Chloe, I was raised heavy-duty Irish Catholic: I think you know what that means. Couple that with this:
I had a NDE when I was seven. Though my eyes were open under water and seeing the sun, what I was seeing inside was Jesus running through an open field to me, calling my name with great welcome, as if I had been lost a long time and he was overjoyed to see me. Difficult to describe but the sun was felt like his radiating love, a way ofembracing each other. Then Mrs. McDermott got between me and the sun and with her flabby arms was reaching to pick me. I tried to tell her I was fine, really peachy-keen right where I was, but she kept coming. The next thing I remember is looking up into the face of Andrew McDermott, a fireman down to visit his mom. A true blessing, or was it? My mother was so angry with me for wandering off  and relieved I hadn't die, embarrassed vying with grateful I guess, that she alternately pulled me down the beach and stopped to hug me, red faced one minute and crying the next. I never got the opportunity to tell her what I saw but when I stated looking up at the sun, I got a smack. "Don't lie to me, young man, you were found floating face down." Well, words to that effect; a little juicier. She was German.

I got pretty strange, as I already noted, after that, and still hear the stories from my cousins. For instance, during the rest of the summer I practically spent all my time visiting the elderly on their porches. I only recall brief snatches of this activity but my family has a much more vivid (and amused) memory. My ambition was now to be a saint by martyrdom, defending the chalice from invading pagans (protestants were included in that) from the public schools. The fantasy had me materializing after death at recess before the whole school, all of them entralled to see such a holy person so young. By twelve, other fantasies started to enter but the saint idea lingered. Even in the throes of my alcoholism I felt God had separated me out. 

I went through a few years after sobriety of being a Recovered Catholic. I hated the Church. If you have heard what it was like in the Fifties and Sixties, then you may understand. I am not sure if my NDE made me such a distracted day-dreamer but it my day-dreamer did make me a target, and an easy one. But I never abandoned my love of Christ, just the vehicle I had known. TVangelist got most of my wrath. Along with my growing study and practice of Zen Buddhism, I started an intense study of the Bible in order to beat them on their home field. Hard to say which got me back in the fold. Not the mainstream fold but mysticism, which seemed much like buddhism in a way and had the added appeal of being hated by most Christian sects.

All this by way of explaining why I do not translate well when talking to most Christians. My ineptitude at grounding