Choosing to SEE Read online

  I don’t even remember what my grandfather said when I asked him this. But the point is, by the time I was a teenager I was pretty upset about the idea that you could lose your salvation. One false move, I thought, and I could end up on the outside of the pearly gates looking in, wondering what went wrong.

  You get the picture: I grew up very works oriented, with the idea that Christians don’t sin, they have “faults.” I wasn’t quite sure where the line was between people who sinned and people who simply had faults. As someone who likes to know the score, I became confused. I knew I had a relationship with God, but at what point did the big, far-off God in the sky get mad enough or disappointed enough to look at my faults and see them as sins? And if they were sins, was I really saved to begin with?

  With my perfectionist personality, always trying my hardest to be good enough, I was setting myself up for huge disappointments. When bad things happened, was God so disappointed with me that He didn’t care anymore? I always had questions like this in my mind, and without the reality of grace, I just couldn’t wrap my arms around the Jesus who supposedly lived in the heart.

  Looking back, I’m not sure if this works orientation is what my church really taught, or if this was how I perceived it. I did desire a relationship with Christ. Every summer when I’d go to youth camp, I’d get fired up about Jesus and my relationship with Him. I’d always get saved again, or at least rededicate my life to God. I wanted to do it all just right. I’d read the Bible and pray and journal about Jesus . . . for a while. Then I’d go back to school, the fervor would fade, and I’d backslide, sin, have faults, or whatever the word was, and the cycle would start all over again. I couldn’t be what I thought a Christian should look like.

  I loved my church friends, but I also had other friends at school. I wanted everyone to like me, and if conforming to peer pressure was the way for that to happen, I’d allow myself to be pressured from time to time. So I was a good girl who got good grades, but also a fun-loving girl who had an adventurous spirit and would hang with the wild crowd from time to time.

  As a child I’d always been a bit heavy, thanks to my grandmother’s cherry pie and my mother’s homemade sourdough bread dripping with lots of butter. I hated shopping for clothes. At Sears, back in the day, if you were a thick boy, you were considered “husky”; if you were a thick girl, you were considered, yes, “chubby”!

  My grandmother called me her little butterball. The kids at school called me Chubby Chapman. I was a big fan of justice – so if something seemed unfair, I wasn’t shy about voicing my opinion. I hated how the popular kids would pick on people like me. I’d always stick up for the underdog.

  Then, during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years, when I was fifteen, I grew about three inches and lost about twenty-five pounds. Everything on my body shifted around in some pretty amazing ways. All of a sudden, the people who had teased me wanted to be my friends. Boys who had called me “el Chubbo” the year before were asking me out on dates. I found great pleasure in turning them down.

  During my summers growing up, I spent most of my time at a family swim and athletic club. My brother was the coach of my swim team, and as soon as I was old enough (about the same time as my physical metamorphosis) I was certified as a lifeguard.

  So there I was, tanned, bleached blond, with a deep dimple and straight white teeth, thanks to my parents’ splurge on braces when I was younger. I loved the pool smells of chlorine, baby oil mixed with iodine (for that great, oh-so-natural orange hue), and Coppertone lotion. I loved sitting up in the lifeguard stand, flipping my whistle on its cord around my index finger, in charge and lovin’ life!

  During the summers, camp meetings would come to town. There were big revivals every night, with special choirs and singing groups and youth events. One night I went to a church service with the intention of staying for a youth meeting, and a man at the entrance stopped me. He looked about 112 years old, and he said, “Excuse me, young lady, but you are not welcome here dressed like that!”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “You’re not welcome here!” he repeated, grabbing hold of my upper arm. “Not with what you’re wearing!”

  I looked down at myself. The one-piece culottes outfit, red with white stripes, complemented my nice suntan, but it was not inappropriate! It wasn’t too short or cut too low . . . definitely not over the line of any reasonable dress code.

  Part of me was ready to cry; the other part was mad at the injustice of it all.

  “Isn’t this a church service?” I asked the Grandpa Inquisitor. “What if I was a person who didn’t know Christ and desperately needed to be saved, and you turned me away and told me I wasn’t welcome because of what I was wearing?”

  All he did was tell me to leave. “You are not welcome here!”

  I turned away, tears rolling down my cheeks, and got into my car. My dad, brother, and sister had a Southern gospel group and they were singing in a small church nearby. I drove there . . . and the pastor, my parents, my siblings, and the small congregation all told me I was welcome with whatever I was wearing, and anyway, I looked just fine.

  You would think that with my upbringing and the support of my parents and grandparents, I would have felt healthy and secure with who I was.

  But I didn’t. There was a hurricane of stuff going on inside of me: my hard-working perfectionism, my desire to be well liked by everyone, my body-image issues of having been a chubby preadolescent and now a pretty teenager.

  As time went on I continued to engage with the church kids, while at the same time pushing some of the boundaries with kids in my high school. I continued my battle with the theological questions of God that started so long ago with my grandpa.

  Does God love me only when I make good choices? Does He love me even then? Would I ever be worthy enough for a relationship with the God of the universe?

