Posted in Poetry & Mere Musings

My Mother’s Burden

Before my parents’ decision to get a divorce, or rather, what caused them to have that conversation in the first place, what I called The Thing That Ruined My Life, I was a high school freshman and relatively content with my life, but all that changed during the first month of school. Summer was still settling, as it was early September, and was prevalent in the sticky, humid Floridian air that caused hair follicles to spew out in wild and crazy directions. The weekends of swimming in murky rivers and eating catfish nuggets were closing in on me fast.

Friday morning, I woke up, stretched cramped, stiff limbs to their capacity, and got dressed. Today was the end of the week and I couldn’t have been happier—it was not a good week. I walked downstairs, being careful not to step on the second to last stair because it was weak, and went to Raven’s room to get her ready for school. This is normally Elizabeth’s job, but she’s been guilt-ridden ever since Daddy told her he wanted a divorce, so I have to be in charge of domestic and motherly duties.

“Ravie, wake up,” I said as I opened my sister’s bedroom door. All I got was a muffled groan in response. I tapped my foot, weighing my options. I yanked her blanket off the bed and dragged her to her feet. She stared at me with what I thought was annoyance and stuck her tongue out at me. I smirked. After stretching and yawning, she looked for something clean to wear. I hadn’t done laundry yet so her wardrobe choices were slim.

“Is Mommy taking us to school or are we walking?” she asked, trying to decide if she wanted to wear a purple or an orange shirt. I wish she’d hurry up.

“If you don’t hurry and get dressed then yes, Elizabeth will have to drive us and you know if that happens she’ll be upset cuz she won’t be at work early.”

“You shouldn’t call Mommy by her first name like that, Abby.”

“Yea? Well, you shouldn’t take so long to put on a shirt and some jeans.” I blew out air. “I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

Five minutes later, Raven came out, dressed in blue jeans and a faded orange shirt, and sat beside me. She put her head in my lap. I played with her hair until she sat up again.

She looked at me, smiled, and said, “I love you, Abby.” Her smile, I thought, got brighter.

I grinned back and said, “I love you, too Rav-”

“Raven Joyce and Abigail Nicole, get in the car now!” Elizabeth said, interrupting our conversation. We hadn’t even heard her come outside. She slammed the door behind her and hurried to the car. After Raven and I scrambled in the car, Elizabeth drove us to our separate schools. The drive was quiet except for the sound of soft rock music playing from the radio and Elizabeth’s never-ending tirade about how she was late for work. Elizabeth glared at me from the corner of her eye. I already knew that whatever she said wouldn’t be pleasing or lovely.

“Why didn’t you have Raven dressed at 8:45 like I’ve repeatedly told you?”

“But Mommy, it’s not Abby’s fault. I-”

“Raven, hush! I’m talking to your sister.” Turning her attention back to me, she said, “Well, Abby? Would you like to explain to me why you’ve made me late to work this time?”

I knew that no answer I gave would be sufficient for her, so I didn’t give one. I sighed and stared out the window. After dropping Raven off, she drove me to school in silence. It was an uneventful day and I had wished it would end soon. I hadn’t been disappointed. The only light in my dismal day was Art class, where I got to work on an art project with Rose, Pastor Charles’ daughter. She was pretty quiet, a contrast to the rest of the girls in our class. Because of our parents’ infidelity, we had become close friends. At first, it was awkward, but we were more used to each other now and I was grateful for her friendship.

I walked into Mr. Jones’ classroom, paintbrushes and different hues of violet, magenta, and fire-engine red spewed on every desk and some even on the floor. I took my seat near the front, at a table that seated two, in the second row that was right next to the window.

“Hey Abby, have you decided what color to paint the flowers?” Rose asked after getting our finished-but-not-yet-painted canvas.

I sighed. “I don’t care. You pick. Just any color but violet.” I laid my head on the desk in frustration.

Rose picked up on my mood and didn’t let me get away with my nonchalance. She touched my wrist with her index and middle fingers, which were covered in evergreen paint, pursed her round lips, and asked, “What’s up, Abby? And don’t say ‘nothing’ cuz I know something is wrong.”

I hated it when she wouldn’t let me all moody. I decided to give in. “It’s Elizabeth. She got all fussy and shit cuz I didn’t have Ravie dressed by 8:45. That kid takes forever to get ready!”

“Is that the only thing?”

I sighed dramatically, again. “No, not really. It’s just…ugh! I hate what your dad and my mom did to both our families. Dad moved out, like officially, early this morning. I heard them arguing and I think some things were thrown around. I hope Ravie didn’t hear them. God, when did our lives turn into a fucking soap opera?! We weren’t always this dysfunctional, ya know?”

I said that last part in a whisper that was more so for me than for her. Trying to convince myself of my family’s non-dysfunctionality was better than admitting the truth that I couldn’t escape from—we were, indeed, very dysfunctional now, thanks to Elizabeth and Charles. It had been a week since The Thing That Ruined My Life and I had no one I trusted to talk about it with except Rose. I picked up a paintbrush that was already drenched in the shade of blue depression and half-heartedly stroked our canvas with light, airy brush strokes.

