Dispelled

Children as a Heritage

2011-08-08T10:58:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I was going through our bookshelves and came across a book I didn’t realize I still owned. It was a book that my mom had purchased for my hope chest that I thought was long gone. The inscription that she wrote on the inside of the book speaks volumes.

She was in the thick of home school leadership at this time, but of all of the externals that she shed when she left the world of home school leadership, this is the one aspect that she did not. She still adhered to the principle that “children (or, my daughter’s children, my son’s children, my grandchildren’s children) are a heritage from the Lord.” (Psalm 127:3, NIV)

Which begs the question, what exactly is a heritage?
Webster’s Dictionary and Strong’s Concordance define the word in essentially the same manner, which I thought interesting in light of the fact that Hebrew connotations of words are so varied when compared with our English language.

Strong’s:

Heritage, from the Hebrew, Nachalah: from an unused word; possession, property, inheritance.

Webster’s:

Heritage: Property that is or can be inherited; an inheritance. Something passed down from preceding generations; a tradition. The status acquired through birth; a birthright.

Inherit: To receive (property or title, for example) from an ancestor by legal succession or will. To receive by bequest or as a legacy. To receive or take over from a predecessor. To receive (a characteristic) from one’s parents by genetic transmission. To gain (something) as one’s right or portion. To hold or take possession of an inheritance.

***********

I find it interesting that children are viewed as a form of property, a right. It’s hard for me sometimes to initially read something like that in the Bible, and that is mostly because my mom was so incredibly spiritually abusive to me. But as I processed the thought that children are an inheritance, a heritage, what came to my mind is the difference between the abuse of one’s inheritance and the stewardship and care over it.

The child born into wealth, given every thing and every opportunity take possession over their inheritance with a snobberish attitude of rightful ownership. They never appreciated what they had, so they squander it away on fanciful whims and mismanage their money, leaving them broke, penniless, and worse off than they were before the inheritance came into their possession. And even if their inheritance is sizeable enough that this situation does not occur, the contentment and satisfaction of knowing what they now possess thwarts them. It thwarts them because they view their inheritance as a right, an entitlement and once they receive it, their wealthy brattiness prevents them from being truly thankful to the Giver of all good gifts.

But those who understand what a gift they possess, are truly grateful. They understand the value and appreciate it. They care for it. They invest it where it will grow and strengthen and become greater still. They do not rush out and squander it on whims; they don’t take it for granted that it will always be there. They understand that if they do not care for their inheritance-their heritage- that it will be gone and washed away.

Therein lies the difference in viewing children as a form of entitlement versus a precious gift to steward.

Parents who view their children as a form of entitlement, a right to possess and own, make choices for their children that feed their own agenda and personal ideologies. The decisions and choices that the parents make, the authority and control that they exercise over their children is self-serving. Case in point, the Duggar’s. The girls are expected to help do the hard work of raising their younger siblings, though it is not their responsibility (legally or otherwise). They cook, make laundry soap, spank their younger brothers and sisters, help educate them, train them, clean the house…In short, they are built in slaves to their mother to help her with the ideology that she projects onto them and it is self-serving.

Webster’s Definition of Slavery is stated thus:

One bound in servitude as the property of a person or household. One who is abjectly subservient to a specified person or influence. One who works extremely hard. A machine or component controlled by another machine or component. To work very hard or doggedly, toil.

These precious Duggar Daughters, and countless others like them are slaves to their parents and their parent’s ideology. I don’t have a problem with large families, as long as the parents are raising the children. Not children raising children. Be a steward of what you have, rather than abuse, misuse, mistreat, and exasperate what the Giver has given.

Does this mean that children are not to have chores and to help out around the house? No, but what is does mean is that the chores that they are expected to do are developmentally appropriate and do not lead to exasperation. Chores are meant to be a training tool to teach personal responsibility and the value of helping out the family- of being a part of something larger than oneself and feeling the importance that those values should instill. Developmentally, a two year old should not be expected to pick up their dishes and put them in the sink. At this point, they are still learning the important value of being able to trust that Mommy and Daddy will help care for their basic needs. Developmentally, a two year old can be expected to help pick up her own baby dolls imperfectly. Yet Jordyn Duggar is expected to clean up her table, put her dishes in a sink she can’t reach, and keep herself picked up after.

Is this the end of the world? No, but parents who are wise stewards over their children don’t just start handing out chores because they are tired of doing the work. They recognize that chores are an important part of growing up and that the purpose is to teach responsibility and independence. Chores are not meant to be a built-in mechanism that parents employ to help feed their ideology that having a large family is God’s calling and their children will help to support that belief. If having a large family is what God has called you to, then you need to be prepared to do the work yourself and not expect your children to do it for you.

Parents who are wise and loving stewards are not controlling over their children to the point of exasperation. They allow them the space that they need to grow and be beautiful, independent creatures while providing them with a safe and secure framework of gentle servant authority in which to grow and prosper. These parents lead by example, not by dictation. They are swiftly and acutely in tune with their children’s hearts, interests, feelings, and anxieties. They model grace and lavish love. Their children do not have cause to fear that their parents won’t provide for their emotional, educational, and physical needs. They are secure in their parent’s love and acceptance of them, they trust in their parents and their hearts rest in the assurance of their relationship. This is a far cry from what many of the Movement/Quiverfull homeschool children feel from their parents.

Because Movement homeschoolers have such a possessive attitude towards their children, this is very often extended onto their grandchildren. It is the view of generational inheritance and possession. Many times in my teenage years I heard the verses, “I will lead you into the land of Canaan, a land of inheritance…” in terms of inheriting the progeny of their children’s children.

I say this because it is a form of warning. Though my parents had left the homeschool movement nearly twelve years ago, their thinking had not changed, especially in regard to this core belief that Movement homeschoolers hold to. They knew that they had blown it with me, and they treated me as though I was not worth working for. But my children- or their children as they thought of them- were the reason they fought so hard to stay in my life.

The fight got so nasty over this battle for my children we had to seek legal counsel because they were approaching their lawyer with threats of grandparent’s rights, custody battles and the entire shebang.

I never realized just how intense one’s desire to control what is perceived as being rightfully theirs could prove to be.

These threats led me to have to contact my children’s school and provide them with pictures of my parents so that they could prevent my parents from taking them or coming to see them. I had to threaten them with a restraining order to get them to leave my children alone (they were obscenely sending packages and cards every chance they could to butter my boys up), and then a final meeting with our attorney to ensure that they had no legal rights whatsoever. Because I refuse my parents permission to see my children, they have no rights to them at all and no basis for a custody hearing.

In this sense, there is very little difference between the slave owners during the Civil War era. Children that were born to slaves became the property and sole ownership of the slave master, with no respect to the biological parents.

Wise and loving parents gradually release the reigns of control a little bit each year, allowing their child to grow into an independent creature that is capable of making their own decisions and choices. They love them enough to give them the space to grow, to make mistakes, to stumble and fall, to rise and conquer. They prepare them to leave their nest to go and find a new mate, build a new nest and start this beautiful circadian rhythm all over again. This is the way it was designed by the Giver and those who thwart this process thwart the beauty of the Giver’s design.

The Dispelled Girl: Part 11: Raging Rapids on the Sea of Change

2011-07-15T08:30:00.001-05:00

June came in on the wings of a splendid spring for Darren and I. My world had never been sunnier. It was a hopeful season full of the amazing gift of love between a man and his woman. We both knew we were going to become engaged, the question was one of timing.

The lease for the sugary little condo that I was renting with my friend was going to be up at the end of June. Due to the situation of my relationship with Darren, and the seriousness of it, this was going to render me without a place to live. My two dear friends were going to be moving in with three other girls, and due to occupational ordinances there was not room for one more person. I knew what my options were: either try to find a place to live on my own, move in with Darren, or move back in with my parents. I couldn’t afford to rent a place on my income and I didn’t want to sign a lease, and I had always dreamed of marrying in the church where I grew up. It was a magnificent facility and the envy of those who could marry there: you had to be a member in order to wed. With those dreams of a beautiful ceremony and wedding nestled deep in my heart, living with Darren would put that dream out of reach for me. My life had been filled with so much pain and heartache; I couldn’t bear the thought of relinquishing my dreams of the happiest day of my life. So I did what I never should have done: I moved back in with my parents.

Darren proposed on the front steps of a darling Catholic church that we would walk by every night. The Church of the Little Flower looked like it belonged in Austria and it was the perfect setting. Dropping to one knee, he pulled out the biggest diamond solitaire I had ever seen. After tears and kisses, three ladies down the street applauded. I think we made their day.

Darren’s parents, who were not churchgoers, were wonderful and supportive and thrilled that at long last their son was getting married to the girl of his dreams. My parents who were devoted members of this church, actively worked to un-do our relationship and sought to control what they could. To say that they were displeased with my engagement to a man that “they didn’t know” would be an understatement. My mother was convinced that this was not God’s will for my life and so with that conviction came a war looming on the horizon. But the throws of love kept me naïve regarding what the two of my parents were plotting and Darren and I forged ahead knowing that nothing could separate us from one another or the Father’s love.

We progressed ahead planning our future. Neither one of us had ever been happier, especially not me. And then, one week in mid-July it all fell apart.

My best friend at the time was still working at Twin Oaks. We had grown very, very close over the last several months. We shared a cubicle and we loved working together. She always had my back.

She called my cell. “Chandra, you need to know something. Your wedding date was just pulled off of the calendar.”

I was angry and frozen all at the same time. I had been in charge of scheduling weddings, and I knew the policy. The only way that this could have happened is if my parents decided that they did not approve of my marriage to a God-fearing, financially secure man that they “did not know.” They had pulled out their ace card: Parental blessing.

They had gone straight to the top and successfully communicated that they were not comfortable with this marriage, that I was marrying the wrong one, and in the name of protecting me…the church listened and pulled my date.

In a few short days, I lost everything. My dreams of a lovely wedding, my dress, my photographer, and my invitation company. Everything.

To shorten a lengthy story for the purposes of blogging, Darren and I planned on eloping at the courthouse the Thursday after my world became wretchedly unraveled. I moved all of my belongings in to Darren’s over the next few days. Screw the wedding.

This of course did not stop my parents from insisting- yes, you read that right- insisting on a wedding that they had complete control over, at a time they were “comfortable with.”

We said hell with it.

They wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I had pastors, elders wives, and the whole gamut calling me, sending me emails, writing me letters about how I needed to do what my parents wanted, that I was robbing my mom of an opportunity to share a wedding with her daughter, and not to elope.

I don’t know what brand of Kool-aid they fed their friends, but it was nothing but lies in an attempt to control and manipulate their daughter.

The problem was that my parents had wanted the wedding date pulled off of the calendar so that they could control the entire process, and force us to wait a year and a half to get married (rather than in a few short months). They thought that they could bank on the fact that they knew how much I had dreamed of getting married and that they could use that dream to manipulate me.

Well, not any more. I relinquished my dream. It was important to me yes, I would never fully recover from the loss, but it was not near as dear to my heart as the man I was about to marry. He was my world and I gladly gave all that up for him…and for self-respect.

My best friend was a great party planner. She knew about my dreams of a wedding, and she was not about to let me go and just give all of that up. She knew a pastor who could perform our ceremony, she said, so why not plan a wedding anyway?

We met with the pastor, and he agreed to marry us. We called the proprietor of the Church of the Little Flower and he OK’d us to be married on the front steps of the very church where he proposed to me. I went to JCPenny’s and bought a wedding dress (or confirmation dress, not sure which!) off of the rack. Darren’s parents paid for the ceremony site and pastor. I bought my own gown.

My BF and I kept the ceremony under wraps. We were about to spring a massive surprise on my bridal party. On the night of the ceremony, my BF met them at our house which was right down the street from the church and drove everyone to Little Flower. You could hear the screams coming from the van.

It was a surprise wedding, and we were the couple surprising everyone else!

I wasn’t strong enough emotionally or mentally to fight the mental burga that my parents had covered me with. I allowed them to be present at the ceremony. It was a dark bloody stain on the white dress that I wore. And when I think about one of the happiest days of my life, there they are, with their pompous attitudes and obvious disapproval, looking on in judgment and hatred.

At the time, I cared little whether they were there or not. But when I look back, it pains me because I still remember the look on their faces. I wish those memories were not even there.

They insisted on paying for something at the last minute. We had planned to go to a fancy French restaurant with the understanding that everyone would pick up his or her own tab. Not wanting to be shown up by Darren’s parents (who were already paying for the champagne), they gave me their credit card and told me to charge the meals to it.

They left with my grandfather. And we went on to celebrate the beginning of our married lives. I was free!

Or was I?

In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but think about an unexpected conversation that I had had with Hannah, not a month before our wedding. She had found my number through a friend of a friend and wanted to reconnect. She said that she had a lot to tell me, a lot that she wanted to apologize for. And when we met, I couldn’t believe my ears. And on my wedding day, I couldn’t help but think about what it was that she had told me.

Missouri Homeschooling Law

2011-06-30T11:15:00.000-05:00

This is the first in a series where I will analyze the homeschooling laws of all fifty states and since I lived and breathed this particular state’s law, this seemed like the logical place to start.

Overall, Missouri is considered by the wider homeschooling community to be one of the best laws in the nation because it is a state with no accountability to state officials. Hair generally raises on my spine when I hear this because it is indicative of just how much (or how little) a family can get by with.

Section 1

According to Section 167.031 of the Revised Statutes of Missouri, a parent or guardian of a child, between the ages of seven (7) and seventeen (17) years of age, shall cause the child to attend regularly some public, private, parochial, parish, home school or a combination of such schools. Any parent may educate a child at home. The parent does not need a teaching certificate or need to meet any education requirements in order to provide home instruction.

Human nature naturally goes towards delaying putting off what could be done now, until it is absolutely necessary. This is no exception. While little five and six year olds are lined up with their book bags waiting for the school bus ready to engage their minds in learning, the five and six year olds of homeschooling families are not. Because compulsory attendance does not occur until the age of seven, the average family does not begin keeping records until that age. This puts the home-schooled student at a one-to-two year delay before they have even begun their education.

Though one could argue that there is a blessing in the amount of freedom that our country enjoys, the fact that Missouri does not require any educational requirements on the part of the parents only does the children a disservice. Yes, it is beneficial for the parents, but not for the children. As a Special Education teacher, this is alarming for two reasons.

1) The amount of trust that the home educator places on writers and creators of home schooling curriculum; which all too often is written by equally unqualified home educators. Trusting that the home school curriculum is sound, the parents’ that have had no educational training leads them to blind ignorance and only handicaps their children further.

2) Lack of teaching certification. I know this is an intensely unpopular sentiment but this is a serious problem. There is a lot that an educator must learn in order to obtain a teaching certification. Teaching a child is more than browsing through a home school resource catalog, ordering some books, and placing your children at the table to teach them. Educating a child is as much about the education as it is about the child’s development: social, cognitive, physical. Teachers in the State of Missouri, and any other state, must retake their certification exams in order to maintain currency and their job. Just as we wouldn’t want to be seen by a doctor or nurse that was not up-to-date on the latest medical trends, technologies and information neither should we settle for second best when it comes to educating our society’s children: homeschooled or not.

Section 2:

If a parent decides to home school, he or she must offer 1,000 hours of instruction during the school year, with at least 600 hours in the basics, which will be in reading, language arts, mathematics, social studies, and science. At least 400 of the 600 hours shall occur in the home location.

In the State of Missouri “1,000 hours of instruction” is interpreted as 1,000 lessons equals 1,000 hours of instruction by homeschoolers. This is somewhat of a mixed bag. I have known many home schooling families that were very conscientious about meeting the 1,000 hour requirement, but by that same token, I have also known plenty of families who did not (my own family being one of them. In fact, I would be surprised if I met the 1,000 hour requirement but once or twice in all twelve years of my “education.”). The primary focus of the basics is most heavily laden in the reading and social study concentrations by home educating families with math coming in a distant third. Language arts and science are thrown into the mix whenever time permits. There is usually not an equal distribution of focus on these concentrations among the majority of families as it takes a highly motivated, exceptionally organized individual to appropriate the time accordingly.

The second area where this law falls apart is that 2/3 of the core subjects need to be completed at home, the primary place of instruction. With the rise of home school learning centers across the nation, and the plethora of them in Missouri, more and more home educating parents recognize the value in hiring out the more difficult subjects to teach, especially as their students’ age. Though there is great value and benefit in hiring this out, most families are not conscious of the amount of hours their student is taking at these learning centers and often the totals could be easily above what the law would allow for. Home educating parents need to be careful to follow the law in this area.

Section 3

A completed credit towards high school graduation is defined as 100 hours or more of instruction in a course. Home school education enforcement and records pursuant to this section, and sections 210.167 and 211.031, RSMo, shall be subject to review only by the local prosecuting attorney.

This was a new statute that was passed in 2009. Prior to this point, scores of home educated graduates falsified their transcripts stating that they had completed the necessary credits in order to complete graduation. Though this is a baby step in the right direction, there is no accountability over this aspect and it still remains a concern that this could be easily interpreted as a “recommendation” based on the law, rather than a literal requirement. Though the threat of coming under the scrutiny of the local prosecuting attorney is enough for a handful of families, this is rarely the case.

Section 4

A parent who is home schooling a child must maintain the following records:

1. A plan book, diary, daily log, or other written record indicating the subjects taught and the activities engaged in with the student;

2. A portfolio containing samples of the student's academic work;

3. A record of evaluation of the student's academic progress; or

4. Other written, or credible evidence equivalent to a, b, and c.

This is where the law completely falls flat on its face in ensuring Missouri’s children a valid home education. Computer programs, record books and other record keeping tools are out there, but the fact that the law provides for “Other written, or credible evidence equivalent to a, b, and c” allows home educators to interpret the “other” part of this law. In other words, parents rarely keep a thorough accounting of hours earned by children. The key factor here is accountability. With no direct oversight or accountability, parents are fairly free to do whatever they deem appropriate or to put it satirically, whatever they feel like doing. No one but the local prosecuting attorney has the jurisdiction to view a child’s records and samples of work and this was never done when I was being home schooled and have yet to hear of any case where a review of work actually made it that far: usually it was cleared up by Department of Social Services. Coupled with the growing emphasis on the alarming movement of un-schooling, this major loop hole needs to be fixed.

Of additional concern is the lack of requirement to have a yearly evaluation done on the child’s academic progress. Parochial and public schools test periodically throughout the year to measure a student’s understanding of academic content. Lack of testing should be of some concern. I took one standardized test in second grade and flunked it. That was the only test I ever took until I entered college at the age of 27. The solution to correcting the academic discrepancies created by this law- and abused by the home schooling families- is to require a state issued, federally mandated standardized test (such as the MAP test) beginning in third grade for all home educated students. The educator should keep proof of these tests and these are proof of completion of a grade. The same grading scale is universally used for all students regardless of institution and failure of the test is insufficient to move on to the next grade. Tests must be taken every year the student is home schooled and failure to comply with this regulation will result in an insufficient completion of courses and student will be retained until successful completion of the test.

If home educating parents were doing their jobs, this should not leave them feeling threatened.

Section 5

The school year is defined as beginning July 1 and ending the next June 30.

Pretty self-explanatory. However, if a home educator were to get their information from the HSLDA website, they state that:

“These requirements must be met within the school term (12 months or less) the parents establish.”

I find it ironic that an organization that claims to give sound legal advice can’t even interpret the law correctly for those they claim to represent.

Section 6

Children with disabilities attending a home school program may receive special education services provided by the local school district, in accordance with Section 162.996 of the Revised Statutes of Missouri, and the State Plan for Special Education.

Across the board, home educators dismantle the theories that surround the special needs and disabilities of students. They promote a lot of misinformation on the amount of pressure that a school district places on its parents to medicate their children and diagnose them, which as an educator in the public school system, is complete bogus and hogwash. If an educator suspects a child to have a learning disability they do encourage the parents to get their child diagnosed but it is for one reason only: red tape. Without the proper diagnosis, the teacher’s hands are tied and the student in question is not qualified to receive special education services. Because homeschooling begins with parents who are proud (believing they can do it better than someone else), they rarely if ever diagnose their children if a learning disability is suspected. And due to their intense fear of the public school system, they will not accept the help and services from the special education department though it would benefit their child tremendously.

Section 7

Section 167.042 of the Revised Statutes of Missouri, states that a parent or guardian may notify the superintendent of schools or the recorder of county deeds, in the county where the child legally resides, of their intent to home school. This is to be done before September 1 annually. Home-schooled students do not register with the Department of Elementary and Secondary Education.

If a child has been in attendance in the local public school system, the family must notify the school district of their plans to home educate their student(s) for that first year. After that point, families are no longer required to notify the district. It is the rare exception for a family to notify the superintendent on yearly basis. I would like to see this be a legal requirement that is enforced throughout the state. I believe that if families were required to report their intentions to homeschool on a yearly basis that it would a) offer more insight into the numbers of individuals that choose to homeschool b) provide more scientific data for research purposes and c) provide a way in which home schooling families can be reached if accusations of neglect and abuse surface.

Special Considerations:

The State of Missouri does not have a mandated curriculum that must be taught. This is understandable considering that to require one would place a lot of strain on state agencies in enforcing the standards among non-accredited parochial schools and home schools.

The State of Missouri also does not recognize home school high school diplomas as being legitimate which is a healthy thing. Often times the support groups that are in the state of Missouri lie to their families by telling them that the diploma that their graduate will receive upon graduation with the support group is legitimate and accepted by colleges. This is not the case. It was not the case for me, and it isn’t the case for other graduates either. Though getting a diploma feels like an accomplishment to a home school graduate, the diplomas are fraudulent and meaningless. The best way to ensure a legitimate entrance into college is to take the GED, ACT or SAT exams, all of which are often times discouraged.

Overview:

It is a shame that the students in the state of Missouri were cheated out of a decent education because some lawmakers and lobbyists decided they would pass a law that kept a large part of their constituency happy and pacified. Here again, the lawmakers have let us down. There was no insight into this law by the Department of Secondary and Elementary Education or NEA when this law was passed. The Missouri homeschooling law was worded by home educating parents with the aid of local lawmakers. It is my opinion that this law needs to be scraped and re-worked from the ground up. It is a sad day for home educated students in Missouri.

References taken from Missouri Department of Secondary and Elementary Education

Sons and Daughters of the Movement: Jason's Story

2011-06-18T21:46:00.005-05:00

Author’s Note: Some names and details of this story have been changed to protect identity of the individuals.

Her name was Tirza. She was beautiful beyond measure staring back at me from behind the table with her brilliant green eyes and naturally highlighted curvaceous golden brown hair. She was slender and her effervescence matched mine, her laugh like a bubbling brook. She was feisty and sarcastic and her personality was a perfect match for mine, as neither of our personalities gelled very well with the vast majority of the rest of the girls we knew from the Movement. And if our personalities did match others, we never found out because if a daughter risked exposing her true self, she risked her security and position. Tirza and I met at our state’s home school conference and it didn’t take long for us to begin an incessant conversation filled with all things girly. We were instant kindred spirits. Before the weekend was over, names and addresses had been exchanged and it wasn’t more than a handful of lazy summer days before the first letter arrived in my mailbox with a gorgeous handwritten script, curly enough to match her hair.

Raised in an equally oppressive, legalistic, Patriarchal home, neither she nor I had very many options beyond the call of betrothal and motherhood. If we were going to find our way, we would have to forge those waters on our own. But in those tender years leading up to our much-anticipated graduations, we were set on dreaming about our futures, which for us blazed brightly and were full of promise like a new morning when the grass is freshly green and woolly newborn lambs greet the dawn. Tirza was two years older than myself, and was scheduled to graduate the year before I was.

Slowly our letters waned with the fury that we had once sent them. Excuses reigned on both of our parts, but primarily they centered around the fact that I was preoccupied with hurriedly attempting to find a job to get out of my abusive home life, and hers was completely different. She was courting a mutual friend and had been promised, or betrothed, to him.

Jason ran around with a group of guys that my parents had begun to allow me to socialize with more frequently the summer right before I graduated. This was really unheard of in my world, but the main reason for this change was because I was trying to reach out to Dani, and these guys were very much like her big brothers and in time, became like mine. Because all of our families were connected through attending Immanuel Family Fellowship, socializing with one another was deemed acceptable as long as there was heavy adult supervision. Somehow through a twisting of connections in the homeschooling community, Tirza and Jason had been introduced to one another. And it was assumed that based on the reformed theology and their parent’s commitment to the Movement, that that was sign enough from God to promise these two young adults for one another.

Jason was a tanned, slightly shorter than average guy, shorter than the graceful Tirza by nearly two inches. He usually had our entire group in stitches due to his satirical, witty and often hysterical view of the world and his surroundings. Not overly a thinker and a tendency to take the world with a Johnny-come-lately attitude, he appeared to be very much the opposite of Tirza in this way. Whether the odd couple truly was lopsided in their match for one another no one cared to notice. It would be one of the very first weddings of second-generation homeschoolers since the Movement began in the late 1970’s and both sets of parents were certain that God had arranged their marriage in His courtroom.

Though I knew that the two were engaged, I never saw them together. Tirza wrote of him but briefly once, and all that magical summer I never once heard Jason mention her name, except when I brought it up. It was odd, but I paid it little attention and our friends followed suit. After all, they were just courting and because of that, not really meant to be seen as a couple in the public view…at least, not in this stage of the game. I heard of her wedding plans, of her china pattern, of her dreams of happy home and creature comforts. But little mention of him, except when I mentioned him to her. Again, I paid little heed, and chose instead to immerse myself in her dreams of excitement of her future. If Tirza’s dreams had come true- along with her dreams of freedom- then mine were shortly to follow. Or so I thought.

And then one day I received a dreaded letter from Tirza. I knew something was wrong from the moment I tore into the envelope, as my name and address were written in a markedly different form. The handwriting was forlorn and droopy, not the perky, cheery scroll I was used to receiving, instead, it was naked of the curvatures of her lovely script.

Dear Chandra,

Hi, how are you? Sorry I haven’t written in a while. I got a new job at our local Wal-Mart store and it has kept me really busy. Sometimes I like the work atmosphere and sometimes I don’t.

My heart feels like it is going to break in two. After a very rocky and up-and-down relationship with Jason, he called it off about a month ago. It’s been very hard on me and I don’t know what I am going to do. Our wedding has been called off- all of my hopes and dreams- gone.

Sorry, I know that this letter is more of a note, but I have to go to work. I will write more later. Thanks for being a good friend.

Grace and peace be yours abundantly,
Tirza

It didn’t take long for Jason’s story to begin to unfold, and it was a story that unless you were close to it, you would not have heard about it. It was a story that had it been allowed to leak through the chinks, it would have rocked the Kool-aid world of our families. As it was, the few that did know about it understood one thing: keep it under wraps because if it were exposed, their credibility would have been destroyed.

It began when Jason was fourteen in the bedroom of his grandfather. His grandfather had always been a recluse and somewhat bizarre. His grandfather was a large man and it was easy to overpower the small frame of Jason, who took after his father. Greedy, hungry and beyond redemption, a two year incestuous relationship began.

His mom first noticed the difference in him becoming more and more defiant and despondent. Jason had become the adolescent that her Movement friends were telling her to fear: mouthy, defiant, withdrawn and hateful. Attributing it to the dreaded pubescent stage and his public school, she pulled him out and began homeschooling him the summer after his relationship with his grandfather began. His father in this process was the typical overbearing, controlling Patriarch whose ego was fed by his wife and who was generally emotionally absent from the lives of his sons.

In some ways, being pulled out of public education was a good thing for Jason, as his mom’s new found interest in protectiveness meant that even being left alone with his grandfather was now out of the question. And since Jason could not be left alone, his grandfather’s interest in him slowly subsided and eventually died out. Jason chose not to tell a soul about the humiliation that he had endured. It was an assault not only on his budding manhood, but also on the dignity of his soul. And the further and deeper his mother went into the Movement- wearing homemade dresses and insisting that her sons resemble the Amish- the deeper he buried his secret shame.

He covered it well. He was always out for fun and sought to deflect the attention on himself by trying to make others laugh. He was easy to get along with and hilarious to boot, so it made him a choice companion at a homeschool social event.

