July 30, 2010

Remember the Ladies

That your sex are naturally tyrannical is a truth so thoroughly established as to admit of no dispute; but such of you as wish to be happy willingly give up — the harsh tide of master for the more tender and endearing one of friend.

Why, then, not put it out of the power of the vicious and the lawless to use us with cruelty and indignity with impunity?

Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as the (servants) of your sex; regard us then as being placed by Providence under your protection, and in imitation of the Supreme Being make use of that power only for our happiness.

Abigail Adams to her husband, John Adams, 31 March 1776

So I’m a survivor who’s just now learning to make herself the subject of the sentence. A former ideological “battered wife” from a patriarchal Southern civil religion. A mom — the embodiment of all that is soft and nurturing and powerful and earthy and frightening. A writer-of-that-body who makes the myth-maker shake in his cuff links. A woman who’s taking an honest look at the facts.

The economic prospects for a mom in America aren’t great. But do you know where some researchers conclude she’s got a better chance of a loving life partner? You’ll never guess. . . .

Conservative Evangelicalism.

Studies of Christian women who actively embraced this ideal suggest that the ‘submission’ required of them was a minor concession for a divinely sanctioned domestication of their husbands. During its heyday in the early 1990s, the evangelical men’s organization Promise Keepers struck a bargain that may well have been the best offer for many women. By submitting, they were rewarded with ‘husbands and fathers who forswear drinking, drugs, smoking, and gambling, who lovingly support their families by steady work, and who even choose to go shopping with them as a form of Christian service.’

This was particularly attractive accord since ‘submission’ in practice boiled down to little more than a rhetorical gesture at the husband’s final say in major decisions. When asked how it played out in marriage, few conservative Christians seemed able to recall an example where husbands actually pulled rank in decision-making. Instead, the couples coded expressiveness — emotional labor — and family responsibilities — reproductive labor — as ‘leadership’ to make them newly palatable to men (113).

Abigail Adams said as much.

It’s sometimes called “soft patriarchy.” And it’s not just the ideology that offers a more mutual environment for mothers. It’s the devotion to the ideology. The men that attend such churches most regularly are the most attentive, the most appreciative, the most domesticated.

Through servant leadership, evangelical men made a measurable contribution to the ‘economy of gratitude.’ In this schema, the best predictor of domestic harmony was not an equal division of labor — that option has virtually never been on the table in American families — but rather husbands’ consistent expression of gratititude for the gift of domestic labor women made to them. Unlike their supposedly egalitarian male counterparts, conservative Christian men had at hand an ideology that allowed them to praise and acknowledge women’s work at home without thereby running the risk of being required to share it equally. In contrast, nonreligious men who paid lip service to formal sex-neutral rights had no alibi for their demonstrated failure to split the labor at home, and may have found it safer to ignore the work altogether. Between the two, many wives preferred the former — especially since they seemed to have little hope of achieving actual parity (115).

But if these “soft patriarchs” attend church sporadically, they are more likely to be abusive. In other words, if they are unlikely to submit themselves to a religious community, they are unlikely to (mutually) submit to their familial obligations.

That’s at least what the sociologists conclude from the statistics. Mind you, I’m not saying there’s not room for improvement or that this is perfection. But these are the facts.

Evangelical scholars offer a few more caveats. Soft patriarchy might domesticate muscular Christianity, but hard patriarchy is dangerous for women and children. And the lines between the two are too easily muddled.

Nearly all evangelical and fundamentalist leaders preach a hard patriarchy, but the nitty-gritty of daily life has permeated the evangelical culture and softened that hard edge. In other words, the evangelical marriage advice is often simply out of touch. But when fundamentalists emphasize separation and tout a life hermetically sealed from the culture at large, their patriarchy hardens and calcifies.

The scholars describe three family structures: 1) the wife/mother is on the same level with the children and the father is above all of them (hard patriarchy).

2) The children are below the wife/mother and the father is above her (soft patriarchy).

3) The woman is on an equal plane with her husband over the children (egalitarian).

The last option, researchers conclude, is the best because abuse is the least likely, and the second one is tolerable if the father does have regular external oversight.

But the first one is disastrous. It creates the greatest risk for incest since the wife/mother and the child are equals, so that either can be defined as a sexual “being” to the entitled patriarch.

The perpetrator of incest has been described as a man ‘who is devout, materialistic, and fundamentalist in his religious beliefs, coming from a background in which morality was preached in public and breached in private. In a large research study done on incarcerated sex offenders, more than half of all incest offenders were found to be devout in their religious practice (83).

