It’s strange, isn’t it—how a smell can transport you back to a place, to a moment in time? For me, when the dampness of cool stone meets the resinous scent of old wood and mixes with the briskness of pine and spruce and fir, I am immediately transported to a hill in Pennsylvania, to the small spaces of a sturdy white chapel where I knew the presence of God.

In some ways, my experience with God up until that point had been fairly safe. I went to church multiple times per week, knew all of the Bible stories, and enjoyed winning the sword drills in Sunday school class. I loved Jesus and wanted nothing more than to follow Him, yet I wouldn’t say I had known Him in a way that was “real.” I think that type of knowing takes time for some people, maybe for most people—it certainly did for me. But I was eager and excited to know Jesus, the energy of youth exploding from my soul.

At the age of 12, I joined the youth group. Every summer thereafter, I made a several-hour journey across state borders and into tree-filled, steep-climbing hills where we stayed for four days in a century-old building lovingly called “The Castle.” Of course, the hours were filled with all of the fun that you can imagine a youth pastor having with 100+ kids. Some of the things we did were downright ridiculous, and if you’ve ever been on a youth retreat, you know that there were most definitely hot sauce, whipped cream, water balloons, and all manner of other strange things involved. I never remember having more fun than I had on those trips—and I’d do just about anything to wind back the clock and step foot into those weeks just one more time.

As much as I remember the games and fun and wild adventures we had in the hills of
Pennsylvania, what strikes me the most are two experiences of knowing—a knowing of God’s realness and bigness and nearness.

Apart from the mansion itself, up a gravely hill that worked your breath, though not to
complete exhaustion, to climb, there was this tiny, whitewashed chapel where we gathered on the final night, to worship Jesus. All of the other times, we gathered in the main hall to sit in plastic green chairs, plenty of space between us and fans spinning to keep the air cool. But on this final night, we—all 100+ of us, would squeeze into the weathered spaces of this somewhat tiny chapel, inching closer on the wooden benches to make space for every person. With the setting summer sun casting shadows through the long windows, we would hang on the Word of God, then stand, or kneel, or fall on our faces, as we sang.

I remember distinctly this one night, perhaps when I was 15, when we asked God to “let it
rain,” praying for His presence to fall on that place, for the Holy Spirit to meet us there. And the heavens opened, literally, rain pelting the roof and joining in with the chorus of our voices. And above it all, I heard my pastor, praying words I could not understand, over the souls of youth who wanted more of God, who wanted chains broken, who wanted to know the presence of the One we talked about in a way that could really change their lives.

Another night I remember specifically, instinctively, as if I am there right now, when one of our worship leaders was praying and—out of what felt like nowhere—spoke a word over one of the girls in the room, calling her by name. Although I knew this girl to a degree, I was fairly certain that she and the worship leader had probably never spoken more than a few words together; it wasn’t as if he knew her story. She had never even come on this retreat before. This was truly a moment when God reached down from heaven into her soul via the words and prayers of another person who knew nothing except to obey when God spoke.

But sometimes—oftentimes?–this experience of the God of Abraham and Issac and Jacob is often chalked up to passionate youth, and I would be lying if I didn’t say I had given up on knowing God in this way only a few years later, trading encounters with Jesus for a safe, Sunday-morning checklist. I put God into a box—I could pray when there was an illness or an injury, maybe write some inspiring Bible verses into my planner to feel motivated to get things done. But the rest of it? I was content—and I was afraid. I didn’t know what opening myself up to Jesus would require of me, and I really didn’t want to find out.

Until one day, I stepped foot into the walls of a church for the first time in five years, burned by people and totally strung out on the idea that God even cared a single iota about my life. With agenda in hand and a fortress around my heart, I encountered Jesus in the same way I remember encountering Him in the walls of that small, forest-hidden chapel. Though I didn’t welcome His presence as I did then—my heart beat with anger and distrust—He didn’t leave. He sat and stayed, welcoming my pain, my confusion, my questions, my doubt.

The Jesus I had loved so much almost twenty years before had not changed. But I had changed. I had traded my trust for realism and practicality, for disillusionment and coldness. I had built walls around my soul to protect myself and given Him only a small space where I could hold on to my ways while still asking for benefits. I had, at times, blamed God for being far away, though He had never gone anywhere. His desire for me to meet Him and encounter Him had been there all along, and as I look back, I can hear His whispers along the path—though I ignored them with force, busy and weary and wounded.

At fifteen, I had a lot to offer God—or so I thought. I had passion, at the least, and energy. I had dreams and goals and vision. But at the (not-so-old, I realize) age of 33, I was already tired, battle-worn and a wildly disillusioned. My passion had my smothered by the daily demands of life and my energy depleted from fighting mental illness. People had inflicted wounds on my soul that had me questioning everything I had ever known and believed.

But it wasn’t about people or passion all along. It was never about what I could bring or do or be for God. It was about a Savior who came to give life and life more abundantly, about His desire for us to know Him as Emmanuel—God with us. It was always, and will always be, about who He is and the work He wants to do, how He wants us to know Him in a way that goes far beyond a religious checklist. He never gives up on His pursuit of us—this fact alone brings me to my knees.

It’s strange, isn’t it—how you can walk into a building, knowing not a single soul, telling God that you don’t want to be there and don’t want to have anything to do with Him, and He can gently but powerful step foot into your soul in a way that changes you forever? It has been a year and a half since that moment, and I get the feeling that it will be a moment I will remember forever, just like I will remember those moments at the Castle forever.

When you encounter Jesus, there’s simply no way to forget it, and I mostly just find myself
hungry for more of these moments—I don’t want to settle for anything less anymore.