It was an ordinary Wednesday during the school year of 2007.
My friend and next-door teaching neighbor was absent, so there was a substitute teacher in the room. Her name was Linda Martin.
I had known Mrs. Linda for a while and thought her to be the nicest lady. As we stood by our doors greeting students, she asked if I’d like to go to church that night.
Without even processing the invitation, I said yes.
That evening I stopped at Books-A-Million to get a notebook for church. Being a neurotic note-taker, I figured I’d better be prepared. Prepared for what I did not know.
I arrived at the building and found a seat in the middle toward the front so that I could see the altar and the preacher, whoever he might be. Being studious, I knew I’d get more out of this sitting near the front.
Service began with worship—the small band playing, arms raised in praise, hands clapping. This was familiar to me since I had attended two services here before with a friend. After a few songs, the pastor took the stage, led us in prayer, and began with his message.
I hung on every word this man spoke. He spoke with passion, conviction, and authority. I was hooked. I wanted more.Read More