I love Hinduism because I love the idea of a holy book, an icon that represents the universe, and an experience of a god.
My wife and I both started practicing Hinduism in college and have been friends with many others for the past decade.
My favorite thing about Hinduism is its simplicity.
It is simple.
It’s a religion.
You don’t need to understand much of it to have a deep connection to the faith.
As a kid growing up in the ’80s, I knew I loved this religion and believed that my parents were doing the right thing by sending me to a secular, all-girls school.
I never saw it as a religious organization, nor was I taught to feel anything for it.
It was a place where people lived, prayed, and celebrated.
I remember being a little boy and thinking, If only I had been born in a Hindu family, my life would be different.
The Hinduism I grew up with in the States had an iconography that seemed to be modeled on a painting.
My first encounter with Hinduism as a child involved an Indian man who said, “When I was young, you were born here.”
He described a place with a rich history, with a temple, a temple of Vishnu, and the most beautiful place in the world.
The man, I was told, had visited the Hindu temple, but when I asked him why he wanted to visit, he explained that the place had been destroyed.
His mother had been forced to flee to India and he had been sent there to “bring back” her.
But when I found out that his mother was Hindu, I became intrigued.
Why would he do this?
It was obvious that he wanted his son to become a Hindu and was willing to sacrifice everything for his goal.
The story I told my wife, who was Hindu at the time, was that he was not the man I had come to know, but a very loving man.
He told me that his father had taken him to India because his family had been wiped out.
I was fascinated.
And then, just as quickly, he said that he had left.
He had left India because he wanted more than anything to find his family, which had been taken away by Hindu supremacists.
His story of a Hindu mother who had escaped the genocide to escape to India was not entirely true, but it did make me wonder if I would have been able to find my family if I had lived in a Christian family.
But it was also obvious that my family had suffered as a result of my father’s actions.
The same thing happened to me when I was in my late teens.
I went to a Christian school, and one day when I arrived, my teacher asked me, “Do you want to be Christian?”
I said, I would be Christian, if my father was still alive.
The teacher laughed and said, Why not?
My dad had taken away my mom and I was his only daughter.
My mom was a devout Hindu, but she had left my father to marry a Christian man.
After my father died, my mother’s mother, who had been raised Catholic, brought him to the United States and gave him a baptism.
The baptism ceremony was performed in front of my dad’s parents, who were also devout Hindus, and my mother was baptized as a Christian.
She was baptized a few days later.
She had never seen her parents again.
But for some reason, I felt so uncomfortable, and for some strange reason, my father left my mother and I. The only reason I could think of was because of the name I had given myself.
That name was Sam.
I have never felt comfortable in my own skin.
And I did not have a name for it, because I had not done anything wrong.
It didn’t matter if I was gay or straight, if I came from a poor family or a rich family, it didn’t really matter.
The fact that I had a name was just a fact.
The religion that my father had been a part of seemed to have no identity for me.
I had never met a Hindu that I did the right things for, because the religion that was being taught to me was a religion of hatred and cruelty.
My father was an example of a child who was abused, beaten, and killed.
He died of a heart attack while on a pilgrimage in India, but I was never told that.
The church I attended as a kid was a very different religion from the one I had grown up in, and it was a different religion for me, too.
I did understand the importance of the Hindu iconography, of the religion, of their rituals.
I also understood the importance in this religion of the holy book.
When I was growing up, there was this holy book called the Rig Veda.
It had been passed down through a very powerful Hindu priest named Ramanuja who was the