Alienation

Adventures in Recovery: They Will Know We Are Christians By The Fish On Our Car

May 3, 2011
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(Thanks Dwight Parker for the title, friendship and inspiration. You are a Rock Star!)

by Calulu

When is a t-shirt just a t-shirt and when is it a smug statement in the face of the world?

Recently I wore my cross to church. That’s something I almost never do and it’s not because it’s ugly. It’s not because I don’t respect what it stands for. If anything I have greater respect for it than I did during my years drinking the kool aid and toeing the proverbial line at my old patriarchal church. I do not want to dishonor what the cross represents.

My cross is beautiful, platinum set with blue sapphires and tanzanites. But I tremble over wearing such an ostentatious symbol of belief around my neck for a variety of reasons.

Back when I was a new Christian attending Possum Creek Christian Fellowship many of the people there wore emblems, t-shirts, jewelry that proudly proclaimed that they were Bible-believing Christians, as if the world couldn’t tell by the floral print cotton jumpers the ladies wore and the polyester pants and button-down shirts of the menfolk.

The t-shirts were imprinted with slogans like “The Devil Is Ugly As Sin” or “John 3:16” or various pious scripture. Bumper stickers abounded on fleets of 15 passenger rolling scrap iron vans in local church parking lots proclaiming that abortion was murder or that you need Jesus RIGHT NOW! Sometimes you’re instructed to “Honk If You Love Jesus”

I remember that my best friend, Josie, had two crosses I envied. One was gold with a stunning number of large diamonds mounted in it and the other was also gold, but a more rococo setting with garnets like drops of blood. I started to save for my tanzanite and sapphire one after wishing for a beautiful gem stone encrusted cross like Josie’s.

Now I look back and it all seems so silly, like status symbols one needs in middle school, like gang affiliations, like ridiculous couture clothing. Instead of doo-rags and those pants that sag to the ground you can hide beers in we ID ourselves with all sorts of things to provide a cultural identity in the Church. I realize now how smug, how proud, how elitist we were in our badges of self righteousness. How unapproachable we must have been in our upright Christian gear, like well-scrubbed indoctrinated cult members instead of average people who believe in God and love others. False pride and we were proud of that pride. Like lemmings lockstep marching along.

I am not even sure what it is that drives people to do things like that, label themselves or put on a public show. A couple of months ago I saw Pastor Hilltop and his non-dancing minions bedecked in t-shirts that had the church name on the back and said on the front “Random Acts Of Kindness” He and his flock were handing out hot cups of apple cider in front of Wal-Mart as their random act of kindness.

That really made me laugh, not only were they sporting matching Tees with their church name on it but they were deliberately giving people cider. Isn’t the whole point of random acts of kindness being that it’s random and you’re not shouting out to the world what you’re doing? I have to conclude this branding has more to do with “LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME I’M SOOOOOOO RIGHTEOUS!” more than any desire to ‘help’ others or show your faith.

No Charity in The Remnant ~ Part 3: Rebellion

April 14, 2011
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by Whisper Rain

Whisper ran outside, down the slope, and into a tangle of trees. She sat down in the grass, in shock. It was kind of a blur, what had happened just now in the house… something that had never happened before in her sixteen years of life. It was joked about maybe, but never for real… but this… this was dead serious.

Her parents used to feel kind of sorry for her friends who lived their lives inside a rigid cage of rules. The Rains didn’t operate that way! Whisper’s parents were her friends! But the way she had just been talked to in that house felt anything but friendly… it felt demeaning.

Denny Kenaston’s archaic chatter about “modesty” and “submission,” and warnings about “harlotry” had sounded so silly and harmless coming out of the stereo… but when it was rephrased into new rules… into new expectations for her behavior, those words were like weapons. The amount of pain they inflicted surprised her. They suggested that her individuality was evil… that her preferences were rebellious… that her independence was ungodly. She was furious. She knew she had blown up- she had shouted at her parents. She had probably sworn at them, and she knew she had slammed the door on her way out. Her heart pounded and her eyes burned… she wanted to go anywhere… anywhere but back into that house.

