My faith in God began in the faith of my mother. From the earliest times I can remember, my mom raised me and my sister to know and love God. I still remember the hardback book of Bible stories we had, filled with classical illustrations. The one I remember most was a painting of Samson at the mill, his hair cut, chains around his ankles, being driven on by a man poking him with a stick. All of the illustrations were vivid. My sister and I would sit on the bed and listen to Mom read the story. The book always had a section of questions and answers after each story, and we would shout “Questions!” at the top of our lungs when it was time to go through them.

My mom’s prayers were so sincere and pure. She had a childlike heart, the kind Christ tells us to have. She spoke to God the way a child would speak to her father, and there was never any doubt in my mind that her prayers were being heard. It felt so comforting to be curled up next to her during prayer time, especially when I was feeling scared. At bedtime, she would sing us to sleep. One of my favorite songs she sang went like this: “Freely, freely you have received. Freely, freely give. Go in my name and because you believe, others will know that I live.”

I remember praying the sinner’s prayer with my mom. She was kind and caring, but blunt with me about the problem of sin. She explained that God loves us, but sin separates us from Him. Because of this we were in danger of going to hell. God didn’t want that for us, so He sent Jesus to die on the cross for our sins so that we could be forgiven and go to heaven one day. To receive this free gift, all we had to do was ask Jesus to come into our hearts. The prayer we said together went something like this: “Dear God, I know that I have sinned and done wrong things. I’m sorry for my sins. I believe that Jesus died on the cross for my sins and rose again. Please forgive me and help me live for You. Thank You for loving me. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

But I didn’t always feel like the prayer stuck. I would often get scared of going to hell and run to my mom, asking her to say the sinner’s prayer with me again. She tried to help me understand that I only had to say it once, but I was struggling with assurance. I worried I didn’t believe hard enough, or that committing a sin would negate the prayer I had said before. Mom was great, though, and she never refused me. So time and time again, we would say the sinner’s prayer.

I spent my earliest years at C. Church. My memories are vague, but I remember one thing in particular. The pastor’s wife had us kids upstairs in the dining hall, and we would sing classic children’s songs like “This is the day that the Lord has made” and “Jesus loves me.” She had a little plastic cake with a coin slot where we could deposit our offering. But if it was somebody’s birthday, you could put real candles in the cake, the class would sing happy birthday, and then you got to blow out the candles. I also remember spending time in the nursery, where we would look down through a large plexiglass window into the sanctuary below, watching the adults during their Sunday service.

As I prepared to enter kindergarten, my parents wanted to send me and my sister to the local Christian school run by Cl. Church. My mom and dad didn’t have the money to pay the tuition. But someone at that church must have cared for us, because eventually we received a free ride to the school, under the condition that we attend Cl. Church regularly. My parents agreed, and I entered kindergarten at Cl. Christian School. I remember being scared at first. I already knew how to read before I started kindergarten, because my sister had taught me. But when the teacher asked me to demonstrate, I began to scream and lie on the floor out of fear.

Eventually I warmed up to the idea of school. I hardly remember anything but recess that first year. We swung on the swings, climbed the monkey bars, and burned ourselves on the metal sliding board after it sweltered in the sun all day. We would also spend what felt like hours beating on a large boulder in the middle of the playground with rocks and bricks. We hoped to wear it down to nothing. No such luck. I drove up to the old school playground recently, and the boulder is still there. I don’t know if kids are still trying to wear it down or not.

It was a Christian school, and so we learned a lot about God while we were there. Each morning we pledged allegiance not just to the American flag, but also to the Christian flag and to the Bible. We prayed at the start of every class, and we had daily Bible class. On Fridays we would line up and walk across the parking lot from the school to the church, entering the side door into a small chapel where we would have a mini church service. The pastor’s wife was the “preacher,” and we would sing hymns and listen to a short message. It was fun because it broke us out of our regular routine.

The church felt dark because of the brown carpet and orange chairs. The windows were frosted over in a strange yellow color — probably the style in the 1970s when it was built. But I just remember the chapel feeling musty and dim, like something out of a dream.

