The Day I Died

I recently saw an interview with Jean Harris. Harris now 84 spoke about the day she killed famed Scarsdale diet doctor, Herman Tarnower. The two were engaged in a long time affair that had all the shades of a steamy novel. There were episodes of infidelity, prescription drug abuse and a struggle that resulted in the death of the doctor and the conviction of the headmistress. Harris, later pardoned by governor Mario Cuomo, speaks of the day she shot and killed the doctor as "the day she died". She talks about grieving for the doctor and their relationship, grieving for her freedom, saying goodbye to her drug use, to her career, and to her lifestyle of wealth and prestige. Her interview made me think about the day I died.
I remember that day. It was a cool September Wednesday in Columbia Falls, Montana. I was a young mother with three year old and almost one year old sons. We lived out in the country at the base of the beautiful Whitefish Mountain. I'd spent the day alone with the boys, playing, listening to christian music and reading my Bible. My heart was heavy and tears fell with great frequency. I had been examining my life, thinking about where I was and where I came from. I wondered what the way I lived said about who I belonged to. I began to question where I was going and then, how I was going to get there. The thoughts were not merely passing thoughts, fogging up my mind for a brief moment, only to be blown off by more pressing thoughts. No, they came and stayed, setting up camp in my heart and my mind. I fixed supper and got the boys ready---faces washed, hair combed and clean clothes put on. While I got ready, I sat them both on the front step to watch for our ride to church. That evening's lesson was on Romans 6 and the invitation song was number 633---Prepare To Meet Thy God. I was very quiet on the way home, struggling with my heart, struggling with my sins, struggling with the inescapable consequences. As we pulled into the driveway, I began visiting with the minister and his wife. As my convictions overtook me, I knew we had to go back to the church building. And back we went!
That was the day I died. With three adults and two small children in attendance, in a darkened cavernous auditorium, I was to say goodbye to my life as I knew it, but unlike Jean Harris, I did not grieve. I remember coming up out of the water, I remember the lifting of my heart and the arrival of joy and confidence. I remember feeling no shame, no guilt for past sins. I remember feeling empowered, ready to share the gospel message with every single person I would meet. I remember the overwhelming sense of peace that engulfed my soul and seeped into every nook and cranny, even the secret hidden places where sin and shame used to live. For the first time ever, I felt brand new. My old life was gone, replaced by a new and glorious life--a life with purpose, a life with passion--- a life like I'd never known before.
That was the day I died and it was the day I was born again. I will never forget that day. I will never forget what God did for me, never forget the blood sacrifice. Everyday, I try to live this new life, try to be God's woman, a woman with a message. Everyday in this new life, is a day that should be spent walking with God, loving for Him and living for Him. I will always remember that cool September day because that was the day I died. As I work in the Kingdom, every day should be memorable, because everyday is the day I live!

Peace
Neva