The rest of the class was a circus seeking attention from Mr. Jones however they could get it. Screeches of “Mr. Jones, look what I did!” and “Check this out, Mr. Jones!” filled the once empty air like a hoard of banshees. I kinda felt sorry for the poor guy. He was a gangly, skinny, glasses-wearing, nerd-king with mud-hued hair and eyes the color of the ocean at sunrise. He was new here, came in about two years ago from Florida State University. I think he told us at one point he had majored in Art History. Or was it English? I forgot, but he was walking around, checking out my classmates’ projects. We were supposed to draw and paint something meaningful, so I chose a flower because of Elizabeth. She was the one who got me interested in art, but since her infidelity, I hadn’t been too keen on drawing, painting, or even looking at flowers. I wanted to paint something dark, something red and dismal, but once we chose a topic we couldn’t switch, and Rose would never go for that anyway.

Mr. Jones walked over to me, as I was still painting with the saddest shade of blue ever created, and said, “Abby, looks like you haven’t done much with your piece…everything okay?”

No, everything’s not okay! My life is over and it’s all because of my mom and my pastor!! “…yeah, I’m okay, Mr. J.”

“Alright, ladies,” he said, addressing both me and Rose, “I expect to have the finished product on my desk by next Monday.”

He walked away after that, preoccupied with two students who had managed to start a paint melee.

“Crazy, huh?” Rose commented on the paint war behind us.

“Yea,” I said, with no feeling in my voice.

“…maybe you should tell your mom how you feel?” she asked carefully, like she didn’t want to upset me further.

I gave her an are-you-crazy look and shot back, “Have you told your dad how you feel? I mean, he’s the pastor for crying out loud! It’s only been a week since you caught him and Elizabeth in bed together! My family is ruined and will have to move to another church, eventually, and you honestly think that telling her how I feel is gonna change anything?!”

“It might…” she said, quietly. I couldn’t believe how naïve she was being. When the last bell rang, I ran out as fast as I could and headed for Raven’s school so we could walk home.

#

As we walked home from school, the trees mocked me with their gorgeous green leaves and waving branches. I wanted to break them all off and ground them into paste. I watched silently as Raven lowered her eight-year-old body to the roadside to pick up a bushel of violets. I wished she hadn’t. Violets were Elizabeth’s favorite. She used to paint pictures of them all over the house, making it come alive with color. When I was younger, we painted violets on my bedroom walls, but not anymore. I hated violets now. Above us, the blue sky tormented me with its optimism. I hadn’t wanted to be optimistic. I wanted to smash everything in sight. Raven skipped beside me, flowers still clutched in her death-like grip. I wanted to take those purple weeds and smash them to the ground. Observing her pick flowers reminded me of Elizabeth and how we were when I was younger. Before Raven was born, I had Elizabeth all to myself. When she was born and was old enough to talk, the sibling rivalry I had anticipated never came—in its place was a strong sisterly love. Elizabeth had changed ever since the infidelity. Before that, she was “Mommy” but since then, she’d been “Elizabeth” to me. Years ago, she was attentive and caring. Always singing some song, either Gospel or jazz. She was partial to Donnie McClurkin and Maxwell, though she reserved the latter for days when we didn’t have church. Now, she just works. No more singing or painting, just work. Apparently, Raven and I were invisible because she’d maybe talk to us twice a week. Sometimes, we didn’t hear from her at all, unless she was yelling at one of us.

Raven, with her eyes closed as if remembering something of importance, smiled to herself and giggled in a way that showed her innocence. I stood in front of her with my hands on my hips, rolled my eyes and sighed loudly in an effort to hurry her along. I hoped she’d gotten the hint to walk faster, but that was wishful thinking. Against my better judgment, I smiled to myself. Raven gazed up at me then, right when the corners of my lips turned upward in reminiscence. She had a strange expression on her face. Not curiosity or fear, but it was unusual to see on an eight-year-old. It was as if she knew that something was wrong, but she couldn’t place her finger on exactly what. I had a bad feeling that she was about to ask me something I didn’t know the answer to. She did.

“Hey Abby, when’s daddy coming back? Is he on a business trip or something?”

“What’d you mean, Ravie?” I played dumb, pretended I didn’t know what she meant. I needed to know how much she knew.

“Well,” she said cautiously, almost like she was conscious of something she shouldn’t have known, “I heard a car door slam really loud this morning, like really early. It was still dark outside. I got scared so I went in Mommy and Daddy’s room, but Daddy wasn’t in there. I was gonna ask Mommy if she knew where he was but she was crying real hard, and her room was messy like a tornado, so I didn’t bother her and I saw you in the living room writing in your journal last night, so I didn’t bother you either. I just went back to bed.”

