Happy birthday, little brother!

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This is an updated version of a post I wrote on my former blog a few years back.

 
I was 11 years old when he was born, and our family was changed forever. He was the cutest baby I’d ever encountered — until my own were born years later — and he grew into a hilarious, wonderful toddler and young child. His mission in life seemed to be making sure that things never got boring in our household. Stories about his various escapades are legendary in our extended family. (One cousin, when she and my younger brother were children, ended almost every Steph story with, “And we were so embarrassed!” Well, everyone but Steph, apparently!)

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Steph seemed so different from our older brother and me. We were shy, awkward and nerdy, while our younger brother charmed the little old ladies in the church, traded kisses for dimes and quarters, purposefully got lost in stores just for the drama of having us all paged, and turned the kindergarten portion of the school Christmas program into “Stephan and his back-up choir”.

We were too shy to ask for directions and information, while Stephan thrived on talking to everyone everywhere.

I’ve never met a child like my younger brother. He was, in some ways, a bundle of contradictions as a little guy. He could be an annoying pest and prankster at times, and yet he could also be a classy little charmer. Most three year old boys, for example, make a mess of eating an ice cream cone and couldn’t be trusted drinking out of expensive, fragile stem-wear. Not Steph — his table manners were extraordinary, and he could be such a delightful little gentleman.

Stephan brought an exciting new vitality to our family when he was born. I’ll never forget “kidnapping” him out of his crib and trying to hide him in my bed. (His giggles always gave him away when my mother would come searching for him.) He taught me not to take myself so dreadfully seriously during my teenage years. He put up with my awful experimental cooking and pretended that he actually enjoyed the meals I forced upon him. (That, of course, prompted my theory that children don’t have taste buds.) He was deluded enough to think that I was beautiful, even during my most awkward adolescent moments. Steph loved my silliest stories, inspired me to create ridiculous games, made me laugh, and alternated between amusing and horrifying me with his creative ability to turn mundane events into fascinating tall tales that he would then spread far and wide. (No, I never threw up on the Thanksgiving turkey, contrary to what Steph told his entire school.)

As Steph grew older, I discovered how much he added to the adventures I had been enjoying for years. Ah, what I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock, just for a day or two, and relive some of the weekends spent together…

But it wasn’t just in his childhood and teens that Steph proved himself to be the best little brother in the world. His crowning achievement is that he has given me some of the most adorable, wonderful, beautiful, delightful nieces and nephews in the world — and he has made sure there are lots of them!

Steph has so many traits that I admire (and lack). He is generously hospitable; I’m convinced that I could drop in unannounced with my entire family in tow, and Steph would joyously feed us all and put us up, without the slightest hint that we might be inconveniencing him. I am so proud of his people skills, and of how he uses his talents and abilities to work diligently in providing for his family. But what touches my heart the most, and fills it with a mixture of joy and sisterly pride, is that Stephan has become a student of my father and of the Word, and that he and my father are now sharing the pulpit at the church my father pastors. I enjoy his unique, fresh perspective and his commitment to remain true to the Biblical text. Impossible as it would have been for me to believe when we were younger, not once has anything he has preached made me want to cringe, hide my face, or throw something at him. Proof that even little brothers eventually grow up!


My baby brother has grown into a loving husband, a devoted father, a wonderful man. But, as a big sister, I’ll never forget the excitement I felt 45 years ago today, when he made his way into our lives and hearts, and how cute he looked when I first got to see him. I was full of dreams then for what we would all do together, but I had no idea how wonderful that little baby would turn out to be.

Struggling with Church | Faith Friday

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We are supposed to be the Body of Christ, His hands, His feet…why is church such an ongoing struggle for me? Sometimes I feel as if I’m going around in circles.

It’s been over seven years since I wrote the post on my old blog, pouring out my grief-filled thoughts about church:

Sunday, January 14, 2007
Changes

We’re less than halfway through January, and 2007 is already promising to be a year that is rather…well, interesting.

