Conforming to my family tradition, I said nothing about my experience at the foothills prayer group. Not even my aunt knew I had had such an encounter. However, back in San Francisco I found a church I wanted to attend. If that indescribable event took place under the auspices of one, then maybe I would find the same thing in a church close to home. I chose the church for all the wrong reasons. It had been designed by a famous architect and therefore was quite handsome, and it had a children’s choir for which the children wore adorable robes and my children could be a part of it. However, just like there is a Master Plan, there is also a Master who cuts to the chase and meets me where I am no matter what plans I’ve made.
Every Sunday I walked my children to church, put them in the choir, and then entered the sanctuary. The minute I walked through the door I started crying, without knowing why, and I hid in a darkened corner where no one else sat and no one could see my tears. I cried through the whole service and never went forward to take communion until one Sunday which must have been written in my book in heaven.
During my depression, some friends from St. Louis called. We’d known them from our first apartment building in San Francisco before they moved back home. Pam asked if they could come for a visit, re-new old times and re-visit San Francisco. I warned her I was depressed. She wanted answers, but I dodged her questions, and she concluded, “Marty, you need something for yourself. We’ve got just the thing. Invite some of your friends over and let us show everybody this exciting stuff.” I hadn’t entertained in years, and when I invited about six or eight of my closest friends, they thought I must have revived. They came expecting a good time.
Pam and Scott brought four suitcases. I thought that a lot, but then people travel in different ways. We spent the week like slap-happy tourists, even renting roller skates, dashing around the wharves. Then Friday night arrived, and out came the suitcases. Their ‘exciting stuff’ was a multi-level marketing plan! My friends were not impressed. No one signed up; no one bought. Pam whined, “We brought $150 worth of samples out here.” So I bought the samples and signed up. After all, depression has no sense of discernment.
Writing has been in my blood, so to speak, but when I surren-dered my life to Jesus Christ and He told me to write, all my trepidations rolled away and I began in earnest! After all, if God Almighty says it was His idea that I be a writer, who am I to stand in His way? My hope is that you not only like what I write, but that your life is moved by it, and that your party to Jesus and with Jesus turns your life into days of Heaven on Earth.