My Story

Hi, my name is Barbara.  I have believed in God my whole life.  I was born into a Catholic family — a loving, wonderful family with very conservative values.  I went through the traditions of infant baptism, communion, and confirmation.  And even though my most formal “religious” education came in the form of movies — The Ten Commandments; Jesus of Nazareth; King of Kings — I felt pretty knowledgeable about God.  I knew about Jesus; I knew about sin and guilt; I was okay.

Church? I attended pretty regularly with my Dad when I was a kid.  I remember the priest at the time as being very old.  And I don’t mean what a kid sees as old, like forty or fifty, I’m talking at least a hundred and fifty.  Between his winded speech — his voice seemingly weakened by age — and his heavy accent (German?), I couldn’t understand a word he said. But I went through the motions because I was expected to and because I enjoyed spending time with my Dad.

It didn’t take long before my only interest in the mass became knowing the progression well enough that I knew when it was almost over.  Sort of like looking for landmarks on a really long but familiar car trip — I wanted to know, without needing to ask, if we were there yet.

As much as I might make light of it, my upbringing gave me a reverence for God, a love for baby Jesus, and an appreciation for Jesus’ sacrifice for me.  I grew up knowing right from wrong and tried to do the right thing.  As far as I was concerned, I was a “good person”.  I did what good people are supposed to do . . . sort of.

So on the day before my 16th birthday, when the conversation turned to Jesus and salvation while visiting with cousins at my Aunt Liv’s home in Mamou, Louisiana, I started out thinking I was okay.  But after listening to what my cousins had to say, my mother and I accepted an invitation to pray with them so we could be born again.

I said a prayer asking God to save me based on His gift of salvation through His Son, Jesus (John 3:16 & Ephesians 2:8-9).  Unfortunately, for the next 20 plus years, although a professing (but not very loudly) Christian, I relegated God to the role of a 911 operator.  I knew He was there and appreciated the fact that He was, but would only call on Him when I felt a situation was beyond my control.

Much to my own detriment, I didn’t think there were many things beyond my control.  I believed there was a solution to every problem and felt challenged to find that solution.  Beginning as early as my preteen years, repairing broken items around the house (none of which had been broken by me, of course), solving mysteries, or working through difficult situations brought me great satisfaction. So much so that it was rare for me to willingly relinquish my problem-solving efforts to anyone else.

Then, 2002 rolled around.  I was 38 years old, married for 8 years with a 6-year-old son on the autism spectrum and 5-year-old twins.  That’s when something happened to bring me face to face with the reality that I wasn’t in control.  It also had me questioning the legacy I would leave if I were to die.  The answer to that question launched me on a journey I wish I would have begun decades before — a journey of surrender.

I’ve been on this journey for 20 years now.  Have I arrived at my destination?  Not even close, and I never will while I’m still in this body.  But while I’m here, I have been appointed as an ambassador for Christ (2 Corinthians 5:20), and the process of conforming me to the image of His Son (Romans 8:29) will continue as I remind myself daily to place my trust in Him, surrender control, and be still in His sovereign, loving hands.

The journey is fascinating and it’s turned my life around.  Although I continue, like everyone else, to face difficulties in life, I now have a personal relationship with the One who is truly in control. And because of Him, I have 24/7 access to joy, peace, and hope regardless of my circumstances.

There truly is no better life, than a life lived for Christ!