He Sought Me and Bought Me

Vacation Bible School, 1970

     In 1963, godly parents, who did their best to raise me in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, adopted me.  We attended a small Southern Baptist Church that my parents had helped to plant in my hometown.  I remember church as a compulsory activity I had to endure three times a week:  Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night.  In the late '60s/ early '70s, Vacation Bible School was also a mandatory week of even more church.  Worst of all, once a year we'd slog to church every single night for a pulpit slammin' revival.  I never quite understood the point of those meetings since the only people who ever showed up were regular attendees. 

     My enmity with God was evident early in life.  I remember asking my Mom, "Who made the animals?"  "God did," she said.  "Did he make snakes too?"  "Yes, dear.  God made everything."   I thought this over for a moment or two, then pronounced my verdict:  "How dare God make snakes, tigers, and spiders!"  Appalled at my temerity, Mother was quick to give me a harsh rebuke, but she only succeeded in teaching me to keep my opinions to myself.  She didn't change them.  When you think about it,  I was actually positing the age old question of evil.  If God is good, then why   (fill in the blank).  

     One Sunday, my pastor was preaching on sin and I came under conviction.  I wanted to receive forgiveness, but I was embarrassed to admit I was a sinner.  It was about at this time that my friend, Jennifer, died at the age of seven.  It had never before occurred to me that a kid like me might die.  I was only nine, but I was beginning to think about death, and eternity. 

     It was the habit of our pastor, Dr. Forderhase, to pay a visit with youngsters who were around eleven or twelve years of age.  He would share the gospel and ask pointedly if you believed it and wanted to repent and be baptized.  My sister was eleven; so, one day the pastor paid us a call.  I was the kid-sister skulking in the corner of the room, trying my best to seem nonchalant, but I was listening intently.  Would she agree?  Oh, I hoped she would, because I had decided that if she went, I was going too.  That Sunday, after the service, the pastor made the familiar invitation for anyone who wished to make a public profession of faith.  My sister stepped out into the aisle, and I flew out behind her.  He baptized both of us on the same day in 1972.

     A few years later, I remember studying about the Exodus of the Israelites and the Passover lamb.  Somehow, I made a connection between the Passover lamb and the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  That was a turning point in my understanding.  For the first time, I realized that Jesus was a sacrifice for my sins.  Before, I only knew that somehow Jesus would keep my soul if I should die and I would not have to go to hell, but I never really understood the atonement.  By God's grace and the illuminating power of the Holy Spirit, I finally understood propitiation, though I did not know that word at the time.  I thought I had really figured out a great mystery.  Like most immature believers, I was pleased with myself, not discerning the gracious work of God in opening my blind eyes. 

     Over the next 12 years, I tried to do the things I was supposed to do.  I prayed, read my Bible, and tried very hard not to sin.  Most of the time, I thought I was quite good. Then, I would do something really awful and wonder why I would do such a thing.  I spent half my time congratulating myself and the other half condemning.  I had a charm bracelet with each of the 10 commandments on a charm.  I remember reading those commandments like a checklist.  I would think, "Hey, I'm really not all that bad.  I've only committed a few of these sins, and Jesus will forgive me if I ask, so I'm O.k."

     Fast forward to when I was 22 years old.  I was at the end of my rope, so to speak.  My efforts at "being good" were completely forgotten.  For the first time, I felt as if something had to change.  I remember praying to God, "If you're really there, please make yourself real to me!"  Several months later, I was visiting a church in Jacksonville, Florida.  The soloist sang a medley:

"What can wash away my sin, nothing but the blood of Jesus. 

What can make me whole again, nothing but the blood of Jesus.   

Oh, precious is that flow.  That makes me white as snow.   

No other fount I know.  Nothing but the blood of Jesus....   

--The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day, 

and there my I though vile as he wash all my sins away..."

     Those words seemed to penetrate my mind and heart.  I began to weep.  I was embarrassed. I wanted to stop crying but I just couldn't.  I slipped out as quietly as I could, sat in my car and cried my heart out.  From that time forward, I couldn't get enough of my Bible.  Before, I read it as a matter of duty; but, I really didn't understand anything written by Paul.  I liked to keep to the historical stories, and Psalms.  Suddenly, I wanted to understand it all.  I was a young mother who didn't work outside the home, so I read the Bible almost all day.  Unfortunately, I was not getting good instruction at the church I was attending, but God graciously led me and protected me from the worst errors being taught there.  Soon I moved back to my hometown and rejoined the Southern Baptist Church of my childhood.


     Here's the tricky part.  Was I regenerated at 9, 12, or 22?  I really don't know the answer.  I believe God was at work seeking me from my earliest days.  He apprehended me by His grace.

"O victory in Jesus,

My Savior, forever.

He sought me and bought me

With His redeeming blood;

He loved me ere I knew Him

And all my love is due Him,

He plunged me to victory, 

Beneath the cleansing flood."