She looked down at her jeans. She had saved up money and bought them herself. She didn’t have very many pairs, but they were cute and flattering, and she lived in them. Whisper knew that when she stood up and went back into the house, she was expected to go straight to her room and replace them with a long, frumpy denim skirt. The thought made her sick. If she were really a “godly daughter” according to those horrible tapes, she’d probably give away her jeans. Or even throw them away so that she wouldn’t “allow another young lady to dress immodestly”… Whisper groaned. This whole thing felt embarrassingly ridiculous. Obviously she wasn’t very godly. She curled up on the ground and stayed there for a long time. It got dark.

Eventually, Whisper dragged herself up off the ground and walked back up to the house. She stared at the bright windows. Her house was beautiful. Her family was fun… maybe… maybe it wasn’t such a big deal. Maybe her parents hadn’t meant it the way that it came across. Maybe she should just wear a stupid skirt for awhile out of respect for her Dad, and the whole thing would blow over.

Something inside of her wanted to turn around and walk away that night. She remembered her aunt jokingly telling her that if she ever needed to run away, she was welcome at her house. It was tempting… just walk a couple miles to a neighbor’s and make the phone call… Whisper jerked herself back to reality and slowly walked back into the house. She carefully folded her jeans and put them away… and then she went to bed.

In the morning, she put on a skirt. Her parents smiled at her, and she fake smiled back.

Justice is No Lady: Chapter 6 ~ In Which Nate Takes Up Racquetball

April 12, 2011
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Warning: This story series contains descriptions of physical abuse.

by Defendant Rising

I tried to conceal my misery, fatigue, and desperation from the members of our new church. We had not been there very long when people began to notice how spaced-out and jumpy Tess Willoughby was. Our pastor, Mike, and our assistant pastor, Randy, both expressed concern about me.

I was pregnant for the seventh time, and I dreaded another pregnancy, birth, and recovery. The clandestine feedings of Matt had delayed this pregnancy—this baby would be two whole years younger than Matt, a personal record. Matt’s birth in 1998 had been in the hospital—my first hospital delivery—because Nate had health insurance through the law office and hospital birth was cheapest. The bright lights and fetal monitor frightened me, and the labor, though not long, was excruciating. I hemorrhaged following the birth and recovery was slow. Two years’ spacing of babies was not enough after so many babies so close together, and I knew it. I was not healed. This pregnancy would be a rough go.

By the third month carrying Abigail, I was sexually sidelined again. Nate complained and quoted Scripture at first, then mercifully seemed to lose interest—not that he ever had much interest in sex where I was concerned. I might hemorrhage after the birth, but at least I was sexually off the hook and wouldn’t be hit with those lightning-bolt cramps.

At about five months’ gestation with Abi, Nate made friends with one of his clients, whose name was Trey. Trey was into racquetball, and Nate announced that he was going to start playing racquetball with Trey a couple of nights a week. I was pleased that Nate had a hobby other than web-surfing, and the five children and I accompanied Nate to the sporting goods store to pick out racquetball equipment.

Nate had his new sport. Bored stiff with home-schooling and unable to sing for an audience, I also itched to take up a hobby of some kind, so I laid out a small garden in the back yard. Nate announced one day that I had ruined his nice lawn with my “ugly weeds” and fired up his lawn mower. As I watched my peas, beans, and flowers fly out the back of the mower and hit the fence, something inside me died. I could not get over it. There was no Bible verse for this. There was no Scripture in this. There were no devils in my garden that needed mowing down. This was bald, capricious cruelty. And it was unprovoked. I had done or said nothing. I could not point to any guilt or failing on my part that caused Nate to kill something of mine.

