The Secret Life of Grief

*Please remember that articles at Quivering Daughters are written primarily to adult women struggling with a fundamentalist or patriocentric upbringing. Bear in mind that some content might be triggering for parents or siblings to read. As a writer in keeping with my audience, it is not to "paint with a broad brush" or "condemn" those who believe differently but to address the concerns of those to whom I write. Thank you for understanding.*

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by Hillary McFarland

t's cold here, this January. Even the sun chills earth and bone. A squash bakes in the oven and I stare at my screen wanting desperately to tell you that grief ends someday ~ in this life, I mean.

But I can't.

The truth is, grief ends some days.

Other days, it tears through heart-skin kept tender and transparent by hope and faith and love. And then we lash out at faith and hope and love, because ultimately, these are the faces that keep pain alive.

Pain indicates that something is not as it should be. We flinch at the sight of blood. We learn to bandage soul-wounds so tightly that bleeding stops, and we think the tougher the skin, the stronger we are. Sometimes we must be strong to survive those midnight moments when relief seems light-years away. But what if, in a frantic quest to end our grieving, we miss the secret treasures which can only be learned through grief?

A new book by author Kierstyn King illustrates the surprising life of grief experienced by those who become unwelcome in their families because they aren't good enough, godly enough, or ideal enough. For asking too many questions or the wrong kinds of questions; for understanding and believing differently. There aren't many things more agonizing than feeling unwanted, or wanted only-on-condition. 

Rejection hurts. It's an action that says, I don't want you in my life if you [behave, believe, think] like that. Instead of rejecting the belief, there is a rejection of the person behind the belief. This subtle distinction spells death, and with death comes a type of weeping and gnashing of teeth that many I know experience every day.

What do you do with that kind of pain?

Love Song, III—Death

 . . . continued from Love Song, II
God, why did I have to be born? I just want to die . . . 

A deeply Christian, teenage girl who wants to die is not a simple soul to explain. As a little girl, I was relatively "good" in the sense that I yearned to please and could not bear to be in the wrong, to be guilty. My sensitive nature sent me to tell my parents when I needed a spanking. As a young woman, I was not "rebellious" as many define typical teenage angst; I struggled with things like being patient and sweet to my younger siblings, trying to say and do all the right things, and with severe depression because no matter what, I felt as though I never measured up to what my parents wanted—I was too artistic, too dreamy, too worldly in their eyes. But, “I don’t know why you are so depressed," they said. "You shouldn’t feel that way. You are just reacting from the flesh.” 

The flesh, which we were to crucify with all its desires. The flesh, which made it impossible to please God.  The flesh, the old man which needed to die.

I blamed only myself for not meeting the implied ideal, and cursed the stupid "flesh" which haunted every moment of  living. I was the one who "had different values", who was "going a different direction". I felt like a failure, a disappointment as I set a "bad example" for those who looked up to me in all things. My years became an endless cycle of trying, failing, religious effort, and trying again. I grew weary while life dimmed.

Dreamy and emotional, my artistic little girl soul craved life—but even more so, the assurance of love.

I’m trying to think of something I can do to make dad love me for reasons other than the fact that I’m just his daughter. There is nothing about me, other than me being his child, that he would love me more than say, if Jane Doe was his daughter. It’d be the same. I wish I could make him proud of me, something other than being his daughter. What I’m saying probably doesn’t make sense. I can’t describe it. But there’s nothing extraordinary or uniquely lovable about me, his daughter, that anyone else wouldn’t get just the same if I was non-existent, and someone else was his 1st daughter.


But lately I’ve caused too much stress. Like the mistake I made the other day . . . that was the pits, and dad admitted that he was disappointed in me and I should know better than that. I am so immature, I stink. I want to do better. I pray and pray but I don’t change. It’s frustrating. I better change the subject before I start to cry. I’m so fat. I’m so immature. There’s nothing outstanding about me. I’m so ugly inside. At least God loves me. And I know mom and dad do, it’s just that other than the fact I’m their daughter, I haven’t given them any reason to love me. I’m trying to think of something.

Love Song, II—Shadows

 . . . continued from Love Song, I
"We ought to obey God, rather than men. Even when He hands us the crucifix and bids us Come. 
And so we come, and die."

People always asked me if I wanted a large family. “You gonna have ten kids too?” A relevant question—falling on shadowed heart. “Well, probably not ten . . . ” I let trail off with a smile. I used to say I'd done everything a mother has, except give birth. While I’m sure that’s not the case, living in close quarters with several younger siblings afforded me much practice for mothering. I tried not to complain, but it left me exhausted. At sixteen, I wrote in my journal:

I hate myself. I am a jerk. Mom acts as though I hate the kids. I am such a rotten person. Mom told me how I have lost all my patience with the kids, that I am not patient anymore. I try so hard. What will it take? I try and pray and instead of improving, get told I have gotten worse! I’m so discouraged. I hate being impatient with them. I know I am sometimes. But it must be all the time, because mom says what she said. I’ll never become better. It’s so frustrating and it hurts. I wish I was so gentle and sweet and mom never had a reason to say anything like that. I hope God can use me. Use me, this clump of imperfection! This mess of impatience! This blob of sin!

