Irreverence

This past Sunday was New Member Sunday at my awesome church. I, along with other new members, spoke to the entire congregation. This is what I said:

"God talks to me like a sassy, black woman.

This is a direct contradiction to verything I'd ever learned about God growing up.

My parents are conservative Bible literalists and everything I've ever learned about God, I could sum up in two sentences: God was a white, conservative male who voted a straight Republican ticket. He was also in charge of everything good or bad that ever happened to anyone.

When I was 3, I was molested by the pastor's son in the church basement.

So, I've been an atheist for as long as I can remember because I couldn't imagine a god existed who would want that to happen to me.

I don't really know how I got here, except that about 2 years ago, God started whispering to me and about a year ago, she started yelling because I was ignoring her.

She brought me here on Easter Sunday and I immediately found that everything I thought I knew about God was wrong because everything I thought I knew fit into a really tiny box. I feel the spirit of God living and breathing in these walls and radiating in all of you. It feels like coming home but I never even knew I was wandering."

Followed by some awkward mumbling and apologies that I cried in the middle.

Thank you, my sassy God, for meeting me where I'm at everyday.

Lessons in Faith

I've talked a little here about these crazy ideas I get that I call "personal enrichment projects." They're a way for me to continually stay connected to this new found faith and also a way for me to continually broaden my own horizons because the one thing I fear most about faith is becoming the kind of asshole that I always associated with Christianity.

My friend Anne, from Simply Savvy Supermom, and I talk frequently about how Jesus told us to pick up our crosses and follow him. We talk about the implications of such a statement and we talk about the other things Jesus spoke directly about, which include him telling the disciples to give up everything. These conversations always speak directly to my heart but I usually only think of them in the context of those assholes I never wanted to be who I perceive as not giving up much of anything to follow Jesus.

But, this isn't about those people.
God told me last week to mind my own business and stop trying to do his job for him so I'm working on it.
As a side note here, God talks to me like a sassy old grandma. That's what I hear but I use male pronouns because it's my Baptist showing. Try as I might to rise above the way I was raised, some small things still linger.

So, now, getting to the real point of this post: I believe the reason these talks about picking up our crosses to follow Jesus speak to me because God is saying specifically to me "That means you, girlfriend. It's time to pick it up."

Jesus told his disciples to give up everything. He didn't tell them they could keep their house, their vacation home, their best sandals or tunic. He said give it all up. If we are to consider ourselves modern day disciples, that should speak to us. Crosses are pretty heavy. If our hands are full of too much money, an iPad, our smart phones, the houses we love and are inexplicably attached to, we aren't able to carry much of anything-much less a tree big enough to bear the weight of a man nailed to it. And I'm pretty sure a cross won't fit in the trunk of any car on the market, either. It really doesn't matter if you have a Suburban, a big ass tree ain't fitting in the back for you to carry whenever it's convenient for you.

So my next personal enrichment project is to pick up my cross. To give it all up. To have more faith than ever before. Anne told me about a friend of hers who gives so much of herself and her resources that sometimes she even has to pray for her rent money because she's given it away with such wild and loving abandon. I was breathless for a moment.

I want to be her.
I want to be that faithful.
I want to love Jesus with such wild, reckless abandon that I would give it all up just to be in his presence, to find him in the in between places, the not so affluent places, the scary places, the unsafe places. The places I never imagined he could be found.

I have seen the way God has continuously provided for my Bright Blessings parties even when I least expect it and I have considered it affirmation that I am doing God's work.It's time to sit back and watch Him provide for the other parts of my life while I get down to the business of doing his work everyday. Even on the busy days, the tired days and the irritated days.

During my other "projects," I put a sort of time limit on them. The no clothes for a year thing or the grace one for Good Friday both had limits and I miserably failed at not buying clothes for a year. As far as grace: I'm still working on it. Grace is hard. I know that picking up my cross will be hard, too. I know I will fail a lot. I know that I will question my sanity sometimes but I also know that sometimes blessings are disguised as trials and big faith sometimes takes big leaps.

Anne Lamott says in her book Traveling Mercies that her "coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another." Incidentally, that book was the one that made me take a closer look at Jesus. And until now, I believe my faith has looked a lot like the way she describes it. Glennon Melton talks a lot about just doing the next right thing and that has worked well for me so far. I just try really hard to keep my eyes and ears open and hear God whispering to me from the likely and unlikely places and whatever he tells me to do is what I do next.

Sometimes I don't hear the whispers.
God's okay with that.

