Theft

When Valleys of Trouble Become Doorways of Hope

When Valleys of Trouble Become Doorways of Hope

My first Sunday School teacher was a pale, squat, balding man who retold dusty old Bible stories with a nasally voice and a moralistic heart. The more he taught me to be good, the more I wanted to be bad. So I’d hide from him. Under tables, behind curtains, inside closets. Sometimes he’d find me, sometimes not.