BY BARRY GANE

UST AFTER MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY I finally decided to be baptized. I hoped the anger, questioning, and disquiet would cease; that things would change--that I would change. I was disappointed to find that nothing had changed, especially not me.

Within weeks of my baptism I became further enmeshed with a group of friends I thought I'd left behind. The bike gang seemed to hold greater appeal than ever. With my last few years in high school still ahead of me, I consciously decided to spend less and less time there and more time with the bikers. I left home regularly, telling my parents that I'd never return. Instead of acting with anger, they simply let me know that the door was always open should I decide to come back.

I was totally self-centered, angry with everyone without reason. Only one person mattered to me, apart from myself, and that was my girlfriend, Shirley. But we eventually broke up, and I decided to start a completely new life in another state. I took off with a few dollars in my pocket, a change of clothes, and a sleeping bag and headed west with an attitude that said, "Anywhere is better than here!" A couple friends felt the same way, and they joined me for the adventure.

Uninvited Guests
Tired of sleeping on the ground and hungry as horses, we arrived in Adelaide (South Australia), 1,200 miles from home. One of the guys tried to contact some friends, only to find that they weren't home. We decided to "visit" anyway; it was an easy house to break into. We thought we'd stay until the family came home, or until one of the neighbors called the police. But the owner of the house was a pastor, and the neighbors must have been used to seeing kids around. Apparently, they thought nothing of our being there.

We ate the food in the fridge but couldn't bring ourselves to sleep in the family's beds. After a few days of sleeping on the floor, I found an old mattress in the backyard and dragged it inside. It smelled a bit, but at least it would be softer than the floor.

When we returned to the house in the early hours of the next morning, I just rolled my sleeping bag onto the mattress and fell into an exhausted sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I was covered with fleas. Some animal had obviously used the mattress before me. I had bites all over me. There were so many fleas that the floor seemed to move.

Home, Sweet Home
Home started to look pretty good, and I decided it was time to head back. It took 48 hours of hitchhiking to get there. I was struggling with a savage case of the flu by the time I got home, I was exhausted, and I hadn't eaten well for a couple weeks. Even though I hadn't slept for a few days, the first thing I did was to ring Shirley and ask whether she wanted to go out.

"I thought you were never coming back," she said.

"Well, I'm here. Do you want to go out or not?"

I asked Dad to borrow his pickup and some cash and headed off to get my girl. We went to a deserted beach and spent hours talking and catching up. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, we headed for home. Not long after we had left the beach, I discovered that we were nearly out of gas. I stopped at a gas station, filled the tank, and then began a desperate search for my wallet. At first I thought it must have fallen behind the seat or maybe I'd kicked it out on the road somewhere. After an anxious search, I went into the gas station and informed the cashier that I'd lost my wallet.

"I hear that story every night," he announced. "You stay right there; I'm calling the police."

I decided I'd punch him out, run for it, and hope that he wouldn't be able to write down my license plate number. Then sanity prevailed; I asked, "Why don't you phone my dad?"

He did, and was convinced that my father would pay for the gas. His parting shot was, "He seems like a decent man. I don't know where he got you."

Before the service station attendant could hang up, I grabbed the phone and spoke to my father with uncharacteristic consideration: "Dad, go to bed. Don't wait up for me; I'm coming home. I just want to go down to the beach to try to find my wallet."

An Unholy Prayer
As I started the car I rushed off a simple, unholy prayer: "God, I want the wallet, all right?" It was just a rattled demand--more a curse than a prayer. We got back to the beach and retraced our steps, eventually arriving at the place where we'd spent most of our time. Running my hand across the sand, I quickly found the wallet. A stroke of good luck!

On the way home I found myself giving in to sleep. Mesmerized by the speedometer, I caught myself drifting into the curb several times. I begged Shirley to talk to me, but she was exhausted as well. She lay down across the front seat, her head on my lap, and drifted into a deep sleep. I turned the radio up, wound down the window, sang at the top of my lungs, and continued driving--until there was a large BANG.

When I regained consciousness, I saw sparks dancing across the hood of the car. Shirley was covered with blood. The engine had come right through the firewall into the seat and appeared to have married itself to her body. I couldn't get out my door, and I couldn't open hers. Eventually, I lay on top of Shirley and kicked and kicked until her window exploded. Wriggling through her window, I fell onto the road. Then I struggled to my feet, grabbed her by the legs, pulled her onto the pavement, and dragged her as far away from the crash site as possible.

And More Prayer
People began to flood out of their houses. There weren't any lights, only flashlights--I'd struck a power pole and had knocked out the electricity to the whole area. One of the women was a nurse from the local hospital. As I lay on the ground, blood pumping from my head, my arms, my knee, I looked down and realized that Shirley hadn't moved since I'd pulled her free of the wreck. In desperation I asked, "Is Shirley all right? Is she all right?"

People removed me from the scene, propped me up against a tree, and told me to stick a thumb in the side of my head and to put pressure on my knee to stop the bleeding; I'd severed arteries in both places. As I watched, someone brought a blanket, unfolded it, and covered the seemingly lifeless form on the ground.