But then came the day when his parents chose him a soul mate. And Jason thought that once again he could hide the feelings that had been rumbling and formulating the last few years. He really didn’t want to come clean. He knew what it would mean if he did, and he just wasn’t quite there yet. Surely he could hang on for a little while longer…Surely he could get over this thorn in his flesh, this could be conquered! It would be!

He prayed, he fought, he never conquered. And the wedding date with Tirza was fast approaching. Their relationship was rocky and tumultuous and he had relatively no feelings towards her other than something of a chum. It was strange and it perplexed him but he just couldn’t shake it. And then the time came when Tirza had had enough of his excuses and demanded to know what was wrong with her. Why he wasn’t interested in holding her hands, why he wasn’t tempted to kiss her. She had caught him at a weak moment, when his guard was down and he was tired of fighting.

Jason’s mom had grown into the proverbial nagging, controlling mother that most sons grow to despise. But this was ten times worse. Hearing her drone on and on about Tirza and the wedding, the pressure of procreating grandchildren for his mother to help raise, and his secrets weighing him down put him over the edge. Truth was, with the secret he was carrying and his family’s newly adopted attitudes on sex, he had had enough. He was done with this religious dogma, he was done with the mind games, he was done with people who didn’t know anything about his real mind and heart and all he knew was that he wanted out. He was done, and he didn’t care what the fallout was.

He told Tirza everything. How the wedding was off, how he was moving out of his family’s home even if they disowned him, how he was molested by his grandfather and how ever since he had hit puberty, he had feelings towards men that he couldn’t explain. Jason had done it, and broken Tirza’s heart in the process. But at least the weight of the world was no longer on his shoulders and now he could go on and live the life he wanted to live…that he needed to live.

Jason’s family did disown him for quite some time. Because his little brother was beginning to follow his older brothers lead, his mom and dad did wake up in time to stop the bleeding and to realize that the Movement, and Immanuel Family Fellowship and the Kool-aid that both offered, was not doing their family any favors. But the damage had been done. Jason was an outcast and he was gay. And because of his family’s inability to be open and honest, and because of their stifling religiosity, his family missed an opportunity to show Christ’s love to him.

Jason left the Christian faith, and honestly though it deeply saddens me, I understand it. Tirza after wondering in the desert for years and falling in with the wrong crowd did come back to the faith and is now living out her dreams of being a wife and mother. Both of them never completed college, and both have held jobs at mass-market retailers. They have since reconnected and both realized that the homes in which they were raised were filled with suffocating Quiverfull practices that squelch the life out of the families that the Movement is said to save.

Show a little Love!

2011-06-14T20:02:00.000-05:00

Just a quick post...

If you frequent this site and are helped by it, it would do my heart good if you would follow along. Also, if you want to friend me on facebook, scroll to the end of this page and you will find my facebook badge.

Would love to see some more smiling faces in that followers box!

Be back soon...with a new installment in Sons and Daughters of the Movement and a new series of analyzing homeschool laws in all 50 states and primarily where they fall apart at protecting the children.

The Dispelled Girl- Part 10: Bleeding Love

2011-06-06T11:42:00.000-05:00

It didn’t take long for myself and Darren’s lengthy friendship to turn from dating to committed to one another. We were very much in love, and our voluminous email correspondence had already paved the ground for much of our relationship. I was so happy- I had met the man that I had been dreaming about marrying since I was old enough to dream about getting married.

As a homeschool girl, getting married and having a family was something that was very near and dear to my heart. I had thought about going to school, and I wanted to go to college, but the fact that my parents did not allow me to take the ACT or SAT tests-and they offered no other form of assistance- left me without the option to do so. It wasn’t too long after I realized that going on to higher education was not an option for me, that I met Darren. And my dreams of a blissful wedded life loomed bright on the horizon.

My hope chest had been a work in progress since I was 14, something that I actually started myself. It was a small tangible way to comfort myself with the thought of getting out of my parent’s home and creating a happy family. The hope chest was not something that my mom liked me collecting. Though in theory she liked the idea of a hope chest, especially for my childhood friend Hannah and other girls; practically she judged it severely. To her it was a demonstration of loss of control, a sign, and an emblem that a hope chest meant she would no longer control me and that I was not content to live with her and Dad indefinitely.

To me, my hope chest signified dreams that could be fulfilled and hopes that could be realized. Much of what I had in my hope chest I kept hidden from my mother because she felt that what was mine, was also hers, and wanted to use it. Ashamedly, a mother “borrowing” from a daughter’s hope chest is something that seems to be somewhat of a chronic condition in these circles and in some instances, outright stealing has occurred due to the jealousy of the mothers on behalf of their daughters.

But the sticky invisible bonds of enmeshment were still a yoke around my neck, as I tried to navigate the waters of dating without parental blessing, becoming committed without parental blessing, and think about marriage without parental blessing. My parents had made it clear that they dislike Darren a great deal. When I asked them why, over innumerable telephone conversations, the response (from generally my mother) was: “We just don’t know him well enough.”

There was much behind that statement, and I was no spring chicken. I knew exactly what she was getting at. What that meant was this:

He wasn’t homeschooled.

We don’t know his family and we can’t continue this enmeshed extended family system we have always dreamed of.

You aren’t courting.

You aren’t letting your father and I interview him to make sure he is a good fit you and that his worldviews line up completely with ours in the areas of theology, politics, family finances, marital roles, and child rearing.

We are uncomfortable around him.

You didn’t grow up with him.
We don’t trust you to make a good choice about someone you will marry. Let us do it for you so we can give you our blessing.

Needless to say, my hatred towards them only intensified as the realization dawned on me that they never knew me, they never cared a rat’s ass about me, they never loved me, and I didn’t trust them.

Even though I knew these things, it took years for it to get from my head to my heart. I did know that in my heart I couldn’t conceive of anyone else for me that could be more perfect of a fit. Darren was my best friend, he loved me, he was intrigued by me, and we saw eye to eye on everything. We had left no stone unturned, as both of us had come from dysfunctional homes (mine of course being far more severe) and homes where though our parents were married, their relationships resembled precious little of a team of two people passionately in love with one another.

As our relationship progressed over the next couple of months, we knew that we wanted to be married someday. I thought, that in the interest of humoring my parents, if we took them out for dinner, apologized for not asking for their blessing first, and then asked them for their blessing on our relationship, perhaps this thorn in our relationship would subside and it would produce something good. I was seeking the approval from them that I had never received but that didn’t stop me from trying to gain it. Since this is what appeared to be the issue, Darren (though he didn’t think that this was something that we should have to do) agreed and we took my parents out asking for their blessing on our relationship as we moved on to the next step.

It didn’t compute the results that I was seeking.

It took me years to realize that to have hopes that my parents would change was simply not going to happen. I went away crushed and angry when the meal that we paid for was basically ruined by my mom’s spiritual judgments and my dad’s pompous attitude of, “you are already dating so what’s the point.” It was clear they heavily disapproved of Darren, were not going to accept him, and felt that I was not ready for marriage. I was nearing my 21st birthday and according to my counselor, I had already “lived a life and had gained more wisdom and experience in my short 20 years than most people gain in 40.”

In retrospect, it wasn’t about any of what they said the issue was. It was about the need to control me, and the fact that I was physically beyond their reach to control me, the mind games and mental torture began on a whole other level. We were resolved to continue our relationship, but the aftermath of that insidious dinner did leave Darren questioning whether getting involved with my family was something that he wanted to do. This was a real test in our relationship, and we came as close as we ever did to breaking up at this point. We took a one-week sabbatical and during that time I went through a considerable amount of processing anger and hatred and bitterness for my parents. I prayed my way through it and God was faithful. He met me where I was, and Darren called later that week. We were back together.

Getting back together after that week off, proved to be the building block of the backbone our relationship would need if it would survive my parents. We were more committed than ever to one another and we were convinced that nothing this side of heaven could rip us apart.

Elsie Dinsmore: The Culture and Heartache

2011-06-03T08:17:00.005-05:00

I remember well when Mantle Ministries republished the Elsie Dinsmore books in the mid-1990’s. They were one of the resources to buy if you had daughters, along with the Far Above Rubies curriculum. Mothers and fathers alike bought the series in complete sets, forking out considerable cash in order to fill their young daughters minds with godliness and purity.

I still have my original copy. The back reads thus:

Enter the character-building, nineteenth-century, Christ-centered world of Martha Finley’s Elsie Dinsmore.

After reading this family story you will understand why it was once the nation’s best seller for over thirty years (selling over twenty-five million copies) and still has lasting value for today’s reader of Christ-like role models.

Upon opening up the front cover, the publisher note states:

“…Recognizing the avid interest in fictional writings among youth today, we have elected to republish the circa 1860 Elsie Dinsmore Series, by Martha Finley, because of the strong moral and Godly nature of the “Elsie” character. It is our opinion that the Finley books are in a class far above the majority of fictional literature presently available for young impressionable minds since the world of God, including His salvation message and Biblical principles, permeate the pages of the heroine’s daily experience. We can assure you that “Elsie’s” character has a way of capturing your heart, and challenging your life to live Godly in Christ Jesus.”

At the risk of sounding like a scratched 45, my mother was all over these books. She had recently gone through a literature purge, in which I was forbidden to read any more Nancy Drew Mysteries, Bobsy Twin Mysteries, Baby Sitter Club novels and even the American Girl stories, as the new characters emerging from the scene were “feminist and disobedient” (I was around the age of ten). Seeing as there was precious little for me read that was acceptable, these were a natural place for me to turn to for my reading material. I had to read, television watching was something that just wasn’t heard of in our home so there was literally nothing else to keep me occupied…unless I wrote or drew or practiced my sewing or flute.

I secretly hated them. I hated the mousy Elsie who couldn’t stand up for herself and found herself in tears upon every instance where her feelings were hurt. But I read them because I knew that this was the standard of behavior that my mother and father wanted from me and I thought that maybe I could learn something about how to behave in such a way that would make them accept me more and cruel with their words towards me less.

It didn’t work.

Instead, it left me frustrated and angry with myself because I couldn’t “get it right.” I was constantly being a source of disrespect for my parents, but I just couldn’t meet the standard that Elsie set before me. My personality was vivacious, capricious, extroverted and fun loving. And about the exact opposite of my new example. And my personality was not my parents definition of “feeling respected.”

There was one area in particular that had me in tears and that was reading about Elsie’s abusive father, Mr. Dinsmore. He was cruel, he was mean and he neglected the poor girl to the confines of her room and governess. He treated her terribly (and of course I am referring to the first book). Yet her response was always one of trepidation, fear, trembling and…sweetness. She was trampled on and abused, yet she never wavered in loving her father or giving him honor (which he clearly did not deserve).

My own relationship with my father was very similar, only I happened to let him know that the way he was treating me was not OK with me and that I not only hated him for it, I would also never trust him enough to let him into my life. When I got these books, I decided to apply a different method of relating to my father. I tried it for a short while, and when I didn’t see change in him, I abandoned this. I realized at that point that these books were for the dogs because they weren’t based on reality. Reality was the more Elsie-like I was towards my father, the more cruel he became. He suffered from severe lack of self-esteem, so whenever I tried to boost it using the “Elsie methods”, it only made him lash out on me more.

I decided I had more self-respect than to go through life allowing myself to be treated in that way…and it was at that point that I turned my focus on getting out of my father’s house.

I realize now why these books were so important for my parents in promoting this false image of what godly womanhood looks like. These books portrayed a young, naïve girl who trusted all who were in authority over her. She never, ever questioned it, even when if it would have been in her best interest to do so. Elsie never, ever opened her mouth to defend herself, instead responding in a sugary-sweet southern drawl. Elsie felt that if there were criticism or correction that was spoken to her character or behavior, she most certainly deserved it because she was sinning in some way. This is exactly the type of girl that is easy to control and manipulate and it is exactly the kind of daughter that these Movement homeschoolers want. What they want is something like this.

While I think that there are aspects here of a humble life that could be modeled (like humbly accepting criticism when we have legitimately done something wrong), the emphasis that homeschooling parents place on their daughters using the “Elsie Culture” is all wrong. We are told to never, ever question authority. We are told that we are to accept what those in authority say to us as the truth and final word on the subject. We are told to trust in their authority blindly and unswervingly, just as Elsie did. We are told that we are to model Elsie’s example of purity and modesty. We are told that when someone- even our parents- says something out of line, it is our duty to accept what they are saying, take it to heart, and respond sweetly.

Christian girls who have grown up with these worldviews on what it means to be a godly woman, if they are fortunate enough to free themselves from their father’s home, come into this life with a realization that they don’t have the first clue about what that really means. The standards that were imposed on them by their parents were based on a fictional character and ideals that simply don’t match reality and patterns of relating to others in this world. We enter into this world wanting to trust authority…any authority we are told can be trusted (unless it is tied to a government institution and sometimes the medical community). But we get burned. We trust the wrong people, and sometimes those are our parents. They tell us that we shouldn’t go to college and that the highest calling is motherhood and wifehood. We trust this and then sometimes find out the hard way that to not have the ability to help provide for our families is not practical in today’s society. Yet we struggle inwardly as we wrestle with the all-consuming question, “is working outside the home biblical? Am I dishonoring my husband and being unsubmissive to him if I do?” If we make the call that going back to school (if that is even an option) in order to gain a career is something that we would like to do, we feel judged in particular by our mothers who felt that they sacrificed their lives and independence for family…and therefore so should their daughters. My own mother has been my worst critic because she was jealous of my decision to return to school when she should have been my biggest champion!

While I am certainly not diminishing the beauty of being someone’s life partner or the high calling of motherhood, I am saying that to raise daughters (or sons for that matter) that do not understand the world and the way that it works, that are naïve about people and relationships, and that are incapable of having independent thought apart from Mom and Dad’s ideology and worldview, is nothing short of cruel. When this type of brainwashing is done thoroughly, these girls that are raised to believe in the Elsie Culture are incapable of leaving the home unless they have somehow retained a streak of independence, which often times is mistaken by Mom and Dad for rebelliousness. I have seen very intelligent girls who have been brainwashed into thinking they must go from one house into another because the world is a scary place for a single female and they continue to live in their father’s homes today. Several of these “girls” are four years or more my senior and their youth, beauty, and young adulthood years have been squandered for an ideology that teaches young women to be keepers at home, that are gentle in spirit, and naïve of heart.

The girls raised with the Elsie Culture in the Movement, are more common than not. There are some homeschooling families that recognize the fallacy of raising children with this type of extreme view on the family. They are not the norm within the Movement, but they are out there. The problem however is that the Movement was hijacked long ago by extreme radical religious groups such as Mantle Ministries and Vision Forum and have developed a following and a level of respect within the Movement. This feeds the religious radicalism within the Movement and discourages those that are mainstream (i.e. not concerned with the religious aspects of homeschooling) from becoming a part of the homeschooling community. Often times these mainstream homeschool families feel judged and shunned by the Movement homeschoolers and feel the need to retreat from the scene to preserve their self-respect. And this becomes a sad moment for these responsible home educators because they are not seen and they are not allowed a place of respect within the Movement- a place that could help to facilitate much needed change if they were allowed to speak at homeschool conferences and publish their writings. As it stands, these home educators are viewed as a threat to the “next generation of godly American citizens” and it’s a sad day for true home educators…and their children.

This is clearly not as it should be and it frankly doesn’t have to be that way. Change happens when people speak out!

The Dispelled Girl: Prelude

2011-05-05T23:30:00.000-05:00

And in case you are wondering...my book I hope to have completed by the end of the summer. As I work out the kinks of publication, agents, etc. I thought I would give you a teaser.

This is the opening, or prelude if you will, to chapter 1. Enjoy!

~chandra

I have always been a late night writer. Not really sure exactly why. The only explanation that I can give is that some of my deepest and darkest moments- moments when I needed him most- came when the sun parted from the world and said hello to the magical moon. And somewhere in those moments when the rest of humanity slept, I was busy scribbling, writing and etching out the feelings and longings of my heart. And when sleep came, when sleep came- I found comfort knowing that no one else knew what was said or mentioned on those journals that were stashed in the untold places. And then I slept…comforted at last that he heard me and comforted at last that the cruel hearts of humanity that would awake in the morning would not touch me- could not touch me- for I slept.

Writing for me has always been an outlet. The only form of communication that was safe. The only way to know that what I expressed, what I felt, and what I observed would not be met with coup de tete by the powers that be. It was the only form of expression that was acceptable and as primitive as it may have appeared, it was the only thing that I was allowed to do. It was quiet.

The world could not hear me…the dictators could not hear my revolutionary cries…even my starchy blanc and ashen gris cat could not hear the screams, the cries, the pleadings, the longings, the passions of my unquenchable heart. Indeed a revolution was taking place, a rebellion was occurring but as long as it could not be heard I could not be oppressed. Yet a time would come and I knew this all too well that these pleadings and groanings and cries would be made known. The time for that moment was as yet to be defined for me; it was neither the driving force behind my calloused index nor the driving force behind the usage of an ink pen within a week’s time. It was a passionate desire to be heard and understood by one who knew me better then I knew myself. One who never suggested my cries were too loud for sensitive ears or too insane for compassion…or change.

Of course I had yet to understand all of the many implications that this potent gift would mean for me. I had yet decades to realize it. But…there it was. Available, accessible, and apparently thought to acquiesce. Little minds rarely understand greatness, though it projects itself on them daily. Little hearts are rarely moved by passion, and little souls even less by the demonstration of need.

And yet…sometimes it takes living a life of sheer determination- a will to survive- to turn the bud into blossom, the pupae into the honeybee, the embryo into babe, the soldier into hero. A will not just to exist but a will to achieve, a will to believe that beauty and greatness are destined for you. The mysterious honeybee, the perfumey rose, the swaddled babe, the hero are meant to be pondered, wondered over, reflected on. Their contributions to humanity remain the same: things that we once were, we do not have to remain to stay, and that which has not yet become should never give way to mediocrity. All of humanity is destined for greatness and perhaps more importantly all of humanity has a longing of the soul…for importance.

Importance to matter. The child whose cries are not heard, the abused, the beaten, the downtrodden, the neglected, the violated, the wounded, the bruised, the battered. We have not felt important enough to matter. We struggle, we cry, we would do most practically anything to find the one person on this old creaking world who cared, who let us know that we are important and that what we have to say is important and is not discounted.

The cry of the human heart and I was no exception.

And as I wrote in the dim light of the pink accent lamp of my room nightly- with pillows wedged under the crack in the door to disguise the light shining from beneath- the tears often smudging the ink of the pen, I wrote feverishly of my need to matter…to someone because in the home in which I lived I did not.

Just a Note

2011-04-25T23:32:00.001-05:00

Yes, and I am back. I am back for good, and back to stay.

I was watching the Nate Berkus show a few weeks ago when he interviewed Star Jones. They were both sharing how difficult it was to put yourself out there on the line and "tell a story that you don't know the end to." You put yourself out there, your opinions, your life's story...and hope it helps someone else. Yet its scary because you don't have all the answers and you don't know the end of the story!

I relate completely.

Just wanted to explain that I have disabled comments. Its not that I don't love comment love, its just that I don't have time to moderate them. I get some pretty nasty and mean spirited comments that are enough to send me into tears...and I get more pretty wonderful ones that are enough to make my week!

But to me blogging is not about the comments. Its about putting my story out there to help raise awareness and to offer me a place to express my thoughts and feelings. Blogging is for me. And its kind of a rough-draft to help me fine tune my thinking process for my book that I hope to have in completion by the end of the summer. Its kind of like when you read a book, you don't really interact with the author whether you agree with their perspective or not. That's the direction I want to take my blog.

However, several of you have friended me on facebook. I am really active on there, and if you are a girl or guy with a story to share, or you simply want to friend me, I am always eager to accept! So, feel free to subscribe and use the button at the right to friend me on facebook. I can always use a new "friend."

Thanks for hanging with me! I love my readers...so hugs!

The Ranting of an Angry Girl

2011-04-22T07:59:00.000-05:00

Today I am angry.
I think it’s that my semester is nearing its end, and I have a lot of projects that are due within the next two weeks that spearheaded this.
It has been a loaded and full semester of school for me, taking three core education classes along with two other requirements for a grand total of 15 hours. I have three night classes and two, day classes. I am gone a lot and more so in the last week as I have tried to wrap up my projects. My boys have begun baseball practices and so far I have only made it to one practice. I have only been to one Boy Scout troop activity. At least I was able to plan a holiday party and plan to be on their field trips since I missed those last year…
And its all for an education. Its for an education that should have been given to me, its an education that I begged for yet was refused because I was just a girl. It’s a necessary education. With the price of the dollar dropping and the rise of the oil barrels in the Middle East, economical factors are most definitely the driving force behind my emblazoned desire to complete this process. That and the fact that I know I was born to teach. And I am remotely close to pursuing legal action against my parents on the basis of educational neglect. Every lawyer I have ever spoken to has told me that this is a legitimate case, but I have never followed through with it because of how it would look (But not about what was right!).
Another reason I am angry.
They don’t want me to write.
I was told-demanded- to take my blog site down because it wasn’t “helpful” for my parents by my pastor…whom I also find out has been secretly discussing me behind my back with my parents…who have his ear and are filling his head with their typical wringing of the hands, we-made-mistakes-but-we-weren’t-really-all-that-bad-routine.

Nice. I am totally feeling the love.
There was an underlying issue. The denomination that I (was) as part of possesses a lot of money. I mean an ungodly, unhealthy amount of money and a very high percentage of movers and shakers in our society attend and support this quasi-Catholic denomination. But because I would not drop the fact that they were harboring known child abusers (who, I might add, are being amply paid in the neighborhood of six figures) this was reflecting poorly on the denomination. And they needed the problem to go away so that it didn’t affect them.
It had nothing to do with what was right. It had nothing to do with even ensuring that my parents were guided through repentance. It had to do with the highly controversial aspect of my life’s story and that by me writing about it…well, it would affect their job security.
These pastors send their kids to elitist private schools. They drive $50,000 vehicles. They live in ritzy pricey subdivisions. They go golfing. They own vacation homes along the Florida coastline. All in the name of the Gospel. And it is not the life that Jesus led. Wasn’t it Jesus who gave up everything for his people? For the sake of truth? Wasn’t it he that said it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven?
Those pastors are what he would call a den of thieves. And I want to go puke.
Well, this girl is done. And I mean d-o-h-n done. Done with abdicating my first amendment right for the sake of a denomination that has never done anything for me other than shove me out the door because my problems were too big to deal with. Done with the silence so that somebody can live a cush lifestyle and my parents don’t feel the heat. Done! Done! Done! And I am done caring about how what I say sounds to the ears of others.

Perhaps I had to get angry to re-ignite my passion for helping other girls. Perhaps this needed to happen so that I could turn my anger into positive action. Whatever the case, this girl is on fire to tell, to write, and where it needs to happen, offend for the sake of truth. I am not the only one whose life and future was being screwed with while my parents homeschooled me. I am not the only girl who was sexually abused and then kept at home to protect the perpetrator. I am not the only girl who was medically and educationally neglected. I am not the only girl who struggles with cutting. I am not the only girl who struggles with emotional eating. I am not the only girl whose PTSD diagnosis impacts her every day of her life. I am not the only one who has spent upwards of $1,000's in therapy costs and medications. I am not the only survivor of abuse and if other abuse survivors can blog...then I can too! And that is what I intend to do...and never, ever stop!
I am a truth-sayer. I am not going to tickle your ears. If you want that, go befriend a Pharisee. Or find another blogsite. Yes I will offend. But the truth needs to be spoken, no matter the cost.

I was born to write, I was born to teach…for such a time as this.
Solo deo Gloria.

The Dispelled Girl- Part 9: Sparks Fly

2011-01-28T11:18:00.004-06:00

I still remember what I was doing on Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001. It was a gorgeous morning, crisp azure sky with nothing but the blissful autumn sunshine overhead. Not even a cloud. I pulled into the church parking lot, sunroof back and something along the lines of Green Day blaring. I arrived at the office early, unlocking the door and booted my computer, prepping to attend to the stack of projects that pastors needed completing. I glanced over the counseling schedule for the day and realized that it was going to be a light day. After I had started a pot of coffee for all the guys, I went back to my desk to begin my day.

Somewhere around 9am the news came flooding into the office about the tragedies that were surrounding our eastern coast. Several key members of our church were in the air on business meetings, yet to be accounted for. My co-worker and I went to the sanctuary to pray and when I came back, my inbox said, “You’ve Got Mail” from this mysteriously attractive guy named Darren that I had met over the summer in the singles group. I was a baby, just 19 when I met him. And he was 29. But we were friends and we started an email conversation on 9/11 about the current events facing our nation. And for some reason, this conversation never stopped.

I was still living at home and I knew for certain I wasn’t about to let my parents screw up my chances at finding love and happiness. I knew I needed to leave the house before I could date, because there was no way in hell that I would ever consider courtship. My parents were so screwed up, that that model would not have worked, even though that was their clear desire for me. They wanted to be able to control whom I married so that they could continue to control me from beyond my father’s house.

I began to actively search with a dear friend for a place to rent later that same month. Things at home had grown substantially worse, if that was even possible. I was never home, often leaving early in the morning and often not returning until well past midnight. My sexy Honda became my refuge and respite from the intolerable home environment. My mom grew increasingly intrusive and controlling, opening my mail (keep in mind, I was 19), analyzing my credit card statements (again, I was 19 with a full-time job and zero overhead), my eating habits (she told me that I had bulimia- HA! I wish!), and my choice in clothing (my father told me while going to church that I looked like a prostitute). I was told that my lack of pitching in with my hard-earned money to help out with household costs was the reason that my parents were in so much debt. I believed it, and internalized these statements, rather than recognizing that my dad’s sexual addiction was the cause of their financial state. Rather than throwing my money to them, I determined that my best option was to leave. I was weary of trying to make things work at home, of no freedom and completely humiliating incidences. My mom would call people I was hanging out with, demanding to know where I was and when I would be home. Many times, she would be awake when I arrived home, and would begin her emotional tirades against me from the moment I stepped into the house. They never set a curfew, so I never felt compelled to keep it. Once, my mom barged in on a church single’s party, tracking down where this social gathering was. She appeared and demanded if I was there at the house. She came in, and dragged me by the hand out of this home and humiliated me in front of everyone. Again, I was 19. That was the final straw. I ripped into her, telling her how much I hated her and it was not two weeks later, that my friend and I found a condo that was offered to us by a member of the church where I worked.

I was thrilled to at last have found a place to live away from my parents toxicity! I had my little red Honda packed and ready to go weeks in advance, but I would be required to live with my parents through the holidays. My girlfriend and I were free to move in anytime after Christmas, so the day after Christmas, I planned my move. And this guy Darren, whom had befriended me that autumn had the truck that I needed. I did not need help from my parents, and refused to take it. I needed to leave, flee- as far away from them that my situation would take me, and I wanted them to have no part of my new life. I got myself moved and found my parents and my brother in my new condo, unannounced. I had forgotten to lock the door. I was more than just a little angry that they wouldn’t leave me alone, and told them to leave. This was my life, and I wanted to live it apart from them perpetrating their abuse and control on me. Little did I know what a long road I would have ahead of me in actually obtaining that freedom.

Darren and I had had an unadmitted attraction to one another that grew out of our email conversations. But my parents were weird, and he knew it, and our age differences kept us at bay. Until I moved out. The day I moved out, we had our first official date. We went out to the St. Louis Zoo, watched the polar bears, and then went to a wonderful Irish pub for lunch. We talked incessantly the entire time. Ironically, though I had a strong desire to flee my family and knew that I was abused, I still maintained that homeschooling was something that I wanted to do and I wanted to do it differently. And even more ironically, this came up in our first date, and Darren felt the same way. Funny how God works. On New Year’s Eve, we became an official couple and watched the fireworks on the Riverfront underneath the St. Louis Arch as the New Year dawned.

I had moved out of my parents' home and got a boyfriend all in one week. And I had never been happier in my life. I refused to call my parents and I was free at last. I was so happy! For the first time in my life, I finally knew what it was like to be loved and to have the freedom to love completely. My whole life, I thought that I was some sort of freak, some degenerate pagan that was so unlovable and unlovely that God simply didn’t care about me enough to let me experience that. I believed that there was something so inherently and deeply flawed with me that no one would ever find me lovely or acceptable. Hope sprang eternally in my heart and even though I felt this way about myself, I kept on hoping that maybe there was a chance that love could hypothetically happen to me. And even if it was a tiny sliver, I refused to snuff it out. And to my amazement, he loved me for who I was and didn’t want to change a thing about me! He accepted me just The Way I Am and it was the first time in my life that anyone had ever shown me that kind of love or compassion. My dreams were coming true, and the wounded heart inside of me was finally beginning to thaw and melt into a lovely array of blossoming fragrance.

