My "Spiritual Heritage": A Generational Journey into the Truth

This is very much a stream-of-consciousness piece, not some carefully crafted memoir. I’m just doing my best to walk through the story chronologically — from my grandparents’ paths into the Jehovah’s Witnesses all the way up to my own baptism. So pardon the rambling here and there; I may not be a writer, but I do believe in telling stories that matter.

My family’s journey into the world of Jehovah’s Witnesses spans multiple countries, historical upheavals, and more than half a century of Watchtower influence. Like many who grow up in the organization, I inherited my beliefs rather than choosing them — but that inheritance came with a complex story.

Maternal Line: Spain, Serendipity, and the Power of a Tract

On my mother’s side, the story begins in Spain in the early 1950s. My grandfather, born in 1911, and my grandmother, born in 1923, were living there with their growing family. My grandfather had already experienced personal loss; my grandmother was his second wife, and he had two sons from his first marriage. Together, they would go on to have eight children in total. My mother, born in 1951, was their third child — after an older full brother and an older sister. After her came three more boys (one of whom passed away in childhood) and two more girls.

The family legend of how they became Jehovah’s Witnesses is, let’s say, characteristically dramatic. The story goes that one day, my grandfather came home holding a torn page from a Watchtower tract and exclaimed, "I have found the truth." Supposedly, it was the last page, featuring a coupon and contact address for the Spanish branch. He wrote in and received a full box of literature in return. Thus began their Bible study and eventual conversion. My mother would have been around five or six years old at the time. She eventually got baptized around the age of 10 or 11 — like so many raised in the faith, simply because it was expected. And to this day, she remains deeply devoted to the religion. She’s still pioneering and, in many ways, her life revolves entirely around the congregation. For her, the truth isn’t just a belief system — it’s everything.

But if we zoom out just a little, the backstory of my grandfather — at least as told by my grandmother in a handwritten life story — reads more like a myth than a memoir. It’s packed with scenes that feel almost cinematic. He fled an abusive orphanage at age 13 by stowing away on a ship to South America, supposedly learned 14 languages by teaching himself from textbooks, lived on a South Sea island until a tornado chased him off, and was once asked to sell his wife into a Saudi harem. One chapter includes him smacking the hand of an archbishop instead of kissing it; another has him escaping prison, walking across mountain ranges, and ending up in a refugee camp. My mother read it and rolled her eyes at parts of it — and I totally get it. A lot of it does sound batshit crazy.

But still, whether myth or memory, it paints a picture of someone who had seen and lost a lot, and who was always chasing some ultimate truth. By the time I came along, he was a full-on spiritual patriarch — obsessed with “the Truth,” deeply committed to the congregation, and laser-focused on the spiritual upbringing of his children and grandchildren. He was also a heavy smoker before becoming a Jehovah’s Witness, and giving that up had been incredibly difficult for him. Years later, sometime in the early 60s, they visited another congregation and saw brothers standing outside smoking. Surprised, he asked about it — thinking it wasn’t allowed — and was told it was fine. That moment led him to start smoking again, and he quickly found himself hooked once more. Quitting a second time was much harder. It’s one of those quietly human moments tucked into all the spiritual zeal. His house was built on storytelling — both literal and spiritual. And in some strange way, that inheritance shaped all of us.

Of the children from his first marriage, neither of the two sons ever became Jehovah’s Witnesses. In fact, their relationship with their father remained distant, and they barely got to know him. Tragically, my grandfather died of cancer in the 1960s, when my mother was still very young.

From the second marriage, however, the religion took strong root. My mother’s oldest full brother became an elder and is still serving as one today. He even makes an appearance in my waking-up story — he’s the one who lives in Hamburg and was attending the Kingdom Hall where the tragic shooting took place two years ago.

