The Least of the Least

Gathered along the bank of Missouri's Gasconade River enjoying a summer picnic with my family, I relaxed in the cool breeze, indulged in the tasty food, and took a refreshing swim. Life couldn't get better than this. Abruptly, a remote, rumbling roar interrupted my serenity. Seemingly closer and closer, louder and louder, it bellowed in the distance. I tensed. Surely it meant impending doom. What was the noise? It seemed oddly familiar, yet far from natural. Where was it coming from? What did it mean? I was bewildered and confused. When it happened again the bleariness of sleep swiftly left me. I realized what it was! I bolted from the top bunk just in the nick of time as the count-timer buzzer suddenly yanked me from my leisurely dream. No river, no picnic, no family, just four concrete walls, a metal sink, and toilet. I stood for count just as the prison guards walked up to my cell door. Whew! That was a close call. Taking it all in, I just smiled. I was happy, not because of my environment, but because of my incredible, miracle-filled journey that took me in search of God. I hadn't been seeking Him, but He was seeking me. He knew my heart when I didn't know my own. When He found me as a devil-worshiping, death-metal, head-banging, suicidal fifteen-year-old and broke through the strongholds of my life, it would never be the same again.