An Open Letter

Hey, you. 

You randomly popped up in a dream last night (specifically, I was picking you up from jail after you'd completed your sentence??)... well, the you from more than 15 years ago. Would I recognize you now? Would you recognize me?

I can't even begin to detail how much I've changed in the years since I moved to Austin. 

When I first got here, everything was mostly the same. I tried to build a life that was familiar, like the lives we had in north Texas. But pretty quickly, that manner of living started to crumble and without knowing it, I was building a totally different way of life.

Superficially... I have wavy hair now. Can you believe it? All of that time and effort I spent trying to curl my hair. I know you liked it better straight; I guess we always want what we can't have. Anyway, my morning routine was never cumbersome, but it's so much faster now: spray hair to reset waves. Get out. It's pretty great.

Also, I'm not trying to be skinny anymore. You'd probably "still love [me] in spite of it," but, with all due respect, eff that noise, friend-o. I'm happy with myself, and my body has never been healthier. I've seen the future and know what I need to do to maintain maximum ambulation for as long as I can, as far as it is in my power to maintain. I move more and with more joy than I ever have before. And I also unapologetically enjoy the food I've always loved. No shame. No one watching me or my body change. It's amazing.

I have more tattoos (with another in the planning stages), and got my nose pierced a couple of years ago. I believe you would have hated this. It's probably good that things ended up the way that they did.

In fact, there are bigger things that make me grateful that we're not still in each other's lives. Much bigger.

You'd likely hate me now. I don't think the same way or believe the same things that I did back then. You'd think I had back-slidden or been influenced by something dark... but, man, when I read my blogs from 15-24 years ago, I do not like that person. I was a closed-off, judgy, occasionally humorous know-it-all.

I no longer vote the way I voted before. I remember when I first moved, and a mutual friend called me a loyalist to a particular political party as an insult. It worked. I was upset that she would say that. Now? Guilty as charged. What changed? A lot. So much.

You know what has pushed me to change the absolute most? My kids. They have been a blessing, and they have been challenging... and even that has ultimately made me a better person, and hopefully a better parent. If they ask me a question today, I probably have an opinion, but I don't feel like I have to give a pat answer with absolute certainty that it is and I am right. 

I will err every day on the side of throwing the doors wide open and embracing people, and life, and happiness. I wanted this before, but was so limited by unnecessarily strict boundaries that someone else convinced me needed to be in place.

I made so many mistakes, and I hurt so many people. Heck, I've even done that in the past 15 years, despite my best efforts not to. But at least when I do so now, it's because I'm messed up and not because I think I know the only right way and insist that other people do certain things because of what I believe.

All that time I spent trying everything I could think of to make us work, and you absolutely refused to budge. It was that realization -- that you cared more about your own self-preservation than you did trusting me enough to step out on a ledge and try to fly -- that made me leave. And now I see that you were correct. We were NOT right for each other. We would not have worked. We would have gotten to a point just a few years later where things would have come up that would have caused us to implode, anyway. 

So I guess I'm saying thank you for making me so miserable that I couldn't stay in the same place for another day. Thank you for pushing me away so hard that I ended up never seeing you again for the rest of my life. It was a protection to me, and to my kids (one for obvious reasons as he wouldn't exist). 

And try not to get arrested, because I can't come pick you up.

Laura

The Second Round

Last week, I'd started on a blog post about my feelings regarding the outcome of the most recent US elections. I got most of the way through and ran out of steam, plus I wrote a bunch about it on our family Slack and that blew up. Lots of hurt feelings, lots of not really seeing each other, lots of stuff that we might never fully work through but we're family and we love each other anyway. But it's still an open wound.

Wednesday morning, James's first words to me were, "What do we do now?" If I need to explain to you why we're dumbfounded and upset, then you don't really know my family and there's too much to catch you up on here. Regardless, I had a clear-ish vision: "We take care of our kids. We do what's best for our family." As we spoke, I realized that James was in a tailspin and I was perhaps not as gracious as I could have been. I was in active survival mode and James needed a few days to process and gain his bearings. I know that my inability to suffer prolonged bouts of vulnerability in others is one of my character flaws. I've been thinking on that as I've looked at rentals in Minneapolis and priced snow pants, crampons for all, and winter tires.

