My Testimony, Part 1

I was born in a small town in Texas in 1960. I was raised in the church. My parents had me “baptized” as an infant. From the time I started school I served the Lord. On Sunday mornings I wore red and white vestments and carried a small torch up the center aisle at the beginning of the service and back down at the end. It still amazes me that they would put a kid so young in charge of an open flame. It’s a miracle I never burned the place down.

My parents and my older brother and I all went to church together pretty regularly. I went to Sunday school. I learned the Gospel and the ten commandments and the Apostle’s Creed. I was blessed with a good foundation early on. Then, when I was about nine or ten, I remember my parents going to church less often. Dad would drop me and my brother off and go back home. Even when my parents started to fall away, they made sure my brother and I got that firm foundation. One day, my mom took me and my brother to spend the weekend in Houston with my grandmother. We skipped church that weekend, and when Sunday evening rolled around and it got dark and we weren’t getting ready to go home, I asked mom why. That’s when she said we weren’t going home again. After that weekend, the only time we ever went home again was every other weekend for visitation with dad.

My parents divorced and mom got an apartment for us in Houston. Everything changed. I don’t want to cry too much over spilt milk here. Suffice it to say I was confused and devastated. I never saw it coming. My parents were careful never to fight in front of the kids, which made the split even more of a surprise. I didn’t know they were having problems. Anyhow…