A Different Kind of Christian Upbringing
Being raised Christian doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone. Our experiences vary wildly, and mine may or may not resonate with yours. I write this both as a form of therapy and to help others like me feel seen. So here goes...
My parents met when my dad was 19 and my mom was around 25. She already had three kids and had just escaped a very abusive marriage. They married in 1974 and had my older brother the next year, then me 19 months later. I’m number five in a blended family of eight.
Before my brother was born, my parents “got saved.” My mom had been raised Episcopalian, I think. My dad grew up Catholic. But in the Evangelical circles they joined, neither of those counted as real Christianity. Their new faith came with a clear line: us versus them.
A Father on Fire
My dad lost relationships with many of his siblings who stayed Catholic. In a way, he experienced a kind of deconstruction—but instead of allowing that unraveling to lead him toward freedom, he stopped halfway and took shelter in another dogma. A safer one.
"Passionate about Jesus" doesn’t even begin to cover it. My dad witnessed to everyone. He once got fired for pushing his faith at work—though he framed it as religious persecution for bringing his Bible.
And that Bible? He never went anywhere without it. Quick trip to the store? Grab the Bible. A company picnic? Bring the Bible. Vacation? You get the idea.
To him, the Bible wasn't just important—it was sacred, perfect, untouchable. Though he’d never admit it, I think he saw it as equal to God. Every comma, every capital letter held divine authority. That was the message my young mind absorbed.
By most standards, he was a Jesus freak.
(And yes, I hear DC Talk in my head every time I say that. Just me?)
(And yes, I hear DC Talk in my head every time I say that. Just me?)
Punishment by Scripture
Outside of Scripture, I never saw him enjoy much. There was one year he planted a garden—a beautiful, thriving one—and for a moment, he seemed happy. But he never did it again. My guess? It took too much time away from reading the Word. And honestly, if he’d let himself nurture that part of his life, I think he would have been a happier man.
As punishment, I was often told to copy or read Scripture. Ironically, it backfired—because in reading those verses over and over, I began to notice what the Bible actually said. And... not all of it was good.
My indoctrination was effective, though. In my 20s, I memorized the entire book of Titus. Word for word. I was a Jesus freak, too.
The Perfect Evangelical Family
My husband and I homeschooled our kids for a decade to keep them out of the “evil” public schools. We taught Sunday school, hosted Bible studies, and volunteered wherever we could—always hoping to be the hands and feet of Christ.
But eventually, everything changed.
Reading My Way Out
I saw something new. I learned something that cracked the foundation. And once I really began to read the Bible in context—with audience relevance, historical understanding, and an open heart—my entire relationship with Christianity began to shift.
My father wanted me to follow Jesus the way he understood Him. And I did.
But the words in red led me somewhere he didn’t expect. I pushed back against the cultural messages, just like he taught me to. I just didn’t stop when it started to cost me certainty.
And that’s where we diverged.
What He Thinks I Lost, and What I Found
He wanted me to share his faith. Instead, I found something better.
And in doing so, I think he sees me as lost—because if I failed to believe, he must have failed as a Christian father.
And in doing so, I think he sees me as lost—because if I failed to believe, he must have failed as a Christian father.
But from where I stand, he didn’t lose a daughter. He gained a woman who can think for herself, love deeply, and hold nuance. My deconstruction has made me softer, more curious, and more grounded in who I really am.
And honestly—what more could a parent ask for?
If This Resonated...
If this post resonates with you, feel free to subscribe to my substack here or share it with someone walking a similar path. I’ll be sharing more reflections like this as I continue exploring what it means to heal from—and grow beyond—the faith I was handed.
A Different Kind of Christian Upbringing
Being raised Christian doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone. Our experiences vary wildly, and mine may or may not resonate with yours. I write this both as a form of therapy and to help others like me feel seen. So here goes...
My parents met when my dad was 19 and my mom was around 25. She already had three kids and had just escaped a very abusive marriage. They married in 1974 and had my older brother the next year, then me 19 months later. I’m number five in a blended family of eight.
Before my brother was born, my parents “got saved.” My mom had been raised Episcopalian, I think. My dad grew up Catholic. But in the Evangelical circles they joined, neither of those counted as real Christianity. Their new faith came with a clear line: us versus them.
A Father on Fire
My dad lost relationships with many of his siblings who stayed Catholic. In a way, he experienced a kind of deconstruction—but instead of allowing that unraveling to lead him toward freedom, he stopped halfway and took shelter in another dogma. A safer one.
"Passionate about Jesus" doesn’t even begin to cover it. My dad witnessed to everyone. He once got fired for pushing his faith at work—though he framed it as religious persecution for bringing his Bible.
And that Bible? He never went anywhere without it. Quick trip to the store? Grab the Bible. A company picnic? Bring the Bible. Vacation? You get the idea.
To him, the Bible wasn't just important—it was sacred, perfect, untouchable. Though he’d never admit it, I think he saw it as equal to God. Every comma, every capital letter held divine authority. That was the message my young mind absorbed.
By most standards, he was a Jesus freak.
(And yes, I hear DC Talk in my head every time I say that. Just me?)
(And yes, I hear DC Talk in my head every time I say that. Just me?)
Punishment by Scripture
Outside of Scripture, I never saw him enjoy much. There was one year he planted a garden—a beautiful, thriving one—and for a moment, he seemed happy. But he never did it again. My guess? It took too much time away from reading the Word. And honestly, if he’d let himself nurture that part of his life, I think he would have been a happier man.
As punishment, I was often told to copy or read Scripture. Ironically, it backfired—because in reading those verses over and over, I began to notice what the Bible actually said. And... not all of it was good.
My indoctrination was effective, though. In my 20s, I memorized the entire book of Titus. Word for word. I was a Jesus freak, too.
The Perfect Evangelical Family
My husband and I homeschooled our kids for a decade to keep them out of the “evil” public schools. We taught Sunday school, hosted Bible studies, and volunteered wherever we could—always hoping to be the hands and feet of Christ.
But eventually, everything changed.
Reading My Way Out
I saw something new. I learned something that cracked the foundation. And once I really began to read the Bible in context—with audience relevance, historical understanding, and an open heart—my entire relationship with Christianity began to shift.
My father wanted me to follow Jesus the way he understood Him. And I did.
But the words in red led me somewhere he didn’t expect. I pushed back against the cultural messages, just like he taught me to. I just didn’t stop when it started to cost me certainty.
And that’s where we diverged.
What He Thinks I Lost, and What I Found
He wanted me to share his faith. Instead, I found something better.
And in doing so, I think he sees me as lost—because if I failed to believe, he must have failed as a Christian father.
And in doing so, I think he sees me as lost—because if I failed to believe, he must have failed as a Christian father.
But from where I stand, he didn’t lose a daughter. He gained a woman who can think for herself, love deeply, and hold nuance. My deconstruction has made me softer, more curious, and more grounded in who I really am.
And honestly—what more could a parent ask for?
If This Resonated...
If this post resonates with you, feel free to subscribe to my Substack or share it with someone walking a similar path. I’ll be sharing more reflections like this as I continue exploring what it means to heal from—and grow beyond—the faith I was handed.
Love Can đź’•
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