Taking Back Buffet

I've been thinking about writing this since long before my blog was born. But it's so personal and sometimes even still so painful that I've been holding off. I was cautioned recently not to "let it all hang out," and this may indeed cross a line of public decency. What I need to say is not the stuff of polite conversation; it will probably make you uncomfortable.

But in the past 24 hours I've had three signals blare loudly at me, telling me that this story is not to be held off any longer. And sometimes, when you feel like the signals might be coming from God, you have to give in and listen even if you don't understand why.

Luke and Natalie had a typical fight this past weekend. She did this, he did that, and at some point he held on to her just a little too long. He claimed it was meant to be a conciliatory hug; she felt restrained against her will. And as Bryan and I mediated the aftermath of the fight, my own past snuck up and surprised me with its old pain. I had started to explain to Luke that God made men bigger and stronger than women, not to overpower them, but to protect them. And I could barely get through the lesson because my voice began to give out under the weight of memory.

I was fifteen when I met Blake. That's not his real name, but I'm using it to protect his privacy and also, mostly, because it is sometimes too hard for me to write or say his real name out loud. We met in the church youth group-- a perfect place for a wolf in sheep's clothing to prowl. He was a senior, almost eighteen, and I could hardly believe he'd pay any attention to a freshman girl.

He made no secret of the fact that he was condescending to date a kid like me and took every opportunity to put me in my place. Once when I mentioned that I liked the smell of his hair, he shot back that it was his shampoo I liked (stupid girl). Another time, my little brother did something to aggravate me, and whatever I said in response must have had a tone of threat in it. Blake grabbed a fork off the kitchen counter and backed me into a corner, pointing the fork, hate seething in his eyes. I can't remember his words, but I am sure they were stronger than the ones he was so furious that I'd used on my brother.

We took rides around town in his secondhand sedan, and he'd play Jimmy Buffet almost exclusively. I had never much noticed Buffet before then; in the 15 years since, I don't think I've ever heard him without feeling a little heavy in my stomach. Maybe if I lived in North Dakota this wouldn't be such an issue, but I live in Florida, and hints of Margaritaville are everywhere-- we are a people who wear flip-flops in February. Our T.J. Maxx has an entire aisle devoted to prints of palm trees and salt-rimmed glasses. Our grocery store sells Key lime pie-flavored ice cream. So you can expect to hear a Buffet song on any given rock station at least once a week.

We all have things that evoke gut responses-- for some people it's a majestic view of nature, for some it's a scent that carries them back to childhood. For me, it's song. Music has always been one of my greatest loves, and that's why it carries so much weight. I was on an incredible family cruise a couple years ago, and of course the steel drum band started up with the song about frozen concoctions. I imagine anyone else on the ship who noticed it probably just settled a little farther into their chaises and soaked in the sun. I heard it and my chaise suddenly got a lot less comfortable.

We would take these drives with Buffet, often on the pretext of going on a date, but as soon as we took the turn away from town and toward the baseball field, I knew it wasn't going to be a good date for me. Blake would park behind the empty field, the trees dimming the bright lights that might otherwise have attracted attention. But no one saw, so no one came, and I was only fifteen.

What began as pressure soon turned to force. Shame and fear of disappointing my parents kept my secret locked away, and although I shared a watered down version with a few friends, no one knew the hard details or the depth of pain they caused until about eight years later when I was married with children. Sometimes when you push a memory down, it gets buried enough not to intrude in your life. You really just don't think about it, and if you do, the thought is gone before it can sting. It's a lot more comfortable this way, a lot easier to go about life.

I was watching an episode of Oprah as I folded the laundry, and she began reading out a checklist of signs of abuse. I tried to keep folding my husband's dress socks, but each item on the list bore down heavier and heavier on me until I had to drop the socks and let the tears shudder out. I began to see a therapist, and on my first visit he asked me to fill out a form that included the question, "What do you hope to get out of therapy?" My answer was one word: Peace.

The therapy helped; finally talking to my family helped; writing this helps. I know that I'm still not completely healed because for every ten times I hear a Buffet song without a bat of an eyelash, there's an eleventh that slays me. The way I see it, I have two choices: I can change the station, or I can take back the music. No offense to you Parrotheads, but I don't think giving up Buffet would be any great loss to my life's playlist. But if I just change the station, I concede to pain.

In the years since Blake, I have come to know a Great Physician. He doesn't work on me by letting me ignore the pain-- no good doctor does. He touches the tender spots from time to time to remind me that they still need his care because he knows that otherwise I would try to pretend that I am well.

I have a tendency to always look for meaning behind the mundane. As I've struggled with writing this for two days, I've been asking God, "why?" Why do I feel like you want me to write this? A large part of me hopes that it's because maybe even just one person needs to know she is not alone. Maybe just one other person out there needs a little hope. But that's a grand idea, and maybe the "why" isn't always so big. Maybe I just need to be able to listen to the radio and have peace.

Potty Mouth

When I first began writing this blog, a friend let me know that she'd recommended it to others in our church with a caveat about my swear words. I belong to an incredible church family, full of compassion, full of love, but maybe not so full of debatable language. I have a feeling I am the only one who has ever regularly used the phrase "pissed off" in Bible study. But they let me come anyway, so I do.

