A Tale of Two Conversions: Rooted


Therefore as you have received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in Him, having been firmly rooted and now being built up in Him and established in your faith, just as you were instructed, and overflowing with gratitude. (Col 2:6-7 NASB)

As the reality of spiritual forces at work in the invisible realms roiled through my once-tranquil mind, I grew more contemplative at work, at home, and everywhere in between. I couldn’t shake the growing sense of uncertainty that my soul did not lie secure in the Father’s bosom. I felt deceived and misled. Why had this truth eluded me for so long? Why did I see things more clearly now than ever before? What do I do next? How can I rectify my grave errors in judgment? How can I change teams? Is it too late? All this spiritual tumult finally came to a head on an ordinary day in mid-January 1995, at the close of a hard shift. It was a day like any other, except it turned out to be unlike any other day I had ever experienced. 

I finished closing up the shop, dismissed my workers for the day, and walked into the office, where Earl was seated quietly, an unusually contemplative expression fixed on his weathered face. I stood by his desk, waiting for him to dismiss me for the evening. But I had a sneaking feeling he wanted to share something with me first. Now, I had long endured his lectures and gospel proclamations throughout the years. By then, I had heard it all, several times over. However, my attitude toward his ramblings had changed since God zapped me with the Ephesians chapter six Scripture. I grudgingly admitted I had come to enjoy hearing him expound on things the Bible had unveiled to Him in his daily readings, or when he had insights into cultural issues from a biblical perspective. 

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A Tale of Two Conversions: Planted


By the time 1993 rolled around, I’d married my high-school sweetheart, had a child, with another on the way, put in two years of college before dropping out, and spent the last year working temp jobs to scrape together a meager living. We lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment, and I drove a rattletrap old Nissan. My wife and I often had a contentious relationship. Two tempestuous tempers did not make for calm seas. My Christian faith at this point, five years removed from my brief churchification, bore no marks on my life. I never read the Bible, prayed, or considered attending church again. I still clung to vague new-age ideals of a doddering god who gently encourages us from afar. God, any god, really, stood far distant from my contemplations. My hedonistic faith system bore predictable fruit. My interests were entirely selfish – a poor disposition to hold in marriage with a growing family. I lazed about in an unmotivated stupor. I had zero self-confidence. I shirked responsibility and lacked ambition. I grew up sheltered and spoiled; I had no idea how to support my family or how to succeed at life in general.

At this point, I worked as a part-time delivery driver at a pizza parlor. I hated it. Customers were frequently rude, the hours were slim, and the tips were meager. I needed a change. My bank account demanded full-time work. I applied to a heretofore unknown-to-me nonprofit business called the Weatherford Opportunity Workshop (WOW). It provided job opportunities for people with developmental disabilities. They did contract work for local businesses and the state. They also operated a recycling department, handling plastic, aluminum, and cardboard. I applied for an opening in recycling. I earned an interview with the department supervisor. I can’t say I had an overall positive initial impression of the man. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, but had a well-worn face. He had a scruffy beard and bow legs. He walked with a noticeable stoop and wore overalls. He had an odd sense of humor and wore every emotion on his sleeve. His vigorous Christian faith stood out as his most distinctive feature, which shone through even in our brief interview. He pointedly asked me if I was a Christian. Momentarily taken aback (wasn’t that a forbidden question to ask job candidates?) I stammered, “W-why y-yes, I am”. I hadn’t thought about that question in years. I remembered back to 1988 and my baptism and acceptance into the church. I felt confident in my answer. The supervisor gave me the once-over and quickly moved on to his next line of questioning. In short, I got the job, only to find out later that I had only ranked third on his hierarchy of candidates. He hired me because, unlike the others, I answered the phone when he called. At the time, I didn’t understand the concept of divine providence, but its effects were about to be fully felt.

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A Tale of Two Conversions: Withered


Note: This post is a direct follow-up to Shallow.

My high school conversion to Christianity established a root system that delved as deep into the soil of my heart as my thoughts and devotion toward God ran: not an inch deep. After my baptism, I became a full member of Trinity Baptist Church in Weatherford, OK. I decided to attend the Sunday morning service regularly. I came unprepared to grow. I didn’t have a Bible of my own, so I showed up to church equally empty-handed and empty-headed. I had no spiritual inclination, so the pastor’s sermons never resonated with me. I didn’t understand them, nor did I exert effort to learn the language of faith. I grew bored quickly. Church service devolved into back-pew gossip sessions with my friend. We whispered back and forth about our weekend exploits and the girls we wanted to date. I tuned out the preacher, the word of God preached, and any spiritual illumination that came with it. The elation I initially felt at having my sins forgiven and my eternal prison sentence revoked had waned. I forced myself to get up every Sunday morning.

