Short Story: Cancelled

Last week I made a submission to Reedsy Prompts, a weekly creative writing contest. It had been a good while since I had drafted, let alone completed, a work of fiction, so it was a delightful exercise, and I found seven days to be an ideal span of time to both formulate and revise a story to my satisfaction. I didn’t win anything aside from the great experience and the opportunity to read some excellent work by another author; but I genuinely love this little story that was birthed from a terrific prompt, “Write a story about a character who’s trying to fill an empty space, literally or metaphorically,” from Contest #108.


Maire said cancellation didn’t hurt. If that were true, Cara would have traded the last day full of a stiff back and migraine for an early quitting time. She floured the work surface and kneaded a lump in rhythm to her pounding temples. Only an hour or two: after that, there wouldn’t be enough of her left to suffer. It was just a matter of filling the space between now and then.

She rubbed an itch on her cheek with her shoulder and didn’t see how it left a powdery smudge on her sleeve. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; she wondered where she had left her tea. It would be cold by now, but Conall had honeyed it perfectly when it was hot, and though Cara could no longer taste it properly, the needless charity warmed her.

He had let her in to the bakery that morning even though it was Sunday and he would sell none of the bread. He had told Cara to eat whatever she made, but she wasn’t hungry. Rather, she felt her hunger had been swallowed by another, deeper gulf steadily widening inside. Trying to fill it with food seemed disrespectful. Spending her final moments baking, however, felt like a proper observance.

Every ounce of the thrashings she had stored up and never delivered—not even when she let loose that torrent of rage over the Iudex in the square—she laid into the defenseless boules. She cried afterward. The loaves offered no threatening retort, and she was already condemned besides, but guilt accosted her for abusing something that could not cry out. Cara, at least, had that. Her cry had cost her everything, but it was hers. She had spent it.

On a cause that had never advanced before her and would gain no ground from her effort, for a consequence with no redemption.

Was it worth it?

Could anything be less worthwhile than silence?

Could any silence be filled?

Cara considered the chalky streaks on her apron as she dried her eyes. Oppression had begun her life and would end it, but not only hers. The men of the communia might never be auctioned, but Maire’s husband had treated her sons, not as cancelli, but as chattel equal to her. Never as worthy of their sire—not as the rightful heirs to the Iudex* that they were.

It didn’t matter when only one of them struck him down: it had been in defense of the other. Both were sentenced by the cancelli peers and allowed eight more years to live—long enough for Cara to taste happiness on Dryden’s lips. She had heard his sentence just as well as the rest of the communia, and she had chosen him anyway.

She had never acknowledged her hope that the new bloodline chosen by the cancelli would provide a Iudex willing to pardon her husband until after he was gone. All it had required of her, then, was another wake, held mutely, invisibly, within her. What was one more?

Maire welcomed desolation as an old friend. It made a certain sense for her to expend the last of herself on a doomed outcry. “You’ve called me bitter,” she had laughed at the peers. “You were right. Of course I am.”

No crime rivaled slaying a Iudex but for questioning one while he lived, and no regrets haunted Maire after her sons’ supplanter decreed her fate. Cara saw him wipe spittle from his eye as she ran after Maire’s escort from the square. She had pressed between indulgent guards to link arms with the older woman, feeling the firmness of her stride, and witnessed the biting clarity of a tearless visage. On another day, it would have looked like hope.

Cara sighed and turned to the shrouded mounds on the table, lifting the cloth to check their rise. She wasn’t bitter, but not even Conall could bother to tell the difference. He would only have been her second husband, so she tried not to hold it against him. It had been Maire’s idea, anyway. With her gone, there was less point than ever. It wasn’t that Cara didn’t like Conall. He was sturdy and dependable and generous and wheezed in the flour and the hayseed and didn’t complain. And he had taken both of them in, though only Maire was blood.

He said he owed it to Maire and his cousin alike to look after Cara. It was thanks to Conall that Cara gleaned just enough, between field labor in summer and the bakery work in winter, to sustain herself, on her own, without remarrying. And then, he had never asked. At least Maire had not lived long enough to realize that disappointment.

Cara shaped and slashed the boules, knocked them with flour, slid them into the oven, and retrieved her tea from the oven lintel. Not cold at all, if she could still trust her fingertips. Her bare feet no longer detected the shift in temperature when they crossed over the long slant of light from the window at the other end of the room, which suggested at least some extremities were now unreliable. Her eyesight, too: the light wasn’t golden, but pale white, and the pine-paneled floor an ashen gray. Drifts of more flour than she remembered spilling littered it.

The scents of yeast and warm sugar and cinnamon filled the bakery. They did not reach her mind, and she missed them. It was a mercy, Cara supposed, that the drug stole sense of taste first—honey notwithstanding—because the reek of it alone had still staggered her after the first two sips. Two more had taken care of that, thankfully, and she had been able to imagine enjoying her cupful the rest of the morning.

Twenty or thirty minutes finished the boules and her tea. Conall came to check on her and make sure she had drained the draught. “Cara . . . .”

He almost left it at that. Then he asked, eyes askance—“Does it hurt?”

He wouldn’t look back to see her shrug, as though he had forgotten. Instead, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger across his chin and said, “Never thought it would be you, getting cancelled. Not you, Cara.” Then he did look up. He winced and turned away.

Cara watched him leave and ran her finger along the rim of her cup. She guessed that the quiet, distorted braying from outside the shop a moment later came from the cancelli recorders, and she knew how much was left of her hearing. If she had been the one to choose, she would have saved hearing for last, too. It would have been better yet if she could still hum to herself, but the price was the price. Just like Maire, she had known it her whole life. She had weighed and accepted it well before she strode into the marketplace and struck the deal that would end her.

