You Know Who You Are

When I came to Bible college that fall as a freshman, I was so vulnerable, and so unwitting. I came from a safe and loving home; I had just broken up with my first and only boyfriend, a sweet and innocent first love, as we parted ways for school; I had been raised in the church to trust God and other believers without question; no one had ever tried to hurt me. I came with implicit faith that I was going to a place where I would be loved, respected, protected. I was so, so eager to please.

I struck out into my new life without hesitation, meeting new people, diving into my assignments, earnestly absorbing the preaching and teaching. I met and started dating another freshman, a local boy from a well-known family. Those first weeks of this new season were a joyful fresh start. But soon, my fledgling relationship took a disturbing turn. My new boyfriend began to act in ways that made me uncomfortable. When we were alone, he started to push the boundaries of our physical interactions. 

This development was not just unwelcome, but unfamiliar. I lacked both experience and education. I'd been taught about sin, but not about consent. Most of what I'd been given to understand about male sexual desire was that it was my responsibility. And yet, in this situation, I was communicating clearly that these actions were undesirable, and things didn't improve--they got worse.

My obvious resistance wasn't an obstacle for long. He blew past it as though he barely noticed. Honestly, I don't even remember the first time it happened, just the way it worked. When I didn't move the way he wanted, he pushed me, or pulled me. When I pulled back, struggled to free myself, he held me. Sometimes he held me just long enough to show that he could hold me until it suited him to release me; and then he pushed, or pulled, again. If I protested, my protests were muffled, overwhelmed, ignored. In a strange way, it felt not just powerless, but like being invisible--like he was in the space with my body, but me, the real me, was floating outside of us and could not be seen or heard. 

He always knew when to stop--short of anything that could be technically considered "sex" or that I would have recognized as rape or assault.

Later, he was sorry. He asked forgiveness for his weakness, he'd gotten carried away. He would try hard to do better, to avoid temptation, and he needed my support and help. After all, it was in his nature to fall, but he was trying to be godly. These were terms I understood. The shared language of our faith was used to gaslight me into submission, compliance, participation.

I forgave, at first, as I'd been taught. I respected him for his honesty, his vulnerability, his effort. I offered a second chance. And that chance was taken, not just once, but again and again. There were arguments, recriminations, reminders of his promises, but they made no difference. I agonized over what to do, but I told no one. I had only been warned that this was a situation I should prevent, but never been told anything about what to do if it happened. I prayed. And after a while, after a handful of frightening, upsetting defeats, I decided I had to cut myself free. I told the boy that I was done with the relationship. I walked away. I was lucky. And I thought that was the end.

Within a week or two, I got a visit from his roommate. The roommate told me, "I know what he did to you. You need to report him to the dean." I declined. I wanted nothing to do with this boy, this story. I wanted to put it all behind me and go back to my normal life. But I couldn't, the roommate said, because "he's still doing it to other girls." I was the only one who could stop him. I could help others who would otherwise have the same experience I'd had. I still refused. I said I had no knowledge or proof of this, and the boy himself had told me that he'd had a "spiritual awakening" and God had changed his behavior. If the roommate was so concerned, let him talk to the dean. He insisted that he couldn't, since he wasn't "a witness"; he had no way of proving what he knew. He pointed to multiple Bible verses that commanded my help for other believers, including the one who was trapped in sin, and once again the faith we shared compelled my responsibility to and for this boy. After a long and heated discussion, I agreed, reluctantly, that if I gained personal knowledge of other girls being harmed, I would go to the dean.

It was a small campus, and it wasn't long before I had two conversations with girls who had gone out with the boy in high school. They had noticed I wasn't spending time with him anymore. Unsurprisingly, I learned that their experiences with him were the same as mine. I told them about my talk with the roommate, and our agreement that I would go to the dean if I heard of his mistreatment of any other girls. They both said they would go with me if that happened. Within days, a girl who lived down the hall knocked on my dorm room door in the middle of the night. She was crying, and I wasn't surprised by the story she told. So now there were four of us.

