Deconstruction Zone

Faith and life under construction

[deconstructionzone]

No One

Deconstructing my faith has been brutal, but it's not the first part of my life that underwent demolition. First, it was my family of origin. My parents were abusive, but I didn't figure that out until I was twenty-one. Twenty-one years of thinking my parents loved me and had my best interests at heart, when in reality, they were too emotionally immature to care about anyone or anything beyond their own personal needs and desires. I was a means to that end, or a hindrance to it. Nothing more. But when it's all you know, you think that that's love. You think you deserve to be treated like crap because you ARE crap, and any kindness shown to you is mercy. It's no wonder I so easily and fully believed in a God who was so angry and disgusted with me that he "had" to slaughter his own son just to be able to "forgive" me. Fyi, that's not forgiveness.

It's been almost 3 years since I've spoken to my parents. I saw them at my youngest sister's wedding just last month, but I didn't even acknowledge their presence. My 3 year old was chasing after his cousin at one point and almost ran right into my dad. He had no idea that was his Grandpa. He doesn't even know he has a Grandpa. The loss and grief I feel is overwhelming. I just want a Mom and Dad. I just want my kids to have a Grandma and Grandpa. But they don't; I don't. We have no one. And there's no "God" or "Savior" who will ever, ever make that okay.

[deconstructionzone]

Black Hole

I used to blog a lot, and I'd write about really painful stuff, but somehow tie it up with a bow and make it inspirational. It's how I survived a lot of really, really horrible things in my life. It was a coping mechanism; finding "purpose" for my pain. I don't have that anymore. I don't know how to turn my pain into some kind of redeeming story anymore. It's all loose ends, tangled, matted, confusing. Deconstruction has left me completely bewildered. Rachel Held Evans was the one who started the unravelling for me. She showed me where there was one loose thread I hadn't seen before. I pulled on it. And the whole damn thing unravelled. Every. Last. Bit.  I spent my life creating something I thought was magnificent and beautiful, and now it's just a flimsy pile of nothingness. I want to write again. To give some kind of meaning to this emptiness. But I have no framework for my story. None of it makes sense to me. I don't know how I could live 32 years and look back on my life and not understand a single bit of it, but that's exactly where I am right now. I feel like I'm at the edge of a black hole, about to be sucked in forever. No light. No way out. Just the crushing pressure of nothing. I don't like being agnostic.

[deconstructionzone]

"Have you ever heard of demisexuality?" I ask my husband.

"No, I haven't. What is it?".

"It's where you don't find someone sexually attractive unless you are emotionally close to them. I'm pretty sure I'm demi-sexual, but I never knew it was a thing until today."

"That actually makes a lot of sense, Lovey. I can see that about you."

I explain to my husband that he is the only person I have ever wanted to have sex with. Ever. Because he's the only person I've ever been so close to emotionally. And I didn't realize until today that that wasn't typical. He says that makes him feel special. I tell him, it's because he IS special to me. And then I cry. "What makes sex with ME special?". He tells me that sex with me has more meaning than it would with anyone else. I feel a little better. But mostly, I feel insecure.

[deconstructionzone]

Part Two

Late April: I’ve been on the internet surfing Facebook and various blogs for at least an hour, maybe two. It’s the only thing that dulls the pain anymore. I can’t deal with life; I can barely deal with my two babies. I see a blog post mentioned somewhere called The Absurd Legalism of Gender Roles. I decide to read the article on a whim, expecting to find the arguments of this Rachel Held Evans lady completely laughable. She’s attempting to refute John Piper, after all, and he’s my favourite preacher. I read the article…and I don’t laugh. She has made some really good points that trouble me. How did I not see this before? I begin devouring article after article on egalitarianism. I’ve heard this name before, but never this theology. This beautiful, freeing theology. Why was this kept from me for so long? Why was I told that this was “nearly heresy”?

Mother’s Day: I now consider myself egalitarian. This has been a massive shift for me. I am fearful that most of the people sitting in the pews around me would think I’m nearly a heretic for my new beliefs about women and gender roles - if they knew about them. The sermon is awful. No encouragement for weary mothers today, just lots of guilt heaped on all women about staying in our place (the home, of course). I already stay at home with my children for now, but it’s nice to know I have no choice in the matter since God has apparently already told all women everywhere what their calling is. It must be so hard for men to have so many options to choose from! Aren’t I blessed to have my calling so clearly laid out for me? Then there’s Communion. Someone got the brilliant idea to let boys from the youth group serve today to honour mothers. All I can think is, “Somehow, serving Communion shows some sort of spiritual authority and so women cannot be permitted to serve it. But on this day, to honour the women in church, we now have boys in this position of supposed spiritual authority. Boys who are still living under their mothers authority. Boys, who have a curfew. Boys who can’t drive. One boy isn’t even in high school yet. But God forbid a woman serve the bread and juice at Communion.” I nearly walked out. Instead, I hold back tears, pray for forgiveness for my bitterness, and eat the tiny, stale cracker and swallow the few drops of grape juice. I cannot stay in a church where my daughter will be taught to sit quietly in the church, doing nothing, while the men and boys serve God.

[deconstructionzone]

Part One

September: I lay on my back on a narrow bed in a dimly lit room. My husband stands beside me, our still-a-baby son in his stroller next to him. "Is it a girl?", my husband eagerly asks. "I haven't gotten there yet, but yes, it is a girl." "I knew it! I knew it was a girl!", my husband exclaims. We are thrilled. A boy and a girl; how perfect.

As we leave the hospital to buy a pink baby outfit, a foreboding thought crosses my mind: how will I ever tell her?

January: "She's perfect!" I say this as the midwives catch my baby girl and she enters the world. I haven't even seen her yet, but I already know deep in my heart that she absolutely is perfect. The midwife hands her to me and I cradle her against my chest: my daughter.

A few hours later, I am tucked up in bed, my baby girl beside be. Exhaustion is beginning to overtake me as a thought crosses my mind: she is different than her brother. How will I do this? How will I tell her?

March: I watch my baby girl sleeping in her swing while I listen to a song called Daughter. There's a line that says, "Our ceiling is your floor", and my heart cracks as I realize that my ceiling is also my daughter's ceiling. I must teach her where her place in the world is. How will I ever do it? How can I ever tell her that the world is not hers? How will I tell her that excellence from her will not be appreciated in certain spheres? That she must be careful not to cause offence to the masculinity of the men around her? How can I tell her that God values her, but he doesn't want her to have any authority in His Church? It is my duty to make sure my perfect daughter never becomes too confident or too ambitious or too strong because that isn't what women do.

A darkness settles inside my chest. My mind shuts down. A month later, I am diagnosed with postpartum depression.

To be continued...