In other words, while soft patriarchy might domesticate Evangelical men, hard patriarchy does nothing of the sort. Religion fixes nothing when there are no consequences for criminal behavior and when the woman and the children are not autonomous Image-Bearers.

And this isn’t just a theory. This is all too frequent and prevalent. And it’s happening right now.

July 18, 2010

I Will Survive!

Healing from intense and pervasive trauma — whether from cancer or rape or earthquake or war — comes as you learn to call yourself a “survivor.” It’s a rhetorical move away from “victim.” When a victim can describe herself as a “survivor,” she:

no longer feels possessed by her traumatic past; she is in possession of herself. She has some understanding of the person she used to be and of the damage done to that person by the traumatic event. Her task now is to become the person she used to be and of the damage done to that person she wants to be. In the process she draws upon those aspects of herself that she most values from the time before the trauma, from the experience of the trauma itself, and from the period of recovery. Integrating all of those elements, she creates a new self, both ideally and in actuality (202).

Judith Herman

“Survivor” identifies autonomy. Personhood. It fully acknowledges the past trauma as trauma. It highlights strength. Rather than things happening to you (scene/victim), you are an agent. You act. You have power. You do stuff.

And fundamentalists hate it. They would say that using “survivor” is a petulant, ungrateful response to the lousy things God has done to/for you. They would say that you shouldn’t just “survive” but “rejoice.” Which means, as usual, “shut up and get back to work.” In fundamentalism, you should only “move” in deference to the whole. You can only “be” in the group. That’s how the ideology becomes god.

Fundamentalists don’t like autonomy. When they say we must “deny the self,” they mean it. But not like Jesus meant it. They mean that we must erase the individual in lieu of the whole. There are no boundaries between persons, just recalcitrant boundaries between sects. We must deny that the self even exists. We can never put ourselves as the agent. “I” should never be the subject of the sentence.

Don’t get mixed up and think that’s the appropriate “grammar” of all Calvinism. I think that’s where this new breed of “Young, Restless, and Reformed” are just finding new duds for an old, mean fundamentalism. A hipster Kesiedispiecostalism. Even Jonathan Edwards in his “Resolutions” talks about what he does. How he acts. How we join God’s ongoing work. We work because He works.

I work because He works. ;)

How does Steve Brown put it? “I’m a Calvinist, so I know it’s all about God. But it’s about me too.”

That’s salvation. God doesn’t save us to be nothing. We weren’t once alive and now we’re dead. We were dead in our trespasses and sins, and He lifted us up and made us His children. The Church Universal isn’t a Borg ship. It’s a city! A Kingdom. A bustling, colorful, dappled, productive, noisy community.

And for now, until the Bridegroom arrives, we persevere. We “keep on keeping on.” It’s a race. We’re running!

I’m running. So let me try this. . . . I have earned a Ph.D. from a Research 1 university with two unaccredited degrees putting a permanent black smudge on my record. I have buried four children — one I carried past term — and have birthed two screamers. I have breastfed those two children — one until he was nearly four and one until he was well past two — and yes, that means I did tandem-nursing. I co-slept, nursed, and wore my babies right through their toddlerhood. Despite ongoing disciplinary action from my employer, I chose gentle discipline for my sons. I am a published author and scholar. I have endured shunning, betrayal, threats, job loss, and emotional, mental, and spiritual abuse from people I considered my dearest friends. And I persevered. God has begun this work in me, and He will perform it until He calls me home. And I join Him.

And if you want to take out your cyber-red-pen and correct the “grammar” on the above paragraph, you’re probably a fundamentalist.

I bought myself that necklace several months ago — right around the time I took my blog “sabbath.” I am wearing it until I believe it. Until I believe that I’m a survivor.

July 7, 2010

Happy Ninth Birthday in Heaven, Daughter Dear!

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Happy Birthday, Honey! You are missed! I can’t wait to kiss my darlin’ again!

July 6, 2010

Our Emerald Year

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Happily remembering our twenty years together!

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April 5, 2010

A Time to Remember . . . Providence

I’ve been meaning to tell this story too. This is a little earthy, so if you’re uncomfortable with stuff and would rather assume I’m just a immaterial blog on a screen, skip this post. I won’t be hurt.

I hate doctors. I do. I was trying to explain this to my G.P. the other day, but I had strep throat and could barely talk. I’ve picked him because he’s not an alarmist and he’s pretty just factual about stuff. So it’s a good match for me. But I see that white coat, and I freak. Here’s why.

I’ve talked about my several-year-long journey through crappy doctors starting with the little gem who tried to tell me my foot didn’t hurt. I’m still incredulous at her abusive audacity. What kind of doctor tells a patient something doesn’t hurt? She did it several times about many different maladies, so it wasn’t a fluke, but a habit. Anyway, I got through that, and we started talking about starting a family.