She knew more than I had anticipated. I had no idea how to answer her question. I sucked in my breath, afraid that if I even dared to breathe hard, she’d hear the uncertainty. I figured honesty was best because that’s what Daddy had taught us. What he failed to teach me was how to explain divorce, or at the very least, separation to my kid sister. I sighed. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Daddy got off easy, he got to leave.  Meanwhile, Raven and I were stuck here, dealing with the aftermath. The only reason why he left instead of Elizabeth was because he didn’t own the house. The house was in her name, not his. I saw the house information once when I was playing pirates with Raven. I could understand why he left, he didn’t want to be around his cheating wife and have us hearing them cuss and scream at each other. It still hurt though that he got out and we didn’t.

At 16, I was hurt and dealt with my dad’s leaving by bottling up all my emotions inside me; I figured why let them out when I have to be strong for Raven? Sometimes, I allowed myself cry at night, because I missed Daddy and just wanted to act like a kid instead of a miniature adult. The only constant emotion I ever felt these days was anger because Elizabeth chose infidelity over faithfulness and had ruined many lives. Our destitute excuse of a mother wasn’t much help to us lately. She was probably dealing with her own grief and guilt about cheating on Daddy with Pastor Charles by becoming a workaholic. I knew that she thought working was the only thing that gave her life meaning.

“Abby,” Raven called me again, interrupting my thoughts about Elizabeth. This time she was whining. I hated that.

“What?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I sighed. This kid was really starting to annoy me. “I don’t know when Daddy’s coming back, okay? I wish I did, but I don’t. He’s probably never coming back and it’s all Elizabeth and Pastor Charles’ fault! Happy now?”

I realized two seconds too late that my response probably wasn’t the best way to handle the situation. I had just wanted her to stop whining. She looked at me like I just force-fed her Brussels sprouts. Her face contorted as she cried loudly and, as if on cue from God Himself, the once bright sky became sunless and cloudy. Before I could blink, gigantic raindrops cascaded from the sky and soaked me and Raven in a matter of mere minutes. I got down on one knee, hit my kneecap on the wet, slippery curb on the way down, and pulled her to my chest, so that no one who passed by would hear her wailing. After a while, she calmed down. We ran the rest of the way home. The evening rain we had walked through turned into a gentle sprinkle by the time we reached the driveway. We were tempted to play in the mud, which would have, inevitably, made Elizabeth livid, and I didn’t want Raven to get sick, so we scurried inside the house, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. That didn’t last long because Elizabeth caught me trying to run upstairs before the water that was dripping off my clothes splashed on anything important.

Standing at the bottom of the staircase, scowling, she called me back down. “Where have you been? Why the hell are you so wet? And don’t you have enough decency to dry yourself before you come into my house? You look terrible!”

The only answer I gave was silence. My palms were sweaty and I swore my heart was beating so loud the neighbors could hear. I thought, foolishly, that if I didn’t answer her then she’d leave me alone. I was wrong.

While rubbing her temples, she said, “Abby, I don’t have time for this! I have a huge assignment to finish for the museum before midnight tonight.  Now, go dry off and make dinner.”

“But there’s hardly any food in the kitch-”

“What did I just say?” Her question was more of a statement than something she wanted an answer to. Her nostrils flared and she narrowed her eyes at me.

I tried unsuccessfully to imitate a mouse-like behavior when I noticed that she was glaring at me. Before I could’ve blinked, she raced to her office to get to her first love, work, and slammed the door behind her. After going upstairs and drying off, I slumped into the kitchen barefoot, my feet making swirly patterns of the dust that made its home on the floor. I’ll sweep in here once Raven’s asleep, I told myself. I opened the freezer not expecting much to be there. I was not disappointed. One lone frozen pepperoni pizza was begging to be cooked, so I took it out and put it in the oven. As I waited for the pizza to cook, I called Raven to dinner. She was in her pajamas with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong, Ravie?” I asked, concerned.

“I want Mommy back.” She had tears in her eyes and tried not to cry. She sniffled.

“Well, what do you think we should do, Ravie?”

“Hmm…we could replace her paint brushes with glue sticks…”

“Or take her keys and hide them?”

“Maybe we could break all her expensive stuff?”

“I don’t know, but we gotta do something,” I said with a huff, mentally exhausted from trying to scheme Elizabeth back into motherhood.

At that moment, my eyes landed on a vase, the one that one of her coworkers at the museum had given her. It was tall, sleek, and looked to be worth at least $1800 (I think it was imported from Thailand or China or somewhere exotic).  It sat on a step stool near the entrance of the kitchen, situated so that if a person were leaning on the wall and wasn’t careful, she could accidently kick the stool, thus breaking the vase. I was fueled by anger at Elizabeth, and a little bit of regret, so I went for it. I leaned on the wall and kicked out with my left foot. The vase, which held no violets or other plants, shattered in slow motion, it seemed. Since Elizabeth’s office was right next to the kitchen, I knew she heard the loud clatter. I just hoped my first attempt at getting Elizabeth back was worth her anger at breaking her favorite vase.

