Church (S)hopping and the Stigma for Singles




http://lipmag.com/opinion/a-one-woman-band-the-stigma-of-being-single/

 

Church hopping: is it morally askew?  An act of desperation?  Does it suggest a lack of faith in God to bless you right where you are?    Perhaps there are no hard and fast answers, but in this blog I will attempt to shed some light on the matter, and hopefully dislodge some of the stigma attached to church hopping for singles.

Rewind several months: I am at a pot luck dinner hosted by a friend of a friend.  All in attendance are church-going Christians, and during the course of the evening I meet a few new faces.  One attendee, a guy of similar age to myself, asks what church I attend.  I name the flourishing city-based church that I’m attending, to which he responds:

“Did you go there to find a husband?”

My immediate inward response is anger, and a big part of me wants to scream out “what would you know about the absence of the opposite sex in church?”  Fortunately though, I don’t speak out in anger.  Instead, I adopt a position of understanding for my fellow single sisters, and thoughtfully replied with this:

“No, but I really commend women who go outside of their comfort zones in an effort to meet new people”. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t recognise what such a response highlighted (in him) a lack of understanding or empathy towards his God-fearing sisters. 

Yet a certain stigma for single women who change churches does undeniably exist.  I’ve been in Auckland (Central) for seven years now, and in that time have belonged to three different churches.  My reasons for changing churches are varied and cannot be dwindled down to one single factor.  But if I’m to be completely honest, the absence of men in some circles did give extra weight to my decision to pack my bible and move to another church’s pew.  A question I’m commonly asked by women I meet in churches I’m new to is ‘What made you decide to change churches?’  For me, I’ve experienced this question as a rather loaded question.   Most women I meet and whom I’m already friends with are single, and to answer with ‘Because there were no men at the previous church’ is awkward for a number of reasons.  For one, it could suggest to the questioner that you think their efforts are passive and unacceptable.  For another, you could be expected to give subsequent updates on whether or not you’ve met anybody at your new church.  Personally, I’ve voiced all honest reasons for departing my previous churches, bar any reference to the shortage of men. 
 

There was, however, one exception to this.  I’d joined a choir at one church in the lead up to their Christmas performance, partly as I felt compelled to do my bit for the Christ-focused Christmas cheer, and partly because I wanted to meet new people so that I could sit with them at church on Sundays.  Arriving a few minutes earlier for practise one evening, I entered the facilities with another woman whom I’d never met before.  She introduced herself and we started chatting.  Learning I was new to the church, she asked me what caused me to switch churches.  I noted something prior to this question: this lady was wearing a wedding ring.  She was also several years older than me.  I decided, based on my assumption that she couldn’t find my motivation a threat or a subtle criticism of her own positioning, to answer with particular reference to the singleness factor.  I told her that I was now in my thirties, that there were no suitable single men in my previous church and that, because of this, I felt I should branch out and try some place where there were more men and, thus, more potential for meeting someone.  My expectations were met; this woman didn’t judge me and took quite a supportive stance on the matter. 
 

However, this seems to be more the exception than the rule, and the fact that changing churches to meet someone is so often frowned on and stigmatised is something I continually struggle with.  Just reflect on Brook Fraser’s lyrics “Faith without deeds is dead”.   Indeed, Albert Einstein once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing year after year and expecting a different result.  Thinking about it, what is Date My Mate but merging many congregations in one common setting?  And this is for the select purpose of finding someone.  Single Christians feel ok about such functions because - at some point - someone has deemed it ok for us to mingle with singles from other churches, hence their decision to host the event in the first place.  But we needn’t make our endeavours to meet new people of the opposite sex limited to a singles function given the tick by an event coordinator; our own judgements bathed in careful prayer should suffice.  And I do think prayer has a lot to do with it.   Depending on what part of the world you are in, you might find yourself slightly overwhelmed by the number of churches worth considering.  Within Auckland city centre there are more churches than there are Sundays in a year.  Let us not forget that God ordained Sunday as the day of rest, so rather than stressing about how to get to a new venue and where you’ll find parking, try praying and listening from Christ first. 

Moreover, there is a certain parallel I have recently drawn in relation to the stigma of singles trying other churches.  Let us say you’ve been going to the same church for a good three years, and in that time you’ve made great friends, maybe admired one or two men along the way, but really the core circle of church goers in your age group isn’t really evolving in the manner of bringing new men into the church.  So, you think to yourself, the chances of meeting someone here on Sundays or in mid-week small groups is, well, extremely low.  Perhaps you mention thoughts of trying somewhere different to a friend or two, and no doubt they’ll ask what has prompted this desire to explore other houses of God.  If you are like me, at this point you feel awkward: you are Christian, so you don’t want to lie and say something along the lines of “I’m just not feeling challenged anymore”, but you also know there is an unspoken code within Christian realms that dictates you can’t leave on the basis of lack of male potential.  Perhaps you try to slip between the cracks and not announce anything, quietly leaving one Sunday never to be seen again.  It is pretty sad to think it might come to something like the latter.  After all, God created man and woman, and marriage is a sacred covenant the Almighty created.   Why, then, do we have to pretend that we are always happy with our single status year after year, and carry on the same routine so as not to appear human with inclinations toward God-ordained convenants? 
 

