My 2021 Year in Review: Pop Culture Edition (Plus an Announcement about The Raw JAW)

Hi Friends.

It’s already February 1, so I need to do this now or never. But first, I want to share with you how I’m publishing my writing moving forward and how it affects you.

When I began this blog, I named it the Raw JAW (my initials) because I need a place to be raw in my writing and have it be seen. This is key to my healing and my growth as a writer. My mantra is, “Release Your Story.” Theoretically, I believe we heal when we speak out loud or write the stories we keep secret. But to actually do it is scary as hell, including for me.

In the past, I’ve done this several ways. Ten years ago or more, I had a personal blog. I deleted that blog and changed my online username from Jewellspring to Jenny Wells Reads when I tried to brand myself and my bookstore (gross). I regret it now (Friends, never throw your writing away!!).

But as you know, blogging as it was ten years ago has changed. So for me to risk writing how I know I’m supposed to write - raw - there has to be some kind of buy-in from my readers besides clicking on a link. I’ve thought about all the ways. And I’ve settled on transitioning to an email newsletter. It feels only fair to me that if I’m going to be honest and messy in print and online, I at least want people who read my words to honor me with a small “payment.” So I decided to ask for your address. This means The Raw JAW will show up in your inbox instead of here.

The blowback of anger and misunderstanding I got in 2021 was just too scary and painful. It was from people I’ve been in the closest relationships with, not trolls (If you encouraged me and wrote kind comments, I thank you from the bottom of my heart). It’s just not right that I would do the hard work, be honest here, and be exposed to those who aren’t willing to provide anything but their criticism and judgment. Not to mention the withdrawal of their love. I’m an Enneagram 2, and it’s like they take a knife to my heart when they do that.

Some of you are already on the email list I collected two years ago. Soon, I will have a pop-up on this blog on how to share your email if you haven’t. Meanwhile, you can sign-up for my newsletter here. I expect to drop the first one this month and then each week. I will be staying in my lane of self-awareness in post-Christianity, plus what I’m reading, watching, and listening to.

Alrighty, let’s move on to the fun stuff!

Again, when I was running the bookstore, I changed my online brand (gross) to Jenny Wells Reads. Well, since the pandemic, my attention span for paper and ink books has become almost non-existent. I still read a ton, but it’s nearly all online or through audio, and almost always nonfiction. My fiction now is through television. There is so much quality TV now! I’m making up for the rest of my life. So let’s start there!

My Netflix Superlatives

I watched several things this year that “everyone else” did, too, including a few from the 90s. Some of what I watched was super sexy! Yes, envelopes keep getting pushed, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. One was complete trash but so popular (story to come in my newsletter). The shows I watched with the zeitgeist were: Bridgerton (duh), Maid, Virgin River, Sex/Life, Schitt’s Creek, New Girl, Twilight Saga, Firefly Lane, and Dawson’s Creek.

The one that made me sob: Maid

The one that I most related to: My Youth? Dawson’s Creek. My Current Stage? Virgin River

The one where laughter really is the best medicine: Schitt’s Creek. So glad I finally got on board.

The one I had the most fascinating conversation about: Sex/Life. Trash. And fascinating. Story to come.

Todd and I finished “The Last Kingdom” based on the Bernard Cornwell books and can’t wait for Season 5. “Destiny is All!”

The one we shut off: Cobra Kai. Sorry, Ralph Macchio.

I hardly watch movies anymore because I like diving deep with series, but “The Trial of the Chicago 7” was totally worth it. My beloved Eddie was in it. I was so proud of his American accent!

My Favorite under-the-radar: Offspring. Romantic comedy from Australia. I was obsessed, and #TeamPatrick.

The best one my 26 yo son recommended: Bo Burnham Inside. Guys. Watch this if you want to understand what young adults are going through during the pandemic coupled with off-the-charts creativity.

Best Documentary: Pray Away. It is about conversion therapy. It includes leaders involved in Exodus International before they were honest about their (unchanging) sexuality. I remember the Exodus seminars when I was a young adult. The documentary broke my heart and gave me hope at the same time.

Not on Netflix Superlatives

The One I Get Teary Just Thinking About. The One That Hit it Out of the Ballpark: Ted Lasso. Guys, WATCH THIS. Whatever your chosen genre, this is for you. My 23 yo son watches comedy, and I always like what he pushes me towards, even though comedy is not my go-to. So I finally tried it. I get teary just thinking about it. My husband cried several times; he was touched so much. Ted Lasso is a real person, friends. He will become a part of you. WATCH THIS (even you, Tangled Faith. I know it’s on Apple TV, but you can get a subscription and then cancel it.).

The One That Changed My Mind and Heart: Impeachment. It’s a mini-series based on Monica Lewinsky’s story. Friends, we were so awful to her. When I say “we,” I mean evangelical Christians in the 90s. She was the age of my children, and I can’t think about all that happened to her without crying. The present-day Monica was involved in the production. I follow her on Twitter and respect the shit out of her. This production also shows Linda Tripp’s side sympathetic and complicatedly. I actually “repented” while I was watching it for slut-shaming when the power dynamic with Bill Clinton was SO SKEWED! Highly recommend.

Whew! This list is getting long. I think I’ll stop there. PS My celebrity crush this year was Joshua Jackson. Pacey will be in my heart forever. I respect Jackson’s acting and career. I even made myself watch Dr. Death.

I’m changing my mind about sharing my 2021 reads and listens right now. After all, my favorite listens right now are podcasts about what I’m watching. Also, I skimmed a lot of books but don’t feel the need to spend time writing about them.

I hope something here nudged you to something new. Remember, you can sign up for my newsletter here.

Much love,

Jenny

My Year in Review: 2021 Part Two

Photo by Yash Prajapati on Unsplash

1. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Guys, I fall like a lot. I can be innocently walking on a trail and go down. I fell in a crosswalk in Seattle and on my face when I stepped on the ice. It was the year I accepted Todd is Body Smart, and I just can’t keep up with him (not that I ever could). Moving from a steep driveway to a flat parcel is enormous. I was scared of a severe break at my other house. Another of the countless blessings in our move.

2. What was the best thing you bought? 

Besides our forever home? A CAR! Like a 2022 car! My first new car EVER! We only got a $250 credit for our 2007 Honda Pilot. I knew it. I tried to tell friends. Todd drives cars into the ground before he knows we need to replace them. My friends’ mouths still dropped when I told them our credit amount. I was the primary driver of that Pilot for years during my grief over the way my empty nest happened. That car was WAY more immense than I needed. I hope I can drive my new car for 15 years, cuz that’s how long it will probably be before we buy another one.

3. What was your song for this year? 

“It Comes and Goes in Waves” by Greg Laswell. It was released in 2008 but was meant for me now. For you. You don’t know how to get through today, much less tomorrow, when our country and the world are in crisis. Friends, I know what it’s like to sit in a parking lot weeping with snot running down my face, gulping for air because my heart for one of my children has been shattered. And I know what it’s like to walk into a home I’ve dreamed of my whole life and be okay that it’s home mainly for just Todd and me. I know what it’s like to stand in a shower shaking from alcohol withdrawal. But I also know what it’s like to look in the mirror and see a face no longer puffy from addiction. It Comes and Goes in Waves, Loved Ones. I have had to live on the extremes of the bell curve. Hopefully, it will never happen again in such extreme ways, but since it has, I can tell you:

“This one’s for the torn down
The experts at the fall
Come on friends get up now
You’re not alone at all”

— Greg Laswell

4. Compared to this time last year, are you thinner or fatter?  

Guys. Gals. Whoever you are, hear me. This question sucks. Carry on.

5. Compared to this time last year, are you richer or poorer?  

It’s not time to water down the truth. We had a windfall this year. Our theme when we got married was Danny’s Song. “Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you, Honey.” Todd had been a temp for one week when I walked down the aisle to him, and we brought our firstborn home to low-income housing. But here we are, on our dream property with a new car planning our first Great Britain trip, Covid notwithstanding. And we’ve hardly been the best money managers over the decades. I can’t believe I get to live here. 

6. What do you wish you’d done more or less of? 

Less hatred of my body. More writing. Always, always more writing.

My Year in Review: 2021 Part One

1. What did you do in 2021 that you’d never done before?

I told myself over and over, “I didn’t do anything wrong.” and was able to believe it. Twenty twenty-one was the year I learned how to face others who treated me harshly behind my back or to my face.

In February, a close family member stopped talking to me. Again. This time I let myself look deep into my therapist’s eyes when she said, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Believe me, when I say, I still see how I could have done things a bit better. Forty-five years in Evangelical Christianity means I will always have an overactive conscience in my cells. But I have been cut off by this family member over and over and over again. I have crawled back in repentance and taken soooo many steps to meet her halfway. But it’s never worked long term. This time, instead of weeping over the rejection, I was able to say, “I don’t think we’re coming back from this one, and I will be okay. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

In August, I fell into a Mean Girls movie in what felt like a moment, and I said, “Oh, Hell No. I’m out.” I didn’t grieve over it. I just dusted myself off and told myself, “If everything I did well and good wasn’t enough, I would never be able to please them. I don’t want to live worrying about the slightest misstep.” I did think they were going to be good friends, though, and that was a bummer.

I was more open about my beliefs changing from evangelical Christianity this year. Oh, the blowback. Wow. I was told I serve The Enemy now. Sometimes they expressed their rage at my choices, and other times they just quietly left. But I have to continue to come out of the closet.

I have never been able to say to myself before, “I like you, Jenny, even if they don’t anymore. You did well. They lose more by not seeing what you give. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

2. What would you like to have in 2022 that you lacked in 2021?

An ability to indeed be The Raw Jaw. I got scared. Again. I got feedback that really stung or made me feel misunderstood. But writing here and behind the scenes is TRULY the work I have to do. I can’t not write...publicly and privately. AND it’s supposed to be about my inner life. I know this in my cells. So I HAVE to keep showing up. It is so fucking hard. At the end of the day, my health - mentally and physically - really suffers when I don’t Release the Story in all the ways.

5. What dates from 2021 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

Early July: The San Juan Islands in WA and I had a passionate love affair. Oh, Eastsound, when will I return? The Island and I (forgive the expression) made love over gourmet breakfasts, white clapboard buildings by the sea, and reminders of what I want to do for my life’s work. I create beauty that provides others with joy, healing, and refreshment like Orcas Island did for me. I’ve done it in schools, the bookstore, and for my children. This is what Todd and I still want. It’s what we always circle back to. This is the trip that reminded us. Orcas Island, I will never forget you.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Late July: “Hey! Wanna go on a road trip tomorrow to one of your favorite places to help me buy a house?” she asked. “Yes!” I responded, not one who usually likes to be spontaneous in that way. But, my friend and I bonded over that trip in an even more profound way. I got to go to WA twice in one month! I’m meant to live there!!

October and November were life-changing months.

October 1: It started with, “Buh-Bye job! I gave you my best. But, unfortunately, it wasn’t good enough for you. I am no longer a glutton for punishment.”

October 7: I returned to a friend’s home that I hadn’t been to for 10 years. It was a home where I experienced the warmth of joy, healing, and refreshment like I haven’t anywhere else in my life. Oh, how I had missed it. And then I was invited back two days later just because someone wanted to spend time with me even more. Once again, I was reminded that hospitality is my heartbeat.

Fall Break: Hey! Let’s go to WA uh-GAIN! Todd, I want to show you where our friends moved to. Let’s look at houses and neighborhoods where we might want to live! Let’s rent a place within walking distance to downtown Camas and really consider it as our place. Uh-oh. Jenny’s intuition is saying, “This isn’t it.” Dammit! It is supposed to be it!

November 6: I walked into our forever home during an Open House. It WASN’T in WA. It was up the road about 10 miles. Who knew. I guess we aren’t meant to leave CA or even our county. Oh, friends. How do I get to live here? Others told us what we were looking for didn’t exist. But I found it. I looked online at 100s of houses all over the West Coast. I am not exaggerating. But it does exist. Two beautiful acres within walking distance to town with two private homes. A beautiful home for Jenny. A long-term rental for Todd (HA! We do live in the same house. The rental for Todd means...his heart has always been to invest in real estate that provides housing for others.)

There’s enough room to host family members over the decades, starting with our son’s rehearsal dinner this summer. My new job is as the property manager. Being a homemaker truly is the most satisfying work I have ever done. I used to tell myself, “I want to be the Lady of the Manor instead of the maid of the manor.” When Downton Abbey was in its heyday, I couldn’t even watch it because it was when I was definitely the maid. But now I can delegate. Now I have money to work with to create and maintain a haven - for myself and others. How is this my life? It will be hard. Life is. But right now, my daily routine fills me up like being at school doesn’t. Letting go made room for the fulfillment of an actual dream, a dream I thought I’d shattered five years ago. This year, I said it in our hard copy Christmas card: Sometimes Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again*.