You know what happened after I went to the dean. Campus was in an uproar. Everyone knew that we were all called to a disciplinary hearing. The boy asked many people to be "character witnesses" for him, even though no such witnesses were allowed. He spread the rumor that I was a jilted girlfriend who was taking revenge on him with false charges, that I had coerced the other girls to participate. I was approached on campus by people who showed me Bible verses about forgiveness, who "confronted" me about "persecution". I sat in classes where people made prayer requests for their falsely accused friend. I was ambushed in my dorm by a group of girls asking me to go to the dean and retract my statements so the hearing would be stopped. You remained silent. No statements were made on campus, no actions were taken to prevent any of this, no protection was offered to us.

When the hearing finally rolled around, the other girls and I sat in the lobby, waiting to be called in to testify before the disciplinary committee. The only other people waiting there with us were the boy and his mother. I guess you didn't see the need to give us a separate space to spend those hours. We were called in one at a time, to sit in a single chair, facing all of you at that long, long table. I don't know what happened to the others, but I was asked the most intimate, personal questions by you, in front of you--my adult male professors and administrators, and of course the student representative who sat on the committee. I was 18. You questioned me about illegal drug use, about drinking alcohol. I had never even tasted alcohol. A college freshman with a 17-hour course load, I was asked about my "unusual" sleep schedule, and how I could explain it if I wasn't using drugs or alcohol. You told me that the boy claimed that all our interactions were consensual, and that in fact I had initiated them, and that his mother was there to confirm this testimony. (Where were our mothers, us four girls?) I was asked, if this isn't true, if all this was really unwanted, why didn't I punch him, kick him, slap him? I could not imagine my 90-pound bookish self punching another person. None of you showed any awareness of the fact that freezing or compliance is a common trauma response of sexual assault victims, and of course I certainly hadn't been equipped to educate you. The president of my college called me stupid--elaborating on the insult by explaining that it was warranted because my actions were too foolish to be called simple naivete. I was carrying straight A's, but I was suddenly in a world where the smart, credible, trustworthy, respectable girl I had always been somehow no longer existed. I felt humiliated, contemptible, a disappointment. Displaced from the me I knew. Fallen.

When the interrogation was over and I was asked if I had any last comments to add, I asked one of you, the professor whose class I was due to attend in a couple of hours, if I could be excused that afternoon. I was granted the absence, and that is the total of academic reprieve I was given for this experience. You offered no additional time off, no followup counseling, no other kind of support. I did get, however, a message from the dean's office notifying me that you all had placed an official disciplinary warning on my permanent record, along with the inexplicable, insulting instruction to stay away from the boy. It wasn't made clear what the warning was for. The boy himself was expelled from school. We were widely blamed on campus for "ruining his life". We had not anticipated anything like this would happen--we had hoped he would be placed on "social probation", prohibited from dating, given mandatory counseling--the only things we knew of in our world that might make attempts to solve the problem, not just move it off campus.

A few days later, Sunday, I went to church, the same church that many of you attended and led, and as I sat in the pew, that boy served me communion.

I didn't want any of this. I didn't want what he did to me. I didn't want to be held responsible for "helping" him, or stopping him, or for determining his future. I didn't want to be part of this group of victims, or to have these conversations with the dean. I didn't want to talk about the intimate details of my shame in front of a roomful of adult men that I respected and whose approval I was desperate for. I didn't want to live with the reputation this earned me; I didn't want to lose the experiences it cost me. I didn't want to have the faith that I cherished co-opted and used to harm and manipulate me.

I was Brett-Kavanaugh-hearing-years old when I realized that what that boy did to me was a crime.

Sexual assault is a reportable criminal offense. It's a matter for the police. It's not something to be handled internally with disciplinary actions by a small group of campus administrators. But of course, you knew that. And if you didn't, you should have. It was your responsibility. I was your responsibility. At 53, I'm still unwinding the ways I was affected by this, not just by the physical offense committed against me, but by the aftermath--to be bluntly honest, by your treatment of me. This incident is the reason I cut off all ties with the school as soon as I was able. It overshadowed the entire rest of my college experience, and carried over well into my adult life. It was the first thing that began to change my view of men at the deepest level. And it altered my relationship forever with the church. 

