I grew up as a preacher’s kid, and luckily, despite the stories of how PKs turn out, I think I turned out half-decent, half-full. At least fully witted. Vested with a brain. And through my parents, I was encouraged and allowed to question the fabric of things. The threads that stitch and hold our nature. What a powerful teaching tool that was. Allowing questions. Not a one better in my mind. One I hope to impart to my daughter.
After my brother died, I really hated God. And I mean, I hated the guy. There would be sitting, driving, walking, and biking sessions, where I would just scream the f-bomb at him. I would threaten him, I would bargain with him, I would question the hell out of him. But silence is the only thing I ever got back. And that was pretty brutal. At least for a kid that was taught that God is faithful.