I used to think my faith story wasn’t important, so I didn’t tell it very often. It wasn’t flashy or sensational like girl-meets-God-and-the-world-will-never-be-the-same. But, now I’m seventy-two and I’ve told many stories of God and me — stories of faith and failure, disappointment and joy, hopes gone and dreams fulfilled. Through it all, I’ve seen the value in the telling. I learned all our stories count because God is the Hero and when I tell my story, and when you tell yours, we get a chance to show Him off.

You may or may not relate to my story. Even still, because I’m a supporting character in God’s big story, you’ll see a glimpse of Him in my story . . . and that’s a good enough reason to tell my story any chance I get.

I was practically born in the choir loft. My folks were believers and I was number four of five kids, so their faith had steadied and grown by the time I came along. I was baptized at six — and at age eight I asked Jesus into my heart at a Good News Club meeting at our house. 

Our church was in a different town than my schools, so I didn’t get much faith encouragement from friends. Sometimes, I felt like I was two different people: a church-going girl surrounded by folks who believed in God and felt like family . . . and also that girl growing up alongside neighborhood kids and their parents who didn’t go to church or camp or talk about God much at all.  

At age fifteen, I went on my first missions trip. It was then and there I first heard about something called a “life verse.” It sounded very important and I figured I better get one since I was to be interviewed by the deacons. I prayed and opened my Bible with eyes closed and pointing down at the page. And God, in His great mercy, showed me what turned out to be a most wonderful life verse, indeed: 

“And He died for all, that those who live should live no longer for themselves, but for Him who died for them and rose again.”
2 Corinthians 5:15 NKJV

This verse had to do with logic, which is not my strong suit, but . . . it made sense to my insecure, young brain. God had given all: His Son to die for me. What else could I do but give my all in return?

It wasn’t lightening in the sky. It was words on a page, words that God used to guide my story towards Him. The Word is living and slices to the marrow and it changed my life that day, young as I was. 

As I look back, I realize gifting my life to Christ in return for what He did for me wasn’t much of a trade. At fifteen, I wore glasses — the pointy kind. I had dental crowns on my teeth, leftover from a dodge ball incident in third grade. I had freckles. We lived in a wealthy neighborhood but we weren’t wealthy. Our family shopped at Sears, not Nordstrom. We did our own chores. We didn’t get a car at sixteen.

So, no — giving my life to Jesus wasn’t such a big deal in the world’s terms. Jesus left heaven, died on a cross, and gave me life forever. All He received in return from me . . . was me. But I gave what I had — myself, red hair and all. Kind of like the two loaves of bread and five fish; a young boy gave what he had. Not much for such a big crowd. But God made it work.

It didn’t matter I wasn’t a big deal. He died for me. How could I do less for Him?

My friend, Laurie says, “I make myself available, and God shows up.” And whenever He does, that’s a story worth telling. 

Someone you’ve just met may not know that God wants to be the Hero of their story, too. That alone is reason to weave Him in and through daily conversation. Imagine, your best Jesus-friend needs encouragement for staying the course, so you sidle up to her at Bible study and whisper, “I was late today . . . but God had a reason. I’ll tell you right after this is over.” And then you tell her your story, and her faith is stronger for it.

And, of course, seventy-two or not, we forget so readily what God has done. We pray desperate prayers. God comes through and we’re already on to the next desperate prayer. So, remember your stories — and tell them, too.

Stories are like stones of remembrance. They help us remember God’s goodness and that’s worth all the telling.

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