If you are here, then you’ve probably come across either the books I write, my politics newsletter, or my military/defense news podcast. And I do enjoy writing about each of those things.
But in this space, I’m here to talk about something far more intimate and profound. I’m here to talk about God.
God and the Bible. Nothing more. Nothing less.
About once a week, I plan to share a very personal, very intimate part of my life.
I’m hoping that by sharing my journey, I can help others. A way of giving back from a guy who’s spent much of my life trying to find God and peace, and I spent much of that time away from Christianity, studying the other world’s religions (especially Buddhism).
My journey to this point has been a long and hard one. I was raised in a small Missionary Baptist Church in East Tennessee. The church was WAY out in the country, in a place where red lights practically don’t exist and stop signs have bullet holes in them (bored teenagers). Roads are curvy, narrow, and unmarked, and you typically wave at every car you pass. (Quite often, you know who the person is that you waved at; strangers are rare.)
The church I was raised in was quite remote. It was several miles off a two-lane highway, nestled between a wide field, a wooded hill, and a few scattered houses.
Like many small Southern churches in the country, it had maybe 70 or 80 congregants on a good day, though at times we crossed a hundred.
From my youngest of days, I was raised on church, God, and the Bible. And I mean I was raised on these things from birth, basically.
My Dad was a faithful Deacon at that church (and a GREAT Man, without question). My Mom supported his strong religious devotion, and she also read Bible stories during breakfast while we were kids.
My family went to church four times a week — every week. (Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, and then a “singing” at our church — or someone else’s — on Saturday night.)
Like most kids, I didn’t enjoy going to church that much early on. But I was a people pleaser, and church is what you did. It was our community. It was our life. It was our entire social framework.
And if you were truly going to be a part of that church, you had to be “saved.” No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
The way this typically worked is as follows: as a kid, you crossed the line and acted like a heathen at some point 🤣 — usually around 12 or 13, but maybe as early as ten. And you’d do something bad and then typically make it even worse by lying about it to your parents. And then you’d get caught, feel super guilty, and think in your mind that you were a terrible person, who would likely end up in hell (which you knew ALL about).
My church, and most like it, could teach hell, fire, and brimstone like you wouldn’t believe. As a kid, it was graphic. It was horrible. It was scary. (Actually, make that as an adult, too.)
None of this mattered too much when you were young because you were told all kids go to heaven up until they reached the age of accountability. Which meant the time when you felt convicted and the need to get saved (which almost always happened after you sinned pretty badly and then lied about it, as described above).
So, bam. You were bad, you lied, and you’d hear the preacher screaming preaching — no, screaming — about hell again. And this time, you’d actually listen much closer, because they were talking about you, because you were now a big kid who had sinned badly and dishonored your parents; and with that, you’d want (and need) salvation.
In most cases, under such fear and guilt, you’d go to the altar, get “saved,” and the church would celebrate. All was well. They’d baptize you in the river a week or so later and just like that, you were a member of the church.
You were also a part of that family and social fabric.
All of this should have been pretty easy for me. I was a people pleaser, after all, and the son of a Deacon.
But my story didn’t quite have the right setup.
You see, when I was eight, my Dad fell thirty feet in a horrific construction accident, breaking his back and nearly dying in the process (he landed on his neck, in fact, and his hard hat fell off during the fall).
Once it was clear he’d live, he was told he’d be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
It’s earth-shattering to be eight years old and think that your tough-as-nails Dad, who was so strong and mighty up to the point, might be bedridden for the rest of his life.
But due to a miracle, he learned to walk again, after progressing from a bed, to a wheelchair, to a walker, to a cane. The doctor (a back surgeon) said the surgery was inexplicable medically speaking; a “miracle” is what he termed it and what we certainly held onto. And we had reasons to believe the miracle happened. Besides generations of church-goers in both sides of my family, we also had hundreds of people out in Grainger County praying for my Dad, because we had visited so many churches — remember those singings every Saturday where we visited other churches? I mean almost everyone in that county knew my Dad (or his Dad and the Mitchell family).
