Fond memories of the Stepfather

I was recently, in a conversation with Georgia, referring to the snake in the Garden of Eden, and she looked perplexed, so I clarified, "Remember, when Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden?"

Georgia rolled her eyes. "Becca, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

I started laughing out of sheer astonishment. It's true that the family doesn't attend church down here in Montezuma and the last time they attended regularly she was quite small. I just can't help but wonder what Mama and Big Jim would have thought had they been able to foresee this, their youngest's ignorance in the matters of God and the Bible, back when George was born eight years ago. Wow, eight years ago we were still living in Columbus with Big Jim's parents, twelve people in impossibly small quarters, with no visible end in sight after having lived in those conditions for six years. I can't believe how many dreams have come true since then, but, oh, at what a steep price they have come!

Eight years ago the family spent an hour in the morning together, reading Psalms and praying and learning our hymn and verse of the week and then at least that much time in the evenings in Bible studies led by Big Jim - who, let me assure you, was NOT gifted in the area of teaching. He would drone on and on and follow rabbit trail after trail. One night a week was designated Testimony Night, another Prayer Night, and then we also "home churched" on Sunday mornings if we happened to be between churches - which was often. When I look back on those years, I feel like I spent most of my time back in Mama and Big Jim's room, that unfinished dark room with one mere tiny window set high in one wall, prison-like. Mama would be in her rocking chair, we kids lined up on the couch or sprawling on the bed or floor. At least I didn't sleep back there as well, like the boys and Georgia did. Not that they knew anything else - Clay was three when we moved down there and Josiah just one. They had no idea, those poor tow-headed boys, that there was anything unusual or unhealthy about our lifestyle.

I often think what a hey-day the Department of Family Services would have had had they stumbled upon that shoe box of a house on Ventura Drive. We of course, as a homeschool family, had grown up on the horror stories, the destruction the Department had wrought on other such innocent families, but in this case I wouldn't blame Family Services for being concerned about our situation. We were stacked in where ever there was room. I shared a tiny room with Melody and Jewell. Jim had his own room by virtue of being insane, but the poor three younger boys had to live in the same room as the parents and the baby. Big Jim had become inventive in the sleeping arrangements when the couch and floor and crib were occupied and designed a nifty little pallet on chains that swung down from the wall at night for Sam.

The reason we supposedly were living with Mama Jean and Daddy Al was for Big Jim to minister to his father, who had had a stroke and was wheelchair bound. Big Jim always violently denied accusations of mooching, but since he never held a single job that whole time and his mother supported all of us, one could be forgiven for suspecting as much. Big Jim’s line was that his mother was only reimbursing him for the job of taking care of his father. I always wondered why he was so enthusiastic about doing the right thing by his father when his first responsibility was to his wife and eight kids.

 

In defense of my newly-adopted beliefs:

Allow me to further expound upon my recently-adopted belief that the Bible is not inerrant. Thanks to my fundamental evangelical Christian upbringing, just about all my acquaintances today are of the opinion that the belief in the Bible as God’s exclusive and perfect Word is a vital part of being Christians; indeed, not long ago I would have dismissed without question those who engaged in such heretical views as “not TRUE Christians.” But honestly, where does God ever say you have to believe in the complete and exclusive authority of the Bible to get to heaven?

Like I said in my earlier post on this subject, the reason I returned to Christianity was because I came to the profound realization that one could in fact be a Christian and yet not be required to believe that the Bible is perfect, that moreover there is even quite a thriving community of “true Christians” who reject the Bible’s inerrancy.  I honestly don’t believe that I am less genuine in my faith or that God views me as less of a Christian on account of this newest development in my beliefs – especially since, I have already stated, this is the most real my faith has ever been to me as a person.

Furthermore, at the risk of sounding flippant, if I ever came to believe again that the Bible was NOT written by mere mortal men and thus much of its inspiration was lost in translation, I’m pretty sure I would have zero desire to remain a Christian - period. The angst-filled God of the Bible and particularly that of the Old Testament is, I hope, nothing but the ideas of the authors’ flawed interpretations of who God is. Seriously, if the Bible is in fact an accurate depiction of who God is, WHO would be okay worshipping such a God? His cruelty is much more bountiful than his love in the Old Testament. Since the Bible was written by all men and the culture at that time favored men far more than women, I’d rather believe that God was not blatantly sexist but that the writers’ perspectives were clouded by their times and cultures. Christians proclaim that God is not sexist and that it is only our human perception which might make it appear so, but I’m sorry, anyone who would favor masculinity in Israel the way the Bible portrays God does is sexist – God or not. I hate how God gets away with so much because he’s “God,” like sexism and genocide. It’s the epitome of irony to me how he can commit such “unchristian” behavior and yet come across to Christians as being perfect. What? How exactly does that work? If that God, the same who had those boys who made fun of Elisha mauled by bears, comes across as capricious and cruel, well, that is our lack of understanding, and who are we to question God? We need to accept it with blind faith.

Only God himself seems to encourage self-examination on our part, asking questions rather than trying to get rid of our doubts with blind faith.

I am perfectly aware that I could be accused of “creating God in my own image,” as the stepfather used to say, but, as I said, I am not an isolated case. There are plenty of intelligent, earnest Christians who do not accept the Bible’s perfection, who maintain that “the Word was God” and NOT exclusively to be found in the Bible. Please do not be “concerned” for me, as that is implying that you are right and I am wrong and on a heretical bent. God has not, I confess, bequeathed me with the absolute truth, but nor has he done so for you. Anyone who knows me knows that I am by nature an analytical person who does my research, so please, please, respect where I am at. 

