I am a teller of stories.
I am going to tell true stories. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
My first memory of the church is of a little white church on Long Island New York. My dad was student pastor of that little church Towering over the church was a hill. Coming over that hill was to the booming sound of the announcer calling the horses races at Aqueduct Race Track.
Later there were little white churches in Vermont. And parsonages not our own. I was a small kid and didn’t get the pastor’s kid thing. We moved every 3-5 years. My impression of church was of where my dad wrangled parishioners
I went to college and never went to church. I learned to drink. I barely graduated. Then without choice, I went to the Navy. In boot camp, we had to go to chapel. It comforted me. But I never went to church again for six years. I didn’t pray for six years.
After the Navy and rehabs I found myself in a McDonald’s parking lot after a stupid night with a lady I didn’t know and never met. I reached my end and groaned a none prayer. “Sweet Jesus Help me!” I have not had a drink since! Forty-seven years! In the next Episode of the Lazarus Recovery Podcast, I will fill in some of the details of my church journey since the McDonald parking lot
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