Gazing at Strawberry Shortcake and Thinking About Jesus

I first remember my dad calling me into his at-home office. I recall him saying, “Sarah, do you know that there’s something that I have and your mom has and your sister has, but that you don’t have?” My feisty four year old self immediately set my sights on intercepting the coveted ball in this game of keep-away. My dad went on: “We all have Jesus Christ living in our hearts!” Admittedly, I remember feeling disappointed. But I wanted to hear more. What could it mean for a person to live in someone else’s heart? While my memory wanes on the precise flow of the rest of our conversation, I’m sure that my dad told me of God’s deep love for me, that I was separated from him because of sin (my desires to control my own life as my own god), that God sent his son Jesus to pay the penalty for my sin and that by believing in him I could have a relationship with God. (My parents were, after all, on staff with what was then called Campus Crusade for Christ, so I can be fairly certain that this was the gist of what he shared with me). I learned that while there wouldn’t be a man occupying the physical space of my cardiac organ, I could be assured that Jesus was a real person who had risen from the dead and I could have his presence living with me always by his Spirit. My dad asked if I wanted to pray with him right then to ask Jesus to come into my life. I told him I wanted to think about it.

In the next vignette I’m sitting on my mother’s lap in our living room not too long after the conversation with my dad. It might have been later that day or it may have been within a few days time, I’m not sure. I was in my pajamas and it was near bedtime. My mom asked me gentle questions about what my dad and I had talked about. She let me process and ask questions about some of the finer points of what it would mean to know Jesus. I remember less about the specifics of my conversation with her, but at some point she said, “You know, your sister was just about your age and sitting on my lap just like this when she prayed to ask Jesus into her heart. Do you think that’s something that you would want to do right now?” To truly appreciate my response, you have to understand how desperately I looked up to my big sister and would do almost anything to be just like her. Even so, I told my mom I wanted to think more about it. If my memory is to be trusted, I believe I recall her face betraying a mixture of disappointment and respect.

Some amount of time later, I was lying in the bottom bunk of the bed I shared with my sister. This could have been later that same evening, but I believe more time had passed. The bottom of my sister’s mattress above me had tattered batting that had previously taken on different shapes that in my young imagination looked like scary faces at night. Ever to the rescue, my mom had covered it over with some friendlier material for me to look upon when falling asleep. So on this particular evening, whenever it was, I lay gazing at Strawberry Shortcake and thinking about Jesus. I thought about what it meant for me to be a sinner. I pondered my need for a savior. My four year old mind weighed the consequences of such a decision. I remembered that both of my parents had assured me that I could pray at any time to say yes to Jesus. So I offered up a prayer saying something to the effect of, “ok, Jesus. I want you to come into my heart.” A smile took over my face and I closed my eyes for sleep.

I have no memory of updating my parents about this prayer, but I’m sure that I did, given their ongoing, consistent role in my discipleship -- my Christian growth and understanding that would shape my life. Part of what makes this story so special to me is that when I reflected it to my parents years later, they did not remember this precise progression. I didn’t learn to tell this narrative because they had regaled me with it repeatedly. It was a kindness of the Lord to imprint this memory in my young mind and heart. 

When I was around 6 years old, I took part in a kids’ group at our church called Awana which taught children how to love Jesus through Bible knowledge, encouraging Scripture memory. I remember sitting on the kitchen counter in our next rental house, practicing saying John 3:16 from memory with my parents. We were discussing what it means that those who believe in Jesus “will not perish” if at the same time we know that everyone on earth dies physically. As my parents talked about the idea of hell -- eternal life apart from the loving presence of God -- I gasped and said, “oh man! It’s a good thing I already asked Jesus into my heart so I don’t have to worry about that!” I remember them laughing and remarking that they were glad I had trusted Jesus apart from a fear of hell.

My parents would play a critical role in my spiritual life throughout my childhood. To this day they remain some of my most crucial disciplers. Though I’m sure it’s a fine practice, we didn’t grow up having “family Bible time” around a meal or singing worship songs together. Our nuclear family was always extremely active and integrated with our local church family. As I encountered teachings that confused me or perspectives that challenged me, home was always a safe place to process. There was never a spiritual question that was off-limits; I never encountered the response to “just believe.” I could come with the wildest, or most reasonable, doubts and we would have long and repeated conversations, often involving tears, and usually ending with a book or two to read. It was common practice in our house to discuss the merits of the sermon or the Sunday School lesson we had heard at church. Not in a “and now it’s time to process what we learned, children” way, but as a natural expression of taking our faith seriously, loving the Lord with our minds and hearts. I learned from my parents that thinking critically was a part of being a Christian and that God is not afraid of our doubts nor of our emotions. Trusting Jesus affected my daily experience; it was not just a Sunday commitment. 

Though I started following Jesus at age four, my parents wanted for both my sister and I to wait some time before getting baptized. Because we were raised in a tradition that believes baptism is an obedient response to belief, publicly symbolizing our participation in the death and resurrection of Jesus, they wanted for us to appreciate the significance of the act. We read books and had conversations about what it would mean to be baptized. I think they also wanted to give us time to “bear fruit in keeping with repentance,” to know that we were truly following Jesus and not just performing for their approval. Eventually, when I was eight years old, we were baptized alongside some of our closest friends on Palm Sunday. I don’t know the day when I first trusted Christ, but my parents remember that it was sometime in the spring. So I celebrate my spiritual birthday, my rebirth in Christ, on Palm Sunday in honor of my physical baptism in the season that I surrendered my life to him years before.

But this was just the beginning. I grew as a Christian as I grew as a person. In the years to come I would encounter more of the sin that Jesus had claimed me from in the form of perfectionism, performance, and pride (incidental alliteration!) and learn what it looked like to live from faith that those things could not define me. I would struggle to trust him through bullying, insecurity, doubt, rejection, grief, and singleness. In time I came to appreciate how my story derives from a grander story in my family, my church tradition, and my cultural background. These are stories for another day. Stay tuned.