True story.
I was raised in a Pentecostal church. Lots of Old Testament preaching. Fire, brimstone, and the threat of hell were in every sermon.
God was someone to be feared; a supreme being who judged you.
As a kid, I didn’t think I was doing so well.
I was an only child, born late in life to two people who didn’t seem to know what to do with me. They certainly hadn’t been prepared for a baby, at least not a living one.
My mom was older and the doctors told her to expect the worst.
Maybe that’s why she was so nervous all the time. And maybe that’s why I had anxiety too.
My dad expected perfection from me, especially in school.
A report card with almost all A’s (and one B) was unacceptable. There would be a lecture regarding the lesser grade, but no mention of the others.
I distinctly remember coming home from church one Sunday afternoon and going into my bedroom to change.
I can recall standing at my dresser, putting things away, and thinking about going to hell.
In my ten-year-old mind, the thought of hell at the end of my life was preferable to living each day trying to be perfect and failing.
I knew that there was no pleasing my dad and I couldn’t be good enough for God either.
I didn’t want to live the rest of my life under that kind of pressure. So I decided not to.
That’s a huge decision for a young child, but I’ve never regretted it.
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