Let’s break this down and see it for what it really is.  Say, for example, there a Christian woman (we’ll call her Mary) who is looking for a job.  She has been at her current job for 8 years, and whilst she has formed great relationships there she feels that she needs a change.  So what does she do about this?  She prays about it, she views the 'Situations Vacant' colum in the newspaper, and she signs up with Seek (New Zealand site for advertised job positions) so that she can view relevant positions as they become available.  I want to point out two things here.  First, she doesn’t just pray about it and then sit on her hands from then on.  Again, we are called to be active – and, I think proactive – and make steps while trusting Him and letting Him guide us.  Likewise, as I’ve explained, we should incorporate prayer also when considering leaving or going to a new church.  Secondly, Mary signed up with a site that constantly lists positions employers are looking to fill each day.  We wouldn’t expect her to sign up with a site that rarely (or perhaps never) has any new listings, would we?  So why do we expect women to constrain themselves to a church that never has single men?  Such notions defy logic.

 

Image: http://burlapandtwineblog.com.s160612.gridserver.com/church-shopping/

Also, by widening one's church circle, singles are more likely to meet different people of the same sex and form more new friendships, an action that can assist in absorbing an excess of time spend alone or even alleviate loneliness.   My close circles of friends are mostly from three different churches.  I first started attending a centre city church 7 years ago.  Had I not ventured from that church, I would in all likeness probably not have met two thirds of the friends that I have today.  I truly value those friendships, and my life has been enriched because of them.  Indeed, when faced with bouts of loneliness from time to time, I took comfort in the fact that, from having a reasonable number of friends, at least one of them would have time to spend with me.  Likewise, I hope that I have also helped them in their journey in life; even the simple act of attending a friend’s function when you’ve been invited shows them that you care, or sending a text to let them know they are not forgotten.

But doesn’t a rolling stone collect no moss…

If this were true, I wouldn’t have formed the friendships that I have, nor would I have had valuable fellowship with other believers.  However, I will stress that you do need to put down roots somewhere in order to cultivate friendships.  Like plants, friendships need time and attention in order to grow and strengthen.  Changing churches every fortnight is probably not going to result in too many new friendships.  Rather, you need to spend time there to connect and get to know people.  Most of my Christian friends I met through going to working bees, church camps, or joining the welcome team, not from attending Sunday services.  You can’t put a time bracket around how long this will take, that is why prayer and trusting in the Lord is necessary.   I am reminded of the theme song from the old sitcom ‘Cheers’, “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name…  And they’re always glad you came”.

Moreover, we don’t know what role someone will play in our life until we can look back after some time and reflect on it.  One of my closest friends I met at a friend of a friend’s birthday party.  After a couple of my dating relationships dissolved, she has literally turned up on my door step with chocolate and tissues without me even asking anything of her.  That is priceless.  In another church I went to, I was to discover that I wasn’t to make many friends there.  I spent several months in a small group, but try as I might - bar one person - I couldn’t get connected.  That one person is my best male mate now, and through him I met another guy who accompanied me to Date My Mate (where taking a single friend of the opposite sex was a requirement).  Since that event, I’ve been seeing someone.  If you remove any one of these people from my life, perhaps things would look very different for me today.

The subjective “me” is not to be the whole picture though.  Others needs need to be recognised when considering the changing of churches.  Specifically, I do not think that changing churches should be so frequent that we avoid responsibilities like serving, whether it is serving the church as a whole body, or individuals in life stages that require encouragement and support.  Hebrews 10 versus 23-25 says:

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. ²⁴ And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, ²⁵ not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Indeed, meeting together facilitates familiarity if it is practiced on a continuum.  Certainly this can only come about with a sufficient period of time.  Also, in order to encourage one another we need to know where they are at and what they are going through.  Trust is not always garnered the first time we meet someone, it is something that has to be earned over time. 

 

Finally, having taken a look online, the definition of Church Hopping most recurrent is this: going from one church to another without committing to any one church for any substantial period of time.  Perhaps we’ve been miss-using the term in New Zealand circles.  It seems Church Shopping is more accurate, as it relates to finding a new church that you can then call home.  So, single Christian women looking for somewhere new, I wish you the courage and faith you need to stand against any stigmatism you may encounter as you negotiate your Sunday whereabouts.  I pray that you will draw strength from God and from those understanding people around you as you bravely step out.   And, when you do find your new home church, I pray that no brother-in-Christ will then quiz you with “Have you just come here to find a husband?” J
 

-Wendie
 

closetcalvinist.com



Date My Mate: Come All Yee Singletons of the Church

 

 

 

 

Date My Mate: Christian dating done good.  Are you single? Love loving the Lord?  Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you don’t secretly fancy, but know he/she would be a great catch for someone else?  Then this event is for you….

I first heard about Date My Mate through my flatmate several months ago.  She’d been to the first of this type of event the evening before and had asked if I’d gone too.  I was a little deflated that a Christian singles event had come and gone without my knowing about it, and so I did the modern thing and ‘liked’ its Facebook page in order to prevent news of future events escaping me again.  Then, finally, several weeks ago the next Date My Mate schedule was set…  I grabbed myself a mate, waited out the lead up and last Thursday off I went.

 

I was more excited about the event during the days leading up to it than on the actual day.  I woke up last Thursday with a sense of, well, dread, to be honest.  Conversing in the kitchen that morning with my flatmate who was also going, my fears were further compounded when she reported in more details the unravelling’s of the previous event.  It was packed – you couldn’t move and so it was not conducive to meeting anyone.  It was a meat market.  The guys didn’t want to be there; they simply came as a favour to their female counter-parts. 

