2-21-19

Dear reader,
Hey! I hope everything is going well with you. I was telling you stories from my childhood. But after I've told you what there is to tell on my life, I'll get into other matters.

When I was around 7 or 8 years old, this sweet lady named Hazel (may she rest in peace) would come by my family's apartment and give my brothers, sister, and I a bag of candy and invite us to church. I went. From then on, I can't remember a weekend she didn't bring me a bag of candy. Bubble gum, nowlfaters, lollipops. Good stuff :) And her church bus picked me up Sunday morning. That's when I started going to church.

But soon after, I got into it real deep. I started getting grounded from going. I eventually found myself at a Pentecostal church. It was love! Everybody on their feet, clapping and dancing. Now... when I say dancing, I really mean getting down! I mean it was like The Holy Ghost came to Soul Train. If you didn't believe in spirit possession when you walked into that church, you did when you walked out.

And I had fun! I loved going to that church so much I went on Sunday mornings and evenings, Wednesday nights, and Saturday night prayer service. And when I was old enough to join the Youth Group, I did and Friday evenings were with them. My oldest brother, younger brother, and my sister went too. But not to all of them like I was. I started having fun with my life. It started to have meaning.

When I was about 11 or 12... maybe 10, my mom would put me on punishment that consisted of one consequence only: no ride to the church. I could go outside and play with anyone I wanted, watch TV, etc. But when I'd argue with my sister or brother, or not wash the dishes right, or clean the bathroom right—no ride to church. Unless, of course, I could find one from someone else.

You see, it wasn't about punishing me. It was about my mom not wanting to drive me to church. She went to work and, when she came home, it washer and Danielle Steel. Or Dean Koontz. Those are her favorite two authors.

I would say it was just that she was tired and wanted to rest. But as you'll read, you'll learn it had to do with more me and who my father was. I never met him. Or rather, my mother left him before I was old enough to develop any memories of him. So when she aid things to me like, "You're a piece of sh_t, you know that? Just like your father," I developed an opinion of him that he was a bad guy. But that's another story I'll tell you in the future.

After I'd been grounded from church so many times, I drifted away from it. From then on, I turned to figuring things out on my own, which didn't turn out so well. Obviously. But I had one hell of a rid.e

I was a child. The things that would shape me into the man I would one day become were the things, events, that took place in my life in those years. There is no greater accomplishment for a parent than to have their child grow into an adult with a strong and correct moral compass. Faith does that. No matter what the religion is. As long as it teaches love and peace and compassion. Why stop that from shaping the heart and soul of a child? There is no good reason why. Even if it's not a religion, any practice that teaches a child to love others, and to be kind, and to treat others the way that you want to be treated (the golden rule!), and to be responsible—it's good for the child.

The more good that is in a child's life, the less time the bad will have to wiggle its way in. I am not the future. My child is. Teaching our children to be good and to do what's right is life's greatest duty!

Until next time.

Yours truly,
Doug