The first Sunday after I was born and home from the hospital, I was in church. At least that's what they tell me because I don't remember. I know that was the case with my siblings so, based on that, it is true. We were there every Sunday, minimum. Sometimes also Sunday night and Wednesday night. I have never considered my family particularly religious. That's probably because "church" was the norm, that's what we did, that's what I knew. My family, including my grandparents, aunts and uncles, went to church. Never thought twice about it, never even thought to ask to stay home.
When I was in the fourth grade, we moved. The new church that we decided to go to was about 30 minutes, or so, away. There were churches closer, but that was the one we liked. Our old church had seemed really big to me. Of course, I wasn't that old and things tend to look bigger when your smaller. For instance, we had a poodle when I was very little. When I remembered her later, as I got a little older, I thought she had been this really big dog. Then, I saw pictures. She was not that big, I was just very small.
Anyway, the church we had left seemed big. There had been lots of kids my age that I was friends with. The new church was small and not as many kids in my immediate age group. But, we really liked it and really liked the people.
So, we went. Everything was good... right up to the point where I became a teenager.
Some things to note here would be that I was not the perfect child. Not even close. If a button could be pushed, I liked to push it. Cut class? Oh, yeah. Drive with out a license in someone elses car? That too. Smoke, drink and run around? In varying combinations, yes. Question religion? Been there, done that, made my mom cry.
That being said, I still never once, that I can recall, ever, EVER, tried to get out of going to church. I knew better. My parents house, my parents rules. I can also say here, thank God. There were Sundays that I hated being there. Hated it. I would look for every hypocrisy I could find. But, I still had to go and sit through it. Unless you have been there, you may not understand this part. I don't know how that preacher knew, and it didn't matter who the preacher was, but he knew every time what I had done the night before and let me have it. At least that's what it felt like. He really didn't know. Didn't have a clue. Truth is, he didn't need to know. I did. And God did. The guilt alone was enough to keep me out of what I considered "real trouble". Basically, while I wasn't a "good" kid, I had the potential to be worse.
I never blamed my parents for any of my behavior. I looked for excuses for it, but not blame for it. I tried to make the excuse that there had not been a youth group for me. There were, though, kids my age at church involved in activities. I just had no interest. Even when I could drive, I never drove there.
There was a day at school, my Junior or Senior year, when I came across a conversation in the hallway. A group of guys were having a conversation about church and God. Two of them were basically witnessing to the other two. I stopped and listened. Not really saying anything. When the two being witnessed to left, the other two looked at me and said "you probably think we are really lame, don't you?". I told them that I did not think that they were lame and that I had actually admired and respected what they were doing. The look of surprise and shock spoke volumes. They went on to say that they had no idea I, of all people, would feel that way. I told them that I went to church every Sunday. More shock and disbelief. Not one of the best days of my life. At that point I felt the need to prove to them that I did know something. I talked to them for awhile, they were impressed with my knowledge. While I would not forget this encounter, I didn't do much to change anything.
Every kid at some point plays the "it's not fair" or "you gave different attention to this sibling or that" or "they had different opportunities to do..." cards. But, things were fairly even in the treatment department. As my sister became more of a teenager, I began to, well...not sure what the word would be, but it was somewhere between resent and respect, her for the teenager she was. She was "good". Balanced, normal, stayed out of trouble, did well in school, friends, activities, youth group...You get the picture. I began to look for reasons that I didn't turn out like that. Excuses. We had virtually the same opportunities. I CHOSE to be the way I was. Coming to that realization later on was a tough pill to swallow.
Even while I was Choosing to be the way I was, my parents hung in there. It may have been easier to just throw your hands up and say "fine, stay home". They could have taken the "well, when she is older she can make a decision as to what she wants to do, we're not going to force anything on her right now" route. But they didn't. And I am grateful.
I would have to say that my whole "question it" phase really only lasted a short time. It also really only existed because I didn't want to be accountable for my behavior. If there is no one to answer to, there is no trouble.
If a child is never given a set of standards, and not parent imposed standards because kids, as they get to be teenagers, will look for holes in everything you tell them, how will they know what things should measure up to? Children have incredible faith on their own. Give them something bigger than you to have faith, real faith, in. Give them something to use as a measuring stick for life. If you don't, they may never fully measure up to anything. Because my parents chose to not bend because I was choosing to be difficult, it made the situation I had found myself in easier to bear.
It also made me understand it, accept it and come to peace with it.
All those things I had been so ready to dispose of at one point, were right there when I needed them. If you are upset with my rationalization of everything and what was happening next...well...you can blame my parents. The faith I had was because of them.
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