Hmpf, this was exactly what I didn’t want to hear.  A number of years ago I tried my luck at Christian speed dating.  And then some months later I tried it again. The first time was ok, although the one guy I thought might be alright I side-lined due to another possible romantic interest at the time (really, why did I go?).  The second time around, I met many of the guys I’d met the first time.  On both occasions at least half of the guys reported that they weren’t really there on their own accord, but that their friend had organised the event and begged them to come due to a (severe) shortage of men.  It was a good way to end a conversation (and ward off any inclination to hold future conversations in another setting).

In true female form, I put considerable thought into my glad rags.  Nice, but not too nice.  Feminine, but not too girly-girl.  Nothing that is too warm (lots of people equals lots of heat), but at the same time one doesn’t want to expose too much skin.   I got nowhere very quickly with this pattern.  Scratching my head, I texted a friend for emergency fashion input and managed to reduce my wardrobe possibilities to two winning numbers: a black, just-above-the-knee skirt boasting of a bit of flair (diagonal pocket and a silk triangle feature on the front), and a simple fitted pink tee.  With my heels on and my hair straightened I was on my way.

 

After exiting the car with a friend I’d shared a lift with, I silently gaged my own nervousness.  I decided it wasn’t too bad; I’d managed to cull any excessive anxiety by telling myself that I was simply here for research purposes.  I needed to observe the goings-on so that I could write about it and keep other Christian populace informed should they venture this way in future.  Though I knew my expectations were greater than this, it did help me maintain a reasonable level of calmness.

Nearing closer to the building, the bar could have passed for a hip Friday night location to any unaware passer’s-by (except, of course, that it wasn’t Friday).  The music was pulsating from the inside out and preparations for entry (find your mate of the opposite sex) were being made by many a single-goers on the footpath.  I found my mate, then introduced my flatmate to her male-counterpart for the evening (a necessary wangling to get them entry – a blind date my mate, as it was). There was nothing left now but to head into the crowd in doors.

 

Upon entering the bar, one of the first thoughts I had was: how can I possibly meet a decent portion of these guys?  there are just too many.  On the other hand, when was the last time I could actually say “too many” after referring to guys?   Bustling through the crowd we made our way to the bar ahead.  My mate kindly shouted me a beverage and now with a glass of Pinot Gris in hand, it was time to circulate.

 

Therein lay a rather sizable problem in itself though: the room was densely packed.  It felt like being a piece of lettuce in a club sandwich with an assortment of other garden delights packed solid and deep on either side (on the topic of sandwiches, as one guy suggested, a picnic might have been a sound alternative to the  arrangement we found ourselves in).  It occurred to me at that moment that it wouldn’t have mattered what I wore, no one could see me from the neck down at any rate.  To find someone (I know, probably could have gone for a better choice of words), I either had to elbow my way through the masses or toddle around the perimeter of the room where it was a little less populated.  It turns out there is only so much saying “excuse me” you can do before you feel like you’ve become a threat to other people’s comfort, I discovered.

 

 

 

Not to sound further down on the event, I do have to mention one other hindrance that I could not escape from during the course of the evening:  I had to practically yell to be heard.  Twenty minutes into my first chat with a guy, my voice started cutting out mid-sentence.  I was then faced with repeating myself if I wanted to keep the recipient believing I was capable of a half decent conversation.  Small sips of my drink provided some temporary belief, but two hours later I was quite sure I would have no vocal ability the following day (which would have made using my voice to phone in sick to work the next day rather problematic). 

 

In between conversations, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was the only person moving more than a few feet away in effort to cultivate chats with other attendees.  It’s that whole moment of thinking am I doing this right?  In passing the male friend I had arrived with, I had to point out to him that he had (at minimum) one big advantage:  he was at least a head taller than almost everyone else present.  Not that this is about physical discovery (although a little eye candy never hurt anyone), but certainly he had a better idea of where he was going.  I, on the other hand, might as well have been blind folded when moving from one spot to another; it was very much a case of lucky dip.

One of the best things about this event was that, once you did find someone new to chat with, there was no stigma attached to starting a conversation with someone of the opposite sex.  In fact if you couldn’t manage this, you probably wouldn’t have gone there in the first place.  I was expected to be single, and I was clearly looking given my presence there.  And, in real everyday life, it would be nice if it was always that simple though it seldom is.  Even within the four walls of the church, there is this idea that if you are female and you go out with coffee someone, it is because you want to marry them (personally, if I was going to propose to a man, it wouldn’t be over coffee in some bustling café).  The fact that Christians struggle to do dating well - or even to do dating at all - was a topic I discussed with a couple of the guys I met.  There was unanimous agreement that things needed to improve in this area within church circles.

 

By the time I left at around 11pm, I’d met probably close to ten guys.  The thing that I liked most about the evening was that my fear of there being no men left was dramatically downsized.  Also, there really are some good men out there.   One guy I spoke with was also a blogger; he blogs on the subject of cricket and apparently has quite a following.  Naturally, I had to tell him about my own blog site, and because of the nature of the event (singleton gathering) I didn’t mind sharing that it was mainly written with single Christian women in mind.  He knew where I was coming from.

 

Other memorable points about the evening:  I’m pretty sure I got spat on when I was near the bar at one stage.  I don’t know what else it could have been, it wasn’t a kind of dribble of liquid that might suggest someone got a bit over-expressive with their hand gestures and slopped a little beverage my way, rather, it came at the side of my face with such force I wondered if it had been blown through a straw.  Perhaps someone was trying to sabotage my chances with some guy at the bar; go figure.   

