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I could articulate the meanings of “scat,” “rimming,” and “golden showers” all before my eighth birthday, though I was loath to do so.
Breaching that grief-stricken silence so that we could bellow our defiance made me feel—unwillingly, involuntarily—like a terrible person. I would talk myself out of it, buttressing our position with Bible verses to justify the behavior—but my mother’s tears gave me permission to feel the empathy I’d been afraid to acknowledge. I was relieved to know that it wasn’t wrong to do so.
“The Lord will keep you, little Meg.” My mama’s voice was gentle, reassuring. “He knows the hearts of all men. If you’re supposed to have a husband, the Lord knows how to make sure he’s a good one. He won’t let us be tricked.”
I had been raised to view life as a battle between good and evil, and I knew that every person fit into one of those two categories. “There is only Jacob or Esau! Elect or reprobate!” as my mother would say.
kelaa et voit elää sun koko elämän uskoen et maailma on oikeesti näin mustavalkoinen????
Within the church, I was a cherished daughter—I wielded no power, but my skills were many and useful and valued. I was dependable, and trustworthy, and called upon frequently. I had built my life and identity around the church, and I was well-beloved. Who was I on the outside? I was the perpetrator of untold amounts of harm in the world. I was a lover of tragedy, cruelly attacking the grieving at their most vulnerable. I was a willing participant in the most aggressive anti-gay picketing campaign the country had ever seen. What reason did anyone have to give me a second chance?
