🔒 Behind the Curtain: The Fire Place: A Childhood Salvation Story Built on Fear, Not Faith
The story of how I became saved.
I was never given a choice.
Belief wasn’t something I stumbled into—it was the air I breathed before I even knew what air was. My parents met in church, married in church, and dedicated me to God before I could form a memory. There was no “first church service” in my life. Church didn’t begin—it just was. As normal and necessary as eating dinner or brushing my teeth.
I didn’t grow up around Christianity. I grew up inside it.
Sunday mornings smelled like coffee, perfume, and hymnals. The musty scent of the maroon fabric-covered pews clung to the air as I squirmed between my parents, legs too short to reach the floor. My dad had this move—he’d gently pinch the back of my neck when I fidgeted too much. Not enough to hurt, just enough to say: stillness is godliness.
To keep me focused, he gave me note cards before the sermon. Words were written in big capital letters: JESUS, SIN, FORGIVE, REPENT. My job was to tally how many times the pastor said each one. For every tally, I earned a penny. But ten percent of those pennies belonged to God. Tithing wasn’t optional—it was introduced before I even knew how to spell my own last name.
After service, old women in floral dresses and stockings the color of masking tape would press strawberry candies into my hand and coo, “God’s got big plans for you.” I didn’t know what those plans were, but I assumed they involved being good and quiet and serious about scripture.
In the church lobby, a giant thermometer-shaped chart marked our progress on the latest building campaign. It was a visual metaphor for the Christian life: always growing, always building, always giving. And if you didn’t give? You were holding God back.