My Dad was on dozens of church prayer lists and the number of visitors he had was astounding. People truly were worried about him.
I lived, watched, and experienced that miracle over the course of about two years. And even when we had almost no money one Christmas (because my Dad couldn’t work), several churches banded together and brought us SOOOO many presents. I received several expensive gifts that were far outside what any of my friends or myself would EVER be given. (It was literally the best Christmas as a child I probably ever experienced; both because of those gifts, but more importantly, we had expected nothing and I learned just what the power of giving can do. How such an outpouring of love, in fact, can even impact a person’s life thirty or forty years later.)
My point in sharing this background has nothing to do with the thought of giving or miracles, however. Remember, we’re talking about the need to be “saved” here, which I absolutely needed to be in order to fit in. 😅
Unfortunately for me, do you think a boy who had witnessed a miracle (and was raised in church his entire life prior to that, and had Bible stories for breakfast so many days before elementary school) was going to do anything bad? Anything remotely bad at all?
No, that wasn’t going to happen to ten-year-old Stan. Nor 11-, 12-, or 13-year-old Stan. I loved God way too much to do that. And I certainly feared him too much to do that.
So I never reached what that church called the “age of accountability.” I mean, I was believing in God at like five. I was praying and begging God for a miracle for my Dad at eight. Heck, even besides all of that… I went to a super rough inner-city school (remember, my Dad couldn’t work and we had no money) and was praying to God to help protect me from bullies starting at about the age of ten. (I’m all of 5’6” right now and weighed only 118 pounds when I graduated high school and left for the Marines. Believe me when I saw I was small in Middle School.)
I loved God and believed in God. I had done so since about birth. More than that, it’s fair to say I needed God in that health situation with my Dad and in the rough school that I attended. (That’s not much of an exaggeration.)
When your Dad is bedridden and you’re the first-born son, you grow up fast. I kind of felt like the man of the house as a young boy. I felt that sense of responsibility not to act up or be any problem at all for my parents, who already had enough on their plate.
I know they would tell you, and I can certainly confirm, that I wasn’t a bad kid. So, I just didn’t do many bad things at all, which was great except for one problem: me being a pretty good kid massively complicated my religious journey at that church.
Frankly, I always felt “saved” and regularly prayed and worshipped in ways that no one my age typically did. But you couldn’t be “saved” at that church unless you know the EXACT moment you gave your life to Christ. I mean, you have to know. AND, you had to be baptized.
Well, I had three moments I could cite, and about a dozen other small ones, where I felt like God had spoken to me and I had accepted him as my Savior. I mean, for a while, I even carried my Bible to high school.
I. Was. Saved.
I. Was. A. Believer.
Except I wasn’t (by that small church’s absurd standards).
By thirteen, this was becoming a problem (and increasingly talked about in whispers — and non-whispers 😡). Because the Deacon’s boy wasn’t saved, and everyone wanted him to be.
And so some people who meant well would tell me I needed to be saved. (Duh, I thought. No kidding, huh?) And they’d often do so during church and out loud, embarrassing me in front of the entire congregation.
Do you know what it’s like to be embarrassed like that in front of eighty people that you loved more deeply than you could ever describe and would no-kidding give your life for? These were my friends and family members. Some took me hunting and were male mentors (second fathers) during my Dad’s accident.
Eventually, even my non-church going cousins had been saved during random (and scarce) church visits. So, I was the last grandchild of my grandfather (who was also a Deacon at that very church) who hadn’t been saved. (I told you that church was our entire social fabric; I truly wasn’t lying.)
The most painful and tragic of these situations occurred like this. So once, in what I’m sure was actually a sincere and loving gesture, my Grandfather (who’d had open-heart surgery and a heart transplant and not long to live) stood up and told everyone that he wanted them to pray for me. That he wished his last grandkid would get saved before he died. He did this with tears in his eyes, looking straight at me. And then the whole church looked at me.
