Begging for Spiritual Bread (Part 2)

As the water rushed in around my head, the anticipation was replaced by confusion. There were no God-like voices under this water, just green murk and muddled gravity. God had promised he would meet me here, so where was he? All too soon I felt my body being lifted back up. I wanted to struggle, I needed to stay here! Stop! Wait! Too soon!

And then I was standing up, breathing air again. I heard applause from the shore as I blindly followed my Father out of the water. My skirt weighed me down and my bare feet sunk deep into the mud. I looked up at the sky, as bleak as ever, and saw no rainbow, not even a ray of sunshine that I could call my own. Reality came sweeping back in. I was a fool, and I had done it wrong again. Behind me someone else was being baptized. My moment was over. Deeply ashamed, I trudged back to the van to get myself a towel. I imagined God was looking down at me, shaking his head and giving me the silent treatment. My dripping hair disguised my tears. How could I have been so wrong? Had I imagined the “leading” I felt? Had I fabricated to joy it gave me to believe? Or had I never truly believed at all?

My mother was sitting in the van nursing the baby. Dad didn’t want her doing that in public, even with a blanket. “Sorry I didn’t see it honey” she said to me. “Hurry up and change, that wet shirt is clinging to your chest” I shuffled up to the house with my towel pressed to my chest. I had never been so thoroughly ashamed.

Over time, I came to have faith in my own inadequacy. I was not good enough for God, but that was okay. He is god! Who was I to question his methods? So I continued to obey him. I shared the gospel whenever I had a chance, and prayed fervently for others, especially my married older sister. I idolized my older sister. She had done everything God’s way and he had blessed her with a Godly husband. At 19, she was newly married with a baby on the way. She was a living testament to how God blesses those who please him. I prayed every day for her and for the baby in her womb. I felt that I knew the baby already, I wondered who’s eyes she would have, and longed for the day I would meet her and hold her tiny hand. When the news came that my sister had miscarried, I took it hard. Very hard. For the first time in my life, I was openly angry with God. My sister and her husband had done EVERYTHING right. Why would He do this to them?

Why was I taught that God rewards obedience with blessing? Why do Christians use phrases like ‘the power of prayer” when prayer itself clearly does nothing but comfort the one praying? Why is blind faith so encouraged when it almost always leads to bitter disappointment and confusion? I was raised in home “full of the holy spirit:” My dad talked about his encounters with the Lord all the time. I truly believed that one day, God would leave writing on the wall for me, or send me a miracle. Stuff like that always happened to real Christians, right? For everyday of silence, my heart sank another inch. I spent the first 18 years of my life begging for spiritual bread and getting nothing but disappointment. I have stopped asking God for things. When I pray, I ask him to have patience with me, and show what he’s really like.

I am no longer angry with God. Either he is nothing like I was taught, or he doesn’t exist.

Chasing Perfection

My Mother and Father were born into broken families. Both had alcoholic fathers and were raised in poverty. Both had troubled siblings and my father was physically abused. Christianity provided them with hope and purpose. They met and fell deeply in love. He was a soldier, she was a teaching student. They married and started a family right away. A beautiful baby girl, and then two, and then three. They loved their children and each other very much, but i imagine they were still afraid. Would love be enough to keep these precious little ones safe? What if the lies of the world drew them away from the love and hope of Jesus? What if they were brainwashed in school and there was nothing they could do to stop it? What if bad people drew them into drugs and alcohol, like Dad's sister? what if they made mistakes in raising them and they ended up bitter and wounded like Mom's sister?

One day my mother found an article in the newspaper about homeschooling. My dad, who had hated every moment of public school, loved the idea. They started looking into it. They soon discovered what they had been searching for all along. They discovered people who knew all the answers. Books that promised healthy happy children that feared God and loved their parents. This system taught them what God REALLY wanted for them. If they followed these steps, God would bless them. Their family would never suffer the way that THEY had suffered as children. It was calm in a world of chaos. It answered every question and calmed every fear. They implemented their new beliefs and soon began to reap the blessings of God.
It was may years before those babies grew up and rocked the boat. We are not the chaste, happy, selfless children they were promised we'd be. Between the oldest five there is depression, drug and alcohol abuse, promiscuity, self mutilation, sexual abuse, eating disorders, and suicide attempts.  But still they will not renounce the system. They hush it up, brush it under the rug, and let everybody think that we're still perfect. They see the system as something good that they were never able to achieve.  Today i see my cousins falling into the same trap.

