You Can Be Saved!
I began to believe that I was born broken. I considered: maybe God can fix me.
I turned to my Aunt Joy with prayer requests and God questions, because her direct connection to The Big Guy hasn’t wavered for nine decades. In my family, “WWJD” stands for “What Would Joy Do?” She is a beautifully religious stalwart who, quite literally, once gave me the shirt off her back, and whose faith is absolutely contagious.
So it was with her guidance that I headed to a young people’s Christian retreat. While riding the bus across Pennsylvania, I met women – my age! – who were funny, sweet and gracious. Normally I would be wary of humans, but these people were impossible to dislike. By the time we arrived at our retreat center, where we met hundreds of other young Christians, I had friends.
Our weekend was spent playing games and sitting in circles discussing moral issues and eating delicious meals that made me believe I really needed to eat more often. In my spare time, I became closer to the women in my group, who assured me that I was indeed likable.
But I was terrifically lost. When I asked how I could improve my life, they encouraged me to give myself to God so that I could follow the path meant for me.
“How will I know what path is meant for me?” I asked everyone.
“You just pray and you’ll know,” said my new friends.
On Saturday evening, there was a powerful sermon. The guy at the pulpit talked about the soul being broken and needing to be healed. He talked about drugs and drinking and sex.
“Every time you have sex,” he said, “you give a part of your soul to another human being.”
I thought about the many, many times I’d had sex with complete strangers, just because they’d paid for my beer, given me cocaine, or looked at me like they cared. My soul must have been splintered into a thousand pieces.
Tears unwillingly dropped from my eyes.
The pastor continued: “You can be saved! Step up to be released! Receive the Lord as your savior!”
Maybe this is what I need.
People were flocking toward the front, a slew of clergy waited to receive us, and I was crying. My new friends nudged me a little.
I knew I had to go.
Shaking, terrified, hopeful, I walked to the front of the room. Someone instructed me to kneel, then he grabbed my head, his hands over my ears, squeezing.
“Lord, release this child from the bondage that has held her soul captive! Speak through her, Lord!”
Still crying, I waited; I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing.
“Give her Your voice to speak!” the guy was saying, hurting my ears, squeezing even harder.
Was I saved now? I was ready for the guy to let go of my head.
He kept talking. It was several minutes before I realized that kneeling people were only able to get up if they started speaking jibberish. The guy squeezed harder until finally I sputtered some jibberish, too.
“She is speaking in tongues!” the head-squisher announced. “She is saved!” And finally, he let go of my head, pronounced me “released,” and sent me back to my seat.
My new friends were crying tears of joy. I was saved.
We had a beautiful, relaxing ride home, all of us peaceful and happy. I was excited about my life for the first time in years.
Days later, I was back in the bars.