I wasn’t
addicted to drugs or alcohol, or in trouble with the law or anything
like that. Those certainly would be scary places to find
oneself. And many
times, when someone gets into
that kind of trouble, their desperation leads them to search for some
meaning in their life. That’s how a lot of people find God. He
hears their cry and steps in to rescue them. I love stories like
that. But that’s not my
story.
Because before that early July morning, as far as I was concerned,
everything was just fine. I didn’t have a hunger for God. I
was satisfied with things just the way they were. Being raised in
a
church-going family, I knew about Jesus, that He died on a cross, but I
never made
any connection between that event and my life. To me, He was just
some holy Guy, who just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong
time. And that was about it.
I liked my life. I had carefully designed it in such a way, that
if I wanted something, I’d find a way to get it. And almost
always, it was what any good Christian person would think of as
sin. But my thinking was “Hey, who doesn’t sin? I mean
c’mon. We’re only human.”
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