Training up this child – Part 20 – Hurt

(As some of you might have recognized I name many of my posts after songs or movies. I usually pick out a song that suits the mood of each post, usually googling “songs about XY” and then listening to my options. This time, I was torn between two song: Chris Isaak – Wicked game and Johnny Cash – Hurt. I ended up with Hurt because, well I think it sums up a lot of how I felt. I know that some of my readers are just as unworldly as me, so here’s a link to the song on youtube in case you don’t know the song.)

Harry’s mother seemed a lot more excited than usual. She made compliments about how I looked, how nicely we decorated the house, how amazing the prepared food smelled. Everybody had a huge smile on their faces, a smile I immediately thought was… retarded.

It felt as if the universe had shifted. I was no longer in the real world but in some weird dimension, full of retarded people who don’t even know that some sort of magical boss is shoving lies down their throats. I felt as if they looked at me like I was about to join their sect, go through a weird ritual where they’d take out parts of my brain to make me smile just as stupid as they did.

I can’t recall much of this. I was in trance. I talked but it wasn’t me who talked. I heard myself speak and my voice was different, strange, not mine at all. My words didn’t come out of my brain – I didn’t know what I was saying and at the same time wondering how I came up with the things I said.

Cold sweat was covering my entire body, my skin felt cold and tacky, but I still felt like that person wasn’t me. There must have been some sort of small talk, some sort of prayer, some words of encouragement but I memorized nothing at all. The only thing I can remember was looking at my shaky hands, covered in freezing sweat and desperately trying not to throw up all over the place. My insides were rotating and I was truly afraid my heart would stop beating any second out of sheer fear.

I remember at some point Harry asked me to go outside with him, sit in the garden for a bit. I agreed, my face frozen in I don’t know what position and a very strong, sudden urge the really throw up. I think I held my hand in front of my mouth for a second, because my Dad gave me an encourage stroke on my head and opened the door to the garden for us.

As soon as I was outside my mind started screaming: “RUN! Now’s the chance! Run away and don’t turn back!”. But I didn’t. Instead, I followed Harry to the bench in the garden and sat down. I was completely quiet and the sweat started to run down my neck and back. My hands were so wet, they sparkled in the evening sun as if they were powered with diamonds.

Harry spoke up: “Do you like the flowers?”

“Yes” I said, “Lilies are lovely. My favourite flower.” That was true.

“I think so too. You know, you’re like a lily to me. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.“

“That’s true” I said, not knowing how to react.

“Lisa, you know, I have been watching you for such a long time. Years now. I can’t imagine that there is anybody more beautiful and lovely than you.” He said and took my hand, squeezing it, which embarrassed me because my hands were freezing cold and soaking wet.

“I didn’t have to think much about if you were the one. I knew it all along. I would’ve done this so much earlier but I felt I needed to wait and be patient on you. I was doubting your feelings for such a long time but now I feel like it’s different. I feel like we’re made for each other.”

Harry looked at me, but I just started into the grass next to my shoes. I hadn’t looked at him during this entire conversation and I couldn’t find the courage to look into his eyes now. He was silent for a few seconds, but then let go of my hand. He stood up, slowly. My stomach twisted, making me feel sicker every second, my heart skipped at least 10 beats. Harry stood in front of me. And then, he did it. He got on one knee, found a little box in his pocket, opened it with shaky hands and presented a lovely ring to me. I stared at the ring and the universe shifted yet some more, completely separating my body and my mind at this point. And as I stared at the ring with my body, and my mind stared at myself sitting there, not knowing what to do, Harry finally said it:

“Lisa Franziska Bennet, will you marry me?”

I didn’t say a thing. I stared at the ring in Harry’s wet shaky hands and almost heard my mind laughing. This is crazy, this is unreal.

“Lisa?” he said after some time which could have been hours for all I know.

And for the first time I looked into his eyes and what I saw there I will never forget. I don’t think one can describe the horror and fear I saw on his face that moment. I looked back at the ring, then back into Harry’s eyes. Terror. An entire world crashing down, hands shaking violently, tears starting to fill his eyes. My, a lot worse than I could’ve possibly imagined. I still hadn’t said a word but I felt the need to react somehow. I took the ring in my hand, not putting it on and looked at the pretty little diamond. I could almost feel Harry dying inside and wanted to hold on to him, to make sure he wouldn’t just stop breathing. I put my hand on his hand, then on his cheek, stroking through his hair and while I did that I just slightly shook my head. I was still a mute.

“Does that mean no?” he asked and I nodded just as slightly. Harry now sat in front of me, on his knees, staring into nothingness.

“Do you really mean no? Why not? What’s wrong? What did I do wrong? I can make it right, just tell me what I have to do, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.” I shrugged, silent, just staring at Harry sitting there in the grass, at my feet, not knowing what he or I should do next. Finally I found some words somewhere in the back of my head: “I’m so sorry”. There were some tears on Harry’s face, but he wasn’t really crying. “Well, tell me why you’re saying no. I thought everything went well.” My cheeks were burning as I tried to explain. That I felt like I wasn’t ready for marriage, that I was doubting practices and beliefs in the movement, that I didn’t feel quite right about marrying him. He took a seat next to me again, thought about what I said for a bit and then asked me “Ok, so what do you want? I’ll give you anything you ask for if you marry me.” I told him how I wanted an education and maybe a job, how I was afraid of having so many kids, especially right now, and that I wanted a different life, not as set apart from the real world and other people. I wanted to have friends. I wanted to be normal. Harry was quick to answer. “You can have that. You can find yourself some friends once we settled down. You can go to school if we can afford it and you can work until we have kids.” I told him that by our beliefs, we’d have a kid within the next year. He told me that I couldn’t say that. God would time them. And if we did, God’s way would still be perfect. That he thought if I kept following God’s plan, I couldn’t possibly be happier. As he told me all that, the truth started sinking in, the truth Beth predicted: I couldn’t change his mind, I couldn’t make some sort of deal with him that our marriage would be different. He was too convinced of his beliefs.

“This isn’t going to work” I finally said. “We’re too different in too many ways. You’re sure that your beliefs are right while I’m doubting everything. You can trust God while I can’t. You dream of a biblical family, I dread it. How can we possibly be happy together? It might just be a phase for me, but I don’t know that yet. If it is, and we are meant for each other, we will be together eventually. But if it isn’t, you’ll be stuck with a wife and family you’re too good for. Is that really what you want?”

