Hey, hey! We’re back again for another week of Eating My Words. And what a week it’s been. I’m still recovering from a broken hand situation whilst working and mom-ing and general living- but that hasn’t prevented me from being stoked about this next installment.
I’ve been pretty vocal about my journey growing up in a controlled religious environment and how that’s severely shaped my worldview in ways I’m really only now uncovering as an adult. But I’ve never been as personal as I am here.
If that doesn’t interest you….the recipe for the Lentil Salad and Roasted Cauliflower and Butternut Squash at the end of this excerpt might.
Your support means the most in this project. I’m so glad you’re here.
I don’t have an awful lot of vivid childhood memories, so it’s surprising to me that this one stands out as much as it does. There was a missionary who came to our big, Baptist church during the Sunday School hour. I must have been in the second or third grade. He was dressed in, what my friends and I giggling wildly confirmed what we knew to be a skirt. We deemed that his pronunciations were funny, and his jokes were anything but, but his presence got us out of using the felt board for an entire hour and that was more than okay in our book. He told us stories of natives who didn’t know the Gospel, primitive beings, with primal behaviors because, well, they didn’t know Jesus. His retelling of a story, that I now know as a grown-up to be a sort of missionary template as the reason for Christ being the one, true way to heaven, was of a young man, drowning in the middle of the lake, while all gods and prophets of other religions lined the shore.
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