We had one pregnancy begin on January 30, 2000 and end on March 3, 2000. We had another begin on October 1, 2000 and end on July 7, 2001. And in 2002 — around the year anniversary of Elise’s death — we had another little life begin. That little boy was not meant for this world. I know that now because he was Trisomy-10, but I had a sense then. I wasn’t just spotting early on; I was bleeding. Badly.

Because I was a special case after my stillbirth, my excellent G.P. sent me to Highlands. It was a disaster from beginning to end.

They did an ultrasound, but it was still too early to tell anything for sure. So they went for the usual HCG testing. They take a blood draw and see the levels of HCG, and then they wait two days and repeat. In a normal, viable pregnancy, the numbers double.

I saw Dr. Stoner. I’ll just sum up my impression of her with this: beware of the OBGYN with loooooong fingernails! She came into the room jabbering the usual line describing HCG testing. Mind you — I saw this little well-manicured genius in 1995 during my last go-round with crappy doctors. Then, when I asked her why I wasn’t having my periods, she said, “Because you’re not ovulating.” No kidding, Einstein!

And this time, in 2002, she was on heartless autopilot again. In the consult, I mentioned my previous two losses and specifically my stillbirth. And like something right out of a SNL skit, she tried to cover her ignorance about my OB history by sneakily thumbing through my records. And she continued blathering.

They took the blood and I went home, still bleeding. I came back two days later for them to get more blood. I asked them specifically, “When will I hear the results?” The phlebotomist assured me, “Oh, by lunch time. No worries!”

I went back to my summer job on the BJU campus. I worked in my office and Grant did too a few floors down. We both waited by the phone. Nothing. Still waiting. Nothing. I called them, and, of course, got nothing but the voice mail (they never picked up the phone). I left my name, my SS#, and my phone number.

Finally at 5:30, Grant and I decided to go home. Since Highlands was closed, we assumed we wouldn’t hear now for the rest of the night. Grant went to Lowe’s to get some mulch. I stayed home to get dinner ready.

And then, when I was alone, the nurse called. Dr. Einstein’s assistant. She said in a very chipper tone (and I remember every word), “Well, Dr. Stoner left the office before she could see your test results. But I have them here. And they don’t look good at ALL! So we’ll call you in the morning to schedule a D&C. . . . You okay?”

Read that again. Read it with a fake-happy tone. Now imagine being on the other end of THAT after all the terrifying stuff I had been through. The sum of her comfort was “You okay?” That was it.

No! I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t anywhere near okay. But what are you going to do about it? What do you care? What do any of you care? What kind of jerks are you over there? Have you even read my file?

I instead just said with all the sarcasm I could muster, “Oh yeah. I’m just greeeeat!” And hung up.

Grant came home and I told him the news. I gotta say that that’s always the worst part — telling those that you love that you’re going to go through Hell again. It was the worst part of Elise’s death — telling my parents. I didn’t want them sad. And now I had to tell Grant.

He was mad. Just mad. So, he did his therapeutic thing: he mowed the lawn. And I called Sarah, my sister-in-law. God bless her! Seriously, she did exactly what I needed. She went into nurse-mode and talked me through it. She reminded me of reality. She kept me sane. She said, “No. You don’t schedule a D&C. Those tests could be wrong. You wait. You get more tests. It’s not over yet. Do you hear me???”

So with a new persistence, the next morning I waited for the phone call from Highlands. I was going to tell them what Sarah had said. I waited. I prayed. And I waited.

Nothing. They never called. So I got on the horn and got their voicemail again and got huffy: “I have been waiting all morning for the phone call that you all promised. When are you going to call me? I have an unusual situation here that you all don’t seem to realize! I’m supposed to be getting CARE, and I’m getting NO CARE from you all. You’re causing me stress, not relieving it!”

Lo and behold! They called!!! But they called Grant. They said, “Hahaha — we were calling her social security number.” And I’m supposed to trust them to read test numbers when they can’t tell the difference between a Social and a phone number?

When I finally got to talk to a person, she said that Stoner had ordered more HCG testing (not the D&C that little Nurse Chipper had concluded). I said, “No. I don’t trust you all. I don’t need this. I’m going elsewhere.” Click.

Well, I had severed that dysfunctional relationship. Now what was I going to do?

And I’m not kidding you with this next part. This is exactly what happened.

I sat at my desk and prayed. Where am I going to find a doctor? I don’t know what I’m doing. God help me.