*Did you realize? It never says Humpty-Dumpty was an egg. Good thing. “Eggs are disgusting!” Toddler Jenny has never changed her mind.

Naked and Unashamed? Nope.

Photo by Oleg Ivanov on Unsplash

I don’t like to be naked, and it’s getting worse as I get older, not better.

Every day as I stand naked in the bathroom and closet, I feel so vulnerable. I don’t do it anymore when my husband of almost 30 years is around. After all, when I’m uncomfortable being naked around myself, how am I naked around anyone else? Maybe if he was better about flirting with me and telling me how much he still loves my body, it could be different, but he holds his feelings close, even to me. If there’s one thing I’ve had to learn in middle age, it’s that no one, not even him, can meet my emotional needs like I can meet my emotional needs. I’ve come a long way in doing just that. But this one…my human vulnerability…is one I have yet to be at peace with.

I know the reason for this.

I’ve learned that astrologers believe our purpose on earth is to learn how to be an infinite spirit inside the boundaries of our bodies. We chose our chart (when and where we were born) because we knew what lessons we needed to learn in this life. An astrologer once told me I was a man in a former life who believed being a woman was easy. That many of my lessons on this earth revolve around this not at all being the case. Who knows if what she said is true, but I think about my life and see how it could be. At 52, I still, in many instances, hate…yes, hate…the vulnerabilities of my body. Fleshy. And I know the reason for this.

American Christianity and Puritanism coupled with our obsession with sex as a culture is a toxic drink I have imbibed on my whole life. But I’m not sure how to put the bottle down. I think about my age and that my body is declining every year every time I get dressed. I was uneasy in my skin when I weighed 130 pounds, and I am even more so forty extra pounds later. Where is the hope?

But this is not an entry about weight gain, though it continues to terrify me. After all, I gained 15 pounds in just the last year. This is about another way I feel betrayed by biblical truth. If my conscience is clear, I will feel “naked and unashamed.” Well, my conscience has never been clear when I’m naked. Nothing reads my faults to me like my skin. Look. I can make a list in about a minute.

1. If I could just lose the belly fat! But I still eat what adds to it! My belly fat reminds me every day, clothed or not that I make the wrong choices.

2. I was naked with someone else before marriage when my body was the most darling. But I was displeasing the Holy of Holies, right? He watched me! Or maybe he had to turn away! Shame.

3. So I was supposed to feel unashamed on my wedding night? Standing naked in front of my new husband for the first time? Um, no.

4. But how about after six months? Years? Nope! Why. Why? For this, I blame our oversexualized culture that affects his thinking and mine. Thank you, Playboy….our generation’s version of the unrealistic female body. But for me, it’s the inability to accept that my body is so vulnerable. Weak. Gross. It farts, poops, oozes out of my bathing suit, falls, and gets sick.

5. My first horror when I was a new bride was when I stopped up the toilet. Growing up, I never saw a toilet plunger in my house, and surprise, no one gave us one for a wedding gift. I sheepishly told him, and he was just waking up at the time. He just rolled over and, in his pragmatic way, said, “Well, go buy one.” What?! Stand in line at the hardware store with a plunger in my hand? Leave the toilet unflushed while I did? Are you kidding me?? No. My human frailty could not be shown.

6. In Puritan culture, cleanliness is next to godliness, and the body is always unclean. The Old Testament told me as much. Yes, the OT was BC, but so much about our bodies cast us from the camp. God forbid, literally, that we bleed, masturbate, or share our skin with the wrong person. I don’t even like changing the toilet paper roll or a tampon. It reminds me. Reminds me of what? That humanity is gross. Unclean.

My college roommates would tell you that one of our biggest jokes was that Jenny would not say the word fart, much less admit I farted at all! That didn’t go away when I had children, and we tried to teach them “Toot.” 🙄 Well, when I read aloud to them when they were young, I used the word “tutor,” and the boys lost it. That’s when I threw up my hands. One time we had an only child who was a girl playing with my son and daughter in the field behind our house, and my son whipped it out to take a leak. It was the little girl’s first exposure to a penis. The scandal! The mother had to have a talk with me. I was mortified. But now? Why didn’t she use the opportunity to teach her daughter that boys peed differently than girls? And why didn’t I celebrate that my son felt comfortable and unashamed with his body? Oh, how I wish we were at ease back then.

So how do I come to peace with my body that will only get weaker, needier, and old? I don’t know. My brain has rivets of Puritanism and an oversexualized culture carved into it.

But I am experimenting. One of the ways is to proclaim here what Puritans would consider horrible. Because guess what? I love sex. It’s when my body can feel treasured and relaxed. I want to lie naked in the sunshine and feel its warmth in every crevice. I want to wear clothes that flatter me and pay money for an hour and a half massage every month. Once I proclaimed on FB during one of those memes we did back in the day, that I hope to have a passionate love affair before I die. What the heck?? Aren’t you married?? I was confronted by close friends about this. Well, yes! And he’s not threatened by that. No, we don’t have an open marriage. I would get way too jealous 😂. But when the church introduced, “Till death do us part,” we lived much shorter lives! It’s not a secret that the passion for our spouse’s skin can wane over time. I miss the newness, the infatuation, the “I can’t keep my hands off you” days. The possibility of it happening is a longshot, but what’s wrong with saying I still want it? Nothing. Take that Puritanism.

In the meantime, I try to remind myself that walks, planks, and saying no to the second piece of bread (every night) is a way to love my body so I can have a love affair with it. I can afford now to spend a little money on lovely fabric (ThredUP is great for this, friends) that makes my skin feel caressed. I can have celebrity crushes and fall in love with sexy stories without shame. Right? Right. Maybe it will help me get dressed every morning in peace and that’s what I deserve.

How Can I Help?

Photo by David Beale on Unsplash

We sat on a bench chatting about homeschooling while the mom shared how it's tricky to homeschool a K boy and an 8th-grade girl. "I can imagine!" I said. "I homeschooled for twelve years."

Then she looked me in the eye and asked, "You're a believer, right?" 

Not taking a beat, I looked into her eyes and said, "Yes."

Why? Why do I still do this?

When I fell into the job I have to leave this week, it was a full-circle experience. As I skimmed over the list of students, I saw names I recognized. The children of families I had homeschooled with were now homeschooling their own. I found myself in a culture I had left and naively thought, "Here's my chance to make a difference. I get to talk to a version of me 10-15 years ago." And sometimes, I did. 

But when it came to my faith or lack thereof, I stayed in the closet. 

Actually, I do know why I do this. 

I worried that if I said a simple, "No" or "I used to be" or "Not after 45 years", the conversation would stop. I wanted these mothers to trust me. And since I relate to how they think, I thought saying "Yes" was the easiest way to keep the conversation open. 

The problem is, "believers" start to trust each other in a certain way almost immediately. So when I acted like one, I received an earful of the lingo afterward. The example above was hardly the first time. But I would start to squirm and feel like I was betraying myself. I acted like I understood their choices. Which I did! But I also understand how these choices need to be held loosely because things don’t always turn out like we expect them to. Here are a few examples of what I mean.

1. I always pay attention to the brother in a group of sisters. I know that little boy works hard as he comes into the classroom in his muddy cowboy boots. The mom admits they're headed to a nearby town after this to "evangelize," and my heart sinks. I know too many children who express the horror of this experience as adults. And I look at that young boy and wonder what his passions are. What is he on this earth to do, and is it nurtured without his family's agenda? Nothing I observe says yes. But what do I say? I'll tell you below.

2. You guys, I unpacked a lot of material that feeds the Christian nationalism in our country. Yes, this is a problem in classroom schools, too. I recognized it because I bought it myself. In homeschooling circles, there's a belief that Western culture needs to be preserved. The problem is that often it means a bleached worldview. I rarely unpacked books that featured blacks on the cover except for maybe the random George Washington Carver or Harriet Tubman biography. It was bleached of colonialism and oppression and the founding fathers complicated relationships with slaves. I was blind to this when I was teaching my kids. But what do I say? I'll tell you below.

3. Oh, Mommy. You have got to let your babies go. I get it. I homeschooled for a lot of reasons, but one of them was school shooters. I was horrified that my first grader would go through lockdown drills. I wanted their innocence protected. I'm not sure this is a bad thing. If I homeschooled again, I might still keep them out of the early grades. But I was also shocked when I finally let go of my oldest (in his sophomore year!) how the local high school didn't hold his hand on anything. When I see moms hanging on much longer than necessary, my heart hurts. We don't realize we're hanging on to meet our emotional needs, not theirs. But what do I say when I see the enmeshment? I'll tell you below.

My favorite part of the job was knowing how to reach out to the kids. For example, I invited the only brother of sisters to help me unpack the school supplies once. He felt proud to support me because it was his comfort zone. And then I asked good questions. One of my go tos was, "Do you have any animals at your house?" It always got them talking. I would quickly learn if they lived on land or in an apartment. I saw if they talked more with nurture or a business sense. I knew the name and breed of their beloved dog. And I listened for burdens they were too young to carry. Even when I was in the thick of conservative culture, I knew children wanted to be listened to. So often, the adults in their life weren't great listeners, usually because we were just too damn busy trying to do too much. I don't think Christian homeschooling moms saw how much we were trying to control the narrative. I used to try to control my children's emotional experiences all the time. I, too, worked myself ragged to try and create Utopia for my children to flourish in without heartbreak. But I also showed them and their friends I was an adult who would listen, even back then. I liked being able to do that again. I believe that 8 year-old boy left feeling seen and heard.

I did try to be strategic in my conversations, as well, with the adults. I would say things like, "Yes. Beautiful Feet is a great curriculum. I love how they bring the most artful books together. I'm also so glad they choose racially diverse literature."

As for number three, and as readers of this blog know, letting go of my children has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and I had to do it like no one I've met yet. I'm not on FB regularly anymore, but I, too, posted birthday greetings to my children (friends) well into at least their late teens. How long did I expect to do that? "This little baby of mine is turning 34 today!" 😩. In many healthy ways, my children wrenched themselves from my clinging hands. I did let them have independence in ways many of their peers could not. And my children soared out of the nest, often not looking back. But it came out of my skin, and my heart still aches for them to want me, trust me, confide in me. But I also ask myself, "Is that desire about my emotional needs or theirs?" If I'm honest, it's to meet mine. To love them best, I am responsible for meeting those needs elsewhere. All that to say, what did I say when I saw the enmeshment? "Yes, letting them go is so hard. But I’m glad I practiced doing it a little at a time. Loving them well looks very different when they're adults." 

I don't know if these little soundbites ever stuck or not. But it was so fulfilling to communicate clearly and practically about what I believe can hold children (and their moms!) back.

So how did I find myself surrounded the other day with homeschooling moms that also knew each other because they all attended church together? How did I find myself talking like I was one of them? "Oh, that's so great! I used to take full advantage of Vacation Bible Schools, too!" So, of course, she would look me in the eye and ask, "You're a believer, aren't you?"

Yes, I said. If only I could have said, "Yes, I believe you and your daughter aren't hearing the Holy Spirit, but a church culture that needs you to be less human. I am a believer in living fully human more than an unseen god now."

But I didn't. I listened and understood. I, too, remember telling my Bible study that the Holy Spirit told me to stop watching ER. I remember that who I was at 40 would never recognize me at 52. I believe the 40s can kick a lot of coping mechanisms to the curb, so I want to tell them to expect something to be pried out of their clenched hands. But I don't. I couldn't have heard that either when I was 40. But I want them to remember me 10 years from now and know I'd be safe to return to. 

Homeschooling Mom, I've been there. I'll be here if you need me. No judgment. Just empathy. But as I drive home, I will probably whisper under my breath, "I wanted to tell you so." 

Why It's Been a Hot Minute

Hello Friends.

I have 10 Things to Tell You. But first, here's my one qualification and ask from you as my reader. Please know that everything below came after I swam underwater first, holding my breath all the way to the other side before bursting through the surface. In other words, nothing below is the whole picture. So all I would ask is that you don't judge it as such. Every coin has two sides.

Guys, I preach, "Release the Story." My blog is where I try to practice what I preach. Remember, this is not about word vomit. This is about letting go of what we try to hide - from others, from ourselves - so we can live free and authentic lives. 

