I have been thinking about an experience that happened many years ago at a vastly different time in my life (or so it seemed), so I’m writing it out. It’s a long story, though, so I’ll split it into two or three posts. Here goes …

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I grew up in a mix of United Methodist, Southern Baptist and, later, independent Christian churches. Each of these denominations/groups have their strong points, and I still attend an independent church with Baptist roots. My point in sharing all of this is that none of my upbringing prepared me for a prophetic experience that happened on an otherwise average Sunday: the ones you read about in the Bible, and they sound like cool stories, but you wonder if they ever happen in real life. I certainly never expected it to happen to me!

My first job after college was as a newspaper reporter in a rest-stop-sized town in southeast Texas, sandwiched between a corn field, a rice paddy and the Interstate highway. The highlights of the town were a phenomenal Mexican food restaurant and a popular bar (and I didn’t even drink back then, so phooey). When I moved there and was trying to get settled in my new rent house, I was on a stubborn streak and dead-set against attending any church with the word “First” in its name, which left a small non-denominational congregation as my other option.

At first, I was a little nervous because my impression of non-denominational churches involved people swooning in the pews, dancing in the aisles, shouting out and speaking nonsensically. This congregation was very small; the pastor’s family comprised four of the 25 or so members, and the church met in a building next door to their house. I quickly became involved and helped out with organizing things for Sunday mornings (we used one of those school-type flat projectors and printed transparencies; this was before the days of PowerPoint and overhead projectors!)

They did have occasional speaking in tongues, but it was never disruptive or creepy. This was the first church that I can remember where people raised their hands in worship, which seemed odd to me initially, but it became more normal as I quit wondering what other people thought of me (quite frankly, no one cares). One Sunday, we had a guest speaker. First of all, the speaker was a SHE. I was impressed that she was offered the pulpit, because even though this was a progressive church (compared to all others I’d ever attended), the highest religious duty I’d ever seen a woman have was as the youth minister.

Before I tell you what happened that morning, I should give some background. The year prior to my relocation, I had interned with a local radio station near my college town. During one of my shifts, I heard an advertisement for a non-profit education organization that was recruiting volunteer teachers for semester and yearly appointments to teach English as a Second Language in Asia. I really felt compelled to do it, and I even began the application process, but for numerous reasons that don’t matter to the story right now, I declined to go and canceled my application.

In the few weeks leading up to this particular Sunday morning with the woman evangelist, I had received a phone call out of the blue from the education organization, asking if I would consider reapplying for the upcoming year. Besides being shocked that they managed to reach me at my new number in my new town, I was flabbergasted by God’s timing.

My job wasn’t anything like I’d anticipated; I was miserable. My boss was the owner’s son and immune to discipline. He was not a pleasant person to work with, much less for. I was ready to get the heck out of Dodge, despite the fact that I’d only been there a few months. I’d had all I could take of learning about boll weevils and the local taxidermy museum, and I was tired of sleeping with my police scanner so that I could jump out of bed and cover a wreck in the middle of the night.

And so, on the morning that God spoke, I was somewhat distracted from the sermon. It happened toward the end of the service, and they were having quiet time where you could walk down front and have someone pray with you. I was just sitting alone in my usual spot, thinking.

The speaker stopped in the middle of praying with someone, looked around the small crowd in the sanctuary and asked, “Is anyone here named Angela?”

(To be continued in Part 2, tomorrow)