The clocktower tolled seven. Cara sat watching steam rise from the boule she had cracked open, shedding flour and dust all over. She could just make out a hissing sigh when she leaned in and lifted a half loaf to her ear. It did have a voice, after all. A pitiful, charming, demure whine. Had she sounded like that?

Cara remembered Conall’s face when she had entered the square. She remembered the sensation of cotton filling up her chest, her neck, her ears, and the weight of her cheekbones when she screamed, and the prickling at the rims of her eyelids. She remembered how her breath didn’t belong to her but turned wild and raced around the cage of her lungs. She remembered the Iudex issuing the order, same as he had given two days before, but she could not recall the sound of a single word he had uttered. She remembered the grip of the guardsmen, the tension in the fabric of her skirt as one of them trod upon and tore it, and her body’s refusal to leave that place until the soul launched out of it had returned, full of vainglory from its onslaught.

She remembered the fullness of her misery, the ache of no Maire to run home to, and she was glad to be emptied.

“What happens when you come to the end of yourself, Maire?” The words had dropped out of Cara, seedless figs forsaken by their tree. Her only kin—and not even blood, at that—stood nearly disintegrated in front of her. Cara didn’t have to be told she was the only one who had ever dared watch this far.

Maire smiled. Her teeth crumbled to dust, and the dust smoked to nothing. “This is not my end,” she mouthed. Slowly. Painstakingly, each word provoking a tiny avalanche across her face. “I am only becoming more fully what I have always been.”

“You may be fulfilled—” Cara’s voice cracked. “But you have left me. Left me empty, alone. You are leaving me alone with them.”

Maire’s countenance broke—splintered. Her figure melted into a fountain of dust, then away altogether. Cara gasped when she felt a press of fingertips on her arm out of the nothing that remained. She heard Maire’s voice once more, quiet and strong.

“I am sorry, child. Neither of us belong here. I must go where I belong.”

“Then,” Cara said, “I’m coming with you.”

*Pronounced “Yoo-decks”; Latin for “judge.”

What Happened to Me Was Wrong

Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence, guns


Marching around the house with firearms for fun/show, at *least* in a domestic abuse context, is what is known as an implicit threat that says, “I can kill you whenever I like.” It’s a show of power, control, and intimidation.

Giving a revolver, “even” an unloaded one, to an infant, and having them play with it in your lap, is a show of power/control/intimidation that says, “I can kill this kid whenever I like.” It’s a threat.

Killing animals, including/especially family pets, whenever one feels like it, is a show of power/control/intimidation that says, “I can kill and take away things you love whenever I like.” It’s a threat.

Beating a screaming, puking toddler because they got up in the middle of the night to tell you they had a stomach ache, and dragging them down the hall through their own vomit, and throwing them in the cold shower to hose them down while they continue to scream and cry, and screaming AT them throughout this, is child abuse.


My father did the first three things. My mother did the last.

All of this behavior is horrific and inexcusable.

And I need to call it and know it for what it was.


If something like this happened to you, you can know the truth about it. That will be your first step to recovery.


The Nature of Healing

Today my children and I read “How the Bear Clan Learned to Heal: An Iroquois Story” from Angela McAllister’s A Year Full of Stories. It goes like this:

Three young hunters were running home one evening, when a rabbit jumped out ahead of them and sat in the middle of the trail. The hunters stopped. They’d already caught plenty of game, but each one reached for his bow, plucked an arrow from his quiver, and shot at the rabbit. To their surprise, the arrows returned without a spot of blood.

As they reached for a second arrow, the rabbit disappeared. In its place stood a bent old man.

“I am sick,” said the old man weakly. “Help me find food and a place to rest.” The young hunters didn’t want to be bothered by the old man. Ignoring his plea, they put away their arrows and ran on down the trail. They didn’t notice the old man turn and follow.

When he reached the hunters’ settlement, the old man saw many lodges. In front of each lodge was a skin hanging on a pole. This was the sign of the clan within.

The old man stopped at the lodge of the Wolf clan and asked the elder woman for shelter, but she wouldn’t let him in. “We don’t want any sickness here,” she said. So he shuttled on.

The young women at the Beaver lodge insisted they had no food to share. The Turtle clan and Deer clan both sent him away. The old man asked for help at the sign of the Hawk, Snipe, and Heron, but everyone shook their heads.

Night fell, and the air grew cold. At last, he came to the lodge of the Bear Clan. When the Bear Clan mother saw the sick old man, she lifted the blanket at her door and welcomed him inside. She gave him a bowl of warm corn mash and spread soft skins for him to rest on. The old man was grateful. The next day, he told her what herbs to fetch from the woods to make him well, and soon he was healed.

The old man stayed with the Bear Clan mother, but a few days later, he became sick again. As before, she cared for him. He told her what roots and leaves to use for medicine, and she made him well.

Many times the old man fell ill: once with a fever, another time with pain, then a rash and a cough. Each time, he instructed her about the flowers and plants to use for his condition and she listened and learned well. Before long, she knew more about healing than anyone in all the clans.

One evening, as they sat together under the stars, the old man gave the clan mother thanks. “I was sent to earth by the Great Spirit to teach people the secrets of healing,” he said. “You were the only one who showed pity and welcomed me at your fireside. Now I have taught you how to use plants and roots to heal the sick, and from this day, all the other clans will come to learn from the Bear Clan how to heal, and the Bear Clan will be the greatest and the strongest of all.”

