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Atheist in a Foxhole
A foxhole: a pit dug usually hastily for individual cover from enemy fire
Growing up in evangelical Christianity, I knew one thing: the name of Jesus was the only power I possessed. I clung to it like my life depended on it, and often, I felt it did. I really struggled with fear of the dark when I was little. My mom told me it was because I had a “discerning spirit,” which meant that I was sensitive to the spirit world, both the good and the bad. I had nightmares, felt I could sense evil presences, and slept with my mom for the better part of my life at home. I remember whispering the name of Jesus, holding my bible to my chest and praying for relief that didn’t come. This pervasive fear followed me for most of my life.
In my twenties, when I married for the first time, I thought my house was haunted. My husband was bi-polar and addicted to drugs. I had no idea of either problem. I was young and we were married 6 months after meeting, making me a step-mom to two small children at the young age of 23. My husband was abusive and unpredictable, but it was confusing to me because I met him at church and he loved Jesus. I thought maybe he was possessed. It’s embarrassing to admit that now, but his mood swings were so erratic, and I didn’t have any other lens to interpret what was happening. I had the house prayed over, oiled, all the things people do when they feel the demonic at work…