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Under My Umbrella

Unless you were raised in fundamentalist evangelical Christianity, you might not get this, but I am going to try.

There is a teaching about an umbrella.

Yes. Like, “under my umbrella, ella, ella…” anywho…

This umbrella embodies the spiritual covering, the protection that your father, your husband, or some other man has over you.

When you submit to this covering, this umbrella, your dad (or whoever) has over you, EVERYTHING WILL BE BLESSED!! This is because you’re obeying Jesus, who clearly said in the Bible, “thou shalt have a huge umbrella over your head, and that umbrella shall be called man”. (that was my sarcastic voice, FYI. Obviously, this is not something Jesus, or His Father said)

When I left my husband, I got the distinct impression, that to some men in my life, I was fair game. That since I had walked out from under the protection of my husband spiritual umbrella, I was now subject to theirs. As I investigated this topic, in the years before I left my husband, I had realized this was not a scriptural concept at all. It was a concept made up by men who wanted to control women and have power over them. This is very sad. This is also very sick and *&$@ed up. This is NOT a Jesus sort of thing.

Yesterday and today I was asking God to help me find an image of the protection God has given me. The negative words, judgments, statements, and beliefs about me are many. Most of them have come from trusted men in my life.

I walked into the shop today, and as I was browsing through the cards I saw this. Water collected in my eyes. This was exactly what I had asked for. The title of this piece is “Speechless”.

I may speak. I may not. But I do believe I am covered and protected with an umbrella of LOVE.

 

“Speechless”  by Catrin Welz-Stein. 

If you wanna read more about the umbrella nonsense, I liked how this girl wrote about it. And she’s got a special diagram, too!!

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christmas ramblings on shunning

Sometimes I think about what it is like to be shunned. I really don’t like thinking about it. Even as I write the word “shunning”, I wonder if that’s the best word to use. The people who are shunning me keep saying they’re not shunning me.

As if saying that they are not, makes it not so.

If, however, it looks like shunning, and smells like it, and meets the definition… I suspect it is, indeed, shunning.

Sometimes, I’d like to know what they’re doing. Are they practicing “church discipline”? I’m not even sure what that means. Especially since they’re not my church, they’re my family. Are they “protecting” their family? I can’t imagine what they’re protecting them from since I’m dangerous only in the sense that I believe every person is a human with their own brain with which to make decisions.

Maybe that is, in fact, the most dangerous thing, maybe that’s what we all need to be protected from, people who think for themselves. Maybe we all need to be protected from seeing the joy in life, the hope and freedom that comes when you take responsibility for your own life, for your own thoughts, for your own beliefs.

This is my second Christmas being shunned by my family.

My mother, my father, and my seven younger siblings.

This is my second Christmas missing out on all the memories, the moments that I longed for the many years I was overseas.

I wonder to myself will they even think about me on that day?

Do they remember their big sister, the first year she had a camera and took pictures of everyone? There were not a lot of pictures being taken for a while, maybe our family didn’t have a camera, maybe my parents were too busy with other things to think about taking pictures. Maybe they were too tired. I don’t know. But there weren’t many pictures of holidays for a long time, and then they were a lot, because I got a camera, and loved capturing all those memories.

I wonder if my siblings know how much they were in every beat of my heart, all those years. Do they know about the gifts I would plan ahead for each of them? How I thought about what cookies everyone would like to eat, and tried to talk my mom into buying more sugar and more butter, so we could make extra of the best ones, to store in big gallon jars under the butcher block.

I wonder if they remember the year I was in China, and didn’t have the money to send them gifts, so I wrote them each a letter, and asked my dad to print it for them. I was such a young mom… with two little babies… in a cold, new country. My littlest sisters were 10 and 12 by the, I think.

I wonder if they have turned me into a devil, or just someone who doesn’t exist.

They have joined forces to make me fear I don’t exist.

