- Feb 5, 2002
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I was born and raised in Germany in the mid-1960s. My adoptive family was Protestant, but not very religious. We were CEO Christians (Christmas and Easter Only), and I don’t remember any praying or Bible reading at our home.
In secular Germany, everyone I knew was either Protestant or Catholic, but no one I knew was really into the faith. Most people dutifully paid their monthly church tax — a 10 percent payroll tax — as a sort of insurance policy against going to hell.
As an only child, I was quite pampered, a privilege I dearly paid for when I entered elementary school. I didn’t know how to relate to other kids, how to roughhouse or play in a group, and that I was a straight-A student didn’t win me any brownie points with my peers.
Four girls from my neighborhood graciously accepted me into their clique, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that I was at the bottom of the pecking order. Over the following years, I spent a lot of time being pushed into the stinging nettles, dunked in the pond, pelted with snowballs, made fun of, and once, at a New Year’s Eve party, I was hung out of a third-floor window by my feet.
Shortly after my tenth birthday, my beloved Omi (grandma) passed away, which shook my world to the core. But God reached out to lift me out of my misery. That summer, a tent revival mission opened its flaps in the field across the street, and I — desperate for a sense of belonging, love, and inner peace — spent every free minute there. I remember the scent of warm hay, Sunday school teachers, flip charts with illustrated Bible stories, and sing-alongs with a twenty-something guy who played the guitar and looked a lot like Jesus.
Continued below.
In secular Germany, everyone I knew was either Protestant or Catholic, but no one I knew was really into the faith. Most people dutifully paid their monthly church tax — a 10 percent payroll tax — as a sort of insurance policy against going to hell.
As an only child, I was quite pampered, a privilege I dearly paid for when I entered elementary school. I didn’t know how to relate to other kids, how to roughhouse or play in a group, and that I was a straight-A student didn’t win me any brownie points with my peers.
Four girls from my neighborhood graciously accepted me into their clique, but it didn’t take me long to figure out that I was at the bottom of the pecking order. Over the following years, I spent a lot of time being pushed into the stinging nettles, dunked in the pond, pelted with snowballs, made fun of, and once, at a New Year’s Eve party, I was hung out of a third-floor window by my feet.
Shortly after my tenth birthday, my beloved Omi (grandma) passed away, which shook my world to the core. But God reached out to lift me out of my misery. That summer, a tent revival mission opened its flaps in the field across the street, and I — desperate for a sense of belonging, love, and inner peace — spent every free minute there. I remember the scent of warm hay, Sunday school teachers, flip charts with illustrated Bible stories, and sing-alongs with a twenty-something guy who played the guitar and looked a lot like Jesus.
Continued below.
Adventures of a Stumbling Saint - The Coming Home Network
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