PTSD 1--Afraid to Do

I have spent a lifetime searching for the information I found today on the internet in a 20-minute search.

I don't mean I just wanted to know what I found; I was desperate to know, terrified there was something horribly, fatally damaged in my character that would always leave me a procrastinating wastrel.

So if it was vital to know why I do certain things, why did I never just enter those search terms into a Google screen before and find my solution?

I call him "Google Monster"

I'm about to explain. The answer lies within the question.

[WARNING: Diagnoses ahead. If you truly believe that these days, everyone has a label instead of just taking personal responsibility, then this post will infuriate you, and I can't help that. You may not wish to read it.]

Frequent visitors here know that I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and that it stems not from any military service or pattern of childhood abuse, but from the trauma of events such as surviving a flood at age 13, and living with two terminally ill parents, until their deaths in 2007 and 2011.

However, you may not be aware that from about the age of 8, I have experienced anxiety and occasional panic attacks when confronted with a new task about which I do not feel confident. For many years, life has felt as if it adds more and more demands upon me, and each one takes a toll. So what, right? It does that to everyone. Very true. But not everyone lives in terror of not doing it perfectly the first time, no matter the task. And not everyone fears going to hell if they don't accomplish that mission impossible.

My father was a Pentecostal pastor nearly my whole life, and at the age of 4, I really listened to one of his sermons promising heaven to the saved and hell to the unsaved, and believed that I would go to hell if I didn't go forward to the altar and pray "the Sinner's Prayer" with him.

This old-fashioned Pentecostal "altar" is housed at the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art.
Known in the early "Revival" days as a "Mourner's Bench,"
it was a place where penitents sat, and later more commonly knelt,
to pray for immediate conversion and forgiveness.
I said my initial prayers while kneeling at the single-railed "altar" in the
Church of God of Mountain Assembly, in Salem, Indiana, c. October 1981.

In the minds of everyone around me, this was an extraordinary and blessed event, a wonderful thing for me to do at such a young age. No one seemed to take into account the very real terror of going to hell, nestled in the mind of an impressionable 4-year-old, that inspired the move.

"Hell"
by Hans Memling

DIAGNOSIS #1--Hadephobia, aka Stygiophobia/Stigiophobia--a fear of hell, of being eternally damned to hell, so severe that it can debilitate the sufferer. At best, a person with hadephobia may spend most waking hours trying to decide how best to please God in order to avoid this eternal fate.

Even though I was so young, I do remember that before these events, I loved and respected God, just as I loved and respected my father/pastor, and I saw them as very similar in behaviors, motivations, and affections toward me. Now, God became a source of terror, even though my father certainly never was. If anything, the fear of God began to color my view of my father, making me afraid that failing to please one directly equated to being eternally judged by the other, a fear I had never envisioned before. Soon my mother, and then all authority figures, were swept up into the mental fray; any failure of any kind could lead me straight to hell.

DIAGNOSIS #2--Hagiophobia--fear of anything holy, including God, Saints, and sacred objects or buildings.

If God was willing to send me to hell for even small mistakes (again, the understanding of a child mind), then He was best prayed to daily (i.e. appeased), and then avoided as much as possible. Who knew when I might fatally disappoint Him? Churches were terrifying places, a truly debilitating state of affairs when your parents were full-time pastors. We were in the church house any time the doors were unlocked, even if only to clean it or mow the grass! There was no escaping the place!

However, this fear of churches didn't develop all at once. It built up over time, compounded by a growing awareness from a very young age of another issue God was supposedly willing to smite me over--bisexual orientation. I describe it for people this way: "I discovered both boys and girls when I was three, and Jesus when I was four." Along with surety of my family's love, the fact that I had a crush on another little girl was one of the few certainties in life that I experienced BEFORE I became a believer in Christ.

By the time I hit puberty, several things about my character were set in stone:

(1) I was a Christian, by choice, but also by fear.
(2) I lived with such terrible dread of hell that I was in constant fear that I would, or already had, "blaspheme[d] against the Holy Ghost" (Matthew 12:31, Mark 3:29, Luke 12:10) (KJV). My parents had to talk me through this issue many times, and long stretches of my teen years are a horrible blur of terror when I look back on them. I didn't even want to think about the Holy Ghost, and to this day, prefer the term "Holy Spirit," because it does not engender the old fear. It's hard to love someone who you think is constantly waiting for a reason to hate you.
(3) I was gay, by birth, and living in terrified denial. I had fallen in love with a girl, and was no longer young enough to dismiss it as just one little kid being fond of another. Through one awful summer, I burst into tears every time I stepped into a church building, because I was sure God couldn't love me any more, even though I was pushing down the feelings as hard as I could and had no intention of acting on them.
(4) After so many years of fear, I was terrified to make a mistake, which leads us to...

DIAGNOSIS #4--Atychiophobia--commonly just described as "fear of failure," it is really much deeper and more horrifying than that. It is a paralysis that comes on any time I am asked to perform a new task, one in which I am not 100% certain of my ability. What if I screw up? With all this background noise of panic going on, I see every potential slip-up as another way to fail an authority figure, and if that happens, we all know what the ultimate result will be.

This mosaic of Hell by Coppo di Marcovaldo was placed on the inner dome
of a building where new converts were baptized. What a welcome to Christianity.

Only now do we reach the era of my childhood where we must add...

DIAGNOSIS #5--PTSD, aka Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Psychiatrists place very strict criteria on diagnosing PTSD, and virtually all of them center around a fear of death, either one's own death, that of loved ones, or in cases of extremely traumatic events such as war, witnessing the deaths of a number of unknown people. Living through a flood, during which an entire town must flee uphill in the middle of the night before rising waters, naturally creates a certain fear of death. Being forced to watch the slow, wasting deaths of both parents also counts, for sure. All create a fear of someone else's death, and ultimately a fear of my own mortality. So, where does this leave us?

CONSEQUENCES:
I fear going to hell, therefore I fear the One who supposedly sends people there. Thus, I fear making a mistake, and naturally just freeze when something I've never done before, or something about which I don't feel totally confident, is required of me. (Imagine how much fun that makes it to try to hold down a job!) Finally, because I've seen death and people threatened by death, I fear that any medical issue could kill me, which would only send me to hell FASTER. So we start back at my fear of hell, and VOILA! One really mean vicious cycle.

"Vicious Cycle"
(courtesy of a site called, believe it or not,
Alligator Sunglasses)

Which may all leave you with one big question: Why on earth am I telling you all of this?

