Category Archives: Violence

To the GC2019 Delegates who Voted for The Traditionalist Plan

Dear Dad,

We haven’t talked in a while, mostly because our last talk didn’t go very well. It ended with me crying while you were screaming at me, and I thought that maybe things would go better if I wrote you instead of trying to talk face to face.

I know that you are disappointed with the way I live my life and the way that I conduct myself. You raised me to follow the Scriptures as they are written, to add nothing to and take away nothing from God’s commandments like it says in Deuteronomy. You raised me to live in strict adherence to your interpretation of the Word, and I know that you feel that I am not living a life that reflects what I was taught; that my life doesn’t give glory to God because I am disobedient to what you think is God’s word.

I also know that you disapprove of my relationship with Jes, that you think his skin is the wrong color, and that he loves in all the wrong ways, and that he is a hippy-dippy liberal who wants to give away everything to everyone when they should have to work to earn it.

I am writing these things to you, not because I am agreeing with you, but because I want you to know that I have heard your admonishments all these years. I really have listened, Dad. I’ve listened until I can listen no more. I know what you think of me and my life. I know that you think I am a disobedient child that needs to be taken in hand and ‘schooled’ until I behave correctly.

Dad…I am 54 years old.

I am not a child. I am an adult. I pay my own bills and run my own life. I don’t ask for anything from you but love.

Sadly, for all the disapproval and lectures that you seem to be able to give, love doesn’t appear to be on the list of things that you have for me.

Love isn’t another lecture.

Love isn’t telling me just how badly I’ve screwed up my life or yelling at me about my disobedient nature.

Love isn’t telling me that you don’t want to speak to me until I’ve set aside my childish behaviors and started acting like the adult YOU taught me to be.

Finding Jes and falling in love with him was amazing for me. I never felt so alive! It took years of him loving me without judgement for me to realize that he knew I wasn’t perfect, that I wasn’t everything he wanted me to be, but that he loved me anyway. That’s called unconditional love, Dad, and it is life changing!

It took a long time of me being with Jes to understand that you never really loved me, because love doesn’t treat another human like an object to be bent to the owner’s will. Real love doesn’t seek to control and dominate. Love doesn’t oppress and demand obedience. True love invests in relationship knowing that close, loving relationships have influence, and influence brings change without demanding that one person ‘submit’ to the other. True love leaves space for individuality, and for appreciating differences of opinion and choice. True love doesn’t demand conformity, because that isn’t love for another; love that demands conformity is love for self over all others, and Jes says that love like that is diseased and broken. When he says these things to me, I cry, because I want so much more for you and I, Dad. Jes wants more for us too, and that’s why he’s stood by me all these years while I tried to make our relationship better.

Love isn’t me letting you tell me how to live my life, Dad. Real love is a set of choices based in a commitment to the best for another person, even at the cost of self-sacrifice for their good.

When it comes to love, Dad, Jes taught me that the proof is in the pudding. The pudding that Jes has for me is sweet; it feeds my soul and nourishes me in ways that I cannot even describe. The pudding that you have been shoving down my throat for my entire life tastes of domination, dehumanization, and verbal and emotional abuse, and I can’t stomach it anymore.

I’m letting you go, Dad.

This has been a long time coming, and I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but Jes keeps telling me that I deserve better than this.

Jes doesn’t always think I’m right, Dad. Jes has disagreed with my decision to keep in touch with you for a long time—for years in fact—but each time he just tells me what he thinks and then reminds me that no matter what I decide, that he will have my back and be here for me because he loves me.

I don’t remember you ever telling me that you had my back, or that the decision was mine. The only times I remember you saying that you loved me was after you yelled at me for being wrong (again). You would remind me that you only spent time correcting me because you loved me.  I get what you were trying to say, but there is more to love than correction and demands for obedience.

Jes has been telling me for years that your ‘love’ is toxic, and I think he is right.

So I’m done, Dad. I’m done trying to make our relationship work. I’m done trying to please you, to mollify your demands for obedience to your way of thinking and living. I’m done with all of it.

If you ever change your mind and decide that you are willing to accept me as I am, to love me without trying to change me, Jes(us) and I will be right here in Arizona, and you will always be welcome when you are ready to give and receive real love.

I love you, Dad.



Are You Cooking?

I don’t know about you, but the shooting at Margaret Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL has been the main topic of conversation between myself and my friends for over a week now. We are horrified that our children are still being mowed down by mentally disturbed gunmen who have obtained their assault rifles legally. We argue between ourselves as to what is the bigger problem: access to assault rifles or untreated mental health issues.

