The Sunday Paper: news without public opinion might be worth paying for

Yesterday when I went into Bi-Lo to get groceries, a rather unpleasant representative for The Greenville News asked me if I'd like a free Sunday paper.  "Sure," I said.  He took a paper and scribbled something on it so the folks in Bi-Lo would know it was supposed to be free as he asked me how often I buy the paper.  I had to admit, I never buy a newspaper anymore.  It kind of made me feel ashamed for a minute, then I remembered having to dispose of that huge pile of paper every week when I did get the Sunday paper.  It's actually quite nice to be able to read the news online and not end up with tons of garbage to get rid of afterwards. The only thing is, when you read the news online you often end up reading the comments people make about every story. Too often when I read the comments made by the general public my heart sinks, realizing that the people who are most outspoken about their opinions regarding current events are also the most warped people on the planet.

Here are a few examples from recent news stories in the Upstate and around the country:

1. Here's a link to the FB comments I'm talking about:  Mom Beats Son/Drags Him Down Stairs

 Headline:  Mom Drags 5 Year-Old Down Stairs, Beats Him With Belt.  This headline started a string on comments on Facebook that ranged from the outraged (people who saw this as abuse) to acceptance, and sadly enough there were way too many people who backed this mother's behavior toward her child.  If you read the story, you'll find that this was more than just a spanking.  She dragged the child down the stairs, leaving bruises, carpet burns and a black eye, then she beat him on the back and rear-end with a belt.  No one knows what made her lose it, but everyone seemed to have an opinion about it.  Those who fell on the side of "It's okay to beat the shit out of your kid" backed up their opinions with comments like:  My parents did that to me, and I turned out okay.  or That's what is wrong with kids today, parents don't discipline them by beating them senseless. Or: The government is taking away our right to spank/discipline our kids.  It is a pretty well-known and undisputed fact that adults who were abused as children often tend to parent their own children abusively, so it only stands to reason that someone who was mistreated as a child thinks that such treatment is a normal part of growing up.  They think those beatings actually made them into better adults, but realistically that kind of treatment has left them with a distorted idea of what a normal, loving relationship should be like.  They are often controlling, overbearing and short-tempered with their spouses and their children.  People who think abuse is the same as discipline find a way to justify every thing they do as well as everything that was done to them.  One guy even commented, "My dad did this to me and I had it coming."  Justifying his dad's abusive behavior by taking the blame for it.  Likewise, he probably expects his children to absorb the blame for his bad behaviors.  Arresting a mom for mistreating her child is not the same as arresting a mom for popping a kid on the rear for trying to put a butter knife in an electrical outlet.  What's so disturbing about these comments is that there are so many people who think child abuse is okay, as long as it is done in the name of discipline. What's doubly disturbing is the number of people who truly believe they got beat up as a child, and "I'm just fine."  No.  No you're not. 

2.  Here's the link: Missing Malaysian Plane

I agree that it's extremely screwy how a huge airplane can just disappear without a trace.  But knowing how much money has been spent trying to find a trace of this plane tells me that it is likely that no one really knows what happened or where it is.  Well, except for the conspiracy theorists and religious fanatics.  They seem to have the whole thing figured out, or at least you'd think so from the comments they make about the news stories.  The best one I have read yet reads as follows (and I quote): 

Teresa Sosa  I have been saying this since I first heard how the plan went off course! I think our antichrist President knows where it is and is in on it! the plan in hidden in an underground bunker or hanger! it's going to be used as an attack on America or as an escape for "certain people"!!! This plane will be seen again... mark my words! 9-11 is right around the corner... that was a huge tragedy on American's soooooo.... Perfect timing for them to strike on us again! Also we have seen all the signs the Bible talks about that the end of time is nearing, Maybe Obama is about to expose himself as the antichrist!!! laugh and say I'm crazy people... But you'll see!!!!!! This plane missing, Obama shutting down our military and taking away our ammunition... he's getting prepared and so should we... Don't be foolish and think this can't happen!!!!!! Plus how many" LIVE BREAKING NEWS REPORTS" has Obama aired about the plane missing.... NONE! Seems mighty fishy to Meeeeeeeee!!