Honestly, I'm not. I'm thinking in print, telling myself, and finding new freedoms for the first time ever, by discovering why I'm afraid to do anything. Not just worried, or hesitant, or I just don't like doing lots of things, so I don't do them. Nope. It's so much more than that, and understanding it is the first step to overcoming it. I just put my discussion with myself here, in case any of you realize that you see some aspects of yourself here, as well.

Homeless 15: Terror by Night and Day

In response to a comment I made, a friend asked me yesterday in some shock if I was afraid of them. The question staggered me to a point that I've spent most of the time since sorting out why, and I have finally sussed out the reason that it rattled me so: I was astonished that the person even had to ask. Of course, I'm afraid of them! I'm afraid of everyone! How could this have escaped everybody's notice? And then I realized how much of my interactions with others is guided by this principle, and how unfair it is to all of you not to make you aware of this if you don't already know it. Without this key to the way my mind functions, my behavior must often seem bizarre, baffling, and infuriating. I need to rectify this. Today.

One reason it has taken me this long to start actively seeking a job again is that bosses and customers terrify me, to a PTSD flashback level. I can tear up just at the thought of facing some stranger who expects things from me, and may react harshly if I can't meet those requirements or do so in a way that does not satisfy their whims. I am afraid of everyone I've ever known. If we've met, then you terrify me. Those of you who are kind enough to consider me a friend, we are friends because I eventually came to love you enough that the love outweighed the fear, and I refused to deny myself the joy of your friendship any longer. That doesn't change the fact that I expect you to hurt me, to decide that you hate me for something about myself that you don't like, at any moment. I expect you to leave me.

You may be wondering, if all that I've just said is true, how on Earth did I end up so damaged? My fear that those I worship will suddenly become angry with me began with my father, at whose shrine I certainly always did worship as the most adoring "daddy's girl". It was a mutual admiration society that we had, and he was a kind, gentle man with a big heart. He certainly never demonstrated any violence toward me or anyone else in my presence. But he did have a temper sometimes, and I have been reliably informed that when he was younger, that temper could be dangerous to those around him. He changed dramatically when he accepted Christ, and I never knew that angry version of him, but he could still lose his temper at times, raise his voice occasionally, or demonstrate a bitingly sharp tongue. These times were what my brother and I have come to refer to as the "go silent and pretend to disappear into the backseat of the car maneuver". Since Dad's slightest hint of disapproval crushed me, his actual anger was a fearsome thing for me to behold, even though I knew intellectually that he would never harm me.

Dad mellowed as he aged, but I soon found a whole new fear of both my parents through no fault of their own, when they were each diagnosed with a fatal illness. Suddenly, the two people at the center of my life had become ticking time bombs, and I knew that when they finally died, they would carry my whole world out from under my feet with them, which they have now done. I am still rebuilding a life that doesn't center around feeling responsible for them, worrying about them, dreading and waiting for their deaths. So many people have died in my life. In my battered emotional head-space, I'm afraid of everyone I love, because everyone I love will die. I'm dating someone right now, and one reason I feel very safe in that relationship is because I know she'll be moving away soon for her job. I already know how this will end, what the worst will be, and I know within a narrow margin when it will occur. I knew going in when the patient would die. That's a luxury so rare that, having found that safety, I joyfully lose myself in it for as long as it will last.

They say you marry someone like one of your parents (which I specifically leave gender-neutral, as a member of the LGBTQ community), and I certainly married a man like my father in one major area--volatility, only much more so. Again, my ex-husband never raised a hand to anyone in my presence, but I spent a good bit of our life together worried about what innocuous comment or query of mine would annoy him and therefore draw verbal barbs with which I wasn't prepared to deal. The addition of a child only exacerbated this for me, as he was often irritated by her being a child--making too much noise, watching that same show one too many times, making a mess--and then we would get barked at, and I felt the need to protect her while at the same time feeling as if I was failing if I allowed some action of hers to annoy him. As I said, my father was such a good man, and he mellowed in the 25+ years that I knew him, but I no longer had the resources to start that process of mellowing all over again. Besides, I didn't want my daughter to have to grow up knowing when to meld herself into the backseat.

I am even afraid of my own daughter, because I fear unintentionally harming her, disappointing her, being unable to soothe her tears or meet her needs. I think every parent has these feelings, and I do manage to overcome them, because she needs me to and she comes first. But they would still be debilitating if I let them.

And of course, being homeless brought a whole new type of fear into my existence, fears for my basic needs and those of my daughter, fears for my comfort, because I am a creature of comfort when allowed to be. I won't attempt to deny it. But it also brought whole new levels of fear into my relationships. So long as you are my friend, and so long as I have to be surfing friends' couches, then you potentially hold my life in your hands at some future point. What if you become fed up with me? To whom will I turn for help until this nightmare is over? Where will I go? And if you're thinking no one would leave me stranded like that, three friends already have, one of whom was my brother. If you're NOW thinking that there must be something really wrong with me, if that many people had to throw me out, you're absolutely right. The whole point of this post is to admit that I have issues, and pull back the curtain so you can see what those issues are, in preparation for the next time that my fears drive me to unwittingly hurt or disappoint you. Still, when a friend is ready to throw you out, you become ever more fearful. I'm afraid you'll become angry enough at me to say horrible, hurtful things to me, even if that was not your initial intent. After all, my own brother reached that point with me eventually.

Most importantly, I've been stark raving terrified of God since my first conscious thoughts, because He might become angry with me and send me to Hell. So, if I'm afraid of my Sustainer, the two people who created me--one of whom carried me in her womb--the person to whom I used to make love, the child I carried in my body, and the only other person my parents ever produced, can you think of anybody that I wouldn't be afraid of? Indeed, the closer I grow to someone, the more afraid I am of them, because their power over my peace and happiness becomes ever greater.

If I've ever not responded to a phone call, a letter, a text, it wasn't because I didn't want to--it was because the fear defeated me that day. If I've ever hurt you by doing something inconsiderate, something seemingly out of character that was painful, you could probably ask me what I was afraid of and running from, and I could probably tell you without much hesitation for thought. I'm not saying any of this excuses my mistakes, nor am I asking you to like these things about me, because I don't like these things about myself. The past year has been about working on correcting these things. I am only asking for patience, and forgiveness. The mere fact that I've begun seeking work again indicates how far I've come, but I'm fighting a lifetime of habits, and I will regress.

What I Hate Most is Hate

Fred Phelps died this week.