After him came my mother’s older sister. Her family lived close to ours in Germany, and I was especially close with her son, my cousin — we practically grew up together. My aunt was married to a longtime elder who was also the Watchtower study conductor at our local hall for pretty much my entire childhood. He passed away a few years ago. Most of their children eventually left the religion; only the oldest daughter remained in and is now married with children, all of them Jehovah’s Witnesses. The youngest daughter, while never baptized, still accompanies my aunt to meetings and is in a relationship with a 'worldly' boyfriend — which, given the circumstances, is a bit of a mystery in terms of how that works within the typical Witness expectations.

After those older siblings came my mother’s younger brother, who was disfellowshipped in his late teens. I have met him, but he was never a close part of the family due to that disfellowshipping status. Then there were two younger sisters, both born in Lebanon. That’s because after my mother was born, the family moved to Saudi Arabia and then Lebanon for work. While in Lebanon, they attended a convention where Nathan Knorr himself was the visiting speaker.

There was also one more brother who passed away at just one year old. My mother doesn’t know much about what happened, only that it was understandably a very sad episode in the family’s life.

The youngest of all the siblings was another brother who was, for a time, a Jehovah’s Witness. He even lived in our basement for a while when I was a kid — my parents rented out a room to him. He was always a bit of a weirdo, and in hindsight, I wonder if he was more PIMO than anything else. At some point, he dated a sister, and after what felt like five to seven years of dating, they finally married — and then divorced not long after. He kind of disappeared after that. I don’t know where he is today, and neither does my mother or the rest of the family.

As for the two younger sisters, both of them are still Jehovah’s Witnesses today. The older of the two had three children and was married for many years. After divorcing her husband, she ran off with another Jehovah’s Witness from the UK and was disfellowshipped for quite a while. During that time, my mother didn’t have any contact with her. But eventually, she was reinstated, and today she’s still married to that same Witness and living in the UK.

The youngest sister never married — an eternal single Witness sister, you could say. She’s probably in her mid-60s now and remains active in the faith.

Paternal Line: War, Displacement, and a New Beginning

My father's side of the story begins in what is now rural Poland. My grandfather was born in 1931 in an area with a large ethnic German population. He became a carpenter — yes, making my father the son of a carpenter, a detail that amused me later in life.

After World War II, in 1947, he and his family were expelled from Poland as part of the post-war population transfers. They relocated to East Germany, near Leipzig. There, he met and married my grandmother, and my father was born in 1952. At the time, the family had no religious affiliation.

But the East German regime increasingly made life difficult. Before the Berlin Wall went up, they decided to leave. My grandfather moved to Gelsenkirchen in the West — part of the industrial Ruhrgebiet — and was soon joined by his wife and son. Not long after their resettlement, around 1954, Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on their door. At that time, my grandparents were in a very vulnerable position. They had just left everything behind in East Germany after being expelled from Poland, were newcomers in a foreign part of their own country, and had to completely rebuild their lives from scratch. My grandfather, especially, had already lost so much and had been disillusioned by the oppressive East German regime. Looking back, it’s clear that Jehovah’s Witnesses knew exactly when to show up. Like they still do to this day, they preyed on that vulnerability — offering simple answers and a tight-knit community to people who were feeling lost. My grandparents started studying and eventually converted. They remained close friends with the couple who studied with them; I even met them decades later as a child.

My grandfather became a long-serving elder and book study conductor in one of Germany’s oldest congregations, which likely dated back to the 1920s. The congregation had survivors of Nazi concentration camps and even one elderly sister born in the early 1890s who claimed to be of the anointed. It's kind of strange to think back and realize that, as a young child, I had met many older Jehovah’s Witnesses who were born before the turn of the century — supposedly part of the generation that would never pass away. Where are they now?

I often joined my grandparents at their home for Watchtower preparation, and went out in service with them nearly every Saturday morning. My siblings and I were deeply influenced by their devotion.

Eventually, my grandfather stepped down as an elder, probably in the early 2000s. He never liked giving talks. It’s possible his decision was influenced by the Watchtower Society’s centralization of Kingdom Hall ownership around that time. My grandparents had donated significant funds and labor to build and renovate the local hall — my grandfather did much of the work himself, and I even helped with renovations as a kid, hauling roofing materials.

