Dreams of Courtrooms and Libraries

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a lawyer. I imagined courtrooms like Perry Mason and Matlock. Atticus Finch in a suit and a thin tie, standing shoulder to shoulder with me as we fought for what was good and true—voices for the voiceless, advocates for the needy. I didn’t like confrontation, and I still don’t, but I didn’t see any problem in fighting to help someone get away from a bully or giving them words when they couldn’t find them for themselves. In elementary school, I was often the one who defended those who were treated differently.

But Mom said that was dumb and repeatedly told me I would be better as a vet. She said, “I can’t imagine you locked indoors in an office.” As though that was the whole point and the sum of that dream.

Obviously, I wasn’t building a life fantasy of being stuck indoors, but her words hit deep,

and the imaginings and tender shoots of who I wanted to be when I grew up withered and died.

At 51, I wonder if it’s too late for dreams and if, somewhere along the line, as I grew in age and responsibility, the dreamer’s voice has become so quiet.

It wasn’t just Mom’s voice that silenced me; it was the voices of countless preachers screaming from their pulpits and the women who follow them whispering at potlucks. Authors of marriage and family books who lined the pages with expectations and explanations of a submission that felt like imperatives to repress myself and subject myself by disengaging my brain and rewriting my own life to match an ideal that hurt as it compressed and compressed until I only existed in the ways the people around me succeeded. The combined influences walled me in on all sides, molding me into this box of womanhood, of adulthood, of compliance that rendered me dreamless.

If being a wife and a mother was the ultimate goal for me, as a woman, what kind of ungrateful, wicked creature am I for feeling unfulfilled and agitated when I made dinner, hugged babies, planned anniversaries, or twisted the gold ring that set me apart from those lonely single women who wept for what I had.

All the platitudes of domestic bliss quietly added links to the fence that kept me caged.

If I don’t love doing laundry or consider it an “act of worship,” I am a dissident. Caring for the home, making a haven for my husband, washing the dishes, wiping noses and little bottoms— these gilded gifts of ultimate purpose I was constantly told I should embrace with enthusiasm.

I couldn’t tell anyone how frustrated I felt.

How I felt used. How minimized I felt.

For decades, I worked HARD to be a competent housekeeper, an attentive mother, a considerate and accommodating wife. Choosing to specialize, I practiced the art of kitchen-ing until I could produce epic meals that proved to the audience that I was a vision of domestic happiness. Yet, for the most part? I felt like a fraud. Because I didn’t find deep joy in cleaning up messes I didn’t make, mollifying hurt feelings, or adjusting budgets to accommodate everyone’s dreams but my own. The very vision of “dying to self” so that I might better “serve” the needs of my family was hard work that seemed to only produce good things for everyone else.

Because that was the conservative evangelical patriarchal ideal.

A woman who sacrifices her own life until she disappears. Modestly.

I rebelled in little ways. Bright red highlights, bright red lipstick, a blog where I found people who thought my words captivating and my thoughts worth challenging. A Wild West of ideas unfettered by the clucking of women’s bible study leaders and the incessant pressure to make our family and our marriage some sort of complex goodness that didn’t always apply when we struggled to pay bills, agree on parenting, or find time for each other.

But the part of me that was the loudest was the part that conformed to the rules because I knew I couldn’t afford the cost of disappointing God or my husband or my church. The cost would be my family, my home, my marriage. Even my soul could be lost if I didn’t obey the rules.

It’s easy to talk about choices when you understand that you have them. It’s harder to look back and realize that, while you observed many women building lives you only dreamed of, you truly believed that those options were for other people, not you. I can’t even blame anyone but myself for not pushing the boundaries harder or demanding more for myself.

Yet, in a world where female autonomy was viewed as an aberration, independent decision-making was inconceivable. Sure, I could make decisions for myself, but I was always reminded that actions have consequences and, ultimately, I would be forcing my children and my husband to live differently. Even to suffer the loss of the one who was expected to make it all work.

According to everything I believed, it was MY fault that bills went unpaid because I didn’t economize better so that I honored my husband’s effort to earn for us. It was MY fault when parenting broke down because it meant somewhere in my wicked heart, I wasn’t submissive. I was rebellious, and discord would bleed into the family, tainting my children. Date nights were mine to plan and organize and remind of and dress up for. I planned activities that my husband enjoyed, and avoided art galleries and poetry readings, and classic movies because they weren’t his style. I didn’t even ask because it was my duty to make him happy, not tell him what I needed.

Were those beliefs true and accurate? Did my husband believe that too? No. He honestly thought I was making decisions, clearly reasoned, to exist the way I was existing, and I didn’t have the self-awareness or verbiage to know or express any differently.

An entire universe of chaos and expectation lived in the fatty blob between my ears. Dissonance reduced to white noise in words I didn’t even know how to say.