If by some miracle you have avoided hearing about the subject, Fred Phelps was the founder of Westboro Baptist Church, an organization whose web address is "godhatesfags".

As a gay woman, still struggling to find my place in a new world I entered upon coming out, I felt like working through my view of this event here on my blog. I certainly don't speak for the entire LGBTQ community, and every human being has an innate right to an opinion. I just need to state mine, to help myself process a swirl of uncomfortable emotions. You see, I am, by definition, one of the people this man hated. It's a strange feeling, the moment you realize that someone you'll never meet, a complete stranger, hated you in particular. I have stood on the fringes of various groups who experience prejudice every day of their lives, trying to be an ally, an advocate, but this may be the first time I've ever been squarely within the hated population.

Emblem of the
"mountain holiness Pentecostal"
denomination into which I was born

At the risk of sounding like the Apostle Paul in his famous "I was a Pharisee" soliloquy (Philippians 3), I'm in an unusual position, because I was born and raised a Pentecostal, the daughter of a rural Hoosier Pentecostal preacher. I had a "conversion experience" at the tender age of 4, because I had heard my father preach that if I died without having done so, I would go to Hell. I have loved Jesus all my life, even though I was also afraid of Him. I was not only taught that homosexuality was its own special form of evil, but also firmly believed it for 30 years, which naturally led to a fascinating form of self-loathing, as I've known since I was 3 that I was attracted to both men and women, and more often to the latter. I may not have hated gays as people, but I certainly hated the concept, and felt disgusted with myself.

Fred Phelps doesn't anger me. His legacy of hate doesn't infuriate me. The whole thing makes me horribly sad. Seeing people virulently hate him back makes me sad. Hearing people say they hope he is burning in Hell makes me sad. Hasn't there been enough of wishing people Hellfire? Isn't that the point of this travesty? Fred Phelps hated because he was terrified, of a God he never understood, of what his country would become if behaviors that frightened him became accepted. I've been Fred Phelps, or more accurately, I've been all those little kids I see in pictures of Westboro protesters, getting indoctrinated before they can possibly understand the issue in question, holding signs proclaiming that the God who called Himself love, hates people He created. I was that child. I say, enough hate, toward those who disagree with us, toward those who dislike us for who we are, towards ourselves.

This is compassion lived. And it was lived for everyone. No exceptions.

Photo by Sailko

Homeless 13: How I Got Here

Horrible nausea.

It's the nausea that starts first.

It has always been one of my worst triggers, and to this day, no one knows if the nausea or the panic arrives first, which is causal and which simply an aftershock. All I know is that when this pattern begins, the only possible relief is to weep until it passes. Crying doesn't make it go away; it just ameliorates it a bit. I feel slightly better if I sit, sobbing, than I do if I sit, dry-eyed and sure that any second I will simply come crashing out of my own skin. I'm issuing forth loud, bitter sobs as I type this. God, it feels better.

Dizziness, also.

That's another major trigger.

I think the dizziness may actually have been the precursor I tried to ignore, yesterday afternoon, when this bout was in its infancy.

By today, the stark, naked terror had begun full-force. Nothing had dramatically changed in my life in the past two days. Whatever damnable alchemy ignites anxiety, depression, panic, PTSD and all its fellow demons, is simply marching triumphantly back through my body and brain. They have set up a squatter's camp in which to dwell while wreaking as much havoc as possible before finally being banished by drugs, therapy, and my own slow but sure techniques of battling my way back to daylight. For anyone who thinks that people like me "don't work" because we're unemployed, I defy you to do this for the 48-72 hours that loom ahead of me right now, and scrabble your way out, still alive and sane, on the other side. This will be by far the most hellishly difficult work I have ever done, as it is every time I have to do it.

If science and medicine knew why it happens, they would certainly stop it--I am by no means the only person in this country who is laid low by these attacks on a regular basis. There are millions of us in the US alone, all at the mercy of the kind of mental wellness issues that routinely take a massive bite out of the national workforce every year. After a lifetime of fears and trauma, any brain will eventually announce that it has had enough, that it demands some rest, and those of us who merely cry and feel genuine terror without any genuine threat are among the lucky ones. Some go to a place from which no one can ever help them return.

More of the secondary symptoms come into play now--hot flashes and sweats, waves of shame and guilt, fear at the stigma attached to these issues. There are reasons that I have never before written my way through one of these attacks. But how else can I ever share with you what this truly feels like, as nearly as you can grasp it without experiencing it for yourselves? And believe me, there is no one in all of human history on whom I would wish these sensations. Last week, on this very blog, I advised myself to write through anything, through everything, as a way to defuse self-defeat, as a way back to sanity no matter the hurdle, so I have written it out, and bared it before you all. The factors of my situation feel as if they form a bewildering, impenetrable web around me, and I often wonder how I will ever break free, but fundamentally, this is the reason I am homeless. Very generous employers these days still give smoking breaks to those trapped by nicotine, but I have never met one who felt comfortable giving breaks as needed to someone who has to sit in a corner, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself, crying.

I am not crazy. Depression. Anxiety. Panic. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Look them up. I am not insane. But something broke, and we live in a time when therapists still tell clients on a regular basis not to reveal any of these maladies to prospective employers, because they will be turned away, no matter how many laws supposedly protect them. Too much pain, too many years of waiting for someone to die, too many memories of a flood that saw boats drifting down Main Street, too many fears that I was doomed to hell because I wasn't good enough for "an angry God". Something broke, and until a merciful God and medical professionals and I can fix it, even finding a job is not my biggest problem.

Homeless 12: A Damn Job

Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange
of the Farm Security Administration
This is one of the single most famous images
from the Dust Bowl/Great Depression era.

"Why don't you just get a JOB?"

About a week ago now, an old friend of mine from college asked me to address this question, because she knows that so many people ask it of individuals in a situation like mine. My friend understands what my answer would be, but felt that since I'm actually having the experience and she is not, I am best suited to explain the complexity of this question. I am grateful to her for the suggestion, and for her understanding.

Still, I put off addressing this issue until today, for two reasons: (1) The fact that I keep smacking up against the brick wall of this very question angers me so much that I'm almost incapable of crafting coherent sentences. (To all those who have helped me without judging me, thank you so much; you get why I'm infuriated sometimes, and your kindness encourages me to carry on.) I apologize now for the angry tone of this post; I sound angry because I'm...angry. (2) Having to try and explain this, demonstrate in words that it's not nearly this simple, craft a response that will broaden someone else's view beyond such facile "answers" to problems like poverty and homelessness, is a daunting--even exhausting--task at the best of times, let alone when conditions like PTSD reduce your list of daily goals to things like "remember to eat at least once today" and "take a shower." Yet, I will attempt it, and I hope somebody finds it useful. Allow me to deal with the larger question by addressing those two factors one at a time.