As a perfectionist first born, my perceived failures as a sister and daughter, as “Happy Helping Hillary” fueled intense depression. Name-calling was not allowed, of course, yet subtle labels stung worse than petty words. Bossy. Impatient. Frivolous. Worldly. Dreamy. Impractical. All were bad. “You aren’t good enough,” messages sneered. The harder I tried to measure up, the louder they shrilled.

Sanctuary

We lived in a land far away, my sisters, brothers and I. At least it seemed so; surrounded by acres of field and wood, we scoured every inch of ground and knew every rut forged by deer. In spring, we exulted upon the Bridal Path—a dark, verdant knoll plush with ferns waist-high, fringed by Dogwoods dripping white blossoms. In summer our feet sank into gripping sands of the Sunny Meadow, which we raced across to pet horses who eyeballed us from neighbor’s pasture.

When we discovered a steep, long hill perfect for flying down on bikes, we rose at dawn and fought dewy webs of spiders who wove all through the night a mystical corridor, which caught our faces as we rode through. And after we dashed back to the frantic calls of parents who woke to find us vanished, the spiders sighed and shook their heads in despair, rolled up their sleeves, and set to work again.

Years and years we dwelt there, a sanctuary with shadows.

I knew where to go, when shadows lengthened, and darkness ached. You could always find me within the pine. Warm, fragrant silence emanated from serene timbers which anchored our land. We swayed in unison with summer, these trees and I, sharing a common bond, with our heads in the clouds. Lush branches with flowing green tresses hid me lovingly, inviting me to stay for long, lazy moments and dream, unrestrained. Home to a billion cicadas and the mournful cry of the whippoorwill, they regally presided while my child-fingers scrawled thousands of pages in my little books. They asked no questions, kept all secrets glimpsed over my shoulder.

I turned and returned to that safe place; I lay on soft, velvety needles while catching twinkles of sapphire sky. It winked at me and gently teased, spurring jealousy—for that great blue expanse did not know her fortune, to live next to God.

On this day, wind blew softly, warmly. My elbows bore tell-tale crisscross from leaning on the ground when I rolled to my stomach and picked up my journal. My eyes drifted “up there” while I scribbled. God, why did I have to be born? I just want to die . . .

 . . . to be continued.

Love Song, I — Calling

Iam the oldest of eleven children. Ten siblings ~ all of whom I love with every breath, every prayer, every passing day.

Boxes stuffed with letters line closet shelves; photos surround me when arms cannot. They are so precious, these little souls, cast from Emmanuel's image and walking, living, running along the crust of earth. But all the little heads outgrow kisses I've planted. Time snatches youth and etches years into face. Hearts shift, thoughts change.

"Why are you doing this?" asks fear. Anger. Uncertainty. They lash out, indignant, afraid.

The most painful place of all lifts broken eyes to hills. There is only one answer, really. "Because He said."

Because He said.

This holy tragedy 

"When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die." 

In his book "The Cost of Discipleship", so writes one of my favorite martyrs, Dietrich Bonhoeffer. A preacher and theologian executed  for resistance against National Socialism, his prison writings and books linger still, preaching grace and the calling of God ~ a calling which consumes all, a great, refining, jealous fire.

It is the calling of the cross. 

How do I respond? I wring my hands with tears. Obedience hurts. It breaks hearts; it divides. It endures accusation, misunderstanding, exile. Sometimes it kills. It willingly bears torture in faith that better things will come. Obedience requires us to wait in the pain and darkness, to weep and ache with the unknown while feet tread the faithful, steady path carved for us on Golgotha.

"Follow Me."

We ought to obey God, rather than men. Even when He hands us the crucifix and bids us Come. 

And so we come, and die.

to be continued . . .

Biblical Womanhood

What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice and all things nice . . .

That’s what little girls are made of.

The sculptor rejoiced. This new world lilted and undulated before him, raw and shimmering with newness, innocent and fresh, full of hope and promise. "Good, all is good!" he proclaimed, each moment unfolding before him in living color. He loved the way edges of light interlaced with darkness; he smiled as dolphins flung themselves from the deep and launched towards heaven. And with particular tenderness, he watched the man he'd formed from earth make his way throughout the garden, calling all creatures to himself. "He looks like me," he mused, and sighed with the fullness of life.

Life is good.

The artist surveyed the work of his heart, the outpouring of his spirit. "One thing more and it will be perfect," he promised, and with heady anticipation caused the creature who looked like him to rest. "Just you wait and see what I have for you . . ."  he sang with joy. With intricate precision and tender love, his hands set to work.

She shall be called Woman . . .

Eve: the only work of art, in the genesis of life, sculpted from a living being.

Life, from life.

And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall on Adam, and he slept; and He took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place. Then the rib which the LORD God had taken from man 

He made into a woman, and He brought her to the man. Gen. 2:21, 22

The pinnacle of creation

Is this not a ravishing thought? The God of heaven and earth spoke light into existence; He caused hemispheres to find their place. He formed man and beast from dust, yet woman was tenderly contoured out of living flesh—life from life—by the very fingertips of God.

Although Old Mother Goose thought she had the recipe for maidenhood, the Creator of Eve knew best. Heart, body, mind, and soul . . . sculpted in the image of He who is Eternal . . . that is what little girls are made of.

To thoroughly comprehend the devastating effects of patriocentricity and abuse—spiritual, emotional, and otherwise—on women, we must first develop a deep understanding of who we are and who God is. It is only then will we discover His heart for the crown of His creation.