Then the clan mother was filled with joy. She gazed up at the sky and thanked the Great Spirit for his precious gift. But when she turned again to the old man, he had disappeared. All she saw was a rabbit running away down the trail.

The abuse survivor sphere has taught me just how true the lessons of this story are.

In order to help others heal, I must listen to them share their needs. I must acknowledge, understand, and meet those initial needs–and I must be prepared to meet many more varied needs as they are gradually expressed.

I must understanding that healing takes a great deal of time, and that if I want to become a good, capable, effective agent of healing, I have to commit for the long haul.

I must maintain a posture of humble attentiveness that whole time. I should constantly expect to need to take in new information and apply it.

I have to be willing to go out of my way again and again and again to bring in resources to help the wounded.

I should expect the recovery to be lengthy and involved and taxing, primarily for the hurting party, but also for me.

I should understand that what I gain from the privilege of caring intimately and faithfully for someone is a greater gift than I could ever give them. That I am not the source of their rescue and restoration: God is. When I enter into another’s suffering, I witness the work God forges in the interplay between their expression of needs and hurt and my acceptance and tending.

In the comprehension brought about by that witness and engagement, I am renewed.

And most importantly, I should understand that healing is primarily the work of the wounded. I am the student and the servant. The one healing is the healer. I follow her lead and provide support–but she does the work of knowing her pain, choosing her struggle, and asking for help.

I might provide resources, treatment, time, expertise: but she is the one who heals.

We best serve our wounded when we entrust them with their own fates: when we affirm their agency, their autonomy, their responsibility as their own primary caretakers.

When we defer to them like this, we learn a great deal about how also to look after ourselves.

Published at The Salt Collective

Last week I was honored and grateful to tell a larger part of my story publicly for the first time. The Salt Collective provided a broad platform for me to share, certainly a larger audience than I’ve ever had; and the encouragement, kindness, support, and practical editing help that I received from Nathan Roberts was invaluable.

The essay this collaboration produced is a heavily modified version of a blog post I originally published here. The end product connects further details of my own history and experience to the broader issue of religious gendered abuse and how it is unwittingly harbored and enabled by systemic abuse and shame culture within American Evangelicalism.

The consequences of rotten roots are far-reaching. If we wish to restore the church, we must protect and rescue our most vulnerable. The healing of our community begins and ends with the healing of the wounded individuals within it.

Read my essay here: I Survived a Rural Evangelical Daddy Cult

Emotions, Evangelicalism, and Human Sexuality

ICYMI, Sarah McDugal, Sheila Wray Gregoire, and Emily Elizabeth Anderson have spent the past week burning down the house of conservative, Evangelical, Christian-easy teachings on marriage and sexuality.

Their goal? To release women from toxic, unbiblical beliefs about

  • obligation sex;
  • the relative sex drive of men vs. women;
  • the so-called hard-wired, natural (a.k.a. God-given) sexual sin nature men supposedly cannot be held accountable for (so, therefore, all women are responsible for keeping all men out of trouble…?);
  • etc.

This has been so great and so needed!

Building on this dialogue, I want to shift gears to address some other toxic, abusive teachings Evangelical women have swallowed for decades:

  • That women are slaves to their hormones, just like men are supposedly slaves to their sex drives
  • That hormone-based moods and emotions are intrinsically part of a woman’s sexual sin nature
  • That menstrual-cycle hormone-driven emotions are bad or fallen or broken
  • That women are simultaneously inescapably burdened by these sin-nature hormones and ALSO duty-bound to rise above them and repent of their emotional byproduct–repent meaning, “get RID of it.”

I remember when I was 9 or 10 and my mother first started talking to me about this special catch-22 all women face. She explained, in general terms, that every month her hormones would drive her to be more angry, cranky, snappish, whatever, and that this meant it was her responsibility to be extra vigilant that her irrational–code for “malfunctioning”–feelings didn’t get the better of her. She made a point of saying that in these moments, she needed to seek God for extra help controlling her emotions. (That part, btw, I still believe is true.)

But I received other lessons in these talks with my mother… among them, that

  • Negative emotions, themselves, are sinful
  • Menstrual hormones make women weak and unreliable in the area of self-control (implying that men, of course, don’t have a self-control problem–certainly never one related to sexuality…)
  • Because God made women this way, we can never really overcome it once and for all
  • The toolkit we have to handle this issue is profoundly limited–mostly just prayerful self-flagellation, and finally
  • All of this should move women to deep shame, mistaken for humility.

Basically, the takeaway was that God designed a special sin-trap to be a default feature of female flesh-vessels, and my lot in life was to writhe in the guilt of the inescapable moral conundrum it created every month. (Side note–this is just one of the reasons patriarchy led me to desperately wish I had been born a boy.)

So this part? This part I do not, in ANY way, any longer believe is true. But I DID believe it for the longest time–and I think many of the rest of you God-fearing evangelical women out there have believed it, too. So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to burn this teaching down to the roots so that you can finally be free from it as well.

First of all, let’s observe the overlap between the traditional messaging to evangelical women–your sexuality is broken, steeped in evil, and you won’t ever surmount it, by the way God made you like this–and the messaging given to evangelical men–your sexuality is broken, steeped in evil, you won’t ever surmount it, God made you like this?

Hmm. That’s… that’s a lot of overlap. So what is the one difference between the messaging to the sexes?

Women are somehow responsible for BOTH PROBLEMS.

