Testimony Time, Unfinished

When I was little, I preached to my stuffed animals.

True story.

It would usually be Sunday afternoons, when I was already dressed up in some kind of pastel flower print dress with the big lacy collar and white tights to match. I would line all my stuffed animals up on the bed and sing a few songs from church and then say something wise and solemn, of course.

The most special stuffed animal was my angel bear. It was a white bear I got from one of my many visits to the hospital. I actually had collected three or four of these bears from the Children's Ward, but someone had sewn a white shift dress with felt wings attached for my bear, so this was the important one. Angel bear would go to sleep with me every night. If I ever had nightmares, angel bear was there, and I would sing the hymn "As the deer panteth for the water so my soul longeth after thee..." I really liked the word panteth. Longeth was pretty great too. I would imagine a wise old deer by a river watching over me, and even though that's not what the song was about at all, it did the trick. I would go right to sleep, every time.

I was a white Pastor's Kid (our kind were referred to as "PK's" back then) living in the projects of Chicago. My dad was pretty great at his job. He got to stand in front of everyone every week and people would laugh at his jokes or wail and cry if they felt the spirit, and there was a lot of hand-raising and clapping and swaying going on. I wanted to be as great as my dad. That's why I preached to my stuffed animals.

A few years later, I learned about sex and was hella confused. A wonderful teacher with the best intentions tried to explain that we were all special and unique and created by God, but we would all get our periods and develop boobs and eventually get married and be happy. I wasn't buying it. If I was really special and God really loved me, he wouldn't make me go through that, all that woman stuff. If God loved me, I wouldn't get my period.

Women role models in my life didn't help either. My mom (a wonderful woman, read more about her here) was an under-appreciated, overworked pastor's wife. I wanted to be on stage and have people laugh at my jokes, but I didn't see any women doing that at the time. It looked like I would have to be good at accounting and paying bills and being hospitable and have a lot of kids and work in a cramped office hidden under the staircase- all that, plus the boobs and blood to look forward to, wasn't really doing it for me.

So I hit the books. All of this had to be really shitty misinterpretation. I was sure God had gotten it right, I just had to find it. Something along the lines of "go forth, ye with vaginas, and change the world and be awesome and don't worry about that accounting stuff or having kids."

I was 10.

And the bible was pretty unforgiving to my optimism.

I was 10, and the world came crashing down, because God didn't love me after all. He wanted me to shut up in church and not wear earrings and cover my hair. He was down on the rapists, but if the girl was close enough to a city to scream and be heard and she didn't, then it was her fault. Concubines were cool, multiple wives were cool, and even male sacrificial animal offerings were worth more than the female ones.

Don't get me wrong. There was Sarah and Rebekah and Leah and Deborah and even Rahab the one cool prostitute. There was Jesus' mom and John the Baptist's mom and Mary who sat at the feet of Jesus and the one other cool prostitute that poured perfume on Jesus' feet. I did my homework, yo. But there was also proof of virginity and stonings and rape and incest and one girl getting cut up and sent to the twelve tribes of Israel.

13 years later, and I still don't have it all figured out. I'm pretty sure God loves me, and while Saint Paul and I might exchange some words about a couple of really stupid verses he wrote, I'm pretty sure God will be watching and laughing and secretly rooting for me anyway. And if baseball bats come out during the discussion, I think God might walk over and put his hand on Paul's shoulder and say "Paul, man, let it go. She's right. I just have a really good sense of humor and decided to show a little bit of the picture at a time." And then, of course, Paul will huff off and I'll go get my crown of jewels or something.

Anyway, while I seriously doubt anyone else had the same weird, awkward childhood I had, I'm sure I'm not alone on the feminist/religion reconciliation journey. All I can say is that there is peace to be had out there, though it might take some serious soul searching and some imaginary fights with saints.