“You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit-fruit that will last-and so that whatever you ask in my name the Father will be given to you” John 15:16 NIV.

I was a daydreaming six-year-old girl who often lazily lounged on her top bunk bed, watching out her window.  Across the fields was a flashing light that had always been a bit of a flirt because, late at night, the handsome light winked at me.  The flashes honed a sense of mystery, and I was curious.  Eventually, I discovered that my love interest had also been seducing airplanes.  My love was merely a fixture at the local airport.  Regardless, all the activity in the distance piqued a natural curiosity for the life that was happening around me.

I grew up in a Catholic church, and the most anticipated moment began after communion.  The Priest would wrap up the service with a few additional readings from Mr. King James and list upcoming dates, such as the spaghetti dinner.  Until this point, my timid soul managed to survive the “peace be with you” do-see-do and the quoting of scripture.  I had to keep my eye on the prize.  The true holy bread, the sole reason to come to church, my only motivation to sit still and behave.  The real manna from heaven waited for me in the foyer, the Sunday church donuts.  Jesus with sprinkles was my kind of religion.

According to my older sister, Melanie, I was an obvious heathen.  My sister was devoted and engaged during mass.  Melanie was confident that I would end up in a purgatory orphanage.  Melanie was friendly and eager to shake every stranger’s germ-infested hands when we were at mass.  I was the opposite; my only concern was that none of those sweaty palms touched my chocolate donuts with pink sprinkles.

Melanie would give me a side-death stare when I would simply walk into the Lord’s house.  She would wash her face with holy water while I strolled by without bothering to make the sign of the cross with my wet fingertips. I did not understand holy water, I assumed it was a last-ditch effort to cleanse the conscience, and I knew my sister needed it more than me.  My six-year-old self often drafted action plans that would irritate my older sister. The ultimate annoyance would be when I purposely declined to kneel before climbing into the hardwood benches.  I enjoyed Melanie’s disapproving stares.  One of my favorite memories of us in church was when she attempted to show off by taking a huge gulp of the wine at communion, she then started to choke.  She ended up guzzling water from the fountain for ten minutes.  I figured it was God’s way of teaching her how to be humble.

At an early age, I was captivated by God and the solar system.  One birthday my aunt bought me a telescope so that I could gaze at the moon.  I wondered how God created the moon and stars and what was holding up the sun? How do the invisible arms of the moon control the ocean? Plus, does God really know the number of hairs on my head? Not a lot made sense at an early age, but all these questions initiated the quest to understand God.  A God who creates, transcends, descends, and ascends.  A God who cares about the small details of life, such as tasteless pink sprinkles.

My six-year-old mind swirled, God was so interesting yet mass made me sleepy.  Questions surfed in my young brain waves.  How could we honestly love our enemies? My six-year-old self was convinced that Jesus could only forgive his enemies because he did not have an older sister.

Today, I worship at a non-denominational church where the music is too loud, and the two choices of holy water are regular or decaf.  With age, my journey to God has grown and evolved.  It often feels as though the years only add complexity to the journey to Christ.

Often adult decisions unintentionally invite unwanted guests to life’s party.  The uninvited guests drive a minivan and have names like Debt and Responsibilities, unfortunately for me, Regret enjoys riding shotgun.  The uninvited guests bring suitcases crammed with opinions and unsolicited suggestions. In those chaotic moments, I wish I could crawl back on the top bunk and flirt with the winking light – a time when days were simply simple.

My God story has played out and continues in a variety of ways.  I asked myself, “Am I chasing Jesus, or is Jesus chasing me?”  I tend to over-complicate life, tripping over my own mental shoelaces as I jog to the cross, breathing heavily because I am spiritually out of shape.  I often forget to use scripture as a spiritual GPS; I rely on my own knowledge, however, regardless of the what if and why, I deeply appreciate that God’s existence does not depend on mine.  His truth is as functional as the sun, and His ridiculous love is as mysterious as a black hole.  A friend once told me that God’s truth is non-negotiable, the only inconsistency in life is our own feeble attitudes.  I am the one who bends, breaks, and compromises, I am the unreliable one.  God’s truth stands tall even when I fall short.

I chase God so that I can slowly unravel myself in hopes of finding more of Him.  I do not want to treat Salvation like a birthday card sent by God.  A sweet heavenly gesture only to be tossed in a pile of keepsakes after cramming my blessings in my pockets.

The best part in all this is that I have my journey with Him, but now I know He is more than donuts in the foyer.