I would swoon over the men making elaborate declarations of love, and I would sob when the main character discovered that her love interest died in battle. I would read about how these characters would go above and beyond for each other and I would wonder if I would ever find anyone who thought I was worth going to the ends of the world for.

As a teenager, I struggled with a lot of self-esteem and confidence issues. I thought I was ugly, and I didn’t believe I was worthy of love and devotion. I would read my books and watch my friends around me get boyfriends and wonder if there was anyone out there who would love me like a character in my stories. Even though I was a romantic at heart, I didn’t think that kind of love really existed in real life. I would look at my parents’ relationship and assume that if I were to eventually find someone, I expected my marriage to look a lot like my parents’. I thought the screaming matches and silent treatment were normal, and I dreaded the idea of loving someone but having to endure them yelling at me when I messed up. It was easier to dream about my imaginary book husband than to envision what I thought my real husband would be like.

I was content to just read my books and dream until I had my first taste of “real life romance” when I started dating one of the guys from my youth group. I was thrilled that someone actually thought I was pretty enough to date, and I was afraid that I would mess it up somehow. We dated “unofficially” during my junior and his senior year of high school. I went into that relationship thinking that I found my real-life Prince Charming and I expected that he would treat me like one of the characters in my books. I know now that I was putting way too high of an expectation on a teenager who was just about to launch into adulthood, but sixteen-year-old Jamie was struggling with a lot of internalized pain and pressure, and I was praying that some words of affirmation would be my cure.

My ex was kind and respectful, but I kept willfully ignoring all the signs that he wasn’t as into me as I was into him. The closer he got to graduating, the more distant he seemed to get. He would take forever to text me back, and he even at one point sat me down and told me that he still wanted to date but that he wanted to be free to date at college in case he met someone better for him there. All of these should have been obvious red flags, but I continued to stay with him even when he moved away to college. I would sit by the phone on Saturday and wait for him to call me the way one of my characters would wait for news that their beloved was coming back from war. I would normally be left disappointed and heartbroken when my “prince charming” didn’t follow through. I eventually grew tired of being constantly disappointed and I sent him a breakup text. I completely poured my heart into that text. I admitted that I was tired of waiting for him to message me or call me back, and I told him that I had no plans of going to the same college as him, so there was no point in him pretending that he was still interested in me. I sent that message feeling empowered like one of my book characters would when they stood up for themselves. I felt proud of myself, and I pressed send thinking that he was going to respond like my book characters and beg for me back. You can imagine when I got a message back from him that said, “Thanks for taking the time to send this message, I talked to my dad about your text message and this is what my dad thinks:” He then proceeded to quote his dad word for word, which basically said that he should just focus on college and I should focus on high school, and that if God wanted us to be together, He would bring us back together in His timing. My ex ended the message with a “Thanks Jamie, hope you have a good senior year.” I read that message feeling deflated and defeated. I had hoped that he would be sad, surprised, even try to beg for me to reconsider, but instead he used his dad to basically thank me for taking him out of his misery? I was hurt that the guy who told me that he loved me and that he saw a future with me decided to break my heart into a million pieces and used his dad to lay the final blow. The pain of his rejection only increased those feelings of insecurity and worthlessness, and I was even more convinced that I was destined to live a lonely, loveless life. (I know, totally dramatic and extra of me.) It’s totally cringey and kinda funny to think about now, but at the time that rejection felt earth-shattering, and I carried the pain of that breakup for a long time. I continued to read my books and dream about falling in love, but I was afraid that I was never going to be good enough for anyone.

A lot of my insecurities were because I had people in my life who went out of their way to point out all of my physical imperfections and used them to make me feel less than. I grew up being told that I was ugly and undesirable, and that high school relationship made me feel like those voices were right. I went into adulthood believing that I was destined to be single because I had allowed those voices to control my mindset and my view of myself. When I went to college, I was torn between wanting to be a cool, independent woman, but I also still yearned to feel loved unconditionally. I started to look for that unconditional love in all the wrong places, and it took me having my heart broken a few times for me to realize that I needed to find my sufficiency in Jesus before I was ever going to have a successful relationship.

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

— 2 Corinthians 12:9 (ESV)

“Not that we are sufficient in ourselves to claim anything as coming from us, but our sufficiency is from God, who has made us sufficient to be ministers of a new covenant...”

— 2 Corinthians 3:5-6 (ESV)

God used my time at college to help me recognize that I needed to build my relationship with Him before I could start a romantic relationship. I then began to study God’s word more fully, and I discovered that God looks at love way differently than even my book characters did.

“In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.”

— 1 John 4:9-10 (ESV)

In most of my stories, I read about how the main characters would discover that God’s love for them was bigger than the love of their love interest, and I used to read those stories and think, “That’s so obvious! Of course God’s love is better than earthly love,” but I had never truly allowed myself to embrace God’s love for myself. I had to come to the understanding that no relationship on earth will ever compare to how God loves me. God loves me so dearly that He literally sent His only Son to die on the cross for my sins so that I may be with Him. I had to surrender the pain of my insecurities to God and allow myself to replace words like “ugly” and “worthless” with “beautiful,” “chosen,” and “worthy.” How can I expect to find that storybook love when I don’t see myself worthy of love? It wasn’t until I began to strive to see myself like God does that I began to feel hope for my future.

I graduated college feeling more secure in my relationship with Jesus, and I had a newfound hope that if God had a man out there for me, it would be someone who would lead me closer to Jesus, not further away.

I didn’t expect that He would bring my husband into my life during a global pandemic, but I am so thankful that I met him when I did. We spent the first four months of our relationship going on video date chats before we ever met in person. We spent a lot of those four months talking about our individual relationships with Jesus, and I found Josh’s views on God and the way he strived to obey Him refreshing. For the first time in my life, I had found someone who didn’t expect me to be perfect, and he accepted me for who I was without conditions. Josh and I went on to date for a whole year, and it didn’t take long for us to see a future together. Our love story is full of sweet moments that felt like they belonged in one of the books I read as a child.

I could go on and tell about our first date, our many road trips to visit his family in northern Michigan, or all the late-night conversations where we shared our hearts with each other and it was made clear that God had made him for me, and me for him. One of my favorite memories was when Josh and I had our first kiss. We were walking down a trail near his apartment at the time. Josh was gently holding my hand, and we were engaged in a theological debate (one of Josh’s favorite things to debate). I don’t remember what exactly we were discussing, but I know that we were laughing and poking fun at each other. I teased him about being nerdy, and he would tease me about being pretty. I would always scoff and tell him he was just seeing things, but he always seemed to insist that he knew better than I did in that department. We were just coming to a wooden bridge that overlooked a small creek, and we quickly fell into a comfortable silence. I was content to stand next to Josh and quietly observe the full moon slowly rising in the distance. I felt calm and at peace. I looked up at Josh and was surprised to see that he was looking down at me with a small, nervous grin on his face. I started to ask what he was looking at when he suddenly bent down and laid a gentle kiss on my lips.

Our first kiss was sweet and gentle, and I had never felt more beautiful and chosen than I did in that moment. All the years of hearing that I was ugly, unworthy, and not good enough melted away with that kiss, and I knew in that moment that I had found my love for life. He eventually pulled away and smiled warmly at me as I stood there with a surprised but happy look on my face. I felt like my hands were shaking and I felt like my heart was going to burst. “Was that ok?” he asked, noticing the way my hands shook in his. “Yeah, it’s more than ok,” I said, fighting back tears. “I am just really happy.” I had grown up in a world that made me believe that I was unworthy and ugly, and I was having a hard time believing that Josh loved me like he said he did. That kiss took away any of the doubts and I fully trusted that Josh’s love for me was more pure and genuine than any other relationship that I tried to make work. We went on to date for another ten months before Josh finally mustered up the courage to ask me to be his wife. I used to dream about the elaborate, fairy-tale proposals I read about in my books, convinced that ‘love’ looked like a grand spectacle. But that’s not what I wanted anymore. I realized that the best proposals aren’t the ones that demand attention—they are the ones that quietly promise a future. The simplicity of our love story has become more precious to me than any storybook romance ever could have been.

