Note: In the Kindle edition there is an added chapter to bring readers up-to-date with what is going on in my life.
By Ada Brownell
In 1937, people in a little
white church had heard our large family was moving there and they began praying
for us. Mom, Dad, and my seven siblings were refugees from the Kansas Dust Bowl
and Great Depression when they arrived in Fruita, Colo.
God sent Christian friends to
my older siblings and one by one my sisters and brothers accepted Jesus as their Savior.
Mama was afraid of the
Pentecostals, so when she went to check on what my oldest sister was getting
into, she sat on the porch steps and tried to listen to what was going on
inside.
Eventually Mom and Dad joined
my siblings. I, only a few months old, grew up in a wonderful Christian home.
The following is an excerpt of Chapter One of Confessions of a Pentecostal.
I grew up feeling close to God.
I enjoyed the warm comforting Presence that descended on us time and again at
church, at cottage prayer meetings, and even when we prayed as a family at
home.
Often when our church was
particularly “on fire” for God, sinners wept when they entered the building;
people prayed so much the presence of God continually filled the sanctuary, and
even I, as a child, felt my heart bursting with faith.
People believed God for
anything in those days, and people had many needs. We weren’t the only family
in town living in poverty despite everyone’s willingness to work. But we did
not go hungry.
Health insurance was unheard
of, and many diseases that can be prevented or cured today were debilitating or
fatal. The polio epidemic gripped our nation during my childhood, but our
family was untouched.
Now that I look back, I see
God’s healing and protection for me. I probably was only a few months old when
my two-year-old brother emptied a salt shaker in my eyes. Yet, I never remember
having a problem with my vision.
Mama spent lots of time working
in the garden to make sure we had food to eat, and when I was a toddler, my
sister, only 7 ½ years older than I, gave me a bath. Our kitchen wood stove
hadn’t had a fire in it during the hot summer weather, and she set me down on
the stove when she took me out of the water. That day the stove was hot and I
still have scars on my backside.
I must have been about age 10
when I disobeyed Daddy and went ice skating on the river on a frigid winter
day. The river was a long way from our house, and I froze my feet. When I
walked in the house, I dunked them in hot water. They turned black and swelled
so much I couldn’t keep what I’d done a secret. But praise the Lord, I still
have feet!
We feasted on the Word. I grew
up knowing God loved me and had a plan for my life. I felt inferior to other
children because I wasn’t dressed as nicely as they, and believed my freckles
and red hair made me ugly. I had no idea that others probably envied my Shirley
Temple curls that stayed in like most girls’ braids because my hair was
naturally curly. Despite teasing for being a redhead and a “holy roller” from
school classmates, I always felt good inside because Jesus loved me.
Excitement filled me when we
went to church. I remember one Sunday night when we came in late, and we
weren’t often late, and the congregation already was singing:
“Yes, I know, I surely know,
Jesus’
blood can make the vilest sinner clean….”[1]
Although a child, the singing
sent chills down my spine. If only the drunks in town knew that! If only the
woman who lay across the railroad tracks near our home and committed suicide
had known that! If only the whole world could know that Jesus’ blood can make
the vilest sinner clean!
It’s
been years since I accepted Jesus as my Savior. Am I still enthusiastic about
Him? Am I as dedicated? Do I still have faith to rely on God? Is there value to
serving Him? Or does doubt overshadow everything I thought I believed?
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