Scott's Adventures in Christianity. An Introduction

I'm about 7 fingers deep into a bottle of whiskey right now. At least I think so. I emptied the bottle.
Work sucked today. Which is fine. Bad days happen. Tomorrow could easily be the best day of my life. I see no point in worrying. That my friends, is perspective.
I'm thinking about religion now. As usual. For those who don't know my well, I have a fairly strong views on religion. I'm a Christian. I'm a believer.
But what does this mean to me now?
My journey into religion started at birth. I was born the oldest son of a pastor in a Pentecostal church. The town it resides in is called Oxbow. Right next to the American border. My parents should have planned it so I could have been born in America. Maybe I could have obtained dual citizenship or something. Reagan was president at the time. I'm sure he would have been cool about it.
I have no real memories of my time in that small town. Family legend says I was the last baby to be born in that hospital before it closed due to budget cuts. Another weird Reagan legacy leeching its way through Canadian borders.
My first real memories of being in church involve another small town called Herbert. It had a strong Mennonite heritage, or so I was told later. We were only there for a few years. Long enough for me to scar my hand on the motorcycle my dad kept in the driveway.
You see, my dad loved to ride those bikes. Sometimes he would take me with him. I would sit at the front and he would sit behind me, keeping me safe as we explored the cold frontier of Saskatchewan.
On Sunday, Dad had left for early to prepare the church. Mom was getting me and the rest of the kids ready. It was during this morning rush, she lost track of me. I had wondered outside because I was bored of waiting. I was already dressed for church in my dress pants and tiny dress sweater. So I wandered up to the motorbike that sat in our driveway. I decided to climb up. Perhaps I wanted to experience the thrill of sitting on the beast as it took me across the wind-swept prairie. Or it could have been I longed for the security of being next to my father as we adventured through town. For whatever reason, I tried to climb the motorcycle. Of course, the thing fell on me and the brake handle broke off, slicing my four year old hand. The scar remains. Long and shaped like an "s". The doctor did a poor job of stitching it. It left me with a webbed finger. Seriously.
At any rate, I remember the shock of my mom's face as I cried out for her on the cold pavement. My blood seemed to pour down the incline of the driveway. I remember wondering briefly if I was going to die (I had never really been hurt before).
To this day, my parents talk about it. They figure I tried to climb the bike because I loved going on rides with my dad so much.
The odd thing is I have no memories at all of being on that bike. No dreams of the wind cooling my face as my father and I tame the wilderness on two wheels. I don't remember laughing with glee as we hit bumps and I rise gently in my seat feeling safe in the arms of the one who loves me best.
My only memory is of it spilling my blood on a cold morning, and watching it leak into the earth.
Stay tuned for more Adventures in Christianity.