Harry was quiet, crying and so was I. “If that’s what you want, if that’s what you can deal with, I’ll marry you.” I hadn’t said that because I wanted it. I said that because at this point, I realized what I got myself into. Two families were waiting for a happy, engaged couple. They weren’t going to get one. I was very, very afraid of what waited for me back inside. I was clueless how to explain all of this. I think at some point I wished he’d agree and still want to marry me so that I could avoid what was sure to come: Anger, hate, disappointment, being kicked out of the house into a world I didn’t know, cut off from my family. I realized the extent of what I just had done and it was just as scary as my other option. I was trapped with no way out.

“No, I think you might be right. You’re obviously not in the right state of mind to make a good wife. You need time.” Harry’s answer was partially a relief and partially the scariest situation I could imagine. I took his hand again and for whatever reason I said Thank you. I was emotionally broken down to bits and pieces and started crying violently. “What do I do now?” I asked him. “What will we say?”. Harry just shook his head. “I don’t know.” I cried even more at that and Harry must’ve felt sorry for me, because next thing I know was that he put his arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t resist and hugged him, crying harder, begging him “Please don’t let me do this alone, please help me, please do something, I can’t do it.” We sat there for a few more minutes, until I found a tissue in my pocket, cleaned up my face as well as I could. “We should go back in. I bet they’re wondering what’s going on.” Harry stood up, but I just couldn’t find the strength to do it. He took my hand again and pulled me off the bench. “Come on, we’re in this together.” He didn’t let go of my hand, which I’m deeply thankful in retrospective. We slowly walked over to the back door of our house. My mind was empty, fear struck me but somewhere deep inside I felt that I had done the right thing. Harry held the door open for me, and inside I went to wash away those stupid smiles off my parent’s faces.

Who is their mother?

Dear Mom,

You delivered every single one of my siblings. You had them.

But once they were born, you gave them to me.

You were training them.

I was kissing them.

You were spanking them.

I comforted them.

You were their home school teacher.

I answered the questions they didn’t dare to ask you.

You cooked dinner.

I spoon-fed them.

You were busy with the new babies.

I played with the older ones.

You had to sleep a lot because it was so exhausting.

I took care of them the many hours of the day you couldn’t.

You were changing the diapers of the babies, breastfeeding them, while talking to Dad.

Meanwhile, I read the bedtime stories, kissed them goodnight and tucked them in.

You were busy with other things, taking care of other families, baking for church meetings.

I made sure they were washed and dressed, made sure nobody got into a fight.

You sent them outside to play because it was too much for you.

I kissed their bloody knees better when they fell.

Dear Mom, you are many things. Trainer, teacher, chef, servant of the community, wife and many others. But there is one thing you are not: Their mother. Who is?

Dying to self

I was going to post some more Vienna talk today, but I made a quick change of plans because I have something different to say.

Growing up, dying to self was key. In case you’re not familiar with this specific descriptions, it basically means giving everything that’s “you” up in order to serve selflessly in any way possible. Sounds good huh? But it’s not. Dying to self is something you can take very literal. You will die in every way possible in order to be someone you’re not.

Some people don’t seem to bother that much, but it’s always been hard for me to be as selfless as I was expected to be. You see, I’m a very private, calm, introvert kind of person. Though I grew up in a big family, I always liked being alone. I’m not much of a team player, I prefer doing things all by myself. I didn’t hate having a big family where there was always somebody, quite the opposite, I loved it. But I always tried to make room for myself in some way. That didn’t mean that I wanted to do things I liked, it was more like just being by myself doing ANYTHING really. I hated washing dishes. I loved doing it alone. I didn’t like vacuuming. It was ok as long as I was alone. Everything I didn’t like in a group I usually liked if I could just do it by myself. I treasured the quiet moments, though my hands were busy, my mind was free to wander, not occupied by yet another conversation, prayer, training or anything like that. I loved asking myself the WEIRDEST questions. Like, is it possible that when you’re 9 months pregnant and you use the bathroom, could it just “fall out”? What would you do if that happened? Would the pain of hours of labor be condensed in that short moment or or or…? It really didn’t have anything to do with faith in those moments.

Now my Dad was eager to teach all of us, especially the girls, that dying to self is key to life and salvation. You weren’t allowed to do anything fun, you were asked to serve others every moment of your life. If you didn’t listen to him, he’d have a speech prepared. “It always about ME ME ME. Do you think Jesus was like that? Do you think he would have died on the cross for us if he cared about himself? NO! He would have hidden somewhere and lived happily ever after! He wasnt about ME. So why are YOU?” and so on. I felt really bad every time I heard that. I started wondering if Jesus could even love me if I kept acting like this. I tried to train myself. I didn’t allow myself to do things alone. When I had to wash dishes, I called one of my smaller sisters over to help me, to teach her to be a servant and a good housewife. How to keep things in order. When I was working in the garden, I asked my brothers to do boy stuff, like carrying the heavy water buckets for me. I desperately waited for God to reward my selflessness. I gave up what I liked in order to feel as good as the people who kept raving about how great it feels to be selfless, how God rewards you for it. But I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel any different at all except that I was more stressed out than ever.

Prayer time was the only occasion I allowed myself to be alone. I sat down in our infamous prayer closet and opened my bible. But after a day of constant conversation, I didn’t feel like talking to God or being talked to by him. I started reading a chapter and within seconds, though my eyes were reading, my mind didn’t understand a word. I switched the chapter. And the same thing happened again. And again. And again. I closed my bible and folded my hands across my face. Ok I though, I’ll pray some. And in my mind I said “Lord… tell me what to say.” Silence, emptiness of mind. “I don’t know what to tell you.” More silence. My mind started telling me that I needed to do this, I needed to do SOMETHING. I though that was God speaking to me and I couldn’t stand a single word he said. “Be quiet.” I told him. And the voices in my head started rushing with hate and anger and disappointment. How dare you talk to me like that? Pray now, pray now, pray now, or read some more. You can’t sit in your little puddle of selfishness now. And I grew angrier and angrier with the God who hated me so much for wanting a few minutes of peace and silence. “Shut up!” I said over and over until I started crying. I cried myself empty just to realize that my time in the prayer closet was over.

As I stood up, all I could think was “Great job, idiot, time well used.” The amount of shame and hate for myself was so big that I obsessively started being as selfless as I could for the rest of the day. This wasnt something that happened every day, but it happened on many days.

 

Right now, I’m sitting here in complete silence. I’m all alone, doing stuff by myself. I’m selfish. I’m detestable. I’m lost. And I like it. God is quiet, he doesn’t bother me with his voices anymore. I now will go into the kitchen and have a coffee in complete silence, closing my eyes and enjoying nothingness. And I know that God will still be quiet.