There are plenty of similar theories out there and most have something to do with the apocalypse, covert government scheming (the American government that is) or the takeover of the world by the Antichrist...Who is apparently Barak Obama, since it wasn't Pope John Paul, Charles Manson, Mikhail Gorbachev or Ronald Regan.  In fact, it has been suggested that 1 in 4 Americans believe Obama is the Antichrist.  However, I think some people are confused about the very nature of the Antichrist.  You see, the whole purpose of this unknown person is that he/she will convince people that he/she is religious--therefore becoming a religious icon that people will blindly follow.  What would he/she gain by revealing who he/she really was?  Also, maybe Obama hasn't had any LIVE BREAKING NEWS REPORTS because there hasn't been any breaking news, practically since the plane disappeared.  They know nothing more today than the did over a month ago when the plane dropped off the radar.  

Seriously, a news story like this brings the nut-cases crawling out of the wood work--and their minds are truly scary.  I could do without knowing how many of these loonies exist.

3.  Man Breaks Into Apartment and Pistol Whips Mother of His Child

Just to sum up the story: A 21 year old guy busts up into his ex-girlfriend's apartment and goes into her bedroom where he finds her with a man.  The story makes no mention as to whether or not this woman was in bed with the man or if he was a boyfriend.  The 21 year old proceeds loose his shit, at which time the other guy decides to leave.  Then the 21 year old pistol whips his baby mama, hits her on the head with a drinking glass and then fires his gun.  Police found him in another apartment in the same building with his other baby mama and arrested him.  

The comments on this story were truly disturbing.  Here is a little sampling of them:

• 
  
• 

  Matthew Owens Maybe she shouldn't have been cheating.

• 
  
• 

  Nikki Edwards Lol.. that'll teach her..

  Like · Reply · 2 · April 12 at 4:39pm
• 
  

• 
  
• 
  
• 

  Joshua Jones My hero! 
• Like · Reply · 2 · April 12 
• Like · Reply · 6 · April 12 at 4:40pm
• 

  Brent Searles Power of the p!

  Like · Reply · 3 · April 12 at 4:39pm
• 

  Nikki Edwards Lol.. that'll teach her..

  Like · Reply · 2 · April 12 at 4:39pm
• 

  Jamie Ross I would do the same thing

  Like · Reply · 2 · April 12 at 4:38pm
• 

  Allison Carrie Moss Serious baby mama drama!

  Like · Reply · 4 · April 12 at 4:38pm

 I could add more, but I'll spare you. The most discouraging thing about the comments these people are making, is that their attitudes towards domestic violence pretty much explain why South Carolina has one of the highest domestic violence rates in the country.  You have both men and women condoning this kind of violence and even encouraging it or saying they'd do the same thing. It is truly insane.

4.  Judge Sets Bail For Woman Who Murdered 6 of Her Babies

This one hit my news feed today, and the comments got out of control very quickly.  It took about ten seconds after it was posted, for this story to become a debate about abortion.  Here are a few of the comments:

• 

  Jeff Conn This is tragic, but all who are complaining and are pro choice then your in the same boat she is. Killing life. A life is a life no matter if its in the womb or out. It's not a choice.

  Like · Reply · 13 · 7 hrs
• 

  Nick Southwell What's really sad is abortion clinics get this many in no time and it's legal... Don't see a difference.

  Like · Reply · 10 · 7 hrs

• 

  Melanie Anne Mccurry Bring back the firing range and start at her heels and work your way up slowly

  Like · Reply · 6 · 7 hrs
• 

  Nicolas Ortiz Everyone keeps say kill her yet we over look, the girls who go out and get laid up and have an abortion…. Yes I understand if you're raped by all means I feel you shouldn't have to go through it but if your stupid enough to get knocked up on a one night stand and kill a innocent baby because of it you to deserve death.