1. Where have you been, Jenny? In the simplest terms? Working at a school. It's been a loooong six weeks. But I only have two left. More on that below.

2. How are you feeling, Jenny? Do you mean physically? Friends, I was doing so well! Somehow with the stress of the last six weeks, I ate less, not more. Part of it is I wasn't bored. I eat more when I'm bored. But some days, I had trouble eating at all. This rarely happens to me! I pushed to meet with a trainer, just for quick half-hour weight training sessions. But the budget ran out. The boredom is back after being laser-focused the last six weeks. Well, maybe not boredom. But the sadness is. I can always tell when I'm brushing my teeth at night. That's where I know I'm trying to stuff down too much emotion. Brushing my teeth is my two minutes where I somehow stop enough to notice the press in my throat. If I feel like I want to cry when I'm brushing my teeth, I know that's a sign I gotta give my feelings a way to be released. What's your tell?

3. So what have you been doing for beauty? I know how healing that is for you. Guys, my flower share has been choking in our smoke. I can't get them to stay alive for a week. And I know the farm's had trouble on their end. I've been more bummed about my flowers these days than inspired. So I used this service and decorated my bedroom for the first time ever! At first, I wasn't going to show you the bed. Keep it sacred and all that. But what the hell? I've been sleeping on box springs on the ground for years and never made the bed. So I wanted to show it off. #beautybeforetruth

4. How's it going with your relatives, Sweetie? If I were to have this blog behind a paywall, I would tell you all the things. I've thought about using Patreon or Substack for this. But I will share this today. Do you know how they say everyone carries a wound whether they know it or not? Well, this is mine. I spent decades trying to be the one that kept the estrangement away. It didn't work. I wish I could give you facts as illustrations to help you see the whole movie. But I will share this. In both my husband's and my maternal lines, there are generations not talking to each other, like for months, years, decades. I tried sooo hard to be the perfect daughter and mother, so this didn't happen, and it didn't work. I live with this loneliness because it is always with me. Please don't forget this about me. And what others around you might be living with every day. #compassionbeforetruth

5. So what are you celebrating right now? Friends, I have a few surrogate daughters, and they bring me so much joy. My son is getting married next summer, and in the last few weeks, I've gotten to play with the decorations and colors with my daughter-in-law. I started calling her that because they've been together for seven years, and once they were engaged, well, why pretend? It's been so much fun. Last Sunday, I found myself with her and her two sisters comparing bouquets and bridesmaid dresses. I was so thankful to be a part of their interaction while the bride gets to plan a celebration she's waited a looong time for. While I ache for my own daughter and no one can replace her, I can sink into moments like this and be thankful. I invited another surrogate daughter to fly in for Thanksgiving. It'll be the sixth holiday season without the daughter of my womb. I’ve had to learn to release myself into what I do have.

6. But how's that "Sinner in the Hands of an Angry God" mentality going? I had a community fall apart suddenly and shockingly since I wrote to you last. Again, I would fill this out behind a paywall about why I was in boundary boot camp and then fell into a Mean Girls movie for a couple of weeks. It still takes so much energy after a black-n-white life where I felt in the black for the biggest and smallest of things. I still have to face the demon, who tells me I majorly fucked up. "I do not have to do this perfectly to be okay. I do not have to do this perfectly to be okay." I handled it more healthily than ever before, but it still took so much out of me. And as I start to relax again, my body is pissed at me for what I put it through. Today I hurt from neck to toe. But I am SO less hard on myself than I used to be, which means I will recover faster.

7. And what are you watching right now, you pop culture expert? So unless you follow my Instagram stories, you might not know about my latest obsession. As in, "Maybe I should add this show to my YouTube channel!" Guys, I adore Dawson's Creek! I've been watching it on Netflix. It is so well written! I only watch one episode a night while I color. Still, except for the first six episodes where they made a unfortunate storyline choice, I find it brilliant. The teenagers speak wisdom. It's like how the teenage years could have been if we'd known how to handle the drama like a healthy family. My high school self relates the most to Jen Lindley, played by Michelle Williams, which is super fun. Dawson and Pacey remind me of my sons, and Jo, the female protagonist, is acted so well by young Katie Holmes. Maybe this will be my TikTok shtick - I'll let you know.

8. Did you say only two more weeks unpacking school supplies? I did. I wish I wasn't. I liked my job. I liked being a part of a team and getting to support homeschoolers, a culture I understand. I had hoped I had found a gig I could stay at for years that was meaningful but not too stressful. Where I could contribute some to Todd's and my retirement. But it didn't work out. And it's a bummer. But it means I'm heading back to substituting. I'll get paid more, have more flexibility, and feel needed. Feeling needed = feeling loved in my world, which isn't always healthy. But to know I can make a difference really matters to me, too. Feel free to hold my feet to the fire, though. It is KEY that I don't just relish how much I'm needed and say yes to whatever comes my way. It needs to go both ways - right for me and maybe for them. I'm still not good at saying, "Hold up. Is teaching three weeks of science to middle schoolers really want you want to do?" "But they NEED me!" No, Jenny. They just need. Only you need you. You are irreplaceable to YOU. To your husband and loved ones. That's it.

9. So Jenny. Why don't you just surrender to being a kept woman and write? Yes, it's true. Todd has always provided for us very well. I don't have to work. But trying to build something on my own…online, in a small-town bookstore, etc., was too lonely. I feel scared when I think about trying again. Owning my own business was great. But it's not something I want to return to. I always give whatever gig I find myself in my A-game, and so far, it feels under-appreciated. Slow and steady does win the race, but I am more a rabbit by nature in a world of rabbits and turtles. There’s gotta be enough room for both. Ideally, I substitute and have energy left over. I think I want to take the Outlander content I've already created and turn it into a book. Kinda like this one. I keep thinking if I tell you guys I'm going to write and publish a book, I will. I've been saying it for far too long. The Outlander fandom will buy anything, and it will give me the experience I need.

10. And did I hear you're headed to the PNW again? Yes! We leave in a month. I'm SO excited. We are starting in South Lake Tahoe so we can have dinner with the 23yo. We'll be able to hear all about his graduation present to himself - three European countries in 12 days all paid for and planned by him. I am so stinking proud. And holding my breath. #Delta. If this trip has to change, my heart will break for him. He deserves this and has worked so hard for it. All that to say, after a night in South Lake Tahoe, we're headed north, seeing Crater Lake for the first time, etc. Then four nights in Camas, WA, before heading back and staying overnight in Ashland, OR. In my 2022 car! Guys, I have watched so many peers get to do things like this, and now it's my turn. I'm sure someday I will follow my son's example, too.

I continue to play life on all the octaves of the piano. The thing about being in my 50s is telling myself, "Jenny, you are most likely not going to change in these areas." and accepting it. But, of course, I head back to middle C sooner these days, so that's good. 

I am so grateful for my consistent 50 readers. You. Many of you have stuck with me for decades. I love you. And I hope you also find the journey of self-awareness a journey of freedom. A place to give yourself permission to be you.

Happy fall! Let it rain. 

It's Like a Messy Divorce

I lamented to my therapist recently, “It’s taking so long to be able to live without fear that I’m in huge spiritual trouble!” 

“How long were you a part of the Christian church?” she asked.

“Forty-five years,” I replied with a sheepish grin.

“Well, then. Expect this to take some time.” 

It’s been seven years so far. All over my Internet feeds are other ex-vangelicals who are deconstructing. There are a lot who have left the church but say they haven’t left Jesus. That was me for a while. But it isn’t anymore. I’ve kinda been in the closet about this, but I think it’s time to stick my head out.

Organized religions tell us that once we start to question the tenants of our faith, we open ourselves up to doubting everything. Cults say this to their members, too. But if the tenents of our religion are the true ones, then they would stand up to me questioning them, right? I started to see that if the Christian God was real, he would be fine with me asking some taboo questions. After all, how could my questions threaten or chase away the God of the universe? 

And so I asked - by reading, talking with others, and journaling. What if the Bible isn’t literal? Maybe I don’t need to protect myself from the people I’ve been told to stay away from. What if there are no heaven and hell? And what if I don’t have to be saved by the violent death of a god? What if Jesus was only human? These are the questions I began to not be afraid to ask. I was scared at the beginning. But as time went on, I began to exchange fear for curiosity.

I remember the day I began to doubt eternal life. It really rocked me. I asked someone I loved and trusted what they believed about life after death. “I don’t believe it exists,” they said. I asked why. To be honest, I don’t remember their answer. I do remember how it started the process of me seeing how much I built my life around this belief. What if the teachers I listened to were wrong? After all, none of us REALLY knows what happens after we die. And the Bible doesn’t actually say a lot about it. So maybe it’s NOT true!

Rob Bell’s book, “Love Wins” - again, a book many of my peers considered dangerous - reminded me of what I had forgotten. The current concept of hell has only been around for about 200 years. It came about simultaneously as the famous sermon by Jonathan Edwards, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” What if there is another way to think about “hell”? I had to ask the question. 

What would it mean in my life if life after death didn’t exist? For me, it meant a whole different level of trust. What IF I won’t reunite with loved ones? I better love them well now. What IF the scales of justice won’t balance until after death? It means I better fight for justice for all now. What if there won’t be rewards for me in heaven? I could live with myself as the judge instead of striving to please and hear a god I couldn’t see. After all, the voice of judgment in my head was killing me, resulting in chronic pain, sleeplessness, and relentless anxiety. I needed to be able to get to the bottom of what was robbing me of life on earth.

Questioning my beliefs about life after death was only one way I let myself begin to live with uncertainty. I began to follow my intuition while allowing myself to question the Bible’s inerrancy and the resurrection. But, most of all, I allowed myself to doubt that there was a God who paid attention to my day-to-day life. This is the number one belief that I finally decided I had to live without to find the freedom and healing I needed. Just like a toxic marriage, I began to see that I had to leave God behind. I especially had to go away from where I had always been told he hung out - CHURCH.

Friends, living as a Christian the way I did for forty-five years kept me from being human. Being moral over being Jenny was how I lived for so long, disconnected from my own feelings and intuition. I lived on a moment-to-moment basis as if there was a god I could never please. For me, I had to leave this god. Just like a divorce, there were stages and fears I had to face. But on the other side, I found myself full of relief.

I can’t listen to Sunday sermons anymore. I can no longer take communion in a traditional setting with a clean conscience. I now ask my intuition how to live without asking God what he thinks. Sometimes I still pray, “Help, Thanks, Wow,” but I don’t take for granted that something outside of myself is listening. I don’t read the Bible anymore, but it would be as a book of poetry and ideals and history if I did. I no longer believe it is a literal blueprint for living inspired by one God. 

I don’t think I will ever go back. 

It’s been seven years since I began this process. It has been messy, again, just like a nasty divorce. There have been days where I doubted I could ever rebuild a new life. Friends have changed, holidays have changed, and dreams have changed, and sometimes I can’t see a new vision. 

But I can find peace like I couldn’t before. Rest. I can recognize the judgmental voice as something outside myself, even though it never really goes away. I feel so much less neurotic - trying to please and talk with a god (pray without ceasing, yadda, yadda) morning, noon, and night. I can learn to live fully human now with so much less shame.

I now regularly breathe deep sighs of relief. 

Somehow I Dodged That Bullet! Or Did I?

Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash

"Can you imagine if you'd married A?" Todd said the other night. "God, no," I replied with a shudder. 'A' was the boy in college I watched stand at our front door with his head bowed and praying before ringing the doorbell for our date. He was more spiritual than Todd in his Christian behavior, for sure. But 'A' believed he was supposed to be my spiritual leader from the first date. There are several young men from that time I can't imagine being married to now. I would have tried so hard to let them lead me, but I would have been able to sit on my strong personality for about 5 minutes. 

This week I finished the book "Jesus and John Wayne." I don't want to spend my time providing you a summary when there are plenty of other places to find one. I've read books like this before explaining the rise in the last 50 years of Christian nationalism and the Moral Majority. This book focused instead on how toxic masculinity took over the culture of religious conservatives in America. Why it bled over and got into bed with American politics. It also explained what I already knew - that in the personal lives of many Christians - marriages are supposed to be a place where the man is Alpha. He is in charge of the family, and the woman's role is to support him. A popular leader thirty years ago still says the same thing today. He claims every REAL (his word, not mine) man's core desires are a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue. Women might be strong, but men need to be stronger.   

