I committed my life to Jesus Christ when I was 12 years old. New neighbors had moved into the house next door; they told me I could have a personal relationship with the God of the universe and I believed them. I went into my room, got on my knees at the side of my bed, told God I was a sinner who needed forgiveness and asked him to come into my life.
I grew up on Ann-O-Reno Lane in a little town 30 miles north of San Diego.
Well, it was a little town back when I was eight.
There was an Egg-O-Mat down the road; when you dropped your change in the slot a little door would open to reveal a dozen fresh, refrigerated eggs ready to take home. The Red Bird Tavern was the next right after our street. Besides that, we were surrounded by fields.
Not anymore. There are freeways and malls and a Walmart.
If you turned left at the top of Ann-O-Reno Lane you would be on Sam-O-Reno Road. And at the end of that short little street was a trail that lead through a field, up to a big rock. It jutted out over the field and provided a nice view.
That rock was mine. It was my mountaintop.
It was where I went to pour out my heart to God.
I wonder if anybody saw me; if anybody questioned why a 13 or 14 year old girl was riding her ten-speed into a field to sit on a rock. I wonder if anybody heard me praying out loud...if there was someone, other than God, listening as I voiced the secrets hidden in my mind and heart. Did someone see tears every now and then? Did anybody notice the big, green book I carried, a Bible called The Way?
Eventually the field was developed and the rock went away. Eventually my family moved.
Eventually, I grew up.
I like to think I returned from those little treks with a look of serenity on my face. I felt it in my heart.
Meeting with God does that.
I was surprised to see that look on my face in the mirror the other day.
It's nice to know you don't need a field or a big rock to have a mountaintop experience with God.
It can happen in a living room at sea level.