After much prayer, study, soul-searching, discussion with friends and advisers, sleepless hours, and uncountable hours of analyzing things from every angle we could, my husband and I have made the painful decision to leave our church. Today was our first Sunday to go elsewhere. The church we visited was friendly and warm, and we knew several people there. The worship seemed fresh and real. The man who filled in for the pastor had a powerful testimony, and his message seemed to speak to an issue that I’m currently living out in my life.

But it wasn’t home.

I have often wondered if church is forever ruined for me. Part of it is, of course, being raised as a P.K. (Guys, that meant “Preacher’s Kid” long before it meant Promise Keeper.) No pastor can fill my father’s shoes. Besides, I’ve seen the dark underbelly of the church, and it has wounded me forever.

But there is more…I’ve also seen, as Michael Spencer writes so eloquently, “When I discovered the voice and practices of the ancient church, and the language of the ecumenical church, I resonated deeply. All of the church was my home, but no single room within it made me so comfortable I wanted to stay there and there only.”

No church is ever enough for me. It seems that I always long for more, for something different, for some part of my heart and mind to be touched in a way that no one church has ever been able to touch. I want expository preaching and deeply heartfelt worship and beautiful architecture and pipe organs and liturgy and spontaneity and unadorned simplicity and lay pastors and ordained clergy and formality and informality and ancientness and newness — and there is no church crazy enough and contradictory enough to give me all of that, to feed all those parts of my soul.

I want a church that follows a glorious historical tradition…and a church that also offers, at times, a worship experience that is the spiritual equivalent of “partying down at the frat house.” (The last time we were looking for a church, a pastor friend of mine told me that I would never be happy in a church that didn’t encourage me to be a serious student of the Word. But he also told me that I would probably need to go elsewhere on occasion for a more exuberant expression of worship. “After all,” he said, “there is nothing wrong with partying down at the frat house.”)

Most of all, I want a church that is, as another friend of mine said, a safe place to land. I want a church that will not, yet again, add to my woundedness. I want a church that will instead minister healing.

The truth is that I’m not always sure what I want. I’ve found bits and pieces of my “church home” here and there but, in every church since I was a teenager, I’ve felt like a sojourner or, at best, a member of the extended family. I am already weary at the idea of searching for a new church, because I doubt that I will ever, this side of Heaven, find what I’m longing to find.

I want to see Jesus. Just show me Jesus.

What has happened since then?

In a nutshell, after re-examining and questioning everything I believed about “church”, after much reading and discussion, my husband and I have spent the last 5 or so years in a small home fellowship. It has been mostly wonderful. Unlike some “house church” people, especially those who use the term “organic church”, I have not become opposed to the institutional church. Yes, there is much within the American church that I consider problematic and disturbing. Yes, I have found it wonderfully restorative and freeing to “do church” without all the unnecessary trappings, the programs, fads, committee meetings, infighting, jockeying for influence and control, majoring on minors, etc., etc.

But sometimes I need my “churchy fix”: beautiful architecture, a sense of awe and reverence, the exuberance of a large congregation rejoicing in singing…

At the same time, I have found “church” in unlikely places. It’s not so much what we do in a meeting. It’s who we are.

I wrote this three years ago:

Saturday, July 23, 2011
Remembering and reflecting: where I’ve been

It’s been quite a while since I blogged semi-regularly….

…A lot has happened in my life and in the life of my family since those days. Life and death stuff, or I should say, near-death stuff. Crises. Heartbreak the likes of which no one should ever have to suffer. Anguish. Dark nights of the soul. But also incredible joy in the midst of that sorrow.

In other words, real life. Real nitty, gritty life.

When life gets that in-your-face overwhelmingly real, despite all the chaos and confusion that might ensue for a season, some things become really clear. You re-examine a lot when you’re treading through deep waters. You begin to realize what and whom — and Whom — you can grab onto for safety and what and whom will only pull you down further. You realize who you can go to with your burdens…those who will weep with you and rejoice with you…those who will hold your darkest secret heartaches as sacred trusts…those who will walk with you through the darkest valleys.

There aren’t many of those sorts of people.

