The Call

The following is a very rough draft of the next chapter of my current work in progress:

“And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.” Mark 16:15-16

I learned to read when I was five years old and the subsequent imaginative power of transportation to impossible places and times contributed to overwhelming amounts of both pain and pleasure in my life. I was homeschooled from first to twelfth grade with the exceptions of two years at a private Christian elementary school, one of those being first grade. I was several reading book levels ahead of the class due to my mother’s diligent efforts but I was not rewarded. I will never forget a teacher who forced me to read books about frogs jumping over logs with the rest of the class because if she let me read a level higher, the others would feel badly. I felt intense emotion over the restriction and came home crying bitterly. I quickly was given new books by my parents. One of my favorites was printed by a Mennonite publisher and contained “based on real life” stories of missionaries who faced persecution in their respective fields but always persevered through prayer and simple living.

Later that school year our teacher was replaced by someone who listened to my concerns and let me go to the school library and withdraw any books I wanted. Her gift became the singular high point in a year filled with a bully who felt it her duty to point out I was fatter than the others, cries of “teacher’s pet” from the rest of my classmates for having different books to read, and the death of a great-grandfather whom I felt attached to despite only seeing him at his worse stages of Parkinson’s disease. It was understood that my sibling and I would be homeschooled after such a turbulent year but this did not end our involvement with the private school.

On the grounds of the school was a building called “The Tabernacle,” a large, white building with concrete floors and rows of long, wooden pews. For a while it only had a couple of small doors on each side to allow a breeze to come through, a mercy in the humidity of North Carolina when the place was packed full. Later, money was raised to install several garage doors on each side and The Tabernacle became I place I dreaded less. The speakers would point out that God did not forget His people who faithfully came to hear preaching from the Word, as it always seemed to rain at the hottest points of week-long revival meetings, sending bursts of cool air over the crowd. At such a young age I quickly believed that yes, a breathe of fresh air from unexpected rain was indeed God actually demonstrating his love to his dedicated followers. It is amazing how a physical experience can shape mental processes that continue into adulthood.

Typically, camp meeting was a few hours each evening filled with singing from Bible College quartets, group singing from hymnals led by a song leader, followed by a sermon which always ended in an “altar call.” Those camp meetings were where my tender age My favorite evangelists were the missionaries. I would hear stories over the week from several different people who had left everything to take their families and preach the Gospel to Africa, or Belize, or even China. My imagination was already strong with the images the children’s missionary books conjured in me. Filled with descriptions of half-naked people who didn’t know any better and who would surely perish in the fires of hell if someone didn’t tell them the story of how God became a man so he could die for their sins. I didn’t need to understand how “forgiveness” actually worked. I just knew it did. It was a missionary camp meeting where I experienced my first conversion and call to be a missionary myself.

I had been sitting for what seemed like ages and it had rained too early and now we all sat in muggy air waiting for the missionary to finish his sermon.To this day I will never remember what story it was exactly that snapped my soul to attention that night and made me realize my six-year old need for redemption. But I remember running down the concrete floor to the low wooden altar that spanned the width of the building. I wasn’t alone, many stood up and knelt down in surges during camp meeting after the preacher begged with tears for us to consider our wicked ways and how we influenced others by our behavior.

At my age, the altar was too high for me to comfortably place my arms on as I knelt. I sobbed to God for my sins to be forgiven, I was surrounded by a crowd of both young and old. Some were saints and some were sinners but all of us had been brought low by “The Call.”

It wouldn’t be the first time a hand would be placed on my back by some elderly woman or man who intervened to God on behalf of my soul. To this day, there isn’t an experience that can match that feeling of intense self-loathing coupled with intense feeling of power. As we prayed, a congregation of many, I could feel redemption working. I could feel my sins being washed away by the blood of Jesus. And that day that I officially became a child of God, I also felt the call that few took; the one to sacrifice one’s life to be a missionary to foreign lands.

After the fervor was over, and all had been redeemed or had chosen to be Holiness by taking off jewelry, we slowly made our way back to the pews. It was time to testify. To the sounds of “Praise be to God!” and “Amen!” those who had surrendered shared what God did for them that night. When I stood up, a small child with tear-streaked face, I could feel the attention completely center on me. There was a hushed awe as I declared that God had saved me from my sins and that he had called me to be a missionary. As my young voice loudly declared this over the crowd, the power of the collective attention washed over me. There were people standing up and waving their arms in the air, thanking God for my tender heart. There were tears, and there were hugs; and all for me. I was filled with joy and it wouldn’t be the last time. There was never a greater sacrifice than answering “The Call.”