You’d think, at least, that men would have responsibility for their sexual sin struggles and women for theirs–but no, that isn’t what many to most Evangelical gurus have taught us, if not outright in theory, then in practice. Now, Sheila and Sarah have already done a fantastic job unraveling a bunch of popular lies about male sexuality and why women are NOT, in fact, responsible for it, so what I want to add is my own refutation of some of these long-spun lies about female sexuality–and why we are not, in fact, culpable for a whole lot of sin in this arena, either.

Turns out, menstrual hormones are NOT in fact a God-designed sin-trap.

Why? Because the emotions our hormones give rise to ARE NOT EVIL.

I can say this because, yes, God made our emotions–ALL of them. They can’t be evil. God only creates that which is good, beautiful, and pure. Contrary to popular evangelical teaching, “negative” emotions, or even strong emotions, are no more evil than any other kind of emotion, because God designed all emotions to be part of our good, healthy, unbroken physical nature.

Some will argue that emotions such as anger, bitterness, grief, or jealousy are inherently a part of our sin nature, but I do not grant that. This is firstly because we see both the God of the Old Testament and Christ himself experience and express a vast array of purportedly “sinful” emotions in Scripture: anger, misery, disappointment, irritation, jealousy–the list goes on. If these emotions were evil, we would not have such extensive records of God himself expressing them, would we? (If you’re not sure what I’m talking about here, I refer you to basically all the OT prophets and the four Gospel accounts, particularly any bits with the Pharisees and the Garden of Gethsemane.)

Some more textual support for my belief that “negative” emotions are not inherently sinful: we have the handy instructional verse “Be angry and do not sin” (Ps. 4:4, Eph. 4:26); we have Paul referring to his “divine jealousy” (2 Cor. 11:2) in distinct contrast to “jealousy and strife… of the flesh” (1 Cor. 3:3); we have the admonitions that “It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting” and “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning” (Eccl. 7:2-4); we have the descriptions of how God himself “besieged and enveloped me with bitterness” (Lam. 3:5) and how “The Spirit lifted me up and took me away, and I went in bitterness in the heat of my spirit, the hand of the Lord being strong upon me” (Ezek. 3:14)–AND SO MUCH MORE.

Seriously, I don’t have time to type up all the verses that clearly describe these emotions as being of God and not evil. If you want more, just do a keyword search at for each emotion!

Lastly, we know emotions are not evil because, if we believe God created every tiny detail of our bodies–stem to stern–that means he designed emotions, too–because emotions are a biological function. This belief actually goes back to times as ancient as the biblical manuscripts themselves–just check out allllllll the physical responses to emotions described in Psalms and Proverbs! Schee-yow! But you know what? On top of ancient, biblically-rooted, convention, we have modern science to fall back on here. Win-win!

Scientific research has indeed revealed that emotions are physically rooted in the body: emotions stem from chemical, hormonal releases in ALL of us (not just women!), perceived through neurological responses, and experienced throughout our bodies in the nervous system. This is why anxiety and depression manifest in stomach aches and lethargy. This is why fear quickens our heart rate and makes us sweat. This is why attraction or embarrassment makes blood rush into our faces. This is why anger tenses our muscles, and so on.

Now here is where Evangelicalism has tripped us up big time: we often misinterpret Bible passages condemning our “flesh” to mean that our literal bodies are fundamentally evil. However, that can’t be right: our bodies are in fact fundamentally good because Goodness Itself made them in the first place, in its own likeness. Sure, yes, our bodies are also corrupt–prone to death and disease and hard to control–but their baseline functionality, including our emotional capacity, is completely God-given and therefore full of goodness and purpose.

All of this amounts to a radical paradigm shift: if God did indeed hard-wire something into you, it can’t be evil. While the “God made you that way” message should never have been given to men to excuse their porn problems, it should have been given to women to reassure them that their extra hormonally-charged, heightened emotional sensitivity once a month is not wrong or broken, but unique and special. Yes, it can make parts of life harder to cope with, but the emotions themselves aren’t evil–just like a guy feeling physically attracted to a woman isn’t itself evil. For both sexes, what matters is what we do with our impulses. Lust and porn addictions are NOT acceptable; sexual attraction is. Violent outbursts and unkindness aren’t OK when we’re PMSing; feeling touchy, cranky, short-fused and sensitive is.

So if we grant that menstrual hormone-driven emotions are part of the divine design, the same as all human emotions, they can’t be a trap. (This is a good place to remember, too, that God isn’t malicious and cruel, so he’s not in the business of making traps or anything that feels like a trap, period.)

So far so good? On to my next point:

Emotions, including those propelled by the menstrual cycle, are a GOOD thing.

Current brain science shows us that emotions are a neurological capability, the exact same as our capacity for logic and reasoning, survival instinct, and social interaction. At least in the circles where I run, Evangelicals revere logical rationality. It is time we cultivated the same respect for innate human emotionality.

If we grant that emotions aren’t wrong on the whole, and if we are called to worship God with all our hearts in addition to minds, strengths, and souls, then that means emotions–including those spiked by the menstrual cycle!–are something to be cultivated, strengthened, and skillfully developed so that we can use them well for our benefit and God’s glory.

In other words, period mood swings do not mean women are fundamentally weak and unreliable. It means we are super-charged with emotional power–which, yes, as we all know, comes with great responsibility–and is also fundamentally freaking cool. Can we just take a moment to recognize and appreciate that? This is something I personally have spent decades agonizing over, and now I’m agonizing that I spent so much time in agony! I should never have felt so hopeless, shameful, and powerless. I should have been taught how to appreciate this incredible part of my human sexuality, understand it, and harness it for good. My resolution, therefore, is to do exactly that from here on out–and you can, too.