The silent treatment

One of the things that bugged me the most about my Dad was the silent treatment. I know this sounds weird, but as a child I prefered a spanking, because that would end and only affect me. The silent treatment was something my entire family would suffer from and you never knew when it would end.

The silent treatment would usually follow when Dad wasn’t worshipped enough as the Lord of the house. Say mom spontaneously drove to town when Dad was at work to shop for a new jacket for one of us kids without asking him at least 24 hours prior.

That was the rule: Everything had to be mentioned to Dad AT LEAST 24 hours prior to doing it. Better would be 48 hours. If it was bigger things, you had to tell him up to 7 days prior to doing it (friends visiting, for example). The biggest problem with this was that my Dad forgot a lot of stuff or simply didn’t listen to anybody well enough to actually understand what was being talked about. You had to mention it again and again to make sure he remembered. But this could cause problems too! You had to word it correctly. You couldn’t say (on Sunday) “Dad, don’t forget I told you Wednesday I want to go shopping for a dress on Monday.” That was insulting to him because we questioned his mental abilities. Asking something like this would result in a very loud lecture about how he is NOT stupid, NOT deaf, NOT retarded and that he is VERY disappointed and ANGRY that we speak to him like this. The only way to really get out of the remind-daddy-of-something game was to put all the blame on yourself: “Daddy, did I mention I wanted to shop for a dress on Monday? I’m not sure if I did…” Then he usually remembered we actually had mentioned it before and he would rather calmly say “Yes you did. Sometimes I’m worried that you forget so much.”

If you forgot to remind him of something and he felt it was inappropriately close to said event, he’d get really angry. Say I told him on Sunday evening for the first time that I wanted to shop on Monday, he’d freak. He’d yell stuff like “Who do you think I am? Why am I NEVER told ANYTHING you plan? I’m the head of the house and you treat me like a family dog!”. He’d go on and on and on about it, and then suddenly… silence. Silence that could last for days and was directed at everyone in the family, not only the offender. My mom as well as all us kids.

The silent treatment meant more than just silence. It meant a complete absence of all family life.

I’m not sure about regular lunch and dinner customs in normal American families, but we applied European customs. That meant that the food wasn’t put directly onto the plates by one single person. All of the pots, pans, bowls and so on were put on the dining table and the rule was to serve yourself. In this set of dining habits, it’s very impolite NOT to serve yourself. Of course, small kids are served but everyone above 10 is to do it themselves. Of course you can ask people “May I have some potatoes?” because they sit closer to the potatoes and then have them serve you. But, say, wordless handing of the plate awaiting to be served is so beyond rude… It’s about as bad as eating from another persons plate without asking them. Just so you get the point. Well, if the silent treatment was in effect, my Dad refused to serve himself. Not only that, he even denied holding the plate up for mom to serve him. I can’t word just how rude that is in our family. He sat there, hands folded on the table, staring into the air. Waiting. My mom usually tried to ignore it and served the small ones first, but usually my dad was really quick to grab food and so it was obvious we were getting the treatment again. My mom then proceeded to take his plate and fill it. She’d put it back in front of him and he would start eating, staring at nothing else but his food. When he was finished, he stood up without waiting on the others – something that would result in a spanking for us kids! He went to sit alone in his office room and read all night till bedtime. My mom was left alone with the kids. When everybody went to bed, my Dad left his office and went straight to bed without just looking at anyone.

The silent treatment also meant that, for example, if you knocked at the bathroom door and asked “Anybody in there?”, no answer would follow. We could tell Dad was in there because the door was locked. There was also no family time, not even bible study. He didn’t say goodbye in the morning, or hello when he came home. He didn’t ask for anything, just hold out things to the next best person to be served, like holding up an empty cup in order to get coffee.

This form of behaviour made me incredibly angry. I was angry at Dad mostly, but I was also upset with Mom. Why on earth would she put up with that? Why would she still serve him like a slave? Why would she talk to him, hoping to get an answer, only to end up not even being looked at???

It made me so angry, so frustrated, I usually hid somewhere away from my entire family. My favourite activity was locking myself away in the bathroom. I’d be in trouble if my parents found out I did that without a real reason – we couldn’t lock doors unless it was an emergency. I couldn’t say it was to shower, showering for an hour would be considered wasteful and would get me in trouble, plus, there was no water running. So every time someone knocked on the door to be let in, the conversation went like this: “Who’s in there?” – “It’s me, Lisa.” – “Lisa, you’ve been in there for ages! Get out! I want in!” “I can’t!” – “Why not?!?” – “Uhmmm… I have diarreah.”

Yes, that was my actual excuse and secured me the bathroom all to myself for at least an hour, sometimes two. While I was in there, all I really did was sitting on the bathroom floor with the small mirror in my hands. I stared at my own face, sometimes for minutes without a break. I waited until you get that feeling, you know, that you’re not looking at your own face anymore, but somebody else, and you can observe the whole situation from outside and feel really strange. I stared at the ends of my hair, cutting off split ends with a small pair of scissors. I cut my nails. I hummed melodies. I lay on the floor and dreamed about other place. Being on the beach in a bikini somewhere on a lonely island. Seeing historic European cities. Shopping like the girls on TV do in New York City. Sometimes, I played out entire scenarios in my mind. How I sit at a cafe with two girlfriends and we talk about our lives, or feelings, everything. Those two girls actually appeared very often, and they would always listen, always understand me, and they considered me their best friend. Once I cooled off in my bathroom (no worries, we had 2 bathrooms so everybody could still pee!) I went to my room or straight to bed.

I asked my mom a bunch of times why she let Dad treat her like that. Why she wouldn’t tell him that he acted like a spoiled little boy and not like the head of the house, she told me that women must ALWAYS be submissive. It was ok Dad did this, because she was his wife and she would be obedient no matter what. I feared to end up with a man like that. I hated my Dad so much for it. For showing us off like little circus monkeys, proving us that even without words, he can make us jump again and again.

I can’t tell you how many times my night-time prayer included stuff like “Please God, don’t let me marry a man who acts like this. Please send me a man who can at least fill his own plate, no matter what I did wrong. Please send me a man who can talk about his issues, and not ignore me for days.”

1995

Today is a beautiful day. Daddy will take me shopping! A new couple from our community is having their first baby, and they are having a baby party. We need a gift, so we will go to a toy store and buy one. And then, we will go to a shop were Daddy will buy some pants for working out in the garden. And Mommy says “If you find a pretty sunday dress for her, you should buy that, too”

Other people from our community sewed a baby blanket or are giving them boxes full of used baby clothes. But Mommy can’t sew much and we need our baby clothes. So instead we will buy a new stuffed animal. Not a used one!