  The answer I kept hearing inside of me was “no.” I couldn’t color perfectly inside the lines of what I thought God expected of me. I couldn’t do it right. Grace was not a word I understood, and I had no concept that I was created in the image of God. The Enemy of my soul whispered to me that I could never be good enough, that I just wasn’t worth God’s attention and love.

  Around this time I fell victim to a predator who manipulated my naivete for his pleasure. He used me and left me with a deep emotional wound. My trust was broken. I was more shattered than that torn-up Holly Hobby picture. Feeling lonely and scared, I tried fixing it myself by stuffing the guilt and shame deeper and deeper inside.

  All these years later, I am still dealing with this pain. It has scarred all of my closest relationships, especially with my very patient husband. Those closest to me have seen the effects that evil and shame can bring.

  Now I understand that the blame is not mine to own. But when I was a sixteen-year-old girl, I lived in a swirl of confusion, trying to figure out where God was when I needed Him most. I couldn’t work hard enough or be good enough to escape the reality of my damaged soul. I was driven to avoid, at all costs, the shame that was deep inside. I felt like nothing I did really mattered anymore.

  By my senior year of high school, I didn’t know where I would go, or if I would go, to college. I had taken some college level classes and had a high GPA, thanks to my work ethic and academic abilities. As a young girl I’d dreamed of going to Anderson University, but I knew that wasn’t on my parents’ radar. It would be a financial stretch.

  But my dad had suggested that nursing would be a great option for me. Since Anderson had a solid nursing program, he and my mom made whatever contacts and calls they could. They helped me take out student loans to finance the part that they couldn’t . . . and the next thing I knew I was accepted at Anderson and on my way to Indiana. One of the last things my mom said to me was, “If you’re going to Anderson just to meet someone and marry him, can you please do it your freshman year so we don’t have to spend all this money?”

  My plan was to avoi
d any situations that could potentially set me up for further pain. Dating wasn’t on my priority list. I would work hard, study hard, and graduate with honors. The hazy future after that would reward me with a great job, and I’d eventually marry the most reliable, consistent man I could find . . . an accountant! He would work nine to five, except during tax season; we’d have two weeks off in the summers for vacation. He would be organized and predictable. He would change the oil in my car and keep everything working properly. Life would be orderly and secure.

  I told my mom that I had a plan, and I certainly wasn’t going to do some crazy thing like fall in love, get married, and drop out.

  But sometimes God’s plans are a little – or a lot – different from ours.

  4

  Tarzan and Jane

  Deep in the jungle up in the trees in Indiana, 1983

  Living on pizza and too little sleep

  Just me and my animal friends

  Then in the distance I saw through the leaves

  A creature of beauty like none I had ever seen

  The trouble started when you smiled at me

  And our two worlds came crashing together

  And a true love story began

  I am Tarzan you are Jane

  I am night and you are the day

  We’re like sunshine and rain

  We’re so different from each other

  You are woman, I am man

  You are the sea and I am the land

  And I would not be who I am if I didn’t have you

  “We Belong Together (Tarzan and Jane)”

  Words and music by Steven Curtis Chapman

  As I started college at Anderson, I was pretty disillusioned about a lot of things. I felt lonely and unworthy of God’s love. I wanted so badly to trust Jesus, but trust had been stolen from me. So I desperately needed a fresh start as I turned a new page in my school calendar and in my spiritual life.

  The great thing was that I would be rooming with a good friend, Dondeena, and we were both excited about the Christian community on campus. In spite of my disillusionment, I really did want a fresh beginning. I rededicated my life to Christ, and something down deep felt it was different this time, as opposed to my annual rededications when I was growing up. Back then my relationship with God was fear and performance driven. But now I was longing for an authentic closeness with Jesus.

  I would find out much later that what I was hungry for was grace. But I didn’t even have a word for it when I was starting college.

  Dondeena and I both prayed and asked Jesus to walk with us and to breathe fresh life into our souls. Then, before classes started, we decided to go to the annual freshman orientation concert. The band was this guy named Steve Chapman, his brother Herbie, and a friend, Brent Henderson. They played contemporary Christian music with a definite country twang.

  Steve did most of the talking – later this would come as no surprise to me – and was obviously the leader of the band. He had a perfect mullet (business in the front, party in the back), a big smile, cowboy boots, and a green guitar. Since I was from Ohio, anyone from south of there was considered a hillbilly, and this mullet guy, who went by Steve back then, seemed to fit the bill. But Steve had written most of the music, and it was really good. And he was pretty amazing on the guitar. I didn’t register his last name. Dondeena and I giggled our way through the concert, making jokes about the country boys.

  A few days later I was checking my mail, and there was a letter in the box for Steve Chapman. Then it clicked . . . Oh yeah, I thought, isn’t that funny? That mullet guy with the band must bemy mailbox buddy since we have the same last name. I didn’t give it much thought.

  Classes started, and one day I was walking toward the main campus when Steve and his friend Greg, who I had met earlier at a freshman orientation event, came walking toward me. I had my tan and my white teeth and my Farrah Fawcett hair, and I guess I was looking cute in my denim jacket all decked out with Precious Moments pins. Steve nudged Greg to introduce us.

