White Washed Idolatry

. . for you shall worship no other god, for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God. 
Exodus 34:14

orm Wakefield is an author and speaker with a tender heart for men and their families. In his article The Curse of the Standard Bearers: When Idolatry Masquerades as Love, he tells the story about a young man whose parents crossed a very serious boundary. 

Almost overnight, Marty's life changed. His parents decided to become associated with other homeschooling families whose goal was to raise children with godly character. With the new direction for the family came more responsibilities and expectations from his parents. He already felt smothered by their efforts to make him into the type of young person who would give them a good reputation among their peers, but with the change came a tidal wave of standards and goals he felt were impossible to meet.

      Marty didn't make it easy for them. In fact, he questioned them constantly as to why they had to live by all these standards of dress, social etiquette, grooming, facial expressions, entertainment, courtship, attitudes, education, and food. His honest questions brought accusations of rebellion and disrespect, which were not his intentions. Eventually, the conflict became so great that in order to protect their reputation, Marty's parents sent him to live and work with an uncle, hoping God would eventually open his eyes to see the blessing he was rejecting.

      Marty's well-meaning parents were Standard Bearers. Without realizing it, self-ambition (lust for significance and success) and an idolatrous love of man's approval gained ascendancy within their hearts. The curse of the Standard Bearers rested upon them and all the relationships for which they felt responsible. Unwittingly, they looked to standard bearing as the solution to parenting Marty and to gaining significance and acceptance for the whole family. Instead of demonstrating a life lived in a relationship with Jesus Christ through the Holy Spirit and leading Marty to do the same, they were caught in the enticing trap of a form of religion. They quickly learned what standards were acceptable and not acceptable among those with whom they wished to connect and then commanded obedience from Marty.

      At age fifteen and living at home, Marty knew he should obey his parents, but they never led him to deal with his heart relationship with God. Consequently, the parent-child relationship was always about responsibility and expectations. It's no wonder that Marty felt unloved, controlled, and unvalued. Living by rules and standards cannot build relationships based on God's love and grace. A form of outward obedience may occur, but liberty and love that comes from the Holy Spirit's work internally is overlooked.

      Until Marty has a relationship with Jesus, his parents must teach, train, and demand honor and obedience (Eph. 6:1-4). However, once the Holy Spirit indwells him, Marty should be taught to walk by the Spirit in relationship with the heavenly Father. As Jesus told his disciples, “Do not call anyone on earth your father; for One is your Father, He who is in heaven” (Matt. 23:9). 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).[i]

Spiritual abuse, authoritarianism, fear-based control . . . they all have something in common. As we look at our lives, we women who struggle with exhaustive levels of guilt, shame, confusion, low self-esteem, chronic fatigue, and many other heart / soul / mind / body issues, we need to understand that there is a root under everything—one that connects the externals, the features of our environment and upbringing, with the hidden places inside of us. Where our heart hurts. Where it’s dark. Where we have shame, addiction, depression, and pain. But once we identify and eradicate this cancer—oh, sweet child! We find the joy of the New Way and the journey which leads to life!

            But first we must descend into blackness.

He said to him, “What is written in the law? What is your reading of it?” So he answered and said, “‘You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind,’ and ‘your neighbor as yourself.’” And He said to him, “You have answered rightly; do this and you will live.” (Luke 10:26-28)

What about honor?

Wakefield mentions something I want to re-emphasize. Marty’s parents were well-meaning. It’s important to acknowledge that virtually all of our parents meant well. They had the best intentions and most sought the Lord in every way possible while raising us. Seeking the truth of pain and acknowledging your struggles does not dishonor your family. Many hesitate under the assumption that to honor is synonymous with to obey, but this is not the case. Moreover, honor is not always a feeling or giving a feeling.

To honor is to esteem, to place weight, to value. This is not mutually exclusive to exposing the effects of a dysfunctional childhood or sin. Honor is a verb—actively giving weight to your parents’ work, position, and sacrifice in your life. You honor them through not settling into apathy but seeking truth, healing, and strengthening your walk of faith. You honor them by fighting the good fight. You honor them by obeying God, by loving Him with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength.

Which is why identifying the root of our pain is essential.

Root of darkness

            My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

            No other cry carries such agony, such grief as these words of Jesus. As He hung on the cross, our Lord who knew no sin became sin for us and willingly suffered separation, abandonment so that we don’t have to.

As humans, we sin and will struggle with sin all of our days. When others sin against us, we have the opportunity to learn humility and show forgiveness, mercy and grace. But what is sin? Sin is unrighteousness; it separates us from the Almighty. It’s breaking God’s law.

It’s what keeps us from obeying the greatest commandment.  

I said in the last chapter that one of the most subtle, spiritually destructive, and yet accidental ways a parent can overstep their boundary is to infringe on the job of the Holy Spirit. That by doing so, they unwittingly place themselves in a position reserved for God alone—and cause their children to commit idolatry.

