Post by TomLine on Nov 19, 2018 7:11:47 GMT -5
GOD DOES NOT CARE
by Tom Lineaweaver
Yes, I have come to the conclusion that God doesn't care about me. I don't know if he cares about others, but he sure doesn't care about me. 62 years of hell has proven that to me.
First, I was born on May 12, 1956. That's the day I was born, but there was also a reason for me to be born. My dad needed a tax deduction. That's what my momma told me. So, I was a living tax deduction, that my dad paid dearly for.
I'm sure the first couple months of life were normal, as normal as they could be with my family. I was a sickly young boy. Sore throats, flus, colds, etc. Must have had every respiratory problem that a young kid could. And guess who had to pay the doctor bills. My dad, who wanted me for a tax deduction.
By the time I was 6, the doctor said they have to remove my tonsils. It was in November of that year. What a cruel thing to do. For Thanksgiving that year, I could only have Jello, and maybe a little ice cream. My mom had a bed made for me in the middle room of the first floor. Room right next to the kitchen. So while the rest of the family was eating turkey, and filling, etc., I was in that bed eating Jello. But, by Christmas, I was able to eat.
Christmas was my favorite time of the year. It was the only time my parents didn't fight. I guess they thought if a war could stop for Christmas, they could have there own Christmas truce. Of course, even as a young boy, I had questions about Christmas. Even as a young boy, I was a student of the Bible. That's really all I cared about. So, I asked questions about Christmas at a very young age. I remember asking my dad how Santa Claus got in our house. You see, the back chimney led to a coal stove, and the front chimney led to a oil heatrola. Well, may dad said he comes in the window here. But, I told my dad, you caulk the windows every year before winter. I guess the windows were airtight, but not Santatight.
On my 7th birthday, my parents gave me a Bible. While other kids were getting toy trucks and guns for their birthday, I got a Bible. And not a watered down children's Bible. Oh no. My mom only believed in the King James. By the way, I still have it. I think my mother got tired of me going into her purse to get her Bible. So, at a very young age, I was interested in the Bible.
I wanted so much to live according to the Bible. But I had a problem with one thing. "Honor thy father and thy mother." I asked God, how can I honor my parents who acted so dishonorably. They fought about everything. And I remeber asking God to help mommy and daddy to get along. Never happened. Today, they are buried side by side, and I'd be willing to bet, they probably found a way to fight even in the grave.
Eventually went to school. But, you see, I was hurting inside, and I could not do the school thing. I could already read. I was already reading my mom's King James Bible. So, first grade stuff was a snap. Where in the world were the child psychologists when I needed them?
I had one good friend. It was a big old pink and blue teddy bear. Teddy loved me and I loved him. But, it had been through two girls before it got to me. So, it was thread bear, an eye was missing, and the tongue was hanging on by a thread. and the ears were torn. But I still loved that bear, and that bear loved me. It gave me a shoulder to lean on, to cry on when I was hurting, which was often. Well, one day I came home from school and my bear was gone. I looked everywhere. With tears in my eyes, I went to my mother, and told her my bear was gone. And she said in a very nasty tone, "Oh, I gave that old thing to the garbage man today." Can you imagine the pain? My best friend in the whole world was given to the garbage man.
We had a dog named Susie. One night when we were eating supper, the dog was barking. He was tied in the next room. I guess she wanted to be with us in case something would fall from the table, or a little boy would put some food in his hand and reach down and feed the dog. This night, the dog was kept in the next room, barking it's head off. Pop got tired of the barking, so he went and kicked the dog. Then my married sister and her husband came and took the dog. Eventually, the dog got a tumor where my dad kicked it, and she had to be put down.
One day, my other sister, in her first car, took my mom, my brother and me to a farm to visit my mom's cousin. My dad told my mother, "do not bring a dog." Well, my mother rarely obeyed my dad. So we got a dog. His name was Brownie. I loved that dog, and he loved me. He and I did all kinds of things together. Remember what happened to the last thing I loved? My bear? This time, I had a living, breathing friend. Did that matter? Nope. In Fedruary of 1965, my parents seperated, and Brownie went to the Humane Society, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle. I never saw Brownie again.
Well, I was hurting. I cried a lot, even in school. The teacher came and said, "I know you miss your parents." I told her, "I don't miss my parents, I miss my dog."
Folks, can you see how in the first decade of my life, I've been through hell. By the way, I'm not talking about a place. The word "hell" means "constant torment." There was one good thing that happened in the first decade of my life. I got a Bible on my 7th birthday. Through it all, I loved the Bible, and I believed in God and Jesus.
As I look back on that first decade of my life, I wonder where God was. Why didn't God care about that hurting little boy? That was the foundation of my life. My whole life has gone like that, and it seems no one cares, even God.
The second decade wasn't as bad. I was able to get out of the house. It was plain that in my teens, I could handle my father. So, my mother used me as a shield. She would get dad so mad that he sometimes got to a point of nearly hit mom. And when it got to that point, my mom would get behind me. Dad knew better than to swing at me.
I have had one desire of my heart, that I have often asked God to grant. And that was to have a loving family. My childhood was an emotional bloodbath. So, yes, I've had emotional problems throighout my life.
I look back at my life, and wonder where God was. I often ask God, "where were you?"
At 62 plus, I've come to the conclusion that God does not care. I'm not an atheist. I just don't believe God cares about me. I believe this because I'm still going through hell. You can read about the hell I'm going through here... ourlifebook.freeforums.net/thread/505/killing-me
The one thing that has happened through this life of hell that might make it worthwhile is, I became a compassionate person. I see people struggling, and I care. I see people hurting, and I want to help them. But, how? I can hardly help myself.
If only God cared.