I tend to fall on the side of banning assault rifles. I’m not really that fond of guns in general, and I really don’t like automatic weapons.

However, when I expressed my opinions about guns, my friends who live in disadvantaged communities pulled me aside and asked me if I had any idea what it was like raising children in an environment rife with gun violence, gangs, and drug dealing.  They were adamant that they needed their second amendment rights if they were going to protect their families and keep themselves safe.

I had to be honest with them: I have never experienced challenges like that. I raised my children in a middle-class suburb of a large urban city. I sent my children to schools where the tax base was secure and the somewhat diverse but still largely white populace was unafraid to vote for additional city taxes to fund schools because we all had the income to support the additional taxes.

I had to admit to my friends that I had no idea what it was like to buy a gun out of desperation and fear that my family was in danger. After listening to them detail their struggles, I promised that I would support them by voting for additional funds from the state for police support in their neighborhoods. I also pledged to support additional state funds for their schools because their children deserve an education that is equal in quality to the education my children receive in the suburbs.  Finally, I pledged to support their second amendment rights because no one should have to fear who will come through their front door or their windows while they sleep.

I refuse to let my privilege make me unwilling to see the plight of my urban brothers and sisters who struggle with the drug activity and gang violence that is so common in the poorer urban neighborhoods.

I have to admit, though, that all this has made me wonder what is it that drives my brothers and sisters in rural areas to fear that the government will take their guns. What are they afraid of?  What challenges exist in their communities that make them feel a need to arm themselves to protect their families?

Are they the victims of gang intimidation and gang violence?

Have organized crime syndicates moved into their area, controlling local businesses and harassing local citizens?

Are they experiencing repeated home invasions?

People who live in urban areas are always aware that burglary is a major risk. The black market is alive and well. Stolen goods are an easy source of money for drug addicts and petty criminals.  But those of us who live in cities need to remember that guns are far more lucrative than any electronics or jewelry that can be stolen from our homes.  Stolen TVs only sell for about a quarter of what they are worth brand new, and stolen computer equipment must first be hacked to eliminate password and fingerprint protection before it can be sold, otherwise it is useless.  That just isn’t cost efficient. Jewelry doesn’t pawn for as much as you think it will, either.  Guns, on the other hand, are worth big bucks. The more guns you own, the more attractive your home is for burglars, and of course, burglars are aware that rural homes are far more likely to have guns than urban or suburban homes (that are more likely protected by a security company.)  It turns out that quality firearms sell on the US and Mexican black market for between 150-500% of their retail worth when bought legally.*** The percent of increase in the price reflects how far the gun has to travel before it’s sold. Firearms have a much better rate of return than stolen TVs, computers, and jewelry…so owning these weapons actually increases the chance of a home invasion or a burglary. Obviously, there must be a very good reason for increasing their risk of home invasion or these gun enthusiasts wouldn’t be willing to stockpile such attractive items for theft in their homes, especially since the entire reason for stockpiling weaponry is to protect yourself and your family.  So…

What is the terrifying threat that consumes them?

Invasion by urban liberal snowflakes?

Are farm animals rising up to prevent their wholesale slaughter for food?

Have crops animated and started attacking the farmers?

Are these folks cooking meth? 

Seriously, are they cooking?  Because if they are, let’s be honest: you need major firepower if you are cooking meth. Walter White understood this implicitly. You cannot defend your cooking operation if you don’t have sufficient firepower; other dealers will kill you and take your stockpile of ingredients and steal your customers. You have to have a couple of high powered guns to protect yourself if you are going to cook.

What I’m trying to say here is that I cannot help my rural friends defend their second amendment rights if I don’t know what it is that they are trying to protect themselves from.  I can’t know how to vote and what to vote for if I don’t know what the problem is, and I just can’t seem to perceive the problem, you know?  All I’m doing is trying to help; I’m trying to be sensitive to their needs, trying to be supportive and aware that as a liberal snowflake. I’m trying to remember that I can make a difference if I’ll just use my white privilege and my liberal agenda to protect others.

So tell me, rural brothers and sisters…what is it that you are so afraid of that you need an AR-15 to keep your family safe?

I have to be honest, I’m betting that they need all those guns because they are cooking.



I Just Couldn’t Tell You

What do you do when you find out that someone you love has done something horrible?

This isn’t a new question. In fact, many people have had to answer this question when a beloved child has committed a crime, or their spouse has done something unforgiveable, or when a close friend or colleague reveals themselves as discriminatory or as a harasser.

