We live in a world that doesn’t like the grey areas. Yet, that is where you find the complexity, the humanity, and the truth. – Anon.
We live in a world that doesn’t like the grey areas. Yet, that is where you find the complexity, the humanity, and the truth. – Anon.
As I write this, I am 22 weeks pregnant with my first daughter. Our second of two IVF babies. And no one was more surprised than me to discover that there was a she in there this time. I was certain I was carrying a second boy. And I was elated about remaining a “boy mom.” Something about that felt special to me, necessary even. I felt like the world could use more good men. And I truly felt up to that task.
I had to immediately shift gears when I read “GIRL” on the sonogram screen, right on top of her little tiny alien head. (Hopefully, she’ll grow in to that.) I cried tears of joy instantaneously as I pictured my sweet son doting on his baby sister.
And as my day carried on, I realized the world needs more strong, self sufficient, confident women as much as it needs more good men. But so far, I haven’t felt certain I am up to that task. After all, I’m not even sure I am a strong, self sufficient, confident woman myself.
And yet, that is the job I signed on for with all of the shots and early morning blood draws, the fatigue and the waiting. Now, every day, I carry the most precious cargo inside my own body. I’ve thought of little else in the last two weeks since we got the news. While I recognize that we live in one of the safest societies, in one of the best parts of the world, and are a part of some of the greatest generations to date, I am all too aware that we as women don’t always feel safe, or equal. We don’t always feel seen, but rather, we feel watched. And just as concerning, we haven’t historically and still don’t always feel comfortable in talking about why.
I’d like to do a series on women. In light of my own precious cargo being the inspiration, and all of us women being such precious cargo in our great big grand universe, it seems only appropriate that be the namesake for this series. I’d like to start a conversation about just some of what’s been on my mind since learning I will soon be mothering a daughter. I’d like to talk about what that means to me, what fears it brings about, why my husband felt visible disappointment at the news, and how that made me feel. I’d like to ask questions, and have a series of honest dialogues about what it’s like to be a woman right now – and what it’s like to be a woman who doesn’t necessarily agree with every single “feminist” viewpoint being heavily promoted right now. I’d like to talk about what it means to me to: be a victim of sex abuse; have an abortion; be a mother; be a working mother; be raised by a feminist; be married to a bad feminist. I’d like to talk about the nature of female friendships. I’d like to talk about the differences in raising boys and girls, and whether there even should be differences. I’d like to talk about my hopes for our daughter, and my hopes for myself in raising her.
I don’t have answers – and if I do, they may not be the right ones. But I do have a perspective that is uniquely mine. And right now, I think the best thing women can do and should be doing is putting their perspective out there, participating in the conversations that effect our lives, health, and well-being – as well as our children’s if we have them. Certainly, different conversations will touch on religion in different ways and in varying degrees. But all will touch on the human element. Because that’s really what this is all about – the reality of our here and now.
Back with more Precious Cargo soon. Hope to see you there.
Have you ever heard that quote, “I fell in love the way you fall asleep, slowly, and then all at once?” That’s exactly how I fell out of love with Christianity. Slowly. And then all at once.
I married my husband in September 2014. My father married us in our backyard. It was a simple, lovely ceremony, and it was non-religious. A few weeks out, my father asked what kinds of things we wanted said. I told him that we were writing our own vows, and that I wanted him to keep it short, warm, and leave god out of it entirely. Knowing me, he was surprised at my godless request, but I explained to him that a) a lot of the biblical stuff said at weddings is so repetitive that it doesn’t feel meaningful; and b) my husband wasn’t a religious guy so I didn’t want to monopolize the ceremony solely with my beliefs.
