I met the Holy Spirit at around the age of eleven and didn’t even know it until nearly thirty years later. I had grown up in the church. I made my decision for Christ at a Southern Baptist church's Spring Revival before I reached the teen years. I went all the way through Sunday School to youth group, from elementary school to college. Later I had that mid-twenties swoon some believers go through when I didn't even bother with His knowing better or did I know better, I just barged forward in late-late-adolescent verve into life after college doing my thing my way.
God in His infinite patience and lovingkindness gave me lots of leash to run off for a while, until He gave me a loving yank and pulled me back in my early thirties. It was a hard day, but a wonderful day. Through it all I tried to stay pressed in, at times more effectively than not. But what little I thought I could say I confidently knew, it was at least that little bit that I thought I knew that I knew, in what the Gospel is about, Who God is, and how I fit into all of His grand purpose far bigger than me.
But it was back at the age of eleven that, as I would only begin to realize years later, the Lord was making in me a heart after His, that had this almost unrecognizable capacity to see the good, humble, possibly even vulnerable heart in every person I encountered each day, whether that was the kindly grandmotherly figure at the grocery store or some hulking wall of muscle from the nearby middle school that would sooner grind my person into a fine powder and sprinkle me over the schoolyard fence into the parking lot. It was my own Mom who saw it, at a time when I was sure no one noticed, not least where I wasn’t sure what it was, either. I happened to have overheard her on a telephone call with her twin sister, our beloved aunt, saying something about how, "...even if someone gave him a box of chocolate-covered ants, he’d still appreciate the thought.”