He made me to be stubborn and so he knows that sometimes I don't really get subtlety so he just keeps coming back and saying the same thing over and over until I finally get it. This, I believe, is one of those times. He's been telling me for awhile to trust and believe more and I've been desperately trying to retain just a little piece of control over my life; I've not quite been ready to relinquish it all and follow him into the uncertainty.

 I don't really know if I'm ready now but I'm going to try it anyway.
And we shall see where this thing goes.

The Whole Truth: Part VII

I am so proud of this dear friend and so honored to be sharing her story. I watched her process of After the Rape and I am so proud of her for getting to this moment. Not the one where she tells you her story in detail but the one where she stops blaming herself because no one deserves to be raped and no asks for it.

Rape culture is a pervading epidemic when our boys don't even know that what they've done is rape. Rape culture is a pervading epidemic when our boys and men would characterize rape as something that only happens in back alleys and not something that happens to women who are unconscious or past the point of reasonably consenting. It is an epidemic when our boys think that they are entitled to sex and don't know that real, fulfilling sex is consensual, meaningful and fulfilling for BOTH parties, not just for him. Guess what? We are living in that epidemic. This story proves it.
                                                             

I am writing my story for two reasons: 1) to bring attention to the most common type of sexual assault and 2) to talk about what happens after the assault.

When I was 15, I went to help my grandmother with a convention she was participating in in OKC before heading to their home for a week to visit. When I got there it was “Surprise! Your cousin you haven’t seen since you were too young to remember is coming with us!” It was fine, really. He was nice and only a year older than me so I was pretty excited to have someone to hang out with. The first day in the pool he got a little grabby, but I thought he was playing so I brushed it off.  The first night we got to my grandparents’ house he came to see me in my room but I was almost asleep so I ignored him. The second night he asked me to come in his room (my grandparents went to bed really early) and he kissed me, which made me really uncomfortable, and I pulled away. He kept telling me how beautiful I was and how he just wanted to touch me. He pushed me down on the bed and forced himself in my mouth. I tried to pull away but he held my hair. When I could finally leave I did, crying in my room until morning. Three other three nights it happened. I begged him not to and he said he would break my arms if I refused. I believed him because he was so much bigger than me, which pissed me off. I prided myself on not being weak, but I couldn’t see an alternative.  At the time I told one of my closest friends and begged him not to say anything because I didn’t want to get hurt, but I promised to tell after I got home and he held me to it. The day I got home, he came over and told me I had two days to tell my parents or he would.  So I did. Then I told my grandmother. She responded that she didn’t believe me and there was no way her baby could do that. Then she back tracked a little and said if he did it, it had to be because of the way I dressed that summer (shorts, tank tops, swimming suits). I was devastated. Those words hurt me more than the act ever could.

A year or so later, I dropped a male friend off at work one night and he reached over and kissed me and when I pushed him away,  he didn’t immediately back off and it triggered something in me. I broke.  I don’t remember much from that time except my mom telling me she was forcing me to go talk to someone and her calling her insurance. This sticks out because she was always tough as nails and raised us to handle our problems ourselves and be strong, which I thought clashed with talking to a psychiatrist. But since she insisted, I went. I remember the psychiatrist’s office perfectly…it was very “homey” but like the person was trying too hard to make it that way- floral print EVERYWHERE. I don’t remember much about how she actually looked, but she used animals to assist her therapy and had two little pugs and a room full of bird cages. I sat on a pink couch with flowery pillows. I jumped right in with telling her what happened, but I focused for some reason on my grandmother and the hurt that I hadn’t truly gotten over. And then this professional, the woman who was supposed to help me asked “Do you think that she could be right? Boys can’t always help themselves and we, as women, need to be modest at all times”. Yes, yes she did. She said those words to a vulnerable sixteen year old girl who came to her for help and all she found was blame. To this day, I am super uncomfortable in any revealing clothes.

Fast forward ten years. I am married to someone who treats me with so much respect and is always very sensitive to what happened and never pushes me beyond my limits. One of the local bars here was hosting a Halloween party and I went with a friend. I drove my own car but we met there. We had drinks, more than a few and I went outside to cool off and get out of the crowd. I told my friend where I was going, but when I went back in to check on her, a mutual acquaintance told me that she had left.

She left.

Without telling me.

She didn’t even call to check on me. I had to call her the next morning.

