I began the great adventure of following Jesus when I was 37 years old, in lieu of a “nervous breakdown”. I’m not quite sure what differentiates a nervous breakdown and a six month long panic attack, but since I’ve long hated the five minute panic attack, I tried everything I knew how to avoid the six month long variety. It wasn’t an actual choice on my part; I’m sure the thought that today I will begin following Jesus and he will completely rock my world never occurred to me.
Instead in the midst of my anguish trying to navigate this hard/wonderful/ridiculous/magical/tragic life of mine (and I imagine most of you who might read this probably can relate), I called out to the One who cared. And immediately, supernaturally he pulled me out of the pit. Oh, I would try on occasion to leap back in, but again supernaturally he won’t really let me. He will let me get to the precipice, yet avoid the abyss jump. I usually learn something incredibly hard yet wonderfully cool at the edge, but I don’t really like heights much. In fact, not at all.
My husband didn’t join me in “walking it out” until 8 years after my encounter with Jesus. It wasn’t easy but the Lord assured me early on that it absolutely wasn’t my job to try and “save” him. The husband didn’t care to go to church and rightfully so, because why? And I didn’t want a pew sitter partner who thought they got it but really was in I’m supposed to do this mode. I’d been in that mode for the first 37 years of my life and frankly, I wasn’t believing the talk or living the walk. I was guilted by my way too strong interpretation of right and wrong. Plus I sure as hell didn’t want to go to hell, I can’t take the heat.
But one particular Sunday the old man came with me. It may have had something to do with the kids getting baptized that day and me telling him he had to go. Haha. This all was so yesterday that it amuses me now. Anyway when it was time for communion of course I went forward and the husband stayed in the pew. At the church I attended we knelt at the altar and the communion giver outers walked in front of us and handed us bread and we had the option of dunking our bread in an intincture cup or drinking honest to goodness real wine from a goblet. Of course, being as spiritual as I was and continue to be, I opted for the goblet for two reasons. First, it contained real wine and that just seemed more like what Jesus would do. (Except if you shouldn’t, so please don’t let me tell you to be more spiritual you need to drink the real wine if you know you shouldn’t. Really. Awesome respect for your decisions. ) Second, I was trying to show faith that I wouldn’t get sick from the shared communion vessel, as my family has long had a history of health anxiety.
Have I set the scene? Me, kneeling at the altar ready to drink wine from the communion cup and my agnostic husband sitting back twelve rows in my seat that he had never occupied prior to this day.
What happened next was a miracle, and like most miracles kind of a messy one. The communion goblet holder tipped the wine towards my mouth and kept on tipping. Copious amounts of communion wine poured into my mouth, down my chin, down whatever cute church outfit I had picked out for kids’ baptism day and splashed onto the floor. The sweet lady who tipped too eagerly was all apologies. Through the laughter and tears I audibly heard the Lord say “I see you. I see your husband up there. I love him. But I think you needed an extra measure of my mercy and grace today and I know you like good wine. And I’m the one who turns water to wine. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’ve got this and I’ve got your husband and I’ve got your kids.
And you, my child, are my delight. ”
Just a little story about love, laughter and good wine.