when you’re waiting on God’s grace-filled voice to bring your prodigal home

In 1997 Jim Cymbala, wrote a bestselling book titled Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire. In that account of the beginning of Brooklyn Tabernacle where he was pastor, he mentions a family crisis that spurred the church to fervently pray for mercy and restoration of a prodigal. That prodigal just happened to be his daughter, Chrissy. Her story is a raw look at how the world’s influence tried to drown out God’s loving voice. Thankfully, even when she was at her lowest points, God’s voice could not be silenced. It’s a grace to welcome the words of Chrissy to the farm’s front porch today…

 

guest post by Chrissy Cymbala Toledo

L ove and music filled the home I grew up in.

I knew my parents loved me, of course, but early on I experienced God’s love too in a powerful way at the small, struggling church my dad pastored.

I was seven years old at the time, about a year after he had initiated a Tuesday night prayer service there. I walked into the sanctuary one night and my dad was sitting on the front row, and Mom was playing the organ off to the side.

Looking around at everyone’s faces, I could tell that Mom’s playing was touching their hearts.

There was something about her music during prayer meeting that would make me aware that God was in the room with us.

“Bless the Lord, oh my soul,” Dad began to sing.

As the small group joined him, it seemed as if the singing was bringing God closer and closer.

The sounds, the feeling, the comfort I felt was like being wrapped up in the warmest, softest blanket possible.

Dad told us to join hands with the person next to us and pray.

Even though I had done this before, this time something happened. A warm sensation permeated my whole body, and I started to cry.

As the sounds of people praying filled the room, in that moment it was as if I were being hugged tightly yet gently at the same time; so loved that it brought tears of joy to my eyes.

For the rest of my life this presence of God—God coming so close that you feel like you are being embraced by perfect love—would both haunt me and compel me.

Not long after that, my mom announced the formation of a church choir.

I loved going with her to choir rehearsal.

I would sit in the propped-open doorway at the top of the steps leading to the backyard of the church, the sounds of the city in one ear, and in the other, songs about hope and love.

Often when I would come inside, I would see tears flowing down some of the choir members’ cheeks as they sang. I asked my mom if the people were sad when they were singing.

“Those aren’t tears of sadness, Chrissy,” she said. “Those are tears of joy because of what God is starting to do in their lives.” There was something holy about the music and words of the songs Mom taught that moved me very deeply.

Over the next few years, two separate incidents involving two women in the church I considered family caused a subtle but significant shift in how I perceived myself. I left my childhood behind.

Even though I was still active in church, my spiritual focus began to blur.

When I became a teenager, I started to obsess about my appearance, striving for model-like perfection. I didn’t have a boyfriend, but boys were clearly paying attention to me which made me less insecure.

I didn’t tell anyone I was struggling with wanting “to be good enough”; more than anything I wanted to be chosen as the one and only person a guy desired. To be the girl being described in the pop songs of Whitney Houston, Prince, and other secular artists. The music that had moved my heart as a young girl in the church became my secret friend on the radio.

The fear of sin that I had grown up with had constantly warned me, “Don’t do it,” “Don’t go there,” and “Walk away.” That voice was now being drowned out by new music that told me, “This is how you do it,” “This is what you need to become,” “This is what will make you good enough to be chosen.”

And then I met him.

He was handsome and mysterious and definitely not a “church guy” even though that is where I first saw him and his friend. There was something cool and sophisticated about him that allured me. I decided it was not a good idea to tell my parents when I secretly arranged my first date with him—I was certain they wouldn’t approve.

I convinced myself that I wasn’t being dishonest.

I was a private person and becoming more independent. Still, I was torn because I knew my parents didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

They had never been overbearing or overly protective. They really trusted me. But I needed to find out on my own if I was good enough to be the one person someone would choose to be his alone.

Thus began years of deception, lies, and eventual distancing from my family. I was a young women obsessed with a guy, not realizing how much this relationship was destroying my life.

There would be moments when I would wake up to my reality. When I felt so helpless and confused.

I would wonder how it would feel to be free, to live without this constant pressure of lying and covering up my lies.

I remember one night being so overwhelmed that even the music on the radio annoyed me.

I stared into the darkness and began to cry.

All of a sudden, without invitation, a sweet presence came into my room. It was there, as real as the tears running down my face. I knew this presence from the time I was a little girl.

It began to wash over me like a wave of what can only be described as love.

I couldn’t help but feel surprised that God would want to be anywhere near me right now. I heard His voice speak gently to my heart, “Chrissy, I still love you. I still want you. I still have a plan for your life.”

God hadn’t forgotten me or turned His back on me, even though I had done that to Him.

My journey back to him wasn’t over quite yet—there were still more regrets on my part before that dramatic prayer service at Brooklyn Tabernacle that finally brought me home.

My homecoming was not unlike the prodigal son in the Bible. I was welcomed and celebrated by my family and the church. And yet I needed healing on the inside. My heart . . . it felt like it was full of thorns—thorns that my mistakes had put there.

One Sunday morning, when the choir was singing “Friend of a Wounded Heart,” every word hit me. The song was about me. Even though I was sitting amidst thousands of people, God’s sweet presence came over me in such a way that I felt as though I were the only one in that room.

He was speaking directly to me as the song was being sung.

I wept uncontrollably as I released every mistake I had ever made and every regret I carried.

I could almost feel God taking my heart into His gentle hands, and He began to pull out every thorn—one by one—saying,

“I love you Chrissy. You belong to Me now.”

I wasn’t defined by my past choices anymore.

He had chosen me.

 

Chrissy Cymbala Toledo is joyfully married to Al Toledo, the friend in her book, Girl in the Song, who had been there for her all along. They have three children and lead the Chicago Tabernacle, a vibrant, multi-ethnic church on Chicago’s north side. Chrissy is passionate about leading girls (of all ages) into freedom that can be found through a relationship with Christ.

For every wanderer, for everyone praying for a prodigal, for everyone who promised to pray for  someone hurting: Girl in the Song, the True Story of a Young Woman that Lost Her Way and the Miracle that Led Her Home.

[ Our humble thanks to Tyndale House Publishers for their partnership of today’s devotion ]