With my continued therapist sessions, the new love in my life, and my new condo, all was well in my world. I had my cat-the only friend I ever truly had in until recently, a group of besties, a wonderful job, and this amazing man (the only thing lacking was that I couldn't wear heels around him!). My heart was happy, it was free, and it was free to be loved and to love. Darren and I became serious with one another. But the enmeshed web that I was raised in, came back to haunt me as our relationship grew to the point where we were desiring to become engaged. It was as though my parents had grown invisible fingers and knew how to have a hold on my life, and continue to control it, even though I was physically gone from their house. It’s a thing called, “spiritual molestation” according to Stephen Arterburn. I was the victim, and they were molesting me of my dignity and self-respect. Robbing me of joy. My mother had become an expert in exactly what to say and how to phrase it in order to get me to acquiesce. This time, it had to do with a guy they didn't like. It proved that if I was going to find true love and happiness, that I would have to fight. And it was only just the beginning.

Of Breastfeeding and Babies...

2011-01-24T19:49:00.003-06:00

Perhaps its because I have so many friends who have had babies, or are going to, recently that this article has materialized. Much of what I write is very raw and real- what is written here is entirely me, and much of what gets posted is written because I am currently processing something and I want to pass it along.

I married young, a whopping 21. Mmm, some may say too young, but I don’t think I would agree. Some might say I had babies too young, but I am not sure I would agree with that either, given my health history with my last two pregnancies. One thing I would say is that I entered into motherhood with a Pollyanna view of the world.

Born and raised in The Movement, and all of the heights of its legalistic dogmatisms, I entered into marriage with some ignorant assumptions that were preconceived by me, originating from my mother and other influential Movement mothers who helped to brainwash my thinking. The first one was a very naïve view that one should have as many children as humanly possible, because God wouldn't give you what He couldn’t help you provide for. The second was, to use any form of man-made contraception was directly interfering with God’s design for a husband and wife relationship (sex as seen as strictly procreational, and if you have fun while doing it-great. If not, try again until at last you conceive.). The third was that children are a blessing, and only worldly-minded people view them as “work.” The fourth was that all natural forms of delivery and childcare should be practiced because, again, to use anything man-made would be to interfere directly with God’s design for human life. Naïve, naïve, naïve. And extremely judgmental, harsh, and intolerant to say the least.

First comes love and then the baby carriage aptly applied itself to my situation. We were pregnant with our first son, two weeks after we married because we told ourselves that God would only give us a child when He wanted us to have one. And nine months later, in May, I had an incredibly easy birth and brought our first son into the world. I was so young. I look back on those days and just want to hold that young girl’s heart in my arms and tell her everything would be OK. I assumed that because of my patriarchal upbringing that my mom would be an active part of my new motherhood journey and my heart was shocked when she rarely came around. Whenever I had questions for her, her answers were shrouded in spiritualism, platitudes, and judgmental statements that only made me want to retreat from her; and left me feeling utterly and completely alone.

I was so unprepared to be a Momma. Really, who is, but I was seriously lacking in the preparation category. I got pregnant so easily and then I was deathly ill for six months. Talk about fun times during the honeymoon phase! I told myself that this was all a part of God’s plan. In truth I was scared to death. I was such a young girl and I had barely even scratched the surface of living life apart from my parents (a whopping eight months!) when I got pregnant. I downplayed my feelings of anxiety and told myself that God would be there to help me figure it out. There’s nothing to having a baby. Nursing is going to be this wonderful, joyous thing that will help me bond with this perfect, angelic nursing babe and it will be a little bit of heaven on earth. Right?

My delivery went so quick I had no chance to mentally prepare for this major life change. Again, a young 21-year-old thinks she can do that during delivery. I look back on myself and tenderly smile. And there he was, beautiful as a baby can be- fully alert with gorgeous mounds of dark brown fur all over his perfectly round kissable head. I was scared out of my mind and I felt like I wanted him to be put back where he was safe- and where I could have some more time to get prepared for motherhood.

God doesn’t take returns though, but I felt like such a bad mommy for even thinking those thoughts that I didn’t even voice them to anyone. Instead, I told myself the next thing I needed to do was to try to nurse him. And that didn’t go as planned. My child had a mind of his own! I didn’t even have the first clue about what on earth nursing was going to be like! I was told that it was God’s design, so it had to be the perfect plan, and since it was perfect, nursing would be…well, perfect.

Not so. My little guy hated nursing as much as I hated doing it. He would cry, scream and wail. He would never want to latch on. When he did, he zonked out into an infantile coma that required ice cubes on his feet to wake him up. Every feeding was a miserable battle that ended in frustration and tears. No one told me about engorgement, no one told me about mastitis, no one told me about how you would smell like a walking milk bottle, and no one told me that nursing wasn’t for everyone. The only thing I heard was how wonderful it was, and I believed it!

Oh, and I forgot to mention how much fear I had when I brought him home. I felt detached from him- and it was really due to the fact that I had so much that I hadn’t dealt with, and the fact that I was so very young and naïve, that I had a lot of trouble bonding with him for the first few months. And he had colic. Badly. Every night at 5pm, he would scream and cry and scream and cry until he fell asleep. It was hard as newly weds with a little baby who felt alone- with no help and no support. We were truly clueless and we muddled through the next few months until we emerged from the haze of those early days.

And then, when our first was four months old, we were pregnant again with baby number two. Women weren’t supposed to get pregnant while breastfeeding! This must be God’s design for our family. And there I was, not even physically recovered, sick once again and unable to give my beautiful son (who had just emerged as a joy!) what he needed. And nine months later, number two entered into the world.

I say all of this to give some context to some of the radical views on babies and family planning within the Movement. And I am not just saying this because I have left The Movement, but because these dogmatisms that I was trained to believe affected me. I have always been a girl who wants to do what is right, and since I believed that these things were “right” whenever I questioned their "rightness" for my family and myself, I was wrapped in a tremendous amount false guilt. And the false guilt kept me from doing what truly would have been right for my family.

I eventually reached out to my grandma who heard my desperation and encouraged me to sign up for WIC and put our little guy on formula. It took a bit of convincing on her part, because that was another hurdle. To accept “government hand-outs” went against every grain in my body! But once I admitted that this was something that I needed, life became so much better. He was on formula and bottle-fed. What a relief it was to me! It was clearly the right thing for us, but it took me six months to get there. Of course, when my mother got wind that my son was on formula, I got the ninth-degree. This was the first tiny step I took in standing up to her and doing what was right for me, and I look back on this and find myself cheering myself on!

We finally decided to use contraception after baby number two came along, and that as well, proved to be the right thing for our family. I know, looking back, that if we had put the brakes on this, we would not have done our children or our marriage any justice. Children are a blessing yes, but to do your job well as parents, they require a lot of time and work. This was something that my husband and I had to come to terms with: Children are a blessing, but they are a responsibility and require a lot of resources in the areas of commitment, time, and money. And no, it is not worldly to want to ensure that you have enough money to provide clothing for your children, put good food on the table for them, and want to have the financial means to provide for their medical needs. These things are commanded by God, and all too often downplayed as being worldly by Movement homeschoolers.

I was young, and so was my hubby. We muddled through, but it took a lot of heartache to reach some of the conclusions that the Movement Kool-aid on family planning and child-birth does not make you holier, does not make you closer to God, does not make you more faithful. All it does it make you farther from grace, farther from mercy, and farther from understanding that not every family is created equally. And neither is every child.

So if you are a young momma, coming out of the Movement, and have a lot of guilt surrounding child-birth, nursing, vaccinations, and other things of that nature, don’t let everything you hear or read persuade you from doing what you know, deep down in your Momma’s instinctual heart, is right for you and your baby. Don’t let others cause you to feel guilty! You will be the best Momma (and Daddy) in the world when you stop doing what is right in everyone else’s eyes and do what is right for yourself, your marriage, and your baby.

An Olive Branch

2010-12-29T13:02:00.001-06:00

A little piece of me inside is dying, or felt as if it has died. Many of you are wondering why all of the posts on my blog, the work of my hands and the healing of my own heart, have been removed.

Clicking each one of my posts, going down the row, and selecting "Save as Draft" made the tears trickle slowly as they dripped inconspicuously onto the keyboard. Click, click, click...

The truth is that my father has become beligerant and both of my parents are insistent of their need to control me, and yet my primary desire is for healing. After feeling a heavy burden to confront both of my parents one final time, I am attempting to do what I don't want to do-yet what is being asked of me. And that is to take down my blog for a period of time until some of the murky waters can be dealt with. And although I have done so personally, my parents have not. And so in the interest of praying for their own healing, and hoping that my taking this down will make it easier for them to confess their sin against their daughter, Dispelled is no longer in circulation to the public.

I was asked to take it down and voluntarily forfeit my own right of free speech in an attempt to communicate to my parents, and those who are intimately involved in this situation (or continuing Soap Opera), a humble heart, bent on a desire for healing. And if my taking it down helps my parents to that end, then that is a good thing.

The truth is that I feel like my parents have won. And as the victim, I have lost. Again. But I know that God has better and brighter things in store for me and that I must put aside my own rights to pursue that priceless gift called forgiveness and the priceless reward called healing. I am still a work in progress, and I will continue to write. But in the spirit of humility and out of a Spirit-led initiative I am offering an Olive-Branch of peace and one of the dearest things to my own heart: To help others through the pain and to help myself through the pain by writing.

So dear readers, I bid you a temporary farewell. However, don't be shy about friending me on facebook. And I will be back, and in the words of Martha Stewart, "I will be bigger and better than ever."

Keeping Christ in Christmas- It's not a to-do list.

2010-12-23T13:41:00.003-06:00

It’s my favorite time of year! Truthfully, I love the circadian rhythms of the calendar and the welcoming changes that they bring…the splendor and glory of the autumnal days, the lazy days of summer, the anticipation of spring, and the wonder of winter. My husband would disagree with the “wonder” part of winter, stating that I am rather crazy for my adoration of those fluffy white frozen particles that are better known as snow.

Christmas is my favorite holiday and right now, we are in the midst of quite a bit of anticipation and preparation. My three boys, ages 7,6, and 4 are practically counting down the hours until tomorrow night when Santa and his reindeer come calling.

Like most young couples with their first child, we began processing early on in our pregnancy what we would implement as far as family traditions and rituals. And, like most young Christian families, the issue of the celebration of Christmas was near the top of the list of items to discuss. Would we introduce Santa? If so, how would we go about it? Would he be a big focus or would he be downplayed? Would he leave presents, and how many? Or would he just fill stockings?

Celebrating Christ in our family’s celebration of Christ-mas was a given. But the deeper question that pervaded was, would the adoption of one of our culture’s biggest childhood experiences, Santa Claus, overshadow the deeper meaning? We wanted to honor Christ in Christ-mas and we were in knots over the “oh my gosh” and “what ifs” of what a lot of churches say, and don’t say, about this seeming battle of the Church vs. the World.

There are a lot of misgivings, at least in what I have come across, in the Christian circles over a family’s individual decision to “teach their child to believe in Santa Claus.” It is after all, up to the individual family to decide what is best. But the unspoken word from most is that if you overemphasize Santa then you are worldly and “not a very strong Christian.”

This is a big deal. It is one that many often don’t want to discuss. My suspicion is that the conversation between parents that are on different sides of the fence on this would get quite heated. But seriously, aren’t we free in Christ?

There is a lot of legalism that the church has yet to address. Fearful of losing paying members of the church, the leadership often abdicates their positions on such matters, and the judgments continue. And by position, I am meaning that the church take a stand against legalism, without overtly condoning one side or the other. One of the first questions I received about my potential parenting techniques was, “So, will you teach your baby to believe in Santa Claus?” As though of course, teaching him to believe in a magical and mythical figure in Americana folklore would be teaching him that Christ himself was not real.

Sigh. Why do we judge one another so harshly? Are we not all equal at the foot of the Cross?

My biggest beef is undoubtedly with the fundamentalism that has crept into the foundation of the Church. The fundamentalism that teaches that obeying a certain credo, or set of man made rules, will bring you one step closer to Christ and one step closer to holiness. Gag.

I grew up in one such family.

Christmas in our home was solely focused on Christ, and not very much on fun. Not that the focus shouldn’t be on Christ, but Christ did not come to condemn and He certainly did not come to ask us to eradicate our lives of fun, creativity, and freedom. He is the Author of “every good and perfect gift.” He is the Author of freedom, the Author of creativity, and the Author of fun. He is the one who has gifted children with innocence and wonder.

I believed in Santa until I was about six, when I was told he was no longer real. From then on, every Christmas with family posed a new conundrum. I was trained to view Santa with a very skeptical eye, viewing him as something that was wrong with Christmas. Christmas, I was trained to believe, was only for Christ and the problem with Christmas (and the lack of feeling that He was the center of it) was the worldly idea of Santa Claus. Those who allowed their children to believe in Santa Claus were lying to their children and were intensely worldly and “lost souls.” Hence the judgment that set in on our extended family. In particular, the brainwashing and judgment that was passed on to my by my mother was then in turn passed on to my cousins. Family gatherings turned into an awkward event where Grandma would instruct, “Don’t tell your cousins that Santa isn’t real.” To which my little legalistic spirit would flare up and rebel and then proceed to tell them that he wasn’t. After all, Santa was wrong. But the deeper issue was that I felt out of place and wanted my cousins to believe what my mom prescribed as the truth so that I wouldn’t feel so different and…odd.

Many of our friends refused to even put up a Christmas tree, stating that it was a pagan and worldly ritual. The tradition of the Christmas tree differs, depending on where you get your information. I prefer to believe that it was Martin Luther who started the tradition of placing candles on a tree, pointing to the resemblance of that starry night when the Babe in flesh appeared and the angel choirs sang. Just as it is with Halloween or Easter, there are many legends and stories to explain why we do what we do.

The point is not to be so consumed with the dos and don’ts and the to-do list of Christian traditions and beliefs that the entire meaning is swallowed up by the side issues. The point is that Christ was born, Christ was the best gift ever born, and the story is beautiful- in all of its rustic, raw and majestic beauty. And the point is not to condemn, for that is not why Christ came. The point, my friends, is that no matter whom, how, or what you teach (or don’t) your children to believe about Santa, Frosty, and Rudolph, is that you not condemn those of us who do and vise versa. The point is that love covers over all offenses, all quandaries, and all questions of such matters. The point is that Santa is not what the season is about, and that applies to the area of Christian parenting as far as whether or not you do or don’t believe in him. The point is that those who make these things (Santa and his reindeer) the focus of the “problem” with Christmas are the same ones who have missed the true meaning of it: Christ came into this world to be acquainted with grief and to save His people from their sins. To love is Christ and Christ never condemns or judges.

The Dispelled Girl: Part 8~ The Road to Freedom?

2010-12-14T12:13:00.005-06:00

It wasn’t until this past year, while speaking to my counselor, that she looked me in the eye and asked of me, “Did you ever think to call 911?”

Something like a tidal wave went through me. I still feel like I am picking up the pieces of that.

“No,” I replied. “It never even dawned on me.”

I still don’t understand the full implications of living in such a mind-controlling cult. I really don’t. It’s…indescribable really and I often feel like a blundering, clumsy writer trying to articulate it to the outside world. The truth is that I had been trained to believe since I was six that all law enforcement was to be feared. The only authority that was to be trusted was that of a God-ordained institution: marriage, family, and sometimes, the church (if that church was legalistic or a home church). Government, social workers, doctors, lawyers, police officers…were all to be feared implicitly and never, ever trusted. I had become so trusting of my caretakers that I had turned into the girl who was ignorant of their abuse: because I had been trained to rely on them for everything.

I stumbled through the next few months after my graduation with a feeling of being a nomad, feeling like I was waiting for a game of chess to end, but somehow the game continued to be sustained by a few pieces. In retrospect, I see how certain events were orchestrated to my benefit, leading me slowly into the path of freedom. Even in June, after I had graduated, I was still weak and sickly from my previous pneumonia and ARDS. I got tired very easily, and frequently felt short of breath. I was also depressed. After all, I was a newly graduated senior and I was without friends. It had been well over four years since Hannah and I had last spoken to one another and probably about a year at that point since we had seen each other. Still, somewhere in my heart there was a longing and an aching for the hope that we could renew our once precious and sisterly friendship.

In truth, I had never had another friend like her. We were more alike than not, even in the way that we thought about life. What I didn’t understand, even at nearly eighteen, was that we were both cut from the same cloth: brainwashed, controlled, and manipulated. Because our parents were the best at manipulating and “raising godly daughters as a heritage unto the Lord” it was a very natural thing that we would approach the world in the same way. But at almost eighteen, I didn’t understand that. All I knew was that there was loneliness, an aching, a void, a starving and thirst for human companionship and the sisterhood of true friends.

After I graduated, I received a sizable amount of cash, and combined with money that my grandparents had generously gifted me with over the years, this allowed me to purchase my first car. My dad actually spearheaded the entire purchase of the car. I purchased my first car when I was 18: a 1993 Red Honda Civic, with all the bells and whistles. I loved that car! It was the best thing that had happened to me in nearly seven years. I would drive with the sunroof back, the stereo blaring and loved the feeling of burning rubber. This car held out its metaphorical hand to me, encouraging me to embrace the freedom of my future. And I took it.

I began to look for a job, since going to college was completely out of the question. I was actually encouraged to get a job, because I was “creating a strain” on the family budget, according to my mom. My parents lived frugally, but they were always in massive debt, something that I did not understand. I saw how little they spent on us kids (my grandparents bought all of our clothing and they spent next to nothing on our education), and I saw how much my mom did without. My dad’s profession was a white-collar one, and even though he was largely unsuccessful at what he did, he did not make bad money. With only two kids to support, their lifestyle and the debt to which they incurred did not match. But as I aged, and especially when I began to work, I was made to feel like a financial burden if I did not help out with purchases around the home.

There were several of these arguments, where my mom would take out her frustration on their financial situation on me- blaming me that I was the reason why the family was in so much debt. Given everything that they had put me through in my short life, I believed her and internalized these perceptions.

I was desperate for friendship, and since I had a car, I sought it in every way possible. I really only had one dear friend at this time, who was two years younger than me, Dani (You can read about her story here). I was in her family’s home as much as I was able. I had no other friends in the homeschooling arena, since all had long since shunned and abandoned me year’s prior.

Since I was 14, my family had attended a large, suburban church. This was something that Candi hated and sought to actively undermine my mother’s commitment to the church whenever she caught a whiff that my dad was influencing her to become more active with church and less active in the homeschooling Movement. Without fail, she was successful. Her charisma and powerful sway over my mom’s thinking prevented me from becoming involved in church youth groups, activities, or even Sunday school.

According to Candi, it was fine that we attended church, as long as my parents didn’t hand over the responsibilities of training their precious children into the hands of the youth group or youth pastor. We attended Sunday school with my parents, which was incredibly humiliating and of course any other social activities were out of the question, since we were leaders in The Movement. I hated the way that they treated the church- like it was something to be afraid of. They were terrified of me learning things and inappropriate ways of relating to guys in the youth group. Mom and Dad viewed the kids in the youth group as being worldly and bad influences. They were also terrified that I might start to think for myself. The youth pastor, on one occasion, met my mom and me outside the sanctuary after service. He was incredibly gifted with perception and sensitiveness to the needs of adolescents. He asked my mom if I could come to Sunday school that day and my mom coldly shot him down with a glare, telling him that it was her responsibility to “teach and train her children.” He shot me a glance of, “I’m sorry, I tried,” as I returned his gaze with something that probably spoke volumes of my depression and unhappiness.

Somehow throughout the years, my family had continued to attend church. After the encounter with our youth pastor, I knew that there were people who were watching our family, and knew that they were extremely enmeshed, unhealthy, and controlling.

For a few years, the sole motivation to attend there was because as members, we could request the facility to use for our State Homeschool Convention. And with the purchase of my car, and my recent graduation from the homeschool world, there was no way that my mom or dad could keep me from seeking authentic relationships through church, which is something that I had very much longed for. I tentatively began to stretch my wings.

I signed up to become a staff member at our church’s nursery. It was a paid position, but it felt like a safe place to begin to seek out relationships. I have always loved little ones, and my level of commitment to them soon brought me into more babysitting jobs than I knew what to do with. This was a blessing, as I was still living at home. I could be gone for hours on the weekends, away from the toxic environment in my home. Within a couple of months, God answered a prayer that I had been praying faithfully and unceasingly for: a friend.

I was asked to join a tiny group of about four girls for a college girl’s bible study. I jumped at the opportunity and within a few short weeks, these girls became the sisters that I had been praying for. To this day, though scattered to all corners of the United States, we remain the closest of friends. These girls had something I longed for: peace in their hearts and an enthusiasm for Christ. They all grew up in public or private schools and yet they were more real, more accepting, more authentic and more fun than any other person that I had met in my narrow circle. Hardly a day goes by that I do not thank God for at least one of them. They met me where I was at, welcomed me, and loved me for who I was. It was the first time that I had ever experienced that kind of acceptance from anyone and it did my broken heart amazing wonders.

I increasingly became more and more involved in the church, and because my parents were consumed with trying to control me through over-involvement in my life, they decided that it would be a good idea for them to start as well. The business executive at our church understood this and approached my mom to ask her if she would consider letting me interview for a full-time staff position in the church office. He knew that if he asked me without their approval, it would never happen. God proved himself to me yet again, when my mom amazingly consented.

I started within a few short weeks, and was quickly busier than I had been in years. The main part of my job was assisting the counseling staff with their clientele and developing their programs. I was encouraged to read everything that they recommended to clients, and I met with the counselors once a week. This soon grew into personal counseling for me, which I actively pursued. I understood that I had much that needed working through and understanding before I would ever consider becoming someone’s spouse.

This job was nothing short of a gift. Not only did it provide me with the healing that my heart so desperately needed, it also provided me with the income that I needed in order to leave my parent’s home. One of the other girls in the bible study was ready to move out of her parents place, and together we began searching for a place to live. It all seemed so simple: get a car, get a job, move out. But there were two things that I had not planned on: falling in love and just how deep the clutches of control my parents had over me were.

The Dispelled Girl- Part 7: Surviving Abuse

2010-11-18T15:04:00.002-06:00

For a brief while, the storms in my life had appeared to reach a kind of calm. While I still, at 17, remained friendless and lonely, at least Candi’s abusive and bullying behavior towards me took a backseat as I prepared for my last year of “high school.” My education, all twelve years of it, had been a complete fraud. The closer I become to achieving my degree in Special Education, the more I am dumbfounded how one parent could let their child’s academic achievements become so neglected. Not only am I a soon to be educator, I am also a parent of three sons who are all in school. Honestly, it sickens me.

My best friend and I have since concurred, that even though the state of Missouri had laws on what we had to achieve in order to graduate school, we both knew that neither of our mothers had done a thing to help keep us up to date and within the bounds of one of the nation’s laxest homeschooling laws. We both understood that in order to graduate, we had to meet certain requirements within our high school transcripts. Though both of us pleaded for help, our mothers ignored our pleas. We took matters into our own hands (just to have freedom!) and forged our own transcripts. Not my proudest moment, and I am sure that I did myself no favors. However, to borrow a cliché’: Desperate times call for desperate measures. If every state had strict oversight of homeschooling families, and a social worker assigned to each family in order to catch neglect and abuse, then this would not be an issue. I can say with a great amount of confidence that based on my preliminary research, nearly 80% of homeschooling graduates that I have spoken with never completed 100% of the requirements that were needed in their state in order to graduate (if that state had no oversight or accountability written into their laws). The only ones who have met these standards, within these lax states, were the ones whose parents either a) enrolled them in an on-line learning school or b) their parents’ had a higher degree (e.g. a Masters) and a great amount of emphasis was placed on academic achievement (not character achievement). Someone needs to intervene on behalf of these children, and something needs to be done to rework the current laws on homeschooling. Yet again another reason I write.

I was pretty lonely in my senior year, and really regretted the fact that when I spoke to my Grandmas they would frequently ask me if I ever wanted to attend a senior prom. Wanting to please my parents, and escape the brainwashing of my mom, I gave them the answer that my parents needed to hear. I was happy being homeschooled, and “saving” myself for that one special person. Dating in high school, I told them, was wrong. Deep down, I wished that my mom had been out of the range of hearing so that I could have a private conversation with one of them and tell them just how unhappy I was. Not only was I not allowed to tell them what was really going on in my life, I was never trusted to talk to them apart from my mom. I was deeply saddened that I was missing out on such a big part of high school. I would look at my cousins’ prom pictures and my heart would cry. I longed to have a formal gown, longed to dance, longed to just have fun. And more than anything, I longed to have a friend.

My homeschool graduation was fast approaching and my mom was in charge of orchestrating the entire event. Homeschool graduations are…weird. They are a big worship service, talent show, and speaking event all rolled into one. The idea behind the musical ensembles, solos, speeches, and worship, is for the parents (again, its all about the parents) to showcase to skeptical extended family members at how well rounded and well-educated their offspring are. Graduates are expected to showcase a talent in some way for the audience and this is yet another example of how little the parents within The Movement know about adolescent development. Rather than feeling respected, most graduates feel like they are on display during these ceremonies and feel somewhat humiliated that they have to perform on some level, what they know. I felt like disrespected teenager whose mother was still trying to showoff the academic achievements of her grade-schooler.

Though I wasn’t particularly thrilled with this weird conglomeration of a graduating class, I was excited about the possibility of finding a friend within the mix. Regardless of the level of involvement within the homeschooling community, graduates and their families would find out about the ceremonies and come out in the droves. Deep down, every parent desires his or her child to have a diploma, even if that diploma is completely illegitimate and not recognized by any college or university.

While I was still looking forward to graduation in May, I still did not have a driver’s license. I let my desires to earn one be known, but I wouldn’t be permitted to drive a car until I was nearly eighteen and-a-half. It was frustrating to be controlled so implicitly. Looking back I see how my parent’s lack of money influenced nearly every decision that they made on my behalf. My grandparents wanted to give me enough money for a car for my graduation present, but my mom put her foot down, saying that I didn’t need one. They ended up giving me their home computer that they had just purchased, which quickly became our family’s computer.

It’s funny how trials and hardships can adequately display a family unit’s true colors. Five months prior to my senior graduation, in January of 1999, the degree to which I had been controlled and devalued as a person hit an all-time low.

It all began with a cough and a really bad cold that just wouldn’t go away. It started unalarmingly enough; I was prone to get the croup anyway. Had been ever since I was a little girl. But there was this cough that I just couldn’t kick. I started running a fever and began to feel very fatigued and short of breath. Because my mom was completely controlled by paranoia and governmental “tracking,” neither my brother nor me had been to see a doctor in well over ten years. My mom began the frantic search for a doctor that fit her criteria: someone who was adamantly opposed to government intrusion would not require me to have my immunizations updated and was supportive of homeopathic remedies. She did end up finding one such doctor, recommended by another radical homeschooling mother. I went in and saw a very old, needing-to-be-retired doctor who sent me home with some general antibiotics.

I wish I could say that they worked. Due to my mom’s paranoia of medical practices and her ignorance, when my symptoms worsened, she did nothing. Slowly, my health deteriorated to a pathetic low. For nearly four weeks after the initial trip to the doctor, I began to have a great deal of trouble breathing. I could not sit or stand for more than the time needed to use the bathroom. I could not keep anything down and perhaps worse of all, I began to violently cough up blood and a severe amount of phlegm. My mom told herself that I would get better.

I had been sick for so many weeks, that my mom, who was far too consumed in Movement leadership and responsibilities; frequently left me at home nearly every day to fend for myself. I could not stand up, because if I did, I would pass out. I crawled to the bathroom, alone in a quiet house. I slept and struggled to fill my weak lungs with oxygen with every breath, alone. And no one in the world cared or knew. One time, I had become so dehydrated and oxygen-deprived that I passed out on the bathroom floor. I am not sure how long I lied on that cold, dirty tile floor. I somehow made it back to the couch. I was literally languishing away.

