The identities we choose, the circumstances we can't

In the last few days, I registered for classes at Denver Seminary (!) and applied for my first government loan (gross). Saw my 7th grade English teacher at Panera last week, who is just "so proud" that I am a published author now (and maybe assumes some of the credit). Also ran into my 12th grade Service Learning teacher there, who looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I told her about my new name (which, depending on how long it's been since I've talked to certain people, it's really not that 'new' anymore).

Nonetheless, it follows me. While applying for my first loan, the name on my FAFSA still reads "Sarah E," which caused me to have a minor freakout that Denver Seminary will think I lied about my identity once they receive those records, or that I wasn't telling the "whole truth" and am thus unfit to be in a position of leadership...that probably sounds ridiculous, but that's really how my mind works. And when it comes to such a sensitive issue as this, a little frustration is not unheard of. This will be the first time I'm registered for a class under Sarahbeth. It's kind of a big deal.

Just today, I typed in the name of a customer for a to-go order by reading it off his credit card; he seemed personally offended by that, claiming "That's not the name I use!" And I honestly felt horrible. I of all people should know to ask someone first before going ahead and assuming their given name is actually their name, meaning the one they prefer to go by.

That's the great injustice with the whole naming process: we don't get to choose them, our parents do. Most of the time we just accept it; others, not so much. Few people, it seems, actually take legal action to do anything about it.

On a somewhat unrelated, yet still relevant note, I went to my first Take Back the Night event at Kent State last week, and it was awesome. I shouldn't say I loved it, because ideally, events like this shouldn't have to exist. But it was incredible. From burning the names of attackers (which seems a little vindictive, but it was actually quite liberating) to chanting things like "NO MORE DATE RAPE" while walking through campus, and listening to personal stories of survivors, it gave me more food for thought about creating new identities to overcome hardship.

The common denominator of the stories I heard, and even the one that I shared, was a deadly combination of shame, guilt, and self-hatred. Men and women alike described a loss of self-worth because they no longer felt "pure" for the person they eventually hope to be with...that, more than anything else, was the catalyst for my wanting a new identity. Not just the spiritual one I now have in Christ, but a legal one as well. It would be more "official" that way.

That is why, ridiculous and melodramatic as it sounds, it's like nails on a chalkboard for me to be referred to as Sarah (UNLESS you happen to be my mother, but even that is only when we're at home). While I've always disliked how common the name is, for me it represents my life before I learned the consequences of judging others; before I learned true self-respect; before I became a new creation after baptism. So it's not only annoying when people automatically assume it's okay to 'shorten' my name without asking, it's offensive.

I know the average response to that is probably going to be something like "Oh, lighten up, people don't mean any harm by it" or maybe even "Get over it!" I understand it's "unusual" to have a double first name, at least in this part of the US (I've been told I need to move to the deep south where names like Mary Lou and Bonnie Jean are the norm, and I'll fit right in), but it is one of my biggest pet peeves lately when people make assumptions about what they think a person should be called (I'm sorry, Panera customer! It will never happen again!).

I know a Matthew who despises being called Matt, and an Abigail who won't respond to Abby...so I'm not the only one who's a stickler for formalities. And someday I'd like to meet the woman who wrote this article and tell her that I know just how she feels!

Walking a mile in the wrong pair of shoes

So my letter to the editor of the Daily Kent Stater got published this week, which I'm pretty excited about. It was a weird moment of deja vu to see my name in the paper again, which I've tried to avoid reading since graduating, but when I heard about the "Walk a Mile in her Shoes" event to "increase awareness for sexual assault," I couldn't not say something about it. Trying to compress my response in 300 words or less was extremely difficult, and this is a subject I wish I'd written a full column on when I had the chance. But, you can only write about what you know at the present moment. I didn't have a passion for this subject at the time I was on the forum staff. Oh how things have changed.

What I really wanted to say, but didn't (not after the insane backlash to my column about fraternities dropping their pants for breast cancer awareness) was this...what is the point of all this, really? I already know it's for a good cause, and with the best of intentions behind it. But this, quite honestly, is one of the silliest ideas for "awareness" I've ever heard. And there are some very silly ones out there (remember the "update your status with the color bra you're wearing" epidemic? Or turning your Facebook profile picture pink?).

The event was intended to "help men better understand and appreciate women's experiences, helping improve gender relationships and decreasing the potential for violence." I'm sorry, but...how is this accomplished, exactly? How is forcing man feet into dainty high-heeled shoes supposed to help men understand what it's like for women to be at risk of sexual assault? And what about the fact that not all rapes occur on "Thirsty Thursdays" when the aforementioned high heels might be worn? What about date and acquaintance rapes? What about taking time to define what "counts" as rape, and what counts as consent? And what about female-on-male assaults?What about that, KSU?

