I was born in Whittier, California. When I was three, my younger brother Ryan was born. I only have two memories prior to his birth. One being that my parents had rabbits, in cages that were on stilts so the bunnies were off the ground. I remember being terrified of the rabbits. My other memory is of my next door neighbor – a young girl who lived with her grandparents – and me playing on opposite sides of the chain link fence that separated our yards. My next memory isn’t until I was about four, in preschool, when one of the boys in the class bit me and I told my mother she ripped into the teacher in front of everyone.

Back in the 70’s, Southern California was becoming, what my parents considered to be a negative influence on their children. When I was four, my parents moved us to a very small town in Missouri. That is where most of my childhood days unfolded. We lived in the countryside on a pseudo-farm: one cow, one horse, one pig, and lots of chickens. My parents would trade eggs for milk and cream with the farmer who lived down the way. Our backyard was enormous compared to the yard we had in Whittier. Our pasture, where the animals grazed, was almost five acres. And that is where I learned to ride a bike, climb trees, build forts, and shoot off firecrackers.

When I was six, my younger sister, Dana, was born. And a little over a year later, my brother Ty was born. My father took us fishing, frog hunting, mushroom hunting, and horseback riding. I didn’t grow up watching much television because I was outdoors so much.

In Missouri, I was sheltered from the real world. My two best friends were my aunt, who is the daughter of a Baptist preacher, and Jill, also the daughter of a Baptist preacher. I knew every single student in my grade and was heavily influenced by the adults in my life. We lived close to family; uncles, cousins, and grandparents. My parents made their share of mistakes, causing hurt to themselves and their children. I’m not going to go into details because it is not my intention to shame them; we all do stupid things that seem right at the time (I certainly have my share).

From age 4 to 12, religion was a form of discipline. When I would misbehave, my mother would say “you’re making God cry” or “you’re hurting Jesus”. At that stage in my life, nothing was more important than pleasing my parents and that manifested into pleasing God. I would try to be good so that they would be proud. When I was 10, my mother told me that in order to go to heaven I needed to be baptized. Of course I wanted to go to heaven! So a few months later I was baptized.

Religion was very important, and so were community and family. I participated in all the church youth activities as well as Girl Scouts and 4-H. My mother taught me to sew, play the piano, churn butter, and can jam. I was well rounded, obedient most of the time, and mildly introverted. I considered myself Christian, but had no idea there was such a thing as good and bad Christians. Then, I was exposed to a world I knew nothing about.

When I was twelve, my parents moved the family to Arizona. I remember on the long drive across all those states, continuously having this haunting feeling that a chapter in the book of my life was closing behind me and a new chapter was about to unfold; pretty freaky for a twelve year old. When we arrive, I experienced a bad case of culture shock.

In seventh grade, I saw for the first time, teenagers smoking in the bathroom, ditching classes, and dying their hair funky shades of pink and blue. I had never seen cliques before, didn’t know fashion was important, and really didn’t fit in; I was the new kid in a school where everyone knew everyone else and I had nothing in common with any of them. It didn’t take me too long (especially at that age) to learn to rebel against my parents. And the “you’re making God cry” line didn’t really work on me anymore. I just couldn’t understand why God would cry when I shaved my legs after my mother told me not to.

After a few months, I made some friends. They took me under their wing and taught me all about the girl things of which I had no prior knowledge: makeup, bras, mini skirts, boyfriends, hair styles, jewelry, and so much more. We spent every free moment we had together. When we got to eighth grade, we decided we wanted to start a cheerleading squad – the junior high had never had one. I talked to some of the teachers, and we convinced our parents to let us do it. One of the moms made the uniforms and one of the moms supervised us at the games.

In Arizona, we started going to a First Baptist church. It was very different from the Southern Baptist church in Missouri for a number of reasons: 1) there were more old people than young people, 2) the singing was lethargic to say the least, and 3) the building was small and stuffy. Most of the time, I was bored out of my gourd.

I remember one time when the youth leader got the entire youth group together (there were maybe eight of us) and asked for ideas on how to bring in more young people. Right away I suggested we hold a dance at the church, something supervised that would be both social and wholesome. Whoa! Big mistake. The youth leader took me aside and explained that Baptist’s don’t dance. Don’t, I asked, or can’t. (Troublemaking teenage hormones were in full force.) Both, I was told. Baptists don’t dance because they aren’t supposed to dance. What a crock of muck soup. I had gone to a Baptist church all my life, my grandfather was a Baptist preacher, my friend’s father was a Baptist preacher – and I had never heard the “don’t dance” rule before. When I relayed the event to one of my girlfriends (who was Catholic) she proudly showed me the movie Footloose. [Remember I had been sheltered from most movies, television shows, and radio until 1986.] After watching the movie, I started asking questions: to my mom, my grandfather, and friends at school who went to the “other” Christian churches. When I finally came to the conclusion that the church had made up its own rule, of its own accord without the backing of the Bible, I also had to come to terms with “church” not equaling “god’s house” like they say it’s supposed to. Because if it was god’s house, then it would be god’s rules.

When I turned eighteen, got married, and moved out of my parent’s house, I decided I wouldn’t attend a Baptist church. I didn’t start looking right away for a church to attend. I still had a need to feel close to God, but at the same time was enjoying the freedom. There was no one there to constantly bring up fears of disappointing God and being damned to hell for eternity. Then one day I was asked to if I would like to attend a Bible study group. Actually study the Bible? I was interested and agreed to go. Long story short, I joined the Los Angeles International Church of Christ. They feed me all the right lines, reeled me in, and slowly put in one hook after another. I stayed a member of that church for three years. In that period of time, I went through a divorce, endured emotional abuse, and was subjected to financial obligations beyond reason.

This time instead of being guided by fear, I was guided by guilt. Instead of telling me “you’re hurting Jesus” like my mother would say, they would tell me “do it for God and God’s one true church”. And that was just the right thing to say to me. I deeply wanted to good things for God. And when I didn’t really want to do what they asked, or felt their demands went against my every moral fiber, I was then tormented with guilt, thinking that I was going against God’s will.

I don’t know why I was so gullible. I don’t know why I didn’t see the signs sooner; maybe I didn’t want to. When I was studying the Bible with them, it was the first time I felt like someone really opened the book up and talked about what it said with me. When they baptized me in the ocean, it was the first time I felt like I was part of a sacred tradition. That church gave me what the Baptist churches growing up didn’t; a pathway to feel connected to God.

But let’s face it, fear and guilt can only motivate for so long before they tear you completely apart. I saw myself spiraling, falling faster and faster into a bottomless pit of despair, and the abuse was only getting worse. That’s when I decided I couldn’t be a part of that church anymore.