That was the day I began to stop loving Nate, and began to stop blaming myself for his rottenness. It didn’t happen all at once; Nate killed my love by degrees. Throughout 1999 and 2000, my husband grew more callous than ever. There were fewer endearments coming my way—fewer “honeys” and “sweethearts.” Instead, there were insults. Besides Nate’s old standby, “frigid,” I was “Ditz,” “Klutz,” “Teeny Tits,” and “The Official Willoughby Family Buttwipe.” (Nate did not change diapers, you see.) Thankfully, Nate was not around much to hurl invective at his pregnant wife. He was on the computer more, played more racquetball, had a lot more court dates.

Testing the Spirit of Quiverfull: Perfectionism & Elitism

March 1, 2011
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by Kristen Rosser ~ aka: KR Wordgazer

Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. I John 4:1

Also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them. Acts 20:30

Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage.” Galatians 5:1

The above passages warn us that not every movement that says it is following Christ’s teachings, actually is. How can we know the difference?

Jesus said “Ye shall know them by their fruits. (Matthew 7:16).” Galatians 5:22-23 says that out of the “liberty” spoken of in verse 1 of that chapter (quoted above), we should see the fruit of “love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.” If the way you and your family are being encouraged to live is a life of liberty, causing a growth of these qualities, then it is bearing good fruit.

This series asks a set of questions designed to help you determine whether following the Quiverfull movement is keeping you and your family in the liberty of Christ and bearing the fruit of the Spirit.

Do you feel guilt that you and your family could be doing better in living out the principles of godly living that are being presented to you as God’s best? Is it implied that in following these principles, you are part of a special group, called to higher things than other Christians? Do you ever feel dread or hesitation about what new biblical standards the Lord might reveal to you next, because the way you live now is already such a challenge? Do you ever find yourself putting up a “front” of family blessing and harmony for others to see? Have you seen individuals or families who fail to meet the standards, rejected and ostracized?

Here are some teachings or statements you may have heard in the Quiverfull movement:

“God has revealed to us the true, biblical model for godly homes and families. We dare to be different from ‘lukewarm’ Christians, rejecting worldly ways that are steeped in humanism.”

“So many other Christian couples are ‘planning’ their family size for the sake of their convenience, but God has not given us that option. He has called us to a life of faith and trust.”

“Your own home can become an outstanding example of how following biblical principles for godly family living will result in children who are wholeheartedly dedicated to serving the Lord in their own lives.”

“When we fulfill with excellence our high calling as wives, mothers and homemakers, we raise the standard of God’s truth to the nation.”

And here are some of the Scriptures that are emphasized:

“And Jesus said unto him, ‘No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’” Luke 9:62

“He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much, and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.” Luke 16:10

“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” Phil. 4:13 (implying that if you are truly letting Christ strengthen you, you should be able to meet all these standards)

But is this the whole counsel of the Scriptures?

I Am So Much More Than a Maiden of Virtue! Part 4 ~ Little Things

February 22, 2011
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by WanderingOne

I am a nail-biter. I don’t bite them because I’m nervous or scared or anything like that. I just…chew. My nails are ugly and jagged; short and stumpy. I hate the way they look.

Growing up my parents tried to discipline me out of the habit. It showed a lack of self-control, an inadequate ability for self-restraint. I tried to stop. I hated disappointing them. I was afraid of punishment. And yet, I never could shake the habit. I bit and chewed—perhaps it was a form of unconscious resistance: this small imperfection, this awful habit, was a small way of ensuring that my parents’ authority was not absolute. Maybe it was just a bad habit I could never kick.

In any case, my parents’ authority no longer absolute, I decided that this year was it. 2011 was going to be the year that I would quit biting my nails. Towards this end, a friend suggested that I try painting my nails. Perhaps, if they were pretty, I would be less inclined to put my hands in my mouth. It seemed like a good suggestion. I had never painted my nails before—despite having been “out” for around two years, maybe closer to two and a half, depending on how I dated it. I danced, drank alcohol, wore pants and shorts and all matter of immodest clothing, but never in my life had I painted my nails.

