Maybe a Birthday Cake Won’t Send Me to Hell
As I heal from religious trauma, I still have more questions than answers.
“I’ve come a long way,” I explained to Jasmine as we drove home from her niece’s birthday party in the Carolina darkness. Jasmine, my best friend. Jasmine, an instrumental part of my return to some semblance of normalcy. “A few months ago, I still wouldn’t have been willing to go to any kind of party,” I continued. “Last year, I still considered it sinful to wish somebody a happy birthday.”
It’s true.
This weekend, I blew up balloon after balloon until my lungs begged me to stop. I helped mix up lemonade pink enough to put Barbie to shame. The Minnie Mouse-themed birthday party was really something. Something beautiful. Something I once abhorred.
I used to think religious extremists were crazy until I loved one. Maybe, by association, until I was one. Until…Solomon.
Until I learned that my femininity made me inferior; until I learned that love was supposed to hurt. Until I finally realized how ugly I really was, and how fortunate I was to be loved. Until I knew that God was laughing at me every time I slipped and fell. Until I recognized that everything I loved and cherished was sinful and damning. Until I understood that all the beliefs I used…