My father's sister struggled with alcoholism and bulimia her whole life. She and her husband made some terrible mistakes and eventually their family fell apart. leaving my cousin Wendy (not her real name) and her two siblings in a wake of destruction. Her brother got into drugs, she struggled with depression. Then she met Jesus at church, and then a boy at college. This boy has 11 siblings. He was home schooled in a family that looks just as perfect as mine. His sisters are submissive and his father is a strong leader. Wendy has fallen hard for this boy and everything he represents. She hopes to have his children, and teach them at home just as God intended. She wants to follow the system to a T. She has been promised that they will never suffer the way that she did. They wont get in to drugs like her little brother. they wont lose their virginity to a liar or lose their mother to the bottle. She thinks she has found the answer to all her fears and questions.

I have tried to pull her back from the edge, to save her like i saved myself. Maybe i still can. But right now, all she can see is perfection.The promise of certainty that just does not exist. I just hope that some day when her children tell her she was wrong, she'll have what it takes to admit it, and maybe stop this cycle once and for all... 

Teenage Identity Crisis

Every kid reaches that age where they struggle to discover who they really are. It is natural to the process of growing up. We stop defining ourselves by our family, and start defining ourselves by our friends. We naturally want to push the limits, push our bodies, and push the rules. During this time, our dreams and feelings are larger than life, and Oh-so-real. Parents often make the mistake of shrugging off the teenage years as a “faze” in which their kids are overcome by hormones. They often chuckle behind closed doors about the latest “teenage moment” and make their kids feel patronized and misunderstood. Parents long for the day that their teen’s hormone levels will normalize and they will have an adult on their hands instead of a large, moody child. Talking and listening to your teenager is the best thing you can do for them. As young adults, all we want is to be taken seriously, and to be heard. The teenage years are a beautiful, fragile time in which children become adults.

In a Fundamentalist Christian household, the teenage years can be a very different story. My parents didn’t want their daughters to grow up. Ever. We were trained to serve and submit from an early age. Pushing the limits was NEVER tolerated. Emotions were either irrelevant, or labeled as rebellion. As early as age 11, I remember having those “teenage moments” of huge emotion. Like every kid, I felt misunderstood and unjustly suppressed. Instead of being asked how I felt, or what was wrong, I was taught that my emotions were the manifestation of my sinful nature.

Tired and sore in all the wrong places? Laziness, Sloth.

Sad, depressed? = Bad Attitude, Selfishness.

Anger? = Rebellion.

Whenever I showed emotion, my mother would be disappointed. “this is isn’t the Sarah I know!” she would say. “who are you trying to imitate?” She wouldn’t let me see my friends anymore. Not even my cousins. Because I was “copying” them and not acting like the sweet happy daughter she knew. Instead of asking me what was wrong, or how I felt, she questioned my identity. As a teenager, I was already struggling to discover myself. She told me that she knew me better than anyone else. I tried so hard to be who she wanted me to be. How could she love someone who wasn’t her daughter anymore? I second guessed every word I said. I was paranoid that my motives were impure, that I was a copy cat, that I had no personality. I am still struggling to trust myself, all these years later.

 I remember at around age 13 I rolled my eyes at my dad. This was a BIG no-no. Sighing, stomping, folding my arms, and rolling my eyes were all deserving of a spanking. He grew angry and ordered me to come to him for a spanking. The injustice of it all welled up in my chest and I suddenly shouted out “No!” He was shocked. I was terrified. My legs took over and I took off running down the hall. I had never run from him before. He caught me, in what turned out to be one of my worst memories of my dad. He grabbed me by the arm and threw me into the bathroom. I tried to apologize, but he mashed my face into the corner. I screamed and I cried and I begged, and I hated myself for every “I’m sorry” and every “please stop.” I had hand prints on my arms and bruising on my face. The wooden spoon left bruises all over my newly developing body. And I hated myself. My mouth had betrayed me. If I hadn’t shouted that word this would never have happened. My body had betrayed me as well. If I hadn’t ran away, my punishment would not have been so severe.

 I hated myself for not having total control over my sin nature. I started cutting myself. I picked apart shavers with a pair of tweezers and saved the individual razor blades. It was freeing to exercise this type of control. It was like bleeding out all my emotions so they could not cause me problems throughout the day. It was freeing, it was addicting, it was frightening. My body learned to crave punishment, and I learned to oblige. When growth spurts made me so hungry it hurt, I agonize over every bite I ate. I would stare for hours in the mirror, begging for the courage to deny myself these gluttonous urges. I cut myself again and again. For every extra bite, for every surge of anger, for every misplaced tear.