As I read "Jesus and John Wayne," I found myself thankful that neither my father nor husband had conformed to these beliefs. They don't need power, my submission, or to be the center of attention. While there are two sides to every coin, both my dad and husband give the women in their lives lots of room to be themselves. Granted, I have held this against them in the past and demanded more - more leadership, action, and ability to meet my intensity. But, somehow, I dodged the bullet of being a woman who had to submit to the men in her family who needed to be in charge. I'm sure this is one of the main reasons I am still married to the same man 28 years later.

But what about the pastors (all male) I knew? 

Here's the thing. None of my pastors were overtly harmful to me, thankfully. I worked closely with them, and for the most part, they wanted to encourage me to be who I was meant to be. For women. Children. See, I wanted to be a pastor, too. I wanted to be recognized for my leadership qualities. But I am almost sure that I am not a senior pastor today because I don't have a penis. Allow me to explain.

I wasn't married to a man interested in traditional Christian leadership. In the denomination I was a part of in my 20s, women were pastors if they were married to a pastor. I wasn't. We tried. Todd would be an intern at our little church, working for no pay but being trained to be a pastor who would lead his own church someday (can you imagine!?!). We led small groups together, but behind the scenes, Todd's heart wasn't in it. I made the decisions and captained the ship, and he wanted to support me. But I wanted him to be someone he wasn't, so I could rank higher in the leadership structure of our church. It never happened, surprise, surprise. One time I got so mad at him for not conforming to what a male leader was supposed to do; I flipped our coffee table in anger once everyone left for the evening. I could not have what I want, what I felt made for, without him. It didn't occur to me that there might be another way because church leaders were men in our interpretation of the Bible.

This wasn't true in every church I was a part of. But by the time I got to my 30s, I had three little children to care for. Sometimes I spoke at large group gatherings or spearheaded a new ministry, but the only time I was ever paid was as the church secretary. I often asked to meet with the male pastors to share with them what "God had put on my heart." In the Evangelical church, spiritual gift tests are taken. My top results were always prophecy and discernment. I interpret that now that I have a strong intuition and am strategic. I was scared of my pastors' authority because I cared so much about what they thought of me, but I instinctively knew what needed to be said. I found myself often in situations with men where I spoke up with fear and trembling, only to shift the discussion to more depth, honesty, and awareness than the situation had before. This still happens to me. 

I could have gone to seminary, I suppose. I definitely wanted to. As a college junior at the University of CA, Davis, I prayed fervently and often that God would let me go to Bible College instead. But I never felt like I was supposed to leave. I got married, had babies, and stayed home with them. I stuck with traditional women's roles. But I never stopped wanting to be a pastor. Twice Todd and I seriously considered upending our lives to have some credentials behind my name to become a full-time spiritual director. But the cost always seemed too great. So I just pastored wherever I found myself - neighbors, friends' children, and - no lie - the junkies I picked up off the highway. But never as a professional.

At the last church, we were a part of, a pastor we really liked was on his way out the door for retirement. We were there for a couple of years, and again, I was considered for the board and paid admin staff. But by then, I was disillusioned. I knew board members in churches usually ended up working on things like budgets and chili cook-offs, and admin work didn't mean spiritual work. So I dragged my feet into becoming more involved. But I never stopped knowing and secretly wishing I would be recognized - called - as an official spiritual leader of others.

So when it was announced a man three days older than me would be taking over the leadership of our little country church as our current pastor phased out, the rug was pulled out from under my emotional feet. I was sure that if I just had a penis, I wouldn't still be wondering in my 40s if maybe, just maybe, I'd be a pastor someday. Because I was a woman, I would have had to fight twice as hard to pave a traditional path to spiritual leadership, and I just never did. Feeling disheartened about this after twenty-five years was the beginning of the end of my church involvement.

It's probably better that I never became a Christian pastor since I don't even go to church anymore or crack a Bible open. I still wish I could marry and bury people. I did lead the service when my mother-in-law's husband passed away. I've thought about online ordination as a side gig. I still find the most fulfillment when I can intersect others' lives in a way that changes them and sees them be released from what weighs them down. There are other ways to do this, of course, besides as a pastor, but pastors get to preach, you see. That's the kind of work I wanted to do, but in a male-dominated culture, it just never came to be.

In the online world, there are Facebook Lives, blogs, and YouTube videos. I've done them all. Before you message me, I do think there are lots of opportunities that aren't in traditional church settings. Maybe it was just never meant to happen. But I think I am only one of many, many women who were passed over simply because of their gender. 

Toxic masculinity in the Evangelical church is one of the main reasons Trump was elected, and The Capital was breached last January. The book does an excellent job of explaining what I already knew. You can find out more about the book "Jesus and John Wayne" here. 

When Jesus Came to Dinner

Prologue:

I thought about not publishing this right now. It's heavy! And it's summer! One of the awarenesses I've come into the last few years is how severe my religious practice was. A huge part of me was underdeveloped - the part of me that needs to play, laugh, and seek adventure. It was buried under my tendency towards extremism - if I'm going to do something, I don't do it half-assed. I did not practice my religion half-assed. My faith practice was so serious. Heavy conversations. Heavy responsibilities. As I revisit memories, I am stunned at how heavy life was. 

The more I commit to healing, the more I realize that it might take a lifetime for my nervous system and brain waves to rewire. Vital developmental stages in my life all revolve around the American Evangelical god and experiences. For example. when I was the purest and open, Jesus came into my life. He even came to dinner when I was seven years old.

There's a picture of him and me sitting on our couch. I'm snuggled up next to him like he's my daddy, a massive grin on my face. His girlfriend, fiancee, wife…I can't remember…sat on the other side of me. I don't know her, but I clearly remember him. I even remember his name.

Lou played Jesus at our church's passion play that Easter. The church my family attended was large, even from a 7-year-old's perspective. Several hundred people, at least, filled the pews and balcony for multiple services per week. And for this Easter experience, I was seated in one of the first few rows, front and center.

At seven years old, children don't have the developmental skills to distinguish what is real and what is not. It's one reason trauma and abuse are so difficult to heal when it happens at such young ages. The boundaries blur, and we can't separate who we are from what is happening. So when Jesus (Lou) was being tortured as part of the crucifixion story right in front of me, my little 7-year-old self was invaded with violence I couldn't process.

The play represented Jesus's torture by slamming his hands with a sledgehammer. The stage was higher than my young eyes, and it happened as if it was almost bearing down on me. I cried and cried.

After the play was over, I sat with my mother in the almost empty auditorium, and Lou came down to show me his hands. He turned them over, showing me both sides. "See?" he said. "I'm okay. We were just pretending." I gulped back my tears with relief.

I don't know if Lou came to dinner before or after the play. All I know is my sweet 7-year-old self was in love with him. I remember his light brown feathered hair and bell-bottoms (Hello, 1976). The adults in my life encouraged my crush and thought it was cute. I soaked up his special attention. Where did Jesus end and Lou begin? Jesus was not someone we just talked about at church. Jesus had invaded my seven-year-old soul the way some little girls fall in love with horses or an older brother's friend. My Jesus walked around with skin on. Pleasing Jesus and wanting his attention became part of my everyday understanding of how life was meant to be experienced.

I've written about this before, but children should not be told at that age that the man of their Sunday school songs and Children's Bible had to die a violent death for their sins. The Christian church has taught since the time of Augustine that we are born in sin. When children are disciplined - often with corporal punishment - they believe they crucified Jesus. It is a terrible burden for children, and they should never have to carry it.

I know this is why protecting children's innocence is so important to me. In my decades in religious circles, I knew which children were being disciplined harshly. I saw the fear and burden their little shoulders carried and how they were hesitant to engage in play simply because they didn't want to misstep. There were even families I probably should have reported. I still think about those children, now adults, and ache for how their innocence was not protected.

When Jesus is your first love, and he represents a personal and divine being who knows your every thought and action, it is very confusing. I am now so aware of and unable to live with messages from others that I am in spiritual trouble. I no longer believe a divine being had to die for my 7-year-old or my 52-year-old sins. Whew! Just let that cat out of the bag for the first time. But that's another post. For now, I have to constantly learn how to not live in a tight box of fear that I will mess up and disappoint the one I wanted desperately to love me. This plays out in my relationships, too. Losing others' love shakes me at my core, and my default is that it's my fault. I still live with a confused, complicated, and traumatized 7-year-old.

Epilogue:

Just yesterday, someone messaged me that they are praying for me because Satan has deceived me. That I need to use this platform as a daughter of the King of Kings instead of writing about the trauma and problems. That’s why I went ahead and pressed publish on this heavy topic even when I should be splashing in a pool. I can’t let that toxic message and belief sit in my body anymore. I need to release that story.

Is It Okay That I’m Chronically Exhausted?

Today I am facing 13 hours away from home. It involves punching a clock, three outfit changes, and participating in an event where I was responsible for the details. It involves a social event when it's all over without alcohol lubrication. All of these things do connect to my daily goals. But the problem is I can’t do it all at once anymore. The length of my day, the weight of responsibility I feel, and how long I know it will take me to recover adds up to too much for me now.

I keep telling myself I'll get through it. That rest waits for me on the other side. But still, I have dreaded today for weeks. I feel tightness in my chest. I'm on the verge of tears. I want to shovel carb after carb into my mouth. And the bottom line? I am angry. Facing today reminds my body and emotions of how my life used to be all the time, and I can't bear, even for a day, to return to it.

I have heard myself say out loud recently, "I think I need to rest for the next 30 years to make up for the last thirty."

For decades, I had days like this several times a week. I gave myself little downtime. When my children were well past the neediness stage, I still had to force myself to shut my bedroom door and tell them not to bother me for 15 minutes. I don't blame them for this; I was the one constantly scanning all the needs of the life I'd built. I was the one who couldn't leave alone the demands I put on myself.

People tell you, "No is a complete sentence." But how do you say no when you think you have to be Super Christian, Super Mom, Super Homeschooler, Super American Hot Woman, and Super Friend?

One of the biggest problems in American Evangelicalism is that women are exhausted, and they don't even know it. This is a generalization, I know. But when you pair idealism with the Evangelical culture, burnout is almost inevitable. We often don't play. We are taught and expected to practice what is called servanthood. We need to serve our children, husbands, neighbors, and the church we attend. We're also supposed to be open to whatever God throws into our life. God wants events at our churches, you know. We need to host Vacation Bible School, High Teas, and Clothing Exchanges (yuck to all of the above) so we can invite our non-churched friends and get them inside our walls.

We light this cocktail of burnout with Christian bookstores full of "How-tos" that teach us to surpass our humanity for a holier and Biblically-based life. Whole ministries (businesses) are built on Biblical themes that teach Christians how to be better. Sometimes they help. But more often, they put expectations on us that keep us striving for very high and tight standards. I think of Dave Ramsey (finances), Joyce Meyer ("Empower your emotions with Biblical principles and rise above them!"), and ministries - I rarely felt ministered to, BTW - like the Proverbs 31 Woman. Throw in homeschooling conferences and (male) pastors bragging about their hot wives, and it's no wonder many of us finally turn to drink, divorce, or despair.

Day after day, I would wake up - if I slept - and try and figure out how to coordinate all the details it would take to pull off everything I thought I had to do. I had to coordinate four people's lives, education, and all the expectations I believed our communities were putting on me. I was not an educator who made sure my children filled out their workbook pages. I was a holistic educator. My children needed their mental, physical, emotional, social, and spiritual natures nurtured with the richest of resources I could provide. I needed to make this happen with a beautiful house and healthy food - things I wanted but take a buttload of time and energy. I needed to do this with others (see above - rich resources) who also held these high standards. When another mom wanted our co-op kids to build a life-size chess set, I went home and cried. I wish now I had given myself enough permission to tell her no or laugh out loud.

One time at our homeschooling co-op - a time for the moms and their kids to gather together for mom-led classes, I heard a mom say, "I'm bad with socks. I can't get the Nevada County dirt out of my family's socks. Socks are my fail." Wait. What? I am hanging out with people whose standards are high for socks? I better hide my epic failures. I can’t confide in anyone about falling asleep out of utter exhaustion at 11 am when they’re beating themselves up about dirt stains!

Why did I put so much pressure on myself? I'm still untangling it. But now, when I feel that pressure start to creep in, I get really panicky. It's the last week of school. I need to wrap up my job as an admin with all the end of the year activities and responsibilities reaching a crescendo. I can feel boundaries blurring and all the emotional effort it is taking me to hold in my intense feelings that are being triggered. I am practicing speeches inside my head about how to communicate what I need. I've gotten better at this, but I am still afraid of showing taboo emotions. I worry about my anger and exhaustion coming out inappropriately. I'm scared if I open my mouth, all this will tumble out.

