I grew up in a small rural community in western Oklahoma with little to no religious convictions. I suppose that’s not the norm for a lad raised smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, but nobody has ever accused me of being normal. Oh, I remember attending a Sunday School class as a 5-year-old at a local Baptist church. I recall lots of coloring – and growing bean sprouts in a cup. I remember nothing else about it. After that stimulating experience, I did not darken a church door again (weddings and funerals excluded) until I hit my teenage years.

I’ve always believed in God. I suppose my parents ingrained basic Christian principles in me, though I can’t recall any specific instruction. I conceived Him as the ever-watchful eye in the sky, who loved and protected me. The first traumatic moment of my early years came one July 4th evening as we went to a stadium to watch a fireworks display. It was an impressive exhibition of pyrotechnics. The crowd oohed and aahed at every burst of light and color. However, I wasn’t impressed; I fretted through the entire show. With brow furrowed, I tugged at my mother’s hand and whispered, “Are those fireworks hurting God?” My 5-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend an omnipresent God that transcends the material creation. Obviously, I didn’t grasp his omnipotence either, else I wouldn’t have been concerned for his well-being in the wake of a few heavenward explosions.

So there you have it, perhaps my one and only childhood contemplation of God. I have no other memory I can recall that invoked God into the forefront of my conscience. I simply assumed God’s love, protection, and providence. I had other, more important stuff to think and daydream about. Continue reading →