Love of my life

My new home when I became a Christ-follower was a church called Laurel Christian Fellowship, in Maryland.

It was one of twenty-five sister churches, pastored by former “Jesus People”— disenchanted counterculture youth, hippies and outcasts who burned for Jesus back in the late 60s and early 70s and who were still blazing. The flame had been lit in me at an IHOP, and the Jesus People, now in coats and ties, kept me burning brighter and brighter.

At the same time, we were about as politically active as they came. We were the most active Moral Majority and Concerned Women for America chapters in America. When our home groups met on Wednesday nights, like as not, we spent our time putting together thousands of campaign mail-outs in addition to an hour or so of worship. Those who weren’t serving candidates were running for office themselves. If there was a picket line, we were there. If there was a march, we were in step. And yes, we were a bit over the top.

By 1980, I was leading a home group.

One of the members of our group had a younger sister named Annie, and one evening she showed up at our meeting.

Whenever elections came around, we would be paired off and go door to door to turn out voters. Before one election, Annie and I were teamed up and decked out in red, white and blue skimmers.

As we walked, we talked. I never wanted to get married again, I told her. I was in the middle of a divorce, and being a three-time loser was more than enough for me. Besides, we were so different. Annie is one of five. Her mother was one of eleven. Annie said she wanted thirteen kids and to stay at home and bake. I was fifteen years older and an only child ... although the baking part sounded good.

But Annie was, and continues to be, on the same full-speed-ahead track to get closer to Jesus as I was. So, I guess it shouldn’t have been that shocking when we were married months later—and that was 43 years ago

.