*takes deep breath*
*pops knuckles*
I was reminded recently, via a Twitter exchange, of how I got to where I am today spiritually. It’s been a tough road, and one that I’m reminded of more often now that The Munchkin is around. So, without further ado, and with full knowledge that some (many) family members and friends will not enjoy this particular post, I will now yank off the bandage.
I was raised in a Missionary Baptist church in rural Alabama. Until I was 10, my mom, older sister (younger ‘adopted’ sister appears later), father and I attended Sunday mornings and nights and also Wednesday nights, pretty much without fail. We sang ‘specials’ together (my sister would play the piano and the 4 of us would sing). We participated in Christmas plays, we dragged ourselves out of bed for sunrise services on Easter. Mom was a member of the women’s ministry group. My father was being considered for deaconship.
Then….my parents divorced. My father chose to leave the church. My mom continued making sure we were there every time the doors opened, and we leaned on many of the members for moral support and sometimes financial help. Church was a place of solace. It was a place of hugs and humor and dang good cooking.
This next part is tough. We’ll see if I actually have the nerve to post the entire thing or edit this part out. If you’re reading this, I must have hung in there.
When I was about 11, I was molested by a man in our church. In the church. We were having a church supper, and like most times, I went into the sanctuary while I waited for the food to be prepared so I could play the piano. (At the time, we had moved out of our house into a tiny trailer, and there wasn’t room for ours). He came in and sat down on the front pew, listening. He had creeped me out my entire life, but this night, as I went to walk quickly past him back toward the fellowship hall, he grabbed me. He hugged me, and at first, I thought,”Ok, he’s just hugging.” Then, he started kissing all over my neck and rubbing my body. It took a few minutes, but I wiggled free finally and ran to the bathroom.
My parents didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m not sure very many parents ever do. For once that year, they seemed to agree on something, and it was that I was over-dramatizing things. But Sunday after Sunday, I tried my best to get past that man at the church door without having to hug him.
And then he died.
Enough about him.
I grew up, moved to Mobile for my last 2 year of high school, then went on to the University of Alabama in Huntsville. My home church offered to pay me to come home on Sundays to play the piano, so I accepted. The drive was an hour, and it meant that I could continue to see this church family with whom I’d grown up.
But this weird thing started to happen. I started to learn about the world. I realized that there was a lot more to things than my piddly little perspective. I’d managed to make it through high school sporting my True Love Waits ring and abstaining from, well, everything. And suddenly, none of that seemed like as big a deal anymore.
My first two years of college, I still mostly behaved. I dated, but never ’rounded the bases’. I found that the horniest guys (the ones with more than two arms it seemed) were the ones I met at the Baptist Student Union. I went to parties, but only as the designated driver. I came home on the weekends to cruise (see dating post), showed up bright and early for church on Sunday morning, then returned to college on Sunday afternoons.
While cruising, I met my fair share of morons and creeps and jerks. But then I met J. J was funny and smart and cute and I liked him immediately. We talked on the phone for a couple weeks, saw each other when I came home, and I was smitten.
Two weeks after I met him, he died in a car accident.
Now, this to me was the ultimate jab from God. I’d gone through all these punks and shitheads, and I finally meet a guy who has the potential to be fabulous, and he dies. I got to meet his mother at the funeral home. I watched the mourners pat and hug and console his ex-girlfriend and only one of them knew who I was.
(I promise there’s a point to all this. Maybe it’s time you get up, stretch your legs, grab a drink. I’ll be here when you get back.)
This loss triggered a downward spiral that had apparently been gradually building for a while. My family didn’t understand why I was grieving a man I had barely known. They didn’t understand that THAT was the point. I began to be unable to function. I slept all the time. I spent long hours on AOL (dates me, doesn’t it?) but didn’t want to hang out with anyone in real life.
Then, one night, when driving back to the dorm from grabbing some groceries, the thought occurred to me that if I just drove off that overpass, it would all be over. I wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I would be free.