The church itself gave me mixed feelings. There were nice people there, and we had fun in Sunday School and Junior Church, a mini church service for kids during the main adult worship time — basically the same thing we did on Fridays during school. My mom played the piano for Junior Church, and we kids got to request our favorite hymns. So almost every week we sang The Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, Standing on the Promises, and others like them.

But there were also some adults who scared me or seemed harsh to me as a kid. We would hide from them if we saw them walking the hallways. And often, as punishment for misbehaving during Junior Church, we would get sent into the main adult service to sit with one of those not‑so‑nice people.

People like my family, who couldn’t afford transportation, were brought to church each Sunday on an old school bus as part of the church’s outreach ministry. And I really enjoyed riding the bus. Pastor R. directed the bus ministry and was always there in the front seat each Sunday, leading us kids in song and teaching us little Bible lessons. Sometimes he even took us to McDonald’s! Back then I never thought about how much it cost him to take us all out like that. But I remember loving that man and thinking he was the best person in that church.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but I always felt that we “bus kids” were treated differently. Kids naturally understand when there’s an “in” group and you’re not in it. I’m not saying there was anything intentional or malicious going on. Whatever the case, I never felt completely at home in that church.

In the summers we went to M. Camp, a Bible camp about a half hour upriver from our home. People from many different churches would come together for family camp — ten days of preaching, worship, and revival. It was a real old‑fashioned camp meeting. But to us kids, it was just plain fun.

My grandparents built a cottage on the campgrounds, and we cousins would all live there during family camp. It was really the only time besides Thanksgiving and Christmas that I saw many of my cousins. Grandma’s cottage was cool because it felt different from being at home. They had a black‑and‑white TV with rabbit‑ear antennas that picked up three stations — 3, 6, and 10 — just enough to watch the morning news and weather report. And Grandma made us toaster strudels for breakfast. The only time of year I had toaster strudels was at family camp, and that made it special. I loved spreading the icing all over it, but there was never enough icing.

There was a neat spiral staircase leading up to the second floor where all the beds were — random beds from different ages and styles that Grandma and Grandpa had picked up along the way. But nobody ever slept up there, because we all slept in a pile out on the back porch, in the open air of those hot, humid summer nights, listening to crickets and playing Skip‑Bo and Phase 10 until we were so tired we could fall asleep on the hard wooden floor.

We spent our days running all over the campground, having fun, going to services when Grandma forced us to, but not really interested in them. I have so much nostalgia for that campground, as it became even more important to me in later years.

There were some things we didn’t hear much about at church but talked about a lot at home, like the end times and the rapture. From as young as I can remember, I was taught that the rapture could come at any moment, and I had to be ready or I might be left behind. My parents showed me a low‑budget ’70s movie called A Thief in the Night that literally terrified me. I was afraid the Antichrist was going to come and that I might end up taking the mark of the beast. And the way we were taught it, taking the mark of the beast was an unforgivable sin that would send you to hell.

We would stay up late on Saturday nights watching end‑times prophets like Jack Van Impe on television. In fact, the only way I was allowed to stay up on Saturday nights was if I watched Jack Van Impe with my parents. He was very charismatic and preached with enthusiasm as he went through the news events of the past week, linking them to the unfolding of the end times. We were always watching to see what was happening in Israel and the Middle East, as each crisis moment potentially brought us closer to the second coming of Jesus Christ.

I was both frightened and thrilled by this. I felt excited that we were getting closer, but I was glad to live in America, which in the pre‑9/11 days felt like a very safe place to be. Still, it felt strange to celebrate bad things happening in the news. I remember being told I wouldn’t have to worry about dying because the rapture was definitely going to come first. We were sure it was coming in our lifetimes.

I remember one time coming home from school to an empty house. My parents were out shopping, but I didn’t know that. I went into panic mode, thinking the rapture had occurred and I had been left behind. When they finally came home, I wept with relief. I was never able to feel at peace about the rapture, because even though I had said the sinner’s prayer and should be caught up when it happened, I always had a lingering fear that I could be left behind.