Yeah, that was fun.
I felt like the whole church had this feeling of, “Come on you little jerk. If you’re not going to get saved for your Dad, at least do it for your Grandfather. It’s his last wish.”
A week or so later, one of the greatest men I ever looked up to did the same thing. My pastor, a World War II vet that I revered and worshiped for almost ten of my most formative years, walked up to me in front of everyone and told me “God had spoken to him,” and that I needed to be saved.
He did this in front of the whole church.
You ever had someone in authority tell you something like that (while you were a child of 13), using that kind of power and command? I burst into tears because in my mind, he carried so much weight and influence with him that I knew he must be right. How could God or THIS holy man be wrong? No way he would lie. Surely God had spoken to him.
I almost screamed in anguish and tears when he told me, and I definitely did cry hard at first. I had been thinking about how to get saved for years, and by this point, I was probably late 13s. The torture pain and anguish all run together — a never-ending nightmare, really, especially for a people pleaser and an actual believer who wanted to be saved?!?!
So many times the devil (and my common sense) said to fake it. Walk down to the alter, fake cry, and get saved. It’s what everyone wanted. It was the easy way out. The anxiety at every service would depart.
I could hear the Devil whisper, “They’ll leave you alone after that. Everyone will be pleased with you.”
I wouldn’t.
Because I literally believed that it would make a mockery of God. And that I would be struck down by lightning while on that altar (sunny day or not).
Remember: I BELIEVED in God. I had seen God perform a miracle. And God was constantly giving me strength to put up with what was truly becoming harassment and a form of bullying. It was a soul-crushing emotional nightmare that I dreaded to no end (four times a week).
Standing there with that pastor, after a second or two of doubt because I trusted him, I felt like God told me, “Don’t you dare give in. He’s wrong.”
And just like that, I KNEW he was wrong. And it shattered me. Because I knew the pastor was lying that God had told him anything.
God had told me not to fake getting saved for years; to endure this unending crap I was going through for some reason that might make sense someday (or maybe not).
And so Stan stood there looking at this good man with a different (and suspect) eye now. I knew God hadn’t told him to say that. And I also knew God had instantly told me that the pastor was wrong and that I better not give in.
So, I didn’t. I stood up to him in front of that whole church.
Thirteen-year-old Stan standing up to a World War II D-Day veteran and amazing man (truly).
Afterward, after the service ended, I talked to him privately about my situation alone, but again, I wasn’t lost. And my respect for him had been crushed. I don’t remember a single word I said or he said, but there was no weight in them. Nothing happened.
It kills me that he couldn’t help me solve this absurd situation, while my parents waited outside that room. But I explained I didn’t feel lost and had several times I thought I had been saved, and I’m sure he countered with, “If I couldn’t say exactly when I had been saved, then how could I be saved? How could a monumental thing have happened?”
And so Stan’s torture would continue. The pastor probably felt hopeless. Or stupid. I hope he felt stupid. And guilty.
Because he was wrong that day, and I’ll believe that even going into the grave. (I later learned my Grandfather had talked with him and put him up to it, hoping the moment and words from a mentor I truly loved would move me to go to the altar. I also even almost ten years later in the Marines nearly went to visit him to ask him if he had been wrong; had felt guilty about it — that’s how certain I’m right. I’ll also bet my right arm he probably didn’t even remember the specific incident; just the horror of my not getting saved. He has since passed and he was a good man, but YOU DO NOT HURT KIDS, dang it!!!!)
By the time I was fourteen, this was reaching prayer-list problems for other churches, too. When’s Stan (Little Marvin, man of them called me) going to get saved? Poor Marvin and Kathy. Why won’t their son get saved? When will he get saved? I just don’t understand it. He’s so nice. He’s one of the nicest kids in that church.