But that wasn’t the truth, not the whole truth anyway. I did find the biblical stuff repetitive and meaningless. That was true. And not monopolizing the ceremony with my beliefs sounded like the right thing to do. But I had spent three years telling my future husband that whether he believed or not, I wanted to raise our children to know Jesus. So if I’m being honest, if I wanted god in that ceremony, I was selfish enough to expect that he be okay with it. Instead, one of my vows to my husband was that he “would always be the subject of my final prayer.” That was it. I reduced god to a one liner, and it felt exactly right for where I was in that stage of my life.
The next morning, after consummating our marriage (we were too tired the night before), my husband tells me he wants to have children, like right now. This was a variation from anything we’d previously talked about baby timeline wise. I was stunned. But instead of feeling excited, I felt a looming fear. It showed itself in a wave of sweat and nausea. My whole world shifted in that moment as a rush of childhood memories flooded my mind.
I pictured sweet, innocent 4 year old me meeting my father’s new girlfriend and her sons for the first time. And then later being told by one of those sons that there was a knife under his bed if I didn’t do what he wanted. I remembered quickly climbing into the bottom bunk in his dark room, doing whatever he wanted, and then going to church with them the next morning. I remembered the guilt I felt being in that building after every time it happened. I remembered my father’s excitement at meeting such a godly woman and how happy he was to raise those boys as his own. I remembered not wanting to be the bad little girl who broke my father, and sensing I, not my brothers, would suffer that blame.
I pictured me lying in bed most nights trying to get images of an actual fire burning hell out of my little girl brain. And then praying prayers I didn’t understand to a god I couldn’t grasp, explaining to him why I didn’t deserve to be burned alive for eternity. Begging him to just let me go be with my mom in heaven when it was time. Even as I type this now, at 33, I tear up recalling the very tangible fear I felt most nights. A fear more tangible to me than the god I was praying to.
I pictured the little girl who was hyper sexualized much too early because of things that happened when her parents turned a blind eye. I pictured a girl who felt deep shame for learning to enjoy the things that were happening to her behind closed doors. I recalled the teenager having sex too early with boys she shouldn’t have because she was so accustomed to saying yes, and too scared to say no.
I recalled growing into an insecure pseudo-adult. I pictured my ex-boyfriend drunkenly spitting in my face and shoving me to the ground. I pictured him holding a loaded gun to his head, again and again, and again, telling me to watch him kill himself because it was my fault. I pictured me waking up every morning after it happened, putting on a pretty dress and toting him around my friends and family smiling like my insides weren’t shredded from tolerating it. I pictured my mom encouraging me to get back together with this man every time I had the courage to leave him. I pictured me blaming myself for my mom’s misguided help because I was too embarrassed to share my relationship reality with her.
Then I pictured the god I’d been praying to for 29 years, even before I believed in him – the god I loved and worshiped for at least half of my life. I pictured him peacefully watching me through my anguish, through my abuses. Through my need for his love and protection. Watching. That was surely all he was doing. Was that the god I was going to introduce to my children? Was that the god I was going to encourage them to love and seek love from?
As I reflect back on those moments, what’s so interesting is that if you had asked me just moments before my husband told me he wanted to start a family, I would have described my overwhelmingly happy childhood to you, and believed what I was telling you was true. But the second he suggested a family of our own, the façade of my youth I’d been presenting to the world washed away and I could see clearly for the first time in a long time. Perhaps for the first time ever.
It wasn’t that my childhood was so traumatic. Most of it was fairly normal, mundane even. And much of it, remarkably happy. But, I had certainly diminished the ugly snapshots enough that I pretended they never happened. Enough that I failed to connect a few dots that needed connecting. The mere mention of babies in my immediate future connected those dots.
I immediately told my husband I wasn’t ready to have kids. And I wasn’t. In seconds, I’d privately decided I couldn’t have kids until I knew what I wanted to teach them about the god I thought I believed in. I confess I was partly embarrassed to tell my husband I was having doubts about the god I had been trying to sell him for the last three years. But more than embarrassed, I was scared of his influence. I needed this decision to be wholly mine. So I kept it to myself, and got to work.