I hope you would do better now, if you had this to do over again. I hope your understanding is deeper, that your views have changed, that your hearts have changed. But I need you to understand that what you've done in the past still matters; it's not over and done with. If you are able, though, there is still time to make it right. You can't fix the damage that resulted from your actions; that can never be undone, for me or for all the others like me. But you can acknowledge it, and that would mean a great deal. Acknowledge your involvement, and your failures. Apologize. 

Repent. 

And then, use your privilege. You have always been the ones who hold the levers of power. Use your position to speak out for victims. Teach the leaders who come after you to do better. Give over some of that power to people in positions that will approach these issues differently. Change your culture.  Make this the last story of its kind we all have to hear. There is a path toward healing for all of us. Make a start.

Adventures in Evangelicalism

 # When I was about 16, the adult male sponsor of my Christian youth group asked to speak to me privately one night before our meeting. He said he'd noticed that when our group members hugged each other in welcome or goodbye, I hugged boys and girls just the same. With his wife nodding supportively beside him, he physically demonstrated the "side hug", and made me actually practice the difference. He told me that he would be watching to see that this is the way I hugged boys from now on. The reason, he said, was that giving a "regular" hug to a boy would "cause that boy problems". His vague euphemisms gave me the impression that "regular" hugging was pretty much throwing yourself sexually at a boy. I found this whole instructional episode confusing, as I didn't see anything unusual, excessive, or remotely suggestive about the social hugs occasionally exchanged in the group. I felt weirdly ashamed even though I didn't think I had done anything wrong. I wondered why he hadn't talked to the boys who obviously must have been "regular"-hugging me. 

 # In the first few years of my marriage, my then-husband and I needed to reach out for some relationship counseling. Our pastor recommended a local Christian therapist. When I called him to make the appointment, he said he wanted me to know that he was "not a male chauvinist". Multiple times during our session, though, he asked me questions, and while I answered he just looked me over, obviously not listening to my response, and then when I was finished he allowed a couple seconds of silence before turning to my husband and saying, "She sure is a pretty little thing, isn't she?" Before we left, he pronounced his diagnosis that the cause of many of the relationship problems we were having was my refusal to accept my husband's regular phone calls during my work day, teaching fourth grade. I needed to stop making my husband feel like I didn't have time for him. I protested that I had nothing but time for my husband, any time except when I was actively teaching. I just didn't understand why it was necessary, or even OK, for him to disregard my real and important work--to pull me out of a classroom full of children in the middle of a lesson to say things like, "What do you think we should do this weekend?" But the therapist said that wasn't a good excuse, and that since he was also a teacher (of a couple college classes), he knew that it was possible for me to be available whenever my husband wanted to talk. 

 # Hanging out late with a group of friends after a choir event as a college undergrad, one of the guys in the group suddenly and randomly said to me, "Show me your foot." Curious but not alarmed, I slipped off one of my flats and stood barefoot on the chapel floor for a couple of seconds. At that point he pronounced my feet "not bad", but said that when he got married, he was going to marry a girl with "pretty feet".

 # When my husband told me that he was no longer interested in continuing our marriage, and I asked him why, he said it was because I did not respect him as a man or as a husband, and did not care about the things that were important to him. When I asked for an example of my showing disrespect or not caring about something that was important to him, he pointed out that he had been telling me for several years that I was too fat, and I had showed contempt for him by not addressing this problem.

