I was not yet school-age when my family moved to Rolla, a tiny town in southwestern Kansas with one stop light, two blocks of shops, and several dirt streets lined with friendly houses. My mother was busy keeping the dust from our home, and she felt safe to send me outside to play. The entire town became my playground.

One evening, the sound of music drew me to the steps of one of the town’s two churches. Never bashful, I wandered into the Pentecostal service, where I was happily accepted. I remember standing on one of the wooden pews clapping my hands, mesmerized by the joy, the music, and the love. At age four, I had found my life’s strong, immovable magnet.

My embarrassed mother found me and hurried me home.  I pleaded to return, and she decided I might benefit from Sunday school. Each week thereafter, clean and well-dressed, I was sent to the “more proper” Methodist church to learn the stories of the Bible. From that day to this, the gospel has drawn me steadily to Christ.

I am so thankful that one day God reached down and drew an adventurous little girl in her dirty play clothes to Himself.  How marvelous His ways!