Imagine the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. Is she a mother? Or a bride, with veils of gossamer spilling down her back? Or an angel, wrapped in light? Is she soft and enchanting? Or fierce and strong, like a warrior? Do her lips smile sweetly and whisper words of loving-kindness? Do her eyes swim with the depth of tenderness? Are her hands gentle? Do her arms embrace with comfort and nourishment?

I try to imagine the woman of Eden. What did the mother of all humanity look like? The most beautiful and intricate of God's creations, woman is also a complex, powerful entity who baffles mankind and can change the face of history. (See this link for a few more examples.) For many under patriocentric teachings, the identity of womanhood is conflicted and convoluted—even in some cases, reduced to lucrative exploitation. I believe that God’s spirit is grieved by this, for it denies His heart and makes shallow the depth and strength of this glorious reflection of His nature.

The Essence of Womanhood

So God created man in His own image; in the image of God He created him; 

male and female He created them.Genesis 1:27

To stifle, belittle, and dismiss any aspect of womanhood gravely limits and misrepresents our Creator. He has chosen, in a manner which I believe is very deliberate, to reveal precious elements of Himself, through us—for as women, we have the ability to reflect Him in beautiful, unique ways. In this article I will explore three facets of femininity which unveil the pristine glory of God.

•    Givers of life
The very heart of the gospel draws upon distinctions that are inherent to the most raw, vulnerable, and intimate aspects of womanhood . . . birth. Jesus illustrated this when He said, “Most assuredly, I say to you, unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” (John 3:3) What an honor, time and time again, to represent salvation through feminine language! For those who have not yet experienced, or cannot experience the unparalleled glory of motherhood, let the words of Ann Voskamp fill your spirit with a perspective to refresh and renew your sense of purpose. In her blog A Holy Experience, she writes:

We never cease to be with child. Those of us who have birthed, and those of us who never have. We may make spaces within us for all of humanity, for their dreams, their stories, their hurts, their lives. Do we not, over the years, line our lives with the stretch marks of love? The privilege of carrying a soul is always ours. We may choose to never let our wombs languish empty. Always we may open and welcome another person to find nourishment and comfort within the empty places we have made just for them.—Ann Voskamp

With each soul reborn, each spirit comforted, and each mortal nourished, the mother-heart of God is revealed.  Venerate and rejoice! For what a lovely avocation to be bestowed: the art of giving and sustaining life!

•    Flesh
Mystery. Succulence. Harmony. Perception. Sensuality. Our very embodiment as a womanly being gives tribute to the wisdom of God when we observe the natural order He has placed within our flesh. How often do we hear, “It’s just your hormones!” Or, “You must be ready to start your period!” Such disparaging remarks severely abuse the handiwork of God, for not only do they attack and diminish the exquisite mystery which courses through our frame, but they also discount the supreme intelligence of the One who authored our existence.

Those raised in nature or familiar with the elements can attest that a woman’s cycle often naturally follows the lunar phase of the moon. Some say that childbirth also bears witness to this phenomenon. Consider what an exquisite correlation to have! Reverenced for years in poetry and song, the silent, ethereal presence of the moon affects both the pull of the ocean tides and the feminine portal of life. With naught a word, she reduces mankind to hushed whispers and lights imagination with still, serene beauty. Like a pearl, she radiates—her luminous orb rising and falling with faithful precision. Ruminate upon the forethought of God and His kindness, for certainly he knew the consummate rapture the moon would invoke among those of a womanly nature. To thus acquaint the two so intimately is tender indeed.

"No more shall every man teach his neighbor, and every man his brother, saying, ‘Know the LORD,’ for they all shall know Me, from the least of them to the greatest of them, says the LORD. For I will forgive their iniquity, and their sin I will remember no more.” Thus says the LORD, Who gives the sun for a light by day, the ordinances of the moon, and the stars for a light by night…” (Jeremiah 31)
Praise Him, sun and moon; Praise Him, all you stars of light! (Ps 148:3)
The heavens declare His righteousness, and all the peoples see His glory. (Ps 97:6)

The image of God is hereby reflected within intimate details inherent to your femininity. Curse them no longer, and do not let others do so. You've been chosen to portray an exclusive facet of God, which cannot be fully known by others. Learn to embrace the voluptuous realm of your womanliness and let the heart of God be revealed through you.

•    Expression

The LORD your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing. (Zeph. 3:17)

Although this is not limited to women, emotional expression is a deeply reflective attribute of God. How many times do you endure verbal lashes? “Just get over it!” “Stop your crying!” “You shouldn’t be so upset!” “Don’t be so sensitive!” Sadly, these words smother the heart of those who feel and who express the depths of soul. Many authoritarian families spend much effort downplaying and belittling emotion. Using Biblical texts such as “A fool vents all his feelings” (Proverbs 29), the act of expression is often treated as sin. Many women are taught that emotions are like chaff, which must be beaten and discarded—ungodly by-products of worldly desire and life in the flesh. Subtle messages communicate that emotions don’t matter, that feelings are foolishness to be gotten over, to rise above.

