Nowhere but Up by Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory

I’ve been trying to tell you.”
    “Oh. Well, I just tried to read the Bible, but I can’t understand it. It’s full of thees and thous and says things like ‘heretofore, inasmuch, wherewithal, notwithstanding.’ And I don’t understand a word of it. You’re gonna have to teach me God’s language.”
    “That’s not God’s language,” John explained as he chuckled. “That’s King James’s language. The original Bible was written in Greek and Hebrew and later translated into English. So the King James Version is an Old English version.”
    John told me he’d be right over with a Bible I’d have an easier time reading. That evening in the hospital room, he prayed with me and read the Bible with me, a version in today’s language I could understand.
    John was so happy for me. And I am indebted to him because not only did he lead me to God, but he also discipled and fathered me spiritually. He taught me what it means to be a real Christian through the example he lived day in and day out. This wonderful man helped me to learn what God’s love and grace is all about.
    Before I was discharged from the hospital a week later, my doctors couldn’t help but notice the change in my disposition. I carried on about my encounter with God and told them He was real.
    They were skeptical. “So you’re hearing voices now?” one of them asked me.
    No, I wasn’t hearing voices. I had met God. I had found a purpose. My life was redefined. The depression didn’t weigh me down anymore. For the first time in my life, I felt free. I could think clearly. I felt a deep, indescribable love, a love that was the perfect fit for the ever-widening gap in my heart that nothing in the past had ever had the power to fill.

    After I got out of the hospital, I was on a natural high for about a week, taking advantage of every opportunity to tell others that God was real. I talked to everyone—my friends, my family, the convenience store clerk, the mailman. Most of these conversations were one-sided, with me jabbering away nonstop to someone who was almost always politely smiling and nodding. I didn’t realize at the time how irksome I sounded, but looking back now, I can certainly see it. I’m sure I annoyed some people like John used to annoy me with his God talk.
    I can only imagine how I may have come across to some of my closest friends, telling them about God just after getting out of the psych ward of the hospital. Years later, however, those same people realized my change wasn’t just a passing phase. They would even at times ask me for prayer.
    In my defense, I was excited. I had just found out God was real, and I wanted other people—who, like me, had their doubts—to know what I knew. It was like what happens when you first fall in love. Flowers look more colorful. The sun seems brighter. Sunsets are more picturesque. I had that giddy, dizzying feeling, and I not only wanted the world to know about it, I wanted them to feel the same way. But no matter what I said, no one seemed to get it.
    The fact is, I couldn’t just give others my experience. It’s like sitting down at a fancy restaurant and looking at a beautiful menu with vivid descriptions and pictures of mouthwatering dishes. You can’t experience the deliciousness simply by reading about it, discussing it, and walking away. You have to taste it for yourself.
    There may have been times I miscommunicated my faith or turned people off with my excitement. I’ve since learned how to be more sensitive to people and what they believe. I may not always see eye to eye with everyone, but I don’t feel the need to have to convince them of my beliefs.
    For a week after I got out of the hospital, I was euphoric. I had a sense of fulfillment and didn’t feel the need to use drugs, alcohol, or even Jeremy to self-medicate, forget, or feel wanted. I had finally found what I didn’t even know had been missing in my life. My mom didn’t say much about my experience. She kind