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RECAP
In God’s providence, I read a book about his power to deliver drug addicts before I developed a drug problem. Even though my twelve-year-old mind did not comprehend The Cross and the Switchblade is a true account about the ministry of a pastor, the presence of God was inherent in its pages. If I had not read Wilkerson’s book it is questionable that it would have been in my consciousness to ask God for help. His book went places he could not go and turned the course of my life down a path leading me to a storefront church where God made himself known to me.
Many years later, I heard a message about the ten lepers Jesus healed, but only one returned to say, “Thank you.” The encouragement to be thankful brought David Wilkerson to mind. I wrote him a short letter to thank him for his ministry and the impact his book had on my life. I also told him about the book I published. To my amazement he sent me a letter requesting a copy of my book.
The Journey Continues
I became a Christian in August 1973 at the age of 15 but did not attend a church until Spring of 1974. During my time alone with God, I had three dreams that gave me the same sense I had about The Cross and the Switchblade. I later learned that God speaks to people in dreams.
During the gap between accepting Jesus is Lord and attending church, I often talked to God as I walked up and down the street behind the trailer park where I lived. The street connected two major thoroughfares. The area was mostly undeveloped, except for a small cluster of homes and a church. I habitually walked to the end of the trailer park, then turned right and walked past the church before making a U-turn to walk through the undeveloped section where I made another U-turn to go home.
A desire grew within me to find people who knew God as I did. I didn’t know where to find them, so I asked God to help me. One afternoon, a friend who had a tandem bicycle invited me to ride with her. We followed the same path I used when I prayed and stopped to rest near the church.
She pointed to the church I had so often walked past while praying and said, “Do you want to go to church Sunday?”
The following Sunday, the moment I stepped into the church, I knew I belonged there. But I still struggled with addiction. When I prayed for God’s help at the rock concert, I only wanted freedom from the harder drugs. A love for smoking marijuana—almost to the point of worship—remained. I wanted both: God, and the escape being high offered.
The constant awareness of God’s presence subsided the day I walked into the church. There was no one else to be my pastor, so my father in Heaven, who had marked me for adoption, cared for his infant child. Then left me in the care of the pastor and his family. Whenever they went out to eat after a service, they included me, even when they were entertaining guest speakers. To this day, fifty years later, I still wish I could return to those first months when it was just me and God.
My new way of life irritated my parents. “I’d rather have you on drugs than involved with this Jesus stuff,” sneered my father. “You are going to go blind reading the tiny print in that Bible,” chided my mother. Concerned I was involved in a cult, they forbade me from attending church. My father lifted the restriction after attending a service. He was not interested in my newfound faith but felt it was harmless.
My friend eventually returned to her addiction. I continued attending services but vacillated between God and marijuana. No one needed to tell me what I already knew. I had to choose.
I had avoided drug use for weeks when my parents went out of town for the weekend. Several hours after they left, I heard a car horn and stepped outside to investigate. The door on a blue van opened. The friend who invited me to the Jesus Rally shouted, “We are going to a party. Come with us.”
We had barely left the trailer park when a young man lit a joint, inhaled deeply, and passed it to the next person. When I became the next person, I inhaled and then stared at my feet in despair. A noisy, dilapidated car pulled in front of the van. I looked up and read JESUS IS LORD on the bumper sticker. The message emboldened me to tap the driver on the shoulder and say, “Bring me home.”
Irritated by my request, he made an illegal U-turn and sped back to the trailer park. He stomped on the brakes in front of my trailer. I hopped out to be sprayed with shell and dirt as he sped away.
I called my pastor to confess my failure. He sent the youth pastor to check on me. A long, rambling and pointless conversation followed. Perceiving he was getting nowhere, he stood. “Teena, you must choose. God or drugs. I can’t help you until you do.” He strode toward the door with his wife.
The minute his hand touched the doorknob, I stood. “STOP!” Falling to my knees, I cried, “I want God.” The moment the last word left my mouth, it felt like a stream of water entered my back and washed something out of me. Addiction never held me in bondage again.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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