There is a story from my life that I have told many times. Sometimes I have told it for laughs to demonstrate my inconstancy and other, more personal times, I have discussed this as a personal failure of some significance. There may be a value in sharing it with you, dear reader, so I will.
In about 1988 I had returned to the church after a period of falling away. Maybe you’ve experienced the same delight that I found then under the tutelage of the Holy Spirit, as a new understanding of God’s Grace began to take shape. One day, on a Sunday afternoon, I was spending time in prayer and worship when it became time to leave for evening service. I got into my car and as I drove I was still praying/talking to God.
It was one of those moments of communion where you have that collision between enthusiasm and God’s presence and ego. I remember going down the road and being on fire and saying,
Well, I walked into the evening service and the regular service had been cancelled. (What?!) And, instead, we had an organization recruiting missionaries for Bolivia!
(Uh-oh, wait a minute! I’ve never seen anything that made me want to go to South America!)
They showed this slide show of their program and while they trained you, you were to live in tents in Georgia or Alabama or some southeastern State. It showed smiling, enthusiastic people living in the heat, rain and bugs and cold in some really wet, green, muddy country (and I was thinking, “I went to college so I wouldn’t have to live like that!”)
Then, in the slideshow, we were off to semi-tropical-looking Bolivia and it showed this guy hacking his way through jungle-looking stuff with a big old, holy-rolling smile on his face, (and I was thinking, “I HATE the jungle where it’s wet and has leeches and all that other miserable yucky stuff!”)
And these folks ran through their whole dog and pony show and, to me, it just kept getting worse and worse and then they ended it all with this huge, dramatic alter call: “Who is called to save souls in Bolivia?!”
Well, you couldn’t have gotten me tighter to that pew with screws and a nail gun. I clenched down and sweated out every second of that alter call because I wasn't going anywhere!
When they closed that service, I sprinted back to my car parked across the street. (I can still see this all, like it was today.)
I jumped into that car and closed the door and got on my knees on the driver’s seat and I prayed with all my heart:
I never went to Bolivia.
That was a huge lesson in humility and another big one on false pride and how God can humble us when He needs to. I learned a lot about how big, heroic and noble I really am. But years later, as I look back on this story today, there is another lesson that I will take to my grave and beyond.
How many times have I asked myself,
Today I wish I had…
In about 1988 I had returned to the church after a period of falling away. Maybe you’ve experienced the same delight that I found then under the tutelage of the Holy Spirit, as a new understanding of God’s Grace began to take shape. One day, on a Sunday afternoon, I was spending time in prayer and worship when it became time to leave for evening service. I got into my car and as I drove I was still praying/talking to God.
It was one of those moments of communion where you have that collision between enthusiasm and God’s presence and ego. I remember going down the road and being on fire and saying,
“Lord, whatever You want me to do, wherever You want me to go? I’m your guy! You just let me know!”And I was as serious as a heart attack. I was looking for Him to tell me and I was gonna go!
Well, I walked into the evening service and the regular service had been cancelled. (What?!) And, instead, we had an organization recruiting missionaries for Bolivia!
(Uh-oh, wait a minute! I’ve never seen anything that made me want to go to South America!)
They showed this slide show of their program and while they trained you, you were to live in tents in Georgia or Alabama or some southeastern State. It showed smiling, enthusiastic people living in the heat, rain and bugs and cold in some really wet, green, muddy country (and I was thinking, “I went to college so I wouldn’t have to live like that!”)
Then, in the slideshow, we were off to semi-tropical-looking Bolivia and it showed this guy hacking his way through jungle-looking stuff with a big old, holy-rolling smile on his face, (and I was thinking, “I HATE the jungle where it’s wet and has leeches and all that other miserable yucky stuff!”)
And these folks ran through their whole dog and pony show and, to me, it just kept getting worse and worse and then they ended it all with this huge, dramatic alter call: “Who is called to save souls in Bolivia?!”
Well, you couldn’t have gotten me tighter to that pew with screws and a nail gun. I clenched down and sweated out every second of that alter call because I wasn't going anywhere!
When they closed that service, I sprinted back to my car parked across the street. (I can still see this all, like it was today.)
I jumped into that car and closed the door and got on my knees on the driver’s seat and I prayed with all my heart:
“PLEASE GOD! ANYWHERE BUT BOLIVIA! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, Lord! Don’t make me go to Bolivia!”
I never went to Bolivia.
That was a huge lesson in humility and another big one on false pride and how God can humble us when He needs to. I learned a lot about how big, heroic and noble I really am. But years later, as I look back on this story today, there is another lesson that I will take to my grave and beyond.
How many times have I asked myself,
“What could God have done with me if I’d gone to Bolivia?”
Today I wish I had…
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