Courtship, Part 3: 2013, The Year of Limbo

Winter

In the weeks that followed Dad’s decision, the conversations between Dylan and I quickly resumed their casual, friendly normalcy. We were careful to stick to the new guidelines and avoid any forbidden or potentially objectionable topics. Therefore, we didn’t so much as hint at the banned matter of courtship, our feelings, or anything of the sort that could be remotely construed as being connected.

Honestly, I didn’t have anyone to talk to about any of the things that had occurred–couldn’t ask for anyone’s opinion other than my parents' already-stated thoughts. One of the requirements Dad had given to me was that I couldn’t talk about the possibility of courtship with anyone other than my parents. Not Dylan, not my friends and not even my siblings. After all, if things had been handled the right way, I wouldn’t even know about the possibility of a courtship, so I certainly shouldn’t go around speculating or gossiping about the matter with others.

And so I didn’t.

But this topic joined a very long list of others that I didn’t speak about with any of my friends.

Sometimes (as in this case) this was because I wasn’t supposed to share the information with others. More often, though, it was because I wasn’t sure I could present the information in a way that wouldn’t paint my dad in a negative light, or make it seem like I was complaining or being disrespectful.

In the homeschool circles I grew up in, there was a strong prohibition against saying anything about one’s husband or father that could in any way be construed as having even a whiff of disrespect or discontent. And with my dad being a pastor–even if he hadn’t formally pastored a church in years–the pressure to ensure that he remained thoroughly above reproach was even greater. So even when family matters weren’t secret, per se, I kept my mouth shut if I wasn’t able to present them with wholehearted and enthusiastic support.

And so I didn’t talk to any of my friends (Dylan included) about Dad’s sovereign citizen pursuits, about him choosing not to pay his taxes or his mortgage, about us not having a stable church home, about the widely-varied and conflicted collection of churches we were attending, about me feeling isolated or lonely, about the violent imprecatory prayers Dad was obsessed with praying, about him not allowing me to get a driver’s license, about him changing his doctrinal beliefs on many matters–the list felt endless. I stayed silent. What else was I supposed to do?

Adding a courtship-that-wasn’t to this list didn’t even feel all that difficult.

Despite the topics omitted, though, the conversations between Dylan and I were widely-varied in scope, and never lacking in topics – it didn’t seem as though we could run out of things to talk about.

Spring

Springtime that year brought in a handful of life changes. After three years of arguments and begging and pushing back against his sovereign-citizen viewpoints, I finally managed to convince my Dad to allow me to get a driver’s license (though I was instructed to inscribe “UCC 1-308 under threat, duress, and coercion” under my signature – a stipulation I skipped and later blamed the electronic signature pad for “cropping out”).

Shortly after that I started a part-time nannying position. Not only did this allow me to have an independent source of income, but it also afforded me a novel window into the outside world. I was introduced to Spongebob Squarepants and The Office and Disney princess movies and a plethora of other media that had previously either been banned or entirely unknown to me.

I bought myself a second-hand iPod touch, which greatly expanded my internet access and ability to communicate in general. With it, I further explored the media and culture I’d never before known, watching Sherlock and a handful of Doctor Who episodes and listening to Lecrae in secret – and then guiltily praying for repentance afterwards.

Meanwhile, after several months of house-hunting, Dylan had purchased his own house and was in the process of moving-in. He was also actively searching for a church home and regularly visiting a range of area churches in hopes of finding one he could join.

But my parents’ lives weren’t going so well. Although they had stopped paying their mortgage way back in 2009 or so, they had, up until now, managed to delay parts of the foreclosure proceedings with constant appeals and other litigation in the courts. But this was the spring when their home was finally auctioned-off at the courthouse steps.

Although we were still living in the house with them making no plans to move out, their paranoia reached new levels – and so did the amount of constant fasting and praying and spending countless hours obsessing over legal documents. My parents were still convinced that God was going to give them the house back, that the prophetic promises they’d received were true. That they just had to keep from doubt and believe.

Summer

As the months went by, I spent much time on my own study of doctrine. I poured over a variety of books and literature, determined to be able to articulately defend what I believed and to have a comprehensive understanding of it.

The reasoning for this was twofold. First, I didn’t know what courtship-related progress might be going on behind the scenes that I didn’t know about, but I certainly didn’t want to be ignorant of my own opinions wherever I’d be asked. And secondly, I’d graduated the year prior and found myself lacking things to do or study. Diving into a self-taught theology course seemed to be a good way to spend up the extra hours I had.

