Just sharing.

More than Meets the Eye

"She's got a ticket to ri-ide, she's got a ticket to ri-ii-ide.
She's got a ticket to ride, but she don't care!"

The Beatles' song blasts through the speakers of my beat-up granny car. I love this car, not because it's some deluxe-zero-to-sixty-in-five-seconds-superpower-model but because it's familiar, comfortable. I can pick it out from a thousand cars in a crowded parking lot. Its distinctive character makes me proud to call it my own.

So on this bright spring day, my car serves its purpose as my sister Tiffany and I drive home from school. With the windows rolled down and the warm breeze swirling our hair, we sing along, completely off-pitch, to the Beatles' catchy tune.

This is a daily routine for us, but somehow it never gets boring. There's always a new song, a new day of school to discuss, a new joy to share. We began sharing this time as sisters, but it has developed into a time to share our friendship.

As the oldies station transitions to a Beach Boys tune, we stop for some high school kids to walk across the street. I see the familiar stares, but I keep singing as if everything is OK. As long as I keep my cool, Tiffany never notices. But soon I see their smirks.

They begin to chuckle, then burst into vicious laughter. As they reach the sidewalk, they're pointing and mimicking her as she continues singing. I step on the accelerator and speed past them, praying that I won't make some snide remark meant to hurt them as much as they hurt me.

Tiffany is beautiful. She has flowing auburn hair, bright brown eyes, and a smile that could light up a stadium. She plays flute in the school band with a tone I've heard described as "angelic." She's won numerous ribbons for swimming, basketball and gymnastics. Everyone in youth group loves her, and she often participates in servant events and youth gatherings.

She wants to be a nurse, run a day care center, or work with plants. Her greatest dream, though, is to have *NSYNC sing to her. I have no doubt she'd bake them a mean batch of her amazing chocolate chip cookies.

And one more thing about Tiffany. She has Down syndrome.

With such a multi-talented, loving girl, I don't understand why people focus on one single aspect of who Tiffany is. They don't notice how joyful she is when she sings. They don't see the way she smiles when the Beach Boys come on. All they see is her disability. All they know is her label: "different."

Someone asked me once if I had the power to wish away Tiffany's Down syndrome, would I? Honestly, I don't think I would. God, the Creator and Sustainer of the world, doesn't make mistakes. He doesn't see these human flaws on which everyone else is focused. All he sees is his child, full of life and hope and love. If he doesn't see a reason to "fix" her, why would I?

We're all created in God's image. And I certainly see him in Tiffany. I've seen the compassion of Christ as she dries my tears. I've seen the joy of the Lord as she sings his praises (even if they are off-pitch).

I've seen the hands of Jesus serving others as she plays with a child or bakes cookies for a neighbor. Most of all, I've experienced the heart of a God who values each creation as Tiffany tells me, "I love you.

When I had to write a biography of my family in first grade, I wrote that Tiffany was "special," and that "she needs more help than most kids, but that's why she has me." But now I realize the opposite is true; God has used her more often to help me.

A few years ago around Christmas, I had a horrible case of the flu. I could hardly get out of bed, let alone participate in the festivities. My heart was definitely not focused on the Reason for the Season, but Tiffany reminded me what celebrating Jesus was all about. She gave me a bell to ring whenever I needed something.

She brought me warm tea when I was cold and chilled juice when I was hot. Best of all, she sat quietly holding a cloth on my forehead as I cried in disappointment. Just as God knew we needed a Savior, Tiffany knew I needed his love. And she showed it to me in a big way.

How can others not see that? How can people think of her as an unproductive member of society? It's because they don't take the time to look. I see Tiffany for who she is—a glorious creation of God. She is not a mistake; she is fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

Her disability is not her identity; she is a child of God (1 John 3:1). She is not a victim or a tragedy; God has called her by name (Isaiah 43:1-7). Just like I can recognize my less-than-perfect car among the shiny new models, he can pick her out of a crowd.

Now that I'm in college, our relationship has changed. I'm not driving Tiffany home from school anymore. I can't be there to speed her away from the taunts of the world. I can't protect her from the stares of those who don't notice her beauty as a child of God. But God is faithful. He has been, and always will be, there to help her through the challenges of this world.

As Tiffany and I continue to grow up, I know we'll both experience many trials. But together, we turn to this promise from Jesus: "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world" (John 16:33). Now that's our ticket to ride, and it's certainly worth singing about

Tall, Dark, and Handsome …
. … but definitely not a Christian. So why was I falling for this guy?

It's ironic that I met Jake at a church, considering he's not a Christian. But that's where it all started—in a church sanctuary at a wedding for someone we both knew.

During one part of the service, I was scanning the crowd—and Jake, in his dark suit and preppy glasses, definitely caught my attention. I figured out that he was a friend of some friends, and I was glad when he sat next to me at the reception.

Sitting there in the church basement with friends and family, I enjoyed chatting with this funny, talkative, well-dressed guy. He was charming; even some parents at the table thought he was great. So when he asked if he could call me sometime, I did a mental dance of joy and gave him my number.

The next time I saw Jake was at a dinner with some friends. Jake and some of the guys told stories about stupid things they'd done while drunk. I knew they were exaggerating a bit to impress and/or shock us girls, but I still should have been turned off. But for some inexplicable reason, I was still attracted to him.

Several days later, Jake called. He wanted to get together for coffee—not a date, just a casual thing. I almost didn't go. But I'm a Starbucks junkie and was touched by Jake's thoughtfulness, since he doesn't even drink coffee. So I went—and I discovered Jake is very intelligent, says nice things about his family, and is easy to talk to. But. … not a Christian.

That should have put an end to my attraction. But I was drawn by Jake's interest in me. He was one of the "cool kids," and until then, nobody from that group seemed to notice I was even alive. Here was a tall, dark, handsome guy from the popular crowd showing interest in goodie-two-shoes me! Of course I was flattered!

In the months that followed, Jake and I exchanged flirty e-mails. Since he lived a couple towns away, we didn't actually see each other much. But I did hang out with Jake and his friends a few times. When they started talking about drinking, I got silent. And when they talked about that time they went to Hooters, I gave a "girl-power" speech about women not being sex objects.

But my "speech" never got around to the most important thing I could have said—that we're made in God's image. Jake and his buddies just sorta winked at each other and teased me about it.

Part of me knew right then that I should stop hanging out with Jake and his friends. But another part of me thought that maybe this was God's answer to my prayer for more non-Christian friends to share my faith with. I was confused.

Then Jake asked me out on an "official" date. Not just dinner and a movie, but to join him and his family and friends for a weekend at a rented beach house. Suddenly, this wasn't so casual anymore.

When Maggie, a church friend and a hopeless romantic, heard about this, she thought a whole weekend together would be a great opportunity to share my faith. But I had the feeling the weekend would be less "Kum-ba-yah" and more "keg city" once the adults went to bed.

Max, my best guy friend, told me to run as fast as I could in the other direction—not just from this invitation, but from Jake. But I wondered what that would communicate about God's unconditional love for all people—especially those who don't know him.

I probably should've listened to Max, but I felt like I owed Jake more than just a flat-out "no." I sent him an e-mail asking about the sleeping arrangements and whether there would be drinking. He said there might be some drinking, but that I wouldn't have to. He also included a flirty remark about where I could sleep.

I was pretty certain he was joking. But "pretty certain" wasn't good enough for a topic that's so serious to me. Sex before marriage is a no-go for me, and I had to make that clear to Jake.

So I sent him another e-mail to make sure he understood where I stood. His reply assured me he was indeed joking, that I'd have my own bedroom, and that he appreciated my conservative views. "It's part of what makes you you," he wrote with a smiley face next to it.

Reading that made me feel both giddy with excitement about Jake's continued interest—and guilty that he didn't know the biggest part of what makes me me: Jesus Christ.

I was still undecided about the weekend—and Jake—when I had dinner with Kate, a friend from church. I told her about my growing relationship with Jake, and about his weekend invitation. Kate listened quietly and then said, "You know, I'm glad you finally brought up this whole Jake thing. I've been worried about you."

Really? Now it was my turn to listen.

"What are you doing with this Jake guy? You know he's not a Christian, right? You say it's casual, but I see your face light up when you talk about him." I grew red with the embarrassment of hearing the truth, which I'd been denying all along. "He's not worth it. He's not worth you."

In the silent moments that followed, I finally faced the truth. I had been fooling myself by saying this was only casual. I was attracted to Jake, and becoming more so with each interaction, flirtation, or teasing e-mail.

And he was obviously interested in more than friendship, too. I also realized that most of my attraction had been to his attention and flattery. It had been a while since anyone had shown that kind of interest in me, and it was exciting. But now I knew I'd been playing with fire.

I'd known all along what the Bible says about getting too involved with non-Christians: "Do not be yoked together with unbelievers" (2 Corinthians 6:14). And I'd seen a few Christian friends date non-Christians and then suddenly disappear from church—and then start making more bad choices.

I should have known better than to fall for Jake in the first place. And that was the most difficult truth to swallow.

I thanked Kate for her honesty and accountability, and asked her to check up on me in the weeks and months ahead. After dinner I had a long talk with God in which I apologized for boosting my self-esteem from the wrong source—a guy instead of God.

I asked God for direction and realized, looking back, that he'd been giving it all along. Three different times when I'd tried to get together with Jake one-on-one, something—or Someone—had forced us to cancel our plans at the last minute. God had been protecting my heart.

I also realized Jake needed God way more than he needed me. Part of his attraction to me had undoubtedly been an unconscious attraction to Jesus in me, and I didn't want to get in the way of that. So while I decided that dating Jake was definitely not an option, I also decided to try to remain friends.

When I called Jake to say I couldn't make the weekend trip, he was disappointed. I think he knew I was making a choice about our relationship, and that I was choosing friendship—and not dating.

Since then our e-mails have been fewer and free of flirtations. I miss the rush of potential romance, but now I feel free to tell Jake about all aspects of my life—including my faith.

I've also asked Kate to keep asking me those difficult yet necessary questions about my motives and my heart when it comes to Jake. And I've sought to strengthen my security and self-worth by spending more time in prayer and Bible study, hopefully making me less open to similar temptation in the future—no matter how tall, dark and handsome he is.

Africa Is My Home

Rift Valley Academy looks a lot like any school you've ever seen. Except for the monkeys.

No, not those wild and witless guys who always start a food fight in the back corner of the cafeteria. Real monkeys, like baboons, Colobus and Sykes' monkeys. It's not unusual to see a few of 'em on campus, and just down the road, there are plenty of giraffes, zebras, wildebeests, buffalo and even an occasional lion.

Such is life in the corner of Africa that Silas Tolan calls home.

Silas, 17, is a senior at Rift Valley Academy (RVA), a boarding school for missionary kids in Kijabe, Kenya, where Silas's dad is a missionary doctor. Since his family lives right next to the RVA campus, Silas isn't one of the boarding students.

Silas has spent most of his life in Kenya, since shortly after his sixth birthday. "Africa is my home," he says. "When I come to the States, I enjoy it for a while, but then I'm ready to come back home."

The best thing about being in Africa, he says, "is getting to do a bunch of neat stuff that most American kids don't get to do, especially being exposed to the Kenyan culture." Silas has also seen much poverty, disease and hunger—"physical and spiritual hunger," he says. He sometimes helps his dad, distributing medicines and serving those in need.

Silas especially likes reaching out to children. "We'll spend time with them, play soccer with them, and let them know they're loved," he says.

At RVA, Silas plays soccer and rugby, and he loves all outdoor activities. He recently climbed Tanzania's Mt. Kilamanjaro, Africa's highest mountain at 19,340 feet, and celebrated by hitting a golf ball off of the peak!

A Day in the Life
Campus Life asked Silas to describe a typical day in his life. Turns out it's probably not all too different from yours:

6:00 a.m. My alarm goes off, and I groggily get out of bed. After a shower, I put on a pair of khaki pants, a white dress shirt and a red-and-white tie—game-day attire for those of us on the rugby team. This afternoon, we play Strathmore School from Nairobi, about an hour away.

6:30 a.m. Some friends arrive for a weekly accountability group meeting. We sit on our porch, overlooking the Rift Valley. We pray, tell each other what God has been showing us, then grab a breakfast of coffee, cereal, bananas and coffee cake.

8:00 a.m. The school day begins with math class.

8:45 a.m. On to public speaking class, where we critique a few speeches.

9:35 a.m. Chapel service. Afterward, we have a break where we can finish up homework or just hang out.

10:20 a.m. Third period, AP Physics.

11:10 a.m. English class. We're reading Shakespeare's Macbeth, and we all take turns reading different parts. I try not to fall asleep.

11:55 a.m. The bell rings, and we all make a mad dash for the lunch line. If you're caught running, you'll get in trouble, so we try to "speed walk" and remain inconspicuous!

12:30 p.m. After a light lunch, I go down to my friends' dorm and take a nice half-hour nap!

1:15 p.m. PE class, where we play a couple games of badminton.
2:00 p.m. I go to the Graphic Arts building and work on the school yearbook (photo at left), doing some page layouts and fiddling with pictures on the computer.

2:55 p.m. Off to Computer Education, a fun class where we learn about spreadsheets, databases and Web pages. As the end of the school day draws near, it gets harder to concentrate. My mind is on our rugby game.

3:40 p.m. I go to the locker room to change for the game. I meet the rest of my team on the field and we warm up.

4:30 p.m. I kick off to start the game (photo below), and we enjoy a lovely match. I score first and we end up winning 33-18!

6:45 p.m. After the game, I go home to eat supper and do my homework.

8:30 p.m. I head up to the gym for our mid-week youth meeting. We sing a lot of my favorite worship songs, and then there's a short message.

9:30 p.m. I go home and have a quiet time, reading from Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest and a little from my Bible (photo at right). Then I jump in bed. I'm sore from the game and exhausted from the long day. I start to replay the game in my head, but I quickly fall fast asleep.

"I Don't Believe in Jesus"

My parents couldn't have picked a worse time to move, I thought. It's summer; and I don't know anyone in the neighborhood.

