I was born into a church going family, baptized as an infant into the Christian Reformed Church, and later baptized again into a small Southern Baptist Church not far from the church wherein I was baptized as a baby. I did not, at the time, notice a gaping chasm between the two belief systems, choosing instead to focus on the similarities, a trait I most likely picked up from my parents whose only stressor for choosing a church was that it was "Bible believing."
I married at the tender age of seventeen, pregnant by the boy who my parents had taken into out home a year and half previous. We had a tumultuous beginning with enough love to provide us with seven beautiful children by the time we were 31 years old. "By the grace of God" I forgave time and time again, overlooked what should have been glaring, and did everything in my power to be the submissive wife God had surely called me to become. When my children were mistreated, I bit my tongue and held in my rage and heartache because intervening only escalated the situation. I "protected" my children by being silent. Or so I thought. And I was bound to my husband because of premarital sex.
My identity as a wife and mother was wrapped in fundamental, evangelicalism. We went to church every Sunday, sometimes twice, and often on Wednesday evenings as well. I loved my Tuesday morning Ladies' Bible Study. I voted republican because,... well,... you know,... abortion. I believed being gay was unnatural and abhorrent, although I loved people who were... I prayed for friends and family to get "saved." I did everything in my power to make our little family as perfect as humanly possible, or at least appear that way. Halfway through raising them, we decided to homeschool our kids. My friends were either family, church people, or fellow homeschooling moms. This was my identity. I wasn't making things up, it was who I was.
When dark secrets came to light, sucking all the breath out of my lungs and leaving me groping through a strange and unknown landscape, the identity I once held dear began to slip through my fingers. No matter how tightly I held on, it was like grasping running water... In the years since then the old identity has continued to seep away. It has been replaced by new understandings, (hopefully) clearer perspectives, and a strength I didn't previously possess. I had to watch a lifetime of ideas slip away, and while some remain I no longer hold them in my fists as tightly as before.
I learned to let go. He once said to me, "I've cost you everything you loved and held dear." At the time he was correct. I walked away from possessions, my home, my church, friends, family, some of my children for a period of time, my reputation, security, and the man I had learned to love. It was agonizing. I did it for my children, although they didn't necessarily understand in the moment, and I did it for myself, because holding a boundary is more important than covering sin. I clawed my way forward an inch at a time, isolating in the attic bedroom of my childhood home after work for two years. (I later learned that my youngest daughter was worried about me...)
Of all the things I left behind I miss him the most. I miss the way he used to smile and wink at me... I miss his arms around me, the warmth of his body next to me in bed at night, and the closeness of sitting on the couch together. I miss the rides we took through the countryside, lunches out together, and huge family gatherings with all of our kids in one spot. I miss watching him work in the garden and seeing the crop of vegetables he grew. I miss the meals we made together and our walks in the orchard. I miss witnessing his completed projects. I miss his generosity. I miss his voice. Although there has been, and sometimes still is anger, there has never been hatred, and I don't pretend to understand forgiveness. There will always be a hole in my heart and there will always be an ache because I truly loved him.
The crisis of identity comes when a life is turned upside down and everything we know is shaken out onto the ground where we are forced to sort through the rubble of what was and what lies before us. We can toss everything back into the box, attempt to straighten the sides, then set it right side up, and go on as though nothing has changed, or we can take a closer look at the box and its contents, along with our new understanding. For a time I tied a string around the box and attempted to reload the contents, but there was a gaping hole in the underside and the entire box needed to be replaced. So I acquired a new box, not so very different from the old box, but I found not everything would fit inside. Some of the items and ideas had been rendered obsolete, and there were other things I now needed that I hadn't needed previous. What I'm trying to say is throughout the past several years I have needed to change out both the containers (boxes if you will), along with the contents (ideas, perspectives, and beliefs).
I am still me. But different too. My identity has been altered.
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