My personal testimony of salvation

James Lingerfelt’s personal testimony of salvation: or how I got from there to here.

Well in the beginning, my beginning, not the let there be light one, I was born to Albert and Fredda. As a child I went to church with my mother as far back as I can remember.
I was Rev. Raymond Walters preacher buddy by the time I was eight or so. I would go to the back of the church at the end of service to shake hands with those leaving and wish them a good day.
I thought at the time I would be a preacher one day.
I started to have thoughts about salvation, and I had heard people talk about how God would whisper to you, call you, how He would knock and you were to open to Him, and if you didn’t open then, you would never hear Him knock again.
It’s funny what kids pick up isn’t it.
So I sat there in church, and I thought that when God knocked, I would feel it, as if my back was a wooden door, and I would hear the echo of the knocking in my head and know it was time to go to the altar.
And I was scared, that I wouldn’t hear Him call, that I wouldn’t feel it when He knocked and I would go to hell.
So I finally started to ask questions, and I had a sit down meeting with the pastor and his wife and I was given books to read.
The books were made to help a child understand salvation, putting it in terms a child might better be able to understand.
And after I read them, another meeting with the pastor and he would ask me questions to see if I understood what salvation was and that I understood how serious the question of salvation was.
And he approved that I understood, and it was up to me to come down to the altar when I was ready.
Shortly thereafter he died. The story is told that a light was on in the church and he told his wife God was calling him back home before stepping out the door. If I remember correctly, somewhere between the parsonage and the church he fell dead of a heart attack.
I went to the receiving friends for him, I was the little preacher buddy, I wanted to go. It’s the earliest funeral experience I can remember.

Time passed, we were between pastors at the church, building a new building, and finally after the new building was up and a new pastor selected, I went down to the altar and accepted Christ as my personal savior.
I was around ten at the time. Within five years, I had lost confidence in my salvation, I was back out n the world really. I wasn’t really trying to serve God. I wasn’t doing anything bad, but I wasn’t serving.
For the longest time I blamed the church, there was no program to help shepherd new converts, to help them grow in their understanding of the Bible. And I was a middle kid, there was a large older group, and a large younger group, but really no one my age.
So I went and sat by myself sometimes.
In that fifth year we went to camp Longridge. It was great, people were saved, and I rededicated my life.
But again, there was no guidance at the church, no one was communicating to me how I should be living my life to serve God.
I never drank, never did any drugs and only smoked one cigarette in my life.
In my mind, I wasn’t that bad. I was lying to myself.
I turned eighteen, and no longer being under the control of my mother, I quit going to church. I didn’t see what it could offer me. I had been living in church my whole life, and what did I have? I wasn’t really friends with anyone at church, a few of the boys, I would even say, shared an adversarial relationship with me.
I was saved, I wasn’t committing any “big” sins, it wouldn’t hurt to miss church every once in a while.
I was still lying to myself, but twelve years passed in a flash.
I had gotten married in that time, I had a son. I had a brush with death when a drunk driver rear ended the truck I was riding in ejecting me over his suv, landing on my head on the asphalt behind the vehicle.
I walked away.
I went to church that Sunday, because I knew God was giving me a warning. I had promised Him things when I dedicated my life to him.
That was in the middle of the twelve years, I only went that one time. Sure I went for my brother’s wedding, for his daughters baby dedication, for mother’s day with my mom.
On June 16, 2009, I discovered that my wife had been having an affair.
My world was shattered, but I thought, now that I know she’ll come home and everything will be okay, I’ll forgive her and we’ll move on. Except she didn’t come home.
I didn’t know where to turn. My brother had been trying to get me back into church for years, but like I said, I wasn’t going before.
But funny thing is, I had still said my prayers all those years, and for the last month I had started thinking every Saturday night that I should get the family up and we should go to church. They had a new preacher, and I had been out for so long, but every Sunday morning, I would find an excuse to stay in bed.
And for three or four months, as part of those prayers, I had prayed the same thing every night, “Dear Heavenly Father, please make me a better Christian.”
I knew I was missing something inside, I even knew what it was, but I kept finding reasons not to go and get that missing piece, to make myself whole, and I had been missing that piece for so long.
So after the discovery of the affair, I got myself dressed and headed into church. I want to think it was that first Sunday morning after the discovery, but it might have been that night, so many things from back then are fuzzy, but I’ll tell you what I remember.
I got out my old Bible, the one I got when I got saved, it was torn on the cover, had stains, it had seen better days even though it had rarely been read.
I went into the back of that church and sat down as close to the back as I could. I remember my brother coming back and sitting with me, even though he normally sat up front, he seemed so happy that I was there. I remember him introducing me to the preacher.
I remember that before the offering they took the time to turn and greet their neighbors, and having seen this in church before I assumed that you would turn and shake the hands of the people that were near you, but nope, not here.
They were walking around, fellowshipping, shaking hands, smiling, laughing.
There were people dressed like me, people dressed in suits, and they shook hands and hugged as if there were no difference in the clothes on their backs.
I had never felt so at home in a church, and that’s what I felt, like I was at home finally.
I knew maybe three people’s names that day.
I remember the tears, mine. From the first song sang, to the special sung, to the message preached.
I sat there in the back and cried, a few times fighting back sobs as I sat there, trying not to make any noise.
When the service ended I felt new. I felt like a weight had been taken down from my shoulders, something I had been carrying for far too long. I felt happy for the first time in years.
I realize now that I experienced something then, that I had never experienced before.
For the first two months I only missed three regular services. I haven’t missed any since.
I went to a tent meeting a month after I started going there, three of the five days. I remember people trying to get me to eat but I was so weird back then about eating around people that I just said no thank you.
I helped put up chairs that night.
A few months after I started going I started going to Sunday School, first the mens class, and then the New Converts class. I was shown how to live as a Christian serving God.
My life started to change, my priorities started to change.
I was listening to 95% secular music when I started attending, now I may listen to only 1 or 2% secular music, the rest from Christian artist.
I stopped watching movies. I cut my tv watching in half.
My wife didn’t come back, I forgave her anyway.
I changed from the inside out.
I used to be a person, afraid of the world, afraid of life. I was afraid because I didn’t have Jesus living in me all day every day.
I’m not afraid any more. He is with me always.