Elizabeth came out of her office then, eyes like saucers, and yelled with all the authority of a wrathful mother, “What the hell happened in here? I’m trying to work-” She gasped when she saw her beloved vase broken into miniscule pieces. “Who. Broke. My. Vase?” she said every word slowly so that her anger was amplified.

Raven and I looked at each other, both afraid to speak up. After a few seconds, I decided to confess. “I…I did it. I was leaning on the wall and accidently kicked my foot out and it uh, fell off the little step stool thing. I’m sorry.”

I stood silent, waiting for the wrath that was sure to come but never came. She surprised me with silence. I almost thought our plan worked, but I noticed her eyes seemed glassy, like they were covered with an invisible film that only she was aware of. She looked right through me.

“Clean this up,” she said with hardly any feeling in her voice, after what seemed like a million years of silence.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t so I obliged to her demand as she returned back to her work. That’s it. It’s over. We lost her forever.

Raven saw the distress on my face and hugged me tight. The warm comfort of a sisterly hug did wonders for the broken soul, or at least I thought so. She smiled and playfully hit my arm. I smiled slowly, as an idea formed in my head.

“Hey, Ravie,” I said, as my grin practically split my face in half, “I’ve got the perfect way to get Elizabeth back.”

She was cautious, curious. She picked up her glass of milk, took a long sip, put it down again, and rested her chin on her hands, waiting for me to reveal my genius plan.

“Ravie, I need you to break my arm so Elizabeth will be out of work and we could have her to ourselves, at least for a little while.”

“How am I gonna do that?”

“Well, you could push me off the bed or down the stairs.”

She thought about it for a bit. “Are you sure about this?”

I huffed, annoyed. “Yes! Do you want Elizabeth back or don’t you?”

“I do, I do!”

“Then pick one: bed or stairs?”

“If we have no more choices, then I pick…bed!”

“Alright, bed it is then. We’ll do it tomorrow when she’s home from work all day…”

The next words out of my little sister’s mouth were ones that I most definitely hadn’t expected, but she was smiling so I should’ve seen it coming. “You miss Mommy, too, don’t you Abby?”

My jaw dropped, but I quickly recovered. What could I say to that? No way was I about to admit that I missed Elizabeth to Raven. She questioned me more. Wasn’t it easier to just tell Elizabeth how I felt instead of breaking my arm? What if my plan didn’t work? I gave no answer, but told her what to do for Operation: Broken Arm. Perhaps I was mean, or maybe passive-aggressive, but for me to have been vulnerable and admitted my feelings to anyone, especially the one who had ruined my life, would’ve taken a miraculous act of God, and I hadn’t exactly been talking to Him as of late. No, I vowed never to tell her how I truly felt. Besides, it had been all too easy to pretend that everything was fine. After we finished the pizza and finalized the plan, we went to bed. The moonlight from my bedroom window crept in and casted haunting shadows on the walls and cracked floorboards, but I was too exhausted to care.

#

The next day, Saturday, was warm and incredibly inviting. Elizabeth was off and today was the only day she allowed herself to rest. The irony of the situation, that I was about to interrupt her only relaxation day with my devious, manipulative plan, was not lost on me. I didn’t care. Even though I was still infuriated with her, I was determined to do whatever it took to get Elizabeth back to the place of motherhood.  When Elizabeth was in her office painting, Raven decided to change into a flowery dress, for no reason whatsoever, while I waited in my room. When she returned, her eyes darted everywhere but the bed, which I was sitting on.

“Are you sure about this, Abby? Can’t we do something else to get Mommy’s attention?” she said, her was voice shaky.

“No, we can’t. This is the only way.”

“But-”

“Look, do you want Elizabeth back or don’t you?”

She silently consented and we went ahead with the plan. I had to lift her onto the bed because it was so high (it was one of those high, canopy beds). We started jumping on the bed and even though I’d have never admitted it, I enjoyed it. All that enjoyment turned to pain as the plan went into action. Raven pushed me harder than I thought she would, like she was getting rid of her own anger she felt towards Elizabeth. Gravity took over the rest. I fell, landed on my arm, and after soon heard a loud popping sound. I heard myself scream, but it sounded far away. Elizabeth rushed into the room and scooped me in her arms. Our plan was executed with all the precision of a cat that succeeds in cornering and capturing a mouse—I couldn’t be more pleased with Raven or myself, in spite of the horrendous pain I felt. Before everything went black, I heard her whisper “I love you, Abby” in my ear.

#

From that moment, Elizabeth was the attentive, jovial mother of my youth. We laughed and painted again. She wasn’t at work constantly anymore and actually made time for me and Raven. I had even started calling her “Mommy” again. I loved every minute of our newfound relationship, but I still hadn’t told Mommy how I felt. In the month it took my arm to completely heal, and the divorce to be finalized, I realized that I was still hurt by her actions, even though our relationship had gotten better. I hadn’t been able to hold my feelings in for long though. After a particularly challenging day at school, I stormed upstairs to my room and slammed my book bag on the floor, which landed with a loud clunk! In my peripheral vision, I saw Mommy sitting cross-legged on my bed, messing up the sheets, with a book in her hand. I ignored her as she bit her lip. I knew she wanted me to speak first, tell her what was wrong, but I was stubborn, so the tension between us grew.

