“…in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me…” (Psalm 139:16).
I’m named after my dad‘s mom, Martha, who we called Marnie, and I look like my dad. The winters of my childhood were spent skiing, skating, and rooting for the Boston Bruins. Summers were spent with water: lakes, oceans, or pools. My dad liked to work in the garden, but my mom seemed to sleep all the time. I remember having a full-time babysitter get me ready for kindergarten. Around age eight, I have hard memories of my mom’s suicide attempt. That started years of her being in and out of hospitals, mental wards, and halfway houses while dealing with mental health issues and alcoholism.
My dad remarried when I was ten. When he told us his plans, I thought, “What? We have a mom! Why would we need a new one?” Besides, my dad was so fantastic, caring, and fun. He was unmatched in my eyes. Where would a new mom fit in? Where would I fit in?
Even though my parents and eventual stepparents loved me, this question of fitting in became my theme. I grew insecure about where I belonged and who really loved me. As a blended family, I remained the youngest. The oldest kids were away at college, so they sent me to boarding school. While I was there, my dad was diagnosed with ALS. I was 16 when he died. I was new, all alone, and very sad. During Dad’s sickness, I longed to know God, or at least something bigger than an imaginary Santa Claus. I had no idea how clearly God would answer that longing.
In my second year of college, I transferred to West Chester University. One night, the father of my friend (Faith) was in town for business and took me to dinner. While we ate, I blurted out to him, “How do you really know you’re in love?” I had a boyfriend back home in Massachusetts who I thought was “the one.” I wish I remembered the details of the conversation, but we ended up talking about the love of Jesus the entire evening.
Four days later, my boyfriend and two other friends were killed in a drunk-driving accident. I was 19, new to West Chester, alone again, and grief-stricken. No one could see it, but in my heart was a gaping wound. After three funerals and rivers of tears, Faith and I were traveling back to Pennsylvania. “What am I going to do?” I mumbled. Faith said, “You really need Jesus.”
“Where do I go?” I asked. “How much does that cost?”
I was not a fan of psychiatrists and counselors. My family and I had seen our share, and they hadn’t helped. I begged God to take me. I was surely not going to kill myself; I’d seen that option. As I lay in bed contemplating these things, I said to God, “You’re clearly not going to take me, and I’m not going to kill myself. Do that born-again thing. I need you.”
There, in that very moment, God saved me. My life was forever changed. I knew I was loved, saved, and secure. I called Faith’s dad the next day at his work and told him what I prayed and asked if I did it right. He screamed in delight and praise to God.
One treasured memory was telling my grandparents on my mom’s side, who were devoted Christians. I blurted out to my grandfather all the bits I knew: “If you believe in Jesus for the forgiveness of your sins, you’ll go to heaven. Your sins will be covered by the blood of Jesus. This makes the devil mad. It’s called being born again. Is this what you believe?”
He said yes and gave me his strong German hug that felt like an “answered prayer” kind of hug. He said to my grandmother, “Mum, we have a little born again on our hands!” She clasped her hands and exclaimed, “Mercy!“
And she was absolutely right.
