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When Everything Falls Apart: Two Leg Bones or a Piece of an Ear

No Smell Of Fire, by Hope

Chapter One

God doesn't have grandchildren.

Growing up as a P. K., or pastors’ kid, I've heard this saying and I've known a lot of pastor's kids. Many will tell you life in the fish bowl of ministry is a hard swim upstream.

You don't have to be a P. K. to think the load's too heavy. Ask a lot of church kids about their childhood and they'll say they'd wished they were allowed to just be normal. At some point they realized there were billions of people in the world, and most of those people didn't care if they flunked the expectations of God and church. Of course, any good church kid can explain that one: Most of the people in the world are on God's bad side and headed for hell.

That's the correct answer, right?

If that one doesn't cut it, they'll fall back on the standard children's-church answer that works nine times out of ten and allows you to win the prize without hearing the questions.

"Oh, I know! Jesus! It's Jesus, right?"

Knowing how to talk the talk doesn't mean it's the language of your soul. Really, why should you be held to standards your parents didn't live up to at your age? Rules upon rules that Mom and Dad didn't even care about until they had their experience with God. So you're stuck living your parent's life, but you didn't have their experience. Oh, you know the Bible verses and stories. Yet in moments of honesty, you admit you don't know this God who they say talks to them.

Ask a lot of church kids about their childhood, and they'll tell you all of this. But ask me my story and I'd honestly have to say I was different.

I was four years old when I met my true love. His name was Jesus.

Being a pastor's daughter, I'd heard of Jesus daily at home or church. I often crawled into Mom's lap and listened while she read her Bible each day. Every night Mom or Dad prayed with me when they tucked me in. Life was sweet. I loved my family and I loved Jesus.

But a few months after my fourth birthday, I was sitting with my older sister Patience as she told me the Gospel story, and something clicked. For a long time I'd known that Jesus had healed the sick, raised the dead and been tenderhearted to children and people of all kinds. But suddenly the story took a horrific turn, and this time I heard it.

People had turned against this wonderful man. Scary, mean people.

The attic bedroom was stuffy like only a New Jersey heat wave can make it. Strands of hair had escaped my braids and clung to my sticky neck. I sat forward, gripping the edges of my chair with small, sweaty hands. I was fascinated by the story, but far from enjoying it. In neat rows beside me our teddy bears and dolls stared silently ahead, as did I, watching Patience place the flannel-backed figures on the soft cotton background. Patience was called to be a Sunday School teacher. The grown-ups said she was too young, but her gift still flowed.

My eyes filled with tears as she illustrated Jesus being tortured. "He was mocked, insulted, spit on and flogged," she said. That wasn't fair. Jesus didn't do anything wrong!

I watched as she put some of the flannel-backed pieces away and got out a cross. Shocked and appalled by the story so far, I longed for the happy ending.

Yet the story grew worse. Jesus was crucified and He died.

Why? Why did He let them do that to him? Jesus was no ordinary man, He was God's son. He didn't have to let such a horrible thing happen!

He did it for me. Realization dawned clearly in my mind. I was mortified. He suffered all that, for my sin. I was young, but I knew I wasn't always good.

"Is your heart perfect, Hope?" my sister asked. Well, of course not. I was too sad to answer. I just shook my head and let the tears spill. Patience put a warm hand on my head and one of the honey-colored bears in my lap. "Don't cry, Hope," she said. "The happy part of the story comes next." We were too far inland to get the ocean breeze, so the fan whirred behind us, stirring the hot air while Patience set up her next scene. When it was ready, she began teaching again.

"Here's the good news," she said. "Jesus was perfect! So, when He suffered, that counted toward the suffering someone with a sinful heart deserved. This is why Jesus is the only one who can forgive and wash away your sins."

I was still crying. "He let them crucify Him," I said.

"That was to pay off your sins, Hope. So you could ask Him to forgive you, wash your heart and turn it into His home, so to speak.

"He came alive again after three days," she said.

I stopped crying. "He did?" That was amazing and impossible. Yet God could do anything. I was greatly relieved and captivated. I couldn't wait to ask Jesus to live in my heart! My sister led me in a prayer and I gave my heart to the one who loved me more than anyone, the one who died for me and wanted to set me free from my sins. I met the one my mother read about and my father preached about, the one our visiting missionary friends traveled the world telling everyone about. Now it was my turn to begin getting to know him.

It didn't take long before I felt Him making my heart into His home. I felt a stirring to do things that He liked. I was excited and couldn't wait to run and tell everyone the good news! Racing across the street I told my friends and neighbors that Jesus was God's son and He loved them.

"You are all sinners," I said. "But you can give your hearts to Jesus and ask Him to forgive you and come live in you."

One of the neighbors came and had a talk with my mother.

"Now, Ida," she said, "you know we all love Hope. We understand she's a pastor's daughter and all; least, most of us are being understanding. But your girl can't be running through the neighborhood telling everybody they're sinners!"

After she left, Mother gave me a look.

I shrugged and smiled; I was a missionary. We missionaries did stuff like that.

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