Perhaps the saddest part is that my extended family knew that I was sick, and my dad’s mom would call and check on me. But still, there was a refusal to treat me at a doctor’s office on the part of my parents whenever Grandma would mention it. My eyes had grown sunken and I had lost so much weight that my clothes just hung in folds around me. To be a teenager, stuck in a home where no one cared about you, waiting to die is incomprehensible to even the most compassionate soul.

My young body was about to give up. I had grown so weak and breathless that to talk was impossible. It took every once of mental effort that I had left to fill my lungs with what little air they could hold. I have since viewed my medical history, and it was on this night that I developed Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome. My body had gone into shock.

That night, when all were in bed, I was unmoved and untouched on the couch. Every breath I took felt like a 200-pound bag of flour was placed on my chest. Each breath was painful, rapid, shallow, and absent of any amount of oxygen that would do me any real good. As I lay there, the tears began to trickle slowly. There I was, alone once again, unable to breathe-unworthy to breathe. My fever had spiked once again and I drifted in and out of consciousness.

They say that those who are close to death see visions of the afterlife. During one of my bouts of unconsciousness, a fiery gate came into sight. Beside the gate sat a figure of a man, outlined in embers. My soul cried out, “Jesus I want to die now!” I was ready to give up. I just wanted to go home. I begged to die, pleaded to die and to these pleas was His reply: “I will save you and I will heal you. I have made you for great things."

Though my dad abused me horrendously as a little girl, and then grew to hate me later, he did understand what it was like to not be able to breathe (he had asthma). Seeing how sick and pallid I was on the couch the next morning, he did the first and only thing that ever told me that he even cared about me. He became, in that one small instant, my advocate that I so desperately needed. He told my mom to get me the help that I needed. Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, he had to argue his point across to her as she put up a steady resistance to his suggestion.

I was incapable of speaking up and communicating my need to get the treatment that I needed to continue to live. All I could do was lay there and pray that somehow she would agree to let me go. Reluctant, at last she agreed.

The Quack that she wanted me to see was off for the day, that day being Saturday. Mom was left with no other option than to have me seen by his much younger partner. She was not a happy individual when she heard about this, but somewhere, deep down, she knew she had to take me in to been treated. Together my parents loaded me into the car and my mother drove me to the doctor.

Once there, he ran a battery of tests and x-rays that confirmed my diagnosis: severe pneumonia. I was incredibly sick, he stated to my mother, and firmly stated I needed to be seen in the hospital. My mother refused.

Again, lying on the doctor’s table, I was completely weak and unable to speak. The x-rays that they had done on me left me unable to voice anything, and it took everything within me to breathe and not begin a violent coughing episode. I listened to them argue, and finally the doctor made my mother sign a “Refusal to Treat” document. The agreement was that I would be treated with what he could do there in the office, and should I not improve within 24 hours, I would have to return to the hospital to be further evaluated and treated.

Long story short, my mom lied to the doctor about my actual improvement, though what he prescribed and did for me did help. I improved slowly, slowly, over the course of the next sixteen weeks. I had made up my mind that I was going to survive this abuse and hatred and when I did, I was going to do everything within my power to leave this home. My parents may have wanted me dead, but God had bigger things in store for my life. I had come to understand some things: my parents did not love me, I was not going let The Movement have the satisfaction of destroying my life, the best years of my life were still ahead of me, and the abuse, neglect, and heartache that I endured were meant for me to experience so that one day I could use my story to help other girls who were caught in a similar situation. Solo deo Gloria!

The Dispelled Girl- Part 6: Growing Pains

2010-11-14T19:01:00.003-06:00

For the last six months, I dreamt of living in Texas and of being free. I knew that I didn’t know Gabe, but just the thought of getting out of the hell that I was currently in was all that I cared about. Everything else paled in comparison to the nightmare that I was living. My optimism still kept me going, and I was confident that even though I had been keeping an enormous secret from my parents, and that I didn’t know who this guy was, I would still find love and freedom. Two things I desperately wanted.

I began to use the babysitting and housecleaning money that I would receive weekly from our neighbors, to buy wedding magazines and collect things for my hope chest. I was truly convinced that the right way of doing things was to go through a betrothal process that would eventually end in a tightly monitored engagement period. I was determined to win the favor of this family by being the perfect example of a good homeschooled girl. My heart, for those six months, sang.

Maybe part of the reason why I am not so enamored with springtime as the majority of the populace is because nothing ever good came out of the months of February, March, and April for me. Our homeschooling conference was to be held in June, and by the time that April had made her entrance, mom and Candi were furiously working around the clock trying to finalize all of the many details that went into planning such a major event. This meant frequent phone conversations with one another that would last for well over six hours in a given day and also numerous phone calls to the speakers and vendors.

I knew from having been raised in this movement, that Candi would be speaking with Gabe’s dad, Mr. New, about his hotel arrangements and the sessions that he would be presenting to the flock. Candi and my mom took very seriously their role as leader, or “Shepard” as they referred to themselves. Much care and endless hours were spent with each convention speaker ensuring that the material they were presenting was exactly what they wanted “their people” to hear. Rather than being a facilitator of information, they felt they had been called by God to teach these “precious families” the way that God wanted them to live: in fear. We lived in fear of government, fear of extended family, fear of neighbors, fear of culture, and fear of the world and these fears dictated our belief system. Our homeschooling group had become an isolationist cult and it was led by two very powerful women: Candi and my mother.

Sometime in April, my mother began to carry around an air of hatred towards me again and I could tell that it was something that I had done, or failed to do. I knew to ask her what the problem was would be asking for unwarranted trouble so I kept my distance from her. I hid in my room to escape my toxic family and listened to Christian cassette tapes that I had bought covertly. My mom was adamantly opposed to Steven Curtis Chapman (too worldly), Michael W. Smith (too worldly), Newsboys (rock music was not Christian music), DC Talk (Christian rappers were wolves in sheep’s clothing), Amy Grant (she had an affair), Sandi Patty (she had an affair too), Rebecca St. James (not only did God hate rock music, Ms. St. James was not a “true homeschooler” and “not one of the flock”)…and of course every CD that I owned in my collection were from these artists. They lifted me up on the wings of hope and helped my heart to feel close to Christ. But I couldn’t sing along with them and I had to hide the tapes well.

We lived in a very tiny home, somewhere around 1200 square feet. The walls were paper thin so I had to turn down the volume very low, so very low that I would lay on the floor with my ear plastered to the speakers just so I could hear something that lifted my heart. I had to keep one hand on the on/off switch the entire time in case my mother barged in my bedroom to check on me. Yes, even at 16 I had no privacy and still no lock on my bedroom door. I eventually got so fed up with this arrangement that I spent three hours one day fixing the old stuck lock on my bedroom door so that I could lock her, and my father, out. The only one welcome in my room was my little brother. To me, he was the only one in the world who cared a rat’s ass about me, and I loved him dearly.

I also spent a lot of time in my bedroom writing. I flew through pen pals, girls that I would meet at various events or homeschool conferences throughout the state, and journals like they were going out of style. The only rule however, was that I could not own a diary that had a lock on it. Looking back, I see how my mom would betray me and read my journals, and then would thwart my hopes and dreams in an attempt to control me. I wish that I had had the guts to keep a diary with a lock. A dear girl that I have spoken to over coffee, who is from the same homeschooling group as I, told me she never keeps a journal. It’s safer in her head, and at least there, her mom can’t read it.

Much of what had filled my journals was about my future plans…my wedding plans, my plans of a home, my plans of marriage, and my plans of getting out of this hellhole. They were also filled with the soulful prayers of a teenage girl who was desperate for God to make her holy, pure, and loveable. Prayers that would break the heart of any caring soul especially in light of the fact that the whole reason she felt so unlovable was because it was her fault. I prayed daily for a friend. I eagerly anticipated June, when I would at last meet Gabe, and gain the companionship and freedom that my heart so longed for. To me, this was God’s answer to my countless prayers.

Then one day all of those hopes and dreams of freedom and a different life were shattered. Deep down, I knew that mom and Candi would thwart them as they had done and would continue to do until I left the movement, but I still wanted to believe the best for myself and believe that maybe this once they wouldn’t win! Mom finally confirmed my deepest fears, when after about a week of scorning and seething hate in April of 1998, she pulled me aside and asked condescendingly if Mr. New had ever mentioned him bringing his son to meet me. She responded that she had found out this information through reading my journals, and then ran this by Candi to see if she knew anything. My stomach churning, I knew that I had to admit that this was the truth. My mom then proceeded to inform me that she had told Candi and Mr. New, of my deceit. She also informed me that she had confiscated my tapes, as she had found them with my journals.

This was the beginning of a brainwashing session where my mom would pound into my head my profound wickedness and deceit. I had deceived her, and deceived the movement by keeping such a secret from them. I was wicked, I was disrespectful, and I was certainly not the godly wife that Mr. New was looking for, for his son. Candi had called my mom when she had first heard from Mr. New that he would be bringing along his son to meet the Hawkins’ daughter and this sent fiery thorns of jealousy and power-mongering arrows into Candi’s heart. She had to destroy this scheme because Hannah was meant to be “the chosen one” to marry into movement royalty. Not me the bastard child. Once again, my mother had no issues with this, recognizing herself that Hannah was indeed the better choice. They proceeded to converse with Mr. New telling them how ungodly, deceitful, ungentle, disrespectful and most importantly, unsubmissive I was. I was crushed and so was my reputation.

I cried for weeks. I would escape to the neighbor’s house, I was free to enter their home whenever, and cry bitter tears of disappointment. My hopes of freedom, love, and companionship were over. Once again, my parents and John and Candi had tried to destroy my hope of freedom. And once again, I was forced to choke on their Kool-aid that I could not utter any of these family scandals to anyone, even grandparents.

June came and the day before the conference I was hesitantly hopeful that maybe I could meet Mr. New once again in private and change his mind about me. I wanted the chance to defend my name, and prove these perpetrators wrong. I believe I was actually successful in doing this, though Gabe and I never met.

Gabe was going through his own hell, I later found out. Having come from equally controlling parents who were enmeshed in the patriarchal and Quiverfull movements, he desired like me to be free. Unlike me, he had been successful just that May in gaining his freedom.

He had met a girl that he loved deeply, more than anything in the world. But his mom and dad did not approve…their choice for him was me (the irony of it!). This girl that Gabe loved was supposedly worldly and did not come from The Movement, therefore not a suitable choice for Gabe. Mr. New had high hopes of taming his son’s wild and “rebellious” heart, and he felt that the way to do this was to control Gabe’s choice in whom he loved. Gabe fled his parents by purchasing a pick-up truck and joined the throng of construction workers. He had moved in with his girlfriend in Dallas in May of 1998 and never returned home.

There was one thing that I learned from his resilience: true love was worth fighting for, and so was freedom. And the way to escape The Movement was to own a car.

The Dispelled Girl- Part 5: Freedom-Longing

2010-11-09T13:38:00.006-06:00

My sixteenth birthday was fast approaching and something unusual was going to occur: I would be allowed to have a birthday party, and this was no small matter: It would be my first co-ed party. I had sufficiently stuffed my depression and became exactly what they wanted: quiet, gentle, reserved, and pious. In fact, I became so good at playing this game of theirs that I had eventually gained respect because I was so vocal in support of The Movement. Never a complaint was uttered again from my lips about how much I hated my situation. I learned to adapt so that I could survive and escape the abusiveness. Granted my father and I did not get along, but at least my mom’s spiritual abuse subsided. I learned to accept that this was simply my lot in life.

I actually regret that. I was telling my husband just the other day that if there was one regret that I had while in my parent’s home, it was that I allowed my personality to be squelched to such a level that even I barely recognized myself. I wish that I would have been a stronger person and simply refused to listen to their Kool-aid. I wish I would have talked to my grandmas and my aunts, I wish I would have been true to myself and been the person that I was created to be. I suppose hindsight is everything.

The big nagging question in my life was how on earth would I meet someone to marry out of this family? And how on earth would I do that when I was never allowed to be around guys? I knew that I had missed the boat on scholarships, and whenever I would bring up to my mom about going away to college or taking the ACT or SAT, I was pushed aside.

My family had risen to quite the level of power and status in our area, though the homeschooling groups themselves were riddled with infighting and politics. I listened daily to my mom giving advise to those who would call asking for help on applying for scholarships, when to begin applying for colleges, and when to take the ACT or SAT. I knew the answers. You apply for scholarships at the end of your sophomore year, apply to colleges in your junior year, and take the ACT or SAT every year from your freshman year on.

But I was a Daughter of The Movement, and those types of girls just simply did not do those things. It did not matter that I requested, nagged, and implored them to let me go to college, I was to remain at home until I married. I was to remain under my father and mother’s tyrannical reign, and then my husband would rule me. At that point, that actually sounded appealing. I wanted to take the ACT or SAT exam, but that was where my mom and Candi’s sick paranoia kicked in. They believed that “the government” used those tests as a means to “track” individuals and “come after them.” Think extremist and conspiracy theorist paranoia. That was who they were and that was Mom and Candi’s reason for not allowing us kids to take the exam. And there was no convincing otherwise, not by us girls or by our dads, because we all knew who really wore the pants in the family. Their idea of biblical submission was all for show.

So I knew that I would be left with very little options, other than to marry. My parents were all over arranged marriages, courtship, and betrothals. Richard “Little Bear” Wheeler and Norm Wakefield were frequent visitors at our homeschooling conferences. With as dysfunctional as my family was, that concept caused me great cause for anxiety. I knew that if they were to spend any amount of time with my family that my chances of securing a courtship-proposal were as good as over. While for some girls, this concept may- and I emphatically stress, may- have worked to their benefit, I knew that this simply would not work for me. I knew that I was going to have to take those matters into my own hands.

Candi had a dream…a clear vision to secure her power, prestige and status on a national level. And that was to orchestrate a courtship that would later lead to marriage for my former best friend, Hannah. She was unmoved in this resolve and sought to bring in any national speaker that she knew of that had young men. To her, this would be the ultimate success and show “her people” that homeschooling really does work. Every year, her and John would court these families, bringing them into their home, talking to them, taking them out for dinner, and escort the speaker and their families to and from the airport.

With the dawn of the Clinton administration and the approaching Y2K scare, Mom and Candi began to preach to “their people” to head for the country. Survivalist and stockpiling strategies became the topic of concern at every homeschool support group meeting, conference, and conversation. They were terrified of the Clinton’s implementing communism in our country and preached of a world collapse because of Y2K.

This led up to a big survivalist conference in October of 1997. I so did not want to go, they were not making Hannah go, but my parents did not trust me and kept me on a very tight leash, even at 16. Our support group was to have a table at this conference to represent our State homeschooling organization, and I was needed to be present to “be an example.” I went, but they were not about to keep me behind that table for two whole days.

Wondering around from booth to booth, I was nothing short of feeling eerily spooked by all of the doomsayers. The rifles, the pamphlets on how to obtain illegal weapons (of which John and Candy bought several), the generators, the canned goods, the Missouri militia sign-ups, the prominent display table of the John Birch Society…. was enough to make my skin crawl and my stomach feel queasy. I needed to find an escape and fast.

Down a couple of booths from where we encamped handing out generous doses of Kool-aid, there was television playing a video of Michael New’s court marshalling. He refused to wear the blue beret of the United Nations, displaying a flagrant act of rebellion to authority. This young man was hailed as being a hero in our circles, so naturally this video drew me in.

I stood mesmerized by the drama of this documentary and a winsome, squatty man spoke up.

“So have you heard about Michael New?”

True to form I replied that I had and that I really respected his act of “patriotism.” I noticed the Texan flag hanging behind this man’s booth and I was instantly drawn to his twinkling, kind eyes.

“I’m his dad.”

This was the inception of a non-stop conversation that lasted the remaining of Friday night and on into Saturday. He was so easy to talk to and so kind. I told him of my dreams to one day open a school and teach The Principle Approach. This was the current method of teaching that my mom was using and I actually enjoyed it, although looking back it was unabashedly revisionist in its “history.” This caught his instant attention. He kept asking me all sorts of questions, questions that never seemed odd or misplaced. It was a relief to have someone to talk to and someone whom I didn’t feel judged by. Later he showed me a picture of his second son, Gabriel.

Wrapping up later that Saturday afternoon, he informed me that he was coming speak at our homeschooling conference the following June. And then he informed me that he had been looking for a “special girl, a godly girl” for his son and that he intended on bringing him to meet me in June with the intention of starting a courtship.

My heart soared on the wings of freedom and bliss for the next several months. My mom and dad knew that I was talking to Mr. New, and they wondered of course what it was about. There was no way on earth that I would let them destroy the one chance of freedom that I had had from them, by telling them what I knew. I understood that if they found out, they would stop it cold in its tracks. The truth was that my parents wanted to remain in control of me for the unforeseeable future and they had a sick need to control an individual.

I determined that it was not going to be me.

The Dispelled Girl- part 4: The Darkness Sets In

2010-11-07T21:54:00.004-06:00

The next morning was back to business as usual in our home. There would be no mention of my suicide attempt until I would bring it up, nearly ten years later. I knew waking that morning that Christ himself had pulled me through last night, even at fourteen. I didn’t know though, how I would get through the days and years ahead of me, that I had yet to live.

Emotionally I was spent. Going through puberty was difficult enough, and even more difficult because that also was a topic off limits to discuss. Sexual “things” were just not dealt with in our home, and like everything else that my mom and dad wanted to hide from, was swept under the rug. I had been on an emotional roller coaster in the last several months, ranging in emotions from being openly rejected to wishful hoping that somehow this scandal could be reversed: and I would once again be welcomed into loving arms by the only community that I knew.

Once everyone’s positions and the issues had been exposed, I was left alone. Alone. I hate that word…what I had remaining in my life were three things: my journal, my Bible, and my cat. I sank into a deep, deep depression.

Oh, I covered it well. I had to. But deep down there was a daily nagging, a restless wondering of, I have no one. I have no friends and no one to confide in. No one to talk to. Nightly for years, I would cry myself to sleep on my pillow, silently praying out to God “to just give me one friend, any friend, someone that I can talk to.” Those are still painful moments for me to remember and recall.

I felt like such an outcast and every social interaction that I had painfully reminded me of what I lacked: companionship. I was incessant in expressing my need for friends to my mother to which came her cold, calculating and abusive advise.

“Well, Chandra, we just need to pray that God would give you friends. And if you were just a little less loud…laughed less…talked less…and asked God to give you a the quiet and gentle spirit of a godly young girl then I know He would bless you with one.”

That usually made me cry, and I would tell her how hard I was trying to please her and everyone else.

Her way of comforting me on this sore topic of friendship was to misquote and abuse this scripture from Jeremiah: “ I will restore the years that the locust have eaten.” I just wished that she understood that she was the locust who had been eating away at me for all those years! She felt like God would restore to me the years that had been eaten away by my lack of compliance with the Bible or what others had done to me. She took no responsibility whatsoever in the mess that she had put me in. The phrase that states, “You can’t ask God to bless your crop without a hoe in your hand,” is aptly fitting here.

She never helped me find friends. Rather, every time we would try a new homeschool social circle, Candi would come along and discourage my mother from allowing me to take part in them because I was a bad influence on the other young girls. And every time, my mother listened. The same thing happened in our local church, a refusal to let me participate in youth group or Sunday school or any other church related youth activity. While this subject is a whole other blog post, the main reason was that my mom was fearful. Fearful that I would learn things that would make me even more rebellious, that would encourage me in worldliness, or that I would become “influenced” by these “worldly” kids. So this left me feeling like there was some terrible flaw in me, something like a cancer that I just could not cure. The reason, I concluded, why I could not make friends, was because there was something deeply and irrevocably wrong with me. When in reality, there was something deeply and irrevocably wrong with my parents.

I don’t know how I made it through the next two years. I really don’t…They were terribly depressing years for me, going through high school without one single friend and going through a series of what felt like constant social rejection. I cried daily, multiple times during the day. I hated my birthdays. They were nothing more than a painful reminder of how I just wasn’t wanted or loved by anyone in my life.

I found two neighbor families whom I could baby-sit that lived next door. It was heaven, just to have little people love you and accept you and shower you with hugs and kisses. One family in particular, had me over for dinner every Friday night and slowly, my heart began to warm and thaw due to the sunshine that radiated there, eating pepperoni-lover's pizza from Pizza-Hut (a reason why pepperoni is still my favorite topping). Looking back on it, this mother knew that my home life was incredibly restricting for a young teenage girl based on the types of questions that she would pose to me. Eventually my relationship with this family, turned into a job where I could come over to their home every Friday and clean house for them. I would stay over there as long as I could, sometimes nearly all day, escaping the toxic environment of my own home life. It felt good to be away from my mom’s constant phone conversations to promote The Movement and away from her abusive tongue.

My schooling was terribly shot due to my depression. I had little motivation to complete my studies, as now I was a “self-taught” learner. Though I was concerned about my terribly deficient math and science skills, it was hard to teach oneself those things. My math I would ask for help from my mom on, but she was usually too busy with homeschool support group responsibilities to offer me any real help; unless you count once a week for an hour “help”.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Because of my chronic depression, I had lost all interest in reading, schooling, or even my beloved music and art. I requested to stop taking flute and piano lessons, my only real outlet, because I was hurting and dealing with a sense of deep, deep betrayal and bitterness. Betrayal by my parents, and betrayal by John and Candi; and bitterness over the way that I had been treated. Whenever my bitterness would manifest itself, my dad would say in his pompous, sneering way, “You just need to forgive and move on, Chandra.” My music teachers picked up on my lack of practicing and were concerned for me, asking frequently, "Is something wrong, Chandra?" To which my "Kool-aid" reply was, "I am fine."

So I learned the art of stuffing what I was feeling in order just to survive. Every day was a feat of survival and every day brought me closer and closer to the goal: Freedom from this tyrannical family and freedom from the abuse of it. I knew that happiness had to lie on the other side of the sewage tunnel that I was in. And I had one thing beating in my heart: the eternal optimism of youth that told me that there was someone out there would be a friend to me, and I to them, if we could just…meet.

The Dispelled Girl- part 3:Drinking the Kool-aid

2010-11-05T20:49:00.007-05:00

The following will be appearing on NLQ blogsite sometime in the near future. I thought that I would go ahead and post it here. You can read the other installments of my story on NLQ as well.

I was a tender fourteen when my world fell apart. My parents had become entrenched and enmeshed with The Movement and because of this, The Movement had become everything in our life. The Movement had become a feudal lord, demanding everything from us: time, money, and resources. My family felt that The Movement WAS our family and it was The Movement that we served- from the rising of the sun to the setting of it.

John and Candi, and their four children, had become to us closer than blood. It was The Movement that joined us- heart, body, mind, and spirit. We lived and breathed for The Movement, and followed John and Candi’s every lead. My mom and dad were John and Candi’s devoted second-in-command leaders. Our two families were a potent force, having climbed The Movement’s social ladder to the head of the State of Missouri’s homeschool organization in just a few short years.

But through all of cult-like demands of The Movement, and my family’s worship of it, there was a teenage girl who longed to be free, understood, and accepted.

I had been shunned and rejected by John and Candi and my own family as well. (You can read about this on my last installment at NLQ). I had been battling something called anomie for several years (anomie is a psychological term used when a person feels utter abandonment, isolation, and rejection from their social circles and world around them). What kept me going though was eternal hopefulness- hopefulness that somehow, some way my family, my best friend Hannah (John and Candi’s daughter), and our homeschooling support group would accept me back with loving arms if I “could just make myself into the ‘quiet and gentle’ daughter of The Movement that they all desired.” But their idea of a godly, homeschooled girl and the way the My Creator had wired me were two entirely different things. I simply could not be and do everything that they wanted. Not only were their demands unattainable, my family had also gotten to the point where it wouldn’t have mattered what I did- they needed someone to fill the role of scapegoat because deep down they knew that The Movement was not everything that they had promised to others. They knew it was Kool-aid.

I thought that I was “getting better,” which was something that I would daily tell myself. I wanted to be accepted and loved, and to me the only way to do that was to demonstrate what my mom and Candi were telling me that they wanted. I felt like that little, naked, diseased baby robin whose mother decides it will contaminate the others. She pecks and picks at it for its flaws and imperfections, kicking it out of the nest, and the baby robin slowly dies. That is very much how I felt. But somehow I also thought that I would “get better” and maybe, just maybe, fly back into that nest.

So this is how I felt when March of 1995 happened. My mom had scheduled a meeting with Candi to discuss me, to see if there was any way that Hannah and I could become friends once more. Mom did this at my unceasing insistence. This meeting, taking place at Candi’s house, took a full day. The entire day I was hopeful and expectant, waiting eagerly to at last have a friend restored, my family restored, and to once again be accepted into the community of believers (this is what we called our homeschooling support group). Finally near the end of the day, Mom pulled into the driveway, and without so much as a hello, locked herself into her bedroom, discussing with my father in such hushed tones that even my eavesdropping ears could not detect.

I knew this was not a good sign. This was a very, very bad omen of things to come. My mom refused to tell me what the outcome was of their meeting, saying that she would tell me “when you are ready.” I didn’t quite understand that, it was my life that they were talking about. But for the next week, my mom barely spoke to me, pouring herself into the Bible and walking around with a mixed air of depression and anger. I knew that to ask what was said at “the meeting” was an act of futility on my part and the best thing I could do was wait this storm out.

A little over one week later, my mom said that we needed to sit down that night and “discuss some things” after my little brother had gone to bed. Little alarm bells were going off in my head when she said that because that felt a good deal too close to some sort of court hearing. My dad would also be present she proceeded to inform me. That made me even more uncomfortable because I never shared anything personal with him and the thought of just having him there made me unsettled. I was so nervous I about puked.

Finally the time had arrived and the feel in the room was about as sterile as a doctor’s office. The set-up was bizarre. My fluffy white and gray cat and I sat on the couch, and my mom and dad were in chairs pulled up across from me. This was not a warm talk with your daughter; no, I was about to go through an intensive interrogation.

My mom proceeded to inform me that I had let The Movement down by “certain instances” of ungodly behavior--- which ranged from “degrading Hannah’s hair and winter coat,” to “gossiping about other leader’s, even when told not to.” She proceeded to tell me that Candi had been keeping a record, a written record, on an 8 ½ x 11 yellow legal notepad (to this day, I can’t stand the sight of those things) of every “instance” that I had committed against Hannah, their family, and more importantly, the homeschooling support group. My mom had spent the entire day at Candi’s home, copying down everything that Candi had written. And then my mom pulled out her own legal notepad…and proceeded to read it to me.

This is not an easy thing for me to write about. My entire world literally came crashing down around me. The anomie that I had been trying to stuff and ignore reared its ugly head. My thoughts were in a cyclonic whirlwind, making absolutely no sense. My head spinning, my chest tightening, my world was bleak and black as night. There was no hope of reconciliation with Hannah, I had lost not only her, but any hope of ever having a friend. Candi had told my mom that she had warned all of the other families “about Chandra” and what is worse: my mom agreed with her decision. I had become the bastard child of the homeschooling movement and true to form, they needed to peck me until their problem went away.

I don’t know how one can feel much lower. By the end I felt so low, so angry with myself, so unworthy of anyone’s love that there was just no point in going on. I had been told as well that evening that to discuss any of this with my grandmothers (who most assuredly would have come to my rescue) was out of the question. For some reason I still don’t fully comprehend, I listened to that Kool-aid. My life had simply become worthless and not worth living for, and I really believed that no one cared about me. No one.

I remember my mom coldly staring at me through her icy blue eyes, with just a hint of hatred in them at me for having put my family through this hell. She was reading my reaction to see how I would respond to this newest information. I went into serious panic-mode. All of the thoughts that I had, everything that I had done- to myself, my family, The Movement- came crashing down on me like a two ton brick. Flinging my sleeping cat off of my lap, I ran to the kitchen and slammed every single cabinet door that I could think of. I was so angry with myself and I felt so worthless, and unloved. I think I broke a drinking glass before I ran to my parent’s bedroom and locked myself in there. It was the only room in the house that had a lock on the door. But there was also something else in that room.