Years ago, back in the day, I remember an online discussion of homeschooling mothers during which one brave soul dared mention a minor issue she was having with her teenage daughter. This girl was no longer content to play “Little House on the Prairie” and read Elsie Dinsmore for the 20th time; she wanted more out of life; she longed to do something that made a difference and was exciting at the same time. A number of the other moms, who only had young children, tore into this mother and her daughter. You would have thought this girl had announced, “I want to be a harlot” and that the mother had answered, “Whatever you want, dear, is fine with me; let me buy you some harlot clothes” — that’s how these other moms carried on. They gave advice that this girl’s “rebellious spirit” needed to be rebuked and punished, that the mother shouldn’t listen to her nonsense, that both were in sin, etc., etc.

Needless to say, these are not the sort of people you turn to in a crisis.

A few years went by, but it was still back in the day, when the son of a homeschooling family died under unfortunate and disturbing circumstances. The parents decided to alert other families to what had happened, so that others might be spared their tragedy. I was horrified at the lack of empathy, at the other callousness, in which some in the online world responded. There was much holier-than-thou shooting of the wounded.

Needless to say, these are not the sort of people you turn to in a crisis.

More than one mother, way back in my days of writing about my concerns regarding the Ezzos’ teachings, insisted that they had the whole parenting thing down and would never have to deal with any problems because their one-year-old was already “characterized by first-time obedience”.

Needless to say, these are not the sort of people you turn to in a crisis.

Also, back in the day, there were certain online teachers, some of them leaders in their own churches, who thrived on controversy, who loved to declare their authority over anyone who commented on their blogs, who sounded convinced that they held a special corner on doctrinal correctness, and who loved to argue until they didn’t have the upper hand, in which case they banned people from their blogs.

Needless to say, these are not the sort of people you turn to in a crisis.

In May of this year, I went to a retreat. It was my second year going. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. When my mother heard of my plans, she asked with some trepidation, “Is this the same retreat you went to last year? the one with the…troubled people?”

It’s always after the fact that I think of what I should have said. In this case, I should have said, “Yes, that one…because I am one of those troubled people.”

Jesus said, “In this world, you will have trouble…” Some people are just more honest and open about their trouble than others. Some people know what it is like to be broken, wounded, and lost. Some people know what it means to find joy after sorrow. Some people aren’t afraid of messes. Some people will let you grieve in ways that wouldn’t look pretty in a movie, and they will sit with you in your pain, without condemnation. Some people know the joy of finding hope after despair, and they share it with you. Some people will walk with you as you try to find your way out of the darkness, out of the deep waters, and they will carry you when you are tired. Some people are like beacons in the night. Some people will give you permission to fall apart if need be. Some people will let you be real, as real as real can be, without any pretense, without any self-protection, and their complete and total loving acceptance of you will be like a healing balm to your soul. Some people will love you so much and so obviously that they earn the right to speak painful truth into your life, and they will do it with tears in their eyes. Some people will, with a hug and some whispered words, give you hope to sustain and encourage you for another year.

There aren’t very many of those people, but I’ve been blessed beyond words to have found some.

Needless to say, those are the sort of people you turn to in a crisis.

And they are also the sort of people you turn to during times of joy and laughter, because they will celebrate with you like no one else will. They totally get the “rejoice with those who rejoice” part because they already have the weeping part down.

When I grow up, I want to be that sort of person.

And that’s what the church should be. Yes, doctrine is important, but not as important as being the living, breathing body of Christ, His Hands, His feet, His shoulder to cry on. One would think those who claim to have the corner on theological correctness would try to outdo everyone else in love, but I’ve found that not to be the case. Sometimes, when I’ve needed Him most, the image-bearer He sent to demonstrate His love didn’t even believe in Him.

Frumps of the world, unite! | Fashionless Friday

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And if you don’t want to be frumpy, if you prefer another look, or if — like me — you want to be free from the tyranny of fashion “rules” and judgy labels, that’s OK too. In fact, everyone is welcome.

