Thank you.

My boyfriend is usually right.

It’s too bad because isn’t it my God-given privilege as a woman to always be right? Kidding of course. But seriously, my man has a freak-ton of insight, and he is often right. Which is why it’s time for me to come out of the closet: I want to be a writer. When he suggested it was time, I had my ammo ready: Doesn’t every third person in the world want to be a writer? Aren’t they all better than I am? Don’t they all have stacks three miles high of rejection letters? And he said, “So? You have a story to tell.” And I said…nothing because I felt lucky all over that God put a man in my life who believes in me that much.

So here’s where this is all coming from. Someone once said whatever vocation works to end the thing you hate most and bolster the thing you love most is the vocation you ought to be in. (Unfortunately, I did not take this person’s identity to heart like I did the idea itself, so let me know if you know where I got it. I suspect it’s someone ripping off Buechner’s quote.) For me, the thing I hated most when I started preparing for a career was that many kids go home every afternoon to places where they are never told how priceless, how necessary, and how on purpose they are. Alternately, the thing I loved most was, and is, magic. And language is a form of magic. How is it that I can make certain vocal noises or write certain squigglies that transfer thoughts from my head to yours? Why does that work? You can imagine, then, that getting to teach 95 people a day how to do it in another language is incredibly special to me. So, if you want to combat teenagers’ low self-esteem and you love magic more than anything else—and if you’re me—you become a French teacher. You spend your days telling teenagers how pricelessly valuable they are while you introduce them to magic. It’s perfect, and I have no plans to quit.

But seven years later, I now know a broader scope of both loneliness and magic. Sometimes kids aren’t the only ones lonely. Sometimes wives are. Sometimes husbands are. I know that loneliness. God blessed me—and I do mean blessed me—with sexual dysfunction, divorce, miscarriages, and complete brokenness before him. And then he blessed me with the grace and peace that come from allowing him to fix the whole crappy mess and make it beautiful, make me beautiful. He healed my heart completely, even from all that junk. Without having gone through the past five years, I don’t know how I would’ve ever come to understand his love, compassion, and eagerness to redeem. I don’t know how I would’ve so intimately learned his presence if I hadn’t had to hold onto him. So now what I love most in the world is Jesus and his unbelievable redemption—which is in my mind the very highest form of magic. And what I still hate most is that some people’s reality is loneliness. When I put together that love and hatred, I get…writing my story.

I tell you this to say thank you, thank you immeasurably, for the encouraging comments and emails. No words exist to express how grateful I am for your willingness to read my story and share yours. I don’t know what form my writing will take—it may be something that exists only in small circles at my own church—but it is the burning in my heart. I want everyone to know that Jesus heals, Jesus rescues, and Jesus loves. I am proof.

And I have to thank JB, without whom—literally—my blog would not exist. In a Gmail chat last May, she said, “Maybe you could write a blog about all this.” So I did because I have learned that, like my boyfriend, she is usually right.

Which brings my gratitude full circle. I anticipate many more moments of saying (slowly and with a French accent), “You are riiiiiiight,” to my man, who will in turn smile and say more nice things to me. I am just that lucky.

And then there's this moment…

As time went on, sex became somewhat easier: the shock of the pain ebbed because I knew what I was in for each time. But I wasn’t satisfied with that—I had more in mind for my sexuality—so I began reading voraciously. I read The Gift of Sex by Clifford and Joyce Penner, a book Dr. B called “a good starting place.” And it certainly would’ve been, had I been normal. I read Sheet Music by Kevin Leman, a recommendation from a friend that turned out to be really interesting, if not especially helpful in my then-current state. I read Cosmo articles. I read excerpts of The Celebration of Sex by Douglas Rosenau. I read The Act of Marriage by Tim and Beverly LaHaye (skip it). I read excerpts of Intended for Pleasure by Ed Wheat. I read articles from several websites. I even read a book about kissing. The problem with all that material was that nowhere did it describe anyone like me. Advice for avoiding awkward wedding nights, rekindling the passion for older couples, adjusting to babies in the house, and breaking sexual inhibitions abounded…but there was nothing for me. When I used indices to reread portions that supposedly addressed lack of sex drive and/or painful sex, the most I found was “Try some relaxation techniques,” or “See a doctor.” Once more I felt alone in my struggle and frustrated that I couldn’t seem to help myself. These books were designed for people whose biggest problem was ignorance or a stressful schedule. Mine was all-out dysfunction.