It’s one thing to watch all this unfold on the news and weigh in with your opinion, but what do you do when that question stops being rhetorical; what do you do when the question becomes personal?

So far it turns out that my answer is that I struggle with conflicted feelings and pretty much do…nothing.

I wish that I had a better answer than that, but I haven’t been able to move beyond emotional conflict.

Let me explain.

I grew up alternately adoring and being terrified of my father. I don’t think that’s necessarily unusual or novel, because children are so small and Daddies are so tall…no matter how short they are in real life.

I adored my father for his goofy sense of humor and the myriad of silly voices he used to make me laugh. I adored my father because he loved cartoons and would frequently quote from his favorites (of course, doing his best impression of the character’s voice at the same time.) I adored my father because he would cook me waffles or pancakes on Saturday morning so that my mom could sleep in…and so I got him all to myself every Saturday. It was just me, cartoons, breakfast, and my Daddy.


There were anger issues that clouded my joy and gave me a genuine reason to fear my father. He had an abnormally loud voice that he used to great effect when he was angry with me or my brother. He also was quick to strike; far too quick and far too strong for his own good. Nowadays we call that violent, but back then we called it strict. I knew that I had to obey my father because anything less than obedience would be punished, and I greatly feared being punished. Most of the time I ended up grounded or restricted from some privilege, but there were times when my father responded before thinking and used physical punishment.  There were several times in my teen years when I immediately knew that my father was out of control and that he was beyond the border of ‘punishment’ and well into the land of physical abuse. I even reported it to the school, but no one did anything. My mother reminded me that I could be extremely difficult and suggested that I try to see things from my father’s perspective. The school counselor…I can only guess that he thought I was being overly-dramatic, and that anyone with my grades could not possibly be having problems at home.

When I became a parent, I began to understand just how frustrating parenting could be. By that time the strained relationship between my father and I had relaxed into the comfort of adulthood. My father spoke to me with respect and I sought out his and my mother’s advice on just about everything related to parenting.  I still knew that my father had been out of line with my brother and I many times and yet it no longer mattered as much. The only long-lasting effect of my childhood was that I was determined not to allow any abuse in my own household—not from me or anyone else. I still marvel that my husband married me, especially after I told him that if he ever hit me, that he better not go to sleep ever again. I told him that he better not hurt my babies, either, because there would be no escaping my wrath with.

A wiser man might have backed away from me slowly, never to return. Luckily my husband was just a little crazy in love, and so he stayed. I also imagine that he trusted himself; knowing who he was, he didn’t have to worry because he knew that he’d never raise a hand to me or to our children.

In my late 30’s I went to graduate school to study mental health counseling and learned all about Traumatic Brain Injuries (TBI.)** My father sustained a TBI in the Navy when a fellow seaman dropped a submarine hatch on my father’s head.  The accident left him with a number of injuries: it ripped off half his ear (that they thankfully reattached) and caused nerve deafness in that ear, and it left him without a memory of my mother and I, despite the fact that we had both been in his life for months and months by the time of his injury. After the amnesia had subsided, the Navy gave my father the choice of continuing in his deployment or taking a medical discharge; my father took an honorable medical discharge so that he could try to rebuild his life with my mother and I. Mostly, that is exactly what he did, except…

Except that TBIs can change your personality, and my father was sporadically violent with his wife and children.

By the time I had completed graduate school for my counseling degree, I understood that my father’s TBI had impacted him negatively. I believed that it had caused him to become violent; he didn’t get to choose the effect that his injury had on him.

I looked back at my childhood—at all that had happened, good and bad—and realized that my father had no choice in how he reacted to stress.  When his stress levels became too high he became violent, and while it broke our hearts, he didn’t have any choice.

Until this Christmas, when he lost his temper.

Holidays are extremely stressful for my parents, and my father’s vascular dementia (born of his TBI and a stroke subsequent to a double bypass operation in 2009) has left him volatile and violent. As usual, prior to a major holiday, my father lost his temper and his control, and my mother was his victim.

“Get him out of here!” she screamed at me on the phone, demanding that I take my father home with me to protect her and to give her a break from being his caregiver. “I can’t force him to leave” I told my mother “and if you want to get away from him, you are welcome to stay the night at my house.”

Until approximately 18 months ago, I believed my father had only been violent with my brother and I.  I found out that my father was violent with my mother in the summer of 2016.  I went on an extended vacation to Europe with my husband and while I was gone my father became so violent that my mother had him arrested for domestic violence. At that point I thought it was an isolated incident born of his vascular dementia.