If there's a connection to be made somewhere, I'm not following. Maybe there was a seminar before or after the event that I'm not aware of, but if the walk was all there was to it, I have to say that my alma mater missed a tremendous opportunity to educate its students. This event had so much potential, and fell so short. What a damn shame.

If I only had the space to do so (and if only I'd thought of it at the time I wrote the letter), I would have included this little zinger at the end: telling women not to get raped is like telling pedestrians "Don't get hit by a bus!" It's not the pedestrians who need extensive training. Rather, it's the drivers who need to learn the traffic laws and watch what the heck they're doing.

But instead, the brunt of mis-education falls mostly on women, who are told time and time again how to act in situations that are beyond their control. And that is not okay.

The curious way things fall into place

So it's about four more months until I make my glorious return to Colorado, my new happy place (I mean, if I can't afford grad school in Europe, Colorado is a pretty good alternative). I know I was biased toward Denver Seminary all along, after the summer I spent in Estes Park...But, I did the responsible thing and looked at other schools. In the end, it came down to a decision between Boston University and Denver Seminary...only BU never actually accepted me. I had thought I would have had a response by now, seeing how I applied six months ago...and it didn't even occur to me to consider that an answer to the "Where am I meant to go?" prayer I've been hounding God with until a good friend brought it up.

Still, I waited...and then this article popped up on my Facebook newsfeed, and my mind was made up. No more waiting around for a response from BU. If I'm going to be in debt, I'm going to be in debt for going to a school I've had my heart set on all along. Now I realize that the covering up of sexual assaults on college campuses is nothing new (Penn State, anyone?), but in light of my prayers lately, how am I supposed to interpret this as anything less than a sign that Denver is my school? Actually, it's not really a sign. More like a flashing billboard.

So it's settled then. I'm going to Denver!! Yeah yeah!

In other news, I think I've sold about 2 dozen-ish books now...a number of people have asked me about e-reader versions, and while anyone who knows me knows how I feel about the Kindle, Nook, etc, I may have to reconsider if it means that more people will read it...and ultimately, that is the point of being published, right?

I am actually experimenting with a fiction novel right now. When I first dreamed of becoming a writer I always assumed I'd write fiction, but I've found that any plot I come up with has been done before, and done well. What I'm working on now is less plot-driven and more focused on differing perspectives on a social issue I'm passionate about...which happens to involve two made-up characters. I'm about 20 pages in, and my new rule is that if I can make it to 50 pages without getting bored, I'll stick with it. So we'll see how that pans out. :)

Is this real life...?

I haven't been this happy in a long, long time...

Can you tell? ;)

I confess, I did sit in Starbucks just to read my own work. Not that I haven't read the manuscript, oh, 500 times already, but it's different to actually see the final product. And already, I am my own worst critic. I read it for the 501st time and thought, "That sentence is just too repetitive," "This whole paragraph doesn't make sense," and "Why did I put that in there?! That's way too much information!!" My life is literally an open book now. I don't regret any detail I wrote, raw and personal as many of them are...they all serve a purpose. Nothing is random or accidental.

I am also about 99.99% sure that I will be going to Denver Seminary this fall...more on that later. This is yet another decision that has not come easy to me, as much as I love both the school and the city. It's a huge commitment, and another big chapter of my life that I can't believe is approaching soon. And I may or may not be making another trip out to Estes Park this summer to see some of my LT friends. As of now, I've earned a little under $20 in book sales. Hey, that's 20 cups of tea at Scribbles Cafe :)

My 23rd year of life is off to an exciting start, and it's not even my half birthday yet. New book...new boyfriend...new school plans...Suffice it to say, I am a very blessed, happy camper. I never imagined that ANY of this was possible.

For the seeker in everyone...

I am ecstatic to let the world know that the OFFICIAL RELEASE DATE FOR MY BOOK is March 31st! I am also slightly terrified. I am well aware of the risk I am taking with this. I think there is something in there to offend everybody...Catholics will be sad that I grew up among them, but didn't join the Catholic church; Christians might be annoyed that I poke fun at "Christian-ese" terms like "accepting Christ into your heart," "quiet times," and that I wrote extensively on why worship music makes me uncomfortable; and Jews will be angry because...well, the obvious reasons.