And that thought scared the shit out of me.
I found myself not driving back to my dorm, but to where my friend A lived. And I barged into her apartment and spilled it all. All the hurt, the grief, the sadness, the despair. The suicidal feelings.
And she listened. And hugged me. And listened more. She helped me realize that my feelings were valid feelings and that I was struggling with depression and that it was time to see a doctor and/or counselor. And that I wasn’t weird, and I wasn’t a freak, and I WASN’T CRAZY.
In a real way, A saved my life.
But there’s something about A that I haven’t mentioned.
She’s lesbian.
She had ‘come out’ to me a few weeks before this, and I had struggled with the news. As far as I knew, she was the first lesbian I’d ever been around. I wondered how I was supposed to act around her, what I was supposed to say and not say. And I’d somehow come to terms with the news. And now, she was my champion.
The next week, I arrived at church just like always, and marched up the stairs to the College and Career Sunday School class. A man with whom I’d spent many an hour with over the years was our teacher, and while I can’t remember what the original point of the lesson was, I still remember him pulling out a Bible verse that basically said all homosexuals were going to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
This many years later, it’s really hard to remember how difficult that class was, but I remember that it was the first time I’d ever actually argued against some doctrinal mandate. I suppose until then, I’d just taken my religious medicine without complaint. But this time was different. This man was telling me that this woman whom I considered a timely angel was destined to burn in hell for eternity, just because she was attracted to women and not men.
So, I asked him to clarify. Really, just because they’re homosexual, there’s no hope for them??
Nope.
But…
No buts. It says so, right here in the Old Testament.
That got my dander up. So, Teach, I thought that Jesus dying on the cross and coming back from the dead was to cleanse our sins and fulfill the OT?
…..
If we’re still supposed to be following all that OT hoopla, it says right here that all divorced women are to be burned at the stake. Would you like to walk down those steps and light my mother on fire, or should I?
……
I continued to attend that church, but not quite as regularly. I found myself not accepting the “because I told you so” answers as readily as before. I couldn’t accept the status quo anymore, and that made attending difficult.
I eventually stopped going.
Over the years, I had my wild phase(s). I did finally ’round the bases’ (with a hometown boy, oddly enough). I got (get) drunk. I spent a summer more high than not. I lived with a boyfriend without marrying him. I cursed, I hung out with lesbians and gay men (even fell in love with one) and drag queens. And I continued to grow, and to learn. I still talk to God, and thank Him for seeing me through the stupid things I did and tried. I beg Him to watch over my family.
The split from church hasn’t been a big deal in a long time. Until The Munchkin.
So my mother still attends the same church. And my mother is the only active grandparent in The Munchkin’s life. She gets her at least once or twice a month for most of the weekend. And she takes TM to church.
And I struggle. Because The Husband and I don’t attend church, those visits and the Bible verses at daycare are the only exposure The Munchkin gets to biblical teachings. I strive to teach my daughter the right way to live and love and accept, I just don’t always seal it with a biblical parable. I want my daughter to grow up more understanding of the ‘other’ ways that are out there in the world, more accepting of people that are different than we are. And I’m scared that many of the same fears that were drilled into my head when I was a kid are going to warp her views too. Hell, I was scared to listen to Paula Abdul music for a year because a Sunday School teacher showed us a book that made a case about every pop artist out there being Satanic. I want her to experience the love and the culture and the music, but not absorb the ignorance. I say ignorance not as an insult, but to express lack of exposure and understanding.
So, now you understand why it takes me a minute to answer when someone asks about my ‘religion’. I feel like I should be able to check “It’s Complicated”. I do believe there’s a God, but I also believe in loving thy neighbor above all and letting live. I believe I can only control my own actions, and try to live the most fruitful and loving life I can. I worry about my daughter attending church, but I’m glad that my mother takes her. So, my normal answer is that I’m just more spiritual than religious.
God bless.
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