Proof The Bible Is True

 I sat in church, the pastor’s words a blur of sound. I knew I should be listening, but instead I wondered what was waiting for me at home. Sunday dinner was the one meal all week when my family sat down together, and that meant facing my father. He’d usually get drunk, and that meant a whole meal of him humiliating me. Especially because of my stutter. I was ten years old, and had done nothing to deserve my father’s scorn.

 

Even trying to keep my sentences short, I always got caught up on the first few syllables as I tried to get out the words. My mother and older sister stayed quiet during our father’s outbursts. They were afraid themselves of inviting his ridicule.

 

The Methodist church wasn’t far from our house. I had walked there alone, hoping that Heavenly Father could help. Was there really some way God could protect me? At least give me a way to avoid my father’s ridicule?

 

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