The Decanonization of a Saint

Mama and I had an explosion of sorts a few days ago. I divulged at last to Mama my mounting internal bitterness at her suffocating methods of child-raising when I was living at home, and I experienced afresh just how badly my mother takes criticism.

My whole life Mama has been my rock, through my adoring eyes the one constant in my far from stable life, the person I have always loved most in the world - and now I abruptly find myself feeling so curiously lost. I have actually on more than one occasion called her a saint, as more than one in my acquaintance will attest. I proclaimed that my mother was the bravest person I knew, her with the tragic life and complete lack of self-pity.

The illusion has been shattered. How I have had myself convinced all these years that her affection for me was equal to mine for her, I have no idea. I have always, as far back as I can recall, strived to be worthy to be called my mother’s child and thus have made the effort to make life easier for her – while Melody and Jim were constantly having to be reminded to do their chores and quite racked up the number of spankings earned between them, I was the good girl and went out of my way to do more than my share of work. I have given up so much for her! Even before I was forced to move down here because of the manifestation of my Huntington’s, I told Mama I was moving back home when she initially told me about the divorce. And even last Mother’s Day I bought her a gift card for a weekend at a bed and breakfast in Asheville and told her with conviction that I wished I could afford a month on an island in Greece since that was what she deserved. (I know, cheesy, right?)

I even put off the conversation that we just now had a good couple of years because I was positive that she would be so affected by my pain that she had caused that it would add yet another burden to her heavy load. Oh, if only I had known…

Mama was hardly contrite when I faintly informed her that she had never said one word of regret about subjecting us, her children, to the scarring life of patriarchy and legalism. She told me that I was living in the past, this bringing up of my issues with my years in rank fundamentalism. I couldn’t believe my ears! I sat in shocked silence for a few seconds. I had waited so long to address my problems with my upbringing out of concern for HER and had dreaded the day, positive that would cause HER great pain – and she just dismissed it all in that phrase. She didn’t feel guilty, she went on, about her role in my upbringing since she had had the purest of intentions.

I gathered my thoughts and told her hotly that she had been more concerned about following through with her theories than she had about us children as individuals.

“Maybe I did,” Mama said, “but it was because of my love for you.” As if love justifies evil!

I asked her through my tears if she was at least going to apologize, and she offered an “I’m sorry! There, are you happy?” And then she walked away, crying angry tears, throwing over her should that she was such a horrible mother which also reeked of sarcasm.

And you know what? The sight of her tears and unhappiness that I had caused wrenched my heart within me. I had to stop myself from running after her and putting my comforting arms around her. How messed up is that? I felt ill with guilt for the rest of the day, even though I knew in my head that I had done nothing wrong and my grief had been legitimate. The anxiety came on, as it always does when I make Mama unhappy, and I soon had a headache.

I remember the first time I had an inkling that my obsession with my mother was neither normal nor healthy. Sometime when I was in college, Melody, who moonlights as a psychologist, gave me a book on personality types by Don Richard Riso with the page folded down on my type as she had diagnosed it: Type 6, or the Loyalist, and besides being blown away by how accurately the profile described me, I also found the section on the Loyalist’s relation to a parent figure enlightening. “As children, [loyalists] wanted the security of approval by their protective-figures, and felt anxious if they did not receive it… [loyalists] powerfully internalize their relationship with that person…They continue to play out in their lives their relationship with the person who held authority in their early childhood years. ”

And then my senior year the crack grew considerably in the veneer of my mental portrait of Mama. Melody, who had come up to Chattanooga for the weekend, told me that she was seeing a new therapist who said that The Affair, as Mama and Big Jim had always referred to the incestuous relationship between Melody and our stepfather was nothing but sexual abuse and emotional manipulation by Big Jim, and for me that suddenly made perfect sense. Mama had never even considered it was anything BUT an affair, and of course I never questioned her judgment, for which I am filled with remorse. But I remember starting to wonder why the hell would a mother with a monster of a husband like she had not even consider that, well, her teenage daughter might NOT be to blame for the incest. I feel like that would be my first thought were it my child! And I began to grow a bit angry that my mother had bought into a lifestyle where incest could happen so easily, promoting as it did virgin adult daughters living with their king-like fathers.

And then since I’ve been down here I have been noticing all the more Mama’s imperfections. I have stopped baring what’s on my heart to her, as she invariably maintains a disapproving silence – even when I’m chattering about what’s wrong with Santorum as a president or the inherent evils of the Quiverfull lifestyle. She has told me I am judgmental and expect the world to toe my line. And when I so much as mention my Huntington’s, she rebukes me for feeling sorry for myself – which I think quite unjust since I honestly feel like I’ve been doing better these last few months with the self-pity. I process through talking and sadly she is the only person down here I know. Like when I told her when I had had an unexpected moment of wistfulness when she and I were up in Atlanta at Melody and Jewell’s apartment and I suddenly realized that my time of independent living was over – Jewell and Georgia and the boys have their whole lives ahead of them, and two of my little sisters are living on their own and Clay is driving…it’s just the oddest sensation as the oldest, or at least the first to do all that, to reflect upon how helpless I am compared to my younger siblings. But when I told Mama what I was feeling, she told me that I should be GLAD that the kids are all moving on, taking steps, and that I was feeling sorry for myself.

Here’s the thing – she is the individual the least emphathetic to my troubles. She is my mother. She is supposed to be on my side. I have been so blessed to have the most concerned, loyal circle of supporters, but she, more than anyone, is supposed to be on my side.

It used to be something, if not enough, that my banishment in Montezuma would at least allow me to be a help, emotionally and otherwise, to my mother. Now I don’t even have that.