The God of My Parents: The Uncensored Account of My Journey to Find Identity

The God of My Parents

The Uncensored Account of My Journey to Find Identity

By Liz G. Flaherty

Published at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 by Elizabeth G Flaherty

www.lizgflaherty.com

All rights reserved.

This book is protected by U.S. copyright law. Copying, distributing, selling, or otherwise using any part of it without the express permission of the author is prohibited, with the exception of citing brief quotations for reviewing and group study purposes.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version Bible. Copyright 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved. (NKJV)

Scripture taken from the New International Version Bible. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. (NIV)

Scripture taken from the Amplified Bible. Copyright 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. All rights reserved. (AMP)

Scripture taken from The Message Bible. Copyright 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by NavPress Publishing Group. Used by permission. All rights reserved. (MSG)

Formatting by Jack Thomas.

Cover design by Sasha Timen. (www.alookdesign.com)

Author bio photography by Johnna Lowery. Makeup by Olivia Lowery.

Dedicated to Jack and Ruth.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

ONE - BEGINNINGS

TWO - ELBOWS-DEEP IN THE COUNTRY

THREE - CULTURE SHOCK

FOUR - GIVING

FIVE - A SANDWICH FOR BARNEY

SIX - MY DATE WITH BIGFOOT

SEVEN - MOM’S BOOK

EIGHT - STRAWBERRY MILKSHAKE

NINE - CROSSROADS

TEN - PEER COUNSELING

ELEVEN - ON MY OWN

TWELVE - SINKING SHIP

THIRTEEN - ONE WITH NATURE

FOURTEEN - WEED AND GOD

FIFTEEN - THE NARROW PATH

SIXTEEN - STRETCHED TO THE LIMIT

SEVENTEEN - BATTERIES IN AFRICA

EIGHTEEN - PEOPLE IN THE HALLWAY

NINETEEN - OUT OF THE LIMELIGHT

TWENTY - ONE LOST CHRISTIAN WALKS INTO A BAR…

TWENTY-ONE - THE LONG JOURNEY

TWENTY-TWO - DEALING WITH GRIEF AND FACING PAIN

TWENTY-THREE - PORN AND MASTURBATION

TWENTY-FOUR - SAME-SEX ATTRACTION

TWENTY-FIVE - LGBT AND THE CHURCH

TWENTY-SIX - UNWAVERING LOVE

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

First of all, an immense amount of gratitude goes to my husband, Andy. Thank you for believing in me, supporting me, and being patient with me every time I rolled out of bed to write something down in the middle of the night, or as I rabbit-trailed our everyday exchanges, often turning what do you want for dinner into a deep theological discussion. Thank you for being with me through all the struggling and the tears as I put my life to the page, and for encouraging me when I didn’t think I could do it. I love you, and you’re my champion.

Secondly, I want to thank my brother, Jack. Thank you for being not only my brilliant editor, but also my writing coach as I weighed everything out in this long process. I think we can agree that it was delightfully surprising how God brought this project together through us. It was a joy working with you and seeing your talents in a new way, and I can’t thank you enough for pushing through with me even when the subject matter was difficult for both of us. Your humor and kindness brought me so much strength. I love you.

Thirdly, huge thanks to my friends who supported this project financially and those who reviewed the book before final publication. Without your investment of time and resources this wouldn’t have come together, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your prayers and support are invaluable.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge Lakeshore Christian Fellowship. Thank you for creating an atmosphere where people can thrive and experience the presence of God. You are abounding in hospitality and love. You are a treasure.

Introduction

I think most of us reach a point in our lives when we wish we could go back in time and talk to our younger selves. Sure, we would want to give them some lotto numbers—maybe the names of one or two companies to invest money in—but most of all we want to tell them everything we’ve learned over the years. We want to prevent all the blunders and hardship they’re going to face. We want to give them the keys to a better life, which we had to earn through that same hardship. Sometimes it feels like just a few of the right words would have helped us so much. Well, unfortunately for us (and for our bank accounts) we can’t go back in time. All we can do is take our experiences and keep moving forward. But even though we can’t change our own pasts, we can affect other people’s futures.

For a number of years now I’ve felt I wanted to write a book about my struggles and how I found my identity through Christ—precisely the book I would FedEx to my younger self if given the chance. I carry my testimony like a precious thing, and through it I’m able to minister to others. Committing my whole story to the page would allow it to reach people I may never meet.