Dear sister, this is not truth. When we consider that feelings are a gift from God, placed within a woman made in His image, what does that imply? If your upbringing has both discredited and condemned you for expressing feeling and emotion, bring those hurts and lies to the feet of God for healing. God felt no shame in articulating the feelings that emanated from his heart. Contemplate a brilliant sunset—myriad colors of vibrancy, flung across the face of the heavens with the rapture of a painter. Or music, when melodies and harmonies all convolute into swelling symphony causing joy and life to spring from within! These miracles cannot come from a God who doesn’t feel. And women in particular reflect this attribute—dwelling in lusciously sculpted flesh, representing softness and beauty and sweetness and fire, having the incarnate ability to cause empty places to come alive, simply from being who she is without apology.

Turbulent or joyous, angry or apathetic—what we feel can be an invaluable standard to measure the homeostasis within our spirit and self. If you have been injured by the lie which teaches feelings don’t matter, stop to reassure the little girl who aches within. Know the truth—that God created them, and in His kindness, chose to reveal part of who He is through an expressive heart. As a thermometer checks and reflects temperature, let your emotions be a valuable guide which reflects the innermost conditions. Even anger can bring Him glory. The book of James cautions us not to sin because of anger, but to be. Examine what you feel before God; seek him when you question why you feel certain things. Seek to know the hidden roots which may indicate when something is amiss internally, but believe the truth: emotions are necessary for a healthy life.

Jesus and women 

One of the most moving passages in the New Testament reveals an invaluable glimpse into the tender side of God, through the heart-stricken lament of His Son. O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the one who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were not willing! (Luke 13: 34)

What an emotional outpouring! It is this same Jesus, made known to you and I, who transformed the life of one broken, desperate soul while His feet walked upon this earth. And suddenly, a woman who had a flow of blood for twelve years came from behind and touched the hem of His garment. For she said to herself, “If only I may touch His garment I shall be made well.” (Matthew 9) Consider this Jewish woman. Twelve years of uncleanness. Twelve years of sorrow. Twelve years of loneliness and isolation; likely without even the comfort of a human touch. Twelve years of lost wages, dwindling hope, and despair. Twelve years of bearing the oppressive weight of the law:

‘If a woman has a discharge, and the discharge from her body is blood, she shall be set apart seven days; and whoever touches her shall be unclean until evening. Everything that she lies on during her impurity shall be unclean; also everything that she sits on shall be unclean. Whoever touches her bed shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and be unclean until evening. And whoever touches anything that she sat on shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and be unclean until evening. If anything is on her bed or on anything on which she sits, when he touches it, he shall be unclean until evening . . . If a woman has a discharge of blood for many days, other than at the time of her customary impurity, or if it runs beyond her usual time of impurity, all the days of her unclean discharge shall be as the days of her customary impurity. She shall be unclean. Every bed on which she lies all the days of her discharge shall be to her as the bed of her impurity; and whatever she sits on shall be unclean, as the uncleanness of her impurity. Whoever touches those things shall be unclean; he shall wash his clothes and bathe in water, and be unclean until evening. (Leviticus 15)

Into this world walked Jesus. Imagine her fear—yet also the desperation that drove her to grasp the hem of his robe! For even that small touch would render Him unclean, according to the law, and yet twelve years of agony drove her to seek a New Way . . . the narrow way of life, which few find. But Jesus turned around, and when He saw her He said, “Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.” And the woman was made well from that hour. (v. 22)

Other translations quote Jesus as saying Take heart! Have courage! In addition to the healing of her body, consider the impact on her soul. Instead of disdain, she was welcomed into the presence of God. Instead of turning away, He made her whole. He looked at her—oh, imagine the love in His eyes! He received her in her shame, when all others would have turned away or recoiled from her touch. He commended her for going against the religious law out of faith that a better way had come. He comforted her, for she still felt trepidation, despite her faith. In one moment, He took away her uncleanness. He brought life to her body and healing to her heart. She was touched by God in the midst of her impurity, while all others in the name of God rejected her.

What a life-giving response! And it is His response to us, as well, those of us wrought with the effects of spiritual abuse. He makes way for us a new path, out of the darkness and shame that comes from those who substitute the voice of the law for the voice of God.   

Have courage! Take heart! He does not reject you. He will look at you with love in His eyes. He will receive the faith you offer Him—even as a seed so small within a forbidding forest of fear. “Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins? And not one of them is forgotten before God. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” (Luke 12)

A Passionate Calling

As you learn to express and feel with the exuberance of living, seek the nature of God to learn the balance that is crucial with this element of femininity. There is . . . a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. (Ecclesiastes 3) To those scathed by false teachings . . . come alive! Find joy in being! If you paint, fling your acrylics with abandon. If you sew, create masterpieces of beauty. If you play music, serenade the world with melody! Find something that moves you, something that inspires you. Did you know that these things are gifts from God? Your talents and tastes make you unique and special; furthermore, pursuing these things brings our Father glory and honor.

So you shall speak to all who are gifted artisans, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom . . . (Ex. 28) See, the LORD has called by name Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; and He has filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom and understanding, in knowledge and all manner of workmanship, to design artistic works, to work in gold and silver and bronze, in cutting jewels for setting, in carving wood, and to work in all manner of artistic workmanship. “And He has put in his heart the ability to teach, in him and Aholiab the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. He has filled them with skill to do all manner of work of the engraver and the designer and the tapestry maker, in blue, purple, and scarlet thread, and fine linen, and of the weaver—those who do every work and those who design artistic works.” (Ex. 35)

Purpose within to discover your calling and to listen to the little girl who yearns within. Be the woman you were created to be; live fully and freely, with healthy balance, with your identity firmly rooted in the image of He who is Eternal. Embrace your womanliness, rejoice in your femininity. As you go forth and break free, carry with you the knowledge of God’s exquisite love. He will lead you through the darkness.

