My Lamby

“My Lamby”
A Story of Redemption by Rev. Rich Marconi
Being the youngest of three children with parents of The Great Depression, many of the clothes I wore were hand-me-downs from my older brother and male cousins. Frugality was the lifestyle of choice. Also among these previously used items was a stuffed animal both my brother Bob, and sister Patty were privileged to possess when they were toddlers. I was the next in line to cuddle and love “Lamby,” the very picture of “The Velveteen Rabbit” which I would later read in my early adulthood (and not without tears!). Lamby, the object of my affection was to me, real.

As a very young child I can vividly recall being what one might call, “a lover, and not a fighter.” I very much enjoyed expressing love to my mom in the form of hand-crafted cards and by running toward her and being gleefully swooped up into her arms, swirling me around through the air. Because she would often affectionately refer to me as her “lover-dover,” my cards always addressed her as, “my lover-dover-mother.”

Our family also had cats while I was growing up. I would attach myself to them as if they were furry, inanimate playthings, much like my stuffed toy, to the point of overt kissing and
caressing. I loved my cats. And I loved my Lamby…day and night I clung to her.

Then one day, as a family “right-of-passage,” my Lamby disappeared. I was told soon afterward, I was getting too old to be toting around such a childish doll. I was later told mom did the same with Bobby and Patty. I was expected to take this all in stride. But at the time, to me it was more like losing a best friend. I was devastated.

It could be said this was all for my own good. Life isn’t fair, hard-knocks are inevitable, and this was my first life lesson. Perhaps that’s true. Even the Bible says there comes a time for us to mature in our faith, to get off the milk diet and start on solid food. Whatever the case, life’s hardships will come, some by fate, others by fault. Who could anticipate what might come next?
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Mom was a devout Catholic. She had a beautiful, natural singing voice and sang in the choir
next to the organ, all situated high above the pews at the back of the church. I always enjoyed being able to sit there with mom and Father Bordi who played the organ. I felt privileged.

Mom’s faith was passed along to me and I soon became an altar boy at the ripe age of 6. In those days we altar boys had to learn the responses to the priest in Latin. We were issued phonetic lines to memorize. All of this was worth it, for now I could be on the other side of the rail, on the altar, in close proximity to God whom, I believed, lived in that little cubby behind the curtain called the “tabernacle.” It was an honor to be chosen to ring the chime each time the priest raised the chalice in the air, the thrill of a lifetime!

In my youthful innocence, I loved God, I loved serving God. I prayed the rosary. I went to
confession each Saturday reciting the same sins from the week before. At church I fit in, I had a sense of belonging, unlike how I felt with other peers in the outside world where I would retreat into my imaginary world. That world included being an astronaut propelled through space, or a baseball player hitting the game-winning home run, or a fireman acting the role of hero. I was an introvert.

My friend John was a fellow altar boy. He was attending Catholic school. Before the 3rd grade, I begged my mom to place me in that school so I could be with him and she agreed. I spent no longer than two months there before finding out how cruel the nuns (teachers) were to boys and I begged her to take me out. She refused, noting my original decision to go there, and completed the year. Relieved to be away from the nasty nuns, I was back in public school in fourth grade where I met a new friend, Max, who was the son of Russian immigrants. I can recall our spirited discussions over the existence of God and how I argued, “Then how did this entire universe come into being without a Creator?” The matter was never settled. Herein began the creeping doubt in my mind about the existence of God and the secular worldview which was about to begin to be foisted upon me.

Middle school was a horrific time for me. It was the period for boys to exert their male prowess. I, being a lover, not a fighter found myself the object bullying. Though I sometimes fought back, but I found it distasteful to inflict onto another person the kind of pain that I despised receiving; I never won a fight.

In the proceeding years and well into high school I was becoming further indoctrinated with Darwinism and human philosophy. At that time there arose a brand new system of teaching they touted as “The Humanities.” It combined history, science and the arts together to form this radically new method of learning. Ancient Greek culture with its architecture and profound philosophers, the Middle Ages weakly falling into intellectual darkness, to the Renaissance of Western Europe along with its artists, music and architectural brilliance was all on display to elevate man’s accomplishments; all despite mention of God’s enablement. The message was man had arisen from the ashes, via evolution, through the ranks of primitivism to a glorious height. Conclusion: man was supreme. My faith in God was beginning to ebb.