But, just like my position as a columnist for my campus newspaper, I didn't write this to make friends. I wrote it to share something close to my heart, something that God might use for good in the life of someone who has been where I've been, felt what I've felt.

Sometimes I'm so excited about my dream coming true I want to do cartwheels (I actually did do cartwheels in the break room at work when I checked my email on my phone and saw the cover for the first time), and other times, I want to rip my fingernails off in anxiousness of how people will react.

But, after praying profusely about it for 2 years, I know this is a risk I am willing to take. For every passage that has the possibility to offend, I think there are plenty more for people of all walks of life to identify with: parents who must reconcile with their children breaking from tradition; college students who are struggling to stand by a friend whom they believe is making an unwise choice...and anyone who has ever struggled with doubt and considered giving up on faith altogether. I truly believe there is something here for the seeker in everyone.

Here's to leaving my mark. And here's the link to, ya know, order it (if you want): http://www.amazon.com/Confessions-Prodigal-Daughter-Sarahbeth-Caplin/dp/1612440673/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1332527592&sr=1-1

The tale of the unlikely pariah... is getting published!

Holy crapcakes, guys. It's finally happening.

"It" is my lifelong dream of becoming a writer...a published writer. Check it out...

This is my biggest accomplishment to date, but more than that, it's also the most terrifying thing I'll ever do (for now). It's funny, because I started writing it two years ago not to eventually become a book, but because I was tired of not knowing how to answer the common question of "How exactly does a Jew end up becoming a Christian?" I ended up writing about 60 pages before actually getting to that part, because I realized this is a story that actually spans across my entire life. So what started as a personal essay ended up becoming a book.

I realize that I don't "have" to do this. But I feel like I need to, because I think my journey is important. I know that probably sounds arrogant, but I say this because the reality is, many churches do not include the rich history of the Old Testament in their sermons. Many churches are unaware of how to reach out to Jewish people without ostracizing them, making them feel "targeted" as they have been ever since the days of Moses. I have witnessed this in my own life from both sides of the spiritual fence now, and there is much work to be done to repair the relationship between Jews and Christians. My life has sort of become a testimony to that.

Aside from all the theological issues many people will disagree with, I'm prepared for the inevitable criticism about how I'm too young to write a memoir. By definition, a memoir is a self-indulgent work, but I didn't try to act like I was advanced enough in my faith to pretend to be another C.S. Lewis or Anne Lamott. This is a book to comfort others who might be in that "spiritual orphancy" state I was in for a while, not really feeling like they belong anywhere. It's a book for all the Jewish friends in my life who asked me "Why," and the Christian ones who asked me "How."

I don't think there's any "right" age where you're considered world-weary enough to write a book about your life, just like there's no "right" age to be married. If you have a story, then you should share it. Experience and age are two different things.

That being said, I didn't want to write a story from the perspective of someone who has everything figured out. Maybe I'll have a better idea of how this whole Christian thing works by the time I'm 60, but the journey probably won't be as relatable then. The age I am now is when I will make the decisions that determine the outcome of the rest of my life. If I waited until I was older to write this book, it probably wouldn't be as relevant to the young adult audience I am trying to reach. I don't want to be someone for others to look up to. I want to be someone who makes people say, "Thank goodness I'm not the only one who's been there/felt that way, I'm not weird after all!" Or something like that. That's all.

There's one passage I prize most in this book, about how Christians are called to be "pariahs" of this world. How can we not be? We don't conform to society's cultural norms. We stick out like sore thumbs with a "Puritanical" label for holding on to values that are as old as Adam and Eve. But me, well, I've always felt like a special kind of pariah. That's where the title comes from. One group thinks I've strayed...and the other says I've come home. It's an interesting, confusing place to be in.

Anyway, pre-ordering on Amazon will be available in 5-7 business days... If ten people end up reading it, that will still be worth it to me. The people who are meant to read it will find it. Or so I hope.

Religion is not a crutch to me

The day before the shootings in Chardon, the topic of discussion in church was about Job. Now if that's just a coincidence, I beg to differ.

I don't understand how nihilism benefits anyone. Are tragic events really the random product of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Accidents that ultimately have no meaning, so we suck up the pain and get on with life?

I do not understand how any of this is encouraging to people struggling with grief. It's interesting for me to analyze the many ways that people make or break with religion. It seems there are two kinds of religious people: those who quit when life throws them too many curveballs, or those who lean into it like they never have before when it's all they have left.

This brings up the old cliche about the way many people perceive faith: it's a comfort mechanism, something to provide solace in the face of tragedy. It's "nice" to imagine our loved ones smiling and happy in heaven as we are grieving for them here on earth. It's healing for us to imagine they aren't suffering anymore.