I seemed to be hitting the same wall with Dr. B by that point. I’d tried all the sexy music, sensual massage, and non-intercourse intimacy I could handle. I’d lit candles, I’d watched romantic movies, I’d read and written some erotica. And don’t get me wrong: Dr. B’s influence was absolutely crucial in my battle for healthy sexuality, and with his help I made some very important strides. But my sometimes-impatient self was irked when the speed of my progress cooled. Even though there were occasional days and nights on which I truly wanted to have sex, it still wasn’t “making love.” It was fulfilling an uncomfortable, frustrating duty. I was nearing the end of my rapidly fraying rope, and unfortunately, that is where the story pauses for the next year and a half of my marriage. Sex was possible but excruciating, and my enthusiasm for satisfying sex was evaporating by the minute. I threw up my hands in frustration with God for not erasing the problem.

The night I ran completely out of patience, two years into marriage, is still as vivid a memory as the chili I ate tonight. My husband and I had another couple over for dinner, and after dessert we decided to play a game (as often happens if you are my dinner guest—fair warning). Although we knew we were at a disadvantage—they’d weathered several more years of marriage than we had—we were up for the challenge of the Newlywed Game. One question the two husbands were asked was, “When was your hottest night of lovemaking in the past year?” They both recorded answers with seemingly little difficulty. However, when my husband revealed his response, his friend said, “For us, pretty much every time is awesome. You must not have had a lot of sex if you can remember a specific night.” Usually I have a great poker face, but that night I sat there stunned, staring at my husband’s friend, with whom it didn’t seem to register that he’d said something deeply insulting. All the feelings of being exposed, of fighting an embarrassing battle of inadequacy, washed over me. Burning, crimson shame appeared on my face. Everybody knows, the sickening voice in my head whispered. Everybody knows.

For me, the problem with all this sexual strife is that it’s the one thing we’re supposed to figure out entirely on our own. All any person or book ever said was, “It hurts in the beginning,” and “Figuring it all out with your partner is so much fun!” Well…what about those of us for whom it was still painful after two years? What about those of us who couldn’t figure anything out, even with a manual like Sheet Music, because it was impossible to make even the “easy” stuff work? Who are we supposed to turn to? Try to talk about sex in your Bible study, and you’ll likely make the room fidget and drop eye contact faster than you can say “scented massage oil” unless you have an unusually open group. I found that very few people, even my closest friends, were able to give me real, honest information, their words being veiled by a sense of propriety. (Not that there’s anything wrong with propriety; it’s just frustrating to hear about it over and over when you truly need answers.)

After my husband’s friend made his comment, it was literally weeks before I was able to face my bedroom frustration again. Everything had simply begun to feel insurmountable.

Sex is incredible.

I am thankful for and amazed by your stories of religious sex education*. Some lived through laughably awkward programs (I laughed out loud at Mrs. Cheeky’s story of the three-foot penis!), others of you went through the type of instruction I did, and some of you escaped unscathed, with or without religious influence. Ash’s experiences of hearing youth pastors discuss their sex lives or asking teens to talk about theirs are horrific. I don’t recall a single place in the Bible where Jesus dealt with sin by asking for a detailed account from the sinner. Several people both on the blog and in emails to me mentioned birthing videos. I think that is what I found saddest: churches—historically composed of pro-lifers!—recasting a private, divine moment into a scare tactic. What a heartbreaking approach. And on the other end of the spectrum from these experiences, there is complete silence. Lisa summed it up well, saying that in the opinion of many churches, “everything is about sex, so nothing should be about sex.” An anonymous commenter agreed in a way I found beautiful: “A church that is totally silent on sex will also be oppressive and damaging to people striving to be sexually mature and whole.” I so agree with Karisa and Cheryl who argue that if the church teaches about sex, it should focus on the magnificence of it in its proper place, not the problems its misuse can cause. Karisa likens this kind of sex-ed to preaching only about the evils of hell without mentioning the wonders of heaven.

However, wildly varying opinions surfaced about the church’s place in sex education, and I must admit that I don’t yet have a fixed opinion. What I can say with complete assurance is that in my case, all that religious sex-ed did for me was cause me to feel shame and guilt every time I kissed a boyfriend, awakened from a sex dream, or had sex with my husband. I felt dirty for having sexual feelings, and consequently I shoved them deep into the recesses of my mind. I was so successful that, as I mentioned before, I completely cured myself of my sex drive and ended up needing counseling to get it back. As Dr. B and I slogged through the messages I’d received about sex, I set out to destroy them. I prayed that God would give me truth with which I could replace the garbage. Here are some of the conclusions I came to:

