Natalie Weiss

As previously published on October 1, 2020 on LAUNCH without fear.

There are four sections that I always end up looking at when I am at Barnes & Noble. Ok, five, if you count all the Harry Potter stuff.

The books about running are usually my first stop. It helps that they are near the bathroom, and, with the exception of our recent-COVID times, I usually go to B&N first to get a coffee and write. So, the bathroom quickly becomes a necessity.

Next, I wander towards the Young Adult novels. Sometimes I have a book in mind that I want to look at, but most times I just wander.

My final stop is the books about the craft of writing. But I always get hung up before I get there.

And so I find myself in the Christian Living section.

I don’t know why I still stop here. I can count on one hand the number of authors I still respect in this section, and yet here I am.

I know that sounds harsh. I don’t really mean it to be.

On this particular day, I want to look at the Bob Goff books. I’ve read everything that he’s come out with, so I don’t know what I am thinking I’ll find. My eyes land on the spines with his name on them, and I confirm what I already knew: he hasn’t published anything new. But a title just to the left of his works catches my attention.

Born Again This Way.

Such a clever play on Lady Gaga’s popular song. Such a clever way to get someone like me to pull the book out and at least give the front and back a glance.

Something inside of me hopes that this is it: maybe this is the book, tucked into the Christian Living section, that speaks to women like me, whispering, “I know your pain. Everyone tells you that you can’t be gay and Christian. That you have to choose one or the other. But I’m here to tell you otherwise.”    

But I’ve seen enough to not give that hope too much weight.

And as I learn more about this book, I confirm that I was right not to hope too much.

I won’t be surprised if, in time, that book shows up on my doorstep. It wouldn’t be the first. And, once upon a time, I would have read that book feverishly.

So let’s start at the start.

It’s 2006. I am about a month shy of my thirteenth birthday. I think. I am at a junior high youth conference called Believe with my youth group. There are preteens everywhere. A few parents volunteered to accompany our group, to assist our youth pastor in wrangling us up and keeping us in line.

Part of me wishes that my parents would’ve volunteered. Honestly, I am quite disappointed in them that they didn’t. They could be better Christians.

But of course a big part of me is glad that they aren’t here. I can be with my friends and not worry what my parents might think. What they might say to embarrass me. I am a preteen myself, after all.

It’s the last day of the conference. The culmination, when, after two and a half days, kids are supposed to have realized that they are sad, lonely, and confused because they don’t know Jesus yet.

I know Jesus. I am not sad, lonely, and confused.

At least, I don’t think I am.

Except there’s one thing.

And I know: I could be a better Christian if not for this thing.  

I’ve already talked to God about it. I made him a promise, even. God, if you take this away, I will tell the world what you’ve done for me. This promise is significant, because this thing is a source of shame. What I really want is for God to take this thing away from me, so that I can pretend like it never happened in the first place. I don’t want to have to tell anyone, ever. But I have come to the point where I have realized this: it is better to be without this thing, free of this thing by God’s almighty power, and to testify about it, then it is to still be with this thing, even if I fight it, even if I keep it secret.

My promise was a negotiation, a this-for-that. And I intended to go through with my end of the bargain, after God had fulfilled His.

But then I stumbled across Ecclesiastes 5, particularly 5:4, which reads, “When you make a vow to God, do not delay to fulfill it. He has no pleasure in fools; fulfill your vow.”

Maybe God thought me a fool. Maybe I was treating Him like a vending machine God, like the metaphor we used in youth group to describe how we expect this give-and-take relationship from God, as opposed to the brilliant adventure of a relationship we could have if only we let go of all of these petty things we want from Him. Maybe before He gave me anything, I had to give it all for Him. Maybe I had to prove I would uphold my end of the bargain first.

And so we are outside. The parent volunteers are spread out across the lawn, tasked to be there to listen to us, to guide us, when we are ready.

I am ready.