Like many would-be authors I sat on the idea for a long time, telling myself that it would be nice to do someday, after I’d done all the other important things I was doing…like not writing the book. (This is one of an author’s favorite activities.) My story and walk with God were conveyed to the women I ministered to, both individually and in small groups in my church, and for a time that was enough. Sometimes He likes to change gears when you least expect it, however, so one day while I was in the kitchen making soap for my body product business, I felt Him tell me that it was time to get started. I told Him I had a million other more immediate plans. He disagreed. So I set my heart to do what I felt led to do.

This book is the product of a lot of work, but it’s also the product of a lot of living—loving, hurting, making mistakes, laughing, crying. It’s the culmination of my experiences and the lessons I’ve learned in my journey through life. In the beginning I spent a lot of time praying about who my audience would be. I always knew that at the very least I was writing it to others who have struggled with the same issues I’ve faced, so that they could perhaps be inspired by how a loving God pursued me even when I wasn’t pursuing Him. But beyond that, I was torn between writing to the Church and to those who don’t share in the faith of the Christian gospel. Ultimately, I felt that in order to bring others into a life of God’s love and Christian discipleship, you must have a people ready to embrace all others in whatever state they’re in. My desire is to open up honest conversations and promote love and respect for all people. My primary aim is to un-vilify those who have been considered outcasts by the Church and to break the stigmas that I feel are keeping people away from Christ. This book is meant to inspire us as a Church to reach out to others with love and the good news of the gospel.

As flawed humans, we tend to create enemies and erect walls when others don’t share our beliefs, and I want to show you how love and respect have built the foundation upon which my life rests—how that foundation is no longer based on fear. Regardless of who you are and where you’re coming from, by reading this book I want you to go places you might not have been before, and meet people you might not normally associate with.

And you’ll definitely meet some interesting characters in this book. Perhaps none are as interesting however as the little town I grew up in itself. I’ve changed its name and the names of most of the people and places, and I’ve made a few very minor detail changes purely for the sake of a concise story, but I can promise you that this is a completely open and honest account of my life. Full transparency is one thing that nobody really wants but everybody needs—a raw account of how God can move in our broken lives. Such transparency has been the key to addressing many of my most deeply-seated issues. Because of this, I’ve chosen not to hold back in an attempt to sterilize my journey. If you read something you don’t agree with or even don’t believe, I only ask that you finish reading the entire thing before dusting off the ol’ pitchfork.

I understand that a non-Christian might pick up this book, and I actually think that’s really great. Regardless of your beliefs, my hope is that it provides a perspective that surprises you. I’ll do my best to define terminology normally associated with Christian culture.

With all that said, I hope you’re impacted by my story. This, ladies and gentlemen, is me.

One

Beginnings

The gas truck pulled up to a weather-worn house on a quiet road in Morrilton, Arkansas. The truck parked on the street and a man stepped out. He walked up the short walkway and knocked on the door with a smile.

After a few moments, a gray-haired woman opened the door. The man was likely struck by the exhaustion on her face, and this impression she gave would only have been reinforced by the sound of playing children coming from within the house. (He wouldn’t have known it, but ten of them had been birthed by this poor woman, and many had already grown and gone.)

Hello, Mrs. Camp, he said, still smiling. I’m here to fill up your gas tank.

The woman gave a weary smile and nodded. Thank you, she said, and began to close the door.

The man gently placed a hand on the door and it stopped. Actually I’m just going to need to make sure your connections are secure in your kitchen before filling the tank. It will just take a moment.

Mrs. Camp nodded and let him in. The man passed through the living room on his way to the kitchen, and by chance he happened to glance down at the floor. What he saw shocked him enough to make him stop. Lying on a blanket was a little girl, tiny and frail, so skinny that he likely wondered how she had survived up to this point. In fact, she only seemed to barely be alive at all; she hardly moved as she lay on her blanket. She looked old enough to walk and talk, but appeared to be incapable of doing either.

How old is your daughter, ma'am? the man asked. He attempted to keep his voice calm, but it was clear that his heart was sinking at the sight of this poor girl.

She’s two years old, Mrs. Camp said, and she sat on the floor next to her daughter with a smile. Her name’s Ruthie.

She seems real small. Was she premature? he asked, though he was already certain this must be the case.

