My grandparents’ 1920 farmhouse was graced with solid oak floors and woodwork, and there were “registers,” adjustable grates in the floors that made it possible to regulate the flow of warm air that passed through ducts from the furnace in the basement to each of the upstairs rooms. My cousin and I had great fun talking to each other through the registers.
“Are you there?” one of us would ask from a downstairs room.
“Yes, I’m here,” the other would answer from an upstairs room. “How are you down there?”
“Good. Now let’s switch places.”
We would scramble to change places, carefully avoiding my grandmother, who was quick to remind us to not run on the stairs and to stop our “titterin’,” which was what Grandma called our giggling.
When I was growing up, my family attended a small independent church that frowned on such things as playing card games that involved jokers and aces, dancing, and women wearing pants to church, not to mention the seemingly endless list of more serious deviations from the straight and narrow that is common to many churches, some of which are more clearly scriptural than others.
But when I met the Family International in 1969, I knew I was “home.” At last I had found a religion that was relevant and rang true with what I believed deep down inside, even though it was very different from the way I had been brought up. Getting used to hallelujahs and guitar-music worship services wasn’t easy.
One day I was desperate to know whether or not I was right in embracing the Family’s beliefs and lifestyle, and I prayed earnestly. Suddenly it was as though I was back in my grandparents’ farmhouse. This time it was my grandfather, who had passed away years before, who was upstairs, talking to me through the register. Our conversation went something like this:
“Hi, honey. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Grandpa. Is that really you? I am okay, but there is something I need to know. Am I right in wanting to serve the Lord like this? Is this what I am supposed to be doing?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think it is right, but I grew up singing hymns in church, not singing songs about Jesus to strangers in parks. This is all so different!”
“It may be different from what you were taught, but you’re still worshiping the same Jesus. When you pray, you’re praying to the same Jesus, and when you sing His praises, even if it’s rock music you’re singing, you’re telling Him you love Him.”
It wasn’t a dream. I was wide awake in a garden in broad daylight. I couldn’t see Grandpa, but his voice was as clear and real in my mind as my cousin’s had been when we were children, talking through the registers. It was a life-changing, faith-building experience, and 40 years later I can say without a doubt that Grandpa was right: what matters is not how we love Jesus, but that we love Jesus.
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Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV / Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.
Psalm 32:8 ESV / I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.
John 16:13 ESV / When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth, for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak, and he will declare to you the things that are to come.
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