My dad’s handgun. He always kept it loaded and locked. I yanked open the filing cabinet, tears streaming down my face, screaming, blabbering, completely incoherent. Shaking and trembling all I knew is that I wanted my life to be over. Ended. Done with. I had let myself down and I had no one left who cared. What on earth do I have to live for? The answer came back in a haunting…nothing. I took the gun out of its case.

My dad is no small man, towering at 6’8”. He could have knocked down the door, but all he did was knock. I pulled the gun out, while screams and pounding ensued from the other side of the bedroom door. My hand shaking, I put the gun into “unlock,” my slender finger on the trigger, and pointed it at my throat.

Then I heard a voice. It was unlike any voice that I have ever heard, and it was as audible as Someone sitting on the bed. It was calming and compassionate.

“Don’t do this Chandra. I have great plans for you.”

I dropped the gun, screaming, “I am going to do this!”

I picked the gun up once more, fully determined to end my misery. My finger once again on the trigger, I began to pull.

“Don’t do this Chandra. I know the plans that I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you.”

I dropped the gun, hands shaking.

I chose to believe Him. And even though I knew that my parents hated me, and that they did not care what they had done, I knew at that moment that my purpose in this life was not done. I knew then that I was meant to tell my story- someday- and that I was to be a rescuer to the weary hearted. I also knew that this Lord of Mercy was not the one that my mom had been teaching me about. I knew that the religion and the version of the Bible that she had been teaching and training me up in were false. The Lord of Love had saved me, not the lord of condemnation.

I opened the bedroom door and fled to my room. My parents had seen what I had done; they knew what was going on behind that door. Yet my heart was hurt once more, when they chose to think that it was nothing more than a plea for attention. They brushed my suicide attempt under the rug; even though my little brother had awoken from his slumber and was screaming and crying inconsolably at me through the door, begging me to never, never try something like that again. His response to my suicide attempt melted my heart, because I knew that he loved me. And for now, that was enough to keep me going.

Family counseling was never looked into, and no calls for help were made on my behalf. Because of how shaken my brother was, my mom and dad focused all attention on consoling him. I went to bed, shaken by what I had done, depressed and crying. I did not know how I was going to pull out of this depression that I could begin to feel was cloaking me in its darkness. I did not know if I would ever have parents that would care for me. I did not know if I would ever find a friend again. All I knew, as I cried myself to sleep late that night, alone, was in the words of Scarlet O’Hara: “Tomorrow is another day.” I finally drifted off into a fitful slumber.

What Healing Looks Like

2010-11-04T07:43:00.006-05:00

"The challenge is not to forgive and forget. The real honor comes in one's ability to forgive and yet remember." ~Anonymous

Family enmeshment is nasty- it feels very much like the way Venom is visually depicted in Spider-man 3. Peter Parker is in the church tower, praying to rid himself of something that he previously mistook for being good. He has come to realize that while it is bad, it is something that he will never be rid of unless the demon creature can find a new host. Unmoved by the knowledge that he must find a new host, he knows in his heart that the only way to truly be happy and to find true love is if he tears asunder the slime that has defined who he is. As someone who has worked through the enmeshment entanglement dilemma, that is the most powerful visual scene I have ever witnessed on enmeshment. The exertion on the part of Peter to rid himself of Venom is exactly the amount of work that one who desires to be free from enmeshment looks and feels like. Very powerful.

Yet still there remains a scar. A scar that no one can fully understand, or maybe that you can fully articulate. Leaving and rejecting one's family of origin is certainly not for cowards. It's also something that most just can't grapple with or begin to understand. How can Dispelled Girl hate her family so much? How could she do this to her parents? What was so bad that she just can't move on?

Sigh. I struggle with the same questions. I want healing, healing in my own life and healing in the lives of my perpetrating parents. I am not one who likes to quote other's work and thoughts mostly because I want everything that I say in here to be original and true to myself. But here is a quote from a powerful book that gripped me and helped me to heal from the incest in my family. And it sums up my heart completely.

"When the perpetrator denies the truth, the victim must decide whether or not to continue the relationship...Until you are willing to face your accountability for what you have done, there can be no relationship. Under these circumstances, the choice remains with the aggressor. The issue is resolved for the victim, but, due to the aggressor's choice, the relationship cannot be reconciled."

~Jan Frank, Door of Hope

That sadly has been the pattern of our family's history for the last ten years, ever since I brought the issues of the past forward and asked my parents to enter into therapeutic family counseling. Whenever I have brought my issues of abuse forward their response has increasingly gotten more and more defensive. Right now, my parents are livid that I have "smeared" their reputation because of the sexual abuse that I endured from the ages of 2-5. They have no desire to admit their wrongdoing in this. What their desire is, is to defend their actions and suggest that I have ten horns on my head. Their response has been nothing but defensiveness.

If, during one of our many sessions, they had been repentant and shown to me that they desired a true heart change- a desire to restore the past- then they would have been met with the open arms of a little girl who has never wanted anything more than for her parents to truly accept and love her. But rather, for the last ten years, I have been met with this sick psychological mind game called, "Not My Perspective." They attest that their perspective is different and because its different, they are right. I don't doubt for one second that their perspective is different. The perpetrators perspective is always different from that of the victim. But what they have not done is take 100% of the responsibility for what happened in their home, or listen and hear my hurt and heart.

So for the last nine years, I have been caught in the muck of just wanting them to accept me. So I would stuff my feelings and re-enter into a boundary-less relationship with them, in which the same old patterns of relating would appear once again. Then would begin my downward spiral of having to cope, enter into extensive counseling, and remembering the pain of the past. I finally realized about a year ago that I don't need them in my life to be a whole person. They were my world. I was sheltered and because of my relationship to the perpetrators I had become victim to Stockholm Syndrome. It was very hard for me to admit that they had done the things that they had done to me. But once I crossed over that threshold, I was starting to taste the sweetness of freedom. And I kept on going.

Long story short, I finally realized that I was worthy- worthy enough to not let someone else treat me this way! Worthy enough to be free to love and not feel judged. Worthy enough to experience freedom, rest, and healing. And finally, worthy enough to stand up against the abuse.

If my mom and dad never recognize or admit what they have done to me, it no longer matters. What does matter is that if they want a relationship with me, they will have to admit what they have done, their need for my forgiveness, and their need to accept that they need healing too. And until that happens I just can't know them or be in their life.

Yes it makes me sad. The holidays are upon us and for the first time in my life, I won't be celebrating them with my parents. It makes me sad that they want to file a lawsuit against me. It makes me sad that they claim to be Christians and yet there is no fruit in their family of it. It makes me even sadder that the church in which they are both full-time employees of, has refused to listen to the victim or make them deal openly and honestly with their issues. Instead, they have hid it under the rug to "protect the church from scandal."

Ravi Zacharias said recently, "We have reached the point in our culture where the culture sides with the perpetrator over the victim."

So to those of you victims out there who are still dealing with the past abuse and past hurts let me just say, I am so very proud of you. It takes a tremendous amount of courage and strength to do so. And more than anything, let me say this: You are beautiful and you are worthy of being free from the clutches of your abuse.

Halloween: Movement Homeschooler Style

2010-10-31T15:50:00.003-05:00

Legalism, judgmentalism, retreat-ism, fundamentalism. Yep, those words pretty much summed up my Halloween experience, and countless others of my background, as a child.

Movement homeschoolers, and even those of the legalistic mindset in the Christian churches, like to use Halloween as an excuse to keep their lights turned off and refuse to hand out candy and partake in wickedness. Generally speaking, their feelings are that this is the Devil’s holiday and it is a holiday of death, demon worship, and séances. Their feelings run along the lines of those who prematurely jumped to conclusions in the early Puritan era of our nation in the Salem Witch Trials. To participate in this kind of a holiday is condoning a culture of evilness and great wickedness. It is after all, they contend, Satan’s holiday.

Their antidote to this ridiculousness is to either not celebrate it or to do an alternative like a Reformation Party or Harvest Party. Seriously not near as much fun as trick or treating. Most of their children, when asked by outsiders, put on a costume- a façade- and smile their way through the torturous conversation with the cashier at Wal-Mart.

Cashier: “So what are you going to be for Halloween?”

Child in question, with a super-sugary smile, designed to mask the horror they feel at being asked such a question: “We don’t celebrate Halloween.” With extra emphasis added on the word “celebrate” to gain an approving and condescending smile from mom.

Cashier gives a blank look and thinks, What a sheltered life those kids live.

This group of culture bashers has the intention of showing the world that they are different. And yes, they do succeed in doing that, but seriously, the world doesn’t think you are different in a good way. You are different in quite a wrong, and completely constricting way! Not in a way that makes others want to be like you, but in a way that makes others come to the conclusion that they don’t want to be like you at all.

I remember Halloween as a little girl. I was six when I dressed up for Halloween for the last time. Seriously Mom, it was just starting to get fun! I was a princess. When the next Halloween rolled around, my mother had met way to many fundamentalists and Movement Homeschoolers. And she had become legitimately convinced that Halloween was of the Devil. Jack-o-lanterns were forbidden, because they were designed to scare away demons. Dressing up was out of the question, as was trick or treating. This was Satan’s holiday and Christians were to have no part in it.

Our family would literally hide from the neighbors, closing our curtains, turning off all the lights, and ducking to avoid the knockers at the door. Should a costumed child appear at the door knocking, Mom would answer. Proceeding then to inform them that “we don’t celebrate Halloween” in a very self-righteous and judgmental air. I hated, hated, hated, that my parents never let us have the experience of trick or treating. To be able to do it for two years and then have it yanked away for some sort of ideology was baffling. Oh I bought into the arguments and I am ashamed that I judged my cousins so harshly for participating in it. I was trained to believe that I was holier and closer to God, just one step above the rest of the populace, because I did not participate in Satan’s holiday. At least, that’s what I told myself, partly for survival and partly because I wanted to believe that there was some good reason why we did not celebrate Halloween.

But deep down I knew my childhood was being robbed from me. And deep down I knew that there was something that just wasn’t right about this whole scenario. But I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew that there had to be equilibrium between the demons and the angels on Halloween night.

Years passed, and when I reached the point where trick or treating was a thing meant for little children that I had out grown, I was actually relieved. But eventually I had children of my own and the whole question of, “Will you celebrate Halloween?” in the Christian parenting circles that we frequented came up.

Eye-roll. Really? Whose business is it if you do decide to let your kids go out in costumes? Whose business is it if want to deck your whole house in spiders, bats, and black cats (which, ours is by the way)? Did not the God who created heaven and earth create those creatures too? And what about the Harvest Moon, pumpkins, firelight, and crunching leaves? Is this world in which we live meant not to be enjoyed?

I am not suggesting that a Christian partake or condone the demonic presence of this world. But just as there are angels, there are demons. This is a reality. And sheltering your kids in a box and suggesting that Christians have nothing redemptive to offer the world on a holiday in which our entire culture is celebrating, is completely missing an opportunity to show Christ’s love that literally comes knocking on your door.

I am not one of those people who believe that we need to hand out gospel tracts in the place of candy to the Spider Queen and Werewolf who knocks on your door with bags opened wide. Those are completely ineffective and often times, offensive. No, what I believe is that when you open your door and pray that Christ will shine his light through you and that those who interact with you would see His love in your eyes that even the tiniest seed of genuine Christian love is not wasted.

Besides the fact that the majority of the elements of this holiday are harmless and innocent, parents whose refusal to let their kids participate only heighten their interest in the occult, especially when their reasons involve refusal to participate because of the Devil. Mine was, and if I had been a couple of degrees less sheltered, I would have experimented in it. This is an excellent opportunity to discuss these things- demons, Satan, devil-worshippers, witches- with your children at an age appropriate and developmentally appropriate level. We live in a spiritual world, and our world contains both good and bad spirits. This is another opportunity lost. An opportunity to talk to your children about real things, things that God has created for us to enjoy and wonder at (like His autumn creation, friendly neighbors, fun) and things that are in the world that we need to shed our bright lights on and understand (lost souls, a culture of death, the Devil, his demons).

We do not have to be afraid that letting our children participate in this holiday that all of America celebrates is going to somehow train our children to go down a path of wickedness. We have been given much freedom in this world and we have been given freedom to enjoy God’s gracious gifts. We are commanded to shine brightly for Love, and those who pull their curtains shut and contain themselves at home are missing an excellent opportunity.

So next Halloween, instead of hiding your light under a bushel, let it shine, shine, and shine!

You know you are a College-Mom when...

2010-10-06T15:04:00.002-05:00

1. Your laundry is piled to the ceiling AND you don't care because you figure it will get done during Thanksgiving Break.

2.Binder paper and #2's are the current floor covering of choice.

3.You buy stock in Tuna Helper and bemoan the days when you had the time to prepare a lovely meal for your family.

4.The dog does not get fed until Dad gets home at night.

5.The only numbers in your head have to do with functions, slopes, and y-intercepts and you can't remember how old your six year old is...was?

6.You wish your parents would have allowed you to go to college.

7.Your kids are watching mom in school and think that homework is just a normal part of life.

8.Your kids think that mom disappearing at odd hours in the evening to go study is normal.

9.You seriously consider living in a paper state so that you can minimize clean-up.

10.You thank God for your children, because they qualify you to receive financial assistance for your tuition.

11.You never thought you would be more excited over a school schedule being posted.

12.You don't have a life, and never, EVER watch television anymore.

13.You consider telepathy so at least your class material could be transported to your brain, and then have time to devote to your kids.

14.Your husband feels like a Lone Ranger.

15.You hope you look back and are proud of yourself for having accomplished something that many thought you could not do.

16.You stalk the travel agent whose store-front window promises wonderful, serene beach getaways and have started planning for the vacation of a lifetime as a graduation present to yourself.

17.You try not to talk about being in school to too many people because if they haven't done it with kids and a family, they really don't understand just how much of a juggling act it is.

18.You long for the day when you hold a real job and reci1. Your laundry is piled to the ceiling AND you don't care because you figure it will get done during Thanksgiving Break.
compensation for the long hours you are putting in now.

19.You think that you might actually have more time once you start working.

20.You fall into bed, exhausted, at the end of every day thanking God that "He who calls, also equips." And then do the insanity all over again tomorrow.

In the Hands of a Healing Lord

2010-10-02T09:30:00.002-05:00

I gave my blog site up to the Lord and told him that if He didn't want me writing on this subject, that he wouldn't bless it. Many people, who are the completely ignorant and narrow minded viewpoint, accuse me and Vyckie of No Longer Quivering and other home school cult expose' writers, of not being healed or not forgiving. Basically, of viewing the blogosphere as simply an outlet to vent, rage, and prolong bitterness.

Hey, that's their opinion. I suppose I could grant that they are entitled to it. Maybe.

But I am a particularly open-minded person and am quite willing to listen to what others have to say (remember this). I also refrain from judgement on another person's heart and life until I have met that person and know what they have been through. So to those who think that they have me figured out and that they can simply box me into the ideology of not having been healed, bitter, whatever: Please don't frequent this blog site.

This blogsite is not for those who want an opinion and say-so on why they think homeschooling is great, grand and supercalifragilisticexpealidotious. Most of the people who think that homeschooling is the answer to society, are coming from the viewpoint of the parent who is currently homeschooling their child. What I am suggesting is that if you have never lived it on the other end, please don't jump to conclusions that your child is happy and even enjoys their homeschooling experience. Perhaps they do, but perhaps they also don't.

This blog site is for those of us children of The Movement who are trying to recover from our isolated, fundamentalist and cult-like upbringing. Some of us have been through a tremendous amount of abuse, and a disgustingly high number of us have been sexually abused and subjected to incestuous family relationships. I write for the victims, not for those who feel the need to defend their stance to me.

In the post, Rethinking, I stated that I was ready to fold in the towel and quit. Something happened. Right when I was ready to quit, my blog readership skyrocketed. Sure its not a great as some, but seriously, it was enough of an answer for me. I received several emails that week, from other victims begging me to continue writing because what I have to say is helping them sort through their past. And then I got a couple of leads on my manuscript.

I love the way God works. The moment you lose yourself in Him, that's the moment He gives it back to you.

I am in the hands of a healing God. Nearly ten years of counseling later, heart wrenching issues dealt with and sorted through, some relationships ended, and forgiveness granted, I must say that those who feel I have not moved on or that I am bitter or not healed is disingenuous at best. Most likely they are complete judgmental snobs who really aren't entitled to an opinion on my personal life. In my experience, those are just the kind of people who actually have the most to work through and are living in a state of denial over their own hearts and issues.

I know that part of what comes with the territory on explaining to others the dangers and pitfalls of homeschooling, and helping those who are recovering from the abuse of fundamentalist/cultic parents is that there will be those who disagree with me and feel that they somehow have knowledge that I haven't heard or that they feel entitled to a judgment call on my personal life. That's fine. But that doesn't mean that I agree, or that I approve of their need to judge me as a person. And it doesn't mean that I won't use my outlet to defend myself either.

Image Bearers

2010-09-24T11:37:00.003-05:00

While on the way into church one Sunday recently, my seven year old said, "Mom, secrets aren't healthy are they?" Apparently my seven year old understands a very vital concept of being a healthy individual: To hide behind an image and to guild yourself in shame and guilt is not only unhealthy, it is also a form of glory stealing.

We are called as Christians (and bear with me audience while I divert into a more theological discussion on Christianity during this post) to bear Christ's image. We are called to give Him glory. I don't think that any Protestant believer would deny that, not even Movement homeschoolers.

Notice though that its not our own image that we are bearing. It is Christ's. Yet too many Christians, and in particular, Movement homeschoolers, project an image that is false. God is the God of truth, and the truth is that of all people we should understand the depravity of our sin and just how much our broken lives need The Truth. We should understand just how screwed up we really are. The only reason we cling to Christ is because of our sin and our need of redemption.

Then why is it that we bear this image that is false? One word: judgement.

When did the church become such an un-safe place to let down your guard and expose the depths of your heart? When did the church become so indoctrinated into the idea that one must look as though they "are bearing fruit" in their life in order for someone to be accepted into the inner circle? Why do we judge those who are honest with where they are in life- that their life, their children, their spouse (if they have one), are not perfect? Why do feel the need to project an image that is not even true to ourselves? Why can't we be honest without the stares of people- "Hey we just woke up and so what if I fed my kids Pop Tarts on the way to church and they have jelly on their faces." Would you think that that parent was disorganized and sloppy and "obviously did not make church a priority"?

What about the church leader whose child has gone down a regrettable path of sin? "Oh, he must not have done his job right as a father." Yes, of course. Because we all know that there are perfect, sinless parents out there.

So let's be honest. Please. Authentic honesty.

I personally do not judge those who are authentic with their faith. "I am struggling with my faith. Is God even real?" I would be an idiot if I didn't admit that I have those same struggles at various times in my life. But what is the church-goer's response? Judgement. "Obviously that poor soul is missing something."

What I am not saying is that you don't try. I am not saying that you don't strive daily to bear The Fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control). But what I am saying is that in trying we FAIL. We can't do it alone and its only the blood of the Lamb that can do it for us. The accurate image is that we are trying, but we can't do it. We are incapable of even being patient during clean-up time in the home, helping our children with their homework, soothing a colicky baby, if it were not for CHRIST and His work in us. We can't do it. We are sinful. And by trying to come off with one another that we can do is stealing glory from The One to whom our allegiance is due.

The problem with Movement homeschoolers is that they are so damn good at projecting this image. They have perfect, polite children who look adults in the eyes and never act weird or out of place. However, those children live in fear that if they don't project this image that homeschooling is God's way of salvation for the heathen world, that they will be faced with severe corporal punishment upon arrival home.

Parents beat their children into submission using "the rod." And it is not done out of love or out of a need to truly train. It is done because the child failed to be an image-bearer for The Movement. They embarrassed and "disrespected" their parents because instead of helping unload boxes at a homeschool conference the young boys were playing hacky-sac in the parking lot. A child contradicted someone. Perhaps they were loud and boisterous acting. And they were taken home and beaten. If they were not physically beaten, they were beaten down emotionally and spiritually as Mom or Dad laid on their shoulders that God would not bless them because they had failed to show honor to them. Personally I lived in fear daily of that very thing, and I also struggle to this day to believe that God won't end my life prematurely because of the "dishonor" that I was told I had not shown to my parents. Movement homeschoolers favorite Bible verses are these:

"Train up a child in the way he should go,

and when he is old he will not depart from it."

"Honor your father and your mother that the

Lord your God may bless you and you may live long in the land

that I am giving to you."

The last time I was spanked I was twelve. My best friend was spanked when she was fifteen. Another homeschool daughter I know was spanked by her father when she was fourteen.

Yes, Movement homeschoolers still spank their teenage children. And its disgusting.

So the next time you encounter a perfect homeschooling family, please understand one crucial thing: Their children are living in fear and intimidation and it isn't what they claim it to be.

So let's give honor and glory where its due. Its not on your amazing parenting techniques. Its not on homeschooling. Its not that you could afford to put your children into Christian school. Its not that you were so great, that you had the theology, that you had the faith, the good works, the blah, blah, blah.

Its because you recognized your need of Him and that you couldn't do it alone. You couldn't do it without Him or apart from Him. It was because of Him that you could do it at all.

"To Him who has called you by His blood...to HIM be the glory and honor forever and ever. Amen."

Sons and Daughters of The Movement: Dani's Story

2010-09-10T17:13:00.004-05:00

Curled up in her guest bedroom, Dani began to share with me what she had been going through at home the previous year. For me, this was my first sleepover in heaven knows how long. I was 18 and newly graduated and had one thing that God orchestrated perfectly for me to have: My sexy red Honda Civic. If it hadn’t been for that car, there is no telling where on earth I would be. That car was the sole source of my fleeing my parents and our rotten home life.
Her blonde ringlets were soft and silky against my strawberry blonde thickness on the pillow where we lay. I knew some of what she had been through, it was quite the scandal to those that knew of it in our circles. But here she was, a not so sweet 16-year old, sharing with me everything from her heart and her perspective.

She grew up in Phillip Lancaster’s church, Immanuel Family Fellowship, or more commonly, IFF. She was the oldest of ten and much was expected of her. Dani’s mother and my mother were friends. Good friends, best friends even. A true daughter of the Quiverfull movement, in more ways than I. All dresses were homemade or of the jumper genre’. No shorts, and no jeans. Cloth diapers. Dani was required to help with the care of her younger siblings as she aged from changing multiplicity diapers, to dressing, disciplining and cooking.

Dani had a vivacious, tomboy, exuberant personality and was a bit of a Drama Queen. I loved her (and her easy to talk to mom and darling sisters) very much. Even though this was a family that clearly hid the gar-bage well, their home to me still felt more inviting and comfortable and harmonious than mine. She lived near my house and for quite a while I would escape into the doors of their sunny home just to flee the ugliness of my own life.

Something had gone amiss. This Quiverfull ideology clearly began to haunt Dani and it grew quickly as a cancer in her heart. She hated her life, and more than anything…she longed for freedom from responsibility.

They lived on a busy corner in a lower-class area and the neighborhood low life’s would hang out and loiter nearby. I really don’t think that Dani ever wanted to be like them or get herself into a boatload of trouble. But there was this seed in her heart. “What would it be like? What would it feel like? What is so wrong with what my parents are trying to keep me away from?” There was very little discipleship from her parents during this time in her life. It was simply, “No, you are not allowed to hang out with them. No we are not discussing this, you are just simply to obey it what we are telling you, no questions asked.” But Dani was 15 at this time, and more than capable of knowing the dangers of drugs, petty crimes, and premature sex.

The issue was her lack of socialization. She had no friends that she saw on any sort of regular basis. She knew a few “approved” friends, but saw them sparingly and the “approved” friend list was small and her personality just didn’t click with the other girls. This feeling of not fitting in and severe loneliness and isolation was something I knew all too well. Every Movement child from the Pioneer Era, I have ever spoken with has articulated this same concept to me. Dani just wanted to fit in, have friends, and have freedom to make her own choices. This environment across the street presented itself as her ticket to what she wanted: friends, freedom, choice to choose for herself between right and wrong.

She had felt trapped, much as I did. Her mom never talked to her about “important things.” I felt the same way. Our mothers expected blind and unquestioning obedience, but at the ages of 16 and 18 we were no longer toddlers. We were disrespected. And Dani saw a ticket out: the boys on the corner dealing drugs. Dani proceeded to hang out with them, and became quickly involved in smoking and stealing. At one point, she and a few others were arrested. This is when her parents knew that something had to change. They put her on a lockdown and strict curfew and the chains were become tighter and tighter as she was required to “give back” to her family. Dani grew more and more resentful.

And as we were lying in bed sharing our hearts, our worlds, she proceeded to tell me something that was unbelievably shocking and ripe for even more resentment of her parents in the years to come.

One night after she had been told to have nothing to do with the street gangs and neighborhood, while left alone to baby-sit her younger siblings as her parents were out on a date; a 20-something black male (who was also a near-by neighbor) showed up at her door. And though he was invited in, and Dani had been secretly flattered by his recent attention towards her for the last several weeks, what he did to her was something that required legal action.

Dani was dying inside; a part of her was dying. She was hurting and more than anything she wanted attention to her heart that only her mom and dad could offer. This desire to be loved for who she was, to have her parents understand that she needed attention and allowed to be a teenager with age-appropriate responsibilities and to know that she was deeply cared for, made her willing to take action and act out in self-destructive ways.

According to Dani, this night in her parents’ living room, he raped her. I am sure that she had a role to play in being a somewhat willing partner, but the truth is that she was raped. He was 20 something and she was 16 and as I lay there listening to her, tears streaming down both of our faces, you could hear that she knew that something had been taken away.

Her parents believed her, but placed the sole responsibility on her shoulders. Her father confronted the young man but of course he denied it. Her parents refused to take action or press charges. No rape kit was done, no police called. A silent crime, gone unreported.

She was made out to be an example, a lesson of “what not to be” to her younger sisters and brothers. She wasn’t believed and it made her feel cheapened and unloved. Her word was disrespected. In her parents’ eyes, Dani had already broken their trust so much with the previous incidents that they were willing to say that this was entirely her doing, even though they admitted that it did happen. She was akin to Hester Prynne, wearing The Scarlet Letter.

I packed up my bags the next morning, giving her a hug, telling her I would pray for her. This was the last time that I saw her. Two weeks later, with the aid of another family, at the age of 16, she ran away.

Her life swirled out of chaos. She became involved in drugs, dealing them off of the street. She cheapened herself and slept with innumerable men, becoming pregnant and later losing the child in tragic childbirth. She never knew who the father was of her baby.

She has had a hard life. Though I am not making excuses for her choices and behaviors, I would like to issue a bit of responsibility to the parents. The biggest thing is not taking legal action where legal action was warranted on behalf of their defenseless daughter. I believe that this was pivotal point in losing their daughter, and that if they had done so, she would not be where she is now…cheapened and degraded and humiliated.

My heart cries when I remember the faces of the people whom my family swore to die serving. I cry when I think of Dani and the heartache and pain that she has been through. I don’t thrive on exposing these nasty, naughty parts that no one wants to discuss in the homeschooling movement. But these stories are there and it’s the first of many to come. These stories must be told! Our legal system, and the parents who are choosing this for their children, need to be held accountable. And this accountability and primarily change won’t occur until every single story of abuse and neglect is told and shouted from the mountaintops.

Suffer the little children unto me for such is the kingdom of heaven.

Demons of Fear, Part 2

2010-09-03T10:46:00.003-05:00

Cold. Clammy. Spine chilling. Hair raising. These are some of the more common adjectives that we tend to use when describing the emotion fear. But what about these? Paranoid, irrational, protectionist, loveless. We tend to think of fear as something that happens when we go to the theatre and willingly subject ourselves to the latest horror film or when a tragic event occurs.

Fundamentalist homeschoolers have a specialized form of fear, a fear of the paranormal. The founders of the homeschooling movement in the United States (that later sparked the International movement) were without a doubt fundamentalists and in most cases born-again believers. Their perceived need of having a private education accessible to all families, regardless of economic status, stemmed from their overt fear of our system of government. Libertarian at best, conspiracists more commonly, the founders consistently displayed and voiced grave concern over conspiracies that had become a part of our educational system. They often compared the NEA, Department of Education, School to Work, and other national educational policies to the most outrageous conspiracy theories that even the the KGB could not compete with. Their philosophy? That our freedom as Americans, who had the right to home school, were systematically being taken away by Big Brother. Their conspiracy theories led them to be paranoid over every facet of their lives.