———-

I’ve been thinking of writing a series on the topic of “beauty”. Don’t worry — it won’t be a bunch of beauty tips; the vast sum of my knowledge of that topic could be crammed into one sentence with room to spare. Far be it from me to tell anyone how to make themselves more “beautiful”…or that they should do this. I’m not even going to define “beauty” for you. Instead, all I have to offer are my reactions to some of the beauty messages I encounter, especially in the Christian subculture in America. Warning: there will be venting. And sarcasm. Hopefully, along with that, I will eventually offer some perspective that is helpful or thought-provoking. Or at least will make someone besides me laugh.

This may or may not be the first post in that series.

———- 

While trying to find some non-Amazon reviews for the book True Beauty, I landed on Tim Challies’ blog, where he made the following comment:

Essentially, deliberately looking unattractive is not a good thing.

This was in response to someone taking issue with his previous use of the word “frumpy”, a word usually used to describe attire and appearance that is dowdy, old-fashioned, and unfashionable — in other words, very much out of step with our modern culture’s view of what is “attractive”.

Not to pick on Tim Challies, but I found this message one that we, as Christian women, are constantly bombarded with. His statement raises questions:

Who defines “unattractive”? Or to put it another way, unattractive to whom?

In other words, what if the husband of an ultra-conservative homeschooling mom (the Christian demographic most likely to be labeled as “frumpy”) finds her garb and appearance attractive, cute, adorable — even so irresistible that he can’t keep his hands off her, and hence their dozen children? Does it matter if the rest of the world disagrees with his opinion? But then, why not say, “Deliberately looking unattractive for your husband is not a good thing, but don’t worry about what other people think.” Obviously, especially given the context of his remark, Challies was speaking about what he assumes is a known standard, a definition of “unattractive”, that readers of his blog will agree with.

In reality, when men make such statements, unless they are truly unusual men, they tend to mean “what I assume most people find unattractive, because it’s what I find unattractive.” That is why some men can argue, with straight faces, that physical beauty is entirely a female characteristic, that there is no masculine counterpart, and that a naked man looks ridiculous! (I recently encountered yet another pastor arguing this point and bit my tongue so as not to say, “Dude, I’m sure you look ridiculous naked, but not all men look that way to women, or even to all men.”)

I have not encountered a trend of Christian men urging women, “Think about how you come across to other women. Biblical modesty means not flaunting your wealth with fancy hairstyles and jewelry. At the same time, make sure your appearance is not off-putting. What messages are you sending to other women? Do you appear compassionate and approachable, or do you send out judgmental ‘I have nothing in common with you’ vibes?” In fact, I can’t recall ever hearing any man say something like this. The assumption is that we are supposed to dress for men, that it is their opinion of our appearance that matters.

What is meant by “deliberately”?

I doubt Tim Challies would find me attractive. Let’s face it — most men under age 40 find grandmas unattractive, unless it’s some conventionally attractive woman who just happens to be a grandmother in her 30’s. So maybe my age gives me a free pass: I didn’t deliberately get older, so I can’t be accused of doing something that is “not a good thing”.

But…

At what point is a woman freed from her duty or obligation to be attractive to the arbitrators of such things? Does this apply only in certain settings? Can a younger woman look “frumpy” while on a church camp out, or is that “not a good thing”? Do women need to maintain a minimum acceptable standard of attractiveness all the time?

What if I prefer not to be attractive? What if I hate attracting the attentions of lonely old geezers in grocery stores? What if I am deliberately avoiding their smarmy compliments of, “You look lovely in that color” or “I enjoy seeing a lady in a pretty skirt”? Is that “not a good thing” because supposedly I have a duty to be attractive?

———-

True story. About five years ago, I found myself at a health food store on Valentine’s Day, shopping for the romantic dinner I was going to prepare for my very ill husband. The pituitary tumor that was shutting down his endocrine system had not been diagnosed yet; doctors were stymied; in desperation, we were trying a draconian elimination diet suggested by a naturopath. That’s why I was standing in the bread aisle, already dressed for dinner, reading the ingredients of loaf after loaf to find one that contained no gluten, egg, or dairy. (I can’t recall what I was cooking or why bread was a necessary ingredient.) I was new to all this, and feeling overwhelmed and frustrated.

