By Kelly Cilano

I was A.D.D. long before it was popular, and focus is not my forte.

No one has ever accused me of being organized, and everything I have managed to complete or accomplish has only been by the grace of God.

As a kid, Spontaneous was my middle name and energy poured from every pore in my body.

As a single, full-time working mom, my mother had her hands full.

Looking for whatever would keep my wandering spirit on track she chose a strict private Lutheran school for the education I considered a necessary evil.

I hated and loved St. Trinity. Two or three grades to a room and my sixth grade class had eleven kids in it. Everybody knew everybody so I could never get away with anything.

In the Sunday school room hung a picture that took up half the wall. It showed Jesus with a contented smile holding kids of every color and size. I always wanted to be one of those kids. 

We never talked about being born again – that appeals to a kid like homework in the summer. Yet in that small school I met Jesus and considered Him my best friend.

Every Thursday morning we’d go to church at school. We got to sing a lot, and Pastor Claus was always nice to me, and I’d rather be in church any day than doing dumb schoolwork.

I liked hearing about God because I liked God, and for some reason I thought He liked me.

We memorized everything: the Ten Commandments, the Apostle’s Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and at least half the Bible.

And I understood it all. If you had asked me I would have told you so.

Seventh grade at public school was an exciting thought. Different classes with different teachers, cuter boys than at St. Trinity, and freedom at last!

And, Jesus? Well, we still talked, but only when I needed Him.

I stored Him on the shelf while I did my own thing. But the weird thing is I told everyone at high school I was Jesus’ favorite.

My own thing went from one thing to another, and ever lower. When the world lost its mind in the late 60’s I didn’t notice. I was too far into my own downward spiral.

By 17, I had already had an abortion and was a freshman on a college campus.

For the first time in my life I was really interested in getting an education and college was a smorgasbord. In my first year I changed my major five times.

Unfortunately, my grades didn’t really reflect my intentions. Somehow my priorities got in the way. I was still with my boyfriend from high school, but I wasn’t faithful. By then I couldn’t stay faithful to much.

I was into a life of finding myself. Problem was I didn’t know where to look.

After graduation I worked for a television station in Michigan, and then for a New York publisher, doing nothing important. Then I worked in Greenwich Village and had a firsthand experience with the not so “gay” life. I worked on the Jersey Shore as a dancer in a playhouse. But the fact is I was tired, lost, lonely and purposeless. Nothing made too much sense anymore.

I was a college graduate, single, had friends, ran after dreams, but really caught nothing.

I was empty.

I rode the subways to work, and on every train I began to hear preaching.

An older man stood alone preaching the gospel on 8th Ave. near Port Authority. People inside Grand Central Station or Times Square would come up to me – not the guy next to me, but me – and hand me a tract.

I’d politely smile and take it, thinking I probably know more about God than you do; what can you tell me that I don’t already know?

But I would take it and read it on the way to work, and then read it again on the way home.

I never got tired of reading those tracts, and if someone didn’t come up and give me one, I’d be disappointed.

I was deep in sin, but I liked reading about Jesus. It was so hopeful. 

I met my husband in a bar and we had dated for about a year when I realized I was pregnant again. Only this time, abortion was not an option. I really couldn’t tell you why, it just wasn’t.

Neither was marriage. Marriage scared me to death, but so did having a baby.

I was a mess at 26, should have had it all together by then, and to top it all off I was pregnant.

My boyfriend’s mom, Lillian, a fairly new Christian, started witnessing to me.

I would listen, ask questions, and think, and think, and think.

I knew Jesus; I knew all about Him, but I didn’t know Him anymore.

He was a theology; a religion; a change of life; a huge risk.

Time passed and my situation worsened. I couldn’t hold a job, and no one wanted to hire me. Basket cases were a dime a dozen back then.

One late night in February or March of ’82 – I really don’t remember which – Lillian was witnessing to me again and I’m not sure how, but I just remember praying.

That Sunday she took me to a little Nazarene church with a white picket fence and a steeple with a cross at the top. It looked like a picture postcard. I cried at the altar for about an hour as the Holy Spirit touched me and I gave my life to Jesus.

About a month later I went to a Raul Reese revival in New York City and cried there, too.

I guess I’m telling you all this because I want to give you hope.

Hope for your lost loved ones, hope for your lost kids, hope for your circumstances, and just plain hope.

I grew up in an unsaved home, my mother had been divorced four times and my dad twice.

I had been given a lot, but I lost everything when I walked away from Jesus.

Even though that decision really wasn’t deliberate, my life was robbed one day at a time by all the sin that quickly seeped in.

Just like the prodigal who had it all, but thought he had nothing until he was in the pig pen competing with the pigs before he realized it.

Even still, Jesus was drawing me back to Himself.

Just like the Holy Spirit drew the prodigal back, He met me in the darkest subways, the lonely late night hours, and the busy streets.

He’s calling out to your kids, your loved ones, your prisoners. He is there in their darkest hours. Those seeds that have been planted will come to fruition.

Don’t give up on your prayers; they really do make a difference. Don’t let the passing of time whittle down your purposeful prayers.

Remember Daniel? He was in captivity for 70 years before Israel was set free.

Have you been praying and fasting for years? Keep going, because you are that much closer to seeing your prayers answered.

God is faithful, and although I want my prayers answered yesterday His timing is never late, as some count lateness.

I have been saved now for 28 years, but it took me 26 years to get there.

God doesn’t forget. He isn’t impatient. He doesn’t give up.

And because He doesn’t quit, we can keep going.