My reality now is that it doesn't take much for me to start to unravel. Learning how to navigate this is still really hard when I feel real or imagined pressure. It is time to shower and do my best. My best is WAY less than what I used to think it had to look like. I have to stand in the fear that if I fail - from socks to public, hot, and angry tears - I will not be rejected and fall apart.

It's getting better. The recovery time is shorter. I know how to check in with myself and take things step-by-step. But I also think I have to accept I just can't do it anymore, even for one day. Now how to communicate it to others. This entry helps.

It’s My Turn

If you follow my Instagram stories or read this blog regularly, you know that several people recently told me in their own way to stop writing. Despite the positive feedback I receive both online and off, because of the negative feedback, I am...UHgain...struggling to show up for what feels like the hundredth time. Dammit, I need to get past this!

Despite what my critics might think, I really wrestle with what negative feedback means and how I need to respond. I don't treat it lightly. But now, it's my turn to say what I need to. 

Reader, maybe you are not my audience.

Are you still in the church and have no intention of leaving? You are not my audience. Are you someone who knew me in the past and reads as a voyeur to my process, never leaving any feedback but making conclusions about me? Do you talk with others from our past about me? You are not my audience. Do you read to make sure I don't write about you? You are definitely not my audience. Friend, I am being SO careful. But, I have to let that go. To not makes me sick. And please consider that the way to react is not to try and control me, but to talk to me instead. Or more importantly, ask good questions, and for fuck’s sake (my sake!), listen.

People, I am not writing to those who are still in the church. I am not trying to convince anyone. I write for myself and others who are leaving or who have left. We desperately need to speak and write our truth out loud and heal! It helps us put back together the pieces of our shattered identity. Support and celebrate this process!

Those who have had to let go of our Christian identity and community have gone through a divorce. I haven't had to go through an actual marriage divorce, but I have had to watch those close to me go through it. The loss of friendship, anger, blame, and hurt by those once close to us are excruciating. Those I know who have gone through it feel like their very personhood is at stake. If they stay, they will die, and if they leave, they will die. But leaving is what means hope. It also means facing all of the above, which is terrifying. As humans, we have to choose whether to cut off our hearts and essence and stay numb. Humans choose numbness all the time. Those who leave anything - an addiction, community, a toxic marriage, etc. are incredibly brave. The misunderstanding of others is inevitable, I suppose. Still, when our motivations are questioned by those who claim to love us, it really sets us back. Please don’t do this.

I write for those trying to find their way in the dark and a way out. I write for those who might read, step away, and think, "Huh. I never thought about it that way." 

It's ironic to me. The church expects confession. Whether it's part of the Catholic's rituals or the American Evangelical church’s prayers, we are told it is freeing to bring what we hide into the light. To not carry secrets. But my attempt to do that here has led to scorn. God forbid (pun intended) I would write of my former culture's sins. "Just stop," I've been told. How dare I make sense and finally say what I didn't allow myself to for years. Decades. For example, for me to (finally!) say out loud, "Our pastor was a terrible preacher" is so important. It is one sentence after not saying it out loud for my ENTIRE 20s. It must happen! Publicly! Friends! Give me this gift! Celebrate with me, do not condemn me! To write sentences like that helps release me, and I desperately need to be released! 

I believe my role is to speak out of the darkness. I cry, "Hello! I'm here!" and hear it echo off the cavern walls. But those lost in the cave we share hear that echo, too. It gives them the strength to feel along the walls and move toward my voice so we can find a way through together. 

Friends, grief is very personal. It is also incredibly lonely. I write so others and I know we are not alone. If that's not why you are here, feel free to stop reading. If we shared a relationship in the past and you want to follow my process, great. But for God's sake (again, pun intended), believe the best about me. I am really trying to, and it cuts at my core for you to think otherwise.

Carry on. I am going to do the same.

How My Convictions about Abortion Changed

Photo by Maria Oswalt on Unsplash

"I just can't vote for anyone who could kill the unborn," she said. "I'm sitting out this presidential election." A lifelong Republican, she couldn't vote for Biden or Trump. I understood. But also a lifelong Republican (for the record, no longer), I happily gave my vote to Biden. Yes, it has been a decades-long process, but I have finally shrugged off the garment that abortion is murder and the only legislation that matters. As someone whose first professional job after college was at the local Crisis Pregnancy Center, this was not a simple process.

I’m tempted to insert a history lesson here. Studying the history of the merger of American Evangelicalism with politics is how I began to question my anti-abortion conviction. I would instead refer you to books that provide the context for how abortion became the political litmus test for decades of American Evangelical voting. My role here is to share my personal process. I do wish you all would read up on the history, though.

Crisis Pregnancy Centers exist to provide every support system they can for those facing an unplanned pregnancy, except abortion, including referrals. We did provide adoption referrals, transitional housing, and a clothes closet. Their policies are based on a strong conviction that abortion is the murder of a child. As a volunteer counselor, I always told women that Jesus loved them and would help them without having to kill their unborn baby. Thankfully, I have never had to go through the painful procedure of abortion myself. But, I also didn’t want other women to have to go through it. I considered it a traumatic event and didn’t want women to have to choose it. I also believed, to avoid all the potential pain and suffering of an unplanned pregnancy, those who were unmarried needed to practice abstinence. This was God’s standard and to act outside it meant negative consequences. This was my practice as well, from the time I was 18 until my wedding night. What a time of life to be abstinent! But, that’s a different post. During this time, I circled the local church youth groups with my message. I even spoke once before a class of nursing students at the local community college about why the focus of sexual health should not be on providing birth control.

In other words, I lived and breathed my belief that abortion killed a child and a woman's soul. I was a foot soldier. It's not surprising that some people are deeply disappointed in my change of heart, I guess. A few years ago, even I was pretty shocked at how my perspective of abortion had radically shifted*.

After my first pregnancy and childbirth, I stood in my backyard and looked at the sky. "God, WHY did you make this so unfair? Why do men only donate a seed during a pleasurable act while my body has been turned inside out? Why do I have to bleed for and feed this child with my own pain for years? Couldn't you have spread out this high cost more between the sexes?"

This question has been coupled over the years with my growing awareness that most lawmakers passing anti-abortion legislation are men. It perpetuates the lack of balance of responsibility in human reproduction, which is grossly unfair. If women have to bear the brunt of human reproduction, women should be making these decisions for themselves. Even the most empathetic of men can’t understand what a woman goes through in her reproductive life.

I also came to understand that outlawing abortion disproportionally hurts women living with a low income. If abortion is outlawed, it is the poor - those who have access to substandard medical care - that will suffer. Those in poverty don’t have the same support systems. When we say abortion is always wrong, we are often speaking as those who have never had to face the situation where going through with a pregnancy feels impossible.

But, Jenny. Even if it's unfair, isn't an innocent child being killed?

Maybe. I’ll get to that.

The next Jenga block pulled from my tower of pro-life conviction was when I began to see the lack of legislation for support outside the womb. It seems so obvious to me now. Why do we fight for these unborn children to be "protected" at the cost of women and not support them more once they’re born? The standard line was often that the church needs to take care of others instead of the government. Yet the problems of income inequality and substandard medical care are so widespread they need to be addressed by the government. In the churches I was a part of, we were able to help a woman or two here or there. But, the problem is too large for the church’s resources, and from my experience, we were kidding ourselves. We also weren’t willing to reckon with the deeper reality. Big government would affect our pocketbooks and we didn’t want that.

But, Jenny, ISN’T AN INNOCENT CHILD BEING KILLED?

I no longer think so. Yes, I admit, this was the biggest hurdle. But I sat with the following question for a long time. Does life begin at conception? How do we know? If the death of life should not happen, should men masturbate or wear a condom, or women use any kind of birth control? Some people do believe this. But the farther back we take this argument, the pools of people who practice this get smaller and smaller. As with many of my former Christian beliefs, when they are taken to their logical conclusion, they begin to fall apart.

Okay. What about when the heart begins to beat? Again, maybe. A friend who has her MDiv told me her seminary taught that life begins with the breath. This goes back to Genesis when God breathed into Adam after making him out of dust. That's when the image of God (the soul) enters us, not at conception or even with a heartbeat. This made sense to me. It also showed me the answer to when life begins is not black and white.

When it comes to policy, here’s where I’ve landed. Yes, I still believe abortion is traumatic and morally problematic. But that anti-abortion laws and the lack of access to birth control unfairly punish women of low income is even more problematic.

But, Jenny, what if it was your grandchild?

Please do not assume that anything I am about to write reflects the personal experiences of those I love.

Answering this question is when my tower finally crashed. I had to wrestle with it for about six months before I finally let go. I had to ask myself. Would I want my daughter to have the protection and freedom she would need if faced with a crisis pregnancy? Yes. But wouldn’t I be willing to raise the child for her? Maybe. But could I nurture a grandchild with alcohol fetal syndrome? Probably not. Do I want my children forever tied to a mistake or abusive partner? No. Wouldn’t my love for this child conquer all? Not in my experience. I think it’s magical thinking. Giving birth to a child is for life, even if a grandparent raises them. It binds us in ways that are impossible to shake, especially for women. Shouldn't women be allowed to wrestle with these realities, weigh the cost, and be who decides? Shouldn't we support them in that decision with the best services, whatever it is? Even as a grandparent, I came to the conclusion that I could support my daughter getting an abortion without believing she was killing my grandchild**.

Women bear the brunt of any birth. It is their body, and the buck SHOULD stop with them. They and their doctors need to be the ones free to make the decision and the rest of us need to get out of the way.

The relationship between sexuality (pre-marital sex, contraception, abortion) and Christianity, along with many religions, is complicated and fraught. Cultures and religions have tried to contain the power and potency of sexual activity in so many ways. I no longer think it can be managed by anyone or thing outside of our own personal agency. I feel free now to say and vote that the lawmakers shouldn't be the ones restricting these choices. I no longer have to vote based on one issue. I no longer have to fear that my vote for someone who legislates for less restriction is the vote to kill a child.

I now live with “and” instead of “or” for many of the convictions I used to have. I (and my therapist, tbh) challenge the black-n-white thinking that I was very good at after 45 years in my religion. Life is nuanced and issues like abortion are multi-faceted. Humans are multi-faceted. Friends and Christians, we need to let this one go.

*Unfortunately, my vote for Biden was also the litmus test for some people being in a relationship with me. I have not published that I voted for him before now. No questions were asked. No attempt to understand. No interest or curiosity about my evolution as a woman and human in the last 30 years. To be pigeonholed is painful and I wish we didn’t do it to each other.

**What about my sons, you ask? Shouldn’t they have rights as potential fathers, too? Well, based on my observations about the inequality between men and women, even for my sons, I would want their partner to have the ultimate say. But also? My children’s sexual lives and decisions are really none of my business. I use the example of how I would feel as a grandparent only to illustrate how I have personally wrestled with the consequences of my changed beliefs.

I Don't Think It was the Devil's Fault

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

I turned to exit the small church kitchen and almost bumped into her. A local realtor and mother in my homeschool co-op, an acquaintance, cornered me to warn about moving seven miles up the road. “Nevada City is dangerous,” she said. “Satan hangs out there. Are you sure you want to do this?”

No wonder I didn’t choose her as our realtor.

In 2009, Todd and I had lived in our rural area for six years. At the first house we bought, you can go months without running into your next-door neighbor. The driveways are steep, and it’s not designed for walking. Have you heard the expression, “There’s no there there?” That was our dilemma. We loved our backyard. The kids played in the year-round creek and undeveloped land behind our house. But the brothers were getting older and restless. Anything we wanted to do involved getting in the car. We often talked about moving into town. So, when a three-story Victorian farmhouse on a landscaped half-acre came on the market at a reasonable price, we jumped on it. It provided rental income, and we could walk to ice cream, breakfast, and the Fourth of July parade. Despite the recession, we were able to take the plunge (I’m still not sure how we dodged that bullet, tbh.) “Let’s do this!” we decided. We didn’t care that the porch was only plywood, and there wasn’t really a kitchen. It didn’t matter that all the light fixtures were different and none of the (gross old) carpet matched. And it didn’t matter that Nevada City was spiritually funky. This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.* We were going to live in the heart of our small town in a house with a literal white picket fence. We were going to homeschool while Todd telecommuted and be awesome landlords (we kinda were awesome landlords, actually). We were going to remodel a kitchen for the third time in our marriage, no problem!