Think about a garden. Plants need sunlight to grow, to be strong, to produce fruit. Flowers need the sun to blossom and thrive, and yet they are at the mercy of the elements, having no choice over the environment. They don’t ask for clouds to come along and hide the sun. They can’t make them go away. Yet clouds cut off the source of life. Unless they move, the garden will wither and die.

Like flowers in the sun, we are dependent upon our own Source of life. He is our righteousness.[ii] Anything that stands between us and causes separation is sin. Anytime we look to something or someone else as our source, as our justification and righteousness, we commit idolatry.  And anything that preoccupies and keeps us from loving the Lord our God with all our heart, all our soul, all our strength, and all our mind is an idol.

Even if it has been erected for us.

White-washed idolatry

This is serious stuff. Because there are so many good, godly things that look right. That’s why our confusion is practically palpable, and why this particular type of dysfunction is so insidious. But godly things are not God, and when they are held up as our source from which we draw life, what controls us, what we serve with heart, mind, soul and strength, when they become as God to us—a god we can see and measure ourselves by—we become idolaters.

It’s a line so thin as to be almost imperceptible. Often our convictions and beliefs rule us as God. Sometimes it’s church. Dad, mom, even the blessing of children can become idols, cloud-like, obscuring our sun which gives life. Our standards, rules, regulations, the law itself become our sustenance. Often the Bible is elevated to God’s position, and parents, speaking and controlling as God—but they are still not God.

As a perfectionist who read the Bible every day and clung to commands to be perfect, holy, and to sin not, I committed idolatry. How? The truth is, Jesus is my perfection. As I listened to voices—my own and others—to keep trying, to press on towards the prize, to not grow weary in doing good, that he who knows to do good and does not do, to him it’s sin . . . I missed the voice that said Come to Me. Rest.

As a girl who ached to please, I sought and served the approval of man. In a curious twist of “I die daily”, I essentially killed myself to gain approval, acceptance and “well done” which  rarely ever came. But despair did, and guilt, depression, and shame. 
I was an idolater, and our idols—they kill, steal, and destroy.

But we need approval. We need acceptance. We need to feel love, nurture and affection. We need to read the Bible, to have standards, convictions. See again the deceptive nature of white-washed idolatry? We take God and re-create Him into something we can touch, feel, and measure ourselves by. We re-create Him in the image of our parents. Scripture. The law. And by taking God’s gifts, and God-given needs, we worship and serve the creature rather than the Creator . . . 

 . . . Continue reading in "Quivering Daughters" available spring 2010
© 2010 Hillary McFarland

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[i] The Curse of the Standard Bearers: When Idolatry Masquerades as Love by Norm Wakefield. Copyright Spirit of Elijah Ministries | P.O. Box 377 Bulverde, Texas 78163 | www.spiritofelijah.com | Used by Permission.

[ii] Jeremiah 23:5,6

Link Love

Thank you for your patience as I continue to focus on Quivering Daughters, the book! Your comments and emails bless me tremendously ~ even if I do not respond right away, they keep me going like heart-coffee, so thank you.

 << Isn't that a beautiful X? You can find many creative drop caps for your blog at
 Daily  Drop Cap. I use Firefox and the other day opened my page in IE, sad to discover that   for   some reason, the drop caps I normally use don't appear in Internet Explorer browsers. So  when I can, I'll add a little flair from Jessica's site.

Okay ~ some reading for you!

Elizabeth Esther has a great article up right now, titled "How to talk to someone living inside an abusive church/cult group."

Cindy wrote an invaluable five-part series called "Cognitive Dissonance and Bible Study Following Spiritual Abuse." Here is part one.

I am reading Thin Places by Mary DeMuth and will post a review in the next few weeks.


If you have any recommended reading, feel free to leave a comment or email!

Emmanuel.

The Daughters of Patriarchy | Codependency | Repost

This is edited and reposted from last year. I know it's long, but codependency within deeply conservative lifestyles is a serious issue. It's important to learn how to recognize it and seek healing, because codependency follows us throughout life and affects other relationships.
 
It is a term that implies that we are dependent upon one another. How is this a bad thing? Of course we need others in our lives. We need relationship, we need the support, wisdom, and encouragement that comes from close connections with others. However, within an imbalanced or dysfunctional environment where there is little to no boundary, codependency bears potential for serious problems.

Closely identified with enmeshment, codependency is one of those vague-sounding expressions uttered by professionals in the mental health industry which, I am sure we all learned, is inherently suspect by many conservatives. "Christian psychologist? Impossible."

I present here an exhaustive amount of material from many different sources. Please remember:

• Not every symptom will be manifested in every person or situation.
• Some of these concepts are promoted by those who do not necessarily hold a Christian worldview. If there is anything here that you recognize, that seems familiar or strikes a chord, note that symptom and take it before the Father who loves and ask that truth be revealed to you.
  