Unanswered text messages and un-return phone calls. Vacant looks when I run into them out in public. Did anyone ever really know me at all? Is the person I was for 35 years suddenly gone? How did they sleep at night? I can’t imagine the pain I would feel if I kicked my child out of my life. I can’t imagine removing my child from a family photo, from our family existance. I can’t imagine anything horrible enough that I wouldn’t answer my child’s phone call.

At night sometimes, one of my children will get scared, or worried, or just wake up for no reason. They will come to my bed and climb in. One of them in particular steals my pillow, she wants a warm one, that I’ve been sleeping on, instead of the cold one next to me, waiting for a kid to climb in bed.

I think about the authority that this child has, to come get in my bed.

Never imagining for a second that would send her away. Never imagining for a second that would say “you may not ever again climb in bed with me, no matter how scared or alone you are”.

I think about how that’s the way I approach God, kind of barging in to the space God occupies. Sort of expecting that when God said “I will always be with you, even to the ends of the earth”, They meant it with all Their heart. I just take it for granted that when They said “to the heights, the depths, nothing can separate you from my love”, They meant it.

If ever the love of God was to be found in the world, don’t you think we would find it first in the love of a parent?

Every time one of my kids climbs in bed with me, I imagine myself being parented like that, even now, a grown ass woman. I think about how I am worthy of being loved like that, worthy of being safe like that.

I’m so safe inside of love, so warm, so secure. And no divorce, no opinion, no fear, will ever be able to separate me from this love.

I often try to understand why I’m being shunned. I tried to understand why anyone thinks it’s OK to treat me like this. I don’t. I never well. I actually understand less every day that I’m further away from that kind of spiritual abuse. I was talking to my counselor about this, and the word mystery was used. Accepting mystery. It’s OK if I never understand. It’s OK if they kick me out forever. Its ok if they never actually see me. I will be a better parent to my own children.

The pain I’ve experienced in being rejected, is a motivation for me, an urge to push through pain, and to try to show up every day, in love, to be with my children.

I hate Christmas for the reminder that I have been rejected. I hate Christmas for the sorrow of identifying so much with Mary and Joseph. I hate Christmas for knowing what it’s like to be turned away from a warm cozy inn, full of life and laughter and warmth. I hate Christmas for that idea I’m supposed to be grateful they sent me to sleep in a stable full of shit

I love Christmas for the pain of identifying with Mary and Joseph. I love Christmas for knowing that my house will be full of light and love, and that no one will ever be sent to sleep in the shed. I love Christmas for knowing that love and light and joy comes from the homeless… the humble.

I love Christmas for the opportunity to embrace the pain and to push on toward healing. I love Christmas for the joy of embracing the sorrow, along with the good memories. I love knowing that it’s OK for me to miss them, it’s OK to hope they miss me, it’s OK to love them, and it’s OK to be inexplicably and wildly angry they put me out of my family.

I take a lot of comfort in the stories of people who live through similar experiences. I take even more comfort in the lives of the ones for victoriously move through these experiences. I take comfort from the people who put their arms around me, and acknowledge that the pain will never go away. And tell me I will be happy, and find joy again. They tell me to love my kids, and that will help to heal my heart.

I wish I had a moral. Or a solution with which to end this post.

It’s just what it is. I don’t like it. I don’t have a nice happy ending, because I’m still right inside of this moment.

There are far too many of us, kids of fundamentalist evangelical families, who have been put out of our families of origin. For them, who have comforted me in this season, I am thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I can do all things

One of my mom’s favorite stories about me is from when I was probably about 7 or 8.

I was taking swimming lessons in Seattle, in an olympic sized pool.

All the other kids had been swimming in the deep end for some time, and I couldn’t do it. I was paralyzed by fear.

She taught me

“I can do ALL THINGS through CHRIST, who STRENGTHENS ME”

She told me to sing it in my head as I stood on the diving board.

She showed me how to breath it in my breaths as I did the crawl stroke to the wall.

And then I did it.

That is the first significant moment of overcoming in my life.

