how did I go from an innocent baby brought into a world of infinite possibilities to the cynical, frustrated, pessimistic, angry, and depressed wretch of a person that I am today?
Think back to your school days. Do you remember the kid in the back of the classroom? That quiet one who was different from everyone else? Maybe he didn't dress the same as most kids. Maybe he had a different haircut or liked different music. Perhaps he came from a poor family and his clothes were often dirty. You picked on him for being different. It was no big deal; everyone else did it. You giggled at him and called him names. You knocked his books off his desk and pretended it was an accident. You shot spit-wads at him. You excluded him from games at recess. It was funny to you, and that's all that really mattered.
Remember that kid?
That was me.
And I still haven't gotten over it.
Don't get me wrong. I understand that, to an extent, children simply don't know any better. They don't understand the deep psychological effects that their teasing can have on another child.
But by the end of sixth grade, I sure knew. And I had heard and seen enough of my fellow students' reprimands and punishments to know. I had expected such juvenile abuse to minimize as we were taught the differences between right and wrong.
Nope. Got worse. Much, much worse.
And school wasn't my only problem. At times, it was the least of my problems. As I indicated earlier, my parents weren't exactly model citizens. When Mom was sober, her patience with me was thinner than Dad's vocabulary. Or hair. Or resume, for that matter. Take your pick. Anyway, she openly admitted that she regretted having me. She thought having a child would help her relationship with Dad. Something about having responsibilities that were more important than their "petty" problems.
But Dad never wanted me. He was a man who never grew past age eighteen in maturity. He drank, he partied, and he didn't come home for weeks at a time. He beat Mom frequently—often right in front of me. He never laid a hand on me, though. Sometimes he'd befriend me long enough to let me believe we might be able to form some kind of a relationship. We went hunting and fishing a couple of times. But then he'd turn on me just as quickly, screaming obscenities before grabbing a couple of beers and racing off in his pickup truck.
Mom was the one who administered my beatings. I learned to accept it, for the most part. I'd just clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut, and wait for it to end. It certainly motivated me to be obedient and well-behaved around her. But I never understood any of it. I thought families were supposed to love and support each other. They were supposed to encourage you. To help you learn and grow. Grandpa loved me, I know, but I only got to see him a handful of times out of the year, and he died when I was ten years old. For the most part, my day-to-day life was devoid of love and affection. There was none of it in my household. No support. The only conclusion I could come to was that the typical picture of a loving family was nothing more than a fairytale. It didn't really exist.
Then I saw Pastor Hoskins on the holovision one morning when I was twelve. I had seen his show on and off growing up, but I'd never really paid much attention to it. He was talking about God's commandments regarding families that day. Husbands and wives, according to God, were supposed to love each other! Children were expected to honor their parents—something I surely hadn't been doing, given how they treated me.
I started watching Pastor Hoskins more routinely after that. I wanted to know more. Over the next few weeks, I learned that God had sent His son Jesus to pay the penalty for our sins because He loved us so much. He didn't need to, and humanity certainly didn't deserve it.
That was the kind of love I wanted!
The only thing I needed to do to receive this love was accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Our sins must be paid for, Pastor Hoskins said. There would be no justice, otherwise. The God of Israel is a just God, and He declares that the wages of sin is death. So that's why Jesus died on the cross as a sacrificial lamb. Christ suffered through death to pay the price for our sins so that we wouldn't have to. All we need to do to be saved from judgment is say a prayer accepting Jesus' sacrifice as payment for our sins and believe in Him as our Lord and Savior. So that's what I did.
I know a lot of people don't believe in God. I can understand to an extent. Believing requires faith, and faith is in short supply these days. But I simply cannot believe that our cycle of birth-life-death is some sort of random or accidental occurrence. I've done a lot of research on the subject over the course of my life, seeking evidence both for and against the existence of God and the legitimacy of the Bible, and I've found no conclusive proof either way. I guess I should've expected as much given that the Bible clearly illustrates that a relationship with Jesus Christ is based on faith. But I would've thought that I'd find some kind of hard evidence against the Bible's claims. Granted, I'm no scientist, but the evidence they call "proof" is riddled with words such as "probably" and "suggests" and "assume." None of these words can be used when presenting solid evidence as fact. I could go much deeper, but that's not what this journal is supposed to be about. And the shortcomings of science aren't the only reason I believe.
The other part of it is hard to explain. See, when a person gives their life to Christ, their faith is justified with knowledge. I know that doesn't mean anything to someone who doesn't believe, and I don't expect to convince anyone with it. But when you honestly and truly give your life to God, He fills you with His spirit—the Holy Spirit—which in turn gives you the comforting assurance that your faith is not in vain. You just . . . know.
Once I was armed with the knowledge that God loved me, I went back into the world. Jesus said the greatest commandment for us to follow is that we must love each other. Like many other new Christians, I believed that following His instructions would bring me everything I needed and wanted in my life. If I was showing the love of Christ to others, they would in turn be kind and loving to me.
Clearly, I had not yet come across the part about being persecuted, abused, and ostracized for following Christ.
Classmates were even more harsh when they found out that I was a Christian. It was just another thing about me that made me different. I tried befriending people who had previously abused me. I tried befriending those I had previously abused. I did everything I could to set a good example for others to follow.
I'm not trying to give you a false impression. I was no saint, and I didn't think of myself as one. I was simply trying to improve myself, watch my words, and love people in spite of their actions. After all, that's what I wanted them to do for me.
But by the time I graduated middle school, it was clear that no amount of "killing with kindness" was going to get me anywhere. Fed up with the juvenile attitudes of my schoolmates and abandoning all hope of any sort of relationship with my parents, I decided I would give everyone exactly what they wanted.
I would blend in with the shadows. I would stay out of everyone's way. I would stop trying to make friends. I would not speak unless spoken to. I'd stop trying to interact with the world. Society wanted no part of me, and I wanted no part of society. I would be the loner that I was destined to be.
It didn't help. High school brought four more years of torment. Despite my attempts to stay out of everyone's targeting scopes, I was still a magnet for abuse. The jocks mocked me with ruthless persistence, never missing an opportunity to deepen the scars. Ambushes, stolen property, shredded school work, locker room embarrassment; it felt like it would never end. I'm sure we'll address some of these incidents in the days to come, but it would be impossible to relive them all.
I tried attending a teenage youth group at a local church. That was a disaster. I really thought a group of people calling themselves Christians would've been more accepting, loving, and above all else, humble. What I found was something entirely different. These kids were the same type of arrogant and obnoxious teens t
hat filled my school. The only difference is that they seemed to think that being Christian made them saints above the rest of the world. And that, of course, gave them the right to look down their noses at everyone else. My opinion of church members soured quickly. Clearly, these people had not read a thing about the humility and love that Jesus had taught.
In junior year, my first and only girlfriend did more than break my heart. She shattered the last remaining sliver of faith I had in the human race. For the first time, suicide finally entered my mind.
After all, I'd done so much for God but He'd done nothing in return. Grandpa was long gone; there wasn't a soul on earth who loved me. No one would've missed me. No one would've noticed.
But I couldn't do it. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't succeed. The last thing I needed was to be unwanted, unloved, and paralyzed or disabled in some other way. Besides, I felt like killing myself would've been like saying I didn't think God was doing a good enough job of taking care of me.
Mom died during my senior year of high school. I really don't want to go over the details here, but let's just say that no one should ever have to witness the things I saw that day. Besides, if this time-travel thing