Before I go further here, I need to add a caveat: this whole monologue assumes we’re talking about fully functional, operational hormones, because there ARE cases where our hormones get out of whack and develop an illness just like any other part of our biology can. It IS possible to develop too much estrogen in your system, for example, because we do live in a fallen, broken world, and that means stuff beautifully designed by God still breaks. THAT isn’t healthy.

Let’s say I experience full-out rage as part of my menstrual cycle. That’s not good. That is a medical problem that creates relational problems as well. Both of those things need to be treated, compassionately, and without shame. These kinds of problems are not part of the normal, God-designed dynamic I’m talking about here. So please don’t misunderstand me: if you are struggling with such issues, please seek medical attention and compassionate care, because it does not, and should not, have to be that way for you–not according to how God set female bodies up to work as we know from the study of biology, and not according to the compassionate, caring, tender heart that we can see God has for us in the Bible.

All that to say: normal period hormones, and the mood shifts that accompany them, are NOT inherent faults we can’t overcome. They are challenging, powerful traits that we have the opportunity to nurture and master. We don’t have to stifle or get rid of them. We shouldn’t be ashamed of them. We can be grateful for them, and we can learn how to channel them effectively.

Which leads me to our purportedly limited toolkit for handling menstrual mood swings.

For generations–literally–conservative Christian evangelicals have bought into the idea that emotional development and expression and the study of human psychology are eeEEEvviIIlllLLLll.

As far as I can tell from my armchair, this is because liberal academics had the edge on conservative evangelicals: they did a whole lot of very important, helpful research on these things–but because they did it first, we threw out all their results along with their expertise and said, “We don’t need them or their knowledge, that’s tainted with a secular agenda; Bible verses are enough to understand these things, so we won’t try to do any of our own serious, credible research because that feels too much like being secular and liberal.”

Thankfully, a number of committed Christian leaders have figured out that this was A Bad Idea–people from Pete Scazzero to Kay and Milan Yerkovich to Diane Langberg to Leslie Vernick to Andrew Bauman, etc. etc.–are showing us that scientific inquiry is not evil and psychology, as a field of study, isn’t inherently evil, and emotionality is not evil–and all THAT means that people are starting to realize that prayerful self-flagellation was never even necessary, let alone NOT the only tool in the toolbox (frankly, it never should have been IN the toolbox). Now we’re learning that stopping to feel our emotions is a good thing! That we don’t have to feel shame over any emotion we feel! That spending time digging into our emotions to understand what is driving them is super helpful for directing them well. That talking them over openly with God and trusted friends is SUPER helpful. That simply saying what we are feeling right in the moment is a basic life skill that we’ve been avoiding/stifling for generations and we can stop doing that. That knowing what we feel and why is the first necessary step for actual self-control, and admitting exactly what we feel to others without weaponizing our feelings builds the kind of trust necessary for the closest relationships.

And I’m sure there are lots of other tools out there, too, but these are just some of the ones I’m working on right now as I engage my strong menstrual emotionality and work it for good.

Dispelling the religious lies about our sexuality is going to mean detangling them from the half-truths we’ve tried to get by with for so long. Those lies snuck in because we cut ourselves off from a good half of the source of truth out there. Yes, God gave us the Bible as a primary source of truth. He also gave us us–our bodies. Our minds. The world we live in, physical reality–he created those things just as much as he inspired the creation of the Bible. What should we make of that?

“For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth. For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse” (Rom. 1:18-20).

Creation itself is sufficient witness to know the truth about God. So when we refuse to study creation through scientific research and study… what does that say about us?

Let’s commit to seeking the full truth, the full picture about our emotions and about our biological systems. Let’s seek God in all that he created and inspired.

We’ve already been doing this for centuries in all kinds of areas, especially in medicine. Why, then, did we ever suppose that we expressly shouldn’t do it for this one, particular area of human biology?

We goofed. That’s all I can say.

But now…

Now we have the chance to convert our monthly surplus of emotions into fuel to turn. This. Ship. A. Round.

Let’s do it, ladies.

Will the Horrible Truth About the Man Who Led Me to Christ Wreck My Faith?

It might.

If it does, please don’t give in to shame. Especially shame leveled at you by others. As my husband says, probably quoting another source I’ve forgotten, “If anything can be destroyed by the truth, it should be.” If your faith can no longer function after sustaining a blow to its core by the person who planted it in you, who grounded it in you, then it is a faith that also would not have sustained you til the end of time. Faith rooted in the work of a human either dies prematurely, with the corruption of that human’s works, or with the slow death of that human’s influence over you as you realize the limits of his or her power. Do not accept a burden of guilt for letting go of something that was never actually good in trade for the thing itself.

Instead, recognize that letting go of what betrayed your trust and confidence will free you to cling to what truly deserves it.

If you discover your faith is rooted in a human, vs. the God you thought you adhered to, go ahead: dig up the dying or dead roots of that crushed faith. You can’t can’t cultivate anything living in the soil of your soul until you’ve made room. If you’re afraid of throwing anything good out, don’t be. The God that cracks dormant seeds awake in the dark and turns the globe to quicken the sap of deciduous forests and sends the spring rains to water the earth wants clear ground to work in your heart, so that what he does plant–and will plant there if you only ask, even if it’s a second or third or three-hundredth asking–won’t be choked or plucked out when we mistake the weeds sown by simple birds for the sprigs of his intention.

The horrible truth about the person who led you to Christ might wreck your faith; if it does, that is not a bad thing.

And, it might not. If it doesn’t, it should give you one of the best opportunities you will ever have to clear out the brambles and thorns and tangling vines that you likely would have never noticed threatening the seedlings of truth and justice and mercy and love set out in careful rows.

