I was raised in a small town where there was a lot of camaraderie. Parents watched out for each other’s children, and stay-at-home moms chatted over coffee. Safety was not something questioned as it is today. Most of us were churched; that is, the church building comprised most of our social activities and education. Besides chores my six siblings and I were required to do on the three-acre homestead, we cared for a vegetable farm several miles out of town.

New interests consumed more of my time when I entered public high school: meeting new friends, participating in the choir, being asked to four proms and being voted homecoming princess, acting in junior and senior plays, and becoming a majorette. We enjoyed the sock hops in nearby towns.

My father was a coal miner, but somewhat of a weekend alcoholic. We fearfully respected his authority when he was around. His bark was far greater than his bite. Mother kept busy canning vegetables, washing laundry for the clothesline, and cleaning house religiously. She kept up with our homework and PTA events.

My parents argued incessantly, which discouraged me from staying home. I resorted to riding my pony up into the hills, exploring, and bicycling. My parents separated after 25 years, 7 children, and a tumultuous marriage. I found secretarial and accounting jobs that helped afford an apartment above the bowling alley.

On weekends, I would unwind at several night clubs. I met a group of folks that called themselves hippies. This type of lifestyle appealed to me because it was different, to say the least. There seemed to be freedom of conscience, making choices with little fear of consequences or the opinion of others. On certain holidays, I might visit family, but this group thought Woodstock was their holiday.

It wasn’t long before I withdrew from family altogether. Seeing my school friends and sledding with the neighborhood kids didn’t seem interesting any longer. I sought out books, movies, and literature that fascinated me about the human psyche. I read Psychology Today, but I became especially engrossed in the poetry of Khalil Gibran.

We frequented seances and levitations; some of us played the Ouija board. While smoking marijuana, we listened to loud music that numbed our conscience and senses. We liked the thrill of speed as well as the drug. I traded in my Volkswagen for a motorcycle.

One night, I couldn’t sleep, so I drove out to a club to meet friends. Discovering my tank empty, rage and despair set in, but I knew expletives would not resolve anything. While resting on an old wine barrel, I decided that getting high might comfort me. I noticed a large car approaching me with bright headlights. A stranger rolled down his window to ask my name.

There was a black book on his seat. It looked like a Bible, but I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t seen an actual Bible before. He offered to help and looked concerned. While loading my bike from my car into his trunk, he asked if I knew Jesus. Just a weird Jesus freak floating around, I thought. I assured him that I was raised in a religion that turned me off to God as well as those associated with it. If he was insisting on this subject while in my company, then I wanted out of the car; but he kept preaching.

He said, “You need Jesus, Sandy.” I replied, “What for?” He explained how his life had changed recently due to trusting in Jesus. He claimed he had been on drugs for 10 years but Jesus had saved him. I had never heard the term saved before. I tried to pretend I wasn’t listening or interested in what he was saying. My idea of Jesus was a weakling dominated by His mother who shrouded her dead son with a bloody cloth in her arms as He rested in a glass sarcophagus. The statue never did seem lifelike or convincing.

After the 40-minute trip, he rudely invited himself into my place, rambling on about Jesus. I reiterated that I wasn’t interested in being religious, and, even if I was, it was going to be on my terms, in my way, and under my control. He then spewed out, “The devil has control over you right now.” I fumed in anger. “Get out!” But, deep down, I believed him.

A few weeks prior, I had seen The Exorcist. This intrigued and frightened me, but certainly seemed convincing of the reality of a devil. I reasoned, if there is a devil, then there must be a God. The guy explained to me that not only is there a God, but that He is personally interested in me. He opened his black book to Saint John and began reading the words of Jesus to Nicodemus and the woman at the well. Understanding Jesus’ personal touch to these two individuals shocked me. The gentle approach as He revealed His knowledge of the woman’s past convicted me of my life, but without feeling condemned or frightened. Without chiding, Jesus reminded Nicodemus that he was a learned Pharisee who should be familiar with the Torah and the term “born again.” Both individuals revealed the heart of God to me. I saw Him relentlessly pursuing them to forgiveness and restoration.

I read the verse, “If Christ sets you free, you are free indeed” (John 8:36). The guy continued to talk about his conversion, visiting daily for several weeks. He explained that Christ could set me free also. But free from what? I had so many questions about why Jesus died. For only knowing Christ a couple weeks prior to meeting me, he explained what he could. Within a short time, the gentleman moved away. I began searching for churches that could help answer my questions. A friendly lady invited me to a church called Sovereign Grace Baptist that was holding a four-day conference involving Southern ministers speaking on various aspects of God’s grace.

Something happened to me that week. My desire for truth became insatiable. I walked in a nearby forest and, for the first time, noticed the birds singing. I attentively touched the texture of a leaf, noting, “My Father made this.” At night, I sat on the rooftop of the downstairs apartment listening to my Tennessee Ernie Ford album. It was heaven compared to the Zeppelin, Joplin, and many crazy demonic records I trashed days before.

I announced to my parents that I was getting baptized in a creek nearby. The congregation sang “Amazing Grace.” Shockingly, as I rose from the water, there was my dad and one of my brothers standing on the bank. Dad swaddled me in an army blanket. He feared for my health as I had a childhood kidney disease that lay dormant for years. He insisted I hurry up. I was touched. He committed his life to Christ years later.

I began joyfully reading the Bible daily, into the late evening. I began to understand what a wonderful Savior I was becoming acquainted with and tried to share this with my family and hippie friends. I gradually understood why God’s Son, Jesus Christ, lived a perfect life, voluntarily suffered on the cross, then rose from the dead. He sent His Holy Spirit to live in me.

Over time and with much study, I understood that He adopted me as His child. A verse jumped off the page, “You have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you that you should go and bring forth fruit” (John 15:16). This verse proved that I have an eternal purpose and a meaningful direction for my life.

The thought of being adopted into His kingdom by His own choice before the foundation of the world became such a powerful reality that it brought me to my knees. I began to pray the Our Father, the only prayer I knew by heart. Through my tears I cried out, “Our Father, O God, You really are my Father. Would You please forgive me for all the sins that I have committed against You and against myself? Save me from myself.” I slumped to the floor, realizing the enormity of my sins. I continued sobbing yet sensed I was not alone. I felt an overwhelming emptying of my soul as I tried to finish the prayer. I knew warmth and comfort beyond expression. “This is the Lord.” I kept audibly repeating, “This is the Lord.”

I read books by C. H. Spurgeon, A. W. Pink, and commentaries. The most amazing books I happened to find were at an antique store being used as props to impress an antique dealer looking for a lovely old dresser. There sat two volumes of John Calvin’s Institutes. I also found an interesting book at a yard sale called Chosen by God by R. C. Sproul. It was not long after reading this that I decided to move to New Jersey and be under Dr. Sproul’s teaching. Ligonier and the Alliance of Confessing Evangelicals held yearly conferences I attended. I engaged in Ligonier’s teaching courses and events. I enrolled in Bible college and took courses in Israel. Christ became my quest.

One of my daughters became interested in Geneva College in 2000. It became clear to me that covenant theology is logical and thoroughly biblical. I moved again to be under this teaching 12 years ago. I became more convinced of infant baptism as I studied the Old Testament and watched the covenant play out in the families’ lives in my church.

The Lord’s grace in my life glorifies Him, not to bring attention to myself. Of course, there are unmentioned details and trials, and there is stumbling along the journey, but Christ redeems all and remains faithful.