But, living in Nevada City did not go well, especially for me. It wasn’t because of demons, though it would have been easier to believe that. It was because we put the pedal to the metal and bit off more than we could chew. Friends, you might be like the people that used to hang over my fence to take pictures. It’s easy to romanticize the 100-year-old homes that decorate many downtowns. But to actually make them structurally sound, warm, and level with updated plumbing is a whole different ball game. Our mortgage was low, especially with the rental income, but we felt all the time like we didn’t have money. Like replacing the floors throughout, the things that needed to be done cost WAY more than we could ever imagine paying. There’s a lot more to this story, but let’s just say, for now, this level of stress exposed a lot of cracks in a twenty-year marriage.

It felt like the house constantly yelled at me about all the things it needed. I tried to be satisfied in the gardens, but I couldn’t keep up with the landscaping needs. I hated being able to hear the freeway and having to sleep under streetlamps. The only place I could call my own was an overstuffed chair in my tiny bedroom. The kids were getting older, and we were constantly on the go. My standards were ridiculously high - for the house, for the company we kept, and for the way I believed I needed to parent. My ability to function as a healthy human being began ebbing away, but I was too busy to notice. It was at this house that I started to drink alone. Drinking alone should have been a red flag, I suppose. And it was. But when we get in over our heads, it’s hard not to drown when you start gulping water (or alcohol) instead of air. I couldn’t breathe, and the tide was taking me farther and farther from shore.

One of my girlfriends told me at the time, “Just sell it.” So when the house we’d sold to buy the rundown farmhouse came on the market three years later, we bought it and moved back. Yes, I have purchased the same house twice.

I love my house. I love feeling like I live in a park. When we revisited it to buy it the second time, I stood on the hardwood floors we put in ourselves talking with our realtors. The ground felt solid under my feet. We’ve been back for six years and continue to make it our own. But the kids are gone, and that can still feel like a hole. I wish I could tell you things started to turn around for us when we moved back. But the teen years were rocky, and my alcohol abuse didn’t stop right away. Todd and I live with a mixed bag of memories here. We crawled back to each other and found peaceful living. But, we find ourselves having a lot of conversations about moving. Again.

Do we stay, or do we go? It’s a great anecdote to tell people we bought our house twice, but it seems crazy to say we sold it twice. Do we stay in the area? Wait to see where our kids settle? The practical answer is to stay put. But this week, we found a house that seemed to check all the boxes. In this market, I know to hold Zillow discoveries at arm’s length. But I talked to a realtor about it. Friends, I could have walked to my day job! However, no surprise, the house was pending in four days.

I am someone who looks for the big picture. I want to know the story behind the story. It was easy for me to believe God had a purpose for me, though this is no longer part of my canon. But this week, I’ve been asking myself why Todd and I are wrestling with this again. I don’t know the answer yet. We ultimately decided to give it a year (Hey Siri, remind me to change my Zillow notifications so I don’t torture myself).

One of the reasons I don’t like getting older is that decisions are made practically. Ignorance is no longer bliss. Time feels shorter, and we understand we need to consider five, ten, even twenty years down the line. It’s great to have vision, and the Internet is full of memes telling us to dream big and reach for the stars. But my health must be taken into account, and my husband doesn’t need to work until death to fuel our ideals. There are a lot of advantages to living a simple and peaceful life. But I still get restless. I watch my daughter chase adventure. I worry about being the couple who watches TV during dinner whose only goal is to pay off their mortgage. What if my kids don’t want to return to their childhood home because it’s boring here? And if they all move out of state, we’re going to want to follow them. It’s practical to stay put for so many reasons.

The songbirds agree.

This time of year, the birds sing me awake. I feel very lucky.

The Belief in a Personal Devil is Crazy-Making

"On the left side of your paper, I want you to write down in black all the ways The Enemy is telling you lies," the retreat leader directed. "Then on the right, I want you to write in red a list of your identity in Christ." She pointed us to a section of the Bible that included letters from one of the Christian church's most dramatic converts, Saint Paul. I can no longer remember the exact reference, and I don't want to look it up.

I participated in the above exercise often in a similar setting over 25 years. As a lifelong journaler, I agree that writing down what swirls in our heads is a great practice. I think it's important to see our thoughts on paper reflected back to us. I don't know the exact science, but I still believe pen and paper soothe us more than a keyboard. However, this exercise represents only one way I was separated from my true identity (for decades) as a Christian who took her faith extremely seriously. Practices like these are problematic.

I believed in a personal devil pretty much for all of my 20s and 30s. The churches I was a part of did, too. I blame this book for a lot of the insanity. Many Christians believe a fallen angel leads legions of demons that fuck with us, and we have to resist them. We thought there was always a supernatural battle raging between God and Satan. We were the foot soldiers for God's side. We were the casualties or conquerors. To be a conqueror required heated prayer, fasting, and a constant policing of our thoughts. We prayed over everything from sound systems to untreated mental illness. We prayed that the Enemy would not "gain a foothold," as if Satan was a masterful rock climber trying to scale us.

In 2010, Todd and I started attending a local Anglican church we could walk to. Mainline Christian churches are much saner about the possibility of Satan. I don't remember ever hearing about "him." After 20 years of living as if an invisible enemy was trying to take me out (how exhausting), I began to see things differently.

The more I separated from evangelicalism, the more I found all this fight against The Devil illogical and destructive. If Jesus's last words were, "It is finished," why were we acting like it wasn’t? I now believe the answer to this is pretty simple. Christians don't know how to handle the reality that evil still exists, so we blame it on something we cannot see. This is coupled with a suspicion of traditional therapy, especially by those who are not Christians. Christians often can’t accept bad things happen to good people (a great book, by the way). This belief distracted me from so many parts of my humanity. How could I know who Jenny was if two entities outside of me were always trying to get to me and I was responsible for who won?

This mindset is crazy-making. It led to me rejecting vast parts of myself. It bred earth-shaking fear. I spent so many years and significant events in my life in a panic that I would fall off a spiritual cliff. After all, if I could lose a battle against the Enemy when I was trying so hard to do all the right things, imagine the freefall if I didn't?

Todd asked me to marry him by writing me a letter because he lost a bet. The Dallas Cowboys (my team) beat the San Francisco 49ers (his team) in the playoffs, and writing me a letter was my wager. We sat in a park in Sacramento on a warm February evening while he read it to me, and he proposed at the end. I said yes right away. I had told a girlfriend months before, "If I go on a date with him, he's going to ask me to marry him." Todd felt like home, and I wanted to live there.

But our church leadership had to be involved in this life-changing decision, and they were not convinced…true story…that Todd was good enough of a Christian. The following day, my pastor refused to announce it to our gathering, a common practice. Two days later, I tried to have a one-on-one conversation with my pastor's wife about it. This woman held more authority in our church's culture than her husband, and she stumbled through her lack of acceptance of my choice. A few days after that, I was reprimanded for putting her in an uncomfortable position. I was involved with these people one way or another every day, and they disapproved of my choice. I was terrified that God didn't approve either. But Todd was my place of gentleness and peace. I was subjecting myself to so much stress trying to be a good Christian with this community; it's no wonder I couldn't imagine giving him up.

One night during this week that should have been celebrated, I arrived on the steps of a couple who were my mentors so they could pray for me. I felt so at the mercy of this unseen Enemy, and I was panicked with fear. They prayed for me with fervor and fight so the Enemy would leave me alone. These are the memories I have of the week I got engaged. What a tragedy.

Fast forward ten years later. My family started spending a lot of time with families who introduced us to ways of thinking and living that I had not yet known. In the simplest terms, they had (a LOT) more money than we did and it exposed me to experiences I had only imagined. One of the other moms, in particular, took me under her wing in many ways. She invited me to be myself. Early on, I shared my email address with her — jen at wellspring dot com. "Do you ever go by Jen?" she asked me. I took a beat. No, I didn't. Why WAS that my email address? I have never gone by Jen with anyone.

Hanging out with this community gave me a crash course in knowing what I wanted. This friend modeled to me a life full of color, music, adventure, and nuance. And she challenged me to know MY answers to what I bring to the table of life. But I was scared of her all the time. She exposed the tight leash I had put around my neck and all the ways I was rejecting myself. She called the true Jenny forward, and I had to decide how to show up authentically. I wasn't good at this. I squirmed and felt insecure and exposed.

One time she invited me to help her make cheese in one of her two kitchens with windows that canvassed her 50 acres on a swimmable creek. There was no way I could show up for that, and I wiggled my way out of it somehow. Decisions like this were fraught with self-doubt. To hang out in a kitchen like that with a talented woman felt impossible. I was 40 years old and not comfortable in my own skin. So much of my formation into adulthood had been spent committed to spiritual matters. I didn't know how to just be me in situations like hanging out with another mom in a beautiful kitchen (that she designed herself, btw.). I spent so much time in my head trying to get close to God. In contrast, an Enemy (my sensitivity, unresolved trauma, lack of skill, and awareness of who I was) tried to take me out.

Even though I don't attend church anymore or believe in the power of something outside myself being in charge, I hear rumblings of a culture that makes more room for individuality. The Enneagram has taken off as a framework, and there seems to be more of an openness to trained therapists. I am thankful. But I had to finally separate myself entirely from spending so much time concentrating on something outside myself. Side note: (you guys, not having to show up on a Sunday morning to anything but a leisurely breakfast is the best!). I needed to know Jenny. Jenny loves flowers and sexy stories and people of ALL walks of life. Jenny wants to laugh and be irreverent, which offended too many. Jenny is a woman who wants to be expressive, and too many men couldn't give me room for that. My desperate need to know myself was what started me out the door.

I Guess I'm Not as Emotional As I Thought

Photo by Ivan Jevtic on Unsplash

It's not a coincidence that writing resistance and some significant family events are happening simultaneously. The question I have is what to do about it.

It's a question I have had for years. How do I write a memoir…the book, on social media, in blog posts…while going through things, too? Even though I'm 52 and a self-reflective person, I still have a lot to learn about what's actually going on inside of me when my emotional life gets wobbly. It takes a lot of attention for me to continue to eat right, for example, and not sabotage what my body needs, so my emotions don't spin out of control more. I need to walk, journal, sleep well, and stare out the window a lot. It takes a lot of time. I don't know what to bring to the public because I'm working to find my center, and my extroverted self ends up taking a back seat.

There's something I find really fascinating that I've learned about myself in the last year. I am not as emotional as I thought. Yes, my emotions over the decades have been loud, intense, even destructive. My feelings have screamed at myself and others to pay attention. But that doesn't mean I know what's actually going on with me. It means my emotions refuse to take a back seat. I have tried to subdue them with religion, alcohol, and giving others more attention than myself. But they refuse to be ignored. It takes a lot more work than I realized to figure out what the hell is actually going on. Lately, I've been telling myself, "Jenny, you have a lot more masculine energy than you thought. You need to lean into the feminine"

When I say masculine and feminine, I mean the archetypes. I came into this world with lady bits, but my natural expression is to plow through life. I threw temper tantrums often as a child. I went into adulthood with visions and plans, and I would do what it takes to see them materialize. I got impatient with people who didn't know the idea that I could see. If they dragged their feet, I got mad. (Hi Todd, I love you.). I want to get things done, tell you about them, and see you do what I know needs to happen. C'mon people, get in line!

This morning I picked up the journal I was writing in 20 years ago. It surprised me to read words about things I struggled with then that are still true today. But I don't think it's because I haven't learned and grown. I think it's because it's all part of what I'm meant to work out in this lifetime.

When I read pages from twenty years ago, I see a woman trying so hard. I was committed to being an incredible mom, wife, and homemaker (oh, and don't forget female church member), plus have a side gig. I believed that if I just made money, I would be respected, equal to my spouse, and (whisper) better than other women. But earning this money had to fit in with mothering, homemaking, and church leadership, three roles I took very seriously. For me, to relax into being "just," anything… didn't happen. I always tried to do more, be more, strive more.

Today, the goals are about my online presence. Post an Instagram story every day and blog every week, Jenny. Build that audience. So many others have done it, and so can you. You need a following, so you have someone to sell the book to. Clubhouse is a wide-open field. It's not crowded like Instagram, nor a dumpster fire like Facebook. This is your chance, Jenny. Go for it!

Notice there's no energy in the above paragraph about actually writing the book.

Once again, I find myself trying to do too much. I mean, how do I hold a day job, take care of my health, nurture my marriage, build an online presence, and write the book? I keep telling myself to just let go of this drive to create something, but I can never shake it.

But in the last several weeks, I had a family member break up with me and passed an anniversary of a trauma. I had to let go of my daughter in a new way and watch her fly away. That's a lot of processing. It's not something I can just put on my goal list and cross off.

