I remember pulling on thin white socks, folding them down just right, ‘til their lace lining reached my ankle bone, then slipping my four-year-old feet into “church” shoes.  Somewhere along the way I learned they were called “black patent,” not “black patton.” (Smile.)  I’d watch Mother’s delicate hands push the tiny gold pin into the hole of the strap, then securing it. Over the course of the year she might have to move to the next hole, and come Easter, it’d be time for a new pair.

Growing up, I don’t remember my family not being in church on Sunday mornings.  As a youngster, I felt it was more of a chore to go. But I’ve since realized I owe boundless gratitude to Mother and Daddy, and ultimately, to the One who gave me the two of them as parents. Our family attended First United Methodist Church in a small southern-Oklahoma town. The building still sits on the corner of 14th and Townsend, its steeple pointing majestically upward and stained-glass windows catching light.  I attended there from nursery days until my senior-high youth group parted ways, bound for college. From a red-cushioned wooden pew,  I watched my dad sing with the choir. There were no screens back then. Just an organ, voices, and red hymnals bearing the cross-and-flame emblem. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the plate was passed each week, Mother faithfully dropping a check in.  At 4, 8, and 11, I watched my sisters walk down the aisle. I hoped someday it would be my turn to be a beaming bride.  I attended ice cream socials and chili suppers in the fellowship hall with its slippery square gray tile—the same tile floor that carried me as I danced with a high-school sweetheart after Friday-night football games (us kids would slip in to the Baptist church  for post-game food, then we’d cross the street to the Methodist for dancing).  

At sixteen, I sat in a pew toward the front, attending a best friend’s funeral. I remember seeing words printed on linen paper opposite a photo of him flashing that familiar wide smile. It was the first time I’d laid eyes on these verses.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:

For Thou art with me:  Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:  

Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:  

And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

(Psalm 23, KJV)

At 18, this naive, boy-crazy, people-pleasing girl left her hometown to move into a high-rise dorm at Oklahoma State University.  I joined a sorority, then realized it was not for me. I struggled through the first year of all the new, and being untethered from parental rules of home. A freedom I relished but wasn’t ready for, and which made for some poor choices. Church, though, continued to be a part of my life. Somehow, I continued being drawn to it— and drawn to the pages of Scripture. I’m not sure I recognized then that it was Him doing the drawing.  I still struggled so much with longing for human love and approval. I for sure needed a shepherd.

One evening during my twenty-first year, I stood beside peaceful waters of Boomer Lake and tearfully talked with Jesus. “I’m not managing myself well,” I told Him. I admitted I felt there was something more to life and that I wanted the “something more.”   I wouldn’t change all my ways right then. Most certainly did not understand the cost of following.  And I’m still so much of a work in progress. But that day marked a turning point for me. My want-to changed, along with my why.  I found a new shepherd.  A true Shepherd. 

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

He leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul:

He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. (v. 1-3)

At twenty two, I walked arm-in-arm with Daddy down the aisle of that same hometown sanctuary, and back up again as Mrs. A few years later, I stepped down into the warm baptismal waters at the front of a small Missouri church.

Life coasted for a while. Five kids were born over a span of ten years. I worked as a nurse, and then a stay-at-home mom corralling children and enjoying the things we moms do. Though exhausting at times, I sure loved parenting littles. There were rumblings of marital struggle but we pressed on. In the meantime, God began growing me up under the teachings of women such as Beth Moore and Kay Arthur.  

In 2003, after much prayer and preparation, our family moved to East Asia for ministry work. Over the next seven years, rumblings grew louder.  Winds blew and torrential rains came with such force threatening to topple our marriage, threatening to topple me, topple my faith.  It was a season of crying out to Him like never before. A season of anguish and grieving. A season that sent me diving deeper into His word.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:

For Thou art with me:  Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. (v.4)

For our family, the mission field became a minefield. I have a hunch we weren’t (and still aren’t) alone in that. The enemy prowls, seeking to steal, kill, and destroy.  He succeeded in fracturing a marriage. Seven years after I’d stepped on foreign soil, I returned to my homeland broken, fighting shame, unraveled. I crawled through early days of what seemed an eternity of grief. Slowly, through the prayers and encouragement of so many saints, with a strength that comes only from Him,  I was able to stand, and walk forward. Strangely, in all the wrestling, in the grieving, in the falling apart of my marriage, and what also felt like the falling apart of me, I got to know this Jesus—this Author and Perfecter of my faith—on a whole new level.  I realized where I’d failed in putting Him first. I learned that in the loss of life’s most precious relationships, He is enough.  In losing human love, I found my First Love. 

More valleys would later cross my path. I visited the Methodist church once again for Daddy’s memorial service. With prayers and tears, I’ve watched my children navigate their own heartbreaking storms. I’ve witnessed some really beautiful moments with them too. They’re the most resilient individuals I’ve ever known. 

All along the way, my God has drawn near, and nearer, to me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:  

Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. (v. 5)

In 2015 my good friend introduced me to a gentleman. At our first coffee date we realized, (among some other crazy non-coincidentals!) we’d attended the same junior high and high school (in the same grade!) back in our small hometown.  I was given a second chance at marriage, with this God-send of a man who is perhaps the kindest, most supportive person I’ve ever known—generous in so many ways. We laugh, and sometimes we shed tears. We’ve had seasons of sailing smooth waters, and we’ve traveled some bumpy roads. We have so much fun together.  And there is Jesus, our God With Us, through it all.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life;

and I will dwell in the house of the house of the LORD forever. (v. 6)

Oh Lord, as You continue adding pages to my story, please help me to keep You front and center. Through fire and flood, You’ve sustained me. More trials are sure to come, for You have indeed, promised suffering.  But a glorious day is coming. Hallelujah!