Never going back to church again would remain true for me until I began the process of getting married. I chose to take as much God out of my wedding vows and was never comfortable with being married in a church. Being married in a church was again something I did only to appease my future husband and his parents.
Each of these experiences were on my checklist of reasons why I would never believe in God. Yes, it was a checklist that I firmly believed kept me safe from ever having to change the way I thought about God or church.
The sermons on Proverbs came to an end, but the stirring inside of me was just beginning. The pastor talked directly to me from the pulpit every week, but I knew he could never get me to change my thoughts on God. Even though it was completely out of character for me to meet with a strange man, I had the need to meet with the pastor. I wanted an opportunity to explain why I could never believe in God.
I scheduled a time to meet with him and was ready to tell him why I felt God didn’t fit in my life. I was willing to listen to what he had to say, but was prepared to stand my ground. I had a solid case to not believe in God, so what could he ever say to change my mind?
Nothing!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Road to Salvation, Part 5
In upper elementary years, I became very curious about church. All of the kids at school talked about church. It was another way that I knew I did not fit in with everyone around me. Although I don’t remember the details, a friend of my mom’s took me to a Baptist church with her.
I wore the best clothes I had, which were stained shirts, pants with holes in them and shoes that had tape holding them together. I sat and listened, even though I didn’t understand anything that was said. When I returned home with activity sheets and bibles, my dad always took them away from me or made me throw them away. Every time, he warned me to not go again.
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
During the same year, I developed my extreme distrust of people in church. My grandparents lived across the street from a Catholic church, where a Priest and Nun lived in a small house. My cousin, who had molested me for many years, often took me to a secluded area of trees in the church yard. The trees would hide the awful things he would do to me.
As he followed his normal routine on one day when I was nine at the church yard, I looked at the house that was only a few feet away. There my eyes were met by the Priest who was standing in the window watching every moment of what was happening. Only after our eyes met did he close the blind. As a nine year-old child, I never understood why an adult would not have stopped my cousin. My first and only thought, people in churches did not care about me.
It was an easy decision to make that day with all of my nine years of life experience that I would never go back in a church again.
I wore the best clothes I had, which were stained shirts, pants with holes in them and shoes that had tape holding them together. I sat and listened, even though I didn’t understand anything that was said. When I returned home with activity sheets and bibles, my dad always took them away from me or made me throw them away. Every time, he warned me to not go again.
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
During the same year, I developed my extreme distrust of people in church. My grandparents lived across the street from a Catholic church, where a Priest and Nun lived in a small house. My cousin, who had molested me for many years, often took me to a secluded area of trees in the church yard. The trees would hide the awful things he would do to me.
As he followed his normal routine on one day when I was nine at the church yard, I looked at the house that was only a few feet away. There my eyes were met by the Priest who was standing in the window watching every moment of what was happening. Only after our eyes met did he close the blind. As a nine year-old child, I never understood why an adult would not have stopped my cousin. My first and only thought, people in churches did not care about me.
It was an easy decision to make that day with all of my nine years of life experience that I would never go back in a church again.
Road to Salvation, Part 4
Through the next month, I would begin to ask Kent about his own faith and start my mental checklist of all the reasons why I would never believe in God.
My entire life was filled with time after time of learning that the word God was bad, churches were awful and people in the church were better than me. While I know that seems extreme, I think it was a normal perception for anyone who had endured a life like mine.
As a young child, my dad was very outspoken against God. The seed he planted with me was, first and foremost, that there was not a God. If there was a God, then bad things wouldn’t have to happen to me. Even if there was a God somewhere in this big world, then he would never care about a little girl whose parents didn’t love her. Yes, those were the seeds he planted through his words and his actions. He was not afraid to prove his theory to me over and over.
It was not uncommon for people from “the church” to visit our house on the weekend. I would later learn that they were Jehovah Witness and Seventh Day Adventist, mostly. I grew up in a very church oriented town who boasts one of the oldest religious parades and celebrations each year. When the church people would knock on the door, we were all forced to hide in the stairway and remain quiet until they were long gone. If any of us didn’t move to the hiding place fast enough or dare to make a noise, we faced the wrath of my dad once the coast was clear.
In my early elementary years, we received New Testaments at school. To prove his point that bibles, religion and God were not allowed in the door of our house, my dad would take the small bibles from us as soon as he found them. He would take them and the bibles left by the church people to his shop and burn them. If he saw that any of us were particularly attached to the small book, he would force us to throw the book into the fire.