Josh approached me a few weeks after our one-year anniversary of dating and said that he wanted to take me, and another couple who are good friends of ours, to a few hiking spots near his parents’ home in northern Michigan. “It will be a hiking double date,” he told me. I said, “That sounds great!” and the four of us agreed on the dates that Josh suggested in the group chat. I thought it was sweet that he was planning a double date, but a small part of me wondered if he had a bigger surprise in store for me than just a hike with friends. The day started with the four of us meeting up at a local breakfast spot, and then we set off for the first hiking spot. The first one was an old quarry that overlooked Lake Huron. We all walked through the abandoned quarry and even made our way to the top of one of the hills overlooking the lake. There was a moment where Josh and I were just standing together, and I noticed that our friends had taken a few steps back and were watching us. I started to wonder if Josh was about to propose when he bent down on one knee… to tie his shoe. I felt my heart skip a beat and had to stop myself from overreacting over shoelaces. We then moved on to a beach trail with a lighthouse overlooking the lake. We walked hand in hand as we took in the views of the beach and the lighthouse. I noticed again that our friends were trailing behind us, but I figured they were just enjoying their own time together, much like we were. By the time we made it to the third hiking spot, I had already pushed the idea of an engagement out of my mind, trusting that Josh would propose when he was ready. The third spot was a trail running right along a river filled with small waterfalls. The four of us were walking along the trail, talking and laughing, when we turned a bend and came to a bridge leading to a spot Josh insisted had the best view. As we crossed the bridge, the chatter quickly died down, and I noticed Josh unzipping his jacket for the first time all day. His posture shifted from relaxed to visibly nervous. Our friends once again stepped back as Josh led me to a viewpoint overlooking the falls. I was admiring the river when Josh took my hand, pulled a ring box from his jacket, and asked, “Jamie Ann Barnes, will you marry me?” Before he could even finish his speech or show me the ring, I blurted out, “Yes, yes, yes!” as tears of joy filled my eyes. Josh slid the ring onto my finger and kissed me passionately, momentarily forgetting our friends were right there. I turned to see them holding up their phones, capturing the moment with huge smiles. “Surprise!” they cheered. “Our job was to take photos!” I laughed and said, “I wondered why you guys kept lurking behind us!” They congratulated us as I embraced my new fiancé, completely in awe of the beautiful ring and overwhelmed by a love far greater than any storybook romance I had read as a child.

Fast-forward five years: Josh and I are happily married and the parents of two young girls. Our relationship has not always been perfect, and we have certainly faced our fair share of struggles and challenges. Yet, we continue to fight for each other, learning and growing together in ways I never could have read about in my romance stories. God has used my marriage to shape and grow me into a completely different woman than I was when Josh proposed five and a half years ago. I am no longer a people pleaser who based her value on the opinions of others, and I no longer believe myself to be worthless and ugly. God has used Josh’s love for me to heal parts of me that he didn’t break, and he leads me closer to Jesus every day.

As I write this blog, I think back to sixteen-year-old Jamie who was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders and how she buried her head in books to try to escape the abuse that she was enduring behind closed doors. I think about that high school relationship and cringe over how I expected that seventeen-year-old boy to be my everything when I didn’t even know who I was. I think back on these memories and can’t help but see God’s hand slowly using them to guide and mold me into who I am today. If I could tell sixteen-year-old me a few things today, I would tell her that she was strong and beautiful, and that she was worthy of love and acceptance. I would tell her that she would grow up to fall in love with a wonderful man who went above and beyond for her and has put all her book characters to shame. I would tell her that boys are stupid and to not waste any tears on a teenage boy. I would tell her that God has an amazing plan for her and that she just has to continue to trust Him better. I would tell her that she was worthy and cherished, and that God had plans for her bigger than her imagination.

I would also tell sixteen-year-old me that I will be okay even if God never brings a Prince Charming my way. I think purity culture and Disney prince culture have a tendency to make young women think that they are only complete if they have a guy to love them, but in reality, a relationship should enhance your life, not sustain it. I would tell myself that it’s okay to be alone; and if you are reading this and still waiting for that Prince Charming, please know that being single does not define you, and it does not make you undesirable or broken. It’s okay to be content, even if our culture tries to trick you into thinking singleness is a negative reflection on yourself.

I am so beyond thankful for my husband, and our love story is a testament to how good and wonderful our God always has been and will continue to be.

My dad would use this story as an example of how God can use even the youngest child to spread His word. He would quote Matthew 18:2–4:

“He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: ‘Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.’”

He would cite my frankness to encourage his congregation to spread the gospel with boldness and without apology. I used to think back on this with relief and pride because I thought my dad told this story because he was proud of me, but now I think he shared it because it reflected well on him. I can’t help but find it ironic that my dad was quick to encourage my boldness when it benefited him, but he saw it as a hindrance to his ministry when I needed his help and support.

The first time my innocence was threatened was when I was four years old. There was a man at our church in Maryland who we will call Billy. Billy had a childlike countenance, but the body of a full-grown male. He was very kind and had a weird obsession with trees, but he also took a liking to me. I have vague memories of him following me around the churchyard holding my hand and calling me his “wife.” As a four-year-old who didn’t know any better, I thought it was normal for an adult to play husband and wife, so I went along with it, flattered that he thought I was a “pretty princess.”

I was so enamored with this fantasy that when Billy had me sit on his lap during a picnic, I thought it was completely normal. I remember sitting on his knee with his hand securely around my waist, and I remember Billy telling someone nearby, “Don’t tell her to get off me, that’s my wife!” The rest of my memory of that moment is fuzzy, but I still remember feeling cold and very exposed all of a sudden. I heard someone say, “Jamie, get off him now.” I started to climb off, but Billy said, “No, she’s my wife, she can sit here!” He then rested his hand on my leg, and I felt even more uncomfortable.

I finally was able to free myself from his grasp and went and found my dad. , another adult had beaten me to it, because when I got to my dad, I didn’t get understanding i—I got a lecture.

Dad quickly pulled me aside and said, “Jamie, don’t go and climb on Billy’s lap again. Do you understand?” I could tell my dad was embarrassed, but he was trying to keep himself from yelling because we were surrounded by church members. I felt confused. Still not completely sure what was happening, I started to say something like, “We were just playing husband and wife,” but Dad stopped me with an angry snap of his fingers. “I don’t care, it doesn’t look right! Billy isn’t right in the head, he’s got some mental issues, but you should know better than to encourage him!”

I felt ashamed and embarrassed. I knew I had just made my dad look bad, and I knew he wasn’t happy about it. I nodded and apologized, and I tried to avoid Billy after that. I have no memory of my dad lecturing Billy the way that he lectured me. It is entirely possible that my dad pulled him aside privately, but a lecture was the extent of Billy’s punishment. He was still allowed at the church afterward, and he still tried to loiter around the kids even though he was told to keep his distance. I found out as an adult that Billy had a history of some sort, but I’m unsure of how far that extended.

Although I am now a thirty-year-old woman, I think about that situation with Billy and wonder how much my mind is not letting me remember about him. I have vague, fuzzy memories of Billy talking about wife duties, but I don’t remember much else about it. I don’t believe Billy ever touched me, but I do wonder if God was trying to use him to wake my dad up to the dangers that were right under his nose.

