I will never forget the day that dad accepted the Lord into his life. I won’t ever forget it because it was the same day for me.
I was nine years old; my sisters were still pretty young, not yet in elementary school. I remember him sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. My sisters and I were playing nearby; I remember one of us called one other a “poop head” and we all started giggling. My dad slowly, sadly raised his head from his hands and told us not to say that. It was odd for us because it usually wasn’t that big of a deal.
That night, when my dad came in my room to tuck me into bed, he pulled out a little booklet that had pictures in it. He proceeded to walk me through it, telling me the gospel. He then asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus and His guidance for my life. I agreed. He was so sad that day but also I could tell a difference. I could tell that something in him was new. Changed. There was hope where there hadn’t been before.
He then kissed me and left the room and went in to my sisters. He later told me that when he walked into my sisters’ room, my youngest sister, who was four at the time, said, “Daddy, I love baby Jesus,” straight out of the blue. He had only shared the gospel with me, so it was neat to see the Lord starting to already work in my young sisters’ hearts. :)
As I look back and think about my life and my story, you can see God’s hand there. Its comforting to see. That even when we don’t see Him [and in this case, did not even know Him], He is there.