• I myself am not a doctor, mental health professional, or anything other than a woman who has embarked upon a journey of grace, seeking the healing of Jesus from deep emotional and spiritual pain. Learning balance and becoming aware of the issues I raise {in other words, discovering the truth of the situation} has been a key element in seeking wholeness. For many years I had vague unrest, knowing there were things that were wrong, but unable to place my finger upon the precise element that was troublesome. God showed me that there is wisdom to be found in the experiences of others, and He has used these things to help me immensely. Each of us have relationships with Him that are deeply personal. I believe that this is intentional on His part, for He wants us to know that He loves us and wants us, as an individual soul, and yearns that we know Him in a way that is intimate and for us alone. So, as in everything that I write and present, please weigh the information here according to the heart of Almighty God, and Scripture.

Codependency

What is it, why is it harmful, and how do we overcome it?

A codependent person is defined by Melody Beattie, author of Codependent No More, as "one who has let another person's behavior affect him or her, and who is obsessed with controlling that person's behavior." Some codependents have an inherent need to be controlled by others instead. Often, codependent people are preoccupied with the opinions of others, and are overly concerned with what others might think.

All About Life's Challenges features information on Codependency which goes into a little more detail.

[Codependents] often feel tremendous guilt, responsibility or need to "fix" by controlling the actions of others, especially the one who owns the original problem. The codependent develops intense feelings and will try anything to make the family or relationship survive.

It's very common to "cover up" the behavior of their loved one; this is called enabling. By enabling, they are allowing the behavior to continue and cause avoidance of natural consequences. Codependents don't want to "rock the boat." They therefore are willing to do most anything just to keep peace. This too is where other family members learn to function in this manner creating the all too common "dysfunctional family."

The codependent will often accept blame for the situation. For instance, in a dysfunctional relationship the codependent will either accept or proclaim that "It's entirely my fault; it's because of something I did wrong."

This fits the source of dysfunction or dependent just fine since the person looks for others to blame for their actions. The dependent is denying, floundering, and usually very capable of using whatever means of escape possible. They are not beyond threats, coercion, or manipulation to avoid taking responsibility.

We don't have to struggle alone. God has not left us alone in our troubles; He wants to come alongside us and within us to help. His Spirit will empower us. The secret to a changed life, our own and our loved ones, is to submit to His control and let Him work.

Symptoms of codependency/codependent behavior
(for more, click the "Read More" link below)

Take Heart

I've been spending 12 and 18 hour days on my book, Quivering Daughters, and I am happy to report I have a very loving, supportive husband! :-) I'm really excited about my progress and grateful for all of you who continue to check in. I have a couple guest posts coming so be sure to visit again soon!

In other news, No Longer Quivering is hosting a blog-a-thon to help raise awareness for the Take Heart Project, a non-profit organization whose mission statement is "to provide support to women and children who are escaping abusive religious movements, and to provide the public with accurate, compassionate information on the unique challenges faced by the spiritually abused." If you're interested in reading more of Vyckie's experience, please view No Longer Quivering.

As quivering daughters, we all have memories that stick out in our minds ~ words, experiences, even times we were punished unfairly, accused, shamed. One young woman, at 20 years of age, was told by her mother, "If I miscarry after all the stress you've caused us, it will be your fault." These words deeply wound. Left buried in the bones of our soul, they become dark, aching shadows that are carried throughout life and affect what we think, believe, and feel. Ultimately, they can color the way we see God and become stumbling blocks to healing, to truth.

Do you hide words, memories? Are there painful places that beg to be released, brought to light? Let me encourage you to find someone you trust, and tell them. Write them into a journal, and pray that God will replace those scars with grace. Feel free to share anonymously here, or to email if you like. I long for you to rejoice with the freedom that comes through truth!

May God bless you, friends and sisters.
Emmanuel.

Crucible

Truth wrung from a heart of pain, melted in the crucible of life and guided by the Healer's hand, is a gift without measure.

A living mystery. 

A quivering daughter writes:

"If there was anything that I'd convey to other women and girls going through or coming out of similar circumstances [it would be] Truth. God's truth is NOT conditional, does not contradict itself. It is not based in hatred. Not based in fear. It convicts and draws our hearts, opening them further to God, not for inspection and criticism. Not so that it's precious contents can be judged, compared or ridiculed. But so that God the Father can have access to express His joy, compassion, care and concern. It's not something He takes from his daughters. There is not one part of God's character that demands.
 While our earthly father's may have misused or abused the power and authority over their daughters, that is not a part of God's character. He doesn't game play or pull the rug out from under us. He does not put us in compromising situations or laugh at us. He does not use our emotions against us. He treasures us, comforts us. Sees the pain and hurt and everything we lock away for safe keeping. He waits, knowing that relationship comes and is strengthened when we seek out His comfort ~ yet even while waiting, He makes known the comfort and protection that He wants to bestow on us. Even while we are in the midst of horrifying situations, the truth of our Father is there, contradicting the experiences we've had at the hands of our earthly fathers."

May you be filled with the healing truth of our Heavenly Father.

image source 
(Yes, I'm still on break, but I had to post this today.)

