Or David Arquette.
Or Jeff Daniels.
Because I need to go up into the attic, and I know with absolute certainty that there is some sort of freaky, giant, woman-eating spider that is going to get me.
And I don’t know how to turn the light on up there.
Because we all know that turning the lights on keeps the bad things away.
Just like keeping your arms and legs on the bed and under the covers keeps the monsters that live under your bed from being able to get you.
And yes, I do realize that I’m 30 years old, and not, you know, 8, but I’ve been sleeping next to a pile of laundry instead of a man for the past five and a half months, so I am understandably twitchy about things that go bump in the night.
And things that build webs in the attic.
However, the man who belongs in my bed will not be back for another two weeks, and my children can not wait that long to decorate for Christmas. We absolutely must decorate thisverysecondrightnowpleasepleaseplease.
And so I am heroically making this sacrifice for my children.
I’m goin’ up.
When I went to college, I was ready for a little partying. My parents were very cruel strict wise and didn’t allow us to go to parties in high school.
So once I was beyond their control, I went to Tijuana with a cousin and went bar-hopping. JT had become my standard for morality, having a Bible and knowing how to use it and all.
And he thought it sounded like fun.
I also started checking out the Greek system. I knew my parents couldn’t afford for me to join a sorority, but a friend in my dorm did, and once she was in, we started making plans for me to go to a huge party with her.
But as I was walking down the hall to have her check out my wardrobe choice for the party that night, another friend was coming the opposite direction.
Pale, wrapped in a blanket, shivering, and so out of it that she didn’t even notice me as she passed by and I called her name.
We ended up having to call emergency services and she and I rode in the back of a police car to the closest emergency room in the middle of the night somewhere in South Central Los Angeles.
You know, where the Rodney King Riots were.
Still, I think I was safer there than I would have been at that party.
And I have no doubt that God intervened to stop me from going down that bright, happy party path.
*This is part seven in a series. The rest is here.
I’m changing some categories and titles around to make reading easier, so I apologize if you subscribe in a feedreader and you get a bunch of new posts!
Thank you to everyone who has commented or emailed to say that you are enjoying my series on how I became a Christian. I never intended to stretch it out this long, but I am enjoying looking back at how God worked.
For those of you who miss the lighthearted public humiliation that I usually write about, here is a repost that came before a lot of you started reading.
2am Wake-Up Calls
I’m not a big fan of 2am wake up calls. I really like my sleep.
So I was a bit put out when I woke up at 2:15 hearing Luke calling me.
And I wasn’t feeling the love when I stubbed my toe on the laundry basket on my way to his room.
If it hadn’t been past 2am, it would have been cute when he said, “My sock fell down!” and held up his sock for me to put back on.
So I sat down in the chair to put his sock back on, because me and balance at 2am? Not friends.
(See the aforementioned stubbed toe)
And then Luke gently stroked my hair and said, “Nice hair, Mommy.” And even at 2am that melted my heart.
And then I went back to my room and walked face-first into my bedroom door.
I went to Sunday School when I was young. Sometime around fifth or sixth grade I stopped.
There was a little fat boy who had a crush on me.
His parents taught the class, and they thought it was cute.
I however, did not. He always sat by me, which is like, so totally the end of the world. So I stopped going to church.
Obviously I had all my priorities straight.
But when JT invited me to go to a welcome party for the Baptist Student Union, I said yes. I considered myself a Christian. I had been to Sunday School.
And after that mall experience with JC, a good Christian boy (read: non-criminal) seemed like just the guy I needed.
Plus, he was the guy every girl in the dorm wanted, so I wasn’t about to turn down time with him.
Soon we were unofficially together. We did everything together. He was the son of missionaries, and I thought he was so spiritual. I mean, he owned a Bible and even knew how to read it.
And when he came back from Thanksgiving break, he told me he had made out with an old friend of his.
But it made him realize that I was the only girl he wanted in his life, and he was in love with me.
And I believed him.
*This is part six. Read the rest here.
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