My husband, for his part, dutifully tried to uphold his end of the bargain by making decisions unilaterally when he felt he needed to. He believed that kept me “safe” and “protected” by not supporting my thoughts about getting a job or going to college. Our worldview informed us that the temptations of the world were too great. The possibility and even likelihood of indoctrination by the insidious secular whispering of feminism and equality would not only destroy our marriage and family but, likely, would drag me away from a God who only wanted to make me holy. To be set apart was the goal, and isolation from a dangerous world was the way.

Obedience, unquestioning obedience, was the ticket.

Losing my own identity was the price, and I gladly paid it until, suddenly, I could no longer.

And then it happened. Change swept in, and I lost not only my community but the person I had worked so hard to become. My children grew up and moved away, and in a matter of months, I went from homeschool mom to just a woman by herself at the park. I was no longer a mom. Not in the sense of daily service.

We moved somewhere that felt foreign, filled with people who told me soft southern lies of acceptance that my logical northern heart foolishly believed. My personality changed, my capacity to serve dried up, and my willingness to be “a servant” dissipated.

I was angry and lost and alone.

One son hellbent on destroying his life by any means necessary, and the other heaven-bent on believing I was the reason behind all the pain. My husband still clinging to a faith that no longer looks like something I want. Conversations seemed to only frustrate him as I whispered about how to wrestle with a God who seemed to provide miracles for everyone else while I sat and watched my world burn.

And in that place, I waited. I waited for answers, and I waited for faces to show up, and I waited for the goodness I was promised by everyone who preached at me. And the world got quieter, and my sons stayed gone, and my spiritual community disappeared. Like circling the event horizon of a black hole, I waited for someone, something, to show up and help me understand.

A phone on silent only matters if someone reaches out, yet very, very few did.

I had served my purpose and, all used up, had lost my way.

Deconstruction has been a specter in the corner of evangelicalism for years. Often framed as an abandonment of God and an unfaithfulness to the church, it’s the boogeyman of fundamentalism. The thought of questioning and even rejecting cornerstones of faith and being left outside, in the sharpness of a fallen world, provoked a maelstrom of fear. My eternity was in question, my soul in the balance,

My reality was that this disassembling of what I held as bedrock quickly became a turbulent and terrifying exposé of a foundational flaw where, perhaps, the materials are good, but the building was unsound. The blueprint had been remade in the image of men who thrived on control and societies that rested on the shoulders of diligent women like me. And that thing. That truth, once seen, couldn’t be resolved. After all these years, it rattled and woke my inner Atticus Finch and unlocked a fierce desire to protect someone new from the bullies.

Me.

No matter how hard I tried to put myself back into ill-fitting shoes, the genie was out of the bottle. The frame no longer held. My questions refused to remain unasked, although so many still lie unanswered.

I couldn’t make peace with this Wizard of Oz reality I’d become aware of, as there are too many incongruities, too many falsehoods, and too many arrogant leaders preying on their congregations.

Hopeful for something to hold onto, along the way, I slowly began to accept that this is less about denying the reality of God and more about denying the opinions of men and their artificial constructs that are supposed to represent God. Someone said it’s “unraveling the bright strands of truth that have gotten lost.”

I like that.

It’s a bright July afternoon, the heat index says 92, and the humidity is only 57% today. A nearly perfect summer day if you have a pool and a cabana. My coffee cup is empty and the breakfast/lunch of nectarines and almond butter on sprouted grain toast are fueling a conversation that has lived too long inside.

I have shreds of faith left. Glimmers of meaning behind swathes of empty space where all the rules used to be. It is disconcerting to my husband and only shared with a very few friends. The ones who don’t flinch away or try to suggest bible studies or “try harder” books that simply reaffirm my resistance to being ordered about.

I say God is silent. Brian says read the Bible; God’s words are in there. I don’t know how to communicate that I hear the words of the Bible in the voices of men, and subtext, and invisible walls within walls that feel like they suffocate me. I envy his confidence and ability to be comforted by verses I have seen used as weapons to silence and restrain.

“Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7

Brian reads that as a freedom, a release from anxiety, and a trust-fall into the arms of a Faithful Creator. I read it as a transaction. IF I let go, He’ll care about me. How many are ALL the cares? What if I care later? What if caring about something, being anxious about something, aching for resolution, means I’m not trusting Him, and then—Well, then He doesn’t care for me anymore.

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:6

But I AM anxious, and prayers so often feel like wasted words, and supplications feel like abject begging. There is so little peace, even the kind that doesn’t make sense, so then, I am made aware that in my failure, nothing guards my heart and mind, and I am… Overcome.

I don’t want a transactional faith; I want a tested one. I want to believe that my Creator looks at me, broken, flawed, sometimes raging, sometimes defeated. Inconsistent and relentless. It seems a pipe dream to believe that He sees me, just as I am, and doesn’t hate me or, worse, ignores me altogether.

