Glennon Doyle - Untamed

And what if I demand freedom not because I was “born this way” and “can’t help it” but because I can do whatever I choose to do with my love and my body from year to year, moment to moment—because I’m a grown woman who does not need any excuse to live however I want to live and love whomever I want to love?

What if I don’t need your permission slip because I’m already free?

Recently, Abby, the kids, and I were lying on the couch together watching one of our favorite family shows. During an intense scene, it became clear that the family’s teenage daughter was about to tell her parents that she was queer. She and her parents stood around their kitchen island and she said, “I have to tell you something. I like girls.”

In the pause that followed, the TV parents and all five of us on the couch collectively held our breath.

The mother took her daughter by the hand and said, “We love you…”

I whispered, “Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it.”

“…no matter what.”

Damnit. She said it.

I knew this show was trying to be progressive, to prove that these parents embraced their daughter’s gayness just as much as they’d embrace her straightness. I wondered, though, if this girl had just told her parents that she liked boys, would the mother have said, “We love you no matter what”? Of course not. Because “no matter what” is what we say when someone has disappointed us.

If my son got caught cheating on a test, I’d dole out a consequence and then assure him that I love him no matter what. If my daughter told me that she’d just robbed a bank, I’d hold her hand and tell her that I love her no matter what. The “no matter what” would imply that even though my child had done something that fell short of my expectations, my love is still strong enough to hold her.

When it comes to who my children are, I don’t want to be an Expectations Parent. I don’t want my kids striving to meet an arbitrary list of preconceived goals I have created for them. I want to be a Treasure Hunt Parent. I want to encourage my children to spend their lives digging, uncovering more and more about who they already are, and then sharing what they discover with those lucky enough to be trusted by them. When my child uncovers a gem inside and pulls it out for me to see, I want to widen my eyes and gasp and applaud. In other words: If my daughter told me she was gay, I would not love her in spite of it, I would love her because of it.

What if parenting became less about telling our children who they should be and more about asking them again and again forever who they already are? Then, when they tell us, we would celebrate instead of concede.

It’s not: I love you no matter which of my expectations you meet or don’t meet.

It’s: My only expectation is that you become yourself. The more deeply I know you, the more beautiful you become to me.

If someone tells you who they are, consider how lucky you are to be graced with that gift.

Don’t respond with an eviction notice, a permission slip, or a concession speech.

Un-God yourself.

Gasp in awe and applaud with gusto.

Tonight you and I are in a minister’s office, somewhere in Texas. We’re chatting before I go out to speak to the waiting crowd. You don’t like these steepled, echoing rooms. You come with me anyway. You sit in the front pew and listen to me talk about God and the hunches I have about her.

You think I’m wrong to believe there’s a God. But it’s what you love and need me for. You borrow my faith like we borrow our next-door neighbor’s Wi-Fi.

This minister said something that made you feel safe. You looked down at your hands. You said, “I don’t feel comfortable in churches. When I was little, I knew I was gay. I had to choose church, my mom, and God. Or myself. I chose myself.”

“Damn right,” the minister said. She cleared her throat. I smiled at her. But “Damn right” wasn’t exactly it.

I turned to you. Touched your hand. I said, “Babe, wait. Yes. When you were little, your heart turned away from the church in order to protect itself. You remained whole instead of letting them dismember you. You held on to who you were born to be instead of contorting yourself into who they told you to be. You stayed true to yourself instead of abandoning yourself.

“When you shut down your heart to that church, you did it to protect God in you. You did it to keep your wild. You thought that decision made you bad. But that decision made you holy.

“Abby, what I’m trying to say is that when you were very little you did not choose yourself instead of God and church. You chose yourself and God, instead of church. When you chose yourself, you chose God. When you walked away from church, you took God with you. God is in you.

“And tonight—you, me, and God—we’re just visiting church. We three came back for a visit, to offer the folks here hope by telling stories about brave people like you who fight their whole lives to stay as whole and free as God made them. When we’re done tonight, you and I will go, and God will go with us.”

I thought you’d looked at me every way possible. But now. The way you look at me, in this minister’s office, is new. Eyes wide. Watery and red. The minister disappeared when you looked at me like that. Just you, me, and God there.

“Wow,” you said.

Like that time your “G” necklace got a knot in it.

You stood there, by the bed, grumbling.

Threatening to throw it away.

I asked you for the chain. Held it in my hand,

Almost invisible—delicate white gold, impossible.

You left.

I kept at it for a while.

Impressing myself with my patience.

And then—one tug in the right place—it all came undone.

You walked back into our room,

I held it up, proud.

“Wow,” you said.

You bent down, and I clasped it back around you.

I kissed your cheek.

May we lay more elegant ideas around our children’s necks.

When I was a young mother, exhausted, isolated, and dripping with children, I got a postcard from a local church offering free babysitting during the service. My then husband and I attended the following Sunday and found coffee, breakfast, music, a nursery, inspiring speakers, and welcoming couples everywhere. This church had identified every challenge in a young family’s life and fixed them all for an hour. It felt like heaven. At first.

Then one Sunday, the preacher started discussing the “sins” of homosexuality and abortion as if they were the pillars upon which this church was built. My insides caught fire. After the service, I contacted the preacher and set up a meeting. I asked him, “Why—if your church is based on the Jesus who spoke incessantly about orphans and widows, demilitarization, immigrants, the sick, the outcast, and the poor—are you choosing abortion and gayness to hang your hat upon?”

After many circular arguments, he looked at me, sighed, and smiled. He said, “You are a smart woman. What you say makes sense—in the ways of the world. But God’s ways are not our ways. You must not lean on your own understanding. You seem to have a good heart; but the heart is fickle. Faith is about trusting.”

Do not think. Do not feel. Do not know. Mistrust your own heart and mind, and trust us. That is faith.

He wanted me to believe that trusting him was trusting God. But he was not my connection to God. My heart and mind were my connections to God. If I shut those down, I’d be trusting the men who led this church instead of trusting God. I’d be relying on their understanding.

The thing that gets me thinking and questioning most deeply is a leader who warns me not to think or question. I won’t passively outsource my faith and my children’s faith to others. I am a mother, and I have responsibilities. To all children, not just my own.