If the horrible truth about the human you trusted so implicitly doesn’t wreck your faith, it will only ground your faith more firmly as and where and how it ought to be.

Let me tell you a little about how my own faith transformed and endured through such betrayal.

My father abused me from a young age. The abuse began in the form of molestation when I was about 18 months old. I remember multiple incidents very clearly, which is not surprising if you consider the fact that I was quite verbal for my age–I had conversations with my father about this early sexual abuse at the time it was happening–and that I retain multiple other memories from that time period as well. I have spoken to other family members who, it turns out, were aware of the molestation at the time but did not understand what it was. They validated my account thoroughly; one person expressed remorse that they did not know enough at the time to do more than threaten to expose my father to his church leadership.

Shockingly, this threat apparently prevented my father from molesting me further for well over a decade. Other sexual infractions that he committed against me much later on were comparatively slight. The majority of my abuse at the hands of my father was psychological: mental, emotional, and spiritual torment was leveraged against me for decades in order to control my thoughts, behavior, and resources to serve his purposes. Physical and financial abuse was also occasionally employed to these ends.

My father was my jailer, my abuser, and in many ways, at least for a time, my god.

My father was also the first one to tell me the story of the Gospel in a way I could understand, appreciate, and accept, again from a young age.

What do we do when we are assaulted by the truth that the man who led us to Christ may well have never known and accepted Jesus to begin with? Or, worse, if he did–that he never allowed the power and goodness and truth and love of Christ to so work in him to preserve him from committing unspeakable sins against the most vulnerable in his care?

What do we do when a spiritual parent uses what gave us life to bring death to others, or to ourselves?

We cling to the life we were given, if what we were given is indeed life-giving, because it did not come from this man or woman, this mere, distorted, destruction-bound human soul–

It came from the Source of Life Himself.

And if what you were given was never in fact life in the first place, know there is a source that exists that is more than willing to share true, everlasting life with you, that will not betray you, that will not wield good for evil, but that will tear down and burn and blacken into NOTHING all that has ever hurt you. All that has ever wounded you. All that has ever torn your heart out and eaten it in front of you.

God of peace, of justice, of righteousness, of truth, of love gives me life and hope and healing. Not my dirt-born father. My infinite-always-was father.

He got through to me when I was surrounded by deep darkness, where no one else was close enough to reach me, even through the morass of evil embodied by my earthly parent. He reached me, and he did not leave me alone there. He sat with me in all the agony and misery and torture and wickedness inflicted on me until it passed. Until he achieved my restoration out of its clutches and showed me his true, deep, abiding goodness in the land of the living.

He is with me still.

When Is It a Good Time to Discuss Abuse?

My birthday was about a week ago. I enjoyed time with family (wrangled fussy children through getting a Christmas tree), food (made my own supper and cake, which, thankfully, the natives loved), and leisure (binged on a new video game until way too late). I also got to consult on an emergent abuse case involving a starving pregnant mother–because there is never a bad time to discuss issues of abuse.

Let me clarify: there are FREQUENTLY bad times for a VICTIM to mention abuse. Victims are likely to be shunned, scorned, or shushed no matter where or when they share their story. There is never a “good time” for a survivor to speak up, tell the truth, or ask for help because mostly others fail provide a safe listening ear, and it’s terribly hard to predict who, if anyone, will be a trustworthy confidant.

In order to help survivors, we must work to change the culture so that it is never a bad time for THE REST OF US to discuss issues of abuse.

I hyperbolize, of course. No, I’m not going to take a consulting phone call while on a bathroom run. If you send a message asking for help in the middle of the night, you probably won’t hear back from me until after I’ve fed my kids breakfast the next morning. Sure; we are human; the rest of life also must be dealt with. Even on my birthday I put the phone down for awhile and let others carry the conversation while I finished putting my cake together.

The point is, we usually just shut down the entire topic as soon as it’s raised: either by ignoring/failing to respond or by hurriedly excusing ourselves. It is never easy to engage. It is always a hard subject to face. But if we don’t begin by choosing one of those awkward, discomfiting moments to lean into, we never will. Because EVERY such moment is unpleasant. There is NEVER a time when it will be “good” for us. But any time we do, it is beyond good for the survivor.

And the baseline wellbeing of that woman or man or child is more important than any fleeting discomfort I might have at facing a particle of their reality and seeking any small way that I might be able to help.

There is never a “bad time” for me to discuss issues of abuse–even if, realistically speaking, it might take me a little to get back to you about it. I invite you to join me in creating a culture where we tell survivors, “No, it’s not a bad time. What’s going on? How can I help?” And then listen, and listen, and listen.

You may find that, even at its worst, it costs you far less than what it costs survivors when we don’t.

National Drug of Choice

TW: descriptions of substance abuse

Fear is America’s drug of choice, and I’m a user.

This year I’ve come to realize how little fear aligns itself with any one political party. An equal-opportunity motivator, it has served as primary rhetoric on both sides of the aisle for the past four years.

I watch people promote Trump out of fear. I watch people promote Biden out of fear. I do see people supporting those two candidates for reasons other than fear, sure. However, the most vocal supporters I know are bound together by fear. The only thing that distinguishes them lies in the particular things they are afraid of.

Abortion. ICE. Socialism. Nationalism. Human trafficking. Drug trafficking. Economic ruin. Economic oppression. Social rights. Religious rights.

Something about each of these feeds our addiction to fear, regardless of our preferred delivery mechanism (blue or red syringe?).