Daddy takes me along cause I’m the biggest and I know what’s pretty. Mommy says “You take her along, I’m so tired, and I have to watch the baby and the small ones.” Today it’s only Daddy and me, and all the small ones stay at home, and I can go look at all the pretty toys.

We get in the car and I put my seatbelt on. I’m so excited! Daddy starts the car and we pull out the drive way. The drive is going to be super long. I stare out the window for a bit, but then I sing because I like to sing and the radio isn’t on:

Denkt, ich weiß ein Schäfelein,
das wollt´ gar nicht folgsam sein.
Lief von seiner Herde weg,
kam auf einen bösen Weg.
Denkt, denkt, denkt, das Schäfelein war ich.
Denkt, denkt, denkt, das Schäfelein war ich.
Doch mein Heiland, doch mein Heiland,
doch mein Heiland suchte mich.

(Imagine, I know about a sheep,
it didn’t want to be obedient.
Ran away from the flock,
onto the evil path.
Imagine, imagine, imagine, I was that sheep.
Imagine, imagine, imagine, I was that sheep.
But my Lord, but my Lord,
but my Lord went looking for me.)

I sing for a very long time until we arrive at the toy store. I’m really excited, loosen my seatbelt and jump out of the car. My Daddy takes my hand and we walk towards the entrance. I skip steps, skip steps and sing. We go inside and it’s great. Daddy tells me to stay close as we look for the baby toys, passing the shelfs with the dolls, and the strollers, and the toys for boys, and then all the books, and then finally the baby toys. There are sooo many stuffed animals, but I find the prettiest one right away. It’s a light brown bear with the softest, fluffiest fur you have ever touched! And it’s big too. It will be as big as the baby, but babies grow fast so the baby can keep it for long and not grow too big for it. Daddy looks at some other toys, but I don’t think he likes baby toy shopping. He is a bit impatient and wants to go.

We go to pay for the stuffed animal and walk by the other shelfs again. I stop by the dolls because there is the most beautiful doll I have ever seen! She is blonde and wears a princess dress. And I say “Daddy, STOP! Can we buy the doll instead of the dress?” And Daddy says “No, you’re too big for dolls” but I don’t think I’m too big. I say “No Daddy, I’m not too big, please let me have the doll.” Daddy says “No, we have a baby at home, you don’t need a doll, you can learn how to be a Mommy with the baby.” I’m a bit sad and say “The baby isn’t as good as the doll…”. Daddy is really impatient now and hisses “Stop throwing a tantrum, people are already looking at us. You are being selfish and disobedient.” HE slaps my hand and I’m angry at Daddy, because I didn’t throw a tantrum and right now, I’m angry because he took me to the toy store where I can look at stuff but he won’t let me have any of it. I make a grumpy face and follow Daddy to the checkout. He pays and pushes me a little so I smile at the lady and say goodbye. We go to the car, and I’m still making a grumpy face and I have my arms crossed over my chest so Daddy knows I’m grumpy now. We get in the car and I put my seatbelt on and go back to my grumpiness. Daddy is upset and lectures me not to be so. I stare and listen, and he says “Do you understand?” and I say “Do YOU understand that I think you can’t take me buying toys and not get me one?”. Daddy is boiling and his face is really red but he doesn’t say anything. He starts the car and we leave the parking lot to drive to the store with the worker pants.

We don’t drive long and Daddy is still red in the face and I’m hiding a tear because I’m so angry at Daddy. I can never have anything because I’m the oldest and I’m too big and I don’t need it, anyway, because we have babies at home I should play with, and not toys and dolls. And suddenly, Daddy doesn’t say anything. But he grabs a fist full of my hair and smashes and throws my head around and screams, but I don’t understand because there’s a stabbing pain in my head. He is still driving with his left hand, and his right hand is slapping me in the face. I scream because I don’t know what else to do. Daddy stops at the side of the road, and he’s still screaming, and I hold my cheeks and ears because I’m so afraid. And when the car stands, he again grabs a fist full of my hair and holds my head tight so I can’t escape, and he beats me in the face with his other hand and screams, and I scream too and cry. And he doesn’t stop and my entire face hurts and burns and feels huge. He still screams, but now, I try to escape him, try to wiggle my way out of the seatbelt to get out of the seat, but I can’t, because Daddy’s fist is holding my hair and when I move away a bit, he pulls me back into the middle. And then he stops hitting me, but still holds me and I’m shocked and not sure if I should cry. And he says “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” and I lie and say “Yes, Daddy, I’m sorry.” but I didn’t understand anything and I don’t know what I’m supposed to understand. “THEN BE A GOOD GIRL NOW!” he yells at throws my head to the side, letting go of my hair. He starts the car back up and we continue driving.

I’m crying and wipe my tears with my hands but it hurts bad. My nose is running too and I wipe it with my hands. It’s full of tears and sliminess from my nose and touching my nose causes a stabbing pain. But then I see there’s blood too. My hands shake and I grab a pack of tissues from the pocket of my dress. I want to clean my nose but I can’t because it’s so painful. I dab the blood and tears off it, tho, and then it really comes running down. The blood drips on my hands and dress and I can’t do anything to stop it. I hold the tissue under my nose. It doesn’t take long until the tissue is nothing but a dripping wet blob of broken pieces full of tears and blood. I take the clean tissues out of the plastic pack and put the dripping wet one in to avoid a mess. I have only two tissues left and by the rate I filled up the first one, the other two won’t last till we are back home. I crouch against the window and I want to make sounds like a dying animal, but I’m afraid it will upset Daddy.

We arrive at the clothes store and I ask Daddy to leave me in the car but he says no. So I get out and follow him into the store, quietly, quietly, looking down. When there’s a mirror, I look around to make sure nobody sees me, and I look at my face. It’s bright red and the nose and upper lip are swollen up really bad. There’s stains of blood on my face and dress. I wet the tissue with some spit and wipe my face as good as I can, but it hurts really bad. I look for Daddy and stand behind him quietly as he browses through the pants. A woman greets him and by the voice I can tell it’s a nice old lady from our community. She sees me and say “Oh and Lisa is here too! Hello Lisa!” and she looks at me. I look down but she sees it anyway and says “Oh goodness, what happened to Lisa?”. Daddy smiles and says “She was a disobedient brat at the toy store and this is what she got from it.” He sounds really proud when he says it and he pets my head with his hand. The Lady just frowns at me and says “Well it looks really bad, you might have to see a doctor.” and Daddy says “No, she’ll be fine. If she’s repentant, she’ll heal up just fine without a doctor.” They talk a little bit more but not about me and then the Lady leaves.

