each guy and recover when the genuine love I longed for never materialized.

Hosea 2:5-8 described my audacious searching after the affections and wealth of men without a truly submissive God-honoring heart:

"She said, 'I will go after my lovers, who give me my food and my water, my wool and my linen, my oil and my drink,' Therefore I will block her path with thornbushes; I will wall her in so that she cannot find her way. She will chase after her lovers but not catch them...She has not acknowledged that I was the one who gave her the grain, the new wine and oil..."

I had been trying hard to appear glamorous in order to attract successful and interesting professionals to rescue me from my nanny days and provide me with the happy family I yearned for. I needed to stop and look up, recognizing that God was always my Provider. He loved me enough to prevent me from marrying anyone who might hurt me or distract me from true devotion to Him.

After reaping the fruits of my early mid-life crisis makeover, I came to see that it was much more fulfilling when I was in my twenties to have less attention placed on my appearance and more directed to my heart. That way I could get to know a man who was filled with the love of God and, therefore, was capable of genuinely loving me. I wanted to be known for who I really was and longed to feel like myself again, so I returned to my natural dark brown hair color and proceeded to have a good time socializing with a little less drama.

**Chapter 17 - Friends and the Singles Scene**

During the next couple of years I became involved in the visitors' committee for my singles group. I greeted people at the door and arranged simple luncheons for over a hundred people. I desired to make newcomers feel welcome at church because I knew how awkward I felt going to new places.

I will never forget when I was in sixth grade and I had to start a new school in the spring because my parents got remarried and we had to move. I must have looked quite bewildered as I got off the bus on my first day because a girl my age immediately came up to me, threw her arm around my shoulders and said enthusiastically, "We are the welcoming committee!" It could have been a lonely, scary experience switching schools, but because of the warm reception I received, I ended up having the best school experience of my life and made many good friends within a short amount of time. I wanted to help others feel as wonderful as I felt getting off that bus years ago.

Most of my friends (from various churches) were kind and considerate, but I let a couple of women get close to me who were very open and fun, but also had a habit of backstabbing others. I should have known that if someone freely slandered others, they would eventually do it to me. I should not have been participating in gossip in the first place, but I didn't realize what a heinous sin slander was until I became the recipient of it. It really hurt. I learned to heed the Proverb, "A righteous man is cautious in friendship" (12:26).

In addition, the backstabbers had bad tempers. I'd nurse resentment after an outburst, which I knew wasn't right. Sometimes they were simply thoughtless. Why had I suddenly become a magnet for disturbed women? Perhaps my self-esteem was a little low at that time. I eventually ended those relationships and sensed great relief. I really had to pray for God's guidance in friendship. Another Proverb that helped me was, "Do not make friends with a hot-tempered man, do not associate with one easily angered, or you may learn his ways and get yourself ensnared" (22:24-25).

Living in a large metro area provided many opportunities to attend singles parties at the larger churches. Monthly euchre tournaments were very popular, but I had an aversion to card games, so I went sometimes just to socialize. Word games like charades or Pictionary sometimes provided so much laughter we'd be in tears. That's when people's quirky sides came out.

The annual weekend retreats a few hours away were enriching and full of good times. However, I didn't go often because it was nearly impossible for me to sleep in the cabins with about ten women because there was always one woman who snored loudly. The worship was excellent and I liked the discussions.

My favorite retreat memory was when I biked with two guys (one was Patrick, who you will hear about later) along the country roads in Hillsdale County for quite a distance where we were chased by several packs of vicious territorial dogs. We squeezed our water bottles at their faces and hollered to keep them at bay. I was terrified then thrilled every time we managed to evade an attack on our legs. One hill going down was very long with a sharp turn at the bottom where a long driveway led to a farmhouse. I was so relieved that I was the first one to pass it because by the time Patrick rode by as the last one, the dogs had already made it to the road. They were right behind his wheel, barking as if they smelled blood on a rabbit hunt. I turned my head fearing the worst as I watched Patrick pedal furiously for dear life. If the road had been uphill at that point, he would have been a goner. But he had good speed coming down and came through without a scratch. I thanked God and we all laughed about it later.

The costume parties in the fall were always amusing. Since I identified somewhat with the lifestyle of a nun, one year I threw together a habit with black and white scarves and my black graduation robe. Since I had a Lutheran background, hazy memories from old movies and TV shows were my only guide. I didn't quite know what I was doing. I wore my glasses to enhance the image.

On my way to the party I realized I forgot to buy pop, so I stopped at a drug store in a trendy neighborhood. When I got out of my car, I glanced at a woman as she walked up to the car next to mine. Her face turned white as a ghost as she stared at me, then dove into her car. What on earth could have caused her such fear?

Then it hit me. She must have mistaken me for an actual nun! I felt a power I had not known before. "This could become addicting," I mused. No doubt she was a Catholic school survivor. From my mother's friends I had heard stories from trembling lips about childhood trauma suffered at the hands of ruler wielding nuns years ago.

When I walked into the store, I completely forgot that I was in costume because I was zeroing in on my target – beverages. Immediately, the store manager shot toward me with such fright that he resembled a rigidly shifting five-year-old about to have an accident. "Sister! C-can I help you?" he stuttered. It took me a second to realize what his problem was. Was he being reminded of his sins and feeling he deserved the wrath of God? I should have pulled out a ruler and questioned him. But I just smiled and said I was on my way to a costume party. All tension eased from his body as he smiled and walked me to the right aisle.

For other costumes it was fun trying to look stylish like Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn from "Breakfast at Tiffany's" even though I didn't personally resemble them. Surprisingly, I got my best compliment when I arrived at a party as a shiny, rotund Hershey's kiss. With my hair pulled back under the cap, a guy said I resembled Lynda Carter who played Wonder Woman. Of course, I didn't possess her stunning beauty, but he made me feel good. Someone else said the same thing years ago and I was also compared to Mary Ingalls, the oldest daughter from the TV show "Little House on the Prairie." I had considered dressing as the superhero, but I couldn't figure out how to make her costume more modest without ruining the look.

I was always eager to see who dressed as what strange thing. The collection of creative costumes from movies or people from past decades made for great conversation starters and often represented alter egos. Cousin It (with real hair), 1940's gangsters, Martin Luther and a shotgun wedding party (with a married pregnant woman as the bride) were some of the costumes I remember. The most impressive idea came from a group who portrayed all the suspects from the murder mystery game Clue. The individuals really looked like their characters.

Wanting to branch out and meet even more people, I decided to check out the local Young Republicans. I still wondered if God wanted me to minister to those serving in politics. I couldn't relate to the partying crowd, however, and felt out of place. I made phone calls to voters on behalf of a Republican congressional candidate and attended his victory party, but that was the extent of my involvement.

I was much happier with the work of the Christian Coalition and became acquainted with one of the local leaders. I had offered to volunteer some of my time on their projects, but they never got back with me, so I assumed that was not God's route for me either. Ralph Reed, the Coalition's national leader at the time, was my hero. I loved to hear him articulate the conservative Christian viewpoint during news interviews. I attended a fundraiser that Ralph spoke at and was thrilled to get my picture taken with him.

I kept praying for our government officials and cared about the pressures that I imagined they were enduring. My heart ached to see what Washington, D.C. was like. I had enough money to get a hotel room near Georgetown for several nights, so I drove down when I had my next break.

I didn't realize how difficult it would be walking under the oppressive August heat, but at last I was in the city of my dreams! I was eating up all of the exhibits and trying to read and absorb as much information as I could. I admired the paintings of past presidents and other famous individuals in the National Portrait Museum. I loved the endless artifacts and stories recounted in the National Museum of History. The bold red and white interior and soaring arches inside the Library of Congress were a feast for my eyes. I strolled slowly along Statuary Hall in the Capitol Building and marveled at the dome. I also toured the Supreme Court, Embassy Row, the National Cathedral, and biked along the Potomac. I planned to return someday for further exploration. Washington D.C. was as good as I had imagined. I longed to live there, but I didn't sense God telling me to take steps to move.

For more relaxing vacations I liked to stay in various resort towns along Lake Michigan. My favorite place was Ludington State Park. When I was young my family knew the caretakers of the lighthouse. It was magical sleeping in their old house and riding their horses in gentle rain over miles of rolling sand dunes.

As an adult I relished the opportunity to stake out an empty stretch of beach to be alone with my thoughts and allow the thunder of the crashing waves to wash away all my stress. If the water was really churned up, I'd have fun riding the waves to the shore on an air mattress. Sometimes I brought a friend, but I'd regret it if she snored or liked staying up late watching TV. I often traveled by myself because I wanted at least one week each year where I didn't have to be concerned about pleasing anyone. I longed for complete freedom – just me and God out in nature.

One time I got ambitious and went on a 60 mile bike ride along a Rails to Trails path through the countryside on the west side of Michigan. I brought an umbrella, water and money for meals. It was a splendid adventure as I meandered through quaint towns, serene fields, mysterious forests and dairy farms. I had to pray for God's strength to carry me through the last five grueling miles with the wind against me. When I reached my hotel room every part of me ached. I could barely move. But by the next morning I felt miraculously normal! Yet, I decided to stick with the eight to sixteen mile rides I did regularly near home at Kensington Metro Park with its hills encircling a pristine lake dotted with joyful sailboats. That was a great retreat.

While home I reflected on my dateless life since I met Rick. Up to that point, dating had involved more grief than joy, so I may have been putting up a guarded front without realizing it. It was as if when I walked through the door into a singles event, I attached a sign to my forehead that read, "Don't you dare ask me out," because no one did.

I felt like two people were vying for control within me. One desperately wanted to be married and believed it could be a wonderful and fulfilling journey while the other one was afraid of taking the huge risk that marriage entailed. What if the man I married was merely putting on an act while we were dating and then let the façade go once the vows were said and turned into an abusive brute? I had heard of such horror stories.

Also, I no longer trusted my ability to discern God's will in the area of marriage. It seemed as though my emotions and sometimes selfish desires had been so powerful that I let them mislead me on many occasions where I believed God wanted me to marry certain men and I had been wrong. I could usually follow God's leading when it came to employment, which church to attend or what areas of ministry He wanted me to serve in, but when it came to men I was so off course.

I did not enjoy having to be vulnerable as each gentleman examined me to see if I measured up to his standards. It's easy to acquire some of your self-worth from the opinions of others even if you believe that God loves and accepts you. Enduring a critique of my artwork by my fellow classmates years ago was far easier to handle because I could separate myself to a degree from my work. But in dating I was presenting my whole self. I also dreaded having to tell Mr. Wrong that he didn't meet my expectations. I could figure out no way around the messiness of the dating scene.

Constantly fixing myself up to look my best and concentrating on sounding interesting in conversations with men was exhausting. I wished that I could show up to a singles event with stringy hair, no makeup, unflattering clothes and devour a bowl of Cheetos as I droned on about drivel from my week with the kids at work. But then I might be left talking to no one except a burping beer bellied monster truck fanatic.

Even though I often had a good time at the parties and activities and it was exciting to keep meeting new people, I kept praying that the single life would be over for me as soon as possible. Why did I have to work so hard to convince a respectable man that I was worthy of his love?

Because my devotion to God was not as intense as it had been when I was in Bible College, I was blind to how I may have been hurting my chances of capturing the heart of an elusive godly man. Since I had developed many male friendships, that could have been off-putting for some. My tendency to talk too much certainly didn't help matters either. I ruined a date with a very respectable guy when I had the audacity to complain about how his friend treated me while I was involved with him. Big mistake.

In addition, I considered the apostle Paul's admonition for "women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, not with braided hair or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, but with good deeds..." (1 Tim. 2:9-10) before I walked out of my apartment each day. But it may have helped to attract a devout Christian if I had conveyed a simple elegance more than trying to look glamorous. I had forgotten about the latter part of the verse which advised against expensive clothes. At least my wardrobe remained fairly modest – always high necklines and skirts around the knees. Developing my character and investing more time in good deeds would have been more productive if I wanted a fulfilling relationship.

**Chapter 18 - Facing My Goliaths**

In the area of my health my faith was challenged a couple of times, but God was merciful. When I was a child I found it strange that my grandparents thanked God for good health. I thought, "Of course we are healthy. So what?" As I got older, however, I no longer took my health for granted.

For one thing, I had difficulty locating a skilled dentist that I could trust. Because of the incompetence of a former dentist who had perforated my tooth while doing a filling, I already lost one tooth. Without dental insurance I was vulnerable to the wiles of an unscrupulous dentist. I later needed a crown on another tooth and was told about a brother of a man in my singles group who was a dentist. I went to his office happy that a Christian could help me because he would be honest – or so I thought.

As he leaned forward and told me about his faith in Christ and described aspects of his practice, I immediately felt nauseated. Something about him made me very wary. I should have trusted my instincts and left, but I stayed, not wanting to look strange or hurt his feelings. He prepared my tooth for the crown, but instead of fitting me for a temporary on my stub of a tooth, he stuck a thin gummy substance over the jagged edges. He never warned me not to chew on that side.

It wasn't surprising that within a few days a piece of the tooth chipped off, so I called his office to tell him. Both the receptionist and the dentist insisted that the tooth had not chipped even though I told them I had a piece of the tooth in my hand. Did they think I was an imbecile? I went for my appointment and showed him the chip. He put the crown on anyway; saying that it would fit perfectly somehow. I was incredulous, but didn't know how to argue with a dentist.

I couldn't rid myself of my conviction that he should have made a new crown. I had a friend who was married to a dentist and he looked at it. He immediately asked me not to request his testimony in court. He didn't want to be bothered. He drew me a diagram of what the other dentist did wrong and described the weak material used to fill in the chipped area.

When I called the corrupt dentist to tell him what I had discovered about my crown, he refused to talk to me or make an appointment. He had his poor receptionist making all kinds of excuses for him. After numerous failed attempts to talk with him, I realized that I would have to go to his office to get my $450 back.

Even though I had the information and diagram from my friend's husband, I was still terrified. I had no plans on going to court because I decided it would be better for me to be wronged than to go through such aggravation. I asked God for help and strength. He told me to read the account of David and Goliath. The dentist, with his great education and position and desire to rob me of my money was a Goliath in my life. With his degree in dentistry he was like a nine foot giant towering over me. God was telling me to face him even though I seemed so small in my eyes in comparison to him. The Lord wanted me to step out in faith and head for the battle, believing that He would give me victory over my enemy. I pressed forward, clinging to the words of David's fearless retort to Goliath,

"You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This day the Lord will hand you over to me, and I'll strike you down..." (1 Samuel 17:45-46)

After much prayer I went to his office asking in a polite, but resolute manner to see him. There was some scurrying behind the door. He sent all of his workers out of the office except one woman who kept the books. Why would he send everyone out just because I wanted to speak with him? Did he tell everyone I was a crazed maniac? Or maybe he feared his employees would find out how unethical he was once I started talking. I became more nervous. Through a trembling voice I described my visit to the other dentist and showed the diagram and insisted that he give me all of my money back because I would need to pay for another crown. He started to lie again, claiming the tooth was fine. I was incredulous that he had such nerve. I was so upset to see him lying to my face that I started crying, but I would not give up.

In the meantime, the woman who remained in the office checked my records and asked the dentist with surprise why he had charged me for a more expensive procedure than the one he had actually performed on me. Good for her! I was appalled that he had done such a thing, but relieved that his fraud was clearly exposed. He finally abandoned his charade and agreed to give me the full amount on the spot.

I left there shaken, but overjoyed that God came through. He enabled me to topple my giant! I would have preferred just staying home and praying and have God solve my problem all on His own. Sometimes He wants to work that way. But for this battle He called me to go out in faith and stand up for myself before He brought the victory. I didn't even have to act tough and mean and God still toppled my thieving dentist giant.

Around this same time it was discovered that I had a small tumor beneath one of my fingernails. I was so grateful that I had health insurance because I would not have been able to afford the bills to have the fingernail and tumor removed. Having an operation on one of the most sensitive areas of the body was frightening, but it had to be done. I would be awake during the operation, so, at their recommendation, I took a tiny dose of Valium to relax me.

They pricked my finger many times to numb it. When I glanced up to see what they were doing, I noticed with alarm dark red liquid flowing from around my nail. "Is that blood?" I hollered. They said, "No, it's iodine," and quickly threw a towel over my face to block my view.

Half way into the procedure I about gagged when I heard the surgeon describing to the interns what was going on in my finger, "See how the tumor turns gray once I detach it from the blood stream?" They were all quite fascinated. Where were the earplugs? I just lay there, praying for God's strength. He got me through the ordeal, but little did I know that the real pain had not yet begun.

For the next several weeks I had to change the gauze under the bandage on a daily basis. The problem was that the ointment I had to apply caused the gauze to stick like glue to the raw flesh of my nail bed. The doctor recommended I soak the finger for awhile first, but there was no way the water could make the gauze simply fall off. I had to "take it like a man" and just pull those clinging white threads from the unbelievably tender, red nail bed. Now I knew why prisoners of war have been tortured by having things stuck beneath their fingernails. My face would go into strange contortions as I'd be my own tormentor and slowly pull the threads while pleading, "Help me, Jesus!"

The prospect of having to wait for the next few days to find out if I had cancer or not was terrifying. So many people got cancer. I wondered how they handled such devastating news. I felt like I had to deal with the fear and uncertainty all by myself. None of my family members or friends had been through it, so I didn't say much about my turmoil. I didn't know who to talk with.

I turned to God's word for reassurance about His healing power. Isaiah 53:4, "Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows..." made it clear that Jesus' death on the cross provides healing to those who believe. Matthew 8:17 quotes that same verse in the context of Jesus healing all the sick, to show how he fulfilled the scripture and to confirm that His sacrifice not only brought us eternal life, but also healing for us to enjoy on earth.

The scripture was encouraging, but I still had doubts. I wanted to hear God speak directly to my heart. After only one day I couldn't take the anguish anymore and I asked God, "Am I going to get cancer? Will this be the last year of my life?" Suddenly, I felt His peace and an assurance that everything would be all right. Concluding that I did not have cancer, I was brimming with gratitude and was able to sleep that night. Of course, whatever the results were from the biopsy, I had to trust that God would sustain me through the journey:

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned..." (Isaiah 43:2)

When I was told that the tumor was benign, I thanked God over and over. I felt as though God had given me a new lease on life. I now had many years ahead to look forward to. I wanted to make the most of them. I determined not to take my years on earth for granted. (However, I have to keep reminding myself of God's deliverances to renew my gratitude.)

After working for Fred and Dana for four years, I started getting the sense from the Holy Spirit that I should start ridding myself of excess baggage to make it easier to move out. I didn't have another job waiting for me and everything was going along as usual at my current one. It made no sense, but I donated a few boxes of books to the library because I couldn't free myself of the impulse to lighten my load.

A week after I donated the books, Dana told me that Fred decided to accept a position overseas. They would be moving in a few months in the dead of winter and she asked if I would like to join them. I was surprised that she thought I might consider leaving my friends and family behind to live with them in cramped quarters in a distant foreign country. Had she been completely unaware that I was uncomfortable living with them? I had stayed for four years only because I liked their daughter and I didn't think I could get another nanny job that paid enough for me to afford my own apartment since my college loans were not quite paid off. Nor had I felt God leading me elsewhere prior to that.

I said I preferred staying in America. She thought that was fine and told me they would give me a 1% raise for the additional work with their new baby. That amounted to less than $3 per week! I knew other nannies got paid much more for additional children. To add insult to injury she said they wouldn't let me obtain any of the raise until they moved, as if she thought that tiny sum would be a motivation for me to stay through mid winter. I knew of nannies who were offered $1,000-$2,000 bonuses if they stayed the last few months until a family moved. After her painfully stingy offer, I felt no obligation to stay until they moved.

I thought quickly. I told her I would try to get a nanny job in the Washington, D.C. area. I preferred to move before the snow came, so I gave her a month's notice that I would be leaving. I figured that was a reasonable proposition, which would give them plenty of time to find a short-term replacement through a nanny agency. Then I would have enough time to say a gradual good-bye to Josie.

I was not prepared for Dana's reaction. Her body literally started to shake from rage. She yelled and swore at me and stomped out of the room. She grabbed the baby and left the house. I didn't know what was going to happen next. Now I was the one shaking, but it was from fear. Suddenly I realized why God had been telling me to lighten my load for moving. I wished I had taken Him seriously and disposed of more things. I immediately started calling nanny agencies in Michigan and the D.C. area to give them my information and get me hooked up with a position as soon as possible. I called three friends to see if they could help me move and they were all available. I had to get boxes and start packing. My head was reeling. Because of Dana's violent reaction I feared for my physical safety and wanted out of there as soon as possible.

Dana brought Fred home from work early. They sat on the couch and said they wanted to talk to me. Fred said matter-of-factly, "As of today your employment with us is terminated. You have three days to get your things out of here."

I was shocked. What had I done to deserve immediate dismissal? On the other hand, I was thrilled that they didn't expect me to work for them anymore. I was definitely going to move out by that evening because I had my troops lined up. I prayed for God to enable me to respond to Fred with the love of Christ. I replied as kindly as I could, "I thank you for your employment."

Fred's jaw dropped in surprise. I think he expected me to have a fit or something. Dana didn't say a word and abruptly stood up and went to another room, which was odd. She probably couldn't handle the stark contrast between my civil behavior and her tantrum. I said I'd be out of their house that night.

I flew down the stairs and started packing in a frenzy. My friends arrived within a few hours, helped me pack and we managed to fit everything in our four cars. I was so relieved that we wouldn't have to make a return trip. My mother and Max had graciously offered their basement for storage until I found my own place. Everything was working out perfectly!

Just before we got the last things out, my best friend heard me fretting over leaving a dirty tub for Fred and Dana to deal with and not having the time to clean it. My friend should have grabbed my shoulders and said, "What is wrong with you? Here you have lost your home, been yelled at, traumatized and fired for no good reason by a couple to whom you have given four years of service - and you are concerned about leaving them with a dirty tub?"

Instead, she got down on her hands and knees and started scrubbing away my filth. I could hardly believe my eyes. I felt so loved to have someone do me a favor that I would never think of asking them to do. She acted out 1 John 3:16 before me, "This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers."

When I was carrying a box through the front door, I overheard Fred asking Josie in her bedroom if she was mad at him and mommy for sending me away. I couldn't hear her response, but I was glad to know they told her they were responsible for me leaving. I couldn't bear the sight when I saw her approach me with big, perplexed eyes about to burst with tears at any moment. As I bent down to hug her, I frantically wondered what I could give her to help her remember me. I seriously doubted that her parents had any photos of me.

