Mawmaw's Little Angel || Faith in Flux

When analyzing my spiritual history, I have to separate events that happened to me broadly from those that influenced me spiritually. The two inevitably overlap. A seemingly innocuous event, like seeing The Lord of the Rings in theaters with my family, may carry immense spiritual value. Meanwhile, years of church attendance might be condensed into a single sentence. Behind each memory lies more nuance and meaning than I can convey in one post. If I went into full detail, this would become a book (hmm, should I write a book? Lol). Be warned: like any good story, my spiritual history holds both tragedy and comedy. Let’s dive in.

Early Childhood

There’s a family story about me, my grandma (Mawmaw), and her church. Mawmaw was a devout Southern Baptist, heavily involved in her church’s leadership, choir, and Bible study. Until I “betrayed” her at age five by choosing to sit with my grandpa (Pawpaw) instead, I sat beside her during services. I loved pretending to follow the hymn book and flipping through the Bible. Mawmaw called me her "Little Angel," and I blushed with pride every time she said it.

But I couldn’t pronounce “angel” correctly. Instead, I confidently called myself "Mawmaw’s Little Asshole." One Sunday, when Preacher Bobby greeted my Mawmaw and asked who I was, I beamed and declared, "I’m Mawmaw’s Little Asshole!" Mawmaw went red as Preacher Bobby burst into laughter.

After that, I started sitting with Pawpaw. He’d give me Juicy Fruit gum and let me play with my toy cars on the floor. Sometimes we’d sneak out early for lunch at Wendy’s or Bojangles. My memories of church from this time are fond—but purely social, not spiritual.

Yet darker spiritual messages seeped in. When I was five, my parents divorced. It was a messy, public ordeal. I vividly remember asking my Sunday school teacher, "Are my parents going to hell because of their divorce?" I can’t recall her response, but the fact that a five-year-old would ask such a question still chills me. What theology had I absorbed to even consider such a thing? Knowing now how my family was raised—deep in fire-and-brimstone, anti-gay, fundamentalist Southern Baptist Christianity—it makes sense. After the divorce, my family stopped attending church regularly, only going on major holidays like Christmas, Easter, and Mother’s Day.

Pre-Teen Years

For several years, church became a distant memory. We didn’t pray at meals or before bed. My only significant religious experience was watching The Passion of the Christ on VHS when my Mawmaw let me borrow it while I was home sick.

Then came the start of fifth grade, one of the most pivotal times in my life—for better and worse.

I had friends but also a growing list of bullies. They mocked my size, my hand-me-down clothes, and trivial things that still cut deep. Enter Steve and Jeremy, twin brothers who transferred to my school. Steve and I shared classes and sat at the same tables. One day, a bully mocked my oversized Count Chocula t-shirt. Steve turned to me and said, "I like that shirt!" We were friends from that moment on.

Soon, we discovered we were also neighbors. We exchanged phone numbers and called each other after school, standing at the ends of our driveways trying to wave, though a bend in the road blocked our view. Steve, Jeremy, and I became inseparable. Eventually, I learned their father was a pastor at the local Wesleyan church. They invited me to a Wednesday night youth service.

I walked alone to the church—back when a 10-year-old doing so seemed normal. We played games, ate pizza, and talked about friendship. That evening became a tradition. Every Wednesday, I’d walk to church and immerse myself in the warmth of that community.

There was something deeper pulling me in. My family life was unstable: my dad and his new wife were borderline abusive when I saw them, while my mom and stepdad worked constantly and were relatively absent. My siblings were much older, living their own lives. That church community became the family I lacked at home.

When Steve and Jeremy moved away, I feared losing my connection to the church. But the youth group embraced me, particularly the youth leader, Mitchell. Church became more than a social escape; I was genuinely interested in theology and asked far too many questions for someone my age.

While my home life unraveled with neglect and abuse, I clung to Christianity as a lifeline—until I began to uncover parts of myself that the church wasn’t prepared to embrace.

Stay tuned for the next chapter of Faith in Flux, where I delve deeper into how my teenage years brought both spiritual growth and inner turmoil.