I could see some guys playing basketball a few houses up. The thought of introducing myself made me cringe, but I realized I'd have to make the first move. They aren't going to come to you.

"Hey!" My thoughts were interrupted by a guy at the house two doors up. I hadn't noticed him sitting on the back steps. He started walking toward me, and we met in the middle.

"My name's Mark."

"I'm Joseph."

The next thing I knew, Mark was telling me about how he used to be into drugs and get into trouble a lot, but then he heard about Jesus, about how he died on the cross to save us from sin, how he came back to life, and how anyone who believes in him will live forever.

"That's what I believe," he said. "What do you believe?"

"Well," I said, "I'm Jewish. I don't believe in Jesus."

"I asked you what you believe in, not what you don't believe in," he said.

I didn't know what to say. Being one of the few Jewish families in Richmond, Virginia, I got asked about my beliefs a lot. "I don't believe in Jesus" was my standard response, and it usually kept people from probing any further.

Mark sensed my hesitancy and asked me if I'd ever read the Bible.

I shook my head.

"You ought to," he said.

We talked awhile longer, and I was really interested in everything Mark said. I'd always wondered if there was a God. I'd lie awake at night wondering what would happen when I died. Even though my parents and I were close, we never talked about things like that. We only went to synagogue a few times a year—for Jewish holidays. So I'd never found any answers to my questions.

Mark intrigued me. He made me want to find out what was act ually in the Bible. So later that afternoon I picked up my dad's Jew ish Bible, the Tenach. (Basic ally, it's the same as the Old Test ament of the Bible Christians read, but the books are in different order.)

I laid down on my bottom bunk and opened the book, remembering something Mark had said: "If you do end up reading the Bible, why don't you pray before you read it, and ask God to show you whether or not it's true."

So that's what I did. And from that day on I started reading it almost every day. The language seemed kind of out dated, but something kept bringing me back.

Read the New Testament?
Mark and I were becoming good friends. And when I was around him I'd get really excited about God. I'd ask him tons of questions. I wanted to know what it meant to live with God forever, like he talked about. I was still afraid of what would happen when I died.

I asked my parents questions, too, but they didn't have many answers. Neither of them had ever read much of the Tenach, and what they told me didn't line up with what I was reading for myself.

Most of my questions were about the Messiah. I had been taught that when he came, he would bring peace to earth. Everyone would get along, and everything would be perfect. Mark, of course, claimed the Messiah had already come. He said it was Jesus.

"But we obviously don't have world peace!" I objected.

"Jesus came to bring peace between us and God," Mark explained.

I wondered if that was possible.

Mark encouraged me to read the New Testament. He said it would show me how Jesus fit the Old Testament's description of the Messiah.

I actually owned a New Testament. I got it in fourth grade when some men from the Gideons came to my school and passed them out.

My teacher said, "Now children, you don't have to take one if you don't want it."

My first thought was I'm Jewish. We don't read that book.

But everyone else was taking one, and I didn't want to stand out. So I took one, but I never opened it. I put it in a shoebox when I got home.

So I stuck to the Old Testament, and I read it for about a year. All along, Mark kept saying, "You need to read the New Testament. You need to let Jesus come into your heart and give you a new life." He mentioned something about a "new covenant," and said I needed to be a part of it.

That confused me. "God," I prayed. "I don't understand. Why do I need a new covenant? Why a new life? Why read the New Testament? Why new, new, new?"

I soon got my answer.

A few days later I was reading in Jeremiah, and I came across these verses:

"'Behold the days are coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new cov enant with the House of Israel and the House of Judah—not like the old covenant which I made with them, a covenant they broke. … No, this new covenant I will write on their hearts, not on tablets of stone. … '" (31:31-33).

My heart started beating fast as those three verses jumped out at me.

Jeremiah the prophet was saying God will make a new covenant. Why? Because we broke the old one. This new covenant will be better because it won't be on tablets of stone. He's going to write his words on our hearts. So maybe that's what Mark means about Jesus living in his heart, I thought.

I suddenly wanted to talk to Mark. I wanted to ask him more questions about Jesus. But he's out of town, I remembered. Summer break had just started, and he was going to be gone for a week. I can't wait that long, I thought.

That's when I remembered the little red New Testament.

Ready for Something New
I was kind of nervous when I pulled the shoebox down from the top of the closet. But I was excited too.

For the next three afternoons I read the Gospel of Matthew, and it amazed me. For most of my life I pictured Jesus as a weak, wimpy guy without much purpose. I thought of him as someone who roamed around like a street person. And when there was some hassle with the Romans, the Jews said, "They want to kill one of us. Let's give them Jesus. He's a wimp. He won't say anything. Let's get him crucified."

I'm not sure where that idea came from, but it was soon replaced with the real Jesus, who used his power to demonstrate love—healing the sick, feeding the hungry, and standing up for the outcast.

But what really blew me away was Jesus' determination to go to the cross and die. No one took advantage of him. If what Matthew said was true, Jesus chose to die, and he had a reason. To pay for the sin of the world.
When I finished reading Matthew that afternoon, I knew I had to make a choice. Either Jesus was the Messiah or he wasn't. If he wasn't, I knew I shouldn't believe in him—and neither should anyone else. From my reading of the Old Testament, I knew that bad things happen when we Jewish people worship false gods—plagues and all sorts of trouble. But if Jesus was the Messiah, I knew the most Jewish thing I could do was believe in him. So I prayed, "God, I'll make a deal with you. I'm going to ask Jesus into my life. If he's the Messiah, show me and I'll keep believing. If he isn't, show me, and I'll reject him."

Then I knelt beside my bed, clasped my hands and said, "Jesus, please come into my heart and be my Lord and Savior. Be my Messiah. God, please forgive my sins. I really want to know you. I want to have the kind of relationship Mark has with you. Amen."

A couple of days later Mark came home. I couldn't wait to tell him what had happened.

As soon as I saw his car, I ran over to his house.

I'd barely made it through the door when I yelled, "Mark, Mark, I believe in Jesus!"

I told him the whole thing, and of course he was excited.

We talked for a while, then he said, "This is so great. Now you can come to church with me!"

My smile faded.

"But then I'd have to tell my parents what I've done," I said.

Mark didn't understand.

He'd never heard the Jewish word for people who've become believers—meshumed, which means "apostate," or "traitor." I knew that's what my family would feel about me if they found out, and that terrified me.

Telling Mom and Dad
For six months I didn't say anything to my family. Then one Friday night I got my chance.

My mom, dad, brother and I went out for pizza, and while we were waiting for our food, someone played "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" on the jukebox.

Mom said, "I don't understand this song. Why would the devil want to steal a soul anyway?'

"Well," I said, "maybe the devil is real."

So my family got into this religious conversation. And at some point I said to my dad, "Well, what do you see as the difference between Christians and Jews?"

"Christians believe in Jesus and Jewish people don't," he explained.

"Well, I guess that makes me a Christian then."

Hurt filled my dad's eyes in a way I'd never seen. If I could've taken a steak knife out and stuck it in his heart, I think I would've caused him less pain than when I said those words.

"I hope I haven't hurt you, Dad," I said.

"Well, you have," he said.

My dad didn't say another word to me the rest of the meal.

The next morning when I woke up, my first thought was the way he had looked at me when I told him I be lieved in Jesus. A lump formed in my throat. I felt like I had just been dumped by a girlfriend.

But this is your dad. Don't be ridiculous. It's going to be OK!

I got out of bed, got dressed and went upstairs. I knew my parents would be back from grocery shopping soon—it was their Saturday morning ritual.

I was watching out the window when they pulled into the driveway. I ran out to the car so I could help carry in the groceries.

My dad walked by me as if I was a ghost—like I didn't even exist.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I ran next door to tell Mark what had happened. I had hardly finished the story when my brother knocked on the door.

"Dad wants you to come home," he said.

When I got there my dad told me I wasn't allowed to see Mark anymore.

"And as long as you live underneath our roof," my mom added, "you will not go to church or have Christian friends."

Refiner's Fire
I'd like to say I was really happy, because God was with me, but over the next four years I went through some very hard times. I had to fight every day for my faith. I had to hide my Bible, for fear of having it thrown away. And because of his hurt, my dad barely even spoke to me. I did sneak out and go to church a few times with Mark. But the pastor told me it was wrong to break my parents' rules. Still, I managed to get some sermons on tape. I kept them hidden in my sock drawer. Those years were intense, but looking back, I wouldn't trade them for anything because they built a spine into me. I became more and more confident that Jesus was who he claimed to be, which made me determined in my commitment to him.

My senior year, my parents moved to Florida, and I stayed in Virginia to finish high school. Around that time, I found out I wasn't the only Jew who believed in Jesus. I met someone who put me in touch with Jews for Jesus, a ministry that shares the Messiah Jesus with Jewish people. I got in touch with them and ended up join ing their musical group, The Liberated Wailing Wall. After I graduated from high school, I traveled with them for a couple of years doing evangelistic concerts. Then I decided to go to a Bible college.

Eventually, my relationship with my parents improved. They still don't believe in Jesus, but they love me, and we get along again. I understand better now why it was so hard for them to accept my belief in Jesus. In a way, they kind of associated Christianity with all the persecution Jews have experienced in the past, like during the Crusades and the Holocaust.

They didn't and still don't understand that since Jesus fulfilled the prophecy of the Old Testament, following him was the most Jewish thing I could possibly do. He is the Prince of Peace, as my parents told me the Messiah would be. And he did something even greater than bringing peace to the world. He brought it to my heart

"I'm Not Stupid!"

I sat in math class, gritting my teeth, nervously awaiting the inevitable. My "special" speech teacher would be coming soon. As the door slowly creaked open, the room grew silent. I braced myself against the stares as I quickly grabbed my books. The only sound was the squeak of my sneakers on the tile floor. Until I passed the class loudmouth's desk.

"Retard," he muttered.

I didn't bother looking up. It was just a typical day in junior high.

Alone with my speech teacher, things didn't go much better. She tried to teach me how to diagram sentences, but I couldn't concentrate. I was too busy fighting off tears. What's the use? I wondered. I don't understand.

When my teacher asked me a question, I tried to respond.

"I-I-I-I-I d-d-d-on't know." Oh no, I thought. It's happening again! Stop it, Abbie! Being one-on-one with my teacher was just as intimidating as being in a regular classroom.

She asked again. But I still didn't know the answer.

After my session, I headed for the cafeteria. I dreaded lunch period, where I might hear some more rude comments.

It seemed like everybody liked to make fun of the girl who stutters.

"You can't be cured"
As long as I can remember, school has been hard for me. When I was young, I went to a lot of different doctors. In fourth grade, I was diagnosed with a language-based learning disability. Basically, that means some of the neurons in my brain don't work right, making it difficult for me to express and retain language—whether spoken or written.

At first, my parents and I thought my problem could eventually be "fixed," until the doctor told us otherwise. "Your brain processes information differently than most people," he said. "It can't ever be cured."

But the doctors did tell me that with hard work I could understand how my disability affected my central nervous system, and that I could take some steps to overcome it. Knowing how my brain worked would help me with my learning struggles. But I would probably always stutter. My mom tried to reassure me that going to a "special teacher" didn't mean I was stupid. I tried hard to believe her.

But it was very frustrating when other kids were so mean to me just because I learned differently than they did. I had days when I wanted to get up in front of the class and scream "I'm not stupid!" But I never did.

By the time I started high school, I was pretty good at sports and had an outgoing personality. But I still lacked the ability to communicate well. Some days, I couldn't even say the word "run." I could see it in my head. But I couldn't write it or say it.

On top of that, no one even tried to understand me. I guess that's why I started hanging out with the "wrong" crowd. They accepted me, stuttering and all. So I looked past their bad habits—smoking, drinking, whatever. In fact, I joined them.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. But no one could feel my pain. Not even me. That's what drinking can do. It made me numb. I didn't have to think about my problems when I was drinking. My parents kept telling me to trust God. But why? If he was such a good and loving God, my life wouldn't be so hard.

My friends and I lived for the weekends when we could kick back and forget about everything, even for just a little while. Partying soon became my life. Until I got a phone call.

"Abbie," my friend said through tears. "John killed himself."

No, this is a lie! I'm dreaming. This can't be happening!

One of my best friends, gone. No note, no explanation.

The phone slipped from my hand as I sank to the floor. Tears didn't fall. Not for a long time.

I spent the next month trying to hold my friends together. They went right back to partying. I didn't. I was overcome with grief. And I decided my life needed to change.

John had evidently been miserable, searching for some kind of meaning he apparently never found. I knew I didn't want to end up like him. I started thinking about God and the Christian faith my parents had shown me my entire life. I knew God offered unconditional love. And I began to think if he was in my life, I might have hope. So I dropped to my knees and asked Jesus to forgive me, to come into my life, to change my heart.

I went to my parents for guidance, support and forgiveness. I had finally made their faith my own. But not without some consequences. I abandoned the party scene—and my friends abandoned me. I was also still having a hard time in school. Battling my disability took all of my strength. The constant frustration left me wondering why life was still so hard.

But I pressed on, doing the best I could. I started growing in my faith. I was finally starting to realize that being me was a good thing. And then I went off to college.

The tears return
My first semester at college was tough. All freshmen have to take an English course that requires a lot of writing. I worked extra hard on the first assignment; I knew I had to prove myself from the start. So when my professor told me she needed to see me after class, I thought she was going to tell me that I'd written a great paper, but it just needed a little work.

I was wrong.

"Abbie, your writing skills are equal to that of a middle-schooler," she told me.

I swallowed hard, trying to anticipate what she'd say next.

"I don't even know how you got into this school."

I stared in disbelief. Nothing could've prepared me to hear this!

"There's an academic support center on campus if you need some extra help."

Tears from the past returned as I grabbed my books and headed out the door. I immediately went to the support center. I found the director and told her I needed help. She gladly gave it to me. I told her all about my learning disability, and she got me on the right track toward progress.

And my English professor let me rewrite my paper. After a lot of hard work, I got an A in the class. We talked about my situation and have since become friends. Because of her, I learned to be a better writer.

