Next year, I’ll turn 70. Raised from childhood in a mainline church, the stories of Noah, David and Goliath, Jonah and the whale, captured my young imagination. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t make out of Popsicle sticks, craft paper, paste, and Plaster of Paris during Sunday School hour. It was a joyful experience, fondly remembered. Yet somewhere along the line, I learned that God was a harsh judge, sending punishment on people who were bad. Whether that was expressly taught, I don’t know, it’s just the impression I was left with by the time I reached adulthood. Fear and insecurity were reinforced at home and school, where some times it felt like the only time I heard my name, was when an adult summoned me for inquisition and punishment.
Realistically, fear and insecurity were at work within me even from conception. I was born with a heart defect. No, not a physical defect, but a wound to my very being that somehow prevented me from receiving love. Mom even wrote about it in my baby book – how it broke her heart that I didn’t like to be held or kissed, refused to suckle, or receive any other form of affection. The curse followed me into adulthood where I often downplayed anyone’s expression of love for me. From sources unknown, condemnation rang in my ears and denied me the love and care of others.
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