What other ways does God reveal Himself through our femininity? How has He made Himself known to you?

Soul Rape

He took the poor man's lamb.

2 Samuel 12 Then the LORD sent Nathan to David. And he came to him, and said to him: “There were two men in one city, one rich and the other poor. The rich man had exceedingly many flocks and herds.  But the poor man had nothing, except one little ewe lamb which he had bought and nourished; and it grew up together with him and with his children. It ate of his own food and drank from his own cup and lay in his bosom; and it was like a daughter to him.  And a traveler came to the rich man, who refused to take from his own flock and from his own herd to prepare one for the wayfaring man who had come to him; but he took the poor man’s lamb and prepared it for the man who had come to him.”

This depiction of tenderness and sweetness marred so cruelly by death grabs my breath and won't let go. Even King David rose up in rage. "So David’s anger was greatly aroused against the man, and he said to Nathan, “As the LORD lives, the man who has done this shall surely die! And he shall restore fourfold for the lamb, because he did this thing and because he had no pity.”(v. 5-6)

When innocent, vulnerable souls trust those in charge for protection, nourishment, and sustenance, only to be used, manipulated, and betrayed, it is not unlike the story of the poor man and his little ewe lamb.

Both were oppressed. Both knew injustice. Both were sinned against. Both were helpless in the hands of one bigger, stronger, and more powerful than they.

Physical rape is one of the ultimate damaging, horrific crimes against another living being. It assaults the most intimate, private element of the body, deeply affecting the heart, mind and spirit. With force, it seizes and plunders—it is the abuse of power over the powerless. It violates the sacred, with brutal desecration.

Spiritual rape violates the soul.

God as a weapon

Religious abuse, especially from those closest to us, plunders the most intimate aspects of our existence. When we are told what to think, when those in authority assume the position of Holy Spirit, when God is re-shaped by human hands, when those in leadership control thoughts, behavior, and being in the very name of God, He has been used as an instrument of violence.

A parent who manipulates thought and behavior using the name of God, "the Bible says," fear of hell, death, disappointment, worldliness, the world, the falling away, the mark of the beast, and a hundred other threats, seizes, plunders, and exerts force . . . and mis-represents the true God to trusting, innocent beings created in His image.

Within Christian families, a child who accepts Jesus becomes a brother or sister in Christ. And Jesus said, "as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me."

This does not diminish the importance for instruction in righteousness, or the nurture and admonition of the Lord. But using religion as coercive means demonstrates utter lack of faith and trust, putting authoritarian parents in a very dangerous position.

Jesus therefore answered and said to them, “Do not murmur among yourselves. No one can come to Me unless the Father who sent Me draws him; and I will raise him up at the last day. It is written in the prophets, ‘And they shall all be taught by God.’ Therefore everyone who has heard and learned from the Father comes to Me. John 6

Norm Wakefield writes:

As a son starts to walk by the Spirit, an earthly father should encourage his son’s decision-making and guidance to come from a personal relationship with the heavenly Father, not himself. To the degree that the father makes the decisions and dictates the lifestyle of his believing son, to that degree he hinders his son’s spiritual life. A father’s role should decrease just as John the Baptist’s role decreased when Jesus appeared (John 3:30).

This applies to daughters, too.

Will the Real God please stand up?

“Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins? And not one of them is forgotten before God. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows." Luke 12

To those taken advantage of, spiritually, particularly in the realm of a religious family,

to those used and manipulated to advance human interpretations, ideals, and intentions,

to those who feel helpless, exhausted, and afraid,

to those who want to discover truth and know who the true God is, really . . .

. . . there is hope.

Because He wants to be known by you.

True shepherds balance truth with humility, mercy, and grace.

True shepherds do not take the little ewe lambs. They do not kill, eat, and consume them. Rather, they feed and nourish.

Recovery from Spiritual Rape

Much like incest—which is sexual abuse within the family—familial spiritual abuse is especially repugnant. Out of every place on earth, family should be the safest haven, opening inviting arms as shelter for ravaging, brutal storms.

When dysfunction occurs, when humans are humans, when they say, "I will be like the Most High," wounding happens.

And the little ewe lambs are taken.

1) Acknowledge truth

King David wrote Psalm 51 following his exposure by the prophet Nathan. Verse six has been a lifeline for me throughout spiritual abuse recovery.

Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts,
And in the hidden part You will make me to know wisdom.

We tend to gloss things over, especially when it comes to those we love most. We defend and make excuses; we elevate our own flaws as though this justifies abuse. But advocating denial keeps us in darkness, unhealed. When we invite the light of His truth to expose the violation, the rape, the abuse we sustained, He has space to work. It is frightening to venture towards the darkness. It can be messy. But He makes everything beautiful in its time, and who the Son makes free, is free indeed.