No sir. She came after nine months. Mrs. Camp looked lovingly down at Ruthie, who struggled to move. She was two pounds born. We put her in a shoebox and put heated bricks beside it to keep her warm. The woman brushed some of Ruthie’s fine hair out of her face and tucked it behind the girl’s ear.

The man had seen enough. He serviced the tank, thanked Mrs. Camp, and quickly returned to the office. He immediately reported what he saw to his superior, and the two of them returned to the Camp residence shortly after. They pleaded with Mrs. Camp and her husband to take Ruthie to the hospital; otherwise, they would be forced to notify the police. The Camps did as they were asked.

Ruthie received the medical aid she needed, including several blood transfusions. After her hospital stay she began walking and talking. To this day I wonder if that man is perhaps still alive somewhere in Arkansas, possibly sitting in a rocking chair at this very moment. He would be very old by now, but it’s possible. And if so, I wonder if he has any idea that there are people out there in the world—and in fact a whole legacy of people to come in time—who owe their lives to him.

The Camp family eventually left Arkansas for the farmlands of Fresno, California. Growing up the youngest of ten children, Ruth learned to be independent and self-reliant, even more so after the death of her mother when she was only ten. She was out of the house at every opportunity, and from a young age she loved being around people above all things. After graduating from high school she thrived as a waitress at Bob’s Big Boy, and when she wasn’t working she was zipping around California in her beat-up MG sports car, visiting friends.

Unfortunately, her medical problems would never be fully behind her. Throughout her childhood and into her twenties she would have fainting spells. On many occasions she would be sent home from school because of them, but the affliction went long-undiagnosed. Her father accused her of faking her issues and made no effort to help. It wasn’t until her early twenties that one of her spells landed her in the hospital, and the doctors discovered that one of her kidneys had failed completely and was filled with toxins. Had it been left just a little longer to erupt, she would have died. Yet another close call that could have cut this story very short. God’s hand was on my mother’s life, and thus on my own as well, before I was even born.

After recovering, Ruth transferred to a Bob’s Big Boy in Mountain View, then scored a position at Hewlett Packard—one that provided training and benefits. It was her first major job. (Ah, to live in the 70’s…)

~~~~~

Jack was born into a family of fifth-generation Christians. Ministry ran in their blood; his mother would tell stories about how their forebears would travel through the coal mining mountains and fields of Virginia, teaching the gospel to anyone who would hear it. There was a long legacy of provision as well. Whole bags of groceries mysteriously showing up on the porch right when the food ran out in the middle of a long winter, with no tracks in the snow—that sort of thing.

Young Jack was perhaps the polar opposite of Ruth—quiet, reserved, somewhat shy, with a very subtle sense of humor. His father was in the Air Force, and as such the family moved often. Jack stayed at home into his twenties, and when they landed in Sacramento, California he moved into his first apartment.

One day at a church friend’s house he met Ruth, who was visiting from Mountain View. They instantly hit it off and wrote letters to each other for several months. And a mere six months after moving out on his own, he married her, moved to Mountain View, and took a job at Hewlett Packard as well. Three years later, in the fall of 1978, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sassy-pants little girl came into the picture. And that’s where my story begins.

~~~~~

The three of us lived in a little apartment with an avocado tree outside. I went to a private Christian school, and my parents made a lot of money at HP. Things were good, and I did enjoy being an only child, but I still prayed for a sibling every night before bed. It became as much a ritual as brushing my teeth or taking a bath. What I wasn’t aware of however, was that my mother’s health problems had followed her into parenthood; my birth was followed by three miscarriages, and the doctors told her that her body would simply be unable to produce a second child. But even had I known that, I wouldn’t have stopped praying every single night.

I was seven years old in the summer of 1986 when my parents left their high-paying jobs in Silicon Valley to follow what my father referred to as the call of God. Both of them felt called to pastor a small church in the sleepy mountains of Northern California. A four-hour drive up the highway took us away from our safe little Bay Area community and our secure incomes and into the redwoods. All at once we were in a place where religious and political views varied enormously from our own—where the very people who walked the streets were very different from us, where almost every aspect of life felt new and strange. Mountain View was by no means a sprawling metropolis, but comparatively, Wilsonville felt like a dollhouse. The bulk of the town lay along a stretch of highway hardly a mile long, if that, with most of the whopping twelve hundred residents nestled in the mountains and woods surrounding it.

Suffice it to say, Mom and Dad had brought me to a strange place.

The church matched the town perfectly—strikingly