 I went back outside to sober up and I met a table full of super nice people who asked me to join them for a bit and we hit it off.  Although, at this point I was another couple drinks in and things were getting hazy. They invited me over and I don’t remember it but for some reason I decided to take them up on their offer to carry on the party at their house. We got there and smoked a bowl, as I was told the next day, and then I asked one of the guys to bring me a drink. At this point I really don’t remember anything other than sitting on the couch and seeing the Waynes Brothers on TV and thinking “Is this show even still on?” and that was it.

Next thing I know, I’m on a bed and someone is inside me.  I freaked. I pushed him off and ran out of the room, almost tripped on the stairs because I could have sworn I was on the first floor when I was last conscious. I drove home, although I’m still not sure how and I’m lucky I made it. The next day, my husband had drill and I called him when I woke up and begged him to come home; I needed him. After I told him he just hugged me and told me everything was going to be alright.

Here’s the part that no one really talks about: what happens after the rape. I didn’t want to press charges. I knew that immediately. The guy was barely an adult. He called me the next day to make sure I was okay because I left so suddenly and then was devastated when I told him that what he did to me was not what I wanted. He had no idea, which is a problem created by society. We perpetuate a rape culture. But, I digress.

So I asked my husband to come with me to the hospital because we didn’t have medical insurance and I knew I needed to get the Plan B pill. When I got there I told the front desk what happened, but that I didn’t want to press charges (the guilt I had was burning me up, there are no words for it and all I could think of is that no judge in the world would believe that I wasn’t a whore).  

After waiting two hours, I was finally shown to a room and in came a male doctor and a male nurse.

 Not a female in sight.

For a rape victim.

I couldn’t believe it. The nurse was spectacular, but the doctor… oh, the doctor. He was very off handed with me because I refused to press charges. He insisted that I could not get pregnant from my rape. I demanded the Plan B. He said he would test me for STDs and treat me for them but pregnancy was really not something to worry about. I asked about the scary thing that was weighing heavily on my mind: HIV.  He said that my “incident” (he never once called it rape) wasn’t serious enough to worry about HIV because it wasn’t like I was attacked in an alley; it was just a party. He followed that comment with,” But just in case, don’t share any food or kisses with your daughter or husband, because they could get HIV that way.”  I learned in future testing experiences that is not at all how you can spread HIV. I spent 6 months in fear and worry for nothing. As he was leaving I had to remind him that he didn’t tell the nurse to bring me the Plan B *again* and he parted with “try not to leave your drinks unattended, it can obviously have less than nice consequences.”  It was the most condescending conversation I have ever had and because my husband was with me and I didn’t want to press charges, no one took me seriously. Two shots and a handful of pills later, the nurse said they had done everything they could and he would send in a social worker for me to talk to. 

An hour later, a harried looking woman came in, practically threw a piece of paper with a phone number on it and said “You might want to talk to someone if you are really actually hurting”. And left. And that was that. I was left to deal with the fear and pain by myself.  Luckily, I have a wonderful group of women that I can share my story with and they accepted me and carried me through. Six months later I am STD free, thank goodness, and far more educated for it.

No one really talks about what happens after the rape. No one really tells you about how awful and sick the STD preventatives make you and how it will change your relationship with everyone. No one talks about how hard it is to call what happened an “assault” much less use the word “rape” and even how hearing the word can make you want to throw up. Oh man, and the guilt, good lord, there is so much guilt. I could not stop blaming myself “shouldn’t have gone out-you are married!” “Surely you must have wanted it, why else would you go home with strangers?” all the things I said to myself because I just knew that others would ask. Funny thing is: no one has. I don’t sugar coat my part in it- I was drinking, I probably got high, hell at some point the guy got my phone number-but bottom line was I was not conscious and with all the holes in the night, I had to be very obviously intoxicated, not at all capable of consenting. Drinking is not asking for rape. Dressing however you want is not asking for rape. Rape is never okay. Sex should be mutual and pleasurable and if the person is not conscious, it cannot be that.  Something else no one talks about is the support you can get and the people that stand by you. I would never have survived these experiences without the support of my husband, my parents and siblings, and my friends.

Oh, and just a tip: If you go out together, you come home together, end of story.

The Whole Truth: Part VI

This story makes me cry every time I read it. I am in awe of such strength and resilience and honored to have her story here. The trigger warning here is for a lot of graphic details and the fact that she was a child when they happened to her.
                                                                                                                                                                   


It's been 13 years since I saw his face, although it haunts me everyday, I have learned that some things in life are to be a reminder of your existence. 

The incest started as far back as I can remember: around 4. Although he has admitted to me that he started sexually abusing me since I was a baby. My only memory of those early years was the abuse. I don't remember playing dress up or with Barbie dolls; it wasn't until I was in my mid-teens that I realized this was NOT normal. 