2) Renew the mind

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service. And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God. Romans 12

In addition to overcoming denial, we must be willing to let God sort through the wheat and chaff within our minds. For me, this required that I let go of everything I had always believed except for Jesus and the cross, and beseech God to replace lies with truth.

Within a spiritually abusive environment, mind control runs amok in the hands of authoritarians, who use good things for selfish purpose. It is vital we allow God to correct errors in thought, belief, doctrine. We must be a living sacrifice, serving Him and not the theology of man, and this necessitates renewal of the mind so misshapen and injured by abusive principles.

To be conformed to this world is to be pressured from the outside. This fleshly mind Paul decries in Colossians 2:

why, as though living in the world, do you subject yourselves to regulations—“Do not touch, do not taste, do not handle,” which all concern things which perish with the using—according to the commandments and doctrines of men? These things indeed have an appearance of wisdom in self-imposed religion, false humility, and neglect of the body, but are of no value against the indulgence of the flesh.

The antidote for worldly thinking is transformation: change from within.

3) Learn to express truth

1 Peter 1:13 Therefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and rest your hope fully upon the grace that is to be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ; ¹⁴ as obedient children, not conforming yourselves to the former lusts, as in your ignorance; ¹⁵ but as He who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, ¹⁶ because it is written, “Be holy, for I am holy.”

Spiritually abusive methods which implement mind control rely upon re-interpreting or eliminating individual thinking and acknowledgment of feelings. Whereas feelings are not always a barometer of truth, they can reflect crucial internal conditions. As you journey towards recovery, you will feel many different feelings, such as anger, grief, loss. The old way, the way which conformed to our religious world, instructed us to deny these feelings, to die to ourselves. Yet how does convincing ourselves to believe a lie—I shouldn't feel anger, this is just my flesh, I cannot allow this sadness, for I should have the joy of the Lord—have any sort of merit in a quest for healing?

How often did denying these feelings lead to deep, lasting wholeness?

For what has man for all his labor, and for the striving of his heart with which he has toiled under the sun? For all his days are sorrowful, and his work burdensome; even in the night his heart takes no rest. This also is vanity. Ecc. 2

We tend to over-spiritualize, but Paul cautions against the mind corruption which distorts the simplicity of Christ. My exhortation for those struggling with overcoming pain from spiritual abuse is to try a new way. To be truthful with yourself, with God. To be transformed—changed from within, through the work of the Holy Spirit. If you feel, then feel. If you need rest, then rest. A foundational element of spiritual abuse is the drive to do . . . to pray more, fast more, read the Bible more, witness more. Perhaps as you re-discover the true God, the one who bids come, rest, you will find that the journey to healing requires you to stop.

Cease striving.

Be.

Comfort for the weary

Jesus prayed, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. This is a beautiful, gut-wrenching prayer—literally, as He hung upon the cross. He knew of their ignorance, He knew that His torturers did what was right in their eyes, and the eyes of religious law. But that did not stop the spear which pierced His side. Did not stop His agony as He cried out, My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

It did not stop His death.

We who bear the rape of the soul have wounds so deep, pain so great, because it affects the core of our being which is created in the very image of He who is used against us.

He is abused when we are abused.

We can take comfort, joining Him in the fellowship of His sufferings.

that I may gain Christ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.

There is hope even for those who have inflicted this destruction. The Jesus who took our place on the cross for our sins, with whom we have fellowship of sufferings, who became sin for us, endured at once the pain of the abuser and the abused.

And His mercies are new every morning.

_______________

Similar posts:
The Stolen Years
Sparrows, Falling

Vulnerable

This evening I am stepping away briefly from the general theme of this blog to reveal an intimate vignette from my recent journal that bears significance to the course of my journey.

Perhaps you might find a glimpse of yourself, reflected.

I am resisting the urge to issue disclaimers for balance, discernment, accountability, and truth. We know these things. I think that they have been emphasized greatly unto us.

Peace, dear sisters.

_______________________

Twilight.

Not the book, but the moment when day slips into her negligee, and the world nestles down for sleep.

I stand on my balcony.

The air is cool and I breathe deeply, refreshed as the sweet breath of dusk envelopes my skin. Spring's lush fingertips have painted a living masterpiece of greenery; recent rains have swept along gnarled roots, planting secret creatures among the twisted knots rising from the creek bed.

Suspended, it seems, miles in air, I watch a trio of brightly finned goldfish drift beneath me, a huge lazy turtle who paddles happily, slowly, and four growing ducklings who find an island of displaced wood which storms have lodged in the midst of our creek. Beavers have been spotted, and as always, the nightly cacophony of frogs lift their chorus to the darkening skies.

Peace, serenity.

As I drink the sensual cocoon of coming night, I realize that I cannot not enjoy it, for if I do, it will be taken away.

I cannot allow myself to revel in the lusciousness of soft evening breath, swirling across my face with the tender aroma of freshly mown grass. I cannot afford to pause a moment and savor, for it would only end, and the pain of life take over once more. I cannot exhale with the deliciousness of husband, creeping up behind, and wrapping arms around my waist.

I cannot enjoy it, for it will be taken away.

The little girl said that, speaking from her secret sanctum. There is wisdom cradled in her being—yet she holds it closely, dearly, and fiercely; she knows the inner mysteries that remain elusive despite my frantic seeking, yet speaks up only when I least expect. She tugs on my skirt, this wee one, and opens her mouth to whisper softly, briefly. Perhaps she waits to see if I will listen, to see if I am safe, to see if I can be trusted with the enigmatic messages she keeps locked away.

