Dear Mom and Dad,

When I think back to my earliest memories, this is what I see: A fine tooth comb with a sharp, pointed end, and Mom combing my bangs into absolute perfection, before church, or before a photograph. I see long hair, down my back and my screaming wails as she would untangle all of the knots. I see dresses and nightgowns and culottes and my eyes wandering to the girls in jeans on horseback. I see Mom licking her thumb and dabbing the corners of my mouth. I see constant evenings with strangers, our home or theirs and the warnings beforehand that I should be on my best behavior. I see the first grade, when I'd get A's and finish my work before everyone else. They'd just give me extra work. I see certificates and report cards and awards. I memorized Bible verses and the books of the Bible and I recited them with precision. It never felt like it was enough. I see me in the 2nd grade, homeschooled, sitting at the dining room table, trying to perfectly form each letter, each word, each sentence. I was a typical firstborn, with an innate desire to succeed, but I was something else as well. I was a pastor's daughter. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I felt, acutely, that all eyes were on me. All of the time. I felt an entire congregation watching every move I made, judging me, clucking their tongues, whispering amongst each other. It might not have been that way, but this is the way it felt. Being a born introvert, the spotlight terrified me. I learned to shake hands and to smile politely and address my elders as "sir" and "ma'am." I spent years and years trying to get everything right--because I wanted to be perfect, but also because I wanted to make you proud. At the same time, I saw myself alienated from the rest of the world. I saw everyone outside of church regard me as a weirdo. In the early days there was no Halloween costumes, no pants, no secular music, no rated PG movies. I felt as if I resided in between two worlds, neither of which completely accepted me.

With time, I began to see the truth of the situation: I would never be perfect. I could be perfect sometimes, but eventually, I would fail. Someone would disapprove. Someone would be disappointed. I felt faulty, broken, stupid, incapable. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that it is truly impossible to achieve perfection. You can never please everyone. But back then, I just saw myself as a complete failure. I felt voices inside of my head, scolding me. "You should have done this. You could have done that. You shouldn't have done this. You could have done that instead." It was exhausting and it was neverending. Add religion on top of this and the whole thing just gets worse and worse. Religion gives you a different set of voices. "You are a sinner. You will always be a sinner. No matter how hard you try, you will sin and you will do it again and again. God knows that you are going to sin before the thought even crosses your mind. He knows every mistake you'll ever make in your entire life. He expects every misstep. There is nothing you can do to change that situation." It felt bleak and hopeless. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. And so, during my adolescence, I stopped trying. If I couldn't be perfect, and I couldn't please everyone, I'd just go in the opposite direction. If everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for me to fail, I'd hurry up and get it over with.

I remember Dad telling me, "You have intentionally rejected everything that your mother and I believe or care about." And it was true, I had, but it wasn't just because I was trying to. I had always been a skeptical child. I remember asking Dad, "What do you mean that God has always been...that He has no beginning and no end?... How did Noah fit two animals of every species on a boat?... How do we know that our religion is the right one, when everyone else believes that THEIRS is the right one?" The truth of the matter is that I had never felt God, felt his presence, felt him working in my life. I had simply just stopped pretending that I had.

I rebelled against you and against Christianity and against most of the civilized world. To you, it was terrible and heartbreaking, but what you didn't see is that, behind the scenes, I was always keeping myself in check. You had given me a moral compass and had instilled a sense of responsibility. I never took things too far. I had not completely given up on myself, or my need to please you. I kept my grades just high enough. I chose to take Honors classes. I told my friends "no way." I followed the important rules. I stood up for others when no one else would. It was rare for me to flat out defy authority figures. Instead, what you saw, was a package of birth control in the bathroom. I had lost my virginity in a way that I didn't want, or expect, but afterwards, I had called up a friend with a car and made an appointment at Planned Parenthood and obtained a prescription just in case I ever found myself in a similar situation. I would be protected. In my mind, it was an enormous act of bravery and responsibility. In your mind, it was another sign that I was becoming someone you didn't want me to be. It wasn't the future you had planned for me.

What I know now, is that teenagers must reject their parents in order to find their own sense of identity. It is a normal phase of development and it is absolutely necessary. Everything must be rejected and discarded in order for rebuilding to occur. You took it all personally, and you didn't need to. It wasn't all about you. I loved you, which should have been all that mattered, but I needed to find my own way in the world. There were things I believed that opposed your own beliefs, but it did not happen that way because I wanted to hurt you. It just happened that way because I am who I am and I believe what I believe. Just like you do.

Dad got sick and he was hospitalized and you told me it was because of the enormous amount of stress he was under, worrying about me. I don't know why you told me that. I wonder if you thought that guilt would instantly change me into a different person--a person who tried harder to shape up and be who you needed me to be.

Later, when I got pregnant at eighteen, you told me that Dad could get kicked off of the elder board. I don't know why you told me that, as if there was a way that I could go back in time and fix it. My guilt intensified and it weighed heavily on me, all of the time.

Now that I'm a parent, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I have made mistakes and I have done things and said things to my children that I regret. I have done the best that I can, but there will inevitably be things that I wish I could go back and change. I know, without a doubt, that you were doing the best that you could. All that really matters, in the end, is that we love our children. And I never once questioned your love.

I wonder sometimes, what it feels like to believe that your child is going to Hell. I can't even begin to imagine it. It is unfathomable. It must be terrifying and consuming. This is the thought I keep in my head when I don't allow you into my life as fully as I want you to be. I have friends who say, "My mother is my best friend. I tell her everything." My mother is my best friend, but even in my thirties, I carefully choose what I reveal to you. I have to. I feel a responsibility to protect you from aspects of my life because I still don't want you to worry. I don't want you to believe that I've gone completely astray, that I am a wreckage, a sinner, a person who is doomed to an eternity of torture and pain.

And so, although I know you will love me unconditionally, no matter what I say or do or what I believe in or who I am, you have been shielded from the innerworkings of my life simply because I love you back. I wish I could tell you everything, but I believe that it will not strengthen our relationship.

You should know that I am okay. I am a responsible adult with morals, even though some of those morals are vastly different than yours. I try to always make decisions that are wise. I am kind and my heart is big and I am happy. And I have you to thank for all of that.

Lots of love,

Rae