In previous years, I’d already realized that I no longer wholeheartedly supported theonomy. Somewhat ironically, it was because of the careful caveats that Theonomists gave to their support of Ron Paul and libertarianism that I first realized that I didn’t really want theonomy to be the only moral option. I began my study along these lines, trying to be impartial and rational while desperately hoping that I wouldn't discover that my personal aversion was due to selfish and emotional reasoning. But as I dove into the works of Rushdoony and Gary North and others in hopes of finding a clear and Biblical answer, I only found myself becoming more skeptical the more I read.

As I continued to study, I was faced with an uncomfortable realization that Dad and I were becoming more and more distinct in our personal beliefs. His relatively recent embrace of charismatic doctrines, his new political beliefs, and his recent delve into believing that God had given him a prophetic anointing had already created a wedge between us. He’d changed in ways I disliked. Now, my own beliefs were morphing as well.

Combined with everything else that was going on, this meant that my relationship with my dad continued to sour. When I questioned the sovereign citizen teachings he was fully onboard with, I was scolded and scorned for just wanting to be “normal.” I begged for us to once again consistently attend reformed, family-integrated churches, and was told that I needed to be content rather than having a rebellious spirit. I pushed back against the “prophecies” and “words of knowledge” he’d received in various charismatic churches and pointed out that they weren’t coming true, and for this I was told I had a “spirit of doubt.” A few times, when I dared to mention Dylan, I was accused of just trying to “escape” the family difficulties, that I was tired of having the mortgage companies threaten us and therefore was trying to run away via matrimony.

During this time, I also tried–to no avail–to find a way for Dylan and I (and my family) to meet in person. I suggested multiple homeschool conventions and other events which were midway between Kansas and Alabama, which would have been feasible for my family to travel to. All of these options were dismissed by them with little consideration–we were too busy, we couldn’t leave the house that long with it being foreclosed the way it was. This wasn’t the right time. And besides, why was I being so impatient?

Fall

As the months continued to go by, Dylan and I continued to carefully follow the rules set for our friendship and to keep all of our conversations appropriate (even assuming that at some point they’d likely be reviewed by my parents). Meanwhile, we were both privately growing frustrated by the lack of apparent interest or effort from my dad in moving things along.

And with each passing month, I also found myself falling more and more for Dylan. No matter how much I tried to rein-in my emotions, to avoid getting attached, I couldn’t help but care for him. Even when we disagreed or had different perspectives on various matters, I always walked away from our discussions feeling mentally invigorated rather than frustrated. Despite all of the restrictions imposed on us, despite all of the parameters we followed which were meant to keep us pure and emotionally safe, our friendship continued to deepen – but beyond just friendship, I was finding myself falling in love.

When we’d been told the previous November that we weren’t ready to court, both of us had had the impression that while we would continue to work on ourselves individually, my dad would engage in conversations with Dylan and facilitate discussion with him. But I was realizing now that that hadn’t happened, and it was becoming increasingly clear to me that nothing was happening. At this point I felt as though both Dylan and I were being strung along by the vague promises that had been given the previous year, but I had idea what the next step was – or what either of us were supposed to do to make it happen.

But after many conversations with my mom, I finally managed to convince her to ask Dad to at least talk to Dylan once again. A series of weekly conversations between them was set up, and while I wasn’t in-the-loop about what they were talking about, I was hopeful that some progress would be made.

It wasn’t until several weeks had passed that I received an update from Dad on how these conversations were going. He invited me to take a walk with him, and then exuberantly announced to me that after all of these conversations, he had learned the following facts: Dylan was homeschooled, a Christian and interested in politics. He told me that he was letting me know these things since they would obviously be important to me as well, and I would probably be as glad to learn them as he was.

Instead, I did my best to respond casually to hide the crushing dismay.

I’d been assuming that these shockingly basic topics had already been covered nearly a full year ago. These were all things that could have been surmised after spending mere moments viewing Dylan’s Facebook profile. What even had they talked about if these basic subjects were only now being discovered? And while these topics weren’t unimportant to me, hearing that this was all that Dad had managed to learn so far felt like a gut-punch to my expectations.

For the most part, I tried to roll with this new realization, to temper my expectations and trust the process–but it was starting to feel like the process wasn’t working. And if that was the case, what was I to do? What could I do?

Courtship was supposed to be a safe and tidy process. One where messy, emotional entanglements are altogether avoided, where fathers and suitors sorted out all of the nitty-gritty details between the current and potentially-future households.

But this didn’t feel safe, and it didn’t feel tidy. Had I subverted the system and sinfully traipsed to the brink of heartbreak? I couldn’t deny that I’d gotten attached to Dylan, despite following all of the rules and being so careful to avoid any flirtatious behavior. And I didn’t know how to stop caring for him.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if there was anything I could do.