I told Josie I would miss her terribly and that I didn't want to have to leave so quickly. I grabbed a huge white teddy bear and some brightly painted nesting dolls from my mother's trip to Russia that she liked to play with and gave them to her. Conflicting emotions surged within me. It was horrible to say an abrupt good-bye to my dear little friend who felt like a daughter to me. We had spent so much time together, giving me the honor of seeing her grow into a beautiful, sensitive and sharp young lady ready to start kindergarten the following year.

On the other hand, I was thrilled beyond measure to be free from years of living with the cold disdain from her parents. It had been a time of humbling for me; a purging of my soul. The Lord forges strength of character through every difficult situation. My time there had not been in vain.

I gave Josie a long last hug and drove off into the night with my caravan. God had set me free from my dungeon at last.

**Chapter 19 - Where do I Belong?**

It was tricky finding places to live until I could get a job that paid enough so that I could afford my own apartment. I definitely did not want to move back in with my parents even temporarily. I hoped to avoid being a bother to anyone or a freeloader, but I didn't have much money saved. Regret filled me over not being practical when it came to saving money in preparation for emergencies. Thankfully, God had mercy on me.

While I went on nanny interviews, I stayed with a good friend for one week, then stayed at my dad's for the next week while he was on a trip. Then another friend was going on a cruise, so I stayed at her place for three weeks, paying her some rent. After that I spent a couple of weeks house sitting for the owner of a nanny agency while she went on a trip. The Lord's provisions were remarkable. With my life so unstable, my nerves were shot, but at least I had nice places to stay.

I applied for unemployment benefits and was alarmed to hear that Fred and Dana had contested my right to the money, claiming that I had seriously neglected their interests. The unemployment agency didn't buy their argument and granted me payments, but I wouldn't be able to receive the money for six weeks. I needed a job fast!

There was no way that I was going to take another live-in nanny job, so that limited my choices through the agencies. I didn't hear of a well paying live-out position in the D.C. area, so I sadly gave up that pursuit. I was happy that I found a temporary nanny job only four weeks after getting fired. The former nanny was caught on camera abusing their daughter who was almost two-years-old. The idea of a camera recording my every move and word made me self-conscious, but I needed the money and the couple was nice. I had to brace myself whenever she needed a new diaper because the sweet curly top princess would turn into a growling animal the minute I laid her on the changing table. It was a challenge to get her clean amid her kicking and attempts to scratch me. But within a week she realized that I wasn't going to hurt her and she remained a smiling cherub.

Their house was an immaculate mansion filled with white tile, light beige carpeting and new furniture. Their daughter only had a few words in her vocabulary, but she had one phrase down pat: "Make a mess?" She repeated it whenever I wiped crumbs off the floor. She must have heard her parents utter those words a thousand times as they diligently preserved the showcase appearance of each room. It was not a house for the typical couch jumping, stain making, diaper-leaking toddler. I feared I'd get exhausted playing museum guard, but to my amazement the small angel took after her fastidious parents and even had good manners while lunching at nice restaurants with my mom. I suspected that I could even hand her Sharpies and a pad of paper while I washed dishes in the other room.

After two months I was offered the job on a permanent basis, but I turned them down. The sixty hours of work plus six hours per week commuting left me with little energy or time to meet with friends at the end of the day. It felt too isolating being able to socialize only on the weekends. But that job was a great blessing from God because it provided me with the money I so desperately needed.

While I had been working at the temporary job, I used the weekends to interview. As I met one family after another, I realized that I had been spoiled in the past by God's quick answers to my requests for a job. I was accustomed to reading a help wanted ad, going on one interview and accepting the position. Now I was finding out about jobs solely through agencies, so I was meeting very wealthy families with high and sometimes unreasonable expectations. If they had to pay top dollar, they were going to make sure they got everything they could out of their household servants.

I often found that older, first-time mothers could be overly frantic and obsessive about the well being of their babies to the extent that I feared they would give their little ones nervous conditions. I realized that this was somewhat normal, but I didn't want to deal with it.

During an interview one woman matter-of-factly told me that she expected her nanny to travel with the family and go almost everywhere with her and become her "best friend." Oh, dear. I stiffened. I was not about to get sucked into some spoiled woman's pampered existence and politely nod with her pudgy baby on my hip while she droned on and on about which purse to buy and how the latest fad diet might free her of that stubborn invisible flab ruining her petite figure.

I was jarred from my nightmarish fantasy when the mother started yelling hysterically as the child made soft coughing noises while eating in her high chair. "Oh, my! Is she choking? Do something!" There were no obstructions in her airways. I knew I would be a basket case after spending just one week with that mother.

Another family expected me to drop my weekend plans at a moment's notice to join them at their house up north if the father decided on a Friday afternoon that he wanted to make the trip that night. They made it clear that they went up north frequently. It was another, "Our life becomes your life" kind of job. Maybe if they paid me $50,000 a year I'd consider it, but the salary was nowhere near that. How desperate did they think I was? I wasn't combing trashcans just yet.

I also interviewed with the family of a Red Wings hockey player. I was taken aback as the burly man humbly followed his wife's orders to entertain the four lively children on the living room floor next to us while she conducted the interview. She informed me that they wanted someone to spend the summers with them on the East Coast. Though the resort area they frequented sounded similar to the Kennedy's, I knew I wouldn't want to leave my friends and church for such a long period and risk being ordered around all hours of the day with no social life. Plus, the father could suddenly get transferred to a different team out of state, leaving me jobless once again. I wanted some financial security.

Another mother kept a very long detailed inventory of every item in her kitchen. She wanted me to mark each item I used on a chart so she would know when she had to buy more of something. That was somewhat reasonable. However, as I observed the impeccable house and listened to all of her commands, I imagined being distracted by chaos from the kids and sending her tightly run ship off to sea without the proper supplies, causing a poor waif to go hungry on account of me. How severe were her reprimands? The pay was very good, but I needed to maintain my sanity.

The next mother also showed me a chart, but it was focused on everything her baby ate and drank and how much of it came out the other end. What would she do if she came home to discover there was not enough output compared to input? Would she yell at me if she even suspected her precious child might be stopped up? What if the infant refused the daily quota of formula? The baby looked like the reasonable sort, but I had no guarantees. I was accustomed merely to giving the parents a verbal summary of the day if anything unusual happened.

I went on one stressful interview after another and was amazed at how many families functioned in ways that were vastly different from what I was accustomed to. Suddenly, I realized Fred and Dana's blase faire approach to parenting had been a real blessing. I enjoyed my time with children much more when I wasn't micromanaged. I was getting discouraged and kept praying for God's direction, but I wasn't hearing much.

Then I met an older couple who had a baby they adopted domestically. Their daughter, Tammy, was two months old. They were very nice, but so were Dana and Fred during my interview with them, so I wanted to make sure God was leading me to work there. I was not happy about the fact that the job was part-time, but then I met another family that only wanted a part-time nanny, too. They all seemed reasonable in that they weren't asking me to give up my life for them and I didn't sense the Lord telling me, "No," so I took the positions in January.

In the meantime, I had been on a Detroit-wide apartment search since I had been interviewing in the northern, western and southern suburbs. I was worn out. As I sat in my car in the parking lot of a complex on the West Side, I found myself wishing I could afford to live there, but my salary was not quite high enough. Then I heard God say, "This will be your home." I was happy to hear that and wondered how He would work it out. After my exhaustive search I knew there was no other complex that had everything I wanted for such a good price: enclosed balconies, keyed entrances, carports, a fitness room, tennis courts, clean and spacious apartments and a convenient location. To top it off, a small section of the property bordered a beautiful lake with a private beach.

Within a few days my mom told me about some friends of theirs who needed a nanny part-time, so I went on the interview and took that job, too. God came through just in time for me to be able to afford the apartment because I had to move soon. I loved how He worked out all of the details. I kept the promise I had made to God about a year earlier and refrained from putting a TV in my place so I wouldn't be tempted to overdose on it.

Things had turned out quite well. I figured that working for three families would reduce my boredom and prevent any one family from trying to control me too much. One draw back was that I no longer had health insurance. I would have to believe for God to heal me if I got sick and trust that He would provide the money if I needed treatment.

When I arrived the first morning at Tammy's, the dad made a quick exit to leave for work, letting me know she was still asleep in her crib. I was left standing in the kitchen alone with their black chow staring at me. I stared back. Growling ensued (from the dog, not me). I had been bitten badly by two dogs in the past, so terror struck my heart and I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I did my best to give the beast ample space and she gradually relaxed.

But every week on cleaning day I had to miraculously maneuver the dark creature with large teeth into her cage without losing a finger. The chow always put on a grand display of terrifying growls and barks with high jumps for the cleaning lady who was scared silly of her. The dog was high strung and just didn't do well with most people or kids. About two years later, I watched in horror as the dog, unprovoked, bit Tammy's face. The parents found a new home for the chow after that.

Tammy was a sweet and cuddly baby. Her mother was so concerned about her getting enough nutrition that it wasn't long before Tammy developed rolls of fat, which stretched her skin so tightly that I wondered if it hurt. But her bright brown eyes and cheeky smiles kept telling me she was content.

Things were going along really well with Tammy's parents until the mother handed me the fifteen page "Nanny Notebook" she had typed up for me. I stared in disbelief as I read detailed instructions on how to care for every imaginable aspect of Tammy's life, including how many wipes to use while diapering her.

This was worse than anything I had heard during my past interviews with obsessive moms. I hadn't avoided a controlling mother after all. I should have taken the high paying job with the military sergeant! Her inventory lists were nothing compared to a whole book of instructions. I considered quitting, but everything else about the job was good, so I stuck with it and the mother relaxed with time. I had to remember that she was one of those first time mothers who had waited many years for a baby. She was entitled to some obsessiveness.

One day when I laid Tammy on her changing table near a window, I became alarmed when I noticed her feet and hands had a blue tinge. She also had less energy than usual. I ran to the phone to call her mother, who worked at a large hospital. This was before the days of cell phones, so reaching her was a real challenge as one person transferred me to another. I prayed for God's intervention and grew furious as I explained the seriousness of her daughter's strange appearance to the third person who claimed they couldn't reach her mother directly. After my mini tirade, her mother was on the phone within a minute. Then she flew home.

I went with them to the ER for support, praying under my breath. I watched the frantic mother pace back and forth as she muttered about the trauma her daughter was going through. Periodically she checked on the doctors who were running tests. I tried to sound hopeful as my heart ached for the precious baby. After a few hours we were told they discovered an internal organ that was malformed at birth, requiring anti-biotics to prevent serious infection. We were overjoyed that there was an immediate solution that might avert surgery. She ended up becoming healthy and strong in no time. I was very grateful for God's mercy in healing her.

As it turned out, I was so glad I stayed with the family because I ended up getting very attached to Tammy and her brother, Mark, who came three years later. I was often touched and amused by my conversations with the kids when they got a little older. When Tammy was about five, she asked where I lived and I described what apartments were. It was clear to her that her house sounded better than my place. Her eyes twinkled as she said she was going to be a doctor like her father and buy me a house someday. I had to laugh. She had an insatiable desire to give people gifts. On another day when I explained to her that I had a father and a stepfather, she said she wanted me to be her stepmother. I said it didn't quite work that way, but I felt loved knowing she wanted me to be her mother number two.

Another family I worked for had the friendliest boy I had ever seen. He looked at me with delight the first morning I got him out of his crib. Here I was a complete stranger and at seven months of age he had no fear of me whatsoever. When he was old enough to walk, I had to watch him carefully at the door when there was a delivery because he wanted to chase after the UPS men to ask if he could go for a joy ride. When he was old enough to attend school, he was Mr. Sociable and quickly won everyone's hearts and joined the student government.

The third family presented challenges from the start because the mother was usually around, making things tense at times. I didn't want to interfere like some nannies did by telling a mother how to parent her own children – that was disrespectful. So I kept quiet when the mother interacted with her son. She was really sweet when she started asking her two-year-old to do something, but, like a typical toddler, he rarely complied. So she'd proceed to tell him again nicely a couple more times and usually by the fourth time she'd suddenly crack and scream his name and shake her hands in the air in exasperation. I was surprised that this polished Jaguar-driving-model-thin-blonde felt free to appear so unraveled in front of me.

Her son had developed his own form of hysteria. He would set the scene up by flinging his cups of Cheerios in the air, scattering cereal all over the floor. Then he would emit deafening shrieks with rigid arms extended, as their dog hungrily vacuumed the floor. Sharing control with the mother made it hard for me to create a peaceful environment with the child.

To add to my discomfort, one evening when the mother wasn't around, the father sat down where I was playing with the kids on the den floor and started asking me questions about myself. He was handsome with a kind and gentle disposition. He and his wife were regular church attenders and seemed to live upright lives. If he had been single, I would have easily fallen for him. I feared that he wasn't happy in his marriage because his wife had reprimanded him in front of me one time, belittling him. He looked beaten down and said nothing. I was very embarrassed for him. If that was that how she talked to him on a regular basis, I could imagine that he had built up some resentment toward her.

I felt obligated to stay until my designated time to leave, hoping he would dismiss me early or at least go into the other room. Instead, he asked if I would stay for dinner, explaining his wife wouldn't be home for another two hours. I was certain she wouldn't approve.

This was the third time a father whose children I babysat had asked me to do something with him without his wife being present. I assumed that when they saw me being motherly toward their children in their home, it warmed their hearts toward me. I wore frumpy clothes to work since I was playing with children and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. I did not look my best. I considered all their wives to be more attractive than myself, so I reasoned that they were just looking for some kind of "innocent" female company.

As far as I knew, the wives had no idea about their husbands' gestures. The first two invitations had been to sporting events. I knew that having a small child with us who was too young to join in the conversation would make the outings too intimate and inappropriate. So I didn't go to the sporting events and I did not stay for dinner that night.

I got the impression that, for the most part, the mother only needed me there for the hour she left for her exercise class, so I saw little point in continuing to work for her when one of the other families offered me more hours. Once I told her I was leaving due to her son's frequent outburst (I refrained from mentioning hers), she became indignant as she held her four-month-old on her hip. She took my comments to extremes and started asking if the baby and the dog had done something wrong, too.

I knew that the conversation was only going downhill, so it was time for me to leave. When I started moving toward the door, she quickly positioned her body to block my path. She continued her protests, complaining that she'd have to pay another finder's fee to the agency if I left. Somehow, as I stood facing her in the impeccably decorated sprawling estate on an expansive lot overlooking a lake, I was unable to conjure up any concern for her "financial problem."

She planted herself firmly in front of the door and it started to dawn on me that I might be trapped inside the house of an unstable woman. She looked crazed enough to do something she'd later regret. I felt chest pains as panic set in. When I told her I had to leave immediately because of the chest pains, she wasn't the least bit concerned and stood her ground, determined to convince me that I had to keep working for her.

Surely she would fling open the door if I mentioned how friendly her husband had been to me recently, but she'd probably kick me down the front steps, too. Frantic, I looked for a way of escape and remembered a door on the side of the house. I made a beeline for it. She was right on my heels, still ranting. I threw open the door and darted to the safety of my car, never to return.

Sometimes it doesn't pay to be such a good employee.

I was left with two nice families to work for and had my own apartment in a desirable area. God had provided for me generously and things were looking up. I felt more like a normal person. My mom thrived on beautifying homes, so she was eager to supply me with the funds for new dishes and furniture. She even helped me put up a soft hued floral wallpaper border in the kitchen and dining area. My grandmother sewed me a yellow and blue French country floor length two-layered tablecloth for my round dining table. I hung landscape photographs I had taken on my travels. To top it off, my dad bought me a couch and gave me his old computer. I was all set. My parents' generosity was very encouraging.

When I was all settled in, I sat in my living room contentedly soaking up the sunshine that flooded over everything. What an improvement over the dark, stuffy basement bedroom I had just escaped! I looked ahead to the future with hope.

**Chapter 20 - Joining a Fruitful Ministry**

After spending two years at the Baptist Church I heard the Holy Spirit say, "You are at the wrong church." The previous senior pastor had been an unusually dynamic and encouraging speaker, but he had moved to California. I was bored with the new pastor's bland sermons and I found myself missing charismatic worship services. I tried several churches and visited their singles groups, noting the differences in the way they ran things and making friends here and there. As in Tulsa, I enjoyed seeing what God was doing in many churches.

Eventually, I went with a friend to check out a group for older singles at a large evangelical church that taught the Bible well. I stayed for two years and joined the leadership team as a greeter and called the visitors to answer any questions they might have. I made some friends, but only men I had no interest in asked me out, so I never had a date while in that group. If I really wanted to get married and have kids, time was flying by and I needed to move on.

I really should have been in the younger group at the church all along. It was made up of over 200 singles in their twenties and thirties, however, the numerous eligible and friendly men made me nervous. I had visited the group once a few years prior and became overwhelmed when three guys started talking to me all at once after class.

What was wrong with me? Did I want to get married or not? Was I afraid of intimacy? I asked God to help me deal with my insecurities.

I was 36 when I finally mustered the courage to switch to the younger group. Thankfully, the guys were less forward this time around. About ten people from my former Baptist group had migrated there, which helped me persevere amid my nervousness during the mingling time before and after class. Two male friends and I organized a tennis group which met every Sunday afternoon during warm weather (and not so warm for us addicts) to play doubles on courts near the church. The tennis fanatics became my core group of friends at the church. Few of us wanted to return to our homes where we lived alone any sooner than we had to, so we played for hours and sometimes went out to dinner afterwards and made a whole day of it. The rivalries we had were tremendous fun.

Rachel, the pastor of the younger singles, had been leading the group for ten years. She didn't get married until her early forties, so she knew a lot about being single and had a heart for that segment of the church, unlike a leader at the older group who married young. He had the gall to tell us that our singleness late in life was evidence of our personal problems and lack of social skills. He sure knew how to reduce attendance fast. (He was replaced after less that a year with a more compassionate man who was divorced.)

I agreed that one is more likely to encounter difficult people in older singles groups because they have had more time to get hurt by divorce or bad relationships. Also, it's easier to settle into peculiar habits the longer you live alone. But what good does it do for older singles to have someone criticize them if they have a desire to grow and find a special someone? I already felt like an oddball and a social outcast to some degree, so I didn't need anyone to exacerbate my pain.

It was a joy to become a part of Rachel's group because she knew that a supportive atmosphere, lively worship, sound Bible teaching and the involvement of many volunteers to organize countless ministry and recreational activities was exactly what made a singles ministry thrive. We had many opportunities to grow as Christians because people were treated with respect as their new ideas were given serious consideration and often implemented with the help of a support team.

Rachel trained leaders so well that she could travel for a couple of weeks while everything ran smoothly. I had never witnessed someone in ministry being so willing to delegate authority. By resisting the temptation to control others with a heavy hand, she helped us mature by encouraging us to take on greater responsibilities. However, she still towed the line by requiring character and accountability in the leaders, which helped the ministry be respectable.

The only thing I saw lacking was a personal confrontation of the few who were sleeping around. Though they taught abstinence from the pulpit, few in ministry wanted to deal with the problem directly. At least many of us could know who was grossly inappropriate on dates through the grapevine so we could be on guard. Also, someone's overly flirtatious demeanor and revealing attire were obvious warning signs. Overall, people were godly and treated each other respectfully.

I am grateful for Rachel's example in ministry and I will always remember her for it. It helped me to see a well-educated Christian woman with godly character being so fruitful in serving many within the church. Previously, in all of the evangelical Bible believing churches I served in, I had the opportunity to closely witness only men leading in every arena, except when it came to a small women's ministry. Rachel was confident that God could work through her as she pastored a group that was larger than the average American church.

I was elated for the opportunity to team up with a younger man who was very knowledgeable about the Bible as we led a class for newcomers in our singles group. We team-taught the foundations of the faith and showed a video on the gospels. I enjoyed the chance to hone my doctrinal skills and encourage others in the faith.

Some of the group's members shared at our picnics and events about how they became Christians. I took my turn and called on God's help to speak to about 100 people spread under a long picnic shelter with no microphone available. I had practiced telling my salvation story a couple of times beforehand, but kept getting mixed up, forgetting a key element here or there. But when I nervously mounted a picnic table, projecting my voice as loudly as I could, the Holy Spirit came through and filled me with His power and gave me clarity of mind. I was able to recount everything smoothly, pointing to God's mercy and strength.

When I had finished and sat down, I was surprised to see my hands were trembling. Several people encouraged me with their beaming faces as they told me I had done a good job. I was overjoyed that I had the opportunity to share about God's deliverance because I knew a number of people who attended our group didn't know Jesus or they had half-hearted Christian walks.

Almost every Sunday I was invited to one to three restaurants for lunch after church once I got to know many people. Our lunches became an ideal place to forge male and female friendships and determine which men I might like to date. In fact, all of our missions trips, service projects, Bible studies and parties provided many opportunities for safer "group dating" where temptation wasn't an issue, reducing the need for couples to get to know each other by spending a lot of time alone together. It was helpful to see someone's character and personality traits come out in the different social settings, especially when you had a year or more to observe them as a friend.

On the other hand, some in the group refrained from dating and simply enjoyed the freedom of being single as they progressed in their education or careers and had fun with the activities. I never noticed any pressure for people to pair up. We had so many new people visiting from different churches (or no church) and others getting married that there was always a dynamic flux of our assembly's makeup while a core group maintained the original structure and ministry focus.

I was glad to have found a new church home that provided a sense of belonging. We were blessed to have each other to fellowship with. Detroit had about half a dozen thriving singles groups, making it fairly easy to find a place to belong. I felt badly for lonely souls in smaller towns who didn't have access to the enjoyable community of singles ministries.

Over the years I have often wished that more churches saw the need to reach out to single adults who make up about half of the adult population in the United States. Now there is a huge mission field! Once established, singles ministries eventually provide a church with many of its new families, helping the growth of the body of Christ. And the older singles who are not busy with families of their own may have free time to serve in various capacities. They are an invaluable resource for ministry.

**Chapter 21 - Home Alone**

The lack of adult conversation and intellectual stimulation at work was an obvious downside of being a nanny, but the children I cared for provided delightful experiences and ongoing challenges. I was thankful that my jobs were going well and I loved seeing the children of the growing families mature. After seven years, two children turned into six and they usually kept me busy as I tried to avert chaos.

I learned basic lessons such as, "Do not blow on a pinwheel after a baby has sucked on it." Since I couldn't even tolerate the wet nose of a dog touching me, bacteria infested drool flying in my face was intolerable!

It took a few weeks, but it finally dawned on me that if I try to please a toddler who complains about the color of the plastic cup I poured her milk in, she will have me pouring milk in every colorful cup in the cupboard, all the while screaming, pointing and crying. Only when the counter was full of dirty cups did it become clear that no cup would do unless it was a breakable glass and no food would satisfy her unless it was chips, a bowl of ketchup or ice cream. I wised up and started throwing together healthy lunches regardless of ear-piercing screams and put the meals in the fridge until the little beast decided she was truly hungry.