But this brings up a crucial misconception of what faith is (or, in this case, what it isn't). I think the real tragedy here is that so many Christians and non-Christians alike have this idea that a life lived for God is a life of comfort. Well, we need not look any further than all the countless saints who suffered throughout history, not to mention Jesus Christ himself, to know that this is not true.

Faith is risky. Faith makes us vulnerable. It does not guarantee safety. It doesn't shield us from heartbreak.

So why is it worth it?

Because we can know that suffering, in any form, is never wasted. It is not random or meaningless. Maybe this knowledge is still perceived as comfort food for some, but using religion as a "crutch" just to get through a bad time does not produce refinement of character or a stable foundation of strength...we have to understand that no one is immune to suffering regardless of how "good" they are. The friends of Job from the Old Testament were convinced that he must have done something awful to deserve all the boils and the loss of his family...but no one has higher standing than another because of how "moral" they are.

All of us are vulnerable, but none of us is excluded from belonging to something bigger than ourselves. It's simply unrealistic to expect that that "master plan" can take place without some degree of pain.

To make beautiful things out of dust

Not gonna lie...I wasn't nearly as excited for this year's "Women's Weekend" as my other female church friends were. Why? Because I remember how much I cried at last year's. Don't let the promotional videos fool you; it's not all giggling and pillow fighting and junk food gorging (although there was plenty of all those things, but that's not the point).

The point is for the women of h2o to have their one little getaway to learn from older, wiser women about struggles that are, well, relevant to being Christian women in the 21st century. Actually, the theme this year could be applicable to men as well, but we don't have to tell them that ;) This year we talked about the Waiting Period that the Old Testament writers referred to as a desert. For us it's a spiritual desert, but for them it was literal...we've heard of how the the Jews spent 40 years wandering, yearning for what was promised to them...what God promises to all of us is a life of purpose if we follow him. But, he never promises it will be an easy, hassle-free experience.

Last year's Women's Weekend, I bawled so much my stomach hurt. I was convicted after listening to the speaker's struggle to reclaim her identity after struggling with an unhealthy relationship, both spiritually and emotionally. It was a moment where I realized, once and for all, that I needed to make some changes in my life. It was the weekend I met one of my best friends, a girl who listened to my sob story even though she didn't know me that well, and let me crash on her couch at 1 in the morning on a school night when I finally understood what I had to do...it was my turn to break free.

It was one of the hardest, yet most necessary things I've ever done, even harder than telling my Jewish parents in Israel of all places that I've become a Christian.

I do not regret leaving for a single second. I only regret the time that was wasted believing that I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, smart enough or whatever enough to be loved. I learned this all of last year, and it was reinforced at Women's Weekend 2012: That is a lie straight from Satan himself, and as the father of lies, he makes up that crap from his own resources. I didn't realize just how offensive it was to God himself to look in the mirror and hate the person staring back at me. It's like insulting someone's personal artwork, telling them that a blind 2 year old could do better. And yet, this is what I believed about myself for far too long.

It has been a year since I made all these changes. I am not done growing yet. I am not done healing yet. But by the grace of God, I am making so, so much progress.

That friend that I met at Women's Weekend last year? She sent me a link to a tumblr called Project Unbreakable. Using art and photography, this amazing site gives people a chance to "take the power back of the words that were once used against them." The result is breath-taking. I decided to submit a photo of my own, and given how many photos they must receive, I don't expect them to publish mine any time soon, so I'm putting it here:

After sharing my testimony so many times during Leadership Training this summer, I think I'm at a point where I can do so without falling apart. I want to use my life as a witness for the glory God has done in my life, and to let other people know that they never have an excuse to be hopeless. A song by Gungor says "You make beautiful things out of the dust" and it's true. Being crippled is a state of mind. We are not defined by our circumstances. Adversity is often the very foundation that gives meaning to our lives.

But it's something you have to choose. And you have to allow God to surprise you in ways you might never expect. Don't believe me, well, my life is proof.

Taking back the blame

More reflections on what I'm learning from volunteering, and moving beyond my own past experiences.

I'm not sure how I feel about the term "Slutwalks," because I think there are some derogatory words that have too much stigma attached to be "taken back." But I support the purpose behind them. I've been giving this recent movement a lot of thought lately after the last training session at the crisis center. We were given a list of common scenarios where women (and sometimes men) are assaulted...and society will insist they were "asking for it." We advocates were assigned the task of labeling each scenario on a scale of 1 to 10 as far as personal responsibility is concerned: 1 being not at all responsible, and 10 being completely responsible.

