As I write the story of how we came to live in our white, two-story farmhouse, I am power washing it. Dirt, spider webs, algae and other questionable specs litter every nook and cranny, but especially the underbelly of each piece of siding. Hiding beneath the shadows, lies the real filth.

The story began with a dream. Actually, it was more of a nightmare. I was sleeping peacefully in my bed, when a horrible story played out in my mind. I landed or possibly appeared in hell. Yes, hell! This is a true story. These are my memories of what happened, as best I can recall them. Now, back to what I was saying …yes, hell! You know, the lake of fire place, eternal torment, where demons dwell and unbelieving people are sent when they die. So, there I was, a young girl, and in my dream, I had died and gone to hell.

Except, hell wasn’t the lake of fire I had heard about. It was grey. All of it. The walls were grey. The floor was grey carpet. Even the furniture was boxes covered in grey carpet. There was nothing else to hell’s appearance, only a miserable feeling, which weighed very heavily on my young mind. I understood where I was. Somehow, there was no mystery about it, despite its appearance.

Whether I sat on one of those carpeted boxes or chose to stand, I can’t recall. I only remember that on appearing in hell, I quickly saw myself there with three other people, my brother, and my gymnastics teacher and her husband (who for a variety of reasons, I must have been convinced were not believers).

I knew that I wasn’t a believer either, and I understood that I deserved to be there. I had been playing games with God for a long time. While I had grown up in church and received a Christian homeschool education up to that point, I didn’t like the idea of being a Christian. It grated on me. I can still feel the furrowed eyebrows and the wrinkles in my forehead, as I listened angrily to Sunday school lessons, sermons, missionary reports and story after story about Jesus. I didn’t want to be a part of it.

I was afraid. What if people noticed that I had changed? What if I became soft and kind, instead of tough and independent? What if I became more girly and had a sweet voice, wore lovely clothes and did nice things for people? What if I began to enjoy the Bible? Only weird and annoyingly good people believe and enjoy the Bible, I thought. Worse still, what if God called me to be a missionary and I lost my life telling others about Him? That happens you know! I read biographies, stories like John and Betty Stam, Jim and Elisabeth Elliot. There were others, plenty of them. Those people really gave their lives for what they believed.

Even at eight, I had no trouble accepting the fact that God exists, there was too much evidence for that. For me, it was as simple as looking at the leaves on the apple tree in my backyard, watching them sway in the wind. Or how much I enjoyed my sandbox, the feeling of dry sand under my feet, the thrill of how its smell changed when I added water. The problem was I had trouble letting go of my life and saying yes to the life He was offering me. What if I didn’t like being a Christian? The most terrifying thing in saying yes to God was that supposedly, if I belonged to Him, I could never not belong to Him. I was His forever, and He would never let me go. That’s how His love works. He’s not human about it. He’s pure and eternal.

But there, being in hell, panic and regret filled the air. All those times I knew the truth but refused it. All those times the pastor, missionary or Sunday school teacher asked for a raised hand to say yes to Jesus, and while my stomach turned in miserable knots, I kept my hand tucked somewhere so it wouldn’t shoot up. The memories of what had been offered to me came fresh before my eyes, and I knew I was wrong for not responding.

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