The long story; My history:

I was born number 8 of 10 children, to a migrant farm working couple in Texas, right after World War II, so I and my husband  are part of the Baby Boomer generation.  My parents were poor and uneducated. To support their ever growing family, they would travel around Texas in search for jobs—mostly picking cotton, or various food items.  My mother helped when she could, but having a baby every 18 months, limited her involvement.  As the children grew, they were put to work as well.  Even so, they barely had enough to survive on.  We lived in tents, sheds, barns, or under the Texas sky, never knowing where we'd end up next, or if we'd have enough food for the day.  When my younger sister, who's twin brother died of pneumonia complications when he was a baby, was taken in by a church family, they noticed how malnourished she was.  She had the typical pot belly, and thin arms and legs of a malnourished child.  At 18 months, she was neither crawling or walking.  When these same people saw my older sister and I, who were toddlers ourselves, and realized that we too were malnourished, they called Child Welfare, and reported my parents.  My parents were given a choice to let us be adopted, or go to foster families.  We were adopted to three different families. My older sister is now legally my second cousin, and my younger sister is just a friend of the family.  My family tree has some interesting branches!  As I grew, I asked my adopted mom about my birth family.  She never wanted to talk about them, and when she did, it was mostly negative facts:  “they were very poor, uneducated, alcoholics, who would try to get money from us.”  She would then say, “It would be best to forget about them.”  Which I never did, even though I quit asking, because I could see it bothered her.  I learned later that she was afraid I would look them up, and choose to live with them.  Which, by the way, was the furthest thing from my mind.  I was adopted, and raised as an only child.  My parents were very solicitous, generous, and strict.  I felt loved, secure, and safe.  They raised me with wonderful Christian values as well.  Even though they met my physical, emotional, and spiritual needs, there was a part of me that always longed to see my birth family once again.  I'm afraid of the dark, and tight places, and I never could explain why, until I finally met my birth mother.  When my adoptive mom passed on, I had this burning desire to meet my birth family.  I was in my thirties, married, and with children of my own.  I asked my dad for permission to pursue this desire.  He assured me that it would be fine with him.  After many phone calls and letters, I was finally able to locate my uncle (who was my birth mother's brother).  He then put me in touch with one of my older brothers, and I was informed that I had three older brothers and three older sisters—all living in Texas, and our mother was there as well.  After a year of negotiating time and place, we met at a park in a little town in Texas.  I was finally able to put names to faces.  I sat down with my birth mother, and she shared a story with me that finally explained my fear of the dark, and tight places.  She said when I was six weeks old, they were out in the fields picking cotton, when a storm blew in.  Everyone was rushing around trying to pack up the bags of cotton, and the equipment.  As my mom ran to the tent where I was napping, she discovered that the tent had been rolled up and thrown into the back of the pick-up.  She began screaming, and asking where her baby was.  The guys who had rolled up the tent, pointed to the back of the truck, where she could hear my muffled cry.  Needless to say, everyone worked frantically to rescue me.  So, I think that's where my fear of the dark and tight places came into play.  I could be wrong, but it makes sense to me.  With tears streaming down her face, she told me that she had never wanted to give her three babies up for adoption.  She said the grief nearly killed her.  My oldest sister explained that my mom went into a deep depression, and was never the same person after finally coming to accept what had happened.  Being a mother myself, I could understand her agony.  I assured her that even though it was a terrible time for her, it was the best gift she could have given us.  We three girls lived “charmed” lives, while my siblings struggled to survive from day to day.  I tell you these stories because I think that even though some fears may be what we consider irrational, some are not.  Some are learned, because of what we're taught: mom is terrified of spiders, so the child is.  A traumatic event may have occurred, such as a lightning strike, or a near death experience, which triggers a fear.  Sometimes there doesn't even seem to be a legitimate reason.  Even though God has instructed us over 300 times in the Bible to Fear Not, or not to be anxious about anything, it can be difficult, as humans, to totally turn our fears and anxieties over to Him.  When I was young, and my fears would surface, my mother would have me repeat over and over, “When I am afraid, I will trust in God.”  I didn't understand the power of those words at that time, but as I matured, and would repeat them, I realized that those words could calm my anxieties.  Each time Jesus was tempted by Satan, He used words.  He also quoted scripture.  I have found through my own life experiences, and others' testimonies, that praying scripture can make Satan, his minions, and our own fears, take a hike. That is why it is important to memorize scripture.  How can we use them as weapons if they are not planted in our minds and spirits?  As we age, it becomes more difficult to memorize anything, so those of you who have little children, I suggest you begin teaching them scripture. Help them to have weapons of their own to combat the attacks of the enemy.