My testimony starts out like many others do. I was raised in a home where we went to church every Sunday and usually went on Wednesday evenings as well. Growing up, I was always the kid who knew all the right answers in Sunday school and would answer them just to be right. I was actually baptized for the first time when I was 9 years old. This was when I was “saved” or so I thought. I really wasn’t saved until a few years later.

You see, it isn’t enough to just know all the facts, you have to actually understand and accept what Christ did for us on the cross. You MUST understand that great exchange that took place on the cross. When I was 9 I didn’t know that. I knew all the facts and the right answers to tell people just because they had been drilled into my head so many times throughout the years. The reasoning behind my going forward when I did was because I was jealous of my parents for getting to take communion. I leaned over and asked my mom how I would be able to do that. My mom stated to me that you must be baptized in order to take communion. When I was standing in the receiving line at the end of the service that morning I had no idea why people were congratulating me. All I knew was that I would now get to take communion with my parents. It wasn’t until the summer after my freshman year of high school that I realized that I really wasn’t saved, and that knowing all the facts and going to church every Sunday wasn’t going to get me into heaven.

Let me back up a bit and tell you how I came to this realization. During my freshman year of high school I wanted to fit in so badly with the people that I thought were “cool”. Well, as you can imagine, I started hanging around with some pretty shady characters. I started getting into the party scene and staying out until 1 or 2 in the morning. I started dreading going to church on Sundays because I didn’t want to deal with the act I was putting on. It got to the point where I really didn’t want to live anymore. I was thinking of the many different ways I could kill myself. I thought about slitting my wrists. I thought about getting into my parents car, turning it on, and leaving the garage door down. It wasn’t until I was home alone one night staring at a bottle of pills that it finally clicked in my head. I didn’t need to take those pills and hope that someone would find me. In my mind, at the time, if someone found me and took me to the hospital then that meant that I really was loved by someone. I didn’t need someone to come and “save” me because I had someone standing with me if I would just accept it. I had God who was watching out for me and who sent is only son to die for me just because He loves me.

It finally clicked. It was after that point that I stopped hanging out with the people I was and I stopped partying all together. After that point, I didn’t want to fit in with any group at school; I really didn’t care because God loved me. I owe God my life, literally, and I am so thankful that He is there and that He is love.