Confessions of a Fallen Christian

I've held out as long as possible against writing this post because I know that it will concern virtually all of my Christian friends/acquaintances/family. I know pretty much all of you are aware of my prodigal return to Christianity after struggling with my faith for years, but I haven't shared many of the details with most of you.

My faith is somewhat more, um, radical than it once was. I could not be more different than the Christian I was 10 years ago and still be a Christian. Please don't worry about me - my Christianity is so much more genuine to me now than it's ever been since it's not just what my parents believe ... it's what I've thrashed out for myself. I don't believe there is one best type of Christianity since we are all different.

I read Evolving in Monkey Town by Rachel Held Evans (and also her awesome blog) last fall, - I don't think it would be an overstatement to say that she saved my Christianity. The primary reason that her book made such an impact on me is that it showed me that I could still be a Christian and not have to buy the “whole package,” so to speak. I could be a Christian and not believe in the inerrency of the Bible. I could be a Christian and not have all the answers as to how God chooses who to send to heaven or hell. I can observe the barbaric, fickle God of the Old Testament and not have to reconcile him to the unorthodox, loving Jesus of the New.

I don't believe the Bible is inerrant...there, I've said it! I've discussed it in my blogosphere but have never told actually told anybody.

I DO believe in its inspiration - but the men who wrote it were still only men. They were but recording about their impressions of God, but their impressions were not necessarily correct.

I just could never have gone back to using the Bible as the blueprint to life, as the sole and exclusive authority. Especially when I became interested in human rights as a career and yet God had permitted, nay, commanded the Israelites to commit genocide. Especially when I'm emerging from patriarchy and the very mention of sexism brings a bad taste to my mouth and God as depicted by the Bible is a mean misogynist. Especially since I am so convinced that gays cannot help who they are and why should they be sent to hell because of who God made them? The excuses for these and other of God's actions that were drilled into me as a child now strike me as hollow, weak arguments. I know myself well enough to know I could never re-enter a relationship with a God who actually literally performed those deeds, even though I'm dying and should be thinking about the eternity question.

I know that I have been told time and time again (and told others this, myself) that any seeming inconsistencies in the Bible are due to my lack of understanding and God’s ways are high above ours - but, to be honest, that’s a little insulting. God made us intelligent, rational creatures in his image, but when we have questions we’re just to blindly accept that somehow God works it all out?

It's been so liberating, to not have to worry about, as a Christian, rationalizing and stretching the Bible to make sense. It's a lot of work!

I'm so happy. Please don't worry, don't be scandalized...I promise I'm not dropping off the edge into heresy. This makes so much sense!

Hey Lawdy Mama

In all the years since the Years of the Locust ended, Mama has never mentioned her contribution to that miserable era. While I would gladly lay all the blame of it at the feet of the Stepfather, I know within myself that Mama was quite enthusiastic, herself, about imposing that suffocating lifestyle upon us, her family. Indeed, she was the more passionate advocate of the two in some areas, specifically clothing and the frowning on higher education.

I always assumed that Mama was not proud of her role during that time and was thus reluctant to bring it up, but she recently said something to the effect that her intentions were pure on the way down, implying that hence she was free from blame.

As if the meaning well of a parent negates the internal damage inflicted upon a child.

I bristled a bit and went on to recount some of the ridiculous inflictions she had laid on me as her nearly-grown daughter, and then she said, well, if it was so bad, I could just have left as an adult - adults are responsible for and accountable to themselves.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had never been allowed to become an adult - my parents wouldn’t let me. Up until the day I left home at 21 I wasn’t allowed to think for myself or to make any decisions.

I don't think Mama grasps how bleak that time in my life was. We kids weren't allowed to have personalities. We daughters, although the four of us are vastly different from each other, were meant to be clones, all never working outside the home, all living at home until our father approved of a man to marry, all to pump out the maximum amount of kids possible and homeschool them and raise more clones to do the same thing.

How could Mama possibly understand how damaging this was for us? She had a normal, happy childhood. She had a healthy social life and was permitted, even encouraged, to follow her interests. I find it sadly ironic that her parents had such a happy marriage and yet she and Big Jim wanted something better because her parents and his were “unbelievers.” That experiment went well...

Since being back home I have made various comments to my mother, feeling around, striving to get an accurate idea of how she feels about those years. I have said, "Do you remember when you told me I couldn't sing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'?” or when she inquires, knowing I am a John Grisham fan, whether I've read his Skipping Christmas and was surprised when I told her I had not and that in fact she had not permitted me to read any John Grisham before. She didn’t recall any of it - they were random rules with no principle. How can she have been so dictatorial to me and not even remember what she did? I haven't told her about the time she forbade me to go see a production of Ragtime in which my voice teacher was the star and invited me to - I have been listening to the score lately and Mama thinks it's gorgeous inspired stuff.