(1) Why does the question anger me so? I understand why the question exists, and why people who have never faced long-term unemployment or homelessness would ask it. It seems like there's a large helping of laziness involved in finding one's self in this position; after all, we live in the fabled "Land of Opportunity!" I get it. My anger can best be explained with an image, I feel.

Image on left from Simple Life Abundant Life
Image on right by Pineapple XVI

I have been a Christian my whole life, most of it spent as a Fundamentalist Evangelical, and I admit freely that the issues I'm facing now were only a distant thought to me, something to be "tutted" over, until recently. I get that, too, and I indict myself, first and foremost, as the chiefest of sinners (I Timothy 1:15). The point is, we will actually spend energy and internet space researching what the Bible says about essential oils! What Christ said about the poor, the needy, the hungry, was very clear. "Give to those who ask" (Matthew 5:42); "...freely you have received, freely give" (Matthew 10:8); "...give, and it will be given to you. ...for the measure you give will be the measure you get back" (Luke 6:38). Time and time and time again and myriad times over, Christ instructed His hearers to give to the poor, with no exemption for WHY they needed help, how they got where they were, what the giver suspected the receiver would do with the money. NO EXCEPTIONS. Christ learned a trade; He could have earned His living. Yet He had "nowhere to lay his head" (Luke 9:58). I'm not even talking about me now; I have a place to sleep tonight, because one of my dearest friends in life took her Master's instructions to heart. I am talking about this country's schizophrenic behavior over the teachings of Scripture, always asking what the Bible says about gay marriage, and internet pornography, and marijuana, and twerking, and South Park--all of them things which the Bible never addressed because they didn't exist yet--and meanwhile hosting seminars in churches about how to control donations given to the poor to ensure that they're not used in ways of which churchfolk wouldn't approve. The beam and the mote. Look it up.

UnemployedMan.com

(2) Why isn't it as simple as getting a job? When I started writing this series, I discovered quickly that to be effective, I would have to publish for all the world to read details that I once would have shared only with my mother and a handful of my most trusted friends. Some of you have been impressed, some shocked, and some openly disapproving of me airing my private skeletons on a blog. To all of you, it's about to get really TMI ("too much information") in here. Sorry, but it's the only way I can answer the question.

One of my closest living relatives (and there aren't so many left that I can spare any) told me to my face that they would never believe my claims of PTSD, anxiety, and depression, never believe that those conditions left me unable to work, never believe that I was anything but a mooch and a professional victim. I'll never convince that person; I have their word on it. That conversation is why I feel exhausted by the thought of sharing all this. It feels pointless. But it's the only way.

Let's start with student loans. When I entered college, student loans were being sold to the youth of this country as "good debt," i.e. a sound investment in a lucrative future, and therefore not unwise or unsafe or short-sighted. And then, loan companies lobbied congress until those loans became virtually impossible to discharge even in bankruptcy. Guess what? Student loans are the same sort of indentured servitude as any other debt, and the next big crash we face will be as a result of student loan defaults. If you thought the "housing bubble" was bad when it burst, just hide and watch what the "student loan bubble" does to the economy when it blows. So I was in $133,000 worth of federal loan debt and $30,000 of private loan debt when I finished my most recent degree, and had been caring for both my disabled parents as best I could while a full-time student--undergraduate, then graduate--and sometimes working two jobs on campus. My mother called me during an exam once to say that my father had been taken to the hospital. Again. I had to call in one day and tell one of my bosses that I would miss three days of work because Mom went to the ER. Again. Are we REALLY that shocked that when my dad died, the panic attacks were so bad at first that I literally could not stand up off my bed? Could you hold down a job in that state? After expecting them to die since I was 16 (in Dad's case, and since I was 4 in Mom's), is four years of recovery time since I lost my mother that difficult to understand? And when I couldn't make monthly payments, the lenders slapped on late fees until my debt reached almost $500,000. My grandchildren couldn't have paid that off.

PTSD. The specter that changed everything, when my body and mind said, "You've run on the adrenaline of waiting for someone to die for 32 years. Time to pay the piper." And because of PTSD, my student loans were finally discharged. For the next three years, the Department of Education is closely watching what I make; money from government aid doesn't count against this total, but I have a very tight cap on how much I can actually earn each month. It's not enough to live on; it's just enough to lose me the food stamps and cash assistance I spent the last 6 months fighting every day to get. "A job at McDonald's" would both starve me and cripple me financially, all without giving me enough earnings to get my little girl back. And make no mistake--that is not just my goal, but the reason I'm still alive.

Photo by LSDSL

"You shouldn't have taken out the loans, then," my family member insisted. Very helpful. If I could go back and tell my 18-year-old self that, I certainly would. I'm just waiting for my flying DeLorean to arrive, and I'll get right on that. Believe me, I warn every child I know who is planning on going to college someday to find some other source of funding, or learn to enjoy waiting tables. I didn't wake up one morning and decide to defraud anyone; I planned to become a professor and teach Religious Studies at a university. I still plan to do it. I am not so beaten yet that I have given up on digging out of this hole and fulfilling my dreams. If you are frustrated with me because I haven't yet become a productive consumer and contributed enough to the GDP, keep watching this space. Oh, and in the spirit of "Don't forget to tip your waiters!," thank the next stay-at-home mom you see for raising a future generation, and apologize to her if you've ever said that "women like that need to get a job"; she's got one. Look in the eyes of a homeless person who is much worse off than I am and say, "I love you exactly as you are at this moment, as Jesus told me to, and here's $20, because He told me to."

When You've Been Nice Enough

A year ago this month, I came out to myself and the world. I totally overturned my life to seek some peace and happiness, because neither my ex-husband nor I was happy, and by extension, our daughter was unhappy because she was aware of the tension around her. A lot of shitty daily life has followed those decisions, but not as a result of them. From the moment that Michael lost his job (before I made my announcement), life was going to suck for all three of us until we found some financial stability again. Despite all of that, I am better off because of one simple word--FREEDOM.

La Liberte
by Jeanne-Louise Vallain

Some friends and family responded with concern that I had jettisoned everything I've ever believed in, my faith in God and my entire moral compass. That was an understandable reaction to such a dramatic "change" on my part, but it was incorrect.

