A Word from the LORD
There was a girl who had an office across the hall from me in the English department. Let’s call her Darla. Well, Darla was one of the few Christians in the program, and she went around passing out Benny Hinn tapes and casting demons out of the water fountains. Sometimes she would come to me and ask that we pray together, and she would go on forever yelling, praying for every single body she had ever met her whole life long. I honestly loathed it (and that was horrible of me, by the way).
And then there was Rhema Bible College and the friends I made in Tulsa when Seth was a youth minister. Once, at the Clinique counter (yes, I wore the lab coat), I started into a coughing fit while restocking a shelf low to the ground. One of my friends slammed her palm to my forehead, and yelled for me to not claim that cough. She held my neck bent back for a good 20 seconds while she prayed in tongues that the demon of my cough would go away.
When I was in sixth grade, a classmate with fire-red hair told me that I should get the Holy Ghost. (Side Note: The poor thing could barely walk up stairs because her mama had sewn up the slit of her long blue-jean skirt). Red told me that I needed to pray hard for the Holy Ghost to come down on me with tongues of fire so that when some giant scorpion comes I would know where the secret mountain is so I could hide there. That scared me to death. Where in the heck did she get that?
I type all that to say that I grew up believing that “charismatics” are not Christians. I never understood Jesus and His buddies to act that way, and I was taught that folks like the afore-mentioned were just making it up. We like to call them cooky. Of course, I also don’t know why I thought that Jesus and His friends did church the way we did it growing up – you know, steeple and people and perfect attendance charts. Shrug.
I didn’t believe until I was 19, and somewhere along motherhood I graced up only a little bit, put on some tolerance, and started going to church with a few cooky people but also with other Reformed believers and some old-school Church-of-Christers. We’re a bunch of mutts, and I love it. I’ve struggled to reconcile my understanding with the others, but these different perspectives blend into the most beautiful acting body I’ve ever seen – how I imagine Jesus and His buds to have acted. Because of this, I’ve spent the last three years asking God some questions I thought I never would.
I started asking God for answers about the Holy Spirit, about sheeping behind Jesus. “I can’t hear YOU!” and then I waited.
I started understanding prayer to sometimes be about hushing up instead of talking so much. I started to understand Resting in the Lord to mean silencing that tornado of fuss whirling around my brain.
And the more I asked to hear, the quieter it got.
I just kept resting because that was so good, and I even started sleeping more through the night; and, THEN I HEARD HIM (and He didn’t sound like James Earl Jones.) He didn’t make much of a sound at all except for what reeled through my head as knowledge about things I didn’t even ask to know.
BY GEORGE … I AM COOKY!
I have a few stories, but I’ll only tell one, and that can be my next post.