Let's Get Passionate By Myrna Tetz, writing from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan You have passions. So do I. In fact, because Gary Hopkins from Loma Linda University, Tim Lale from Pacific Press, and I share the same obsession, the book We Can Keep Them in the Church was conceived one afternoon a couple years ago. Now, 34 chapters later, written by leaders, pastors, and lay members who are passionate about children and youth ministry, this book has the potential to change any church that loses many of its young people to one that retains them. From personal stories to successful methods used in local settings, this book describes simple ways in which every member can be involved to keep our children and youth connected to the church. For example, in the chapter by family ministries leaders Ron and Karen Flowers, learning each child's and young person's name and being genuinely interested in them is described as an effective way to help them feel important and loved. We can all do that--and it doesn't cost anything. In an interview José Rojas, director of volunteer ministries in the North American Division, was asked, "If you could change anything about the church, what would you change?" His answer? "I would change our adults so that instead of criticizing young people, they would embrace them and mentor them in the name of Jesus." (That doesn't cost any money, either.) Garry Gadd, head elder in the Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, Seventh-day Adventist Church, used Barry Gane's story in a sermon. Later he said: "The book is meant for anyone who is looking to be a better person themselves . . . and is willing to change." Pray with us that God will use this book to transform our energies and attitudes toward the children and young people in our churches.

I began praying for a second time that night, a prayer of absolute desperation. This time it began in the traditional way: "Dear God . . ."

The desperate realization flooded over me that I had killed the only person I cared about, other than myself.

I pleaded with God, but nothing happened. The ambulance arrived, and the attendants loaded Shirley into it and made me sit beside her. In the darkness my prayer was even more intense: "Dear God, if You'll do this, You can have me." Looking back, I can hardly believe that He would even be interested.

At the end of my prayer, however, I heard a shrill, blood-curdling scream, the type only girls can make. It made my hair stand on end, but it was beautiful. Although Shirley didn't regain consciousness at that moment, I knew she was alive. I rushed off another prayer: "Thanks, Lord."

Another Prayer
When we got to the hospital, the nurses stripped away my clothing and shaved the side of my head. I had nearly lost an ear, and my leg was badly injured. When my father walked in, I wondered who told him where to find me. He asked whether Shirley and I were going to be all right. The surgeons assured him that there seemed to be no life-threatening damage, although Shirley was still unconscious. Then, much to my embarrassment, he asked if he could pray. I was embarrassed, yet as he prayed I felt something changing in me.

Usually when I was out at night Dad wouldn't go to sleep until I arrived home; that meant many sleepless hours. But this time Dad had gone to sleep. He awoke with a start just after 2:00 a.m., got down on his knees, and for the second time that night he prayed for his son who was out there somewhere. He tried to turn on the light and found no electricity, then he walked to the kitchen and saw that the clock had stopped at the same time that he had awakened. He shook my mother awake, and they headed off to find me.

When he passed his pickup wrapped around the pole just 10 miles from home, he drove straight to the hospital, arriving shortly after we did.

Within a few weeks of the accident my girlfriend had mostly recovered, with just minor scarring. I was released from the hospital a little later. The experience was life-changing, but I didn't go back to church. I had not yet submitted to Jesus as Savior, and I didn't recognize Him as Lord. I still had a long way to go.

Rebel Without a Clue
One Sabbath after I returned home, the family had gone to church, leaving me an invitation to join them. As I crawled under the old wreck of a car I was repairing, it dawned on me that I hadn't fulfilled my promise: "God, if You'll do this, You can have me." I thought the first step would be to go back to church.

I was still angry, and I didn't want to go, so I hatched a plan that would ensure the church's rejection of me. Unwashed, clad in my leathers, black grease through my hair and on my hands, I mounted my motorcycle and roared off to church. I did a couple wheelies in the parking lot and a few doughnuts in the dirt; I wanted everyone to know that I'd arrived. Then I sauntered into the church, sat down in an empty back seat, and looked to the front, expecting to see horror and disgust on the faces of the congregation. Instead, I saw tears rolling down my father's cheeks as he sat next to the preacher.

I expected the head deacon, who had two "perfect" children--one at college, training for the ministry; the other about to marry a church worker--to come over and in a loud voice tell me to leave: "You should know better; your father is the elder. What are you doing in church dressed like that?"

I had a mouth full of venom, a heart full of bile. I was going to spew all over him, walk out of the church, and say, "See, God, I tried, but they didn't want me." But the deacon didn't come.

The sermon dragged on. Finally the agony ended, and people began to walk down the aisle. They put their hands on my shoulders and told me how good it was to see me in church. This wasn't what I expected; it wasn't what I wanted.

As I shook hands with my dad I could see him swallowing hard. He said nothing, but the handshake spoke volumes. I placed my greasy hand in the hand of the pastor, and I could see the start of the reaction I wanted. But he bit his tongue and said nothing.

Then, as I walked down the steps at the front of the church, I saw the deacon coming. He's kept it in 'til now, I thought. I was sure he was going to hit me, so I decided to "king hit" him, run like mad, and hope that the motorcycle would start before the rest of the deacons could get to me.

But instead of a closed fist, he reached out an open hand. As he pumped my arm, he told me how thrilled he was that I was back at church. No sooner had he let go of my hand than a little man who stood only about as high as my chin threw his arms around me and began to weep on my shoulder. "Welcome home," he said. He assured me of his prayers and how he had longed for the day that I would come back.

As I stood there, an awkward and embarrassed 19-year-old, I felt strangely warm. That was my first day back at church, and I have never missed since. It took awhile for God to change my exterior, but His Spirit had begun working internally.

It was my parents' unconditional love and the support of a church family that understood community and acceptance that finally broke through my shell of anger and alienation and helped me realize how important I am in God's eyes.

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After more than 30 years as a youth pastor, teacher, and youth director at union conference and division levels, Barry Gane directs the Master of Arts in Youth Ministry program at the Seventh-day Adventist Theological Seminary in Berrien Springs, Michigan. This article is adapted from the book We Can Keep Them in the Church: How to Love Our Children So They Won't Leave, available from Pacific Press Publishing Association.