I pushed away to get up to get the Yellow Pages and the phone rang. It was my sister-in-law. She had talked to a friend who had also experienced a stillbirth. Whose niece babysat for a Maternal-Fetal-Medicine doc in town. And she had gotten me an appointment for that Thursday.

Read that all again. Did you see what God did? Did you see how He wrote that story? I was just getting up to get the phonebook to go doctor-diving, and He not only pointed me to one, He got me an appointment.

What followed was truly startling. Because that doctor — Dr. Chapman — treated me with professionalism and honesty. The news she gave me was the same as I got at Highlands essentially — my baby wasn’t meant for this world. But they had their eyes wide open to my past, they held my hand through the pain, and they treated me as an intelligent soul, not just a voice mail message.

God was carrying us through all that. I know it. Even now, however, I still panic when I see the white coats. I’m learning to get through that, but it’s hard too. It’s another instance of Jesus hugging me through the pain.

March 21, 2010

A Time to Remember . . . Spring

I’m the youngest child of two youngest children. And with all those aunts and uncles and cousins (that’s my next oldest cousin Camille up there standing with me on my porch in 1973), I’m the only one in the extended family who wasn’t born in Detroit, Michigan. But my South Bend birthplace still hovers around the Great Lakes. Still in the blustery North. Still where Falls are the loveliest in the world. Besides the roly-polies I used to torture in my tire sandbox and the earthworms I used to divide with a stick (in order to help them multiply), the autumnal hard maple trees are the only flora and fauna I remember from that home at 1601 Byron. Those beautiful trees.

We moved to Tulsa when I was seven. A very well-appointed house. 5008 South Lakewood. That house was the neighborhood developer’s rambling ranch. No basement, which floored my Dad: “Where do I store stuff?” But a sunken bathtub, four bathrooms, a courtyard, terrazzo floors, three ovens and eight burners . . . it was enormous. The southwestern rough-hewn-turned-gaudy-elegance decor threw my mom’s cautious mid-century “colonial” sensibilities. Her serene French blue never fit with those hot orange sinks. Yes, I said orange sinks.

The yard — a.k.a. kid-dom — was good. It was flat. It was angular. The cat hid under the canoe. The dog escaped under the fence. And I swam with the Barbies in our small above-ground pool. Dad grew strawberries. One winter’s two inches of snow and ice gave Steve and me a whole week off of school (sending these Michiganders into peals of giggles), and he pulled me on an old South Bend sled down the street. One December while watching “The Return of Noah’s Ark,” a tornado headed our direction driving these obedient Detroiters into the only windowless room in the house — the gold-leaf-papered “powder room.”

But gee whiz — it was hot. Oh, hot. Hot, hot, hot. I hate hot. It was so hot. Mom tried to do the usual petunia thing in what was the original owner’s changing-colored-lights-and-fountain display at the corner. Yes, I said fountain. Anyway, somebody (maybe us, I don’t remember) had filled that fountain with potting soil, and Mom tried to do petunias. Dad tried to nurse a Camellia in the courtyard — my very own flower, I always figured. Nothing flourished. Nothing flowered. It was completely brown all year, at least in my memory. It felt brown.

Except for one visit to a local civic garden in Spring 1978 to see the azaleas and the grey-purple weeds we used to pick for our mothers after the evening church service, I remember only dried-up, hay-colored brown in Tulsa. Hot, dry, and brown.

In 1978, Dad lost his job and interest rates soared to double-digits. “Mrs. K” — Dad’s dad’s second wife — had recently died, and Dad had inherited property up in the Detroit suburb of Warren — including 11685 13 mile road. On that half acre lot was the house-that-Henry-built when he was 25. A tiny brick farm house. So that 1978 Fall, Dad moved ahead to Detroit. Steve went to BJU. And mom and I held down the fort in Tulsa until that house sold.

Dad would house-hunt up there by himself. But with the new college tuition and the terrific interest rates and inflation and all the joys that were 1978, it wasn’t looking hopeful. He’d cry on the phone to mom — dreading taking her from that opulent nest. But they together decided that the best thing to do was move into that little farm house in Warren. From 4 bedrooms to 2, from a three-couch-minimum family room to a basement, from a slate courtyard outside our front door to a busy Taco Bell next door.

When we arrived that early November, it was other-worldly. Snow covered the front stoop. I hadn’t seen snow like that in forever. I hadn’t seen a stoop like that either. Cove ceilings. But it was November. We hibernated. I was the new kid at school. We looked for a church. Our mini-schnauzer got fatally attacked by two dalmatians.

One snowy afternoon after church as we walked up that stoop, Mom announced cheerfully, “Look! Crocuses!!”

