To kick off this journey, let me share a bit about my background—how I was raised, what I was taught, and why I went along with it all. This will lay the foundation for the rest of my life’s story and the experiences I’ve had along the way.
I come from a long line of Christians. Both my mom's and dad's sides of the family have been Christians for as long as I can remember—like, it’s in our family tree going way back! This was the only life I knew, and everything about it felt completely normal... until it didn't.
Growing up in a family with deep generational roots in Christianity, church was a constant presence in my life; we attended services on Sunday mornings and evenings, as well as Wednesday nights. Skipping a service was simply not an option unless you were genuinely ill, and even then, the severity of your sickness was scrutinized.
Each meal began with prayer, and every night before bed, we offered our thanks to God for all we had, no matter how little it sometimes felt. I learned that everything I had in life was a blessing from God, not a result of my father's hard work.
I was raised to believe that everything that occurred—or didn’t occur—in our lives was part of God’s will. Even when my oldest sister developed epilepsy at the age of nine, a condition that would profoundly alter her life and diminish her quality of life, it was seen as God's plan for her.
Throughout my childhood, I was regaled with terrifying tales of the end times—the moment when Jesus would return to earth to gather His faithful. I was taught that I would face a harrowing choice: to stand firm in my faith or to deny God in order to survive. If I chose the latter, I would be marked with the number 666 on my forehead or referred to as the mark of the beast. Alternatively, should I remain loyal to my beliefs, my family and I could be condemned to being beheaded for my faith. The most haunting threat of all was that if I turned away from God, I would burn in hell for eternity, forever separated from my family, left to suffer alone while I am fully aware.
As a child, I was terrified—who wouldn’t be? When faced with such horrifying choices, a small child will obey without question. In our household, questioning anything about our religion was simply not permitted. We were expected to accept what we were told without doubt, and why would my parents lie to me?
I grew up with a pervasive sense of fear. I was afraid I wouldn’t meet my parents' expectations regarding our faith, and I feared disappointing them—afraid that I might embarrass them in such a way that they could never show their faces in church again. It may sound extreme, but I often heard my mother say that if any of us girls got pregnant before marriage, she would never be able to face anyone again. Similarly, if I brought home a Black or Mexican boyfriend, the shame would be unbearable. It’s important to note that I was born in 1966 and lived in a small town on the central coast of California, where nearly everyone was white; Black and Mexican were among the very few ethnic groups in our community.
The thought of shaming my mother was unbearable to me. My father, more passive in nature, didn’t voice his feelings as often as she did, but I sensed he would feel just as ashamed. Reflecting on how I was raised and the things I was told deeply disturbs me. I have three sons, and never in my wildest dreams would I have subjected them to such horrific tales of doom with no proof to back up my words. I maintained my identity as a Christian until my late thirties, largely because it was all I had ever known. I was taught not to question my beliefs.
Some readers might view my parents as terrible people, perceiving my upbringing as a form of child abuse, filled with the threats of eternal damnation or their embarrassment. However, the truth is they were good people who loved us deeply. While it might seem reasonable to harbor resentment towards them for how I was raised, I don’t.
I recognize that my parents were raised in the same environment, and naturally, they passed down the beliefs they knew to us four girls. The key difference is that they never thought to question their faith or the teachings of the Bible.
But I did.
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