(Read Part I here).
Three more weeks passed. The third time Josh called was six weeks after our visit to Elm Grove. He offered Simon the job. It wasn’t a pastoral position as advertised but a director job instead, with less responsibility and less pay. Josh said Simon would eventually be promoted to pastor, but first they had to hire him as a director because of their hush-hush plan to later oust the women currently running the children’s ministry, and then give Simon her job responsibilities. It was a “delicate situation.”
It was July 10th and they wanted us to pull up with our moving van in mid-August. I was incensed that after six weeks of dragging their feet they expected us to bust our butts to relocate within a month. I was pissed that the offer was not for the same position that Simon applied for – he was worth more and they had teased more. I was put off by the under-the-table plan to fire a current staff member, and unnerved that we knew her future before she did, and yet there was a sense of “beggers can’t be choosers.” This was a job, and Simon had fought so hard for it. This was what we’d been waiting for.
But I could not calm my soul. I did not trust this church, I did not trust these people. I felt profoundly disappointed by them. I wanted, if nothing else, to speak my peace and to be listened to and to hear Josh Evans say, “Halley, you’re so right, we did not handle this well. I’m so glad Simon is going to be on our staff and we’re so excited to have your family be part of our church.” I wanted him to own their sloppy process, I wanted him to apologize for all the emotional whiplash, and I wanted him to understand the depth of my pain and frustration and be tender towards it. I wanted his repentance, his humility, and his reassurance.
I wanted some fucking pastoral care from my soon-to-be pastor.
So a week after Simon had secured the job, I wrote Josh a long, raw email. I was polite but forceful. I did not hold back my struggle to trust my soon-to-be church that had already hurt me so much. One of the best things that my husband has done for me in our eight years of marriage was to support me in sending that email. At my request, he read it before I sent it and he told be it would be okay. We both really thought it would be.
In my email I asked Josh to call me, so it was no surprise when I saw the Milwaukee area code flashing across my cell phone. I answered. I was nervous, naturally, but I was prepared for a phone call that would make everything better, not one that would make everything worse. “Hi, Halley…it’s Josh Evans.” “I responded cordially, thanking him for calling.
“So…is Simon home?”
“No,” I responded slowly. “He’s working.”
“Oh. Will he be home soon?”
“No. Probably not til 11 or midnight.”
What was going on? I had asked him to call me, not Simon.
Josh stumbled into a conversation. He talked to me for about half an hour, and it’s all mush in my memory except for a couple sentences that have haunted me ever since that night.
“It’s just…your blog…it’s very raw, it’s edgy…” Josh Evans’ Southern drawl trailed off. He was hesitant, so I think he knew to some extent that his words were crushing. “I just think Almost Church might be a really difficult place for y’all. I want to take care of your family, and I don’t want to bring you guys into a situation that wouldn’t be good for you.”
I pressed the phone tightly against my ear and swallowed to remember I was alive.
What is happening, what is happening, what is happening.
Josh Evans kept saying words that implied Simon can’t have a job after all.
It was Saturday night. July 18, 2015. Simon was waiting tables. The toddler and infant were sleeping. I was sitting on the coffee table in my living room. It was just me and Simon’s new boss and every demon that’s ever tormented me about how I’m not enough and far too much at the same time.
“I really appreciated your email, Halley,” Josh went on. I’m only hearing bits of what he’s saying, his words the shards of a shattered dream. “It was brave of you to tell me how hard this process has been for you.”
Simon’s soon-to-be boss was acting so nice. Or rather…Simon’s would-have-been-boss, but now just some guy telling me that my writing makes me unfit to be the wife of a pastor in his church? What did I do wrong? Is this because I write about women’s issues? But I write about childbirth and nursing, not…abortion and birth control! Is this because I’ve dared to type words like “breast” and “vagina?” Is it because I used like ONE f-bomb that ONE time, to describe the agony of miscarriage?
I don’t remember the other words that filled the phone call but I can vividly recall the elephant sitting on my chest for the entirety of it. The room was spinning, a man was talking, my world was crumbling.
What do I say, what do I say? How can I derail this train? But there was nothing I could do. I had already done too much, asked too much, spoken too much, written too much. I had taken up more space than they could tolerate.
Josh danced around direct communication, he avoided clear sentences. He wouldn’t just come out and say it – I’m rescinding your husband’s job offer because of you – but he didn’t have to come out and say it.
If you are familiar with polyvagal theory, you know that humans react to threats with a fight or flight reaction if we sense that we can survive the attack. However, if we sense we will not survive the threat, instead we have a freeze response. In this situation, I could not run away nor could I fight back. My body knew this. So I became very still and limp. I was numb, trapped, dissociated from the conversation. My breathing slowed and I struggled to form words. My abilities to think coherently and create memory was suppressed. I was incredibly calm sitting there on my coffee table because I was entirely shutdown.
YOU ARE WRONG IN EVERY WAY. WE DON’T WANT YOU. YOU MAKE BAD THINGS HAPPEN. YOUR HUSBAND WILL BE MADE TO SUFFER BECAUSE OF YOU. YOU ARE NOT THE RIGHT KIND OF WIFE, YOU ARE NOT THE RIGHT KIND OF CHRISTIAN. YOUR SELF-ADVOCACY WILL BE SILENCED. YOUR SPEAKING OUT WILL BE PUNISHED. WE DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR SENSE OF JUSTICE. YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE HERE. YOU ARE A THREAT. YOU ARE A PROBLEM. YOU ARE SINFUL. YOU DON’T KNOW YOUR PLACE SO LET ME PUT YOU IN IT.
That’s what my brain heard. That was a tiger that would eat me alive, and all I could do was freeze as he moved in for the kill.
Simon returned home hours later and I fell into his arms, sobbing. “I don’t know what happened but I think you don’t have the job anymore! He said my blog wasn’t okay with the church, too edgy or something! He was really nice about everything but what he did was really mean! And he kept asking for you if though I told him you weren’t here! He wants us both to call him tomorrow morning, and I’m not exactly sure what’s going on but it’s not good!” Tears, tears, tears.
We called Josh together the next morning. There was more indirect communication on Josh’s part, more dissociation on mine. Another long conversation. Lots of jabber about how Almost Church wouldn’t be a good environment for us, and how Josh would hate to put us in a bad situation. At some point Simon cut through the flak and asked Josh, “So, you’re telling us that you no longer want us to come up there?” Josh finally spoke plainly and in doing changed Almost Church to Never Church: “I’m telling you that I no longer want you to come up here.”
And then it was over. It was a Sunday morning, we had a family pool party to get to that afternoon. We expected lots of questions about Simon’s big news that he had landed a church job and that we would soon be moving to Wisconsin. We felt sick knowing the misplaced joy and eager questions that awaited us. It was a horrible day, the pool party, insensitive comments, just everything. We soldiered on, because that’s what parents of little kids do. One foot in front of the other.
We were back to the drawing board. Friends said we dodged a bullet. I was pretty sure that was true then, definitely know its true today. Almost Church probably felt the same way: I was too feisty for their tastes, I spoke up about my concerns. Can’t have a dangerous woman like that running around.
That was the third straight summer that a church said no.
Photo credits in order:
- Photo by Christin Hume on Unsplash
- Photo by Joe Hu on Unsplash
- Photo by Fabrizio Verrecchia on Unsplash
- Photo by Joshua Lee on Unsplash
*Names, city, and state in this piece have been fictionalized.