Blogging Break

My friends, it's time for me to take an indefinite break from active blogging while I spend the next season working on my book. There are a few key articles I'm writing that pertain to the scope of Quivering Daughters, as well as for The Quiverfull Daughter, so as I complete them, they will appear ~ but I must prioritize my focus to this book.

Please feel free to explore the archives, to comment, and to email ~ I truly appreciate your prayers and support, and it blesses me deeply to hear about your lives, your journeys, your struggles, thoughts, and experiences.

You may also keep up with me on Facebook while I'm between paragraphs. = )

Remember, as you seek recovery from the wounds of your past, that it is essential to acknowledge the truth of your pain for lasting healing to occur. Remaining in denial only postpones wholeness. Jesus is with you; take Him into the darkness and let His lovingkindness bring light, and life. His compassions fail not; they are new every morning.

May God sustain you; may His grace and love give you strength and serenity throughout this New Year. He is our healer!

In the shadow of His wings,

Hillary

Saturday Evening Blog Post | "Best of 2009"

I hope your fingers are curled around a fresh mug of steaming Sumatra because you are in for a treat! Elizabeth Esther, who hosts The Saturday Evening Blog Post on the first Saturday of every month, has graciously invited her readers to choose their favorite blog post from 2009 and submit it to her virtual party! Please visit her blog "Kids, Twins, and Laundry Bins" for an enormous bouquet of inspirational reading from this past year, and enter a beloved post of your own!

I chose "The Myth of Normal."  Many times when we discuss Quiverfull issues or fundamentalism, we think of those who wear dresses only, or headcoverings, or those who never go to college, or who live on a farm. Of course sometimes these apply, but what about those of us who look more mainstream? Those of us not raised as extreme as the ones we hear about? We face many of the same grave emotional and spiritual issues, but don't know why, and feel guilty because "we don't have it as bad as she does." If this sounds familiar, I hope this post encourages you. You might also like: "The Curse of Eve: When Free Will Isn't Free."

Love Song, V — Light Dawns in Darkness

Continued from Love Song, IV—Mystery 

Death. I feared it so much, when I was little. For both me and others. I feared being left behind, hearing the dreaded "I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness!" I feared the lake of fire, of being without Jesus, being without those I loved. I quivered for all the ones I knew, lost and unsaved; I feared I would end up taking the mark of the beast someday because I didn't prescribe to my "family's values" and was headed in a "different direction." I feared that most of all, God wouldn't really love me, and that even if He did, I'd still fall short, for my wickedness was great, and nothing I could do made me better or more acceptable—for all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags.

Even as a child, my heart cried while Margaret Becker sang,

These are the tears
You never see
They're foolish to you
But they're drowning me 

My soul wore this lyric for years, like a dress that becomes you, until you aren't recognized without it.

A Maiden's Lament

"Hillary, may you come to know the love of God in your grown up life.”

I always shrugged at these words, penned so wisely on the inside cover of my little New Testament. Of course; God loves everyone, I'd shrug to myself and move on to the next thing. Yet this little prayer, written by the pastor who dedicated me to God as a wee little babe, became my lifeline in adult years. My weary soul, wandering within a hopeless wilderness, clung to it fiercely, as a promise and a blessing designed for me alone.

This may come as a surprise to you, but knowing the love of God can be the most difficult challenge a good Christian girl can face.

Especially a good, homeschooled Christian girl. 

And this good, homeschooled Christian girl, raised on Rod and Staff, unencumbered by the ways of the world, wanting to please everyone and agonizing over failures to be patient and kind grew into a woman of sorrow. Weary, sick, in the throes of ptsd, depressed, full of guilt and shame, I gave up. And my journey to discovering the love, grace, mercy and sanctification of God began only after I, or at least the woman I was and wanted to be, agreed to die.

I had to end my life as I knew it. I had to go back to the beginning—to the door.

a strange god

¹ “Most assuredly, I say to you, he who does not enter the sheepfold by the door, but climbs up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber. ² But he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. ³ To him the doorkeeper opens, and the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. ⁴ And when he brings out his own sheep, he goes before them; and the sheep follow him, for they know his voice. ⁵ Yet they will by no means follow a stranger, but will flee from him, for they do not know the voice of strangers.” (John 10)

Those strangers are insidious fellows. They look so good, so righteous. They come bearing Bibles and proclaiming the name of God and teach Biblical living. They tell us how to become holy. They-who-climb-up-some-other-way quote Scripture and present compelling convictions. Why would we not listen to them? Wouldn't we be foolish—rebellious—to reject their words? Is it not our flesh that cries out, resistant to their voices?

The willingness to give up, to let go, to rest, to stop, to cease striving, to deliberately end a life of doing was born of physical, spiritual, and emotional exhaustion. But it's a scary thing to die. Its frightening to step into darkness. To throw religion, beliefs, myself upon the altar of the unknown. Everything, in fact, except for the Door. He was a mystery, this Door, but desperation birthed keen willingness to go against everything I'd ever believed, to seek that which I did not know.