  Like · Reply · 5 · 6 hrs

There are of course, many other ignorant comments like these, and worse, on this particular post. Many state that they can't see a difference between a woman carrying a baby to term while hiding her pregnancy, giving birth to the baby, then strangling it to death, putting it in a box and storing it in the garage and a woman having an abortion.  I will admit, I am on the fence with the whole abortion issue myself.  I don't think I have the right to tell a woman who has been raped that she has to carry that baby to term and give birth to it.  Chances are, she's already been traumatized enough, without having to live with a constant reminder of what happened to her every single day when she feels that baby moving inside her, or when it is born and she sees it's face and it resembles the face of her attacker.  I know there are women who are brave enough and strong enough to do it, but it's not my place to judge someone who can't.  Also, I think that if a mother has other children and her pregnancy is threatening her ability to be there for her other kids, she may have a tough decision to make.  Give life to the one inside her, or stay alive to raise the ones she already has.  I refuse to make a blanketed judgment call about the issue for these and other compelling reasons.  

The point is, this was not the same thing as abortion.  A woman who could endure 7 pregnancies, give birth and then kill 6 out of the 7 babies is seriously disturbed.  No person in her right mind could do this kind of thing.  Without even knowing all the details, people are very quick to rush to judgment, either saying she should be put to death, or all pro-choice people are okay with infanticide.  

I can't forget to mention that the very people who are crying out about the injustice of abortion are also the people who are calling for this woman's death--some of them even offering to kill her themselves.  They're hollering that they "thought it was a woman's choice to do this kind of thing" without realizing that everything we do is a choice.  This woman, for whatever reason chose to do the wrong thing but if someone were to kill this woman, would they necessarily be doing the right thing?  Why is it ever right to take life?  

Sometimes it seems that people type before they think.  I, for one, wish that in some of these horrendous news stories, the "comments" were not allowed.  We can tell by the stories themselves that the world has become a sick twisted place.  The comments only serve to drive that fact home a little harder.  It is so troubling to me that people can sit in judgment, side with the bad-guy, and contradict their own beliefs without even realizing it.  

So I'm re-thinking the whole idea of getting the Sunday paper again.  Maybe it is worth the money and the mess just so I can read the news in peace and not be tempted to read the ridiculous comments people make about it online.  We all have opinions, but it seems a lot of people haven't figured out that we are not obligated to share all of them.  Seriously folks, with some of the ignorant things you say, it's a wonder everyone you know hasn't declared you insane.  

• 
  

Drowning

When I was seven years old we vacationed on Lake Murray.  As of then it was the biggest lake I had ever seen.  I remember wondering if it was the ocean when I first stepped out of our camper and squinted my eyes at it in the hot July sun.  I had only seen the ocean one other time before that, and then only for a few minutes on the way home from our Easter trip to the Everglades.  The reason I thought it might be the ocean was because I couldn't see the other side from where I was standing.  My older sisters had always told me that the difference between the lake and the ocean was that at the ocean, you couldn't see the other side. It wasn't long though before my dad set me straight. He put me in the boat and took me to the other side of the lake, where we dropped our heavily-wormed hooks in the water and listened to the crickets and frogs compete for air time while we waited for the fish to bite.  The air was heavy with mosquitoes, the smell of "Off" and the sound of my daddy's laughter echoing off the shoreline, calling back to us with a deep sigh of relief to finally be away from real life.

We rode back to camp after dark, on top of water so smooth you could trace every ripple as the boat sliced through  wiggly elongated reflections from the far away shoreline, a never-ending pool veined with light that we followed right up to our camp-site.  I loved sitting in the front of the boat where the running light glowed a patriotic red and blue beside me, showing the other boaters where we were, but doing nothing to help us navigate.  No matter what lake we were on and no matter what time of day we were traveling on it, my dad seemed to always know the way back to where we began.  As a kid, it seemed to me that we could have taken any direction and ended up in the same place, but my dad knew better.  I never even worried about how we would get back to our temporary abode, I just sat back and enjoyed being a kid on the lake with my dad.

