It was the summer of 2012, and I was serving as an international missionary intern through the North American Mission Board in Mobile, Alabama, ministering to the Gulf Coast community in various ways. That summer was transformative. The boldness of the Holy Spirit consumed me, igniting a courageous fire in this shy wallflower to share the gospel message with men from the Philippines, India, and other nations.
To this day, I keep a sticky note in my old New King James IMPACT Student Bible with the names of the 28 men, mostly Filipino, who surrendered their lives to Christ after I walked them down a modified Roman Road to salvation in their native tongues. But two memories have stayed with me all these years that require no Post-It: The Bible Room and Dean.
My breath hitched, and then I wept the first time I entered the small closet lit by flickering florescent lights. The scent of aged paper and ink greeted me, for there, shelved along the walls, were hundreds of Bibles translated into over thirty languages. If every nation, tribe, and tongue are gathered around the King’s throne to utter praise to the Holy One, this room cracked open a door and offered a small glimpse into that glorious moment for which my heart longs. Almost every morning after I discovered “The Bible Room,” I found solace in that sacred space, where I’d bury myself beneath the pages of my own Bible as I met with the Lord. The quiet rustle of pages and the peace that enveloped me made this room more inviting than my morning cup of coffee. (Though I did use La Sainte Bible to transcribe Scripture in French. I stuck a note with Psaumes 37:4 on my coffeemaker: Fais de l’Éternel tes délices, et il te donnera ce que ton coeur désire.)
One day during my internship, I sat with a boy named Dean. Though labeled as “trouble,” Dean was not trouble; he was confused and hurt. His mother was in jail for drug possession, and his father worked endlessly, leaving Dean and his sister alone much of the time. As Dean flipped through a children’s Bible, his questions about the pictures showed a deep, searching curiosity. He passed an image, then turned the page back, moving his small finger to a depiction of Jesus on the cross. I explained sin and the crucifixion of Christ in the simplest terms. Dean began to confess his wrongdoings—disobedience to his dad, teasing his sister, lying at school. He asked if he’d see his mom again and what he needed to do for Jesus to forgive his sins and for God to be his Father. This moment reminded me of how real the cross became to me when I was thirteen, five years earlier, to the day. I battled suicidal thoughts and bartered with God, desperate for His light to overcome my darkness.
Growing up as a pastor’s kid, I’d heard the gospel countless times, but one night at church camp, it became tangible. An evangelist named Chip Dickey spoke, addressing my innermost conflicts as if reading my thoughts. He described Christ bearing the cross, broken by my sin. I could see it so vividly, Jesus hunched under the weight of that tree He carried, dragging His feet along the dirt. I could see the seeping blood and matted hair stuck on his face; I saw a glimpse of compassion as He stared right into my soul before continuing toward Golgotha. I thought I might graze His skin if I reached out my hand, and I could feel the burden of my shame and sense the depth of His love and sacrifice. I fell to my knees, undone, and knew I needed Him to step into my life and never leave. The Word became flesh. It came alive, and that life took root in my heart.
God brings everything full circle. Having moved to the Gulf Coast this past month, I now live within a thirty-minute drive from the community where I witnessed my first miracles, experienced the boldness of the Holy Spirit, and took my first steps toward deep inner healing. I wonder what Dean is up to these days as a 19-year-old young man. Does he remember the nameless college girl who sat with him one summer, flipping through the pages of a picture Bible? Did he see his mom again? Did his faith remain anchored all these years? I wonder and I pray.
Books, and not just copies of The Holy Bible, have changed my life. They’ve challenged my faith, ignited my imagination, and offered company and counsel during my loneliest nights. They’ve helped me find and remember myself when I’d all but forgotten who I was. As Christian writers, we have the privilege and responsibility to bring the Word to life through our stories and our characters. He can use your words to touch the lives of others. Reflect on your own journey, the moments that made your faith real, and let those experiences inspire your writing. Share the gospel in ways that resonate, that make the Word come alive for your readers. At Verse & Vine, we believe that the Lord will use even the most fantastical and imaginative quest to pursue those He madly loves.
In Surprised by Joy, C.S. Lewis shares the impact both secular and Christian literature had on his conversion to Christianity. Your story, no matter the genre, may just be the planted seed of salvation in your readers’ lives. So, let’s commit to writing with purpose, passion, and a deep connection to the Word of God. Together, we can make a difference, one story at a time.