I soaked in every possible resource about every point of view I could find. I listened to debates between atheists and preachers of all kinds. I googled religions I’d barely heard of, or, hadn’t previously cared to acknowledge. I read funny, but pointed memes and comics. I went down many a YouTube rabbit hole, and listened hungrily to atheist centric podcasts. I read pieces and parts of books of all sorts – science, religion, and atheism. I actually read the bible – well more of it than I ever had before. More than just the versus we talked about in my bible studies and Sunday sermons. I immersed myself in blogs. Reading other people’s journey through religion, or their life without, was often gut wrenching, uplifting, and relatable to me all at once. I lost hours of sleep every single night for those months seeking answers to questions I’d stopped asking a long time ago.
For four sleepless months, I uncovered a wealth of religious knowledge, got an internet education in common sense, and felt welcomed into a community of kind, moral, and intelligent atheists – a community that until then, I didn’t know existed. Acknowledgement of my own non-belief would soon follow. And while there are countless things that helped to tip the scales in favor of my own divorce of religion, there were a few that expedited the process.
The first I didn’t see coming. Although it fell during my fact-finding four months, I was just lying in bed with my husband one Friday night watching Bill Maher. True to form, Bill was bashing religion in his uniquely underhanded but simultaneously dignified way. He said, “If there’s one turd in the punch bowl, you stop drinking the punch.” Now, I can’t fully articulate to you how much it pains me that these of all words affected me so profoundly because truly, I hate the word turd to my core. I hate even more that I’ve now typed it twice. But it woke me up in a way I can’t recall a single other thing ever had before. Perhaps because the concept was so fundamentally simple. You couldn’t argue the benefits of drinking turd punch. More importantly, no one in his or her right mind would. Except me. I had spent the last few years picking apart the bible until there was virtually nothing left. Yet, I was still drinking the punch. The churches I was abandoning left and right weren’t wrong. The other Christian’s I knew weren’t too uptight or conservative. They were just preaching the bible. My belief system was based on a book that was full of shitty punch. Even before the end of that episode, I knew I didn’t want to drink it anymore.
The second quote I stumbled on to shortly thereafter was, “if there is a God, he’ll have to beg for my forgiveness.” This is said to have been carved into a wall of a concentration camp. Many times over the years, I’d ask myself why god allowed bad things to happen. And then I’d quickly brush the question aside after reminding myself it’s all part of his grand plan. But reading that quote when I did, allowed me to give it the thought it deserved. I permitted myself a moment to question why God would allow an atrocity of that magnitude. For once, I permitted myself to not answer on god’s behalf. And when he never spoke up on his own, the silence spoke volumes.
The final thing that pushed the scales in the direction of reason was something Tracie Harris said on The Atheist Experience Podcast. Her words haunted me. “You either have a god who sends child rapists to rape children, or, you have a god who simply watches it and says, ‘when you’re done, I’m going to punish you.’ If I could stop a person from raping a child, I would. That’s the difference between me and your god.” This moved me deeply. First, it solidified in my mind that if god was real, he preferred to watch suffering rather than intervene.
But second, and perhaps more compelling to me was hearing her words, “If I could stop a person from raping a child, I would. That’s the difference between me and your god.” I’d never witnessed someone compare themselves to god other than to elevate him, while diminishing their own worthiness of his love. And here was spitfire Tracie elevating herself, while completely diminishing god’s worthiness of her love. And she was right to do so; there was no question. She would stop any harm to a child within her power. So would I. So would any decent human being. And surely, so would any decent and loving god. So if god wasn’t decent, or loving, why was I worshipping him? That was the moment I realized that even if god was real, perhaps I didn’t care. If I was going to worship a god, they needed to do something worthy of my praise.
