Wingless: The Child Bride

Those first few years in the church felt like a lifetime all in their own. All the conventions, camps, fundraisers… they kept me extraordinarily occupied. At times it felt like a full-time job. Throw in caring for my three younger siblings, and I was a very busy girl!

One thing to know about churches like Church A, is that young marriage is extremely common. With strict purity culture, young people are often rushing to the altar. One funny anecdote I’ve heard is that Pentecostal girls often go to bible college to get their degree in “holy matrimony.”

I completely admit: I was boy-crazy! Between the ages of 15-17 I had four- FOUR boyfriends! (Not at the same time, mind you.) Not that we went on dates. These were “church” boyfriends. Ones that I would see at services and youth events, and chat on the phone with. Perhaps hold their hand. I think I kissed one of them. As far as I would let my teenage hormones take me. (Because, rules.)

In this church culture, if you were still single when you were past college, you were pretty much a spinster. So I was determined that I was going to find my soulmate! I did what any girl did- I sought God like a crystal ball to determine my future path. Was I going to be a pastor’s wife? An evangelist? Part of an highly sought-after music ministry duo? I wanted some sort of mystical prophesy that would show me the face of the man I was to marry. I was a die-hard romantic who ate up (clean, church-approved) Christian romance novels like they were KitKats (because KitKats are the best candy bars, hands-down, no argument. Anyway, moving along…).

Since I had yet to get an engagement ring by the time I was 17, I decided to plan on college. I wanted to attend the local bible college and get a degree in music. The college itself was not accredited (as many bible colleges in the organization weren’t, unfortunately), but you could legitimize your degree by also attending classes through another local religious college at some point.

A bit awful to say, but attending the bible college would give me the clout I needed to advance in the music ministry. In this organization, unless you had the right connections (and honestly, the right look), you could have all the musical talent in the world, but it would be hard to reach people beyond your local church. I’d taught myself to play the piano and wrote my own songs. I felt like I had a calling to minister to people through this music… but I had to play the game, just like anyone else.

I was in a period of time in late 2003, at 17, that I’d finally decided to take a break from the boys and focus on my future. Focus on God. I’d broken up with a boy several months prior because I just didn’t feel like he was “the one” for me (which at that age, sounds silly to even think about). But then one night I went to a monthly youth rally at a small, local church that was part of our organization… and it changed my life forever.

A lot of people will say that love at first sight is a myth. Perhaps, for most people, it just doesn’t happen. But that’s not the case for me and Paul.
Time stopped when I saw him. A few inches taller than me, dishwater-blond hair, and the most gorgeous ocean eyes I’d ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. And the moment our gazes linked… it’s like there was an invisible magnet drawing us together. And I knew. I just… knew.

I was staring at my future.

We only had a minute after service to say a few words to each other before I was whisked away (I’d ridden with my pastor), but in the following week we both desperately tracked each other down until we got each other’s email address through a mutual friend.

I still have a binder with all our emails and love letters. The first one was an awkward, “Are you the girl I met at the rally?” They quickly escalated from there, diving into emails discussing our lives, and trading views on theology. Paul was (is) highly intelligent, funny, and caring. And musically-inclined! (He played bass at his church). We messaged multiple times a day. He was a freshman in college, and would duck into the computer lab to chat or send me a long email.

A week after a marathon of emailing, he asked me on a date. My first date. Of course, it was a resounding YES! Days later, he was stepping onto our front porch (with my one-year-old baby sister banging on the storm door, having just shed her clothes and diaper for the millionth time that day. She’ll never live that one down.)

The rest is history. One date led to barely a day going by without him making the 35 minute drive to come see me in his Buick with the busted front right fender. Even when I was crazy sick with the flu, he came to let me cuddle up in the crook of his arm, all wrapped up in a quilt, not caring if I got him sick.

Six months flew by, and on May 1st, 2004, when I was only 18, he got down on one knee by a windy lake and asked me to marry him. I was so excited, I nearly pushed him into the lake. But I said yes!

I called my dad to tell him the news. He laughed. His words were. “I think you’ll be a child bride, but okay!”

Our wedding day was set for six months after that. Honestly, it was set so soon because we didn’t want to wait for purity reasons… and I wanted to get out of my house.

Our pastor was encouraging of short engagements. We went through premarital counseling and the whole nine yards. But I’d be lying if I said part of my motivation wasn’t to be rescued by my prince charming like a damsel in distress. I wanted to finally be respected as an adult and to get out from underneath my stepdad’s thumb.