Again, the writing resistance is strong. But I'm back here, at least, after 2 and a half weeks instead of waiting one year. One thing that's also true about me is that I pick myself up repeatedly and again. So I'm here, swimming through the deep end and looking for the surface. Instagram stories are a bit sporadic right now, and I'm staying off Clubhouse this week to reassess. Time to leave for the day job. I'll see you soon. ❤️

When Sexual Tension and Christianity Can't Keep Their Hands Off Each Other

Photo by Jacek Dylag on Unsplash

I put my arms on the restaurant table and leaned towards him as we tried to break up for the sixth time. "I don't want to marry you; I just want to have sex with you," I said.

In our 20-something world, we believed that following Jesus meant abstinence from sex before marriage. The majority of our dating took place in groups while he strummed the guitar and led us in singing worship songs. Worship for Christians is intimate and a lot like rock concerts. They can churn emotions like longing, desire, and being transported. There might not be anything sexier in the Christian church than a guitar player singing love songs to Jesus. I was smitten.

He worked the swing shift, and I would wait for him to get off work on Friday nights. At the end of the workweek, all we wanted to do was fall into each other's arms and surrender. Instead, we peeled ourselves away from each other, only sharing a passionate kiss and embrace with all our clothes on. I completely believed that the worst way for me to sin and face God's disapproval was to fall into bed with this man. I would drive home, bury my face in my bedroom carpet, and pray, "Oh, God! Please help me. I am so scared I'm going to disobey you."

I fell in love with him for many reasons besides the guitar. He was tall, had his black belt, and a full mane of brunette hair. He wrote poetry. I loved his laugh and the way he said my name. He seemed to take his religion very seriously, as did I, and most importantly, he wanted me. The sexual tension was thick and marriage felt like our only option.

But I was too young, and he was too old. Already divorced and a father, we had a 8 and a half years difference in age. My mother sat me down during this time in my life and said, "There's no happy ending here, Jenny." She was right, of course. But I wanted love to conquer all. Together he and I would read books like "Passion and Purity" and "No Compromise" about Christians who had stories of trusting God despite their past and being greatly rewarded. We wanted that to be our story, too. It was heady, passionate, and consuming. We looked for any loophole to figure out how to bridge the age and life experience gap, but it was too vast. I transferred to a college in a different town, and within a year, he had married someone else. I didn't see or talk to him again for almost twenty years. When I finally did, it was because of Facebook.

I sometimes wonder if people understand or remember how it went in 2009 to easily find and connect with people we had lost track of twenty-some-odd years ago. I am sentimental. I save photographs, letters, and mementos, remembering and treasuring friendships from most of the seasons of my life. As someone who found high school and college a time of drama and connection, I was thrilled to rediscover old friends. My former abstinence partner was one of them.

It was not easy to navigate the sexual politics of reconnecting with friends, including exes, when we all got onto Facebook back then. Many of us were married, including me. Some people signed up as couples, using both first names, to try and protect themselves. I don't remember an extensive discussion with my life partner. He still doesn't care much about social media while I dived in and stayed in the deep end. Some might chastise me for my lack of caution, but in my relationship, he understands my need to play big and express myself widely even more than I do. My husband would rather I live that way than play it safe because I bring that happiness, ultimately, at the end of the day to him. I am pretty sure this is how we thought about things when I began to reconnect with people from my past.

My ex and I started by exchanging a message or two. I learned he was a grandfather. He had earned his Master's in Family Therapy and opened his own practice. He was still married and attended the same church he and I were a part of twenty years earlier. It didn't take long for him to propose a phone call. “My life has changed so much since then," he told me. "I think we would understand that better if we talked. Wanna share a phone call?"

Call me naive, but I had no thought or desire to pass up the opportunity for connection. I drove to a parking lot by one of my favorite hiking trails and dialed the number. "Wow!" he said. "Now that I hear your voice…" he trailed off. I waited. Listened. I don't remember a lot of the content of our conversation. But it did turn to the past. He told me which song made him always think of me. "You'll always have a piece of my heart," he said. "My wife would not understand that. I still love you, you know." I cried and said, "I love you, too," and we hung up. I drove away and had to pull over to call my girlfriend and weep.

It's debatable, I suppose, whether there should have been any contact. I know now, ten years later, that reconnecting with B reminded me of a part of my life that had been intoxicating and that did become unsettling. It's ironic to me. So much of religion's mores tries to address and contain our sexuality. And yet, sexual tension coupled with religious fervor can be one of the most potent cocktails there is. How many young Christians race to the altar just so they can have sex with each other on the other side? He was NOT the right person for me to marry. I can't imagine life with him instead of the one I chose, who I still love twenty-seven years later and don't want to live without.

My reconnection with that particular ex did not end well. This story needs a part two. I am still hoping for a part three. But I’m not sure if I could, I would handle those early social media days differently. The reconnection with another ex was full of comfort and forgiveness. I feel like the church’s history is littered with sexual tragedies. I don’t think we’ve handled it well. From Henry VIII wanting a divorce to the countless stories of the pastor running off with the choir director, I question whether any religion really guides us on how to navigate one of the most active parts of our humanity. As I look back over my forty-five years in church, how it intersected my sexuality is a huge part of the story. I know I am not alone. I believe these are some of the stories that most need to be released (told, spoken, let go of).

P.S. I want to take a moment to honor my LGBTQ friends. I am sorry that you have had to wrestle with your essence while hearing that it is flawed, a sin, or hopeless. Though I am cis, I know enough stories and what it’s like to walk through life with a longing that feels dangerous and undeniable. I don’t believe it has to be this way. Your story and humanity needs to be released, too.

Why Church Attendance Didn't Take Care of My Fear

Photo by Alexandra Gorn on Unsplash

My biggest fear when I finally decided I was no longer going to be a part of any church was that my children would suffer. I was afraid that by admitting a religious framework wasn't working for me anymore, I was relinquishing my role as my children's main spiritual influence, and this would result in them turning into heathens. What are heathens? In my mind, they were people who lived for themselves over God and others, choosing their own beliefs and levels of morality. In many ways, that's exactly what happened. Now, seven years later, most days, I can tell myself that's not a bad thing. I'm so proud of all three of my kids. I raised them aware of their uniqueness and nurtured their individuality. I told them I wanted to teach them not what to think but how to think. All three of them work hard in their own way and are committed to being true to themselves. I admire this. I wish I had been more like them at their age. But don't get me wrong. It would feel much safer if all of us were still in the church culture. Ignorance is bliss. And maybe I wouldn't miss them so much. 

I believed that if I were Growing Kids God's Way and committed to Focus on the Family, my family would never leave. But that's not what happened.

Today I watched a long-time friend's daughter get married. I tuned into the LiveStream and celebrated my friend getting to be the bride's mother. I know she gave great attention to all the details of the wedding that took place in her backyard. I was so happy for her and wanted to be a part of it, even remotely.

But I also felt the emotions start to shake me as I took just a moment to contemplate my own family. Her daughter's wedding was a Christian wedding. They took communion together and were prayed over by a male pastor. I don't expect this to be what any of my children's weddings look like. At this point, none of them are committed to traditional Christianity. There are no guarantees for me as a mom of what our future family will look like now that the safety of being part of the Christian church is gone. And I know some people believe I have no one to blame but myself for this.

Two people have broken up with me since I started writing again. Actually, these are the only two that have let me know; maybe there are others. I was so careful about how I might offend one of them, but I offended her anyway. The other texted me numerous times, calling my writing toxic and an indulgence in negativity. She doesn't know me anymore, but what I represented to her has shattered. She doesn't want to know this Jenny because it is so outside the norms of what Christians are supposed to do and think. I guess I'm touching nerves, even though I am not writing to incite, tear down, or antagonize. Leaving the safety of group think and culture has consequences. This has just been one of them.

It took me five years between when I began to realize the church was not working for me anymore and when I finally stopped trying. I stayed most of that time for the kids. I thought they still needed some kind of religious observance around Christian holidays. They still wanted to go to youth group events to be with their friends, and sometimes there were things parents were a part of, so of course, I attended. But most of all, I knew that when I stopped steering our Religious Ship, we would have a vacuum, and I was scared of what that would mean. 

And here's the thing. It did mean some of the things the people inside the church warned me about. I struggled as a mom of a teenage daughter. I couldn't hold on to her, and I was scared. My marriage felt shaky, and there was no weekend retreat to attend. I was not secure. The external measurements of acceptance and belonging were gone. Friendships fell away, and I felt more and more alone. As a mother, I was blamed a lot. It was messy and scary and even a little bit dangerous. To write what actually happened between when I finally threw in the towel, and my youngest moved out for good still feels too hard. I think it's because I still don't have the happy ending I keep waiting for. That's another problem with religion. It can be formulaic. There's no formula now for what my family is supposed to look like. All I can do is stay committed to my healthiness and love them well, which for now means giving them lots and lots of space.

All three of my adult children live their lives without checking in very often. I have to choose again and again to not communicate something that says, "I need you to take care of my emotional needs." I have to sit with missing them and the fear that sweeps over me when I realize their identity is far removed from being my son or daughter. Sometimes I still think, "If only we still went to church, this wouldn't have happened." But then I ask myself, "Wait, Jenny. Is that really true?" The answer is no. There are no guarantees inside or outside the church. I don't think if I had stayed and still attended church regularly, I would be closer to them. At least this way, I am facing my fears instead of trying to ignore them.

When my first son was born, I had my girlfriend call my mother-in-law to tell her he was here. I deeply regret that now. If my daughter-in-law's friend, who I didn't know, called me to tell me my first grandchild was here instead of hearing it from my son or his partner, I would be crushed. But even though I was in the church, I wasn't healthy enough to know how to sit in the intimacy and vulnerability that happens when a child is born. My mother-in-law was kept at an arm's distance from being a part of the miracle that had just happened. I see now that even though I was in the church, I didn't know how to do certain things because I was emotionally unhealthy. This is only one of the countless examples. 

I now think that families inside or outside the church are only healthy when they know how to do the hard work of internal healing. I believe this can't happen if we're ignoring our complicated humanity in favor of religious allegiance, and unfortunately, a lot of church culture encourages the latter. Internal healing takes a long time. It doesn't happen at a weekend seminar or in a soaking service. Some of those I love are doing the hard work of self-awareness, letting go of ego, and facing their shadow side. Some of them are doing it within the church culture, but many more of us can't. I am one of them. 

I was in church for a lot of years to find healing. But it was elusive. I think it's because I couldn't do both. I was too busy trying to put on a spirituality that would protect me from fear and sadness instead of spending a LOT of time learning what that fear and sadness was all about. One of those fears I have to face is not knowing what our future as a family will look like. I can never take for granted that we are one big happy Christian family, a family, my therapist reminds me, doesn't exist. I believe that church attendance can’t fix that.

I Let Spirituality Upstage Common Sense

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The five of us sat around the conference table. I knew I belonged there and was glad to have been invited. I was young to be a part of a church board, but there weren't many of us to choose from in a church with under 100 members. I wanted to be there. I wanted to help steer the ship. I thought by being a part of the decision-making process, I could overcome our captain's incompetence or help improve it. My pastor during my 20s had fervor. He was 10 years older than me and had come to my college town from a large church in the Santa Cruz, CA area to grow and pastor his own church. He felt "called." He was committed and wanted to succeed. He was trying to help us pioneer a church in a city CNNMoney named the second most educated city in the United States without his own college degree. He'd only been to Bible college and 35% of our town’s residents had graduate degrees. But we trusted God had chosen him because he didn’t care about the intellect over spirituality. Many Christians believe God uses the weak to confound the strong. It didn't work. Our numbers never grew, our impact was minor, and our committed attendees were exhausted trying to implement our spiritual ideals and his crazy schemes.

“But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”

— I Corinthians 1:27

When I worked as the church secretary, he once called me with enthusiasm. "Jenny! Let's start offering warm homemade bread and wine to our visitors on Sunday mornings!" At twenty-seven years old, I froze. I thought I needed not tell him no. That this was a crazy idea. My mind started to whirl. I didn't know how to make bread and how would I know how much to make even if I did and why would we give out wine when none of us drank it and, and, and? But our church culture did not tell him or his wife, "No." He and his wife were our leaders, and they knew best. We felt if we questioned them, we questioned God, and God had not chosen us but them. Looking back, I think his wife perpetuated this practice more than him. I was being gaslit over and over again but didn't realize it. When I brought concerns to her, I doubted myself and allowed her to manipulate the situation so that I always left thinking it was my problem.

