The Dress

Living in the world of fundamentalism as a female was a different kind of complicated. There were unique aspects that solely applied to the women and girls within it, and because of that, there are certain negative takeaways that many of us have, even years after leaving our particular Christian Fundamentalism movements. There are some things that we, as women who have lived in that world, only fully understand. From what formers have shared, I believe this is true for males as well and, in my opinion, stems directly from the enforced restrictions and roles all members, regardless of their gender, were made to adhere to.

There was always segregation of one form or another under the guise of separation and doing things "decently and in order," as we so often were told.  I think of it as this: There's the large box of Christian Fundamentalism; my particular group, Independent Fundamental Baptists, fits perfectly in it. Then follows the authority roles of pastors, with deacons, elders and ministry workers next in line. All of these are graduates from the all-male club who also have their particular box. Women have their own assigned to them as well and it always comes second to men. Children are in the very last, being most vulnerable and susceptible to the worst treatment. Christian Fundamentalism likes to dress their box up, making it appear as an intriguing gift, but once opened there are all these others hidden within it where followers will inevitably find themselves stuck in their assigned boxes. The lower you are, the more difficult it will be for you to not only have your best interest protected, but leave once you realize it never will be. You have more layers to peel back, to fight your way through in order to climb out of the Christian Fundamentalism Box towards freedom.

From the very beginning, as a young girl, I was told to envision my wedding day and my God-sent husband waiting at the altar for me. They'd say that this man's face would be unrecognizable, blurry even in this, but all that would change once the "right one" came along and suddenly it would be clear. Many young women swore that that was one of the reasons they knew they were in God's will, had chosen to obey God's leading and had found the man of their dreams.

Fundamentalism manufactured those dreams, creating their version of Utopia. Heaven on Earth. An Utopian picture that looked like everyone being put in their assigned places and staying put. Mostly, I believed in this picture nearly unwaveringly and embraced it. Looking back, it almost baffles me, remembering the romanticism of such a picture. I also recall those years that I started to become aloof to that preached path, but that's getting a little ahead of myself.

Beginning at a young age it was simple—you courted a young man, remained chaste and pure, he asked your father for your hand in marriage, Good Ole Dad agrees, you become engaged and set a date to be married. You marry, lose your virginity, bear children, keep house and raise godly children. The cycle repeats for generations, at least, as far as appearances go.

There was the boy's club and then there was the wives' club...and the club where all the single girls sat down and learned from these seasoned ladies.

Marriage was your ticket out of one house to land in another. Ironically, as a child and especially a daughter, your father was the king of his castle. Once you marry, your husband swaps places and becomes your head and you were to follow his leading. How often I heard the passage of scripture quoted about Sarah calling her husband 'lord' as a way to say wives are to submit.

Submitting was key to any marriage, we were taught. Meekness a sign of a godly woman. Quietness evidence of a true lady. Modesty proof you belong not to yourself or to the World, but to God.

The idea of autonomy was worldly humanism, liberal and a "new age" mentality. Consent? I never heard that word until after exiting my former community. Things such as spousal rape and domestic violence unheard of.

But I heard all about the dream life. The good, godly husband. A big house with rooms filled with children. A kitchen of my own and special little trinkets to decorate and make a house a home. I knew a well disciplined household insured a happy one, where God was honored, glorified and put first.

As a female, your life was spelled out. All you had to do was wait. 

So, I waited and waited and waited. Serving God in the church, doing whatever that was asked of me while always aiming for cheerfulness as I did it. My hope chest was filling up with treasures, things I began collecting for my future home. This began at fourteen, although I was behind in this among my peers. Then, at seventeen, I was gifted one of the most dreamt about aspects of my future life. My wedding dress.

Glancing nervously outside of my teenage bedroom window one ordinary day, I waited for the familiar car to appear. Earlier that morning, I got a call from a married lady in my church and someone that, at that time, was seen as a mentor of sorts. She never told us what the surprise was, only that I and my twin sister would be so excited to see it when we did. The gift was for whoever needed it first, that was all. I'm one of those people that's not really into surprises, I admit, unless of course, I am the person doing the surprising. This being part of my personality, I often pace when I'm told to anticipate something, which is exactly what I was doing that day nearly a decade ago.

It came boxed, buried beneath layer after layer of white and blue tissue paper. Someone had certainly shown care to it and I was relieved to learn that the reason that this dress was passed on was not related to a derailed marriage of sorts, nodding along in agreement with this married lady of the church that that would be something akin to bad luck, not that we were supposed to believe in such a worldly idea.

It was definitely lovely. A full ballgown that passed all the modesty checks even with its sweetheart neckline, embroidered long sleeves and all. The most appealing attribute was the long, cathedral length train that, in those days, was something I swore I would have on my special day.

I can't say it was perfect. Most definitely not The Dress so many people talk about. But, in that world and what it represented, it was the closest thing to a perfect symbol of life to come, so I embraced it wholeheartedly. Cue that romanticism here.

