My Testimony

This morning at church our pastor asked us to sometime, this week, write our Testimony.

Testimony. Ugh. I hate that word. It's so church-y and the sound of it surely makes non-church goers want to run the other way. Fellowship... that's another word that screams "church". Not that there's anything wrong with church but sometimes throwing out words only people from a church understand or that aren't said in everyday conversations can be intimidating... and I digress...

Anyway... so here it is. My Testimony. Or in other words... how I got to be a Christian. How I dropped my old life in exchange for this new one.

I grew up in a small town in Canada. There were the Catholics and then those other ones (Protestants).

I was raised Catholic. Church every Sunday. Baptism, First Communion, Confession, Confirmation. Amen.
I didn't grow up reading the Bible, or praying before meals, or being encouraged to memorize scripture, or asking questions (challenging) about the Bible. I'm not saying it was right or wrong. I'm just saying, it was. Here was my take on God. God is watching you. EVERYWHERE. He hears you, He knows what you are thinking, and He is not impressed.

So that was my God.

I moved to Kansas City and my husband didn't have much interest in church but he was game to go to mine. I didn't want to keep him from his faith (the other one) so we decided to swap weekends. One weekend his church, the next mine. Thing is... he didn't really have a church so we had to try a few out. Then my sister-in-law invited me to "her" church. You know... the other church. So we went. For a 4th of July thing.

I was curious. It was "weird". They all seemed happy. And lively. Very lively.

I thought we could give it a shot on a regular Sunday. And I left even more curious. I wanted to skip my Sunday in exchange for a Sunday there, again.

I learned that God loves me. Tons. He knows my heart and He's sticking around. He wants the very best for me. He hears my cries, my hurts, my joys and He is right there with me. He won't leave me. He listens to me. He thinks I'm amazing. He wants to have a relationship with me. He wants good things for me. He hurts when I make bad choices and still... He loves me. Always, He loves me.

One Sunday night I found myself crying. I couldn't stop. My husband asked me what was going on, I told him. "I found it. I found my faith. This is where I belong. And I'm scared. I'm scared my parents will hate me for it. That my family won't understand. That it will be a point of contention for the rest of my life. But I feel it in my gut. This is it."

In December of 2002, I was baptised once again. Fully immersed in the other church. And I've never looked back.

Was it a sore spot with my family? You bet. Is it still? Yep.  But I wouldn't change a thing.

He loves me. I feel it in my bones. In my soul.

I'm not sure I would have felt that had I chosen to remain in the Catholic church. Maybe. It really doesn't matter. Because I do now.

I am saved. I fellowship. I serve. I pray. I sin. I forgive. I am forgiven. I love. I have a testimony.