That same disagreeable child managed to repeatedly foil even the time-tested tactics of her mother. Despite careful diaper placement and folding, almost silent explosions would repeatedly shoot straight up her back to her neck. Her placid smiles and round blue eyes gave no warning regarding the mess beneath her white T-shirts and curls.

I placed the diapers exactly how her mother advised, yet in the beginning I would forget about her blow outs and unwittingly remove her shirts only to smear the filth all over her, the changing pad and sometimes to the "forbidden zone" – my clothes. If I had to go somewhere right after work, I did not want to invade others' airspace with her stench. I was grateful that I was off duty when she resorted to guerilla warfare in the cover of darkness, attacking crib, walls and self with the unimaginable. I shuddered after hearing the details and had to admit her mother was one tough soldier, having cleaned up the entire disaster zone by herself.

Though I felt confident caring for the children, housework was not my strong point. I learned under duress how NOT to wash dishes. When one household was out of dishwasher detergent, I went for what was the next best thing – liquid dish soap. I filled the dispenser and shut the door.

As the dishwasher began swishing the water, I watched in panic as millions of bubbles started spilling from under the door. I felt like Lucille Ball standing over a conveyor belt, stuffing her mouth with chocolates as multitudes rolled by because there was no way I could conceal the rapidly multiplying bubbles that were being propelled across the kitchen floor. I prayed that the kids wouldn't walk in, see the mess and report it to their parents. The paper towels I had frantically strewn about were no match for the sudsy tidal wave, so I ran for a large towel and kept mopping up, yearning for the cycle to end. God answered my prayers \- no one ever found out. However, the nice, clean floor could have given the mother cause to wonder since the housekeeper hadn't been there that day.

Avoiding tripping hazards was a constant problem. The children I worked with often had grandparents with too much disposable income, resulting in a hostile takeover of toys. During clean up duty I struggled to decipher where hundreds of colorful plastic and wooden pieces belonged while possessed toys threatened to awaken sleeping angels by blaring hideous noises if I passed a motion sensor or grabbed one by the "ON" button.

Beneath removable floor grates the kids discovered secret hideouts for some of the excess. One day when the air ducts were cleaned in the house with four children, I was amazed at how many toys thundered behind the walls as they bumped through metal channels toward the monster commercial grade vacuum, never to be seen again. I wondered how many beloved teddy bears were seized in such a barbaric manner.

I had to watch the children like a hawk because a couple of them had no respect for the laws of physics while balancing on tree limbs or climbing to the tops of swing sets. Their poor judgement always reached hypercritical levels the moment I ran inside for a second to grab something because they knew that was their chance to achieve superhero status.

One day a boy from the large family ran up a wet slide (less than one minute after I ran into the house to grab something) and slipped, punching a hole in the roof of his mouth with his squirt gun. I had to keep my wits about me as I struggled on the phone to convince his parents that there was a medical emergency while his sister screamed over the river of blood pouring from his mouth onto his white shirt. The parents' apathy was partially excused by the fact that they had four children and had already survived many "emergencies." The doctor said his wound was closing up and merely needed ice. That was great to hear.

Regretfully, I had to confiscate keys from a wild-eyed four-year-old with a lead foot so he couldn't careen his battery powered mini jeep around the two acre yard anymore. His parents reported that he had zoomed under a slide, deftly whacking his annoying little sister's forehead, sending her flying out of the passenger seat. Before he lost his wheels I tried running after him, shouting steering commands, but I just couldn't keep up with his wreckless 5-MPH speeds. It was too stressful having to stand there panting when I was out of steam and helplessly watch his defenseless sister's bouncing head fade into the distance and wonder if I'd find her behind the bushes with tread marks over her body.

One of the scariest moments came when a two-year-old vanished one afternoon. In a panic, I rushed from room to room, examining every possible hiding place on all three floors twice, all the while screaming his name. When I realized he was definitely not in the house, I paused in the family room and noticed the door to the back porch was ajar. I didn't think he had the strength to open the sticky door, but somehow he had made his escape.

My mouth dry from anxiety, I fled through the large yard fearing he had been abducted when no pudgy boy could be seen. Ready to call 911, I suddenly looked over to the neighbor's house down the hill where two young girls lived. Could the mother there be hiding a tiny fugitive? Surely not! Any reasonable person would have called me by now to report a missing toddler.

It was my last resort before calling the police. I hurried over and couldn't believe my eyes when I saw my escapee playing happily on the floor with the girls and the mother smiling innocently up at me as if nothing was wrong. She said she thought I had sent him over to play. Unlikely story! I always called ahead to set up a playdate. Perhaps for her own amusement she wanted to see how long it took me to find him and how frazzled I looked when I finally showed up. I couldn't conceal my exasperation as I took his hand and coaxed him home.

Unlike Josie's parents, these families attended church occasionally so I was allowed to read children's Bible stories to them and pray for them when they got hurt. I tried to be a good witness and was encouraged when one of the dad's remarked with surprise that he never heard me swear. And he couldn't believe that I went to church every week. It was actually hard for me to wait for Sunday to come along because the songs were uplifting and it was fun to see all of my friends.

As I saw these families enjoying their noisy households, my longing for a husband and my own children became so acute that it was almost unbearable at times. I felt God telling me that my time was growing short for starting my own family since I was now 37. I wasn't sure what more I could do. I had heard of women giving men their phone numbers and saying, "Give me a call sometime," but I couldn't imagine myself ever being so forward. As a Christian woman I was uncomfortable being flirtatious, so I felt trapped. How could I let a guy know I was interested in him? I hated being a passive player in the dating game, hoping a guy I liked would take the initiative.

Having my own family was critical to me because the connections I had with others were too loose for my liking. I was never sure whom I could call in case of an emergency in the middle of the night. One time my car broke down, so I called an old roommate who lived nearby. She looked annoyed when she arrived and I felt awful having bothered her. I'm sure many of my friends would actually have wanted to help, I just hated inconveniencing someone.

It seemed like everyone I knew had people in their lives more important to them than I was. The only exception, perhaps, was my father. I knew that my sister, her daughter and myself were the most important people in his life. I took some comfort in that, however, he lived far away. My mom lived near me, but since she could afford flights out to California to see my sister on a regular basis, she was often gone on holidays. The flight prices were too steep for me and I had developed a fear of flying.

My sister had settled into an artist community and started her own family. My mom understandably yearned to see her only grandchild as much as possible. As a result, my mom and Claire grew so close over the years that when Claire flew to Michigan each year, I was often left in the dark when they made plans to go out to eat or shop. When I expressed my hurt over being repeatedly excluded, they apologized and admitted that it was hard for them to remember to include me. It was almost as if I didn't exist when they were together.

I looked to other Christians to fill some of the voids I felt. I had a number of friends whose company I enjoyed, but living in a metropolitan area, we were spread far apart. With busy schedules thrown in, it was difficult to get together on a frequent basis. Even though I was quite involved with volunteer activities and Bible studies and parties, the large "family of God" didn't always provide the sense of being part of a close-knit family.

Thus I was vulnerable when I met a couple of self-centered, clingy women who had time to spend with me. They pegged me as one of those overly tolerant souls who willingly listened to countless hours of chatter. I should have known better when one of the women kept me listening for four hours during our first phone conversation. We had just met at a church singles event the previous week.

The rapidity with which a constant stream of words shot from her mouth was astonishing. She spoke of whatever sprang into her mind: past relationships, singles groups, her family, etc. I kept saying, "I have to go," as midnight slipped into 2 a.m. I felt out of control as she'd reply urgently, "Just one more thing," and I'd politely wait to hear what was actually the ninth or tenth more thing. When I finally hung up the phone in exhaustion, I thought, "There's something wrong with that woman." But I entered into a close friendship with her anyway. I figured that I could be a support to her and, I had to admit, at times she was entertaining.

After a couple of years, I felt God reprimanding me for wasting so much time. I cut the ties. God was calling me to more fruitful friendships that centered on Christ and led to some semblance of character growth for either the other person or myself or both. Friendships that required me to revolve my life around theirs left me feeling depleted. I had not contributed much that was of value into their lives except some empty companionship.

I was really missing the days of intimate fellowship I had enjoyed throughout my twenties. While in Maranatha I lived with women from my church and I was never lonely. Right after that I experienced a wonderful sense of community when I was very involved at the Assemblies of God church during my Bible College days when I thrived on seeing friends almost every day. At Oral Roberts University, not only did the seminary students see each other in class, but we also lived in the same apartment complex, which made it easy to visit each other. ORU was the best place for me to enjoy good friendships because we had a myriad of things in common.

But at this point in my life I had much less in common with my friends. It was harder to find women who were devout Christians that I could pray with regularly, so I was thrilled to meet a woman from Kenneth Hagin's Rhema Bible College in Oklahoma. Along with another woman we met for sharing and prayer for a couple of years. I loved feeling the presence of God and receiving His insights during our times together.

In an attempt to save some money and build a sense of family with a sister in  
Christ, I attempted to find a woman to share an apartment with, but those who were available either lived in filth or talked incessantly. I preferred suffering with loneliness. At times I wondered if God intended for me to agonize for years with a sense of isolation in order to break me of my extreme caution about getting married.

As a perfectionist, I thoroughly analyzed people and their behavior which led me to see too many flaws in the many men I had gotten to know over the years. Also, having grown up feeling controlled by my mother combined with having difficulty speaking up for myself, I feared having to endure inconsiderate or controlling behavior from a husband for the rest of my life.

How was I to get over my fears and trust God to lead me to an imperfect relationship with a man that could grow toward a deep, genuine love over the years? I had to believe that in the midst of my confusion, as I prayed and asked God for His direction, He would be faithful to speak the truth to me and reveal the best way for me to go. It is contrary to His loving nature to leave His children groping about blindly just to watch them fall into a pit of destruction. To help me trust God's leading I needed to reflect on such scriptures as:

"I have not spoken in secret, from somewhere in a land of darkness; I have not said to Jacob's descendants, 'Seek me in vain.' I, the Lord, speak the truth; I declare what is right." (Isaiah 45:19)

"I will praise the Lord who counsels me..." (Psalm16:7)

"He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being taught." (Isaiah 50:4)

"...no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless." (Psalm 84:11b)

"As for God, his way is perfect..." (Psalm 18:30a)

In addition, my seeking had to be earnest: "You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart" (Jer. 29:13). The best time for me to hear God's voice was early in the morning before my mind got filled with the distractions and cares of the day. Once I heard God's instructions for me, I had to be willing to obey His voice. Even though I had fluctuating emotions confusing me, as long as I kept an open ear to the Holy Spirit and maintained a soft heart ready for God's plans, with the all-knowing Creator of the universe helping me, how could I end up in a loveless marriage?

**Chapter 22 - Spousal Requirements**

Since I kept feeling a divine push in my heart to get married, I forced myself to be bolder when it came to meeting new men in my singles group at church. There were at least a couple of new men to meet each month. If someone looked interesting I would approach him and introduce myself and make conversation. I gradually acquired a variety of male friends with whom I'd go biking, play tennis or take ballroom dance lessons. I soon had as many male friends as I did female, which was a first for me. I sometimes preferred the company of the guys because I felt nurtured by their attentiveness, they had a refreshing aversion to gossip and I was put at ease by their laid back personalities.

At last I could glean insights from some of the men as they shared their struggles in finding someone to settle down with. Now in their thirties or early forties, none of them were interested in recreational dating. They wanted a wife! I learned that appearance was, as I expected, important to them, but they had different tastes. (The majority of the women with boyfriends or who were getting married did not fit the model image.) Physical attraction had to be accompanied by an emotional connection, warmth and some godly character traits.

As I found out who the men were interested in and why, I was encouraged to hear that what captivated many of them was how the women made them feel while in their presence. A few guys liked one woman because she shared their interests and her humorous streak made them laugh and relax. A couple of women were popular with the guys because they stood out for their intelligence and zest for life. Their eyes glowed with the love and peace of Christ. Another woman attracted men with her humble, kind nature and love of sports. When I thought about it, each woman in the group had her own special charm and gifts that she could be confident in as a follower of Christ if she was able to resist the lie that she had to fit some kind of mold in order to be loved.

My male friends were usually very cautious, sometimes waiting an entire year to get to know a woman in the group activities before they asked her out. (At the time I thought that was ridiculously long!) They first wanted to see how a woman treated others, knowing that would reveal how she would treat them. That way they kept the number of ex-girlfriends in the group down to a minimum. They weren't wasting anyone's time (or their own money) and avoided causing needless heartache for themselves or the women. I saw wisdom in that. Aggressive women who handed out their phone numbers for dates or wore provocative clothing were a turn off.

I was surprised that most weren't too concerned about another man getting to a woman first. Either their patience showed faith in God's sovereignty or they had a fear of intimacy or maybe they were weighing their options with so many women to choose from. I'll admit I was overwhelmed and confused about God's leading as I considered the array of eligible men, especially when I kept in mind guys I had met at other churches.

A couple of the guys had unrealistic standards. I knew it was highly unlikely that some of these older men, even though they had several good qualities, would snag the twenty-something cuties they hoped for. Also, a number of us, both men and women, had the habit of liking those who failed to return our affections – one big reason for us still being single even though we really wanted to be married.

It was the maddening plight especially of many older female singles that I knew. The more the years flew by, the harder it was to find a man we could relate to and trust who wanted to pursue us romantically. We sometimes lamented, "Why did I ever let so-and-so go?" We acknowledged that sometimes we had been too picky or hadn't bothered to work hard enough on a relationship. One friend admitted she didn't want to date a guy from her Bible College merely because he had curly hair and she preferred straight. Now we considered ourselves fortunate if we snagged a guy who had any hair at all. But sitting in a stupor of regret wouldn't get us anywhere except down.

It was true that statistically we were in a difficult spot. In the church single women outnumber single men. Though it is encouraging for the older single woman that more people are getting married later in life, it is still a challenge to find a good husband, especially if you want a responsible man who is committed to God and very family oriented. Searching in the bars – as some resorted to – was an exercise in futility. Fortunately, I was in a Christian singles group that had about the same number of men as it did women. So why was I having such a hard time finding the love of my life? I knew my standards were a little high, but I didn't think they were unrealistic.

In order to reach my goal, besides continuing in earnest prayer for God's guidance, I needed a clear game plan. Hopefully, I was mature enough by now to know how to date wisely. Having read several books on male-female relationships and surviving a few unsuccessful dating experiences, I had gleaned a bit of wisdom that I shouldn't ignore. I had also witnessed many friends go through a variety of good and bad relationships and listened to their stories.

First, I had to stop thinking of myself as a loser since I was still single and pushing forty. It seemed like married people had "arrived" because they were favored by society and The Church since so many activities were geared toward couples and families. They had proved to the world and themselves that they were worthy of love because a special someone chose to be committed to them for the rest of their lives.

I felt like I was stuck in a lower social strata reserved for the unattached. Every once in awhile someone would come along to confirm my sense of degradation. One time an irate lady in the grocery store parking lot yelled at me because she thought I moved her cart out of line at the checkout when she left it briefly to get something. Even though I told her I hadn't touched her cart, she was convinced that I had and protested as though moving someone's cart was a heinous crime. She continued to chew me out and shouted just before she slammed her car door, "No wonder you're still single!"

Even though they came from a deranged stranger, her words cut like a sharp knife. Apparently, she had taken the time to scan my left hand for a ring. I stood there dumbfounded, then asked God for comfort. After a moment I remembered that Jesus told us to pray for our enemies, so I prayed for her and her family, wondering how they tolerated her.

Another enemy to my self-esteem had been the detestable popular concept that someone had to be a "whole person" before they could get married. Since I wasn't married yet, did that mean I wasn't "whole"? Was I still immature or lacking something most married people have? What was a "whole person" anyway? I imagined they were some super self-sufficient individual who didn't need anyone in order to feel content, secure and loved. Well, I knew I wasn't that independent. I knew of only a couple people I'd put in that category and I didn't imagine they were getting married any time soon. They seemed so satisfied in their singleness and hardly dated, if at all. I admired their strength, but recognized they were a rarity.

In support of remaining single, Paul warns the unmarried in 1 Corinthians 7:25-40 that, if they marry, they will face many troubles in this life, including having divided interests, trying to make both God and their spouse happy. He writes,

"An unmarried woman or virgin is concerned about the Lord's affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world – how she can please her husband." (1 Cor. 7:34).

He considered the widow to be "happier if she stays as she is..." (1 Cor. 7:40). I just couldn't relate to his perspective. I welcomed the "troubles" of marriage. I wanted to share my life with someone in the worst way while at the same time being careful to maintain my devotion to God.

If being a "whole person" before marriage meant being "emotionally healthy," I saw how that would greatly increase the chances for a happy marriage. But I wasn't any more emotionally disturbed than your average married Christian. Besides, I had seen plenty of Christians with an emotional problem or two pair off and get married and their marriages appeared strong, most likely because of their faith in God. In fact, when I thought about it, I didn't know any married people who appeared to be completely "whole people" if the definition meant being free of neuroses and periodic irrational behavior. We all have our issues in varying degrees – married and single.

After trying to improve my self-concept and acknowledge that I was just as worthy of a husband as any married woman out there, I had to think of practical relational principles to follow to help me recognize the seeds of a promising relationship. Numerous thoughts swam in my head about how to date more effectively. I didn't bother to organize and write them down at the time, but I kept them in my consciousness to help me approach dating with more common sense and avoid repeating past mistakes.

I knew I wouldn't follow these guidelines to a tee because I was only human and my emotions sometimes played havoc with my reason and discernment. I have outlined my guidelines here to help the single woman (or man) clarify who might be worth pursuing for a serious relationship based on God's leading and compatibility. (I got carried away with rhyming.)

  1. Follow God's lead when you proceed. Before you even start to date someone, pray and ask God if He approves. Doing so could spare you unnecessary heartache. If you are not sure what God's will is in the matter, ask for His wisdom and proceed with caution, guarding your heart from falling too hard and too fast for someone. Proverbs 4:23, "Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it." (It was so hard for me not to jump to conclusions!) Then have fun getting acquainted as friends first.

  2. If God's peace has up and went, your man may not be heaven sent. Is the Holy Spirit trying to warn you about something or do you have a peace about your relationship? It is to be expected that you will have to work through misunderstandings and difficulties with a boyfriend, but if no progress is being made after repeated discussions and the sense of God's presence has left you, break it off. Stay in God's word seeking His wisdom and keep open ears to hear His voice so you are not misled by ever changing emotions and the values of this world.

  3. Spiritual connection builds relational perfection. Have both of you been Christians maturing and growing in your faith for at least a couple of years? Is your prayer life together meaningful? I realize it is rare for people to talk to God while they are on a date, but what benefit is there in shutting out the Author of love (1 John 4:8, "God is love") from your outings when dating is all about finding true love? Humbling yourselves before the Lord will help you live in the Spirit and bring His blessing and guidance. Also, no matter how wonderful the guy seems, be aware that a genuine Christian would be miserable being married to someone who wasn't truly devoted to God.

  4. To wed is moot without holiness and Spirit fruit. The ultimate purpose of marriage is to honor and glorify God by expressing His character and love. Our desires are secondary. Do you genuinely love each other and treat each other with respect? Are you honest and faithful to each other? Are you both growing in the fruits of the Spirit (Galatians 5)? Do you serve each other and help to meet each other's needs or are you both self-absorbed or suffer from a one-sided relationship? Are you careful about what you expose yourselves to in the media?

  5. In love speak your mind and listen, you'll bind. Do the two of you communicate in a rational and loving manner? Are you assertive and direct without yelling or being insulting? Do you truly listen to each other? Can you negotiate and work out problems in constructive ways? The more issues you are able to iron out before marriage, the better your marriage will be.

  6. Relationship books are indispensable. To ignore them is reprehensible. Once you get somewhat serious about each other, read and discuss Christian relationship books together in preparation for possible marriage. I can't tell you how helpful such books can be in getting you to deal directly with confusing and sensitive issues and for showing you how to meet each other's needs. If you aren't dating anyone presently, it's also fun to read the books on your own and discuss them with friends.

  7. If your man hides behind a façade, once wed, his life may deny God. Spend at least six months (or longer if you are under age thirty or so) dating frequently with meaningful conversation in settings where you are not tempted before seriously considering engagement. The goal should be to "be real" with each other and get to know each other for who you really are. Some people can pretend they are someone they're not for quite awhile. It's possible to date someone for years and not find out who they actually are until you get married, so get them to open up. Also, the greater the variety of situations you go through – good and bad – the better you will know each other and discover if you have what it takes to stick together. I probed my boyfriends with questions to find out what really made them tick.

  8. Harmony is more likely to be found if he can relate to your background. If you date someone who has a few similarities with your background such as education, family life, economic status, etc., it will be easier for you to understand each other. However, don't put God in a box by being too focused on this.

  9. Consider being his bride if your future plans coincide. It is invaluable to have some common interests, beliefs, religious practices and goals. Do you have fun activities you like to do together? Can you agree on a church? Do you seek after God in similar ways? Do you both want children and how many? Do your callings in life work well together? The more you discuss ahead of time, the fewer distressing surprises there are after marriage.

  10. Study their personality type (yours, too), then you'll know why you both do what you do. Do you understand how to work with each other's temperaments? Knowing what makes someone tick can reduce your frustration level. If you are complete opposites, take heart, because if you are flexible and patient in working with each other, your differences can become your strengths as you balance and learn from each other. Also, most likely you feel loved through different means. Find out how to reach your sweetheart by asking, "What can I do for you that will make you feel loved?"

  11. If your boyfriend is often cruel, staying with him makes you a fool. If the guy frequently has a bad temper, is highly insensitive or overly controlling, ditch him. There's no reason for you to lay down like a doormat and continue to take all kinds of abuse – verbal or physical. Imagine him being the father of your children. Would you want your kids subjected to an angry or harsh atmosphere at home? Don't let your desire for having a man in your life take precedence over ensuring a loving home for you and your kids. Even if he repeatedly apologizes with tears, saying he loves you, face the fact that he doesn't know what real love is, tell him to get professional help and leave. There are genuinely nice guys out there who will appreciate you. Really! You are believing a HUGE LIE if you think your only choice is to marry someone who mistreats you. If it seems like all you can find are abusers, expand your circle of acquaintances among Christians, do some soul searching and consult with a pastor or counselor to make sure some part of you isn't expecting to be mistreated.