As I washed dishes this morning, preparing for another day in court for my never-ending divorce, I heard her voice, and I saw her face, telling this story over the years.

I remembered a picture of me from that time, when I got a new bike.

I can and will kick all the ass through Christ who strengthens me.

As I was sitting here writing this, my mom, who was trying to call another place, accidentally called me. I haven’t spoken with her on the phone since the summer, when I was kicked out of the family picture. I told her about this memory, and I felt her love and connection through the pain, fear, and sorrow.

Perfect love casts out fear.

And as I hung up and let the sobs come, my friend walked the door unannounced to give me a hug.

I couldn’t be more loved or seen if I wrote the story of my life myself.

LOVE ALWAYS WINS

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You made me a feminist

I am a feminist.

You taught me that was a dirty word.

Mad-at-God, that word.

The most bitter of humanity, that word.

Rejecting all the beauty that was in me, a woman-child that word.

When did you plant the seed, I ask myself, elbow deep in suds, giving thanks for the gift of knowing how to dirty these dishes with real, wholesome food.

Was it when you held me at your breast, and fed me the gift of love and connection, belonging and health, in a culture that scorned you and told you to cover up?

Was it when you loaded us in the bike trailer, and I watched your brown, powerful legs take us to library story time, or helped you fill the back with groceries, and tucked the baby in safely, propped up with blankets.

Perhaps the seeds were planted when he marveled at your smarts, around the dinner table, or when you looked in each other’s eyes, and laughed, your strength together a wonder to behold.

There was a time, when you told me I could be, and do anything I wanted. Maybe it was then.

 

But I can pinpoint the time the seed germinated.

It was when you told me a higher education would be a waste “because you’ll end up a wife and mother and won’t be using your education”.

And then I think about when the seed sent out a tentative sprout.

When you used word’s like “biblical womanhood” but didn’t mention Deborah, or Abigail, or Jael.

When you preached Proverbs 31 at me but never pointed out that god/Jesus had NEVER EVER said that I HAD TO BE AND DO ALL THOSE THINGS.

When I couldn’t drive a car alone because I would be raped.

I mustn’t wear a swimsuit because my body was bad, my budding curves a delicious invitation to sin.

When you turned my friends away, because they came with boy parts instead of girl.

As I watched your joy fade, your enthusiasm wane, your exhaustion become one with our life.

You made me a feminist when I couldn’t have a job, because I’d smoke pot and I didn’t need a job because money makes you independent and god doesn’t want women to be independent. We NEED TO NEED each other. And I’d get raped.

And the seed sent out a stronger, longer lasting leaf.

When you told me that a woman was good enough to play a piano in Church, lead a worship song, teach boys and girls alike (as LONG as they were under 18). But ABSOLUTLY, she was too emotional and too weak and too small to say anything remotely resembling spiritual instruction if there were grown men in the room.

You made me a feminist when I crossed the ocean to come “home”, my small daughters in tow. On Christmas day, I watched you serve my teenage sisters the portions YOU thought appropriate, as you did every other day of their lives. Because they were too fat. And you couldn’t take a break from reminding them of their not-enough-ness, even on Christmas, for all the friends and family to see.

You made me a feminist when I learned you were weighing them to make sure they were losing weight.

I hid in the bathroom, that day, away from the laughter and the stories, the gifts, and what looked like my sister’s shame, but was actually yours. And I cried too hard to breath.

You made me a feminist when someone asked me how many, of the 8 children in my family had a bachelors degree. I said “ONE”. They asked “which one?” and I answered, “the only male child”.

I don’t know if a seedling is a good analogy anymore…

I think we have to move to a baby dragon, just hatching out of an egg.

You made me a feminist when I watched you push that woman to stay with her man, told her to submit, told her to cook better food, do her laundry more, pray for him harder… and all along, he was selling her body, and his daughter’s online. *

Perhaps you made me a feminist in the hours I spent, crying on the phone, just trying to stay alive. Your voice, a shred of hope, far away, but close enough to keep me fighting.