All of my books were censored. I couldn’t read The Hunchback of Notre Dame because there was a brief sex scene in it. Shirley Temple’s autobiography was anathema since it “dwelt too much on Hollywood,” and the same went for a book about the making of The Sound of Music. We didn’t watch many movies, but the ones we did could only be PG.

Mama was also the one more concerned about modesty - usually. Big Jim would randomly pronounce an item of clothing immodest for an obscure reason, and then he had this thing with collar bones and necklines - he always said the Lord had given us collar bones as a guide to how high the neck line should be. Apparently the collar bone of a male was useless since this applied only to us girls.

But Mama was the hard core enforcer of modesty. Whenever one of us girls would acquire a new article of clothing, she would make us parade up and down the hall under Big Jim’s male gaze to be sure that nothing was clung to or any skin above our shins exposed. We would bend over to make sure that nothing fell out. Only if it passed inspection could we then wear it.

The resentment that festers deepest within me, though, is how wretchedly guilty I was made to feel because I was naturally bright. I had a insatiable appetite for all things academic. Most parents would have proud to have produce such a child.

Not mine. A intelligent person, you see, was naturally inquisitive and would be more likely to question the order of things - my overt love of learning was viewed by Mama and Big Jim with suspicion. They attempted to provide appropriate outlets for my energy. Mama signed me up for a correspondence course on herbology which was actually an extremely unprofessional setup and which I did not enjoy. Mama was also intent on one of her daughters taking on the profession of a midwife and took Melody and me to midwifery seminars. Anyone who knows me at all will agree with me when I state that I could never have been a midwife, but since we children were expected to turn out in a specific manner and weren’t permitted to have personalities, this hardly mattered. The ideal female would learn a profession which she could conduct from home and later carry on into married life as a “ministry.” Melody’s long-time interest in massage was thus encouraged since it happened to fit the criteria.

My interests, not so much. My classical education pretty much ended when I was 16 since most everything thereafter would be useless in the future that was expected of me. I begged Mama to let me take geometry since I had loved the last math I had taken, algebra, so much, but she said no, firstly because she had never used her high school geometry in her practical life, and also because she had disliked it and didn’t want to check it.

But I kept on rebelling. I checked out books on Spanish and trigonometry from the library and tried to teach myself. Of course I got no where.

Someone once marveled to me how incredible a job my mother must have done at homeschooling us kids since I did so well, scoring high on the ACT, testing out of math in college. I felt like howling with laughter and informing them that I went to college in spite of my mother. My parents were an obstacle to my later life. I cried myself to sleep, oh, so many nights because I could not for the life of me figure out why, why if I never to go to college, God wouldn’t take away my burning desire like I’d pleaded with him to.

I can’t even fathom doing that to my child, denying her, not only her dreams, but her very instincts, forbidding her to even be herself.

Which is why I’m amazed at how unmoved my own mother is by her having done it to me. I adore her and she’s so brave and strong, and I know she loves me. It perplexes me.

In which I ruin Christmas

I'm concerned about myself, Journal.

I had an episode on Christmas Eve when all the siblings were here. (We were holding our Christmas on Christmas Eve, remember.) As we were about to sit down to our meal, Jewell and I were in the middle of a discussion and she, of course, said something characteristically ignorant and illogical. And I, with my irrevocable need of attacking all things I deem incorrect, I gave an example that proved my point and made Jewell mad - she went to the bathroom to cry.

Well, then the boys started in on me, all glaring in my direction from across the table. Josiah muttered darkly, "Jerk!"

And this did not help my mood because the boys always side against me - they think I'm evil and look for opportunities to bate me. I don't understand the fact that they haven't once exhibited anger towards their father and yet I'm some kind of villain to them. Also, they hadn't even heard most of the conversation and so it was unfair and unreasonable for them to be angry with me.

Which is when Melody walked into the room and said something how none of us should be taking sides today and that we needed to be quiet. I told her the boys were angry at me for no reason and thus I was entitled to explaining what had happened so they could see that Jewell had actually been the first one to grow hostile in our discussion. Mama said that Josiah and I couldn't speak for the remainder of the meal.
I was so angry. I literally sulked for the rest of the day, crying back in the room I share with Georgia. It sounds so ridiculously childish, and to be honest, it doesn't sound like me at all. Before I left home, I was known as the resilient daughter who didn't take things personally - Melody was the sulky one.

