If we are misfits, we know it by now.
People hurt us. Or left us.
Dreams withered on the vine.
The crooked path has been nothing like the straight-forward dream.
Maybe tortured, maybe blessed.
We learn our story.
How we came to be wounded.
And what God did about it.
The real difference between us humans is rooted in the mists of childhood. Because everything that ever happened to us is still inside, dense and convoluted like a walnut in its shell. The seedling we once were learned everything from the very beginning, flourishing in rich soil or barely surviving among stones. Young brains lay down pathways that only an older soul will try to understand. That the world is harsh, confusing, frightening. Or steady as the waves of the sea. That we are important, secure, loved. Or nothing to anyone, afraid for our very lives, hungry as trapped dogs.
Maybe that’s when we decide about God, when we don’t even have words. Later, when we do, they are colored by the blood or blessings of those first years. Life is so unfair, how can there be a loving God? Maybe we give a weak nod, afraid to rule Him out in case He is there. But that first idea is set in concrete. And you just can’t kill an idea once it’s made a home. Why would God love me? Nobody else did…