I cannot enjoy it, for it will be taken away.

That's enough, they say, and remove the pleasure, the fun, the savored morsels, the pretty things, the light things, the relief. That's enough relief. They are distracting from things more important: the necessary things in life.

Die to the flesh; die die die.

Loving something is to curse it, for loving is an element subject to rigorous discipline and scrutiny. We must not love the wrong things, or love even the right things too much. Doing so might prove that we are, in fact, absorbed by the lust of the flesh, lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.

Liking something too much means that it is material for sacrifice; we are to hold loosely to that which we find dear, to that which brings solace. If something appeals, it is automatically suspect.

Therefore, much like a friend held at arm's length, we must keep these things away from ourselves and not feel too much. Feeling too much means that there is undue focus on temporal things, which takes our mind off of the Lord. We must be sober and temperate, not given to the exuberance of living, not feeling with much passion—rather, be self-controlled and not given to foolishness. Feeling too much, loving the wrong things, having interest in unnecessary things welcomes pain through the door; it welcomes criticism, opportunities for chastisement, an invitation to die.

What do I say to the little girl?

The true God knows how to give good things to His children.
The true God delights in bringing joy to the hearts of those made in His likeness; it is not for nothing that He appealed to all senses in His glorious work.

Pushing these things away, in the name of godliness, denies His goodness. His blessings. He wants us to feel. He wants us to love, to savor, to live, knowing that "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning. Of His own will He brought us forth by the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of His creatures." James 1

If we were not meant to feel, why would He have gifted the sense of touch?
If we were not meant to see, why would He have set our eyes, like jewels?
If we were not meant to hear, why would He have fashioned our ears, and sound, to meet them?
If we were not meant to taste, why would He have unleashed myriad flavors upon our tongues?
If we were not meant to smell, why would He have lavished us with fragrance?

He has given me my very own set of eyes, to see for myself—not for another to see for me.

He has given me my very own mind, so that I may think and reason, for myself and not for another to stomp upon and tell me what to think.

I have these ears, to listen, discern, and channel, for me and not for another. I am wholly individual and unique, created fully for the pleasure of He who is eternal. "He who has ears to hear, let him hear."

God knows that all I have, all I am, belongs to Him. It is His will that I use, that I enjoy, and that I glorify Him with what He has given.

But how does the little girl know that loving something makes it go away?

The Myth of "Normal"

When I was young, I envied those who told breath-catching testimonials of how they came to Christ. I  listened, enraptured, to stories featured on our local religious radio station and dreamed of how thrilled God must be with these dramatically-acquired souls. Many met Him in death-defying places; others spoke of time in prison or gang life, and how God transformed them into amazing teachers or evangelists of the gospel. I hung on every word, and then slowly returned to the dishes or laundry or the care of my younger siblings—my own daily reality.

My parents said that I always wanted adventure—an observation implying bad, branding me with the label "discontent".

In hindsight, I think that I wanted to matter. We read Martyr’s Mirror, and my thoughts drifted to foreign lands, where somehow I took the place of innocent young women patiently waiting their fates—my fate—while remaining faithful and devoted to God. And while sore fingers scratched page after page of stories in faded gray pencil, my characters reflected the inner angst that yearned to do something great for God—something glorious, that made Him say, “Well done.” I wanted approval. I wanted that certain air of pride that comes, not from selfish ambition, but rather from the sense that “She’s mine. And that is a good thing.” I wanted to matter, to have a purpose, and to make a difference—yet it seemed that every day was exactly the same.

This post has been on my mind for some time. In every movement and every culture—religious or otherwise—there are extremes. Within the homeschooling, conservative, and Quiverfull world, there are some families who go to great lengths to observe dogmatic, legalistic, and austere patriarchal standards. These are the ones who often gain national attention as the waves of public interest ebb and flow, inciting controversy and awareness of "peculiar" lifestyles and beliefs.

However, there are others within this Christian sub-culture—typical, traditional families, with perhaps a few non-mainstream practices. Not often found on the covers of magazines or the subject of articles or books, many are still well-known and well-liked within their church and community. Perhaps they aren't dresses-only; some do not live on a farm, others might have "only" 3 or 4 children. Some home-school, yet participate in local sports or other extra-curricular activities. Those who relate will understand clearly.

No one has hurt me, so why do I feel hurt?

Daughters within these conservative yet non-extreme households face a unique challenge that I believe is not shared by their more dogmatic sisters. Many of the same emotional and spiritual struggles which arise from this lifestyle impinge them as well, but with a twist that can potentially crush life from the spirit.

These young women feel that since their external situation or lifestyle is not that "bad", it would be fraudulent to acknowledge the mystifying internal effects that such an upbringing can have. They embrace denial rather than admitting pain. Using phrases such as, "Well, that doesn't apply to me," or "That's not how it happened in my family" tends to dismiss deep, lurking, real hurts which need the healing touch of Christ.