I opened an internet browser, and googled “how to paint your nails,” at myself for doing so. Equipped with information from the ever-reliable internet, I went to target and bought a pale shade of pink; something that would not be too noticeable, but hopefully “there” enough to keep me from biting. I returned home, put on some music by an artist whose name I would never even have known a few years ago and began the task of painting my nails.

After I finished, I looked down at my hands to scrutinize the result. Something I never expected would happen, happened. I, the girl who could dance and drink and cut her hair, stared down at my hands to find myself feeling guilty. “Who paints their nails? What sort of person have I become? Jezebel. Slut. Vain, foolish, woman. What am I doing? Jezebel. How could I do this? Why would I ever do this? I’m becoming an awful person.” My brain could not stop. I could not turn off the guilt. I tried to reason with myself “Lots of normal people who are not sluts or whores or Jezebels paint their nails. I did nothing wrong. Anyway, you’ve done way worse than painting your nails. This is a silly, stupid thing to feel guilty over.”

It didn’t work. After talking with an ex-fundamentalist friend, I decided to sleep on it and hope I felt better in the morning.

Adventures in Recovery ~ Hi Ho Trigger!

January 25, 2011
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by Calulu

I’m not talking about Roy Roger’s stuffed horse that rests in the Smithsonian either. I’m talking about those emotional triggers that stun us, slap us upside of the head when we least expect it, pulling us right back into the powerlessness of the moment. Unfortunately for most of us that moment is usually negative, bordering on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

For at least four years after I left the toxic environment of my old church it wouldn’t take much to trigger me, a snub by a former friend in the dressing room of the local gym or at the grocery store, certain hymns or songs, or places. One minute I’d be pulled together, moving and grooving and the next I’d be shaking, trying not to vomit or a weepy mess.

It got so bad about a year after I left that church it’s a miracle I didn’t take my life. I remember a ride home in the dark from work the night before Thanksgiving listening to the local Christian radio station. I started crying hard, that type of crying that you feel like you cannot catch your breath and you just know you have huge unattractive snot bubbles forming around your nose. Crazy crying.

Turns out that many of the same people that had tried their hardest to torment me because I dared leave were calling in to say what they were thankful for. Sure, others did too, but it seemed like the overwhelming majority were people I knew all too well from my old church and the other like-minded local churches. Hearing those sanctimonious people with pompous piety spouting out how grateful they were for some pretty self serving things. Lies upon lies tumbling out. I wanted to die but restrained myself to beating on the dashboard and shrieking. Thankfully there was little traffic that night because I’m sure I was driving like a maniac.

I shook, stewed and fumed for days. This radio broadcast triggered me so severely it was sort of like being victimized all over again. It robbed me of the joy you usually have gathering friends and family together for the holidays. Thanksgiving was glum and the Christmas season was headed that way before I did two things that finally broke the spell of the trigger.

First I went into therapy with a very empathetic caring psychologist who helped me own my feelings, who told me they were wrong to treat me that way. She helped me start to heal and move past some of what I was experiencing. We talked a great deal about triggers. I would recommend treatment to anyone having troubles dealing with the triggers of walking away from toxic religion of any type. It does make a difference.

The second thing I did was kind of nutty. But it helped me. During December this particular radio station had a special evening drive time listener thing where you could request three songs to be played during the evening commute. For weeks I heard people write in with some of the same sanctimonious language that triggered me so badly at Thanksgiving. But the rancid cherry on the ice cream sundae of fakery was that they all started signing it cutesy, like Mary Christmas or Jenny Jingle Belle. Gag.

I wrote in as if I were the Grinch, pointing out a few things that were making my heart grow three sizes too small and if they didn’t want me to arrive in my sleigh with my little dog Max they should heed me. I signed it Barb Humbug.