Second on the list of memorable points was that I left with my flatmate’s mate, and by that I mean there are no rules and no offences (of course, if my flatmate had fancied him, oblivion to the rules may have been a hindrance in the long run and not a help).  And, in case you are wondering, we did not go for a romantic stroll down Mission Bay; we kept it classy and nipped into McCafe for a late night hot chocolate and a good chat to boot.

About the days to follow: I would strongly recommend to anyone who goes that you contact people fairly soon after the event.  I don’t say this because I’ve seen the opposite done and its turned out badly, I say it because you might as well utilise some of the momentum straight afterwards.  And also because waiting can breed over-analysis, so why do it?  I also suggest that, if someone asks you and you aren’t really convinced that they could be a match for you, that you put the effort in and go out with them anyway.  I’m personally not a big believer in first impressions, if I’m to be honest.  It can take me a while to really ‘notice’ a guy; if it’s like this for me, then it might be like this for others also.

Now, in case you are wondering what came of this for me, well, that would be a whole other blog  :P

This event was held in February 2013.  Blog posted several weeks afterwards

Strangers In the Night

When something goes bump in the night and you know it could only be one thing…

I remember that night quite vividly, even though it was a few months ago now.  I was chin-deep in a film assignment and had been up until almost midnight pausing and fast-forwarding through various scenes of the movie ‘Strictly Ballroom’.  It was a Saturday night, but with nothing social to show for its self, it resembled a week night. 

 

3.50pm

Upon reflection, the day had not been remarkable either.   I’d gone for my usual 8km run on my usual running route, a practice that was not unusual for me on any given Saturday.  It was my reprieve and sanity during times of being weighed down by a flood of assignments.  This assignment was the first in a quick flurry of essays at only a few weeks into the semester.  Oddly, I do remember one distinct thought during that particular run, and that was that nothing much had happened in my life for a while.  I’m not sure what constitutes “happened”, or even “happening”, it was more just that nothing out of the ordinary had appeared recently.  It’s the unexpected things in life that had not appeared for some time now, like a prang to my car, or receiving a reply to an email I’d long since forgotten about.  These aren’t monumental or catastrophic events, they’re simply out of the blue.  Incidentally, I also remember thinking during said run it’s usually after having an intuitive insight like this that something does happen. I gave it no further thought; nothing was going to happen.

 

11.50pm

Deciding I needed to call it quits on the assignment for the time being, I switched off the lounge television and dvd player, placed my laptop on my desk in my bedroom and promptly got ready for bed.  It was almost midnight, and I knew the only way I could improve the assignment now was if I met it with fresh eyes in the morning.  I brushed my teeth, I put on my night crème (doesn’t hurt to start young), I climbed into my pyjamas.  I’d been home alone throughout the evening until Anna, one of my three flatmates, arrived home.  We passed in the hall uttering our goodnights.   It was definitely shut up shop time both of us and her bedroom door must have closed not long after mine.  Notably, the two other flat mates didn’t return home that night.

 

I was in the habit of saying my prayers at night around this time.  Not that I’m not still a night prayer, but I think I go through patterns with my prayer life.  Right now it’s very much in the moment and as it comes to mind, but a few months back, on that night, prayer time tended to be mostly structured, much like the rest of my life – lectures, assignments, church, gym, meal times – everything was to a schedule.   Of course, that didn’t mean I couldn’t also slip in a quiet one during any other hour of the day.

I should mention here something about my prayers.  I don’t confess this before many people as it seems to confuse and leave people stammering for how to respond to such a suggestion, so it’s just easier not to go there generally.  I was, however, for a rather long time, convinced that many of my prayers manifested in reverse.  For example, I prayed about a problem at my old job and instead of improving it got worse.  Time and again I would pray for my on-going physical pain to relent and be eradicated once and for all, yet years tumbled by with no sign of improvement.  If I was emotionally bruised, the praying, it seemed, set the pain further into existence, instead of slowly shedding away the layers.  As I’m typing this now though, many months down the track, I can see that my prayers were answered.  And not for the polar opposite of what I wanted either (nor for the opposite of what was best for me).  In terms of the job, I left almost a year ago after being accepted into university.  This move was one of the best I’ve ever made and I’ve never looked back.  The pain issue (detailed in my blog Does Taking Medication Really Make Me a Substandard Christian?) has improved remarkably, and though it’s not gone completely it is actually under control for the first time in over 20 years.  The emotional turbulence has also improved, but again this is a whole other blog in itself.

I shed this background only because it was relevant to the way things panned out on that night.  So, back to my detailing of events…

 

11.55pm

I was in bed now, silently praying in the stillness of the night.  Having spent much of the day on my own (to necessitate the coming together of my assignment), I was notifying God of how it would be nice to have someone to talk to at the end of the day – someone physically present who I could talk to about anything and everything.  The tiredness took a hold of my exhausted thinking faculties fairly quickly, and pieces of prayer then began floating around in my mind as though they were helium billboards with random topics on them.  The posted words would then kind of pass by the ever watchful eye of the great I Am.  I was definitely almost asleep.  Of all things, I distinctly remember this prayer portion in motion (as random as it was): “it would be good to have a man in my life, even from a safety point of view…”.  Funny, God must have thought I was bringing forth every which reason for why He should relent and bring forth a man in my life.  The fact was though my safety had never been an issue.  I’ve walked from function venues to dimly lit car parks in the middle of nowhere more times than I care to let on; I was completely un-phased by the idea that my safety could be jeopardised.  Reflecting back on it now however, it was out of character for me to bring up such a topic when talking with God, even if I was half asleep; I’d never contemplated mentioning it before. 

