my story
by Don Bromley
The following was written in November of 1995.
My parents were Baptist missionaries to South America for the first few years of my life. My younger sister was born in Costa Rica, and my younger brother was born in Chile. I don't have any recollection of my time there.
After returning to the United States, my parents divorced. I was about five years old at the time. My mother re-married soon after to a non-Christian man whom she would then divorce about eight years later. I never developed a close relationship with my step-dad.
I considered myself a Christian when I was young, and I gave my life to Christ when I was about seven or eight years old. I remember making the decision to become baptized on my own. I even wanted to be a missionary for a time. I didn't know much about theology, but the story of Christ touched me deeply. Unfortunately I spent more time arguing with my Jehovah's Witness friend than seeking God and living a Christian life.
The collapse of my belief came during the first years of high school. A number of things contributed to this: poor Christian examples in my life, “fundamentalists,” evolution vs. young-earth creationism, and an exposure to the various religions of the world. I didn't become apathetic about religion, but instead became a devout atheist. I would initiate arguments with Christians, usually about evolution, Hell, free-will, etc. I became enthralled with the so-called "secular humanists," and read magazines like Free Inquiry. The rock music I listened to espoused the objectivist philosophy of Ayn Rand. I read books like The Atheist Debater's Handbook and Why I Am Not a Christian by Bertrand Russell.
I remained an atheist throughout high school and my undergraduate years at Berkeley. Berkeley's atmosphere only reinforced my negative attitudes toward religion. Members of every cult and religion of the world confront me daily as I walked through Sproul Plaza. I lumped them all into the same category: "freaks." At the same time, atheism didn't satisfy me. Atheism provided me no rules for living, no code of conduct, and no absolutes by which to view and judge the world. All morality was relative, and everything was OK as long as you were "comfortable with it." I began to experiment with drugs and alcohol, and my unhappiness increased.
During the second semester of my sophomore year at Berkeley my mom drove out from Sacramento to see me. She called ahead to say that she was coming, but didn't say why. While we were at a restaurant she broke the news: the lump that she had had removed from her breast was cancerous. My grandmother had died a few years earlier from cancer, and my aunt had undergone a double mastectomy, so this was very serious. I was already deeply unhappy, and this news only worsened things, so I decided to withdraw for the semester. My mother underwent some radiation treatment, and she convinced me that she was OK, this was just something she would "live with" as my grandmother had done for forty years.
I went back to Berkeley that fall and completed my junior year. The summer before my senior year I was in Berkeley working at the Lawrence Berkeley Laboratories. One day in June I received a phone call from my mother. She was crying, and she told me that the cancer had spread to her lungs. I found out from my brother that the doctor gave her 6 months to live, perhaps 3 years with chemotherapy. My whole world completely fell apart. All I could do was repeat "this is bad, this is bad"...
I wasn't a Christian at the time, nor did I believe in God, but I decided to pray anyway. I prayed and made a deal with God: if he cured my mother I would become a Christian. I didn't pray expecting God to listen (or even exist!), but there was nothing else for me to do.
In the next few weeks I researched alternative cures for cancer. There was a hope (although less than 3% for my mom's stage of cancer) that the disease would go into remission. I resolved that we would do everything medically possible. My mother began chemotherapy.
In August I received another call from my mom. She was crying again and asked the following question: "What's the best news I could give you?" Without hesitating I answered "you don't have cancer anymore." I was right. The chest x-ray showed no signs whatsoever of cancer. Her response to the chemotherapy astonished the doctor. My mother would continue with occasional chemotherapy to prevent a relapse.
After the initial euphoria wore off, I remembered my promise to God. My mom was apparently healed, and miraculously at that. However, had God healed her, or was it the chemotherapy? I posted my dilemma to a Christian newsgroup on the internet. The Christians encouraged me to praise God for the miracle. The atheists told me that I should never have made the bargain in the first place, but that in any case God had nothing to do with it. Although I wouldn't admit it openly, I agreed with the atheists. As long as there was a possibility that it wasn't God, it wasn't.
In December, as I was driving home from Berkeley with my brother for Christmas break, my brother told me the bad news: the cancer had come back and the chemotherapy wasn't working any longer. They were going to start her on a new drug the very next day. I had a suspicion that the cancer might be coming back, because in the past month or so my mom had sounded pessimistic, but I was afraid to ask for details.
The situation was even more hopeless than before. The new chemotherapy wasn't as effective as the first, and the side-effects were worse. In fact, it turned out that the chemotherapy would be many times worse than the cancer. My mom was nauseous constantly. She would vomit every few hours and coughed constantly, spitting up mucous from her chest. She didn't get out of her chair anymore, and I had to persuade her to use the hospital bed that we got. We spent Christmas day in the hospital. My mom was on an IV due to dehydration.
I still held onto the hope that the new chemotherapy would work as well as the first. I couldn't bring myself to ask God for healing again. I remained convinced that the chemotherapy had healed my mom in the first place, but if God DID heal her I didn't want to confront Him!
My mom's condition continued to deteriorate. She wouldn't eat or drink anything, was constantly coughing, and was in constant pain. Each night I would listen to her cough. The pain was getting worse, so we took her into the hospital.
The hospital did a CAT scan to determine the cause of the headaches, and did a chest x-ray to see if the chemotherapy was working. I remember the intense sinking feeling when I found out that the cancer had spread to her brain. The cancer in her lungs had gotten worse, not better. My mom's doctor made it pretty clear that it was just a matter of time, probably three weeks to three months, before death. From then on it was just a matter of keeping her comfortable. That day in the hospital was the last time I would see my mom fully conscious.