Years ago, in the infancy of my faith, someone asked me if I could create the most perfect mental image of God. And if I could, what would it be?

So, I closed my eyes and imagined a library with dark wood, shiny from polish and years of use. Books with jewel tone covers and gold leaf covered the walls, painted dark green. A fireplace, warm and flickering, lit the space and reflected off brass lamps and art drawn of horses, and flowers, and dogs. A large leather wingback chair sat next to the fireplace, and in it sat a man with broad shoulders and kind hands. On his lap, head tucked into his shoulder, sat five-year-old me. And we just sat. Safe. Quiet.

To me, that was the most perfect image of God I could muster. Even all these years later, it resonates with me more deeply than I am comfortable delving into.

But she told me that my idea of God was too small and that I need to “re-envision” Him into something far greater. Bigger. More commanding.

So, I did.

There is a particular bent to my character that has, often, created more problems than solutions for me. I am compelled to do what I believe is Right, no matter what it costs, and with nearly zero regard for personal inclination. If it is the RIGHT thing to do I MUST do it.

I will dive into or hold onto or invest into with a grit and determination that supersedes nearly anything else in my wheelhouse if it is framed as “The Right Thing to Do”.

I will work myself nearly to death (fact here, not hyperbole) giving to something that must be done, or else. I will sacrifice without concern for myself to take care of the people I love and to ensure their well-being and success. From friendships to churches, denied sleep or meals, and even financial investments I truly cannot afford, I will spend it all if I believe, or have been convinced, that it is The Right Thing to Do.

Some people have weaponized it against me, and it hurt. Some people have benefited from it and then discarded me when they no longer needed me. That hurts. Some people just took it in stride and loved that I was “so helpful,” but since that wasn’t their personality or character or gifting? There was no need to reciprocate. They were the takers; I was the giver. One way or the other, I allowed it because all that mattered was that I was doing what was right. I could endure so many things for the faint praise of doing what was Right.

So, when the whole world (my whole world) told me that I had to look a certain way to be a wife, and a mother, and a woman of faith, and a sister, and a minister, and a friend, I internalized it and all the doors for other choices slammed shut. The big, commanding God behind this ideal required me to focus all I was on being obedient and “honoring” His rules.

When the rules dictated that I submit and serve? I submitted and served harder than anyone else. Whatever the new rules were, I did it.

Keep the Sabbath? Bake the bread? Create the perfect event? Go to a new church? Leave friendships behind? Learn a different language? Travel the world? Follow someone else’s dream? Subdue anything that challenged the status quo?

I must do whatever was asked of me because the option not to wasn’t in line with keeping God happy with me. And if He wasn’t happy with me, then I was lost. Truly lost. And the people I loved most would be dragged down with me.

“Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things, I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:11-13

There would be no challenge for I must be content. I could be abased, and I could abound, but I could never reject the guidelines. In all the ways I was hungry and all the ways I found satisfaction, I would neither rejoice nor complain. And I would do it all because this was what God wanted for me. THIS was what He would give me the strength to do.

Easy-peasy.

Until the box of questions wouldn’t shut anymore, and the lid blew off. Then, it all just erupted and destroyed the whole house of cards.

I was able to accept the way things were until the courtroom in my head demanded answers for the injustices around me. Answers for the inconsistencies and the oppression. Answers for the rejection of goodness and truth I saw masquerading as “spiritual communities” and “faith”. Answers for why MY needs were to be silenced while the needs of others were amplified and examined, soothed, and comforted.

Who cares how I make my coffee? Who lets me speak to the end of my thought instead of silencing me or interrupting halfway through?

Who notices if I’m not there, and not just because the food isn’t made or the event isn’t planned?

I had built a spiritual identity out of a righteousness that morphed depending on the creeds most loudly shouted around me.

So, when I slammed the door and retreated to my office, and vintage speakers blasting Etta James off vinyl instead of acoustic worship sets? The whole identity I’d built crumbled. Without an outlet for service and only two dogs, two cats, and a shell-shocked husband to think about, the afterglow of burnout lingered like cheap cigarette smoke.

Agitation riddled me as I walked into the unknown. I was consciously doing things that violated the terms of my agreement to do What Was Right, no matter how I felt about it. Except, how I felt was louder than the compulsion to just do the Right Things.

In this unexplored space, I have unraveled.

At first, there was only darkness, but as the months have bled into years, I am beginning to see light.

Sometimes I think I see the library walls, although I haven’t been able to replicate the warmth of the fire or the feel of the chair.

I am not completely hopeless. If God is truly as big and all-encompassing as they say, then He will have the wisdom to know how to speak to me in ways I can hear.

And maybe when I can hear Him again, when the reformation settles into words I can speak and convictions I can live with

, then, maybe then, I can dream again.