Photo courtesy of
l'Association Club Historique Mozacois

"I...know nothing...but Jesus Christ and Him crucified." I Corinthians 2:2

Seeing me say that makes no sense to those who consider homosexuality and Christianity to be irreparable enemies, but now more than ever, it is the only mechanism I have left by which to guide my life. My declaration wasn't me thumbing my nose at God and all humanity; it was me finally being honest, and accepting that God preferred that I do so. Lying to myself for so many years literally damaged my mental and physical health, and lying to God is just a ridiculous myth we tell ourselves to keep secret things our own minds can't process. I haven't changed. I just started telling the truth.

I spent my life up to that moment trying to be a "nice girl," trying not to offend anybody or shock anybody or appall anybody. I've always been "odd" by the standards of the place in which I was raised, and I've always been blunt enough to embarrass my loving mother at times. But my father was my pastor, my mother was the church piano player, and I had a lot to live up to. Moreover, at various times in my life, my family and I lived in houses owned by the churches he pastored; the very roof over our heads depended, at least in part, on my and my brother's behavior meeting with the approval of the parishioners. By the time my father had to retire from ministry because of several heart attacks, I was in college, and the pattern of trying to behave was so ingrained in me that I was afraid, every waking and sleeping moment, of screwing up and pissing God off. I'm done.

God doesn't use fear on His children.

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment." I John 4:18

I don't know who I pleased by living in constant fear, but it wasn't God by any Biblical definition; I don't know if it was pleasing to anybody. All I know is that I did what everyone said was the ideal--I didn't have sex until I got married; I didn't taste alcohol until I was almost 30. I've still never smoked anything, not a single cigarette, let alone anything more "recreational." My marriage was a disaster, and there are much worse things in life than having a glass of wine. Like the torment that the verse above describes. And believe me, for a long time and in many ways, my life absolutely was torment.

Believe it or not, this YouTube video pretty much says it all for me.

I was too afraid to write what I wanted to write, to say what I wanted to say, to pursue "the desires of my heart." I gave up the best thing I've ever found because I was afraid that God would damn me to Hell if I didn't. I was terrified that I would let down my parents, my extended family, my dearest friends--even the ones who were rooting for me to stop living in fear--but most of all, I was terrified of God. If God is a Father, it made no sense for me to remain so horrified by Him; my own father didn't scare me, so why should He? And when I didn't die from the five surgeries performed on me a year ago this month, He finally got that through to me. He knows me as I am, and He loves me as I am. He doesn't hate me, as I dreaded that He would if I was honestly myself.

No one needs to agree with that, or even understand. It's just my declaration of independence.

This post was featured (with minimal editing) on Believe Out Loud on March 25, 2014.

Homeless 10: The Real Deal

Homeless Jesus by Timothy Schmalz
Image courtesy of St. Joseph's Soup Kitchen

The first anniversary of my homeless condition is fast approaching. Throughout what has felt like a downward spiral, however, I have been in a semi-homeless status. I have had no secure knowledge that the place where I was sleeping was my own place to which to return without exception or conditions; the various roofs over my head have all belonged to others, who were simply generous enough to allow me house space. In the past few weeks, I have shuffled back and forth between various houses of friends, or planned to enter a shelter more than once, only to be reprieved each time at the last possible moment. Not knowing when the day begins where I'll be sleeping that night has been a level of panic to aggravate PTSD on an unprecedented scale.

AND YET, it wasn't until the weekend just past that I finally spent the better part of a day with nowhere to go, no place to hide from the wind's chill, or from the suspicious eyes of store employees and the waiting grip of police in a city that has outlawed homelessness. Just a few hours. I walked the streets, rode a bus simply because it was warm and in order to travel where I knew I'd find a friendly face and some kind conversation. I hid in a fast-food restaurant until they closed, partly because I'm one of the few fortunates who actually have a state-granted income--not enough to allow me to get a motel room, not if I want to survive until the end of the month, but enough to buy a cheeseburger and thereby avoid arrest for loitering a little while longer. Then I went to an all-night laundromat and tried to blend in for a little while; since I had no clothes running on which I could periodically check, the night watchman began to look askance at me pretty quickly, and I knew it was once again time to go back out into the cold.

There are primarily two subcultures in this country who are over 18, yet still carry backpacks--college students, and the homeless, and I've now been both. Students leave their dorm rooms or apartments for a long day of schlepping all over campus and the larger town, often don't intend to return to their tiny nests until sunset or after, and therefore make sure they're carrying everything required for the day on their bodies at all times. The homeless, however, carry everything they own, and it often isn't much, because they have no place to store so much as a paperclip. If it can't travel on their backs, they don't accept it. Always watchful of everyone, each sound and movement that reaches the senses, the homeless cannot relax for a second, waking or sleeping, because the threat of losing the few precious supplies in that bag is constantly, terrifyingly real. Never has my hypervigilance issue been as dramatic as it has become in the past few days; a car beeped near me when someone used their keyless remote to lock it, and I nearly bolted.

The original image is one of the most
famous Christian icons in the world,
known as "The Christ of Sinai."
The altered image is courtesy of
Romero Center Ministries.

I am so blessed. I was once again granted clemency this week. One more time, a friend appeared and put a roof over my head for another 7 days. The shelter to which I was headed only gives a bed for one week at a time (and that makes them one of the best; most operate on a nightly basis), so I am putting off going there as long as I can. I need to keep that week in reserve against the moment when no one can save the day. Before my day of wandering hit midnight, I had a bed in a safe, warm house. Another friend with an empty storage space allowed me to finally stop dragging my belongings from place to place, before I was faced with the task of sifting through and shedding everything that couldn't travel in my backpack. I have a car; I have a meager income; I have friends. As Humble Harv points out, these things number me among the spoiled rich of the homeless class. This week, I found myself for a few hours among those who have none of these luxuries, and they are the bravest people I have ever known. Some might say it's not bravery, as they have no choice, but they do have a choice, every day, the same choice I faced when I sat in that burger joint deciding whether I could live another day if it was going to look like the one I just spent. There are choices, and the most courageous among them is continuing on a path that is seemingly without end until a natural death. I am honored to have been among these people's company for just a few hours, those whose shoes I am not worthy to unloose.

Homeless 7.5: Update

"Ascent of the Blessed"
by Hieronymous Bosch
(one of my favorite artists)

And this, my friends, is how God works, this is how Deus ex machina works--at the moment you need Him, and not a second before. At least, that has always been my experience of Him, and today was no different.

