The Shadow of the Alamo

I grew up in the shadow of the Alamo. Born in San Antonio, TX, I never fully understood how that would impact the rest of my days. The Alamo, a home to missionaries and their converts for nearly 70 years, it ended with a huge battle where much blood was spilled.

It was in the shadow of the Alamo that I was first introduced to Jesus Christos, at the age of only 3 years old, on the wall of the Rodriguez dining room, hanging on a cross. Prior to that, I had never heard or seen anything remotely resembling what I beheld that day. I had been playing with the Rodriguez boys, the only kids in our neighborhood who were young enough to have a 3yo tag along. They were only 4 and 5. They didn’t mind the little white haired girl who asked questions and wanted to know why all the time. I didn’t mind playing with dirt, bugs or climbing trees. I could run fast and find good hiding places. These things mattered.

On the day we went in the dining room and I noticed the painting; we were there for a quick snack and then back to playing but I couldn’t take my eyes off of this man in the painting. There was something about Him that made me feel funny, and not ha ha funny either. For some reason, I knew deep down I wanted to be just like Him. I didn’t know who He was, I didn’t know why He was nailed up on that cross and I didn’t know much, but I did know this, He was up there for me, because He LOVED me. By the time we washed up and snacks were served I had devised a plan in my little 3yo brain. By my estimation and by the questions I’d asked in between bites it should be relatively simple to be just like this man who they told me was the Son of God; and to be not just like Him but to be with Him too. Understand though, Mrs. Rodriguez spoke English about as well as I spoke Spanish, so that may be where the lines got crossed.

And here is how it all went down, so to speak. I convinced David and Jose that if they would just nail me to the mesquite tree that surely that would be good enough. I could stand on a milk crate and after they nailed me they could kick the crate out from under me. Voila, as my momma always said, problem solved. They had some objections. You can imagine. But from a practical standpoint though, I really did have it all figured out. There were nails down the alley behind the bar on Hotwells Blvd we could go get (we weren’t supposed to go down the alley but I had convinced them and myself that God would understand because it was for Him, the nails were rusty but that was okay, I didn’t mind because I really wanted to meet Jesus Christos face to face) and my daddy had a hammer. After a few hours of convincing, I talked them into it, I can be persuasive I suppose.

If it hadn’t been for my sister I would probably have tetanus and nail scarred hands. She was a well known eavesdropper in our neighborhood and I’m thankful now for it! She went and told my mom who came running out of our house, apron flying, flour billowing off it, screaming something about me being the death of her and Catholics…I don’t know, I was preparing to meet Jesus Christos. Long story short…I was no longer allowed to play with the Rodriguez boys.

I don’t know if having my roots so deeply planted in the blood soaked soil so close to the Alamo actually influenced my passion for missions. Perhaps it did, but I do know that Jesus Christ made sure I was born in the shadow of the Alamo, that I would first see Him on the wall of a tiny house on Pyle Rd and that I would forever fall in love with Him because He loved me first.

As a 3yo child I didn't understand that Jesus Christ came to die on a cross so I wouldn't have to. I thought that to be with Him I had to physically die on a cross as well, but it's so much simpler than that. Confess my sins to Him, repent from my sins, ask forgiveness, accept Him as the Lord and Savior of my life and then pick up my cross and follow Him. I pray you'll make the same decision I did...