I was called Becky for my first 25 years; then I changed to Rebecca when I chose as an adult to entrust myself to Jesus. My mom promptly grasped the name change: “It’s like Saul to Paul!” Which was so very true.

I grew up in the Methodist church. My mother loved Jesus deeply and taught a Sunday School class of young married couples for 25 years. My dad enjoyed singing in the choir, and I wasn’t sure about his faith or relationship to God. I myself couldn’t wait until I got to college so I could blow off going to church – it all seemed stodgy, irrelevant, boring. At college, I promptly followed through on that plan and only went to church when I was home visiting my folks.

The Sixties didn’t come to Oklahoma until the early Seventies, when I was at Oklahoma State, and I plunged into pretty much all that the 60s/70s had to offer, so to speak. I would have run the other way if a Campus Crusade for Christ person had hit me up – none of that God stuff for me, thank you very much.

My mom was amazingly, impressively low key with me. One time she quietly observed, “Honey, you’re growing intellectually and emotionally and physically, but what about spiritually?” “Oh, Mom!” I tried to weasel out of that conversation. She just left it at that, and in fact for the last four years of the seven that I was pretty wild, Mom didn’t even mention the name of Jesus to me – an absolutely appropriate approach for me at that time. When I was a junior in college I announced that I was going to Colorado for spring break with my boyfriend and another couple. Mom said she couldn’t stop me from going but she wanted me to know that she’d be praying for me every day. “Oh, Mom!” I rolled my eyes again. I went and had a pretty good time, but I knew beyond a doubt that Mom was indeed home praying for me. Mostly I was irritated by it but also sort of liked it, VERY deep down inside, secretly.

I tried to read some eastern religion kind of book once, because my spirit was wanting something more, but I sure knew it wasn’t “church.” From time to time I actually felt like God was tugging at my sleeve, calling “Becky! Becky!” I’d brush him away, saying, “Not now, Lord!” Then I’d go on my merry way. I did Transcendental Meditation for a while and talked it up big with Mom – she mildly asked, “I sit in my chair in there and quietly pray. How’s this different?” “Oh Mom, TM is much cooler than just praying!” My sleeve was tugged again; again I brushed it away.

A while later I started taking yoga – for the stretching and flexibility (eventually I could do headstands, which astonished formerly ungainly me). First there was the exercise part, followed by the meditation part. I noticed that some older ladies always left before the meditations, and I thought they were missing the best part. The teacher suggested various mantras we might try at home, repeating the word or phrase to focus on during meditation, leaving all other thought behind.

I started meditating on my own, following a few of the teacher’s mantra suggestions. The first one I used spoke about the light coming into me and light going out of me. It was in ancient Sanskrit language, the teacher had said, which made it very cool to me. After a while I changed to another mantra, also in Sanskrit so also mysterious and cool. The second mantra translated “Hail God, holy God, hail, hail God.” Since it was in Sanskrit, who knows what/who the entity whose name I was repeating, but to me in my heart of hearts, the One to whom I was speaking was the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Louise Crow. The Holy Spirit was drawing me in a way that didn’t use the “J” word – Jesus – which would have really put me off. But I was at long last responding to the pursuit.

A bit later the teacher mentioned that there were also Christian mantras, like the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner” and I actually changed to that! The teacher also mentioned a book called The Way of a Pilgrim about a Russian pilgrim who was taking literally St. Paul’s injunction to “pray without ceasing”. This pilgrim, who lived in the 1800s (I believe) would pray the Jesus prayer thousands of times each day. It was hard work for me to read that whole book but I wrestled through it. I told Mom about my reading endeavor, and you can imagine how she rushed out to read it too, to see what this prodigal daughter was taking in. Much later we agreed that it was a pretty dry read, although John Kiemele tells me that he loves it!

A couple of other folks in my yoga class were on a similar journey and we went to a church together, sitting on the back row so we could cut and run if it got too noxious, but we came back again and again. I started reading a book by Catherine Marshall called “Beyond Ourselves” – Mom had given it to me maybe three years before and I’d carried it with my stuff in move after move with no interest in reading it until that particular point in time. My Christmas list that year included “either a Joy of Cooking cookbook or a Bible”. Once again, Mom played it low-key and gave me the cookbook! Just imagine how she felt later that day when I told her that I was a little disappointed that the book-shaped package hadn’t been a Bible. She marched right down to her bedroom, pulled a Bible off her own bookshelf, and gave it to me.

I was reading Catherine Marshall, who said she was actually a preacher’s wife before she discovered that that wasn’t enough, that she needed to personally make the move and “give her life to Christ”, as she called it. Maybe I’d been told that before, but this time it was new, fresh, and real to me. I was struggling with that – it was as though there were a huge chasm ahead of me and I wanted a road map to know just what it’d be like, before leaping that chasm and committing to Jesus. It was foreign, uncharted territory over there. Scary! Finally I gave up wanting that road map because I wanted a relationship with Jesus – not just God, but Jesus – more than the security of knowing what was ahead.

I was rushing off to go to a movie and stopped at the top stair landing in my funny apartment house. I said, “Okay Jesus, I give you my life. I don’t know what that means, but I give it to you.” I’m so visually oriented that my memories of that night always involve an image of the rose print wallpaper on the walls and ceiling of that little stairway! Catherine Marshall said to make note of the date so I did. It was January 7, 1977. I was 27-1/2 years old, starting off into new life.

That’s the end of that particular story, but luckily for me, God has never quit tugging on my sleeve and pursuing me. Over the past 27 years, I’ve needed pursuing! Sometimes I’ve just turned away – there was even a year or so when I said to God, “I don’t want to talk to you now but don’t you leave me!” (What nerve I had!) He didn’t leave. There have been times of pain, grief, or joy when I’ve been really close. There have been times when I’ve just been a lazy lump, and God’s pursued me out of those times too. I’ve had many doubts, and in fact doubt and faith often coexist in me.

God is very faithful. He can be sneaky – he certainly sneaked up on me in just the right way. I’m so glad that he pursued me, and that he continues to pursue me still.

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