I remember things. Like when I was two years old, I remember. I remember too many things because they plague me to this day and I'm seventy four. I need to forgive, but I cannot forget.
I was three years old and it was a Sunday. I was dressed up and he wore a Sunday suit, white shirt and tie. Daddy wasn't all that tall but he seemed gigantic to me. I looked up at him in my starched Sunday dress, stomped my foot and said, “I don't want to go to church!” It all happened in slow motion, he unbuckled his black belt and slid it through a hundred loops. He whipped it off and beat the crap out of me. He said, “Don't you ever say that again!” The blisters on my legs lasted a week. Mama in her meek way told him to never do that again. That moment in time began my hate of God. Jesus was mean and hated me until I was forty three years old and desperately needed him. Jesus doesn't beat me with a belt and doesn't tell me I need to go to church. In his own gentle way, in his own beltless way, he led me there.
That was a horrifying experience. Seared on your memory so much that you can't let go of it, even today. It is unfortunate that you associated that beating with church and Jesus (?).
I was an active child and got into a lot of trouble. But I don't recall anything until I was four. Mostly good things. But I do recall my father, after my mother failed at disciplining my twin brother and I, would bring out his belt and snap it in a way that put fear in me, having felt that belt only once or twice to know what it felt like. No real beating, thank goodness, just a stinging reminder that did leave a mark or two, but no lasting mental anguish like you. I'm so sorry this happened. Do you have any good stories to share with us?
I certainly can understand your negative association stemming from a man who missed the whole point of going to church. May a sense of inner peace prevail.
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