At some point, a shop lady comes over to ask us if we need her help. And when she sees me, she looks shocked and say “You’re bleeding really bad!” but my Dad says, Oh no worries, she’ll be fine. But she keeps looking at me weirdly and before we leave I ask her “Can A ‘ave A tishoo ples” and I realize I can’t speak normal anymore. And she says of course and gets me a whole pack and carefully strokes my cheek and whispers “It’ll be fine”. I nod and say ” ‘Ank you.”

My hands are stained with blood in the car, I stare at them. My face burns like fire and hell, but when I carefully touch the skin, the skin’s numb and thick with swollenness.

When we get home, my Mom sees me, but Daddy says “She needed a lesson” and Mommy just nods. I’m sent to my room to go to bed, but it’s only 4 in the afternoon, and I go anyway. I stay up long, until Mommy calls me down and I’m really afraid of what will happen. I come downstairs and see they have already eaten but I wasn’t asked to come. My Mommy says “Lisa, Daddy and I decided you’re allowed to get a cooling pack from the freezer.” I nod and get one out, wrap it in a small towel and put it on my face. My Dad gives me a slice of bread with some butter on it and says “Go back to your room, I don’t want to see you any more today. It’s bedtime for you now.” I nod again and quickly go upstairs.

In my room, I take a bite of bread but my front teeth hurts biting it and chewing it makes my face hurt again, so I let it be. I touch my nose, trying to press a little to feel if the bone was broken, but it hurts like crazy and I still can’t feel the bone because it’s swollen, so I let that be too.

I lay in my bed with the cooling pack on my face and try to pray but I can’t.

I really hate Daddy right now. And I don’t like Jesus either. And I’m angry at God.

More on being bilingual and Europe

(No worries, fundamentalist weddings 2 is coming, got it 90% finished, just thinking of the small funny details I forgot!)

So, some of you might remember my post about growing up bilingual. I was surprised to hear I’m not the only one! When I was younger, I felt we were the only ones who did this… well, us and the mexicans who could speak spanish and english! Today I want to talk further about what it meant for my life to grow up bilingual.

When I left the movement, I moved to a place not too far from where my parents live. I didn’t have anybody but Beth really. I had never had friends outside the movement, and contacting the ones inside the movement was out of question for me. I still felt very attached to my former lifestyle and I was afraid that I’d be talked back in. I needed time to sort out my thoughts, emotions, desires, and living so close to the community I grew up in made me feel like I could never rest. They have eyes everywhere, and they gossip. I was afraid to be somebody else than who I was before, afraid to hurt my parent’s reputation, and my own.

I realized I had to move again, some place different from where I grew up in – definitely into a different state. I just couldn’t stay there anymore. At the same time, I tried to work out a plan how I could get by, make a living, going back to school and such. I calculated my options and I always ended up with something that would face me with an insane amount of debt and really no idea where I should go. The big cities were no option for me, as I grew up very rural, I was simply afraid that I could not get by in a big city. Plus, I was afraid of big cities due to what my parents thought about them. The few relatives from my father’s side weren’t an option to turn to. My dad is a strong personality, he certainly had told them about my stunts and why would they believe me? They were Christians and had a good relationship with my dad.

Well, long story short, I had no friends, no family, no money, no idea where to go. At some point, I decided to contact my aunt, the one from my mother’s side. My dad didn’t think very highly of her as she isn’t a strong Christian, and she had also spoken against our lifestyle a few times. We were in loose contact with her because she was very important to my mom, but that’s about it. Well, I did contact her and she helped me a bunch. I had no idea of any sort of paperwork and she helped me figure out a lot of options. But I was still faced with the fact that my life wouldn’t be easy on my own, for a girl like me with no education and no idea how the world works. I was getting really desperate.

At that point, my aunt invited me to stay with her and figure out my options in Europe. At first, I was very opposed to the idea. Wouldn’t that whole different culture there be too much of a shock for me? Together with Beth and my aunt I came to a conclusion: It didn’t matter what culture I lived in. Whether I stayed in the states, went to Europe for a while, or moved to Japan even, the shock would be there either way, and probably the same for all three options. After a long time of considering my options, I realized that even if I stayed for only a short while, Europe would still be my best choice. At least I’d have some weeks to get away and sort out my thoughts.

My aunt and I decided I should come over and stay for 3 months. She is financially well off, so I wouldn’t be a burden to her. Her kids are older than me and they are all out of the house on their own, so there was plenty of room left. I was still hesitant, but Beth promised me I could come back and she would help me any time I wanted. My aunt too promised me to get me a ticket back any time I wanted.

Well, so it happened that last fall, I fly over to Europe to see what would happen there. I could stay as long as I wanted actually, because due to my mother’s nationality, I have dual citizenship. My parents were eager to get that for me once I was old enough, thinking it might come in handy at some point, say if I married a man who was missioning a lot.

The first few days I didn’t feel like much of a change had been made. I stayed at home mostly and spent long hours talking to my aunt and her husband, my dear uncle. There was lots of crying, lots of misunderstandings between the parts of the family, lots of sadness. But I felt comfortable, knowing that at least the stress of life was taken off my shoulders for a short while. My aunt tried very hard to get me used to normal culture. She assisted me with driving around, going shopping, going out to eat, going to the movies, all these things. She also explained a lot of basic life rules to me, like what a utility bill is. It felt good to have someone explain these things without making me feel stupid. Two weeks after I arrived, my cousins came over for a visit. The two guys are working and living in different cities with their girlfriends, one is 30, the other 28. The girl, Sandra, who is 25, still goes to university in a far away city but has many many friends around here still. They were really nice and curious, talking to me a lot and just making me feel part of the family. Sandra acted a bit motherly around me and tried her best to entertain me. She introduced me to many people and they took me out with them, never making me feel like I was a burden but much rather a friend.

Sandra’s friends who had siblings my age introduced me to the people who lived around and were my age. Everybody was very welcoming and warm, something I didn’t expect. Though I’m an introvert person, I quickly found a group of people who I was friends with.

Time was passing and passing and before I realized it, it had been three months in Europe. My aunt sat down with me to ask me what my next step would be. I hadn’t even really thought about it yet, I was just too busy enjoying to be a part of a group of people who didn’t put me under some pseudo-biblical law.