  Greg wanted to ask me out himself, so he told Steve, “Oh, uh, you wouldn’t be interested in her, ew, she’s a big partier!”

  But Steve wasn’t put off by Greg’s sneaky little lie. A few days later, I was walking past Steve’s dorm and he must have seen me through his window. He came tearing out of the dorm, no shoes on, so the closer he got to me, the more autumn leaves got stuck all over his socks.

  We talked for a while, laughing and picking the leaves off his socks, and something clicked between us. All of a sudden, Steve Chapman didn’t seem so hillbilly anymore.

  One night, a bunch of us were having chicken fights in the dorm. Steve and I liked each other, but we hadn’t gone on our first official date – which would be to a gourmet meal at Red Lobster – yet. That would come later.

  At any rate, I was up on Steve’s shoulders, and we were trying to beat all the other chicken fighters, and I was laughing so hard that I knew I was going to pee my pants. I always did growing up when I laughed too hard. My poor bladder couldn’t take much more; it was going to give way.

  “Put me down!” I yelled at Steve. “Please!”

  “Not yet!” he yelled. “We’re winning!”

  “You’ve got to put me down!” I yelled. “If you don’t, you’re gonna be sorry. I’m telling you the truth, I have a weak bladder, and I am going to wet my pants!”

  “No!” Steve yelled, laughing. “You won’t wet your pants while you’re on my shoulders.”

  At that I laughed more, and you can guess what happened next.

  He put me down. Quickly.

  We had both started our school year determined to focus on our studies and stay unencumbered by major dating relationships. So we spent the first several weeks of our friendship regularly reminding each other, “I really like you, but I don’t want to get serious.”

  But we were spending every moment we could in each other’s presence . . . studying, talking, sharing meals, and walking to every class together. Within six weeks we were declaring our love and were thinking about spending the rest of our lives together.

  We had bared much of our souls to each other, but I still had not told him about the pain and shame I had carried around since high school. I wanted to be completely honest with Steve, but I’d shoved all that to another part of my brain and locked the door.

  Then, on a Friday before our school’s homecoming, Steve and I spent a fall afternoon together at a park, lying on a blanket, looking up at the sky, talking about anything and everything. It was a beautiful day for talking . . . and kissing . . . and eventually we found ourselves with our feelings and hormones in overdrive. While we didn’t have sex, we had gotten carried away physically, and Steve was upset with himself when we pulled into the parking place at his dorm that night.

  “We need to talk about something,” he said. “I’ve made a commitment to save myself for the girl I’m going to marry, and today I know I let things go too far. I’m sorry and I really want us to set some boundaries so that we honor each other. Do you feel the same?”

  I couldn’t look at him. I turned away and stared out the window, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “I do feel the same way,” I said. “Now.”

  “What do you mean, ‘now’?” he asked.

  “I wanted to save myself for marriage, but some things happened during high school and it hasn’t exactly worked out that way,” I said.

  These were devastating words for Steve to hear. He got really upset, and it killed me to be with this person I loved and wanted to marry, and feeling like I might lose him because of the harm I’d experienced in the past.

  “I’m sorry, but I just don’t know what to do with all of this,” he said. “I need to go somewhere alone and try to figure some things out.”

  There was nothing I could say. I slowly got out of Steve’s white Cutlass, and I had barely shut the door when the car reversed, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove away. I watched the taillights get smaller a
nd smaller in the distance.

  I decided I needed to go find Herbie.

  Steve’s older brother Herbie was and still is one of the sweetest, funniest people I know. I knew that Herbie would help me. I couldn’t stand the fact that I had hurt Steve, and in a very untypical way, given my family’s usual way of dealing with things – stuff it down and wait until morning – I felt like I had to try to talk things through and set them right, even if it took all night.

  I ran to the dorm room that Steve and Herbie shared, crying.

  Herbie opened the door, looking confused at first, then concerned.

  “Herbie!” I yelled. “I’ve really upset your brother, and you’ve got to help me find him!”

  Herbie took me to one of Steve’s usual spots where he would go to be alone. Sure enough, there was Steve in the white Cutlass, just sitting in the driver’s seat, pounding the steering wheel, praying and sobbing.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said to me. “My parents have prayed for my spouse-to-be ever since they came to faith, and I’ve always prayed, ‘God, prepare me for the one you have for me, and prepare her for me.’ And if I’m completely honest, I mainly hoped for two things: that my future wife would have a great figure and that she would be a virgin!”

  Staring at Steve through my own tears, part of my brain thought, Youprayed that? Isn’t that kind of hard to find in the same person?

  But then we cried together and I told him how much I cared for him and how very sorry I was that I had hurt him. Steve ended up feeling more compassion than anger as we talked about how alone I had felt, unable to go to anyone to share what I was going through. We talked about our future and how we would “start new” with God’s forgiveness. We cried and prayed some more . . . and somewhere, through that long night, we came to a place of peace.