I have repeatedly heard Christians lament the absence of simple civility, let alone love, in our political discourse and policy debates. I feel the same–but I’ve come to realize that an shortage of love oughtn’t surprise us when so much fear has inundated our faculties. Christians are called to better, but not even a God-fearing addict can live out the Gospel while indulging his habit. Ultimate hope remains even for this fellow–

“For no other foundation can anyone lay than that which is laid, which is Jesus Christ. Now if anyone builds on this foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw, each one’s work will become clear; for the Day will declare it, because it will be revealed by fire; and the fire will test each one’s work, of what sort it is. If anyone’s work which he has built on it endures, he will receive a reward. If anyone’s work is burned, he will suffer loss; but he himself will be saved, yet so as through fire….” (1 Cor. 3)

–but he loses much. So have we.

“There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” (1 John 4)

We cannot experience or share the fulfillment and security found in love so long as we are full of fear. Here we are, a nation subscribed to fear. Not a single Pandora’s box, but an endless monthly subscription. We can’t bear to go without it. No wonder the love designed to define us has grown scarce. Little demand; little supply.

One of the most discouraging parts about all this is that even when we receive our hoped-for outcome, the fear driving our efforts doesn’t go away. If anything, it increases. We now become afraid of losing what we’ve striven so hard to gain. Attaining the supposed solution for our fear does nothing so much as create more of it.

We are becoming best known for our fear-worship, across the board. We never had to settle for that. We still don’t. The alternative is so much better.

“By this is love perfected with us, so that we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because as he is so also are we in this world.” (Ibid)

I’d rather be associated with Christ–like Christ–than affiliated with any political party, policy, or person.

“If anyone says, ‘I love God,”’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother.” (Ibid)

Don’t worry: I’m guilty as charged, too. I’ve been so afraid of so many of you.

But I don’t have to be. I have access to love that casts out all fear. Tomorrow, and in the weeks ahead, I pray God refocuses me solidly on that.

“So we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.” (Ibid)

Flat Tire: Officially Published!

This past April I was privileged to have my work accepted for publication by Beyond Words literary magazine. “Flat Tire” received a two-page spread in a particularly handsome issue, to my eye, and I am extremely grateful to see my work appreciated by others well enough to finally find a place in print. Thank you, Beyond Words!

While I’m mentioning this, I must also make a secondary but equally important note: within the April issue, “Flat Tire” is directly followed by a flash fiction piece by another author that rocked me to my core: “The Girl in the Bathtub,” by Francesca Ferrauto. This piece accurately portrays the precise scenario in which my own childhood sexual abuse took place but, astonishingly, manages to convey the truth of the experience without any graphic detail. It revealed myself and my history to me in a way I had never known before, gently, and with hope.

For that, Francesca, I am eternally grateful. Thank you.

Since I do not own the rights to her piece, I cannot reproduce it for you here, but I do recommend you purchase a copy of the April issue (either a digital or hard copy) so you may read “The Girl in the Bathtub” for yourself. It will be well worth your time if you wish to better understand and care for survivors of CSA, and it’s not even too difficult to read, as so many of these things often are.

You don’t need to purchase a copy of Beyond Words in order to read my poem, however; I retain the rights to that myself. I happily reproduce it for you here.

Flat Tire

To my chagrin,
I’m not feminist enough to know how to change a flat.
So I ask Husband what to do,
not because I’m not a feminist
(although I might not be),
but because asking him is cheap.
No response;
so then to the community I encapsulate
(aside from incarnation wrought by Sunday supper)
in my pocket
I pose my S.O.S.
Air conditioner and CD player labor
to appease the puny monarch
in the back seat:
vanity, vanity,
but at least my hair is washed.

While I struggle diaper bag
water cup
and progeny
to the simmered sidewalk,
it goes (I later suppose)
down like this:
Sarah calls Jenn calls Emily texts Audrey,
Andy calls Husband,
two call me
but I can’t answer;
my hands are full of stroller handlebars.
We thread through weedy concrete banks to follow a river of exhaust.
A naughty branch slaps my baby’s face,
but given no eye to prod back at,
we press on.
Two sweaty Israelites endure a ten-minute desert
with brow-raising grace.
One thrills at the promise of frozen milk sans honey.

I have Jacob of the new testament here with me;
he sees a ladder
chock-full of angels
rising up from their couches and novels and streaming videos,
going down early from their offices
to dirty their fingers in the puddle of rubber on the corner of Spruce and Market.


Today marks two milestones:

1. 180 days logged for our first full year of homeschooling, and

2. The last day of classes for my first year back teaching online.

Many parents and teachers were thrown into these scenarios unexpectedly and unwillingly a couple months ago, but they have been our normal for quite a while already. And honestly, we love them.

We love Mondays, when my husband works from home (even long before COVID) so that I can have an hour in class in the middle of the day while he teaches the boys and plays with the baby.

We love singing silly phonics songs together, computing with marbles, writing letters to friends and family, reading books aloud to each other, planting seeds and watering the garden, playing baseball in the basement when it rains, using arithmetic at dinner to count bites of vegetables, studying the legends of St. Patrick, rapping Dr. Seuss, building maps and dungeons with Duplos, inventing every possible mash-up of known fictional characters, practicing piano, and saying “goodbye” at bedtime in Hindi.

We love short lessons, long lessons, cross-curricular learning, small class sizes, and individualized attention that caters to personal interests, which we employ to strengthen personal weaknesses. We get a lot out of bookwork and leave busywork at the wayside. We Skype with our supplemental instructor–Mimi–for story time and show-and-tell. We work on potty training at our own pace and build good habits in a secure environment.