The past few weeks, I've been listening to various episodes of a podcast my sister mentioned to me: The Bodies Behind the Bus. The most recent episode I listened to resonated do deeply with me. The guest was Eric Isaac. He was talking about creating his own definition of spiritual abuse. I couldn't find a transcript, so ended up transcribing his thoughts on my own. And I ruminated.

This morning, it all came together in my brain, why I feel like I know where we are, why I feel so personally worn down and discouraged, and why my instinct was to ramp up and do this thing, whereas James needed more time to grieve and come to grips with reality.

First, I'm going to share Eric Isaac's definition of spiritual abuse: "Spiritual abuse is its own umbrella category of abuse. Any form of abuse — sexual, emotional, psychological, vocational, or other — can fall under the category of spiritual abuse if God or the sacred is presented as complicit or used to justify abuse by power-holders through attempting to coerce or manipulate others for the purposes of control. The effects of this unique form of abuse can create unique theological or ontological trauma that can leave a lasting abusive construction of the sacred or God long after the individuals have removed themselves from the abusive environment. Spiritual abuse can also create and inform entire faith communities and institutions that are built on abusive manipulations of the sacred, perpetuating abusive conceptions of the sacred, alongside behavior by institutionalizing the conceptions of the sacred."

By that definition, I've been the victim of spiritual abuse multiple times in my life.

First, I was married to someone for 13 years who would make a decision (for example: that I needed not to talk to my sister as often as I was) and say, "If that's the wrong decision, then someday I will answer to God for it. But I'm responsible for this family, and that is my decision as to what's best for us."

Second, when I set about to leave that man, the church where I'd served for more than 6 years called me into meetings almost every day for two weeks trying to talk me out of divorcing him because "What if Jesus is going to save your marriage tomorrow and you gave up one day early?" They didn't what to appear to support the idea of divorce, so they micromanaged my behavior (or tried to; I'm bad at obeying when I disagree) for over a year before I folded and moved away. This was after they invited me to leave several times.

Third, when James and I got engaged, my church leadership tried to talk us both out of it. Since James isn't a believer, they didn't want me yoking myself to him. In the end, the preacher told me, "If you're not willing to submit to this part of our leadership, I'm not sure what we have for you here." This hurt, but when I found out that he'd groomed another young member of that church and carried on an inappropriate extramarital relationship with them (which started as sexual assault and continued through spiritual abuse over time) for many years, I was just mad.

Mad at the control for their own purposes. Mad at withholding the love of Christ because their priority was maintaining the glowing reputation of the church. Mad that the parable of the 99 sheep doesn't seem to apply to these people and their organizations: When you have a lost sheep, that's where you devote resources and love... you aren't supposed to just say, "Wow, you're a mess. Sacrificing the one for the 99 is just good math."

I have decades of experience in the arena of, "You'll do what I tell you to do or you'll suffer the consequences because God and stuff."

Years ago, when I was cleaning out my closet to prepare for moving from our family home of 7 years into the RV that D and I share for a couple of pretty awesome years, I remember a feeling washed over me. It said, "No help is coming."

For weeks, I'd been telling my story to anyone who would listen, in hopes that they'd understand my predicament, have some empathy, and walk through the process as my corroborating testimony. (To be clear, I did have friends who rose to this occasion, but no one on the church staff; no one who had any ability to make my presence in that body anything other than a thorn in the side of leadership.)

That message that I was on my own was kind of freeing. It allowed me to stop looking for a soft heart where none existed and instead redouble my efforts to move ahead, knowing what I needed to do.

The trauma of that lives large in my life to this day. I think that's why the quote about spiritual abuse felt so affirming and cathartic. It helped me see that when I'm triggered with a certain flavor of despair, I click immediately back into that mindset.

Last week, I tried to explain my hurt regarding the election to people who couldn't hear it. I guess I haven't learned that lesson yet. I'll just commiserate with those close to me who feel the same way I do and keep doing what I always do: taking care of my family and putting one foot in front of the other. Oh, and resisting. Because, as you now know, I do not obey well when I don't trust my leaders.

Women of Faith?

My pastor, Ryan, asked me if I'd be willing to speak for a few minutes in church about a woman who had helped shape my faith. I told him I'd think about it and get back with him.

Looking back, the first and most obvious choice would be my mother. She has always been a devout follower of Christ. She reads and rereads scripture like she's poring over an intimate letter from a dear friend. She finds such encouragement and hope from her faith, and it shows. My mom's spiritual gift is... hand-written cards? She sends cards to people who are sick, who are celebrating, or who might just have crossed her mind on any given day. She is an encourager. She wants very much to please God.

