No Woman, No Cry

After seemingly endless hours on the ferry, we were all glad when we disembarked in the port of Split.  We found a quiet spot near the ancient walls of Dioklecijanova Palace and sat on the large cool stones, enjoying the reprieve from the heat.  The French guy got his guitar out and started to play.  He sang God-songs from the depth of his soul and to my amazement and utter dismay, my carefully guarded internal walls started crumbling down.  Crying in public was the most humiliating display of human weakness, and in my book it was something that simply wasn't done. Unable to control my emotions, I did the next most dignified thing I could think of at the moment.

I ran away.

It took me several minutes before I could return to the group, but the moment I heard the music, I fell apart again.  The Slovene saw this as an opportunity to invite my participation in that aforementioned useless activity called “prayer’. I was so desperate for my humiliating condition to stop that I agreed.  So, right there, in the shadow of the old palace walls, I prayed my first prayer, inviting Jesus into my life as Savior and Lord.

At the mention of the name Jesus, all my old walls sprung back up. I was again my old, rational, reserved, emotionless self.

I don’t believe a word of what we just said.  I don’t believe in God.  Much less that Jesus Christ is God’s only son.

Back fully in charge, I thought that the battle was finally over. Little did I know that the real battle had only begun.