Before the Amen: A Teenage Gospel

That was the night she could never forget.

She remembered her childhood—when she thought she knew the truth. The Holy Word lived in her mind, in every memory cell. She knew her Bible better than any textbook. Even though she was an A student at school, the Bible remained her strongest subject. She could quote any book, either from the Old Testament or the New. She knew the chosen people—and often reminded herself how lucky she was to be one of them.

But that mindset began to shift as she grew older, especially as she approached her teenage years.

That was a complicated time. Imagine praying to God Almighty, the Heavenly Father who gave you life and showed you the real truth—and now you have to tell Him all your thoughts about those ratchet boys.

Oh, wait. He already knew.

That made it worse. She could no longer hide her dirty, imperfect self. She had to acknowledge her sins—night after night, prayer after prayer.

On one hand, she believed her destiny was predetermined. Her grandfather had founded the first local Baptist church in a small town in Soviet Ukraine. He survived the Communist regime, did time in jail, but never betrayed his faith or his calling. She had been born into a family that read the Bible aloud, faithfully. God had gifted her with an excellent memory. Older church members admired her as she stood and recited Christian poems every Sunday morning. The pastor had even presented her with the first children’s Bible—right in front of the whole congregation.

On the other hand, the pressure outside was mounting. Her friends slept in on Sunday mornings. They didn’t know any Bible verses. Worse, they were starting to mock her Christian beliefs.

During Communism, religion had been forbidden—unless it was the Orthodox Church, which the government tolerated, even used. But even then, no “respectable” citizen attended church regularly. Easter and Christmas were the only widely celebrated holidays—and they usually ended in heavy drinking and dancing.

So, being a Baptist—knowing the Bible, showing up at church every Sunday—wasn’t cool among teenage peers. It only felt good when she was alone with her Heavenly Father, seeking His approval.

But life in the flesh came with earthly demands—having friends, being accepted, and exploring forbidden pleasures. Drinking alcohol wasn’t just forbidden by God—it was also prohibited by adults. Doing it in secret, away from parents and teachers, felt fun. But doing it in secret from God—who could see right through her—was torture.

What was the point of asking for forgiveness if she knew she’d just do it again tomorrow?

And then there were boys. Ugh.

Boys were the unknown. Some of her girlfriends had gone on dates—some had even kissed. The boy she liked wasn’t a “good boy”—not even by her school’s standards. Unfortunately, her church was full of elderly women, mostly grandmothers. And even if there had been a boy her age, he would’ve been dull. Not exciting at all.

After months—maybe years—of inner struggle, the debate was over. She made a choice. She set aside her good conscience and became a “bad girl.”

Some call it a teenage crisis. Others, a search for identity.

Her mother couldn’t believe what had happened to her straight-A daughter. Her grandmother, who had once proudly watched her recite poems from the pulpit, was now heartbroken by her absence from church. Her friends were shocked, but they liked the new version of her. She was more fun.

And the teachers… the teachers were worried. The best student in the school was now failing all her classes—on purpose.

That memorable night, there were no rules.

An entire adult life still lay ahead—a life to repent, to do what’s right, to pray, to preach, to change the world.

But tonight, it was her night.

Being with her friends—girls her age, boys her age, and some older—making dumb jokes and small talk felt like finally fitting in.

It felt like finally belonging. But belonging to what, she wasn’t sure.

It was the night before Easter.

She didn’t have to go to church the next day.

She could party all night, as long as everyone stayed standing.

The music was loud. There was a lot of alcohol. The boys weren’t joking—they said they had robbed a liquor store.

Maybe they had.

The vodka bottle kept making its way around the circle. Every sip was accompanied by “He is risen!” and “He is risen indeed!”

If someone tried to skip their turn, the group turned on them:

“Do you respect us? If yes, keep drinking.”

That wasn’t her case—she wouldn’t dare skip and draw attention.

After all, she was still an A student. A nerd. A very shy one.

She laughed with the others, but something in her chest felt tight—like a warning whispered too softly to hear.

She lost track of time. They were still in the forest, drinking and dancing. After that, things started to blur. Someone suggested going to a club. There was some commotion, maybe even a fight—she couldn’t tell.

She fell.

A sharp pain.

She couldn’t remember how they left the forest. At some point, they were walking. Then she wasn’t. Then the lights changed. She heard a door slam, laughter in another room, and suddenly the air smelled different, like cigarettes and sweat.

The walk in the cool night air must’ve sobered her, just a little, because a creeping sense of danger began to set in. Whether it was the alcohol wearing off or her instincts waking up, she remembers that moment vividly—even now, decades later.

She realized she was in someone’s apartment, surrounded by older boys—maybe young men.

They were deciding who would go into the bedroom first.

The bedroom where she was locked in.

Then he came in.

She vaguely knew him. He wasn’t mean—he just wanted to have sex with her, against her will.

Her body was still drunk. She couldn’t fight back well.

But her mind—her mind was instantly sober.

Her mind began to pray.

Even though she had followed her teenage desires and earned a “cool” reputation, her virginity had always been sacred. She had never even talked to God about it. She knew no prayer of regret could ever give it back. So she prayed harder.

Her sober mind prayed from inside her intoxicated body.

Those minutes felt like hours.

The guy began talking. Calm at first, trying to reassure her while pushing her flat onto the bed. Then he grew irritated. He told her to shut up and be a good girl. His arms were heavy and strong. His breath smelled sour. She felt helpless. She was terrified.

She kept praying.

And her prayer was answered.

A friend of a friend appeared in the apartment. He wasn’t a close friend, just someone who used to sit behind her in class and borrow pencils—but that night, he was a miracle. He knew those boys.

To this day, she doesn’t know how or why he came. Maybe someone had gone looking for her. Maybe it was just coincidence.

She never asked.

She accepted it as the answer to her prayer.

She woke up outside, lying in the yard. It was daylight. It looked like she had wet herself.

Her grandmother had just returned from Easter service. She paused when she saw her granddaughter, then walked away in silence.

Yes, it was humiliating.

But it was also a relief.

She knew what was right. There was no more need to pretend.

She knew that next Sunday, she’d be in church.

She knew that once she was fully sober, her prayer would be real.

When she asked for forgiveness, she would mean it.

There was no need to wait until she was older.

She had grown up last night.

And from now on, even her prayers would come from a different place.