When the preacher began, I was, as usual, a little bored. I began to kick my feet against the back of the next pew. Mother grabbed my arm and leaned toward my ear. "Joey, sit up and listen to the preacher or you'll get it when we get home," she said in a shouting whisper.
I knew what that meant, so I tried to pay attention. The preacher was telling the story of Jesus. He preached about the love of God, and how Jesus had died on the cross to save sinners. He proclaimed that anyone could come to know Jesus as a friend. For some reason, my heart began to ache to know Jesus.
When the invitational hymn began, our preacher kept repeating above the singing, "Come to Jesus. All you have to do is come to Jesus." I wanted desperately to go to Jesus. I had never asked Him to save me.
I started to go, but another voice within me held me back. The voice growled, "You don't have to do it tonight. Wait until another time. You'll embarrass yourself. What will your friends think?" I hurt inside. I wavered. Two verses had been sung, and the preacher usually closed the invitation after three.
The third verse started. I began to sweat as I leaned hard on the next pew. I wanted to shut out the voice holding me back completely, so I firmly decided and it was gone. I wanted to go to Jesus because I had come to believe that He had died on the cross to save me. I desired to know Him as my friend. I stepped boldly into the aisle to go forward. I had resolved to tell the congregation that I now believed in Jesus.
On the second step, I felt as though I had taken in a huge gulp of air, but I wasn't breathing that hard. Then I realized what had happened. This was God. I had been born of the Spirit. Jesus had saved me.
The next day while playing with a group of boys, my cousin Dan showed up. We all admired him for his good looks and leadership ability, so we all silently paused and stared st him.
Dan said, "Joey, I heard that you got saved last night. Is anything different?"
For the first time in my life, I looked deeply into my own heart. I examined it closely and then I knew. "Yes," I said eagerly. "I am different and I'll never be the same."
Later, after play was over, I thought more deeply about the condition of my heart and the changes I should allow God to make in my life. Since I now desired to be like Jesus, I knew I must learn to love even my enemies as He had taught us. I thought about my arch enemy Jimmy Hopper, who for a long time had delighted in tormenting my sister and me. How could I learn to love him? I despised him. I decided that, at least, I had to pray and make the effort.
The following day I ambled toward Hopper's house, hoping he would not be home. I cut across an empty lot because a high row of hedges across the street from Hopper's house would hide my coming. I had just reached the bushes when I heard the loud voice of Hopper's father in their front yard. I paused and peeked through the thick bushes.
Hopper's red-faced father was gesturing wildly. He yelled, "Get off the ground and fight, you little coward! I'm gonna make a man of you yet."
Jimmy Hopper lay on his back sniffling and moaning; his boxing gloves stained with blood from his nose. His older brother hovered over him, grinning and pounding his gloves together. "What's the matter, Jimmy?" his brother taunted. "Can't take it, huh."
"Please Dad," Jimmy pleaded. "Don't make me fight anymore."
"Get up or I'll kick you," his father screamed.
At that moment, Jimmy's mother hurried out the front door. She wore a frilly dress and her makeup painted perfectly. She was surprisingly pretty to be married to Mr. Hopper, marred with a pocky face and with many tattoos
on his wiry frame.
"Jerry, you promised to drive me to the beauty parlor this afternoon and I'm running late," she gushed.
"Well, you wouldn't be late if you hadn't taken so long gettin' dressed," Mr. Hopper retorted.
Jimmy reached toward her from the ground. "Mom?" he whined.
His mother yanked a hand mirror from her pocketbook and closely examined her face. "Get the car cranked. I've got to go," she demanded. She rushed to their beat-up old car, got in and slammed the door. Jerry Hopper squealed the tires as he sped away from the curb.
Remembering this ugly scene had caused me to mope around the house for the rest of the day. Noticing this, my mother gave nickels to my sister Sarah and me and sent us to the small corner grocery to get each of us a Coke.
While sitting out on the curb enjoying our Cokes, I happened to look toward our community baseball field which lay a little distance down a leaf-strewn road beyond a small concrete bridge over a rocky creek.
There I observed Jimmy Hopper sitting on a sagging bench with his head in his hands, staring at the ground.
Because of his constant ill will towards me, I felt a little leery about trying to talk with him. Yet, I thought maybe I could say something that would cheer him a little.
I moved over to the ball field and quietly eased onto the other end of the rough, wooden bench. A mixture of tears and dirt smeared Hopper's face. Struggling to overcome my nervousness, I whispered, "Jimmy?"
Jimmy's head snapped up and his right hand instinctively balled into a tight fist. "What do you want, fat boy; another pounding from my fists?" he barked.
Impulsively, I threw up both hands, palms out. assuming a defensive position. "Whoa, Jimmy," I blurted in a quaking voice. "Listen a minute. If we start fighting we're gonna get dirty and sweaty and tear our clothes. Our mothers will yell at us, and my mother will send me to my room for a hundred years. Besides, it's too hot for getting sweaty and exhausted. So, let's just talk for a minute, okay?"
Jimmy shook his fist at me. "What have we got to talk about,huh?"
"Maybe the theory of relativity?" I suggested.
Hopper slightly smiled but immediately hardened his face again. "Say what you gotta say and get lost." He waved the back of his left hand toward me as if pushing me away.
"All I want to say is that a lot of boys and girls go to our community Sunday School. Our teacher tells us a lot of great stories from the Bible such as one about a boy named David who fought a giant. In a few days it'll be Sunday and I thought you might like to come and hear some of those stories." I swallowed hard, trying to get some moisture into my mouth.
Hopper took on a strained but amused look. "Sunday School! Ha! Only momas' boys like you go to Sunday School."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Okay, I just thought you might like to hear some great stories," I answered weakly. I retreated to the store where Sarah waited.
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear but hot and muggy. Half of the simple, working people of our cozy community answered the familiar clang of the steeple bell over our white-frame Baptist church at the top of a small hill at the north end of our neighborhood. Walking from many little frame or brick homes, the men sported cheap suits and snap-brim hats, and the women pranced in plain dresses but fancy hats. Children skipped and laughed along the way.
Because I was late, I bounded into my classroom out of breath. I flopped into a cane-bottom chair on the front row barely noticing anyone.
Our teacher, Mr. Compson, a bald and bespectacled old gentleman, laid his enormous Bible on the dias and deeply cleared his throat which meant: Be quiet, I am ready to begin.
Mr. Compson boomed, "Before we begin, I would like to recognize a visitor to our class. You all make him feel welcome. Stand up, son. What's your name?"
Sheepishly, Jimmy Hopper stood up on the back row. "My name is Jimmy Hopper," he said in a barely audible voice.
My mouth dropped open and I nearly turned my chair over.
"We're glad to have you, son, " Mr. Compson said cheerfully. "All of you boys shake his hand." We gathered around Jimmy and shook his hand, but he barely glanced at me.
Mr. Compson opened his Bible and peered over his glasses. "Our lesson this morning will be a story based on Psalms 27:10 which reads: 'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.'
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