I was brought up in a mass-going Catholic family. During those formative years, I learned all about God the Father, Jesus his Son, and the Holy Ghost. I hungered to know the Father and Son better. But I confess that the Holy Ghost— no matter how holy a ghost he was— scared me.
As a young adult, certain that I had exceeded my allotment of sins, I turned my back on the church before it could turn its back on me.
About ten years later, my husband and I built a house right across the street from a couple he’d known as a teen. They had changed; they were always talking about God. So we decided to stay away from them.
Our children, however, had something else in mind. They wanted friends.
When our neighbors’ kids invited our kids to church, I decided I had to check out this mother before I gave my permission. We met over coffee at her dining room table. That morning led to another . . . and another. Before long those coffee times included an introduction to the Bible and an explanation of the full gospel message.
Eventually, this woman, by now my friend, led me in a prayer to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I knew beyond doubt that God had touched me. And I am no longer afraid of the Holy Ghost . . . because this Holy Spirit now lives in me.
That was back in 1980. I haven’t been the same since. And that’s a good thing, a very good thing.
My life verse: And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. ~ Col 3:17 (NIV)