  12. If he won't commit, tell him, "I quit!" Don't date someone much longer than a year if he still has not come to a conclusion about marrying you because: A. his indecisiveness could be a sign that he is not crazy about you; B. you may not have much time to waste; C. you don't want to fall into unnecessary temptation to sin by spending too much time alone together; D. The more time you spend creating intimacy, the more devastating it will be when you break up. I've had friends stay with boyfriends for several years, hoping things would work out, only to suffer through a long grieving process after breaking up. If you don't feel like you are ready for marriage for a few more years, I suggest you not date until you feel ready. Limit your interaction to group settings.

  13. Financial responsibility promotes marital tranquility. Be on your guard against getting involved with someone who makes excuses for living beyond their means. Money is one of the most common things couples argue about, so if you want a harmonious marriage, be fiscally responsible yourself and find a man who is also capable of denying himself extra toys if he can't afford them. Also, giving to charity or tithing are great habits to practice if you don't do so already.

  14. A wandering eye will make you cry. If the guy is a flirt with other women while dating you...RUN! Such a man has no respect for you. All women deserve to be treated with respect! Just because a guy gets married doesn't mean he will automatically change his ways. You cannot tame a lion's voracious appetite. This goes for pornography exposure also. If you are suspicious that your man is addicted, you could try what I did: I mentioned to a boyfriend that I was upset that someone I knew was viewing porn. Without saying a word he promptly got up from the couch and rushed to the kitchen to hide. He looked guilty to me. We later broke up so I left it at that.

  15. When he's respectful toward mom and the guys, he will regard you, too, like a prize. Observe how he interacts with his family and friends. Is he considerate towards them? How he treats others will most likely be how he treats you. (You needn't look for perfection here, just red flags.)

  16. Before you agree to marry, discuss with the wise and tarry. Once marriage starts getting discussed, go for premarital counseling BEFORE GETTING ENGAGED to get professional help with deciding if the two of you have what it takes to make a marriage work. Otherwise, you may discover that your fiancée is not the one for you just before the wedding. The hectic schedule usually inherent with planning a wedding often makes couples so distracted that they don't bother to resolve pressing issues until after the wedding, which can lead to a pretty rocky first year or more together. The first year of marriage is challenging enough without having to solve everything you didn't want to deal with while dating.

At times I feared that trying to follow these principles would narrow my choices for marriage as an older woman to such an extent that I would remain single for the rest of my life. I knew it was far better to be single – even for decades - following the Lord in obedience with His peace than to marry into a dreadful situation and be tormented for the rest of my life.

However, deep down, I believed that God had someone for me. I knew he had not given me the "gift of singleness." God was with me to help me and He was holding me accountable to make wiser choices since I had (hopefully) learned some lessons from my past dating.

**Chapter 23 - A Close Encounter**

I remember telling one of my male friends that I would never get involved with anyone in our tennis group because none of the guys interested me. We spent a lot of time together playing doubles and going out to eat. As a result, we became quite comfortable with each other. We encouraged or teased one another during heated competitions and always looked forward to the next match.

A couple of years earlier I had been interested in one of the tennis guys when I met him through the swing dance lessons that many in our singles group participated in. We sometimes went to a club in Ann Arbor called the Blind Pig on Sunday evenings when alcohol and smoking were prohibited. One night I got there early in the evening. As I was standing with a girlfriend, waiting for the rest of the crowd to show up, I spotted Patrick from across the room standing alone, looking vulnerable and gazing back at me with a wide-eyed innocence that gave me the impression he wasn't one to play games. He appeared to stand at attention like a clean-cut new army recruit as his slim, almost six-foot frame barely leaned against a pole.

I tended to be more forward around guys in a setting with dancing. In high school I had the courage to ask boys to dance who otherwise intimidated me so badly that I couldn't even speak to them in class. The music was a good distraction, reducing the need for conversation. So I asked Patrick to dance. He said he could until his date showed up. He was a skilled dancer and he taught me some fun spins. When his date arrived, I moved on to dance with other guys. After that, Patrick and I saw each other at other events and were casual acquaintances. He seemed like a nice guy.

Then my attitude toward him changed drastically. Our church had a Maundy Thursday service that was a very solemn remembrance of Christ's suffering on the cross. It was my first time attending such a service since they had not held them in my previous churches. Because I was a few minutes late, I didn't read about the rules of conduct. I leaned backward to quietly ask a question of a friend in the pew behind me who answered me briefly and politely. Patrick then sat in my row and I made a comment to him and he stiffly whispered a response. I realized that people were unusually silent in the pews so I kept my mouth closed and read the bulletin. I was mortified as I read that complete silence was requested.

Once the service was over, I assumed it was time to socialize. I asked Patrick another question and he merely turned his gaze away from me in a robotic fashion without any emotion and walked out with the crowd. I was upset to discover that I had broken the rule of silence again as everyone filed quietly out of the sanctuary and into the parking lot. If Patrick had shook his head or put his finger to his mouth as if to say "Shhh," that would have made me feel better. But I was humiliated as he turned his eyes away as if to pretend he hadn't heard me.

Because of my sensitive nature I was deeply wounded and my heart burned in anger. I felt a stone wall quickly rise within me. He was grossly insensitive as far as I was concerned. I determined to never be friendly to him again.

But as time passed and I started to play tennis with him and hang out in groups, I decided that Patrick was a nice guy after all. Once I got to know him better, I figured that he just lacked an awareness of how to be gracious toward me on that almost silent Maundy Thursday evening.

One day we went cross-country skiing with a large group. Patrick and another guy took off on a more difficult trail. When the rest of us were done skiing, the two of them were still in the woods as it grew dark. I was concerned, so when I got home, I waited an hour and then called him. He had arrived home safely. They simply had taken a longer trail. He later told me that no woman had ever called him expressing that kind of concern for him. Though I was merely showing concern as a friend, my call caused him to notice more about me than my long, dark hair.

Some time after that I went to a singles dinner and ended up sitting with Patrick at a table and we had a good conversation. I suspected that he had some interest in me. A couple of days later I was not surprised when he called to ask me out. I was impressed with his offer to take me out to dinner AND the symphony. Now that was a classy date! A guy with culture was rare in my circles. I was even more impressed when he showed up in a suit and took me to a nice, romantic restaurant.

Unfortunately, I had an aggravating chronic cough that greatly interfered with my ability to talk like a normal person no matter how many cough drops I consumed. It ruined two other dates I had with men I had been seriously interested in for several years. The timing could not have been worse. I sadly concluded that God didn't want me to marry those men when they failed to pursue me further. I feared that I would make a fool of myself once more that night as my words came out in staccato fashion. But Patrick was oblivious and wanted to take me out for dessert at another nice restaurant after the symphony.

It made me feel good that he wanted to spend so much time with me despite my annoying ailment. I did not care for his very quiet demeanor, but I appreciated his politeness. I told him that was the best date I had been on in a long time. Upon hearing that he decided to pursue me more intently. He made me feel more special than the other men I dated because he carefully planned our dates and splurged on me even though I could see that he didn't have as much money as they did. He drove an old Neon and had a very small house in a less affluent suburb.

Patrick called about four days later to see me again, not ten or more days like some guys, so I felt confident that he was interested in me. I saw him as a potential husband so I was happy for the opportunity to get to know him better.

He had been part of a tight knit group of young Christians for a decade before he fully gave his heart to Jesus when he was 30 because he was desperate for God after losing his job and suffering from severe back pain. I felt comfortable that he had led a fairly clean life even though he had spent part of his twenties away from church.

I admired his intelligence and athletic abilities and was intrigued by the variety of his interests. We both enjoyed long distance biking. He had attended the University of Michigan, too, and we were amused that we had even lived in the same dorm. He enjoyed his job as an engineer and assisted with our singles group worship band.

Beneath his serene exterior Patrick was a crazed adventurer. He had a passion for flying small aircraft. He became animated as he described spinning a plane and diving toward earth at 145 MPH. He said it felt like riding a roller coaster. I forgot to breathe as I imagined plummeting toward imminent death. Should I get involved with a man who might not have long to live? How skilled was he at flying planes? At least he wasn't going to jump out of another plane because his ears didn't adjust to the pressure change properly.

One guy in our singles group thrived on planning large economical ski trips across America for everyone that were great fun for many, but not for me. After surviving Michigan's icy slopes once, I just knew I'd mess up a knee on my first fall out west. At the other extreme, even though he had a bad back, Patrick regularly pushed himself beyond his abilities while hurtling down double black diamonds. He didn't mind throwing his body around the slopes like a rag doll, wiping out while learning how to maneuver over the unexpected. I admired Patrick's daring spirit as he pursued life on the edge as long as he didn't end up in a wheelchair. On the other hand, I tried to stay as far from the edge as possible.

We proceeded to date for about two months and enjoyed an amicable relationship. One night said he was "99% sure" that he wanted to marry me. I was a little stunned, but then figured that most men were quick to make up their minds. I told him I cared for him very much, but as usual I was slower about coming to any conclusions. In spite of the fact that he was not on one knee or holding out a ring, in my mind that was almost a marriage proposal looking for a response. I supposed that the next move was up to me to say yes or no once I made up my mind. It felt wonderful that he had been so clear about his interest in me.

However, after another month of dating I grew frustrated with Patrick's quiet nature and lack of interest in discussing spiritual matters. I hoped he would try to work on his communication, but he was not responsive. I don't think he quite knew what to do about my complaint. I didn't want to be one of those women who agreed to marry a man with the secret delusion that she could transform him. I held onto my belief that God had someone more compatible for me. I felt badly that Patrick was hurt by the break-up, especially since I was his first full-fledged girlfriend and he had been very nice to me. But I felt I had to move on. At least we were not leaving a long-term relationship, which would have been much more painful.

**Chapter 24 - Drill Sergeant Wanna Be**

Patrick and I remained friends. I enjoyed hearing about his construction missions trip to Peru that summer where they had to wash up in piranha infested lakes. I was glad I had not been there when a woman in the group mentioned how a rat stared at her from a hole above her bunk. She actually fell asleep after that!

As we talked about how our lives were going, Patrick suggested that I try to get a teaching job. It sounded like a good idea since I had not intended to make a career out of being a nanny. I really wanted a change. I knew that some private Christian schools did not require their teachers to have a teaching certificate, so I called around, but found out I did not meet their criteria. Then I checked the job board at my old Bible College and noticed a teaching position that I qualified for. I went on the interview and got hired as a third grade teacher.

I was baffled when the principal showed me my tiny classroom and casually pointed to boxes filled with books, telling me to look them over. He suggested that I ask the second grade teacher if I had any questions about the curriculum or procedures. That was it. I couldn't presume upon a complete stranger to invest several hours training me and going through the books to help me become an effective teacher. I had to buckle down and teach myself in three weeks how to educate third graders with books I had never seen before.

I felt sorry for the unsuspecting parents who were paying tuition for their children to attend my class. They probably chose this school with its small class sizes so their children would receive better individualized attention than they would find in the public schools. I feared that I might disappoint them.

I gazed incredulously at the mountain before me and prayed for God's help. Then I started my ascent with a sprint, determined to be a well-informed and engaging teacher who held her students' interest so well that they excelled in all their studies. I loved history, so I read extra books on the subjects related to their curriculum hoping to tell mesmerizing stories of the adventurers who helped colonize the Americas. I poured through my teaching manuals at a rapid pace, elevating my stress levels and wearing my body out.

Just before I was to start teaching I came down with one of my dreadful colds that often turned into a sinus infection. I was determined not to miss a day of work since I was new. I had to prove myself. But not getting adequate rest only caused my illness to drag on longer than usual. So for the first two months I coughed and sneezed my way through every lesson. On a few days my throat hurt so badly that I could only whisper, so the boys with good lungs came to my rescue by periodically hollering, "BE QUIET!!!" Unfortunately, that gave me the image of being weak and it took awhile for me to get proper control of the class.

It didn't help that I had by far the most out of control and troubled child in the school disrupting my class on a regular basis. Jordan was diagnosed with ADHD and his mother decided to see how well he did off his medication while in school. The poor child was popping out of his chair left and right and kept running at the mouth.

One day he had me so riled up that I was on the verge of blowing a gasket as I cried, "Jordan, I am VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY upset by your behavior!" By the last "VERY" my steam was just about spent. I felt foolish with eleven pairs of bulging eyes silently staring at me, but at least I had avoided saying something that could get me fired and I was able to continue teaching in peace.

Though he went back on his medication, his thievery, lying and continued talking out of turn got him expelled by the principle before Thanksgiving. His mother was trying to keep him in line, but to no avail.

My classroom returned to normalcy.

When I took the job I hadn't realized that, even though the school was in a suburb, most of the students came from the inner city. I had five students who were attentive and well behaved, but the rest were easily distracted and several had no qualms about challenging my authority. Recalling how respectful students were toward teachers when I was young, I thought my students would fear me to some degree, but no such luck. This was the year 2000, when parenting had taken on a much more permissive tone and parents were not necessarily a teacher's greatest ally when it came to discipline. In order to survive I would have to adopt a drill sergeant's demeanor, barking orders with a no-nonsense approach. The charade was exhausting because my gentle, sensitive nature kept slipping out, leaving me vulnerable to a takeover by the strong-willed mischievous ones.

Because of the behavior issues I sometimes felt like I had not become a teacher, but a nanny for thirteen children. It had been so much easier with just two or four kids to take care of. I wondered if I had simply created a lot more aggravation for myself by changing careers. Four of the students were diagnosed with ADHD and another had an unknown learning disability. I wished I had some idea about how to educate such children.

Why was I teaching? The wages were about the same as when I was a nanny. My only rewards were greater acceptance among my peers as a normal career person, I was never bored and I had the privilege of seeing many children grow in character and knowledge. Upon reflection I concluded that it was worth sticking out the year.

I loved teaching when the class was calm. Telling stories from history was rewarding as they listened with delight. I also took great pleasure in putting together my own Bible lessons and quizzes. I had complete freedom with that subject because the principal admitted their King James children's Bibles had become almost a foreign language for the students.

There was no need for me to fear the lack of participation which was so common when I was a young student. My pupils always frantically waved their hands in the air, practically falling out of their seats, begging me to call on them. I had to keep telling some of them not to blurt out answers. They were old enough to come up with good questions that made for lively dialogue, yet young enough to not be self-conscious.

Several of my students were going through very stressful situations at home. One boy announced that his house had been broken into and his tuition money stolen (looking back I find it a little hard to believe they had such a large sum of cash on their kitchen table). Another looked like he was still in shock as he told the class that he just found out he was adopted. Many came from single parent homes and two were in the process of seeing their parents get a divorce. First thing in the morning I would lead the students in singing praise songs and then they took turns praying for each other. I was so glad that we could call on God's help because many of us sure needed it.

The school was very strict about the dress code and conduct. I felt embarrassed when a teacher had to whisper to me that I wasn't supposed to be wearing open-toed shoes and a sleeveless dress. How did I miss hearing those rules? On another occasion, when one of the biggest and toughest boys in my class was swinging on the playground, he started belting out some secular song he had heard on the radio. It was an innocuous song, but it was my duty to tell him that only Christian songs were allowed. He furrowed his brow in confusion, but complied and asked, "What about smooth jazz?" I laughed to myself as I pictured the burly child de-stressing after a hard day at school by building with Legos and bouncing his head to improvised melodies from saxophones. Alas, the cosmopolitan child couldn't even sing smooth jazz.

I was most impressed over the course of the year with Leonard's academic progress. He had difficulty focusing due to his ADHD, so he was an average student. I felt sorry for him since he had virtually no contact with his father who lived on the other side of the country. He approached my desk one day during the first week of school and handed me a note as he gazed at me with large, trusting brown eyes and a sweet smile. I froze as I realized he had written me a love poem.

This was a new situation. He wasn't some 40-year-old man that I could blow off if I didn't return the sentiment. What was the protocol? I had forgotten that sometimes children get crushes on their teachers. Not wanting to embarrass him, my brain rejected response after response until at last I gave up and said, "That's very nice, Leonard." He nodded with a smile as though satisfied with my reply and returned to his seat. Good! Broken heart averted and I didn't say anything that might get me in trouble.

Perhaps he felt the need to win me over because his last teacher from another school cruelly claimed that he would never do well in his studies. His mother was determined to prove that teacher wrong. She made sure he had his homework in his backpack each day and then spent time most evenings going over all of his assignments with him. She drilled him before tests to make sure he understood and retained the information.

By the end of the year Leonard was often getting among the top scores in the class, which was no small feat considering the fact that three other students were quite intelligent, one of them showing an aptitude befitting his goal of becoming a doctor. His mother could hardly wait to put her son's stellar report card in the face of his former teacher. I wished I could have been there to witness the event. I really admired her devotion to her son and praised her efforts. I wondered how she was making it on her own with a physically taxing job and not knowing Jesus. So it was wonderful to hear the principal share the gospel with the parents during school events. She seemed to take his words to heart. At least I knew Leonard really loved Jesus.

Some of my most trying times with the students occurred off the school grounds. Since the church didn't have a gym, twice per week the teachers had to drive their classes to another facility to play sports. I had the dubious pleasure of driving seventeen children (including some second graders) in a long van several miles one way. The laughing, screaming and fighting often became so loud that I yearned for earplugs, but I knew I had to have some awareness of what was going on behind me. Having to focus on the road made it almost impossible to referee. The few flailing arms and contorted faces that I could see through the rearview mirror gave me only a scant picture of the chaos. I was just thankful no one ever lost an eye or flew out a door while I was driving.

I came to call the van the Maniac Mobile (to those not associated with the school). Sometimes the kids could literally get the van rocking back and forth as they jostled about with their seatbelts on. My loud commands to shape up usually fell on deaf ears. It was especially at those moments that I wanted to quit teaching. No adult deserved that much torture.

I finally broke down and asked the principle for suggestions. He recommended that I stop the van in a neighborhood on the way when the kids got loud. I was to demand silence and make everyone sit there a few minutes doing nothing. I only had to follow through on the "missing gym threat" twice before I had a much more peaceful ride. If only I had asked for help sooner!

I got along very well with all of the parents except for the ominous Mrs. Brimley, who knew far better than myself how to instruct children. She boasted to me (and any unsuspecting parent who couldn't figure out a way of escape) that her daughter, Ashley, had tested at an adult reading level even though I had to help her pronounce words in the third grade books. The mother's denial of reality was uncanny.

Mrs. Brimley told me to form reading groups like they had in the second grade. I explained that the third grade curriculum didn't call for it. She also wanted me to recommend that Ashley skip a grade. The child was smart, but immature and not a genius like the future doctor whose mother was checking on schools for gifted children and didn't bother me at all. However, Mrs. Brimley managed to get me to stop conducting timed oral math drills because they made Ashley nervous. I wanted to do at least one thing to make her happy and the kids would do just fine in math without them.

I later discovered that Mrs. Brimley was slandering my character to the other parents and convinced two of them that I should lose my job. During class a couple of the girls announced that I was going to get fired. I was in shock. I assured the class that I had heard no such thing.

Three parents brought false accusations to the principal. I was very wounded, especially since I was working hard to do my job well. I knew it was unlikely that the principal would fire me because their charges were baseless and teachers who were willing to work for low pay and no benefits were hard to find. He told me that I just needed to be more diplomatic. Otherwise, he considered me to be a good teacher and he wanted me to return the following year. I appreciated his vote of confidence, but I had tolerated enough stress overall and would finish off the school year, then find another job. Mrs. Brimley's animosity toward me felt like a dark cloud at work and I kept hoping that I wouldn't run into her.

Then I was hit with the dreaded frenzy of Spirit Week. It was a blast for the kids, but a major chore for the teachers. If only I could just keep teaching. I was never one to cheer much for any school I attended. I didn't even go to a University of Michigan football game until Ken took me to one eight years after I had left the school. As we had sat like cold sardines on a hard bench in the alumni nosebleed section, I realized U of M football was even more mind-numbing than I had expected. How anyone tolerated hours of micro men in helmets running willy-nilly on a far away field for a few seconds, then repeatedly stopping was beyond me. The best entertainment came from the student section in a corner far below where bright yellow and blue young people hollered and jumped like maniacs while throwing marshmallows and who knows what else onto the field.

Now back to Detroit.

So I dutifully decorated my classroom with an African safari theme and fretted about how we would come up with a cheer to perform on stage. One girl's older sister came to our rescue and wrote a cheer for us. It was good. My students caught the fire of the school spirit. Their full throttle enthusiasm was not the least bit hindered by my apathy as they shouted and jumped and waved their arms as if they were at actual cheerleader tryouts. I adored every clumsy move. Those marshmallow throwing Michigan students could have learned a thing or two from my fanatical kids.

The students also had to present a unique song for the school. They were not capable of composing anything to music. Neither was I. We were in trouble.

Alone in my apartment I prayed to God for help. Amazingly, words and a soaring melody started coming to mind. I quickly scribbled out the song, afraid that I might forget what was floating through my brain. It started out like the following:

"The Serengeti, a place of plenty. Where lions and zebras are free to roam. Where cheetahs find a blessed home. We're God's creation. A holy nation..." I wove a salvation message into the lyrics and choreographed simple movements for the children to act out while they sang. After a few days of practice, it was very rewarding to watch them sing my song. It was lovely - so lovely in fact that the music teacher said I should write out the tune on a song sheet and submit it to a church that did children's musical performances. His compliment made me feel great and I told him the Lord had to give me the song because I was not a songwriter.

In the midst of the school year's hectic pace, Max offered me a part-time job preparing papers for his billing service. I didn't think I could handle the extra load, but the pay was so good that I felt the Lord telling me I'd be foolish not to take it. It ended up being a good decision because it was enjoyable work that lasted over five years.

In addition to working about fifty-five hours per week, I started seeing a lot of Tom from my singles group. He was a lanky and gregarious medical device salesman. I was not very attracted to him physically, but I really enjoyed our conversations and he had many friends we socialized with. He had a nice clean house and he liked to discuss the things of God.

I told my friends I had hit the jackpot and listed his fine attributes. I still hadn't learned my lesson that I shouldn't trust a few of my friends if I spoke highly of a man I was interested in because my excitement caused them to set their sights on him, too. All I had to do was tell another woman how kind, decent or fun a guy was and as soon as the coast was clear, she'd get very friendly with him. It wasn't long before a few women started buzzing around my new boyfriend.

After a month Mr. Superlative's true personality began to leak out. I seemed to be the only one who was aware of his charade. He had a habit of doing and saying things that made me feel like I was on top of the world one day and then he'd cause me to feel bitterly rejected the next. I was on a roller coaster ride that seemed beyond my control. How could a man pull my heart toward him with immense warmth and loving comments one day and without warning shove me away with an eerie coldness the next?

When I confronted him about his hurtful comments or actions, he would say he didn't recall them or he got defensive. I was accustomed to hashing things out and being open with most close relationships, but he hadn't had much experience in working through disagreements with a girlfriend and found my direct approach unsettling.