 

12.00am

The praying must have been over pretty quickly because before I knew it I was being awoken by a knock on my door.  Strange, no one ever knocks on my door after I’ve gone to bed…

Having been prised quickly and unexpectedly out of my sleeping state, I grumbled a word or two in recognition of the knock.
 “Can you please get up?” a weak and slightly urgent voice came from the other side of the door. 

My honest thought at such a request was probably along the lines of “I’d rather not”.  In the space of a few seconds, my mind rewound to the mouse trap that had been positioned in the hallway not far from my bedroom door earlier in the day.  There had been a rodent in residence at our flat, and it had become apparent after a couple of weeks that Mickey wasn’t going to leave on his own accord.  The only plausible reason that I could think of for why my presence was required in the dead of the night was because Mickey had met his fate.  His disposal wasn’t really this flat mate’s cup of tea, I figured.  His disposal isn’t really my cup of tea either, I thought to myself, why couldn’t we have just sent the mouse an eviction notice?

 

I switched on my bed side light and, climbing out of my warm nest of blankets, opened the door.  My flatmate Anna stood frozen on the spot in front of me.

“Someone has come in through Jenny’s window and is hiding in her room…”  her voice carried in the surrounding stillness. 
You know how it is generally accepted that people look on at other people’s misfortunes and fathom internally notions to the effect of ‘Yeah, but it will never happen to me’?  I was having one of those moments in the time frame of a split second.  Thus, I waited half a second for her to quip “Got ya!  Only teasing!”  and once that half a second was up, I knew it was time to execute a response.  Plan get the hell out of this house needed immediate initiation. 

 

I grabbed Anna by the hand and walked us quickly passed the occupied room, though I dared not look in for fear of witnessing anything that might leave me paralysed on the spot.   I lead us out our front door and into the foyer.  It will be alright, I reasoned with myself, the landlord lives upstairs so we’ll alert him and it will all be fine.  Hurrying up the stairs with Anna right behind me, I knocked on the door in the dead of the night and waited.  No answer.  I knocked louder and called out.  Nothing.  I heard a noise inside our part of the house, like someone was now inside, and looked at Anna whose eyes said she’d heard it too.

“Call the police” I instructed Anna.  She was poised next to me with her cell phone still stuck in her hand from when she’d been browsing the inter-webs from the comfort of her own bed.  A shaky hand began pressing buttons, and I persisted in my bid to wake the landlord. 

 

 

12.05am

I kept a close eye on the foyer below us as we stood quivering at the top of the stairs.  What if they come through the door we just exited from; what do I do then? I pondered.  In my imaginary vision of what these intruders might look like when viewed from our angle, I saw not one, but two men.  I have no idea why. 

 

I would like to say that next, in true Chriz-o form, I began reverently praying, but truth be told I can’t remember praying at all.  My only thoughts were that if these intruders appeared, it would be pretty obvious what our situation was: two young females at the top of the staircase panic-stricken yet unable to enter through the door of accompanying living quarters.  Thus, they cannot reach what safety resides on the other side.  Or, should it become a briefed newspaper heading: victims unable to raise the alert of intruders, come hell or high water. 

So, I resolved in my internal dialogue, the police really were our only bet.  But what if the intruders can hear out desperate calls for help from inside the flat?  the issue continued to persist in my mental meshing.  What if they emerge and, changing tactics, come after us?  I didn’t give a damn about our possessions I must say, although for one fleeting moment my thoughts did return to my laptop, assignment residing within, clearly visible from my bedroom door that I’d left open.  It was an opportune setting for any burglars meandering through. 

 

12.20am

It was over ten minutes before the knock arrived at our door marking the arrival of those reliable rescuers we know as cops.  During that time the call taker on the other end of Anna’s phone had remained on line, bringing forth the only presence of calm and collectedness in the entire ordeal.  I opened the door, conscious of my attire for one brief moment yet bent on ending this tribulation as quickly as possible.  The house was inspected with a torch by two officers, and a third paced around our front yard, sniffer dog in tow.  Declaring the house free from any intruders, lights were promptly flicked on and I only wished my sense of inner peace could also be reinstated in such a speedy manner.  A smidgen of reluctance towards the idea of feeling safe seemed reasonable to me, after all, I knew the police would soon be gone and Anna and I would be left to endure the rest of the night on our own.  With the portion of relief I did bathe in though, I took comfort in the fact that, right now, we weren’t going to be confronted by any untoward men. 

1am-8am

As predicted, sleep was elusive for both Anna and I for the rest of that night.  We slept with our bedroom doors open so we could talk to each other from our rooms.  A sprinkling of lights was left turned on throughout the flat, should any new intruders approach this property, we wanted to make certain they knew that residents were home.  The landlord was still none the wiser of any of the goings on we’d just bore in our quarters of the house. 

 

The following day a closer look was taken at our flat’s exterior, and the midnight stranger’s intents became apparent.  Jenny’s bedroom window had not been left open a crack as we initially thought, a set up that would have facilitated sinister persons in pursuit of gaining access.  Jenny’s window, she informed us upon returning the following day, had in fact been closed.  The burglars had prised it open with a crowbar, and had then reached in and drawn back the curtain, which was the noise Anna had heard from her room next door.  Jenny’s curtains, however, had not been closed that night.  Needless to say, it is now mandatory flat practice to close all curtains in the flat upon nightfall. 