This all occurred during the tumultuous 1960’s. War protests, race riots, assassinations were common fare. The hippy movement was gaining popularity through exposure on TV, radio and the movies. Its main thrust was “make love, not war.” I, being the lover, not the fighter, found this culture to be quite appealing. What better way to shield my cowardice and become the lover of peace with one easy decision? This led me into the dark world of drug experimentation.

All of sudden, the thing I craved the most as an innocent child, my quest for closeness to God, was undermined by the false belief I could attain this under the influence of illicit drugs. And an entire culture encouraged this as the way to experience “Nirvana,” especially the music of the time. Drugs also enabled me to be accepted into peer groups of like mind, no fighting, no pain. It was rebellion against a society we considered to be uncaring, aggressive and war-mongering. I was a member of the “moral high ground.”

This sense of moral superiority, coupled with, and supported by slogans like, “Do your own
thing” and “If it feels good, do it,” led me down the dark path to self fulfillment without
responsibility and I became ever more introverted like nothing before. I was so self-centered that I gave in to every carnal impulse to perpetuate this false belief that it was me against the world. Whatever tenderness I once had for my pets and that silly old Lamby turned inward, protecting only myself from hurts and the perceived “bullies” that I thought were part of the evil societal establishment. By the time I reached my late twenties, my life was all about personal gratification, rock and roll, drug-induced pleasures. But, God….(working behind the scene!)

Thankfully, during all this time I had a curiosity about world religions. I explored eastern mysticism, Dianetics (later termed “Scientology”), and I even read portions of the Koran. None of these rang true to me. I did, however, read some psalms and the Book of Job, prompted by a song about Job I heard in college. Yet, without proper guidance, I was still adrift.

I met Gilda a few months before my twenty-eighth birthday, fell in love, and married at the age of thirty. Not wanting to be a phony, I divulged my many bents toward drugs and physical intimacy. Needless to say at this point, (that is, if you know Gilda), she had a guttural aversion to my “view on life” and promptly stood her ground. The introvert in me turned inward, vowing to keep secret from her all “my own personal matters,” and never broached the subject again. An un-Godly shroud plagued the atmosphere. Something needed to be done, but how?

 In our fourth year of marriage, we got invited to dinner by our friends, Kevin and Diane. They were excited to have us join them and a friend of Diane’s from work named Rick. Rick was a recently paroled felon who came to faith in Jesus in prison and was on fire for the Lord. He played guitar and sang, so it was an easy fit for me to sit and listen to his witness. Concurrent with this was the news about the Jonestown incident. I was somewhat skeptical about committing to Christ for I did not wish to be caught up in a cult of men, women and children that would commit mass suicide drinking poison Kool-aid. He reassured me this wasn’t anything like that. So I, along with Gilda, gave our lives to Christ in January of 1986.

We started going to church. The Lord would prosper our business. And I immediately dived head-first into the Bible. It all came alive reading the account of the exodus, envisioning Charlton Heston as Moses parting the Red Sea! Admittedly, reading the Books of Numbers and Deuteronomy I found laborious to keep focused, but I kept going. By June, I had finished reading it from cover to cover. Oddly, it was not until the final chapter of Revelation when I truly became convicted. “Outside (the gates) are the dogs, those who practice magic arts, the sexually immoral, the idolators and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.” - Rev. 22:15. LIARS?! Liars are lumped together with murderers!

As a young Catholic boy, I was told a lie was a “venial sin,” that it didn’t rise to the level of a “mortal sin,” such as murder. What I newly learned in that moment was, to God, ALL sin is detestable! I stood there realizing I was a cold-blooded sinner, not just because of my 60’s mentality, but because I “justifiably” told white lies…to keep from hurting people’s feelings, for instance. It was then I felt the burden lift, having read all about how Jesus took my punishment. I was free! Finally! I was loved by God! I could now love God how I did when I was six years old, with that youthful innocent love and affection that expressed itself onto my Lamby. Hallelujah! Once again I was “the lover not a fighter,” because it didn’t require a fight. All it required was surrender to the true object of my affection, Jesus, THE LAMB OF GOD!

Once again, I can hold and love my “Lamby.” I have my “best friend” back! Once again I can be in close proximity to God. Lamby, as well as the true Lamb had been forgotten for all those years while desperately yearning for a meaningful life, substituting the artificial wisdom of this world for His Real Wisdom. “My Lamb” is once again “real.” All the while, my Lamb was there all along guarding, protecting, and caring for me, even without my knowledge while taking many wrong turns… all of which eventually led me back to Him - and my original childlike faith. I love my Lamby!

Matthew 9:14 - Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”