MOLLY HALTER Through the changes, God abided with me

1944, the year my family moved to Beaver, Pa., is when I had my earliest childhood memory of "otherness" -- a realization that people other than those I already knew could come into my life and exist independently of me.
I recall my mother taking me to a bedroom one sunny afternoon when I was 4 years old and letting me peek through the door. To my great wonder, lying in a crib, was a sleeping baby! In hushed tones, my mother told me that this was my new baby sister, Charlotte.
I was dumbfounded. Didn't I already have Dad, Mom, Louise and Chuck? I couldn't make sense of this mystery. I could not give words to my thoughts, and I did not know how to respond, except to stare. Today, these words form the wordlessness I felt when I first looked at my new sister: Baby? My new sister? What are those?
Our family moved at least once each year during my childhood. The awful pain of beginning again in a new school, the difficulty of adjusting to a different curriculum, particularly math, was wrenching for me. I felt lost in academic work, except literature, a love I had already absorbed from mother. Being an outgoing person, I fit in socially at school and recall the ease I felt when we attended churches we joined in the towns we moved to. Church and faith in God and Jesus Christ were constant in my family, often discussed at the dinner table. From an early age I began to absorb with relish the faith values they cherished.
Confused by death
One day in my seventh year, I came in from play and found my mother standing in the hall with my sister, Louise, clinging to her. Both had their overcoats on and were crying their hearts out. What? What's wrong? Mother is crying! I don't want her to cry!
Through her tears, Louise told me that Grandpa Francis had just died in the hospital of a heart attack. Died? What is that? I was dumbstruck. I stood staring at them not knowing what to do or say. Louise cried, "Why aren't you sad? Why aren't you crying? Grandpa's dead! Don't you care?"
Not having the slightest idea of what she meant or what to do, in slow-motion I turned, walked into another room and stared into a mirror. In the reflection I could see the two of them crying. A feeling of dread filled my stomach, not because Grandpa was dead but because I didn't understand "dead." Whatever "dead" was, it must be awful if Mother is crying.
My sister's birth, my grandfather's death and the psychological pain I experienced each time we moved in my early years jolted me into an awareness of a world larger than my own. Because I remember the events so vividly, I suppose they were my first strong hints at the ceaseless movement and finitude of life. I think I was asking myself in this constant human motion: When the boat gets rocked, will I still be OK? Who or what will I cling to for security?
However, God had already dropped solid anchors into my life: my family and his church.
Accepting Christ
When I was 9, I attended Camp Kosciusko, a Presbyterian camp on Lake Winona in Indiana. We had moved (again) to Indianapolis the previous year. I loved camp. I liked being away from the responsibilities of home, I liked being with old and new friends and counselors. I even liked the Bible studies and worship services! I thought it was the closest thing to heaven on earth.
One evening I stood alone on an abandoned, dilapidated wood pier before going to vespers, awestruck at a blazing red sunset over the lake. People were standing on the shore talking about it and taking pictures. I was so moved by the scene, it made me cry.
Aloud to God, I thanked him, told him how much I loved him and prayed for him to be with me all of my life. There, I gave my life to Christ. No one was there to prompt me. At the time, I did not even know I had a conversion experience, but it was an indisputable truth.
I look back to before and after that special moment and see God ever moving toward me. This was my first conscious effort to move toward God, to make a choice to be accountable and responsible to him for my life, at least as I understood it as a young girl. God would honor that choice and abide with me through my perilous teen years and beyond.
XMolly Halter is a a sacred storyteller. Contact her at christian@cboss.com.