Douglas Phillips, Mary Pride, Donna Hearne, Jim and Laura Rogers, Phil Lancaster, Cheryl Lindsey (who I might add, has since left The Movement), Kerry Messer, Marshall Foster, Daniel New, Richard "Little Bear" Wheeler, John Gatto, and countless others who had a direct influence on The Movement and its inception; all shared one thing in common: The Government was conspiring to take away their freedoms by inducing an over-arching accountability system over the innocent lives of homeschoolers (or more commonly referred to as "God's remnant" or "God's chosen people.").

This conspiracy theory was clearly communicated at every speaking engagement and in written form. It was a perceived threat that stemmed from the difficulty that was achieved at making homeschooling legal and recognizable as a legitimate form of education. For the sake of argument, I am not concerned with whether or not we do or do not feel that this is happening today in areas such as our country's finances, policies, etc. The harsh reality is that the lawmakers and social workers in the early years were simply responding to concerns that they had regarding the well-being of the children within these homes. It is a shame that once again, our lawmakers failed us (I am speaking as a child of The Movement here). We had rights, we had educational and social needs that our parents were simply not going to be able to meet with degrees of excellence in every category. Our lawmakers let us down, because our parents were their constituency. They were the ones who were willing to work to get them elected and they were the ones who could vote. Sadly, we mattered little and factored in little when these decisions and policies were made. So ultimately, through much head-butting and fears and concerns, the homeschoolers won the system over.

So even though our parents won, the fear of the conspiracies that they perceived lied in government and the broader world continued to permeate their thinking and parenting. Fear. Paranoia surrounded our world, but the irony is that there was so very little in our world that in reality, our parents should have even been afraid of.

It was the fear of the evil "influence." Unlike parents today, who have legitimate fears of strangers, sexual predators, online perpetrators, involvement in drugs or alcohol, etc. our parents fear was that an "agenda" would be broad casted on the television screen by the Public Broadcasting System or NBC. Music as well, if it had any rhythm that resembled anything close to the popular bands of the 1960's and 1970's, was something to fear. Scared of the "agenda" that would be promoted through Simon and Garfunkel's, "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme" or John Lennon's "Imagine" or other songs of the era, our parents swiftly determined that the only allowable form of music was Classical Music or non-rap Christian music.

To allow certain playthings into the home would also contribute to your child's exposure to this "influence." We were raised to mistrust everyone who was different than us (and please understand I am referring to The Movement homeschoolers here). Mistrust and fear that social workers, teachers, doctors, even immediate family, were out to take you away from your parents and to report them.

Our world was so incredibly small. We were supposed to be raised in innocence and purity, but what it looked like was naivete' and the training of our minds to fear and mistrust those who were not part of The Movement.

"Perfect love casts out fear." Fear is debilitating and crippling. Not only does it rob you of the joy of the moment, it also casts an aura of shadow on everything that you do. This fear induced our parents into irrational behaviors like not using credit cards or allowing their children to receive social security numbers. I have known several families who refused to allow their child a social security number, and thus deprived them of a way to earn an income, because they were so paranoid of government "tracking." This made things interesting to be sure. Sign-ups for state militias, resources on where to get combat weapons and ammunition, survivalistic mantra and stock-piling strategies were common place both at support group meetings and conferences. This turned enough people off to begin their own groups and conferences, but these elements still exist.

When I was 17, my senior year, I came down with severe pneumonia. After weeks of laying around, coughing up blood, I had officially degenerated to a true invalid. I was left alone while my mother left me every day as she actively promoted The Movement. I even passed out on the bathroom floor on one of the occassions. I was utterly alone and The Movement had taken precedence over our entire family. I laid around, barely able to breathe for somewhere around 4-5 weeks. It was like a living hell.

The twist is that there was one particular distressing day that I had. My medical records have since indicated that I had developed ARDS at this time. This is 60% fatal. What I remember from that night is dreaming of heaven, and seeing the gates and Jesus standing there. Fading in and out of consciousness, I remember praying that Jesus would take me home to be with Him. I was unable to speak or talk. I was so scared to go to sleep that night. I fought and struggled to keep breathing that entire night. Because I was brain-washed so thoroughly by this point in my life, even at 17, the thought to even call 911 and ask for help never entered my mind as a possibility. In fact it never dawned on me until just late last year, when my counselor asked me if I had done that.

I desperately wanted to see a doctor. I knew that I was sick. Beyond sick, I was at death's unmerciful door and it was knocking. I was unable to voice this, it took all of my effort just to force enough oxygen into my lungs that I could survive. My mom did not, under any circumstances want to take me to be treated. My father, for the first time in my life, did the first and only thing that ever communicated to me that he I was even worth anything to him. He put his foot down and told my mom she had to take me. Begrudgingly I was loaded into the car, unable to stand, I needed considerable help just to be moved from the house to the car. My mom's "rationale" was unfounded in the sense that she was paranoid about government tracking and socialist policies like forcing immunizations on the public. Her fear was very well founded in that she was concerned that our family was open to scrutiny and her fear of her children being taken away was the elephant in the room.

Once there, the doctor demanded that I be admitted to the hospital. I was laying on the table and still in and out of consciousness, but the verdict was clear: I needed immediate emergency care. My mom refused. Flat out refused it. She signed a paper that was required of her so that I did not have to go. The doctor proceeded to treat me and stated that if I was not better within 24 hours after treatment, that I would have to be admitted. I actually wasn't noticeable improved in 24 hours, so my mom lied to the doctor. Obviously, I did get better, but it took me 5 months, from January-May 1999 to make a recovery. I still can't run, to this day the scarring in my lungs is so significant that after running 1/4 mi. I nearly pass out. So I do other forms of exercise.

It took me forever to learn that I could trust again. God used the premature birth of our tiny son to bring social workers into our home and doctors and nurses into our lives to teach me and show me that they are truly one of the best gifts and resources that a family can have in a time of need. God has been so good to place the right people in my life and help to teach me that, "Love hopes all things, believes all things, love trusts all things. Love never fails." I am so thankful that after years of hard work and a resilient personality, I have persevered through the fiery trials and have learned once again to trust and know that this world is not something to fear. Its something instead to love.

Fear does not create a perfect love, rather, perfect love casts out fear.

Rethinking

2010-08-26T06:17:00.002-05:00

I should probably stay out of the blogosphere. In the very least, I should probably try to keep my hand out of the cookie jar (i.e. reading what others are saying about me!).

I am an extremely provocative writer. I know that. I also know it drives some people absolute bonkers! Its kind of like that little boy who just can't help but place that stick in the bee hive....I know that my attitudes on homeschooling are, well, not popular.

Now, I am an educator in training and the many educators that I have spoken with feel the same way. But as of right now, that isn't my audience. My audience is pretty selective, focusing mostly on those who either have ties to homeschooling or fundamentalist church backgrounds. I know that my strong stance (which has been removed from the sidebar. Keep reading.) is a bit to restrictive for the libertarian mindset that most of you have. That perspective was shaped and formed by years of leadership in the homeschooling movement.

So I am going to begin to write about others, as well as my experience. I am going to start a new series, focusing on the girls and the stories that I know personally and in depth. I think that my blog has become such an outlet for my own personal healing that I just forget that people actually do read my blog. You see, I don't write for everyone. I write for me. I write because I love to write and it helps me process. This is truly how I think.

I hope to show those of you who are sceptics that feel my opinions are limited and finite that they aren't so finite and limited. My story is not unique. Sadly, its very common. That is why I feel the way I do.

Now, I believe that some external elements have changed. I believe that the homeschoolers of today, recognize what my parents, and the founding parents of the Movement, did not. Kids need structure and friends. I believe that they try to make those things happen. But sadly, I see many families who say that this is what they want and are STILL unable to deliver. My family of origin was in leadership in a large Midwest city for nearly 20 years. We served hundreds and hundreds of families. I was a poster child for the Movement, appearing at every homeschool function and homeschool Conference with a smile on my face using my God-given talent of speaking to promote the Kool-aid that I knew deep down was killing me. Now I just desire to use my God-given talent in another direction.

It has been suggested to me that I become a speaker and speak. I would love to begin a speaking career. Not only do I love to write, I am also one of those weirdos who loves public speaking. Just not sure how to go about doing that...

So perhaps y'all have successfully convinced me that maybe illegalization of homeschooling isn't necessarily the best answer, because maybe there would be that rare case where homeschooling would be genuinely better. But I hope that in the next few installments to show you that my story is not unique, I am not alone, and that homeschooling, in the very least, needs to be re-worked into far stricter standards and regulations in order to protect the innocent children who don't have a voice.

In Need of (Your Voice)

2010-08-21T08:07:00.003-05:00

I confess I am discouraged. Greatly so.

My life has been very difficult as of late. Not only am I trying to take 16 hours in college, be a mother to three boys, a wife, and a home keeper, I am also trying to sort through and break 40 years of generational sin in my family. My parents have officially hit the fan and are trying to force me back into a relationship with them by using their church as a means to do so. The crux of the argument stems from my parent's (whom I have intentionally left unnamed) inability to let go of the little girl that was subjected to neglect and abuse in their home. I was consistently placed in the abuse/victim role and they were consistently in the parental/perpetrator/abuser role. This type of relating continues to this day. After years of trying to make it work with them (and perhaps being unwise on my part), I recently informed them that I could no longer have a relationship with them.

My parents attend a large church in the Midwest. Because I was home schooled and subjected to isolation, I was never permitted to attend college and so therefore I was never provided a means of escaping our common social circles. In most situations like this, the child leaves the nest, goes to college, and never returns. Not only is that aspect unique, another factor is that I never left the faith. Its a miracle that I did not. We even belong to the same denomination. Because my parents have become masters at co-dependency and hiding behind their shame and sin, they have duped the pastoral staff into believing that they are the victims of slander~ because of this blog site.

My father has sent un-post-marked letters to my home and he and my mother have actively participated in coercing me and my husband to meet with pastors when we have stated that we are done with our relationship. They call whomever will give them an ear if that individual has authority over me in my parent's eyes. My parents are even trying to impede my recovery process because they are now chewing my counselor out and informing her that "she is not handling the situation correctly." Their desire and goal is two-fold: 1) to force me to let them have access to my children and 2) for me to remove this "slanderous" blog site.

Such foolishness! While I am still the scared little girl who was subjected to a lot of cruelty by her towering father, I am also deeply saddened and discouraged. Saddened because they do not see their sin and saddened also because though these leaders in the church recognize that there are deep issues here, they chose to remain in the dysfunctional system and allow my parents to not only be supported by the tithes of God's people (they both work there), but they also refuse to confront their sin head-on.

Well, I am sick and tired of being subjected to their abuse and of playing their cruel mind games. I have stated over and over what I need from them is open dialogue on the facts, yet the only thing they want is the chance to defend themselves and for me to recant. I feel like Peter Parker trying to escape Venom in the third installment of the movie series with Toby MacGuire. Every time I plead for the enmeshment to escape me, I get close. Oh so close. And then it latches back onto its host with a grasp that was more severe than the last. After gut-wrenching work, I finally feel like I am free. But not perhaps without scars.

My parents are scared of the power that I wield with my pen. Perhaps they should be, but that is not why I write. I write for victims. I write because it gives MY LIFE meaning. I write because it is my God-given right and calling. I want to redeem what the Enemy has meant for my harm and turn it into something meaningful and redemptive~ something only Christ can do.

But this is where my heart is discouraged: My father is now threatening a law suit against me for slander. A lawsuit against his only daughter (the same daughter whose innocence he cruelly shattered at the tender age of 3, the same one that he used to shake with such violence the teeth shattered in her head, and the same one that he would drop to the floor in a corner and told her to shut up while he finished watching the latest episode of Cheers). A lawsuit against his three young grandchildren. He is convinced, and is trying his darnedest to convince others, of the fact that there is slander on here. Which I know is a load of horse crap. But the Enemy wants to discourage me from telling my story! He wants to keep me in the throws of guilt!

I want it to be redeemed! I want my life and the abuse and neglect that I went through to have purpose and to help others.

I do not write because I want to expose them. If I wanted to do that, I would name them. I wouldn't protect their identity, and I would throw every dirty thing I could imagine up and write about it. No, the fact that my father is so irate, speaks to his lack of having a heart that is submitted to Christ. It also speaks of his heart and the fact that it is nothing but cold, hard slate towards his daughter. Perhaps even more, it speaks of his guilt. Why would he feel so guilty? Why would he and my mother be so consumed with what is discussed here if they didn't have something to hide? Why would my father be so consumed with his reputation and maintaining his job if he didn't have something shameful that he did to me while I was an innocent little girl under his care, if he didn't want it found out? Why is he being so insistent that I remove my blog, unless what I say is truth?

Its laughable to think that he has a case. It really is. And though my parents would like to THINK that the world revolved around them, it DOESN'T. This blog is not about them, its not really even about ME.

Its about the voices that don't have one. The girls and boys behind curtains and closed doors who don't have an advocate. I write for THEM. I write to raise awareness about the homeschooling lifestyle and the utter damage it does to the family (yes, I believe there are no good homeschooling situations). I write so that maybe if I can just prevent one family from going down this path; or help one lonely girl who is up late at night wetting her pillow with tears wondering why her world is so colorless; or help that post-home school graduate grapple with an understanding of why their perspective on life is the way it is, then maybe, I have done my job. God never said the life of a prophetess would be easy. Often telling the truth alienates people from you. And in the case of me, that happens to be my entire family.

But I would rather live in the happiness and liberty of the truth (even if parts of it are not comfortable) than to spend the rest of my life in denial and darkness, simply because I chose to remain in dysfunction and ignorance of my sin. So I refuse to be silenced...I will write as long as America is free and as long as I have breath!

So if you are a reader...please leave a comment. I need to know that you want me to keep writing, and why! I need some encouragement to keep writing and keep this blog up and running!

A Short Story (on toxic and abusive relationships)

2010-07-28T07:10:00.004-05:00

I have been recently trying to sort through much of the enmeshment from my past, and trying to reconcile the abuse and hurt in my own life with one of the tenants and hallmarks of my faith: forgiveness. It has by far been the biggest battle that I have faced, fought, or feared. I recently sat down and penned this allegorical story and thought that I would post it on here. Hopefully it can be of help to some of you who have been through something similar.

There is so much water under the bridge and over it, that the foundation is seriously compromised and damaged in our relationship. Much repair work needs to be done before the bridge can be of any support to anything of value. This support, this framework that must be repaired, it’s a tedious process and a time consuming one. This bridge is one that needs much attention to its cornerstones and foundational supports, because without this stable and safe framework, the bridge will do nothing but collapse once again. I emphasize the word, “safe.” The bridge (or, our relationship) must be safe. A safe place to place my foot so that it doesn’t crumble underneath me and carry me downstream in the undercurrent. A safe bridge so that the floods do not overwhelm and consume me. One where there is trust.

This is where the rebuilding of our relationship gets tricky. Its not as if there were just a few stones and a beam that needs tending to and repairing, the entire structure must be rebuilt. The old one has been so damaged by lack of attention and proper maintenance that it is beyond repair. It’s in shambles, crumbling beneath the water. No one would advise trying to salvage what has already been lost. The cost is too high, and the price too great. And in the end, the same problems will arise once more, simply because the old has not been swept away to make room for the new.

These stones are stacked, one on top of the other. If one of them is not placed properly, and carefully, mindfully, then the next stone, and hence the entire bridge, is compromised. We must be able to trust this bridge to be safe. A bridge bridges the gap between to points on the horizon, it brings those things that previously seemed to be unreachable, together. But the only way that it works is if the bridge is soundly constructed, meticulously built, and every detail paid attention to in building its foundation.

Sometimes a stone is cracked once its placed. Sometimes an entire support beam needs to be taken out, either having a hairline crack that barely meets even the skilled eye, or having major flaws and crevices that are completely noticeable. All of these things require patience and hard work and the attention of the architect. And while it might be cliché’ to think that God is the Master Architect here, I am referring to His bond servant: man. Men have responsibility to one another and to the Chief Architect and in this instance the responsibility is building the bridge and making sure that it is trustworthy and safe.

In order for the bridge to be safe and trustworthy, it must first be understood. The old bridge must be carefully analyzed and meticulously studied. For example, the old layout of the ground needs to be looked at. How did the layout of the ground affect the way the bridge has deteriorated over time? How has the ground affected the shifting of the stones, the crumbling of the walls? How did that affect the placement of the floor beams, and how did that which was visible become dilapidated? What happened to this bridge to make it come to so much ruin and decay?

Once we have taken our data, and analyzed it thoroughly, then we can begin the task of rebuilding. But it first takes understanding and admittance that certain things, serious errors and flaws, contributed to its demise. A good builder understands these things.

Relationships are like buildings. They house confidences, secrets, and feelings. They provide shelter from storms, let the sun in for happiness, comfort for the brokenhearted, solace for the weary, joy for the light of heart. They can also be a place of filth, disgust, and foreboding, where feces are rampant and the stench hits your nostrils before your foot is on the landing. Good homes, happy homes, heavenly homes are ones that people feel safe in. They feel accepted there, not judged. Free to be themselves and free to express. Bad homes are ones in which individuals feel trapped, judged, beaten down, criticized and condemned. They leave feeling their burdens not lifted, but loaded further down.

Sometimes the entire area where a bridge has been built needs to be passed over in search of better ground, with better footholds, and more importantly, a better consideration of the river underneath and how the flow impacts the bridge. Where the first bridge was built on this river, there was no consideration of how heavily the current was hitting the poorly constructed foundation underneath the bridge. This is what led to the demise of the bridge.

It causes one to ask where did the first bridge go? It has been swept downstream and done away with, it was no longer safe to repair it and the ground underneath of it, the foundation, was completely destroyed. All future builders have lost their trust in this bridge. No one dares to risk the safety of human lives by building on this shoddy foundation, so they have moved it downstream, in a completely new area. It is fresh soil, a fresh foundation, a completely new bridge. And in no way is it the same bridge. It has a completely different design and purpose. It is no longer even built on the same foundation. It is different in every way imaginable.

The first bridge was built with very little consideration for the long-term impact that its placement would have. There was also no consideration to how shaky the foundation was or how the flow of the current would impact the structure. For a while, the bridge held up, but over time it began to crumble. The architect of this bridge had constructed it poorly and cheaply, taking little time to reflect on how the shoddy foundation would fail to support the weight of the bridge. Ultimately, when this bridge was demolished and swept downstream, the builder had to assume all responsibility for its decay. It wasn’t the fault of the support structure; it wasn’t the fault of the bridge itself. It was the fault of the builder, and the builder alone.

I am the bridge and you are the builder of the first bridge in our relationship. Because of your lack of attentiveness, attention, and wisdom in constructing and building this bridge (which is your relationship with your daughter), the bridge is in shambles. There is no hope of rebuilding it. Instead the bridge needs to find a new builder and needs to be reconstructed in a completely new spot. And regardless of whether or not the old builder takes responsibility for the first bridge, it is his and his alone, to bear. Another new builder can come in and take ownership and construct a bridge in a new area and still the old builder not take responsibility for his role. That’s fine. Life will move on, because there is a need for this bridge to be reconstructed. Because of this need, there will be a new builder that will come in and help to redeem the time by building a new one. But the only way that that first builder could EVER be allowed to come in and build the new bridge, is if he took responsibility for what he had done to the first bridge. There were economical damages that had happened because of his folly and foolishness. Surveyors had to be called in to assess the damage (i.e. counselors, pastors and doctors), new equipment must be purchased (i.e. medication), and time and other’s resources were wasted and squandered on trying to clean up the mess that he had made. It wasn’t the bridge’s fault that this was happening to her. There were others that cared and were trying to help figure out what had gone wrong. But all along the builder knew. He knew he was the one responsible for this. He knew even the root cause of the problem: carelessness with precious resources and trust that others had placed in him.

When this builder finally came to his senses, he knew he must repay and make restitution. He wanted the chance to prove that he was capable of following advise, rebuilding, restoring, redeeming. He took it upon himself to not only pay for the past damage done to the old bridge, in full, he also took it upon himself to pay for the cost of the new bridge. Whether he ever got recognized or not for the work he had done on the new bridge mattered little. He knew that it was his fault from the beginning and he knew that he must make it right. To do anything less was cowardly.

The most powerful thing happened though. The bridge came alive. She understood that though it was the builder’s responsibility to reconstruct her and to pay for what he had done, she also knew that she couldn’t go through life feeling indebted to him. She knew that her image, which the builder had destroyed, could be rectified if she took it upon herself to build herself back together. She knew where the problem lied. She knew that there was much work to be done. She knew that it was her right to demand that the builder “pay up” and held accountable for his actions. She even talked to a lawyer who validated this. She knew her rights and she knew that the builder owed her much. He had after all, completely destroyed her, and left her for dead as it were on more than one occasion. She knew that she needed to value herself more than anything and that she needed to reconstruct her own image on her own. She needed to do this for herself. She didn’t need someone else to do it for her. She didn’t want the builder to dictate how she viewed herself either. She wanted to be who she wanted to be, alone and as far away from the builder as possible.

This bridge understood where this builder had taken her. She understood how deep and scarred and extensive the damage was that he did to her. The damage was so great in fact that the only hope was resurrection from the dead. “The old has gone, the new has come!”

She struggled for a long time as to what to do. She sought months and months of counsel. Everyone gave her help but no one could just tell her what to do. Does she go back and allow this builder to have influence in her life? Should she trust the builder who did her so much harm? He destroyed her! He left for dead! He was careless with her, he never took pride in her, he never loved her. He never understood the pain that she was in, day after day, crumbling beneath the weight. He never cared enough to ask for help. He never wanted to understand how his decisions and choices impacted her. He took her for granted that she would always be there and that he could use her on a whim whenever he felt like it. He didn’t understand until the day the bridge collapsed that he had a problem. And even then he wanted to blame her and tell her that it was all her fault that she came tumbling down.

This bridge had had enough of this unwise and abusive builder. Far too much of her time and mental energy was wasted. And even after she never saw the builder, it still consumed her. She wanted to do what was right without dishonoring the builder. She desired more than anything to do that which was obedient to the will of God. But she didn’t know how she could trust that builder again. He had failed her once, down to the very depths of the soil beneath her. He had failed her so miserably that she had to seek out another place, a different place where she could heal, rebuild and restore herself. She tried to figure out a way to find a balance where she could allow this builder to have a part in her life and yet still forgive him. It was complicated.

She had an orphaned set of ducklings that took refuge under her bridge. These ducklings had become quite accustomed to seeing the builder every so often and he would bring the ducklings little rice cakes to eat. The ducklings loved those rice cakes. But the bridge, their sole source of protection, was crumbling around them and they were unaware of it. The bridge did not want to deny these precious ducklings a relationship with the builder but she also could not stand the sight of him. Whenever he would leave, or right before he would arrive, she would be an emotional mess. Hatred and bitterness would rise up in her and cause the blocks beneath the river’s surface even more damage. The little ducklings were oblivious to all of this, all they knew was that they liked the rice cakes.

So this made the bridge’s decision hard and complex. But one day she saw it for what it was. She could forgive this builder. But she could not and would not allow herself to be duped into allowing him to rebuild her downstream. She knew that the hope of reconciliation was futile. She had tried and begged and pleaded on many occasions before to the builder about what he had done to her and begged him to help her in the process of reconciliation. But this builder was proud. He refused to see his sin and the impact that it had on her life…until it was too late. Rebuilding downstream apart from the builder would ultimately be healthier for her little ducklings. Instead of a dilapidated, ugly bridge built in a place of foreboding, she would reconstruct herself in a happy place…she would be beautiful and safe, free from the builder and the hold that he held on her, and she would build a life apart from him. This was the only way that her ducklings could be safe and happy. She had to trust that others would come in and feed her ducklings the rice cakes that they so longed for and it would be done because they not only enjoyed the ducklings, but because they loved the bridge for what she was and had become: a shining beacon, a beautiful sight, a place of security.

The only way that she could be truly free was to forgive and release the builder of the responsibility he had to her. She had to release herself of the overwhelming burden of trying to get this builder to understand the damage. That didn’t mean she didn’t hold him accountable. She did. And she told him so, but following that conversation she also related to him that she could not have a relationship with him any longer. He had destroyed her and the trust that they once had. There was no hope of rebuilding a partnership with this builder. She needed to do this alone, with the help of others, so that her ducklings (and herself) could be safe, happy and free.

A Toy Story

2010-07-23T13:14:00.004-05:00

Opening weekend for Toy Story 3 was a trip down memory lane for me as I sat watching one of the best movies we have seen in a long time. We made a very cute family of five, as we sat in our 3-D glasses that ranged in sizes from small to large, if I do say so myself.

When “Great Shape” Barbie made her appearance I experienced one of those, “Oh crap!” light bulb moments. “Oh crap! I used to have one of those. What happened to her? Oh yeah…that’s what happened to her.”

After my mom became more and more familiar and supportive of The Movement, things began to change for me in very drastic ways. As my mom became intimate friends with other homeschooling mothers, she began to implement legalism and fundamentalism into our everyday lives. The legalism and fundamentalism at least in my Movement upbringing, replaced education on every front. It permeated our home and it permeated my childhood from a very early age. It was a way of becoming more holy, and the more self-denial there was in the home, the more holy and godly your family was viewed. This is where my mom got her sense of self-worth. I see this now as emotional unhealth that was never dealt with that manifested itself in co-dependency and extreme low self-esteem, and it affected me in very real ways.

We moved from a tiny farming community where both sides of my extended family lived into a large midwestern city because my dad was seeking employment. When we settled here in the metropolis, I brought with me several remnants from my former life: Collections of toys that I had accumulated from my grandparents for birthdays and Christmas. My parents never had money, my dad’s pornography addiction continued to rob our family of having a financial future, even to this day. So all toys that I had came from my grandparents because my parents were always floating in massive debt.

Once we started homeschooling, pieces of my toy collection started to disappear. They didn’t disappear without my knowledge, but with my mom sitting side by side with me on the floor or bed, sorting. The first collection to be scrutinized was my Barbie dolls. Fearful that dressing my Barbies in formal gowns, fancy skirts, and high heels would influence me to become promiscuous in later years, the clothes were gotten rid of first and then the dolls. My “Get in Shape” Barbie was a part of the box of toys that were donated to Goodwill (her leotard was too immodest and tight fitting and her leg warmers were “worldly”). I was allowed to keep the Heart Family, because they “were a mom and a dad” but my Ken dolls and any blonde-haired beauty were discarded. My one Skipper doll I was allowed to keep, because I fought so hard to keep her. I was in tears. I wasn’t over the age of eight and already my world was coming down around me.

I remember sitting on my daybed with my mom supervising the whole charade with an undercurrent of self-righteous piety, as though what she was doing God had asked her to do, “for the sake of The Movement.” Her little girl, tears streaming down her face, was being forced to part with much loved dolls that had been gifted to her by loving Grandmas and Aunts. Begging, pleading I needed answers. Why did I have to part with my Barbies? My collection was far from extensive, but what I had I loved. And I didn’t understand the sudden change. Why were they OK yesterday, or last week, but now they weren’t?

The answers that came back were haunting in their spiritualism and legality. They were unfeeling, lacking both in understanding and compassion on what this would do to the girl’s developing psyche. My mother proceeded to inform me that the Barbie doll was originally created for men to lust after, a sex toy. Yet we had no prior conversations about sexual development so this was vague and bizarre to me. She proceeded to inform me that Barbies were immoral and unspiritual. They “trained little girls to be immodest” were some of the words that she used. And with that, the ransacked collection was whisked away, loaded in the car, and donated.

This was the first of many instances that were no less devastating. I was left sitting on my bed, holding five “acceptable” dolls and no clothes for them except the one outfit that they were wearing. Tears and more tears. This was so devastating to me, and I was so upset, that I remember my mom taking me to Wal-Mart to pick out a pattern for Barbie doll clothes. She promised we would make some so that at least my dolls would have something to wear, after revamping the patterns she said to “be more modest.” She never delivered and she left me feeling like she was the last person on earth who had my best interests at heart.