It’s unfortunate and painful to admit, but I was actually sexually assaulted exactly one year later by another child in our church. Out of respect for the individual, I will keep the details of that particular story private—not to protect and excuse his behavior, but to bring the focus back to my dad’s continual refusal to protect me. I hold no anger toward the child who hurt me, and I pray that he finds peace and healing.

Looking Back: The Weight of Silence

*small excerpt from my unreleased book:

Afterward, I remember feeling dirty, unwanted, and used. I felt sick to my stomach, not quite understanding what had just happened. Hundreds of questions filled my mind, but I didn’t have the words to describe what happened. The stress eventually became too great, and I ended up getting physically sick. I remember throwing up and my dad sending me upstairs for a bath. Dad was being so kind that I thought it was a good time to ask him one of my questions.

“Daddy, why do boys have different private parts than girls?”

“What did you say?”

I repeated the question hoping to finally get some answers.

“How do you know that, Jamie?”

I then told him everything, hoping he would answer my questions and comfort me. Instead, my dad stood up, picked me up, and spanked me. He then instructed me to get dressed and quickly ran down the stairs yelling, “Jen! We have a problem!”

I was left in the bathroom feeling more alone than before. “What did I do wrong?” I asked myself. “Why did that happen?” My parents never came back to explain what happened—instead, I was sent to bed that night feeling confused, alone, and disgusting. The next day was business as usual, until my mom told me that we were having a meeting with the boy’s parents after evening service.

That night I watched as my dad arranged six chairs in a circle on the auditorium stage. The boy sat next to me looking just as disgruntled as I was. Our parents all sat across from us as if they were the jury and we were on trial. My mom sat next to the boy’s mom, holding hands for comfort. My dad sat in the middle, acting as a judge ready to hand down our sentence. I don’t remember everything that was said that night, but three things stood out to me:

1. My mom was crying and comforting her friend.

2. My dad lecturing the boy and me on the importance of not playing unsupervised, and declaring that we were no longer allowed to play together.

3. We were never to talk about what happened ever again.

Writing this down is difficult, but it is necessary to highlight the core issue I am grappling with: the silence that was imposed on me—a silence that often served to protect the institution rather than the child.

My sexual assault was the beginning of the end of my innocent and carefree childhood. I then slowly became weighed down by the heavy load of shame and despair. I believed that Billy’s attempt at grooming was my fault, and I believed that my dad’s choice to punish me was justified. I started to hate myself, and I didn’t believe that I brought any value to anyone’s life. Now that I know better, and I have healed and forgiven those who hurt me (including my dad), I want to bring attention to the major red flags that are literally spinning off the flagpole in this story.

In both instances, we see a little girl who needed guidance, love, and protection, but instead got neglected, shamed, and punished. In this story, we see a pastor who valued the reputation of his church over the protection of his child, and we see a congregation that submitted to that pastor’s authority even if he wasn’t making the best decisions. I could go on and list endless situations where I was neglected and punished when I needed help. My dad continued to put the church over my needs, and I was never allowed to tell him how I felt or if something he was doing was harmful.

When I was twelve, one of my dad’s college friends invited us over for dinner, and his son tried to force me into a tent and attempted to kiss me without my consent. The only reason he was not successful was because my sister grabbed him by the neck and pulled him off me. When we told my dad what happened, he dismissed us and told me “I was okay,” and we continued to hang out with his family. I didn’t know why, but that moment gave me flashbacks of what happened when I was five. I froze and felt powerless against it. That feeling felt even stronger when I tried to tell my parents about the flashbacks. They instantly dismissed it and said, “Children are to be seen and not heard,” and then ended it with, “We don’t talk about that, Jamie.”

My parents became experts at knowing how to silence me, and I continued to bury my trauma deep down so as not to upset them. My dad carried pastoral authority into his role as a parent, and it only secured that muzzle on my mouth even more. I grew up with him telling me “I am your pastor first, then I am your father.” He made it clear that he was always going to prioritize the church before me, and he thrived off that seat of authority. In one of my earlier blogs I shared how my dad tended to push his opinion on his congregation, and if you disagreed or went against him in any way, he would lecture and manipulate that church member back into compliance. I know former church members who tried to stand up to my dad in the past, and many of them ended up leaving the church because my dad used his authority to push them out.

Unfortunately, I am not the only one that has felt unimportant and unheard by a parent, and I am not the only one who has seen how easy it is for independent pastors who go out of their way to avoid accountability to hurt children and use their position as the head of the church to control them. It’s so easy for me now to see how that same dynamic played out in how my dad raised me. I have many memories of my dad saying that “the IFB is the best kind of church because he liked

that the main decision-making was left at the pastor’s feet.” Although I know plenty of churches that function independently, they still have a system where they are accountable so that everyone (including the pastor) has someone to answer to. I personally believe that it was my dad’s lack of accountability that allowed him to protect the people who were harming me, because he himself didn’t want his abusive behavior to come to light.

I could go on and list many men and even women who held a position of authority and used it to abuse and manipulate children of all ages. I could speak on Hyles-Anderson, which is a hero to many Baptists for its college and for the sermons where he “boldly called out sin,” but in the dark he was allegedly abusive to his family and had an affair with his church secretary. I heard about Hyles-Anderson’s secret life from a podcast, and I once decided to ask my dad about it. My dad instantly dismissed the allegations and said, “It’s ok, he did a good bus ministry.” I at first was horrified by my dad’s response, but now I don’t see it as surprising, but just an indicator of where my dad’s true heart lies. We can’t question the Man of God, and to do so is to question God. This mindset is the reason why so many adults my age report leaving the church. They were punished and victim-blamed when they tried to speak out against the harmful behavior that caused them to have unimaginable pain and trauma that followed them throughout their life. I have heard many well-meaning people try to justify men like my dad’s behavior by saying “he is a man of God,” “he tried his best,” or my personal favorite, “I wouldn’t want to fill his shoes.” These phrases, though meant to give grace, are sadly just another way to justify abusive behavior.

The danger of independent churches that are solely run by only a pastor and a few “yes men” deacons prevents accountability, honesty, and integrity in the church.

Hebrews 4:13-16 ESV

[13] And no creature is hidden from his sight, but all are naked and exposed to the eyes of him to whom we must give account. [14] Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. [15] For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. [16] Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.

The Bible says it best: No man, woman, or child is above the authority of God. God doesn’t care how many buses you filled, the doors you knocked on, or the tracts you passed out if you only did it to strengthen your man-made authority over a church. It’s true that God has called men to preach so that they can help bring the gospel to a lost world, but that does not mean those men should be allowed to abuse their congregation or their children without punishment. It’s time that we stop looking at children as just an extension of the adults around them, and allow them to ask for help without fear of any repercussions.

I have spent a lot of time in therapy reflecting on that young version of me, and mourning the loss of my innocence and my voice. I grew up believing that my agency was based on my father’s authority and I was afraid to speak the truth for fear of the repercussions. It took years of healing and therapy to process my trauma and to find God’s grace through the most painful circumstances. Although my childhood gave me many reasons to turn my back on God, I am grateful that I can look to my Savior as the final authority of my life and know that He will always hear me, see me, and protect me.

If you are also a victim of sexual assault, I understand that reading material like this can be triggering and uncomfortable. I am so sorry for the pain you have had to endure and I pray that my story helps you feel less alone.

If you have struggled or are currently struggling with church hurt and feel abandoned by God, please know that His love and grace are sure and unconditional.

If you’re reading this and you’re a family member of mine, I pray that you read my story and hear my heart. I love you dearly and I yearn for you to find the same peace that I have found. I love my parents and I pray that God helps them to see the truth of their actions one day.

If you are reading this and you’re a pastor, or someone in church leadership, I pray that you continue to seek God and surround yourself with fellow believers who are willing to help keep accountability.