I am not what you'd call a "good Christian." I don't bring my Bible to church so that I can follow along dutifully as my pastor reads the scripture before the sermon. I mean, it's printed right there in the pamphlet-- who needs the extra accoutrements-- and besides, I'm pretty sure my Bible is still in a box in the garage from the move (four months ago, but who's counting?). I don't have patience for Christian radio. I have been known to throw down multiple appletinis at couples' game night. I would never, ever, not in a gazillion years homeschool my kids-- I screw them up enough in the few hours a day I already have them.

So, obviously my compass of Proper Christian Behavior is a little crooked. You will have to excuse me if I find the pointed use of such descriptive terms as "asshole" to be morally acceptable. Clearly, my standards just aren't that high.

Now, I am not going to call you up and start screaming obscenities in your ear. I am not going to teach your children how to spell "jackass" at Sunday School. But a blog is not an intrusive medium. If you are offended by my language, you are quite free to click the little x. And so I will feel free to use language that I find suitable to my point.

I realize I might be able to gain greater (Christian) readership if I swapped out every "shit" for a "crap." And for that matter, I'd probably also gain greater (non-Christian) readership if I traded every "Jesus" for a "spirit of human kindness." But the first exchange would compromise the integrity of my writing, just as the second, the integrity of my soul.

There are good arguments for Christians' abstaining from this kind of language. To me, the best one is that it has been pressed on their hearts. If God wants to lay that one on me, I'm sure he will, and I hope I'll heed him. But so far, I haven't felt the conviction. If you have, I respect that, and I will be careful in conversation not to use words that would offend you or derail your walk. And as much as I want you to read my writing, if it would similarly offend or derail, then I hope you will not.

I have read the argument that we must not use "worldly" language just to make ourselves relatable to non-Christians. And insofar as that means not just spouting off for show, I agree-- no one is won over to anything by fakeness. But what gets me is the hint of superiority that I can feel tugging behind it.

I recently read a comment on another blog dealing with the issue, and the commenter suggested of non-Christians' propensity for swearing, "Just figuring what's in their heart is what flows out of their mouth, if you know what I mean." Oh yes, Self-righteous Sammy, I know exactly what you mean. You mean that now that you've been saved, you're a perfect little dear. You mean that you haven't a bit of ugly in your heart anymore. And I just have to call, "bullshit."


If you've ever refused to forgive or had a moment of road rage, then you have damning in your heart. If there's one pesky part of your character you'd just as soon be rid of, then you have shit in your soul. And if you've so much as looked at a pair of breasts when you should have been looking at a pair of eyes, then you guessed it, there's an F-bomb ticking away.


A friend's mother once instructed her that using vulgar language in writing was disrespectful to her readers. The way I see it, it would be disrespectful of me to pretend for you that I am better than I am. It would say that I don't care enough to be honest and transparent with you. I believe Jesus is working to clean up the shit in my heart-- maybe he just hasn't gotten to the language yet. Maybe he's even using the language to show you that if he can work on me, he can work on anyone.


My friend Erin told me that she doesn't believe there is such a thing as a "bad Christian." She said, "I believe God either loves you or he doesn't." And that really knocked the wind out of me for about three days. Because all I could think was that I was so grateful it didn't matter that I'm not a "good Christian"-- I have God's love, and, damn, that feels good.

Let the Games Begin!

Alright, here's the deal:

• Post a comment with a title suggestion.
• In two weeks (March 2, 2010), I will pick my favorite title.
• In exchange for all rights to said title, you will receive a free bag of Starbucks coffee.

Many thanks to my baby brother, barista extraordinaire, for being willing to fork over one week's worth of company perks. 

Lend Me Your Wit

There exists on the internet a group of users who have this easy, clever coolness about them. They spout witty little tidbits on Twitter and update their Facebook with statuses you replay in your mind all day, jealous that the best you've ever come up with was a cutesy description of your toddler's eating habits. Their blogs have smart pen names and titles that you wish you were literate enough to catch the reference to but instead have to look up on Google.

In case you hadn't noticed yet, I do not run in this circle. I don't even text much less tweet, but my pro bono publicist (who has, in truth, agreed neither to being pro bono nor my publicist) is working on getting me there.

When I began this blog, I just wanted a place to write-- that's it. But as I kept writing, people actually started reading. And they cared, and they told me they cared. My friends and family cheered me on, and I knew that this was because they love me; these are people who would support me if I decided that my life's calling was to be a barefoot mud painter. But then people I haven't seen in 10 years started letting me know that they were reading and enjoying my writing, and I even got my first comment from a complete stranger.

I realized that people wanted to read what I had to say because they were connecting with it. People told me that my writing made them feel less alone and more encouraged. So, steadily, I've been humbled and energized, seeing a new path emerge.

I've always wanted to write. It's a tremendous blessing to learn that now someone wants to read it. So, I am going to begin brave and careful steps down a path that I can't fully see but that I know will be good, because I know Who carved it for me.

I will need help along the way, and if there's one thing I'm not too bad at, it's asking for help when I need it. I am not afraid to be a pain in the ass, and in this particular instance, I think it may just work to my advantage. So here's what I need from you to help me get started: I need a new name.

"A Room of Her Own" suited my purposes to begin with, but I no longer just want a place to write for myself. I want to share my thoughts on real life and real faith, to encourage all kinds of people in all kinds of places, so I need a concise, descriptive title that conveys that. You can look for inspiration in my previous posts, comments people have left, and anywhere else that strikes you. To make it fun, I will officially call it a Contest, and the winner will receive as fabulous a prize as I can scrounge up.

So, friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your wit. (That's a reference to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. I know-- I Googled it.)