The drive from Longview to Corpus Christi includes a short stretch through the town of Refugio, Texas. When we passed through there last June, I looked for a landmark I remembered from our first Corpus trip years prior: an old, white church building. It has a reddish-brown roof, tall arched windows, and a towering steeple—possibly with a bell?—which I've only ever seen covered with boards, hiding damage from Hurricane Harvey in 2017.
I located it, pointed it out to to Anthony, and then caught myself in the middle of a specific thought, that for the first time seemed so odd.
For as long as I can remember, when taking in the sight of large, ornate churches and cathedrals, I felt a sense of disappointment towards the ones that weren't the “right kind” of church. Catholics, in this example, didn't worship the same God I did; so whatever reverence that inspired an architect to design or congregation to fund a building like that seemed to make it less beautiful.
When I realized I had always subconsciously thought this, I felt ashamed and embarrassed, even though I'd never spoken it out loud. How arrogant to believe that someone else's expression of devotion didn't count because it looked different than mine! How totally opposite of Christ-like that idea is. And because it's so immature and lacking in perspective, I'm assuming I picked it up somewhere as a child. But even today, I have no idea where it came from. I can't picture my parents saying something like that. I can't even recall a pastor, schoolteacher, or relative putting that into my mind. Yet, I obviously got it from someone; and it was ingrained so deeply that I was 27 before realizing how wrong it was.
This is the power words have, and the depth of their influence on others. Yes, we do have the ability to correct and reshape our thinking; but whether we like it or not, our worldview is a mosaic of all the people, places, and circumstances we’ve known.
If coming into this healthy, fulfilling relationship with Anthony felt like lighting a flame in my soul, then attempting a relationship with God felt like repeatedly striking a damp match.
I am the opposite of an unchurched person. I grew up 5 minutes away from where we attended twice on Sunday, once on Wednesday, and most Saturday mornings. I went to the Christian school there from Kindergarten to 3rd grade. It was a beautiful campus adjacent to Georgia’s Stone Mountain Park—our teachers would regularly take us on nature walks to eat our lunches in the woods. My parents served in just about every ministry over the years. Some of my church memories include packing sack lunches with tracts for runners during the 1996 Olympics, driving with the team during my dad’s time as basketball coach, the services-every-night excitement & book table shopping of Sword of the Lord conferences, and running buck wild with friends during “dinner on the grounds” Sundays.
When I was 4, I knew I needed to go down to the altar and get saved. The invitation ended too soon for us to go forward, so my parents knelt at the couch with me when we got home. I insisted on waiting until the next time I could pray with Pastor Rossi at church. I remember this vividly! We got our chance soon, and I asked Jesus to wash my sins away in our quiet huddle. The rest of the gym was full of the commotion of chairs being stacked, kids playing tag, and other very specific sounds I can still hear. I have a hymnbook that still smells like that church. Very few things I remember from these first 10 years of my life are anything less than idyllic.
There was a distinct shift when my dad announced his call to preach. So many big things happened in a very short time period! Both my siblings were born; my dad began Bible college at night while still working full-time and taking preaching opportunities all over the South. He candidated for several pastorates and ended up at a small congregation in Alvin, Texas.
My whole goal in sharing these memories is to try to explain (and honestly, process for myself) what shaped my perspective and the person I became.
I think there are a few things that specifically affected who I am:
-Leaving my home environment forced my world to get bigger. Relative to the story, it showed me so many different teachings about God and ways that people worship/do church. (For reference, I’m currently at the 9th church I’ve regularly attended. That’s a lot of different camps, conferences, and embarrassing youth group games.)
-In moving to Texas, there was a drastic end to most of the stability I had. From then on, it was rare for my dad to be working in the same town we lived in. The frequent change in having one or both parents around was hard. I think it’s fair to say they found their footing as a family again, but it was long after I moved out.
-Having a family member with mental illness affected each of us in different ways. It was a difficult thing that we had to live both publicly and privately. It is complicated to navigate continuing a relationship through. You never know what is the real person and what is the disease—and you can’t just decide to not be hurt by either one.
Maybe the biggest, I struggled to develop healthy relationships. There are probably many reasons: small, isolated environments; my own depression and anxiety; the uncertainty I felt at home.
I just desperately wanted to belong and to be loved. For years, I watched my dad—absolutely adored at every place we went. I memorized the cadence of his preaching and knew exactly when he was about to pull on heartstrings. I saw the difference in how he treated other people and how he treated us. It didn’t turn me off from God. It just taught me how to be a good performer.
That was, perhaps, the biggest flaw in my core values—that the main goal was what people saw: the performance.
Over and over again, I did the kosher things and picked up the accepted practices of wherever we happened to be. Some of it was superficial, sure, but most things I would genuinely decide to believe; whether it was about God or the Christian life or myself. There weren’t lasting repercussions from what I did or didn’t do. That obviously changes as you become an adult.
When I was 17, we moved to a strange town right at the Arizona-Nevada-California border. It’s difficult to explain just how bizarre this place felt. We went to a tiny church where our family was treated almost like a novelty. Being the oldest by several years in a very small group of kids, I was instantly given way more responsibility than I could handle. They had me teaching and “counseling” and—I would almost say—exploited every little thing I knew how to do. When they assumed I was headed to Bible college, I just leaned into it. Getting back to Texas was my only goal.
Once I was there, of course this move felt like higher stakes than others. I wanted a whole new life. I wanted to stand on my own. I didn’t just flippantly accept this new set of rules, I earnestly determined to believe them. (Spiritual rules, not college rules, for clarity. I earned something like 60 demerits for refusing to accept that the permission slip rule applied to me.)
The beginning of my marriage shortly followed that. I could just stay in one place and be a the same type of person forever? Sign me up. I gave him my grandmother’s wedding rings to propose with on our 3rd date.
Continued in Part 4: Not My God
Part 1: Bad Marriage, A Gospel Story | Part 2: I’m With You