Finally, after eons of waiting in silence, she said, “Abby, what’s going on?” Her tone was gentle and sweet but it didn’t go past the surface of my ears. I wanted to tell her where she could go, but that would’ve been disrespectful. For months, I’d been holding my tongue. This time though, I decided I’d let her have it.

“Mommy, how could you cheat on Daddy with Pastor Charles? How could you ruin our lives like that? What were you thinking?” I tried to keep my voice calm, neutral, but I was too fired up.  Even though we were having this conversation a month too late, it still felt good to get that out. I glanced over at Mom. She was crying and I heard her sniff. She looked up at me, her eyes were full of guilt, shame, and the painful knowledge that she single-handedly ruined multiple lives.

“I can’t stand you,” I said, even though I didn’t really mean it.

“I know. You have every right to be upset with me, but here…” She handed me a sealed envelope. “Inside is a letter I’ve written explaining everything. Read it.”

“I don’t want your stupid letter! Why the hell did you ruin my life?!”

At hearing me cuss, the lioness in her sprung up. “Excuse me? Who you think you talkin’ to? Cuz you definitely ain’t talkin’ to me. Abagail, so help me God if you ever cuss in my house again…”

She slapped me, suddenly, and continued to be belligerent. I tuned her out. I kept my face straight, even though it hurt, but inside, I was glad for making her angry. I put on my best “sorry, Mommy” face. “I’m sorry Mommy. It won’t happen again.” Finally, you’re showing emotions.

“See that it doesn’t…Abby, I’m so sorry that I hurt you and Raven and you dad, I really am. I know you won’t understand it now, but I had a reason for doing what I did, though that doesn’t excuse my actions. Your dad is a good man, but he’s a workaholic like I am. He was hardly ever home…”

I was silent as I headed for the door.

“If it’s any consolation, Charles is stepping down from his pastoral role. His wife told the congregation last Sunday. But we’ll start looking for another church soon. I’m so sorry. If I could go back and undo what I did, I would…” she said in a muffled whisper.

As I turned the knob, I resisted the urge to scoff, even though my back was to her, softly shut the door, and left her to deal with herself. Despite her attempts to make amends, I knew that she still hadn’t forgiven herself. I wished that I could have been able to tell her that underneath all the rage and ill feelings I was still wrestling with, I was willing to forgive her, if she’d let me. I headed to the porch to read her letter. The yoke of my mother’s burden—and my anger—had been tight around me for too long. It was time to let go.

Posted in Christian Life & Theology, Stuff No One Talks About

Musings of a Wanderer

I don’t think I’ve ever really explained my site title or domain. So, I want to take some time to do that.

When I started this blog, back in February 2017, it was during a time where I was doubting God and questioning/abhorring Christianity. I know, what a terrible thing for me, a Christian, to say, but it’s true. I was wandering, drifting out into an unfamiliar wildness comprised of a vast marketplace of ideas and ideologies. It was a lot, too much for me at times.

Looking back, I’m not sure what exactly I was looking for. Maybe an explanation for all the injustices in my life or maybe I wanted an excuse to leave my Maker so I could pretend to be Him. I wanted truth. I wanted to belong to something bigger than myself. I wanted love, eternally. I wanted the stories my mother told me in childhood to be true. I wanted to know God for myself, not through the lens of familial relationships or church pastors.

After wrestling intellectually with my childhood faith, via my academically and apologetics-minded professor-friends, and emotionally with the local Christians around me who loved me with persistence and steadfastness despite my inability to accept or rest in it, God thought to call me back to Him using a fire pit. How creative.

That’s not surprising to me though. What is surprising is that the truth didn’t punch me hard in the chest. I didn’t slam headfirst into it. It came slow and tentative, like a turtle moving down a sidewalk. For 8 months, I sat and wrestled and tore my Bible apart; I wandered into the truth (see what I did there?).

The word wander means “to move about without a fixed course, aim, or goal”. Ironically, the word also means “to go astray (as from a course)”. I fulfilled both of those definitions in my sojourn from and to the truth. That being said, I still find myself wandering.

For several months, I haven’t been able to open my Bible because I perceive the ancient script to be mere words on pages. I should not admit that as a professing Christian, but if I am not honest, then what good will come of this? I want to rip my Bible apart (again), though the motive for this is unknown to me. I’m not angry at God. If anything, I’m numb or heartbroken, I can’t say which. Maybe both. I don’t know what this means, but it’s a little scary. I want to have that close relationship with God I envy of others, but something is in the way. For my fellow believers who read this blog, I ask your prayers for clarity and healing. Until then, I’ll keep wandering the gates of Heaven til my Savior saves me from this affliction.