I am thankful that God is helping me find my voice again and I pray that he continues to give me the same boldness that I once had as a child. You just won’t get a lecture about smoking from me this time ;)

Everyone has these moments in their childhood that can define and set the tone for the trajectory of their adult life. Psychology suggests that these core memories pave the way for how individuals view themselves, relate to others, and form their worldview. It defines cognitive development and emotional regulation and has a heavy influence on your relationships with friends, family, and romantic partners. In other words, defining moments have the capability to either be super positive, or super duper dysfunctional. (This information is based on general research; I am not a mental health professional.)

Although I am not an expert, I can personally attest that my core memories had a heavy influence on my mental and emotional health as an adult. Although I have always had a happy and positive exterior, I have actually struggled with a deep-rooted shame that made me a people pleaser who has struggled with anxiety and depression. Some of my defining moments include having a seizure at three days old. This affected my cognitive development, leading to learning disabilities and hand-eye coordination issues. Although I have no memory of my seizures or the time in the hospital, I found out when I was old enough to understand that my mom was the only parent who stayed with me at the hospital. My mom once told me that my dad only came once to visit, but was too busy working at the church to support his newly postpartum wife and sick daughter. I have since wondered if my sickness as an infant is one of the reasons my dad seemed to hang my health issues over my head as a child. He would yell and scream at me whenever I struggled with basic things like tying my shoes or throwing a ball. If he tried to help me with my homework, he would slam the table, yell, hit and pull my hair and even resort to name-calling: “You’re stupid!” or “You’re being a jackass!” These words would hit me like a bullet to the heart and made me believe that I was nothing but a stupid jackass.

At five years old, I was sexually molested and then punished when I told my parents about it. No one ever took the time to explain what happened to me, so I carried that trauma and kept it locked up in my heart until it became too heavy to carry on my own. I grew up feeling shame, disgust, and unworthiness because of my sexual assault, and I never again asked my parents questions regarding sexual development or even the anatomical names for penis and vagina. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I didn’t know that the word for female genitalia was vagina until I was fourteen years old. Even more embarrassing to admit, I didn’t even know that what happened to me counted as sexual assault until I was an adult. I had individuals who constantly teased and mocked me for my naivete and shelteredness, but I know now that it was just my mind protecting me from an incredibly painful memory.

At six years old, my father was diagnosed with stage four leukemia and I had to learn about the gravity of death at a very young and vulnerable age. I have memories of visiting my dad in the hospital and being told that “Dad may be going to heaven, so be ready to say goodbye.” Thankfully God spared my dad’s life and he is still here today, but the trauma of having a terminally ill father who also had a major anger problem made me believe that the only way to be happy was to do anything and everything he told me to. I felt like I owed my dad blind obedience because of his cancer diagnosis.

As I have sat down and reflected on my defining moments, I am amazed at how God rescued me from a life of bitterness and resentment. In my book, I share the full story of how God freed me from the sin of people pleasing and how He freed me from holding hurt and resentment in my heart. I am hoping to share my whole story soon, but I wanted to write this particular blog post to address some of the pushback and make one thing clear: I am not angry. I could go on and list every single way that I was failed as a child, and I could go on and share in detail the self-esteem issues, the body image issues, my anxiety, and even the times where I felt so hopeless that I even considered taking my own life. I have every reason to be angry and resentful, and I don’t think anyone would blame me for it.

There was a time not too long ago where I felt the heavy weight of my trauma, and I actually did allow bitterness and anger to take root in my heart. I used to spend a lot of time resenting my parents for where they failed me. I would look at my two daughters and wonder why my parents didn’t protect me the same way I strive to protect mine. I would think back on the physical and emotional abuse that I endured, and I wondered how any man could stand before a congregation and preach on God’s love and grace, but treat his own child with so much cruelty. I wondered how many people noticed the obvious signs of abuse and chose to ignore it for fear of going against the Man of God. I felt anger, and I wanted my parents to feel the same pain they caused me, but now I know that it is not my place to bring justice to the unrepentant.

Romans 12:17–19

​”Recompense to no man evil for evil... If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men. Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Colossians 3:12–13

​”Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering; Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.”

I had to study God’s scriptures to recognize that in order to heal and grow in my relationship with God, I had to release the anger and resentment and allow God to work in my heart so that I can fully embrace forgiveness and freedom in Him. I can hear the naysayers now “how can you forgive someone and yet go and write a blog about your life?” “if you forgive them then move on let it go” my answer to that is this: i can forgive my parents and still speak the truth of what they did especially when i am sharing it to bring honor to the God who rescued me from a cycle that only bred dysfunction and chaos.

Ephesians 4:29–32

​”Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”

There are countless examples in the bible where God used the broken to bring honor and glory to his name. The Bible tells the story of Job who lost his health, wealth, and his children all within the same day. He had friends who were supposed to support him but instead they condemned and blamed him for his difficulties, then he had his wife who was so overcome by grief that she famously told job “to curse God and die!” Job had ever reason to let bitterness and resentment grow but instead he chose to put his faith in God. The bible even says that God went on to use Job’s wife and she had ten more children with her husband.

Job and his wife are a perfect example of how it’s ok to feel the human emotions of anger and frustration as long as you bring the focus back to Christ. I often think of Job’s wife and remember all the sermons I heard growing up condemning her for struggling with anger and resentment. I heard her be called a nag and a shrew. She was villainized for having a very human reaction to a very painful and difficult situation. As a mother who has experienced a miscarriage I couldn’t imagine the devastation that she was feeling for losing all ten of her children.

Although the bible never tells us how Jobs’ wife was able to move on, I like to think that she eventually had to come to terms with her grief and surrender her pain to God.

I have often looked at pictures of my younger self and mourned the loss of my innocence. I have struggled with wondering, “Why me?” “What was the point?” and “Why didn’t anyone protect me?”

It wasn’t until I decided to follow Job’s example that I saw how God was using it to help me become a cycle breaker. It’s only thanks to God that my daughters will never know the shame and despair I grew up under.

I am thankful that i can now look back at my defining moments and no longer look back and feel shame, despair and anger but instead I see God’s loving hand guiding through each difficulty and lovingly showing me that his strength and grace is sufficient to carry me through the deepest heartbreaks.

Ultimately, my story is a testament that while our pasts may be marked by moments of deep pain, it does not have to control or define us.

Conditioned to Apologize

Although it was completely normal to see my parents scream and shout at each other, I honestly don’t remember ever witnessing them model appropriate repair and restoration. I always assumed that they would just choose to resolve it privately, but now I wonder why it was ok to fight in front of me, but not okay to apologize in front of me?

The way that disciplining kids and arguments between siblings were handled was no better. If we disobeyed or even stepped outside of my dad’s control I would get spanked, or have my ears or hair yanked around then endure my dad screaming the same way he screamed at my mother. He would hurl insults at me like “brat,” “jackass,” and “fat,” then lecture me into believing that his response to my behavior was justified A short example of this was when I went to the store with my dad and I saw him open up a bag of candy to eat while we shopped. My mom had recently told me that it was considered rude to open food without paying for it first, so like any six-year-old who was deeply curious about the world around her, I asked, “Daddy, why are you eating candy? Mom says you have to pay for it.” My dad shot me an irritated look and quickly looked around to make sure no one heard me. He said, “I am Dad, I can do what I want.” When we checked out, Dad paid for the candy and I thought that was the end of it, until we got back into the car. Dad was helping me into my car seat when he suddenly grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head down towards my lap. I started to cry out in pain, completely taken by surprise. “Listen to me, young lady!” Dad kept his voice low, but his tone and words were harsh and full of anger. “I will not tolerate you embarrassing me and accusing me of stealing! Do you understand me!?” I let out a sob and said, “I understand, I am sorry, Daddy.” My dad then let go and said, “Okay, I love you Jamie, but you can’t question me like that.” He then shut the car door, made his way to the driver’s seat, and continued to eat his bag of candy like nothing happened.