My friend pushed my boundaries further, asking me to attend Sunday school before church. I grumbled at the prospect of tumbling out of bed at an even earlier hour, but I obliged him. This is when I started enjoying church, just not in a pious manner. Our small Sunday school class consisted of me, my buddy, and a female teacher who was probably in her mid-thirties at the time. She took her faith seriously, as well as the teaching material she presented to us every week. The only problem with this scenario is that I did not match her level of sincerity. I cringe now as I recall the memories. I turned the entire class into a vehicle for scalding sarcasm and lame jokes. I made light of the teacher and the material with equal contempt. I exasperated her week after week. She lost patience on more than one occasion. Did I feel guilty? Not an iota. I enjoyed watching her religious facade fade as she struggled to maintain her composure and control of the class. Reflecting back now, I’m almost forced to admit the vitriol I poured out on her came from an unholy source in the deep crevices of my withered soul. I had never in my life treated another human being this poorly. I grew up with an extreme sensitivity to other people’s emotions and navigated the best I could to not offend any soul I encountered. I cannot rationally explain my sudden shift in attitude. Why did I disdain her so? In reality, I had no problem with the teacher, but I proved myself unteachable to God’s holy word. It rained brimstone down on my head every time I heard it. My depraved soul craved the safety and comfort found in the shadows hiding behind empty religious rites. It contorted in torment when the pure word of God was preached. My condemned soul desired the disillusionment of self-deception to the truth; I stood naked in the holy gaze of God. I refused the true remedy of faith in Christ. I wanted no part of Him or His people. I expressed this plainly every Sunday morning for perhaps six months or so. The pleasure I gleaned in seeing my Bible teacher squirm slowly dissipated. I could find no other compelling reason to remain in church. I had my fire insurance card, signed and laminated, resting comfortably in my back pocket. I left the church and never came back. I had a life to live, and I decided not to waste a second more sitting on my butt in an old church pew, listening to words that exposed the darkness in my soul.

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A Tale of Two Conversions: Part One


I’m republishing an old series on my conversion to the Christian faith, which I have never finished. I’m currently working on the final few posts. If anyone out there is interested, I’ll post the three existing chapters one by one, then post the new chapters as they are finished. When the complete series is published, I plan to package it into a book, as I did with my series on converting to Calvinism.

A Tale of Two Conversions – Introduction

Triple Bypass Reboot


My father’s side of the family has an inauspicious history of heart disease over the generations, and recently, my part in the story came due. Men in my family tend to die at or before the age of sixty-five from heart attacks or other heart-related issues. I’m only fifty-four, but the family history has long hung over my head like a sword of Damocles. My dad had a heart attack around his mid-fifties, so I felt the clock ticking. In my early forties, I consulted with a cardiologist over consistent heart palpitations (due in no small part to my affinity for energy drinks). I subjected myself to a rigorous stress test and emerged with a clean bill of health. I wiped the sweat off my brow and went my merry way. But the ghosts of family past continued to haunt me.

My primary care physician retired last year, so I visited a new PCP in my community and quickly informed her of our family’s history of heart disease. She suggested I have a calcium scan done. I had never heard of this procedure, but decided it wouldn’t hurt. A calcium scan detects calcium deposits in or around the heart arteries, though it does not necessarily indicate blockages or their severity. The scale runs from 0 to 400, with risk severity divided into 100-point increments. I scored a 656! Off the charts! My brow furrowed with concern. My PCP recommended me to a cardiologist, and we had a consultation. He suggested calcium scores are not necessarily indicative of dangerous blockages. Calcium can build up outside the arteries without obstructing blood flow. He recommended an angiogram procedure whereby they insert a catheter through the vein in my wrist and navigate to my heart. They then inject a dye and, using X-rays, they see how well the blood flows through my major heart arteries. The cardiologist informed me that if blockages are detected, he would insert a stent to open the blood flow to my heart. One or more stents may be necessary. It sounded easy, fairly painless, with the end result being peace of mind about my overall heart health. Without hesitation, I signed on for the procedure. They scheduled it for a Monday morning.

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Converting To Calvinism: My Journey into the Heart of Reformed Theology


I self-published my second book on Amazon. I gathered together a series of articles from this blog concerning my sudden and dramatic conversion to a Reformed worldview and put them together in a short 40-pager:

The Kindle version is $.99 and the paperback is $4.95. If you’re interested, check it out HERE

The House That God Built


I published my first piece of fiction! Well, don’t get too excited. To celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of my salvation by God’s grace, I just self-published the first story I wrote as a true born-again Christian.

It’s a simple, brief allegory of the Christian life, based on the parable in Matthew 7, demonstrating the contrast between a house built on the rock of Christ and a house built on Satan’s sand. I used a painting made by my now-retired pastor for the cover illustration, and I’m quite happy with how it turned out.

The book is currently available only on Amazon. The Kindle version sells for $0.99. The paperback version is $4.99.

Click here if you’d like to check it out.