We began to give my mom pain killers, such as morphine. Over time we increased the dosage and combined this with other powerful pain killers until my mom was only in a semi-conscious state while awake. During this time my mom's close friends from church began to come over and comfort us. They would bring food and drinks, and a few stayed with us overnight. In particular, one woman named Clydene was there almost every day and night helping and giving words of comfort. She encouraged me greatly during this time. I began to realize the importance of human compassion and kindness. I couldn't put a price on what these people had done for me.
I began to read the Gospel of John during this time. Jesus' teachings touched me deeply, especially those concerning everlasting life. When my own pain was especially great I would go running, and occasionally I would find myself crying, not because of my mother's situation, but because I could feel God comforting me. He gave me the strength to endure.
On January 14, 1995 my mom died. Everyone cried, but I couldn't. Scared, I just buried my face in a pillow and thought about what had happened. I had never seen someone die. I stayed until the people from the mortuary arrived to take her away. A week later, after her cremation, we had her remembrance service. When I saw her picture I began sobbing, and I didn't stop until it was all over.
The day after her service, school began. I confessed to two of my religious friends that I was a Christian. I believed in what Jesus said, but there was still a lot about Christianity I didn't want to accept. If I believed in Jesus then I felt I had to believe everything else; a few-thousand year-old Earth, a hell of fire and brimstone, Jonah and the whale, Noah and the ark. I wanted to believe in Jesus, but my intellectualism conflicted with all the rest. I tried to simply ignore the Old Testament, but it didn't work very well. I began to slip into the "Jesus was a great teacher" mode of thinking.
I graduated from Berkeley, an event my mom had longed to see, and went to Europe with my close high-school friends. They were all atheists and had always known me as an atheist. I wasn't sure what to tell them about my "conversion" so I said nothing. We engaged in the usual activities of college kids in Europe, all of which included drinking. Although I wouldn't admit it, I was becoming the person I had been before. The depression began to set in as strong as it ever was.
After moving to Ann Arbor I decided that I needed to join a church and try my best to become a real Christian. I went to a few churches in Ann Arbor, none of which appealed to me. My dad, who was visiting, suggested that I try the Vineyard, which I did the following week. Before the service began, a man sitting next to me suggested that I might be a little shocked at how the audience behaved during worship. He said that people would often lift their hands during worship, dance, or even speak in tongues! Convinced that I wanted an intellectual church environment, I almost decided to leave, but didn't. In spite of the lifted hands during worship, the energy in the place moved me greatly. I decided that I liked it, and would come back again.
At the same time I was searching for a way that I could reconcile my mind with my faith. Miraculously I stumbled upon C.S. Lewis'sMere Christianity in the bookstore. Lewis’s intelligence, logical arguments, and unabashed Christianity impressed me greatly. It became evident that it wasn't necessary to give up my mind in order to attain faith. Since then, I've read five more books by Lewis.
While growing as a Christian, I became increasingly unsatisfied with my graduate studies (in mechanical engineering). I wanted to seek God full-time and do His work right now. However, I wasn't sure HOW I could do this. One Thursday as I was leaving a home fellowship at Ken's (the pastor's) house, I heard him mention an "internship" with a man named Steve Nicholson. This sounded like what I was looking for, a chance to learn more about God while serving Him. The following Saturday evening I prayed earnestly for direction from God, and decided to fast Sunday.
Sunday's service was quite odd. It became clear from the outset that the service was going to be different. Ken was in a reflective mood and spoke about a personal issue. I was uneasy to begin with, searching for God's direction in my life, and the sermon just made things worse. I began to get a little scared. I though that perhaps I would get my direction very soon, and I was pretty sure what it would be.
Toward the end of the service Ken called all of the under-30 year olds to the front of the church. He asked for anyone with a prophecy or something to say to speak. Although I considered mentioning my search for direction, I didn't know many people in the church, and didn't consider my search a "prophecy." After a few people had spoken, Ken directed the mike to me and asked if I had anything to say. This surprised me completely, as I made no gesture that I wanted to speak. I spoke of how I had prayed for direction and felt that God had given it to me. Ken asked me to be more specific. At this point I was completely petrified. I wasn't sure what was going on. I mentioned that my direction had something to do with Steve Nicholson. At this point Ken told the congregation and me of his feelings that I was going to become a pastor.
After Ken spoke those words I became completely aware that God had spoken to me. My legs began to shake. I became light-headed. I clutched my chest, bowed my head and began to repeat something to the effect of "Oh God, oh God..." People began to pray around me and laid their hands on me. I didn't hear a word they said for the first five minutes. After about ten minutes of standing and shaking, I tried to control my legs. I couldn't stop the shaking no matter how hard I tried. I stood shaking for another five minutes or so and decided that I should sit down. Once seated I relaxed and began to talk with two guys who had been praying with me.
Since the experience I have prayed to God for discernment. If this is my calling, I'm determined to follow it. During the weeks that followed, God confirmed in my heart that my calling to ministry was true. Soon afterward I officially withdrew from the University of Michigan. With the encouragement of my pastor, I enrolled in a graduate program at Ashland Theological Seminary in Ohio.
I have felt God’s transforming power in my life, at times more strongly than is comfortable. But through it all I have begun to develop a close relationship with Jesus Christ. As bad as the pain has been, I praise God for it, and would gladly go through it all again for the sake of knowing Him.