There were many more ancillary bits and pieces that served the case for sanity. Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot helped me to better grasp just how small and insignificant we all are – and to recognize the unique beauty of our limited time on this planet. It also made me question whether the gods’ we worship are a symptom of our geography, or based on the veracity of their divine tales? Which was more likely? That different cultures and geographies each have different made up religious stories, none of which are true, including my own; or, that my religion is the one great truth? The answer was glaringly obvious to me.
Reading Sam Harris’, “An Atheist Manifesto,” was like looking into a mirror as he described how moderate Christians see themselves as the “true Christian’s,” while distancing themselves from fundamentalists. It showed me what a flawed view I’d maintained all of those years. I was interpreting the bible in the most moral light – certainly not the most accurate or literal light, just so that I could continue to swallow my Jesus pill. I finally realized that I, and the pastor’s I enjoyed and admired, had stripped Christianity of its biblical morals, and replaced them with those of modernity. We replaced them with superior morals because we now had the benefit of 2000 years of experience, wisdom, and growth as a civilization on our side. It was the first time I was able to recognize that the bible was a perfect reflection of the knowledge and lack thereof that its authors possessed at that time. I no longer needed to explain away the many brutal or nonsensical passages with a positive spin or deeper meaning. There was no deeper meaning. Accepting that was liberating.
Finally, four months later, I acknowledged my non-belief out loud for the first time. As my husband lay asleep beside me, I quietly whispered, “Oh my god, I can’t do this anymore. You’re not real, I can’t believe in you anymore.” The words fell out of my mouth before I even realized it – as if I couldn’t keep them in for one more second without bursting at the seams. I said it partly apologetically to the god I just admitted wasn’t real, and partly triumphantly as the fog had finally lifted. I felt physically lighter. Hot tears soaked my pillow as I kept repeating the same words over and over and over again. “I can’t do this anymore, I just can’t believe in you.” My use of the word “can’t” has stuck with me since that night – it was as if my brain had finally reached its capacity for bullshit and it literally couldn’t retain another falsehood for one more second of my precious existence.
I lay in bed awake for hours that night sorting through my emotions – which were heavy and conflicting. I certainly felt relief. I knew that immediately. For the first time ever, I felt I was standing on solid ground, and there was a palpable security in that. But there was also an overwhelming fear that accompanied my relief. What was I still scared of?
Two things. First, if god wasn’t real, no one was watching over me, or, my loved ones. I’d spent nearly every night of my life asking god to keep my family and I safe from harm, and believing he was doing just that. The recognition that no one was listening, much less protecting me was horrifying. But scarier still, now, I had to move forward with that same realization. No higher power would ever be looking out for me. Anything could happen at any moment. Second, I wouldn’t get the eternal life I’d been arrogantly banking on for the latter half of my life. When death finally came for me, or, worse, the people I loved, that was the end. Just eternal nothingness. No hope of meeting again – no hope of a better place. Facing the fragility of life and the finality of death felt almost crippling that first night.
But then I had a thought. I’d spent the better part of my childhood nearly crippled with a similar fear because I yearned so badly for that eternal life everyone talked about, yet, god remained elusive to me. Of course he remained elusive. He was fiction. I should have never been burdened with seeking the approval of a fictional character. I should have never been burdened with the threat of a fictional torture chamber. As a child, I was taught to seek his love, and I was taught that hell was real. Children are only burdened with such things when those older or supposedly wiser teach them such things. In a way, this was good news. My fear was taught to me; it was a learned behavior, which meant it could be unlearned. It also meant that my own children never had to suffer this burden. I had control over whether or not I would victimize my children in the same way. I promised myself in those early morning hours, I would never teach my children the ridiculous, abusive fucking nonsense I was brought up to believe.
A little sunlight the next morning brightened my spirits. It was time to put on my big girl panties and move forward. I couldn’t linger in the in between. Unlearning my lifetime of mental abuses religion inflicted on me wouldn’t be easy and I knew that. But clinging to a god I didn’t believe in because it felt good to make sense of death was no longer an option for me either. It took months of additional reading, coaching, personal pep talks, praying (yes, that’s right, I kept right on praying even though I knew nothing more substantial than the sky heard me), crying, small victories, and many highs and lows, but eventually, I found a new normal.