After a few days of consideration, I decided to stay longer. I didn’t know how long I wanted to stay, but I knew that I had good options. Suddenly, I had friends and family, something I couldn’t count on back in the states. I decided to stay and try to finish my school until I could go to college/university.

My aunt and I did all the paperwork necessary for me to stay. We figured out my driver’s license would become invalid at the 6-month mark, so I did a test on that to keep it. We made sure I could work and go to school.

We found me a school were I could get my general high school education done, and it turned out to be free because I was still young. Then, we went looking for a small job I could work to support myself to some degree. Since I’m not qualified for anything, waitress was really my only option. I really didn’t want to go to McDonalds because the hours are terrible. After that, I heard that the sister of my cousins friend, Kathy, was looking for a roommate so should could move out of her parent’s house. She’s 24, so it was time for her. I had become friends with Kathy within my first three months so we decided it would be great fun to live together for a while. We found a pretty, quiet apartment in a safe place of town and moved in December.

Well, and that’s pretty much where I am right now. I’m doing my school, working my job and have my friends here at the moment and I’m content with the situation. Of course, life here is much different from life in the states. But it’s alright this way. I don’t know whether I’ll move back to the states when I’m finished with school. There’s a lot of factors I need to watch and I just can’t say right now. I would definitely like to move back at some point and there are days where I feel home sick and I just miss certain things. I think if I moved back now, there’d be thing I miss in the states, just like here, I miss things from the states. But you can’t have the cake and eat it too (or as we say here: You’ve got to die one death). But I’m proud of the small life have built over here and I’m going to enjoy it as long as I can.

Training up this child – Part 19 – Meet me at high noon

I spent a few days thinking about the little hint my mother gave me. Close to an engagement? My mom didn’t say that just out of a mood. No parent in the movement says that out of a mood. They don’t give us any idea of what’s going on until the last second. When a guy is interested in you, but they don’t like him, you’re not being told. If a guy has interest in you, and they tell you, you can be sure that they have been in contact with him for weeks and sometimes even months, examining him, and actually giving him permission to enter a relationship with you. As a daughter, you are usually the last to know about your own love life.

Now, the fact that my mother said something about a close engagement meant that Harry must have asked for permission from dad already, and that dad agreed and gave him permission to ask me. My mother would be involved in this process of evaluation at a very late time, about when dad had already decided to give Harry the permission to ask me, then he would ask for my mother’s opinion before telling Harry what his decision was. I now knew that Harry had permission to ask me, and he’s probably had it for a while. He might have even already bought a ring.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. Within the next few days or weeks, I would be asked to marry him. Engagements were typically kept very short, and Harry’s and my courtship has been pretty long due to the big distance. Just to give you a short reminder: Harry and I’s courtship started when I was 18, almost 19 (I’m born in March and the courtship started December before I turned 19) so we were courting for over 3 years. That’s a crazy long time in the movement. I know it might have felt just like six months or something when you read my posts about my courtship, but they were condensed, not bothering with the time between the visits and big events were effectively nothing happened except for my daily routine of being a stay-at-home-daughter while Harry was on different mission trips and preparing to make a living and save up some money in order to be fully prepared to support a wife and a baby within 9 months of marriage. I didn’t even describe all of Harry’s visits because they were simply uneventful. So let’s get this back on track: My mother made the remark about the engagement some time at the end of March.

I knew I didn’t have much time left. Engagements are typically short. A three-month engagement would be a long time in our group. The average engagement time is around 4-6 weeks, and all of that time is used for marriage preparations as the majority of the “falling in love” and “making the decision” was supposed to be made prior to engagement. My insides were in a constant state of burning, my mind rattling. I saw the beginning of the rest of my life right in front of me. Once I was married, there was no way out anymore. I’d have to be obedient to my husband. I’d have to have kids, if I wanted or not. I realized that within the time of just one year at that moment, I might be sitting at home with a 2 month old. The thought alone made me dizzy. I was NOT prepared for any of that.

On the other side, I also started seeing things that were wrong in the movement. The engagement remark which left me so helpless, and feeling strongly in a position where every decision of my life was already made and agreed on didn’t suit me at all. I started dreaming of what I would do if I had the choice.

I wouldn’t get married for now. I’d started to regret hating school, so I also wished I could somehow go back to school and learn something useful. I always loved art, history and geography. I loved the universe and watching all the stars, wondering what they would look close up. I always loved big masses of ice and cold climate. I started to think that if I didn’t get married and wasn’t in the movement, I’d become a Nasa person, observing and calculating stars, thinking about big events in the universe. Or maybe I could become a geologist somewhere cold, like Antarctica, and research the processes in the ice and what happened a long time ago. I even considered becoming something like a paleontologist and study dinosaurs and climate way back. That was a thought unheard of in our family. All of these three professions were ungodly and against the bible, utterly humanist and naturalist. I was so curious to know things that are veiled to humanity, like times way before our time. But I was bad at math, I thought I might not be the right person for each of those three. If I couldn’t do it, I might just settle for some ancient culture studies. Egypt maybe, or south american ancient history.

During this process of thought I realized that I’d never make it anywhere close to that. I’d never be allowed to consider whether there’s life on other planets, or if the big bang is true. I’d never be allowed to think that humans and dinosaurs didn’t meet. I’d never be allowed to think that an old culture was anything but ungodly behaviour which died for a God reason – because God hated their unspeakable blasphemous acts.

I was getting frustrated with the life ahead of me. I knew I would die stupid and unhappy if I followed that road. The narrow path got really narrow, like walls coming closer and closer to each other, crushing your chest, leaving you unable to breathe. I decided that I had only one chance to escape this life. And that chance, funny enough, seemed to be Harry.

I went to Tiffany’s house with a plan in my mind. I needed to call Beth and ask for her help. After all, she was Harry’s sister, so she knew him much better than I did. Tiffany gladly agreed to let me call her. Beth was happy to hear from me after a rather long time of silence between us. She asked me a bunch of small talk questions but finally got to the point where she asked how things were between Harry and me. I explained her what my mother said, and she agreed with me that Harry proposing to me was very near, just within a few days range. I told her about my thoughts, that I wasn’t ready to be a wife and mother, that I wanted to be something else, that I wanted to decide some things on my own. Beth immediately suggested running away. I didn’t think of running away as the only chance for me yet, so I disagreed.

I told her about the plan I had come up with: I would ask Harry to leave the movement with me. We would keep the act up for our families, as I didn’t want to be cut off, but we’d live like the other people did. Normal. I’d tell him that he would get so many benefits from that lifestyle. That I’d make money, that we wouldn’t have to have that many kids, that we could have so much fun together as a worldly couple.

