In December of 2005, I lost my life. It was, in many ways, coming to an end. I could almost feel the noose around my neck. My life was defined by addictions to drugs, drink, and depression. I was simply dark. But as the Grateful Dead once sang, "you can see the light in the strangest places if you look at them right." And sitting on a barstool in a frat bar that I bounced at, a friend came to me and asked what was wrong. It was such a simple question, one that I often answered "nothing" to, but this night I was in a strange place and with whatever shred of hope I had left, I was straining see some semblance of light. So I laid my troubles before this friend and in his confusing religious speak, something burst forth. Grace, perhaps.
Having little choice, I leapt at it.
Two days later I awoke in a Baptist church in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas; surreal, I know. And whatever it was the burst forth in that bar, exploded that morning. I fell in love with this person named Jesus and all the things I had done, that had defined me so, ceased causing me pain and finished their torment upon that man. In my new freedom, all I could hope to utter was a tear-drenched "I'm sorry." And in that most honest of prayers, I felt the arm of my cousin and the sweet forgiveness of my God. I went home after the service and repeated the act of confession to my mom, who like our God prior, shushed me and simply said, "I forgive you, I love you, I am so glad you're home." The invitation was before me in the outstretched arms of my crying mother.
Having little choice, I leapt at it.
Despite being home, I felt like a stranger. I had never gone to Sunday school, I had never sung "I'll Fly Away," and I had sure never prayed believing that it made some sort of difference. But this was my new home. And something special burst forth in this strange place, I became part of a family. These people had no reason to trust me, no reason to care about me. I was a recovering addict from God-only-knows-where, but this community, Mammoth Spring First Baptist Church called me "son." Less than a month in, I was already teaching. They gave me a place helping out with the 4th-6th grade class. Little did I know at the time, but those kids would teach me more than I ever taught them. I could not help but lay awake at night back then and think about what was happening to me. I once was alone, purposeless, blind, and drunk, but somehow God pulled me out of that mess and put me into a family, I was in every way a new man. I soon began to to know the stories of this new family and I was invited to become a part of their next chapter, I was invited to dinner, to play music, but most of all, to simply be together.
Having little choice, I leapt at it.
People who were complete strangers a month ago, showed me the Grand Gulf, invited me to pick my mandolin back up and play in front of everyone, got on their backs and crawled underneath my car to see what was the matter, hugged me when I most needed it, and reminded me constantly that Jesus loved me whether they said it or not. For someone who felt that love had slipped him by, this tasted the most sweet. I thank God that He loved me so much, that he gave me to this thing called church. I know these past few years have been both difficult and wonderful and everything in-between but I still made it, I survived by God. Yet, I still wonder what tomorrow brings, whether or not I will continue this game of survival. And in the midst of that doubt I sense something strange bursting through, whispering "trust me." And I also see something strange in the beautiful mess that is my church, extending its hand, asking me to come along to suffer and celebrate together. It is a beautiful offer.
Having little choice, I leap at it.
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