Posted in Poetry & Mere Musings, Stuff No One Talks About

The Pastor’s Daughter

The wooden figurine of Christ nailed to the cross hangs right behind my dad’s pulpit and always gives me the creeps. Maybe because it’s a constant reminder of my sin and worthlessness apart from Christ, which on other days would give me hope, but not today. Today, the cross mocks me. Maybe it’s the condemnation that I can’t escape from or the four honey-covered waffles I had for breakfast this morning, or a sickly combination of both, but whatever it is, it’s making me feel queasy. My stomach is in knots and I can feel my breaths getting gradually shorter and quicker. I feel like everyone in the congregation is staring at me, even though I know their eyes are on Dad as he bellows out a passage from the first chapter of Romans, specifically verses twenty-three through twenty-five. I know this chapter well, because I read it when I first started questioning my sexuality.

“…Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful, but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools…wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lusts of their own hearts, to dishonor their own bodies between themselves: who changed the truth of God for a lie…”

I know what’s coming next. I wish he’d just stop at verse twenty-five, but I know he won’t. He never does. I squeeze my legs together, like when I was young and tried to prevent myself from going potty in my clothes, in an effort to mentally prepare myself for that verse, the verse that does nothing but alienate and ostracize me from everyone in this old, rundown Baptist church.

Dad continues, “…for this cause, God gave them up unto vile affections: for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature.” I hate the King James Version of the Bible. Nobody talks like that anymore, so why use it? Even though I looked up the verse months ago, for my own peace of mind and to give me something to do, I ask to borrow Sarah’s Bible to look up the verse. I like hers because she has a version that is ten times easier to understand than the archaic one Dad uses.

When she gives me her Bible, though, her hand brushes against mine and I swear every part of my body starts tingling. She smirks. She did that on purpose. Does she like me? Does she know that I might be crushing on her? I smile to myself and a few seconds later, fear takes over. What if someone from church finds out? What if Dad finds out? Oh, I would be so dead if he knew! No, I can’t have a crush on her. What would God think? I occupy myself with looking up the verse, which I find quickly. I start to tune everything out, until I feel my best friend’s hand around my right shoulder. I blush and my body tingles again.

I kinda want him to kiss me. Wait, what? Focus on the sermon, Becca. Dad says something about laying all our burdens and dark desires at the feet of Jesus, but James’ smooth hand on my recently tanned skin distracts me from the rest of his words.

Pushing a loose strand of my hazelnut colored hair behind my ear, he whispers, “Are you okay? You look nervous, Becca.”

“Yea, I’m fine. Just thinking about…someone,” I say, doing everything in my power not to glance over at Sarah. “You don’t know her,” I quickly add. This is technically true. James and Sarah have met, since we’re all in the same youth group, but they have never talked to each other. Not by choice, though; it just hasn’t happened.

“Well, okay. I mean, as long as you’re okay—”

“I’m fine. Promise.”  

For a moment, I don’t realize that he’s gotten even closer to me because I’m so lost in my thoughts. He’s closer to me, which is a surprising feat since his leg was touching my knee prior to this. Now, he’s practically in my lap. Only millimeters away from me now, the scent of my strawberry shampoo must have wafted into his nostrils because I can feel and hear him inhaling deeply, breathing it in as if it were oxygen. He doesn’t know that I know he likes me. I know he likes me because we’ve been friends since third grade and every year since—it never fails—he’s asked me to be his valentine. He often makes excuses to hang out with me, in front of his football friends, which is sweet, but can be annoying sometimes. I secretly like him too, but I can never let him know. At least, not until I figure out whatever this is between Sarah and me, or if it’s even a thing at all. For now, I think it’s best if we just stay friends.

I turn my attention back toward the pulpit, but I can still see James in my peripheral vision. He’s staring at me instead of my Dad, who’s scowling at him while continuing to preach. Well, this is awkward. I’m quickly growing uncomfortable and squirm in a desperate attempt to put some distance between us. Unfortunately, I’m not as graceful as I’d like to be, as the sweat from my body sticks to my dress, which sticks to the pew, making it creak and difficult for me to move. This is so embarrassing! I wish I could get away from James, and this church, and just be alone with the world and my thoughts.

I’m tempted to think that Sarah and I have some sort of connection because as soon as I finished my thought, she grabs my hand, pulls me up from the pew, and we make our way to the restroom, which is all the way in the foyer. This means that we have to walk there from the front of the church. I’d rather take my chances with the sticky, sweaty pew. It could just be my guilty conscience, but when we pass James, I think I see a heartbroken “lost puppy” look on his face. His eyes seem to say, “I see you’ve made your choice. Why don’t you love me?” but he gives my free hand a quick squeeze while mouthing, “Be back soon.” I smile back, silently admonishing myself for being paranoid.  I’m so confused! A part of me wants to refuse to feel guilty—almost—because I know who I want to be with (at least, I think I do) and I’m not going to let anyone get in the way of that, not even my best friend, even if I do like him. I admire James because he’s a stronger Christian than most kids in our youth group, even though we’re both 16. He takes his relationship with God seriously. He’s more committed to God than some of the adults. Homosexuality is wrong, even if it’s never acted on, according to James. If he ever finds out who my crush is, our friendship is so over.

