Lesson One: Out of Egypt

 I probably first heard about Jesus from my mother.  I have vague memories from when I was real small of these people who used to come to see her at our house for bible study.   When I was a little older, a friend of my mother's took us to a local Baptist church, where Mom, my sister, and I attended up to about the time I was twelve.  I'm not sure how long we had been going there, but the next thing I can remember after Mom's friend first took us to church with her is when Mom was baptized, I still remember the dress she had on (It was pink) and that she had her hair cut short and curly back then.    

When I was about eight, one day in Children's church, the church leader asked if anyone had any questions. Apparently, I did, because I rose my hand, and they took me in a back room and we had a nice talk.   I think I was trying to understand what they had been teaching us that day. From the start I was thirsty for truth and sought understanding eagerly, which was first evidenced as a child of three or four badgering her parents about when she could learn to read.   

Anyways, I said the sinner's prayer and got to go to the big church and scare Mom; she thought I was in trouble.  All the grown-ups kept smiling and hugging me and shaking my hand.  I was baptized on Easter.  There was a breakfast before hand, at which I vomited on my aunt's shoes.   

Things went well  until I graduated from Children's Church, probably when I was eleven.  For the next year I struggled with going to church before stopping altogether.  The last straw had been the youth group, which was my new class; I felt horribly out of place.  My sister and I did the Christmas play, and then stopped going.    

 School had always been hard for me.  So, middle school wasn't that horrible in comparison. My grades shot up; so did my self-esteem, even if my social life was still nearly nonexistent. Before the only place I had felt okay about myself was at church. At that time of my life, spiritually, I was basically slowly starving to death. I knew plenty (or thought I did) about Christ, but our actual relationship had fallen to the lowly bedtime prayers. I think I said the exact same prayer every night for like five years.  My soul was desperately reaching out for Something, not finding it, and sinking into despair. I hungered and thirsted for His Righteousness, which was a nameless something more at the time, and not finding any bread at the house of bread, I went away sad, to fend for myself in the wilderness.