For the first time, I learned to get comfortable with the unknown. I realized that this universe owes me nothing. And that there is real beauty in finality. That doesn’t mean the idea of death isn’t still scary or heartbreaking at times. It just means that I learned to appreciate the short life I was given more than fearfully anticipate my inevitable death. I found peace in my brief reality was greater than the hope of an eternal fiction. I realized I only get to do this life once. My sudden motivation to get it right while I had the chance slowly began to trump my desire for forever.
I started to focus on the things I could believe in, rather than the one thing I no longer could. I believed in love, goodness, kindness, humanity, compassion, and decency. But I believed in all of those things for goodness sake – not because a cruel creator is waiting to punish me if I fail on any of those counts. I believe in science. I believe in science even when it doesn’t yet have all of the answers. I believe that when I die, I will cease to exist apart from the memories of those who knew me. I believe in exposing my children to truth, and facts, and views different than my own. I believe in letting them explore this world, ask questions and seek reality based answers so that they are taking in facts rather than fear. I believe in using your voice, and sharing your point of view. I believe in people, and their resilience. I believe in me, and my resilience. And I believe it’s never too late to start again.
As I honestly reflect back on my journey, I realize that I instinctively knew where it was going to lead even the very first night I began. I knew it in my guts. He wasn’t real. I just wasn’t ready to admit it. I knew I didn’t want god in my wedding ceremony because my marriage mattered to me, it was real. I knew the day was approaching where I would regret allowing the presence of a fake god to be a part of it. I knew I couldn’t bring a child into this world until I knew how to explain death and finality because I knew heaven, hell, and an evil arbiter weren’t going to be a part of that conversation. Not surprisingly, in my search for the truth, not one piece of evidence surfaced that bumped the scales even slightly in favor of religion. It was the easiest hard decision I ever had to make. And, it only took 4 months. Well, 14 years and 4 months. But who’s counting?
My life as an unbearable Christian youth.
Before I found reason, I found Christianity.
There I stood, butt-naked, chatting casually with my spray tan technician about my recent trials and tribulations in trying to get pregnant. We’d been trying for months I shared. We’d pro-actively gone to the fertility doctor to get informed and discuss potential options, continued to try on our own, moved forward with fertility testing, tried some more, then finally had our sit down with the doctor to learn that we’d have roughly a 6% chance of conceiving naturally. Based on all the information the doctor had gathered about us, he believed medically we were an ideal case for IVF. I shared this news with her optimistically. Enthusiastically even.
If you’re wondering who on earth shares this much and this kind of personal information with their spray tan tech. in a 15-minute appointment – while naked – the answer is that we’d become friends. Friends who’d spent real time together and shared many meaningful conversations prior to this. And as my friend, before I’d realized I was an atheist, I’d shared with her frustrations I’d had with my church (and the bible generally) and my desire to believe despite those growing frustrations.
I’d also shared that my husband didn’t really buy into the ‘whole God thing.’
“You need to be careful,” she started, “A friend of mine got deathly sick from all of those hormones,” she said breezily. She was talking hormones, sickness, and concern for my well being, but something in her expression made me feel her overwhelming disapproval, and my gut said it had nothing to do with the hormones. She continued telling me how severe her friend’s symptoms were while working the sprayer over my body like a pro. I watched her face as she spoke. Every time she paused for a breath, I’d see it again. Contempt? She paused, and there it was. Yep, definitely contempt. But I couldn’t immediately figure out why.
I quickly decided I needed to wrap up the conversation sensing that for whatever reason she had negative feelings about our decision to move forward with fertility treatment. And I didn’t want my excitement for our weird science baby even temporarily derailed.
