So much thanks to Chuck and Brady of The Life After podcast for the opportunity to do this interview. We talked about sex from every angle, laughed a lot, and discussed elements of my memoir, The Uncomfortable Confessions of a Preacher’s Kid, that I don’t often have the chance to delve into. Click the link below to listen.
Amethyst Joy is one of my favorite Instagram follows. She has a way of revealing how wound sources show up in parenting. Her words are deep and soft and true; a reminder that we can do better. And she does it without twisting the knife.
Even though my kids are grown, her poetry resonates. I think she writes poetry, anyway. Sounds like poetry to me.
This is my current favorite:
I had a conversation with Scot Loyd today. He is an insightful educator, writer, and interviewer. Please watch!
And follow Scot’s blog, too.
A couple of weeks ago Dr. Clint Heacock of Mindshift Podcast interviewed me about The Uncomfortable Confessions Of a Preacher’s Kid. The interview was a great experience because he put me at ease right away with his thoughtful curiosity and willingness to let our conversation unfold, despite the fact that the husband had to ransack the snack cupboard in the middle of recording!
Here it is: Interview Link
The show looks at what happens when people have doubts about the faith tradition in which they were raised, and how the sharing of personal stories can be a means to heal from spiritual trauma.
— Read on www.cbsnews.com/video/deconstructing-my-religion/
Fellow ex-Christian blogger Clay of Life After 40 shared an intriguing post today. While his story is very different from my own, we have come to many of the same conclusions and followed somewhat similar paths. (I previously shared his post called My Crazy Vasectomy Story).
I would like to pass on his current post: Sex – Not an Appropriate Topic to give you the opportunity to follow along.
In case you’re wondering why anyone cares to write or read about sex, particularly from an ex-Christian perspective, I would sincerely say that I do not believe anyone escapes fundamentalism without sexual damage. From childhood, normal sexual development is stunted and shamed. Guilt, silence and fear are what sex is about, instead of pleasure and connection. I think that is inappropriate.
While there are many bloggers and other writers who address the enormous difficulties LGBTQ people have coming out to Christian families, few speak directly to middle-aged vanilla-ish types who never learned to honor their own desires.
I am happy to be in good company.
I’m thinking about isolation. Not what you do on a Sunday morning? Just me?
Several recent conversations with my sisters and my mother have reminded me how isolated we all were from each other in years past. The stage was set within our family for absolute obedience and we were a perfect storm of noncommunication.
Firstly, the cult of Pentecostalism required isolation from the world in general, effectively taking away any context for normality. Intrinsic to that religious culture is the submission of women to men. Women cannot hold positions of power or have a public voice. Their submission must be evident in behavior and appearance.
But you know that.
Add in an ambitious, power-hungry, sexually frustrated narcissist on a mission from God with a public persona to protect and we have a family of women who were not allowed to talk to each other. Not because we didn’t want to, but because we were forbidden and didn’t know how.
When crises came around, we were already in a state of silence. By the time my teenage fallopian tube exploded (see Close Call for the story) and I was near death, we were all perfectly trained. All Dad had to say was do not speak and we didn’t. Our silence went far beyond lying to church people who would judge him for having a wayward daughter. He didn’t have to tell me not to speak. I hadn’t spoken out loud in my family for years and was not about to start.
Mom knew I was sick but was not allowed to visit me in the hospital, nor to comfort me afterward. Dad told my sister that Mom didn’t know what happened to me and not to tell her, so she didn’t. My sister was the only person who spoke to me during my six weeks of recovery following surgery. I sat home alone with no one to blame but myself. My other sister was told nothing at all.
Silence filled our home, the air too thick to breathe. Not one word was spoken between mother and daughters nor sister to sister about the fact that one of us had a tragic, terrifying, near-death experience.
Thirty-ish years later, with the threat of Dad’s wrath long gone, we talk. Now we know what we were forced to deny. Now we say the words. Now we are free to love each other. And breathe.