I could go on and give endless examples of where my dad lost his temper or used physical punishment unfairly or unjustly, but I am not here to list every single grievance. My point in sharing that example is to show how I was conditioned to believe that just saying “I am sorry” was enough. I was taught that it’s okay to use harsh language and physical force to express hurt and frustration as long as you tagged it with an “I am sorry, but...” “I am sorry I pulled your hair, but you can’t question your dad like that,” or “I am sorry I called you a jackass, but you got to stop embarrassing me.” My parents’ inability to model healthy forms of communication helped mold me into a teenager and later a young adult who fully believed that her very existence was an inconvenience, and I found myself apologizing for literally everything. I remember once at a youth trip I said sorry so much that one of the older teens made me pay her a quarter every time I said “I am sorry” for no good reason. I think I technically owed her fifty dollars by the end of the trip, but she never made me pay her. She was simply trying to get me to realize that I didn’t need to apologize for just existing, but I hadn’t learned that lesson quite yet.

The Shift to Biblical Accountability

I didn’t quite understand biblical reconciliation and accountability until I became a wife. After my husband and I got married, we moved away from our families and started our life together in Ohio. Our first year of marriage was actually full of a lot of conflict and communication issues. I struggled to break free from my programming, and I would quickly shut down anytime my husband would try to express his hurt or frustration. Hearing his feedback made me feel like my skin was on fire, and I often would react in tears and shift the blame. I caught myself saying things like “I am sorry, but...” or feeling so frustrated that I would just leave the house in a fit to go for a walk. Once I was calm enough, I would come back home and we would discuss the argument and usually come to a conclusion that satisfied us both. My husband is my best friend and has always been completely and brutally honest when necessary. He once told me that “saying I am sorry but, is insincere and still not taking accountability.” I got defensive at the time, but now I see that he was just trying to get me to see that a true repentance also requires changed behavior. Josh’s honesty made me see that I was repeating the same dysfunction that I grew up under, and I knew that I didn’t want the same for my marriage. We began to study together what true accountability and reconciliation was through the Bible, and I quickly realized that it was a bit deeper than “I am sorry.”

Luke 17:3-4 (ESV)

[3] Pay attention to yourselves! If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him, [4] and if he sins against you seven times in the day, and turns to you seven times, saying, ‘I repent,’ you must forgive him!”

Colossians 3:13 (ESV)

[13] bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.

The Bible makes it clear that it’s our job as believers to forgive, but we can’t force someone to take accountability for where they have wronged you. True biblical accountability is owning up to what you did wrong without justifying it or condoning it. Saying “I am sorry, but you started it because you got upset” is not accountability and it’s not true repentance. Studying God’s word for what it actually says rather than taking my dad’s interpretation as law helped me begin to recognize the importance of seeking the truth out for myself. I began to do a deep dive on passages like Matthew 18 and felt convicted to strive to handle every conflict the way the Bible calls us to.

When Truth Met Tradition

That conviction was put to the test when the conflict with my parents began to escalate. As I said before, the road to no contact started with just minor little disagreements or subtle passive-aggressive comments that we chose to ignore to keep the peace. I could tell that my parents had some issues with my husband and some of the choices we made. My mom would make passive-aggressive comments to and behind my back, and my dad made a point to try to discredit Josh’s position as my husband. He would “accidentally slip” and call me Jamie Barnes instead of Jamie Wiley, and whenever I corrected him, he would get defensive. He once told me that he resented my husband because I used to be a daddy’s girl, but I don’t listen to him anymore.

Each little conflict caused a little cut in the fabric of our relationship. Each insult and show of disrespect made the fabric stretch and stretch until it was finally held up by a very small thread. The full story of what finally tore the relationship apart is a long, very long-winded one, but I will share a sliver of it to help show how hard I fought to follow Matthew 18: there was a situation where my dad had completely undermined my position as a mother to our oldest daughter. I kindly and respectfully told him to give her space and not to guilt trip her into giving him a hug. My dad took offense to this and proceeded to point a finger at me and yell at me for being controlling and disrespectful. I tried to explain that Josh and I believe strongly in allowing kids to be heard and respected and if my toddler didn’t want a hug, she didn’t need to give a hug. My dad continued to scream and shout at me until he finally stomped up to his room yelling and slamming doors as he went. I stood there feeling small and worthless. I started to fall back into that place of shame and despair and I found myself asking, “What do I need to do to apologize?”

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I felt the Holy Spirit remind me of Matthew 18:15-17.

Matthew 18:15-17 (KJV)

15 Moreover if thy brother shall trespass against thee, go and tell him his fault between thee and him alone: if he shall hear thee, thou hast gained thy brother.

16 But if he will not hear thee, then take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established.

17 And if he shall neglect to hear them, tell it unto the church: but if he neglect to hear the church, let him be unto thee as an heathen man and a publican.

I then took some time to calm down, filled Josh in on what happened, then decided to go upstairs to try to resolve things with my dad before we left for home. The conversation with my dad was unproductive. I just stood there like the submissive daughter I was trained to be and let my dad lecture me on my failings as a mother and how I needed to let him teach me the correct way. I was about to just apologize and give up when my amazing husband walked into the room. “Hey Paul, we don’t want you to stop playing with...” Before Josh could say anything else, my dad jumped off his bed and got right into Josh’s face and began to hurl insults at him. He kept screaming, “You’re a selfish punk, don’t tell me how to be around my daughter and granddaughter!” Josh held his ground and firmly corrected my dad, “Jamie is my wife and Peanut is our daughter. You will not disrespect Jamie by undermining what she decides for our kid.” My dad continued to scream and even threatened to punch Josh.

I was stuck in fight or flight and started to pack up our things so we could leave as soon as possible. My dad eventually went back upstairs, and Josh and I wasted no time getting the heck out of dodge. My mom was sympathetic and told me that Dad was in the wrong, but she later changed her tune and said that Josh was the one who got in my dad’s face.

After a few text exchanges and two weeks of the silent treatment from my parents afterwards, we finally had a sit-down conversation with them to try to resolve the conflict. The conversation was spent with my dad lecturing us on his position as a grandpa, and Josh and I said we are the parents so our word needs to be respected. I made a point that I will not tolerate my husband being treated like that again, and my dad’s only response was, “I am sorry, but he overstepped.” We went on for over an hour until we finally agreed to let it go and move on. Josh and I then set some stricter boundaries for ourselves and hoped that we would never have to deal with a situation like that again, but unfortunately we were right back to square one six months later.

I will share the rest of the story at a different time, but I want to make it clear that I have not chosen to share my story because I wish to shame my parents or embarrass them. I have truly done the work to forgive them even though they are not truly repentant. There once was a time where I asked my parents if we could meet with a mediator per Matthew 18, to which my dad said, “I don’t need another man telling me how to manage my family.” It is for these reasons that I feel strongly that I have truly attempted to follow Matthew 18, but you can’t force someone to be truly repentant.

Although it’s heartbreaking and difficult to relive some of these details, I feel strongly that it serves as a reminder for why true repentance and accountability is sincere, honest, and upfront. I have learned to stop using “I am sorry” like a band-aid and to truly do the work of self-reflection and take accountability. My prayer is that anyone who reads this doesn’t take it as a “tell all,” but sees it as a way to bring honor to the fact that God would rather us humbly walk in truth and take accountability than hold onto our pride and ego. I still pray for reconciliation and I pray for my parents regularly but I am no longer living for the half-hearted apology, and I think there is true freedom in that.