This brief update is to let you know that I got a small but important piece of good news tonight, that could well eventually prove to be the game-changer I cried out for earlier today. I don't wish to say too much now, because it was only a small piece of good news, and I have to spend the next couple of days making phone calls and getting some answers about what it all means realistically. It seems quite likely at this point that I will still end up spending some time in a homeless shelter, but let's just say I got a glimpse of enough light to illustrate that this is a tunnel, and not a bottomless pit, through which I am traveling.

Homeless 7: Terrified

Job and his comforters

In the early days after my father's massive heart attack, when he was still in the hospital in Louisville, Kentucky, he said to me, "That which I have most feared has come upon me," quoting the lament of a broken man from Job 3:25. Dad's father, Lebert, had died of his second heart attack two weeks before Christmas the year that my father was 16. I was 16 on that day when I was standing beside Dad in his hospital room. What we had both dreaded had begun, and would not end until 2007, after many long years of fear, suffering, and sadness.

SALEM JOHN BOARDS THE 'LAST TRAIN OUT'
a tribute to my dad written by Cecil J. Smith, emeritus editor-in-chief of my hometown's newspapers

Once again, what I have most feared in the past few months is about to descend on me. Barring an outbreak of Deus ex machina (the literary term for divine intervention on a game-changing scale), I will be moving into a homeless women's shelter on Monday, February 17, 2014. Now, don't misunderstand me--I believe in divine intervention to a point that makes this whole assertion an understatement. You cannot imagine the genuine miracles I have seen in my 36 years of life. This may be stopped at the eleventh hour, or it may be that the shelter will be best for me, anyway. I can only say at this moment that it appears to be looming fast before me, and I am thoroughly terrified.

"Deus Ex Machina 1" (2012)
by Mall Nukke

The facts are simple. I have PTSD; I applied for a very small, part-time job yesterday, even though I know I'm not ready, because I have got to find some income. My ex-husband owes me some 9 months' worth of alimony, because that's how long he has also been unemployed, despite his continuing efforts to find a job. The car upon which I have depended to take me to medical and therapy appointments is sitting in a driveway, and will not start. A tooth with a gaping whole in it is slowly building up to a catastrophe in my mouth, and I have no way to get the root canal I need. I have applied for every form of government aid I can, and it will be another 6-8 weeks before I can even expect a rejection, let alone an award letter.

At times right now, I hate myself, and I hate my life. Being a mother under these circumstances is a cruel, jagged, double-edged sword; I feel such guilt at not being with my daughter now, having to leave her with her paternal grandparents, being unable to care for her, that I sometimes want to die, and because I would never leave her or hurt her, I could never, ever kill myself. I spoke to my sweet, beautiful, 4-year-old daughter on the phone today; she asked, "Are you my mom?" Never has Hamlet's soliloquy made more piercing sense to me. I know I am being viciously honest, but I have no pride left with which to hide the self that most people don't show to others.

I say that, but the last vestiges of pride do linger to make me ashamed of my situation, embarrassed to admit that I am a pauper with PTSD, anxiety, depression, and panic issues, afraid that those I need most right now will reject me as a lost cause or a dangerous person with whom to become entangled. But yesterday, I found this,

a video on YouTube of a performance by the Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate (which I beg you, in your charity, to watch, as it will help the remaining sentences make more sense).

As the images unfolded, I was reminded that there is no shame in poverty for a Christian; our Founder said of Himself that He had "no place to lay his head" (Matthew 8:20). I certainly cannot compare myself to Him, nor claim, as He could, that I have not contributed in any way to my current predicament. All I can say is that He never turned anyone away for poverty, but "had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd" (Matthew 9:36), and if He had turned people away because they had sinned, had helped cause their own sufferings, He would never have interacted with a single human being. Indeed, He would not have bothered to come at all.

My Muslim friends taught me to pray in these beautiful words (two common interpretations of a phrase from the first surah of the Qur'an):

"In Thee do we seek refuge," and "Thine aid do we seek."

My Master taught me to pray in very similar terms:

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

"Jesus Calmant la Tempete"
by James Tissot

In any language, "carest thou not that we perish?" (Mark 4:37). Lord, you must now say, "Peace, be still" (Mark 4:38), or I will surely drown.

Time for a Hodge-Podge

Yes, my faithful band of readers, another Hodge-Podge post is in order, as I have a few things about which to update you at the same time that are unconnected, except in the fact that they are all happening in my life. I admit this post is a long one, but I hope you will come with me for the whole adventure. As you will see shortly, the day I've had so far makes the title of this semi-regular feature particularly apt. But first, a writing update.

---

A Finished Manuscript!

Ah, how those words roll trippingly off the tongue (or keyboard) of any aspiring author! The sense of pride, of accomplishment, increased self-worth, is boundless--for about 12 hours. Then the doubts set in. "These poems seem inexperienced. I sound childish and infantile! They're all too much alike, in both form and content. I KNOW that if they're combined into a single book, they should have a unifying theme, BUT..." and on and on it goes. So, I'm into the doubtful phase now, but ultimately, my opinion is no longer the one that matters; a publisher will accept it or not. My view of it is already set--I love my "little book" (nod to Louisa May Alcott, a heroine of mine), or I would not have bothered to keep going with it. I will always love it, for all the things it represents in my growth as a person and the memories it will always evoke for me. The only questions now are the subjective--Will anyone else be able to identify with my words and love them?--and the mundane--Will my efforts help me in the world of filthy lucre? I have no control over the answers to either, so I will simply send it out to see what, if anything, happens next.

---

Even for a woman who owns a blog called The Beauty of Eclecticism, I have had a particularly diverse day. It started--as journeys down rabbit holes so often do these days--with a link that a friend posted on Facebook. NPR conducted an interview with the prioress and choir-mistress of a group on nuns who have been taken on a whirlwind tour of secular popularity with their sacred music in the past few years. The Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles, are a cloistered order, which means that they live their lives in community together but in near-total seclusion from the outside world. A common misconception about cloistered monastics is that they separate themselves from the rest of us because they fear we will contaminate them with our sinful ways. On the contrary, the best monastics gaze permanently and unflinchingly into the chasm of their own sinfulness, leaving no time to judge anyone else. They hide themselves away (as Christ instructed all of us to do during our prayer time) in order to devote as much time as they possibly can to praying for all of us, the entire rest of the world, as they know that not everyone can be cloistered, but we all need prayer, just the same. The sisters of Mary, Queen of Apostles, are dedicated to that mission.

