Sunny Pathway

Friday, July 24, 2009

My Personal Pentecost

After I received Jesus and His sacrifice for my sin, I realized salvation was a big topic. Among other things, I learned about Gifts of the Spirit. Information wasn’t plentiful in 1967 and '68 and the focus was tongues, but I researched the subject and concluded it was valid. I visited a small Pentecostal church because I was drawn to the worship and teaching. However, I wasn’t interested in personal involvement because I was insecure and afraid of becoming socially backward.

Meanwhile, I prayed about anything and everything—including my inability to keep a clean house. We had three children at the time, Borgi in first grade, Ted in kindergarten, and Joe at home. But the problem was bigger than the children—I didn’t think right. I either yelled at the kids when they made a mess—or gave up and we lived in chaos.

After almost a year in a rental in Phoenix, we purchased a house situatated between the homes of two women who seemed like the world’s best homemakers. One a North Dakota farm gal—the other of Mexican-Indian descent. Beautiful women, but I felt intimidated.

Because both reached out to me as neighbors, I decided to invite them to a morning coffee on the first day of school after Christmas vacation—so we’d have fewer children underfoot. I planned, invited, and worried. Finally, on the big morning, I saw Borgi on her way to school, took Ted to kindergarden, and sent Joe into the back yard while I finished getting ready.

When all was in order, I went to the bedroom to change clothes. Meanwhile, Joe, a normal four-year-old, decided he wanted Cheerios. Entering my spotless kitchen, he tried to pour them into a bowl from the box—and little “o’s” spilled over the side, rolling into every corner of the kitchen.

Maintaining my composure, I began cleaning them up. As I bent over to reach under the refrigerator, the left sleeve of my dress gave—not a rip in fabric but a rip in the seam. I ran into the bedroom to change and could find nothing else. I returned to the kitchen to the smell of burning cookie-bars. When the doorbell rang, I stood with dress torn, Cheerios on the floor, and burned bars in my hand.

I don’t remember the next hour. I know I made coffee and served store-bought cookies—and didn’t say much. When they left, I picked up Ted and served lunch to my boys before hiding myself in the bedroom to cry. I was stiffling sobs when a friend called to tell me about special meetings where people were receiving their prayer language. Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow morning? Maybe you could pick me up after dropping Ted off?

If my planned event had gone well, I’d probably have said no. But I was desperate—not necessarily for God—but for relief from failure. And if God could help, I was open—even if it meant praying in tongues and being socially isolated.

We arrived during a short worship time. I looked around and saw a young woman about my age wearing a housedress with stockings (seams were still in style) and tennis shoes. Her hair was—well, it might be in style today. No makeup.

A mob converged on this reserved Norwegian Lutheran when I went forward, all praying loudly. Then the guest-preacher, a mild man, laid a hand on my head, quietly prayed, and told me I simply had to open my mouth to speak. Peace came and I closed my eyes. At one point I heard him say, Let her go. I had an idea. I’d heard people sing in tongues and it was beautiful, so I asked—in English—if I could sing. He said, Of course.—and I began singing in tongues.

I’ve sung quite a bit for my own pleasure and before groups, but that day my voice truly soared in the presence of angels.

Suddenly, I remembered Ted. Opening my eyes, I realized I lay prone on the floor. Really. I learned later I had been slain in the Spirit. I’d never heard about it then, but it did not seem strange. I sat up, asked someone what time it was, told them I had to leave immediately, excused my friend and myself, collected Joe from a nursery, and we left. Ted was waiting, but he didn’t seem concerned.

I couldn’t stop praying in tongues that day—either in song or under my breath. The boys and later my daughter laughed and laughed at Mom and her strange Spanish. The next day, however, I couldn’t utter a sound in an unknown tongue.

And yet—I somehow knew it was real and felt it would be wrong to walk away. I decided to try praying in tongues in the shower—so the background noise of running water would muffle the sound—and when I did, a dam broke loose. Since that time I’ve been able to pray in tongues at will. Then and now, I pray in tongues whenever I think of it. Sometimes I’m seeking a specific answer—sometimes I simply want to exercise my gift. After all, Paul said, I would like every one of you to speak in tongues . . . (I Cor. 14:5a NIV)

Of course, he also said, but I would rather have your prophesy. (v. 5b) But that’s another subject. For me, tongues became a gateway.

Of course, some of you will have a few questions.

First, I don’t think I began to dress weirdly andI don't think I adopted a weird hairstyle. But when my immaculate neighbor to the east began giving hints on organization, I listened. And although I never achieved a spotless home, our lives improved as order became the norm.

Did God cause spilled cheerios, a ripped dress, and burned cookie-bars to humble me? No, but He allowed me to struggle on my own and to reach a place of humility where I would receive—both from Him and from a helpful neighbor. But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumph . . . (II Cor. 2:14a RSV)

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