My Parents: Pioneering in the Black Forest

My father was baptized around the age of 11 or 12. I asked him recently if he had studied other religions before making that commitment. His answer: no. Like so many born-in Witnesses, baptism was simply expected.

He later met my mother in their congregation, and they married around 1974 or 1975. As a young couple, they moved to the Black Forest in southern Germany, where they pioneered and supported English-language congregations near American and Canadian military bases.

At the time, my father was also tasked with helping resolve what was described as an apostate problem in the region. He worked with a close friend — someone who, like my father, held a role equivalent to what we would now call a ministerial servant — to address the situation. It was a different arrangement back then, but the responsibility was significant. During that period, my father came into contact with apostate literature as part of his assignment. I later learned that this same friend had a reputation for "reading things he shouldn’t," including books by apostates. Those warnings were part of the background chatter I grew up hearing, all tracing back to that time.

Eventually, my parents returned north to be near my paternal grandparents again. That’s when I was born — in 1977.

Growing Up: A Good Childhood, With Quiet Contradictions

Looking back, I’d say I had a pretty good childhood. I don’t carry any particular trauma from growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness. Sure, I was always very timid and introverted — and part of that may come from the discomfort of always having to be different. I hated being put on the spot at school when birthdays came up, or when I had to awkwardly decline party invitations. I never felt great about those moments, but they weren’t deeply scarring either. I do remember feeling a little jealous when other kids received gifts, but again, nothing major.

We had a loving family environment. My parents — and especially my grandparents — made sure we had what we needed. We had toys, we were cared for, and we had a sense of structure. I grew up in rural Germany, in the countryside, alongside my younger brother, who was about a year and a half younger than me, and my sister, who was born five years after me. We spent a lot of time outdoors, playing in the woods and making our own fun.

We also grew up with very little television. I don’t think we had a TV at home until I was about 12. Before that, I’d watch shows at my grandparents’ or my cousins’ place — programs like Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, or later, American series like The Fall Guy.

Going to meetings and going out in service were part of our routine. I actually remember liking field service as a kid — especially going out with my grandparents or with my father. Some of the visits we made must have been return visits, because I recall conversations that went deeper than a simple doorstep encounter. I even remember visiting atheists, and I enjoyed hearing my father or grandfather engage in thoughtful discussions with them. I looked up to them for how they handled those exchanges and the confidence they projected. I found that pretty cool.

From Germany to France: A New Start and the Road to Baptism

In 1992, my whole family moved from Germany to the south of France, but I stayed behind for another year to finish school. That year in Germany became a kind of rebellious phase for me. While living with my aunt and uncle, I felt somewhat adrift. I started dating a girl in my class and was close with a couple of 'worldly' friends. One of my classmates, interestingly, was also a Jehovah’s Witness — the model JW child. My grandparents often pointed to him as an example: "Look at how he’s doing." We were friends, but I always felt like I was being compared to him. Funny thing is, years later, he got disfellowshipped for cheating on his wife — and yes, my grandparents lived to see it. Quite the ironic twist.

That period came with its own soundtrack: Guns N’ Roses and early '90s grunge — not exactly Awake!-approved music. I remember one elder visiting me at my aunt’s house, pointing to the Guns N’ Roses poster on my wall and telling me it had to go. That visit likely wasn't random. A Jehovah’s Witness girl from school had apparently seen me with my girlfriend — maybe we were kissing in front of the school, I can’t remember — and she reported it to the elders. Not long after, that elder showed up at my door. It was my first taste of how quickly personal choices could be judged and acted upon within the JW environment.

In 1993, I rejoined my family in France. The transition wasn’t easy. My father was deeply preoccupied with building our new house, and financial difficulties made things even harder. For a while, we lived in a trailer and later moved into a partly finished room. Over time, my father became increasingly inactive in the congregation, and it was clear he was weighed down by the demands of work and construction. It was an adventure, to say the least.

