Of Faith and Fear: An Ending of Sorts, a Beginning of Sorts (A Conclusion to the Conclusion)
When my sister was very little, maybe three or four-years-old, she was sitting on my mom's bathroom counter as my mom got ready for church. Curious about the shiny object my mom was using to curl her hair, my sister wrapped her tiny, perfect, toddler fingers around the barrel of a fully heated curling iron. Shocked by the intensity of the heat, her fingers tightened into a vice grip as she screamed. My mom desperately tried to pry her baby's fingers from the 250 to 300-degree (Fahrenheit) metal rod. The more my mom tried to pull my sister's fingers away, the more my sister tightened her grip. Eventually, mom succeeded and my sister's hand was freed, but not before she sustained deep, scarring burns that can still be detected on her fingers today, over 20 years later. Nearly three years ago, I began a three-part blog series on my understanding (or lack thereof) on the relationship between fear and faith as the ruling factors in my decisions and thus my life. Mostly,