The rise of the digiverse has been a God-send (if you'll pardon the pun) for secluded religious orders, because it allows them to have limited contact with the outside world on their own terms. They communicate with the rest of us through e-mail, websites, and in the case of orders such as this one, recordings of their beautiful liturgical music, which they also use to support and maintain their priory in Missouri. Videos about the sisters and their work, as well as other similar religious orders who produce music for the wider world, are available on YouTube, and if you are in need of a moment of heavenly peace right now, I cannot recommend strongly enough that you check them out.

From the sublime to the earthy we go. Somehow, my Facebook wanderings then led me to the home of fellow bloggers Amy and Kate, a mother-daughter pairing who have produced the enormously popular Homestead Revival. This blog chronicles the on-going journey of a family who chose the periodically fashionable path of "self-sustained living," "returning to the land," that sort of thing, and they are staunchly traditional Christians, talking frequently about homemaking and the Apostle Paul's injunction that wives should be submissive to their husbands. I think you'll agree that such a blog would not be my obvious choice of hang-out spot; I recently came out as a lesbian and divorced my husband, after leaving the ultra-conservative Eastern Orthodox church for the markedly liberal Episcopal Church.

That has been the theme of my day, what has made it eclectic and interesting--in short, a hodge-podge. I have been reminded that I don't have to agree with those I encounter to enjoy our common humanity, to learn from them and be spiritually nourished by their wisdom, and hopefully to be able to offer something in return in that exchange when given the opportunity. Moreover, I am officially an author with a manuscript soon to be under consideration by publishers; I have added to the sum total of artistic and emotional expression in human history. My life is little short of terrifying right now in a number of aspects, and these are interludes of peace at the center of my storms.

Return to Wondrous Words

Ah, my fellow word-lovers, it is so good to be returning to some of my favorite memes--in other words, to be fully engaged in blogging again--and one of my absolute favorites since I first discovered it a couple of years ago is "Wondrous Words Wednesday". Together, we celebrate new words we come across each week, whether we've never seen them before, have seen them but do not know their definitions, or are simply unsure of our understanding of them. In this week's entry, I happen to have one of each.

Brand New to Me:
1. trigram/hexagram--these are the names of the symbols around which the Chinese classic, the I Ching, centers, and upon which its pearls of wisdom are based. A trigram is so called because it is composed of three lines, while a hexagram consists of six. I decided to do some research on this work when I spotted a copy in the library earlier in the week, and it has proven quite fascinating.

Seen But Not Previously Known:
2. Invidious--"likely to arouse or incur resentment or anger in others," so says Google. I came across this one in an episode of the British panel show, QI. Thank you, Stephen Fry.

Known But I was not Sure if I was Correct:
3. Autochthonous--Merriam Webster Online defines this term as "formed or originating in the place where found," and Google adds that this something or someone "indigenous rather than descended from migrants or colonists." I was on the right track, but didn't have a clear picture of this meaning until I checked into it further. This one came from the introduction of the translation of the I Ching I've been reading.

The Wicked Saloon

After yesterday's quite somber post, I thought it might be nice to tell you how I spent a very enjoyable Saturday night just passed. It is part of the on-going saga of how I'm recovering from having been a hard-core religious fundamentalist for the first 25 years of my life. I was an insufferable person before I learned a little charity and compassion for myself and my fellow creatures.

I walked into a bar for the first time when I was in my mid-20's, to hear a very dear friend perform during an open-mic night. I was so terrified that my friend was extremely kind and didn't even drink while we were there; it's a long process of baby steps, entering the outside world when you've been so sheltered.

I've been in a bar a handful of times in the decade since, but last Saturday night was the first time that anyone ever said to me, "Let's go spend an evening out!" and I accepted the offer. We went to a local bar/restaurant/karaoke venue, and spent several hours there. I had one drink, having volunteered as the designated driver. My wonderful roommate and I sang and listened to a lot of karaoke--and I still can't decide if we should thank the Japanese or slap them, but we had a great time. At one time, I imagined all bars to be roughly

with full-on chicken wire, beer bottles flying, bar fights every ten minutes as if there were some sort of violence roster posted, and at least three drunk women dancing on tables at all times.

Yeah. I turned to my friend at one point in the evening and said, "So, this is what y'all do in these wicked bars, huh?" She just laughed at me. Nobody hit anybody. No clothing went missing. No objects flew across the room at anyone else. Some songs got roughed up and sent home weeping, but as one girl sitting near me said, we gave everyone an " 'A' for effort" and a polite round of applause, regardless. I was treated to some awesome, freshly-cooked salt and vinegar chips. Met some decent people unwinding on a Saturday night. Felt like an utter fool for all the nightmarish visions I had once bought into. I had a nice time, and drove home as agreed. Thank you, everyone, for welcoming me into the real world with the normal people. Amen.

Homeless 2

For this story to make sense, you need a bit of background information (a la Dickens' "Marley was dead, to begin with"). Item 1: Maronite Christians. For those who don't know or are unsure, the Maronites are Middle Eastern Christians who more closely follow the Eastern liturgical forms and traditions than those of Western Christianity, but unlike the Eastern Orthodox and Oriental Orthodox churches, they accept the Roman Catholic doctrine of the pope as the earthly head of the church. They are quite conservative on topics like homosexuality. Item 2: my bumper stickers. I have the following combination on the back bumper of my car.

The rainbow has become a standard symbol for the homosexual community, and the red background with lighter bars stands for marriage equality, i.e. gay marriage rights. I didn't put them on my car to rub people's noses in the fact that I'm a lesbian; rather, they are there to remind me that I can say this about myself out loud and God will still love me. After a lifetime of denying my homosexuality to myself for fear that God would hate me or doom me to hell, that constant reminder is important.

Now, on to our story. Today, I used the last pittance of gas in my car's tank to drive to the local office of the Social Security Administration, where I went through a lengthy and extensive interview, applying for benefits until I can complete some therapy, get my head screwed back on straight, and hopefully get a job. In order to get "low-income housing," one is required to have at least SOME income, and my SuperPreschooler and I cannot be reunited permanently until I have someplace for us to live. SSI would at least be an income.