My dad believed that pastoral authority was second only to God’s authority. He believed that the pastoral position was a place of honor and that it set him apart from the rest. This idea came from a sect of Baptists known as the Independent Fundamental Baptist denomination, more commonly known as the IFB. The IFB holds to the typical doctrines of faith such as the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, the Virgin birth, and salvation through grace alone. However, the IFB adds a few more clauses to those beliefs that can be contradicting. In my first blog post I talked about how I wasn’t allowed to participate in a lot of normal childhood activities like Halloween or the movies because there was a fear of “looking evil.” My dad would often stand in the pulpit and preach about how we needed to “avoid the appearance of evil”—a Bible verse that I now know was majorly misquoted and tragically taken out of context, but at the time I believed that God only loved us if we followed those strict rules that my dad enforced. I was made to believe that the world was evil and that embracing legalism was the best way to “avoid the appearance of evil.”

My dad used this to manipulate me into believing that God’s love and grace were conditional on how good I looked. I believed that good Christians followed these rules and God smiled down on them. This idea made me believe that I had to embrace my role as a pastor’s daughter in order to earn God’s approval. I quickly learned how to play my role as the perfect pastor’s daughter. I strived to be perfectly obedient, not because I wanted to please God but because I lived in fear of my dad’s anger. I learned how to live under pressure and I thought I did a pretty good job of it until one fateful weekend where my imperfections came to light.

Our weekends in Maryland were always incredibly busy for our family. My dad declared every Saturday as our church-wide visitation day. The most devoted members of our congregation would join our family every Saturday and we would all split into groups and spend each morning walking through the local neighborhoods inviting anyone to our church. By the time I was 7 I got pretty good at reciting my script: “Hi, I am Jamie from FIBC and I am here to tell you about Jesus and invite you to our church.” I always had an adult with me, but my dad liked it when the adult took one side of the street and I took the other; he said that “7 is old enough to do it without too much help.” Some of the adults disagreed and never split up, while others took my dad’s words as law and I was too innocent and naive to know better.

As you can imagine, most people didn’t take too kindly to a child pulling up to their front porch at 8 am on a Saturday. I lost count of the amount of times that I had grown men come out in their boxers, delirious from sleep, and yell at me to go away because I was disrupting their only day to sleep in. I was sworn at and even had a few instances where creepy men tried to lure me inside their house. I remember one man came out and started talking about how pretty my hips looked in my skirt and how I needed to come inside. I firmly said “no,” then left a tract and ran over to my partner’s side of the street. I told them about the interaction and they later told my dad that kids shouldn’t be split up anymore. My dad agreed, but he never seemed too concerned about my safety. I have another memory where I had spent the entire day with my dad door-knocking in the middle of January. After an entire day being out in the freezing cold in nothing more than a skirt and very thin stockings, I was more than ready to go home and have a hot meal. For some reason my dad kept finding reasons not to go home. We made several pit stops that made us miss dinner and my bedtime. It was pitch dark when I finally mustered up enough courage to ask when we could go home. My dad turned towards my spot in the back seat and said, “I just have to see Mr. Arnold (our church treasurer), then we can go home. You stay in the car, I’ll be right back.” Before I could say anything, my dad turned off the car and left me alone in his parked on the side of the street. The minutes seemed to stretch and stretch to the point that I started to shiver from the cold. After what felt like forever I finally freed myself and made my way towards the house. My dad was standing by the door deep in conversation when I startled him by knocking on the door: “Can I come in? I am so cold.” Miss Wendy, the treasurer’s wife, saw me and pushed through my dad to get to the door: “Pastor! I didn’t know you had Jamie with you! Why didn’t you bring her with you?” Wendy wrapped her arms around my shivering body and had me lay on the couch with a warm, fuzzy blanket. My dad quickly said, “I forgot she was in there, sorry.” The adults continued to talk while I fell asleep on the couch, relieved that I didn’t get in trouble for not staying in the car.

As I write this, I am amazed at how neglected I was as a child. My dad prioritized his ministry over the safety of his own daughter, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. My dad made it clear that he believed that God valued his ministry above everything, so I should expect to be on the bottom of the priority list. I didn’t realize that this thought process was problematic until I deconstructed from the legalistic mindset. I used to believe that by enduring my dad’s neglect I was successfully avoiding the appearance of evil because I was being a dutiful and submissive daughter, when in truth I was only tolerating my dad’s toxic behavior. It wasn’t until I grew into an adult who eventually had to go no-contact with her parents to realize what “avoiding the appearance of evil” means. As I mentioned before, I was led to believe that it means to avoid what looks evil, but there are a few more verses that give added context: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-22 ESV

[16] Rejoice always, [17] pray without ceasing, [18] give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. [19] Do not quench the Spirit. [20] Do not despise prophecies, [21] but test everything; hold fast what is good. [22] Abstain from every form of evil.

I had to come to the understanding that God doesn’t call us to only avoid what looks evil but live in a way that is fully reliant on Christ. He doesn’t want us to live by a bunch of man-made rules; he wants us to pray and live for him wholeheartedly. God doesn’t expect perfection, and he really doesn’t care what the world thinks of you; he cares about our hearts and wants us to live for him wholeheartedly and honestly. I firmly believe that God was displeased with my dad’s teachings because it paints God out to be a dictator and it makes children look like vulnerable tools that can be used to make others look good. My dad didn’t care about my safety and well being because he only cared about how my kind and gentle spirit could benefit him. It took a long time for me to truly discern what the role of a pastor is. I was led to believe that it was a position of high authority and to question or go against it was forbidden, but now I see pastors as fallible men who are capable of making mistakes. They are meant to study the Bible and lead other Christians towards Christ; they are not to be treated like royalty, because God calls them to be humble and walk under God’s authority.

I find it important to also mention that a pastor’s position as shepherd of a congregation should never come before his role as leader and shepherd to his children. My dad is a poor example of someone who poured so much into his church that he neglected to disciple and lead his children. I can’t speak for my four siblings, but I can tell you that my father never sat down and disciple me the way I saw him pour into members of his congregation. My position as a pastor’s kid may have made me look like a Bible scholar, but I actually knew very little about who God was until I was far into my mid-twenties. I am so thankful that God opened my eyes and helped me find him through a series of events that I am hoping to share soon. Even though my earthly father failed me, my heavenly Father has and always will stand in the gap and guide and shepherd me in a way my dad never could.

If you are reading this and you are someone who knew me personally during this phase of my life and you disagree with my consensus, I invite you to take the time to reflect and ask yourself, “What does God care about?” If you are reading this and you’re thinking, “Wow, Jamie is bitter and angry,” to that I say, “Honesty does not equal resentment.” I have taken a long time to study and heal, and I forgave my dad a long time ago, but I refuse to stand aside and let my story go unheard if it will at least help one person realize that putting your sufficiency in man is destructive and harmful. Legalism would prefer that we turn a blind eye to these issues for fear that it would ruin someone’s image and testimony. However, how can we grow and learn if we just bury our heads in the sand?

God calls us to avoid evil so that we can put all our focus on serving and loving him. God doesn’t care about the man-made pedestal of a pastor, and he would rather it be dismantled if it is taking away from the cause of Christ

.

Dear friend,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you are reading it in a safe and peaceful environment. I hope that this letter encourages you and helps lessen the guilt that is laying heavy on your heart. I pray that this letter brings you the comfort you have been searching for, and I pray that it makes you feel a little less alone. I pray that this letter reinforces your confidence, allowing you to rest knowing that your estrangement with that family member is not your fault.

I know you didn’t want this, and I know you didn’t ask for this. It’s natural for a child to want a relationship with their parents, and it’s normal to think that they would want to be a part of your adult life. It’s normal to communicate, and it’s normal to want to be heard and respected. It’s normal to want a relationship that is built on love and mutual respect, and you were not wrong for wanting it. You’re not stupid, you’re not too sensitive, and you’re not crazy.

I know what it’s like to beg and beg and beg to be heard and understood, and I know what it’s like to come to the realization that begging was pointless. I am all too familiar with the pain that comes with going no-contact, and I know the grief that comes with it. I know how it feels to have a child of your own, and I know how it feels to love your child so much that you start to question: what was so wrong with you that made your parents value you less? I know what it’s like to feel rejected and unloved; but I also know how it feels to find peace and healing.

My decision to go no-contact with my parents was earth-shattering for me. I suddenly felt lost, isolated, and broken. I had spent my whole life living for my parents. I did and said everything they asked of me until the day they asked me to pick between them and my husband. I ultimately chose to follow God’s teachings and decided to cling to my husband and establish myself as a wife and mother; but I did not know that the price of that choice meant saying goodbye to chaos and dysfunction.

The first six months of my estrangement were spent picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who I was without my parents. I was convinced that I needed their approval to survive, and I was afraid of losing my codependency. As time went on, I continued to pour myself deeper into my role as a mom and a wife, and I began to realize that while it was normal to want my parents, I no longer needed them.

God used my estrangement journey to help me learn how to decipher truth from trauma and dysfunction. I learned that God’s sufficiency is better than any dysfunction and can sustain me through any pain that a human relationship can cause. God also used my estrangement to teach me a valuable lesson about forgiveness.

I am sure you, like many other estranged kids, have heard, “but you can’t forgive if you can’t reconcile.” Friend, let me tell you that is not true. Forgiveness is not for the person who hurt you; it’s for yourself. God calls us to forgive those who hurt us—not so they can go do it again, but so we can surrender the hurt and stop bitterness and resentment from taking root.

Matthew 18:21-22 (ESV) says, “Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?’ Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’” It’s no secret that all men and women are capable of failing and sinning against each other, but the Bible still calls us to forgive even if the person who hurt you is not repentant and continues to repeat the sin that caused the hurt.

Titus 3:10 (ESV) says, “As for a person who stirs up division, after warning him once and then twice, have nothing more to do with him.” The Bible is clear on this: we must forgive, but that does not always equal relationship and reconciliation.

I have struggled with this concept because I still desire to restore the relationship with my parents, but I finally came to terms and peace with this when I recognized that my estrangement happened because I had to finally decide when enough was enough. Although the last almost two years have been incredibly painful and heartbreaking, they have come with peace and a newfound confidence—not only in my relationship with God, but with myself. I have learned so much about myself. I am so thankful that God brought me out of toxicity and welcomed me into peace and tranquility.

If you are reading this letter while you are in the throes of deciphering truth from trauma, I hope this letter is an encouragement to you. I hope it reminds you that your value is not based on someone’s opinion of you, and that you are only truly accountable before God for your actions. I hope it serves as a gentle reminder to you that sometimes honoring your parents means maintaining distance so that you can create a healthy and respectful boundary. Seek God and let Him be your comfort; His love is stronger and better than anything us humans can offer each other.

With love,

Jamie

Have you ever felt like you don’t fit in? Out of place? Have you ever felt like there was something so inherently wrong with you that you had to work overtime to feel accepted and understood? There was a time, not too long ago, when I would literally bend myself into a triangle if it meant feeling accepted and loved. This pressure to constantly perform came from a whole childhood of being told that I wasn’t good enough and that my flaws were an inconvenience to those around me. As a result, I became a people -pleaser who lived in constant fear of disappointing others.

That outsider feeling only grew worse when I started attending the school I would eventually graduate high school from. The school I went to was a small Christian school in the Flint area of Michigan that had its fair share of rules and standards. Our classes were relatively small, which meant it was easy for people to label you in ways that had a negative or positive impact on your reputation and image. I was considered a “latecomer” because I didn’t start going to this school until fourth grade. By the time I joined, most of the friend groups had been established, and everyone was finding their place in the school’s social circle. Because most of my classmates had settled into comfortable groups starting in kindergarten, I was at a disadvantage. I was instantly labeled as the “new girl” and the “outsider.” It took time, but I eventually developed some close friendships—some of whom are still good friends today—and became comfortable with my classmates... for the most part.

The exception to this was a pair of twins in my class who were weirdly possessive of their social group and didn’t take kindly to newcomers. (They were also the daughters of my fourth-grade teacher.) They made a point to tell me at recess that I didn’t belong, and that I couldn’t be friends with them or their friends. My other classmates told me to ignore them because “that was just how they were,” but it still didn’t feel good to be picked on just for existing. Their dislike of me continued throughout their entire time in my class. There was even a point where they stole money from me.

My mom had given me cash to pay for a field trip, and I put the change in my desk so I would remember to bring it home as instructed. That day, we had a class assignment that required us to temporarily trade desks with another student. When I returned to my desk, I discovered that all the money was gone.

When I got home that night and told my mom how the money had disappeared, I was severely disciplined and shamed for misplacing it. I spent the rest of the school year not knowing what had happened to the money until my mom received a call from the twins in the middle of summer. They said they found the money at the bottom of their backpack. “I know you had like sixty dollars, but for some reason there was only eleven dollars in my backpack,” one said. That explanation didn’t make sense to me, so I asked, “How did it get in your backpack? Why were you at my desk?” The older twin, whom we will call Lea, started to stutter and said, “Um, I don’t know, it was a mystery.” The second twin, whom we will call Lisa, chimed in to say, “Well, at least you found it now!” I later found out that they had admitted to one of my friends that they actually took and spent most of the money, only returning what was left after their mom found out. It bothered me that they stole from me and then lied about it, but I knew it was useless to fight them over it, so I just decided to let it go. When I told my mom that they had basically confessed to stealing it, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s what you get for leaving money out.” The shame of losing the money washed over me again, and I felt bad that I was only able to get eleven dollars back, but part of me wondered, “If the money was stolen from me, how is this my fault?” I asked my mom if she was going to talk to their mom about it, but she told me it wasn’t worth it and to let it go. It was normal for my mom to dismiss things like this, and I was used to having to figure these things out on my own.

Fast forward to seventh grade: my classmates and I were in the gym bathroom getting ready for gym class when Lea made a comment about how I was ugly and a bad runner. I told her that wasn’t nice and that if she wanted to be friends, she needed to start acting like it. She brushed me off and went on to whisper about me to her sister as if I wasn’t there. I went home that night and told my mom about it, and she suggested I speak to our assistant principal. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it, Jamie,” she said dismissively. “You need to involve the adults at school.” This response made me feel helpless and reinforced the outcast feeling I was already experiencing. By seventh grade, I was a people pleaser who hated the idea of anyone disliking me. I always went above and beyond to make sure my parents were happy, and my mom was making it clear to me that if the twins didn’t like me, it was something I was doing wrong. With that in mind, I approached our assistant principal, Mrs. M, the next day. I explained that the twins and I never seemed to get along and that I wanted to sit down with both of them to see if we could reach a better resolution. Mrs. M agreed, and we met during our free hour the following day.

I went into the meeting expecting to be given the opportunity to ask if I had done anything to warrant this mistreatment, hoping Mrs. M would help us find common ground so we could at least tolerate each other. Mrs. M opened the meeting and told me I was free to speak my piece. I looked at the twins and kindly said, “I just feel like we have never been able to get along, even back in elementary school. I felt like you guys always had a problem with me, and I just want to understand why.” The twins both looked at me without moving or reacting. Their complete lack of reaction made me feel uneasy. After a few minutes, Mrs. M took over: “Jamie, I spoke with their mom, and she told me that you have been a bully to them.” I looked at Mrs. M in surprise. “I haven’t bullied them!” I said, shaking my head. “I told Lea that she wasn’t being very friendly, but I have never bullied or made fun of them!” Mrs. M shook her head and replied, “That’s not what their mom told me. She said that you pushed them into lockers and called them ugly because they were talking to your friends!”