After the initial Barbie purge, my mom developed a strong sense of power over my toys and playtime. Christmas lists and birthday gifts were highly scrutinized and had to be approved through her filter of godliness, lest some worldly influence contaminate me and force me to become a part of the broader culture. Her newfound sense of power and control led her to rid My Little Pony collection of all unicorns, my Rainbow Brite dolls were given away, and so were my Care Bears. Her reasoning? They were full of “demonic spirits.”

Sigh. To this day she has yet to understand the pain that this caused our relationship and me. This taught me one very powerful lesson: never let your guard down and never trust your mother. It was like I never knew when the other shoe would drop and I grew up terrified that something I would become attached to would suddenly disappear for an inconspicuous reason and a reason that never made sense.

If one is honest, the fear of contamination and your child being sucked in by popular culture is rampant. They have a deep-set fear of “the world.” They repeat to themselves the mantra of Jesus, “Be in the world but not of it.” Ugh. Their stupidity gives me a headache! Does not Christ say, “Be IN the world?” Not living as aliens but be IN the world? You must understand the world in order for your life to shine. Not being “of” the world refers to not being a son of the Prince of Darkness. Being a child of light, shining brightly in a world that needs hope. Not keeping your light under a bushel (behind closed doors in your own homes, in your home churches, and staying out of your communities and schools).

Movement parents tell themselves that by allowing their child to have Barbies, Bratz dolls, Pokemons, Bakugans, that their children will become influenced by the powers of the devil. So their kids have toys that fundamentalists have created, like this company did for boys and girls (you should read these descriptions, they make your stomach churn). And their extended families look at these kids who are dominated by a spirit of fear and scratch their heads and wonder if those kids really have a happy childhood that is carefree. How can they when the weight of the world is dropped on their young frame? They live in fear of demons!

Any person in their right mind can see how ridiculously laughable the idea is that a plaything would cause your child to become an immoral individual. I just wish that The Movement homeschoolers had the brain to understand it themselves.

And as for me, my next trip to Wal-Mart will be to purchase this.

Special Needs and Homeschooling?

2010-07-17T21:16:00.002-05:00

The start of the school year is very nearly upon us. I can hardly believe where the summer has gone. I know that we have a few weeks left here in the states, but still, its been too short! I love my boys and I love staying at home with them in the summer.

I have three boys: 7, 6, and 3 (he's a mess...but that's a different story!). My seven year old and my three year old are special needs children as well. My husband and I have our hands blessedly full! Our seven year old has moderate Asperger's Syndrome and Sensory Processing Dysfunction (or SPD). Asperger's is a functioning form of autism in the autism spectrum family. Our little one, was born at 31 weeks gestation, and we knew that we would be facing a lot of special needs with him. While still too young to officially diagnose, we suspect strongly that he has SPD and severe ADHD. Ok, that paragraph has officially made me tired now...

I get asked and challenged alot on my very strong and somewhat offensive stance on the illegalization of homeschooling. Hey, its still (I think...) a free country and its my opinion. I guess I have been fed, crammed, stuffed with the other viewpoint for my whole life so this viewpoint was a bit more...welcoming? Whatever the case, its mine and I am sticking to it. It may surprise you to know that my dearest, bestest friend, my wonderful husband, disagrees with me. That's OK. We have fun arguments where he challenges me on my thinking on this issue. He thinks he will someday pin me on an indefensible point. (I got news for him- he won't!)

One of the biggest things I get here on blog land, and believe me its nothing new to my ears, is "What about those children who have special needs like autism? What if they get bullied? etc."

Its a valid question. Its one that my husband and I face DAILY. So God has given me the first hand experience that you lack. So sue me! My answer still remains the same and unchanged: Yes, its better for your child to be in a structured environment than stuck at home with mom and live in bubble land for the rest of their life. Hope that wasn't TOO off-putting y'all!

Special needs kiddos have a soft spot in my heart. I am a mother to two. They are my flesh and blood. And when we adopt sometime in the next year or so, those children will probably have special needs as well. Its what God has for us. I thought that with my oldest son's diagnosis that the thing to do was to home school him. Shocked? You should be! I actually tried to home school him for the first half of his kindergarten year, until my husband came home right before Thanksgiving and saw that his wife looked like she walked out of a nuclear war-zone, his sons were still in their underwear, and the kitchen looked like...well. We won't go there.

Truth is I was scared. Sceeerrd out of my little pea-pickin mind! I didn't want to put my baby in an environment that was so foreign to me. I was trained to loathe it. It was the very pit of hell! It was leading your children into devastation, destruction, illiteracy, doom, doom, gloom. They sit at desks all day. They never move. The teachers have taken away recess.

Yet I knew I couldn't home school him. Truthfully I faced the painful and obvious: I was failing my son. I was failing him! I believe it was God, letting my husband and I go down that path for a short while, just so that I could SAY, "Hey, I have been there and done that. Myself." Once my husband and I decided to tour our local public school I was blown away. Literally. The children were quiet. The teachers were kind. The classrooms had sunshine, even in November. For the little grades, there were no desks. Tables, sofas (surprise!), chairs, all arranged with comfort and learning in mind. Each classroom had zones...library, crafts, seat work, etc. Gliders and rugs were in every room for circle time. What got me was the amount of resources that these teachers had at their fingertips. Resources that I didn't have access to, resources that my son needed, resources that my money could not buy.

I knew, because our baby was getting therapy for his prematurity in our home, that Noah needed therapy as well. Because I was homeschooled and sheltered I knew nothing of the kinds of services/therapies that my son needed. I thought he was just strong willed and difficult rather than actually having a "special need." It never dawned on us that the way we were parenting him was the opposite of what he really needed UNTIL we put him in school. Suddenly God took a grip on me and showed me what my son needed: a humble momma and daddy who were willing to admit that they didn't have all the answers and that they needed help sometimes. He needed that therapy. Those centers in kindergarten where he could play with beans, rice, salt, flour to his little hearts content helped him to grow. His teacher LOVED him. Did you catch that y'all? LOVED him. Two years and counting and they want nothing but the best for him!

Our school tolerates bullying on no level. The kids accept him. Granted he is in a class-within-a-class (which is SPED) but its what he needs. I believe he will be out of it soon, and honestly he doesn't have social problems. He thrives on STRUCTURE. I wasn't able to give him the strict structure he needed because where we live is a home. It doesn't operate that way. But the rest of the world does. This has been good for him. He has a team of therapists who help him with his pragmatic speech delays and his sensory needs. Autistic kids have a lot of social anxiety. Research has proven that kids with Autism/Asperger's do best when forced into new social environments, otherwise, research has also proven that if they are not, they grow up to be that strange Uncle that everyone feels weird around. We see that with our son. And its good for him because it makes him stronger and helps him to grow and become more and more normalized in the way that he approaches and relates to the world around him.

So bottom line is: I speak from personal experience. Nothing I say in this blog has nothing to do what I think should be done about the problems with the Movement unless I myself have lived it first hand. I hate hypocrites and certainly don't want to be guilty of that.

And yes, I believe that homeschooling is the worst thing you can do for your special needs child. Even in situations where there is bullying going on repeatedly in a public school setting, there are Christian and private schools that are far better for your child than isolating them at home. And if you struggle to make ends meet, there are just as many private and Christian schools out there who provide scholarships and often full rides for families of little privilege. Homeschooling to me, should be a last resort when every single other option has failed and been exhausted.

Summertime

2010-07-09T08:48:00.002-05:00

This summer has unfurled for our family with several trips to the local public swimming pool. Its often the only way to beat the humidity and sultry air filled with pollen and other foreign particles. It is on family outings such as these, that brings back to my mind memories and reflections on the ways that Movement homeschoolers often approach such events. Recently, I allowed my mind the freedom to wonder as I floated in the deliciously cool water...

Growing up I had a neighbor, Laura, who very quickly became my best friend. Her family had a membership to our community center's public pool, and it was often that I was asked to go with Laura. I loved the water and I loved to swim and I loved the best buds companionship of Laura. The last time that I would ever step a toenail into a public pool, at least until I was near twenty, was at the age of seven. If on the rare occurrence that I was allowed to swim in chlorinated water, I was subjected to wear a homemade bathing suit or a water-logged cotton tee shirt that clung to me like a cast. I often watched in jealousy as my brother romped free in his swimming trunks.

My parents reasons for me never to return to the pool with Laura were simple in their minds. The main one was that the swimming pool was a house of iniquity, condoning both promiscuity and disease. Paranoid that I would be subjected to contacting a sexually transmitted disease or influenced to dress immodestly by bikini-wearers, they felt it best that I remain at home. Logic seems to fly out the window when faced with the dilemma of protecting one's child in The Movement. Movement homeschoolers in the 1980's viewed the public swimming pools much as parents viewed Bowling Allies in the 1950's...houses of iniquity full of smoking, drinking, carousing and nothing good.

Summertime is a hard thing for a Movement-girl to endure especially in areas where the heat is oppressive. Movement daughters are made to be, well, hot. We can't wear shorts...too immodest. Most can't wear jeans...those are men's clothing. We can't wear tank tops or heaven forbid strappy cami's...too much skin. We may cause a man to stumble. Whew, is it getting hot in here?

So what is a girl to do? Well, the way that most girls beat the heat is inside, cooped up in the house. Homeschool girls also have another curious thing that is common with every single girl I have spoken with or known. We hate shoes. I mean, we like them, but as my Best Friend puts it, we are "barefoot Hoosiers." We don't understand the shoe fetish that the rest of the women in society seem to have. We like flip-flops and bare feet. I think that its because that was one of the few ways that we could keep cool and comfortable and we just haven't outgrown it. We walk around in our jumpers (or maybe jeans, if you come from a more laxidaisical family) and tee shirts. We are humiliated to go out in public, wistfully gazing at the other women who are free to move...whose clothing doesn't remind them of the constant prison they are in. Isn't the essence of American Summertime, freedom? Not so with a Movement girl.

We are constantly reminded of our stark contrast to the world around us, even while our brothers are allowed freedom to splash in the water in swimming trunks (ahem, with no tee shirt on) or run about on their bicycles in their shorts, feeling the cooling wind around their legs. While a jumper may be cooler than a pair of jeans on a hot summers day, how many girls can truly ride a bike with layers of denim encircling them? The Movement for a girl is a prison of no self expression, no individuality, and no freedom. We are to be baby bearing machines, content to "be keepers at home." And then companies come out and exploit our freedom and feed our parents ideology that we should be modest. The Duggar Girls bathing suits were so humiliating that even the older girls could not be persuaded to go on camera to model them.

A double standard for girls and boys? Yes.

My wondering was awakened by the splashing of water on my face. One of my little guys had been put up to waking my solitary revelry by his Daddy. We floated off, splashing in the sunshine, giggling. And I was thankful for one thing: My store-bought tankini!

Little Girl

2010-06-17T12:43:00.003-05:00

All I ever wanted

was to be your

Little Girl.

To feel love in this world-

rather than have my head swirl

-Confused, hurt-

From your cruel blows.

All I ever wanted

was to be your

Little Girl.

To be allowed to grow

-Blossoming, free-

Creatively allowed to dream

Given space to be me.

To feel that I was

the center of your world

-Celebrated, cherished, treasured-

Paraded on your arm

The rhythm of life we would have spent

-dancing, twirling-

Just you and your Little Girl.

But alas!, you broke my trust

Left my heart lying in the dust.

Your Little Girl

Was the brunt of all your disgust.

-Beaten, stricken, afflicted, betrayed-

My heart and soul began to rust

And yet-

I knew I must remain brave

and wait

For the One who could save.

Because of your betrayal I must

Guard my heart from the ones who did me harm

who caused my heart to rust.

Why should I trust those who pained?

For you are to me

A painful memory.

All I ever wanted

was to be your

Little Girl.

There is Another who is to me

what you have failed to be.

He never gives me cause for alarm

He will never, ever do me harm.

He offers His arm to me-

And the rhythm of life we will spend

-dancing, twirling-

And He will be my Daddy

And I, His treasured Little Girl

Through all eternity.

~Chandra Bernat, 2010

A Brief History of Homeschooling

2010-06-14T08:24:00.002-05:00

“Education: that which discloses to the wise and disguises from the foolish their lack of understanding.” Ambrose Bierce

“Education is a human right with the immense power to transform. On its foundation rest the cornerstones of freedom, democracy, and sustainable human development.” Kofi Annan

In St. Louis, MO the most common question asked in order to size up a persons social and economic status is, “Where did you go to high school?” Inevitably, you will be asked that question countless times if you live in St. Louis for any length of time. Often, the response is one of surprise after the individual has discovered that my elementary and high school education was that of home education. It is continually interesting for me to witness a person’s response. One of the most authentic responses usually runs along the lines of incredulousness and disbelief. “Really?” is usually their only reply but it implies so much.

“Really?” you turned out normal, they seem to infer.

“Really?” that’s weird, different, and odd.

“Really?” All twelve years?

“Really?” Her mom must be a saint.

“Really?” You put up with it that long?

“Really?” What on earth was that like?

And finally, my favorite insinuation: “Really?” How did you feel about that?

I never know quite what to say. People from all walks of life have asked me all varieties of questions about my life as a home schooled child and teenager. The conversation is usually quite casual and doesn’t afford an opportunity to delve into all of the nuances of my life’s history. I give them the pat answer, which mostly runs along the lines of something extremely eloquent like, “Yeah, I was.” Here too, my answer implies plenty and my acquaintance, I feel, is left lacking an answer. There is not enough time to go into my story in one sitting. This is how my decision to write a book on my life as a home-schooled teenager, in particular, was born.

Home schooling is a relatively new cultural phenomenon. While different people from varying backgrounds home school today, the roots of the movement were started in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s by fundamentalist Christians. These parents had been raised in the public school system and struggled with the cultural rebellions that were particular to their generation. These Baby Boomers didn’t want their kids to struggle what they had struggled with and sought to save them from the “evil” government schools. They had assessed that the secular culture was the real problem and they sought to minimize that influence in their children’s life. Desiring to shield their children, these dedicated parents found a way to keep their children safe: it was called home schooling.

Several trailblazers within this movement fueled their philosophy that home education was the only answer to protect one’s child. One such trailblazer was Raymond and Dorothy Moore who tirelessly worked and researched in the Federal government and several universities. They wrote several books based on their years of research that flamed the fire of this movement such as Better Late than Early and Home Spun Schooling. The true grandfather of the movement however, was John Holt. In 1976 he penned the book, Instead of Education. Having stirred up enough controversy regarding the effectiveness of the current state of the public school system upon the publication of his book, it was met with great acceptance among parents who had become disgruntled over the schools. Recognizing a need for someone to represent these families, Mr. Holt went on to turn his attention and insight towards that of classical, or home, education. He published the first national, and perhaps international, homeschooling journal called, Growing Without Schooling, which was not only received with open arms, it also lit the forest ablaze with countless other homeschooling journals and magazines which have now sprung up everywhere.

The fact that homeschooling wasn’t legal posed a quandary for these families. The conviction that homeschooling was the only way to keep your child safe from the evils of society forced numerous widespread grass roots efforts to spring up in an attempt to legalize it. Efforts were made to pass laws in every state across the land in an attempt to ensure what they felt, was their constitutional right to educate their own children. Many long hours of lobbying were required of these parents to see the current laws on education changed. This is how the rise of the home school support group developed. The homeschool support group provided a centralized voice for these families to communicate their position to the lawmakers. Dedicated parents within these support groups also worked tirelessly on various political campaigns for state senators and representatives whom were sympathetic to the plight of the home school community. The homeschoolers understood that the lawmakers would value their tireless service, dedication, and old-fashioned work ethic. This would become an invaluable resource to the state senator or state representative’s local campaign. Through lobbying and campaigning, the homeschoolers had now made important inroads into state government. My own mom and dad rubbed elbows with the couple responsible for getting the home schooling law written and passed here in the state of Missouri. Jim and Laura Rogers were thought of by most in our circles, as the grandparents of the home schooling movement in Missouri.

That’s the history of homeschooling in a nutshell. After hours, days, weeks, and years, home schooling is now legal in every state in America, as well as in parts of the international community. The original intent of the homeschool support group was to provide a place where homeschoolers could go to get updates on the law (in the days before the internet was around), share information on how to purchase curriculum, provide support and advice on how to deal with local school districts and authorities, and occasionally, how to handle nosy and concerned extended family members and neighbors.

Much like the members of a cult, there is something far more that binds these families together than the mere common interest of homeschooling. The support groups are miniature communities that resemble churches where families find friendships. These religious groups provide advice on family finances and religious preference. Home-school support groups also provide P.E. activities, classes, field trips and plenty of opportunities to do community service usually rooted in political campaigning. I worked for numerous state representatives and senators, U.S. Congressmen, U.S. Senators and presidential candidates before I could even vote.

Home schooling support groups offer any resource that a home schooling family may have a need for, with the exception of legitimate high school transcripts and diplomas. These support group leaders are experts at feeding the people a constant diet of what I like to call, a greatness complex. The leaders inform these parents that home-schooled children are the leaders of the next generation. By “leaders,” they mean that their kids will grow up to be the movers and shakers of society. The homeschool kids will become political leaders, congressman, and future presidential candidates. They tell their teenagers that they will be professors in major universities, cultural changers in Hollywood, leaders in journalism, media, and music after they graduate. These parents hope that their kids will also be leaders in art and science, CEO’s of major corporations, and inventors. They feel that their children will go out into the world and change it. By change, they are referring to an extremely intolerant religious right wing mind set, worldview and lifestyle that the vast majority of society would find either uncomfortable or offensive. The leaders of the overwhelming majority of home school support groups are the ones who feed these people this mantra. In every media opportunity given, home-schoolers drive home this point, over and over. “Homeschoolers are great. Homeschoolers are leaders in their communities. Homeschoolers are the leaders of the next generation. Watch out world, here we come!”

“Really?” I want to ask back to every one of them. “Where are these people? And where is the proof?”

Granted, there are a few who have risen to some level of cultural leadership. Authors of homeschooling resource books; the Duggar family, from the TLC show 19 Kids and Counting; as well as a small number of professional sports players, musicians, actors and actresses. The last few examples are hardly fair ones to claim as “homeschoolers.” These kids generally come from privilege and their parents take it upon themselves to hire private tutors so that their kids can devote time to their talent. This differs from having your mom as your teacher 24/7. As widely popular as the movement has been in the last twenty years, you would think that there should be more of these movers and shakers around.

Sean Hornbek made national headlines in 2007 when he was miraculously found still living within the home of his captor. The young man had been abducted at the age of 11 and sexually tormented for years. As a part of a large investigative effort on the part of his parents and authorities, he was found and rescued from his captor nearly five years later. When police had seen Sean previously on the streets of a St. Louis suburb, not recognizing who he was due to his altered appearance, they asked him, “What are you doing out of school?” Sean’s reply was simply, “I am homeschooled.” Shocking, right?

The first time that the details of that particular interaction came to light it left me cringing. I felt an overwhelming sense of obligation to the children of this movement, the need for someone to speak out and shed light on the gaping errors within this ideology. There is abuse that occurs within nearly every “committed” (which I will explain later in depth) homeschooling family, and the abuse ranges from serious accusations of inappropriate interactions between daughter and father, to flat out neglect of the constitutional rights of children: the right to an education and the rights of free speech and freedom of expression.

More than the home schooling world’s notables, and receiving a constant diet of the greatness complex, the home schooling support groups are rife full of religious dogma and intolerance. The people and leaders of these groups are extremely intolerant towards anyone who is outside of the home schooling community. They are religiously dogmatic on issues that do not matter, further alienating this community from the outside world. This includes areas such as how a woman should dress and wear her hair, a person’s political affiliation, how romantic relationships should be carried out among young adults, when your teenager should gain their freedom, whether your teenagers go to college, or if they should work the family business. Other areas these homeschoolers become dogmatic in are whether or not you engage in the culture at large by surfing on the Internet, what genre of music is “godly,” and whether a family should allow television viewing. The issue of health is another hot button topic: Organic living, farm living, midwifery, home birth, whether you should trust a doctor’s advice, homeopathy, and whether or not to immunize. These things are all of great concern because they affect the welfare of the family. The family unit is placed upon a pedestal in the movement. This in turn, evokes feelings of strong adoration and high honor in regards to the individual family unit, developing a kind of “family worship.” These parents feel that if they can successfully eliminate all “evil” influences from their child’s life, than their child will be kept pure, innocent and godly.

As you can imagine, their views on all of these things dominantly lean towards the right fundamentalist crowd. Many of the same men and women that helped to head up these groups when I was younger are still doing it today. To them it has become way more than education. It has become a lifestyle, a way of doing things, a belief system. It has come to be a religion, a cult. Homeschooling is very much like a parent led cult, where each family takes on their own unique cult-like characteristics. The support group leaders help fill in the role of the prophets and are seen as the leaders of this cult. This is the background of where I came from, the religious cult of the home school world.

“Really?” You might be asking. “Is home schooling as wonderful as people claim it to be?”

Not really.

Partial excerpt from my Introduction in Dispelled: One Girls Journey

Demons of Guilt, Part One

2010-05-24T14:14:00.002-05:00

The more I write on The Movement and the more people that I speak with, the more that I am aware that there are several demons associated with this Movement. When I speak of demons, I am meaning these attributes that attach themselves to The Movement and those people within it. Demons that latch on and suck the life-breath out of everyone they touch. They are potent and powerful, binding and forceful. The next few entries I will be addressing these powerful emotions of guilt, fear, distrust, and control that truly take on a life of their own when attached with this Movement. My old flute teacher once told me, "Chandra, recognizing the problem is 90% of solving it." I believe that with my whole heart.

They had six children and were devout homeschoolers, and part of the homeschooler/patriarchal cult of Phil Lancaster. This "church" was akin to R.C. Sproul Jr.'s "church" or Douglas Wilson's "church." All within this cult were heavily controlled by the central teachings of the elder and their interpretations of the Holy Bible. All within it were exhorted to complete and holy living, not out of grace and love, but out of obligation, duty, and faithfulness. This particular family looked happy and seemed to be the model of godly excellence to all that surrounded them. The mother practiced active submission to her husband, sewed her and her daughter's Little House on the Prairie dresses, and wore blemish-free head coverings, and was never found to be without a sweet countenance and smile. And then came the day when our faith in The Movement was shaken as we watched in horror as the mother left her husband with her children. She was marked with the Scarlet Letter and he continued to find solace within the Movement. She had nothing, and had no job to support her children. But she did gain something priceless, and that was freedom. Her hair was cut, she and her daughters stopped wearing mourning sacks, and they cast off the head coverings like a prisoner loses their shackles. She started a new and more joy-filled life for her and her children, free from the anger and rampant control of her husband. And life moved on, or so we thought.

Nearly 15 years later, this same father and husband was obviously plagued with guilt. Guilt had attached itself to his heart and left him feeling betrayed. This demon would whisper into his ear, as this father struggled to see with his earthly eyes what The Movement had done to his family, that this was all his fault. He didn't do enough, he wasn't faithful enough, he was too angry, too controlling, etc. etc. etc. Once his eyes were opened that the damage was done, that he was partly to blame, and that this "church" was no church where grace and loving kindness existed, there was one thing that remained: Guilt. Bitter, ugly guilt. It was all his fault that his family fell apart. He should have seen what was coming, he should have done things differently. Then one day, after a particularly bloody battle with this demon of guilt, he pulled out life insurance policies on all six of his children. The next day he was found with a gun in his hand, laying on the floor in a pool of blood. Guilt had claimed his life and robbed him of his freedom.

*********

The young girl that I have in mind was a mere thirteen. Her own father and mother had turned on her, because of some lies and malicious gossip that had been spread regarding their daughter's character. She wasn't reflecting well on The Movement, her gregarious and vivacious personality was misconstrued by the charismatic leader as being "ungodly, not of a gentle and quiet and submissive spirit, disrespectful, unfit to socialize with." This leader, along with the help of her parents, began to correct this problem child who failed so miserably at being that mousy, introverted personality that The Movement leaders claim is the way to godliness and righteousness. Until she could correct her personality, she would not be allowed to socialize with anyone. She was to be monitored at all social functions, to be publicly corrected should she step out of line, not allowed to speak with other girls her own age. She would contaminate them and become a "bad and worldly influence." She was ostracized, betrayed by her parents, and isolated.

There is a term in modern psychology called, anomie. First coined by Emile Durkheim, anomie is referred to when an individual feels that they are being abandoned by their society. It is believed that when an individual begins to feel this sense of abandonment and isolation, they are at a much higher risk for committing suicide. This is so very true.

This young girl felt that the entire world in which she lived was against her. They hated her. There was something wrong with her. She had let The Movement down. She had failed to set a godly example of womanly behavior. So, on a fateful, hellish night she fled to the only room in her home that had a lock on the door, her parent's bedroom. This was also the room that housed her father's hand-gun. Locking the door and screaming about how worthless her life was she grabbed the gun and put it in the unlock position. Fully loaded, with her finger on the trigger she felt nothing but guilt. How could she have done this? How could she be such a terrible daughter, friend and example? She was better off dead.

The ending to this story is much different than the fate of the father that I talked about earlier because the girl that did that is writing the article that you are reading right now. That little girl was me, and that little girl is the woman who has now devoted her life to exposing The Movement and all of its nastiness. That little girl is the same little girl who wished that someone, anyone, had been there to tell her that it wasn't her fault and that the guilt that had ravaged her soul was misplaced and wrong.

Granted some guilt is good, but the kind of guilt that ravaged these two lives for so long is guilt over externals and plays terrible mind-control games. If you find yourself feeling this way, don't listen to it! Its only goal is to destroy what happiness that you can have today. And if you run across a Movement homeschooler who seems to be beating themselves up with guilt, they probably are. Remind them that there is grace and life on the other side. You won't regret it, and they will one day thank you for it.

Dear Duggars

2010-03-03T21:33:00.003-06:00

Why do I torment myself?

I wondered this the other evening as I watched the recent airing of little Josie Duggar's birth. As a mommy of a premie I know what Jim Bob and Michelle are facing. I also know exactly what kind of medical advice they are being given in regards to little Josie and also in regards to further children being added to the Duggar tribe. I was told after having very high blood pressure at age 27 that to have any more children would most certainly cause mortality to either myself, the baby or both (I had developed H.E.L.L.P Syndrome). My husband had a viscectomy three months after our little one came home from the hospital and we both breathed a sigh of relief knowing God was asking us to be faithful stewards of what He had gifted.

Oh, that's right. They don't believe in birth control. Do they really think that the watching eyes of their older children condone the fact that their parents are simply having children merely to have them? And how about these precious girls Jana, Jill, Jinger and Jessa? As a mommy of a premie I know first hand how hard it was for my husband and I to manage our older children (ages 3 and 2), keep up with a home, and care for a baby in the hospital. These girls are nothing more than glorified nannies. This is clearly not fair. These girls would only be normal to be resentful of the fact that while Mom and Dad are out trying to promote The Movement and an ideology that clearly doesn't work (and spending every waking minute at the hospital), they are stuck at home tending to the little ones and doing the hard work of raising their younger siblings. Children are a parents responsibility, not the responsibility of these girls. It really makes me sick to think that TLC is still running this show because they see first hand how hard these girls are worked. These girls need to be free to go to college and have friends (not home college and parental approved friendships).

I had sensed the last few episodes that Jinger was a wild card and I had also noticed that she had gotten strangely quiet. I suspect strongly they are having issues with Jinger's "disrespect" and "disobedience" right now, hence the appearance of Jill. Jinger needed to be silenced so as not to give the family or The Movement a bad name. My heart breaks for her...she strikes me as a very creative and extremely expressive sweetheart. A large warm heart, but speaks her mind and opinions freely. She reminds me so much of myself at that age and those were the hardest years of my life. I just pray that she is able to be resilient and break free from her family and that her spirit would remain intact. And Jinger, if you are reading this, write to me. I desperately want to talk to you.

