March 13, 1962

This newsletter will not go out for a week or two, but it is important to me that I write it today, March 13, 2012.  Fifty years ago today, I was born again.

My parents had not been raised in church.  They might have been to a funeral or wedding in a church building, but that was the extent of it.  When I was about four, Mom and Dad decided that I needed to be raised differently.  They must have seen by then a clear illustration of the doctrine of human depravity (me) and recognized they were going to need some help.  I like to think I was used of the Spirit as an evangelist unawares to bring my folks to Christ!  They visited several denominations and settled on First Baptist, Nashville, Arkansas, Bro. Lonnie Lassater, pastor.  My recollection of Bro. Lonnie was a huge pile of catfish bones in front his plate.  That man could catch and eat some fish.  He was also a fisher of men.  Mom and Dad were saved in his office.  I also distinctly remember having a crush on the Lassaters’ daughter, Wynonne.  She was an older woman, maybe seven or eight.

Within six weeks, with zero knowledge and tremendous hunger for the Word of God, my Dad was called to preach the Gospel.  So, I grew up in a Southern Baptist pastor’s home.

But God has no grandchildren.

My first remembrance of the work of the Holy Spirit in my life was at the age of six.  An evangelist, the only one my Dad ever used (besides me) was preaching a revival meeting at our church, Bradley Baptist, Bradley, Oklahoma.  He had us bow our heads, and then raise our hands if we wanted to be saved.  I bowed my head, I raised my hand, I went to the front of the church with several others when he invited us to do so.  No one paid any attention to me that I remember.  Actually, I thank the Lord today that no one did, that no one led me a prayer or told me I was saved.  I wasn’t ready.  I know people who really were saved at that age and even younger, our oldest son, for instance.  But it was just the beginnings of awakening for me.

Conviction of sin came and went for nearly four years.  But for several months during my ninth year, the intensity built to an excruciating crescendo until I thought I might literally die without Christ.  I’m not saying everyone has to have the same kind of experience, I’m just telling you mine.  The last few weeks before my conversion were unbearable.  I really don’t know how I survived those days mentally, physically, emotionally or spiritually.  And I cannot explain it.  With just a little thought today, fifty years later, I can still feel the utter anguish of soul.  I simply cannot find the words to describe it.  I remember a few days before I was saved, lying on my back on my twin bed in the parsonage, in the middle of the day, crying and begging God to save me.  But He didn’t, not yet.  I have no idea if any one else knew I was struggling, but I know no one had an inkling of the spiritual war going on in me that I thought was going to destroy me.  I used to imagine myself in Hell, on my knees, with flames all around me, praying, and hoping that after a few million years, God would have mercy on me and allow me to go to Heaven to be with my family.  Not very good theology, but it was real to this nine year.

It was another revival meeting, a Wednesday night.  The assistant editor of the Baptist Messenger, the Oklahoma state paper, Leland Webb was preaching.  He later became editor of Commission Magazine.  He gave the invitation.  My Dad, the pastor was standing in front of the Lord’s Supper table waiting to receive any who might come.  I was on the front row, just to my Dad’s left, close enough to reach up and touch him.  I thought I was going to explode! I wanted Jesus more than life itself.  I started to stand up and tell my Dad I wanted to be saved.  Someone behind me grabbed me by the shoulder and forcibly pushed me back down.  I turned to see who it was, and there was no one even close to me.  I have no adult explanation for that.  Use your imagination; I did as a nine year old.

The invitation closed.  A closing prayer was offered.  At the Amen I ran out of church and rushed home.  The parsonage was in the same yard as the church.  I went through the screened-in back porch and in the back door to the kitchen.  I don’t know how she beat me home, but Mom was in the kitchen preparing the preacher, the singer and my Dad something to eat.  I said. ‘Momma, I want to be a Christian.’  That’s all I could get out verbally, but four years of conviction and spiritual agony came gushing out.  Mom took me by the hand, led me through the dining room, through the double French doors into the wood floored living room, past the fireplace, to the other end of the room.  She sat in an over-stuffed chair and I sat on a large footstool at her feet. She took her old King James Bible and explained the Gospel to me.  She prayed.  Then I prayed.  I was born all over again! It was for me, and is for everyone who has experienced it, the greatest miracle of all.  I realize the following statement is not true for many, if not, most believers.  But I have never had a moment’s doubt.  For some reason, the Holy Spirit chose to grant me perfect assurance right from the start.

I just wanted you to know.

In the love of Christ,

Dan Grindstaff

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