I now tell all of my teachers about my disability. And they do what they can to help me. But I'm determined that no professor should ever treat a student the way my English prof treated me that day. Some professors need to be educated on how to help people with learning disabilities. So I became an advocate for the cause.

And I've continued to work on my stuttering problem. Nine years with speech pathologists has helped me. I finally feel like I have it under control, unless I get nervous or hyper.

As I've gained more confidence in the classroom and around campus, I've become more comfortable telling people about my learning disability. But I wanted a bigger platform—a way to tell as many people as possible.

That's why I decided to enter the Miss Massachusetts pageant my sophomore year. I was confident, but nervous. Interviewing was a huge part of the competition. Could I do it without stuttering?

Life in the spotlight
I fidgeted outside the door in an uncomfortable metal chair. The music in my headphones drowned out the noise of other contestants preparing for their interviews.

I hope I don't stutter.

As I asked God to calm my nerves. I put my headphones away and relaxed, someone came to the door. It was my turn.

I smoothed my suit as I walked into the room for my interview, worth 50 percent of the competition. Five judges faced me as I sat, front and center. They asked me to introduce myself. Then for 12 intense minutes, they asked me all kinds of questions. I have to know myself well.

I did.

I walked out, breathing a sigh of relief. I then had to prepare for my on-stage interview, where I talked for two minutes about my platform, "Making Disabilities Abilities." As I walked off stage, I realized I had made it through both interviews without stuttering. My hard work paid off. Whether I won the pageant or not, I felt a personal victory.

After I finished the talent, evening gown and swimsuit portions of the pageant, I sat and waited as the judges tallied the final scores. I clapped as the second-runner up was announced. My stomach churned. Then the announcer said my name. I was first runner-up in the 1999 Miss Massachusetts pageant!

Incredibly, I had actually won the interview portion of the pageant, the toughest part of the competition. Imagine that: Me, the one with the stuttering problem, winning the part where I had to talk!

I tried again last year, thinking I had a chance to win. Others thought so too. But the interview didn't go so well. I stuttered and someone else won the crown.

But I will try again this year. I love this state, and I want to represent it in the Miss America Pageant. I also want others to realize that having a learning disability is not the end of the world. In fact, with God's help, it can be dealt with and even overcome.

Finding peace
Looking back, I realize my disability has been a blessing. It has made me a stronger person and has been my primary motivator to succeed.

Sometimes things happen that don't make any sense. That's where faith comes in. God has and always will be in control. Everyone has struggles. Mine just happens to be a learning disability. I may never understand why this happened to me. But I'm doing my best to make my disadvantage my advantage. And by working with national organizations and speaking out about disabilities, I feel that my efforts are giving hope to people like me.

That's the most important thing.

Abbie will be a fifth-year senior at Gordon College in Massachusetts this fall. She plans on teaching music and hopes one day to become a principal.


More on Learning Disabilities
As Abbie's story shows, a learning disability doesn't have to stand in the way of achieving big things. Many people with learning disabilities have gone on to accomplish much—including Beethoven, Thomas Edison, John F. Kennedy, Walt Disney, Agatha Christie and Tom Cruise.

If you have a learning disability, we hope you're inspired by Abbie's story. You're already well aware of your specific challenges, and we encourage you to keep doing the best you can. And don't hesitate to ask a teacher or counselor for help whenever you need it.

If you don't have a learning disability, be sensitive to those who do. Students with learning disabilities are not "dumb" or "stupid." Usually, it's just the opposite: Such students often have above-average intelligence. These students just have trouble processing certain kinds of information, because some neurons in their brains don't "communicate" with one another efficiently—sort of like "static" in a phone line.

Think of it like this: Ever try to go to a Web site and get some sort of error message? That's usually because something has gone wrong with the connection between your computer and the Web site's computer. There's likely nothing wrong with your computer or the Web site's computer, but somewhere along the millions of "neurons" between the two, something short-circuited. So you try again: The connection to your Web destination might take a little longer, and you might have to be patient, but you'll eventually get there.

The Big Lie?

As I walked into the youth room, I felt my stomach churn and my mouth go dry. I knew I shouldn't be in this church. … or any church. But I had to be there, even if it meant doing something my own religion (not to mention my mom) said was wrong.

I needed to point these misguided Christians to the real truth.

When my friend Brad and I entered the room, I saw about 30 kids. A couple of them were playing Ping-Pong, others were parked in front of a video game, but most were just talking and joking around. Brad pointed toward Bob, the youth pastor. I swallowed hard and headed straight for him. As I looked into his eyes, I blurted out, "How can you believe in the Trinity? Nowhere in the Bible does it say Jesus is God!"

I didn't mean to sound rude. I just felt that he should know how wrong he was.

As the goofy grin on his face softened into a caring smile, he asked, "Are you a Jehovah's Witness?"

I stammered, "H-h-ow did you know?"

"Well, you know, Jehovah's Witnesses have a problem with the Trinity . …"

A Three-Headed Monster
I had more than a problem with the Trinity. As a committed Jehovah's Witness (JW), my mother had taught me that the Trinity was a big lie. When I was around 8 years old, I remember hearing her call the Trinity a "three-headed-monster god." It was quite a frightening image to a kid!

I was also scared when Mom read me a book about Armageddon—the great, final disaster that would destroy all evil and bring "Paradise" on Earth. I was spellbound by the book's pictures of terrified people being swallowed by earthquakes and swept away by floods. If I wasn't a good JW, that's what would happen to me.

The book was published by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, which develops doctrines and rules for the JW religion. The Watchtower also published the New World Translation of the Bible—the only translation JWs are allowed to read.

The Watchtower had many strict rules. And if we didn't follow them, we wouldn't have a chance at getting into Paradise. As far as religious writings went, we could only read Watchtower publications. We were supposed to regularly attend meetings at a Kingdom Hall (which is sort of like going to church, but it's not a church). And we were supposed to go door to door, telling others what we believed was the truth about Jehovah, the word all JWs use for God.

Why Believe This Stuff?
When I became a teenager, I was trying hard to be a good JW. After all, my good works would determine whether or not I would make it into Paradise.

I read the whole New World Translation (NWT). I went to almost every meeting at the Kingdom Hall. But I was too shy for the door-to-door stuff. Unfortunately, I knew I was a long way from Paradise.

I also began having doubts. What made my religion true? What about other religions, like Buddhism and Islam? I asked a lot of questions of an older JW, and she answered them all. But I still had so many questions.

I wondered about the Bible, too. Why should I believe it? What made it true? When my sophomore English teacher assigned a term paper on the topic of my choice, I immediately knew I wanted to research something that would answer these questions.

Before the assignment was made, I'd heard about the Dead Sea Scrolls—ancient manuscripts that were supposed to help prove the Bible was a reliable historical document. I decided to do my paper on these ancient writings.

Unfortunately, I was reading the wrong translation of the Bible. Although I didn't know it at the time, I later learned that the NWT is full of all kinds of errors and untruths—all put there by the Watchtower people to support the beliefs of the JW religion.

But while I was doing my research, I never thought to question whether or not the NWT was the correct English translation of the Bible's Hebrew and Greek languages. I thought if my research into the scrolls proved the original manuscripts were true, it would prove that the NWT Bible was true. And my research did convince me that the Dead Sea Scrolls were worth believing.

I was almost convinced that the JW religion was the truth. Still, I felt that before I could completely believe, I had to do one more thing: I had to convince one person that my religion was the one and only true religion. If I could do that, I promised Jehovah I'd become the best Witness ever.

Were Christians Really Evil?
I thought I'd found that person in Brad, a guy in my gym class who was different from most guys. I was lousy at sports, and most guys picked on me when I messed up. Not Brad. When I made a mistake, he'd say, "That's OK, Steve. Keep trying!"

Brad and I started hanging out. I'd go to his house, and we'd order a pizza and watch a movie. And we always ended up talking religion. I tried to convince him that what I believed was true. But Brad had his own "agenda." As a committed Christian, he wanted me to come around to his way of thinking. Neither of us was budging.

Then one day Brad asked, "Hey, Steve, want to visit my youth group?"

I had no idea what a youth group was. Kingdom Hall had nothing like it. Brad said it was just a bunch of kids at church who had fun and studied the Bible. He said they had a cool adult leader named "Pastor Bob."

This is my chance! I thought. Not only will I convert Brad, but Pastor Bob and the whole youth group, too! Jehovah was going to answer my prayer in a much bigger way than I'd imagined!

But there was a major problem. JWs weren't supposed to enter a church. Mom taught me that church was an evil, demonic place. While I never admitted it, I thought that kind of thinking was extremely narrow-minded. If the truth was on my side (and I believed it was), what did I have to fear? So I took Brad up on his invitation—without telling my mom, of course.

When I entered the youth room that night, I let Pastor Bob have it. And that's when he stunned me with what seemed like an ability to read minds.

I stayed around for the meeting. Afterward, Bob gave me a couple of books to read. I took them and, later that evening as I flipped through the books, I read that they labeled my religion a "cult." I'd never heard anybody say that about JWs before. I'd always thought cults were bizarre religions where the leader brainwashed followers into committing mass suicide. You know, really crazy stuff. That certainly didn't apply to my faith!


Although I was offended by these books, I was still interested in their perspective on non-Christian religions—especially my own. I read them from cover to cover. I also quit reading the NWT of the Bible, and started reading a King James Version instead.

I also began meeting with Pastor Bob—secretly, of course. He knew the Bible so well. We'd get together over soft drinks and pizza to talk. And argue. Well, mostly I argued. Bob listened a lot. When he did speak, he'd point to the Bible to carefully explain what Christianity was all about. Before long, I began to think that maybe Christianity's Jesus wasn't just one ugly face on a three-headed-monster god.

But I still had doubts—and fears. I was worried about hurting my mom. I knew she'd be devastated if I changed religions. I also knew she suspected something. One day I found a note from her on top of the Christian books on my bed. The note said: "Get these apostate books out of this house!"

Mom wasn't the only one concerned. After seeing me with some of Bob's "anti-cult" books, a JW girl at school gave me this note: "I am also tempted to read those kinds of books. But be careful. We can be led astray by reading something as simple as a newspaper article." I couldn't believe her reasoning. I thought, If the Jehovah's Witness religion is true, then it shouldn't fall apart when criticized.

Not Afraid of the Truth
At the end of my junior year in high school, Brad gave me a new Bible, a Today's English translation. He said it was much easier to read than the King James Version I'd been reading.

That summer, as I read the Gospels, I was amazed at what I discovered about Jesus. It was like my eyes were opening up for the first time. This great teacher became more than just somebody I studied. He became a real, living human being.

He also became much bigger than just the most powerful angel Jehovah ever created—which is what the JW religion taught. I became convinced Jesus really was God in the flesh. And by believing in Jesus, by trusting him to forgive all my sins, I could receive eternal life as a free gift. If I chose to believe in Christ, I would definitely go to heaven. No more fears of being swallowed up in an Armageddon earthquake!

Even though I believed all this in my head, it was hard to fully accept it in my heart. I didn't want to hurt and disappoint Mom, because I loved her so much. But after a few weeks of personal struggle, I could no longer deny the truth. I asked Jesus Christ, the second person of the Trinity, to become my Lord and Savior.

When I told Mom, she was devastated. Our relationship became very strained, and at one point, she said she felt I was no longer her son. It hurt so much. Still, I knew I'd done the right thing.
Still Amazed
A lot has taken place since I became a Christian. I graduated from high school and attended a Christian college. Guess who my roommate was? Brad!

And my relationship with Mom, while still tense, has gradually gotten better. I know she loves me even though she doesn't agree with my beliefs.

It's amazing how God worked things out, and the people and circumstances he used to bring me to himself. Even while I was a JW, he gave me a desire to seek the truth—and not accept any religion blindly.

I hope I never take my faith for granted or fear anybody who tries to refute Christianity. If Christianity is true—and I know it is—it can stand up under any attack. It sure stood up under mine!

The Anger Inside

My fist pounded hard against the guy's already swollen cheek, sending tremors of gratification throughout my entire body. He staggered, dropping his right shoulder and exposing his face to another blow. This one knocked him to the ground. With teeth gritted and fists clenched even tighter, I delivered one punch after the other. First right, then left, then right again.

Spectators looked on, some in horror, others with smug satisfaction, but no one intervened. Some thought the guy deserved it. He was always bullying kids in the neighborhood.

I looked down at throbbing hands to find my knuckles peering through shredded flesh. Unable to keep my fists tightened, I grabbed his hair and began to beat his head against the concrete. This was no longer about him picking on my little sister. It was about me — and my anger at the world.

Hands stronger than my own grabbed my arms from behind, yanking me forcefully from the motionless body.

Moments later paramedics strapped my enemy onto a stretcher. As they loaded him into the ambulance, the grip on my arms loosened. I turned to face a silver badge and a hard stare.

"We're gonna be keeping a close watch on you, son," he said. "You better hope that boy wakes up."

Thankfully, a few days later he did, and without any brain damage. I escaped punishment, but I couldn't forget the police officer's words: "You could have killed him, Steve."

Dad leaves
I hadn't always been so angry and violent. A few years before that incident, life was great. My family and I lived in a big lakefront house in the suburbs. I had horses to ride and a pool in the back yard. I couldn't have asked for more.

Then Dad's business went under, and he had to leave.

I was playing out in the backyard when he came to me and said he was leaving. He hugged me and told me he loved me. Then he got into his car and drove away. It was almost more than my 7-year-old heart could take.

Tears streamed down my face as I ran inside the house. There I found my mom trying to console my older sister. My little sister was too young to understand. Mom gathered us all up in her arms and told us not to worry. "Everything will be fine," she promised. "We'll find a way."

Three months later there was a knock at the door. When I answered it, the sheriff told me to get my mom. Then I heard him say, "Ma'am, you have one hour to gather up your three children. You're allowed to take your clothes, your car, and that's it. Everything, including the house and property, is going to be sold in a sheriff's sale for debt. You have one hour to vacate."

The sheriff hovered over us as we hurriedly packed the car. Then we drove across the street where, for the next four hours, we watched as everything we had was carried away. Through sobs I asked my mom why we had to leave our house.