 

Additionally, a window in the lounge at the opposite end of the house had also been dealt to by a crook wheeling a crowbar.  It appeared that insufficient time had seen this window only damaged in the frame and not actually prised open.  The ranch slider too had scrapes depicting further attempts at entry.  With this much tampering it seemed most likely that there was more than one stranger set on entering our dwelling spot.

 

In my opinion, there could have been only two things that deterred the encroachers in their pursuit of entering: Anna turning on the hall light as she headed towards my room to alert me to the matter, and our rachis at the top of the staircase that no doubt echoed throughout the surrounding areas.   It struck me as a pungent realisation then that, had Anna arrived home ten minutes later, I would have been there alone and out to the world.  If I had awoken to noise I would have assumed it was one of the girls coming home, as had been the case historically when I’d been disturbed during sleep.  However, if the crooks had entered my room, I would have been beside myself.

 

Like a little prayer…

In relation to my earlier conviction that my prayers produce the exact opposite to what I pray for, something came to mind as I was contemplating this blog yesterday.  I recollected an ornament that a friend of mine has in her home.  I can best describe it as a small piece of rectangle wood with a maze-like pattern carved out of it.  Up close it doesn’t isn’t look like much, in fact, it appears a bit nonsensical really.  However, when you take a few steps back and view it from a greater distance, it becomes obvious what it is…

 

 

It would be easy to consider my prayer that night and then examine it against the events that unravelled and think this is merely another example of a prayer failing me.  In truth, the following day my thoughts were somewhere around those lines, after all, who wouldn’t want a man around at a time like that?  But really, on closer inspection, I’m trying to put God’s intervention into a limited box.  My small thinking means that a knight in shining armour would have had to appear for me to believe that God truly heard my prayer and intervened accordingly.   I digress though, as this is real life, and not a product of Disney land.  Furthermore, you’ve got to wonder why a guy would be on my premise so late at night, unless he was my spouse, but that was never going to come to pass in the space of five minutes.

 

No, God remained true to His mandate of the standards we should live by. He sent me a flatmate to intercept my being alone that night, and provide alert ears that would raise the alarm.  Again, thinking about it further now, the fact that Anna arrived home only some minutes before the break in was attempted means I should see clearly how God aligned His intervention.  Anna’s arrival back was so close to the actual event that I should never have missed seeing it for what it really was: God sending in another to aid my safety just at the moment it was needed most.  Additionally, I think going through something like this with another person forges a new found trust and an unspoken bond as a result. 

 

Like many things in life, there is a lesson to be learnt here.  God can sway our thoughts when we’re praying in such a way that our prayers are aligned to what we need the most, even if we don’t know it at the time, and even if we are dog-gone tired.  Thus, the God who gave us life can protect us in our times of trial and needless to say He is to be praised for this.  Oh, and one more lesson:  always shut your curtains at night  J


-Wendie

Does Taking Medication Really Make Me a Substandard Christian?

 

To pop a pill or to not pop a pill, that is the question…

Having battled with physical pain for much of my life, I’m no stranger to taking medication.  Taking prescribed drugs each day is as much part of my routine as having breakfast and brushing my teeth.  I’ve happened to notice in recent years, however, that there are a couple of schools of thought within Christian circles regarding said taking of pills.  For example, on the few occasions I have mentioned to other believers that I take medication to assist myself in getting to sleep, the response – “REALLY?  You take sleeping pills?” – boasts of their dismay that I could even contemplate doing such a thing.  Perhaps the taboo in this instance lies not intrinsically in the taking of pills in itself, but because sleep disturbance can often be lumped together with mental illness.  As it happens, a fair few followers of Christ have a tendency to shun anti-depressants and the like without even a second thought about what might be best for the individual.  It is this sort of reaction to drugs that births in me a desire to avoid mentioning what I swallow back in the privacy of my own home; it’s almost as if my practice of pill swallowing is on par with dabbling in the occult in the eyes of some…

Nonetheless, there does exist a group of Christians who would think very carefully before heading to the medicine cabinet.  Ultimately, it is a decision each of us has to make for ourselves.  I am not debating this topic though simply for the sake of it, rather, a few conversations have stirred in me a desire to respond with my own view point.  In one such conversation, I distinctly remember walking from the church car park one Sunday evening up to the auditorium with a fellow worshipper pacing alongside of me.  She confided in me that she had a headache, but that she didn’t like the idea of taking pills to relieve the discomfort.  The Lord, she told me, is her healer, with the underlying insinuation being that a visit to the drug store was not a sound dual action.  Thus, she was praying and pushing through the pain; that was her choice.

Of course, perhaps the reluctance to help one’s self by taking drugs is tied up with the idea that God can deliver us from all ailments.  I get the impression that to take the wheel into one’s own hands and take something by way of medication seems to be associated with shifting away from God’s healing hand and relying instead on things of this world.  More and more I’ve found myself withholding from those in Christian circles just what I’ve suffered from and jointly how I manage it, mostly for fear of being judged.  And so I have, in a backwards glance, begun wonder:  does taking medication really make me a substandard Christian?

