It was midnight, or later,

on what I think must have been a Monday night.

I was in the newsroom of a

Georgia newspaper. My partner and I were putting the finishing touches

on a project that would go to press the next morning.

That was when our paths crossed.

He said he read my column regularly. He said he was not a Christian but

if anyone could ever convince him to be one I could.

"Whoa," is all I

could think that night. Speechless is what I was. Still am, really. That

was several years ago, but the incident stays with me.

How little he knew of my own

personal, continuous, endless struggles. Of how the doubts never stop

and the questions keep coming.

Sometimes they come so hard

that I want to feel guilty, but can't anymore. Could be I have grown too

tired to carry the guilt too. The doubting and the questioning is heavy

enough.

Don't really know what set

off this most recent round of doubting. Of wondering. Of questioning.

Could have been the song I

wrote a few weeks ago for my grandson. It started out like this:

"You told me about Jesus

when I was just a child;

"About how much He'd loved

me, for such a long, long while,

"Before I was ever born,

you said, he knew me even then,

"You said that he loved

me before you and I were kin.

"Now Grandma, I don't

understand how it all came about,

"How you became so assured

of your own chosen route,

"Oh, how I want to walk

that way, I do, I really do,

"But I don't know where

to start, I just don't have a clue ..."

The song goes on a bit then

closes like this: "... Oh yes, she told him about Jesus when he was

just a kid.

"She planted seeds she

knew would sprout and he's so glad they did.

"She told him about Jesus

so he would learn to stand.

"She knew the day would

come when he would have to be a man."

I cannot imagine that there

could possibly be anyone who has been afforded more coincidences that

led them to believe in God, in his hand, his active hand, at work in their

life. I mean my life is so checkered with so many coincidences beyond

my own wildest imagination that you would think there could be no more

room for doubt. So where does it come from?

Why do I succumb to thoughts

like, "What's it all about? What's it all for? Why try so hard? Nobody

really gives a ____. Everybody is just trying to outdo the other fellow

for some insane reason, or for no reason at all. Am I really so 'so assured?'"

The thoughts come when I'm

not even especially tired or depressed. They come out of nowhere. One

day, one hour, one moment I can be so assured of God, of Christ, of his

death and resurrection and of my own salvation. Then the next minute,

it all seems like a fairy tale.

Another fellow who once read

my column regularly (don't know if he still does or not) told me he enjoyed

reading the make-believe stories that I told. He said I was "entertaining."

He never did believe that I

never made any of it up. Every tale I ever told in this column has been

the truth. But you know, sometimes, like now, when I look back and read

some of those stories, I even have trouble believing them.

I'm glad God's bigger than

all this, aren't you. That he is so patient with us. That his love is

so all encompassing. It is that for sure, you know. Never once, amidst

all my doubts over the years, have I doubted that God loved me.

Oh, I've wondered how he could

at times. But I've never doubted that he does. And somehow the assurance

of his love is always enough to help me get though times like this when

the doubts abound.

I am reminded once more, as

I write this, of Paul's letter to the church at Corinth and of his words

concerning love. He had become convinced that love never fails. Prophecies

may fail, tongues may cease and knowledge may vanish away, but love ain't

goin' nowhere. Love remains, Paul said.

Yep, whether we deserve it

our not, love remains. Go figure ...

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