Finally, the weight of the burden caused me to turn to the one place I hoped for release: the altar. I left classes early one day and tiptoed up the stairs of my church, hoping no one would know I was there. I didn't want to talk to anyone else; I wanted to talk to God. I didn't want to hear anything further from anyone else; I wanted to hear from God.

I sensed God's presence and power as I walked slowly down the center aisle of the empty sanctuary toward the white altar inscribed with those same words that had attracted my attention nearly two years before: In Remembrance Of Me. I thought of sitting in the front pew, but quickly sensed this was a time for kneeling. I felt small, insignificant, and confused, seeking from my Father in heaven what men could not give...answers, direction, definite guidance. Should I marry Dominique in light of what I've now learned? Would he someday become a Christian? Long moments passed, searching, stretching towards God in the agony of the struggle.

Somewhere in the midst of the communion and sacrifice, I received strength and assurance. I left that quiet place as timidly as I had come, but went home to write a letter to Dominique. I shared the conviction that I could not marry him without seeking to help him understand my faith. I needed some assurance that we would walk side-by-side in the same direction, with the same goals, in the same manner. I was specific concerning my need to attend church weekly, study the Bible regularly, devote time to prayer, and know that my husband was willingly and happily engaged with me in these things. I told him I had decided not to marry him, if he could not give me some assurance that he agreed.

His answer was a surprise to me. Instead of trying to present a long argument for his side of the issue, or pretend to be all that I wanted so I would marry him anyway, he simply replied, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't understand this kind of faith. I've grown up in the church all my life too, but I don't do the things you're talking about and don't see the need. But I will promise you this: I promise to go with you, to always be by your side, and to honestly and earnestly seek with my whole heart to understand this faith you speak of. If it means this much to you, it must be something very special, and I want to know all about whatever occupies your heart. I love you, but I want to someday feel that I understand and love all of you. If you can accept that I am truthful in this response, I will be there in July to marry you. I pray, in as much as I know how, that you will accept my answer and agree to marry me. I cannot pretend to be something I am not, just to get you to marry me, though this is what I want more than anything in the world."

I returned to my church and placed the letter on the altar along with my own heart and said, "Here, Lord. I cannot turn back. We are both honest before You as we begin. I will seek to remain true to You and trust You for the result." It was nearly April when I wrote telling Dominique I accepted his terms. I also warned him we had yet one more thing to discuss before our marriage could be possible. But I would wait, in the need to speak of that face-to-face.

• • • • • • •

Before I continue my story, I want to insert what I have learned since I made that choice. My decision to marry Dominique, even though I knew from his own confession that he was not a Christian, was wrong. I did not choose wisely; and though I thought I was being true to God, I was not. What was I being true to? My own feelings, my own desires, my own plans that he would soon become a Christian and share this walk of faith with me. I was convinced of the goodness of his heart. I was also convinced such goodness as I saw in him would surely not be long in drawing him to fully embrace the love of God and desire the same fellowship with Jesus Christ and His church as I did.