That’s when the man greeted me. He looked to be in his 50’s, and he radiated health, no doubt from frequenting health food stores. In addition, he was drop dead gorgeous. I’m not sure what the “drop dead” part of that expression means, but I do know that he was one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. And he was smiling. At me.

For a moment, I thought he seemed familiar. One of my former karate students had a grandfather who looked similar, and that would explain the warm and friendly greeting. So I returned it, extended my hand, and reminded the kind grandfather of my name.

— and immediately realized this was a complete stranger. And that he was way better looking than that kid’s young gramps. 

Then he asked me out. For dinner. That night.

I was so…so shocked, and bewildered, and flustered…and embarrassed that I had been far more friendly than appropriate with a stranger — and had obviously given him a very wrong impression — that all I could do was stammer, “I…uh…I, I don’t date.” I have no idea why I didn’t say. “I thought you were someone else. Thanks for the kind invitation. But I already have plans with my husband. Longterm plans, I hope.”

Luckily he was a gentleman and didn’t add to my awkwardness by persisting. Or maybe he was turned off by my extreme lack of social skills and all around weirdness. He apologized politely for hitting on me (his choice of words) and went on his way.

A week later, an actual real life grandfather of one of my students greeted me in a different grocery store. But I had learned my lesson. He’s probably a complete stranger, and it’s just a weird coincidence he looks like Mr. D, I told myself. So I gave him my best no-nonsense, I-don’t-talk-to-strangers, gaze…which probably convinced him that I’d gone senile and forgotten who he was. But at least he didn’t ask me out. (Not that he would have anyway.)

———-

I don’t want to give the impression that I think I’m quite the hot babe in the eyes of senior citizens. But I have noticed, in at least one of the stores I frequent, that there seem to be a number of lonely older men who shop for produce mid-morning and need little in the way of encouragement (a skirt will do) to chat me up. Is it “not a good thing” for me to make a conscious effort not to attract them? If a man lets me know that he likes seeing me in my long skirt, because it’s so “graceful”, am I obligated to keep wearing it around him so that I can be his eye candy — or would it be wiser and kinder not to dress in a way pleasing to him, lest he think that means I have a special interest in him?

Because, after all —

Why should a married woman be trying to attract other men?

But wait, Rebecca, that’s not what Challies said. Remember, he commended the book he was reviewing for discussing “the importance of modest dress and rightly showing that clothing is simply an outer reflection of the inner woman”. What he said was:

What you will not find in True Beauty is the all-too-common attitude that frumpiness is next to godliness. You will not find the authors trying to convince you that beauty is a problem, that Christian women ought to be ashamed of the beauty God has given them, that they’d better not do anything to enhance it.

and

Essentially, deliberately looking unattractive is not a good thing.

Yes, Challies did not say, “Try to attract other men”. But he did say that being unattractive (which includes to other men) is not a good thing. So I assume that being “attractive” (definitions: having a pleasing appearance; especially, having a pleasing appearance that causes romantic or sexual feelings in someone; pleasing, charming; sexually alluring) is a “good thing”. I sincerely doubt that he would approve women “causing” romantic or sexual feelings in men other than their husbands, but why am I supposed to concern myself with dressing in a way that is pleasing to other men?

Ah, but Rebecca, you don’t get it. “Clothing is simply an outer reflection of the inner woman” and our appearance should reflect Christ and attract people to Him.

Yes, I know, I know. Supposedly culottes instead of pants will serve as a signpost to Christ. At least that’s what I’ve been told. But, no…culottes are frumpy. Maybe I need to wear t-shirts with Christian messages on them, except so many of them are tacky. Besides, “modest is hottest”, and I should only let my husband see my “smokin’ hot” side. What to do?