Neither my brothers nor myself saw the small bibles as anything more than a gift that someone had given us. My dad, however, saw them as a threat. It was difficult for any of us to understand how something that was given as a gift could arouse such hatred in my dad. But, we would follow his rules on this. It was rare that any gift would be worth the punishment of fighting for with my dad.
My entire life was filled with time after time of learning that the word God was bad, churches were awful and people in the church were better than me. While I know that seems extreme, I think it was a normal perception for anyone who had endured a life like mine.
As a young child, my dad was very outspoken against God. The seed he planted with me was, first and foremost, that there was not a God. If there was a God, then bad things wouldn’t have to happen to me. Even if there was a God somewhere in this big world, then he would never care about a little girl whose parents didn’t love her. Yes, those were the seeds he planted through his words and his actions. He was not afraid to prove his theory to me over and over.
It was not uncommon for people from “the church” to visit our house on the weekend. I would later learn that they were Jehovah Witness and Seventh Day Adventist, mostly. I grew up in a very church oriented town who boasts one of the oldest religious parades and celebrations each year. When the church people would knock on the door, we were all forced to hide in the stairway and remain quiet until they were long gone. If any of us didn’t move to the hiding place fast enough or dare to make a noise, we faced the wrath of my dad once the coast was clear.
In my early elementary years, we received New Testaments at school. To prove his point that bibles, religion and God were not allowed in the door of our house, my dad would take the small bibles from us as soon as he found them. He would take them and the bibles left by the church people to his shop and burn them. If he saw that any of us were particularly attached to the small book, he would force us to throw the book into the fire.
Neither my brothers nor myself saw the small bibles as anything more than a gift that someone had given us. My dad, however, saw them as a threat. It was difficult for any of us to understand how something that was given as a gift could arouse such hatred in my dad. But, we would follow his rules on this. It was rare that any gift would be worth the punishment of fighting for with my dad.
Road to Salvation, Part 3
As summer began, the pastor completed Acts and started preaching on Proverbs. I don’t remember what the topic was, but one Sunday I began to pay attention. The following week, we moved up a few rows. That week’s sermon was on another topic that felt very personal to me. The man sitting nearby who kept loudly proclaiming “Amen” was a little distracting and was the reason I used to move up even closer the following week.
The next week, the pastor talked specifically about alcohol and how it destroys lives and homes. Through the entire sermon, I became very aware that my eyes and ears were wide open. At times, it felt like the pastor was looking at and talking to me and me only.
How could he have known that I had watched alcohol destroys the lives of people around me? How could he have known that I had used alcohol as an escape in my own life? How could he have known that I had a cabinet of liquor at home that I was saving for the next time I didn’t want to feel?
The pastor’s words became very real to me that day. I don’t think I heard or made any connection to God. I knew what he talked about came from the bible and thought I would find every word he said in the bible. I didn’t understand then that a sermon wasn’t just a reading from the bible.
Because I was not familiar with church, I also thought the people standing on the stage were the children’s church leaders. It made sense to me that they gathered there and left when the children’s church was dismissed. Of course, I later learned that was the choir.
The next week, the pastor talked specifically about alcohol and how it destroys lives and homes. Through the entire sermon, I became very aware that my eyes and ears were wide open. At times, it felt like the pastor was looking at and talking to me and me only.
How could he have known that I had watched alcohol destroys the lives of people around me? How could he have known that I had used alcohol as an escape in my own life? How could he have known that I had a cabinet of liquor at home that I was saving for the next time I didn’t want to feel?
The pastor’s words became very real to me that day. I don’t think I heard or made any connection to God. I knew what he talked about came from the bible and thought I would find every word he said in the bible. I didn’t understand then that a sermon wasn’t just a reading from the bible.
Because I was not familiar with church, I also thought the people standing on the stage were the children’s church leaders. It made sense to me that they gathered there and left when the children’s church was dismissed. Of course, I later learned that was the choir.
Road to Salvation, Part 2
We arrived just after the greeting time and were able to escape the uncomfortable handshakes with all of these strangers. Nobody seemed to notice us sitting in the back row and we were more than ok with that. While not much stood out to me that day more than my own uncomfortable feelings, I can remember one of the songs so very clearly. Here I am to Worship. It had a beat that would stick with me and a message that I wouldn’t understand until much later. I would find myself later that day downloading this catchy new tune I had heard.
