My first convert

I grew up in a Christian home with good parents. I was told the story of Jesus and instructed in the right way to live. I was loved and treated well. Childhood in my memory was a fair approximation of the garden of Eden--a good and wonderful creation.

Our modest house was on a gravel road on the edge of a small Montana town, three or four blocks beyond where the sidewalks ended. It was a neighborhood with plenty of playmates, none of whom went to church, but their unbaptized state never seemed to make any difference in that preschool life of games (kick-the-can, hide-and-seek, softball) and imagination (pretending to be explorers like Lewis and Clark and Indians like Chief Joseph and Sacajawea). There were trees to climb and a creek to swim in. There was a meadow bordering our backyard in which cows grazed. We used the dried cowflop for bases in our ball games.

 

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