My parents were happy with me. I was showing self control. I was being their sweet compliant daughter again. My mother was happy to have me back. She thought she knew me so well. Thought she had encouraged me right back into the girl I used to be. But every conversation was tailored to please. I had no idea who I was anymore. I was a bloody, torn mess, buried under a hard shell called Self Control.

 Parents, your children are going to change. Please let them. Don’t pretend to know them. Ask them questions, listen to them talk, and understand that their reality is just as important as your own. Don’t use the teenage identity crisis as an excuse to avoid meaningful conversation. You’re children will grow and change whether you want them to or not.

If you want to have any influence on the rest of their lives, embrace them for who they are.

Anonymous Letters From Myself

I am my own worst enemy.

Since I set out on this journey of self discovery, i have uncovered massive amounts of self-doubt. It permeates almost every part of my life. Honestly, I'm amazed I had the courage to fall in love last year with so much subconscious struggle going on. I have discovered that i constantly doubt my own intelligence. I dislike my writing, i HATE my body, and I don't trust my decisions. Believe it or not, I am not a quiet, introverted girl with no confidence. I am very active and outgoing. But on the inside, I am always reminding myself that I'm not actually interesting, pretty, or talented. Every compliment is a lie.

Sometimes my inner demons keep me from doing things I love, like writing. I throw away a hundred pages because i tell myself it's not good enough. I could be standing on the edge of something great, and i will refuse to jump, for fear of failure.

Sometimes, my inner demons drag me down. I spend days, weeks, stuck in depression, because my mind wont stop reminding me of that extra pound, that unwanted hair, that belt that doesn't fit anymore.

Where does my mind find the words to say the things that hurt me? I battle with myself every single day just to stay "Okay," just to keep my head above the water.

I have come to see my "inner demons" as a daily anonymous letter. You know, the kind that's been pieced together with glue from a million different magazines by an unknown perpetrator in black gloves. After a year of scrutinizing these "letters," I have begun to see a pattern. Every word of every line is something i have heard before. I am not smart enough to do well in math? My Dad said that once. I'm clumsy and unattractive? Thanks Mom. They probably didn't know that i was subconsciously recording every word they said, and didn't say. As a kid, everything i did was either to please them or spite them. I thought i was over by now. I don't need their approval anymore, even my dad saying he loves me has little to no effect now. So why are their voices still playing on a loop in my head? Why is every day a struggle against careless words from years passed?

Today I learned that the mean voice in my head is not my own. I am not fighting myself, I am fighting my past and all the lies it holds. My inner demons are just the echoing voices of everyone who ever doubted me. My self hatred is not based on facts or reality. I am not fat, or stupid, or worthless.
I'm sure my mind will keep sending me hate mail. Carefully constructed pages full of words and memories that bring me pain and shame. But now I understand that they are not worth reading.

I hope i will be strong enough to just throw them all out.

Why am I not enough?

I don't remember how it came up. But somehow i got the courage to mention the research I'd done on spanking. Maybe i mis-judged her voice through the phone, but I thought my mom sounded receptive, almost interested.
I talked about the bible. And she even agreed that God never mandated spanking. I felt affirmed, hopeful that just maybe she would listen. Maybe i could save my baby sisters and brothers. Maybe they would just stop.
I shared my research in detail. Science suggests that ALL spanking is dangerous. There is no "right way" to spank. Even the bible is against it.
I told her about the sexual effects of spanking. About how even the gentlest of spankings can lead to permanent sexual damage and confusion. Children can  Subconsciously link sexual feelings with violence and degradation.

"That's not accurate. Children can link those things even if they're not spanked"
"how?"
"Because of our culture! The media!"

I pressed on. I risked it. I told her about me. About how even normal everyday spankings, the ones that never left a bruise, were terrible for me. My feelings of self hatred were birthed on the floor in the bathroom, waiting for mom to come with the spanking spoon. How my earliest experiences with my sexuality revolved around pain, around violence, around shame. It was hard for me to say, SO hard, but i just kept thinking of my sister: So much like me. Too much like me....

"The bible teaches us gentleness. And respect. It is a basic human right to NOT be hit."