We managed to escape the church that first Sunday with only one lady talking to us. She had a warm, friendly face. We took the coffee mug she handed us and the literature. The coffee mug went to my office and the literature went in the trash. I had sat through a sermon, I certainly felt no obligation to read what she had given me.
The next day, I received a call at work from Kent. He said two men from the church had come by and left a bag of cookies. He said the men were nice, but didn’t share much more. I was incredibly glad I had chosen to work late and missed them all together.
Because the church experience wasn’t completely awkward, we decided to go back the following week. The pastor was preaching on Acts and Kent seemed to enjoy going. I would keep to myself during the handshakes and avoided all contact and conversation with everyone. I but mostly fidgeted in my chair hoping nobody would make eye contact with me. Kent seemed to be getting what he thought he needed from going each week.
For a few months, we began to grow more and more comfortable in the back row. I, on the other hand, was going merely to appease my husband. I didn’t pay attention to what was being said, rarely shook anyone’s hand and genuinely didn’t care to be sitting in church each week. I even made sure that Kent never put more than two dollars in the collection plate each week. And, while I love singing, I didn’t care to join in with everyone as they sang. To me, this was still just a phase my husband was going through and I was biding my time waiting for him to be done over it.
We managed to escape the church that first Sunday with only one lady talking to us. She had a warm, friendly face. We took the coffee mug she handed us and the literature. The coffee mug went to my office and the literature went in the trash. I had sat through a sermon, I certainly felt no obligation to read what she had given me.
The next day, I received a call at work from Kent. He said two men from the church had come by and left a bag of cookies. He said the men were nice, but didn’t share much more. I was incredibly glad I had chosen to work late and missed them all together.
Because the church experience wasn’t completely awkward, we decided to go back the following week. The pastor was preaching on Acts and Kent seemed to enjoy going. I would keep to myself during the handshakes and avoided all contact and conversation with everyone. I but mostly fidgeted in my chair hoping nobody would make eye contact with me. Kent seemed to be getting what he thought he needed from going each week.
For a few months, we began to grow more and more comfortable in the back row. I, on the other hand, was going merely to appease my husband. I didn’t pay attention to what was being said, rarely shook anyone’s hand and genuinely didn’t care to be sitting in church each week. I even made sure that Kent never put more than two dollars in the collection plate each week. And, while I love singing, I didn’t care to join in with everyone as they sang. To me, this was still just a phase my husband was going through and I was biding my time waiting for him to be done over it.
Road to Salvation, Part 1
In the spring of 2007, Kent and I were faced with the reality that we were in financial ruin. As a planner, I went the route of finding a way out of the mess. Kent, who had never been strong in faith but was a believer, turned to God.
Although we weren’t sure how to crawl out of the hole we were in, Kent was very firm in his belief that we needed to go to church. He told me to pick a church and we would be going the next Sunday, the week after Easter. I was certain that going to church would not fix our problem, but agreed to give Kent what he wanted.
With as little as I believed or knew about church, I could not understand how sitting in a church building on Sunday morning would change anything that was happening in our lives. It was just a building. In fact, I looked at church as only a building and religion as just something people do.
At Kent’s request, I searched websites of churches in Lee’s Summit, not really knowing what I was looking for at the time. I stumbled onto the Summit Woods Baptist Church website only because it was at the top of the search list. Once on the site, I found the “My First Visit” section. Of all the information on the page, the sentence that stuck out like a neon flashing sign was “Don’t worry, we don’t ask our guests to stand up or do anything to cause attention!” That’s all I needed. Next Sunday, we would walk through the doors of Summit Woods Baptist Church.
I spent the entire week trying to convince Kent that we did not need to go to church. I explained over and over that churches were all bad and that the people in them would never welcome us. It was with great reluctance that I agreed to get married in a church and I had spent almost 10 years avoiding another visit to any church. Since I took responsibility for where we were at financially, I felt an obligation to do what Kent had asked. So, off to church we would go.
Although we weren’t sure how to crawl out of the hole we were in, Kent was very firm in his belief that we needed to go to church. He told me to pick a church and we would be going the next Sunday, the week after Easter. I was certain that going to church would not fix our problem, but agreed to give Kent what he wanted.