A little background…

I’ve thought about writing a blog on my own battle with physical conditions on and off for some time now.   I think the real reason behind putting it off is that I do consider myself very much to be a private person, this also attributes partly to my unwillingness to share my ailments with other believers.  I haven’t shared my health issues with more than a small portion of my friends, and whilst nothing about my body is particularly out of the ordinary I still feel it is not the sort of thing that needs to be publicised.  This proclamation may seem ironic given that I am now blogging about it, but if I am to write this blog and actually have it make any sense in terms of my own conviction then I should probably discuss a few things in relation to me personally.  You will soon learn why the topic of Christians taking medication concerns me…

When I was nine years old I was operated on for appendicitis.  I’d been having abdominal pain for some months and, following a scan, it was eventually discovered that my appendix was in need of removal.  I looked forward to being free from the pain that had become a part of everyday life for what seemed like a long time in my child eyes.  I was soon to be disappointed, however.  The pain persisted long after my appendix was removed; in fact, it worsened as the years went on. 

In addition to this on-going issue, I was also a sufferer of unbearable cramps every month.  Like many faced with this predicament, I couldn’t feign fine when the pain came gushing through my abdomen.  To manage, I’d knock back whatever medication I had going at the time and wait over an hour (and often up to two hours) for any sign of relief to begin to take hold of my innards.  The pills would barely start working before they began fading out again and the pain would recommence escalating all over again.  It would start from a murmur of discomfort to full-blown, thrashing-around-on-the-bed agony in the span of twenty minutes.  This was what I dealt with from the age of 12 and a half.

To paint this picture accurately, in conjunction to the pain pills, it is necessary to mention that I would always cry out for God to deliver me from the intolerable pain (whether it was of the female variety or from the aftermath of having appendicitis).   Moreover, with only one exception, God did not reach down and free me from my struggle. 

Regardless of this absence of intervention, though, I need to make a vital point here:  whenever the pills did kick in, no matter how far down the track it took for my pain to ease, I would always, ALWAYS thank God that I had access to this medication.  I truly believed I was blessed to be living in a nation with accessible pain relievers and other medical provisions.  I also believed I was blessed to be living in this era:  had I been alive 100 years ago (or even 50 years ago), such drugs would not have been available to me (and, if you really want to get down to the nitty-gritty of it, 100 years ago I would have died as a 9 year old from appendicitis).  I would not then and cannot now be convinced that God doesn’t have a part in modern-day medicine.  It was an answer to my prayer to be freed from pain, even if it wasn’t by the hand of God in the space of five seconds.

“I could not then and cannot now be convinced that God doesn’t

have a part in modern-day medicine”

In 2001 at the age of twenty I underwent laparoscopic surgery and was finally diagnosed with endometriosis.  It was rather extensive by that stage, and a doctor who had witnessed the operation commented to me afterwards that I “must have been in a lot of pain”.  It wasn’t until I had my second laparoscopy at the age of 22 that relief finally visited me, nevertheless.  Following my diagnosis, I was also prescribed much more powerful drugs to combat any future pain, medication that might have proven invaluable had I had the luxury of taking it during my teen years (if you’re a sufferer of endo you will know the story – it is very difficult to get anyone to take you seriously when you describe the severity of the pain).  I wonder how many hours sleep I lost during my high school years simply because the pills were inadequate for combating what was a much bigger problem than anyone ever realised.  I had surgery again at age 27, and following this I started taking the pill in an effort to keep me on a good run of freedom from pain for as long as possible.  I’ve met people over the years that are hard set against the pill, they cite that it can cause fertility issues later on.  As I see it though, if I were to marry and God wanted to bless me with children, no prior use of synthetic hormones could stand in the way.  Certainly it is not in God’s character to take us through something only to then abandon us on the other side.

 

What seems unfathomable to me is that some would consider it out of the question to take medication that those sufferers of the past could have so greatly benefited from.  Perhaps we should consider that the prayers of sufferers from generations previous are in part responsible for the bringing about of more advanced medicine today.

 

Finally, in relation to my other abdominal issue post-appendectomy, I spent many years and accumulatively thousands of dollars seeing GPs, specialists, natural-paths and anyone else who might possibly be able to help me.  I must have had ever test under the sun done at some point.  In 2010 I paid a visit to the Food and Allergy show at the Greenlane show grounds; there, dietician Anna Richards gave a presentation on food intolerances.  I decided to make an appointment to go and see her, not because I believed in my heart of hearts that she could help me, but because ticking another box was an art I’d brought to perfection.  Much to my dismay though, Anna introduced me to the FODMAP diet; this diet was the first thing to ever make a significant and long term difference to my daily abdominal pain.   

 

To summarise further events intertwined with this particular pain, two years ago I was given medication to help me sleep as, for reasons unbeknown to me to this day, I’d gone from being a notoriously good sleeper (bar the instances of pain), to being someone who couldn’t rake in more than two hours sleep a night to save herself.  The medication prescribed to me is not intended for insomnia per se, but is often used for its drowsy effects to treat long term sleep deprivation.  This drug, in conjunction with eliminating restless nights of lying awake, has also alleviated 95% of my abdominal pain and as such I’m no longer in need of being quite so rigid with the FODMAP approved foods.

 

I was considering inserting a phrase like ‘due to share luck’ or ‘by chance’ in relation to the pain reduction from the sleeping medication, but I feel this is an unfair accreditation on closer deliberation.  While I can’t say exactly why I believe this, I am certain that this prescription drug was God’s way of helping me deal with my on-going war against pain.  If God had said to me “Will you accept a few months of sleepless nights in exchange for the long-awaited relief of your daily abdominal pain?” I would have readily said yes.  I guess God didn’t need to ask me that question; He already knew my answer. 