As Sarah and I walk towards the middle of the church, my heels click on the hardwood floor. I wish I could disappear. The sunlight pierces through the stained-glass window, with the image of Jesus’ crucifixion, and slams itself right in my face. Had Sarah not been holding my hand, I would’ve fallen right there. My eyes travel up the length of the wall to where the glass is and I suppress a sigh. Okay, God, I get it! I’m a terrible sinner for having a crush on a girl and I’m gonna burn in Hell if I don’t accept Your offer of love and grace. I’m kinda stuck here, though. Can’t You see that? I don’t wanna have these feelings. Please take them from me!

We make our way to the foyer without interrupting the service, though a Mother of the church in her late 60s shook her head at me in what appeared to be shame, or maybe disgust, by my shorter-than-knee-length dark spring green dress. Being a pastor’s kid is tough. Her eyes lowered as I walked past her. I almost felt judgment and condemnation shooting out of her eyes like lasers targeted at my soul.

“You wanna stay in the restroom for the rest of service or walk home?” Sarah asks when we reach the foyer.

I pause, trying to choose between my options. The clock above the sanctuary entrance reads 11:30A.M. We have a while before the benediction. My decision is a no-brainer. “We can walk to my house, chill for a bit, and get back here before service ends.”

Sarah leads the way. She’s got her iPod headphones in her ears and is walking to the beat of whatever song she’s listening to. Thank you, music, for distracting her. Now I can think. As we walk the half mile to my house, I engage in a civil war with my thoughts. They jump from God, to Sarah and James, and back again.

Sarah Johnson and I have known each other for only about four months, but during that time, we’ve gotten close, even though she’s two years older than me. We first met at youth group and became fast friends. We often sleep over at each other’s houses and hang out on the weekends. The thing I love about her is that she’s friendly, outspoken, and bold, which is the exact opposite of me. I’m shy, reserved, and a tad bit anti-social, but she doesn’t mind. We connected on our love of music and literature. I introduced her to Harry Potter and she got me hooked on Twilight. She has a great body with an athletic build and a beautiful accent; her family is from the Philippines. I keep my feelings for her a secret, out of fear that others, especially God and Dad, would hate me.  

I slow my steps when a gust of wind feathers down out of nowhere. It’s warm and makes the evergreen and palm trees dance with glee. The wind whisks my hazelnut hair in every direction, giving me the appearance of someone recently electrocuted with 40 watts of pure electricity. I smile, enjoying the moment, and land on the grass, beside the sidewalk, with a thud. Sarah turns around and joins me in the grass after dislodging her headphones.

“We’re not gonna go all the way to your house, are we?” she asks, also enjoying the sun’s warmth.

“No, not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t. I like it right here,” she says in a voice that makes my skin crawl with goose bumps.  

She faces me and runs her finger over my jawline. I stop breathing for what seems like an eternity, but is only a few seconds in reality. Even though I feel that my feelings for Sarah are somewhat natural, especially since my mom died when I was ten, I struggle with my relationship with God because of it. I know how God feels about living a pure life and abstaining from homosexual relationships. Dad made sure to engrain that in my head when I was 13. It’s crystal clear where my stance should be, for in the black-and-white pages of my Bible stands stark commands of purity standards, which every Christian is expected to keep no matter what, but my dark desires cloud my better judgment.

“Becca, I like you. And I think you like me too…”  

All the black scenes of my teenage years could not prepare me for this moment. All around me are choices and I’m stuck in the biggest one of my life. “Breathe, Becca, breathe,” I silently coach myself as Sarah starts to close the distance between us. I take a chance and glance up into those oval, almond eyes of hers. I brush a strand of loose hair behind her ear, stuck in the middle of “sinner or saint” status. Please help me, God. “I could kiss you,” I think to myself and I want to—do I?—but right before I make my move, God answers my silent prayer by giving me strength in the form of conviction. I pull away from her and she looks almost disappointed. Her eyes are misty and I want to comfort her, hold her maybe, but I don’t. I swallow back the saliva gathering in my mouth, the saliva that could be on her lips right now, and maybe her neck, if I was daring enough, but I’m not, so I sit up instead. Bile forms in my throat at the thought of what almost happened. I swallow, forcing it to the back of my throat and down, down, down into the cavern of my stomach. It burns but I feel nothing but relief.

I pick up her iPod with one hand, and offer her my other to help her stand. According to her iPod, it’s noon. “Come on, let’s get back,” I say with an authoritative voice that I don’t recognize as mine, even though it is.