1.              Sex is a spiritually beautiful thing. Let’s be honest: it’s not physically beautiful. Nothing about two sweaty, naked bodies rubbing and panting on each other is aesthetically pleasing. Every body on the planet has its eccentricities, and very few of us are “tens” anyway. Besides, the men I find attractive, my best friend doesn’t necessarily and vice versa. I’ve never cared much about muscular definition, abs, or a chiseled face; she sighs when she sees Hugh Laurie. But somewhere in all the scars, love handles, and inconveniently hairy moles, there is something spiritually beautiful about making love. For just a moment (well, hopefully longer than a “moment,” haha), the lonely condition of humanness melts away into the other person’s complete acceptance of you. You are held, clung to, and enjoyed by a fellow wanderer. Nothing on the earth can match it. In the Book of Genesis God claims that it is not good for man to be alone, and while I believe this has much to do with community, it is also applicable to sex. Certainly it is possible to live without it, but it’s beautiful that we don’t have to.

2.              Sex is a vital component of marriage. As I have already said, not being able to have sex with my husband made me feel incredibly distant from him. He didn’t cause this, but it was still a strong, heart-wrenching sensation. In my opinion, in the sexless days of our marriage, our relationship with each other felt no different than our relationships with others. Sure, we shared the minutiae of our lives in a way that we didn’t with anyone else and we looked primarily to each other for emotional support, but that most intimate act that is meant to reaffirm unity, cut through feelings of loneliness and inadequacy, and bring sheer pleasure and excitement into a committed relationship wasn’t there. Our relationship was missing the vitality that a vibrant romance and sex life lends. Book after book I read and person after person I talked to insisted that making love produces in a woman, among other things, a reassurance of closeness. A man who routinely makes love to his sweetheart receives, again among many other things, a bolstered self-confidence. (Forgive me for so ludicrously oversimplifying the issue, but I don’t have the space to get into the grit.) Without these needs being met, a woman is likely to feel detached and withdrawn, and her man may feel superfluous to her and others. It is difficult to cultivate genuine emotional closeness in a marriage without the presence of physical closeness. Of course, the reverse is also true.

3.              Sex is a gift from God. And gifts from God are never one-dimensional. The plan is for it to be mind-blowingly fantastic, and for that reason sex is perfect on several levels. Consider the obvious physical nature of the gift: certain components of our anatomies exist for the sole purpose of ensuring that sex and sexual activity feels good. Really good. Because of sex, we experience this delicious physical hunger for another human. An urgency pulls us to the other person and finds its ultimate satisfaction in pleasing his or her body. We can literally hold onto someone else, and as best as I can tell, that is a nearly universal desire. Then, there is the emotional component to sex that I’ve already discussed somewhat. Sex allows us to be vulnerable with another human and experience the consequent acceptance he or she shows us. What a gift, to be naked with another and mutually pleased by what the two of you see. Such a soul-deep beauty springs from that, from knowing that you are loved and desired, from knowing that someone else on the planet wants you close and wants to trust you with his or her vulnerability. God wants us to discover all of this and more. He wants us to explore our bodies and the bodies of our mates. He wants us to have playful sex, urgent sex, passionate sex…any kind of sex that brings us closer to the lover we have chosen. He has never once turned his face in embarrassment when I’ve had sex with my husband. Sex in its proper place is powerful and generates so much life, excitement, intimacy, and fun in a relationship.

I believe that youth group attendees should know these things, that we should teach them with as much fervor as we have taught STDs and pregnancy. More than anything I wish that someone had given me the information—the positives of sex where it belongs and the negatives of sex used to fill a void—and allowed me to make decisions for myself. Discussing why it is important to treat sexuality with respect is a stark contrast to, “Don’t do it because God will punish you.” This is why I loved Erin’s comment that there are plenty of non-religious reasons to be discriminating with sexual partners. Regardless of one’s religious beliefs or lack thereof, sex is a part of life that everyone reckons with, so considering the emotional and physical ramifications of sex is not an inherently religious exercise. For those who do profess a particular faith, spiritual ramifications like two of the ones I mentioned are just added on. If young people were presented with all this information, they would be empowered to make their own decisions without having to be “put in line” by their youth pastors. Of course, we are all imperfect and we all make mistakes. But I think that respecting students enough to give them a fuller picture of sexuality can only help matters.

*I refer exclusively to comments on the last post.

"It's not just me."

I spent last week on vacation in gorgeous Florida. In the hospital. The first thirty-six hours in Orlando were perfect, but after dinner on Tuesday night, I experienced the worst pain I have ever felt. For about an hour, every breath came out a moan. The pain built so fast and intensely that my parents took me to the ER; unfortunately, by the time I got there, I was hyperventilating and couldn’t talk or breathe. When the attack finally subsided, I described symptoms to the parade of medical professionals that filed into my room, trying to solve the problem. Terminology like “acute pancreatitis” and “inflamed gallbladder” bounced around as I sat on the bed unsettled. One doctor was afraid my pancreas would quit working, while another said it was just gallstones. Since my background is as far away from medicine as one can get, I had no idea what to expect.

