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This is one post in a series called “Finding God.” You can read Chris Day’s entire series here.
As you can imagine, my parents were none too happy with the choices I was making late in my teen years. I was abandoning everything I was raised to do, and I was old enough that I almost dared them to confront me about it. Because, in my mind, it would only take one huge argument to send me packing and I’d move out of their house. Out to a world of sinners who needed me. I pictured living on my own (on minimum wage) spending my time telling everyone in earshot about the God who delivered me from my transgressions. But that was just it, I actually had no transgressions. Very few at least. I grew up in a semi-privileged environment. My parents did well and we had a nice house with nice cars in the driveway. I attended private school and we vacationed at all over the United States, and one summer we spent in Europe. I wasn’t into crazy drugs or sex and didn’t even care for Rock n’ Roll. I was actually just a good kid with dreams and goals. So me telling people on the street that they needed to turn from their wicked ways like I had done was laughable at best. But I was determined not to let that stop me from selling them on this Jesus commodity. Just like those slimy guys on the commercials selling old Fords, I was a used savior salesman and I was pretty darn good at it.
Up to this point my college journey had already been plotted. My mother and sister were both nurses at a hospital. My brother was working in the Emergency Room. I was used to dinner conversations consisting of talk about thinning cervixes and gunshot wounds to the head. To use a horrible pun, medicine was in my blood. I also decided that I wanted to take medicine to the next level and get the fancy Dr. before my name. So after high school, I enrolled in my first year of Pre-Med and began my journey.
That freshman year of school was deplorable. I simply wasn’t able to remove my head from my rectum long enough to realize just how much I was messing up. I was squandering my parents money and my own time. The only things I cared about at that time were my girlfriend, who was still in high school, and doing some sort of God work. I would skip class and head to my church to find odd jobs to keep me busy. Going back home was out of the question because my parents would grill me about missing class. And by doing work around the church, I felt like I was vindicating my decision to blow off school. Nothing could be more important than the Lord’s work, right?
Photo (Flickr CC) by Life Mental Heath
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Chris Day
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