She hugged me and my sisters and promised again, "There's no need to worry. Everything will be fine." Then she put us in the car and drove us 14 hours to our new home — a two-room basement apartment in a drug-infested slum.

I had never been in the city before. My very first day on the street I walked down an alley only to discover that the only way out was the way I'd come in. I turned around to leave, and there were five kids blocking the entrance. I thought, Great! I'm gonna make some new friends.

Well, I did. But their rules of friendship were different from any I'd ever known. They punched and kicked me until I didn't move anymore. Then they picked me up, carried me home, and dropped me on my doorstep — broken nose, cracked ribs and all. That was my welcome to the neighborhood.

Mom turns to the bottle
Things only got worse.

Mom began drinking a lot, and when she got drunk, she was violent. She'd spit on me, hit me, throw beer bottles at me. She'd also kick me out of the house. Sometimes it was only for a few hours, but other times it was for a couple of days. When that happened I'd have to sleep in abandoned buildings and dig in the trash for food.

I became incredibly angry. I was like a cocked pistol, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. I guess that's why I responded so violently when that bully started picking on my little sister. A few words was all it took. The police officer told me then that my life was heading in the wrong direction. I knew he was right, and I wanted to change.

Soon after that, change did come, but I had nothing to do with it. With little explanation, my dad showed up. He remarried my mom and moved us all back to the suburbs. I still didn't understand why he'd left us the first time, but I was glad to have him back. I was also glad to get out of that neighborhood. I saw the move as a chance to start over.

I started high school in the fall. And while the temptation to fight wasn't always in my face, I still had a lot of anger inside. I found that sports helped me stay out of trouble. So I started playing football.

When the season ended, I wanted to try another sport. I heard a coach was starting a swim team, so I went to him and asked to be on the team.

"There's only one little problem," I told him. "I can't swim." The coach looked at me questioningly, but he let me try to swim the length of the pool anyway.

My body was quivering slightly when I jumped into the water, partly because the water was cold and partly because I was scared. Taking a deep breath, I pushed off the wall with my feet and began thrashing my arms and legs, trying to copy what I'd seen the other guys do.

I only made it a few feet before I swallowed a mouth full of water. I came up choking and groping for the lane rope. I held on until I caught my breath. Then I launched myself back into the middle of the lane, where I repeated the thrashing, choking and grabbing.

Fifteen minutes later I reached the other end of the pool. It was all I could to do to pull myself out of the water and onto the pool deck. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest.

When I looked up, the coach was smiling. "Still want to be a swimmer?"

I nodded, even though I knew I'd just looked like an idiot in the water.

"Fine. See you tomorrow at practice." His answer surprised me.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I see something in you I believe in," he said.

That was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to me. I didn't know how to respond except to show up at practice day after day.

A lot of people laughed at first. But by the end of the season, no one was laughing anymore. I was the leading varsity sprinter and held two school records.

God loves me?
At home, things weren't going nearly as well. The move and remarriage had little effect on my mom's alcoholism. During her drinking binges, I might come home to find all my clothes strewn across the front yard and all the doors locked. I'd have to find another place to stay until she decided to let me back in. As for my dad, he was away on business half the time. But by then I was learning to block out my emotions.

Then along came Chera. On our first date she said some things that shot past my defensive walls. We had just pulled out of her driveway when — wham! Out of nowhere she looked at me and said: "I'll never love you or anybody else more than I love Jesus Christ. Do you understand that?"

Her boldness caught me off guard. I was expecting a movie and a bite to eat, not some religious declaration. Still, I was intrigued. I had heard about Jesus before, but his name was usually mixed into the lecture I got from people who told me I was going to hell. I'm not sure I'd ever heard his name and the word "love" used in the same sentence.

"Have you ever heard John 3:16, Steve?" she asked. "You can put your name in that verse — 'For God so loved Steve that he gave his only Son so that if Steve believes in him, Steve won't perish but will have eternal life.'"

It was like Chera was speaking another language to me. But I didn't stop her; I was interested in what she had to say — so interested that even after the date was over, I continued to think about it.

Over the next few weeks, we talked more about Jesus and what it means to be a Christian. I talked with her parents, too. There was just something about them, something so comforting, so inviting. I wanted what they had, and I wanted it desperately. But I was still skeptical about becoming a Christian. The thought of having to trust in anyone, even God, was really hard for me.

I was alone in my bedroom the night I realized I had to make a decision — one way or the other. When I knelt beside my bed, the prayer that followed was a rough one. I said, "Hey, Jesus, if you're as great as people say you are, then here's my heart. But if you ever leave me, I'll hate you 'til the day I die."

The single tear that trickled down my cheek surprised me. It had been almost ten years since I cried last. For the first time in my life, I felt like my heart was clean, like I didn't have to feel guilty and ashamed about my past anymore.

In the following weeks, God continued to change me. He pointed out lots of things in my life that I needed to give him control of. He also showed me I needed to forgive my mom
"I forgive you, Mom"
I had been staying with my grandparents since Mom's most recent lockout. I wasn't sure she'd even let me in the house, but I knew I had to try.

Surprisingly, when I found her sitting at the kitchen table, she seemed happy to see me, even though several beer bottles told me she'd been drinking for a while. I asked her how she was doing, then I told her I loved her.

"I love you too, Steve," she said. That was a rule in our house. It didn't matter if we'd just had a knock-down-drag-out fight. Mom insisted we tell one another we loved each other.

"And Mom," I added, "if I've ever done anything to hurt you, I'm sorry. I also want you to know I forgive you."

When I said that, Mom snapped. She lunged toward me, knocking her chair to the floor, swinging both fists with all her might. It wasn't exactly the response I was hoping for.

I made it out of the house and onto my motorcycle. But I hadn't gotten too far when the police pulled me over. "We got a call from your mother," the officer explained. "She says you beat her up."

Luckily, I was able to convince the officers of the truth. It helped, of course, when they saw my mom didn't have so much as a bruise on her.

Things were different after that. Despite the way she'd responded to me, I began to look at my mom through different eyes. I saw her as someone who was hurting and in need of the same grace I had received. As I considered how I was forgiven when I didn't deserve it, I was able to forgive my mom and show her love.

Looking back, I see that was a turning point for me. I see that if I hadn't forgiven Mom, anger and bitterness would have continued to control my life. I also see that Mom might have never given her life to Christ. That's right — it took years, but God changed her.

And Jesus — no, he's never left me.

Saying Goodbye to a Grandparent

My granddad had Alzheimer's disease. The year I turned 12 he rapidly grew weak and disoriented, and before my 14th birthday I watched my grandmother lay flowers on his grave.

He was pretty quiet even before he got sick, never really feeling the need to talk unless he had something in particular to say. He was so unassuming that I was repeatedly startled to discover the spark in his ice-blue eyes.

Growing up, I spent many meals at my grandparents' table, hot and bothered in my scratchy Sunday best, exasperated by the impossible challenge of keeping my elbows off the table. But before things got too unbearable, my grandfather would wink at me and sneak me an icing-laden pastry, ignoring my uneaten vegetables. Laughter would twitch about his mouth, and I would giggle breathlessly with the thrill of our secret.

The earliest memory I have is a game of peek-a-boo at my grandparents' house. I am on my hands and knees, creeping toward a doorway, and my granddad is waiting around the corner, ready to pounce and tickle and dance with me, cheek to bristly cheek. I remember endless games of blocks and trucks, and—as I grew older—billiards and darts in my grandparents' drafty basement.

There were sleepy afternoons curled up together in his fuzzy brown easy chair, reading the Sunday comics. When I got too big for his lap, we graduated to the back porch swing. I don't recall what we talked about. I mostly remember the snap of laundry waving on the clothesline, and the hummingbirds humming at the feeder attached to the kitchen window.

Losing his twinkle
I'm not sure how long my grandfather was ill before I began to notice changes in him. At first he just spoke even less than normal and sometimes fumbled over my name. But the Alzheimer's progressed quickly, and his clear blue eyes grew cloudy until they lost their twinkle.

My grandparents lived in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, and my little brothers and I used to spend the weeks between our monthly visits filled with anxious anticipation. We loved the two-hour ferry ride from the Mainland to Victoria, loved the boat's greasy cafeteria food and salty decks.

We followed the same ritual every visit. The ship docked at Schwartz Bay, and our parents made us promise to walk, not run, as we got off the boat. But the excitement would get the best of us until we were running to our destination. Our nana and granddad were always there, waiting with chocolate bars and hugs and exclamations of how big we were getting.

Around the time I became too old and too cool to run with my brothers, we began to find my grandmother waiting alone for us at the dock.

"Granddad's in the car," she'd say. "He's just a little too tired to make the walk." I would rush to the car, trying to stay cool. But he'd be sleeping, or staring out the window, and he never even said "hello."

I started to wish we didn't have to go to Victoria.

This is my song
The last time I saw my granddad, we were driving from my grandparents' house back to the ferry. He was distant and sick, his breathing labored, and the rest of us rode together in a weary silence.

I was wedged in the back seat between my granddad and my brother Chris, stiff and resentful and brokenhearted. If the grandfather I knew still existed, he had been locked away somewhere, hopelessly lost within the stranger beside us. The drive seemed to take forever.

Then my granddad cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. We all held our breath, shocked and desperately hopeful. He hadn't uttered a word in weeks.

He began to sing.

Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine
O, what a foretaste of glory divine
My dad stared at his father in the rearview mirror.

This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
There was a stunned silence. My grandfather cleared his throat again.

When we all get to heaven,
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus,
We'll sing and shout the victory
Someone in the front seat began to sing with him, and soon we were all singing, even my restless little brothers. I relaxed my tense body enough to rest my head on my grandfather's shoulder.

All the way to Schwartz Bay he kept singing—"How Great Thou Art," "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder," "In the Sweet By and By" —leading his family in hymn after hymn until we reached the dock and kissed him goodbye.

Six days later we were back at Schwartz Bay, hot and bothered in our scratchy Sunday best, and my grandmother was waiting for us alone. We all embraced in a tear-stained huddle.

And then we went to my grandfather's funeral. I cried so hard I thought I might throw up. But when the organ wheezed into life I sang with all my might, believing with every inch of my heart that the God of my father's father had personally arranged that farewell party in my grandparents' Oldsmobile.

In the sweet by and by
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
Telling the story now, I am almost embarrassed by it. It feels like I've dreamed up some impossibly sweet Movie of the Week ending to an otherwise tragic plot. But it really happened. Sometimes life is as unbelievably beautiful as it is cruel.

A farewell gift from God
I have always believed that the last time I saw my grandfather was a gift from God—a chance to say "farewell" and to rest assured that I would see him again in heaven.

But lately, I've also come to believe that those holy moments were a sign—a promise that wherever my granddad was in the last difficult months of his life, God was there too. And if that is true, then I know God will not forsake me either.

This is the story my grandfather told me—even when he was stripped of his memory—and I realize just now, as I type this sentence, the significance of his last words to me:

This is my story, this is my song
Praising my Savior all the day long
At my most faithful—perhaps when I most resemble my grandfather—I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation can separate us from the love of God (see Romans 8:38-39).

Nor will Alzheimer's disease.

See you in the sweet by and by, Granddad

Boy Wonder from Down Under

Tiger Woods is on a fast track to becoming the greatest golfer of all time. But not if a certain 19-year-old from Australia has anything to say about it.

"I want to be better than Tiger," says Aaron Baddeley, golf's boy wonder from Down Under. "He's the benchmark, and I want to be better than the benchmark."

Bold words indeed. But Aaron is earning the right to speak with such confidence. He stunned the golf world by winning the 1999 Australian Open, the youngest ever to accomplish that feat. And in November, he rose to the top again by winning his second Open title. Even Tiger himself has said that Aaron "hits the ball as well as I did at his age. Now it's just what he does with that talent."

Aaron's only been playing golf for seven years. But he knew from the start he'd found his calling.

"I'm lucky," says Aaron, who recently turned pro. "Since I was 13, I've known this is exactly what I want to do."

He also knows he wants to serve God while he's at it.

A born-again Christian since age 14, Aaron publicly thanked his "Lord and Savior Jesus Christ" after winning the '99 Australian Open. In America, where athletes often say things like that, few people would've even blinked at such a statement. But in Australia, Aaron took some flack for it.

"People asked me why I thanked God first. Here in Australia, a lot of people are afraid to talk about God because they don't want to be put down."

But that's not stopping Aaron.

"I try to give God the glory and let everyone know I'm a Christian. A lot of people feel very empty. God can fill that. He's always there no matter how bad life is. He's never gonna leave you. It's a great comfort to have him there."

Especially on the golf course, where Aaron believes God is guiding his career.

"He's got plans for me. I've been able to play in some major U.S. tournaments because he's opened those doors for me. I know I'll be a better player for it."

But that doesn't mean frustration isn't a daily occurrence.

Aaron's day consists of eating, working out, eating, perfecting his strokes, eating again, and getting to bed early—just to get up and do it all over again. Some days, he plays almost as well as Tiger. Others, well, he might not be able to beat Tony the Tiger.

"It's frustrating when you put in a fair amount of work and you don't see any results," says Aaron. "You know you're practicing hard and trying to do the best you can. And when it doesn't work well, it's very frustrating."

After winning the 1999 Australian Open, Aaron was at the top of his game. For a few days, he was one of the best golfers in the world.

But soon after it became an uphill climb. He played poorly in his next 15 tournaments, struggling to get back in the groove.

But he was more determined than ever to win.

"Everything is a learning experience," Aaron says. "You have to fail to succeed, or else you're going to succeed in failing. You have to learn from your experiences or you'll never learn. I just keep practicing. I know if I keep working hard, good things will happen."

He gives God credit for his successes and seeks him during his failures.

"I've never really doubted God at all. I'm confident I'm doing the right thing by playing golf. I just have to keep working hard."

And his hard work paid off when he won his second Australian Open title in November.

"I've always been very goal-oriented, and I've always been very disciplined," he says. "When my friends call and want me to go out with them and I have a tournament the next day, I just say, 'Sorry, I can't.' I'm quite good at saying no."

