I was raised in a church going family. Twice on Sundays, Wednesday Bible study, Friday night youth groups, boy did we go to church.
So in 1968 I went away to college. It was the height of the Vietnam War and campuses were filled with rock and roll, radical politics, and free love. Drugs were the new path to spiritual enlightenment and alcohol flowed like a river. At least that's what I saw. So I looked around and knew that this was no place for a devout, God-fearing boy such as myself. So I stopped going to church. People all around me were gleefully sinning and I wanted in.
Turns out my faith was a mile wide and an inch thick. I abandoned the principles I was raised with and gave it no more thought than I would devote to changing socks.
That didn't work out to well.
By early June of 1989 I was homeless, drinking a 1.75 liter of vodka a day, shaking like a leaf, throwing up blood, passing blood through my bowels, and I wanted to die. But apparently I had been in preparation to receive a gift, for within a few short days I was snatched from the jaws of the monster by the God of second chances and delivered into the hands of a group of Good Samaritans, not all of them Christians. And they taught me one of the most important lessons about God that I have ever learned outside of scripture.
There is a God and I'm not Him!
Today I try to live by the words of the Psalmist in Chapter 20, Verse 7
"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God".
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