It was Easter Sunday, 1974, senior year in college. I was living “down the line,” as we called it at URI. But it was in a small bedroom at my grandparents’ house in Snug Harbor, about 10 miles away. So was I down the line or commuting from home? Not that matters, because it has almost no bearing on the story.

That Sunday morning, I took my grandmother to church, my grandfather not feeling well enough to go. It was a fairly early service and we were back home by 10:00 a.m. After a late breakfast, I went to my bedroom to make an important decision.

I had been active in the job hunt that semester and had four job offers to choose between. Three of them were in the Boston area; the fourth in Kansas City. I knew one of the Boston offers wouldn’t be my choice, so it was really a choice of three jobs. Two in Boston—within commuting distance from my dad’s home in Cranston via bus and commuter rail. One 1500 miles away. I knew this was a decision I couldn’t make on my own, so I stopped to pray about it.

At this point I need to break into my own narrative and explain my spiritual journey. I arrived at college with a basic understanding of liturgical Christianity but no personal relationship with Christ. I attended that denomination one time on campus, and when I went home from time to time. Through the witness of some Navigators on campus, and observing spiritual progress of friends, I had made a commitment to Christ the previous summer while watching a Billy Graham crusade on TV. However, while I had the knowledge I needed, I didn’t turn away from sin. In fact, I fell into the most serious of my sins after that.

But back to the main story. I came to that Easter Sunday morning unconverted. I had three jobs to decide between and felt that I had to do it that day. As I said above, I stopped to pray and ask for guidance. But I realized I had no standing with God that I could ask him for anything or expect an answer.

I stopped my deliberations and bowed my head to pray. Alone, in my bedroom. Just me praying silently and God on the other end, I assumed listening. I prayed a prayer of repentance and asked God to reinstate me—or maybe instate me for the first time. Also that he would guide me through the decision I had to make. I ended my prayer and I felt…nothing.

No bolt of lightning. No hearing God’s voice. No feeling of jubilation.

But I guess I sensed that God heard me. So I prayed again that he would guide my decision, that if he wasn’t going to speak directly to me, he would at least guide me to make the decision he wanted me to make.

And I’m sure he did. I chose the job in Kansas City, and a little over two months later, I loaded up almost all my earthly possessions into my 1966 Plymouth Valiant, with the slant-6 engine, three-speed on the column, and well-worn snow tires on the rear and drove 1,500 miles to begin my professional career. That led me to marriage, then fatherhood, then to Saudi Arabia, then to North Carolina, then to Kuwait and the wartime interruption, then to Northwest Arkansas.

But that’s actually another story, the one that starts my fledgling autobiography, Tales Of A Vagabond. Look for that in maybe 15 to 20 years.

So today is the 50th anniversary of the start of my walk with Jesus, a walk that has been imperfect, but unbroken. I’m not sure what day of what month it was in 1974. I looked it up once. It was sometime in early April, I think, but I choose to remember it on whatever day Easter falls on that year.

I don’t know how many more of these anniversaries I’ll have, but it will always be a special day in my year—the most special day.