I googled Jana the other day, mostly curious about what was going on with her and any possible rumors of her courting and if so, with whom. She as well had gotten quiet on the show and I had suspected that either she was courting or she was going through a "rebellious" season of life herself. Not so. The results that came up were really rather shocking. A question I saw repeatedly was, "Is a picture of Jana Duggar a good picture to masterbate on?" Excuse me?! Though my research explained the reason for her recent absence on the set, it did raise a very important question: What parent on earth (especially ones that lay claim to Christianity) would allow their daughters to be the subject of such public scrutiny, just for the sake of an ideology? Not even President and Mrs. Obama's daughters are allowed that kind of scrutiny. Where is the response to this, and why are they allowing their daughters to fulfill their need to educate the world on The Movement? And what is this doing to these girls emotionally, knowing that they must go along with Mom and Dad's agenda for the sake of a Movement that must be advanced, yet it is tearing them up inside?

I pray these girls find freedom to just be. They don't have to be "an example" for others, they can just be. They don't have to "prepare their hearts and lives for marriage" by spanking their younger siblings, cleaning toilets or mastering a meal to feed 30. And I hope and pray that Jim Bob and Michelle will have the good sense to listen to the tears and pleas of their children for them to drop the show, give them freedom, and stop having more babies. Where there is love, there is liberty; where there is liberty, there is hope; and where there is hope, there is life. And that is exactly what these girls need.

Introspection and Inspection

2010-02-05T18:22:00.002-06:00

As I write this little epistle, I am sitting next to my little one in a hospital bed. The last few weeks have been so crazy and I have often felt myself stressed beyond measure and stretched to the limit. This has no doubt been God's way of (hoping) to get His daughter's attention. Unfortunately I haven't been very good at listening these last three weeks or so (and possibly quite a bit longer!).

I wasn't certain what would happen to our family life and our relationships with one another when I started my insane class schedule this past January. The little one, who now lounges on a hospital bed, was to start up his preschool and I would begin what would feel like an insane taxi service to school aged children! Hurrying and scurrying throughout all this hubbub Some One was whispering to me.

I knew that I had taken on quite a course load this last semester and knew that being gone at sporadic times away from the home every day of the week would not be the most ideal situation. I really thought though that I could do it...and in all honesty, I COULD HAVE done it. But the stress of taking care of three little boys under 6 and a home in suburbia had begun to take its toll not only on my mental and emotional health, but also on my marriage (which I treasure), and my relationships with three amazingly wonderful and unique sons.

I knew that as I plowed ahead with the insanity that I was -no pun intended- crazy to proceed. Hazard and frazzled pretty much summed up this momma the last few weeks. "I don't have time," became my M.O. I felt that I didn't have the time to play that game, read that book, clean that bathroom, take care of my husband...because of school and studying and the overwhelming pressure to maintain a GPA. Nursing school is highly rigorous and stressful. Not only before the program begins as you are trying to gain acceptance, but also once you are in. Any deviation from anything less than perfect in the GPA and you are detained or removed from the program. The stress was starting to wear on me. It also bothered me that once I did start my Nursing Program, that I would be required to be away from my family every other weekend for the next several years.

I started to calculate how much time I would be away during family hours from my precious ones, and the benefits didn't seem to out way the pitfalls. Still, I struggled to let go of the fact that perhaps I didn't have the drive or determination to complete this process. More importantly I felt that letting go of this dream would be denying myself the education that I should have had a right to during my younger days. During this process of introspection, Christ was whispering over the humdrum of my daily life suggesting like a breeze, "What about teaching?"

When I finally stopped long enough to hear what He was actually saying to me it made sense. Sure the paycheck isn't as glamorous as that of a nurse but the mere fact that there is such a tremendous opportunity for me to have such a positive impact on the lives of young students was quite appealing (not to mention that the stress was considerably relieved). My dear grandma whom I lost to Alzheimer's this past fall, was a teacher in a one room school house. She always told me that I should go to school to be a teacher. Teachers run in my family on both sides and I have always known that I possessed the unique talent to be able to be an excellent teacher. I have loved teaching roles for as long as I can remember.

I dropped my classes the next day. Suddenly this burden of having to outperform was lifted and instead something beautiful was unveiled. This is my gift, not only do I love to write, I am also passionate about education and this gives me a great platform for my other great passion, seeing Dispelled in print. I will be able to focus on my family, go through school in a time frame that works for me rather than the other way around, and also do something that I am passionate and gifted about. To me those are powerful trade offs for any paycheck!

But there is more...I was so scared seeing my little one laying in the hospital bed. It brought back a whole flood of memories and most of them were not good ones that I relish. It brought back a lot of fear, trepidation, and anxiety for my child's life. Seeing the tubing, the monitors, the IVs, and watching my child strapped amongst them all brought me to tears...and a new realization. As much as I love sharing my experiences with other young parents, I hate hospitals. Working in them every day is something that I don't think I could handle. I love the doctors, the nurses, and the skill that they have but honestly, I don't think that I want to be one of them. I would rather teach their children and inspire them to think, feel, and express.

The illusion that I had that somehow earthly treasures were invaluable over being a happy wife and mommy came to a crashing halt last night as I cried over my baby's bed. There is more to life than chasing after the riches of this world. We only have one life to live, one family to raise, one marriage to treasure and we should be enjoying what God has in store for these precious things, rather than seeking for the mirage on the asphalt as though it would somehow quench our thirst.

Casting Stones

2010-01-25T15:58:00.002-06:00

I despise hate-mail. Some days I long for the day when I have an agent of my own and they can field the nasty stuff. I try to take Randy Pausch's advise though, and try to take their criticism's as an opportunity for me to better myself and become a stronger person. Most of the people I know tell me that I am one of the strongest persons that they know. I prefer to think of it as being resilient. I may come off strong but when a nasty email from a former friend surfaces in my inbox, it really gets me down.

I am an author in the truest sense of the word. I feel things deeply. Sometimes I wonder if I feel too deeply. My heart also feels strongly for others. I ache for children who are neglected and abused. My heart wants to help those girls that I see in homeschooling families who are confined and controlled and made to be a second mother. They are hurting and unhappy and my heart aches to let them know that they are not alone. I hate what The Movement has done to these children and teenagers. And that is why I write.

Unlike the completely rude and judgemental email that I received from this "friend" suggested I am not writing to "publicly bash my parents." This isn't the first time I have heard this. It gets old and it gets tiring listening to that. Hearing that phrase makes me feel like the writer of Proverbs who said, "Like a constant dripping is a nagging wife." That about sums it up. I think I would rather live on the corner of a roof then dwell with these swine. Why should I throw my pearls before them if they are steeped in ignorance?

This "friend" was really quite off-putting. She was hurtful and completely off-base and extremely cutting in her language. Its ironic though that the first ones to cast stones are often the ones who have the most to correct in their own lives. Its almost as though they need someone else to feel worse then they do about themselves. This "friend" was someone that I grew up with and at the age of 16 she fled her home. Fled and conspired with another homeschooling family to run away from home. Homeschooling for her had become so unbearable that she went to the opposite extreme, dealing drugs, having multiple unwed pregnancies, and in essence trashed her life simply to hurt her parents. Yet this same person now wants to come and preach and judge me for wanting to use my own personal experiences to help others. Her biggest critique though was that I was being "dishonoring." The irony.

So I feel that to those who have criticized me that I need to set the record straight. I write about my parents, yes. They were a huge part of who I was simply because I had no other relationship "options." Yes, I disagree with them strongly. However its not dishonoring to disagree with them or to have a perspective on your childhood that may differ from theirs. Its not dishonoring to want to use what happened to you as a child to help other hurting people. In fact it takes a tremendous amount of courage to speak out against your upbringing. I know its hard for some to hear and its easy to gag on the words of someone telling you that something your parents did to you may have been a bit like poison. Well intentioned or not, your parents can still be wrong, and its still OK to disagree with them. That's not what honoring means.

To honor means to give value to something. You may have the worst parents in the world and honoring them simply means that you give the position of their role in your life honor, or weight. They gave you life therefore that position and the role of a parent deserves a weighted esteem. But disagreeing with them, setting boundaries, and having a different perspective on your upbringing is not grounds for someone telling you are being dishonoring.

I write not because I want some form of vigilante justice. I write because I want other "closet" homeschool children to know that they are not alone in their struggles and in order to do that I have to expose what happened to me. Its not always fun, divulging very personal aspects of your life just to be judged and left feeling like I need to find my bra and underwear because of too much exposure. But I do it out of conviction and because I really hate The Movement. This isn't about me, my parents, or any one's parents. Its about this cult that most call homeschooling and that I have termed, The Movement. The Movement has a force and a pull. It is alluring and seductive and pulls families into its path, injecting its venom into the veins of the family and leaves a shell of devastation in its wake. I am here to expose The Movement and in order to do that, I must expose my family and my childhood.

THAT is the reason I write. So quit judging me and throwing stones in my direction. I have bigger things to conquer than worry about what others think of me...such as that upcoming book deal!

Why I Write...

2009-12-14T16:27:00.002-06:00

This is a sweet and genuine note that I received the other day from a young mother. It is for little girls like hers that I write what I do and though I don't want to create controversy or "division" I feel on many times like an Old Testament prophet. They were constantly ostracized and met with ignorance and stubbornness on the part of the majority. But those prophets and prophetess' were not there for the majority. They were there for those who would listen. Here is the note that made my day (and quite possibly, my entire year!).

"I wanted to thank you for your informative blog on homeschooling. I was considering homeschooling my kindergartner after learning that our state plans on cutting millions more from education next year, although I was hesitant to do so. I found your blog while researching the homeschooling movement and after reading it I've decided to keep her in the public school she attends. Thank you for your honesty and for having the strength to share your experience."

Breaking Free

2009-11-19T09:10:00.002-06:00

I had intended on my next post being something of a completely different nature, but there has been much going on in my little world, and breaking free has been a part of that. And so dear readers, bear with me as I divulge just a little bit of what I have been struggling with of recent.

Enmeshment is something that is chronic among The Movement, especially among those children whom have left (or are in the process of leaving) the home. While I thought that I had moved on, moved away, moved out, etc. it has become increasingly apparent that I have not.

Granted I am making very different choices than my parents did, such as placing my children in public school, using therapists through the State, going to college, thinking about working, exposing The Movement, writing a book. But even though I have rejected and dispelled all of the externals of my own family, it is the emotional ties that I have found recently that are stickiest to sort through and cut off.

I find myself in my counselors office frequently repeating the refrain of, "I am afraid of what they will think." They refers to my parents. I still long for their approval, feel vast amounts of guilt over the reaction that my parents will have upon discovering, for example, that I have put my kids into the "Devil's playground." (That is the phrase that my mother would use when referring to public schools.) I even second guess my decisions, though I know them to be right for my family.

And herein lies the irony. I don't understand why I feel this guilt. Why do I feel guilty for making decisions that are completely different than my parents? Why should I even feel this guilt when I know deep down that I am doing what is right? I lived this hell, I am writing a book on it, yet I can't shake the fact that I desperately want my parents to approve. And I know that they don't and that I never will be that perfect daughter. In some way, my dysfunctional family will always view me as the scapegoat.

Why do I even care? I don't care what the rest of the world thinks about me, my decisions, etc. but I do deeply long for the approval of my parents, something that I know will always evade me and yet I still can't seem to bury that hope.

They never gave me approval. I was always an "ungodly, unsubmissive" daughter who did not have a "quiet and gentle spirit." I know this, and I know in my head that to seek their approval and to not move on and be my own person is foolishness at best. But my heart still longs for perfection.

Growing up in a home school family, we were on top of each other constantly. There was no space, no friends, no freedom. This bred relationships within our family much like an in-grown toenail. You don't really know its a problem until its too late and the searing pain is more than you can bear. That searing pain for me happened when I held my father's .45 caliber pistol in my quivering hand trying to end my life at the tender age of 13. From there on out it was pure hell, as my parents lived in constant fear that I would expose them for the farce that they were, tightening their control and grasp on my life, refusing to even let me take the ACT exam in high school so that I could go onto college. They refused me medical treatment at the age of 17 as I nearly died of untreated bacterial pneumonia. I had no car, no one to confide in, no advocate. I fled the home at just barely 19 with my belongings and finally I was free.

Or was I? I don't think so. The little girl inside of me still longs to be valued, loved, cherished by the same parents whose very actions throughout my life communicated hatred. I think that my longing for their approval stems from the deep amount of brainwashing that I (and so many others like me) experienced. Day after day, until I left the home, I was fed this mantra, "Children honor your father and your mother...Children obey your parents in the Lord that it may go well for you and you may live a long life in the land to which I am giving you." I never measured up, and I seriously doubt if there is any post-homeschool graduate who measured up to that standard. I lived in constant fear that I would die a premature death should I disrespect one or both of my parents. Honoring was synonymous with blind obedience, which I believe fed my parents lack of self-worth and need for implicit power and control in our relationship. This kind of militant obedience was expected from me until the day I left the house, and even once I became engaged, I was expected to obey their every whim in regards to our wedding. In the end, neither one of us could see eye-to-eye and my parents were so paranoid about loosing their control, that they had my wedding date stripped off of the church calendar. My husband and I ended up paying for our own wedding, with the aid of his parents.

And yet years later, after all of that, I still am clamouring like a clanging gong for their approval?! Where is my head? Why does my heart long for this from these people? I know why. Its called brainwashing. I want to honor my parents and it has been so entrenched in the fabric of my being that I feel that to not do what they want me to do is disobedience and dishonor. Its not really even about my parents, its more about the brainwashing and desire to please God through honoring them, courtesy of The Movement.

And here is where my Heavenly Father reminds me that I need to flee from the entanglement and flee instead to Him, where there is perfect acceptance, love, and freedom. Where "perfect love casts out fear," where I no longer need to fear the iron-laden rod of dishonor. I need to learn first to honor myself, because my Heavenly Father created me in His image and has anointed me with a crown of honor to rule with Him in the Heavenly Kingdom as His princess. I need to learn that honor is not synonymous with obedience and I need to learn to "leave and cleave." I need to trust that He will free me from the guilt that I feel, because I know that this is His heart's desire for me. He wants me to break free, to cling to Him, and trust in His will for my life.

Hodding Carter once said, "There are only two lasting bequests that we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings." I think I need to get a butterfly tattoo to remind me of who I am in Christ!

A Critique

2009-09-26T21:22:00.002-05:00

First of all, before I take any heat here, let me start by saying I do not know this girl. A friend of mine on Facebook posted this video, and I knew I wanted to do a critique on it. Honestly, I thought she was highly entertaining, and I actually think that there was a lot of TRUTH in what she said. However, what I found most intriguing was that while she was a huge proponent of homeschooling, she was able to see (slightly, with humor) a reason WHY homeschoolers have problems with acclimating into society at large. Understand, I am not inferring a percentage of those that have problems socializing (such as a minority or majority), but just simply, that there ARE those that do have trouble with this, and this is due to their extreme sheltering within the four corners of their homes.

Also please understand, that I am not picking on her, this is a friendly critique and I felt that she was intelligent enough to at least have a light-hearted attitude toward the idiosyncrasies that befall homeschoolers (which I felt was a breath of fresh air, since I have yet to meet a die-hard homeschooler who CAN do this without the dogma or anger-laced voice).

On with the Critique...

The most obvious point here is her "statistics." 80/20, eh? Hmmm. Well, its an interesting one, but what I have perceived in my previous experience in leadership within the homeschooling world is that it is more like 20/80. Yes, there are wonderful, well rounded homeschoolers who possess good socialization skills. I would consider myself to be among those. However, if I am honest, I also admit that I am on a learning curve when it comes to different types of social situations, especially when those situations warrant socializing with those who come from very, very different backgrounds. Not being allowed to sharpen my social skills as a teenager has cost me a few friendships over the years, simply because I didn't know how to "read" a person, or know what was socially acceptable. Obviously, now that I am nearly 30, this problem has resolved itself but I do still struggle. Mostly with being overly sensitive to another's cues. I suspect strongly that this is the case for even those homeschooled children/adults that ARE socially "blended."
"Camo and Culottes." This stereotype is so true, it made me laugh! In a sad, bittersweet sort of way. Women by nature are more socially apt then men...Its the way we were created. I must say though, that in most (not all) of the grown men that I have met (that were sheltered at home with mom for all 12 years) are very...eccentric. Never learning how to socialize, some are exceptionally quiet, or unsure of themselves. Others have developed female-type mannerisms and/or social quirks that make it difficult to relate to them on any real level. No competition has been afforded to them (academically or otherwise), which is such a need for the male psyche, and stuck in the house with mom and siblings all day has done these men a great disservice. It is hard for them to be successful within the work force and they struggle relationally in the male world, as growing up they were told that they could not question The Movement, so its hard for them to put themselves out there and gain respect in the male community. This breaks my heart for these young men, as they had no other option and causes my hatred of The Movement to grow, as it was The Movement that did this to them. Shockingly, when I re-encounter these now grown men on social networking sites that I once knew in my teenage years, I see a high percentage of these same young men choosing the homosexual lifestyle, floundering in college or careers, or having a life of broken and unfulfilled relationships (If you are one such male and none of this applies to you, then disregard. It wasn't written about you or for you. If however you read this and it applies, leave a comment. I would love to hear your side of the story!). But I cannot leave out the "Culottes." Her depiction of the backwards girl was dead on. This quiet, mousy, shy, backwards girl is actually the standard of holiness in The Movement. It was this standard that I could not, or ever succumb to, and that nearly cost my life. I have talked with many girls who could not fit this mold either, and it too, cost them dearly. Relationally and otherwise. If you meet a homeschooled girl/woman on the street and she is reluctant to speak out of turn, unusually quiet, displays an unusual propensity toward showing respect, you have just encountered a woman who had the personality beat out of her and she finally succumbed, willingly or reluctantly, to The Movement's inflicting spiritual abuse and massive control over the lives of women. She has been brainwashed to the point of buying into The Movement's claim that "this is the only way, the only path to godliness and holiness. This is the path of God's remnant" and no doubt she will "train and raise up the next generation of homeschoolers" sacrificing her own ability to provide for her family as she fulfills the only role that The Movement has told her is of any worth or value: motherhood.
The, "Private Schoolers are stupid" mantra: Well, this came as no surprise. Flouting big fancy words, and derogatory comments regarding the insuperiority of private and public schools, is nothing more than a cover for a self-conscious homeschooled child. I know because I was once one of them, and like Paul the Apostle, I was "a Pharisee of Pharisees." Frankly, there is no superior form of education, but having experienced all three worlds, homeschooling, private, and public, I would most definitely say that homeschooling, for various reasons is far inferior, and in the best case scenario, minimally abusive at best. Whenever a homeschooler touts to you the grandiose measures and superiority of homeschooling, it is nothing more than a cover for the doubts that they harbor within. They are looking for validation that what they are doing is better because they know deep down, that it probably isn't. Don't buy it, its all an act.
The Famous People list: This has become one of my most recent pet peeves in dealing with the ignorance of homeschoolers that seems to be so rampant among their ranks. Can I just set the record straight on this? Please? These people are NOT HOMESCHOOLERS!!!!! Any famous young actor or actress does not fall under the same laws as the majority of the homeschooling population does. Their parents are wealthy enough to hire private tutors, and these privileged young people actually GET an education that is uninterrupted by toddler squabbles, chores, farm animals, new babies, tired mom, cranky dad, "homeschooling is flexible" issues that arise within the home of a typical homeschooling family. These actors and actresses DO NOT COUNT. What they are getting is called, private education. The other scientists, Presidents, poets, artists, etc. lived during a time when travel was not accessible, education was not as important to the sustenance of life, and did at one point or another attend an organized school of some kind. Even Abraham Lincoln, though taught by his mother (using standard curriculum that all American children were using at that day and age), went to school in later years as development moved farther westward. Let's be reasonable people. I rest my case.

Emotional Eaters, Unite!

2009-08-10T07:44:00.002-05:00

I hadn't really intended to use this blog in the personal sense...but that is what I am finding myself desirous to do. You see, I have a problem, not a serious one, though it could be perhaps, if I allow it to continue. This is a hard thing to own...especially in cyberspace.

I am an emotional eater. I can't seem to find any sound advice on how to conquer this. I have been to counseling, not much help in that particular arena; I have read books, and what they address is how to conquer the physical attributes of eating (which I already know); I have dieted, with success only to find myself crawling back to the fridge when the next upsetting event in my life occurs.

My life, as I would describe it, is generally harmonious, peaceful, blissful, heavenly...despite the few upsets that occur in every normal individual. This life, is one that I share with my husband and three sons. Our lives as a little family unit are truly wonderful.

What stems my emotional eating, you may be wondering. I have another life. A life that I have never been able to conquer, a life that I just can't seem to quite get over. I am a recovering abuse victim.

No, its not sexual abuse that sends me to the cupboards seeking out the Oreos. It is the life that I once was forced to live, held captive against my will, starving. Starving for light, starving for hope, starving for love, starving for human companionship, starving, starving, starving. And so in an odd sense, whenever I struggle with the feelings of abandonment, I reach out to find something that will keep me from starving.

Although this does not make total sense, this is how it works for an emotional eater. The feelings of being emotionally starved manifest themselves in the life of an emotional eater when they reach for the can of icing. The pain is deep, the pain is unbearable, the wound never fully heals. You don't want to allow your heart to feel the riveting, gnashing, searing pain of being starved. I would rather eat, feel full, not feel. Its a true addiction, much like that of an alcoholic. Not wishing to feel the pain, they dull it with aphrodisiacs. So it is with emotional eaters.

My starvation, in the emotional sense, began when I was nine. Approaching puberty, with no one to guide me, no one to count on, I was abandoned. I was misplaced for a movement that claims perfect children. I was expected to be perfect, godly, well behaved. I was sheltered, I was kept even from those within this movement. The Movement, as I have named it (this term is copyrighted) goes by another alias: Home Schooling.

Hence my loathing of The Movement. I know all too well the emotional ravage that living in such an enmeshed family, and being raised in a cult, will do to all the children who begin to leave the house and then find themselves thrust out into the world. Its a gut wrenching process where uncharted territories, philosophies, people groups, have have been kept from you, until now. Soul searching is a light term for the these coming of age adults. You don't even know who you are. You must now, while trying to figure out exactly what career path you would like to take, figure out how you feel about life, God, relationships, beliefs. You weren't allowed to be faithful to your authentic self while under your parents roof, and so now the journey begins...after much gnashing and tearing of teeth to escape the heavy chains of Mom and Dad's grasp on you. You feel as though you deserve the Medal of Honor. It was all out war for freedom since the ninth grade, and after having finally won blessed liberty, in my opinion, you do!

However your past never seems to fully evade you. You still find yourself drawn by its force, and in the case of The Movement, you find yourself feeling betrayed by it frequently. Our parents parented us as though we would all travel down the hippie path with the end result being something similar to the Manson murders. I just realized this about The Movement as the world has recently turned its attention to this piece of cultural ephemera. This explains why these parents hated The Beetles, hippies, drugs, free sex...everything. And why we didn't talk about it, nor knew nothing of its components. I didn't even know what the Manson murders were until the other night when I asked my soul-mate what the big deal was.

"You don't know about the Manson murders?!"

"Why are you surprised? I was home schooled."

Hence followed my modern history lesson. Homeschoolers know nothing of modern social history...its too dangerous. Hence, after my history lesson, I felt starved and deprived. Rather than turning to something productive and healthy to make me feel full (such as the Bible, or prayer, or journaling) what did I do? I ate two huge bowls of Cocoa Puffs!

This is my struggle with emotional eating and binging. What's yours? Do you know or understand what it is that makes you eat for emotional purposes? We're all different, but I have a strong suspicion that the root of the issue with emotional eaters is the same: We feel starved for something emotionally and want to nullify that feeling with food, to feel full so we don't feel starved.

My challenge to you (besides leaving a comment!) is to allow yourself to feel. Perhaps if we would allow ourselves to feel, the recurring feelings would go away, and in time, so would our need to emotionally over-indulge the bulge!

An excerpt...

2009-03-17T19:40:00.002-05:00

In St. Louis, MO the most common question asked in order to size up a persons social and economic status is, “Where did you go to high school?” Inevitably, you will be asked that question countless times if you live in St. Louis for any length of time. Often, the response is one of surprise after the individual has discovered that my elementary and high school education was that of home education. It is always interesting for me to see their differing responses. One of the funniest and perhaps the most authentic responses usually runs along the lines of incredulousness and disbelief. “Really?” is usually their only reply but it implies so much.
“Really?” you turned out normal, they seem to infer.
“Really?” that’s weird, different, and odd.
“Really?” All twelve years?
“Really?” Your mom must be a saint.
“Really?” You put up with it that long?
“Really?” What on earth was that like?
And finally, my favorite insinuation: “Really?” How did you feel about that?
I never know quite what to say. People from all walks of life have asked me all sorts of questions about my life as a home schooled child and teenager. The conversation is usually quite casual and just doesn’t afford an opportunity to delve into all of the nuances of my life’s history. I give them the pat answer, which mostly runs along the lines of something extremely eloquent like, “Yeah, I was.” Here too, my answer implies plenty and my acquaintance, I feel, is usually left somewhat lacking an answer. There is just not enough time to go into all of it in one sitting. This is how my decision to write a book on my life as a home-schooled teenager, in particular, was born...

...More than the home schooling world’s notables, and receiving a constant diet of the greatness complex, the home schooling support groups are rife full of religious dogma and intolerance. The people and leaders of these groups are extremely intolerant towards anyone who is outside of the home schooling community and religiously dogmatic on issues that do not matter. Areas such as how a woman should dress and wear her hair, a person’s political affiliation, how romantic relationships should be carried out among young adults, when your teenager should gain their freedom, and whether your teenagers go to college or if they should do home college and work the family business. Other areas these homeschoolers become dogmatic in are whether or not you engage in the culture at large by going to the mall, surfing on the internet, what genre of music is “godly,” and whether a family should allow television viewing. The issue of health is another biggie: Organic living, farm living, midwifery, home birth, whether you can trust a doctors advice, homeopathy, and whether or not to immunize. These things are all of great concern because they affect the welfare of the family. While you might be thinking this is extreme, you must remember that the whole reason that this movement was started was to shelter your children from society. They feel that if they can successfully eliminate all “evil” influences from their child’s life, than their child will be kept pure, innocent and godly.
As you can imagine, their views on all of these things dominantly lean towards the right fundamentalist crowd. Many of the same men and women that helped to head up these groups when I was younger are still doing it today. To them it has become way more than education. It has come to be a religion, a cult, really. It has become a lifestyle, a way of doing things, a belief system. This is the background of where I came from, the religious cult of the home school world.
“Really?” You might be asking. “Is home schooling all that it is made out to be?”
Not really.

An excerpt from my book, Dispelled. Copyrighted 2009

The Definition

2009-03-10T09:21:00.003-05:00

Cult n. "1.a A religion or religious sect generally considered to be extremist or false, with its followers often living communally under an authoritarian, charismatic leader. b. The followers of such a religion or sect. 5.a Obsessive, esp. faddish devotion to or veneration for a person, principle, or thing. b. The object of such devotion."

"Religious sect...authoritarian, charismatic leader..."The home school movement, the home school support group leaders (often extremely winsome, warm, and type A personalities).

"The followers of such a religion or sect..."the homeschoolers themselves that buy into this ideology hook, line, and sinker.

"Obsessive, esp. faddish devotion to or veneration for a person, principle, or thing. The object of such devotion." Is not homeschooling a fad? Do not these parents become obsessed with it, especially in keeping their kids "innocent and pure"? This behavior is evidenced in the absence from over-involvement in church, keeping their kids out of Sunday school, youth groups, children's church. It is seen in the parents clutching their children close about them, trying to keep their kids from becoming friends with other children (even cousins) who attend public or private school. The fear is contamination by association. Have you not heard homeschoolers refer to themselves as being "principled"? Have you not seen local homeschooling parents cite intense devotion not only to "the movement" but also to their local homeschooling leader? The object of their devotion is the homeschooling movement, its ideology, and how they as parents can become more "pure and holy."

I highly recommend Elissa Wall's book, Stolen Innocence. An excellent read! The first time I read it I felt I was reading a book about myself, minus her sexual abuse. The interactions that she had with her parents and leaders of this cult and the way that she had to "break free" from her cult, describes how most post-home school graduates feel upon leaving their bondage, at least the ones that I have been interviewing, myself included.

Dispelled: One Girls Journey in a Home School Cult, will shed light on this absurd movement whose whole premise is, keeping their child from evil and forcing their children to be holy.

If you truly love someone, you set them free.

Excerpt taken from: The American College Dictionary.