Beth didn’t sound convinced at all. “You know, Harry is deeply rooted in his beliefs. Some things he believes are outright stupid, but he believes that he loves Jesus more than anyone, that the movement is the only way to be saved. I don’t think he’ll give that up, no matter how much he loves you.”

“I can try. Maybe he secretly feels the same way.”

“Yes, Lisa, maybe, but then what? You’d still marry a man you don’t love. Do you know what that means? You’ll have to put up with his little faults every day. You’ll have to care for him in sickness, in poverty, and all that without love? Is that fair to you, or him? Can you really sleep with somebody you don’t love – every night? And act like you love him? That’s just a horrible thing to do.”

I hated how right Beth was. I was deeply ashamed that I had already acted like I was in love. My cheeks burnt at the realisation that the damage was done and I’d have to keep up this terrible act for the rest of my life. Out of sheer frustration, I told Beth:

“Well, then I’ll tell him the truth. And that he can have a girlfriend on the side who really loves him, so he gets the love he deserves and we’re both out of the movement!”

“Lisa, that is possibly the dumbest idea you’ve had since… ever. You know that won’t work. He could never do something like that. Not even worldly people do something terrible like that. That’s absurd and so crazy, I can’t even tell you just how stupid it is.”

She was right, of course, and I saw that I could never ask for such a thing from Harry. Too far was too far. But I still couldn’t give up.

“Yeah, you’re right.. I just don’t know what else to do. I’ll have to try to ask him though, that’s the least I can do.”

“Sure, go ahead and try, but you won’t get what you want. Just don’t break his heart more than you already have to. And if he says no, just run away and come to me, please. I’ll help you out.”

Beth gave me her address just in case, but I was sure I wouldn’t need it. I didn’t feel like I could sacrifice my family on the altar of my own desires just yet.

The next few days flew by, weekend came around. But something was different. Something was going on. My mother bought some expensive groceries and things we usually eat only for important events. She baked a lot of stuff and let me eat it. She kept hugging me constantly. My dad was nagging a lot about how I looked, how I acted. That it didn’t suit a grown woman. He’d never call me a grown woman. I knew the weekend would bring a change. Mom spent all friday cooking, preparing, baking, decorating, cleaning. She asked me to wear something pretty for dinner. Yeah, my parents were always terrible at surprising us kids. I knew that Harry and his family were coming over for dinner, even if they tried to keep it a secret from me.

Around 6 PM, the doorbell rang. In my mind, it sounded much shriller than it usually did. My mom asked me to open the door. I walked to the door in nervous, short-breathed steps. I slowly opened it, my face frozen in a helpless grimace, as if I had just watched an elephant eat sushi, and then fly away with his umbrella. In front of the door was Harry, flocked by his entire family. All of them had huge smiles on their faces and, almost simultaneously, they yelled “Surprise!”. I looked at Harry. He was wearing a rather fancy outfit. Dress pants, sparkling shoes, a white shirt and a tie. I stepped to the side in order for them to come in, still with my shocked expression on my face, murmuring something like “I didn’t expect you at all…”. Harry came in, looked into my eyes and gave me a little bouquet of flowers. Lillies. The ultimate engagement flower. I stood frozen until everyone found their way in. I pushed the door closed and the clicking sound of the lock reminded me that today was the day my sentence might be sealed.

Training up this child – Part 18 – A new day dawning

I’m sorry for such a big delay. The last few days have been so incredibly busy for me! I had a lot of work to do and well, things that happen in a normal life just happen I’ll be keeping you updated!

Harry and I just kept standing there, looking at the pretty surroundings, not letting go of each other’s hands. After a few minutes, he pulled me towards the house. “Come on, I think I need to get going!” He made a funny sad face and we walked back to the house. My parents were outside waiting for us. I could see my dad’s eyes, how he squeezed them together more and more, how he made a sour face from which I was able to tell that he didn’t approve of the hand-holding. My mother just looked at us, surprised but not angry. “Since when is it ok to hold hands?” my dad barked. “Well…” Harry stuttered, “since Lisa and I decided to go a step further in our relationship…”. My dad’s face turned from a slight angry red to another shade, one between tomatoes and red beet. “I don’t approve of that type of physical relationship.” I got very annoyed and I simply felt sorry for Harry being in trouble for something I initiated earlier. “Dad, you don’t have to approve because there’s nothing to approve. You didn’t mind Harry playing Tag with the girls, he touched all of them and there were no concerns about their purity. This is nothing. Just quit that double standard.” I pulled Harry by his hand towards the house, leaving my dad standing, like he wasn’t sure what to say, or simply decided to delay the trouble until Harry was gone. “Come on Harry, you still need to pack some stuff. I’ll make you a snack for the drive home.”

We went inside where we finished up packing and getting Harry ready for the drive. When we said our goodbyes at his car, he grabbed my hand with both of his for a second and squeezed it.

Back inside, my dad pulled an act that was typical for him: Let’s call it “Let them suffer in silence”. It’s one of his favourite bits that he liked to pull with everyone on occasion. He usually just sits some place, like the sofa, quiet, staring, shushing people around, staring at his victim and, perfectly timed, shaking his head only very slightly when the victim looked in his direction. When I was smaller, I would try to please him as hard as I could. The silence was terrifying for me and my siblings, the feeling of really having disappointed him and God. We actually prefered being beaten over the silence, because after a beating, it would be over and normal again, while the silence could last for days with no clue what the outcome of it would be.

And after about two hours of the silence, I lost my temper. My entire body was burning with shame, regret and the feeling that I had treated Harry wrong. Not because we were holding hands, but because I felt like he loved me on a very different level. All of it was too much for me and I was close to tears. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Dad, you can stare at me all you want, I’m not going to apologize. You have pushed this relationship all along, now you deal with the fact that it’s actually turned into a relationship. It doesn’t say ‘You shall not hold hands’ in the bible.”

“It says CHILDREN OBEY YOUR PARENTS and I DID NOT ALLOW YOU TO HOLD HANDS!” he yelled.

“I obeyed you the entire weekend. Actually, all I did was obeying you. You want me to marry Harry, now I’ll tell you what, he told me that he thought I was the wrong one because I showed so little affection. Now he’s sure I’m the right one and you get your wedding and me out of the house, so I’m obeying all you ever said about my relationship and this is all I’m going to say.”

With that, I left the room to hide somewhere safe to cry at. My mom, who was running around the house, cleaning and tidying, only caught pieces of all this. After a while, she found me crying in my room. She sat down next to me, hugged me and just let me cry.