But that doesn't mean he's not having any fun.

Despite being a star in his country, Aaron insists he's the same guy his friends knew in high school.

"I'm down to earth and chatty," says Aaron, who still makes time for all his "mates." "We really don't talk about golf that much. We'll go to the gym, go out to dinner or just hang out. We do normal teenage stuff."

But for Aaron, "normal teenage stuff" stops as soon as he steps on the golf course, where he's still vying to be the best the world has ever seen.

"My expectations are higher than what anyone else could put on me. I don't always reach my goals, but when I don't achieve them, I ask myself why I didn't. I learn from my mistakes."

With every stroke, on every fairway and every green, Aaron wants to get better—and glorify God in the process.

And he wants it, ahem, very "Baddeley."

Watch out, Tiger.

E hết oy đấy hi

Why All the Suffering?

It's Christmas break. But I'm not feeling very festive right now.

Sometimes I'm in the spirit, ready to celebrate the birth of a baby boy who brought the hope of eternal life to the whole world.

But not now. Now, I'm thinking about another baby. The one I held this morning. The one who will soon be dead. And I'm wondering what God is up to.

It happened as I followed my father, a missionary, on his morning rounds through the Nigerian hospital where he works as a pediatrician—and where he must daily bring the news of a death sentence to the parents of an ailing child …

It's Christmas break. But I'm not baking cookies or hanging tinsel on the tree. I'm in a room at my father's hospital.

The light is dim from the Saharan haze, but I can see a pale baby in the bed nearest the window, sticking his tongue in and out, in and out. He is so scrawny, so tiny, and he looks so helpless. At 18 months, he only weighs about eight pounds.

Once milk-chocolate-brown, he is now a pale shade of gray. Wrinkles accent the folds of skin sagging from his delicate frame. Gingerly, I reach toward his head and feel the sunken depression at his scalp.

"What does it mean?" I ask Dad, fingering the baby's head.

Dad stops his examination long enough to tell me the child is dehydrated. I shudder and take my hand away. Dehydration, malnutrition, yes, but what brings the tears to my eyes is a pink slip of paper clutched in my right hand. I blink back tears as I read the two simple words on the center of the laboratory test slip: "strongly reactive."

Bitrus* has HIV.

Dad sighs as the pediatric team turns away from the emaciated baby in bed 4E, wishing he could avoid being the bearer of bad news to this baby's parents.

As we exit the room, my eyes steal a glance at another bed. It is empty, its sheets fresh and tidy, neatly tucked beneath the thin foam mattress. I bite my lip and close my eyes, remembering the little girl, Salamatu*, who occupied the bed only yesterday. Today Salamatu is dead—another name on a tombstone, another child denied childhood, another victim of the killer we all know as AIDS.

I watch my weary father cross the hall and enter another room. Quietly, I follow him. Dad sits stone-faced on a low couch, tense with apprehension. I take a seat close to the door and wait to see what will happen.

A woman comes in silently, followed by a tall young man, his shoulders broad, his head held high in pride. And so it begins. My father and his Nigerian assistant speak in hushed tones to the couple before them.

"Your child has HIV."

The woman hurls herself to the floor, crying out to God in heavily accented Ibo, her native language. She writhes, flailing arms and legs about in grief.

"Chiwo! Chiwo!" Oh God! Oh God!

This thin woman, whose face speaks of deep pain, continues to wail. She begs God to give ear to her suffering cries.

Does he?

It's Christmas break. But I'm not thinking about the baby Jesus. I'm thinking about the baby Bitrus, and his mother's cries of agony. And I'm asking, along with that grieving mother, Does God hear? Where is he in the midst of this overwhelming pain?

I keep wrestling with that question, but I finally reach a conclusion that defies explanation: God does hear.

Did he not hear Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, begging God to take away his cup if it was his will? Can a God who created such complexity, such beauty, such awesome heavens, such intricate creatures be deaf? No!

He hears. Yes, he hears our cries of confusion and pain as we watch those around us suffer from the incurable virus. He sees the sorrow in the eyes of the young woman who has been given six months to live. He grieves over this killer disease running rampant in our world today. He weeps for the children who will never learn to laugh.

He knows the pain because he felt it too. He also watched his Son die, innocent and yet condemned to pain and suffering for the sin of others. And in his grief, he reaches out to the wailing mother, and touches her with the hand that scattered stars into the reaches of space. He cries with her as he pours his healing love into her gaping wound.

The reality is there: Bitrus will die.

But because I believe that God always does what is right, even in the face of something that seems so wrong, I trust that Bitrus will live again—eternally. Without pain or suffering.

It's Christmas break. But AIDS knows no holiday. The deadly virus ravages the entire globe.

I have only seen its effects here in Nigeria, the most populous nation in Africa. I've seen the despair, the defeat, the fear. I've witnessed first-hand the ignorance of a people unaware of the murderer at large.

And I have wept. In the deepest darkness of fear, I have wept for these people, these dear people who die unaware.

As I lower my head and fight back tears, hopeless questions fill my mind. God loves them and always will, but what can we do? How can we change history? How can we stop AIDS when we do not know a cure?

How can I save the lives of those like Bitrus and Salamatu who die without ever having smelled the roses or skipped down the dusty road?

In the despair surrounding me, one answer rings clear and true. I can do something. I bring my head up with resolve, dedicated to my new mission.

I will do as Jesus did. I will love them.

And I will teach them. The key to defeating AIDS is education. People need to know how it's acquired, and how it's avoided.

But they need to know more than that. They need to know about the love that God offers despite the hopelessness of AIDS.

It is my life goal to live and work on the mission field as a teacher of the Truth. I want to fight not only this horrible disease, but the hopelessness it brings.

I want to be a bearer of the Light—not only during Christmas break, but all the year through.

* Names have been changed for reasons of privacy.

Saralynn is now a freshman at Wheaton College in Illinois.


A Dying Continent?
There is still no cure for AIDS, and in a place like Nigeria—indeed, in much of Africa—little can be done to ease the suffering. Medicine is extremely costly and difficult to come by.

The picture is bleak: In Africa alone, thousands die of AIDS every day, and at least a million die every year. More than 22 million in sub-Saharan Africa have HIV or AIDs, and millions more are at high risk. In some parts of Africa, up to half of the population is infected. In Botswana, the average life expectancy was 65.2 years in 1996; today, it's 47.4 and plummeting, due to the many who die so young from the deadly virus. Ten million Africans are expected to die of AIDS in the next five years.

What Can You Do?
Maybe you'll never go to Africa to help in the fight against AIDS. But AIDS is worldwide, and there are at least three things you can do no matter where you are:

Pray. Ask God to help people with HIV or AIDS; pray for their physical, emotional and spiritual health. Ask God how you might help.

A Real Survivor

Dirk Been knows the not-so-subtle pull to conform to the crowd. He's watched eyes roll upward after saying something "uncool." He's had that awful feeling you get in your gut when the clique snubs you. He's experienced what it's like to say no when everyone else says yes.

No doubt about it. Dirk understands the uncomfortable intensity of peer pressure. Real well. Especially now. While the 24-year-old former youth pastor is a long way from the halls of high school, he's only a few short months away from Survivor—the hot CBS TV show that had everybody buzzing last summer. (Survivor began its second season on January 28.)

Last spring Dirk spent 15 days marooned on a remote island in the South China Sea, 10,000 miles from home. He and 15 others were part of the reality-based show that promised a million dollars to whomever could outwit, outplay and outlast all the others.

One of the Chosen Few
Dirk's Survivor experience began in the fall of '99, when he saw TV ads soliciting contestants for the show's first season. Between jobs and living with his parents in Spring Green, Wisconsin, Dirk decided to give the show a try. So he sent in a video resume.

He wasn't alone. Around 6,500 other would-be contestants did the same. Dirk was one of 48 chosen to audition. As a finalist, he was flown to California to see if he'd make the final cut.

Early on in the auditions, Dirk began to feel like an outsider.

"When I was in LA being interviewed for the show, I didn't hide the fact that I was a Christian," Dirk says. "When I added that I was still a virgin, they gave me some funny looks."

Dirk's confidence and sexual innocence were intriguing to the show's producers. They also saw him as a likable guy who certainly had camera appeal. He was the type of contestant they were looking for. In a few weeks he was flown to Malaysia. Once there, he was taken by boat and dropped just off the coast—yes, they had to swim to shore—of a jungle island called "Pulau Tiga," about 10 miles from the larger island of Borneo.

Early on, Dirk wondered if he'd fit in with the rest of the contestants. Would he click with anybody? Would he have common interests? All in all, he hoped the shared adventure would lead to friendships with the others.

Dirk didn't need to worry—at least not for a while. The moment the CBS sailboat dropped them into the water—just off the shore of the island—they were literally plunged into a team-building experience.

"It was exhilarating," says Dirk. "As we swam to shore we knew we were sharing in an adventure we would never forget. And I was sure it would unify us."

Once on the island, Dirk hit it off with other members of the Survivor cast. He could talk music, TV and movies with the best of them. They laughed together. Shared stories around the campfire. He discovered that small stuff, like the fact that he enjoyed dancing and watching Saturday Night Live, helped him fit in.

Later that first evening, the castaways had another friendship-building experience. Dirk and a couple of others tested the seaworthiness of a raft they'd built together from driftwood. The tide and the wind blew them out beyond the reef—and beyond the view of Survivor cameras.

Because the waves had a mind of their own, the new friends had to work together to get the raft to go where they wanted. Eventually, they managed to land the raft back on the island.

Life in Temptation Jungle
After the "raft ordeal," the 16 castaways were arbitrarily divided into two teams by CBS—the Tagi Tribe and the Pagong Tribe. Dirk was assigned to the Tagi, which also included a corporate trainer (Richard Hatch, the guy who eventually won the million bucks), a Nevada river guide, a retired Navy Seal, a truck driver, a neurosurgeon, a 60-something musician and an attorney.

Life wasn't going to be easy on the five-square-mile jungle island. The place was full of rats, snakes and other reptiles. But Dirk soon discovered that wild animals weren't the only challenge he'd face. Standing up for his beliefs and sticking to his morals became a major challenge.

"Even though you didn't see it on TV, the kind of stuff going on would have made my mother blush," says Dirk. "Those 10 camera crews didn't film everything.

"The constant talk about sex, you know, about condoms, being horny and getting some was awful. It was difficult being around all that," says Dirk. "Even though I didn't give in to behavior I knew was wrong, I wasn't immune from lustful thoughts."

Then there was the other big temptation.

"Making others look bad to improve my chances at surviving was another temptation I struggled with," explains Dirk. "Having a chance of going home with a million dollars in your backpack really tests what you believe in your heart."

This temptation only grew when the two teams competed against each other. These competitions included a "dare you" race where members were to eat thumb-sized yellow grub worms without flinching. While each tribe would work together to win, losing was another thing altogether.

The tribe that lost a competition would have to vote one of its members off the island. This would turn good friends into bitter, back-stabbing enemies. After all, when you're trying to win a million bucks, you'll do just about anything to survive.

To fight off the many temptations he faced, Dirk knew real help would be found in just one place: his faith. For that reason, he took his Bible.

"Each of us was allowed to bring one 'luxury' item with us to the island," Dirk said. "I took my Bible. I figured I could go without a razor or a toothbrush. But I was not willing to spend my time on the island without God's Word."

When Dirk explained to his tribe why he'd chosen his particular "luxury item," he was made fun of on national television. In fact, the retired Navy Seal said the pages of the Bible would make good toilet paper—he could think of no other reason for bringing a Bible on a deserted island.

Dirk couldn't help but wonder if his Bible readings would get him voted off the island. He faced the temptation to put the Word aside—at least until after the Survivor experience.

But as a committed Christian, Dirk knew faith didn't work that way. He couldn't just stop doing what he'd always done, even for just a few days, and then pick it up again later. So he continued to read his Bible, and he made it a regular habit to pray for his fellow "survivors."

He also looked for opportunities to talk with others in his tribe about his beliefs. And he knew he needed to show his faith by simply pulling his own weight, by doing his best in competitions, and by just being a decent guy.

In spite of his desire to keep faith first, Dirk found himself occasionally bending under all the pressures to fit in—and survive.

"As a Christian, I really wanted to be different from the group," says Dirk. "But the pressure to conform was incredible. At times, I let the group get to me.

"I definitely let the others influence my attitude about Stacey [the attorney, who was voted off the island early in the series]. She was a good team member. She really didn't deserve to be kicked off the island, but I went along with the group vote in order to be accepted by them. I wish I could rewind the tape."

And although he knew it was wrong, Dirk also caught himself taking part in gossiping about his team members. Specifically, he made jokes about the corporate trainer's homosexuality.

Even though he believes the Bible calls homosexuality a sin, Dirk felt bad for what he'd said. Eventually he did what he knew Jesus would want him to do. He went to the gay tribe member, Richard, and apologized for what he'd been saying.

After his apology, Dirk worked harder to watch his tendency to gossip. He also tried to make decisions a little more slowly. Even though the pressure to stab others in the back was strong, he fought the urge. And even though he'd made mistakes, he wanted his faith—not the pressures of the group—to lead him to make the right kind of choices and decisions.

Somebody's Gotta Go
Dirk's fifteenth day on the island began with a competition between the Tagi and Pagong. The team that won a rafting relay would be immune from losing a team member. The team that lost the competition would choose from among themselves who they'd kick off. Tagi lost the competition. Someone had to go.

Dirk didn't think it would be him. Sure, he knew some of the members disliked his personal beliefs. Yet as a former college basketball player at Seattle Pacific University, his athletic abilities and strength were major assets to his tribe. He was sure the others felt he played a valuable role in the tribe's survival.

He was wrong. That evening in a meeting of his tribal council, he was voted off the island.

"Being voted against was awful," Dirk recalls. "Sure, the Lord helped ease the pain of feeling rejected. But, it took me a long time to deal with the disappointment."

Keeping the Faith
The whole Survivor experience reminds Dirk of his four years in high school. Back then he knew he could have blown his reputation for a single night of partying with the cool group. The pull to feel a part of the crowd, to be accepted by others, was so powerful back then that it could have pushed away everything he believed in.

