After 8 years of intensive therapy, I know well the cathartic release of telling one’s story. Airing the words which went unspoken for so many years has been a painful but healing exercise. And I find myself at the point where I finally feel free to write (to put in print, so to speak) some memories and reflections from the ‘war zone’ of life growing up in the home of a holiness minister and missionary. These ‘stories’ are occasional and won’t show up in chronological order. For numerous reasons that aren’t necessary to list here, I believe it is important for me to write these, and instead of fussing with the details of ‘when’ and ‘where’, get them down ‘on paper’ as they come to mind. So if I’ve given you permission to read this, please forgive the disorienting time warps which might cause slight vertigo. These are a collection of anecdotes, and singularly don’t tell a complete tale. However, I’m confident that their collective effect can be revealing.