I remember the broken stories the most. The stories of addiction, abuse, or good kids gone bad, but then, Hallelujah! Salvation and redemption from the worst fate. When people told their conversion stories from the baptismal or the pulpit, these were the stories that stuck. Meat clung to their bones, and you could feast on them for days, chewing on and thinking over the ways our God heals and delivers. These are the stories of my childhood in the church, the ones I cut my teeth on and learned to value above all others.
My own story doesn’t have the flash or the dramatic appeal of these broken ones. It’s the story of a slow burn, how God scooped me up as a child fresh from my mother’s womb and how He carried me every day since. In my story, there is no conversion experience or years of running or dark night of the soul…
To read the rest of the post, join me at Circles of Faith, where they are featuring faith stories for the entire month of February. Perhaps you might take the opportunity to share yours?
