I used to love to write. I would write about mages, wizards, dragons, swords and chivalry. I would create stories about young rising prophets learning to master their ability and queens from humble origins thrown into their position of authority by necessity. I would weave tales of vampires falling in love with humans, and slayers who discover that maybe vampires were not a thing of evil. I would write about dragons trying to save their own kind from wrongful accusations and about a great society of underground elves who just want to find their way back to the surface.
Only once did I write about real life. It was shortly after my great grandmother’s death. My story on the surface was about her funeral and standing in the cold, but underneath it told the tale of how troubled I was. My grandmother had been an amazing woman, or at least that was what I had always been told. Hunting and camping and full of life. To me, she had always been a quiet old lady who couldn’t see or hear but was patient and smiled easy. Even at the time of her death, it had been unclear whether she had been a Christian. The pastor went on with his beautiful, solemn homily, and we listened to those words, and watched as the cold earth embraced her coffin. The quiet words of the pastor speaking about ‘walking in the shadow of death but fearing no evil’ echoed in my mind as I tried to stomp my frozen toes back to life.
My story of her funeral was not a happy one. As I pondered on her death, I also pondered on the kindness of God to people like my grandmother–those good, kind people who may or may not believe in God. I questioned the existence of heaven and the likelihood of people making it to the pearly gates. That story marked the beginning of my quest for truth.
I remember my story being selected in English class to be read to the community at the local art museum. Schools all through the valley selected one or two kids to read piece of their work. My story was the last one to be read. I remember standing up on the stage, listening to my voice crack in the microphone as I tried to remain composed while reading to the community my questions of God’s grace. Then afterwards the coordinator came up to me with congratulations. “I always put the piece I think is the best last,” she told me.
That was the last piece I wrote. Life was full of turmoil after that as I tried so desperately to find myself. There was pain and suffering in growing up. A lot of hard lessons learned. But after I hit the bottom, God’s grace pulled me out. He rebuilt me slowly after I was torn down by my own doing. It has taken me some time, but I am slowly coming to terms with my past and what I’ve been through. As I learn more and more about God and His grace and more importantly, Jesus’ great sacrifice as the Lamb of God, I have come to a better understanding of where I have come and where I am going. But most importantly, I have learned to keep my fork, because there are better things to come.
Growing Apologist 