Our campsite always smelled of camping fuel and smoke, with a hint of fishy clothes wafting through now and then from my dad's fish-cleaning clothes that hung on a line between two trees.  No matter where we went on our camping ventures, our camp-sites always looked the same.  My mom always had her makeshift kitchen with a screen tent over a picnic table, we had our clothes line and special dishes, our tents, sleeping bags and pillows, even our stuffed animals and baby dolls.  It wasn't really that different from home, except that it was way better.

Swimming and fishing were our things. The kids pretty much lived in the water all day. My mother who had a life-long fear of water, would watch us from her lounge chair and holler at us every time she thought we went out too far from shore.   I remember having  very soggy wrinkly fingers and toes and sunburned shoulders that hurt at night when I tried to sleep.  My freckles would get darker from the sun and my hair would get streaks of strawberry blonde from being in the sun so much every day.

My dad the fisherman always got up in the wee hours of the morning to go fishing before the hot sun caught up with him.  Fishing was an escape for him.  I always imagined that he was sitting somewhere out on the quiet lake in the morning, trying to spot deer in the edge of the woods along the shore while his hook sat lazily on the bottom of the lake.  As peaceful as it was to him, it was also serious business.  It stirred up his competitiveness like nothing else and he became notorious among his peer-group for being a master of the art.   I think the biggest fish he ever caught  was a 21 pound rock-bass.  He caught it out of Lake Murray after sitting in the hot-midday sun for hours waiting for a bite.   It was the biggest fish I had ever seen.   It eventually hung over the bedroom door in our house for years and years.  My mom hid money in it's mouth, but she didn't know I knew that.

 One morning at Lake Murray when I was seven and my dad was out fishing, I wandered out to a floating dock with my fishing pole and a bucket of worms.  I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

I was wearing a pair of brown bell-bottomed pants with flowers on them--oddly enough, I'd probably still wear those pants if they fit.  I don't remember what else I had on but those pants were some of my favorites back then.  Someone had left a bar stool on the dock that I noticed but ignored at first.  I sat on the edge of the dock with my pant-legs rolled up and my toes in the water. I baited my hook and dropped it in.  Waited for a few seconds, and like a typical seven year-old decided to try a different spot.  I went to each corner of the small square dock, cast my line, waited about a minute and then went to the next corner.  I could see the smoke from the last night's campfire still smoldering from a distance.  I saw my oldest sister poking around in the screen tent, saw my nephew throwing rocks.  No one even knew I was up.

I wasn't a swimmer just yet.  I loved floating around in the lake with my orange life-jacket on and even diving in from the boat as long as I had a floating device, but I was still kind of scared of the way the water pushed against my chest when I got in without my orange cushion of safety clasped tightly around me, keeping me afloat. I had never swam a day in my life.

There I was, alone in the sun on a July morning impatiently waiting for the fish to bite and starting to feel a little bored.  I saw the bar stool again.  It was so tall I could barely get my behind up on it, but I eventually wiggled my way up where I sat, proud as a peacock that I was only seven and fishing all by myself.  I hoped my mom would see me there and be proud of the initiative I had taken.  Unfortunately, my place wasn't as secure as I thought it was.

A boat landing was nearby, and in hindsight probably a wake zone as well, but the boat that took off from the landing that morning wasn't paying any attention to wake zones or floating docks or seven-year old very proud little girls sitting atop bar stools with their fishing poles. The dock swayed from side to side and my perch swiftly became unsteady, tipping me over straight into the water. It was over my head.  All I can remember is the feeling of water swishing under my feet as I kicked around trying to find bottom but found nothing there to push against.  I flailed my arms and tried to scream "Help!" as I sank down and rose again just barely getting my nose above water.  I was engulfed by it, covering my face, clouding my vision with it's muddiness, choking out my cries, stinging my nose.  I kept fighting it though, kept trying to call  for help, and at one point, saw my oldest sister bent over,  pointing her finger in her son's face.  I think I could hear her high-pitched voice scolding him, but in retrospect I probably didn't.  My memory likely just adds that piece because I heard it so much when I was a kid.

Eventually she heard me calling out and jumped in, shoes and all, to save me.  She grabbed me up, set me ashore, then promptly turned her finger and sharp voice in my direction.  I was a little stunned as she took my hand and dragged me back to our campsite to our mother, who only kind of seemed concerned and told me that the top of my head wasn't even wet.  I remember thinking, "Yeah but that's not where I breathe from."