She became immediately defensive.

"Oh so you think I'm a violent parent? You're saying i don't respect my kids?"

"I know you only did what you thought was right, but now I'm giving you new information. Every person in America has the right to not be hit except children. If children are people too, i think they should have the same rights"

She told me this was just a knee jerk reaction.

"Just because your dad messed up a few times your freaking out and going in the exact opposite direction. Everybody does this. You'll understand someday when you're a parent"

"Mom, I've done the research. That just doesn't make sense"

"Well you've obviously been brainwashed"

"NO MOM! YOU BRAINWASHED ME!"

My heart was sinking. Fast.
She rambled on, using all the old HSLDA rhetoric I've heard so many times. I know that argument backwards. I've changed my mind because now I've finally seen the rest of the facts. I've seen how i am affected. I only said something because i cant stand the thought of my siblings having to feel the way that i feel.

"You're obviously having issues, Sarah. I think you need to take this to God"

I was crying now. Desperate for her to hear me, begging her to not shut down on me.

"I have mom. I have! Listen to me please. I understand if you don't believe the research. Interpret the bible however you want to, but can you please just ignore all that  for a moment and HEAR me? I am your daughter and spanking HURT me. So why wont you just stop?!"

I was sobbing, shaking, pleading.

"Why is that not enough?"

In the silence that followed, I let my heart believe that she had heard me. That a 25-year-old mistake could not be stronger than my mother's love. I had bared my soul. I had begged her. She had no choice but to listen, right?

Wrong. She spoke again. Bitter. Angry. Sarcastic.

"Well I'm so sorry I ruined your life, Sarah. Obviously we just hate you right? is that what you wanted to hear me say?"

She continued, but i could no longer speak. Choked by tears, I whispered that i had to go and hung up the phone. My heart is still breaking at this fresh memory.

I am your daughter and you hurt me. Even if you never hit me, just making me stand, bent over your knee, would have been too much. Even if i didn't have any evidence, I am LIVING proof that your method didn't work. So why don't you just stop? Why is my word, my pain, my HEART, still not enough for you?

(By the way, this all took place just last night. I am still reeling from the shock. I am so disappointed, I don't even know what to say)

Walking In The Spirit

"Are you walking in the spirit? If you stay close to God, he will show you what he wants you to do."

My mom said this in an email to me last week. As i read it, i was suddenly overcome with anger and guilt. Guilt because i am certainly not "walking in the spirit." I haven't prayed in weeks. Guilt because reading the bible secretly makes me squirm. Guilt because i would rather hear God explain himself to me than beg and plead with him to tell me what HE wants. And Anger. Anger because her admonitions still make me feel small. Anger at God. Because, as usual, He's upset with me. Impatient, threatening to leave me if i don't get back to working on our relationship.

I was raised to believe that only a few were going to heaven. We were disdainful of those who believed they were saved by "works". but we simultaneously judged the state of a persons salvation based on how they lived their lives. We were told that true believers were always full of the spirit. If we were real Christians, all we would ever want to talk about would be God.
I am not exactly displaying the fruits of the spirit these days. I imagine that's why my mother is so concerned. I am not bursting with joy, my heart is often far from peaceful, and talking about God makes me uncomfortable, and sad.

Sometimes i wish i could just toss it all out and forget about religion. But I can't. Somewhere in the midst of the lies my parents told me, I caught a glimpse of God that was strong enough to make me stay. I have been comforted by God. I have seen him change lives, i have felt the joy of trusting him. But most of all, I see my husband.

My husband: The product of a broken family. Tumult and pain color the story of his past. He is analytical, He is a skeptic, and He is a christian. Strong and quietly passionate, He sees the loving God I have always searched for. His God is the calm in the storm. The peace and hope that changed his life. I have brushed shoulders with this God and been blown away by his goodness.

I want to learn about this God. If he's really who i think he is, then He has nothing to hide. I can face my demons, I can rest, and heal, and take my time. And He's not going to threaten me, or leave me, or even disapprove of me. If God is who i think he is, then he knows my heart, he understands my pain, and nothing else matters.

So mom, don't question my salvation. Don't tell me what God wants. Because you don't know and you never have. It's always just been you, attributing your human concerns and emotions to God.

  My husband tells me that God is not a human. He doesn't react like mothers and fathers do: with impatience, disappointment, and threats. I don't have to earn His love. My Husband's God IS love, and He would literally wait forever, just for me.