I get up, and I find the mother of one of the girls in my youth group. I think it’s all in good fun, and I won’t realize it until I’m older, but I like to make fun of this girl. I like to leave her out of things. I like to identify her as weird so that I feel less so. I have never apologized to her for this.

I talk to her mom. And she is the first person that I ever tell.

“I am struggling with something,” I say.

The woman listens to me. It is just us, for now.

“I made God a promise. I told Him I would tell everyone what He’s done for me, if He takes this away from me. But He hasn’t yet, not really.” I take a breath. My heart is racing, and I am too nervous to cry, but I feel like I should be crying. This is significant. This is the first time. And it’s huge. This isn’t a white lie or petty theft or cheating on a test. I will myself to cry.

The woman’s expression becomes more concerned.

“I feel like I like girls,” I say. “Like, as more than friends.”

It sucks to say it. I hate the words I am saying. I hate that I have to say them. If I knew how many more times I would have to say them, I am not sure I would have even made it out of middle school.

I am sure the woman says something, but my world is imploding around me. I sit there with my knees pulled to my chest, my head bowed. Tears – some genuine, some not – crawl down my cheeks. I notice my friends have joined the group. They look at me, but glance away quickly. I do not know if they heard or not. I hope they haven’t. I am not ready for that yet.

I get home from that weekend away and not much is different. I feel the same. I feel the same about girls.

I write a lot. I have a daily journal. “Letters to Jesus” is what I call it, because I frame every entry as a prayer. Dear Jesus, I start. Every entry, every prayer ends with Love, Natalie.

I don’t write about this.

But it still gnaws at me.

I feel like less of a Christian. I feel like I can’t be a Christian, if I feel like this. Something is wrong with me.

I start to feel guilty that I told this woman at the conference before I told my parents.

I am not sure how to feel about my parents. I know that they will share my belief – these feelings I am having are not holy, not from God. They are sinful feelings. But my parents do not go to church with me. They are the ones that raised me around religion, Lutheran and Catholic. But maybe they hadn’t found what they were looking for in those services, maybe the politics and finances of those churches overshadowed the mission, and so my parents don’t go anymore.

But I love my church so much, and I cannot see how they do not also love it. I am zealous. I am going to be a youth pastor one day. My youth group, if I were to be honest with myself, feels more like my family than my actual family most days. If my parents knew this, maybe they would have made me stop going. And if that would have happened, I would have believed it was because they were just jealous, not because they believed the youth group was actually causing more harm than good, not because they saw what I could not.

But I keep going. It is my solace in middle school. I never really felt like I belonged; I was always the odd kid. The only girl who wanted to play football at recess. The only girl who went out for the tackle football team in 7^th grade. Most of my friends were boys until I started going to youth group. I finally start feeling like a normal kid, at least normal relative to the other kids that are in this group. I finally belong.

And so this thing – this liking girls – is a definite threat to my belonging. And I am willing to do just about anything to make sure this threat doesn’t become a reality, doesn’t take away the belonging that I am finally experiencing.

I haven’t been keeping up on my end of the bargain, not that God has kept up on His either. He hasn’t changed me yet. He hasn’t healed me yet. I told the woman at the conference, but that is it. I haven’t told anyone else. I can’t tell my friends yet. I can’t tell my youth pastors yet. Because they are at the center of my belonging. They can’t know until I know I am over this.

But my parents are peripheral to my belonging. And they are supposed to love me no matter what. They are safe.

I sit in my room, rereading Ecclesiastes. I pray for courage. I am an athlete in the locker room before the biggest game of my life, psyching myself up, ridding my mind of every other thing that doesn’t have to do with the mission right in front of me. The clock is counting down until when I have to leave the locker room and run onto the field.

I feel the clock hit zero, and I get up, my Bible in hand.

I go downstairs. My parents are sitting in the living room, unsuspecting.

I hear the words leave my mouth. “I have to talk to you about something.”

And I step into the living room, onto the field.