I tried to make sense of this event. What? What’s that? A flower? What kind of flower grows in the snow? But we didn’t plant it? . . . Oooh! Look!! at that color!

That was just the beginning.

What erupted in that over-stuffed, tiny homestead was amazing. It was Eden. Mrs. K had been a pretty good gardener herself, but in her declining years, the place had become overgrown. After the snow melted, these spontaneous blooms would erupt. Flowers I had never seen except in books. Hyacinths, daffodils, tulips — these were just the start. Just the appetizer.

Apple blossoms. Grape vines. Irises. Dill and mint. A patch of lilies of the valley so big I could roll in it. A field of cat nip that would send a pride of lions to rehab. Two snow ball bushes that had been in front of my grandparent’s barn. But though the barn had been razed, the bushes remained and had grown taller than the house. My Barbies camped there for days under the canopy of the largest antique-white spheres of blossoms I had ever seen.

And the lilacs. Lilacs! See that tiny little sappling in front of my grandparents on the stoop? That May in 1979, when we came back home from Greenville with a newly-minted BJU sophomore in the family, that dark purple lilac was wide awake. Oh. That smell. The color. The surprise.

From the opulent terrazzo floors to the tiny portable dishwasher, from Tornado Alley to blizzard watch, from stone, lighted fountains to a rusty chain-link fence. Those were tough transitions for my mother. But for me? I really only remember going from hot, dry, and brown to breezy, muguet, and purple. I remember picking a pear right off that tree in the back of the lot with nothing left by the time I got to the back door except the juice on my chin. I remember Steve building a snow cat with me. I remember our new puppy playing fetch with the green apples. I remember Spring.

So every time I see the hyacinths popping up in my now Southern garden, I think of that little respite from a house payment my family enjoyed back then in that homestead-in-the-middle-of-the-city. Those pretentious columns of blossoms are like a bow on God’s present of the world. It’s Spring. And this is His world!

February 5, 2010

Greenville Syndrome in Hindsight

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If the 20th-century culture wars were as real as we were taught — and how many times did I leave Whirlybirds convinced that the world would collapse before I woke in the morning? — and if Bob Jones University really is the West Point of Christian Fundamentalism, then I think I finally understand this song. A little.

I was so gung-ho to lay down my whole life for a constructed fight for a pristine good and against a clear evil. . . . we all were. And when you’re fighting — especially when that fight is more about resurrecting a “good war” than anything else — it doesn’t even matter who is wrong and who is right. The fight is everything. That’s how complete the training is.

And we lost in Vietnam too.

January 18, 2010

Shalom

My son came home talking about Martin Luther King, Jr. this week. He learned about him in school, of course — the first one in our immediate tribe to hear about him as a fact and not a threat:

See this picture, Mommy? He’s waving hello. And he’s saying, “White people, you be nice to black people. And black people, you be nice to white people.”

That about covers it.

Being the public address nerd that I am, I said, “Let’s watch his speech!” And more motivated by the snuggling than the learning, he settled into my lap for a viewing.

“He said Stone Mountain, Georgia! I know where that is. That’s where the presidents heads are carved — George Washington, George Bush, and Abraham Lincoln.”

Oh, so close. So, so close and so very, very far. “You’re thinking of Mount Rushmore. But we’ve been to Stone Mountain, remember? There are presidents carved into stone there, but presidents of the Confederacy.”

“What’s the Confederacy?”

Sigh. . . . Where to begin. I did my best. The differences between the North’s industry and South’s agriculture. The labor-intensity of cotton. And slavery. I hate talking about slavery.

I ended up at Abraham Lincoln’s conclusion that the South’s leaving the Union was no option at all. And the Blue Coats and the Grey Coats.

We listened some more and jumped ahead a hundred years to the Civil Rights Movement. I told him that right here in Greenville, people couldn’t eat lunch in a restaurant simply because they were black. Or drink from the same water fountain or use the same bathroom.

I finally sighed through saying, “And you know what, honey? Mommy has just discovered one of the most hateful sources of this racism. Right here in Greenville. That’s Mommy’s job right now — working with God as He makes that crooked path straight.”

While I was stuck in my little Public Speaking 121 lecture, I listened to this greatest speech of the 20th-century again. For the first time in a long time. King’s talking about the same thing I read during Advent. It sounds different now than it did in my previous life.

Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: And the glory of the LORD shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together:

No wonder King was such a threat. Shalom is a threat. A threat to habits, isolation, pride, greed. And King was just preaching Shalom. No, I think he was singing it.

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December 25, 2009

The Lion Who is a Lamb — Christmas Day

We read:

We remember:

December 24, 2009

The Baby in Bethlehem — Christmas Eve

We read:

We remember: