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I have received a gift so large, in the words of Ursula K. LeGuin, I had to enlarge my heart to receive it.
Tonight, I went to my church group. Because of various crises in people's lives, only three people were there (usually there are 6 - 12). Just me, and my two best friends at my church, J and C.
During the "highs and lows" segment, I mentioned that I was working on some issues, but I didn't feel ready to talk about it. The issues I have been working on dealt with my marriage, and my increasing ties of friendship to people who are poly (with whom, a year ago, I could not have let go of my anger and prejudices enough to be friends) and my increasing reconsideration of my own monogamous status.
I had not been talking to people in my church community lately. I was sure I would be judged as being an irredeemable sinner (even though I really didn't feel like one) and cast out. I had been especially worried about the reaction of my closest friends. I preferred to distance myself from J, and others, than have them reject me, which I felt sure they would do.
The issue for the Scripture discussion was fear: "Was there ever a time when you needed to do something that you were terrified to do?" J read that sentence, and I could hear the voice of God: "Speak. You have to tell them....and there will never be another moment like this."
So I spoke. I told them of my decision to stay with my husband in what was at some level an open marriage. I told them of my many friends who had lives that most of the people in the church community would probably find distressing, but who were nonetheless generous, loving, wonderful human beings. I told them how hating people and holding on to my righteous indignation had been hurting me, how lately I had found that all slipping away. I told how I had been afraid to tell them because I was afraid they would not love me anymore, and I couldn't bear it.
And they listened. And they reassured me that, whatever choices I made in my life, they would still love me and be there for me. C., especially, said "You know, if you chose not to be monogamous, and at this point I'm not sure I would blame you, that is your choice. It is not other people's place to judge you."
J asked point blank (while admitting it was none of her business) whether I was still monogamous. I found the courage to say to someone whose opinion matters more to me than that of most members of my immediate family and for whom I would do almost anything in the world: "Currently yes, but I don't see that necessarily continuing." She looked pained, and sad, but not angry, not rejecting.
She expressed concern about my relationship with God. She was concerned that I was distancing myself from God. And I was able to articulate what had been tearing at my heart: it was not God, but my relationship with the church that I had been sure I was losing. And for me, this was a big thing -- this church, which I joined at the age of thirty-two, was the first place in my entire life I had been where I had felt unconditionally loved and accepted. Losing it was ripping me apart.
As we said goodbye, they both hugged me very tightly. J said to me, as we were picking up our respective kids, "Don't go anywhere. Stick around. We're still here for you."
There will be people who I cannot share this with because they will reject me. There will be others who will believe that I am endangering my soul, but who will nonetheless still love me and be there for me. (Hey, if this gets about I'll be on lots of people's prayer lists! : > ) I can live with that.
My two friends still love me. I am not completely bereft. God is good to me.
The bridges I am standing on are not burning, but are made of material stronger than I could ever have imagined. I am blessed.
Tonight, I went to my church group. Because of various crises in people's lives, only three people were there (usually there are 6 - 12). Just me, and my two best friends at my church, J and C.
During the "highs and lows" segment, I mentioned that I was working on some issues, but I didn't feel ready to talk about it. The issues I have been working on dealt with my marriage, and my increasing ties of friendship to people who are poly (with whom, a year ago, I could not have let go of my anger and prejudices enough to be friends) and my increasing reconsideration of my own monogamous status.
I had not been talking to people in my church community lately. I was sure I would be judged as being an irredeemable sinner (even though I really didn't feel like one) and cast out. I had been especially worried about the reaction of my closest friends. I preferred to distance myself from J, and others, than have them reject me, which I felt sure they would do.
The issue for the Scripture discussion was fear: "Was there ever a time when you needed to do something that you were terrified to do?" J read that sentence, and I could hear the voice of God: "Speak. You have to tell them....and there will never be another moment like this."
So I spoke. I told them of my decision to stay with my husband in what was at some level an open marriage. I told them of my many friends who had lives that most of the people in the church community would probably find distressing, but who were nonetheless generous, loving, wonderful human beings. I told them how hating people and holding on to my righteous indignation had been hurting me, how lately I had found that all slipping away. I told how I had been afraid to tell them because I was afraid they would not love me anymore, and I couldn't bear it.
And they listened. And they reassured me that, whatever choices I made in my life, they would still love me and be there for me. C., especially, said "You know, if you chose not to be monogamous, and at this point I'm not sure I would blame you, that is your choice. It is not other people's place to judge you."
J asked point blank (while admitting it was none of her business) whether I was still monogamous. I found the courage to say to someone whose opinion matters more to me than that of most members of my immediate family and for whom I would do almost anything in the world: "Currently yes, but I don't see that necessarily continuing." She looked pained, and sad, but not angry, not rejecting.
She expressed concern about my relationship with God. She was concerned that I was distancing myself from God. And I was able to articulate what had been tearing at my heart: it was not God, but my relationship with the church that I had been sure I was losing. And for me, this was a big thing -- this church, which I joined at the age of thirty-two, was the first place in my entire life I had been where I had felt unconditionally loved and accepted. Losing it was ripping me apart.
As we said goodbye, they both hugged me very tightly. J said to me, as we were picking up our respective kids, "Don't go anywhere. Stick around. We're still here for you."
There will be people who I cannot share this with because they will reject me. There will be others who will believe that I am endangering my soul, but who will nonetheless still love me and be there for me. (Hey, if this gets about I'll be on lots of people's prayer lists! : > ) I can live with that.
My two friends still love me. I am not completely bereft. God is good to me.
The bridges I am standing on are not burning, but are made of material stronger than I could ever have imagined. I am blessed.
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