I felt the wind knocked out of me. I was completely surprised and hurt that the twins were lying about me. “No, Mrs. M, that never happened!” I shook my head, and despite my best efforts, tears started streaming down my face. I knew she was taking my tears as a sign of guilt, but she didn’t understand that crying was my natural reaction to being hurt and misunderstood. “Your tears are telling me that you are guilty,” Mrs. M said firmly. She then dismissed the twins and told them they were free to go back to class, leaving me alone in her office sobbing and feeling completely rejected and alone. Mrs. M turned her attention to me and said, “Jamie, I know you’re a sweet girl, but they told me that you stole from them and that you have been a bully to them!” I tried to explain, but I was too upset, and my words came out as indecipherable sobs. I felt that all-too-familiar feeling of shame that I was used to feeling at home. My mom made me think Mrs. M would be helpful, but it had the opposite effect. I continued to cry, feeling deeply hurt and betrayed.

Finally, Mrs. M reached out a hand as if to comfort me and told me she knew I was a kind person, but that I needed to think “sweet pea thoughts.” I looked at her, confused, and asked, “What?” “Sweet pea thoughts,” she said. “When you feel upset or want to take your feelings out on other people, think thoughts that are as sweet as a sweet pea flower.” I tried to tell her again that the twins were lying about me and that I had never shoved them into lockers. I wanted to tell her about how they stole money from me and lied about it. I wanted to tell her that they called me ugly and were the ones who started most of the drama, but it was clear her mind was made up. “I want you to remember sweet pea thoughts whenever you feel frustrated,” she repeated.

Even though I felt like she was attacking me and my character, I knew there was no convincing her, so I finally agreed, and she let me go back to class. As I left, all I could think was, “How did I end up getting in trouble when this meeting was my idea?”

I left that meeting feeling frustrated and helpless. I wasn’t the only one having issues with the twins, but for some reason, I was the only one getting blamed for it. I decided that I would try to keep my distance from them and avoid any situation that could paint me in a negative light. The twins eventually switched schools, but the “sweet pea” lecture had a lasting impact on me.

I have no doubt that Mrs. M’s intentions were good and that she was genuinely trying to teach me a lesson, but I was hurt that she believed lies about me, especially when those lies were so completely out of character for who I was. At the age of thirteen, I didn’t know how to tell Mrs. M that my tears were not of guilt, but simply feelings of shame and despair. I didn’t know how to tell her that while at school I was able to show a bubbly and happy exterior, I was actually living under a mountain of pressure and expected to be perfect at all times. I didn’t know how to tell her that I wasn’t a problem to be solved, but a child who just needed to be seen and believed. I didn’t know how to tell her that my home life was full of dysfunction and strife, and that she had unknowingly reinforced those feelings, adding to the mounting pressure to perform.

Now, as a mother and a wife, I look back on these memories, and the pain they once carried has been replaced by perspective. I no longer view the ‘sweet pea’ memory as a mark of my past failure, but as a lesson. Those flowers once symbolized the ‘outcast’ label I felt forced to wear throughout my childhood, but now, they serve as a reminder of who I am through Christ.

Galatians 2:20 says, ‘I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.’ God doesn’t see me as an outcast; He sees me as His daughter, and that identity is worthy of His love and protection. He didn’t want me to just keep ‘sweet’ to avoid upsetting others; He wanted me to seek my true identity in Him.

This Substack is not meant to rehash my past to shame or ridicule those who caused the hurt, but to bring to light that God is good and his mercy is never ending. He used my conflict with the twins to teach me how to treat everyone ( even those who mean me harm) and he used the “sweet pea” metaphor to teach me to give my hurt to God and that someone’s opinion of me is nothing when I think about how God sees me. If you’re reading this and can resonate with those feelings of shame, please know that you are not alone. God sees you and loves you and he wants you to find peace in him.

Laundry always has and will forever be my least favorite chore.

As a wife and mom of two small children, the piles of clothes seem to get bigger and bigger all on their own. Sometimes, I feel like my only mission in life is to successfully get the laundry washed, folded and put away on the same day.

Most of the time, I don’t mind folding, but for the life of me, I do not have the energy to match the socks! Often, my daughters end up wearing mismatched socks like me because I just don’t have the patience. My husband always makes jokes about how our kids are going to think it’s normal to wear a Bluey sock with a rainbow sock, but I always tell him that it will just give them individuality.

From the time I was old enough to help fold laundry, I have always worn mismatched socks. I never really thought it was a big deal. Socks are meant to be worn under shoes, so who cares? There was a point in my life, not so long ago, that someone’s opinion on my choice would have devastated me.

I remember when I was 16, I was standing in my parents’ kitchen, talking with my mom and one of my siblings about the happenings of the day. At some point, my sister looked down at my feet and asked “Jamie, why do you always mismatch your socks? It looks so goofy.”

I shrugged, looking down at my flower sock and my blue sock. “I don’t know. I don’t really care, no one notices when I have shoes on.”

My mom quietly chimed in, her tone soft, but her words sharp and biting, “You do realize that mismatching your socks is an indicator that you are majorly unorganized and irresponsible?” She said as she wiped down the stove.

I smiled nervously. “No, it doesn’t!”

She looked up at me disapprovingly as she slowly nodded. “Yeah, it does— it’s a character flaw, so I would really think it through and take time to match your socks if you don’t want that label.”

I looked down at my socks, feeling the shame washing over me like an ocean wave.

This wasn’t the first time my mom twisted my individualism to shame and control me. I had been brainwashed to believe that my value and my worth was dependent on how my parents viewed me. Any time I tried to take a step of agency, my parents would quickly use my people pleasing tendencies to take control.

Yes, they even tried to control my socks.

Many of my parents’ parenting decisions were influenced by the teachings of a small sect of the Baptist denomination known as Independent Fundamental Baptist (IFB). This group is similar to a “normal” Baptist when it comes to the main functions of faith like faith by grace alone, the trinity, and the virgin birth.

However, there is a major deviation from the norm when it comes to individual convictions. For example, the IFB holds to the belief that the KJV version of the Bible is the only version of the Bible that is acceptable to read; any other version of the Bible is corrupt. The responsibility to be modest is laid solely at a woman’s feet, and a lot of women are told that they are never to wear pants, to do so is not only a sin against God but a sin against your fellow brother. The IFB also taught the idea of ‘avoiding the appearance of evil’ which meant avoiding movie theaters, no dating without a chaperone, not celebrating Santa Claus at Christmas, no Halloween and no getting tattoos.

Authority over the church and its congregation is exclusively given to the pastor; questioning his authority is equivalent to questioning God. As a daughter of an IFB pastor, I can tell you that being raised in this way was very confusing and contradicting. For example: my dad vehemently preached against going to the movie theaters but was ok with watching those questionable movies at home. We were not allowed to go trick or treating, but dressing up as Bible characters and having a “harvest fest” was deemed acceptable. My dad would often call himself an “unusual fundamentalist” because he allowed his wife and daughter to wear jeans, but never at church, and he obsessed over making sure they were never too tight.

For years, I believed that my relationship with God functioned the same way my relationship with my parents did. I lived in fear of disappointing Him, making myself fit the perfect pedestal that my parents designed for me.

This book is the retelling of my life and of my journey, of how I went from living for others to living for Jesus.

My prayer is that throughout this story, you see the goodness of Jesus and find comfort in an indisputable truth: God doesn’t care about socks, He cares about your eternal soul and desires for us to live for Him.