Growing up in a village that consisted of 4 houses and a church was quite interesting. Especially when two of the houses belonged to my family. And, the church…my name is still on the cradle roll they’ve saved all these years. My husband’s aunt painted a beautiful picture of the church, and I enjoy it very much. I see more than what it shows, though. I see a little girl swinging her legs back and forth because it’s so hard to sit still. And I see her beautiful grandmother playing the piano. I didn’t know it at the time, but whenever we chose which hymns to sing, if I was called on, Grandma silently groaned. The hymnal’s version of “Jesus Loves Me” was in a difficult key.
I grew up very close to Jesus. On our board and rope swing, I would scoot over as far as I could so he could sit beside me. And I talked to him like he was my best friend. I know exactly why Jesus told the people they need to come to him like children.
Then, my first stepdad entered the picture. We went to his church, a dark, stone building with the Phantom of the Opera pounding on the organ. (I’m not naming any denominations that might insult one.) I played sick, I begged, I lied, I did whatever I could think of to miss confirmation classes with the scary man who seemed to like standing close and looking straight down at you. Finally, my friend told me about her church-same denomination, but fun. We started there, and it was wonderful.
My husband and I converted one more time and are now Methodists. I know Jesus loves me, and he’s always with me. Here’s a link to my depression story and the song I wrote.