He sings. He plays his trumpet at church. What is his deal?
Every church service, at the end, my anxiety would ramp up as I worried about who might come talk to me in front of everyone. It became many of the people’s mission in that church to be the ONE.
We all want to be the hero, I suppose.
The hardest part was one of my biggest antagonists was a recently-saved cousin who rarely attended church and smoked marijuana and slept with girls. These are things not even remotely something I could imagine, having only barely even kissed a girl — and still having not tasted a cigarette to this day. lol
But when he’d come about once a quarter or twice a year, he’d go to the altar, get “right” with God, and then state he really wanted to see his cousin get saved. Meaning, me. The cousin that lived in church and carried a Bible to school.
This. Was. Enraging.
By the age of 16, he did this yet again in one of his quarterly attempts and I barged out of the church quite loudly (which certainly didn’t make me look innocent) with tears in my eyes.
Had he come out of that church? I think I would have murdered him. I have never wanted to hurt someone so badly in my life. Not even those bullies in my school. This man was making a mockery of God, of the church, of pretending to get right, the whole shebang.
This antagonist of mine was making my church life 100x more complicated (because by this point, many deacons had told me secretly that God hadn’t told them I was lost; people were finally starting to believe me; how could they not?). But then he’d show back up again in three or four months and tell everyone in the church that God told him I needed to be saved (most had no idea how he lived; and I was too nice to share it).
Honestly, there were times when for months, the church would seem to think maybe I was okay. Maybe this was somehow explainable.
I would tell some adults there that maybe I was meant to get saved when a bunch of young people were there; because kids there seemed to get saved in waves, so to speak.
I mean, I wanted to be saved. And I thought I was saved.
The situation so often made me feel like I was in the same boat as Jesus, who had been falsely accused and crucified for sins he never committed.
It really did feel like that many of these well-meaning people were trying to destroy me, and it certainly felt like the devil was using some of them to make me give up my faith.
I fought back the only way I knew how: I kept going to church without much anger, and I would always enter the “lion’s den,” if you will, by going down to pray with the entire church (instead of sitting in the back) — even though this often led to more people talking to me down there.
Maybe this is the day Stan gets saved, I’m sure many thought.
In my mind, I thought maybe at some point I could show them they were wrong by my sheer devotion and determination. lol
By the time I was sixteen, my Dad said he would no longer MAKE me go to church. Maybe this was a test, because he and my Mom always told me they didn’t feel I was lost. (Unfortunately, they made no discernable attempts to protect me from what was happening, though I’d like to think they maybe talked to one or two people. I’m trying to be generous here to them because I know of absolutely no attempts; and it is a wound that will probably never truly go away.)
Even though I didn’t have to attend, I voluntarily kept going after turning 16. I WANTED people to know I voluntarily went; that I loved God, dang it. That I didn’t need to be saved.
I did this to please my Dad. To worship God, whom I still loved. To prove I WAS actually saved. (I don’t even know why I cared what these people thought; with every wound from some of them, my opinion of them dropped. To be fair: A few Deacons always felt I was saved and NEVER messed with me or talked with me. These were men I hunted with, went camping with, and respected greatly, but they seemed powerless to stop this absurd situation.)
In the end, we never found a solution. And it was all too unbearable, really. So I left home as fast as I could at 17 to join the Marines (for a lot of reasons), but a big part of it was to get the heck away from the horrendous hell of church and family pressure.
In my mind, I figured I’d talk to a chaplain at Boot Camp, explain this complicated mess, and have him certify that I’d been saved. That did sort of happen, but I was never baptized at that church or in that river the church used.
You can't go home again.
After the military, I struggled with wanting to attend church of any kind for several years. I was mostly done with organized religion and the sword it could wield.
Eventually, however, that desire to be with God led me to a Methodist Church. I got more and more involved and finally decided to be baptized there. Except, in that church, you were only “sprinkled.” (I assure you that doesn’t count at my old church.)
