I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings.-Tom Petty

 I enjoy creating little wooden peg doll people- WHY? So far, the best answer I've come up with is that I never really wanted to stop being a kid. I long for a childhood that's carefree and supportive of imagination and curiosity. Don't get me wrong. I had a perfectly fine childhood. My parents gave me everything (and more) that a child needs in order to grow into a healthy, self-sustaining, responsible member of society. I don't believe for one second that they knew or understood what was going on in my head. In fact, my mother stated as much on numerous occasions, "I have no idea what goes on in that head of yours!"

When I was a kid, some of my favorite friends were younger than me, and most of those were cousins.  Playing with them was a win-win-win. They had different toys and still liked  playing pretend games which I usually made up. I could be somewhat in charge and have fun at the same time. That's pretty much exactly what I do now as an elementary art teacher. I love how that worked out. But holding on to a carefree childhood when fear flowed through my little-child veins like Koolaid(TM) through a silly straw wasn't easy-no matter how many younger cousins might be available for pretend games.

I prayed to Jesus every night to keep the fears at bay. I'd lie there and think about my day to try and remember any bad thoughts or words I'd said-anything I may have done that Jesus would need to forgive me for so my name wouldn't get crossed out of the Book of Life.

By the way, when I write these things down and see them in print, it looks and sounds extreme to me. As if I grew up Mormon or something. I used to consider Mormans to be pretty extreme and "out there" as far as Jesus-based religions go. *phfft* It's all sort of extreme to me now. Also, I've rarely met a Morman that I didn't really like. They're good people.

 It's just so peaceful to leave it all behind.

 ANYWAY.  I was always asking Jesus to forgive me for not wanting the rapture to happen until after I'd turned 16 and could drive. And as long as I was being honest, I'd have to admit to Jesus that I'd also really enjoy being able to grow up and go to college, get married, and have a family. At the very least, Jesus, could you wait until after my next church trip to Six Flags? Getting on an old, retired school bus and driving from Duncan, Oklahoma to Dallas, Texas (I know it's Arlington, but it was all Dallas to us.) to spend the day at Six Flags was what I considered a top level perk of being a member of the Bethel Assemblies of God Church.

Most of the other perks I got from being a church kid came from the fact that my mom was the church secretary. She had keys to the building and went there during the week to work on the books while I explored every nook and cranny of our A-framed church building. Our church looked like a big triangle. I guess at the time, it had a modern 60's vibe with its giant,, lighted, wooden cross that shined through a stained-glass window behind the stage of our sanctuary which overlooked the many evils of US Highway 81. Rarely a sermon was preached that didn't at some point touch upon the sinfulness zipping up and down and lurking on the south part of  the little two-lane highway running through our town. You'd have thought it was the Las Vegas strip to hear some preachers talk. Occasionally, bums would come up from the highway to our church looking for money or food which only served to reinforce the message of wholesomeness and security represented by our churchy-looking A-framed building. I was told with a straight face in Sunday School class that demons could be living in our church building at night, so you can imagine the adventures going on in my young, curious mind as I peeked and prodded my way over every inch of what potentially, after hours, became enemy territory. My favorite architectural feature of our church building was the pair of spiraling staircases that led up to the baptistery from each side of the church. The red carpeting and wood-paneled walls made the narrow, twisting passageway feel cozy. I remember seeing the baptismal tank up close for the very first time and being astounded that it was so much like a bathtub. I guess my little mind thought there might be an actual babbling brook of living water encased behind that stage front.

Despite all this, I'd end my nightly prayers to Jesus by promising to be a good witness and tell people about him if I got the chance. And then I'd usually apologize one more time for wishing he wouldn't come back yet just for good measure.
In Jesus Name,
Amen.

Did I mention that I was eight years old when I started these  prayer discussions with Jesus? EIGHT. An eight-year-old living in constant fear that the rapture was about to happen or already had happened. My contingency plans for being "left behind" were to immediately try calling my Granny W in Sulphur since she didn't go to church and was probably also left behind. I figured she'd probably not know any better and go ahead and get the Mark of the Beast, so at least she and PaPa W would be able to buy food for us after the Antichrist took control of everything. As a second back-up plan, I knew my PaPa M (on my mom's side) would also be left behind, but he was known to be a little crazy, and I knew I'd much prefer sitting on my PaPa W's lap for comfort during 7 years of tribulation. Thank God I can laugh about it all now. But it wasn't a bit funny at the time. Maybe it sounds like the worries of a child that wasn't too bright, but I'd argue it was just the opposite.

Believe it or not, the ever-present fear of the rapture wasn't my biggest source of concern as a child. It wasn't even in the top two. My number one fear as a child was of the devil and his angels. Which may actually count as two fears. It's hard to keep up. My 2nd biggest fear was accidentally committing the unpardonable sin. There were lots of opinions and even arguments over Sunday lunch about exactly how one goes about committing the unpardonable sin, but my fear was mostly based on the fact that such a sin existed at all. I'm quite comfortable stating that I heard as many sermons, lessons, and studies about the devil, hell, and things like the unpardonable sin growing up as I did about Jesus. In truth, probably way more.

Maybe it was my own fault for taking the things I learned at church so literally. Why couldn't I have been more like a "normal" kid and just pick my nose or stick chewed-up pieces of gum under the pews during sermons? Why did I listen to messages in tongues and interpretations as if it was God himself speaking? Where'd I get a crazy idea like that?

I was always asking questions. I can't tell you how many Sunday School teachers I've heard make that very comment to my parents about me, "She sure asks a lot of questions!" But there were always answers with a Bible reference to back it up. And the people teaching me were loving, kind, and supportive. The preacher at our church was a wonderful person. A good man. It was obvious that he actually cared about the people at church. Why wouldn't I believe him? Or them?

But if everything they said was true, that's a LOT to worry about for a little kid. A smart little kid. A curious little kid.

A trusting, gullible little kid.

It's shameful.








Thanks for reading. Whoever you are.

peace&love and grace,
pam


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