by Lydia Jentzen Will
Growing up, I loved listening to testimonies. I found the most exciting and impressive to be those of people who weren’t raised in the church, who lived crazy lives of destruction and heartache before meeting Jesus and having their worlds turned upside down.
By comparison, my own “born and raised in the church” story was decidedly lackluster. I went to church each week with my family. I loved God. I went through confirmation and I was very involved in my youth group. But those teen years…they have a way of catching up with everyone in one way or another.
My crashing down point after a series of unwise decisions was the phone call to my parents from college when I was 18, telling them I was pregnant – unplanned, unmarried, undone.
That may have been when I finally began to understand what it meant to be a Christian. The first time I remember being jarred awake by grace I didn’t deserve and couldn’t possibly understand.
My Mama said “Come home.”
My Dad said “I love you.”
The first time I remember being jarred awake by grace I didn’t deserve and couldn’t possibly understand.
And something inside me finally, finally broke, that careful facade cracking. I needed Jesus. I couldn’t take another step on my own.
The hope of their love and His forgiveness held me through my travels homeward. Cancelled flights and missed connections and falling asleep on the airport floor alone. Until finally, I made it.
The hope of their love and His forgiveness held me through my travels homeward.
It was evening and the house was full of light.
I took a deep breath, turned the door knob and stepped into the house, watching my Mom’s face turn soft at the sight of me.
The key to coming home is always the grace that gets you in the door. And grace comes from only one place, a key fitting perfectly into the lock, and turning with a smooth and seamless click.
The key to coming home is always the grace that gets you in the door.
Jesus was my key.
And I was home.