As luck would have it, by that time we had a female associate pastor at the church. Newly arrived!! The timing was terrible. (God has a twisted sense of humor sometimes.)
I almost didn’t even invite my parents (I did not want to deal with that argument, about the woman or the non-river, no-full-dunking thing. Heck, my Dad and church believed that any church that followed a program and handed them out in the beginning was in the wrong; only modern churches did that and it didn’t leave room for the spirit to move; that’s what he believed).
I reluctantly invited my parents (religion still caused many small arguments because I didn’t go to a Baptist church or as often as they did). I did this based on the advice of my pastor and friend, Bob Cantrell, informing them that they could come if they would not ask questions (before or after), if they agreed not to argue with me about the denomination, and if they’d make it the entire service/day without making rude or snide comments. I was done arguing with them about religion.
I loved God but basically hated their church. And if they wanted to hate mine, I didn’t care. I wanted to worship God and be free of the burden of having never been baptized; of feeling like a black sheep at family events. (The absurdity and horrendous pain of all this still to this day almost enrages me.)
By this point, I was fully aware that my parents (who had said all along that they never felt I was “lost”) had chosen standing, friends, and church over their own freaking first-born son. It was a devastating realization, mostly brought home by horrified friends who couldn’t believe my story when the topic of religion came up. (I’d usually start such story with, “It’s complicated.” lol.)
But in all seriousness, I was inwardly furious at them. I think it’s fair to say I felt betrayed that they hadn’t protected me growing up.
Years later, I would eventually have a sit down with them as an adult and read an eight-page letter that I had spent about two years writing — honestly, I had probably been writing that letter in my head for ten years. That dinner was awkward and painful and they mostly feigned ignorance to much of what I read, and that made me even angrier, quite frankly.
I know they always loved me, but they never liked confrontation (even when I was young). And they just wanted things to be “fine” or “good” and never be “embarrassed” about things.
I know deep down that they tried their best and felt helpless to what was happening. But I also know deep down that protecting a kid — your freaking child, for God’s sake, from legit harassment and embarrassment — is a parent’s most sacred duty, so it’s still hard for me sometimes.
The fact is that by not acting, they were throwing me back into a devastating situation over and over.
In fact, I grew up CERTAIN that I never wanted kids. Because I knew they’d try to convert him to their KJV, old-fashioned, Missionary Baptist way. And I also knew that if anyone EVER messed with my son or daughter the way I had been messed with? I’d probably kill them. And I’m not sure I’m kidding about that.
So it was easier to not have kids than to have them and keep my fundamentalist parents away. Another let’s just pretend things are “fine” or “good” in my family’s history.
I would eventually drift from the Methodist Church to a non-denominational church. With each step and each over-analyzation, and with the work of the devil stoking the fire from the pain in my childhood and the anger at my parents, my faith grew dimmer, quite frankly.
I remember as a kid of about 15 or 16, quoting back some scripture to my Dad. (I was THAT kid, who was kind of a handful when it came to studying, reading, etc; especially when my Dad had barely finished high school.)
But I asked him a question.
“Dad, would you say it’s fair to say that most kids end up following the faith of their parents?”
After some thought, he agreed that it was, though he sensed he was walking into a trap. (Oh, he definitely was.)
I replied, “Then if that’s that the case, and since the Bible says ‘work out your own salvation with fear and trembling,’ don’t you think we should study every religion? Because what if our parents had been wrong? If we blindly follow them, that would be disastrous. We don’t want to go to hell, after all.”
I don’t recall him having a good answer to that question. And even now, I’m not sure how one should answer that question.
But I have tried to answer that question.
I have studied all of the major religions. Because the way I was raised couldn’t be right. There’s no way God could want what happened to me to happen to other kids.