Upon this altar I laid my religion.

I offered Him everything I believed and begged Him to kill me. To separate wheat from chaff. Then I stood before this altar, naked and aching, as it consumed everything I knew, everything I felt sure of and held sacred. I watched all become coal and smoke rise from a temple built over a lifetime of labor.

Only when flames simmered, and life smoldered before me like crumbling carbon, could I poke through ash to see what remained. When I did, I threw myself onto that quiet, solid, faithful cornerstone, and wept.

Eyes bled tears while He bathed my ugly, pulsing wounds. While I lay empty, broken, with nothing to offer in my weary hands—no Bible, no hymns of praise, no righteousness—the Lord of heaven and earth knelt into the darkness where I trembled, and washed soul feet.

I drank of His grace.
I did nothing. Nothing.
And He still loved me.
He called me by name, and I found pasture.
He nurtured life with compassion, not condemnation. Re-born, I finally recognized the true voice of God, and the gentle whisper of grace.

For this God accepted me.

Illustration of The Shepherd 

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)

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)

Consider this Jewish woman. Into her world walked Jesus. Other translations quote Jesus as saying Take heart! Have courage! For imagine her fear—yet also the desperation which 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)

Along with the healing of her body, the True Shepherd healed 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—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, too—those of us wrought with sorrow, of exhaustive trying to measure up, of emotional and spiritual abuse. He calls us by name, longing for us to find pasture, rest, and restoration of soul. He makes way for us a new way—a journey out of darkness, sickness and shame which comes from following the voice of strangers.

I died, and grace gave me life.
A love song, indeed.

These are the arms That ache for you
Frightened to push too hard, Frightened you'll slip right through
This is the joy I want you to know
You say it's good for me But leave you alone
Well, I can't walk away Won't leave you here
When I am so sure We could always be near 

I know a place Where we can meet

I don't want to be without you . . .  
margaret becker

Love Song, IV — Mystery

continued from Love Song, III — Death

She sat across from me, knuckles clasped white except for streaks of mascara swiped from her cheeks.  She didn't know why she came; she'd stopped to turn around many times. But here she was. No coffee, thanks.

"I was given up for adoption at birth." Words trembled between shaky lips. "When I was 14, my parents who adopted me put me back in the children's home. I found my biological mother and went to live with her. But then she kicked me
out . . ."

Her life spilled in fragments through chattering teeth. By the time Hannah turned 27, she'd been married and divorced twice, had an abortion, given a daughter up for adoption, birthed three other children, been in and out of rehab, and became an alcoholic. But years of hardcore drug use made it hard to remember things. "And I also died," she said. "I overdosed on heroin and the only reason I'm alive now is because my boyfriend knew to stick me in a tub of ice and shock me back. But I was dead. I really was. That's another reason why I can't think straight." She showed me her arms, crisscrossed and sculpted by life, each a story of blade, of pain. "But I'm a neat freak. And I love to sew." She showed me a quilted coin purse, dark and eclectic. "I sew all the time. It keeps me focused." She looked at me with tears. "Can I give you a hug?" she asked, almost shyly. "Thank you for listening." Then like a fragile doe, she bolted away and I never saw her again.

I went home and cried for hours.

Sisters of Sorrow

Children born within a Quiverfull or religious, conservative family have the reassurance of knowing we are, above anything else, wanted. This is a fundamental element of a Quiverfull life. Yet I wonder how many of us sometimes feel, deep down, more like Hannah? Given up at birth. Rejected by her adoptive family, then yet again by her biological mother. Married and divorced ~ not once, but twice.

Not good enough.
Not good enough.
Not good enough.

Unwanted. 

Roots of Darkness

The pressure to look like a godly woman, controlled by performance-based love, acceptance, or approval, is nothing less than a death sentence for many girls raised within a fundamentalist environment. For example, you are probably familiar with this simple directive: "Smile." Or its twin siblings: "You need to smile more," and "Turn that frown upside down!" We learn at an early age what emotions are acceptable, and which are not. We learn to reveal only that which is positive, "godly." Yet when truth whispers otherwise, when reality is that we want or need to cry, or rage, or be spontaneous, and yet we stifle what is real in favor of what looks better, what looks Christ-like, what looks like a godly, joyful spirit, what does that do to our hearts? This form of fake-it-til-you-make-it is deceptive. And deception does not lead to healing, nor to life.

We read the words of Jesus, "The truth will make you free," and yet as we strive and struggle to attain the level of perfection established for us, required of us ~ freedom grows distant. This is cognitive dissonance in its most disturbing form. It is confusion, for it is done in the name of God who is not the author of confusion, but of peace. What is peace? It is the state of being at rest. And in the furious trampling of the ancient paths, worn down by the Pharisees of old, rest came not to my weary soul. 