I spent the next hour or so in my dry red shorts and white tank top lying on my parents' bed inside the camper.  I stared out the screen door resentfully at the lake, as if it were the lake's fault I decided to sit on top of a bar stool that was on top of a floating dock.  I wondered why my mother wasn't more upset.  Why was she just leaving me alone to feel so afraid?  Didn't she care that I almost died?  I imagined the water laughing at me, threatening me.  I talked back to it.  I told it I would never go fishing again.  I would  never ride in the boat again and I would NEVER go swimming again even with my orange life-jacket on. I just knew the lake had it out for me and I wasn't going to fall for its dirty tricks.

When my dad came back from fishing I ran outside the camper to tell him I almost died.  My sister relayed the story to him in a fretful but heroic kind of way as my mother sat quietly, then said something about how I didn't have any business wandering off like that in the first place.  I kind of felt like I deserved to almost-drown because I did something I shouldn't have done.

After my dad had lunch and his usual afternoon nap in the shade, he put on his knee-length cut-off pants and waded out up to his neck in the water instead of zipping back across the lake in our blue boat to catch bass, like he usually did.  I stood on the shoreline without so much as a toe in the water and watched him tossing my sisters in the air.  I wanted to put my life-jacket on and swim to him so he could throw me across the lake and let me splash into the water, but I was too afraid.  He never pressured me even once.  Finally, I grew weary of watching the fun and decided to give the water another try.  I put on my orange life-jacket as tightly as I could and waded in.  I eventually made it out to where he was and after he tossed me a couple of times, he urged me to take off my squishy orange pillow of safety and swim to him.  So I tried.  I had to get used to the swish of water under my feet, instead of solid ground.  I had to remind myself to keep my chin up and  breathe with the water pressing against my body.  Most of all,  I had to keep my eyes on my dad.  It wasn't that I had no fear of the water anymore, it was just that I knew it was time to conquer this thing I loved yet feared so much.  I couldn't have put it into those words when I was seven, but there it is for me now.

And there he was.  My dad, standing up to his neck in murky lake water with his arms outstretched, waiting for me as I struggled and flailed my way to him through the waves, his steadfastness giving me assurance that even if I began to sink, everything would be okay because his eyes were on me too.

Words

In my world, words are powerful. Even as a child I remember hearing new words and trying to figure out their meanings.  When I learned the word "Enormous" my mom was very impressed. Her reaction to it only encouraged me to learn more big words to say.

On my first day of school I was introduced to a whole new use of words that I never experienced before.  When I got on the bus with my two sisters that morning I was so nervous.  My stomach ached and I held back a well of tears as kids on the bus started calling out to my sisters and me, "Here come the dawgs"  and   "They live in that dawg house!" and "Oh they brought a puppy with em today!"  Then the howling commenced and we were tortured with words all the way to school.

It was mainly because of the house we lived in.  My grandpa Curtis built it way before I was born. I never knew my Grandmother and Grandfather Curtis.  They both died within months of my birth. I always kind of felt like I knew them, though, because we lived in their house.  I played in the huge yard and worked with my dad in the gardens.  I plundered the old barn and found things that had belonged to my grandparents.  I got my first bee sting under the apple tree and my first kiss in the back yard.

They were right I suppose.  From the outside especially, our house wasn't much to look at.  It was crooked and the shingles and siding were falling off in places.  My dad's boat shed was attached to the front of the house in those days, which also made it rather unsightly since the roof of the shed was also crooked.

 But inside our house there were certainly no dogs.  We got labeled dogs because in the eyes of the kids who lived in the subdivision one street over compared our home to theirs and came to the conclusion that only dogs would live in a house like ours.  I heard this put-down all the way from that first day to graduation day. Sure, it changed a little over the years but the basic message was the same. I was considered less than human because my house wasn't as pretty as theirs.