 # I got engaged for the first time at 19. When we tried to set a wedding date, my new fiance chose a mid-December Saturday during the holiday break. I hate winter and cold; my home church is rural and can be hard to get to in winter; I didn't want to squeeze a wedding in during a short school vacation. But when I said all this, he told me that none of it mattered, as his choice was that we would be getting married at the Chicagoland church where his father was a pastor, and the members of that congregation were busy and important--they could not be expected to travel to the middle of nowhere in downstate Illinois. Not only that, but getting married at a semester break instead of waiting until spring would help our financial aid, which made the date a financial decision, and it's the man who makes the financial decisions. When I said I didn't think this was a workable model for our relationship, and we should put the brakes on any date until we could get on the same page, he gave me an ultimatum, saying I either agreed to marry him on that day or not at all. When I said I could not go forward like that, he demanded his ring back. Afterwards, he let our whole Bible college campus know how devastated he was that I had broken up with him. When he began stalking me, I was universally shamed for "stringing him along". This lasted for three years.

 # Working in a ministry position that involved many community meetings with other ministry leaders, a male co-worker came into my office, shut the door, and began to explain to me why I needed to immediately stop having work meetings with men in public places like restaurants, as these meetings "looked like a date". I was divorced at this time, and he said he knew that I "didn't have a marriage to worry about", but that I needed to be responsible for the marriages of the men who met with me, and this was not good for their marriages. Besides, he said, "you work with the single moms, and we don't want these moms thinking they can do what you're doing."

 # In my undergraduate World Missions class, one of the assignments was to complete a spiritual gift inventory. When I turned mine in with its very clear results showing I was strongly gifted in leadership and administration, my professor returned the graded copy with his handwritten note in the margin--"Sounds like great qualities for a pastor's wife!" 

# The summer that my first engagement was broken, I went on a three-month mission trip to work with a church plant in Canada. The missionary I was working with told me that it sounded to him as though I hadn't "respected" my fiance the way I should. I was offended at this suggestion, but I eventually came to understand that by "respect" he did not mean "have respect for", as a person. He meant "obey," as in the way his wife, for example, would not wear any clothing that showed her arms or shoulders, because he said so. So I had ruined my relationship, by doing things like refusing when my fiance told me to find a new doctor because he wasn't comfortable with me seeing a male one.

 #After my divorce, a lay leader at my church told me how disappointed he was that he'd been fooled into believing we'd had a "real Christian marriage".

# Sitting in a work meeting with a colleague, we were discussing the need for churches to invest in programs that were in touch with the real lives of people in the community, and met a felt need. The only two people in this meeting were myself, a divorced woman, and him, a married man. He posited that churches should hold marriage classes and seminars, because, he said, they have *universal* appeal--"Everyone wants to improve their marriage."

5 Things I Will Never Do Again

 I will never again accept love that doesn't honor and cherish.

I was raised to believe that love doesn't keep score--doesn't look out for its own interests, doesn't draw the line at giving 50%, doesn't count the cost. And these things are true, when love is healthy and reciprocal and safe. However, my commitment to them in the absence of any other concerns has led me to put my own needs and well-being, not just on the back burner, but completely off the stove.

I was lucky enough to get a second chance, with a love that gave and gave and gave. I got something that many people never get, the opportunity to be loved by someone who wanted my best above all else, who rejoiced over my success, who gave me a safe space to live and learn and grow. The fact of the matter is, I'm not looking for love again at all. I've been so fortunate, I've had love like so many people only dream of, and I couldn't ask for anything more. But one thing I can say without hesitation is that if love ever comes into my life again, I will never, ever again settle for less than I've had.

 I will never again fail to stand up for my kids. 

There were a lot of years during which my top priority was to make my family work. In order to do this, I believed, it was necessary for everyone to give and to forgive. I still believe that, and in healthy relationships this dynamic of reciprocal grace is a key foundation. However, like most wise principles for working relationships, this can morph into something dysfunctional and damaging if it doesn't exist within healthy and appropriate limits.

I expected my kids to give and forgive in ways that were harmful to them. I allowed them to experience mistreatment as part of a relationship, when they had no ability or power to knowingly consent to a sacrifice like that. They were too young to understand how or where to set their own boundaries, and it was my responsibility to teach this to them, model it for them, and set healthy and protective boundaries for them in the meantime, and I failed at this. 

One time--once--and only when I felt there was nothing left to lose, I gathered my resolve and stood between my child and his attacker, not caring about the consequences. It was good, and scary, and I felt brave and dangerous and right. But it was long overdue. My kids deserved better from me, and there won't be another time when they don't get it.

