The Stories SHE Chose

 The Imbalance of Power and Control using Religion

I remember the faux leather-bound book, its gold-leafed edges catching the afternoon light as mom pulled it from the shelf. "The Children's Bible," it proclaimed in cheerful letters, but there was nothing childlike about the images within. (I still have this horrible tome in my library) She would gather me close, her voice taking on that special tone she used when she wanted to appear nurturing – yet, her eyes remained cold, calculating, and what I now know as conniving.

"Today, we'll read about the flood," she'd say, or "Let's learn about the plagues of Egypt." Never the gentler parables, never the stories of healing or hope. She chose tales of destruction, of punishment, of divine wrath. The illustrations were vivid – waters rising around desperate faces, firstborn sons lying still in their beds, armies drowning in crimson seas.

I was five when she first showed me the woodcut of Abraham raising the knife above Isaac. "See how much Abraham loved God?" she'd ask. "He was willing to sacrifice his own son." She'd pause then, looking at me with those cold, dark eyes. "Would you be that obedient?"

Night after night, the stories came. Lot's wife turned to salt, her fate sealed by a single glance backward. Job's children crushed beneath a collapsed roof. Daniel in the lions' den, though she always lingered more on the fate of those who were thrown in afterward. The images would follow me into my dreams, mixing with her unpredictable rages, her silent treatments, her manipulation of truth until I could no longer tell what was real.

"This is love," she'd say, closing the book. "God punishes those who deserve it, just like I do." Her smile never reached her eyes. "It's all for your own good."

Decades later, I still find myself questioning every story I'm told, every declaration of love, every assertion of authority. The Bible sits untouched on my shelf, its pages heavy with memories of those afternoons when faith became entangled with fear, when love became confused with control, when truth became whatever she decided it should be. It’s languishing, covered in dust and faded tears.

Sometimes I wonder if she chose those stories deliberately, if she recognized in those ancient tales of power and punishment a mirror of her own desires. Did she see herself in the role of divine authority, wielding stories like weapons, shaping my young mind with carefully chosen horrors? Or was she simply passing on the trauma she herself had inherited, teaching the only version of love she knew?

The stories remain with me, but they've changed. In the flood, I see not just destruction but the rainbow that followed. In Job's tale, I find not just suffering but the courage to question and carry on. In Daniel's survival, I discover not the gruesome fate of his accusers but the triumph of truth over power. I'm learning to read between the lines, to find my own meaning in these ancient words, to separate the wisdom from the fear she tried to instill.

how a mother's lessons could leave such deep and lasting scars

But still, in quiet moments, I remember that little girl, wide-eyed before graphic pages, trying to understand how love could look so much like terror, how truth could feel so much like doubt, and how a mother's lessons could leave such deep and lasting scars.

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