Until that first day of school I had no idea what name calling was or that it could hurt so bad. That day it intensified my fear and for many days after that.  It seemed as though those kids hated us enough to try to hurt us.  I realize now that the main culprits were from a dysfunctional family full of alcoholics who probably felt pretty crummy about their own "home" life and lashed out at us so they'd feel better. My older sisters didn't call me names.  My parents didn't resort to name calling.  I honestly had no idea that this happened in the world.  As time went on, I got pretty accustomed to it.

Words trigger emotions in people like me.  I focus intently on what people are saying.  I remember their words and play them back to myself over and over again--especially when someone says something hurtful.  I don't know why I put myself through that agony but I know it's something I have to do.  I have to take time to process those hurtful things and try to make sense of them before I can lay them to rest in the junk heap of careless words that have been flung at me all my life.

A while back a friend teasingly called me a skank.  I didn't realize it then, but that word triggered something in me and I'm sure I probably over-reacted.  I was pissed.  I was so angry that the comment got stuck in my head (and worst of all my heart) all this time.  It just occurred to me today why.  See, when I was in 7th grade my sister got my yearbook and wrote a really mean note in it about how ugly I was and how I would never get married or have a boyfriend because no one would ever want someone ugly like me.  The next day at school some girls asked to look at my yearbook so I let them.  They found the note my sister wrote. "That's so mean!"  I heard one  of them say.  "I know." said someone else. "What is it?" asked another one.  Before long, they had all read it.  I was sitting there, red-faced, feeling ashamed of myself for even being born when one of them piped up.  "Well, it's true."  Then a gasp from a few other girls.  Then laughter.  They were talking about me as if I wasn't there.  One of them called me a Scag.  Which I think is probably the closest word to "skank" we had back then.

These were people who didn't even know me.  They knew what kind of house I lived in and that my parents couldn't afford pricey brand-name clothing or shoes.  I never owned a pair of CK jeans and was only lucky enough to have a pair of Nike's for one school-year.  These people were judging me based on circumstances that were out of my control.  I was a kid, I had what my parents could provide for me.  They were no better than me just because their parents brought home bigger paychecks.


I wonder how many times I might have looked at someone's outer shell and made a judgment about them before I even heard them speak. It is so unfair to do that to anyone before you hear their story or get to know them better.  Swift judgments and harsh words really do hurt people and it's a hurt that lingers, sometimes for many years.

When I was a kid, I needed to hear words like "Smart" "Funny" "Cute" "Energetic"....But instead I heard words like "Lazy"  "Stupid"  "Hyper"  "Spoiled".

I really want to work on my use of words.  Especially words that can come off in a negative way or feed into my son's negative views about himself. Yes, even at 7 words can do damage.  Especially at 7.  I want him to know that he is smart and courageous and funny and tough (he prefers tough over handsome or cute).  My girls were teased mercilessly in middle school.  There were so many days they came home in tears over words that were hurled at them like daggers all throughout the day.  They always knew though, that home was a safe place.  At home, no one calls you names.  At home you can speak up, you can act silly, you can get angry, you can be who you are and no one is going to punish you for it.  At home, mom is there to use all the opposite words from the words you heard all day and instead of feeling hated you can feel loved and completely accepted.

I know that words have impacted my life in many ways, both good and bad.  They have shaped the way I see myself in relation to the rest of the world.  I've never thought I was attractive, just average.  But hey, that's a step up from ugly scag.  Maybe I'm doing okay now because back then, home was my safe-haven. I only had to make sure I kept my yearbook away from my sister, and trust me, I always did after that.  Home was my place where I could wander off by myself, into the woods or to the loft of the barn and create another reality where I was normal and no one hated me.  Home gave me a chance to recharge every day and build up the strength to go back again the next.

Home made me think of words like warm, peaceful, protected, content.
It is true: Our house wasn't much to look at. But it was the best place in the world to be.

