For over twenty years, I lived in denial. I claimed to be a Christian for most of my life, but my desire to do good would never last long. I would be stirred to obey the Bible, but after a time the zeal would go away. I would be back to doing the things which brought me great shame and heartache. My name is Becky Simmons, and this is my story.
I was born February 9, 1934, to parents of two different faiths. My father was an alcoholic and not a church-goer. Mother, on the other hand, did have some religious background, but did not have us children baptized when we were young. She thought it would be better if we chose our own religion when we were old enough to make that choice.
My name is Don Bellesfield, and this is my story. When I look back at my childhood, I guess I didn’t grow up much differently than most kids. The only difference I remember was that my parents separated when I was very young. Even so, I wasn’t without things to do, and I had the things most kids had.
My name is Jill Brooks, and this is my story. I was born in Massachusetts in 1961 and baptized as an infant in a Methodist church. When I was two years old, our family moved to New Jersey. We had a nice house in a nice neighborhood and went to a nice Methodist church. We were a nice family. My mother explained to me that God made the world and taught me to appreciate nature and all living things. As I grew, I had a lot of questions.
My name is Frances Stewart, and this is my story. When I was in the first grade, a local pastor of a church used to come and pick up me and my friends for church. I remember the pastor’s big Bible, the stories he taught us, and the songs we sang. All this planted seeds in my heart about a loving God.
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