If you’re reading this blog, it’s important to know what kind of soul is behind the writing. I was 10 when I became a believer in Christ. I had known that a time would come when God would let me know that I was guilty of my sin, and my sin had a price. The price of sin is death; the sin debt is paid through death. In my case, it was paid by the perfect blood of Jesus Christ. This sin I had wasn’t because I was a bad kid or anything like that. It was the sin I inherited from my parents, who inherited it from theirs, and so on, traced all the way back to Adam and Eve, the first humans to sin against God.

God had kept me safe throughout my childhood, under His wings, because of His goodness towards me and every other infant and child to ever come into existence. But that was no longer sufficient. My sin made itself known, and I realized my condition – the separation between myself and God was made very clear to me. I needed saving. The feeling was physically and spiritually wretched. The deepest parts of my core ached day and night. I was fearful of death, knowing my situation with God would result in an eternity of pain, anguish, and darkness. I knew if I died, my soul would reside in Hell eternally. I needed Jesus. I knew I needed Him, but I didn’t realize how much I needed Him or how to get to Him. The only thing I knew to do was to attempt to pray.

I wish I had known then that prayer is just talking to God like he’s here, sitting in the same room. It’s saying out loud to him all the things on my mind, how my heart is hurting, what I’m afraid of, what I think I need… It was a struggle, but I didn’t give up. I prayed for months whenever I got the chance or got worried enough to close my eyes and look for Him.

I wish I had known then that prayer is just talking to God like he’s here, sitting in the same room.

Fourth grade ended and the summer opened up for more opportunities for my parents to take me to other churches to visit week-long revival meetings. Some were even outdoors in tents.  All had altars at the front where I bowed to seek God. I still couldn’t find him. Many times I just didn’t know why it was so hard to reach the throne of Grace. I was believing with my mind that Jesus was the Son of God, but I hadn’t yet believed with my heart.

Revival meeting was scheduled at my home church for the week of Independence Day in the United States. I had been “lost” or separate from God as I described earlier for at least three months, possibly longer. I was so weary and tired of not having peace in my soul, tired of going to the altar service after service, tired from losing sleep for fear of waking up and Christ returning to gather his own, and I wouldn’t be in that number. My wretchedness only increased day by day. I found some relief in crying, but the pain persisted.

Until one night.

A Tuesday night.

My night.

I prayed the most sincere and selfless prayer within me. It was inaudible to everyone but Jesus. Even I don’t know what I said, but my heart was changed. The fear, agony, wretched feeling disappeared in an instant and instead I was left with a calm, quiet peace. I didn’t see lights or angels, hear special songs of heaven, or anything like that. I only knew the pain of my sin was now silent.

Because of the lack of fanfare that I had envisioned would occur with receiving salvation, I allowed Satan to convince me in my mind that what happened couldn’t have been an encounter with Jesus.

Because of the lack of fanfare that I had envisioned would occur with receiving salvation, I allowed Satan to convince me in my mind that what happened couldn’t have been an encounter with Jesus. I had felt relief when I first told my parents of my condition and that I needed to pray three months prior, so much relief that I thought I had been saved the previous April. I wanted so terribly to be saved on a Tuesday like my sister, and I worried that this was a repeat of events. For two more days, I sought the Lord. I prayed with all my might, but the same fear and pain wouldn’t come back.

Deep down, something was different. Satan is crafty, but he isn’t as wise or powerful as the Holy Spirit. Two days later, the 4th of July, 2002, I talked with my parents before service in their tiny master bathroom explaining to them my confusion and what I thought had happened. My parents didn’t tell me I was saved or lost. As believers themselves, they knew that the Holy Spirit didn’t need help in saving me or making its presence known. They trusted that in time, I would find what I was seeking. They did share with me that our God isn’t the author of confusion, but of peace. He speaks to us sometimes in a still, small voice that isn’t loud or overbearing.

We attended revival service again that night, but I couldn’t feel the trouble that I had been experiencing every other night I had gone to the altar. As I made my way to the altar, I had the hardest time hiding my smile. The joy of the Lord began to make itself a home within me as I learned to be still and listen to him. I sat on the altar asking God to reassure me that I was saved, and every time, like a movie in my mind, he took me back to the moment when everything got quiet, when I first felt the peaceful silence of salvation. The longer I sat there, the more my heart began to beat. This was a new feeling, almost an urgent nervousness that I couldn’t sit still any longer. I had to tell someone what happened. I couldn’t keep my light to myself. The world had to know.

I told both of my parents who immediately began to rejoice. Many brothers and sisters who had prayed with me and for me gave me hugs and words of encouragement. The following day during day service I joined the church and was later baptized in a creek not far from my house.

As I have grown in grace over the years, my salvation has sweetened. The more I study his word, spend time with him, and share how he has blessed my life with others, my experience of Grace grows more precious and important to me.

Have you had a similar experience in your life? Feel free to share in the comments below.