Over the remaining months of 2016, I learned that my father had been violent with my mother a number of times since his stroke in 2009. Then, in early 2017, I learned that he had been violent for 54 years, ever since his brain injury.

When he lost his temper just before Christmas 2017, I decided to ask for the truth.

I drove to my parent’s house and picked up my mother, who was obviously injured. As I drove her to my home to spend the night, I encouraged her to go to urgent care. “No…they’ll call the police.”

“I know” I said, “but you need to get a record of this.” She refused. She refused medical help and police intervention, whether at her home or mine, whether in her town or mine.

Knowing that I couldn’t get her to report the crime, I decided to ask her to share the truth with me.

“Has he always been this way, or did it start after the Navy dropped a hatch on his head?”

That’s when my mother told me about him grabbing her by the hair because she said the wrong thing while she was pregnant with me; all this happened long before the Navy injured my father’s brain and destroyed the hearing in his left ear.  All this happened long before a submarine hatch changed his ability to control his temper. She told me stories about his volatile behavior when they were dating and shortly after they married.

It had always been this way.  His accident in the Navy had nothing at all to do with his violent behavior.

Anyone who has been to seminary knows what the term “back formation” means.

After Jesus died, the disciples went back into the Old Testament and found many verses that seemed to predict the birth and death of Jesus Christ. Their recognition that these verses predicted the birth and death of Jesus, even though they were previously thought to mean something else entirely, was labeled back formation.  “Back formation” was the disciples looking at the Old Testament scriptures, realizing that these verses had greater meaning after the death of Jesus had made that meaning evident.

I am in the grip of back formation with my own childhood.

Suddenly everything that I remember has a different meaning, a different implication, a different way for me to understand it. Where I had painted all my father’s behaviors in the light of his brain injury, suddenly I have to admit that he has willfully chosen his violence, both before and after the injury, because he willfully chose violence before the injury ever happened. I can no longer excuse my father’s behavior.

The hardest part of this has been to admit to myself that I am that child. I am the child of domestic violence. I lived in the household that was under the sway of the cycle of domestic violence. I am the product of a violent home, and it was not a mistake that no one could control. My mother chose to stay with a violent man, and my father chose to be violent of his own free will.

I am that child, and it breaks my heart because I had freed myself from that burden when I believed that it was all just an injury that no one chose, that no one wanted.

If I am that child, then I have to admit that my mother choose to stay, and my father choose to beat all of us because that’s what he wanted to do.

What do you do when you realize that someone you love has done something truly horrible?

I have struggled with this every since December 20th, and I have discovered that I have no way to resolve the pain I feel with the love that I feel for my father.

My mother couldn’t let herself stay away from my father for long; she headed home only 18 hours after leaving and swearing that she was going to divorce him. I let her go because I could not allow myself to codependently try to control her behavior. As much as I wanted to keep her safe, I had to let her make her own choices.

Shortly after she left, I started myself baking my father’s favorite cookies.  I found that I couldn’t stop myself from baking his favorite cookies and doing things to make him happy, even after I realized that he willfully chose to beat us for over 50 years.

The Christian in me wants to rejoice that love is stronger than sin and violence; that love is greater than disappointment and sorrow. The Christian in me reminds me that this is exactly why God never gets sick and tired of forgiving humanity of all our failures; because love doesn’t count the wrongs, it simply loves.

The child in me just wants to know when I’ll finally be safe and not have to be afraid of what will happen to my Mommy if I’m not watching over her.

I have no way to resolve this, but I am beginning to understand why Camille Cosby hasn’t divorced Bill Cosby, or why Gayle King struggles to understand how Charlie Rose could have done something so despicable when she admires him so much.

I cannot stop loving my father no matter how hard I try, and I don’t think that’s going to change, no matter how appalled I am at the reality that he continues to beat my mother, who I love very much.

I wish love was not so powerful, but I have no way to escape its gravitational pull.

This is why I haven’t been able to write for so many weeks. I could not admit this to myself or to any of you.  Thank you to everyone who supported me in writing these words, knowing how they would reveal my family’s private struggle and pain. Thank you for giving me permission to tell the truth when the truth is so difficult to bear.

Just as love won’t let me abandon my father, love won’t let me abandon the truth, and the love of friends will bear me through the pain of speaking this truth to all of you.

Without love we would all be doomed. With love we will all be in pain and be comforted, all at the same time. It’s a strange, strange conundrum that I am deeply grateful for.

Thank you for letting me speak the truth. I can only pray that it gives someone else the freedom to speak their truth. To that end, pray for all those who live under the shadow of domestic violence, please.  We need your love, your patience, and your help.

Thank you.