There was a description of a drunk girl at a fraternity party. A woman walking home alone in a short skirt. Another woman who was assaulted by a couple who picked her up while hitch-hiking, and more.

I admit that I hesitated for many of these. Some answers seemed obvious...clearly, a drunk girl is not capable of consenting to sex. But the woman who hitch-hiked? Don't we all know that hitch-hiking is dangerous? Didn't that woman walking home alone know to use the buddy system?

Ultimately, the common denominator in each of these scenarios is this: that no victim deserved what she got. It seemed unlikely at first that each of these situations should be looked at under the same lens. But then I asked myself, how many times have I made decisions that put my safety at risk? How many times have you done that? Or dared to let your guard down around someone you happen to trust? Does every person who makes an unwise decision deserve to get raped or assaulted for it? What about those who had good reason to never see it coming?

I'm not concerned with the mentality of the people who drink around strangers, dress provocatively, or sleep around. What concerns me more is why this culture seems to have more sympathy for victims of murders and robberies than victims of rape and sexual assault. Why are those last two crimes put in an isolated "You should have known better" category?

We spend so much time telling young girls to always guard their drinks, to watch how they dress, how much they flirt. We tell them "Don't get raped!" instead of telling men "Don't rape!" Why is there not nearly as much emphasis on telling would-be assailants to keep their hands and genitals to themselves? It's a basic rule of kindergarten, to not touch what doesn't belong to you.

I think the biggest shame is that many of the "slut shamers" happen to be women who are just as much at risk themselves, whether they go out in short skirts or thick trenchcoats. The blame for sexual assault belongs solely on the person who commits it, and anyone who says otherwise would surely think differently if it happened to them.

I was one of those "It can't happen to me" women. And that is how my ministry began.

To be continued...

The story within the story

Disclaimer: I decided to do a mini-series of sorts about my reactions to the things I am learning while volunteering at a crisis center. This is also motivated by the upcoming one-year mark of when I closed a particularly painful chapter in my life, and when my name change was declared legal.

The question is this: What would you do if someone you were in a relationship with was hurting or severely disrespecting you? How would you react?

It’s an impossible scenario for most of us. Who wants to consider such an awful breach of trust? How can we really know how we’d react until, God forbid, it actually happens?

I thought I knew my answer. I simply wouldn’t stand for it. I’d fight like hell. I’d end the relationship. I’d do anything but be passive and compliant. Doing nothing, I rationalized, is like enabling the bad behavior. And I sure as hell would not enable such blatant disrespect, especially when the woman being disrespected was my own self.

I was seventeen at the time I thought I knew everything (but what seventeen-year-old doesn’t think that?). And that’s what I was so sure I would do if the situation happened to me.

But, as hindsight likes to remind me, I was too young to assume such things.

Can I say why it took so long for me to stand up for myself? Not really. There are many reasons, some that make sense, and others that don’t. But that’s hardly the point. What matters now is that I am wiser and less judgmental for having experienced something I put down untold scores of women for. When I look into the hurting faces of future clients, I may see traces of Sarah in them…and I’ll have to remember that the little hurting Sarah is what helped create the Sarahbeth I felt called to be after my baptism. The two are inseparable, much to my chagrin. But that is the truth.

What does it feel like to have hindsight bite you in the butt for failing to notice things that were so obvious to others, but easily excusable to you? It’s something like this…it’s like going through the motions of everyday life in a zombified state. It’s like having outbursts of anger for what seems like no apparent reason, for even the smallest of offenses. It’s like forgetting how to be your once cheerful, perky self, and having to re-learn basic social skills when mingling with new people (especially if those people are customers at your job). It takes a while to re-learn all those basic skills. But it does happen.

What does it feel like to re-learn your true identity after feeling like the one you were born with wasn’t good enough? It’s like comparing yourselves to other people you admire, people you wish you could be like, only to find out that they have struggles too, and maybe they’re comparing themselves to you because for some odd reason, they think you’re the one who has it all together. It’s like begging for compliments to remind yourself of what you’re good at, but over time you remember why it is that people seem to love you, to trust you, and call you their friend. It’s like throwing yourself into serving the needs of others to bring some glory, however small, into this piece of hell that will – yes, it will! – get a little smaller with every passing day. 

You can’t ever know how you’ll react to something until it actually happens to you. It doesn’t help to speculate over what ifs. But it helps to be prepared. Being prepared is to know that anything that happens to you doesn’t have to leave you broken. It just leaves you with a story to tell.