What I learned at an Independent Fundamental Baptist Church, It had nothing to do with "God Is Love"

I don't like discussing religion.  It inflames people.  It makes people uncomfortable when they hear beliefs that differ from their own, even when those beliefs may involve some pretty small and insignificant details.  What is significant is highly subjective.  No one is going to budge an inch on what they believe from engaging in an argument about religion or faith, if you'd rather call it that.  I don't like talking about religious matters, but something has been nagging at me for a few days now, after I read a blog post from an Independent Baptist preacher about how the Independent Baptist Movement has gone astray.

It is a good piece that lists some of the areas (from an IFB preacher's point of view) where IFB churches need to get back on track.  (You can check out his blog post by clicking here ).  I agree with most of what this preacher has to say; however, there are several very important issues he didn't touch at all.  So, I guess I'm going to have a go at it.

I grew up in an Independent Baptist church.  When I was a little girl we had a pastor who was red-faced and happy.  He didn't holler at us from the pulpit, and he was super sweet to all the kids.  He had a big family himself that was a close-knit bunch.  I loved him.  I loved my Sunday School teacher too.  She was the most awesome person in the world, so far as I knew.  She made Bible stories come alive, she smiled all the time and she encouraged us to sing loud.  My best friend was in my class.  After Sunday School was over we would march out together holding hands and beg our parents to let us sit together for the worship service, referred to by most, as Preaching.

When that pastor left and another one came, things changed very little.  The youth group still went to the skating rink once a month.  The girls wore jeans and the rink was allowed to play rock music while we skated.  In fact, it wasn't even a big deal if women wore pants.  It didn't matter if we went to the movies and no one fussed at us about the music we listened to.

These two pastors, who were aged and wise, never spoke in a demeaning way about women, and if a woman spoke up about something, they listened.  In fact, if my Sunday School teacher hadn't spoken up once, I would probably not be intelligent enough to stumble through this blog post.  We had been using crayons with lead in them.  As soon as she found out, she went straight to the pastor.  He not only told the congregation about the crayons we had been using at church, but also urged our parents to throw out our old crayons and get new ones.  Then, he thanked Miss Sarah for letting us all know.

Back in those days, the attendance averaged about 200 every week for worship.  I wish I could say the church is still going strong, but from what I've heard, it isn't.

When I was 12 we got another new pastor.  His ideas about Christianity were kind of different from what we were used to.  The first thing established was that the women of the church were not to wear pants, tight clothes, low cut blouses, skirts with splits above the knee or sleeveless dresses.  Oh, you could wear those things, but you couldn't sing in the choir or teach Sunday School or have any other office in the church if you did.  If you were a man, you had to have the "Whitewall" haircut.  That was it.  The only rule for men was that they couldn't have long hair.

But the list of restrictions went on:  No going to the movies, no drinking alcohol, no dancing, no listening to secular music, no swimming with people of the opposite sex (even in a public place like the beach) if you did so, you were "mixed bathing" which was very, very evil...in other words, no having fun, unless you consider playing Bible Trivial Pursuit for 2 hours a day "fun".

As the years have gone on, things have only gotten more strict.  I remember when they banned Contemporary Christian Music.  They added a rule about bra straps showing or something like that, and one about tithing.  Over time, the older members started to die off, and younger members just weren't showing up anymore.  If they did, they didn't stay long and the church wasn't doing anything to help their situation.  They embarrassed one lady and her family into never coming back by chastising her for wearing a skirt with a slit that came above the knee.  Another family over the fact that their teenage daughter wore jeans and listened to country music.  The list goes on an on, but that's not what I'm here to talk about.

My point is, I spent my formative years of learning about Jesus hearing nothing about what I should do.  I was basically taught that if I wanted to be a good Christian, if I wanted God to use my life for a purpose, I had to abstain from everything "normal".  I actually came to believe that I was worthless unless I abstained from the laundry list of "sins" my church gave me.  Never once did I sit through a sermon on what I should DO for Jesus, other than browbeat others who were not of my denomination or who weren't believers at all.

I was taught: "Know what you believe so when your beliefs are challenged you can prove you are right and they are wrong."  According to my church, my denomination, we were the ONLY ones who had it right.  We knew that being a Christian was all about not doing anything on that list.