And yet not once when I was back facedown on my bed did it occur to me that I might possibly be overreacting. My hurt feelings were a hunderd percent legitimate!

Even when Mama came back to find me and tried to talk sensibly to me, I wasn't convinced. I was mad at her because I was the only one of her children who had her back and she was more concerned about her other kids than about me. I said it wasn't easy being down here with no moral support. Yeah, I was completely feeling sorry for myself.

Only when Mama started talking about how she concerned about my mood swings and said she could detect signs of depression did the mist began to recede, and I was left to writhe in utter humiliation for how I had managed to ruin the one day of the year we all had together.

Do you realize what this means for me? How from now on out I won't be able to trust the legitimacy of my feelings? Up until now I have noticed the progression of my Huntington's as much as any other observer, maybe even more. I knew before my neurologist told me to stop driving that I was becoming a hazard to others. I was dismayed at my both my jobs at my ineptitude to do a good job, though of course my employers noticed that too - "If it weren't for your sweet spirit, you wouldn't even be here" - I was aware of the dilapidation of my handwriting and my inability to sign my checks with hardly more than a scrawl before Mama commented that I no longer had artistic handwriting. I have also noticed the increased difficulty I have speaking - it's becoming more slurred.

But this - this reacting hysterically to what was so not a big deal - it never so much as crossed my mind that I was doing anything wrong - someone else had to point this out to me, and this scares me.

Mama thinks I should go to counseling, so Thursday is my first session. I've had many negative experiencese with counseling over the years, but my last one, my brilliant psychiatrist in Chattanooga, was amazing, and Melody's counselor has been helping her so much that I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

The Saga of Melon Rind

It was love at first sight for me. I was not a fan of stuffed animals - not one remained from the impressive collection I had as a child. But when Georgia showed me her newest toy that Mama had bought her (George is the youngest of eight and the sole girl after three boys, and she is ridiculously spoiled), a fat soft white sheep, I looked into his dark eyes and lost myself. I wanted him. His name was Melon Rind, George said (um - WHAT? Where in the world did she come up with that name? I guess she had to get creative since she had so many freakin’ animals...)

That was the summer I went to DC to intern at the nonprofit think tank, Institute for Policy Studies. Two months I was gone, and when I came back, Georgia had moved on long ago to a new animal. I asked her where Melon Rind was, and she didn’t even know! I found him under the bed, dusty, neglected. I asked Georgia if I could take him with me for the semester to school, pointing out that she hadn’t even missed him when he was lost, and she agreed. So I did!

Melon Rind and I went through a lot together. That was my toughest semester at school, it was the semester I tested positive for Huntington’s disease and my panic attacks returned with a vengeance. I had to drop credits beneath the actual full time load because I couldn’t handle them. 11 credits, one less than what on campus students were required to have. Of course everyone there was so lovely to me, my professors worked with me far beyond the call of duty. Dr. Jackson, our history SIP professor, was the first professor I cried in front of. Dr. Follett, my advisor and favorite professor. The British Romanticism professor, Dr. Ralston, who had me email my presentations to her since the thought of just talking in front of others nearly made me pass out. The student development office was so kind and understanding and assured me that they would make sure I graduated and to let them know if I needed to drop any more credits.

But I was so horribly depressed. I cried all the time. I was frightened I wouldn’t make it through my last semester and was angry at God for allowing me to live my dream of being at college only to not be able to experience it fully and maybe not even get my degree. The humiliation of my bad grades never ceased to sting. Just the possibility of having to say something in class made me sick with terror and made me break out in a cold sweat. That happened more than once in Brit Rom, where Dr. Ralston appreciated plenty of student participation. I naturally really enjoy public speaking and class discussions, but of course I wasn’t myself anymore. I was a shrinking shadow of myself. One time in particular Ralston was going around the class and having us share what we had written in the journals we were required to keep. Dabney and I always sat at the back of the room, so we were always last to be reached. I was shaking like a leaf and my heart was going crazy. Dabs was gazing at me with concern and whispering if I was okay. I told her I was leaving and slunk out of the room, red with shame. I knew when I opened the door, the eyes of everyone in the room were on me, inquiring. Out in the empty hall, I sank against the wall and covered my face with my hands and cried.

And then the same thing happened in Dr. Follett’s senior seminar, Modern Europe, which all of us history majors were so excited about. That class was all about talking, but of course Dr. Follett knew what was up with me and didn’t press me. It was hard to get through a Socrates style seminar, however, without saying a word. At first I would do my presentations with dear Christy, who would take over all the talking part after we had researched together.

