In the years that followed my relationship with God was…well shallow at best. Truth was, I had become stagnant in my faith and content in my sin. No. Content isn’t the right word. Lavished in my sin is more like it. I flaunted it. I adorned myself with it as if it were a badge of honor that should be shared proudly with the world. Unapologetically me.
The fact is, I didn’t want to grow in my relationship with Christ. Why would I? The little silver haired woman at church told me I was already saved. I had felt the power of conviction in the past and I knew that if I allowed myself to grow closer to God, to soften my heart to His word, to really strive to live by His standards my perfect little bubble that I lived in would burst and the fun times would all be over.
Don’t get me wrong, I still prayed. I prayed when disaster struck. I prayed each and every time I hit rock bottom. Each and every time I needed Him, I prayed.
And as time went on and as I started to grow up, I continued to pray. And when I gave birth to my daughter at the age of 19, I continued to pray. And when the father of my child told me he was an Atheist and I considered Heaven without him, I prayed.
I think I prayed on this more than just about anything else. I was heartbroken at the thought of spending an eternity in Heaven…without him. I was angry with him for not believing. And I let him know it often. We would fight about him not wanting to go to church (something I really only wanted to do to get him there). And when the arguing continued with him, I’d continue fighting on my knees for him.
There was a moment that stood out to me during my pregnancy with our daughter. I was about 6 months along and I began spotting. Heavily. We were both scared and worried sitting in my mother’s kitchen. What made this moment so remarkable to me was what I saw Skyler (my daughter’s father and my now husband) do next. I watched him stand from his chair, crash to his knees, and begin praying. His huge 6’4″ frame was broken into a pile of helplessness on the floor. I never asked what the context of his prayer was, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was praying. He was believing.
We found out shortly afterwards that our baby girl was perfectly fine, healthy, and seemingly happy. Skyler returned to his self-proclaimed Atheist beliefs and went about his life as if he didn’t just receive an answer to his prayers. And I continued to pray for him.
I can recall praying, on more than one occasion, that God would save him. Save his soul. I asked God to use me if he had to. Use me to bring Skyler closer to Him. “Let me get sick,” I’d pray, “really sick.” or “Let me get in a bad accident. Let something terrible happen to me so that he feels helpless. Devastated. So that he has no choice, but to come to You, again.”
That terrible thing that I had planned to use to save my now husband’s soul never came to fruition.
But you know what they say?
“If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans.”
Fast forward to about 11 years and 3 children later. We’ve now been together for twelve years, married for six of them. Still calling myself a Christian and still haven’t taken any steps to grow in my own faith or relationship with God.
We’ve had two more children together. We’re happy. But as time continued to tick by, my fear for his soul grew. So I continued to pray my same self-sacrificing prayer, “God please, help him find his way to You. Please use me if you must. You know I’m strong enough. Use me to lead him to You, God. I’m here. I’m willing. Please just save him.”
And then just like that, on a day that started just like any other day, God answered my prayer.
Skyler was in the driveway cleaning out his truck. Two of our three children were in the front seat pretending to drive. Our youngest at the time, Deklan, was 3. Our middle daughter, Paislee was 5. The e brake was on, keys were not even in the truck. On the passenger’s side both the front and the cab doors were open as he cleaned the front then moved to the back seat. I had just come out to see if he needed me to get the kids out of his way so he could finish up.
He reached into the back seat when the truck began moving backwards out of the driveway and towards our backyard on its own. In a panic, Skyler turned his back to the back passenger door that was open in an attempt to stop the 5,000lb machine and began yelling for me to push the e brake in. Now, mind you, my husband is not at all what you would call a small man. Standing 6’4” and weighing in around 300lbs, I believe he truly thought he could keep the truck from rolling down the hill. Unfortunately, that’s not how it worked out.
I leapt over my children’s laps and frantically reached for the brake on the driver’s side floor, but found it was already pushed in. The truck continued rolling slowly until it reached the end of the driveway where it rapidly accelerated once it hit the grassy yard. Skyler again, doing everything he could to stop the truck, was being pushed by the passenger door for about 20 yards, his feeble attempt doing nothing as his shoes slid through the slick grass before he had no choice but to fall to the ground or get crushed between the truck door and our metal wash line pole in the backyard.
As soon as he fell to the ground the force from the back door caused his whole body to bend in half as it rolled over him. He was then hit again by the front passenger door that was still open.
The truck rolled for another 30 years before stopping when it crashed into our shed in the backyard. I was sprawled across our children’s laps the whole time. When we finally stopped, the children were crying and shaking. I gave them a quick once over before determining they were, for the most part, okay before I jumped from the truck to check on my husband who was lying motionless, on his back about 20 yards away from me.