A memory resurfaced a couple of years ago when I was asked to write out a couple of papers outlining my spiritual journey to accepting Christ. I became a believer officially under my great-aunt’s ministry when I was 8, but I recognized the presence of God as young as age 5. I remembered how my grandmother loved church and loved God. She was an innate mother and teacher, thorough and patient, and taught me the Lord’s Prayer every night she had me before bedtime. I remember feeling God was nearby, even at that age. But the memory I have of a family trip we made to the Our Lady Of The Snows shrine in Illinois, since I’m remembering it, from now on it may have a much greater impact on my life...
All I can remember clearly was my mother and grandmother as we walked inside one of the halls filled with statues and Christmas decorations from ceiling to floor, wall to wall. I had seen the cross before, but was scared out of my mind when I saw a small, porcelain crucifix with an actual man nailed to it sitting above a doorsill. I had never seen one before. I asked my mother, “What is that man doing on the cross? How’d he get on there? Who put him on there?!!”
“That’s Jesus. He was crucified,” she explained.
“Crucified?”
“Yeah. The people killed Jesus.”
I distinctly remember feeling like my heart was ripped out of my chest. “They killed him?! They killed him?! THEY KILLED JESUS? … JESUS IS DEAD??? … JESUS IS DEEEEAAAAD!!!!”
The next thing you know I was bawling my eyes out and crying as if the world was over and that there was no more hope. All I knew was that Jesus was the Savior of the world and that He was good. My grandmother and her friends sang about Him all the time and He was the best. But Jesus was dead, and that was a problem for the world. And me. If Jesus was dead, then everyone I love was gonna leave too. I was sad, distraught, crying, screaming in grief, and embarrassing my mother and grandmother, and they couldn’t get me to stop. Someone asked them what was wrong and my mother tried to explain to them, but was just too embarrassed.
I cannot remember if it was my mother or my aunt or my grandmother, but they had to tell me something. “He’s not dead anymore!!”
I’m taking deep breaths now, and trying to grasp that one. “He’s not?” I said, trying to stop crying.
“He rose from the dead! He died, but He’s alive again.”
“He is?”
“Yes…” they all eagerly said.
I was good with that!!! I looked at their faces and realized they weren’t lying, and it sounded pretty good to me. “Oh okay…” I said as a huge smile grew on my still wet face. I was 5 years old.
I am amazed by that, and how true and strong every emotion I had was and that it was for the Lord. I have vaguely remembered that December when I was 5. I asked my mother about it and she was shocked by the memory of it too. “I almost forgot about that … ‘THEY KILLED HIM??? THEY KILLED HIM???’”
I really sat back recently and really thinking back to how much God amazed me as a child; and to hear someone killed Him was terrifying, but how the hope returned to me like a raging flood when I found out He was risen!! My life should start and end with that information, no matter who hurts me or takes my job or cheats, belittles, or hates me. God is real enough to conquer the ugly stuff like that, like death. There is still hope. That was my absolute introduction the Gospel — information-overload-to-a-5-year-old-child style. As long as I can keep that memory, I’ll be able to believe the Word of God, and love people when they don’t do right, and pray and live in the Spirit. That memory is making Christmas for me this year, and it’s why I don’t need to have presents. Resurrection Sunday will be just as reflective and joyful in that season. And I just wish I remembered that all the time so that my core reason for living is always solid.
Happy Holidays to you all, and especially Merry Christmas!!
--alexis
