By Margery Hannah
This memory (or is it a feeling or act?) of fear as instructed by the Almighty God telling me I MUST do what is right–right, a simple thing convoluted by either fleshly desire or the other thing, that much lesser thing roaming the earth to and fro looking for whom to devour, goes back as far as I can remember.
I’ve always been convicted.
And it was impressed upon me young by perhaps my mother we live to die. I used to, as a little girl, imagine riding a rollercoaster, the ups and the downs, the adrenalin and the excitement, the sheer joy of making it to the end and the ability to do it all again–and then It just stops. It being feelings. It being knowledge. No more rollercoaster. It’s all over; nothing happens. Hard to imagine.
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Chelle A. Carter-Wilson