With as little as I believed or knew about church, I could not understand how sitting in a church building on Sunday morning would change anything that was happening in our lives. It was just a building. In fact, I looked at church as only a building and religion as just something people do.
At Kent’s request, I searched websites of churches in Lee’s Summit, not really knowing what I was looking for at the time. I stumbled onto the Summit Woods Baptist Church website only because it was at the top of the search list. Once on the site, I found the “My First Visit” section. Of all the information on the page, the sentence that stuck out like a neon flashing sign was “Don’t worry, we don’t ask our guests to stand up or do anything to cause attention!” That’s all I needed. Next Sunday, we would walk through the doors of Summit Woods Baptist Church.
I spent the entire week trying to convince Kent that we did not need to go to church. I explained over and over that churches were all bad and that the people in them would never welcome us. It was with great reluctance that I agreed to get married in a church and I had spent almost 10 years avoiding another visit to any church. Since I took responsibility for where we were at financially, I felt an obligation to do what Kent had asked. So, off to church we would go.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Rethinking
I have spent the last two days unfolding yet another piece of my past. It's like pulling gym clothes out of a bag and unfolding the pieces one by one, not knowing what kind of mess you will find.
One of the hardest parts of the unfolding is trying to reform my way of thinking about life. Around each corner, I find yet another place where I come face to face with what I previously thought was real with a light shining on the truth. Most of the time, what I thought was real and what is true are two completely different things.
If you had asked me throughout my life what my childhood was like, I would have been completely honest with you. I had good grades, I was happy, my dad was mean and I had a cousin who molested me. I may have not shared the part about my cousin so willingly, but that is exactly what I said and believed about my past.
On August 3, 2007, a light began to shine in my life. That was the day I accepted that I was a sinner and that the only way to eternal salvation was through Christ. Little did I know, another light would soon begin shining in my life. The light of truth shown brightly on a past that was dark and hidden.
The box I had neatly packed all the truth of my life in was bursting open. Everything I knew as real was changing day by day. I didn't have a choice, I had to rethink and reform every thought I had about my life.
For me, that was like thinking the sky was green only to find out after 32 years that it was in fact, blue. That kind of thinking is difficult to change and at times, feels impossible. It's hard to know something one day and be told the next that it is all wrong.
It has taken lots of time, but I have completely reformed what I believe about my childhood. Ask me, I'll tell you what I now believe the truth to be. Yes, I did get good grades and my cousin did moleste me. Yes, my dad was mean, but mean doesn't fairly depict who my dad really was. No, I was not happy. Yes, there is a lot more abuse and dysfunction than I ever thought possible.
Just as I have many times over the past two years, I am again faced with believing one thing but the truth being completely different. And, just like all the other times, I'm doing my best to rethink what I knew and let the light shine on the truth. It's once again difficult to accept truth over what I know.
Once again, I feel overwhelmed by having to rethink what I believed to be true. I hope in six months, I can look at this time too and be able to say, "When I finally accepted what was true, I was able to never be bound by that horrific memory again."
The beauty of rethinking and accepting what is really true is feeling the bonds of your heart disappearing. Oh, I long for that day once again.
One of the hardest parts of the unfolding is trying to reform my way of thinking about life. Around each corner, I find yet another place where I come face to face with what I previously thought was real with a light shining on the truth. Most of the time, what I thought was real and what is true are two completely different things.
If you had asked me throughout my life what my childhood was like, I would have been completely honest with you. I had good grades, I was happy, my dad was mean and I had a cousin who molested me. I may have not shared the part about my cousin so willingly, but that is exactly what I said and believed about my past.
On August 3, 2007, a light began to shine in my life. That was the day I accepted that I was a sinner and that the only way to eternal salvation was through Christ. Little did I know, another light would soon begin shining in my life. The light of truth shown brightly on a past that was dark and hidden.
The box I had neatly packed all the truth of my life in was bursting open. Everything I knew as real was changing day by day. I didn't have a choice, I had to rethink and reform every thought I had about my life.
For me, that was like thinking the sky was green only to find out after 32 years that it was in fact, blue. That kind of thinking is difficult to change and at times, feels impossible. It's hard to know something one day and be told the next that it is all wrong.
It has taken lots of time, but I have completely reformed what I believe about my childhood. Ask me, I'll tell you what I now believe the truth to be. Yes, I did get good grades and my cousin did moleste me. Yes, my dad was mean, but mean doesn't fairly depict who my dad really was. No, I was not happy. Yes, there is a lot more abuse and dysfunction than I ever thought possible.
