I have a story to tell…

I have been contemplating writing this story for some time, but haven’t found the courage to do so. I’ve been asked many times to share this story, but I haven’t, even though, if you follow Lisa B. at simply His, you’ve heard bits and pieces.

However, this story will be broken up into several different parts and not because I’m prolific. Well, I am, but there are so many pieces to this story that are so utterly important, and that I can’t leave out, that I felt it best to break it up.

And when I’m done, to celebrate the fact that I actually did it, there will be a carnival/contest… because I want to read more stories like mine… and when I say like mine, I simply mean, I want to read about when God showed up in your life.

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I have a story to tell. But mine is just your ordinary, average, run of the mill story… or is it?

You see, I’m not a drug dealer, alcoholic or addict of any kind. I didn’t come to know Jesus while sitting behind bars. I wasn’t homeless or facing eviction. I was just an average, run of the mill 30-year-old woman struggling to find her purpose in life.

And when I say struggling, I mean struggling. I would flip-flop all over the place, trying different things to see if that one thing would bring me the joy that I so desperately wanted, that I so desperately craved.

I had a career, owned a home, and a car. I had two wonderful children and lived in a good neighborhood. My children were smart and well behaved for the most part (after all, they are kids!). They were involved in sports and I was involved in many things centered around their lives. Including the PTA which, I can assure you , never was or will be my purpose.

I came from a two parent home. My parents were good parents and I lived a good life. Sure, I made some mistakes – we all do but for some reason mine seemed to be worse than every one else’s. Mine seemed to cripple me, forcing me to start all over and try again.

But there was something missing. And I’m not talking a man, although there was one missing…I’m talking something greater. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on, but I knew that it wasn’t there and that it should be. I just couldn’t figure out what it was that was so lacking in my life.

I was raised Episcopalian and we went to church every Sunday. It was important to my parents. When I moved out at the ripe old age of 18, I, of course, knew everything and felt that I no longer needed to go to church. The fact of the matter was that I just couldn’t understand why anyone would schedule a service on a Sunday morning… after all, Saturday night was the best party night. Ever. I never made it to one service while in college although I’m sure in one of my letters home to mom, I mentioned that I had. I thought about it, but I never quite made it. Sleep and nursing a hangover was more important.

I had my first child at the age of 20, and then I married his father. My ex-husband was Jewish so he certainly wasn’t interested in going to church however, we went for the traditional Easter and Christmas and this happened through the birth of our second child, Samara. When we divorced, I moved back home and I went to church every Sunday. Because my parents went and because I was living in their home, I was to go too. I can assure that it was not because I WANTED to go.

I loved the church family there. They were nice and they loved my kids (who wouldn’t) and Father Tom was great. But when I moved away to Richmond, my father said, “Find a church.”

And so my quest for the perfect Episcopal Church began….