WINTER 1970. A well-manicured brick home in Fox Point, Wisconsin, is empty except for a company of sinister creatures both unseen and unheard, standing outside the living room window. A curl of smoke seeps through the screen, the sight of which provokes a certain wicked cheering among the dark beings. Before long, smoke is billowing out of every downstairs window. The evil angels begin to dance.

One year later two worried adolescent girls sit in a sparsely furnished sunroom, twirling their thumbs and glancing at each other. Wordless memories shoot between them almost telepathically . . . a siren, a mob of neighbors, a picture window pouring out flames. “Don’t tell anyone!” the taller had hissed under her breath as the other gave a tense nod. Now they sit in silence, like two wild but caged animals, hoping for mercy, expecting none. A tall, dark-haired man appears in the doorway. Doomsday has arrived.

I believe that people are like chemicals. Certain ones react with certain others. That’s how it was with Sue Cook, a funny, artistic girl who lived in the same suburb I did. There was tremendous chemistry in our relationship. We enjoyed many hours of silliness and adventure together, never at a loss for things to do because both of us were creative and supercharged with the electricity of youth. But like any two unprincipled young girls left to their own devices, we did stupid things. We went through a phase of hyperventilating until we fainted, which we did for “fun” until one girl passed out in the bathroom at school and hit her head on a toilet seat, resulting in a concussion! Not learning from that, we went on to smoking cigarettes. The ironic thing about this was that I was the one who had talked my mom into quitting only years before. I knew I was a hypocrite, but the lure of amusement was too great for me. Unused to nicotine, we would receive a momentary “buzz” and giggle until it wore off.

One day we were busy smoking at Sue’s house, and suddenly we heard the door slam. Thinking we would be caught, we ran to see who it was, finding that it was only the dog. When we returned to the couch, we found that I had dropped the lit cigarette between the cushions. It had burned into the box springs and couldn’t be retrieved. We poured water on it, shrugged, and sprayed some air freshener. Sue went out somewhere, and I went home.

I was in my room getting ready for bed that evening when my kid brother burst through the door. The moments that followed are frozen in my mind. Scott’s twirpy little chest was expanded with excitement and his eyes were wide brown alarm clocks. He then yelled seven words I will never forget: “Jennifer, Sue Cook’s house is BURNING DOWN!”

I rode my bike, I ran, I flew to Sue’s house. Sure enough, a mob gathered. As I ran, I stumbled upon Jim Rice, a short, thin classmate of mine with Coke-bottle glasses.

“Jim, this is all my fault!” I spilled. “We were smoking, and I dropped a burning cigarette into the couch! I know that’s what happened!” Jim stared speechlessly through the glasses while I tore ahead to the house. I didn’t realize that he was the last person I would confess the matter to for a long time.

As I drew near, I could see that the inside of the house was black—the sickening blackness of charred memories. The house was brick; otherwise, everything would have been devoured. Out of sheer guilt I made a vow to myself. I vowed that I would grow up, get a job, and repay the family for all the damage I had caused. I was willing to confess, to take the blame, suffer the penalty, anything but to feel the shame of what I had done.

When I found Sue, our eyes locked in mutual knowing, but she was afraid to let the truth come out. “Don’t tell anyone!” she hissed. I was absolutely torn. How could I carry this burden of guilt, but how could I defy my best friend?

The next week Sue and I sneaked out of school and walked to her house during the lunch break. We wandered from room to charred room, inspecting the carbon-coated remains of her childhood. We did not cry at first. We laughed at the melted record albums and singed clothes. We were too young even to comprehend the ordeal, so we laughed . . . until we got to her piano. There, on what remained of a beautiful instrument, was a piece of music Sue had been learning, charred around the corners but not so burned that we could not read the song title: “Fire and Rain,” by James Taylor. Then we cried.

The hush plan worked for about a year. Sue moved to another town, but we stayed in close touch, corresponding by phone and letters. But eventually one of the letters that referred to the cause of the fire was found by Mr. Cook, and a meeting was called.