One time, we had been in a bookstore and as we made our way through the parking lot, Mom said, "Did you hear that girl crying?" I hadn't. Mom had asked her what was wrong, and had gotten the girl's whole life story in the end. This struck me and made me more intentional about noticing other people who might be hurting. I've now approached numerous strangers, awkwardly asking, "Do you need anything?" with no idea where to go from there. But I've never regretted it.

Yes, my mom was the earliest and most earnest example of faith in my life. And it might not be the case, but being "good" always seemed to come easy for her, as though she didn't experience many of the temptations that mere mortals like I did. So, in a way, that faith also seemed inaccessible at times. In fact, my sister and I used to quote a friend of mom's, just to annoy her, who called her "God's perfect person."

So, upon further rumination, I realized that there is one woman who shaped my faith as it is today even more than my mom did...

She was Billie, the pastor's wife where I attended church and served in various positions of lay leadership for the better part of a decade. We weren't close, but when it became clear that I was divorcing my husband of thirteen years, she was called in to "counsel" me against pursuing the separation.

She said many things that day with which I took issue, but two things she said forever changed how I would look at what I believe:

1) "Well, he's not hitting you and he's not cheating on you, so you're pretty much stuck."
2) "... And, you know, life kind of sucks, anyway, so..."

"You're stuck, and life sucks."

As it says in John 10:10: "I have come that they might have life... which pretty much sucks."

This well-meaning woman was feeding me propaganda from centuries of fundamentalist patriarchy: The one and only way for you, a woman, to bring glory to God is to surrender to an untenable situation. The end.

The thing is, for all of the problems I had with my church during this time, I never doubted that the hand of God was on it. I believed that he had a way for my child and me to enter into a more full existence. And I was right.

But because of Billie, I was able to see something in stark daylight that had never occurred to me before: I could not be part of any faith that discounts someone's pain or truth and tells them the only way to please God is to continue to allow themselves to be hurt or marginalized or discounted.

I would never have someone look back on a conversation with me and call it "spiritual abuse."

I wanted to love, genuinely, on behalf of God. If a religion told me to do otherwise, it was not the worship of the God I believed in.

I'd rather have the faith of... well, here we are: back at my mother.

We do not agree on the letter of the law when it comes to what God says, but I do know that my mom's faith informs her desire to see people who are hurt, to hear their stories without judgement, and to try, in whatever way she can, to shoulder some of their burdens.

She believes it's possible to achieve what Romans 15:13 says: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." And so do I.

He Giveth and He Taketh Away (like Calgon)

This morning, Mal woke up early. raring to go to Target. When we got out, I realized that the 51 degree high for the day (yesterday was 85) had already been hit and the mercury was dropping. We ran by Chick-fil-A and got free chicken minis and a free "Sunrise" something that's basically just orange juice and soft serve mixed together, then went to the store. Mal picked out a couple of Cars, and on the way home, I got my free cow calendar treat for the month (which I couldn't order with the other free things, but two trips was no problem because it's in the Target parking lot), which was a chicken biscuit. James got the drink, D got the biscuit, and I offered the minis to Mal, who rejected, so I was forced to consume them.

When we got home. James was still in bed and, I have to tell you, I was not in the best head space about that. I'd already tweeted something snarky (which you can go see, because I'm not going to share it here, but I think I'm pretty funny), and just kept coming around to this thought I was repeating in my head about how, yes, I appreciate that James gets up early every morning during the week to go to work and support our family financially, but surely he realizes that even when I'm in bed when he leaves, I'm not asleep nor have I gotten much rest overnight and no, I don't want to fall into a "me or him" mentality but there is the fact that when our child is awake and one of us is asleep, the other one necessarily has to be awake, so would it be reasonable for me to hope that maybe my husband would offer just one Saturday a month where he would rise with the son and allow me a lie-in since he surely recognizes my contribution and desire for rest, also?

When James got up, he played with Mal while I made lunch. And did laundry. They were going outside, and I wanted to watch a video while I chopped stuff for the curry, but for some reason, it was taking FOREVER for them to get ready to go into the back yard, and so I loaded the dishwasher while I waited for the quiet, and then they finally went outside for like 4 minutes, as you might remember the temperature comment above.

