In keeping with my theme to write blog posts this year about life experiences that influence my writing, I want to share an adventure from my church heritage.
I come from a long line of Pentecostal believers. Although many will point out the errors and foolery involved in this type of religious experience (as it is with most religions), the good definitely outweighs the bad. At least for me. I would not change my Pentecostal heritage for anything. There are certainly things about it I miss. I thank God for my Pentecostal experiences, but I'll save that for another post.
I gave my heart to Jesus at Bethel Pentecostal Church of God when I was 14. The years I spent in the youth group there are some of my fondest memories. Over 50 years later, and I'm still friends with several from those days -- friends as in we see each other on occasion.
Most of the youth attended every event/service the church had. Besides regular service on Sunday and Wednesday, we had Friday night prayer meeting. One particular Friday, the youth decided to abandon the adults praying around the altar and go into the youth room off the sanctuary.
I was best friends with the pastor's daughter, Carolyn, at the time (typical teens, we all changed best friends frequently). When Carolyn and I got up to join the teens in the youth room, her mother motioned to us to stay where we were. "Everyone should be praying in here," she admonished us.
What teenager wants to be with adults instead of their peers? Especially since it sounded like the teens were praying heaven down. Or possibly fighting the devil. Loud and aggresive prayers could mean either. Carolyn and I felt left out and slightly miffed. "We're going to the bathroom," she whispered to her mother.
The church building had been added on through the years. The women's restroom was off the back sanctuary and had an old open room adjacent to it. The youth room, where the teens were praying, had once faced outside. It had a window facing the door to the restroom. The window had been painted black at one time for privacy, but that paint had flaked in spots.
Carolyn and I peered through the flaked window paint to see what the youth were up to. It sounded like all heaven was coming down. Or hell. Unbeknown to us, the youth felt like the devil's presence was in the room and they were in the middle of marching around the room and rebuking the devil and his demons.
When they saw eyes peering at them through clear patches in the window, they all screamed and went tearing out of the room into the sanctuary, dropping to their knees by the adults. Hallelujah! Carolyn and I returned to the altar wondering what happened. So we whispered, asking the teens, "What happened in there?"
"We were taking authority over the devil and his demons, and there they were staring at us through the window. Scary eyes and shadowy light behind their heads."
Hm. To this day, I don't remember if we told the youth it wasn't the devil, it was us. I do remember even the adults caught the fire of prayer passion from the teens that night. It was a lively meeting, for sure, regardless of the fact the devil was not watching the youth through the window.
I can't prove it, but I think God chuckled.
God, I thank you for my Pentecostal background. I thank you for pastors Chester and Velma Hamby who helped mold my early walk with Christ. I thank you for the wonderful friends I made in that youth group -- David, Ben, Carolyn, Rachel, Sande, Sally, Barbara L, Barbara D, Willie, Brinda, Tommy, Carol, Josie, Nancy, Gerald, and any I forgot to mention.
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