As a young teen watching other girls in my church's circle, I patterned what I witnessed, mapping out how life was supposed to proceed. I naively believed that since I was serving God in the church, holding on to the promise I was taught that if I commit and surrender all to Him, I would find myself smack dab in the middle of God's will, as I recall the saying going. And although I was often told that my timing wasn't God's, I truly thought that the plan was pretty simple. I'd meet the young man that I was meant to marry at seventeen, for two years we would court since I was all about not rushing such things, and at just nineteen, we'd wed. Receiving that dress had to be a sign, right? Again, naively I kept hoping.

By nineteen, the dress stayed safely boxed away. Up to that point and still as the young girl I was, I'd occasionally remove it carefully from its safekeeping to try it on as a way to keep those manufactured dreams alive. While feeling discouraged, even depressed, longing for my life then to change, I'd hold on to that hope that it was inevitable to do just that.

Over time though, the dress started to lose its appeal. Gradually, I was beginning to resent the idea of a fundamentalist marriage altogether. I found myself inwardly glaring in spite of the plastered smile on my face as, once again, a church member would inquire whether or not the ring on my left hand was a promise ring from a godly young man or while in a conversation the question of "When is it going to be your turn?" was prompted.

By far one of the most humiliating aspects of being a single, young fundamentalist woman was where I would stand quietly, listening as a visiting preacher would haggle with my pastor about potential mates. During these conversations, I was nothing but a third wheel, unseen except for a few hand gestures towards where I stood on a whim, it seemed. I'd be walking, then suddenly stopped by the guest pastor with one simple question, "Are you married?" I'd embarrassingly shake my head, sometimes successful at adding a "no," and other times too shy. From there, the follow-up inquiry was how old I was, then whether or not I was "promised to anyone" with no "agreements" between a young man's parents and my own. Again, it was another negative and then this is where my pastor was introduced into the conversation and I became invisible. Inwardly, I'd start to panic, worried I'd be set up with a single missionary boy called to the mission field who'd take me somewhere far from my family and everyone I knew. Nearly just as dreaded was a young preacher boy, knowing that would mean I'd be put into a role as a pastor's wife, which also terrified me. And yet, I was well aware in my tiny community it was likely I'd never find a partner either, so I had to trust this process. Face burning, I remained silent, hearing my pastor and this other man of god talking over their conditions. My pastor's being that I had to stay in his church. He would take another member, but "his young people" were his. No young man would steal me away, take me into another ministry that he was not involved in. At least, then, I'll be near my family, I'd comfort myself.

In the beginning, I felt honored, being considered as a young Christian lady, but then, not so much.

During these exchanges, I felt not only invisible, but truly objectified. It was like watching a customer haggling with a seller for a better deal and I was the item to be purchased.

I remember the very last time a well beloved evangelist in my particular group tried this again. I was nineteen and at the point of starting to really feel reservations at how my future life was being sold to me. Maybe I didn't want to think of marrying a preacher boy as the most honored hallmark of my life. Maybe I didn't want a Quiverfull family of my own; I grew up one of a dozen children, after all. I was under the impression twelve was a number better suited for a cartoon of fresh farm eggs from the grocery store versus the amount of babies I'd have to raise. Or maybe, just maybe the ideal act of service was that of the faithful church member, I reasoned. Wasn't happiness also part of God's will for my life? It seemed to me that it should be. Most importantly, I was convinced that since I'd be the other half saying "I do," I at least belonged having a say and felt that was a more than reasonable goal.

I had all those thoughts in mind when this favorite evangelist from North Carolina stopped me on my way out of the church's auditorium one annual, week-long meeting's end. Inwardly rolling my eyes—a newly formed and problematic habit—I listened to the predictable question...

"Married since the last time I was here?"
"No, sir."
"You know, I have not just one, but two good, godly boys in my church. Preacher boys that love the Lord." The evangelist pauses long enough to ask what family I belong to, never inquiring what my first name is, before glancing around. "Your pastor doesn't seem to be around. But, where's your father at? He'll do."
"No, thanks. I'm not interested." I say, genuinely smiling at this and simply shaking the now skeptical man of God's hand. As I walk away, I hear my twin sister give her own version of "I'm not interested" while I headed to where my then only friend—a young man—was curiously looking on at the exchange. Our laughter soon erupted from the back pew we were standing near. Those final two years before I left IFB, I was never asked again.

That faceless godly husband of mine waiting at the altar for me remained blurry while still in fundamentalism. And although I knew there were, what I perceived as a few good men that crossed my path in those days, I know now what I suspected then—that happiness wasn't going to be found there. Upon leaving, I still grieved the what ifs though and deeply so. What if I never have the option of a family of my own? Did I forfeit the chance at happiness and the dreams I had held on for so long? Can I even know God's will for my life now? Do I even care anymore?

Along with so many other questions, those also tangled into the mess I found I had to wade my way through after leaving Christian Fundamentalism. As dreaded and scary they had become to me, there was some comfort in the guarantee that as long as you did "right," stayed in the church and served, everything would work out for the glory of an almighty power. Now, I'm learning it's okay that that isn't the case.

That wedding dress, never worn twice, is still around somewhere. I've thought about donating it for a good cause out there with the idea of how great it would be for a non fundamentalist—free—woman to have it. It shouldn't have been about purity or the patriarchy or manufactured dreams in the first place. It should have symbolized joy, happiness and beautiful and safe new chapters life tends to turn.

Not little girls forced to grow up way before their time.


Photos courtesy: Unsplash