Perhaps my motivation was greater than most. I had basically been a second, teenaged mother to my toddler siblings their whole lives and it forced me to grow up before I was ready. And of course, the church didn’t take this into account. They didn’t care that I was trying to juggle school, children, and now a relationship. Church first, no matter what. Even if you’re burnt out. You don’t take breaks.

And so we got married on a mild, November morning at Paul’s church in another nearby town. After the wedding, we lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in my hometown because it was near his work, but started going to his church (Church B) because the congregation was smaller and we were “needed more”. We used our musical talents there. Paul occasionally preached (though his style was more like teaching compared to the typical stompin’ and spittin’ Pentecostal style, as he is more reserved). I helped clean the church. We taught Bible studies and did outreach. Anything and everything one could think of in a small congregation.

Two years later, I was pregnant with our first child. Even then, there was no slowing down. I’d been working at a fast food place (Paul didn’t make much at the factory, and honestly, we barely had two nickels to rub together.) while dedicating the rest of our lives to the church. Three services a week. Prayer service. Youth services. Music practice. It was absolute insanity. The only slowing down I got was when I ended up with high blood pressure and got put on hospitalized bedrest. Our daughter, Stella, ended up being born a few weeks early via C-section because things got dangerous. As soon as I was recovered, she was held by someone else in the congregation so I could go right back to my duties.

All the while, we were barely making ends meet, even with the new, better job at the bank I managed to get not long after Stella was born. Gas alone was $80+ a week because of how much we were driving back and forth between our home town and the church (25 minutes each way). At that time (during the recession), and when you’re young and broke, it was an exorbitant amount of money. Not to mention the miles on our old, used vehicles that were constantly breaking down. Often times, we were left with $70 or less to feed the three of us after paying the huge chunk of tithe and offering money, and then our bills (because tithes came first).

Postpartum depression hit me hard after Stella came. Motherhood was not the bliss I thought it would be. Reflux aside, Stella wasn’t a difficult newborn by any means. But my hormones were out of whack. I was so tired from working all the time, and going to church all the time, and worrying about money all the time. And there seemed to be no mercy anywhere, because everyone was also doing everything. No matter how hard I prayed, things stayed miserable.

Eventually, I ran completely out of steam and hit the proverbial wall. This storm just had no end in sight. Something had to give. So I did something that I was sure would send me straight to hell: I secretly stopped paying tithes.

It immediately gave us a bit of a reprieve, but with the new expense of having a child, not much. We were still dirt poor and worn to the bone. I still had to ask my parents for money constantly. Because we had gone straight from living with our parents to being married, we didn’t have much experience with how to handle hardships either, much less during a recession. It was a strain on our marriage and our mental health (mine, in particular). Throw in my guilt of now being a “robber of God,” my anxiety was through the roof.

Finally, my husband put his foot down and declared that we were going to switch churches from Church B back to my home church, Church A, because Church A was in the town where we lived, and would therefore save us money we desperately needed. I was terrified of change in routine and social structure, and cried over the proposal, though I knew it was the correct decision.

When switching churches within this particular organization, you have to get the blessing of your current pastor. Then that pastor connects with the new one to give the green light. It’s more like a transaction of funds, rather than a change in attendance. “Stealing flock” is frowned upon, even in cases of abuse. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about grown adults, they are still at the whim of what leadership dictates.

We sat down with the pastor of Church B. Paul explained to him that we were going to start going to Church A and laid out why. Very logical, and to the point. We were going hungry. Our bills weren’t getting paid. We couldn’t afford the gas money anymore. Church B pastor asked details of our finances. He then asked if we were paying our tithes. Though I felt the blood drain from my face as I did so… I lied and said “yes.” (So now, not only was I a robber, but a liar too. Check two for spiritual failure!)

The pastor looked at us and told us, “Well, if it’s just for financial reasons that you’re leaving, I think you need to stay here and just trust God to provide.”

Paul (God bless him) gently reiterated that we were, in fact, leaving. With or without his blessing. Thankfully, the pastor did let us leave on the good terms that we needed for the transition. We weren’t allowed, however, to attend a last service to say goodbye to everyone, as the pastor didn’t want drama/upset. That was painful. But we were free to move onto the next phase of our lives.

But it would be years before freedom truly came.

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