THEN later, James asked Mal if he wanted to go down to the Cajun Festival at the park, so I drove them down and they were gone long enough for me to almost vacuum the whole house. Then James went back down there alone, and I have raging hormones right now, and my son is on 100% + at this general time, and... I needed a dang break.

"And the gods heard her prayer." To borrow a quote from "Once on This Island." Which is a different musical altogether, but we'll get to that.

Mal wanted to nurse. During the day. My mom made the comment, "I thought you were about through with nursing." WE WILL NEVER BE THROUGH. This is what they don't tell you when you have a squirmy newborn: If breastfeeding "takes," you will NEVER NEVER wean them. This is our life now.

Anyway, it turns out, he went to sleep at about 4:30. I was hoping this meant he was just feeling super stimulated from a busy week and might sleep all night, but even at 8:06 PM, we never know. It still looks promising, though.

SO, I got online and saw that the Easter performance of "Jesus Christ Superstar" Live in Concert was on YouTube.

I was vaguely aware of this show growing up, as we were a theater family. And while I don't remember hearing, "This is blasphemy!" about this particular show, as James does, we never really paid as much attention to it as we did Phantom or Les Mis or Into the Woods or Secret Garden.

When I was in college, though, majoring in theater with a concentration in musical theater, one of my classmates performed "Gethsemane" and I was absolutely floored. Totally sold on the whole thing. Listened to it a million times and loved it. I didn't enjoy the film too much, as it was so blatantly 70s, an aesthetic that I, ironically born in the early 70s, didn't embrace. (I'm sure the JCS I listened to was the revival, though I have adored Ted Neely's every dang performance.)

Watching this show was hugely cathartic. I sobbed at Pilate's initial song about his dream. I was transfixed by Brandon Victor Dixon as Judas every time he was on stage. Caiaphas was haunting. The musicians were flawless. The updates to the musical and visual style were fabulous. Sara Bareilles was genuine as Mary Magdalene, but there's no comparing her "I Don't Know How to Love Him" to Judas's reprise of the same song. Both she and John Legend, who played Jesus, are incredible singers and performers. And when they're the least memorable players in a production, you know it's top notch.

Oh, and Alice Cooper as King Herod? I literally gave him a standing ovation at my dining room table. His take on Herod was more "old school rock and roll" (to quote Andrew Lloyd Webber) than the kind of effeminate vaudeville style that is traditional. It was very satisfying to watch.

I felt more positively spiritually moved by that hour and 40 minutes than I have in years, I believe.

It's interesting to me the reaction of some people when new or "different" takes on familiar Bible stories come out. We do it with kids' books, making it available to them on their level. We do it in allegories and parables in study books to help drive home the point. But when the people from familiar Bible stories are presented as raw or urban or messed up, sometimes people's knee-jerk is to be offended and ignore the offering.

I find fresh eyes to be invigorating and thought-provoking.

The Bible isn't measured or tidy or easy to deal with. I think we get this white-washed version of Bible stories (meaning like paint, not like race, though we certainly do that, too) that make us thing that because people go to church and are generally quiet and respectful that it's the only honoring way to handle the material.

One thing I've appreciated about my pastor and the environment at my church this past year is their willingness to look at Scripture and literally ask, "What are we supposed to do with this?"

A funny thing... a few weeks ago, the scripture reading was from Numbers 21. Specifically: And the people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we loathe this worthless food." Then the LORD sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many people of Israel died. And the people came to Moses and said, “We have sinned, for we have spoken against the LORD and against you. Pray to the LORD, that he take away the serpents from us.” So Moses prayed for the people. And the LORD said to Moses, “Make a fiery serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live.” So Moses made a bronze serpent and set it on a pole. And if a serpent bit anyone, he would look at the bronze serpent and live.

Typically, at the end of such a reading, one would say something to the extent of, "This is the Word of the Lord." The reader, who has been the accompanist at this church for more than 30 years, just shook her head and said, "This... is the book we... cherish." And everybody cracked up. Because, seriously. What?

I hope there's room for that in most Christian circles. I think it's healthy.

And how it's 8:30 and I should be heading toward bed, since we'll probably be up at 3 and Mal will be starting since he really didn't eat anything today. Oy.

I still appreciate a few quiet hours to myself.

And I love my husband, of course. He does a lot. I just needed the chance to get out from under that cloud of funk.