Adventures in Recovery ~ Surfing

January 4, 2011
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by Calulu

One of the great enduring passions of my life has been surfing. I’ve surfed off and on since I was in my teens. My father taught me and we’d scour the weather reports for tidal surges during hurricane season in south Louisiana, waiting till the waves came. The Gulf of Mexico is like a tepid bath, calm, warm and blue-green most of the time. We chased the storms to ride the waves, cruising over to Pensacola or Destin, Florida to ride the wild surf.

I loved surfing. It was by turns like dancing with the ocean and carrying out a battle. I felt powerful, warrior-like when I surfed. There was just nothing else like it.

Years later after I married and had children I stopped surfing for a long stretch. My turns on the board frightened my husband and he made me promise I’d not surf or teach surfing to the kids while they were young. It didn’t help that this is a sport where even the pros sometimes have a ride that ends in death. Add in the disapproval of the church and other believers and I shelved my surfing for about 13 years.

But once my son turned 13 and my baby, my daughter turned 10 years old I started surfing again and undertook teaching them as well. We’d pack the car and head out to Virginia Beach or up to Ocean City for a day or two all summer long. I treasure those days still even if I had to sneak around and not breath a word of my unladylike rebellion to anyone at church.

We spent a week in Florida that first surfing summer, on the Atlantic side, arriving a day or so after a minor hurricane had passed through the area. The rough waters of the Atlantic were a little extra intense that first sunny day, so I cautioned the kids and out we went. I remember I was teaching them about surfing etiquette, how to determine who rides the incoming wave and calling it if you’re going to ride it.

Because of the rough waters, the waves coming in were a little bigger than normal so the first really huge wave I called as mine, paddling rapidly to get on it for a great ride.

Steadfast Daughters in a Quivering World ~ Part 6: Soul-Binding

December 17, 2010
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[Note: this series is dedicated to Quivering Daughtersby the former-Quiverfull moms at No Longer Quivering.]
by Daisy

My name is Daisy.

I am a good person…but I was a bad parent.

Tragically, by choosing QF/patriarchal fundamentalist methodology as the pattern for my home, believing that it would provide the very best insurance against messing up with parenthood, I messed up. I messed up badly. I hurt my kids and, worse, I silenced them when they tried to tell me about it. Criticizing your parents is, of course, disrespectful and therefore opening a dangerous door that may lead a child ultimately to rebelling against God – and as I believed that put my child in danger of hellfire, of course, I conscientiously nipped dissent in the bud at every opportunity.

As it happens, my eyes were just opening to the dreadful truth that QF had sold me a bill of goods when my oldest child found her voice. I was on the way out of QF teaching, patriarchal Christianity and my marriage when that beautiful daughter tried to describe her pain to me by starving herself almost to death. Shortly after she began her lengthy treatment for anorexia, another of my children found a way to tell me that her soul was in agony. A razor blade and a veritable hill of pills were her loud-hailer.

If you, like me, raised your children in QF until at least their early teens, you may have already had to endure the sorrow of watching your children rise up and call you Monster, or at least, Failure. If you haven’t yet, it is my opinion that, you probably will. And, believe it or not, this is a good, good thing. I do hope your child does not need to resort to the dramatic acts my oldest two did in order to gain your attention, in fact, I would plead with you to listen to them well before that becomes necessary. But I want to encourage you with this:

As parents we should not be afraid of the volume or power or ugliness of the moment – or indeed the many moments – when our child finds her young adult voice. What we really should be afraid of is her silence. That compliant 25-year-old looks and sounds like an adult, but she has a 12-year-old soul. Like the tiny feet of Chinese girls crushed and tightly bound in rags by well-intentioned parents to prevent their healthy growth, that child may be the victim of a sort of a ‘soul-binding’. This disastrous mistake may have doomed her to endure both a crippling emotional agony and an ongoing rage that her mother could dare to insist that such a violent and abusive act was perpetrated because of love.