Emily’s Story

January 24, 2025 | by Emily Abernathy

I come from the Milford Rendas of Southern New Hampshire. My parents, believers in Jesus Christ, were converted in their twenties, met, married, and had four kids, of whom I am the third. My parents were earnest that their children know and love the God of the Bible. I remember reading verse cards around the dinner table. One evening when I was four or five, my dad explained the gospel from the burnt orange John 3:16 card: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in him, shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

Do you know what perish means?
To die. And go to hell?
Yes, because all have sinned and the punishment for sin is death. But all you have to do to be saved is believe in Jesus, God’s Son, who died on the cross to forgive us of our sins. 

I think my dad asked me directly if I believed in Jesus and if not, whether I would like to believe in him that day and ask him to forgive my sins. I took a moment, weighing thoughts like these: 

The gospel story is certainly interesting—it’s a big, heroic story—even if it is getting a little old…
Avoiding death is certainly appealing…
I wonder how my parents would respond if I said ‘yes’—well, that would certainly be interesting…

So I did it. I said yes and prayed a sinner’s prayer right there at my kitchen table. Many details and conversations of that evening are fuzzy, but I do remember looking around the kitchen while I prayed, my eyes landing on a walnut-colored hanging shelf across the room. It had jars and odds and ends on it.

Yes, I thought the gospel story was interesting, but as you might guess, I wasn’t very interested in the hero of the story. In fact, I was largely disinterested in the person of Jesus Christ. He didn’t feel like a person, someone I could know—or should know—as a friend, as a lord, as my saving God. 

No, what I was interested in as a five-year-old was myself. My independence, my ambitions, my success, my exaltation—this I valued above all else, and I expected my family to do the same. I should bow to no one, but everyone should bow to me (of course). What a cocky and comical attitude for a five-year-old! What’s more, an ugly, dangerous, damnable attitude.

Just imagine for a moment living in the world I tried to establish: 

I would be queen (I was born to be a queen, obviously).
Everyone and everything would serve my every whim.
All other needs (animal, mineral, human, etc.) would be largely ignored.
When I felt discontent (which would be often; see “whim”), I would blame you, my subjects, that my ambitions could not satisfy, and I would rage against you with all my heart.

What a miserable place. Who would want to live there? But I did live there. I lived under the tyrannical reign of uncontrollable anger and unrelenting discontent. I fought to be in charge of myself and those around me, but I wasn’t fit to be in charge. I demanded to be worshipped, but I was a pitiful thing to worship. Whenever I successfully wormed my way into the center of the Renda Family Universe, it didn’t take long before I grew sick of my rule. I was making a rotten cake of my life, and I couldn’t help but want my rotten cake and eat it too!

By the time I was seven or eight, I was climbing maple trees by day and worrying my hands by night: 

If I feel the wretchedness of my sin, surely God does too. 

I thought about the prayer I prayed when I was five and began to feel uneasy. It was an absent-minded prayer at best—more likely an arrogant and deceitful prayer. Did it count? 

I thought about the history of my heart. Yes, I was little, but I had no lack of murderous hate and idolatrous self-worship within me, and I knew God should judge me for my sins. What was God going to do with me when I died? A dread of hell swept over me. I prayed over and over: 

Don’t let me die and go to hell, God! Save me!

I spent many long nights in angst. How I hated those nights, but they were a mercy to me because they had me thinking about the gospel, a lot. I rehearsed what my parents had taught me: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” But this time—feeling the dominion of my ugly, dangerous, damnable sin—the only begotten Son of God was no longer a tired character in an old story, but a Person, mighty to save and so refreshingly different from me. Jesus—who is patient and kind—who has no selfish envy, boasting, or pride—became very interesting. Jesus—who neither dishonors others nor seeks to serve himself at the cost of others—who is neither easily angered nor vengeful—who hates evil and rejoices in truth—who protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres—became far more than interesting; he became everything. The thoughts of my heart changed:

Oh God, I’m not worthy of worship. I’m a taskmaster, but Jesus is a gentle master and the rightful King of all. He is worthy.

As Jesus’ loveliness seeped into my heart, longing sprung up within me—to be rescued—to be forgiven—to be taken off my foolish pedestal so that Jesus would be my King, my friend, my Lord and my God. I prayed just as frequently for God to save me, but my desperation became less and less a fear of being damned and more and more a fear of losing this new love I had found. The thought of going back to my rotten, little kingdom was harrowing:

Oh God, please save me! Do not let me go. 

When I was about nine years old, I sat down one day on the pale pine landing leading to the second story of our home. I was worried and weary from years of angst. I knew I loved Jesus, and perhaps the power of sin over my heart had already been broken, but I was mired in guilt over the prayer I prayed as a five-year-old. I asked God to show me once and for all whether or not I meant it, and in tears I asked God once again to save me if I hadn’t.

God comforted me by his Spirit in a clarifying moment: It didn’t really matter for nine-year-old Emily what five-year-old Emily had or hadn’t believed. Did I now believe in the only begotten Son of God?

Yes, Lord, you know I believe! 

I cannot describe how soothing was the peace that rushed over me. It was the peace that Jesus leaves with his disciples—the peace he gives, not as the world gives—the peace of the Spirit of God himself, mercifully dwelling in forgiven sinners. When Jesus gave this peace to his disciples, he said: “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” And there on that landing, my heart was no longer troubled. My angst melted away.

Did angst ever whisper uncertainty again? Yes, but the love of my Lord and belief in him continued to comfort my heart, as did the broken power of sin over my heart.

Did sinful anger and discontent ever surge through my heart again? Yes, but when I lost my temper and barked cutting words, or when I grumbled against my family under my breath, I no longer felt justified; I felt grieved. How could I—who had been forgiven so much—who had been given the love of Christ—abuse my family? I began taking responsibility for my anger. I began apologizing, whether I had burst out in anger or raged inwardly. It felt sweet to confess, to acknowledge my sin before my God, and to show my family that I loved them as Christ loved me. The indwelling power of Christ aided me in my battle against sinful anger, and over time, I grew in love. 

Twenty-or-so years later, I’m still fighting the good fight for love and belief and against sinful anger and discontent. Added to my precious family are a husband, an infant son, and three darling girls who each want to be queen in their own way. Even as I write, I am breaking up fights, answering questions, restoring rest times, and wringing my hands.

But, as I learned in my childhood home, the Spirit of Christ can help me overcome anger and discontent to love my children as Christ loved me so that they see his loveliness for themselves. And mercy of mercies, this is what I desire more than anything: that Jesus be all in all and that the ones I love know and love him. I don’t need to be queen. I don’t need to control my world and the people around me. I am happy to serve them, again and again, because God so loved me and gave his only Son, and I believe. My life is so different from how it began. And I cannot go back. By the mercy of God, I will not go back.

Take the world, take my life, but give me Jesus!

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About Emily Abernathy