You know, as a child, you're supposed to be taught good and bad touches, that no one is supposed to touch certain areas with the exception of parents. I don't remember being taught that. Instead, I was told only he could. It was "our secret." So I went through my childhood thinking this was normal. I had been awoken multiple times and bribed with Pocahontas ice cream. The sprinkles were the best! Of course I wanted some, but only after I performed on him. He would say to be quiet and cover my mouth so he was reassured I didn't make a noise. We would then make our way to the bathroom in the dark and he then made me perform oral sex. Being so young, I, of course didn't know how to do that. So to make it easier on himself, Vaseline was his weapon of choice. I say weapon because to this day, I can't even look or touch it without it being a constant reminder of the abuse. Once he applied it on himself, I was told to hold his penis, with his hand over mine and when it was close to ejaculation, I was forced to put it in my mouth. The taste and texture made me gag every time but he said no ice cream if I didn't swallow. I had to pretend it was good and as time went on the taste and texture didn't phase me. He told me I did a good job and ice cream was the treat of choice.

As the years went on, my biological father was in and out of my life. He and my mother divorced when  I was very young. I was just told he was abusive and an alcoholic. I later realized he was more than that.

 He was a monster.
A rapist.
A child molester.

There was another side of him that made me believe that he loved me. The occasional visits as a child with him turned into living with him around age 12. Those years (ages 11-13) were my most traumatic. 

The molestation turned into rape. I was 12 when it first happened. The abuse started the same way as it always had, but this time, I was older and more force was used. I laid there scared, helpless and violated. I was used simply as a tool to pleasure him. I can remember kids at that age talk about "popping someone's cherry", I never understood that term, till it happened. My virginity was taken from me, unwillingly and it left a painful scar for years to come. I remember pleading him to stop because it hurt so bad. It felt like sandpaper on my skin, I tried to scream but couldn't. I tried to fight back and failed. My body was being crushed by his and I felt like dying was better than this, at least it would have permanently ended this painful experience. This happened daily and I didn't realize the battle I would later fight.
 
When I turned 13, my mother decided that I live with her again.  I was relieved to be finally away from my father, at the same time, I felt sad to leave him. He loved me. I was his daughter and who else would take care of him? As I look back and think how sad I felt, I now understand how manipulation can change any scenario and make you guilty. As I was packing up my stuff to prepare for my move, the monster in my father got worse. I saw a side of him that made me believe he was possessed. My life was almost taken from me and I honestly don't know how I survived that night. It must have been my made up prayers to God, I didn’t know God at that point in my life, but knew something greater was out there. 

Sitting innocently on the couch watching TV, my father after a day and night of drinking, got into my face and started yelling. I didn't understand what provoked him to get that way so I tried to turn the conversation around and change the subject. That didn't work. He walked away and came back with a long sword in one hand, and a gun in another. I was 13. Scared, speechless, and begging with all I had for him to stop. He proceeded to put the sword to my neck, rubbing it lightly back and forth.  "If you tell anyone about what I've done to you, I will kill you." I stood there silent and remained for years to come. 

Moving back with my mother was a relief, till one day I decided to open up to her. Immediately, she took me to the police station, where they took my statement and tried to prosecute my father. Obviously, speaking up when the rape happened would have been my best option, but at the time, it was the hardest thing to do. The police were no help; I was told there was not enough evidence. That was the end of the investigation. A child molester is walking the streets scot-free. After we heard the news about there not being enough evidence, something in my mother change and to this day, I am not sure if I can ever forgive her. We became distant and her priorities were not her children. I was called a whore and a sick-o for having sex with my father. Her own words made me believe it was my fault. This whole rape could have been prevented. I told myself one day I would see the truth.

A few years went by-I am 15 now, in school and somewhat functioning. I hid behind a smile everyday. At night, I couldn't sleep- I didn't quite understand why. I couldn't shower without a panic attack and constantly checking to make sure no one else sneaked into the bathroom. Before trying to go to bed, I had to check all closets and under my bed. It became a ritual. If I didn't check constantly, I just sat in one place and didn't move. I feared the dark, It was like I was a child again. I later found out this was PTSD.  My mother decided that I needed some professional help, and had me try counseling- I just couldn't open up with anyone. It caused more anxiety in me than helping. So I tried medication, until one day, decided to overdose. I had enough with all this pain. I honestly wanted to die. That was my first attempt to commit suicide. That wasn't enough. I later attempted to hang myself and was unsuccessful. I also battled cutting for years, finally after five trips to the hospital and in a psychiatric ward, my mom gave up her rights. She felt I was too crazy and she couldn't help me anymore. I was transferred to a group home then later placed into foster care. Some say foster care is the worst thing that happened to them. For me, it saved my life. I still stay in contact with a family that took me in when I was 17. Over the years, The PTSD has lessened, honestly it's barely there.
 
