I’ve spoken in a number of Christian school chapels over the years. As a professional storyteller I’d speak in chapel with a true story from one of my missionary books, and then as the “visiting author” I’d go around to the classrooms and answer questions.
One of the questions I’d often get was this: “If your life were written as a story, what would you want it to say?”
(A student would ask it, but I always had a sneaking suspicion that it was a teacher who came up with the question.)
Years ago when we were visiting a large and well-endowed fundamentalist church here in Greenville, South Carolina, the Sunday school teacher went on a bit of a tirade about how wrong it was to come to church to “get.”
Six years ago when I first began to learn about extreme abuse, when I was first introduced to dissociative identity disorder as something more than a movie plot, when I began to dip my toe into a world of darkness beyond what I had previously ever comprehended, I eventually (after months) asked the Lord—complained to the Lord, actually—“Lord, why is it you want me to learn about this awful stuff? I don’t know any of these people!”
Back in the old days, before I entered the controversy, my blog was a devotional blog. This is one I posted on our son and daughter-in-law’s wedding day, and it’s my joy to repost it now for their sixth anniversary.
Thirty years ago this month, my first book was published.
I was thirty years old.
An astute observer might notice that was half my life ago.
These days when those who’ve been abused in a Christian context connect with me, it’s not uncommon for me to hear, “Are you the same Rebecca Davis who wrote With Daring Faith? We read that in our homeschool.”