There was one night though that Dr. Follett made a casual remark about us having to talk about some required reading after our break, at the beginning of the second half (it was a once a week 3-hour long class). I obsessed about this piece of information for the entire hour and fifteen minutes before the break, on the verge of bursting into tears the whole time. Of course Dr. Follett would probably not force me to actually discuss it, but he’d probably ask if I had anything to add, and I would have to say no and feel utter humiliation, and that sounded horrible and I was sure I’d start crying. So during our break I managed to convey to Christy that I was leaving - apparently I couldn’t even speak normally to her. She offered to come with me, but I said no, that I was going to take a walk, which I did. I walked and walked. It was like a flashback to being a freshman - walking soothed me somewhat and I needed much soothing.

It didn’t work this time. I kept crying and was still full of helpless rage towards God. So I headed back to the dorm, hoping fervently that no one would see me in my wild state. Jess was in the elevator. She was understandably surprised to see me since I was supposed to be in class. I stammered something, and Jess eyed me and said, “Let’s go for a drive.” Oh, Jess.

The seminar was the class I ended up dropping, but I still audited it, which was amazing because I didn’t have to stress about it and didn’t have to fret over getting by in a senior seminar on the generosity of my professor and classmates.

Poor Melon Rind soaked up so many of my tears that semester. He was just so huggable and fat and soft! I doubt he knew what he was in for when I decided to take him with me. I had no idea! My last junior semester had been fine! Now when I look back I can see I was undergoing the first signs of depression the summer in DC and it really set in during the fall. That was not fun.

Little did I know how soon I would be tragically parted from my beloved sheep. I asked Georgia about transferring her ownership to me over Christmas break, and she was game. Then I made the mistake of telling Jewell that Georgia had officially given me Melon Rind, and she was furious. Why, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure she was mad at me anyway and was using this as an outlet for her wrath. She informed me that Georgia was just a little girl! and had no idea of what she was doing! and she was telling Mama! Little vixen...and tell Mama she did. I wasn’t worried in the least because I had reason on my side.

Yeah, I was wrong. Mama said I couldn’t keep Melon Rind, and when I reminded Mama of George’s countless other animals and how she had already gotten over him when I came home last summer, she told me I was behaving like 5-year-old, which was how old Georgia was. I was so livid. It was all so unnecessary!

I think Mama might have been having similar feelings, because for my birthday in February she sent me the most tacky, huge stuffed frog of a hideous iridescent green - she never gives me stuffed animals for gifts, because, like I said, I’m generally not a fan. I hated him from the moment I saw him, as did the rest of the roommates. Only Meghan paid him any attention - she said that Taco Shell - Jess said we should call him that - was not to blame for not being Melon Rind.

Oh, Melon Rind. But I didn’t miss him as much as I expected to. Part of that was because, since my diagnosis, I had been seeing an amazing psychiatrist who put me on a drug, Cymbalta, which he was comfortably sure wouldn’t have any horrible side effects like all the other meds I had tried. It was amazing, how quickly I became a new person. I was radiant and happy and enjoyed sharing my two cents with my classes and had a great time with my senior presentation on the Russian Revolution. The only side affect I noticed was I had less of an appetite and shed a few pounds, which was quite all right with me! Also, I was transferring my affections to an actual living being - well, two actually - Philip and our turtle Bambi. But those are other stories...

One gorgeous spring day as I was leaving the room for class, an ecstatic Meghan appeared in our room clutching a fat stuffed lamb. She had spotted it on sale after Easter at Target. Aw, Megs! He was cute even if when I took him in my arms I noticed he was stiffer to hug than Melon Rind. Others actually mistook him for Melon Rind, exclaiming that he was back, but I always knew the difference.

And then came the day of my college graduation. Mama and Melody and Mama Jean and the kids all came up the day before. When they came up to campus and into our room full of boxes belonging to us four seniors, Georgia’s eyes flew instinctively to the sheep on my bed and she went over and picked it up. She carted it around with her the entire time.

When we were leaving to get dinner, Mama told George to release the sheep.

“Mama, can I have it?” Georgia asked. (I know, she’s a bit spoiled. I don’t even know why she thought that sheep superior to Melon Rind - I guess because it was newer.)

Mama said no. But my mind was racing with the possibilities.

I narrowed my eyes. “You can have it if you give me Melon Rind.”

Of course she said yes. She would have already have given me the sheep, remember.

And so today Melon Rind once again perches on his throne, my bed, and this time he shall never be taken from me again. Which is good because both Bambi and Philip were taken away from me. But those are other stories...