When you told me a girl has to have sex with her husband, whenever he wants. Because it’s his right.

You made me a feminist when I told you everything, shaken to the core, unable to go on. When I detailed the years and nights of trauma, the abuse and the horror, and you told me god’s command was for me to stay.

When you used the most intimate sorrow and pain in my life to prove to me that I was powerless.

You know when the dragon spread her wings, and breathed fire for the first time? When the dragon exploded into full feminist flame?

When you told me stay, and model the cycle of victimhood and base survival for my daughters. When you told me to teach my son that a woman is worthless and deserves nothing. When you told me my children would never rise up to call me blessed if I walked away from my husband.

You made me a feminist when you raised me to be a critical thinker, but brought the axe down swiftly when I used my brain to think thoughts different from yours.

I marched at the women’s march, and you judged me. You didn’t listen when I told you why.

It’s crazy, I think to myself, rinsing the last of the dishes.

You raised me so powerful and strong, you called out the deepest beauty in me, as a woman, and then you tried to crush it. I keep thinking “someday, I will understand”. But the truth of the matter is, every day, I understand less.

I am powerful. I am humble.

I am strong. I am weak.

I am feminine.

I am angry. I am forgiving.

I hold on tight to what I have. I throw it all to the wind.

I am a feminist.

And this is what you made me.

 

 

PS I If you want to know what I mean by feminist, I am using this pretty simple definition from Merriam-Webster

1:the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes

2:organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

PS II  If you are guessing I wrote this for my parents, you are partly right.  I also wrote this for all the voices that lied to me and tricked me. I’d like to believe they meant well, but it gets harder and harder to believe that. I also think I need to say, speaking of the painful parts of life, and the things I have come to believe are not true in NO WAY erases all the true and good portions of my family life.

*This reference is NOT to my to-be-ex-husband. This is in reference to a Church leader who I knew very well, and a situation to which I was privy, as it unfolded.

 

 

 

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It’s My House

It’s a gut punch and a heart scream and it’s freedom ringing as I start to recognize myself again after years of wondering where I had gone.

I was so sad to leave that house. That perfect little house. So sad to leave all the smells and the plans and the hopes and sounds. The perfect, perfect park in the back yard, and the precise lines of the beautiful wood fence my husband and I had built together. My beloved mantle, made out of a rail road tie. The backyard I had always imagined with a goldendoodle puppy running around.

It’s digging deep and taking chances. It’s pulling MY OWN DRILL that I bought FOR MY VERY OWN SELF on my birthday and installing drywall anchors like a boss.

It’s yellow walls in the kitchen, even though yellow isn’t really “my thing”.

It’s seeing the kids’ bedroom coming together, just like I had pictured it.

It’s releasing the shame that sweeps over me when I see all 4 of my kids sharing a room and wonder what kind of terrible mother can’t provide her kids with a bigger, better house.

It’s the joy as these precious humans run in and out of the house, a wake of muddy pond water, discarded socks, and empty chip bags behind them.

It’s the security of cousins next door and Grandma and Grandpa stopping by with Great Harvest cinnamon chip bread.

I didn’t know I needed to break off all the power he had over me in this way. Love knew. Love took me from the things I held onto, into a hopeful new adventure. Love offered me a chance to settle in deep, to carve out a place of new beginnings for my little family.

I’m really good at it, you know. Carving a home out anywhere. I have done it all over the world. I have done it for bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. I have done it for kids I hardly knew and for friends who became family. I did it for children that came from my body and now I get to do it for me.

It’s a perfect silver grey going on the walls in sweeping streaks.

It’s weeding out the pots and pans I don’t need because my kitchen is half the size it once was!

It’s my dear friend, next door, living life, and we get to pause in the midst of our cluttered chaos and have some French pressed coffee together.

It’s safety

It’s hope

It’s my new house.

 

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