Because, of course, as women — they will know we are Christians by our appearance and wardrobe choices, and the way we manage to be attractive in a clean, wholesome, feminine way without ever being “sexy” except in the bedroom. And the first thing anyone thinks when they see an attractive woman is, “She must be a follower of Jesus. I want to follow Him too.” Yeah, it’s all about that. Only it’s not.

Just how attractive do women need to be, in order to do what is good?

And to how many people? And how am I supposed to know — take a poll?

Me: “Excuse me, but I’m trying not to be unattractive or frumpy. Please stop laughing. And it’s mean of you to mumble that it’s a lost cause. I’m serious. People’s eternal lives could be at stake. Do you find me unattractive?”

Dude: “Uh, I hate to be rude, lady, but you’re a nutcase. Leave me alone.”

I know — I can take selfies of myself every morning and let my 300 closest Facebook friends vote whether I can go out in public. Except that 298 of them have better things to do, and the other two are pets. [See note 1.]

Where is any of this in Scripture?

Find me the warnings against deliberate frumpiness. If you can’t, then pass on the challenge to someone else. Meanwhile, I’ll sit here in my unfashionable garb, sans make-up, wearing my sensible orthotic shoes, and not worry my aging little head over whether men other than my husband find anything about me either attractive or unattractive. [See note 2.]

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Notes:

1. Not an accurate number, except for the two pets — not my own — I’m FB friends with. And even they have better things to so than critique my wardrobe choices.

2. I’m not always this frumpy. In fact, I’ve been told I clean up real well.

More hidden secrets

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Note: when I first tried to publish this post, half of it disappeared and I had to rewrite it. So if you read the first, abbreviated version, you may want to read it again, so it makes more sense.

As I mentioned in my “Journaling Confessions” post, I’ve been adopting a somewhat different approach — at least for me — to my practice of hopefully therapeutic journaling. I also mentioned the prompt, “What is my hidden secret?” and posted my first response to that.

My second was not quite so heavy or serious, but it was the first thing that I thought of when I sat down with my journal:

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Today was my weekly therapy session, and I showed Donny both journal entries, feeling rather childish about them, especially the second one (which he commented on as if interpreting a child’s drawing). We spend more time discussing the first one, and discussing why/how I hide, and how this played out in particular this past weekend. (See “A Rough Day”.)

After the session, I started reading a book I recently got, Drawing from the Heart by Barbara Ganim. Inspired by what she wrote about creating images to express emotions, I decided to answer the “What is my hidden secret?” question again. I had been sitting at the park, trying to relax, doodling, and eating a brunch that I’d packed, and trying to ignore an unsettling feeling that had been growing in intensity.

What a great opportunity to put what I’ve been reading into practice! But then I quickly remembered that Drawing from the Heart emphasizes feeling, rather than thinking, so I stopped being analytical, got in touch with what I was feeling, and used that emotion and what felt like random impulse to choose chalk pastels as my medium, as well as to choose mostly black and a few other dark colors. This is the messy scribble I produced.

image

 

After I was finished, I wrote this.

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In case, you can’t decipher my scrawls, it says:

I AM AFRAID.

OK, that’s hardly a hidden secret — pretty much everyone knows I’m a big huge chicken about almost everything.

This is how the worst of my fear feels. It’s all dark and cold and confusing and jumbled up. I can’t see anything, can’t make sense of anything, can’t find my way. Even the edges of the fear are like a dark fog. There are glimpses of color, even light, but at the very center, it’s pitch black — and it’s as if the darkness want to pull me in.

I just realized how much my fear and depression have in common.

This whole process still strikes me as odd. Drawing from the Heart makes the rather bold claim that the sort of scribbling I did can actually help someone heal from trauma. Obviously I was intrigued enough to buy the book, and to try to “draw” an emotion. But I was also skeptical. The funny thing is that, despite thinking the whole idea was a bit goofy, I couldn’t help notice that my sense of fear drifted away, as if by capturing its darkness on the piece of paper, I’d made it powerless to torment me. It seemed so insignificant, a messy scribble on a picnic table, out of place on such a beautiful and sunny day.