I wondered if Tom was sabotaging potential intimacy because he saw his best friend suffering with his erratic wife. Tom described her as extremely self-centered and emotionally unstable. I never heard him say anything positive about her.

Then one day when we were waiting for "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" to start at the theater, out of the blue Tom said with an innocent smile that I reminded him of his friend's wife. How could he expect me to take that as a compliment? It felt like a slap in the face. He pointed out the fact that she and I were both teachers and looked alike. But that didn't sound like enough of a favorable connection to a woman who sounded like the taunting self-absorbed Elizabeth Taylor in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?" Her husband was forever accommodating her.

I stewed over his twisted comment. Then the movie's terrifying demonic howling and roars from grotesque creatures became impossible to shut out, so I excused myself and escaped to watch the peaceful re-release of E.T the Extra-Terrestrial across the hall. As my shoulders relaxed with the serene music, I wondered what I was doing dating a man who was viewing me as a pain in the neck.

Even though we couldn't communicate well, I assumed that we could work things out since we seemed to have good relationships with the Lord and we were both very sociable. So in the midst of my emotional turmoil I started thinking about marrying him anyway and he said his mind was heading that way too. But I soon realized I was more serious than he was, which was not a good place to be as a woman.

After a few months of dating we had our worst argument late into the night following a singles weekend retreat about the love of God (we must not have paid much attention to the messages). I was very hurt by his failure to follow through on a promise and I didn't care for his entanglement with an alluring woman he said was "just a friend." I wasn't fooled after witnessing their conversations rife with yearning and love in their eyes. That night we agreed to break up. We simply could not relate our different perspectives without frustrating and hurting each other, so it was a relief to move on.

Because I was getting very close to turning forty and running out of time to have a baby, I was willing to put up with more cold treatment from a man than I should have endured. I was experiencing the same desperation that I encountered when I had turned thirty. It disturbed me that I had been so drawn to a man who caused me great emotional turmoil. I was at a point in my life where I was tired of walking away from relationships if they weren't working just right. I wanted to stick with someone and finally make it work, even if it hurt me. But I needed to know there's a limit to the amount of suffering God intends for us to go through in a dating relationship because the painful interactions will most likely intensify during marriage.

I was happy when the end of the school year came. I had been through a whirlwind of activity and looked forward to taking a month or two off during the summer. I told the principal I was not interested in returning to the school. The emotional stress from the constant need for administering discipline to the students and having to deal with a few unreasonable parents was enough to keep me from working there even though I enjoyed teaching itself. Also, I liked interacting with most of the children on a personal level when I didn't have to hold the fort down.

That summer I relished the chance to bike and play tennis and hang out with friends, but I knew I had to find more work soon. The income from doing the medical billing was not enough to live on, so I started babysitting again even though I really didn't want to return to diapers and isolation. I worked part-time and was barely getting by financially as I kept wondering what to do with my life. I called area Christian schools to see if I could get another teaching position, but there were no openings and almost all of the schools required a teaching certificate.

I was thirty-nine and definitely not where I had hoped to be at that point in my life. Why didn't I have my own family by now? Why wasn't I serving in the ministry to a greater degree than merely doing small projects here and there? What was the point of me going to Bible College and seminary for five years if I wasn't using my education more? I felt like a failure before God. I didn't see at the time that He was working all things together for my good (Romans 8:28).

**Chapter 25 - Inquiries**

I decided that I had wasted enough time wondering if a couple of male friends I respected were interested in me or not. Many single women I knew speculated about certain men liking them, but they were too fearful to find out. I assumed that if a guy didn't ask a woman out, he wasn't interested in her.

Still, I wanted to be sure. I was aware that I could come across as cold and stiff around someone I was very interested in because I was afraid of rejection. Perhaps these men had no idea I liked them. One time I found out that a guy confided to his friend that he was attracted to me, but he wouldn't pursue me because he said I was aloof. That bothered me.

By this point I was no longer overly concerned about what these men thought of me. I had wasted too many years being careful and pussy footing around. Men had it so much easier when it came to knowing what their options were because they could ask women out and receive a "yes" or "no" answer whenever they wanted one. More traditional women like myself had to give little hints and smile, then wait to see who would ask them out, often left in the dark about what a man really thought of them. I just wanted to dispel all mystery and move on with my life. I felt like I was strong enough to handle rejection by that point. Its sting was better than never knowing if a relationship could have worked out or not.

I felt too awkward speaking to the men directly, so I took the safer path and sent e-mails to two men I had known for several years from church. I admired their walks with God and knew them well enough to feel like I could trust them to be kind. The first guy took me out to dinner and a stroll through a park. Then we met again to attend a service at another church, but that was as far as it went. The second one expressed an interest in just remaining friends. He said I was attractive and worded his response in such an encouraging way that I was glad I had taken the risk and found out exactly what his thoughts were toward me. I found out that rejection from nice guys isn't that hard to take after all. I got over the disappointment quickly. I could conclude that if a guy knows me for years and never asks me out, he is not interested in me.

Around that time Patrick asked the tennis group if anyone wanted to go biking. Three of us met at a park with a long path. I had promised myself that I would never be one of those women who had no backbone and kept going back to old boyfriends. Yet I found solace in Patrick's ability to receive me warmly even though I had hurt him deeply when I broke up with him. Having one other person there helped make the outing casual. We had planned on going to a Christian concert afterwards, but our friend didn't feel comfortable going in his biking shorts. I didn't have a good excuse to get out of going alone with Patrick, so off we went in his car.

As the two of us sat listening to different bands perform, memories of past dates and the good times we had started flooding my mind and I began warming up to him. I was appalled at myself. I had given Patrick good reasons for leaving him and I told myself that I should stick with them.

But he was so nice to me.

When we were about to part, he told me he had been reading a book about decision making and trying to follow God's will. He wanted me to read it and consider seeing him again. He said he was working on the spiritual and communication issues that had concerned me. I got flustered. I said I would think and pray about it.

I was so confused. After my roller coaster ride with Tom, it was comforting to be around a man who was clear about his desire to be with me. Patrick definitely did not send mixed signals, I just wondered if our personalities were very compatible. By that point I wasn't sure what God wanted me to do in any area of my life.

I broke down and agreed to start seeing him again. We were fairly happy being back together, but I wanted to really get to know him and what he was all about so that I could know for certain if he was the one for me.

I desperately needed help in order to make a good decision about marrying Patrick. After all, besides making the choice to follow Christ, getting married is the most important decision anyone can make, especially if you believe it should last for a lifetime. It would be tragic to marry someone only to discover that the two of you made each other miserable, requiring a lot of hard work in order to avoid divorce.

For younger couples I heartily recommend consulting parents for their opinion about marriage since they almost always have your best interests at the core of their advice. But we felt we were too old to consult our parents and his mother and my father lived far away. Besides, my parents were not Christians so I preferred talking with an experienced pastor or older mentoring couple from church who could give us a more in-depth perspective.

Patrick agreed to go with me for premarital counseling with one of the pastors in the church even though we weren't engaged. The pastor was direct with his questioning, which helped us deal with some issues. He recommended several relationship books for us to read and discuss:

Saving Your Marriage Before it Starts by Dr Les Parrott III and Dr. Leslie Parrott

Personality Plus by Florence Littauer

The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman

Communication: key to your marriage by H. Norman Wright

All of the above books were very helpful. To that list I would add books I have read on my own and enjoyed: Boundaries in Marriage by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend, God is a Matchmaker by Derek Prince, and Fit to be Tied by Bill and Lynne Hybels.

I don't know how anyone could make the monumental decision to marry someone without premarital counseling and preparation through discussing books on communication and understanding personality types. I wasn't about to take such a final and significant step in my life based solely on my fluctuating emotions and I certainly did not trust my finite human understanding. I needed to allow God to speak to me through as many avenues as possible since I had such difficulty in the past discerning His will in the area of marriage. I also wanted to do everything I could to avoid entering an unhealthy relationship.

The pastor recommended that we take a personality test. I was surprised to discover that we were amazingly alike. Our dominant personality traits were identical (phlegmatic and melancholy – terminology used in Personality Plus mentioned above), but we were opposites in our minor traits (I was sanguine and he was choleric). I thought I was supposed to marry my complete opposite. I wanted to use that as evidence that we were not right for each other, but maybe I couldn't put God in a box. The pastor discussed with us the three areas that could be hotbeds of contention as evidenced by the results of our test. But in the majority of the categories we looked like we were relating in a positive way, so he said there was no cause for alarm.

After a couple of months I didn't see the changes in Patrick that I had hoped for. I reflected on my mental list of wise dating principles. It disturbed me that I did not yet feel that God had spoken to me about marrying Patrick. Our prayer life was not very meaningful to me. It was still hard to enjoy our sparse communication. I also wondered why Patrick rarely brought up the subject of his faith.

I explained my concerns and broke up with him again and felt rotten about hurting him for the second time. I found out later that the sight of me disturbed him so greatly that he had to switch churches for awhile. My heart went out to him. I thought, "If he was so hurt by the breakup that he can't even look at me, maybe he truly does love me. But why didn't he make more of an effort to improve our communication and prayer life?" I was confused, but I wanted to stick with my convictions.

I wondered if God wanted me to consider marrying a couple of other men I had known for awhile, but ruled them out for various reasons. In addition, I did not have much energy to pursue a relationship with a complete stranger should I happen to meet one who seemed appealing. Friends showed me profiles of guys from the online Christian dating services they were using. Even though I knew women who had met their husbands online and were happily married after long distance courtships, that wouldn't work for me. It could take a year or two to get to the point where I felt I knew a guy well enough to consider marrying him. I had reached my saturation point regarding dating. I was sick of it. It was as if a firm hand had come down from heaven and said, "That's enough searching."

I realized that the doors of opportunities for marriage were rapidly closing both in my heart and the hearts of the men I had developed friendships with. However, one door was still a possibility – Patrick. He had dated a few women after we broke up, but I remained the only woman he had been seriously involved with. Could we truly work things out? Was I being too hard on him?

I had to admit that no one could fit anyone's "list of requirements" perfectly and I certainly wasn't flawless. Patrick must have considered me to be overly critical and maybe I was. I believed that we matched in the less significant areas (recreational activities and background) and were mismatched in the most significant ones (communication and to some degree spirituality). What should I do? No one was working out just right, yet I definitely did not feel called to the single life. I was just too lonely for that and had never felt God leading or giving me His grace to remain celibate for the rest of my life. I kept seeking God in prayer.

I also kept asking God about what I should do concerning a job since I was only working part-time and was barely scraping by. All I heard during prayer was that I should visit elderly people at a nursing home near me. Max was the doctor there, so he set up a meeting for me with the activities director. I wasn't sure how I would handle the depressing environment, but I soon got attached to the elderly ladies, most of whom were in their eighties, who would tell me interesting stories from their past and thank me profusely for coming to see them. I prayed with them about their ailments and other concerns. It felt good to be appreciated. I brought them photographs of my family and friends and the places I had been to. It was sad when I gradually saw one after the other pass away.

I had the opportunity to pray with one woman as she lay shaking, almost convulsing, and mute in hospice. She was a Christian and had been a seamstress down south. I recalled her grief when she told me her children didn't bother to see her much. As I touched her frail shoulder, I prayed for the Lord to carry her up to be with Him and comfort her as she waited. Tears rolled down her face as she looked at me with pleading eyes. I wished that I could know her thoughts at that moment, but she was unable to speak. A nurse told me she only had a very short time left. It was hard to walk away.

Another lady was very chipper when I would go to her room. She talked on and on about her farmhouse and the activities of years ago. She must have been quite social. As I got up to leave one day after a visit, she rose from her bed to see me to the door and said with a big grin, "The next time you come you should spend the night and we'll see a show!" Then it dawned on me that in her mind she had transformed the nursing home into her farmhouse, a happy place where she was surrounded by friends and family. If her delusions brought her joy, I certainly wasn't going to set her straight, so I nodded and said, "That would be very nice."

Celeste was pretty ornery as she suffered with dementia, making it hard for her son to stick around for long. My best friend at the nursing home was Lorna, her roommate, who complained about Celeste's dream induced swearing tirades at night that kept her awake. I reached out to Celeste anyway by making conversation. After my third attempt to keep her company by asking her questions about her day and her life, Celeste got irritated and yelled, "YES, NO, YES, NO, YES, NO!" I left her alone after that.

One day I shared with Lorna my dilemma about wanting to get married, but not knowing who God wanted me to settle down with. Her 84 years of accumulated wisdom led her to say, "Well, once you get married, you will spend a lot of time together for many years. Make sure you enjoy being with him." Her words made a lot of sense to me so I kept them in mind. I certainly didn't want to be miserable for the next three to four decades. A man's accomplishments and other external features became less important.

I continued my visits with the ladies for a few years. I was glad that the Lord had led me to these (mostly) sweet women, some of whom had no one to visit them. I often pictured myself being in their place one day, wishing that I had someone to visit me. I could sense that Jesus has so much compassion for the helpless and needs people to be His feet and hands to bring His comfort to them.

**Chapter 26 - A Leap of Faith**

Patrick returned to the singles group and I had to call him about something related to an activity. After we discussed business, he said, "The door is still open." I told him I would think and pray about it as I felt my heart melt. My path seemed clearer by that point. I no longer had other distractions.

When I prayed about marrying him, I believe God placed this thought in my head, "Patrick will be better for you than the other men you considered because he will allow you to express your beliefs more freely. The others, with their strong religious convictions that are slightly different from yours (due to denominational differences) will stifle you. I want you to be free to express what you learn from me without fearing criticism from your husband."

I reflected on His words and recalled a conversation I had with two men I had been interested in who became very opinionated about something regarding the Holy Spirit. I had started to share my view, but then shut down and became intimidated because I didn't want to get in an argument. I never felt inclined to hide my opinions from Patrick (although I'm sure he wished I did at times) because he had a more gentle nature.

As it started sinking in that Patrick might be the one God had for me to marry, I was still dubious. Even though my dreams of marrying a minister or someone who was politically involved had faded by now, it was still difficult to completely abandon them. I saw the door to Washington D.C. shutting in my face. Why had I yearned for so long to live there? Had I merely been caught up in a call to pray for the city, drawn by the excitement of the news stories? It was difficult to think that perhaps I had made my future husband's occupation a distracting idol, hoping for an impressive spouse to make me look better in the eyes of others.

As far as wanting to marry a minister, I wondered if I had meshed my calling to serve in the church too much with my husband's calling. When I asked God about it, He showed me that had I become a pastor's wife, my very sensitive nature could have easily become battle scarred from the frequent criticisms that many pastors and their wives receive from some of the members of their congregations. Also, I could have become caught up in trying to please everyone, resulting in a busyness that might detract from God's real direction in my life. Being married to a man with a secular position would leave me freer to plan the schedule I believed the Lord had for me without fearing the judgment of others.

Of course, having been rejected by me twice, Patrick had mixed feelings about getting involved with me again. His closest friends told him to stay far away from me. I couldn't blame them. When I told him that I would see him again I was so embarrassed about getting involved with him for the third time that I had him agree that we would keep our relationship a secret this time. I didn't want to be ridiculed by people in our singles group. I knew gossip spread like wildfire there.

It was Christmas time. Patrick's mother lived near Fort Meyers, Florida and my parents had a second home on Sanibel Island. We decided to visit them together (staying in separate rooms). "Spending a week with Patrick and our families will surely help me get to know him better and know what to do," I reasoned.

His mother was kind and very accepting of me. I knew she would make a great mother-in-law. Since Patrick's childhood memories were sparse, I relished all the stories she told, providing me a better understanding of what made him tick. He was very active in his high school band and had achieved the top math scores in his class of over 1100 students. Wow! As a teen he had faithfully helped care for his ailing mother. Such devotion was admirable.

The weather was spectacular when we arrived at my parents' home. We biked around Sanibel and saw the birds and alligators in the wildlife refuge. We enjoyed the beach and played tennis with my sister. It was a lovely and relaxing time.

I kept praying and asking God for guidance. One night a scripture was emblazoned on my heart. In the midst of my constant weighing of what I could get out of a marriage to Patrick, God spoke, "For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it" (Luke 9:24). Then God showed me that if I focused on what I could get out of a marriage and sought only my benefits, I would lose my life in selfishness and miss out on His purposes for me. But if I lived my life for God's will and focused on how I could benefit my husband, I could trust that God's blessings would follow me.

That was a profound revelation for me. It started to transform my self-centered perspective about marriage. If I sought my husband's happiness, I'd be much more content because God is always pleased when we put others needs before our own and I'd be less apt to think about myself and brood over imperfections in my marriage, which will always be there. If I was faithful to do my part in being a loving wife, I could count on God to do His part in working on my husband and working on the two of us to become one to a greater degree.

After that insight I believed more firmly that God was telling me to marry Patrick and not worry so much about what I would be missing in our relationship. We had the basics necessary for building a fulfilling marriage. It helped that Patrick was willing to work with me on issues, but I had to be patient because his changes weren't as rapid as I wanted. And I couldn't expect him to change his personality and become a talkative, gregarious man.

I certainly wasn't exactly the woman Patrick had wanted. He would have like it if I were less analytical and more carefree. He also had desired to marry someone who shared his love for downhill skiing. He said he liked the fact that I did long distance biking and played tennis, so someone who engaged in two out of three sports was good enough for him. He sure had some different priorities in a spouse than I did. But I had read in His Needs Her Needs, by Willard F. Harley, Jr., that having a good recreational partner in a spouse was near the top of the list for most men. On the other hand, Patrick also had substance to him because he truly appreciated my earnest faith in God, even though he was less expressive about his relationship with the Lord.

I was ready to take a leap of faith. I accepted the fact that I couldn't know everything about my future with Patrick, but I trusted that God knew it would be good – that we would grow together in His love as we sought Him as one. But in significant ways Patrick made it easier to take that leap. I felt that I could trust him to be faithful to me. When we dated, he focused completely on me and let his female friendships go to the sidelines, only talking with them at church or parties. His manner was proper with them and not the least bit flirtatious, which brought me great peace.

Patrick had dated nearly thirty women over the years, but they rarely got past a few evenings out. Either they didn't care for him or he wasn't interested in them for a variety of reasons. He had known almost all of the women for at least a year before asking them out, so he was choosing carefully and trying hard to find someone to marry. Yet with those many encounters, every time they remained just friends. I liked the fact that I had been his only true girlfriend, which caused him to have a stronger attachment to me.

I had dated fifteen men and got involved with four of them besides Patrick. I found myself wishing I had not had any previous boyfriends, even though I learned something valuable from interacting with each one and all the relationships had been brief. My entire time dating minus the time I saw Patrick was just eighteen months over a period of two decades.

My dating was a series of meetings that were fun and exciting initially, but we soon had to face the unpleasant reality that someone didn't meet the other's expectations. It is unfortunate that we were not more of a blessing to each other, seeking how we could encourage each other instead of focusing on how the other person could meet our needs. If only I had seen my dates first as brothers in Christ (except Ken, of course) before I thought of their potential as a spouse. Maybe then I would have been less emotional and pained by the whole process.

Praying together on dates and asking God to be in the center of the relationship even in the beginning can help a man and woman keep a healthy perspective and motivate them to treat each other with more respect and kindness. I was disappointed that none of the men I dated initiated praying with me, though Patrick agreed to pray with me after we got to know each other better. I appreciated that Ed and Tom had discussed scripture on occasion.

Reflecting on my dating experiences, I gathered a few more insights I would like to share with you as if you were my daughter (or son where applicable). I believe these thoughts express God's heart toward you:

Never allow a man's opinion of you determine your sense of worth. Be secure in God's love and believe that He has very good plans for you. He holds your heart gently in His hands and would never mistreat or abuse it, so he will not send you someone who will abuse you. He is a healer, restorer and purifier.

God may bring you through trials as you go through life, but there is always a good purpose. His desire may be to develop perseverance and help you mature (James 1:2-4), enlarge your compassion for others who suffer (2 Corinthians 1:3-4) or remove sinful inclinations so your faith will come forth as gold refined by the fire (1 Peter 1:6-7). You are very valuable to Him so He will help you grow and become more like Christ.

Submit your dating or courtship to Him with eyes stayed on the Lord even when fluctuating emotions bring confusion. I know - easier said than done.

Though God often works through our desires, a man may not be everything you dreamed of. Dreams are not always based on reality or God's will. As long as a relationship has a healthy foundation that the Lord is pleased with, see it as the beginning of a love that can grow as you seek Christ together. You will find ultimate fulfillment with Jesus in heaven.

Never compromise your values for a man's fluctuating love or attention. Men who push your boundaries aren't worth losing your integrity over. Trading your integrity for a man's affections is foolish and an assault on your self-esteem. Putting any man before God in your heart will temporarily cloud your relationship with Him. He loves you and can take care of you far better than any man ever can.

Keep friendships and family ties strong while dating in order to maintain balance in your life. If you break up, it will be far less devastating. When you feel loved by others, you can bounce back quickly after rejection. That is how I recovered swiftly after a break up.

Believe that the Lord delights in you and appreciates the unique qualities He created in you. You are a pleasure to Him. Don't let the world define your beauty. Be your own individual and let your strengths shine.

Godly character will carry you much farther in the dating realm and life in general than you ever imagined with many kinds of blessings for you. Reflect on the wife in Proverbs 31 who has noble character, is highly valuable, brings her husband good, works with eager hands, is strong and a wise business woman and is generous to the poor. I am most inspired by verses 25, 26, and 30: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. 26 She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. 30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."

If you do not have access to a good singles group and online dating isn't for you, look for opportunities to serve the needy in your community, go on a missions trip or help out at church. As you give to others, you will be storing up treasures in heaven and perhaps you might meet an eligible man who has a giving heart, too.

When it comes to physical involvement during dating many Christian women ask, "How far is too far?" I believe your heavenly Father would tell you lovingly, "Don't do anything you wouldn't do in public." Also, what if your boyfriend ended up marrying your friend, sister or cousin and you had to see him around for the rest of your life with someone else? It happens sometimes. My mom married my dad after dating his brother for two years.

Whatever you have done, God forgives. You can start fresh. God holds nothing against you when you turn from all that is destructive and trust in Christ's atoning sacrifice. You can be "holy in his sight, without blemish and free from accusation" (Colossians 1:22). He will receive you warmly and bless you richly! Rest in His love and generous acceptance of you.

The vast majority of my memories of dating Patrick were good ones, which was encouraging. We had fun going out to eat, biking, watching clean movies, playing tennis and hanging out with friends and family. I was inspired by the absence of a deep-seated anxiety when I thought of marrying him. Several times in the past when I was about to make a big mistake and didn't know it, the Holy Spirit would bring such an uneasiness to my spirit that I wouldn't be able to sleep well until I agreed to change my course.