But with a few mistakes along the way, Dirk feels he survived the pressures. Overall, he managed to keep himself together—to keep his faith first in high school.

What he discovered about standing strong back then served Dirk well on the island. Yes, he made some mistakes. Yes, he has some regrets. But he's glad he didn't chuck his beliefs just so he'd have a better chance of winning the money— or fit in with the so-called "cool crowd."

"I'm the one who has to look in the mirror every morning and be happy with the person looking back at me," says Dirk. "If I'd given in to the jungle of peer pressure, I would have been disappointed in myself no matter how much money or fame I'd come away with. Even if the in-group on the island—or the in-group anywhere—can't live with me, I have to live with myself."

Dirk didn't win a million bucks. He didn't completely "fit in" with the cool crowd. But he did have the courage to stand by his beliefs—and admit where he'd gone wrong.

In his way of seeing things, that probably makes him a real survivor.

Where Is He Now?
Dirk has been traveling around the country speaking to churches and youth conferences. When at home in Wisconsin, he works as a substitute teacher and helps out on the family dairy farm.

Turnaround

God had been knocking on Jon Kitna's door for a while, but Jon sure wasn't listening.

So God quit knocking … and pulled out a battering ram instead. There had to be some way to get this guy's attention.

The first knock—a near-death experience Jon's freshman year in college—should've been loud enough. Jon had been out drinking all night, then passed out while driving home the next morning. He crashed into the curb, popping two tires, and barely missed smashing into a telephone pole at 40 mph.

The second knock—during his sophomore year—came when Jon and a buddy were arrested for shoplifting at a grocery store. Jon had to go to court and pay a $500 fine.

Still, Jon didn't give God even an inkling of a thought.

So God quit knocking and barged through Jon's front door instead.

Here's what happened:

Jon had been dating his girlfriend, Jennifer, for a year and a half, and they'd just had a spat at his apartment. Jennifer stormed out, and a little later, another girl showed up at Jon's place. A couple hours later, Jon and the other girl went to bed. Together.

That's when Jennifer came back. She walked through Jon's door … and caught 'em in the sack.

"Nothing had happened between me and the girl yet, because we'd just gotten into bed," Jon says. "Still, Jennifer wasn't happy about it."

The other girl left. Jennifer stayed, and she and Jon had a very big talk.

Jon spilled his guts. He told Jennifer he couldn't figure out why he kept doing all these stupid things. He was the star quarterback for the college football team. He had great friends, a wonderful family, a terrific girlfriend, and just about everything anybody could ever want—but he kept messing up.

Then he dropped the shocker: "I don't know what's going to happen between you and me, but I need to find Christ."

Jennifer's jaw hit the floor.

How does a guy go from the point of totally ignoring God to seeking a Savior, practically overnight?

Jon tells the story.

"I think God sometimes works in three stages to get your attention," he says. "At least that's how he worked in my life. First he woos you by showing you the good things that come with trusting in him. For me, God had tried to show me through my grandmother and through Christians I knew in high school.

"When that doesn't work, he wounds you. That's when I got caught stealing and almost got killed by drinking and driving.

"And when those two things don't work, I think you're either taken from this earth or you're just turned over to your sin. That's where I was. I really think I was at the end of my rope as far as the wounding went."

Jon had been a good guy in high school, though he wasn't a Christian. Still, he grew up in a loving family and had tons of friends. He rarely partied, made great grades, and was a three-sport star.

But when he went off to Central Washington University to play football, the freedom of college—no parents, few rules—was too much for him to handle. It wasn't long before he was drinking heavily, and he soon got into shoplifting and, to use his term, "womanizing." As a freshman quarterback who rarely played in games, Jon was having sex more often than he was taking snaps

"Womanizing was definitely a problem for me," Jon says, "just as much as the drinking and the stealing."

Jon says he did those things "just for the high of doing it." Peer pressure wasn't an issue: "I was the ringleader," he says. "I'd come up with the plans myself." Need wasn't an issue either: "We stole for fun, not because we had to. The night we got caught shoplifting, we took about $30 worth of stuff, but I had $50 in my pocket. I was just doing it to do it."

And of course there were consequences—all part of what Jon calls God's "wounding" process. But God never stopped "wooing," either—mostly through one of Jon's former teammates.

Eric Boles, who played football with Jon at Central Washington, had gone on to the NFL. Somebody led Eric to Christ during his rookie year, and when he came back to visit his college buddies, they noticed a big change. Especially Jon.

Eric told Jon about Jesus. Jon wasn't quite ready to hear it … at least not till that night Jennifer caught him in bed with another girl.

"God just used that incident to say, 'You're about to lose the best thing that's ever happened to you.' That's when I thought, Man, I need to make a change."

And that's when Jon thought of the changes he'd seen in Eric. Maybe there was something to this Jesus stuff after all.

Jon called Eric the next day.

"I told him I wanted to make a change," Jon says. "I told him I wanted to quit cussing and drinking and stealing and womanizing and doing all these things, and then I'm going to get saved. And Eric was like, 'No, no, no. You can do it right now. God wants you right where you're at. He can make the changes.'"

Jon thought about it, but not for long. A couple of weeks later, alone in his apartment, he realized something had to change. "I just felt guilty. Here I was, the starting quarterback, with a great girlfriend, all these things I should be happy about, but I felt no peace.

"I got on my knees right there and started praying. I believed who Christ was and that he died for my sins. I asked him to be my Lord and Savior."

A few months later, Jon and a few others—including Jennifer—joined Eric in a Bible study. Jennifer soon became a Christian. So did others. By the end of the semester, the Bible study grew from six people to almost 40.

Jon and Jennifer kept dating—and going all the way. Jon says that at first, they just didn't know any better. But one day Jon asked Eric, "I shouldn't be having sex with Jen, should I?" Eric shook his head. "We shouldn't even be staying in the same house, should we?" Eric shook his head again.

So Jon and Jennifer backed off. "We started making changes, and believe me, it wasn't easy," Jon says. "We didn't stay strong all the time. But we made a commitment to honor Christ, because the guilt was getting to us."

But they didn't have to deal with it for long, because a few months later, they got married.

Much has happened in the six years since then.

Jon's dad and little brother, Matt, have become Christians. His mom "rededicated her life to Christ," as Jon says. "Everyone in my family is saved, and it's a beautiful thing."

Jon and Jennifer now live in Seattle, where Jon is the starting quarterback for the Seahawks and a rising star in the NFL. The Kitnas have two kids, a 3-year-old boy, Jordan, and a 2-year-old girl, Jada.

When Jon's not busy with football or family, he helps out at a ministry for troubled teens that he founded in his hometown of Tacoma, near Seattle.

A busy guy. And it's been quite a journey, says Jon, who believes he'd have never made it this far if not for God.

"I was on the road to destruction," he says. "But while I was yet a sinner, God protected me. He made me miss that telephone pole. He allowed things to happen to me to try to get my attention, but he protected me from things that would ruin me."

And he just kept knock, knock, knocking.

Finally, Jon sat up and listened.

Giving Hope to Troubled Teens
Jon Kitna will never forget the sight: Teens hanging out on the streets of Oakland, smoking all kinds of stuff, no direction, no purpose …

"No hope," says Jon, who saw them while riding from the hotel to the stadium before a game in Oakland a couple of years ago. "These kids looked like they had no hope in life."

Jon wanted to do something, to make a difference. When he got back to Seattle, he called Remann Hall, a juvenile detention center in nearby Tacoma, where he'd grown up. He asked how he could help. After the season, Jon dropped by Remann Hall every other Tuesday night to work with the teens.

Typically, he'd play Ping Pong or cards with them, start some conversations, then lead a Bible study, telling them how to become a Christian. Some of them did.

Jon says he saw himself in the teens at Remann.

"I was a lot like they are," he says. "I made some wrong decisions, did some things I shouldn't have. The only differences between them and me was one, I didn't get caught, and two, I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. But other than that, I was just like those kids."

Since then, Jon had to step back from the program, due to increased time demands with the team and his family—including two young children of his own.

But he still has "a heart for teens," as he puts it, and he often speaks in high schools and to youth groups. He likes to tell the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, and how they kept the faith despite having their lives threatened (Daniel 3).

Says Jon, "I want to encourage students to stay strong, no matter what."

An Unexpected Customer

I had barely made my way around the counter when I saw him.

The moment I established eye contact, a huge smile spread across his face. As the corners of his mouth curved upward to form his lopsided grin, his eyes came alive and danced with light. I smiled back and asked, "Is there anything I can help you with today?"

In an excited, childlike tone he exclaimed, "My name is Dodee!" I watched as he fumbled around in his pocket. After a few seconds the search ended, and he presented me with an AC adapter. "I need one of these. Do you have one of these? I need a new one of these."

As I took the adapter from his dirty hands, I knew my coworkers were staring my way. I quickly glanced in their direction, catching what I believed to be expressions of relief mixed with humor. It was not difficult to conclude what they were thinking.

After all, Dodee was not our typical customer. His clothes were slightly wrinkled. Neither of his two shirts were tucked in, and no two articles of clothing even remotely matched. Over his blond, unruly hair he wore a blue baseball hat. Curls peeked from beneath the hat, framing his face.

Although at least in his mid-20s, he acted as if he were a young child. The faces of my coworkers communicated relief in being spared the chore of assisting him, while also revealing the humor they found in watching as I took on the challenge.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable I answered, "Yes, we have AC adapters. They're right back here." As I led Dodee to the back of the store, he walked steadily beside me and asked, "What's your name?"

Once again I smiled and answered, "My name is Ashleigh."

"Ashleigh," he repeated. "That's a pretty name, Ashleigh. You're nice, Ashleigh."

Still trying to dismiss the discomfort I felt, I found myself unsure how to react to Dodee. Politely I replied, "Thank you."

Upon reaching the back of the store, I attempted to subtly reclaim a portion of my personal space. Moving slightly to the left, I examined the adapter Dodee had handed me earlier. As I focused my attention on it, the temptation to run overwhelmed me. And why not leave him there?

After all, there was nothing wrong with allowing him to look for the correct replacement. I had shown him where to look and had been friendly. Why should I stick around and continue to feel uncomfortable? Dodee would be fine on his own. How hard could it be to match an AC adapter?

Nearly convinced by my reasoning, I opened my mouth to excuse myself. Before I could form the words, conviction washed over me. Deep down I knew I did not have a good excuse to walk away. Yes, I could justify my reasoning, probably well enough to convince both myself and others. But I realized that no line of excuses or justifications would make that decision right.

I couldn't simply walk away and leave Dodee to search for the adapter on his own. I was basing my decision to leave Dodee on what I saw—a man who was less than what the world said he should be. I had failed to view Dodee through the eyes of Jesus. When Jesus looked at Dodee, he didn't see someone of little value or an uncomfortable situation that he couldn't wait to escape

I suddenly recalled stories in the Gospels where Jesus reached out to and loved those that society rejected and counted as worthless. He loved the beggar and the blind man. He embraced the tax collector and the harlot. He extended healing to the lame and the leper. Jesus recognized and treated each individual as a precious, priceless soul.

It didn't take long for me to locate the correct adapter. Removing it from the shelf, I handed the box to Dodee, "Here you go. This is the one."

Excitedly, Dodee took the box from my hands and asked, "This one will work? This is the right one?"

"Yes, this one will work," I answered as I led Dodee to the front of the store. As I reached the counter, I knew my coworkers were still watching me. Yet, this time I was not bothered by their expressions. I'd begun to see Dodee through new eyes. I no longer focused on his dirty hands or less-than-perfect attire. I saw Dodee as I believe Jesus would, as someone made in the image of God.

After I rang up his purchase, Dodee smiled at me and said, "Ashleigh, you're sweet."

I simply smiled back, knowing that, because of Dodee, I would now view my world just a little bit differently.

Why Me?

Eighth grade. The jerks were everywhere.

Almost every time Katie Pavlacka turned a corner at school, they'd be waiting, ready to spring another dumb prank, for a few yuks at her expense.

Sometimes, they'd stick out a foot and trip her, and watch her fall forward while her books went flying down the hall. Sometimes, they'd sneak up and slam her locker shut before she could grab what she'd come for.

But their favorite stunt was the one with the sliding glass doors. They really got a kick out of quietly closing the doors as Katie approached, just to watch her walk—wham!—face first, smack into the glass.

Oh, they thought that was so funny.

And Katie, she was already mad at the world anyway. Mad at God too. How could he just sit back and let those jerks get away with that stuff? Didn't he know that life was hard enough for her already, without any help from those creeps and their stupid shenanigans?

Didn't he remember that she was blind, for heaven's sake??

"Is there really a God?"
Katie's parents first noticed something wasn't quite right with her eyesight when she was about 5. In elementary school, she wore glasses and used large-print books, but she still could do pretty much everything her friends did.

But her sight kept deteriorating, and by the time she was in 7th grade, her world was fast getting dark. Within two years, she was completely blind.

Doctors never figured out why Katie lost her sight, but the lack of diagnosis never really bothered her. After all, her blindness wasn't their fault.

But God? Where was he when her lights went out?

"I kind of questioned, is there really a God and why is this happening to me?" Katie, now 19, says today. "I was mad at God, and I took it out on a lot of people, especially my family.

"But I also kept a lot inside and beat myself up with all that anger. I was mad because I was different, and I didn't want to be different."

Then came the aide. That really sent Katie over the top. The school assigned a woman to help Katie with her tasks, but Katie didn't want any help. At all.

"She followed me to all my classes to help me take notes or whatever," says Katie. "But I felt like that was intruding into my freedom. Nobody else had some lady following them around all day."

Poor aide. Had to endure the wrath of Katie.

"I scared her away," Katie says with a laugh. "So they got me another aide— a younger, more lively one. I rebelled against her too, but she took a stand and took control. And by the time the school year ended, we went from being worst enemies to really good friends. She helped me accept my differences instead of fighting against them."

And then, in 9th grade, along came Michelle Weinberg, another freshman who had a way of making life a lot more fun.