A Depressed Perfectionist Finds Grace

I've carried Hannah with me now for years; she's etched on my heart as her cries echoed my own.
Not good enough. Not loved for who I am. Not accepted "as is". There was always more I could be. More I should do. Things I ought to do. The shoulds and oughts of life tormented me daily, hourly. Despite what I heard, what messages conveyed, what was real to me is that I, an ungodly, full-of-the-flesh blight of the earth, needed to be cut off from life, broken down, remolded, smothered.

There is a reason I've titled this series "Love Song", but more accurately it is a mystery. My spiritual journey, a story longer than time allows here, culminated one beautiful starry night when Love came home. But first, first my childhood dream would come true.

I had to die.
To be continued: conclusion

So I Married a Fundamentalist Family

Four years ago, a trail of beaded lace swept along the plush burgundy carpet as Margaret walked down the aisle to meet the man of her dreams. She'd always remarked upon the significance of that journey past old familiar pews, bedecked with luscious bows of fluffy tulle, fresh roses, and smiling faces. "It's like the slate was being wiped clean," she says. "The past and future connected when we joined hands, but everything became new." She grows quiet; hazel eyes flicker with shadows. "Life started over."

In the bliss of a newly-wedded life, Margaret and John were unprepared for the dormant roots biding time within her heart. When two years later they sprouted green with life, husband and wife were rocked in ways they'd never anticipated. "Poor John—he didn't realize he was marrying my mom and dad, too," Margaret told me. "And even though there are some good things from my life, somehow it's the hard stuff, the struggles and issues, that carry over." She laughs with rue. "Why is that? Why do we have to be so human? It's taken a long time to get back on track—God's helped a lot, but there are still many things we're going through, that if I'd only known about before I got married, would eliminate some of the struggles we have. You see, I left home, but my mind, my emotions, ideas, everything else about me—they stayed behind."

My parents always said, "You marry a man, you marry his family." In many ways, this is very true. And sometimes, he marries yours. What Margaret shares is experienced by many young wives adjusting to the realities of a new home environment. It doesn't mean marriage loses its luster, but that unexpected dynamics may arise and create unique trials largely unaddressed within traditional counseling and lay resources.

My husband, one of two, still laughs remembering the first time he met mine. "I'd never even heard of someone having that many kids," he admits. I took this psychology major to a family picnic for his inauguration to conservatism. The older ones surged to meet him with grins and hugs and jokes about the Name Test coming later. The younger ones stared. "Hillary's boyfriend," they whispered, mouths gaped and eyes wide. But it didn't take long for reticence to flee and soon they were sneaking up, poking and prodding like he was from outer space, then running off in a cloud of giggles.

It was new for them, too.

"John is so patient with me," says Margaret. "But he couldn't understand how I'd read the Bible and hear my dad's voice in my head. My father was a pastor and all I could hear was the Word thundering down from the pulpit or at the dinner table. Thou shalt not . . . thou shalt not . . . it followed me everywhere, over every little thing I did. And sometimes it was hard to hear what John was saying, because my family was so ingrained in the core of my being. Even though I tried to listen to my husband, sometimes my dad would drown him out in my own head. But I didn't mean for it to be that way."

Margaret illustrates one of the practical problems of codependency, or enmeshment, within an unhealthy or dysfunctional family.

How do you leave home emotionally?

________
Names and identifying details have been changed to preserve anonymity.
Image credit: stock.xchng

Considering a Godly Response to Unhealthy Authority | Guest Post

By James A. Karpowitz

In a prior post I cited some examples of unhealthy authority, that which is abusive, domineering or controlling or which serves its own purposes and personal security. So how do we as believers respond to the abuse of authority in a godly manner? Since the scope of Quivering Daughters addresses issues within the family structure, my comments will be in that context. You can, of course, make other applications as you see fit. It’s difficult to get down to specifics without knowing more of a given situation but knowing what to do with a specific situation starts with some general guiding principles.

A godly response begins within the heart prior to any external, observable actions. Jesus addressed the heart motivations of people, those unseen components of our lives defining why we do what we do. This is an important truth to understand because you may have had your own motives wrongly questioned or criticized by someone either in authority or in pseudo-authority. If you want them to question your loyalty, just refuse to be manipulated and dominated. If you want them to doubt your spiritual maturity, don’t accept a burden that isn’t yours to carry. However, if you want to be labeled “rebellious”, complete with a tee shirt and a certificate suitable for framing, just take a contrary position to a person trying to claim (or subject you to) authoritarian rule in your life. Trust me, it will work. Is it rebellious, however, to make a personal decision as an adult that may or may not be in concert with a decision your parents would make? Is it rebellious to make decisions, period, rather than waiting to be told what to do? Is it rebellious to disagree with a husband concerning a matter of, say, a child’s well being?

A Virtual Party with Elizabeth!