For example, once when I was about to accept a job as a nanny in Chicago and another time when I said I would meet Ed somewhere after we broke up, I felt such a disturbance in my whole being that I was very tormented and ended up tossing and turning most of the night. As soon as I said, "No thanks," to both offers, God's peace returned to my soul. It was reassuring for me to know that as I waited for an opportune time to tell Patrick I'd marry him, I was able to sleep well and felt no disturbance.

Having believed that I finally got my word from God, I now had to decide how to tell Patrick that I was ready to marry him. It didn't occur to me that his 99% certainty about marrying me one and a half years ago could have dropped to 66% or lower by now. I simply assumed that the offer stood as it was expressed as long as we were seeing each other until he specifically told me otherwise. He had been enthusiastic about going to premarital counseling a few months back, so I couldn't find any evidence that his mind had been changed about me. I chose a romantic walk on the beach at night as the best setting to tell him of my decision.

After dinner with my family on Christmas Eve we headed for the beach. Dark clouds hung on the horizon as lightning flashed beneath them. It was so dark that I could hardly see Patrick's face. I wanted to see his expression when I told him, "Yes," so I searched for a building with a light shining towards the water. I was perplexed by a heaviness, which weighed on my spirit. I thought I had received direction from my Father, so why was I now feeling like I should stop what I was planning on doing?

I pressed on anyway. We sat on the sand by the only light I could find. The dark still obscured Patrick's face, but I went ahead and gave him some compliments, explained my recent thoughts and then said, "I am ready to marry you." I waited excitedly for him to jump for joy or grab and hug me, but he just sat there quietly. I hunted the shadows for a hint of expression. He said he was happy about my decision, but being the naturally quiet person he is, I only heard a fraction of his thoughts.

I later found out that he was disappointed by my direct approach. He felt robbed because I had denied him the opportunity to prepare a proper proposal. He expected me to give him some kind of "hint" that I was ready. I'm such a straightforward person that I couldn't imagine how to give a hint about something so important. Neither of us had been through an actual marriage proposal before, so we stumbled along, failing to meet each other's expectations. Oh, well. Life goes on.

I was excited about telling everyone our news. I told my family over Christmas dinner and they got teary-eyed as they congratulated us. My mom could finally see that there was never any reason to doubt that a good man would marry me. My mom promoted Patrick to sainthood since it had been such a lengthy ordeal for me to find a husband. If I ever said anything critical about him, she didn't want to hear it. I didn't need to tell her about our issues anyway.

Patrick's mom and family were thrilled. His stepmother was so nice to whisper to me, "You are the best thing that has happened to him." Our parents had waited many years for us to find our special someone and at last they were getting their hearts' desire – me at age 39 and Patrick at 36.

Back in Michigan Patrick did a formal proposal at a nice restaurant with the ring and a quick knee to the floor. I don't think anyone at the restaurant noticed because it was so quick. We just wanted to be able to tell people that Patrick had made a genuine proposal. We weren't eager to jump in and join other engaged or newly married couples as they excitedly describe their engagement "events." I felt relief when I heard one woman's story of her husband sitting on his couch offering her a brief, unemotional proposal followed by her equally cool "yes." So they missed out on the fireworks, too. Then I heard of one couple actually getting in a mild argument during their proposal. Now that was funny! I felt normal knowing there were other couples who had worse experiences than we did.

Telling friends in our singles group was hilarious. None of them knew we had been seeing each other. We went to a party soon after we returned from our trip. I went up to the first friend I saw and happily announced that I was engaged. Patrick stood behind me a little way off. Her eyes got big as she said, "To whom?" She had absolutely no idea. Then I pointed to Patrick and she smiled as she congratulated us enthusiastically.

At the party I was wearing a ring twisted out of tin foil (my ring was at the jewelers for sizing) and showed it to people as we announced our engagement. The dark lighting made some do a double take as it took them a second to realize the sparkle was only foil. We surprised everyone about our engagement. Unaware of my extensive deliberating, they may have thought we were impulsive and crazy. I didn't care. At last I was getting married.

**Chapter 27 - Sprint to the Wedding Day**

Rachel had started serving in another area of the church so a young pastor was appointed over our group who knew little about singles ministry and started dictating changes that few of us liked. Some people started migrating to other churches to join their singles groups and many others had been getting married over the past two years. The group was shrinking fast. It was as if someone had yelled, "Abandon ship!"

I was disheartened to see our close-knit family become disjointed. At least I was getting married and would join the growing ranks of new couples. I had been paying attention to how other women planned their weddings so I could get ideas for mine.

The week after New Year's Day I became a focused woman on a mission using every free moment to do all of the major planning since I was still on vacation. I felt God leading me to a country club near the church. It was the kind I had always dreamed of for my reception. It had a wide expanse of floor to ceiling windows overlooking a scenic rolling golf course. I reserved it for early April, which gave us only three months for planning the wedding. I had to choose either April or October because all the nice places were booked during the summer.

The earlier time slot gave me the opportunity to try to get pregnant before I turned 40 the next month. For some reason I believed that if I got pregnant at 39 there was much less of a chance for there to be complications as opposed to getting pregnant at 40. So I locked myself into a tight time frame, intensifying my stress. Patrick just wanted to elope and take it easy, but I knew my parents were expecting a nice reception to come out of the money they gave us. Plus, there was no way I was going to give up the wedding I had dreamed of as a girl and I wanted to share our joy with all our friends and family.

I was so grateful that my parents had agreed to give us enough money to cover a conservative, but elegant lunch reception. I determined to do my best to stay within the amount given to us. Patrick and I did not have anything to contribute to the wedding since I had no savings and Patrick had a small amount we were hoping to use towards a new house where I could fit all of my things.

Patrick had a 725 square foot house fit for a pack rat bachelor, not a married couple. There was no garage or basement – only a crowded attic. So I had to store things at my mom's house when I moved out of my apartment to stay temporarily with a friend - who quickly became an ex-friend because she failed to warn me when it was that time of the month when she was susceptible to screaming tirades. (I honestly had no idea I was interfering with her landline usage!) I escaped her condo in a panic and stayed with a sweet tennis friend until my wedding. She lived close to the church, so it worked out well.

Within the first week of our engagement I managed to book the reception, choose my wedding dress, pick my bridesmaids' dresses, find a ring, and book the chapel and the minister. The following weekend there happened to be a bridal show near me where I found my photographer and cake maker. We heard of a cheap DJ from church and booked him. Over the next month Patrick arranged the music for the reception and ceremony. We received the invitations late because the store had botched the order. So, once we received them, we worked frantically and got all of the envelopes addressed within three days and managed to get them out on time after all.

I had taken another part-time nanny job so I was working 35 hours per week, yet I was able to get the wedding details taken care of in a timely manner. I was constantly praying for guidance and endurance. I became amazed at how God was answering me by supplying supernatural strength and direction as ideas popped into my head for the next course of action.

Everything was falling into place nicely except when I asked my maid-of-honor to stand in my wedding. She immediately warned me that she would be busy planning a missions conference so she wouldn't be able to help with anything except bringing a dish to my shower. My heart sank. I didn't have the courage to tell her I should choose someone else because I really needed the help. So I ended up with more stress and pain, having to do most of the work for the wedding myself. That was my only big mistake in planning.

Putting together a wedding with just Patrick's help was disappointing. I was amazed at how alone I felt as I tried on wedding dresses with no one but a salesgirl to tell me how beautiful I looked. Two friends wanted to go to the bridal show, but that was the only thing they offered to do with me.

Surprisingly, two casual friends offered to help, but they couldn't fit on the tight guest list, so it would have been very rude for me to use their services. I regretted not investing more time getting to know them since they had such kind hearts. My mother was in Florida for the winter, so she couldn't help until the tail end with details. I probably could have called a few girlfriends to put party favors together or address envelopes, but I hated asking for assistance. Also, things were in such a frenzy that it was often hard to plan ahead of time for group meetings.

I would have felt more comfortable asking my male friends to help me out, but I couldn't imagine their large fingers being able to expertly wrap bundles of candies with ribbon. Besides, it was time for me to reduce the closeness of my relationships with them since I was soon to be wed.

I almost laughed when one of my bridesmaids said I should be having fun planning my wedding. I thought she was joking at first. Without any prior experience I had to figure out how to please 150 people with a nice sit-down lunch and wedding ceremony on a tight budget and short timeframe. My wedding day was supposed to be one of the best days of my life, so I had to make sure it was splendid and went smoothly so that I could have fantastic memories. The pressure was huge. I wondered how other brides handled it. I longed for the planning to be over as soon as possible.

Perhaps it was good that I didn't have a year to plan my wedding or I could have gotten bogged down in all kinds of meaningless details. I couldn't dream of hiring a wedding planner on my budget. However, I was happy that I could at least afford a professional photographer, a beautiful dress, a lovely reception spot with good food and have a little left for a honeymoon in St. Lucia. I really was fortunate. When Patrick and I first got engaged I assumed that I wouldn't be able to afford my ideal wedding, but God somehow enabled it to all come about. I thanked Him repeatedly for that privilege.

(Single women – however you plan your wedding with a little or a lot, you can be very blessed with the Lord's loving presence available to carry you through it all. What matters most is not the venue or attendance, but your life together afterwards. Cherish the opportunity to bring Him glory through the vows you prepare, the scriptures that are read and the songs you choose. I hope you feel deeply loved by a good man and that you are surrounded by loved ones. May His peace overflow to you even in the midst of possible mishaps. As you walk down the aisle, remember that Jesus is adoring you and would say, "You are absolutely lovely!")

My mom relished any opportunity to throw a party and was able to show her flair for entertaining when she returned from Florida and graciously agreed to host my shower. (My bridesmaids couldn't host for different reasons.) She discovered a Martha Stewart pink rose bridal shower theme that inspired her to arrange brilliant bouquets and suspend a large ball of roses from a doorway. The dessert table was extravagant as three tiered servers and cake pedestals overflowing with rich treats fought for space on the light pink tablecloth. I felt like Alice in Wonderland dining at the Mad Hatter's colorful tea party.

My mother had provided my two local bridesmaids a substantial list of complicated recipes - all from Martha Stewart's book. I begged them not to bother with so much work. I couldn't eat much sugar and white flour anyway. My maid of honor who was single happily followed my advice and brought a large bag of frozen fruit. However, my friend with two young girls and a baby on the way didn't pay any attention to me and baked the huge cakes assigned to her. She also took it upon herself to make small candle favors for the guests. I was very touched by her generosity and thoughtfulness. She was the friend that God specifically told me to ask to be a bridesmaid. He knew she had a willing servant's heart. (She also had invited me stay at her house after I was fired from my live-in nanny job years ago.)

We started a half-hour late as four of us scrambled in the kitchen to put together several more desserts that my mom had on her menu. I couldn't figure out why she insisted on following Martha's elaborate party plan to a tee. It was a feast fit for a famished football team, not thirty delicate ladies. They only made a dent in the treats.

I was overwhelmed with feeling loved as I surveyed the large living room and foyer filled with friends I had accumulated over the years. They chatted contentedly as they waited for me to open their gifts. Each present was thoughtful and every guest had a word of wisdom or encouragement to share about marriage as I went around the room to videotape them.

One gift stood out in particular. I was amazed at all of the time and effort one of my mother's friends put into creating a towel bride clothed in an elegant white nightgown and robe as she held a bouquet of kitchen utensils. The veil was a towel draped over the head that was decorated with pasted eyes and mouth. Many more gifts were hidden beneath her gown. Her creativity and generosity were mind-blowing.

When I looked at the mountain of shower presents, I tried to imagine the wedding presents on top of them and it hit me how excessive the traditional marriage celebrations were. It would have been better for each woman to just get me one present instead of one for my shower and then another for my wedding (though I was able to use it all eventually). I didn't know where I was going to put everything!

On top of the hectic pace of wedding planning, I had to deal with a ballistic five-yea- old and bossy pre-teen at my new nanny job. I was their third nanny in less than a year – not a good sign. Their mother was fighting cancer and depression and spent most of her time lying in bed. It was truly a tragic situation.

It was a nightmare getting the younger girl to get dressed and into the car after her swimming lessons. She liked to lock the shower door at the pool so I couldn't disturb her long rinses. Playing hide-and-seek by jumping in different lockers was her next ploy. Almost everything turned into a battle. In the kitchen I had to dodge flying forks and coax her down from countertops. Her strength was scary. One time it required both me and her mother to physically subdue her when she was having a fit.

I was so grateful when the father told me one week before my wedding that they didn't need me anymore. I didn't care what the reason was. I was thrilled to be able to walk out their door with both eyes intact and no fingers broken. Now I could enjoy my honeymoon without thinking of having to go back there. I felt terrible for the family having to deal with such a trial as cancer and I tried to be a witness for Christ, but God knew I needed a reprieve. It was His gift to me.

The wedding day arrived on a brisk wintry April dawn. The sun sparkled over a fairytale landscape laden with a heavy blanket of thick ice. It was a spectacular sight, but the roads were treacherous while broken tree branches littered lawns. I was very impressed when my makeup person showed up on time at 7:00 a.m. even though she had to drive from the other side of Detroit.

When she finished working on me, I looked in the mirror with horror. How could I step in front of a photographer with the face of a circus clown preserved for posterity? Where was the face she had painted on me in the store? I urged her to tone it down quickly. After she removed the mascara from my lower lashes and lightened up certain areas, I looked more like myself and I was able to breathe again.

It was a miracle that my hair had turned out so well. I did it myself and never knew how it would turn out whenever I curled it. I had gotten only five hours of sleep in my excitement, but my fatigue didn't show. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins.

I had often imagined myself flying through the doors of the church on my wedding day wild-eyed and painfully late due to fussing with my hair, causing all the guests to wonder what had happened to me. But I surprised myself as I strolled into the church early enough to spruce up my hair and attach the veil. Because I couldn't possibly take care of all the details that needed attention on the day of the wedding, I managed to corral several friends to help out. They were eager to assist. (So I could have easily found help with the invitations and candy favors after all!)

My father had suffered a stroke a month earlier and lost movement on one side of his body and his ability to talk. Within a couple of days and after much earnest prayer he made a speedy recovery and was able to walk me down the aisle. He occasionally had difficulty finding the right words to fit his thoughts, but he was nearly normal. I was so grateful that I didn't have to find a substitute for him as I took his arm and proceeded down the aisle.

As I looked at the smiling faces on either side of me and the "Wedding March" resounded throughout the bright chapel, I had to tell myself, "This is really happening. You are actually getting married after all these years!" The past few months had been a whirlwind. As I gazed at my handsome groom by the altar in his dark suit, I thought about how I hadn't been able to get to know him as well as I had hoped even though we had been friends for a year followed by a total of six months dating while working hard on our relationship.

I wondered, "What are the inner workings of this reserved man with whom I am about to spend the rest of my life? Will he treat me well? Does he truly love me? Am I really doing God's will?" I would have appreciated a note from God stating, "Yes, you are marrying the right man!" It helped to know that one of my bridesmaids had the same problem while walking down the aisle toward her husband who turned out to be a great family man.

I had to believe that my loving and all-knowing heavenly Father had chosen wisely in bringing us together. I recalled the kind ways in which Patrick had treated me and needed to trust that he would be the same man after the vows were said. Even though Jesus had brought an incredible degree of healing to my soul, I still had difficulty trusting any person with my life when it came to permanence and intimacy. I would have to walk by faith, not fear, in my marriage.

As I stood at the altar facing Patrick, I was acutely aware that we were standing before God, making solemn promises to each other for life. I was so glad that we could stand before our Lord knowing that by His grace we had saved ourselves for each other through two decades of singleness. I found myself wishing I had not kissed my boyfriends when Patrick told me that I was the only woman he had ever kissed. I felt very special to him. We both knew in our hearts that we should respect God's command to "be holy because I am holy" (Leviticus 11:45).

I knew of many other singles at our church who were still saving themselves for their spouses, so we weren't the only ones. And there were still more singles we knew who had chosen to live a pure life devoted to God after having given themselves to someone when they were younger. They knew God had made them a new creation in Christ.

I struggled not to cry as I gazed into Patrick's big blue eyes that overflowed with longing while friends sang "I Will Be Here" by Steven Curtis Chapman as a duet about a couple growing old together and loving each other through everything. I was relieved that we managed to say our vows without blunders. A wave of exuberant joy washed over my soul when we turned to the crowd of friends and family who responded with thunderous applause at the end. It was as if the angels were rejoicing, too.

After the ceremony the day flew by. We took a few pictures out in the icy wonderland as I threw my coat to a friend between shots. At the reception we did a swing dance to a forties instrumental "In the Mood." I was surprised that I didn't trip on my dress and end up sprawled on the floor. And how Patrick managed to avoid throwing out his back while pulling me through the complicated "Pretzel" spin was beyond me. He had to take a painkiller when he had walked into the church with his back crooked, but it straightened out just before the ceremony. He had wondered if he'd have to sit on a chair while we said our vows. Fortunately, he was able to remain standing.

The food was great and it was such a pleasure to catch up with people we hadn't seen in awhile. Everyone except two elderly aunts braved the ice storm to join our celebration.

Before I knew it, people were walking out. I looked at my watch and was shocked to realize the day was over. I wished I had more time to talk with everyone. I thanked God that I had made it through the day without the disasters that many people had warned me about.
**Chapter 28 - Adjusting**

Patrick and I had so many presents crammed into his tiny house that we could hardly walk around. I dreaded the work that lay ahead as we made room for me in the bachelor pad. But first we were off to relax in a Caribbean paradise.

St. Lucia was an excellent choice for our honeymoon with its quiet white beaches, clear blue water and lush rainforest. I loved the mountain bike ride through the rainforest where we took breaks to swim in waterfalls and taste fruit from the trees. I felt like we were in the Garden of Eden until we visited a cocoa plantation where I saw a worker coat the cocoa beans in a yellow slime as he swirled them with his feet in a huge metal bowl. My vow to abstain from chocolate only lasted a month. We had a great time exploring the island by boat and bus.

So far Patrick was the same guy I knew while dating him. We got along well, so I could heave a sigh of relief and no longer wonder if I was marrying a wolf in sheep's clothing. After years of loneliness, we were so thankful to be together. It was such a treat to be joined to someone who loved me and made me his first priority. We firmly believed Mark 10:9 "what God has joined together, let man not separate." We were going to be together until death parted us.

Even though the Lord was my faithful Husband (Isaiah 54:5) over the years who took excellent care of me, it was very fulfilling to finally have another person in my "space capsule." I now had a loved one I could call on in any emergency without the fear of being annoying. Patrick would always be interested in my welfare, even when we disagreed. I had to be careful to keep putting God first in everything while I enjoyed the comfort of Patrick's loving arms. However, even as a married woman who was loved by her husband, there would still be times when God was the only one who knew my heart completely and I would need His divine comfort and guidance.

We provided emotional healing for each other after enduring so many experiences of rejection and disappointment in the dating scene. After wondering if we were worth being deeply loved, we could relate to each other's pain, so we made an effort to build up each other's self-esteem with compliments and loving gestures.

But not everything was perfect. Once we got back home we had to work out a harmonious meshing of our personalities and daily routines using the one bathroom and cramped quarters. God must have put us in that small house to test us and force us to work on issues at a rapid pace so that we could establish a genuine peace sooner. If we had a large home, we may have been able to hide from each other and avoid confrontation more easily. I came to really appreciate Patrick's sense of humor that helped me lighten up during our time of adjusting.

I tried hard to follow the admonition of Ephesians 4:26-27, "'In your anger do not sin': Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold." I interpreted the verse to mean, "Do not let the sun go down while you still have an unresolved issue." As a result, sometimes I would go on and on discussing every imaginable aspect of a conflict until Patrick could no longer keep his eyes open. I disliked tormenting him like that, so I asked him to interact with me more so the issue could get solved more quickly. As long as he kept quiet, I felt the need to further explain an issue until I got a clear response.

Eventually, I had to conclude that some problems just couldn't be solved in a day and I had to ask God to help me lay aside my anger and walk in love in the midst of the confusion. But some nights I got little sleep as I fumed. On those nights I wished that I wasn't nearly so sensitive or analytical as I listen to him snore contentedly.

Most of our initial difficulties involved sharing, compromise and being considerate of the other's needs. I had fifteen roommates in the past that I learned to adjust to, so I was accustomed to working out an equitable agreement. On the other hand, it had been sixteen years since Patrick had to compromise with his one roommate in college. His rigidity drove me nuts. I had to keep asserting myself and help him see my needs, too. I wasn't about to give up because I wanted to spend the rest of my life living with him in harmony, not agony.

His morning routine was a rude awakening the day he returned to work after the honeymoon. He had the gall to hit the snooze several times, needlessly waking me up. I wondered what was wrong with him as he sat up, turned the table lamp on and remained on the edge of the bed staring at the wall for five minutes. Then he wandered off to wash his face, leaving the lamp on. "The nerve!" I thought. Amazingly, he returned to the bedside and knelt down to insert his contact lenses as if there was no better place in the whole house than next to his now wide awake, sleep deprived wife who was denied peace and quiet half the night due to his snoring. (In vain I had promised myself that under no circumstances would I EVER marry a man who snored).

Next, he shut the bedroom door without warning me that he habitually raised the heat in the entire house by five degrees so he wouldn't feel chilled after showering. As I innocently slumbered in the tiny room, the temperature shot up over ten degrees. I awoke panicked and drenched in sweat, wondering why the room had turned into an oven. Was the house on fire? I stumbled out of the bedroom only to find him in the hall resolutely supporting his morning sauna addiction. It took a few sweaty mornings to convince Patrick that the space heater would suffice and the second bedroom was the perfect spot for him to sit while he regained consciousness and inserted his contacts.

I had to conform to married life by cooking more often and learning how to prepare a greater variety of meals besides the tofu spaghetti (he actually tried it once), salads and soups I made for myself as a single woman. I considered cooking to be a waste of time, but one of the ways to my man's heart was serving a pot roast or any hot dish with cheese in it.

Our tastes were vastly different. I was sickened as I watched him down all kinds of highly processed and sugary foods. I tried with all of my powers of persuasion and reasoning, but I couldn't talk him into cutting white bread and pop out of his diet, among other undesirables. If I made him dinner, I could at least be certain that he ate one healthy meal that day.

I was baffled when my supposedly normal husband informed me that there was such a thing as "Patrick's World," which consisted of his irrational conclusions about life. It was impossible for sound reason and reality to alter any of his baseless opinions. When I complained about the bizarre way in which he matched clothes, he confidently explained that blue and black were "universal" colors. I agreed that black could go with just about anything, but definitely not blue. According to his theory (which he conjured up on his own, so I couldn't blame his mother), any shade of blue matched any other shade of blue along with anything of a totally different solid or striped combination of colors. Therefore, he could "match" a navy pair of pants with a red, brown and aqua blue striped shirt. Blah!