But here's the kicker:  There were several sexual predators who sat in our congregation and held offices in our church.  Some of them are still there, on the pew every Sunday, depositing offerings in the bank on Monday.  The pastor knows these men are sexual offenders.  In one case, he couldn't find anyone else to replace the accused man, so he let him continue his office.  In another case, well, several cases, he turned a blind eye and just let those men slide right back into their pews, their licenses to preach, their positions with youth.

I know this is all true, because I was almost a victim of one of these men.  Maybe I even was a victim, since he did manage to fondle my breasts when I was 12 and since another one violated my ex-husbands little sister.  One man in the congregation actually made comments to my ex-husband and father of our two daughters about how his step-daughter (who was also his niece) was really "developing".  My youth minister made comments like that to me when I was going through puberty.  It was highly inappropriate, but I all I knew back then was that it made me uncomfortable and embarrassed.  A few years later, he was accused of sexually assaulting a member of the youth group and he left the church.  He went to another church where he probably still has access to young girls.  There were men who sang in front of the congregation who had molested children and sexually harassed women who weren't their wives.  They had to have all known that the consequences wouldn't be that bad even if anyone found out.  No one ever made a police report.  The pastor never reported these crimes.  The families weren't going to report them without the pastor's approval.  In essence, the church was a sort of playground for predators by the time I was an adult.

Put yourself in my shoes then, as a twenty-something wife and mother, youth group leader, assistant pianist at church who read her Bible and prayed daily, but still felt so spiritually unfulfilled because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't obtain perfection.  I heard the same sermons over and over again about how God hates queers and I'm not in "God's will" if I'm not reading my Bible every single day.  I went to church three times a week to be told what a worthless  pile of crap I was.  Very rarely did we hear about the love of God, or the acceptance He offers us.  All I knew was, I would never be good enough for God...according to my pastor.  Meanwhile, he and my former pastor had people sitting in their congregations who were only there to prey on others and the pastors said nothing against them.  The message I was getting was only men could be good enough for God, because even though they committed horrible sins, they were forgiven, and their sins forgotten by the church.  These weren't sins like telling a lie or stealing a pen.  These were sins that actually harmed other people, warped the minds and killed the spirits of small children.  Sins, crimes these men would go on to repeat over and over again with an endless bounty of acceptance and forgiveness from the IFB church.

Once I left the "bubble" that Independent Baptists tend to live in, where the pastor's word is as good as God's, I began to view the world and my relationship with God in a much healthier way.  I slowly started to recognize my worth, I started to realize that being close to God is about the things we DO in life, not the things we abstain from doing.  I don't look down on people who are different from me.  I don't think God hates gay people, and I don't hate myself for not being perfect enough. I go to the movies, I swim at the beach, I listen to whatever music I'm in the mood for.  I drink once in a while, and I wear jeans.  I also wear dresses with spaghetti straps.  They don't seem to make skirts with splits in them anymore, but if they did, I'd wear one.  And you know what?  God wouldn't love me any less for it.

In my life I have learned that the joy of being a believer comes from giving to and being present for others.  You can't really be present if you live in a bubble that consists only of other people, who like you, look to a man to tell you the rules to follow.  Jesus gave two commandments in the new testament:

Matthew 22:35-40

"...Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."

And those are the two commandments I try to follow as best I can.  I don't always love God as I should.  I don't always love others enough.  I often love myself too much.  I know what I believe though, and I choose to believe the words of Christ over the words of some venom spewing pastor who gets his kicks out of pointing fingers at everyone else's imperfections in order to make himself feel more holy.  One thing that I have learned that maybe they haven't, is that my worthiness of Gods blessings isn't based on what anyone else thinks of me.  He is the only judge, and only to Him will I answer.

Now, I think I'm going to go put my favorite jeans on and go to a movie.   Because of my Sunday School teacher, I know that Jesus loves me, and my jeans or entertainment choices will never change that.





If you are or know someone who is a victim of a sexual predator in your church, please report the crime to the authorities!  People who face no consequences for their behavior are GOING to repeat that behavior over and over again until someone stops the cycle.

Here is a website where you can get more information about sexual abuse in the church:

Stop Baptist Predators.org