"Michelle was always there, spending time with me, just being a friend," says Katie. "She was really into her youth group and church activities, and she always invited me to those things. That's how I got serious about my faith again.

"It took me a couple of years before I started getting past my anger and depression and all that I was going through. But I came to realize that God is there and that he cares. I also came to realize that it was my faith now, and not just something I had grown up with. I reached a point where I wanted to be serious about being a Christian, and get to know God better. Michelle helped me to reach that point."

Still, Katie sometimes wonders why God allowed her to go blind, why the Father of Light seemingly sat back while her world went dark.

"There are times I wonder if he's even listening," Katie sighs. "I just pray and pray and pray, and nothing's happening. But then, in time, I find that things do work out, and it's never as bad as I thought it was. I guess it's all part of that patience thing."

Yes, Katie's had to learn a lot about being patient, about waiting on God and his perfect timing.

"Patient" and "waiting." They sound like such stagnant words, so motionless.

But not for Katie. While she waited, she took a hard look at the challenges she faced and decided to dive right in. Literally.

Making a splash
Katie always loved sports. Especially softball. But when her failing eyesight reached a point where she could no longer hit or catch the ball, she turned to swimming.

She hit the water at first with a vengeance, to prove to others—and herself—that despite her failing eyesight, she would still excel at something.

In time, that vengeance turned to passion and determination, so much that she swam more than three miles before school every day.

She made the swim team her freshman year at Liverpool (NY) High School. And though she competed against sighted swimmers, she held her own.

Katie "feels" her way through the water by brushing up against one of the lane ropes. And when it's time to make her turn, a coach touches her on the back with a tennis ball attached to the end of a pole. Or the spray from a sprinkler tells Katie she's near the end of her lane (see photo on page 73).

Her high school coach encouraged Katie to check out the United States Association of Blind Athletes (USABA). Then Katie attended a swim camp for disabled athletes at the United States Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs.

A little more than a year later, Katie was a national champ, winning four titles—the 100-meter freestyle, 100-meter backstroke, 200-meter freestyle and 100-meter breaststroke—at the 1998 Disability National Championships. She competed in the "S-11" category, for athletes with the most profound vision loss.

Later in '98, Katie joined athletes from 34 nations in the World Champion ships for the Blind in Madrid, where she placed fourth in the 200-meter freestyle, and won a gold medal on a relay team.

Last October, Katie swam in another international meet in Australia, and she'll be there again this October for the 2000 Paralympics in Sydney—just after the main Olympics for able-bodied athletes.

In the meantime, Katie is a straight-A sophomore at Oneonta College in New York, where she's also on the swim team. She's also started training for a marathon. She wants to run one of the 26-mile races sometime in '01

Busy, busy, busy.

"If only I could see"
The hardest thing about being blind, says Katie, is the loss of freedom to go anywhere, anytime.

"Sometimes I feel limited in where I can go," she says. "A lot of times, I have to rely on other people to get me places. Or I have to take the bus instead of hopping in the car. Times like those I sometimes wish, Gee, if only I could see.

"But I don't miss a whole lot by being blind. I have a really good imagination, so sometimes I forget I'm not seeing stuff because I can picture what I think things look like.

"I've also found that my blindness has helped me learn how important relationships are—to be able to talk to people and share my experiences. I've learned to communicate better with people and get to know them better. It's made my friendships deeper, I think."

Still, Katie sometimes wonders what it would be like to see again—especially when she reads Bible stories about Jesus healing the blind.

"I think, Gosh, if Jesus were here, that would be kind of cool," she says. "Not being able to see one second and having perfect vision the next, that would be awesome. The first thing I would do is learn to drive and take a vacation. And walk around without a cane."

And maybe go back to her middle school, walk safely through those sliding glass doors, stroll down the hall and up to her old locker, just to open it without any childish interruptions or mean-spirited pranks.

But Katie doesn't dwell on such far-fetched possibilities. She'd rather deal with the real.

"My blindness is just something that's happened to me," she says. "I just want to make the best of what I have and go from there."

How Could I Ever Forgive My Dad?

I don't think I heard a word of the sermon that Sunday. The whole morning seemed to move in slow motion. I didn't greet my friends with the excitement typical of a college student home for the weekend. I was more like a zombie. My family sat together in our usual row, each of us dreading what was to come. As we stood for the reading of Scripture, my mind returned to a hot and humid morning in May several months before …

I had just finished my freshman year of college. I had only two weeks to spend with my family before heading off to a summer missions project. I was busy unpacking and re-packing when my dad told me he needed to talk to me about something.

We walked outside, and as he leaned against my car, the look in his eyes told me he had something very serious to say. Standing in uncomfortable silence, I tried to anticipate what that something might be. My heart quickened as tears choked his efforts to speak. He must be dying, I thought.

"Haley is your sister," he said through his tears.

My expression changed from fear to shock.

My dad said all he needed to say. In that one sentence he told me his friendship with a co-worker had been more than friendship, and as a result, I had a 2-year-old sister.

My mind reeled. I had babysat her when she was a baby.

"Does Mom know?" I asked.

"Yes, she's known for a while," he explained. "We waited to tell you because we didn't want you to have to deal with this while you were away at school.

"You probably won't want to talk to me very much," he said. "But I want you to know you can say whatever you need to say to work through this."

At that point I couldn't imagine not wanting to talk to him, and I certainly didn't want to say hurtful things. I could see he was in enough pain already.

I pulled him close and hugged him fiercely, wanting him to know I still loved him.

"Daddy, I forgive you," I said. "If I couldn't forgive you, then I wouldn't deserve forgiveness."

I meant what I said. But I had yet to experience the hurt and the bitterness of betrayal. I was still in shock. So I really couldn't understand what forgiving him meant.

I went on to the missions project and had a good summer. But all the while I was trying to ignore questions which left me feeling uneasy. How could he? was usually the one that got me started. Then I'd begin thinking about God's punishment. How is God going to punish Daddy? Will he punish me, too?

Sometimes I'd think about my little sister. Her life can't be a mistake, can it? Then was her birth a part of God's plan?

When I headed back to school in the fall, I was still trying so hard to be strong, despite the questions that clouded my mind. I read that "all things work together for good" (Romans 8:28) and assumed God could somehow use the experience in my ministry to others.

I told myself the pain would make me stronger, so I should be joyful. I didn't know it was OK for me to hurt first and maybe even get a little angry. So I bottled up everything inside.
Then one night as I was attempting to study in the library, I reached the breaking point. I was staring at pages of notes, but not really seeing any words, when it hit me: My dad had an affair, and I have a little sister.

A forceful tide of emotion swept over me when, as if for the first time, I acknowledged the reality of the situation. I jumped up from my seat and began to run toward the door, afraid I wouldn't make it before the tears began to gush.

Once outside I kept running in the cool night air, searching for a secluded place to unleash the pent-up emotions. I think I cried for two hours straight. They weren't the sort of tears that just trickle down your cheeks, either. They were screaming, coughing, suffocating sobs, the kind that make your lungs burn.

I was still thinking about that night of tears when the last verses of "Just As I Am" brought me back to the packed sanctuary. I scanned the congregation, thinking about all those who would hear my dad confess his sin of adultery and wondered how they would react. My mind was in turmoil. On one hand I respected him for taking responsibility for his actions.

He could have run from it, but instead he faced it head on. Yes, I was proud of him for that. But on the other hand, I felt a deep sense of shame, as if I were the one who had committed the act. I wanted to keep it a secret to save myself from embarrassment. But then what about Haley? How could we keep her a secret?

My heart began to beat faster as I watched my dad make his way to the front of the church. He and my pastor had already talked about his decision to share his confession. I can't believe this is happening, my mind screamed. Surely I'm going to wake up from this nightmare!

As our pastor motioned for the congregation to be seated, I locked my arm around my older brother's and squeezed his hand firmly. He extended his other hand to my mom, who, with head bowed, prayed silently. As my dad began to speak, I could see his lower lip quivering. Tears streamed down my face. This has to be the hardest thing he has ever done, I thought.

"What I do now, I do for one reason and one reason only—obedience, that the name of God may be glorified," he began. He went on to confess his sin of adultery. He also admitted lying to members of the church when they confronted him about the affair. "What I did, I did to protect my family," he explained.

"While I'm ashamed of what I've done, I'm not ashamed of my daughter, Haley," he said. He asked for forgiveness, and then he walked back to his seat.

By this time my mom, my brother and I were all sobbing, but to my amazement, we weren't treated as if we all had scarlet A's embroidered on our chests. Our church family surrounded us after the service, embracing us in love. Men my dad had lied to came and hugged him. They cried together as they began the process of reconciliation.
I left church that day with a better understanding of what the body of Christ is supposed to be. But I still had a lot of questions. That morning was only the beginning of the healing process. I would go on to learn that forgiveness is a daily choice of moving toward the one who has hurt you, a daily choice to endure the pain caused by that person.

I would later come to the conclusion that, yes, God was in control of the whole situation, but it was never his will for my dad to sin. However, because of his awesome grace and mercy, he can take even our sins and use them for his glory.

As for the fear of punishment, I had to come to a whole new understanding of the gospel. I'm sure I had heard a million times that Jesus' death paid the penalty for our sins, but it didn't really occur to me that the payment covered not only the wrongs we had already committed but all that we would ever commit in the future as well. God satisfied his anger against sin by pouring out all his punishment on Christ.

Since my dad is a Christian, God did not and will not punish him. However, my dad and my family suffer the consequences of his sin. We've all experienced a lot of pain. The past few years have been tough ones as we've accepted a new member—Haley—into our family. My mom has definitely modeled forgiveness by relying on God's grace to raise my little sister, whom we adopted.

I can honestly say that I wouldn't change what happened. God has taught me so much about who he is and about trusting in him alone. My family is stronger, too. And my parents will be the first to say that their marriage is better than it ever has been.

But there are still times when wounds are reopened. During those times I'm often tempted to hold onto my anger, but then God reminds me that while I was still a sinner, Christ died for me. That says to me that I should love and forgive others as he has loved and forgiven me.

If I'm really honest with myself, I see I'm just as capable of doing the same things my dad did. That's why I needed Christ in the first place, and that's why I must depend on his grace each day.

Standing Alone

Julie Moore felt like she was the only Christian in her whole school.

She was often mocked for her faith. Still, she felt like she could make a difference on her high school campus.

But how? Her answer came during her junior year at a Youth For Christ retreat, when a student speaker told how God had led her to start a Bible study at her public school.

Julie felt God calling her to do the same at her school, Bloomington (IN) High School North. But she was reluctant.

"At first," says Julie, "I thought, Okay, God, whatever. I don't think I'm going to do that."

Julie didn't want any more ridicule at school. And she didn't think anybody would even be interested in a Bible study.

After all, there was that English paper she'd written about obedience, telling of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac (Genesis 22:1-18).

Julie read the paper aloud in class, explaining that "God wants us to serve him by obeying him, and even though it's hard sometimes, God is faithful and takes care of us."

Most of the class had put their heads down on their desks, ignoring her.

And God wanted her to start a Bible study there?

"People were already mocking me because I was a Christian," says Julie, now a senior at Indiana University. "Starting a Bible study would just give them more opportunity to mock me. I wasn't sure I was ready for that."

A Club Is Born
Still, Julie knew she needed to obey.

"I realized the Bible study was what God wanted me to do, like the Abraham and Isaac thing," she says. "I felt like I was laying down my social status and letting God do whatever he wanted."

Julie talked to her youth leaders and other adults, who encouraged her to go for it. She received information about starting a Christian club at school, including her legal rights.

School administrators were supportive. Several teachers offered to let the club meet in their classrooms before school.

And so "Cougars for Christ," named after her school's mascot, was born.

Julie spread the word that she was starting a club where students could study the Bible and learn more about God. Seventeen students showed up for the first meeting.

"I was filled with excitement and gratitude," says Julie. "God had totally put this thing together."

Julie challenged the students with 1 Timothy 4:12: "Don't let any one look down on you because you are young, but set an example … "

She encouraged them to make a difference, to not be afraid and to stand up for what they believed in. Everything went well—for a while.

The next fall, the beginning of Julie's senior year, a photo of Cougars for Christ appeared in the yearbook. Club announcements were made over the P.A. system. The group was getting recognition—but not all of it was good.

Some students were hostile, mocking and cursing at Julie, nicknaming her "the Cougars for Christ Queen.
Soon, blank sheets of red paper were taped up all over school. One guy told Julie with a snicker, "They're for Cougars for Communism."

A teacher told Julie that the communism club, which rarely met, had formed mainly to mock Cougars for Christ. Club members called Julie names, and complained that she was turning the school into a church.

That was only the beginning.

To the Principal's Office
Soon, Julie was called to the office.

The principal, Dr. Sue Beerman, told Julie that Cougars for Communism had complained that Cougars for Christ had a room to meet in, announcements on the P.A. system, and a picture in the yearbook. The Cougars for Communism said they had a right to do the same things.

Dr. Beerman told Julie that she liked her group and what they were doing. But she also explained that Cougars for Communism had forced her to make some hard decisions to be fair to both clubs—while abiding by the law.

Both clubs had a legal right to meet on campus. But the principal said she wasn't sure about their rights to use the P.A. system or have their pictures in the yearbook. Dr. Beerman said she would talk to a lawyer to get definite answers.

When she left the office, Julie was confused and discouraged. Cougars for Christ had been in the yearbook the previous year and had used the P.A. system all along, and it didn't seem fair that those privileges might be taken away. To make matters worse, someone had smashed the windshield on her car in the school parking lot. She believes someone from Cougars for Communism did it, but admits she can't prove it.

Why is this happening? Julie wondered. I thought the Bible study was a good thing.

She felt let down. But she wouldn't give up.

She went home and reviewed a packet of legal information that her youth leader had given her. She typed up a constitution to better define Cougars for Christ and its philosophy.

Then she went back to the principal's office to further plead her case.

