I hated Jesus. "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord," my father's screen saver yelled in BIG block letters. Smug, butthole computer. Jerk of a dad. I viewed those words and felt icy, gray, hard, irritated, and hateful.
I woke up a few days later- a marshmallow. Like I'd tumbled around with Jesus in a dryer- He, a big, warm love-sheet enveloping a mad little know-it-all rock. But, I hadn't. I didn't decide to stop hating Him. It was clearly decided for me. My heart was just- different. I suddenly loved what I'd hated. Hated yesterday. For no reason. No ethereal experience. No teary altar call. I just stopped thinking Jesus was a turd. That He might even be good. That maybe I was His girl. That maybe I'd been duped.
Beer in one hand (of probably six that night), cigarette in the other, I decided that Christ was cool(ish). Not U2 cool, but worth maybe cutting back to five beers a night and smoking, I don't know, two less cigarettes per day?
This was my glamorous conversion to Christianity. My "testimony" as Christians like to call it. I call it, "He loves me in spite of ME."