I woke early with this thought on my mind: “Where would I be today had I not met Jesus that Sunday morning in early 1971?” As this question dug deeper into my heart, I began to remember that first Sunday. It was raining as I walked up the well-worn steps into the tiny church at 88 Carmoor Road in Manchester. I was met by an old man with a very strong handshake. “Welcome to the Church of the Nazarene.” I later heard that his name was Mr. Corser and he would make a huge impact on my life. (Another story for another time …) The second person I encountered was a very short older lady, Miss Tighe, also standing in the foyer greeting people. This sweet, gentle pensioner put the fear of God in me as she threw her arms around me and gave me a huge hug. “I have been praying for you for a very long time! Welcome!” She then ushered me through a door into a small church hall with about 40 or 50 matching wooden chairs carefully placed in rows and facing the pulpit. I remember her heels echoing from the fastidiously clean old, dry floor boards to the modest, well-kept walls and ceiling. The room smelled of Dettol detergent. Fresh flowers were placed on a table in front of the pulpit. Two chairs sat at each end, one of which would soon become very familiar.
I stood, quite bewildered and out of place, staring at the almost-empty hall asking myself what on earth I was doing there. Just the night before, I had met a young teenager sheltering from the rain in a shop doorway who invited me to the church the next morning. I remember telling her that I had never gone to church before and wouldn’t know what to do if I did, but here I was standing in a church. My life up until this moment was interesting, to say the least: never been in church, never held a Bible (don’t remember if I’d ever seen one either), the name Jesus—as far as I knew—was a curse word. Anyway, only weird people and priests talked about God.
I’m sure the thick stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke on my rain-soaked denim jacket confirmed the fact that I hadn’t bathed in weeks and made me stand out like sore thumb. I was 18. Just then a younger voice came from behind me. “Good morning! My name is Trevor. Good to see you today.” He invited me to sit next to him in the two chairs nearest the door I had entered. I recall sharing with him that this was my first-ever church experience and that I had no idea what was expected of me.
That morning I heard about God’s amazing love for me—that He had a plan for my life. My heart began to pound so much that I thought I might pass out. In that intense moment I was on my feet and walking to the front where the table and two chairs were located. Trevor introduced me to Jesus and later became my mentor and teacher.
The left chair became my birthplace.
It had been many years since I’d shed tears. By the amount that flowed that day, I must have been storing them up for this very occasion. Why would anyone love someone like me? Enough to die for me! My head was spinning with so many new feelings. I would like to say that where there was darkness there was now light, hopelessness now direction, that the guilt for everything that I had ever done in anger, hatred, selfishness, willfulness, and pure godlessness had been taken from me in just seconds … but that would not be true. Due to my total ignorance of anything to do with God, it would take many months of revisiting that left chair for the penny to drop in my spirit, and when it did, all the above became a reality.
That was a very long time ago. Yet the people of Carmoor Road Church of the Nazarene became my family, who in spite of my looks, attitude, and smell, shared the love of Jesus with me—a nobody—so that God, through His plan, could make me one of His children—a “somebody.” Their patience and love, prayers and support, are part of who I am today.
There is only One who could answer the question that woke me so early today … JESUS. I am so thankful for God’s plan, and His love and patience as He works it out in my life.
Father, please wake me again tomorrow, I have much to be thankful for.