I told him that I did not want to be seen in public with him dressing like someone who was color blind, because people would wonder what my problem was, allowing him to escape the house looking like that. As soon as Patrick budged a little and agreed to wear a form fitting black turtle neck and khaki pants that I bought for him, a guy from our tennis group noticed immediately and said to Patrick, "So Jennifer is dressing you now." I was proud that my efforts and good taste were that apparent.

When I was single I often attended the services of a nearby nondenominational church and then went to the singles Sunday school at our church. A number of singles went to services elsewhere and then to the singles group at our church. Now that I was married I had to attend the traditional services of our church all of the time. I had naively thought I would be more content than I was. While the teaching was conservative and very biblical, I preferred more contemporary services.

I hated pulling Patrick away from the only group of friends he had. I had friends from a variety of churches, so it wasn't as hard for me to consider going elsewhere. I just couldn't shake myself of the conviction that God had a more meaningful life for us in another congregation where more people were very expressive about their faith. Patrick was quite content to stay where we were, so we had a number of conversations in an attempt to find a solution that made us both happy, but we were at a loss.

As we had our disagreements, I kept waiting for Patrick to blow up and frighten me to death. But he always remained calm. He became aggravated with me at times and was short with me on occasion, but I was short with him also. I could tolerate normal expressions of anger. I kept looking for a volcano to erupt from him, spewing loud and cruel accusations because I was so accustomed to hearing them during tense confrontations with others in the past, but the lava never flew. I started thinking that God really knew what He was doing in putting me with him and I began to feel quite safe. It was a relief to realize that the years ahead wouldn't be filled with tension. We were well on the way to growing in our love for each other.

**Chapter 29 - The Unexpected**

One month after the honeymoon I told Patrick that I took a pregnancy test because I had been feeling strange and it turned out positive. He replied, "That is not possible." How could he deny a test? So I had it confirmed by a doctor. Patrick and I were so ignorant about a woman's ovulation cycle that we didn't realize I could get pregnant so soon. (We planned to read about fertility when we had time soon after the honeymoon). We were ecstatic. We got what we had prayed for so quickly! We decided to wait two to three months before we told others our wonderful news.

I was actually proud of the fact that I got pregnant so fast as if I had accomplished the feat by taking good care of myself and being pleasing in God's eyes. I had to realize that I was no more loved by God than any other woman was. I had no morning sickness, but I struggled with fatigue. I continued playing tennis because my doctor said I could continue all activities that I had done before. I wanted to stay in shape.

After a couple of months, I felt the Holy Spirit point out to me the fact that Patrick and I had never been through a major trial together and that we didn't yet know how we would handle such an event. I brought up the issue to Patrick, suggesting he ponder the matter. Would we work together and be supportive of one another or would a difficulty bring a wedge between us?

Two months into my pregnancy we told all of our friends and family the good news. Many of our friends from church were newly married and having babies, too. We were fitting nicely into the new world of young families even though we weren't that young. We had dinners together at each other's houses and we enjoyed the outings.

One day I was happily shopping for larger clothes at a resale store because my pants were getting tight. As I flipped through the racks, I felt the Lord say, "Don't buy too many clothes because you don't know if you will carry this baby to term." I put a few items back, but pushed the disturbing thought away and kept anticipating the joys of motherhood.

A week later I started bleeding. I called the nurse and she said that I was probably fine. I should rest a bit and call later if I got worse. Was I going to lose the baby? It had never occurred to me that I might have a miscarriage because I felt so good and God had answered my prayers. Was this the trial that the Holy Spirit was warning me about? We prayed hard that the baby would be fine.

The next day the bleeding wouldn't stop. I was told to go the emergency room. They did an ultrasound and could not find a heartbeat. The doctor gently told me that I was going to lose the baby. I collapsed on the hospital bed and wailed as I turned to hide my face in Patrick's shirt. I had held out every hope and now all my hopes were firmly dashed. I was warned that I might feel pains that resembled labor within the next few days. I was afraid of what I had to endure.

That night I writhed in pain as I felt what seemed like the hand of God opening my womb. It was the absolute worst time of my life as I thought about what was taking place inside me. After several tortuous hours of moaning and desperate pleas, I had a sense that the work was done as the pain subsided and I slept a few hours. Patrick stayed home from work the next day. That morning I was horrified when the baby came out. We sobbed and held each other and asked God for comfort.

When I later asked God why He allowed our baby to die, He simply replied, "Letting it live would not have accomplished My purposes." I had to trust that He knew what was best for us. Having heard God say those words to my heart brought hope. I had been blaming myself for the miscarriage since I had continued to play tennis and ride my bike. I decided that if I got pregnant again I would give up those sports to reduce the risk of detaching the baby from the uterine wall.

I tried to console myself with thoughts of seeing our baby in heaven someday. As I cried to God during prayer a couple of days later, He gave me this scripture that brought some healing to my heart, "he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces..." (Isaiah 25:5). He knew exactly what I needed to hear. It was as if the Lord was sitting beside me on the bed, talking to me with His arm around me. With those words God showed me that the pain of death will be eradicated in heaven. God's love will be so wonderful that everyone will be completely comforted concerning every trial they have been through on earth. I looked forward to that day with great expectation.

Patrick and I grew closer as a result of losing our baby. We became more patient and appreciative of each other, having seen with greater clarity that this life is short and unpredictable. We tried to be more grateful for what we had. A few months later we had the opportunity to comfort a couple we knew who recently lost their baby through miscarriage. Now when I hear of a woman losing a baby at any point in its development, my empathy has increased tenfold. I now realize how it feels to have the plans and dreams for your child suddenly ripped away. I know the desolate sorrow that can fill the heart of a woman who wonders if she will ever bear a child.

God's love brought a degree of healing as we abided in Him, but I believe His healing power is even more powerful when it flows through the Body of Christ as we weep with those who weep. There is usually no funeral to help work through grief when a couple experiences a miscarriage. A visit from someone at the time would have helped tremendously. After extending my arms with a heart filled with joy, anticipating an extremely wonderful gift of life, it felt like my heart was cut in two as that life was suddenly taken away, leaving me to drop empty arms.

Surprisingly, a male friend sent a touching letter, mentioning other women I could talk to who had been through the same thing. Patrick's sister had a miscarriage and offered to talk on the phone. Another male friend was on the verge of tears and couldn't handle too many details because he was so distraught over my grief. In addition, we had two aunts send notes of sympathy. I also was moved by the firm hug of a pregnant friend. Each gesture was tangible evidence for me that people really did care.

**Chapter 30 - No Longing for the Single Days**

That summer we made our house look presentable for selling. It required some convincing, but I managed to talk Patrick into discarding his blue (actually, by that point half brown) crushed velvet furniture from the 1970's that he inherited from his mother. There was no way I could bear to sit on it once we turned the couch to face the large picture window where the sun exposed all of its filthy glory.

I brightened the kitchen by removing the dark green area rug so we could show off the perfect white ceramic tiles. We rearranged the house and cleaned up even the far corners of the yard. When I took a good look around, I realized that the place was rather cute. We decided to save money by attempting to sell the house ourselves even though the housing market wasn't the best. If I prayed, maybe God would be our realtor. We put a sign on the lawn, advertised on an internet site, and put ads in a magazine and a local paper.

We showed our house to a few people, but no one was calling with an offer. When I imagined us being stuck in that tiny place for another year or maybe forever, I felt trapped. At my apartment I was accustomed to being able to seat up to eight guests around my table. I loved having friends over. But because of the house's cramped kitchen, we could only fit three people at the table. Also, I couldn't imagine where we would fit a child if we had one. I felt a little guilty about my expectations for a larger home when the neighbor told me that six people used to live in our house. I was incredulous as I kept trying to imagine four kids in bunk beds in our tiny bedroom.

Then about six weeks after we put our house on the market, a woman drove by on her way to see a house for sale on the next block. She came in with her head quickly darting everywhere as her eyes popped out of her head, giving me the impression that she thought she had just found her dream house for a steal. She asked if she could call with an offer the next day. Certainly! I couldn't believe it. She offered us the full asking price if we agreed to pay her closing costs. We were overjoyed. God had answered our prayers for a buyer quickly and generously.

God continued to show us His mercy. I came upon a lovely spacious (in comparison) home north of us in an area with many lakes that was affordable. When I stepped through the door I instantly fell in love with the bright, clean rooms. The sunny walkout basement was perfect for a TV/exercise room. It had everything we were hoping to get in our price range. To add blessing upon blessing, my mom offered to contribute toward the down payment.

The yard was filled with beautiful flowers. I found that I had a passion for gardening. It was such fun to experiment with adding new flowers and then photographing them with my new macro lens. I enjoyed decorating the house and ate up the compliments. Over the course of the first year we invited about fifty guests to share a meal.

Besides getting us settled into a comfortable home, the Lord provided a cherished avenue for needed fellowship. During the year prior to our wedding, Patrick had been part of a weekly men's Bible study that started from our singles group. The men had become very close. Amazingly, during the month when we got engaged, three other men in the group also got engaged. No one planned it that way, it just happened. One night at the study one guy after another announced his engagement, much to the surprise of everyone else. I guess the one married man's stories about his wife were so good that he had the others convinced that they had been missing out. So four men from the group were married within six months of each other and we decided to make it a mixed study with five couples and three single men.

Since we were all newly married without children and most of our husbands had several things in common, we were usually dealing with the same issues. The study ended up being an invaluable support group for us all. We shared candidly and were very supportive of each other. We told stories from our childhoods, discussed communication styles, explored our dreams regarding family and careers for the future and ventured into a host of other topics.

I no longer felt like I was the only one struggling with begging my husband for more details in his conversations. Asking, "How was work" and hearing, "Fine," wasn't working for the other wives either. Of course, there's always the exception. One woman complained that her husband annoyed her with his endless dialogue about books he had been reading. How could she complain about such intellectually stimulating conversation? I suppose there's a limit to all good things. We also shared good stories about our husbands, making it clear that we were grateful to God for bringing us together with our spouses. Our husbands were responsible, hardworking and devoted to us and God. We agreed that our men were exceptionally good guys.

I admired the faithfulness of two of the couples to pray together every night. I saw the fruits of love that their practice bore and desired to imitate their devotion to God in my marriage. One of the men had the uncanny ability to be sensitive to the needs of his wife and knew how to make romantic gestures with lovely bouquets and by helping out around the house without her badgering him. It's incredible how attractive a man can look while folding laundry or loading the dishwasher!

Patrick made me feel loved by wanting to spend a lot of time just being with me. He wrote sweet notes in cards (I told him my "love language" was words of affirmation), walked with me through parks and complimented me frequently. We had to work on carving out time for daily prayer together and Bible study which are key in preventing a couple from drifting apart. It's also healthy for couples to periodically do an inventory of the past few weeks to see if anything needs to be dealt with in order to keep the marriage bond strong. I am so thankful that Patrick is willing to discuss any issues that arise.

Even though many of us in the Bible study ended up going to other churches, we kept meeting for two years with the men and women together, forming lasting friendships. I thanked God for the time I had to share my burdens with those sisters of like faith and learn how to grow as a wife.

I was grateful that, as a married woman who was at liberty to work just part-time, I had more freedom to participate in women's prayer groups, children's ministry and crisis pregnancy counseling. Besides nature photography, I found an outlet for my artistic bent by teaching myself how to use a needle and thread to weave intricate necklaces with seed beads and semi-precious stones. It was rewarding selling some of my creations and giving others as gifts.

Patrick and I are believing God for children to be brought into our lives through whatever means He chooses. We have struggled for years with infertility. We have investigated the various options through adoption. Our faith journey toward parenthood is found in my next book: Wounded Lambs in the Shepherd's Embrace.

With a loving husband, a comfortable home and growing fellowship in a new church, I can see that God has brought me far when I remember my past trials. There were times when I wondered if I would ever see an end to exams, anxiety, being a nanny and the loneliness of the single life. All of these have indeed come to an end and I learned valuable lessons from all I have been through.

No matter how hard I tried as a perfectionist, my works never could be perfect. I learned to rest in God's perfect works and not focus on seeking praise from others. He made clear to me at the end of seminary that our well-being is far more important to Him than anything we can accomplish. There's no point in wearing ourselves out and harming our health and relationships by continually striving to achieve something. God loves us completely and perfectly so there's no need to prove that we are worthy of existence. "For my yoke is easy and my burden is light" (Matthew 11:30).

Over the years God showed Himself to me time and time again that He is all-powerful and able to deliver His people from depression, sin, fear, confusion, isolation, sickness and poverty if we repeatedly call on Him in desperation. When our way is unclear, praising and thanking God while walking humbly before Him opens the way so He can direct our steps (Proverbs 3:6).

When I had nothing in Phoenix, the Lord gave me specific directions to a job, car, apartment and fellowship. When I had no money for tuition, He miraculously sent grants. When I felt like I was at the end of my rope, He repeatedly spoke life into my despair so I could persevere. While sick and jobless, He mercifully provided just the right job where I could recuperate. Though I struggled with loneliness at times, He provided numerous strong Christian friends over the years who were so essential to my growth and made life fun. He can meet your variety of needs, too.

Forgiving my mother was crucial if I was to walk unburdened in the power of the Holy Spirit and receive God's full forgiveness. I tasted a liberty I had never known once I gave to Him all my bitterness. Let us purpose to forgive whenever we are wronged by someone so we can be free of cumbersome weights and see the Lord move more powerfully in our lives.

After twenty years of wandering and not giving up in my desert of singleness, I wised up to God's priorities. "For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts" (Isaiah 55:9). Don't marry a man for his money or dashing personality. Instead, consider how kind and respectful he is toward you and is he willing to work on issues? Is God first in both of your lives?

I had to accept the fact that no man could live up to my unrealistic expectations. God still had a special someone for me who met His REASONABLE expectations. We are all human, needing grace and space to grow. Plus, we are blessed if we give just as much or more weight to what we can give in a relationship so we don't lose our lives in selfish fretting about what a spouse can give to us.

Though I was terrible at guarding my heart – repeatedly racing to thoughts of marriage and opening my soul to virtual strangers – I hope my mistakes help you resist jumping to conclusions before you really know someone. Then perhaps you can avoid great rollercoaster ups and downs of great joy followed by immense pain and disappointment. In spite of heartaches, the Lord can rebuild trust enough to take the leap of faith into a loving marriage.

It's vital to keep in mind that, though your appearance is one factor in attracting a husband, it inevitably deteriorates and should always take a backseat to godly character and a humble, loving servant's heart. Men are often drawn to a woman by the way she makes them feel while in her presence by exhibiting the fruits of the Holy Spirit (Galatian 5:22-23). "The unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight" (1 Peter 3:4) brings harmony to a marriage, making it strong.

Finally, no woman should be so desperate that she puts up with verbal or physical abuse in return for security and "affection." It is possible to find a genuinely nice guy when we submit our search for a spouse under the Lord's guiding hand, trusting His wisdom and loving foresight. It is crucial to keep in mind that He should always be our first love since no one can satisfy the thirsty soul more than Him.

I hope your faith has been strengthened as you read about how God guided me and answered my prayers. Believe that He is there for you, too. Wherever you are in life, know that the Lord is enamored with you – He can't take His eyes off you! He is always ready to converse with you for as long as you want. Take His hand and keep a listening ear close to his heart as you embark on the rest of the Lord's exciting journey laid out for you.

I have concluded that it is best to thank God and proclaim that He is always good during happy and difficult times. One of the biggest gifts resulting from my struggles has been an increase in my capacity to love and serve others who are hurting. Nothing we go through is in vain. I can confidently agree with the ancient song of Moses, "He is the Rock, his works are perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God who does no wrong, upright and just is he" (Deuteronomy 32:4).

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Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer to encourage others to join the journey toward freedom in Christ. You can contact me at jenzwright@mail.com or friend me on Facebook.

Thanks,

Jennifer Z. Wright

**Also by Jennifer Z. Wright**

Wounded Lambs in the Shepherd's Embrace: A Tumultuous Foster to Adopt Story

In the overburdened foster system abused and neglected children may need a heavenly Father to work a miraculous deliverance. As an older infertile couple, we tried domestic and foreign adoption with no success. Then we boarded the foster parent roller coaster with delightful and challenging children coming and going until one child's case plummeted us into the fight of our lives as we did our best to advocate for him and prayed for his protection. Join our journey up to heavenly whispers from Colorado mountain summits and down into the valleys of one of America's most fertile mission fields. Below are the first three chapters.

Chapter 1 - Parenthood's Elusive Game

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" Jeremiah 29:11

The battle lines were drawn across the desk in the stuffy office. I was a desperate forty-something childless woman contending with an impeccably attired caseworker who was glaring down her perfectly straight nose at me. She had just asked if we would accept a drug exposed baby, so I inquired as to how the agency would keep our contact information confidential should we find ourselves engaging with an addicted birthmother. I had volunteered at a rehabilitation facility in Detroit during the eighties and knew some of the risks involved.

"We will not keep your information confidential because there is no reason to do so!" she retorted with the hateful disdain of a queen ruling over loathsome subjects who were threatening to revolt. She seemed to revel in the fact that she wielded power to open or close doors for couples desiring to adopt. Much like many agencies in Michigan around 2006, open adoption was the caseworker's only agenda. In her mind safety was not an issue. Was she about to destroy our file just because I tried to set some boundaries?

Maintaining a relationship between a birthmother and her baby after adoption is ideal... if everyone gets along well. Welcoming any stranger into the intimacy of family life is often a challenge unless they share similar beliefs. Even then there can be strong personality differences. Plus, I had no idea to what degree drug exposure affected a baby before it was born. I didn't think I was up to the task of mothering a child with serious developmental delays or other unknown issues. A little information would have helped.

I cowered like a small dog that had been kicked. I glanced over to my husband with eyes pleading for help. True to his laid back nature, Patrick remained quietly seated with a bland expression. He didn't want to cause any ripples so we could have smooth sailing. I would have to muster my faith and courage and lean ever harder on my heavenly Father. I believed he had good plans for us even though our road to parenthood looked uncertain.

I replied cautiously, "For now we will only consider a baby who is drug free." We could always change our minds if it turned out that no birthmother chose us. As an older couple we had to present ourselves as exceptionally agreeable, stellar candidates in order to capture their hearts. With a blank expression she made a note of our preference and proceeded with the interview.

Earlier that afternoon when we entered the agency, we had passed one large portrait after another adorning the walls. I became all the more determined to win the ultimate prize as I gazed at the beaming adopted toddlers glittering like stars sashaying down the red carpet on Oscar night. My eyes were the flashing cameras documenting every angelic face as I yearned to whisk one away.

The young lives were brimming over with promise and joy. I longed to nurture a soul toward his or her potential by snuggling with good books, tossing a ball and sharing lessons I had learned. Oh, all the fun we could have! I dreamed of carousel rides, rolling down warm grassy hills, rocking chair lullabies sung to a trusting heart, photographing a cherub face smeared with a rainbow of colors from my makeup drawer...

"Please, your highness. Please don't rob me of all that wonder and delight!" I pleaded within. I believed that this was my only chance of getting a newborn since we couldn't afford multiple fertility treatments. I had to win the caseworker's favor somehow.

In the moment I was only faintly aware that the actual battle lines had been drawn in the heavenlies. A throne far above the office held the King of all kings who possessed a superior agenda that he sought to manifest through willing vessels in our broken world. Only he had the foreknowledge to enact what was best for the young lives he had created. God's good plans of restoration were constantly confronting the forces of evil that were luring young women into self-destructive behavior and hurling roadblocks before couples hoping to grow their families. What obstacles might we face? My battle was ultimately in the Lord's hands. For the road ahead I needed to keep my eyes fixed on the unseen eternal realm in order to maintain hope and not allow the conflicts of the temporary visible realm to cause fear and defeat (2 Cor. 4:18).

At our next meeting with the caseworker we brought photos for her to approve for the pamphlets birthmothers would peruse when deciding who should adopt their babies. As I handed her a picture of me hugging Patrick from behind with my hair pulled up, contacts in and my face at a nice angle she exclaimed, "You look glamorous! That does not look like you! The birth mom won't know who to relate to." I was speechless. Then she held a very unflattering photo that I included to show us enjoying a sailboat ride while squinting in the sun. She firmly asserted, "Now that looks just like you."

I was quite offended and hoped Patrick would jump in to defend me, but again he just sat there placidly, no doubt dreaming of skiing down pristine powder in Colorado's mountains. The only difference between my appearance in the recent nice photo and how I looked in her office were my glasses and hairstyle. I figured that she was trying to get rid of me with her insults, but I refrained from asking for another caseworker, fearing I might not appear well adjusted, which could put us at the bottom of the stack.

After fifteen years of waiting to become a mother, I was an obsessed woman on a mission. During my twenties I had been so focused on my education in ministry and art that I had decided I would never have the time or energy for children. But severe academic burnout and subsequent recovery while working with many delightful children as an elementary teacher and nanny stirred within me an insatiable appetite for my own children whether they were biological or adopted.

Trying to discern God's direction for marriage through a filter of perfectionism and a fortress around my heart caused me to repeatedly come up empty as I meandered through one church singles group after another. As a result, I didn't go on my first date until the ripe old age of twenty-nine. Ten years of occasional brief relationships ensued. I finally found Patrick, a gentle, dependable engineer who had even less dating experience than myself. We were very grateful to have found each other after years of longing for families of our own. So we were ecstatic when I became pregnant during our first month of marriage. Life was working out splendidly at last.

I dreamed about the things we'd do over the years with our little boy or girl. But one day when I was looking for larger clothes, I heard God say, "Don't buy too many things because you don't know if you will carry this baby to term." I quickly pushed the disturbing thought to the corner of my mind and went on with my life blissfully anticipating motherhood.

So I was quite shocked when I miscarried as I approached the end of my first trimester. Severe grief enveloped me because I knew this might have been my only chance at giving birth. I wondered what I did wrong that may have caused the miscarriage. Should I have given up biking and tennis? I asked God for comfort and words of encouragement. He graciously replied, "If you had given birth to this baby, it would not have accomplished my purposes."

My sorrow was infused with relief. It helped to know the miscarriage wasn't my fault and that it was all in God's sovereign plan. It was not necessary for me to know the fullness of his purposes at the time. I had to keep trusting him. When I opened my Bible, I read Isaiah 25:8, "...he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces..." I felt comforted knowing that in heaven God's love will be so satisfying that it will wipe away all my sorrow. Yet Patrick and I needed to keep comforting each other and our intimacy deepened as a result of our loss.

