The Testimony

Bright lights didn’t flash from the sky nor did those around me testify that they heard thunder; still, the Lord and I shared a moment on Saturday. It was an uncommon moment whose like has been periodically chronicled in the Bible, often portrayed in movies, sometimes witnessed in relationships, and occasionally even grasped in life. For the record, it was Saturday, May 9, 2009—graduation day at Abilene Christian University.

Both Shane, our eldest, and Zach, our “baby,” received advanced degrees. Shane’s Doctor of Ministry documents 30 additional hours of study, research and writing beyond his MDiv and his now seven years of ministry. Zach’s Masters of Divinity marks the end of his seminary training—84 hours of graduate study in biblical language, text, ministry, theology and pertinent history.

Let it be duly noted that while both were eager to study and complete their study, neither of my guys wanted to walk that day. But the whole family was ready to celebrate (and I desired it) so they did. Shane was among five to receive the DMin, and Zach walked with maybe 25 or so others who received their masters. With the last name of Alexander, our sons collected their diploma boxes as numbers two (Shane) and six (Zach), then sat dutifully through the seemingly endless ceremony as hundreds of new college grads also walked the stage to collect bachelor’s degrees.

Like so many significant moments with the Lord, my moment with Lord last Saturday had opened many years before—19 to be exact, in July, 1990. Shane was 13 at the time, my “middlest” Brent was 10, and Zach was 8. I was on ACU’s campus, attending the Bible Teachers’ Workshop, and looking out the window of my temporary quarters on the second floor of Nelson Dormitory; I was crying, I was praying, and I was scared.

The early stages of a major depression had just begun to manifest themselves. They had emerged during a serious bout with post traumatic syndrome, the result of childhood abuse, and had jerked me from reality three weeks earlier. In all my life, I rarely remember a lower moment. I had yet to see a doctor, but my symptoms had become debilitating. I was in a constant state of panic; my heart raced, my body ached, and my thoughts had become dull. I was humiliated and confused.

On the morning in question, my companions had left for breakfast and classes, but I had remained behind for a few moments with the Lord. I sat on the bed, looking out the window that overlooked the campus to the north—a perfect view of the recently completed Bible building and Tower of Light. Like Hannah in the temple, I was praying for my children. Though Hannah wept and prayed to receive children, I wept and pleaded for those already born. How could I, broken as I was, rear children of faith?

Nothing humbles like depression. By its very nature, depression humiliates; it accuses, tries, and convicts. One thing was clear to me that day: I needed help—not only for myself, but moreover for those I loved more than life: my children. So I prayed: “Lord God, spare my children, and please, Lord, somehow grow them into men of great faith.”

As I sat there, continuing to look out at the campus, I pondered the blessings of a Christian education. Having grown up in a poor and highly dysfunctional family, an education at ACU had been beyond my reach. That morning, as I continued to look out across the campus, I prayed what seemed impossible. “Lord, I would love for my children to study here—all of them. I want for my children every good gift available in this place.” My eyes zoned in again to focus on the Tower of Light and the Bible building beyond: “And Lord, if it is possible, please let one—at least one—graduate from that building. Please, Lord, use these young men you have given me to your glory.”

The day I prayed that prayer, not one of my children had expressed intent to attend Abilene Christian and not one had declared an interest in ministry. The prayer was pure pie in the sky, but it rose from the depth of my soul. To be honest, the prayer had little to do with choosing for them an alma mater. Rather, it was a plea for God to recognize my lowly state and to come to my aid so that somehow a broken woman might retain and pass on faith. It was a forever prayer, prayed not only for the sake of my own children, but for generations of grand and great-grand children—children who might escape the life of generational abuse that had been part of my family for generations—the kind of life that came crashing in around you when you least expected it, leaving you broken and depressed, as I was at the time. It was a prayer about faith and a prayer for faith. I was a beggar at the gate of heaven, pleading for help and for hope.

I have thought of that morning many times in the past almost 20 years. I thought of it the day three years later when at age 16, Shane announced he would be a minister. I thought of it in the fall of 1995 when we left him, very near the Tower of Light, as a freshman Bible major, and then again on the day of his bachelor’s graduation…and his master’s. I remembered the prayer when both Brent and Zach enrolled at ACU in 1998 and 2000 and on the day they graduated with degrees in business and integrated study, respectively. The days of Zach’s study at the Graduate School of Theology have been particularly sweet; I have savored each one.

Of course, I remembered the prayer on Saturday, May 9, 2009, when once again I witnessed God’s unfailing desire to be known, to testify about himself, to hear our cries and respond, to create order from chaos, and to form things that are from that which is not. I didn’t see a flash of blinding light or hear the audible voice of God speaking from a cloud, though I did hear it: “You are my daughter and I am your God; in all of this I am well pleased.”

I am overwhelmed once more with joy, thanksgiving, and awe for my God.