Warning: stream of conscience type writing to follow so if you’re not a fan of James Joyce – whom I was forced to read in high school as a “classic” and thought he was a little overrated. I mean, I feel like literary critics/buffs sit down to read these things, see that the grammar is not atrocious, but fall asleep in the middle of it, snort awake and shout “Classic!” so as not to lose face in front of their peers. Where was I going with this? oh, yeah – then you probably won’t like this post. Also; religion; racism; and homophobia.
One time, when I was on a farm call for a cow, I don’t even remember what for, but I remember at the end of it, the farmer was so impressed with my demeanor he said “You must have been raised in a church. I can tell” I was certainly flattered, I understood what he was trying to say, but he was wrong.
I was raised in the deep south where EVERYONE had a church, normally southern Baptist, but some heathens (according to the Baptists) that were Methodist. I was raised without God. My parents were considered “hippy parents” where hippy was a derogatory word in the south. I didn’t mind. Although everyone who has ever called me or my upbringing “hippy” have never been able to consistently tell me what that means, I still ask anyone who says it. I took it as a compliment because if being “hippy” means caring for EVERYONE, loving and respecting everyone no matter who they are or what they believe (kind of like Jesus), then I was okay with that. No. I was proud of that.
My only experiences with church when I was growing up was to go when we visited grandma and occasionally if I had a sleep over with a friend who went to church. Both sets of my grandparents lived in Abbeville, GA. Wilcox county. My parents were next door neighbors when they met. Just to give you a feel of this place, they made national news when they had their FIRST racially integrated prom in April of 2013 (NOT 100 years ago, 7, less than S.E.V.E.N. years). My father has an experience when he was a child where he was going to church and a small group of young black men came up to the church steps and were stopped. They asked, very peacefully, if they could come in and worship, but the deacons all lined up to block their way and they were turned away.
When my sister became pregnant with a black man’s child, she received a letter from my very dear grandmother. A woman who had dedicated her life to worshipping Jesus; had never missed a day of church unless tragedy struck; volunteered for any and all events to help others; spent her last years when she could no longer walk knitting hundreds of sweaters for children in need; had even been one of the first teachers to volunteer to teach at the first integrated school when my mother was a child. A woman, who sent my young, scared-senseless sister a letter stating how disappointed she was in her and how much shame and teasing my sister would bring her family, but what was worse than anything to her was how my grandmother’s church would never be able to accept the child.
Then, of course, there were the friends I had who were avid church goers but would state things like “but if I ever brought a black man home, my father would kill me!” or “they need to stop blaming the system and just go out and get a job” then turn around and ask the receptionist if the person calling asking about a job “sounded black” because he “didn’t care, but some of the clientele might” and yet somehow, these people still claim not only to be not racist, but also followers of Jesus (not white). I won’t even get started on the unmentionables such as homosexuality – I mean we all know that’s why God is destroying the earth through global warming – which is also a hoax. *insert sarcasm* – my sister (you know, the one that shamed our family with her mixed race child – the child who, by the way, is now 20 and excelling in a pre-med degree at CSU) is a meteorologist (not on TV) and dedicates her life to studying weather patterns.
So, you can see why, as a young person, church was not attractive to me. I was raised by parents to love everyone and treat everyone with respect and people who I would think should be the epitome of love and acceptance were some of the worst. I started attending a church when I started dating Tony as his family were avid goers. I was attending a Sunday school session with one of the deacons when there was a small argument/discussion about how Jesus would only accept those pure of heart and how homosexuals were evil (or whatever) and I finally spoke up and said “Jesus said to love everyone, Jesus IS love, we should love everyone as we love Jesus” and the older, very bald man wearing thick black rimmed glasses (think Judge Doom from Roger Rabbit ’88) stared down at me – a teenage girl daring to speak to a grown man – with a half smirk and said “I’m not talking about that HIPPY love!” and went on with his speech.
I eventually moved to Michigan and had children that I thought might benefit from some socialization. We picked a church rumored to have a fantastic youth/childcare program and started attending. I went there with a chip on my shoulder and lots of grains of salt, prepared to put up my mental dukes and a wall around me. It wasn’t as I expected. The message was about love and acceptance and I began to soften. We joined a small group trying to get more involved and to further socialize our young children as Tony was a stay-at-home dad back then. It was there that I was introduced to the most lovely group of people I have ever met associated with a church. They taught me so much, including how every sin is equal in God’s eyes, but that He loved us so much that all those are forgiven. So, let’s say for a moment that homosexuality is a sin – so is going out in public while I’m on my period or wearing clothes of two different materials or eating shellfish. We’re all sinners, so we should stop telling each other that; just let it go and love and support each other.
These people because some of our best friends and their kids became by kids’ best friends. It was so refreshing to attend a church and socialize with people where it was all about love and acceptance. I slowly started coming out of my shell. I had always been afraid for people to know I was Christian because I knew how I felt about Christians or ones proclaiming to be in what I had seen. I knew that if someone came up to me and asked me to talk with them about Jesus, I would have immediately written them off and gone about my day. I’ve been in several groups of Christians that admit to not having any non-Christian friends because they feel like it will soil them or their children.
I would say that most of my friends are NOT Christian and I love that. I don’t take every opportunity we have together to bring it up, not even close. Some of my friends may not even know how passionately I seek answers. I tend to be drawn to the emotional train wrecks the most. Some of them seem to turn around and have ended up happy. Most of them stay about where they are, some of them (okay – one of them) completely blocked me out of his life. I guess I’ll just keep trudging along like Forrest Gump running across the country; happy for companions, sad for the ones I’ve lost, but not dragging anyone along.
So, against my better judgement, but keeping in tune with my “what comes up comes out” description someone once gave me, I responded to that farmer who made a statement about my upbringing with “No, actually, I wasn’t. I was just raised by parents to be a decent human being and to love everyone no matter what.” He acted a bit put off, but then brushed it off and thanked me for helping him.
Now, for some pictures of God’s creations