My brother and I, meanwhile, didn’t exactly have the best reputation in our new French congregation. I had longer hair, listened to music that raised eyebrows, and hung out with friends who weren’t considered exemplary. Still, over time, we started getting more involved.

A key turning point may have been when my brother began dating a young sister. Whether consciously or not, I think it influenced both of us. Slowly, we started going out in service more regularly and participating in meetings, doing what young people in the congregation were expected to do. Learning French and adapting to a new culture added to the challenge, especially during service or at the meetings.

Eventually, I decided to get baptized, and my brother followed a few months later. Maybe it was peer pressure, maybe it was just the expectation, but it felt like the next logical step. But another factor may have been something that happened about a year or two earlier, in 1997–98. I had planned to study in California, in the Santa Monica area, and contacted the elders in France to send a letter of recommendation to the congregation I’d be attending in L.A. Since I was unbaptized at the time, the process was awkward. No one in my French congregation spoke English well enough to write the letter, so they asked a young sister — probably about 18 — to translate it for them. I remember feeling uneasy about that, especially because I never got to read what was being sent about me.

When I arrived in California, I met with the congregation secretary and explained my situation, hoping they might help put me in touch with another young Witness who was looking for a roommate. But his response was pretty blunt: since I wasn’t baptized, they couldn’t do anything for me. That left a mark. I really liked California and had hopes of returning. But that experience made it very clear: if you’re not baptized, you’re basically on your own. And in a way, I think that cemented the idea that I had to get baptized if I wanted to be fully included in the community — wherever I lived.

It was 1999 — I was already 22, which was considered quite late. I always felt a bit judged for not being baptized earlier.

I got baptized at an English-speaking circuit assembly in Marignane, near Marseille, on May 22 or 23. Only two of us were getting baptized that day, and I remember the experience vividly — though not necessarily for the right reasons. The baptism pool had already been used by the French assembly before us, and the water was murky and cold. I had to be immersed three times because my knee kept popping out of the water. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and honestly, kind of gross. But it was done.

A Little Footnote

As a fun little footnote to my spiritual heritage, I’ll add this: for our honeymoon in 2002, my wife and I wrapped up the trip with… yes, a visit to Bethel in Brooklyn. Because what’s more romantic than celebrating your wedding with a tour of Watchtower headquarters, right? It might sound like the cringiest thing ever in hindsight — and yeah, it kind of is — but back then, it felt like a spiritual privilege.

We even had lunch at the table with Samuel Herd and his wife, who were hosting that day. He had recently been appointed to the Governing Body. They were pleasant, though I don’t remember much about them beyond the sense of occasion.

What stands out far more was meeting Cory Barber, an extremely elderly Governing Body member — probably well into his 90s — who was known around Bethel for asking young sisters for kisses. I vividly remember him slowly pacing the dining floor with his walker, zeroing in on young sisters with a big smile and a lean-in for a kiss on the cheek. People laughed it off as endearing and innocent. Now? It just gives off full cringe.

Still, awkward moments and all, we actually enjoyed our time there. New York City was fun, and despite the weirdness of it all, Bethel felt like a memorable part of that chapter.

Still, for better or worse, these moments were part of the world I inherited.

Full Circle

Looking back now, my baptism in 1999 felt like the culmination of a long generational arc — a story shaped by war, migration, idealism, sacrifice, and quiet conformity. It was the moment where the inherited beliefs of my grandparents and parents became officially mine, even if I didn't fully realize the weight of that choice at the time. Everything that came after — my marriage, congregation responsibilities, and the eventual cracks in my certainty — belongs to a different chapter (see my full waking-up story in three parts that I published earlier). This story, my spiritual heritage, ends at the baptism pool — that awkward, knee-popping, murky-water kind of milestone that somehow still managed to feel like a rite of passage.