The other thing that surprised me is the realization of how similar my worst bouts of fear and my worst bouts of depression are. I think I would “draw” both pretty much the same way. When I was finished, that was my first thought: Wow, this looks just like depression!

Some time in the future I want to draw what it’s like to emerge from the darkness of fear and/or depression, but now I’m curious enough about Drawing from the Heart to want to try the seven week program. At any rate, I’m planning to do “Step One” tomorrow morning.

A rough day

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It was already, for various reasons, not the best day. Then evening came and a Facebook post I read, meant to be a helpful source of information for people leaving and healing from spiritually abusive churches, sent me into a tailspin. Actually the post did nothing of the sort — it was my own reactions to what it triggered inside me.

If you followed my previous blog, you may remember the series I wrote about my “fall to grace”. Let me emphasize that the church we ended up leaving was not spiritually abusive; they were dear, sweet brothers and sisters in Christ, and much tears were shed when we realized that serious doctrinal incompatibility made us no longer at home in that fellowship. The legalistic burden I had placed upon myself during the time we were members was far beyond any they would have placed on me.

So, when I read the Facebook post, I thought, escaping my legalistic prison was hard enough without having to exit a controlling church group.

But then I remembered the group I was involved in during my early teens. It was supposedly just a Bible Study — only we called it a “Bible Rap” because it was the early 70’s and the group had a real counter-cultural hippie flavor to it. There were no obvious older adult leaders that I could tell, just a bunch of young “Jesus People”, mostly new converts, and an older guy everyone held in awe, even though he was rarely there. They were a zealous and serious group of kids, but misguided.

Anyway, I remember being surrounded by older girls (I was probably the youngest kid, by at least a couple years, who attended) and they were demanding me to confess the SECRET SIN in my life, because there had to be some, it was obvious, or my spiritual experiences would match theirs exactly. I remember week after week of confessing everything that I could think of, “real sins” like the cigarette I had smoked with my brother, or my chronic sins like being “lazy” (undiagnosed inattentive ADHD) at school, having a “messy” room, etc., etc. I was far from perfect, but I was basically a good kid. However, the way I was being questioned, one would think I was a hardened, bank-robbing, murderous young harlot just pretending to be a junior high kid. Those weekly interrogation sessions were only one aspect of how controlling and pushy and borderline abusive they were.

My first thought at this memory was, What idiots they were. There was no secret sin! and then I suddenly remembered that there was “secret sin” in my life, only it was not my sin, but it was a secret I felt forced to keep.

That was what hit me: Aha, they were right. There was secret sin in my life. And, stupid as it sounds, I felt like collapsing in a heap on the floor, buried under an avalanche of decades worth of junk. Suddenly I doubted everything because they had, in my mind, been proven right…which meant the sin of others was my fault, which meant all sorts of other awful stuff was true after all…

I didn’t collapse, but I didn’t cope in the healthiest way either.

Now, in the light of day, I’m amazed that this ragtag group of ex-hippies could still have such power over me all these years later.

But, most of all, I’m saddened at my response to these confusing, disturbing memories. I don’t expect to be so “healed” that I have mental clarity over every memory, or that I won’t momentarily get sucked back in by the lies that tormented me for so long. I believe there is a turf war raging over my very soul — not because I’m so special but because there is a war raging over all of our souls.

I need to stop running away, and stop hiding.

Yes, it’s the only way I knew how to cope for years upon years, but I know better now. As long as I respond on auto-pilot, I will never form healthier habits. I am tired of being kicked around by my past.

It wasn’t until morning that I thought to pray about how I felt so beat up by the rabbit trails of false conclusions my mind went down the night before. It wasn’t until morning that I shared my struggle with my husband and my “tribe”. Those things need to become my first line of defense.

Pray. If need be, call in reinforcements.

It’s time I stopped trying to carry burdens I was never meant to carry. “Come unto me, all who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest,” Jesus said. But I keep piling burdens on myself…guilt for things long ago forgiven, false guilt for the sins of others, shame I didn’t deserve, rules God never intended…and there are people who would hasten to add yet more. It’s time to lay all that down and ask for help when I need it.