So, I started reading and studying, and in the end, Buddhism mostly won out. I was basically a Buddhist for five years. I’ve read probably 60 books on Buddhism and it did bring me a lot of peace for many years. Besides Buddhism, I have also studied Islam and Hinduism and quite frankly, both have some pretty cool thoughts.
But fast forward to November of 2022 and I had a problem. A pretty serious problem. You see, I was remarried by that point, and I had a stepson that was 13.
Honestly, Chan Buddhism (the subsect of Buddhism that I loved most) was kind of failing me. And I at least wanted my stepson to have the option to know about God. And Chan Buddhism didn’t teach that stuff.
I knew without question that God had been with me MIGHTILY so many times in life.
He had healed my Dad.
He had protected me from well-meaning people that I loved in that church.
He had been with me through some super tough, super scary times in the Marines, saving my life at least two major times and keeping me (by a millisecond) from pulling the trigger and killing a man in Albania back in 1997, when I was on guard post.
God had always been there, answering my prayers. And I knew this, even as a Buddhist, really. In fact, I used Chan Buddhism to basically worship Him, but that’s not exactly how it’s taught or supposed to be; it’s just how I adapted it to work for me.
Regardless, I wanted Jacob (my stepson) to have God if he wanted him, but I didn’t want anyone to mess with Jacob at church as I had been messed with. I would protect that young man with fists, if it came to that. (Remember the hurt someone bad part above?)
My wife was more than on the same page. She had been wanting to have him in a church environment to be around better friends, so I decided I’d no longer be the barrier. To heck with my complicated history; I would “go through the motions” in the Christian faith again.
I would pretend to like church, carry a Bible, and grit my teeth. All for him. Even though I hated church services and churches by this point. Despised them, really. I thought organized religion was a complete farce, invented by man.
So, we reluctantly visited a church and it’s safe to say, I didn’t just go through the motions. That’s not how things went. Not even close.
In a different setting, with no complicated past hanging around my neck, no black sheep looks from people who didn’t know me, God grabbed me by the throat and drew me in and pulled me toward Him in ways I would have never dreamed of.
His radiant light rocked my world and brought tears to my eyes. My old reverence, buried for soooo long, instantly returned. Buddhism was an immediate after thought.
I cried in that first service, doing my best to hide it. And I left that day to get a Bible that wasn’t from an ex-wife. 🤣 Because well, that’s not the first thought one wants to have every time you pick up your Bible.
From the beginning, though, I was awed. Because this Bible that I had picked apart for years, to the point that I almost hated it… I suddenly loved it.
All those confusing parts that made no sense? They suddenly made sense.
Several weeks after starting back in church, my Mom got a Stage Four cancer diagnosis, and that pulled me even further into my faith and walk with God. More prayers. More reading and studying. More tears by the barrel for my Mom and the complicated past and history that we shared (but never talked about except that one time lol).
Things just needed to be “fine” or “good,” right?
As the disease progressed rapidly, we prayed as hard as we could for a miracle. She tried chemo, since surgery wasn’t an option, but it proved to be an uphill, impossible fight.
We needed another miracle, same as my Dad had received. But this time, no miracle came. By February of 2023, we had lost the fight. (Truthfully, at the end, we were almost praying to lose the fight; she was in such terrible shape.)
In the despair and anguish that followed, I was awed by the fact of God’s timing. It was three weeks before her diagnosis that we restarted church. And had I not been in church? Had I not had God — the God of my childhood — during that time?
Or had I not returned to church of my own choice, but instead because of my Mom’s cancer diagnosis?
How mad and angry would I have been?
Also… How had God managed to make sure I squeezed in re-visiting my faith three weeks before that diagnosis? Three weeks before visitors, church people, pastors, singers, people from my past, and others visited my Mom in numbers that almost exceeded the space in the house.
It was all so much better to have their son return to the faith of his childhood during those months. I’m not sure if we could call that a miracle, but the timing is pretty incredible. And I wonder how many confrontations were avoided because the Stan prior to that would have left the house or argued with people about why I wasn’t going to church (perhaps loudly and strongly).