Are you lonely for new friends, inspirational reading, and encouragement? Once again Elizabeth Esther is hosting her Saturday Evening Blog Post. (And yes, it is Sunday as I write this. I am woefully behind ~ and WHERE oh where has November gone?!!?) Please visit her virtual home to share a link from your own November archives, meet new kindred spirits, challenge your thinking, and become uplifted by others making their way along the path of life. I chose to link my Praise post because it is so important to remember the good things, the lovely things, the things worthy of praise, and to give thanks for all. Have a lovely weekend!! :-)

Healthy vs. Unhealthy Authority | Guest Post

I am happy to welcome James A. Karpowitz to Quivering Daughters! Please enjoy his guest post:

Healthy vs. Unhealthy Authority

By James A. Karpowitz

Authority is supposed to be a tool for good. You see it in the world when a policeman corrals a speeder or nabs a robbery suspect. You can observe it in a military command structure, keeping an entire army operating as a cohesive unit. In a Christian context, it’s difficult to argue from scripture that authority ought not to exist. God places spiritual leadership in the church. The Bible does say that the husband is the head of the wife. God does have parents exercise authority over their children by setting reasonable parameters and limits for their behavior (no Jason, you can’t attend that unsupervised party or practice your Tae Kwon Do skills on your little sister). I’ve heard much in conservative Christian circles about submission to authority over the years. I would like to see more emphasis on how healthy, functional authority is supposed to operate. Having acknowledged that authority does have its proper place, it is equally important to recognize that authority is not intended to be an end in itself, that it can function in an unhealthy manner and that it can even be falsely assumed. I just finished a bowl of cereal and it occurred to me that authority gone bad is like milk gone sour. It may have started out good but it ended up bad. Unfortunately, authority can turn unhealthy despite the best of intentions. I want to examine a few ways that authority can curdle, so to speak. The primary context for our discussion here will be Christian relationships between parents and adult children, husbands and wives, and pastors and their flock.

Quiverfull Daughters | Praise

Aside from God and my husband, the best gifts I've ever received have been from my mom and dad. There is so much I appreciate from the sacrifices they made for us, from the life we lived. Obviously, the scope of Quivering Daughters encompasses many controversial, painful, and largely unaddressed elements of a deeply conservative life and their effects on women.* This doesn't mean that every feature, in and of itself, is negative or generates negative ramifications ~ but the daughters of patriarchy find little Bible-based encouragement for the struggles they face. As God laid on my heart to write, study, and delve into these matters, I sorrowed to discover that the depth of these things is much worse than I expected. Therefore, it may appear that all we ever discuss on Quivering Daughters is the "bad stuff"; and while I believe it's essential to raise awareness and search the Scriptures regarding these things, today I want to step aside for a few moments and muse upon the good.

For there is much good. 

There is so much for which I give thanks,

which lifts my heart to God with praise.

Photo © 2005 Anissa Thompson

Stories of Thanksgiving

Special note: I hope that you will leave your own stories of thanksgiving in the comments, so that I and others can rejoice with you!

THINGS MY PARENTS GAVE ME

~ trees to climb in, a forest to hide in, fields to get lost in, a creek to splash in, a garden to plant in, arms to hug in.

~ my first-ever sewing kit, and after I deemed my first-ever floppy dolly too ugly to survive, my mom fished her and her pink-crayoned cheeks out of the trash and tucked her away in that "special drawer" moms always have.

~ They gave me a family. They gave me each and every one of my ten sisters and brothers, who became new heads to kiss, new fingers to curl around my own, new little warm bodies to nestle in my arms . . . and who amaze me with sharp, creative minds, generous hearts, quick wits, forgiving spirits, welcoming, happy faces.

~ a real, live, adult Bible for my 7th birthday, with a leather cover, soft satin ribbon marker, and words of Christ in red. That Bible I've carefully packed away, for it is loose-leaf now, and almost every page is colored, underlined, noted, and fingermarked by an eager child. I think I almost cried when I realized I needed to get a new one, after years and years of love. There is something so friendly, so familiar, so comforting about the words which grew up with me, even as binding faded and the brilliant gold letters slowly flaked off.

~ rich knowledge of Scripture. After the near-mental-breakdown I experienced and the necessity to stop everything for a time, the word was waiting, living and powerful. What a blessing for which I am eternally, humbly grateful, for had I not this foundation, to start from "scratch" would have overwhelmed me completely.

~ life. As full moon coated earth with silver,
firstborn drew firstbreath.
 
~ Ahh, now this, this I think is the best thing EVER, and from my dad when I was 12 . . . to him I owe a thousand-thousand thanks for my first journal. That wonderful black book with its pristine white pages begging to be filled ~ it might as well been handed to me from God Himself. If I could offer praise for only one thing, ever, it would be to my father for this journal. His sister gave it to him when he was 16, he told me. And he'd carried it, for years and years. And something told him the Holy Spirit prompted him to give it to me. For God knew that journaling would essentially save my life.