Dr. Beerman, meanwhile, had talked to the school superintendent and an attorney, and had some answers for Julie. She explained that the law—specifically, the Equal Access Act—gives extracurricular clubs the right to meet on public school grounds, regardless of their beliefs. But the law does not guarantee extracurricular clubs can use school facilities—like the P.A. system—to promote themselves. Nor does the law say they have "equal access" to yearbooks, as do school-sponsored clubs.

So the school made these decisions:

Both clubs could continue meeting on school grounds.
All clubs—whether school-sponsored or not—had to get a faculty member's signature to make announcements on the P.A. system.
Only "official" school clubs could be pictured in the yearbook. "Official" clubs are school-sponsored and curriculum-related.

"Unofficial" clubs, like Cougars for Christ and Cougars for Communism, are neither school-sponsored nor curriculum-related, and therefore could not be in the yearbook.

Encouraging Support
The struggle—with administration, and with Cougars for Communism and their taunts—took its toll. Attendance at Cougars for Christ meetings dropped to about five.

Still, Julie found much-needed support. A family friend, a lawyer, offered legal help if needed. Many people prayed for her. And even though Cougars for Christ was not connected to Youth for Christ, area YFC leaders prayed for Julie and sent an encouraging card. One youth leader told Julie she was "a bright light in a dark world."

Julie says, "It was encouraging to hear that kind of reinforcement."

Cougars for Christ continued to meet, and Cougars for Communism continued to mock them. Julie downplayed the conflict, telling her group not to treat anyone from Cougars for Communism badly. The Bible study group prayed about the situation, and kept making P.A. announcements and handing out fliers.

Meanwhile, Cougars for Communism couldn't find a teacher to sign off on their announcements, so they never got to use the P.A. system.

The conflict between the clubs subsided. Soon, the Cougars for Christ attendance was back up to 17. Cougars for Communism stopped meeting, and Julie never heard from them again.

Still Going Strong
Julie spent time mentoring several younger girls during those early days of Cougars for Christ, and one of them, Claire Pontius, ended up leading the group as a senior before graduating in June.

Claire says the group is still going strong today.

Almost 75 people showed up for See You at the Pole last year, and about 15 to 20 regularly now attend the club's meetings.

Claire, a freshman when the club started, says the club's rough start turned out to be a good thing: "Paul said to rejoice when you're persecuted because when you're being persecuted you're doing something right."

Claire says the club has "helped Christians come out into the open. It gives students a way to stand up for what they believe, to say openly 'Yes, I am a Christian. I believe in God.'"

Claire also says Julie's example of perseverance was inspiring: "I know how hard Julie worked to get it started, and how hard it was for her to go through all that nonsense."

Julie is just thrilled to see that all the hard work — the result of her obedience to God's leading—has left its mark.

"I've learned to keep going, no matter what," Julie says. "You can make a difference.

The Bible Smugglers

The door creaked as the last person entered the back staircase where 20 of us sat clustered together for warmth and reassurance.

The air was heavy with anticipation as we awaited instructions. Each of us held a crumpled piece of paper in our shaking hands. The tiny type-written message that had led us to this secluded house for a Bible study contained few details, yet it still included the bone-chilling warning: "Do not let this paper fall into the wrong hands. Your life depends on it."

But despite our best efforts to keep the meeting undercover, our secret had been leaked, and the police were out in full force, hunting us down. Speaking in a hurried whisper, our leader revealed the plan to us.

"We can't be sure that we're not being watched even now as we speak, so I'll make this brief. We will drive you to the park where you will split up to throw off any followers. You will see a lady walking her dog in the park, and you must talk to her to get further directions. If you are stopped and questioned by the police, do not tell them where you are going, and above all make sure your Bibles are well hidden!"

The quivering in her voice scared us enough that no one spoke as we crept outside to meet the cars waiting to take us to the park. Katie, Will, Michelle and I were told to get on the floor in the back seat of our vehicle and cover up with blankets. If we were stopped en route to the park, we were to remain perfectly still and allow the driver to do all the talking.

Full of anxiety, we huddled as far out of sight as possible and prayed we would not be found. Thankfully, we arrived at the first stop without incident, but as the car sped away, we were left standing on a dark street feeling alone and vulnerable under the city lights.

As we walked into the park, we saw other members of our group being stopped by tough-looking officers who questioned them. We felt helpless as we watched friends escorted to waiting police cars. All we could do was walk past as if we didn't know them.

Though full of fear, we continued on. We came to an abrupt halt when we spotted a lady with a small dog wandering slowly through the trees. Nervously, we approached her, and Katie mumbled the secret code. The lady acted like she had not even heard us and kept walking.

Then she paused, turned slightly and nonchalantly replied with the answer to our code. Excitedly, we dug our Bibles from their hiding places underneath our layers of clothing. When she saw them, she handed each of us a map.

"The dog's name is Sparky," she said, and then she was gone.

Thrilled we had made it this far, we began to decipher the directions. The map would supposedly lead us to a house where we were to look inside the mailbox. There we would find a newspaper with more directions wrapped inside.

We twisted and turned our way through side streets and finally found the designated house. Searching inside the mailbox, we found the newspaper and the address. This was the last clue. We were almost there! Heading for our final destination, we walked with confidence and even dared to talk quietly. It looked like everything was going to be all right.

Then suddenly an officer stepped from behind a tree and blocked our path. Terrified, we looked for an escape, but there was nowhere to run. With suspicion in her eyes, the policewoman approached us.

"Where are you kids headed tonight?" she asked with an icy tone.

"Oh, just going to visit a friend," Michelle said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Well, it's kind of dangerous to be walking around the park at night. Maybe I should escort you to your friend's house," she said as she checked our pockets for Bibles.

We began to sweat. We had no choice. If we didn't let her escort us, we'd arouse suspicion. Attempting to mask our desperation, we tried to make pleasant conversation with the officer. As we neared our destination, it looked like we were going to have to turn ourselves in, but then her walkie-talkie buzzed, calling her to another assignment. Our hearts soared as we watched her disappear down the street. As soon as she was out of sight, we raced to the front door of the house where the Bible study was being held.

We had not even knocked when the door flew open. Mouths wide with shock, we looked up into the steely glare of not one, but three officers. We looked at each other questioningly. Did we have the wrong house? When they hauled us into the living room, we knew that couldn't be it. Other members of our group already sat on the couches looking defeated. Somehow, despite all our precautions, they had found us.

The policemen huddled at the front door discussing what they were going to do with us. Still feeling a little stunned, I glanced sadly around the room. The look in Will's eyes caught my attention. I could tell a plan was forming. Katie and Michelle noticed it, too, and we watched to see what he was trying to show us.

First he looked at the group of officers cluttering the front hall, then slowly his eyes rolled to the back door. No one was there. With the officers' backs turned we would have a good head start. As if reading one another's minds, we gave each other silent nods.

Then with a burst of adrenaline we bolted for the door. The policemen yelled after us, ordering us to stop, but it was too late. Running full speed, we flew across the yard and over the fence. We ducked behind a garden shed and laid flat against it until the sounds of pursuing officers faded.

We crept out of hiding with caution. That's when we noticed some people we knew sneaking in the back door of the next house. When we got to the door, the man standing guard asked for the password. Still panting from our great escape, Michelle spoke up.

"The dog's name is Sparky."

The doorkeeper smiled and welcomed us inside. We followed him up to the attic where the rest of the group sat in a circle reading their Bibles by candlelight so as not to draw attention to the house. Having a Bible study had never been so exciting!

It had been the most outrageous Saturday night any of us had spent together in a long time, and we all agreed that we would like to do it again some time soon. But as I looked around at the smiling, dirt-smeared faces I began to wonder. If this whole underground game had not been make-believe, would we still have had the courage to come?

If those officers were real, rather than parents who attended our church, would we still have risked running into them, or running away from them? Would we have taken the chance of being arrested in the name of God had this not been just another creative Saturday night social event for the youth group?

As we prayed, we thanked God for giving us a chance to experience what it might be like to stand up for your faith in a country where you're not free to do so. We also thanked him that our country is free, because none of us knew how we would have acted if it hadn't been a game.

Did I Care Enough?

It was the first day of our missions trip, and the heat was oppressive. The humidity hung thick in the air; my winter-white Wisconsin skin was frying in the New Orleans sun.

Seated on a cooler, I held a little girl from the nearby housing project in my arms. In spite of the heat she was plastered to me, arms around my waist and head on my chest. She told me her name was Dominisha and that she was 7 years old. She was talking but I wasn't quite listening—the ribbon of sweat running down the side of my face was distracting me.

"And then my brother, he got mad at me and pointed my daddy's gun at me and he said, 'I hate you!' but I said, 'Don't you push that button. Put that down.'"

At the word gun I sat up straight and forgot the heat.

I was ready for this, or so I thought after our pre-trip meetings. I knew the lives of the children we'd meet weren't easy; I knew about the drugs and violence. But this was my first encounter with it, and hearing it mentioned casually in conversation with a 7-year-old was a bigger dose of reality than I was prepared for. How do you reply to something like that? "Guns are bad"?

Dominisha apparently needed no words. Plopping her thumb in her mouth, she snuggled closer and tucked her head under my chin.

A small boy, about 5 years old, approached us. "Y'all shouldn't be here," he said as he pointed a tiny brown finger at the housing building five feet away from us. "That's where they put the drugs."

My eyes followed his motion; under the nearest entrance was wire fencing, and through it I could see trash littering the ground. On closer inspection I noticed used syringes.

"Thank you … " I paused, glancing at his nametag, "Monty." His cheeks rose in a wonderful grin and he turned to walk away.

Perhaps what shocked me more than what these kids have to live with is how they handle it. Monty's tone had been more informative than scared; he was probably just repeating what his mother or grandmother had told him. They speak of danger without fear, through a voice of innocence. Or perhaps they are beyond fear.

"OK, Domi, let's go get a drink of water." I stood; she continued to cling to me, though the beverage tables were only a few yards away.

For the rest of the week our group continued to visit the different projects of the inner city: Melphomene, Magnolia, Desire, Cooper, Florida. … I saw many faces and learned many kids' names—Raven and Heaven and Latavia, Marquis and Renard. I hugged many sweaty and squirming bodies. I heard many stories. But I found myself keeping my distance—I never got as emotionally close to any of them as I had to Dominisha.

Outwardly, I was being a "good" missionary: I kept the smiles on through fatigue and 100-degree heat. I tickled their tummies, they rode my back, we giggled together. I walked to the beverage table countless times with a small hand tucked in my own, our skin colors contrasting like Oreo cookies. But inside I was not smiling.

Nor was I weeping. I felt nothing, as if my emotions had been tranquilized. It was foreign to me—I am used to feeling, and feeling deeply.

I struggled with my lack of heart. Was I being a bad missionary? Did I truly have a servant's heart? Was God unhappy with me for holding back whatever it was I was holding back?

I felt guilty.

I knew I was not giving my all to these children. I was keeping my heart back, because if I gave them more than my arms and smiles it would be unbearable to leave them at the end of the day.

The week ended and we drove the 18 hours home. I had time to reflect and eventually realized what I was feeling—denial. It didn't help to put a word on it; the guilt and questions remained. As the miles and hours rolled by, I waited, thinking perhaps there would be a delayed reaction. Perhaps I had buried the feeling deep, and now my heart would thaw and the tears would surface. I would have welcomed that.

But I have swallowed them deeper than I thought. As I write this it has been three weeks since my missions trip, and I still have let nothing out. I wrestled with the same question and thoughts continually.

Until last night.

I came across Matthew 10:42 and finally I had the answer that I hadn't even consciously asked for: "And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple, I tell you the truth, he will certainly not lose his reward."

I gave the little ones more than water. I gave time and energy, smiles, hugs and tickles. Perhaps it was not as much as others, but it was all I could handle. I did my best, and it was well done. I gave love because I am a disciple. I love Christ, and that is my sole reason for serving.

I am confident that he is pleased.

Rock Star

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?
So goes the first verse of Katie Brown's favorite Bible passage, Psalm 121.

How fitting: Katie, 19, one of the world's best rock climbers, is always "lifting her eyes to the hills."

And she knows very well where her help comes from:

My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip …
Those are comforting verses to Katie, who leans on the Maker every time she climbs.

"For me, climbing involves a lot of prayer because I don't have the strength to do it on my own," says Katie, a 5-foot, 85-pounder who has won several national and international events. "Climbing is so challenging mentally and physically. I marvel at how people can climb without having somebody bigger to rely on."

Katie says that although competitive climbing is a safe sport—ropes and harnesses keep climbers from falling very far—there's still an element of fear. And that's a good thing.

"Some degree of fear is healthy, because people who don't have any fear usually end up dying," says Katie, who lives with her family in Golden, Colorado. "But you can't let fear control you.

"My faith in God doesn't get rid of my fear, but it does help me deal with it. And some days are better than others."

And some days she even questions God about what's happening on "the hills." Like at last year's Arco Rock Masters event in Italy. Katie had run away with the championship, and started thinking about pocketing the $8,000 first-place prize.

"Everybody was congratulating me," she says. "Then the judges came up to me and said I was disqualified."

They said Katie had illegally stepped on a bolt during her climb, giving her an unfair advantage over the other athletes. The judges had watched a videotape of Katie's climb to confirm their decision.

"I didn't feel I had stepped on the bolt, but sometimes your foot bumps it by accident," says Katie. "But I didn't want to argue about it. I just said, 'OK, that's fine.' And then I went off and cried by myself."

And she "lifted up her eyes" and asked, "Why?"

"I asked God why he allowed this to happen," she says. "And I came to the conclusion that I must have been thinking too much about winning the money, which shouldn't be important anyway."

Though Katie loves her sport, she says she doesn't want to do it forever.

"I love climbing," she says. "It's a very individualistic sport, where you pretty much have the freedom and independence to do things your own way. And I love being outdoors.

"But there are a lot of other things I want to do," says Katie, who is taking a year off from college to travel. "I want to maybe do some translation work. I might like to be a missionary at some point. I just know that I want to do things other than climbing the rest of my life."

The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.
That's how Psalm 121 ends. And that's how Katie wants to live—whether she's climbing or not.

"As a Christian," she says, "I want to do whatever God's will is, whatever I do and wherever I go."