“Are you crying because of Dad?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“All I was supposed to do was love Harry. Before I wasn’t good enough, and now that I’m doing what everybody wants, it’s not good enough either. What am I supposed to do with everything?”

“Sweety, I don’t think it’s that bad you held hands. You’re close to an engagement anyway. I’ll talk to dad and try to make him understand. Now get some rest, then clean yourself up and join us for dinner.”

She hugged me again, smiled and left the room. Her words were still burning in my mind. Close to an engagement… I always knew this was the goal, but now that the time came closer with huge steps, I felt like a hamster in a cage, trying to run, but really, you’re not going anywhere. Life is going to happen, whether you like it or not. And nothing I could do would stop that.

Hey there Amish girl

I grew up bilingual, which means I speak and write two languages equally well (or maybe not so much!) and both feel like my native language to me. I often can’t tell what language I’m speaking, writing, hearing. It’s a bit tricky sometimes when I’m working on my posts as foreign words slip into my texts and I just can’t see it. The second language comes from my mother. My grandparents moved to the states when she was 12. They never spoke english at home, but my mother picked up english fairly fast. However, she still has an accent. We spoke my mother’s language at home unless dad was home. We also spoke it in public unless dad was there. Actually, we only spoke english with my dad. I have a partial accent in both languages. It’s quite funny because I actually don’t have it, it just comes out when I’m talking fast or when I’m confused, not sure which language to speak. I have this accent in both languages, in each from the other.

Growing up this way in the movement was strange to say the least. Us kids faced a lot of comments and challenges that the others didn’t.

The very first problem was the fact that we as kids were so used to not speaking english with each other in public that we never even thought it might bother anyone. After all, some people spoke spanish in public, so why shouldn’t we speak different as well? It seemed alright. But a lot of times, it wasn’t alright. People talked to us in a strange way, as if we didn’t speak much english. When we went to fundamentalist conventions, we didn’t really find many friends. I think a lot of times parents kept their children away from us as they considered us Amish. We had a hard time finding friends. And when people were nice to us, they seemed to try to convert us to their beliefs and away from our supposed Amish environment. In fact, we were never Amish and I have never even talked to an Amish person in my life (that I know of).

On other occasions, we were told by other people who knowing a second language was great as it would make missioning so much easier. My dad lived in the mindset that the American way was the only way Christ said things should be done. If you weren’t American, you weren’t a christian. And in reverse, if you weren’t a strong christian, you weren’t a real American. I know this hurt my mother a lot as she loved her European home and until this day wishes she could return at some point, retire there, buy a little house and die where she felt home. There were days were she was very homesick, even 20 years after leaving, and she would tell us kids stories about her youth at home. I tried to balance my mom’s stories with the view my dad had on other countries and the fundies had on those people needing to be missioned, but it never added up. What was I supposed to do, sell them glass pearls and show them the truth? I always struggled between loyalty with my mom and my dad at the same time.

I’m not saying we were cast out by society and everybody looked down on us. Not by any means! We could integrate very well (at least into the fundamentalist movement, haha) and we were mostly accepted as just another family.

After I left the movement, I had a great desire to find out more about my mom’s home. We still had (and have) family there, my mom’s sister lives there and has a family, so we always had contact to people back home.

I quickly developed the same dream my mom had: Return some day, buy a house and just live merrily in a place that sounded like “home”, like a safe haven, far away from the troubles with my family. I think I’ll have to write an entirely new post about that…

When good things happen to bad people – wait, what?

Here’s just an assembly of today’s thoughts on God. Very random, not many answers.

God, that’s that big teacher up in the sky, living outside of time, in heavenly Jerusalem, from where he will judge the good and the bad.

But before he judges, he makes sure to be all loving and caring, making us learn. He’s basically the boss teacher. And I have to admit, his style of teaching is unconventional, to say the least.

I have been taught all my life by my dad. My dad’s voice was God’s way of speaking to me. God speaks through dads.

My dad said that bad things happen to bad people. Like tsunamis, or earth quakes, or something like that. And when those things hit, they swipe away only the bad ones. The good ones are taking away into safety by God himself before hand. This always made sense to me.

But then why do bad things happen to good people? And likewise, why do good things happen to bad people?

Imagine there was a really evil man. Let’s go with a pedophile. He meets a woman whom he marries. She’s godly in every way, inward and outward. She possesses all qualities of a P31 woman and she cares for him every day of her life. They have a hand full of kids, all just as godly as the wife, being obedient, cheerful and just overall good kids. A family, who’s just as godly as our first family, lives in the house right next to them. Now one day, the pedophile dad loses his discipline to ignore his sexual preference and goes abusing the godly neighbor’s little boy. What’s up with that? What went wrong? Why are two families being punished when really nobody did anything ungodly?

Imagine being a wife for 5, 10 or even 50 years and you find out you have been lied to all of your life by the person you trust the most. That’s a straight punishment. Imagine one of your kids being hurt or abused by somebody evil. That’s a punishment too. Why does God punish good people?

No worries, we have an answer for that too! It’s because God teaches us. I said before that his methods are a bit unusual. God teaches us by doing bad things to us. He tests us and our faith.

Why does God have to test us when everything, all events of time, are just the way he designed it. If he could foresee everything we’d be, do and have, where’s the need to test?

Why does God make us so we need teaching? I thought creation was good, creation was perfect. After all God is perfect. Why did he make us defect beings who need teaching like a pack of naughty kids? There’s only one answer I can give: God is a mean boy.

He likes watching us suffer, he likes us as defect beings, because that’s the only way we can humour him with our sad attempts to get through life. God used to show that a lot more back in the day, when he ran around punishing people for wearing the wrong pair of shoes, screaming and yelling at them because they weren’t worth a second of his precious time. He would come down and ‘spank’ the humans, because remember? Spanking = love.

That’s really all I’m getting from the God I have been taught to believe in.

It reminds me a bit of ants. Remember playing in the garden, watching an ant colony, deciding to kill one and let the other escape? You would catch some and put them some place else to see where they would do, if they’d make their way back. You kill some random ones to see the reaction of the others. I sometimes feel like God is just a mean boy, enjoying the power he has over a bunch of ants. Would the boy be sad if all ants died? Certainly not.

But then there’s Jesus. He’s so different, no wonder that bunch of spanked kids loved him, viewed him as the Messiah. He is loving, caring, not judging, not punishing. Sometimes I feel like God and Jesus are from two separate religions.

Jesus is really the only reason why I haven’t abandoned religion all together yet.