Another Sixty Years of Meaninglessness?, Joan Johnston

I grew up in a small town by the sea in New Jersey, the third of three children. Being the only girl, and the youngest, I never seemed to be in need of anything. I had my own room, the dream of every girl. I could look out my bedroom window and see green grass, weeping willows, pine trees, and smell the clean crisp air from the ocean. I mixed easily with people and made friends with whom I could share my experiences. I used my free time to read. I would spend hours lying in our hammock reading mysteries and novels. Whatever I could find, I read.

Looking back, I realized that I was a “thirsty” person. Whatever I did, I did with everything I had. I never wanted to miss out on anything. If I read one book, I had to read the whole series of books, because I could not stand the thought of missing out on even one book. I made friends with just about everyone on our block and nearly everyone in my class. There was something in me that wanted the best and most from life. Our town was well-known for its wealth and status. The presidents of many famous companies resided in our town, and some of my friends married prominent men known throughout the world. Because of this, in our family there was always a push in this direction: to be at the place where “so and so” would be, to use the proper etiquette at the country club, etc. This was my life during my early years and teens.

For me, however, high school graduation was a sobering and thoughtful time. It was like an awakening out of a stupor. I suddenly realized that the comfort and shelter of my parents, friends, and life that I had always known was ceasing. I would be going away to another state to begin nursing school in the fall, a career that I had basically “picked out of a hat.” I remember feeling expectant, yet very insecure, wondering what would be in store for me that fall. September came, and Mom and Dad dropped me off at school. I was to begin what would be a most memorable year.

All the friends I made at school were completely different from me and my background. This really began to open my eyes to see life from another perspective. We would sit in our rooms together late at night talking, thinking, and asking one another what we were doing there. Could we really do anything about the life and death situations we saw every day at the hospital? Simon and Garfunkle sang, “the leaves that are green turn to brown, and they wither in the wind, and they crumble in your hand.” And I wondered, is that what life is all about? None of us seemed sure about anything, and I became more and more desperate to find some answers.

I had never before read the Bible seriously. But this time the Bible held an attracting force to me. I began to read different portions, not understanding much, but it seemed the more I read, the more I wanted to read. That summer I felt desperate enough to end everything, as all I could foresee was another sixty years of meaninglessness. But the Lord was merciful to me. My thirst for meaning, my hunger for reality, presented just the right environment for the Lord Jesus to reveal Himself to me. On June 1, 1972, as I lay on my bed, right after receiving some bad news, I cried out to God, “Please, God, I don't know if you are real. But if You are, please help me, please be real to me!” The next day I found myself answering a call to receive this wonderful Savior into me. At that point, the Lord made Himself so real to me. He became my reason for living. He became my ALL!