Most importantly, we establish home as a nurturing, safe, warm, welcoming, happy place, where you can really trust the people you’re closest to, and everyone wants to be with each other.

Not because there aren’t days when I want and need not to see a single soul for a few hours.

Not because we don’t fight or drive each other nuts.

Not because everybody always gets what he or she wants, right when we want it.

Not because my husband and I are perfect parents with an endless supply of patience (in fact, my husband will probably tell you I’m one of the most impatient persons he knows).

It’s because we value strong relationships with our kids above almost everything. It’s because we believe doing conflict well is a vital part of building strong relationships. And it’s because we don’t see how to build a solid relational foundation with our children unless at least one of us spends the majority of the day, every day, in close proximity to them when they are little–i.e., under 12.

Most out-schoolers (non-homeschoolers) don’t see the sense of item number 3 there, and most homeschoolers don’t practice values 1 and 2–at least not together, in my anecdotal experience.

So combined, these values make our family pretty weird, though you don’t notice it til I spell it out. But it’s that weirdness that has made quarantine under COVID shockingly easy for us.

Quarantine didn’t use to be easy. And by that, I don’t mean what you think. We’ve only homeschooled seriously for about a year. My own sordid history with isolation precedes that adventure, starting some decades ago.

My parents were religious fundamentalists who rarely attended church. My father was an isolationist, prepper, and serial abuser. We moved endlessly from one state to another until I was 13 years old. Even after that, we never set down roots or grew close to any local community in any real sense. My father preferred no one else influence his thrall over his family, so I and my 6 younger siblings were homeschooled and kept as far apart from the rest of society as he could manage. This meant months at a time of seeing no one outside of ourselves–and my father also estranged us from each other, pitting us against one another and against my mother.

We developed friendships online as best we could and escaped abusive torment through books and video games. All of us developed Stockholm syndrome: home was a trap, and even those who did our best to leave always ended up back there. Even now, with the homestead sold off and the family splintered across the country, most of us have remained in the toxic mental state my dad cultivated in us for decades.

I was so used to home being a painful, broken, destructive place, that when I finally grew up and built my own home with my husband and children, I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t find rest. I was always leaving–trying to find solace in another family’s home, in running errands, volunteering, going to church, taking walks, playing at the park, going out to eat. The longer I stayed at home, the more I felt threatened.

And yet I still wanted to homeschool my children. A core part of myself knew that homeschooling wasn’t the problem: my parents had been the problem.

Home school, done right, could save my children from the troubles I had faced, and even better than a public or private education outside of our home could. Homeschooling, restored to what it ought to be, could provide them with the close, caring relationship I never had with my parents, and which my own kids could never have if they spend 30-40 hours away from home every week for twelve years.

This meant that I had to reclaim my home. Specifically, my own sense of security and place, within myself, amongst my new family, so that I could leave it as an inheritance to my children.

Building a familiar place of comfort and security from scratch is one thing; building it in the crater of a previous wrecked domicile since blotted from the face of the earth, amidst the rubble and smoking ruin, is another thing entirely.

It was hard. And not just for me.

Yet, when COVID quarantine loomed two months ago, it turned out–to my surprise–that I could actually face it. The slow work had built and built, and then when the time came, I had a final realization–

This wasn’t a quarantine inflicted upon me by one immunocompromised elder solely to protect his health and interests, which is what my dad did. It was, rather, a quarantine I had to elect to take up, one that no one else was going to enforce, and it was for the literal life-saving (non-optional) benefit of thousands.

Home suddenly becomes a lot more welcoming when you realize it is not, in fact, a prison. I had been running from it because I feared staying too long would trap me again. Choosing to stay showed me the freedom I had in that very choice: I cannot be jailed in a place I freely choose to remain. My fear melted in light of this experience.

On top of this, I had previously chosen to build a life at home that focused on the good of others, especially my children, not on all my own personal desires. Following my husband’s example, I had intentionally built into this. The fruits of that labor on both our parts have been nurturing for all of us–and, as it happens, a perfect preparation for COVID.

This is not my parents’ homeschooling.

“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” ~Rev. 21:3-5

You might have supposed, as I did, that revisiting a state of quarantine would throw me back into a very bad mental place, since I spent so much of my childhood there (yes–we literally called it quarantine then, too). But this quarantine has been nothing like the other. Speaking personally–I am aware this is NOT true for so many, and I do not downplay that in any way–but for me, this quarantine is–

Far, far easier. Kinder. Simpler. Pleasant–actually fun, in fact. And SAFE.

It has been a huge step forward in my trauma recovery process to redeem this space of home, even this space of quarantine. I never could have asked for that kind of healing, and I didn’t know how much I needed it.

There are many people out there right now who cannot say this because they are trapped in the same kind of quarantine that I lived for years–but it’s worse, because their abusers are using the whole of society against them now, too. At this moment, it is very likely that in the few lingering places where I could always catch a flickering glimpse of hope, they see none.

“I am making all things new.” I came across this verse halfway through college and clung to it. I needed that promise. I needed that hope that things would be different–completely transformed. The prospect of a decade hence felt like a lifetime away, then; in some sense, it was. The journey to get here, however, has been more sure than I ever realized while I was on it.

Homeschooling and quarantine both: God has made them new for us.

So from this place of security, of joy, of contentedness in the transformed life God has given me and my new family–from the place where I can walk through COVID quarantine and not falter at the shadows it casts of a previous life–I reach out to the rest of you lingering in the darkness.

I see you.

I hear you.

You’re not alone.

And, as the Lord leads you, the darkness in your life can propel you, one day, further than you ever imagined into the light.