Just as I have many times over the past two years, I am again faced with believing one thing but the truth being completely different. And, just like all the other times, I'm doing my best to rethink what I knew and let the light shine on the truth. It's once again difficult to accept truth over what I know.
Once again, I feel overwhelmed by having to rethink what I believed to be true. I hope in six months, I can look at this time too and be able to say, "When I finally accepted what was true, I was able to never be bound by that horrific memory again."
The beauty of rethinking and accepting what is really true is feeling the bonds of your heart disappearing. Oh, I long for that day once again.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Precious
That's the word that's been running through my head a lot the past 24 hours. Precious.
By definition, precious means cherished, feeling or showing fond affection.
We use precious to describe babies. They are cherished, have high worth, and are undeniably desirable.
But what happens to a baby when they are not cherished or not treated as though they have a high worth? I was one of those children. I was not precious in the eyes of my parents. By their own admissions throughout my life, I was a burden. To them, I was so far from precious.
I watched the movie Precious yesterday. It's based on a novel and is not a true story. Sadly, parts of the story could have been pulled from the pages of my life long book.
Precious was a teenage girl who was far from being cherished. Her dad raped her and she had two children by him. Her mother abused her physically, emotionally and neglected every need. She was a lost child. Precious was intelligent who received very little from going to school. She was HIV positive from her father. The other kids in the neighborhood bullied her and treated her like the outcast she thought she was.
There is so much about that summary that is familiar to me, eerily familiar. It's a familiarity that most people would not understand and others would use to judge me.
I've struggled for the past couple years with my mother's part of my life. She didn't teach me anything. She saw what went on but never bothered to stop it. She never protected me. She never treated me like the precious child I was born to be. But why?
After watching this movie, I think I may have another theory of why my mother hated me and walked away from every motherly responsibility she had.
The mother in the movie Precious talked to a social worker about why she hated her daughter. She wanted her husband's attention on her and her only. She saw the awful things that he was doing to her and she never stopped it. Instead, she developed a hatred for her daughter. She blamed her daughter for what her husband did to her.
Watching this scene was like listening to my own mom. Although my mom never said anything like that to me, I believe she could have. My mom is incredibly selfish person. She really never cared about anyone but herself. She wanted to be precious and cherished by everyone. She could not ever see beyond her own self.
It's possible that my mom was much like this mother.
If she doesn't ever find her way to repentance, I hope that God does ask her someday why she failed in every way to care for her precious child.
By definition, precious means cherished, feeling or showing fond affection.
We use precious to describe babies. They are cherished, have high worth, and are undeniably desirable.
But what happens to a baby when they are not cherished or not treated as though they have a high worth? I was one of those children. I was not precious in the eyes of my parents. By their own admissions throughout my life, I was a burden. To them, I was so far from precious.
I watched the movie Precious yesterday. It's based on a novel and is not a true story. Sadly, parts of the story could have been pulled from the pages of my life long book.
Precious was a teenage girl who was far from being cherished. Her dad raped her and she had two children by him. Her mother abused her physically, emotionally and neglected every need. She was a lost child. Precious was intelligent who received very little from going to school. She was HIV positive from her father. The other kids in the neighborhood bullied her and treated her like the outcast she thought she was.
There is so much about that summary that is familiar to me, eerily familiar. It's a familiarity that most people would not understand and others would use to judge me.
I've struggled for the past couple years with my mother's part of my life. She didn't teach me anything. She saw what went on but never bothered to stop it. She never protected me. She never treated me like the precious child I was born to be. But why?
After watching this movie, I think I may have another theory of why my mother hated me and walked away from every motherly responsibility she had.
The mother in the movie Precious talked to a social worker about why she hated her daughter. She wanted her husband's attention on her and her only. She saw the awful things that he was doing to her and she never stopped it. Instead, she developed a hatred for her daughter. She blamed her daughter for what her husband did to her.
Watching this scene was like listening to my own mom. Although my mom never said anything like that to me, I believe she could have. My mom is incredibly selfish person. She really never cared about anyone but herself. She wanted to be precious and cherished by everyone. She could not ever see beyond her own self.
It's possible that my mom was much like this mother.
If she doesn't ever find her way to repentance, I hope that God does ask her someday why she failed in every way to care for her precious child.
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