holy children and a Godly legacy), who would invest in our “spiritual stock”?
I remember when it finally registered in my child-brain that the money being put in the “Lord’s Treasury” was buying food for me to eat and clothes for me to wear. The older I got, the more I felt a growing sense of mortification and guilt anytime I got a new outfit or ate out at a restaurant. All of which to say, it was tough work being “spiritual” before I even knew how to spell that word. (Ah, to experience the simple, plebian joy of being the daughter of a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker!) Oh, well. At least I was well-trained and had my pastor’s daughter routine polished to a shine. By age 5 I knew how to share my testimony with any heathen I might encounter at, say, the playground. By age 10 I could open-air preach the Gospel in 1 minute. Damnation to salvation in 60 seconds flat. But by the time I was a teenager, the pressure of always having to perform was catching up to me. There was never a chance to discover who I was since from the time I was born I had been told who
