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Mothers of God Among Us
From Mary to Queen Dorothy, to You and Me

by Ron Buford
December 12, 2004

I read somewhere that our perspectives on God may be shaped by our first memories of our parents. What is your first memory of either of your parents? I am not sure how true that is for you, but it is definitely true for me. Given our varied experiences with parents, this hypothesis may explain a lot about modern religion and the lack of it.

I was the fourth child born to a struggling single mother who, not quite ready to settle down and working hard to take care of four children, contracted tuberculosis. The other kids were school age. I was an infant. The older kids went to one foster home. I went to another. An older couple, Dorothy and James, took me in. They were childless. I seemed to be an answer to their prayers for a child. I was theirs for more than three years while my birth mother was in a sanatorium. They worked hard and managed to make financial gains and a great home during those three years. When my birth mother was released, she wanted her children back . . . well . . . almost. The prospects of managing four children with no job and needing to rebuild was frightening to her and the kids. The kids were now comfortable in other homes and wanted to stay. The older couple actually wanted to adopt me. Queen Dorothy, as we affectionately called her (behind her back) because of her regal bearing and strong sense of entitlement . . . well . . . lets just say she prevailed.

I believe my earliest memory of Queen Dorothy is from somewhere around age 2. One day, I managed to crawl around the living room floor and pulled on one of the lamp cords. The next thing I knew there was a loud crash as this big beautiful and shiny lamp broke into a thousand pieces. Frightened and afraid, I remember expecting punishment. But momma (Queen Dorothy is the only person I acknowledge as mom) came and grabbed me, held me close and kissed me until I was no longer afraid. When I think of God, I often think of that moment. All other images of God create conflict for me.

Strengthen the weak hands,
And make firm the feeble knees
Say to those who are fearful
Here is your God who will come and save you.

I grew up in a great home in which I never questioned that I was loved. My parent's love for each other was odd, but fun to watch. Recalling my childhood, my Dad used to say, �You were the happiest kid. You skipped everywhere.� And he was right . . . well almost.

The conservative church of my childhood taught that God expected people to live free from sin. Every infraction would put you in danger of hell's fire. And I had an overactive imagination.

Free from sin? Even as a child, this was a frightening thing. The altar call songs alone scared me half to death. Hear this excerpt from the altar hymn, Lost forever�:
God and His mercy refusing
Fixing and sealing your fate
When your hell you'll remember
Lost, too late.
Lost Forever!
Oh how sad.

I will never forget one fretful night at a revival meeting when the pastor called the fateful Hymn number 125, Lost forever. The mere mention of this hymn number would cause many in the congregation to panic and sweat. Just then a