My mother was raised Mormon but left the church early. She couldn’t, she told me, abide a faith that told her she’d only make it to heaven if her husband called her there. She opted for non-denominational Christianity when she was finally free to act on her own faith.
My father was the born-again sort. He’d take me to church with him on some of our rare visits, but I don’t recall much about the visits. I do remember having an increasingly hard time with his faith, which–as he told it–would allow him forgiveness as long as he said “praise Jesus!” after any transgression. To me, that translated to, “I can beat your mom any and every day, just as long as I say sorry to Jesus afterward!”
Oh, how that troubled me. But I went with it, because–what else could I do?
One afternoon a little later, I watched a cheesy horror show. Its happy ending was a villain in hell. Read more…