A Quiet Pull

If you’re from my hometown, or someone else who knew me in the past, it might be a shock to see me writing this.

I may have gone to school with you, or with your siblings, your kids, or your grandkids. If you were sharing a meal with someone who knew me between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two and told them I’d one day be publicly writing about my faith, you might want to step back first because they’d probably spit out their drink in disbelief.

I was not the obvious candidate for this story.

But God has never required obvious candidates.

I was raised in a Christian household. My family attended Oxford Community Church, a place filled with good people, strong community, meaningful worship, and faithful teaching. Pastor Hayword led great services, and I had the privilege of growing up with excellent kids’ ministry and youth group programs.

That season ended around the time I entered high school.

Later, my family began attending Lake Louise Church of the Nazarene in Ortonville, where I met Pastor Gerber. His preaching connected with me in a way I hadn’t experienced before, and honestly, still hasn’t been matched.

One message in particular stuck with me:

“Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than sleeping in your garage makes you a car.”

A line like that could be twisted into a reason to stop going to church altogether.  But when you think about it, getting up and giving God one morning of our week is really the LEAST of what we can do. Being a Christian is far more than attending a place of gathering, but it’s a good place for them to be.

To be like something, you must be shaped by the same source, sustained by the same power, and directed toward the same purpose. To be a Christian, then, is to live toward the purpose of Christ. And the Lord has called us to far more than simply showing up to church once a week.

Now, to be fair, those were the sermons I stayed awake for. My parents would get frustrated with how often I drifted off, but looking back, I think they were mostly just thankful I was there with them on Sundays at all.

Even so, growing up in a Christian home planted something deep inside me.

When I was ten years old, I made what I still consider the most important decision of my life: I was baptized at the old Christ the King Church by my youth pastor.

And even when I grew older and began living far too much for the world…

Even when my decisions were reckless, my mouth was careless, and when my priorities were wrong.

I knew, somewhere beneath the noise, that the Holy Spirit was never far from me.

I don’t have what many would call an “incredible” testimony.

My favorite author, C.S. Lewis, wrote an entire book, Surprised by Joy, chronicling his journey from atheism to Christianity. Lewis, one of the greatest writers of the his era and one of the most influential Christian apologists in history, described his conversion in a single, almost anticlimactic sentence:

“When we set out I did not believe that Jesus Christ was the Son of God, but when we reached the zoo I did.”

That was it.

No lightning bolt.

No dramatic vision.

No emotional spectacle.

He was criticized for it by his peers. That’s it? That’s your grand convincing conversion?

But I think Lewis understood something deeply important:

A person’s encounter with the living God cannot truly be explained. It must be experienced.

Whether a story is dramatic or subtle, loud or quiet, sudden or slow, it can never be dull, because every true conversion involves the same miracle:

A revelation from the Almighty Creator.

For me, change did not arrive as an explosion.

It arrived as a quiet pull.

I began feeling a desire to read Scripture and not out of obligation, but out of hunger.

I was getting older. I was maturing. I had become a husband. A father.

And I wanted to become the kind of man worthy of the blessings God had entrusted to me.

I bought a Life Application Study Bible.

My wife bought me a journal.

I started a 365-day Bible reading plan and did my best to stick to it.

Then one night, a night I remember clearly because it is marked in my journal, after my wife and children were asleep, I finished that day’s reading and stayed in prayer.

I was thinking about the words I had read.

Meditating on them and letting them sit.

And in my mind’s eye, I pictured Jesus on the cross.

I had seen that image countless times before.

But this time, something was different.

For the first time in my life, I truly saw who He was.

I had always believed Jesus was the Son of God.

I knew John 3:16.

I understood, intellectually, that God gave His Son as a sacrifice.

But that night, I saw the cross through the reality of the Trinity.

I did not only see God’s Son.

I saw Jesus who said, “Before Abraham was, I AM.”

I saw God the Son.

Not a representative or a symbol.

Not merely a messenger.

God Himself.

Hanging there.

For me.

And it broke me open.

That was my true change-of-heart moment. The moment I stopped seeing Jesus merely as a concept and began seeing Him as God the Son who chose the cross.

Not because He had to. But because He loved me.

I did not become perfect after that moment. And I am not perfect now. But something in me has remained permanently altered.

My heart.

That moment is what eventually led me to write. Not because I think I have special insight or I think my story is extraordinary. But because I want to share what real change looks like.

Not surface-level behavior modification.

Not moral polishing. But repentance.

A turning of the heart and reorientation of love.

Christianity is not about becoming impressive and it is not about earning salvation..

It is about becoming honest and receiving grace.

And when grace is truly received, it inevitably changes the person who receives it.

Quietly. Steadily. Irreversibly.

If you’re reading this and you feel behind…

If your story feels unimpressive…

If your faith feels small…

If your change feels slow…

Take heart.

He is not impressed by theatrics.

He is drawing hearts.

Sometimes with thunder.

Sometimes with whispers.

Mine was a whisper. But it was enough.

And it still is.