“Yeah, I guess I can’t know the reactions to the drugs I might have until the time comes, but I’ll be sure to look at all the best resources beforehand,” I hurriedly said in an effort to politely end that portion of our conversation and move to something lighter.
“Okay, face forward, hold for the first 8,” she said. Perfect, I thought. She was just about to spray my face, the finishing touch to the sun-kissed glow I’d come for.
I closed my eyes and as I began to inhale, I heard, “it’s too bad Will doesn’t believe in God, huh?”
There it was. That was what her face had been saying. That was the contempt I’d seen seconds before. I wasn’t leaving the fate of my fertility in the hands of her god, and she found that more than bothersome.
I was stunned by the callousness of her words, and more stunned by her unawareness of their callousness. I popped my eyes open in shock despite the sprayer being aimed at my face. She had a smug look on her face that told me she wholeheartedly believed that her god had the answers to our fertility issue.
I shut my eyes and suffered a rapid fire 8 seconds of thoughts as I tried to process her words.
She has no idea I’m now an atheist. Should I tell her? No, now’s not the time.
But I really want to tell her. No, MK, not now, you’re too emotional.
Huh. I am emotional. Why? Why am I so emotional over this? It was a throw away comment, right?
Just tell her you’re an atheist. That will show her. Show her what? What did I want to show her?
Tell her. Just blurt it out before you overthink this like you do everything else. Tell her right now.
“… And EIGHT, okay, all done round one.”
I open my eyes, exhale, and stammer, “yeah,” with an uncomfortable laugh.
You fucking coward, I screamed at myself. Why didn’t you tell her? I realized I was sweating and my hands were doing that awful nervous shake they do. I was both surprised and confused by my body’s physical reaction to her words.
“Okay, ready for another 8 seconds,” she asked. I nodded, inhaled and closed my eyes again thankful for more time I wasn’t expected to make conversation.
Again, I got lost in another 8-second eternity of my own thoughts. This time though, they were a bit more pointed.
It’s too bad that he doesn’t believe in God. What does that even mean?
Which god? Your god? Your god who made our heat and light source give us skin cancer, hence your thriving business? Hmmm, I don’t think she’ll find that as funny as I do. Keep that one to yourself, MK.
And what if he prayed to a different god than you? What then? Who’s right? Who’s praying to the all powerful prayer answerer in the sky, and who’s just praying to the sky?
Why “too bad?” Are those words of sympathy for me because you determined your shitty god is punishing me for my husband’s non-belief?
Or, are those words of sympathy for him? Too bad he doesn’t have a god to pray to so he could ask god to give us a baby? I thought he had a plan for me, for us – so he either plans for us to have a child, or he doesn’t. And he knows when and if it’s supposed to happen, right? So why is all this begging required? I thought he knew what the fuck he was doing up there. Is this a courtroom situation? Is he going to take my request under advisement? Weigh the evidence? Determine if I’m worthy of a baby?
Sounds totally legitimate.
I felt equal parts sardonic and mocking toward her as I did bitter, angry, and hurt.
“… Seven and eight, okay, all done.” Knowing the routine, I stood there for several minutes to dry. I was relieved when her next appointment arrived and I could be left alone in my thoughts. Minutes later, I paid, and was on my way home.
Before I was half a block away, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. Gone were sardonic and mocking. I was all bitterness, anger, and hurt. Why did I care this much about her trivial comment?
But it wasn’t trivial, and I knew it. It was a verbal assault. And it hurt to my core.
In the hours, days, and weeks that followed, I was consumed by her words. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was determined to make sense of their meaning and understand my own visceral reaction to them. And, soon thereafter, I did.
First, this whole atheism thing was relatively new to me. Prior to her comment, I had realized my heathen ways only one year earlier. And although I’d shared my news with certain friends and family, I’d been met with little hostility. Of course, this was because I’d deliberately shared only with people I knew would be supportive, or at least non-confrontational.