Sometime past midnight, Iris, a soft-spoken but matter-of-fact woman in her late fifties, knocked on my door and introduced herself as my ultrasound technician. One of the doctors had ordered a sonogram to determine whether surgery was necessary. She wheeled me to the dark ultrasound room and asked me to lie on the bed next to the computer while she began the questionnaire.

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“A little wine three or four times a year.”

“Any surgeries?”

“One minor one, yes.”

“Site and purpose?”

“Vaginal: I had a scar tissue blockage.”

At this, her pen froze midair, and she slowly turned her head to look at me. “I’m sorry?” she asked incredulously. I repeated myself, and, having been told by a number of people how odd the procedure was, I added, “I know it’s weird. Anyone remotely related to medicine has told me how strange my case is.” I shrugged. The routine is old hat to me by now.

“No, no…” she trailed off and cleared her throat. Looking straight ahead, she said, “I have that.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Really?” I asked, with what could only be interpreted as excitement. I propped myself up on my elbows so I could make eye contact as I continued. “You’re kidding! I have never met anyone else who had it! Or, well, if I did, they didn’t tell me.”

Iris nodded. “Yeah…I had three children—naturally. And I enjoyed lots of great sex all the way up through my forties. Never any trouble there.” She chuckled a little and watched a memory briefly play out in the distance. “But…it’s been ten years…I just woke up one morning with the blockage. My doctor said there’s nothing he can do. Said if he removes it, I’ll be incontinent.” She shook her head. “I haven’t had sex in ten years, Amie. No intimacy at all…and a woman needs…” she trailed off. The tears welled, but she brushed them away before they fell.

“I know how hard it is. I truly know how you feel,” I assured her. Some time passed before she responded, but she held my gaze. “Yes, you do,” she said, still looking at me. A half-smile pulled at her lips, and she said, “It’s nice to know for once that it’s not just me.” I smiled.

After she’d asked me some specific questions about my surgery and recovery, she went about her sonogram-performing business. As it turns out, I was housing a hundred or more of the tiny devil-stones in my gallbladder. Luckily, this explained the pancreatitis, too. Although I’d have to go under the knife, Iris assured me it was a routine procedure. Before wheeling me back to my temporary room in the emergency wing, she rested her hand on my shoulder and said, “You have given me such hope. Thank you.”

~

Anyone who’s known me at least twenty minutes knows how much I love, love, love Anne Lamott. In her book Grace (Eventually), she recalls assisting in a ballet class for women with Down’s syndrome. After Anne’s visit, the teacher asked the class, “What did you think of my friend?” One of the women said, “I liked that lady! She was a helper, and she danced.” Anne says in her book, “These are the words I want on my gravestone: that I was a helper, and that I danced.” I think my few minutes with Iris were my ballet-class moment. If I am remembered for giving hope to at least one woman who has hurt silently the way I have, I will consider my life a success.

Lamott, Anne. Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. New York: Riverhead Books, 2007.

This is a blog about sex.

That’s right: a whole blog dedicated to sex.

I can’t possibly express how ridiculous it is for me of all people to have a blog about sex. Years of my life were spent on church pews, hearing about the evils of sex. I was probably sixteen before I could say the word without snickering. And even then, I had to kind of whisper it. I was twenty-two when I gave my virginity to my husband. I’ve been married for four years now, and sex is still a topic that baffles, frustrates, and intrigues me. I have a highly contentious relationship with it.

Needless to say, I’m enormously out of my comfort zone here, trying to write about something that has historically not gone well for me.

But my story is one that literally thousands of women have lived in varying degrees at various times in their lives. I know from talking to doctors, psychologists, counselors, and other care providers that although many women deal with the same issues I do, the majority of them say nothing. So I figure I have two choices: I can be another woman who suffers silently and eventually gives up, or I can acknowledge the issue and work through it, however feeble and painful my attempts may sometimes be. If nothing else, I can at least tell my story so that someone knows she’s not alone.

I am not an expert (sexpert?). Language is the only thing I’ve ever studied in any depth, so in no way am I qualified to give medical or emotional advice when it comes to sex. My goal is nothing more than to tell my story, provide information and resources that have been helpful to me, and be one voice in a vacuum of shame and silence. If only one person benefits, that will be enough. I will not post every day, perhaps not even every week, but if you’re interested, I invite you to share my story.

Let’s break the silence.