a brief history of my spiritual journey, part 1...

I was born to a Methodist father and a "reformed" Catholic mother.

I was baptized a Methodist.

My sister told me that Jesus was the bright spot in the light bulb. I didn’t believe her.

I thought when I prayed Jesus was in my hands, he wasn’t.

In elementary school I went to Good News Club on Fridays (for a few weeks). We sat and listened to Jesus stories played out on a felt board. If we sat still and quiet we won a prize. I only cared about the snack. We sang the song “Good News! Good News Christ died for me.!” Being told Jesus died for me was a heavy burden.

The prize I won was a blue plastic box of Bible verses that I kept on my nightstand. I feared going to hell if I threw them away. I don’t know where they are now but I am not in hell.

I had one Jewish friend and her mother helped with our Brownie Troup. I sat and had long discussions with her about the difference between Judaism and Christianity. Jesus was the difference. Jews didn’t “believe” in Jesus. This made sense to me.

When I was eleven, my parents got divorced and six months later remarried each other. It was around this time we started going to a newly formed Methodist congregation. We met at people’s houses and then at the Holiday Inn. The smell of chlorine still reminds me of that God. Our lives revolved around the church. We went every Sunday. I was the leader of the youth group, my sister named the church “Cedar Cross United Methodist Church” and my mom sang in the choir.

I was confirmed a Methodist.

I listened to people who spoke about finding Jesus. I waited for the miracle.

I joined Job’s Daughters, a Masonic sponsored youth organization for young women. My father is a Mason. I wore a white satin robe and learned more about the Bible, especially the book of Job.

All my activities had to do with the church or the Bible. I didn’t notice it at the time.

I remember one Christmas when I was about fourteen, watching a movie about Jesus and crying uncontrollably. I felt akin to this man but I didn’t see him as anything other than a man. I still did not understand how he had died for my sins. I was ashamed to cry about movies so I hid it from my family.

At fifteen I bought a copy of the Koran.

I’ve never read the Bible but I own one.

to be continued tomorrow...