In our church, we dedicated children to God instead of baptizing them. Baptism was when they wanted to make a public statement of their desire to live life like Jesus, and they can't do that until they're older. The dedication was for the parents, a public statement of our commitment to teaching them about Jesus so they, too, would grow up to be part of his church.

My husband and I picked a date to dedicate our firstborn son. We chose a Sunday and invited 17 people. They all came! When only 50 or so people attend a church service, 17 extra is noticeable. I was very invested in what kind of experience they would have. When I learned a few weeks beforehand that our pastor and his wife would be attending a church camp the entire week leading up to the dedication, my heart sank.

Our pastor was a terrible preacher. He did not stay on topic and tried to follow "the Spirit's leading." Often he rambled on without any sense of how much time was going by. I don't know why my friends and I put up with this week after week, year after year. However, the worst Sundays were the weeks he had something that would distract him from taking time to prepare. I knew the Sunday of our dedication would be a train wreck. And it was.

My mother-in-law's husband walked out. He was a faithful and attentive grandfather who came from another town to many of our events. But his patience wore out. My anxiety also kept me from being able to sit still. We met in the lobby. "I just can't take it anymore," he said. "I understand," I told him. But I went back inside while he went outside and enjoyed the sunny June day.

I was so anxious because it was the first time my neighbors had come to church. My husband and I loved this young couple and considered them our best prospects for conversion. I am saddened now to think that was my goal with them. I thought getting them to church was key to their conversion, and the dedication of my son was the perfect opportunity to get them through the doors. But they sat in the back row with WTF written all over their faces. I like to think they were thinking, "Why are Todd and Jenny involved in this?"

My pastor's wife called me the next day. I sat on the floral couch my mother-in-law had recovered for us as a wedding present while my six-month-old napped in the other room and took the call. I was still reeling from what happened the day before, and I was nervous to talk with her about it. I didn't trust that it was okay that I was so mad. She knew I was upset and was on the offense.

"Jenny, God used (my pastor's name here)! I know the sermon affected your guests in a good way. They saw something unique and different at our church. Why are you so upset? I think there is another way to look at this." I was angry, and I didn't believe her. But I was also tongue-tied. It has often happened to me when I need to stand up against an authority figure in my life. Who was I to care more about honoring my friends’ and family's time over what God wanted to do through my pastor?

So when I began to sit on our board, I hoped to make an impact. I hoped to bring guidance to the vision we all kept trying to implement. We wanted to grow. We wanted to be the go-to Pentecostal church in our city. We wanted to see overt displays of what the Bible lists as evidence of God's presence.

“In the last days, God says,
I will pour out my Spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.”

— Joel 2:28

I lasted in that church 10 years, but my husband and I were the first couples in leadership to take our fingers out of the dam. It was only months before all our work disintegrated, and the church rolled up its welcome mat and closed its doors for good.

For twenty-five years, I participated in events where I wanted God's presence to upstage common sense. It rarely happened. Yet, over and over, I watched my friends believe what was happening came from God nonetheless. One time a friend of mine gathered several moms and our homeschooled children when a friend of hers came to town. A woman missing several front teeth, her friend visited psychic fairs to introduce the spiritually-minded to the HOLY Spirit. My friend trusted God had given this woman a unique ability to see and read others. Our group gave her free rein to represent God to us. After about 15 minutes of us sitting at her feet and hoping she had a special message from God just for us, she began to describe what each of our angels looked like. I watched as the children began to clamor for a description of their angel. The moms let this guest describe angel after angel to our grammar school children as I found the discussion become more and more ridiculous. If the God we structured our lives around 24/7 who has been worshipped for millennial was going to only show up as a toothless woman randomly describing children's guardian angels, I was disappointed. But who was I to judge God using people I didn't trust? How shallow of me to notice this woman's appearance and care that she was uneducated. God had chosen her to speak for him and not me. I was complicit in events and activities I did not think were right over and over again.

I am still learning why I rarely spoke up, and when I did, I felt like I was the wrong one. I don’t have a good answer. I have removed myself from these situations and will not return. I can’t be friends with those that still participate. I don’t think any ideology should set aside common sense. I read a lot of people smarter than me so I’m always learning. But most importantly, I listen to my inner voice of reason and discernment and try to always act on what I know to be true. Writing here, for example, is how I practice giving words to this voice and communicating it well to others.

P.S. I am currently listening to a podcast called "Heaven Bent." If you want more understanding of Pentecostalism and its theology, it covers the Toronto Blessing and Bethel's School of Supernatural Ministry in Redding, CA. If you want examples of why they often leave common sense at the door and how many can justify not wearing masks, for example, and continuing to gather in large groups, this podcast gives some insight.

How I Get Out of My Pajamas

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I stared out the window for several minutes before I knew how to start. I needed to get the thoughts out of me and onto the paper. But the blank page taunted me that if I wrote down and wrestled through the thoughts and emotions I was trying to hold inside, I would have to feel what I didn’t want to feel.

I was able to start when I realized I needed to write down some affirmations.

Here’s the thing about affirmations. I’m not a big fan of trying to push our shadow selves away. Sometimes we have to clean out the ick before we can make room for the beauty. But now I know that I need to affirm myself, too, because it trains my brain in a way my 45 years in religion didn’t. Before, I looked outside myself for the affirmation. I looked for it in the Scriptures and from other Christians. Often, I didn’t find it. Before you @me that the Bible is full of affirmation, (read the Psalms!) may I also say, it is full of condemnation. For someone like me, who believed she fell short of God’s standards all the time, reading verses like, “But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people,” (Psalm 22:6) added to my despair. The entire Psalm is full of self-degradation and the writer’s goal is to find hope in something outside of himself. I needed to know I was fine, accepted, and full of light, no matter what.

Also, I need affirmations to feel personal. I know we don’t always believe affirmations at first, but I at least need one that doesn’t feel so generic. “I am loved” doesn’t do it for me. “I am enthusiastic and freedom-loving” does. THAT kind of affirmation helps me want to get out of my pajamas.

So after I stopped staring out the window, I started to get rid of some of the ick. I cleaned out my interior closet first. I put the following in a trash bag.

“I hate my body today.”

“I’m so angry about the havoc COVID-19 has had on our culture. How will we ever recover?”

“The tremors of self-doubt because of their criticism want to take me out.”

And then I began.

“I am outgoing and expressive.” (Translation: I am capable of making friends. I am not alone. Self-doubt will not win.)

“I am intelligent, communicative, and light-hearted.” (Translation: I don’t overeat when I’m light-hearted.)

“I am wise, expansive, and adventurous.” (Translation: Covid-19 despair will not win. I will find a way through.)

Here are some affirmations that might ring true for you:

“I am resourceful, productive, and stable.
I am witty, curious, and clever.
I give and receive emotional warmth and security.
I creatively express myself and am appreciated.
I am analytical, discriminate, and capable.
I create beauty, balance, and harmony.
I transform and heal.
I am organized, patient, and successful.
I am innovative and original.
I am imaginative, idealistic, and compassionate.”

NOW I could write the unsent letter, even though I knew the tears might fall. NOW I could explore the deeper meaning behind that dream and see if my subconscious wanted to show me something. NOW I could begin to let go.

Friends, The Body Keeps the Score. The last few weeks have left me feeling like I’ve had the flu. I’ve been triggered. My body recognizes the trauma that has lived in my cells almost all my life and is screaming, “MAYDAY”. I had to fight for my mental health this week, and even with a tremendous amount of self-care, I am in a fibromyalgia flare-up. Everything hurts. But in the past, I just pushed through, did all the things anyway, and snuck some vodka shots on the side. All that did was postpone the pain, and everything that I was pushing under the rug got bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. Eventually, we can no longer hide our shit. Now, I listen to my body more than ever. My body is currently telling me I’ve been retraumatized. I need time to recover. The more I put it off, the worse it will get.

I know I need to ask the hard questions. “How do I better protect myself from this happening again?” “What is the lesson I still haven’t learned?” “What other support do I need?”

But until I can tackle some of these deeper questions on the page…

“I am innovative, inspiring, and courageous.”

What affirmation do you need to own today? Feel free to comment here, on Facebook, or in my Instagram DMs. Which of the above affirmations feels the most personal to you?

When the Earth Starts to Move Under Our Feet

The book was trying to burn a hole in my purse. I worried everyone would find out I was reading it. My three children and I attended a co-op for homeschoolers every Wednesday morning at a church. Overworked moms showed up to give themselves and their children time each week to gather with others. We were on a similar education and family life path that didn’t trust, believe in, or conform to classroom school. We were Christians. We prayed together as a large group. We taught creationism, Bible, and character. We taught cooking, chess, and public speaking, too, on those Wednesday mornings. But primarily, we all believed God cared intimately how we lived out our faith in him moment by moment, as in how we raised our children. Keeping them out of public school meant we had much more time with and control over them.

Photo by Fred Kearney on Unsplash

There were many beliefs we never questioned, like the gender of God, which was definitely male. The book I was reading told the story of a woman who left the evangelical church mainly because of the way maleness was elevated over femaleness. She was one of my favorite fiction writers, and as a lover of memoir, I picked up her nonfiction as well. Her ideas were dangerous, but she told me stories I could relate to. By the end of the book, she experimented with a female-centric spiritual practice, something I definitely could not relate to. She participated in moon circles and wrote of goddesses. My culture elevated men like our husbands, sons, and pastors. After all, if God is male, he appoints other men to lead and guide the rest of us. The women socialized with each other once a month at a “Mom’s Night Out.” But we didn’t honor the moon cycles or celebrate the female divine. We celebrated classic femininity expressed in things like our hospitality talents and weight loss.

My marriage's traditional roles with my husband as my spiritual leader and me as the submissive wife did not work in our home. An astrologer once called my marriage karmic (astrology is an example of something I explore because, like moon circles, it has formerly been taboo. But, why is it taboo? These are the kinds of questions I now ask.). My husband didn’t need me to look to him as the head of our household. He wanted a partnership. I am thankful I married someone who wasn’t interested in traditional Christian leadership. Of the two of us, I was the one who was comfortable in the spotlight and held strong opinions. I think I was meant to partner with a kind and gentle man happy to make room for my expressive personality.

In October 2005, Pakistan suffered a terrible earthquake, killing eighty thousand people. Four million of the population lost their homes, and winter was coming fast. We knew a missionary who worked primarily with Muslims, thankfully by serving them instead of proselytizing. They rallied quickly to erect structures that would help the Pakistanis get through the winter. They needed volunteers to help, and we decided Todd should go. We began to fundraise for his plane ticket and expenses. We shared our hearts and story with our homeschool co-op community and asked for financial support.

Todd came to our Wednesday morning gathering a few weeks before he needed to leave. We arrived separately, and I was running late. When I got there, Todd was in the middle of sharing his desire to help. I immediately went and stood by his side, knowing he didn’t want to be up there by himself in front of 120 people.

Later, a friend pulled me aside. “It was just like the Sound of Music!” she said. “Like when he’s singing Edelweiss in front of the Nazis, and Julie Andrews comes and stands by his side.” My friend was deeply touched, and I felt proud to show my love and support publicly. But I was skeptical, too. Our culture elevated specific stories; we read, watched, and taught them to our children. Like “Little House on the Prairie” and “Anne of Green Gables,” we loved “The Sound of Music.” However, the book in my purse was not known, and if it had been, it would have been disdained. I was exploring outside our accepted and mutual boundaries because my heart had been drawn into the story of a woman who left her church community. I had moved into dangerous territory as anyone does who begins to question her culture’s and family’s norm. The story of a woman being true to herself stirred up my deep need for independence. Still, I knew it would mean moving away from the safety of unquestioned expectations and behaviors. I, too, was going to need a temporary shelter. The winter of leaving my culture as I’d known it was on its way, and I needed the stories of others that had gone before me. I couldn’t tell my community. This book was beginning to show me what life could be like apart from our narrow definition of how it should be. The deconstruction of my faith as expressed in the American evangelical church had begun, and I could feel the beginning of the earth moving under my feet.

When the tremors of our true identity start to come to the surface, it can be very scary. I have had the privilege to witness those I love speaking their truth for the first time. It is sacred ground and I treat it with honor and kindness. I also have had friends able to help me speak and see my truth for the very first time. What I’ve learned over the years, though, is that only I can honor my true identity and treat it with kindness day in and day out. I have exchanged this for looking outside myself for spiritual guidance, as in the Bible, church, and men because it is the only healthy way I can move through this life.

“Whatever else you do, listen to your Deepest Self. Love Her and be true to Her, speak Her truth, always.”

— Sue Monk Kidd, The Dance of the Dissident Daughter