Birthday... beginning.

In deference to my upcoming birthday, I have decided to compose a tribute to the day that my life really started. Not as a pink baby freshly formed but as a dead soul made new.This is a second birth, but in all regards the more important. For while the laborious process that my mother submitted to is kindly regarded; the real day of life that I reference began with a death.
Sitting center... in the last row of a march of old wooden pews, a little girl counted the ceiling tiles. One hundred and twenty-seven. Maybe more, counting them always produced a hypnotic effect that led to a confusion of where one left off, or began for that matter. Every Sunday of my youth was spent in this ritual; among various other forms of entertainment. Such as, ascertaining the exact number of gum pieces that frequented the underside of the pew in front of me; gum that surely came from the boys who whispered and squirmed on my right and left sides. The reason for distraction came in the form of a preacher, speaking from the front pulpet, often yelling more then speaking. Telling of sin and hell and the opportunity of forgiveness.. a disconcerting thought for a youth; that I could possibly be a sinner, that I could be held responsible for the actions of two people in the distant past. It seemed absurd, even to a child... however there was always the internal suspicion that it might be true; a mutinous suspicion that I was just as deceiving, self-justifying, and duplicitious as anyone else could be... as so, just as responsible.
In a few years a milestone, brought this idea to life once again in my mind. It began in a less-than-spiritual environment...an eight hour bus ride with a group of sweaty, barely behaved teenagers. We were headed to Michigan, to a youth camp, and I had just turned twelve, eager to be accepted and prove myself as an individual. At these times, this related into jokes about gas station doritos and a preoccupation with each outfit and hairstyle that I could employ from my limited experience. Once arriving, however, we were surrounded by a caring group of councillers that wanted to attempt to sublimate my thoughts of hairspray and shoes and address matters of more importance. The nerve. On the week went; each day the speakers concentrating on the sacrifice that Jesus made and the salvation that could be had through repentence and belief... and quelling that familiar feeling that what was said was, maybe, applicable to myself.
On the last night of the meeting in the forth row of folding chairs, in the stifiling summer air, the question had turned to conviction, and conviction had turned into a mental battle. Eternal questions; "what if I can't be forgiven? "What would by friends say?" "Can I really trust someone I can't see?", sputtered, each a brief flame of doubt in my mind, only to be quelled an eye-blink later by the internal voice that assured me a rightous, loving God wanted me. Repentance was there, I knew just what I was. Sin was in my blood, inherit, like my green eyes and brown hair; clearly evidenced too often by my thoughts and actions. Left was faith... While examples and definitions for belief are many; in my minds eye, I likened it to jumping off a cliff into the dark, where uncertainty and fear conflict with little else but the belief and strong hope, that what you've heard is true and someone will be there in the dark to catch you. I jumped. and I instantly found myself free; in all sense of the word. Free from the shame of sin, free from uncertainty, and free to know this previously unknowable savior whom I had been separate from all my life.
On August 18, 1999 by birth was announced from my own lips. My soul had life, due to another's death.
This story is true. As real as my first birthday, but much more lasting. I hope that you share a similar biography.. and can celebrate a similar date on then calendar... if so, happy birthday right back at you.