These are all questions and possibilities that are almost too much to behold.
Fast forward to the present, and it’s now been more than an entire year.
My wife and I (and Jacob) have visited several different churches and we’ve found one that we like. It’s our home and we’re growing. There is no pressure from pastors or well-meaning folk. And people don’t even judge what you wear into the place.
It’s, well, almost heaven on earth.
I am engrossed with my faith again and infatuated with the Bible.
I will share one other DEEP irony, which is hilarious, honestly. 🤣
When I first got into Chan Buddhism, one of the things that drew me into that religion is they don’t try to convert anyone. In fact, the first book I read on it said you should stay with the childhood faith of your family and region. Because breaking away from your religion is almost impossible.
Chan Buddhism believes changing your faith is a painful journey and one that most people can’t endure.
I found that so appealing. A religion that doesn’t try to convert? That doesn’t pressure? Sign me up!!
And the irony is I tried my hardest to do just that. To break away. To discover my own faith through my own searching. To stand up to parents and friends for my own spiritual fulfillment.
Frankly, I succeeded. I did break away. I did disappoint and hurt family and friends with my search. I did explore the major religions, including reading the Quran and books others wouldn’t dare read.
I did seek out my salvation with fear and trembling, just as the Bible teaches.
And for a while, I lived without the Bible.
But looking back now, I have come to realize that God was there the entire time. He was patiently waiting. He knew that having explored other religions, I would return with an appetite and confidence that I could have gained in no other way. (Kind of like Saul/Paul, in the Bible.)
Of course, the devil was there, too. The devil was always pointing out the failings of my parents, the pain the church had caused, and how wronged I had been.
The devil is so cunning and powerful, and I see that in a more-perfect light now.
But the Lord can take what is intended for harm and turn it to good. The Lord can take someone who has ridiculed the Bible for years and years, and suddenly remove the veil from that person’s eyes and grip him with awe and faith and belief again. (We’re talking about me, here, in case you’re not following. lol)
I still struggle with telling others about God because we all know so many loud, know-it-all Christians, who are judgmental and just plain mean.
But looking back, I think Jesus understands the pain I went through.
Jesus told us:
It would be better to be thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around your neck than to cause one of these little ones to fall into sin.
So, he understands — but doesn’t support 🤣 — my inclination toward seriously hurting those who harm young kids.
I will always believe that what happened to me was a great sin.
It was more than likely many great sins from well-intentioned people, who probably cared more about helping me than looking good to the church.
But so many could have protected and guarded me from what happened, and frankly, they fell short.
I grant them grace and forgiveness for this (on most days), and I also think about that all of this was probably meant to be.
God was making a very scared, very insecure little boy, who was bullied and a people pleaser, into something much stronger. Into a distinguished Marine. Into a decent writer. Into (hopefully) a strong servant of God, who talks about Him weekly on his podcast.
The horrendous emotional abuse had forged me.
God can take what is meant for your harm to be used for His good.
Let’s wrap this up.
In summary, I’ve matured some now and I see that humans and the church are going to fail you and hurt you and fall short.
But don’t blame God for mistakes made by fallible human beings.
I don’t claim to have all the answers. And honestly, I don’t have any idea where all of this is going.
But I believe — STRONGLY — in God.
I believe — COMPLETELY — in the Bible.
And I plan to write about both of those two probably once a week from here on out.
Sign up and come along for free. Or help support the effort by paying $5 per month if you’d like. I’m trying to re-enter a career of full-time writing and podcasting that I think (and hope) will help others (as well as help our country; I’m a proud moderate and a big believer in trying to unify our beautiful country).
Thanks in advance. And if you want to reach out to me, you can email me privately at: authorstanrmitchell@yahoo.com.
Love and peace,
Stan R. Mitchell
