Our daughter is writing down some of her experiences growing up as a Witness. I thought I would share a sample of her writing. It is fun for us to read, but a little sad to see the guilt she placed upon herself for doing normal kid things......
This good news.
Of the kingdom.
Will be preached.
In all the inhabited earth.
For a witness.
To the nations.
And then the end will come.
When I was three, I memorized the scripture in chunks and then recited
them on cue on doorsteps. Colorful happy animal scene pamphlet in
hand. I was excited when I got to ring the doorbell, and even more so
when I learned something to say to my neighbors.
I don't remember learning to read. My mother taught me long before I
began kindergarten. I sang songs and read stories, learned to whistle
and braid, nibbling on cheerios in the back of a Jeep wagon as our
friends and family spread "this good news of the kingdom" along the
dusty country roads of xxxxx. My favorite part was stopping
at the library to pee and check out books. We staked out favorite
break spots, like Cynthia's Pizza, or the fat, warm cinnamon rolls
baked by Mennonites and served out of a trailer on the side of the
By four, I'd memorized and given my first talk in front of the
congregation. A skit describing the procedures of our Christian
meetings. "And then anyone who wants to can raise their hand and give
an answer," I remember saying, with my thibilate ethez and theethe.
In second grade, I was dared to kiss a boy's shoe during recess. After
school, I fell into sobs confessing what had happened to my mother,
believing that I'd no longer qualify to live in Paradise.
At nine, I was a God-ordained minister. Baptized by water immersion in
a black speedo swimsuit with rainbow stripes sprayed along one side.
The little girl in front of me tripped up the aisle on the way to the
baptism pool, her fluffy skirt over her head. As for me, my little
legs dangling, I stretched them as much as I could, trying to walk on
the tips of my big toes in the four-foot deep pool.
As a baptism present, I got a little green and white striped diary
with a lock. I wrote the names of my best friends, stories about my
pet dogs, and later the names of boys I liked and a recounting of the
first time I was allowed to shave my legs.
In fifth grade, I agreed to "go out" with a blond boy named xxxx during afternoon recess. We walked hand in sweaty hand back
into the classroom from the playground. That afternoon, overwhelmed by
guilt, I broke up with him on the bus ride home.