Maybe this was cowardly, but I had been working my way up to tell those people I’d anticipated push-back from until I had a little more confidence under my belt. Not confidence in my newly held viewpoint, but confidence in myself to articulate my new viewpoint under less than desirable circumstances. Those circumstances being my loved ones attacking me for my non-belief.
That being said, this was truly my first encounter with someone I cared about judging me (or my husband rather) specifically for his (and as far as I was concerned our) non-belief.
I had expected retorts in the form of vague assertions of their biblical wisdom or broad attacks on what they perceived as my lack there of, and projections of their “fear” for my eternal well-being. You know the routine rhetoric.
What I didn’t expect were assertions about my fertility, health, or family. That felt like a personal attack.
If I’m being honest, it didn’t feel like a personal attack, it was one. Her words implied I somehow deserved this hardship.
And I knew then that was what was eating at me all those weeks – the accusatory nature of the words. I soon realized that I should have anticipated exactly those kinds of assertions, and exactly those insensitive words.
After all, people who believe in magic and make-believe have to believe their god is up there doing something. And that something falls into two categories: (1) something really great just happened – praise god, or (2) something really terrible happened, god must have some long term mysterious plan that hasn’t been revealed yet – and therefore, praise god.
But the reality is, they have absolutely no idea what their god is doing up there. And more significantly, they don’t care. Their need to believe is greater than their need to understand.
And because of this, they constantly word vomit all over people and situations when they can’t or don’t want to understand the very real underlying human, economic, or scientific issues.
Case in point, my dear friend felt certain my fertility issue was exactly the kind of something her god handled. And therefore, she felt comfortable, even obligated it seemed, to throw some of her unsolicited godly word vomit my way.
You see, when unfortunate or inexplicable things happen, the religious are a barrage of meaningless non-sense designed to make sure all of their conflicting brain boxes stay in tact and untangled.
“God has a reason even if we can’t understand it.”
“Be patient and wait for Him to reveal His plan to you.”
“God must need another angel, but you’ll meet again in paradise.”
“It’s just too bad you don’t believe in God because he could fix this problem with just a little bit of prayer.”
The absurdity of the claims they’re making is of no consequence to them. They’ve heard these statements countless times, and have repeated them countless more. They’ve been trained to find comfort in blind faith.
This is fine and well except for one thing: They need you to buy into their non-sense too.
They can’t have you casually waltz in with all of your questions – or worse, your answer seeking. They don’t want to hear reasoned arguments. And most of all, they don’t want scientific solutions.
If science can solve the problem, what is their God doing up there? It’s the forbidden question. The one that starts the jumbling of those neatly compartmentalized brain boxes.
So just buy in they plead. Just buy into their magic man in the sky. Just buy in so you can stop thinking so much. Buy in so you can sit and wait patiently for His grand plan to be revealed to you. But what they mean is buy in so WE don’t have to think so much. Buy in so WE aren’t confronted with unanswerable questions. Buy in so WE can blindly believe because we’re too scared to stop.
And that’s when I realized that her words came from a place of fear. Sure, they were well disguised with arrogance and a smug look, but fear is the only thing that prevents you from asking questions and seeking answers. Fear is the only thing that impedes your willingness to look for scientific solutions to solvable problems.
I knew this because I once had that same fear. And the day I finally let go of that fear and admitted what I knew to be true – that there is no god – that day was the most liberating day of my life.
Not long after I’d come to these realizations I was on the phone with another dear friend relaying to her the same details of our fertility struggles and how we were in the midst of our first IVF cycle.
“Have you tried praying,” she asked concerned. I chuckled, “Nah, we’re just going with science on this one,” I shared confidently. I was a coward no more. I knew science was greater than god. And I stopped being ashamed in proclaiming it.
In case you’re wondering if I ever went back for another spray tan, I did. When I was seven months pregnant with our weird science baby.