 I will never again consider my mental and emotional well-being an unnecessary luxury.

I used to evaluate everything in life based on one simple question--"Do I need it?" By this I meant, can I live without this thing? If whatever was in question was not something I needed to physically live, it pretty much failed the test. I would not invest time and energy, or especially spend money, on anything that wasn't necessary. I wouldn't grant myself margin or give myself any slack for any needs that weren't unavoidable.

A lot of things have changed my perspective on this. For one thing, as a parent, I realized I regarded my children's needs completely differently than my own. This raised the question of why my own wellness would be of less value than theirs. On top of that, being loved by someone who cares for your total well-being makes you start to suspect that your well-being is worth caring for. Having cancer also makes you take a look at your life with a different perspective. And frankly, some of the shift is probably just getting old, and hopefully gaining some wisdom to go with it.

So the older I get, the more I've changed my idea of what it means to need something. If my kids asked for a mental health day off school, they got it, and if I needed one, I took it. I've re-evaluated my priorities. I do cut myself some slack. I work a lot harder to take care of myself and the people around me in ways that are about more than survival, and I'll never go back.

I will never again judge my body by toxic cultural standards around weight and attractiveness.

Wow, guys. This is a big one. And to be honest, it's hard. I haven't mastered it. I still slip. But it is so, so important.

Something major had to happen for me to get to this place. The messages of fat-shaming and the cultural pressures around women's standards of attractiveness came home to live with me. And in order to survive this, I had to completely detox myself from any form of buy-in. So here's where I'm at today. I don't shame myself around food. I don't ever eat anything because of feelings of guilt or obligation. I choose food that's good for my body, that tastes good, that makes me feel good. I eat in ways that support my relationships and my larger life priorities. I participate and I celebrate and I nourish myself. I'm not afraid of the scale--I weigh myself. I'm not afraid to lose weight if there's a reason--I had a medical issue this last year that I knew I could improve by taking off a little, so I lost 15 pounds. But I reject the idea that losing weight is automatically good and something to be congratulated about. Losing weight is neutral. Gaining weight is neutral. Weight is morally neutral. No matter what that number says on the scale, I can be healthy, happy, beautiful, and worthy of love. And I'll remind myself of that as many times as I need to.

I will never again measure my worth by my productivity.

OK, well, that's a lie. I totally will. But this one is aspirational.

Several years ago, in a blazing hot early September, while camping on my parents' property, my mom asked the group of us if we would pick one of my parents' apple trees. She'd done it herself the year before, she said, but just wasn't feeling into it this year. We quickly agreed and set to it. I will readily admit that I was the first one to quit and go inside for a few minutes' break in the air conditioning. I came back out to find the rest of the crew dropping off as well. Rick was the only one who worked the whole time, completely harvesting every usable apple on the tree. Understand, my mother, in her 70's, had previously done this task herself.

If you know my parents, this doesn't surprise you, because you already know that they're an unstoppable machine. Both in their late 70's now, they are starting to slow down, but the two of them can still outwork people half their age. All my life, I've planned for their visits by compiling a task list of things that would take me weeks to accomplish, because they come, they see, and they conquer. They are really a marvel.

What has also taken me all my life, though, is to learn to view this as my parents' unique gift, rather than the basic standard for all human life. It was great to grow up in a family that attacked life like the Incredibles every day and always came out on top. And to be honest, most of my life I've had a pretty high capacity myself, at least compared to most people, if not to my mom and dad. But since 2019, I've slowed down a lot, and that's brought on a lot of uncomfortable confrontations with guilt, shame, depression, inadequacy, and all the feelings associated with not living up to my own expectations (and what I imagine the expectations of others to be).

I don't know what the future holds for me in this area. Maybe I'll go back to kicking life's ass, and maybe I won't. But either way, I hope I'll make peace with the fact that I don't have to in order to be a worthwhile human, and maybe even be able to know that I'm actually still doing a good job.