Each month I was devastated when I realized that I was still not pregnant. How could I get pregnant immediately after getting married then fail to conceive for years afterwards? It was especially hard to see so many other women from church getting pregnant who were married around the same time I was. After awhile, I started missing out on their gatherings because I didn't have a little one to participate in the playgroups. At least we knew a few childless couples to spend time with. After two years of failing to conceive we decided to pursue domestic adoption through a Christian agency.

So there I was spending many hours striving to create fifty stunning folders so birthmothers would be wowed by our dynamic life illustrated with photos of adventures including our YOUNGER friends, some of whom just started having kids. I was sickened by the fact that we had to sell ourselves to someone in order to get a child, but there was no other way to grab a mother's attention. I also spent weeks carefully arranging a scrapbook, which provided a broader look into our lifestyle and extended family. With so much positive evidence, how could there be any doubt that we'd be great parents?

One night we went to our agency to hear about a couple's experience with domestic adoption. In Michigan birthmothers had two months to change their minds after giving their baby to someone. This couple immediately fell in love with the baby they received as if she were their own. Then the birthmother changed her mind and wanted her daughter back. They were devastated. The man stood in front of the large group crying openly as he recalled the pain of losing the little girl. I was surprised to see his wife standing by him smiling and appearing unaffected. She either had good self-control or had already recovered. I knew I'd react like the man or maybe worse. For the first time I started to doubt whether I could handle adopting domestically due to the risk of loss.

After enduring months of the birthmother's vacillations, they had a happy ending since they were able to keep the baby after all. Of course, the birthmother had great difficulty giving her baby up for adoption because such an act of selfless love would break her heart as she sought what was best for her child. Then I wondered how I would receive another woman's baby while she stood there weeping with empty arms. I became overwhelmed as I pictured the scene.

My doubts became magnified when we were told we had to pay for the birthmother's hospital costs and living expenses during her pregnancy (which is not the case for many other domestic adoptions). If she changed her mind and decided to keep her baby, we would lose all our money. There was no way I wanted to end up childless or wait years until we saved another $20,000 before we could try again to adopt. So I started thinking about foreign adoption because it cost almost the same and we'd be guaranteed a child. Maybe God would work a miracle and allow me to get pregnant in the meantime so I could still have the newborn I desired.

Patrick wasn't too happy about switching to foreign adoption because we'd lose the two thousand dollars we had already invested in domestic adoption, but I was resolute. When we left the agency I told the supervisor about our caseworker's rude and intimidating manner in hopes that she would be advised to treat other couples better.

A few months later I found a Christian agency out of state and signed up to adopt a girl from China. They assigned us a caseworker nearby who treated us with respect. However, all of the paperwork needed to prepare our dossier was daunting. I wasn't clear about where to turn in papers for government approval. After getting burned by the first caseworker I was afraid to ask a lot of questions and sometimes didn't even know what to ask, so I stumbled along.

Over the next few months I started to dream about welcoming a sweet little girl into our home. My sister's husband was from China, so I knew our daughter would be warmly received into the extended family and share a heritage with her cousin. I was so excited to visit the China adoption support groups I discovered in our area.

We learned a lot as we listened to stories from international adoptive parents. I grew concerned as a few described how sick their girls were initially. However, they improved rapidly after they were seen at hospitals practicing western medicine. The first days were awkward as they tried to build relationships with their new daughters in cramped hotel rooms, but later on they were able to form meaningful bonds at home. That all sounded manageable until I pictured myself trying to survive the overseas flight with my fear of flying in turbulence. I had to tell myself that God would work it out somehow. I pressed on, determined to get a little girl.

As we neared the completion of our dossier, I strangely felt as though my feet were trudging through thick mud. I no longer sensed God giving me the grace to persevere. I was slowly dealing with the last of the paperwork in my own strength, which was minimal. I wondered if the Lord was trying to tell me that we were going the wrong way. I was afraid to tell Patrick about my doubts since I had upset him by quitting domestic adoption and I had no clear reason for ending our pursuit of a Chinese daughter. Now he would think I was really nutty.

Nevertheless, I was familiar with how God had led me through many situations in the past and knew I needed his encouragement in order to accomplish anything. If I didn't have his strength, I couldn't adopt from China. Yet, I still longed for a little Chinese girl. What was going on inside of me?

When I finally shared my doubts with Patrick, he didn't want to hear about it. I couldn't blame him. He was determined to complete the dossier, so he started helping me. Within a few weeks we sent it off and waited with excited anticipation. We were told the whole process from start to finish could take two years before we got our daughter. The wait seemed unbearably long.

A couple weeks later as I was driving to a Beth Moore simulcast, I heard God say, "Do not set your heart on a child from China." Why would he say such a thing? We had just completed our paperwork and sent about $7,000 to our agency to get things started.

A few days later I was looking in the mirror while fixing my hair and God spoke a portion of Jeremiah 29:11 to me in a very loving tone, "I know the plans I have for you...not to harm you..." I found that reassuring. God had good things in store for us. What were they?

Later that day Patrick came home with the bad news that he had been laid off from his automotive job. His eyes were sad and filled with defeat. Now I knew why God had mentioned the encouraging scripture about our future and why it had been such a struggle for me to complete the dossier. God wanted us to stop the paperwork back then so we could save the $7000, but not abandon hope that he could grant us children by some other means. If only we had obeyed in faith earlier!

While we consoled each other with a long hug, a strange delight welled up in me as I thought about all the possibilities that lay ahead. My mind gravitated toward the southern states where we could revel in warm sunny days by the ocean, beautiful gardens and more of a Christian culture. I had felt somewhat alone since several of our friends moved out of Michigan for new jobs after the auto industry and the housing market were hit hard. It was February of 2008 when layoffs were becoming commonplace, so we weren't surprised. Patrick's company had been gradually letting people go since the previous fall.

At least Patrick had ten weeks of severance pay and we still had money saved for adoption that we could use to cover living expenses and renovations to make our house more attractive in a fiercely competitive market. It was a great disappointment when the adoption agency told us our file would be on hold until Patrick found another job. As we watched our money dwindle over the next few months, we saw our dream of adopting from China float away.

I was so grateful that God had given me a loving warning of what was to come so my heart wouldn't be overwhelmed with sorrow. I had the confidence that he was still in control. Once we settled down somewhere we'd pursue our last option: adopting through foster care.

We had considered foster parenting earlier and put it on hold because the likelihood of adopting a younger child was small. After being a poor enforcer of discipline while teaching a class with a few disruptive third graders on Detroit's border, I seriously doubted that I could handle older children who had been abused, neglected, and shuffled around to various homes. Another strike against me was my inability to let kids go back home without having my heart ripped out and worrying about them. Plus, being highly sensitive, I was not cut out for the callused manner of many working in the system who had witnessed years of family tragedies.

To make matters worse, I had a compulsion to know all the details of a situation so I could attempt to control the outcome. I also expected just about everyone working in the foster system to put forth a concerted effort to do what was in the best interests of the children. After all, lives were at stake and that was why they chose their career in the first place. Wasn't it?

That was more than three strikes against me. Looking at the obvious, I was not qualified to play the foster "game." Many would have told me to just resign myself to never becoming a mother.

However, I served a God of the impossible who helps his people reach the dreams he plants within their hearts. And he longs to answer the cries of the innocent children who are unable to save themselves. Despite my weaknesses I was determined to push ahead into the unknown, trusting that the Lord would carry me when my steps faltered. Patrick, the natural risk taker, was ready for any adventure. I was fortunate to have his steady hand by my side.

Chapter 2 - The Truly Wild West

"Then Jesus said to his disciples, 'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.'" Matthew 16:24-25

All enthused about a better life somewhere new, I began a mad housing search in Tennessee, Kentucky and Texas, but I was primarily smitten with North Carolina due to its pleasant climate, mountains and sand dunes along the coast. Patrick had fallen in love with Colorado during business and ski trips, so he began his job search out west. I was upset that he put my states second and I assumed he was merely focused on what he wanted. It did not occur to me that God might be leading Patrick through his desires.

After several phone interviews leading nowhere, we decided to take two exploratory trips so Patrick could meet with job recruiters. The first trip included stops in Ohio, Tennessee and Kentucky, but nothing came from it. Our second trip took us to Colorado where we were hit with strong winds and snow flying horizontally in April. I was impressed by my first encounter with the massive mountains even though they were partially enshrouded with storm clouds. The icy hills terrified me as we drove around. I had absolutely no desire to return.

On the way home we enjoyed touring Mount Rushmore and ran into Nicholas Cage along the boardwalk while he was filming National Treasure II. I rushed at him with my camera, but before I could focus, two guys immediately jumped toward me and told me to keep moving, so I only got a poor shot of him from a distance. We hiked around the Badlands, which looked like the perfect setting for a science fiction film on another planet.

Patrick's interview in Colorado had gone well. They followed up with a phone interview a month later where he became unusually conversational partly because he was so enthused about working near mountains. Then there was a prolonged silence and we got nervous. But after five months of unemployment, the company in Colorado offered Patrick a job.

When he told me about the job offer I bawled like a baby because I hated Colorado based on my one visit there. It was a cold wasteland with high altitude that made it hard for me to breathe. Nor did I want to live that far from my father who had health issues.

Patrick said he would turn down their offer if I wanted him to. I was surprised that he was willing to give up his dream job in order to make me happy. I wanted to tell him to decline the position, but I wouldn't be able to live with myself if he didn't get another job offer for six months or longer.

I told him to accept the job and he happily packed the PT Cruiser with all he would need to live on indefinitely while I stayed in Michigan to sell our house. As I waved good-bye, I wondered how we would handle being separated for months on end. We had been married five years by that point and had a strong trust built. We agreed to talk and pray on the phone every night.

The next month I flew out to see Patrick and was blown away by the splendor of red cliffs with a backdrop of majestic snowcapped peaks. Patrick took me on a few hikes and I acclimated to the higher elevations fairly well. As I soaked in the endless beauty around me I wondered how I could have loathed such a glorious place. I suppose God had me travel there on one of the worst weather days to test me and see if I was willing to let Patrick have his dream and let go of mine. In doing so I ended up with the privilege of photographing endless miles of mountain trails and impressive wildlife.

One bright morning while Patrick was at work, I headed to a park for a hike. At 7:30 A.M. most trails were empty. Refreshed by the cool air, I trekked up a small hill and as I glanced beyond a boulder, I was stunned to see two cougars staring at me from about twenty-six feet away out in the open. I had interrupted their journey after a rabbit breakfast perhaps. My first thought was, "What are they doing here? God has given me a rare opportunity to encounter wildlife few people see. What a thrill!" I had my camera around my neck, so I quickly shot two photos, hoping they were focused.

Then I heard God say, "Now scare them off." Fortunately, I had recently read about safety during a cougar encounter: never turn your back on them or crouch, but try to look as large as possible. I didn't have a jacket to lift above my head, so all I could do was raise my arms and growl softly. They continued to stare at me like frozen statues. Their eyes were void of any warmth, completely unlike the serene gaze of big cats in zoos. They were cold-blooded killers that would have no remorse.

I realized I could die, but I didn't feel it was my time to go. I had to get serious so I roared as loud as I could with eyes bulging. Instantly, the male crouched down and hung his head with sad, scared eyes as if he was apologizing for having stared at me. He crept slowly toward the bushes and the female was right on his tail.

Wow! I felt empowered! Just a few weeks prior I had run away from a tiny yipping dog because I was afraid it would bite my ankles. Now I scared away not one, but two cougars! They looked like they had been enjoying a good diet, so they weren't desperate for food.

I was afraid to make my way back to the car because they had disappeared into a mass of bushes. What if they decided to turn around and follow me? But God was merciful and his timing was perfect. After not seeing a soul for a half-hour, a couple touring from New York happened to come up the path just then. I jumped toward them exclaiming, "I am so happy to see you! I just ran into two cougars! They took off that way." The man jumped with excitement as he rushed to the bushes to get a look. I thought he was crazy and urged him to stop if he wanted to live. As I tried to show them my photos, I was surprised by how hard my hands were shaking from the adrenaline rush. Then the couple escorted me to the main area of the park.

After that I noticed how much my fear of dogs had diminished. As I approached my car, two large dogs came bounding down the path and I was unaffected once I realized they weren't wild animals. God had just given me an unforgettable encounter where I had to trust him for protection. Would my newfound courage help me stand up to intimidation from caseworkers and potential danger from incensed birthparents with criminal backgrounds? Would my faith stay strong to believe for God's intervention in the lives of children caught in the midst of chaos? I had no idea what I was in for as a foster parent, but God knew.

While flying back to Michigan I zoomed on my second photo and noticed that the male was showing his teeth and the whites of his eyes. He was alarmed by the clicking of my camera. I was glad I had scared them away when I did. After that I had a healthy fear of cougars and carried a bear sized pepper spray on hikes.

It was good I was returning to family because my dad needed emergency brain surgery and one of the best surgeons in the nation worked near my house. My dad traveled down state to stay with me. I feared he wouldn't survive because of other health issues, so I had a lot of people praying. After a long and stressful day of surgery, it was such a relief to hear he survived with his eyesight and memory intact. It was a real miracle.

As the months marched on and we kept lowering our asking price, the housing values around Detroit continued to plummet. Many people fled to other states after losing their jobs, leaving behind unsold houses. People started joking, "Last one out turn off the lights!" I was so grateful that Patrick's company paid for movers to pack us and transport our things.

The man who headed up the crew had an impressive work ethic and was very cordial. He told me the heart-wrenching story of his time spent in foster care after I mentioned that Patrick and I were thinking of becoming foster to adopt parents. He had been separated from his siblings as a young teen and lived in several foster homes where all they did was tell him to do his homework and help clean the house. However, at his last home there was a kind older woman who took him fishing and did fun things with him. He saw that she actually cared about him so he became hopeful that she would adopt him. He then looked wistfully off into the distance and said with resignation and disappointment, "But she never did."

How devastating! I wondered if his foster mom ever knew how badly he wanted to become her son. She had missed out on having such a nice guy become a part of her family. I was impressed with his character. He told me about his plans for the future with his wife and three kids and regretted that his siblings hadn't turned out so well. He felt used since they often asked him for handouts. I expressed empathy and wondered how many other great men and women had overcome tragic pasts like his.

Once everything was shipped to Colorado, I realized our house needed a facelift, which took a couple of months. Then my job ended and spring had arrived, so there was no need for me to stay in Michigan. After eight months of separation and only being able to visit each other four times, we very much needed to be together again. Having heard our fill of disaster stories about renters in our area, we kept lowering our asking price.

At last we got our first offer, but it was pitifully low. We shocked our realtor by refusing it. A couple days later we got an offer for $4,000 more and, even though it was very hard, we accepted it because we both felt God telling us to do so. As I saw all $50,000 that we had invested in our home obliterated in one fell swoop, I wondered how we could provide a good future for the children we would adopt someday. But God's peace came on me as he said to my heart, "Let the money go. Trust that I will take care of you." One year after we sold our house, its value dropped to nearly half of what we paid for it, so it was very good that we got rid of it when we did.

With our landlord in Colorado wanting to sell his condo, we had to act fast and buy a new house. We settled for a well worn home by a splendid bike path with a peek of a mountain range that I enjoyed almost daily. We spent three weeks working feverishly to patch well over one hundred small holes in the drywall, paint every room and closet, install new carpet and scrape thick black grime off the shower walls and kitchen cabinets before we moved in. Apparently three kids and two large dogs can wreak a lot of havoc! The house had been disgusting, but we saw its potential with beamed cathedral ceilings and beautiful woodwork around the fireplace. We made the whole atmosphere attractive with a warm southwest adobe flair.

Our home was now suitable for foster children. I just had to make sure that kids didn't wander next door. Our neighbor's driveway was a constant junkyard no matter how often I called the city code enforcers. And I was not comfortable with the surly crowd that kept coming and going. I found out later that the couple living there had been part of a motorcycle gang. That explained the unnerving Hell's Angels appearance of several burly visitors.

I was glad there was a large park and playground down the street where kids often played and my favorite stores were nearby. God had provided for us quite nicely. I enjoyed gardening in our private backyard and watching unusual birds visit our feeder. I could hardly wait to see little feet kicking balls across the lawn.

Chapter 3 - Signing up for Duty

"You are good, and what you do is good..." Psalm 119:68

In Michigan foster parents were directly supervised by the state, which I imagined was cold and detached from the plight of the children it served. But in Colorado we could sign up with a Christian agency. "How perfect!" I thought. I expected that the opportunity to work with those of like faith would make the journey much more enjoyable.

When Focus on the Family started promoting their event "Wait No More," I knew that was the ideal setting for us to check out many adoption agencies. The parachurch organization was reaching out to all the churches to inspire their members to provide every orphan in the state with a loving family. The event was held at a large church where the foyer was a buzz with well over one thousand people milling about and pouring over captivating professional photos from a traveling Heart Gallery of children waiting to be adopted. I felt a bit frantic as I saw so many people with the same look of urgency that I had. Would there be any children left for us? Patrick and I searched through the photos and read short descriptions about the children and picked out a few sibling groups that we felt drawn to.

When I saw a prim and proper couple zoom by with four young children in tow and a baby in a stroller, I wondered how they could possibly handle another child so soon. My desperation fed a twisted thought, "They are being greedy. We don't have any children yet and they have five and still want another!"

At the time I had no idea that there were over eight hundred children in Colorado hoping to be adopted. The sad fact was, there was a constant influx of new orphans coming out of the foster system whose parents' rights had been terminated and there were no relatives to take them in. I found out later that only about one quarter of the families at the event signed up with an agency. However, hundreds of families signed up over the following years as Focus on the Family continued to sponsor the event at different churches. They were making great progress toward significantly reducing the number of waiting children in our state.

In the sanctuary we heard powerful adoption stories about children who had been rescued from dreadful situations. I saw evidence of God's redemption in its fullness as a teen testified about the Lord restoring her soul in a loving family after having witnessed her baby sister's death due to neglect. After wiping a few tears we proceeded to the adoption agencies' tables.

I gravitated toward a certain Christian agency because I knew someone who had signed up with them and many children were being placed through them, perhaps increasing our chances of adopting. A woman at their table said the odds of being able to adopt a foster child were about 50 % (it was actually closer to 20%) so our hopes were very high.

We signed up for the first available interview and the next two-month training session. We agreed to take children from birth to age eleven. By that point I was so eager to get a child that even a delay of one month aggravated me. I was getting older and had been through so many disappointments that my patience was almost nonexistent. I had been combing the files of legally free children online and cried at the sight of their beleaguered faces. My heart ached for the opportunity to comfort them and provide the safe, stable home they longed for.

After I turned in our application to become foster parents, I got in my car and the Lord said in a very emphatic and loving tone, "Now something VERY GOOD is going to happen." My heart soared with joy as I imagined myself becoming a mother at last. God had not said such encouraging words in regard to our other attempts at adopting. In fact he had not said anything to lead us to domestic or a Chinese adoption. I simply felt compelled to go in those directions, figuring they were the best options for us and assumed God was leading. Little did I know how often I would have to cling to those words of inspiration and recall the powerful manner in which he spoke.

Excited about becoming a part of this new fostering community, we attended the agency's Christmas party. We met some nice foster parents as we chatted over a meal. However, I was disappointed that the agency didn't always convey a wholesome Christian atmosphere, but time was of the essence and I didn't want to waste an additional two months starting over with another one. Plus, I believed God had said something very good was going to happen because I turned in an application to that particular agency.

There were about ten couples in our training group. I tried to get to know as many of them as possible and hear their stories. The majority had older biological children and were there primarily to help out needy younger children and were open to adopting. I noticed that many were well off financially, so they definitely were not in it for the money. I admired their selfless commitment to serve in such a wholehearted manner. I had my radar on for the other childless couples because I knew we'd be able to relate very well to each other. Overall, our training was helpful, but we could have used more input on how to utilize services available and how to relate to traumatized children.

At our last training meeting I became concerned about our safety when I heard a birthmother tell her success story of getting her kids back. Her children told her the address of their foster parents so she could send someone to come get them. She had ties with the Mexican Mafia and was a drug addict. But she resisted the temptation to abduct them and ended up cooperating with her treatment plan and got her kids back legally.

We also heard the story of a retired pastor and his wife who had cared for about forty kids over the span of six years and at that time had five children in their home. I admired their tenacity and the great love they had for the children who seemed very happy in their foster home. I couldn't imagine enduring all of the transitions they had been through, but the couple didn't look the least bit frazzled. It was the ministry God had called them to.

Then I was amazed by the account of a single woman in her late twenties who adopted three young adolescent boys. The first group of kids who came to her home were intent upon making the authorities place them elsewhere so they put a hose in her house and flooded it. Their plot worked and they were taken from her immediately. Then three tenderhearted brothers were sent to her. The boys' parents didn't feed them much. I felt so sorry for them as they described their embarrassment while begging for food from their neighbors in order to survive. But now their lives were one hundred times better. They expressed great joy about being adopted and were very appreciative that their new mom made the time to attend their sports activities. I was extremely happy for them.

Becoming certified as foster parents was a much easier process than preparing our dossier for China or pursuing domestic adoption. The agency knew time was of the essence since they were constantly receiving calls about children needing safe homes. We took two months of training classes totaling about thirty hours that covered juvenile legal issues, child growth and development, discipline and how to work with birth families and the team representing a child. We received CPR and First Aid training, went for fingerprinting for criminal history and child abuse background checks and had physicals done. Our home was inspected for safety then we childproofed it.

In addition, we went through a couple interviews so they could compile a home study that noted the number and ages of children we would accept. It also provided a description of our backgrounds, family dynamics, support system, communication skills, parenting styles, beliefs, etc. We had been through the process twice already so it was old hat. They had us fill out a form detailing our finances to prove that we didn't need the monthly reimbursement checks from the government to support ourselves.

The description of our duties didn't appear too daunting. We were required to take the children to supervised visits with their parents twice per week for a total of three hours at a center downtown or at our agency. We provided all transportation to school, doctor visits and therapy appointments. Thankfully, all of their medical care was covered by Medicaid. We had to turn in brief monthly reports on the children's progress and a record of visits with parents, noting interactions.

It was a comfort to know that our agency provided 24-hour crisis intervention services and monthly support groups for ongoing training and a place to talk about our concerns. We could expect two to three visits total per month from those representing the children in court because they had to know how things were going in the foster home. Attending court hearings, team decision meetings and biannual state reviews regarding the children's cases was optional, but I soon discovered that was where I could learn almost everything I needed to know about a case. Usually, the more I knew, the better I could cope with any situation.

Before I knew it we were certified. I was raring to go.
