I attended a memorial service on Saturday. The father of someone in our church died, and I believe those are times a pastor gets to show someone in grief that the entire congregation is behind them. So I went as a worshipper but not the funeral leader that day.
You can see my beliefs on funerals and grieving here.
Anyway, I discovered that the man whose life we were remembering had had eight children! That’s not something you see every day.
Except I see it every day. Because I am the youngest of eight children. I’m like way younger than everyone else — our oldest was 23 years older than me and #7 in the family is seven years older than me. When #7 went to college and left home, I was 12.
(Actually, #7 has a name and a career and quite a life; you can meet him here.)
With him (#7, Clayton) leaving home when I was 12, you know what that means? For most of my adolescence and teen years, I was an only child. With seven brothers and sisters.
That explains all my hang ups.