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Door-to-Door Witnessing

MEMOIR PROJECT ROUGH DRAFT

Door-to-door witnessing, this was the worst. Standing there with my mom and some other believer while we went from house to house, ringing doorbells, witnessing for God, pulling out the Green Card—the registration card for the PFAL class—arguing with other Christians—especially Catholics—and usually doing no good at all. But we did it anyway. And I stood there, house after house when I could have been playing. What a waste. No one was saved but the people trying to do the saving. It was their need to make some wrong right. Their need to spread the good word was the motivation in order to rectify their own past. A past often just the same as any other past, just from a person who feels twice the guilt of a normal person. It seems guilt is handed out in either thimbles or buckets. My mom got the bucketful. I did too. Either by nature or nurture, I don’t know, but I got it too. But I won’t go door-to-door witnessing.

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© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on June 28, 2006 in
Emotion: Disgust, Type: Creative Nonfiction