~This one makes me smile. I don't think my parents ever knew, but when I was a teenager and Focus on the Family became heavily involved with True Love Waits, I wanted desperately to have the "key to my heart" ring and identify with the campaign. I tried to hint, I think . . . but to no avail. This thanks is two-fold: they did give me a ring I wanted. It made me think of Ireland; very celtic, this band, with a tourmaline stone and delicate knot work on the sides.  And I am thankful I never became swept away in the True Love Waits crusade. My true love did wait, but without the flair, without the drama, and without the austerity of a "movement".

~ in similar vein, neither did we subscribe to the teachings of Gothard. I give praise for this, for my parents saw wisdom in refraining from the legalistic nature of his training.

~ my parents gave their lives. Wholeheartedly. They believe strongly and live unwaveringly. No sacrifice is too great for the convictions they hold close, and they demonstrate this everyday.

~ freshly-squeezed lemonade from my mom after hard work in the sun. Just for me. I'm sure you can imagine the implications of this.

~ home-education. I so appreciate learning at home in an environment tailored to the pace I needed. And what fun, to crack open those fresh new books from Rod and Staff! It didn't hurt, either, that we were "done with school" hours before "real school" was through for the day.

~ encouragement: a dress form upon completion of my home education. A capo, when I [unsuccessfully] attempted to learn to play guitar. And mom's words when I, overwhelmed from feeling I wasn't the kind daughter they wanted: "At least you love the Lord," she said. "That's what's important." And ohhhh . . . I do. So very, very much.

Thank you for introducing us.

_____________________________________________________

*I write about and for women because I am a woman, not because these things aren't equally as devastating on men.

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 . . .

Saturday Evening Blog Post

Join us once more for a gathering at Elizabeth Esther's! Link a blogpost of yours from October in her little McLinky and then write a new post and link to her blog, explaining why you chose the article you selected.

I am choosing to refresh the subject of Bounded Choice. It is a powerful tactic of control used by many within family, church, and culture ~ and we need to be aware of its forms and effects.

Enjoy making new blogger-friends and reading thought-provoking, inspiring material!

Sparrows Flutter

Sparrows flutter, falling

And the King of Heaven sees.

 And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tested Him, saying, 

“Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”
  He said to him, “What is written in the law? What is your reading of it?”
  So he answered and said, “ ‘You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind,’ and ‘your neighbor as yourself.’”  

And He said to him, “You have answered rightly; do this and you will live.” Luke 10

“We cover our heads according to first Corinthians eleven.”

I gazed at this solemn young woman, who eyed my bare locks with mournful conviction. She shifted the baby on her hip and spoke again. “I have a book you can read if you want to. It explains why people who are obedient to God cover, and God blesses them.”

I hesitated. At 12, I had only a vague concept of head-covering; most of what I'd seen was pictured in our Mennonite home-schooling curriculum. But the veiling on this new friend was very different; it reminded me of the illustrations of Mary in my mother’s King James Bible.

“Okay . . .” I said.

She sensed my hesitation. “I didn’t want to at first either.” Her voice gained strength. “But then I realized it was only my flesh, and we are called to deny ourselves. I promise you—it's worth it. I feel so much closer to God now, knowing that I am in His will and following the Bible. And knowing I'm protected helps even more.”

We stopped going to traditional church when I was eleven or so, for even they were rampant with worldliness and error. We began meeting with other families at home, and gradually moved from Sunday to Saturday as our Sabbath fellowship grew increasingly conservative.

During these gatherings, forty or fifty people milled about our modest house—not hard with all of the little ones in attendance—or ran around the farmyard. Early in the morning, my sisters and I gathered our biggest pots, monstrous cauldrons capable of bathing small children, and tediously picked through gallons of dried pinto beans to boil with onions, garlic, and spices. As people arrived, gigantic yellow bags of chips and huge blocks of cheese piled on the table. Over time, other families appeared and the studies, topics, and discussions centered more and more around Mosaic requirements, the keeping of feasts, or other traditions which encouraged biblical living. This time of fellowship was fun and enlightening, providing a break from routine; but looking back reveals how easily roots of legalism become twisted around vulnerable elements of the heart.

I both admired and envied that gentle, quiet, covered young woman. She'd married young, and secretly I wondered if she truly did have God’s special blessing for her simple dress and hidden curls. Surely He must love her more, I reasoned, since she faithfully demonstrated self-denial and unworldliness—the absolute pinnacle of virtue.

Godly—everything she was . . .
. . . and it seemed to me, everything I was not.

Link to Grace

Eric Pazdziora writes:

In the Roman world of Jesus’ time, there were many moral problems.  There were famines, wars, diseases.  There was harsh poverty and decadent luxury. There was political corruption, intrigue, abuse of authority.  There was embezzlement, treason, armed insurgents who plotted to overthrow the government.  There was pornography, homosexuality, promiscuity, bestiality, and pederasty.  There was legalized prostitution, infanticide, and a corrupt system of entertainment that glorified gratuitous violence.

But when God Himself came to earth as a Man, he chose to vent the brunt of his moral outrage at one specific class of people:

Upstanding religious people who lived moral lives and had good Biblical theology.

Read the rest of the article here!