An Unshakable Faith

Part II of my weekend pause for reflection.

Photo by Truman Talbot on Unsplash

Why do we do the things we do? I think most people don’t know, maybe don’t want to know, and certainly wouldn’t want to invest money to find out. It is normal to avoid what we believe might cause us pain--no judgment there. My tenacious determination to figure it out is why my writing resonates with so many who are also trying to figure it out. We are on a journey together.

This week, I finally understood myself at a level I didn’t believe was possible. In the middle of my processing, a friend messaged and asked, “So for the rest of my life will I continue to say that I had no idea how traumatized I was?” I responded with one word: “Ditto.” And she said, “Got it.” I was amused by this cryptic conversation between two women who usually have an overabundance of words.

Understanding myself—and my story—at this level helped me realize how my lifelong subconscious effort to not know the most traumatic events of my life kept me from feeling the depth of God’s love. There are very few people (mostly therapists) who know my story beyond what I share publicly. Each one has, at some point, marveled that I could retain my faith. It made no sense to me either until I found my terrified seventeen-year-old self locked in a car by a river. Deep in that memory was a remarkable moment when I felt God’s presence wrap around me like a blanket.

It wasn’t religion, the Bible, theology, church attendance, sermons, or spiritual practices that held my faith steady for the fifty years it took for healing to arrive. It was God’s unmistakeable presence.

I survived in the church—the only world I knew—by becoming and believing whatever kept me safe there. It didn’t always work. Meanwhile, alongside my church life, my faith survived in experiential ways that I rarely shared. Without fully knowing my story, it was impossible to explain my sense of God as ever-present in ways that I never doubted.

Over the past year since publishing Trauma in the Pews and speaking endlessly on the topic of trauma-responsive churches, I realized that my strongest trigger points (dysregulation) were when I was asked to speak or write in ways that drew me back into the performance-based faith that helped me to survive because it denied the core of my faith that was born at the river. It isn’t inauthentic for others, but it is for me.

One example of this is the spiritual language that Christians don’t even know they are using. If you read much of what I write, you may have noticed that it is absent—intentionally. If used, it is placed in quotes or italicized. It isn’t inauthentic for everyone but it is for me.

I cringe when I see this language in Facebook memories or writing from before therapy. I can feel how hard I was trying to make my faith look like everyone else’s. Every editor or publisher has felt my pushback when it is included. I cringe when I can’t change it because it pulls me back to when I had to hide my story to be an acceptable Christian. I admit that my reactions sometimes seem a bit unhinged as I struggle to maintain the authenticity of my faith.

There have been awkward moments when others assumed that I would embrace the church forms of faith in ways that I cannot. (Being asked to quote a scripture verse in a podcast was one of those!) I understand that the spiritual practices that comfort many in their faith are more like strangling vines to mine—because of my story.

Imagine an abandoned car alongside a river bank where nature grows wild. Before long the car will become all but invisible as the plants begin to consume it. It is still there, just not visible. That describes what happened to my core memory of God’s care and love and I have spent ten years hacking away at the massively tangled vines to free that car.

I live in Washington State where nature is persistent. We must be diligent to keep from losing control of our yards. Right now it is spring, not only in my yard but also in my renewed faith. I know the areas that are vulnerable to my simple faith being overtaken again. I am in the process of setting boundaries to ensure that I do not abandon that car again.

While keeping this part of my faith from being overtaken is important, the greatest threat over the years was the pervasiveness of the religious trauma that gathered around me like a pack of wolves and threatened to devour me. In some ways, keeping my faith hidden in that car helped it to be preserved. The actions of wolves—who often proclaimed that they were protecting the faith—felt so foreign to the God who comforted me in that car. It is no surprise to me that God and I have many car stories.

My faith requires both the untangling that allows it to flourish and protection from those who would destroy it. The vines and the wolves are two very different things. My processing this week has helped me to distinguish them from one another. The vines are specific to my story as a survivor but the wolves damage everyone. Wolves need boundaries, vines need containment (guidance) that allows them to flourish.

Back to the first paragraph…

Why do I do the things I do? Is it important to understand? Yes, because without the understanding provided by this six-month healing journey, I would likely grow more prone to attacking the vines (spiritual practices) that were not harming anyone except me. I would also be less likely to continue searching for ways to make the traditional spiritual practices accessible to myself and others while writing Trauma in the Pews 2.0. Who knows, I just might find additional beauty that I missed while I hacked away at the vines.

Finally, I am grateful to every therapist, family member, friend, podcast host, interviewer, conference organizer, etc., who supported me and my work. The support has helped me feel safe enough to search for that brave teenager who deeply felt God’s love in that car by the river. Her faith is unshakable.