She doesn’t say anything. She snatches her iPod out of my hand and starts walking back to the church. In the silence, I contemplate our lives. She would have no problem being with me; her dad made sure of that when she was eight. Raped her and then left her with her mom, so of course girls are safer. In the time it takes us to walk back, I make a decision that will change everything between us: I’m recommitting my life to Christ. When we get back inside the church foyer, I turn to Sarah, with the intention of apologizing, but her eyes are still misty from holding in her tears and she refuses to look at me.

“Sarah, I—”

She holds her hand up to stop me from talking any further. “Don’t bother apologizing,” she says angrily in between sniffles. “I don’t want to see or talk to you ever again!” She storms in the bathroom without another word to me. I feel my stomach become an anvil in that moment. I want to go after her, but I’ve already done enough damage.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her back. “This is hard for me, too.”

Back in the church, I can hear the choir finishing “We Fall Down” by Donnie McClurkin. Perfect timing, God. I say a silent prayer for Sarah before entering into the sanctuary. Dad is making the altar call now, inviting those who are willing to come and receive salvation or prayer if needed. Even though I can feel the eyes of everyone in the congregation on me, I no longer care. I reach the front of the altar and fall on my knees before both my earthly Dad and Heavenly Father, feeling nothing but peace. As Dad prays over me, I raise my eyes to view the wooden figurine of Christ. Unlike before, when I felt condemnation, I now feel His grace and love wash over me.  For now, I’m safe.

Posted in Stuff No One Talks About

Panic Attacks and Sexuality in the Church

My pastor talked about sex last Tuesday night. I knew that before I got there, thanks to the Facebook post on our mid-week service page. In hindsight, I probably should not have gone, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

For context, we’re currently going through the book of Ephesians and Tuesday night’s passage of Scripture provided an interesting backdrop to all the loud, destructive, cornucopia in my mind. Let me illustrate my point so you know what I mean. Pastor Doug read Ephesians 5:1-14 (For the sake of not making this post unnecessarily long, I won’t post the whole passage here, but here’s a link if you want to read it).

In this passage where you have beautiful and encouraging imagery like “be imitators of God as dearly loved children” and “walk in love” and verse 8 in particular which states, “For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light…” So beautiful and true. You would think my heart would soak that up, right? Wrong.

My brain and heart decided to dwell on verse 4: “For this you know with certainty, that no immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God.” (NASB). My wonderful, little traumatized brain said “Ooh, let’s focus on that! ‘The sexually impure…can’t inherit God’s kingdom.’ I was sexually groomed and assaulted, and have PTSD. That makes me sexually impure…” Huge sigh. I hate my brain sometimes.

By the time Pastor Doug got really into his teaching, I was already floating (my word for “dissociating”). I recall him saying “high school,” “hormones,” and then this phrase, “You ever pray for God to just take away your sexuality?” In my head, I screamed, “YES!” I wanted to stay seated but I couldn’t. I could already feel the sweat on my palms, feel my chest tightening with every labored breath I took like a skilled boa constrictor killing its prey, slow and meticulous. I knew what was coming.

The Panic Attack

The topic of sex, or anything sex-related, has always made me uncomfortable, even before the trauma. After a whispered direction to my friend to “watch my stuff,” I hobbled as fast as my panicked body would allow, trying to mentally prepare myself to face my triggers and intrusive memories in the cool, Floridian air. I flopped on a nearby bench, put my head in my hands, and begged myself to “calm down” and “stop, just stop please,” while hyperventilating in time with every memory that passed through my hippocampus. I walked around for a bit, still in a daze, but decided, after a while, that my time was better spent attending to my newfound dehydration. (Panic attacks tend to cause dizziness, dehydration, and headaches. They suck).

I entered into the church to grab some water with the intention of going back inside and actually returning to my seat. A rare moment of optimism that was crushed before it could take root. I went away again. And again. Each time, hating myself more than I did before. See, the thing about trauma and, by association, PTSD, is that it produces a myriad of shame. It is this shame that alienates you and makes you feel different from others, like an outsider.

If I could have, I would have stayed outside all night, but that would have been awkward and caused even more concern on my behalf from my friend who was keeping watch over my stuff.

Restoration?

Back to my seat I went, with more water in hand. I have to laugh because the exact moment I walked back in, Doug was just beginning to mention the two “unmentionables” in the church. Namely, pornography and masturbation. Oh, the awkward silence and laughter that followed! (This definitely goes down as his most cringe-worthy sermon ever.)

Yet, I have to give him props for even bringing it up because a majority don’t discuss sex in church, or if they do, it’s always in a “don’t do it before marriage or you are damaged goods” kind of way.

He talked more about God’s grace to restore and redeem than anything else that night, in regards to sexuality, and once again, I felt different than those around me. Here’s why: I’m asexual. When Doug gave us time to reflect and pray about what God was telling us concerning our sexuality, telling us that God would “restore our sexuality” the immediate thought in my head was, “Does my sexuality, or lack thereof, need to be restored?” I don’t have an answer for that. I’ll write more about this later, but all I can say for now is that it is extremely hard and lonely being asexual in a sex-obsessed world.