 

“If God had asked me “Will you accept a few months of sleepless nights in exchange for the long-awaited relief of your daily abdominal pain?” I would have readily said yes.  I guess God didn’t need to ask me that question; He already knew my answer”

 

During the years prior to any sign of relief, it is fair to say that I’d wondered on many occasions why God seemed reluctant (in my opinion) to divinely intervene.  I don’t think we can really examine God’s reasoning in this regard without referring to the well-known book of Job.  In Dr Larry Richards’ works Every Good and Evil Angel in the Bible, Richards’ points out that what is significant about God allowing Satan to torment Job is that God had an entirely unique “purpose in mind” for this allowance (Richards, 118).  The chapter ends with the conclusion that whilst God was “ultimately responsible for Job’s suffering”, from the very onset of it, God “intended Job’s pain to result in good”, and this good is realised when we see how Job drew nearer to God (118). 
 

I don’t pretend that my situation was vaguely similar to that of Job’s, I haven’t lost loved ones in the wake of my testing, but I do feel that this experience has drawn me nearer to our creator.  For one thing, if the pain was restricted to one year, rather than many years, it is entirely conceivable that my prayer life would have been altered to reflect this.  Without the pain, I would not have been nearly as eager to have God hear my cries.  Also, if it wasn’t for my own experience, I would not have had the empathy that I have today for others suffering through illnesses, nor would I be so dedicated to praying for their healing.  In this sense, my story is not entirely dissimilar to Job’s; good has also come about by my prolonged suffering.
 

As a further branch on the subject of suffering, there was one significant episode where God did reach down and intervene.  I was 18 at the time, and I awoke one night to intense pain in my abdomen.  This in itself was not a new experience; although in the space of a few minutes I quickly came to realise it was heading in a formerly un-ventured direction.  As I climbed out of bed with the intent of finding something to take, the pain climbed rapidly and in the space of a few seconds and I was in more pain than I’d ever been in my whole life.  Novel symptoms occurred as I stood there: sweat began seeping out of me like never before and the room would not stand still.  Now feeling scared, I wanted to call out for help, but I had no strength in me to carry my voice any further than the four walls of my room.  I wailed “God help me” and in my frightened state I totally believed I was going to die. 

 

What happened next was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life.  I woke up on the floor and even though I’d not yet taken any medication, I was completely free from pain.  It was a miracle in the most literal sense.  I can still recall my profound relief upon realising that not only had I not died, the pain had gone.

 

Again, this is not something I commonly share with others, I can probably count the number of people I’ve mentioned it to on one hand.  Even as I contemplate it now, I’m not entirely sure why I’ve rendered it inappropriate to retrieve this incident when citing the work of God’s healing hand.  Perhaps it is because the battle didn’t end there, although I feel ever grateful now as I did back then for God’s decision to swoop-in and save me on that particular occasion.  In my mind, however, this episode might be affronted by others when I am forced to acknowledge that the typical daily pain still revisited me in much the same fashion for a long time after this (basically until I was introduced to the FODMAP diet, and later on the sleeping pills).  What then can I say about this on-going suffering and my reliance on God…

 

 “We do not want you to be uninformed, bothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia.  We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life.  Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death.  But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead” 2 Corinthians 1:8-9
 

Perhaps that night was God’s way of showing me that He is more than capable of helping me in my time of greatest need.  Although my intent had been to swallow back something for the pain, God chose that event to reveal that He does hear my cries and that I cannot be entirely self-sufficient.   To go back to the point I am making, my taking of pills doesn’t mean I am not reliant on God.  God didn’t hear me thinking “I’d better get up and take something for this pain” on that fateful night and in turn decide “Oh look, she doesn’t need me after all – the pills will suffice”.  If the instance described here proves anything, it is that pressing into God does pay off, and that God doesn’t withhold deliverance because we’ve tried to help ourselves.  Rather, it seems to me that God can work in conjunction with modern day medicine.

 

Is it over for me in terms of healing?

No, it isn’t.  As a wise Christian friend once pointed out, when the bible describes Jesus administering healing to people, He doesn’t lay hands on them and leave them markedly better off than they were before, yet still marginally sick.  I think what I am getting at here though is that, in my experience, God is a God of more than just that one moment of complete deliverance; He is also the God of helping you every day in the lead up to that release.

 

“I think what I am getting at here though is that, in my experience, God is a God of more than just that one moment of complete deliverance; He is also the God of helping you every day in the lead up to that release”

 

Perhaps it is my long standing relationship with medication that has made me want to defend its cause in the face of Christian critics.  I still believe God can deliver us from intolerances and sensitivities as through His stripes we are healed.  I’ve been to many healing meetings in my time, and have had church prayer ministers lay hands on me as well.  For as long as I am with these ailments, I will continue to pray for my deliverance from them in additional to receiving prayer from others whenever it is offered.  However, I think to assume that this is God’s only means of intervention is to limit how God works.  After all, the Lord works in mysterious ways, and why can’t that be via medication?  To reiterate once again, I don’t think it was share luck that saw me land on sleeping pills that near-eliminated a much more loathsome battle within my flesh.
 

To be perfectly blunt about the topic at hand, if I were to eradicate medication of any description from my life, it would be like handing myself over to a prison sentence for a crime that I didn’t commit (or perhaps one that I’d long since repented of).  To this affect, I don’t believe God wishes for His children to live their lives as though they were doing time and suffer unnecessarily.  Medication, when administered correctly and for the right reasons, is a blessing and should not be treated as though it is an abomination, or a substitute, to the Lord.

 
 

Wendie

 

 

References:

Richards, Larry. Every Good and Evil Angel in the Bible. Nashville, Tennessee: Thomas Nelson Publishers, 1998. Print.