After that rather humiliating experience, I pulled into the parking lots of several churches, looking for one where some member of the clergy hadn't yet left for the day. As a child, I watched my parents help countless people in myriad small ways, people who needed gas money, or food, or even a place to stay, even though we were often on food stamps ourselves and were more familiar than we ever wanted to be with government-issue cheese, powdered milk, and tinned fruit juice. I found myself reminding God of how often my family had given to others even when we had so little ourselves, and that I needed gas money urgently, and would be lucky to even make it home. The first two churches I visited were deserted for the day, and I finally pulled into the parking lot of a Maronite church. With two flaming gay bumper stickers on my car. Prominently visible.

Clergymen and women are often put in a difficult position when someone asks for financial help; they have to consider whether the person might use the money for alcohol, drugs, or some other vice they have no wish to support. As a "preacher's kid," I am familiar with the problem. The parish priest was just leaving the rectory--the house provided for him by the parish and sitting on the same property as the church--when I pulled in. I couldn't help it; I began to cry as I told him that I simply needed some gas, and assured him that I wasn't even asking for cash. Could someone please just drive with me to a gas station and pay to put a bit of gas in the tank? I pointed to my car, the bumper of which was facing directly toward us.

And that Eastern Catholic priest put enough gas in my car for me to go visit the SuperPreschooler on Monday, our usual day together, gave me some food, and blessed me with the sign of the Cross upon my forehead. I thanked him profusely, I asked him to remember my little girl in his prayers, as well, and I silently thanked God for honoring the good gifts my parents laid up in heaven for me by their ministry. As members of the Body of Christ, we don't have to agree with each other to love one another, but sometimes we forget that, or we fear that others will. I bless the shepherd's heart of a priest who did not forget it, and repent of suspecting that he might do so.

A Blessed Feast

Happy feast of St. Nicholas!  I hope your Christmas preparations are going well, and that the festive spirit is beginning to glow within you as we enjoy the Advent season.

Photo by Christophe Finot

5 Minutes on the Dangers of Being Awake

Awake.  Ironic that this should be today's prompt, since at times I feel like I've been unceasingly awake for the past four years or so.  Mom's 3:00 a.m. panic attacks, triggered by a body that was shutting down and trying to warn her to fix something that could not be changed.  5:00 a.m. feedings with an infant.  Ongoing PTSD, with all the attendant lack of sleep and bizarre bio-rhythms that entails.  I wonder how long it will be before awake and asleep function properly for me again.

And yet, in the past few weeks, my husband and I have suddenly awakened, emotionally and spiritually, and it's like a whole new world descended upon this family.  He asked me about a week ago, "How did this suddenly happen?  Did someone go through the house and sprinkle 'rational dust' on both of us?"

Several installments of 5-Minute Friday past, I wrote--very obliquely--about a decision that was suddenly staring Michael and I in the face, a terrifying and yet enormously peaceful feeling that it was time to vote with our feet.  Saddening, in some ways disheartening, and yet such a relief, to have that decision finally made for good and all.  This past week, we made it officially.  Hand in hand, we woke up, cast our ballots for love, compassion, and being rational sheep, and walked back through the same door we had once pushed open as an entrance, and which served this time as an exit. 

No more standing just inside the doorway, being a refugee in the nearest safe haven because we had nowhere else to go.  You can be a refugee in a tent in an open field; you don't need special permission for that.  This time, I think I'll try finding a place to belong.  It doesn't have to be perfect; after all, we're not.  Its inhabitants just have to be honest about being as f***ed up and sinful as we are.  Lord, have mercy.  Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy.  On us all.  Together.

Barely Yarning Along

Okay, confession time--and that's an ironic choice of words on my part, as you'll discover momentarily.  Last week's boldly stated plans for yarning greatness certainly did not materialize.  There has been great upheaval in my family's life recently, all of which came to a head in the past week, and crocheting and knitting were among the first casualties of my distracted state of mind.  That's unusual, really, because normally, when something major is going on, I'd expect to want to crochet or knit MORE, to soothe my mental agitation, but this week, I was too busy reading.  The tale unfolds thusly.

Or actually, this is the very short version of the tale, because I wish to avoid all muckraking.  So, in a nutshell, this week saw the culmination of a long process for the Good Man Michael and I of deciding that we could no longer in good conscience be members of the Eastern Orthodox Church, and of our departure to the Episcopal Church.  My week was spent reading, researching and preparing to commune for the first time at my new church, our local installment of which is St. Paul's Episcopal Church.

In short, knitting was not part of my existence this week, and my only crochet accomplishment can be seen in the photo on the right: yes, I added about 2/3 of a row of ruffle trim.  Granted, this is the FINAL row, so if I ever manage to finish it (and to weave in the ends mentioned last week which at the moment are still blissfully free to flap about), the Christmas blanket that will never end may, finally, end after all.  We'll see.  As for what I've been reading this week, the enormous stack of books BEHIND the one row of trim should tell the story more than sufficiently, don't you think?  Hope your week was more productive, and a little less momentous.  Once in a while, momentous is necessary, even a good thing, but I think I've had enough revolution to last me a while, thanks.

Happy Mailbox Monday!

DOH!  *facepalm*  I forgot until just now that it's MONDAY, and unlike last week, my mailbox actually had quite an exciting time of it this week, so I must post a Mailbox Monday entry immediately, while it still IS Monday!

ANYway, this week's haul included--

FOR REVIEW:

The Resignation of Eve: What if Adam's Rib is No Longer Willing to be the Church's Backbone?

by Jim Henderson

THIS one certainly looks like it will be nothing if not interesting.  Pretty much since the Evangelical movement began, its churches have always been regularly attended by more women than men.  This author is pointing out the fact that women are leaving for a myriad of reasons.  At the risk of stirring up a sh*t storm, I have to ask: I wonder if he mentions that one reason women are leaving is because they've been expected to do everything else in their churches, but have not been allowed to be part of the ordained leadership?

BOOKS I BOUGHT:

I have been determined for about a decade to own all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder books in this beautiful, full-color edition, and this week, I finally accomplished that goal.  Hurrah!  It's a small thing, but it makes me disproportionately happy for some reason.

Big changes in my life occasioned the purchase of these last two books, changes to which I may or may not devote an entire post some time--I honestly haven't decided yet.  Some things just feel intensely personal, even if they're NOT about sex or bodily functions, don't they?  Religion can certainly be one of those things.  Who knows?  I may wake up tomorrow and decide to spill my guts about the whole thing to you, my loyal readers. 

Either way, this post isn't the time or place, so instead, let me just say that I got two lovely new books with shiny gold crosses embossed on their covers, and have been avidly studying them ever since.  Aren't they lovely?

Hope you enjoyed your mailbox experience this week as much as I enjoyed mine!