Week #2—Some Things Never Change

Even a child is known by his actions, by whether his conduct is pure and right.
Proverbs 20:11

Did you have a chance to read my first message, or was it possibly overlooked in your inbox? Ba humbug if you did (LOL). That’s okay. I’ve got thick skin, and I’m coming at you for fifty more weeks. You can ignore me, but I’ll still be here, tapping at your inbox like a stubborn woodpecker on a pine tree.

Why? These letters are more than just words. They’re pieces of me—faith, memory, and story stitched together. And today, I want to take you back to my youth, where the roots of my faith first took hold…

Sunday mornings were never optional in our house. My dad believed the front pew was the only proper place for a family, so that’s where we sat—every week, under his watchful eye. For a boy with restless legs and a wandering mind, it was a recipe for trouble.

Sitting through an hour-and-a-half church service at nine or ten years old was a harsh and unusual punishment. How much standing and sitting… standing and sitting can a young mind take? And then twenty-five minutes of Pastor Kavosh in his white robe preached his sermon.

I couldn’t help myself. Wandering hands would cross the imaginary boundary between my younger brother and me. Whether it was a pinch on my leg or an elbow in the side, it was inevitable. He would cry like a baby, followed by my father’s disapproving stare. One more incident, and I drew corporal punishment.

A calloused hand on the scruff of my neck. Every eye in the sanctuary knew what fate awaited me as he marched me down the church aisle to my execution.

By the time we reached the back door, tears were already streaming down my face. In my head, I chastised myself, “Why did I do that?” Unfortunately, the self-criticism didn’t last long. I repeated the same behavior the following week.

That was my childhood: strict, stubborn, and soaked in faith. You know me well, but you may not know how those moments forged my path to Christ.

My dad, the white-haired Grampa—Kyle’s nickname—was a strict Missouri Synod German Lutheran. That’s a mouthful, but let me give you a glimpse. When I was a baby, church services were still in German. At baptisms, the male sponsor carried the newborn to the font, not the mother. My mother, with her stubborn Welsh blood, would have none of that, so my siblings and I were baptized at home.

This rift led my dad and six other families to start a new church a few miles away in Auburn, Michigan, my hometown. Some of you have said I turned you off religion because I dragged you to church every Sunday. Well, the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like my father before me, I marched you—Michelle and Jason—up the aisle and planted us in the front pew, right under the pastor’s watchful eyes.

And more times than not, one of you—I won’t mention any names—ended up making that same long march down the aisle, just as I had with my dad.

I attended a Lutheran grade school for eight years. I was a good student, but my behavior didn’t always match. Corporal punishment was the norm back then, and I got my share of spankings—probably more than my share. My mother was as stubborn as I am. She refused to babysit the principal’s kids, and he took his jilted emotions out on me.
Looking back, I deserved most of what I got. Nevertheless, this experience turned into a source of pride. The crack of a metal ruler against my backside echoed through the classroom. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let a whimper escape. It drove Mr. Laider crazy to think he couldn’t break me. So he swung harder.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story.

Follow the Journey
Each Sunday, I share one short letter—part memoir, part reflection on faith and family.
The same themes of faith, discipline, and courage also shape my Logan Murdock Trilogy.
👉 Explore the Trilogy Here: