Reason To Write

They say everyone sees life through a lens. Modern psychology insists we see everyday events through the lens of our past. An example of this is the person who has been repeatedly bitten by dogs and has never met a friendly mutt, and who goes on to assume that the sight of any dog is sufficient cause for fear. Thus, many feel trapped in a world where fear lurks around every corner, and nowhere is safe, not even their own front walk.

This "lens" theory, as it is sometimes called, applies to each of us, reflecting our unique pasts to create our own unique view of reality. For some, raised in happy homes and accepted by society at large, that view is pleasant, even hopeful. For others, those from abusive homes, or those rejected by society, the world is full of dangers, pains, and lack of hope. But it doesn't have to be like that. I know. I lived there, and by God's grace, I made it out. I love life, and I love people. I have many friends who, apart from God's healing, love, and deliverance, I would not be able to trust in even the smallest matters. This is my story, and if you are willing to face the fact that with God's help, reality can change for each of us trapped in gloom and despair, I invite you to join me as I retell this story of pain.

I will begin at the best place, that is, the beginning. Some of the entries will be merely from memory, while others, later on, may include original poems or journal entries from the time I am writing about. The journey has been long, but I will attempt to keep it as brief as possible while giving adequate detail for you, the reader, to join in. Each segment will be archived at left under its appropriate title, and new posts will appear first under this one. I will, at all times, attempt to keep a balanced view and include the good times alongside the bad, the humor alongside the pain. Certain names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty from painful memories. Many of those involved in the stories, including my mother, are sincerely trying to be better people and to get along with others more regularly. This is not a gossip column, nor is it a smear campaign against friends or loved ones. This is my story, and through it I pray God will bless and encourage others going through similar things. I am a writer, I am a Christian, and I am flawed. Join with me in discovering how an awesome God takes the worst of humans and makes something that by His grace becomes a tool in the Master's hand.

Part 11 - A Symbolic Birth

While still living in the "blink and you'll miss it" town in Iowa, my mom began taking us to a church in a neighboring area. It was here I met my favorite Sunday School teacher, and here that I got baptized. The Sunday School teacher was a kind, older gentleman, whom I'll call Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was the kind of man who cared deeply for each of his students. He didn't expect us to be miniature adults, but instead encouraged us to enjoy being kids and learning about God. I remember one incentive he offered was a brand new Bible and a pizza party if we would memorize the books of the Bible. I did so, and boy was the party great. I probably still have that Bible somewhere, with its brilliant white cover and gilded pages. On the front cover, in gold stamped letters, were the words "Holy Bible." It was beautiful, and I liked knowing I had received it as a gift from someone who truly cared.

In the winter of that year my mom decided I was old enough to get baptized. It wasn't that she particularly cared about my being a Christian, as once again her decision seemed centered on what others thought. I was a child, age 10, and that meant I was old enough to make a "serious" committment to Christ. While I already had that committment in my heart, the prospect of being baptized was exciting, albeit a bit nerve-racking. I remember the baptismal candidates' class in the pastor's office behind the sanctuary. He talked to us about the symbolism of baptism, and what it meant for us to make that decision. He seemed sincere in his desire to make sure every person being baptized could fully understand their decision and its implications. He was a nice guy, and looking at him helped me relax a little when everyone else was staring as I entered the water. After a confession of faith, the pastor dunked me, and I grabbed my nose just seconds before going under. For several days after my baptism it seemed I walked on air. I'd never felt so light and happy before, and I knew God was happy with what I'd done. That's what mattered.

Later that year I got my first indoor pet, an albino dwarf rabbit named Fluffy. Fluffy was surprisingly sweet at first, and I remember being teased when I cried the first night I held him as he licked my hands. However, as time went on, Fluffy became mean and aggressive. I even learned to watch myself as I went to feed him, as he would often charge at my hand in an attempt to bite me. Perhaps he picked up on the emotionally charged environment, or perhaps he had a poor disposition, as I've heard many albino rabbits have. Either way, I'm sure his demeanor wasn't entirely his fault, and so I learned to love him.