This is Chapter 5 of my story about femininity, sexuality, and faith. Read Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4 first.

I never really liked calling myself a Christian.

The word felt stuffy to me. It evoked images of stained glass windows, priests in formal robes, and strict rules, none of which were my experience. In short: It made me think of a religion. 

I quite disliked religion, and didn’t think of myself as having one. What I had was a “personal relationship with Jesus Christ.”

In other words, I was a self-proclaimed Jesus Freak.

If you’ve never had a “personal relationship with Jesus Christ,” or if that Christianese terminology is new to you, it may be a strange concept to grasp at first. But I’ll do my best to explain it.

In love with Jesus

For me personally, God wasn’t someone I obeyed. He was someone I knew intimately, like a friend, only it was deeper than that. He was more like a lover.

Anytime I was alone, he was there to lean on or talk to. Just thinking of my love for him would cause a burning in my chest.

Once, when I was seventeen, I had a dream where I was hugging God. I couldn’t leave without kissing him on the face, because of the love that welled up inside of me, and the thought that it was him — God! — right in front of me.

When I kissed him, he said, “Come here,” and pulled me close into an embrace. My face crumpled up, almost crying, at the sensation of love crashing into my heart — from his heart.

It was one of those really vivid dreams that felt so real.

And that’s how it was for me, every day. It felt so real. God was there with me: tangible, alive, mysterious, passionate in his affection for me.

With each passing year of high school, my passion and hunger for him deepened.

Hearing God’s voice

It wasn’t just a one-way line of communication, either. I first started listening to the “voice of God” when I was about ten years old.

It wasn’t an auditory sensation, like a booming voice literally coming out of the sky. It was more like… a still, small voice; like a thought, but of a different quality from normal, daily thoughts. I was more likely to hear this voice when my mind was clear and my spirit was calm, such as during a long period of prayer, or in the quiet moments of early morning when I’d watch the sunrise from my bedroom window.

It was a voice I trusted. It never steered me wrong.

A willing sacrifice

Just like someone in love, I was convinced I’d do anything for God. Die, even.

In fact, I was obsessed with thoughts of Christian martyrdom. I’d always been an abundantly adventurous person, so I latched onto the highest form of adventure available to Christians, believing it was my destiny: Missionary life.

I was inspired by true stories of missionaries who dared to share the Gospel in the most dangerous places. They were heroes who sometimes faced imprisonment, torture, and death.

I deeply hoped to die in such a way: meaningful, exciting, adventurous, heroic, sacrificial. There could be no greater honor.

Jesus had loved me so much, he gave his life to save me. And I loved him with all my heart and soul. How could I best express that love, in response? I was a person of actions, not of words.

The best way I could express my love was to give my life for him, too.

Adventure, persecution, heroics, violence, and death all permeated my dreams, to the extent that I believed they were prophetic. I held a dark secret for many years, a knowledge I felt confident in, that sobered and frightened but also excited me:

Someday, I would die for Jesus.

A dark future

It was during high school that I first became interested in politics. During the early Obama years, I consumed a lot of Fox News, especially Glenn Beck. It seemed as though so many chilling changes were happening in the world, and a lot of Evangelical Christians, such as myself, feared (or even perversely hoped) a dark future was ahead of us.

Obama had an ulterior motive, we worried; he would introduce the evils of socialism, and the United States would descend down a slippery slope toward tyranny and oppression. It might not be long before Christianity and evangelism itself would be outlawed. The culture seemed to be increasingly hostile towards our faith, and such persecution had happened — and still happened — to Christians in so many places throughout the world, and throughout history. Who was to say our country wouldn’t be next?

The existence of the United Nations and the European Union was also very suspicious to us, as it reminded us of prophecies in the Bible about a one-world order forming before the beginning of the end.

The end of the world

Many Christians believed that we would be “raptured” (taken up to Heaven) before the really shitty apocalypse stuff happened, so they weren’t too worried. (It would suck to be “unsaved” during that period of Hell on Earth, though.) However, in a truly messed-up way, I hoped we wouldn’t be raptured.

I was exceedingly adventurous, remember? And the thought of being around for the literal end of the world was too exciting to resist.

Maybe this was why I had such intense dreams. Maybe I’d be around for the apocalypse. Maybe that’s when I’d become a martyr.

I was extremely down for that. I just… hoped I’d be able to pursue my dreams first. Write books. Make movies. I didn’t want the world to end quite yet, and for this reason, I had a modicum of (selfish) cognitive dissonance.

Dreams and visions

I’ve always had a profoundly active, vivid, immersive imagination, one that never really went away as I grew up. If anything, it just grew stronger.

I had a hard time explaining or understanding this. As a young Evangelical Christian, or “Jesus Freak” as I preferred to be called, I couldn’t help wonder if some of those intense, detailed images that popped into my mind while wide awake were supernatural in nature.

I’d think passively about the future, about adulthood, and an astoundingly clear picture would appear: Me, in a Jeep, rattling through the African Savannah; hot sun overhead, beating through my wide-rimmed hat; sweat gathering on my make-up-free, glowing face; my tender, tanned skin protected under thick sunscreen, a practical blouse, and khaki pants; nothing but vast and beautiful wilderness around me, in every direction.

Where did that come from? Was this a prophecy? Or was it just my imagination?

A dangerous hope

When I was feeling less apocalyptic about the future, many such positive images flooded my mind. I wasn’t a fool; I knew that, most likely, it was just a side effect of being a creative storyteller.

But some of these pictures were just so specific. And so persistent.

Traveling the world with my future husband, smuggling Bibles across illegal borders. Going on a honeymoon in Rome. My husband: Blond, handsome, with a motorcycle that we could ride together. Me and my husband with nine kids, going on a family canoeing trip. Working in youth ministry, as a pastor’s wife, and hosting Bible studies for teen girls in my home.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Was there something to this? I wrote many of these “visions” down, and shared a number of them with my best friend, just in case.

I wanted them to be real. I wanted it so badly.

Imagine how I felt when, for the first time, it seemed like one of my visions came true.

Next: Read Chapter 6.