Now, Mr. Cook had never seemed to me to be a very affable fellow. He was, of all things, a lawyer, and a very reserved, professional man. I had never seen his light side, and I assumed that he didn’t have one. I did not look forward to discussing with him the fact that I had incinerated his house. Nevertheless, one Saturday morning I found myself sitting in his sunroom with Sue and that very item on the agenda. The whole affair was quite perfunctory. There were no smiles, no tears, just a short talk and the pronouncement of the sentence: I had to tell Mom.

Needless to say, Mom was not happy. I can still see her face while we sat in the family station wagon, parked at the local shopping center.

“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you,” I said in a wimpy voice.

“What?” Her beautiful black eyes had the classic “oh, no” look that any mother’s would have after hearing those words.

“Uh . . . do you remember the Cooks’ fire? Well . . . I was responsible for it.”

Mom crumbled right there in front of me, and it broke my heart. I couldn’t have devised a more torturous punishment for myself if I had been a member of the KGB.

Life went on after that, but I was never quite so carefree as I was before the fire. I now knew what serious guilt felt like, and I didn’t like it. I had learned that doing wrong had consequences. I wish I could say that I had learned my lesson, but it’s not the consequence of sin that turns a person away from sin; it’s the Lord. And I didn’t know Him . . . yet.

Decades after the fire my mother was still friends with Mr. Cook. She called me one holiday season and said that he wanted to buy two of my CDs for his daughters for Christmas. “Just send them with a bill,” Mom said. I remembered the fire and my vow to repay the Cooks for the loss of their house. Being older and wiser, I knew that the house had been covered by insurance, and that he didn’t hold me accountable for what I had done as a teenager. Still, I was not about to send Mr. Cook a bill, knowing how much I “owed” him. I wrote him a note and sent it with the CDs. The note read “Mr. Cook, please take these CDs free of charge. Consider this a down payment on the great debt that I owe you.”

He wrote me back, and his words meant more to me than he knew. In fact, they have come to illustrate the reality of the gospel. He said, “I never considered, even for a moment, that you owed me anything.”

In my youthful ignorance I had vowed to pay a debt I could never pay. I didn’t realize two things: one, just how great the debt was, and two, just how forgiving Mr. Cook was. In the same way we so often vow to pay God back, not realizing the enormity of the debt, nor how forgiving the Lord is. This idea that we can repay God is called legalism.

Legalism, or being “under the law,” is a disease that we all suffer from. We are by nature prone to want to atone for our own guilt through some kind of works program. From this basic tendency has sprung a smorgasbord of world religions that are all based on the same basic idea of salvation by works. But far from actually doing what it purports to, legalism separates us from God. The Bible tells us why in Ephesians 2:8, 9: “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, that no one should boast” (NASB).

If God did allow us to save ourselves by our works, we would “boast,” meaning that we would become proud. Pride makes an idol of self and separates the soul from the Saviour. So a “works trip” actually leads people to hell instead of heaven. Not a very good deal, is it?

A much better deal is really not a deal at all. It’s a gift. It’s the gift of God to every lonely youth, every stressed father, every overworked mom. It’s the gift of God in His Son Jesus Christ, living and dying for you. Believing in that Gift leads to salvation by grace. The ultimate product of that faith experience is an obedient life, but in that life good works are a fruit of salvation and not a means of it.

Do you appreciate God’s gift? You will if you really comprehend it. True faith is not just a mental assent to the truth. Devils have that kind of faith, for “the demons also believe, and shudder” (James 2:19, NASB). True faith includes appreciation and gratitude. Mary was filled with gratitude, and it led her to anoint Jesus with precious ointment that cost her a year’s wages. He said to her, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace” (Luke 7:50, NASB). If we really believe, our hearts will be softened. We will be led to love and forgive people as Jesus has loved and forgiven us.

If you’re like me, you find at times that the hard knocks of life put calluses on your heart. You begin to harbor anger. Your spirit becomes jaded. All of this comes from forgetting the great debt we owe Jesus. To recognize His mercy is to be filled with it. Take time today to hear the good news all over again. Let the Spirit point to the sacrifice of Jesus and say to you, “I never considered, even for a moment, that you owed me anything.”

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Reprinted with permission from Jennifer Jill Schwirzer, Testimony of a Seeker (Nampa, Idaho: Pacific Press Publishing Association, 2000). This book is available from Adventist Book Centers (www.adventistbookcenters.com), telephone 1-800-765-6955, for $12.99.