It's been 13 years.... I am a grown woman. A mother. A wife. A person full of life. Many question why I am so positive, even during the storms of my life. I just say because life is too short. I refuse to let my past hold me captive anymore. Those 13 years of on and off abuse, does NOT define who I am or who I once was. Looking back, I believe I did the best I could. I am glad to be sitting here today. I am a survivor. I even failed at taking my own life on numerous occasions but it's  because I am here for a reason. That reason, I am unsure of yet. However, this story may be why. 

I am not a victim. I have a voice and it has been heard.

Following

I have been in a pretty unsatisfying place. I feel so much like this work I'm doing is so important and that I have found my calling. That God would have me be here making a space for women. That making room for women to talk about their stories is so vital to changing the world.

Feeling like I'm in my calling should make me happy, right?
 It does, mostly.

But then the other thoughts creep in. Who could I be if I weren't married? Who could I be if I didn't have a child? Why do they need so much from me? Why do they have to cramp my style? I could be out changing the world if it weren't for them. Mothering isn't important. Not important enough. I'll never be the kind of woman who is happy just to do laundry and cook dinner and wipe butts and take care of other people all day. That stuff is for small women. I'm bigger than that. I'm greater than that. I've been taking care of everyone else, everyday, for almost 3 years now. It's time for me to do something for myself and they can just figure it out for themselves.

I know that none of those thoughts were true or rational. I know that I'm currently in an in-between space that is preparation for the bigger dreams I have for my life. I know logically that I can't get to the big stuff without doing the small work first. And yet, I convinced myself that I could get to the big stuff faster if I just devoted enough time to it. If I just came up with something really profound to say on Facebook, if I kept up a running dialogue, if I talked loud enough, I could get there faster. I could get there now. I wouldn't have to do the mundane tasks of mothering all day.

That kind of thinking pretty much blew up in my face.

Marriage is really fucking hard. It's hard even when both people are giving everything to each other. It's 10 times harder when one person has checked out because she thinks she could single-handedly change the world if she were a constant enough presence online. I ended up hearing lots of things I needed to hear tonight, though I wish they had been presented differently. I can't really fault Daniel for snapping. I have pretty much checked out on being a mom or wife because I just know I've got bigger and better things to do.

I really do believe in my big dreams. I really do believe that I can make them happen. I really do believe that together, we, as women, could change the world by talking. By breaking the silence and speaking up. What I lost sight of is the small acts that contribute to world change. Sarah Bessey says in 'Jesus Feminist' that sometimes moving mountains looks like picking up one small stone at a time everyday until finally you realize you've moved that entire mountain.

I lost sight of that.

I got so caught up in wanting to get there tomorrow. I even thought I could get there by myself. I believed in myself and my ability to get me there more than I believed in God's ability to get me there with the right people when I'm actually ready. I became an Israelite walking in the desert for 40 years, complaining about being lost and wanting to get to the Promised Land yesterday. I forgot about the miracles God has performed to get me where I am today. What He has done to rescue me from the chains that enslaved me. Instead, I allowed myself to become enslaved by my own ambition.

I forgot that tomorrow is already written. My future is already taken care of. The God who gave me these big dreams and this big ambition, this extraordinary purpose, defines success a lot differently than we do. Success to God looks like faithfulness. Faithfulness looks like wandering in the desert, following during the uncertainty, and stopping every once in awhile to remember the miracles of the past. To truly appreciate the manna from Heaven during the uncertainty.

I have recognized myself struggling with these in-between days.
I've tried half-heartedly to convince myself that mothering is important.
That Motherhood is ordained by God.
Until tonight, I wasn't really buying it.

I get it now, God. You gave me this beautiful, lovely, smart, fierce daughter. She was a gift to me because she is a part of my legacy. Whatever legacy I leave will be enough because it was written by you. Nobody changes the world alone. And nobody arrives in the Promised Land before it's time.

I'm going to step back and let you do your thing. I'm going to remember that it didn't start with me and it won't end with me. Lots of great women have gone before me. Lots of great women will come after me. I won't get to the Promised Land until you have prepared the place for me. And wandering in the desert, this in-between, uncertain place doesn't mean I'm lost; it only means I am faithfully following.