Proof The Bible Is True

Early on, rejection led me to deny who I was. Because I saw women as victims, the last thing I wanted to be was a girl.

It started out like any other Sunday morning. Mom was in the kitchen finishing her breakfast before heading off to the golf course.

I stopped to chat with her briefly before going to church. Only this time our conversation turned sour.

“What do you want from me?” my mom asked abruptly.

Without thinking I shot back, “I want a mom!”

“I don’t want to be a mom,” she said curtly. “I didn’t plan to have you. I didn’t plan to have any of my kids.”

Her words were like daggers to my soul. Tears came. I knew I couldn’t stop them if I tried, but I didn’t want her to see me cry.

“And don’t start crying to make me feel guilty,” she rebuked.

Her words hung in the air with the thought reeling through my head, I didn’t ask to be here. Suddenly a veil lifted as I realized, at age 22, that what my dad had been telling me for years was true: My mother didn’t love me.

I don’t know why I bothered going to church that morning. I didn’t hear a thing and couldn’t even see the pastor through my tears. I cried all morning over the stark reality that I was nothing more than an inconvenience to the one person whose affection I craved the most.

Months earlier I had become a Christian and begun my journey out of homosexuality. As a young adult I was now attempting to connect with Mom for the first time in my life.

The Wounds of Childhood

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