A lovely young wife and mother writes:

“. . .my story was far from extreme, yet I have the same wounds from the same lies as the extreme cases. But they're harder to identify. My parents said things like "You have a rebellious heart", "You're going to lead all your siblings astray", "If this were God's will for you, He would tell us", " You should want to spend time with your family more than your friends", " You're too independent" etc. They used guilt and the Bible to keep me from going to college, from getting married . . .Then when I still chose to do those things, they acted like I had rejected God and our family. We were forced to wear dresses because "beauty is dangerous and you could defraud your brother". And on it went. Yet, on the outside, we didn't look too different, except for our dress. My dad was a teacher in the church and my mom very active in our church community. They counseled many families and many marriages. We went everywhere and had every opportunity you could imagine. But on the inside, our hearts were broken and there was much fear, shame, and guilt.”

The myth of “normal”

It is an identity crisis. The roots are the same—shame, fear and guilt—but they are made much more insidious by the choking fog of confusion. How can you acknowledge something you can’t identify? How do you verbalize something you can’t explain or understand? It is like watching blood slowly trickle down your arm and yet not find a scratch or mark. This is very disorienting—there is no apparent source. One is left troubled and aching, without knowing why—and especially not knowing how to address the issue and seek healing.

Those who have born years of emotional and spiritual abuse, neglect, shame, and depression find it easier to brush all aside when external factors do not make sense. It is easier to succumb to pressures that insist you are making it all up, that you are crazy and imagining things, or that the problem lies within you. The reality of alone-ness is compounded knowing that those closest to your family would not believe you, if you told them what you feel and what has been said or done; when you consistently hear, "What good kids you have!" gushed to your parents; when your family is held up as a model of virtue or shining example; when your parents think you are either over-dramatic or simply can't understand your own conflicting emotions. This internalizes, and places another layer of shame and confusion upon a slowly withdrawing heart. It must all be me--hormones, or something, you might tell the pain which dwells within, effectively shutting her up for one more day.

When we strip all away, a foundation rife with falsehoods can be often found at the core of our being. Believing these lies exacerbates all of the problems; until the light of Jesus illuminates error and transforms the heart, symptoms will only grow worse. Possible lies which may become ingrained into one's mind—and therefore blanketed across every element of life—could be:

• Physical abuse is worse than emotional abuse, so I shouldn't feel this bad
• I am stupid for feeling like this; there is no reason for it
• I just need to get over this--whatever it is
• I am just under a spiritual attack
• Others have it worse so I should just be thankful and pray the depression goes away
• I must not be reading my Bible enough
• It's not like I am being beaten or going hungry or anything, so. . .*shrug*
• It's no big deal

It is amusing when little children insist they are not tired. Yet they go willingly to bed after gentle reminders that they didn't take a nap, that their eyes will not stay open, and that they are face down in their mashed potatoes. It is similarly ironic when those who insist they are well, but flushed cheeks, warm skin, glassy eyes and lethargy indicate fever.

Have you ever staunchly refused to believe something until finally faced with a list of symptoms, the truth is undeniable?

Even if your family appears non-extremist—normal—within this conservative movement, if you are exhibiting the symptoms of deep, serious issues, I beseech you to sit with these things in stillness and prayer before God, asking Him to reveal to you what it is that you need to know. It is my humble belief that God desires truth to be known by you—the truth of the source of your pain. Abuse is abuse—whether it is physical, emotional, sexual or spiritual—and all of it grieves the heart of God. Minimizing it and shrugging it away does not honor God nor does it bring the healing that He longs for you to have. Wait on Him and His timing, trusting that whatever it is you find He will give you strength to bear. In the meantime, He will never leave you nor forsake you.

Signs and times

In most cases, symptoms and features indicate that something is wrong. In our fallen world, peopled by sinful creatures who bear the image of God and yet tarnish His name, the sad reality is that we have all been hurt at some point in our lives. When these wounds are caused by those meant to protect, nourish, and love us the most, we bear the most excruciating pain. Our loyal tendency is to excuse and dismiss hurtful actions—“They were just doing the best they could,” or “It’s okay,” or “That was so long ago; I don’t even really remember that,” or “I was just a baby.”

As I have written before, forgiveness does not mean its okay. Forgiveness is a separate issue; forgiving someone who has wronged you—while a godly spiritual discipline—does not miraculously ameliorate the scars inflicted upon you. That is the work of our Heavenly Father—who sometimes allows symptoms to smolder under the surface, occasionally erupting until they become present enough to sustain your attention.

It is here, into the pain, that our Savior invites you. Here, into the darkness, where His light can shine. Here, into the brokenness, where His hands can heal. Here, into the unknown, so that He can become known.

It is here we learn that we have significance.

It is here that He meets us, in our woundedness and vulnerability, in the shame of our nakedness, in the raw and the wild. It is here that He is glorified, for His strength is made perfect in our weakness. In the secret shadows of pain He infuses the light of His truth—redeeming, revealing, and restoring.

If you feel as though you are the proverbial “middle child” within Christian culture—not as extreme as some, yet more conservative than others—and stumble trying to find your voice among the confusing messages you receive, take heart, dear sister. You have been created and chosen, as you. Your wounds and your words have equal validity. You matter dearly to God, and He has a purpose for you. Perhaps your testimony will not elicit ooohs and ahhhs from the congregation; likely you will not become a martyr from foreign lands. As you dwell faithfully however, daily showing your devotion to God, it is quite possible that somewhere, your story might grant an exhausted young woman in the midst of dishes and laundry to catch her breath in hope—and keep going for just one more day.