Our Story Part 1

May 2006, the month I met T.J.
Jenna Stoeppler, age 18

The story of how T.J. Greer and I fell in love and

got married is so unique that I have spent a lot of

time writing it out beginning from the very beginning.

There is so much pain, joy, and growing involved, with

God's mercy and grace abundant throughout, that I have

gone into quite a bit of detail and will have to spread

out my 20 pages of writing into several blog posts! I

will post an installment every day leading up to our

anniversary on January 10th. May you be blessed as

you read!

1 Timothy 2:9 (King James Version) “In like manner

also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel,

with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided

hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array…”

Here is the Google definition of shamefaced, as

applicable to this verse:

shame·faced

ˈSHāmfāst/

adjective

adjective: shamefaced; adjective: shame-faced

Origin

18 year old me trying to look hot!

  

Growing up as I did as a girl in an ultra-

conservative, isolated, and fundamentalist

Christian family, this was the verse that defined

my life and identity, both as a female and a

Christian.  Ever since I can remember, I was

constantly reminded: “You must be shamefaced.  

You must be ladylike.”  No, you can’t climb that

tree--it’s not ladylike.  No, you can’t play that

game the boys are playing, it’s not ladylike.  

No, you can’t do this….you can’t do that….

no, no, no, no.  My life was a life of  No’s.  I

hated being a girl--I hated who I was.  I loved

the outdoors and was a tomboy at heart, and

longed to be a boy.  Boys had all the fun, I

thought bitterly!  Then waves of guilt would

crash over me for feeling this way, because

I ought to be content with the way God

made me, and my role as a female servant of

men.  I struggled with resentful feelings and

constant guilt and shame, and my teen years

were an utterly miserable time for me

emotionally.  I remember desperately

wanting to fit in.  I liked hanging out with

the boys; I liked carving knives and bows

and arrows and guns; I wore denim skirts

because they were the closest thing to jeans

I was allowed, and hiking boots because

that’s what all the boys were wearing!  I

still resented the fact that God made me a

girl, and yet because I had surrendered my

life to Him and wanted to live as a

Christian, I felt horribly guilty about it.  

And no way could I tell anyone about these

feelings!  I was too ashamed.

Another rigidly enforced rule in my small

world was the strict law laid down that I

was not to associate with or talk to “the boys.”  

“The boys” were basically anyone of the

opposite gender, ten years old and older.  I

would hopelessly crush on various persons

of the male persuasion, drooling over them

from a distance, wondering which one I’d

marry someday, and wishing God would

miraculously reveal this elusive piece of

information to me!  The only person I

dared confide in was my faithful Journal,

and every so often when I was feeling

particularly guilty for having feelings for boys,

I’d go back and erase and rewrite whole sections.  

I vividly remember one particularly

humiliating occasion.  Sundays were the

absolute highlight of my life.  I was a social

butterfly in my world, with fifteen pen pals,

and I lived for Sundays which were the

only times I ever got to see my friends, other

than special occasions such as our yearly

church camping trips.  Every Sunday our

church fellowship would have a potluck and

eat and talk and afterwards sing and talk

about the Bible (only the men would be

permitted to speak at this point).  It was an

emotionally charged mental game for me to

see where I could sit, and hope against hope

that my current crush would maybe sit close

enough for me to hear his conversation, or at

least where I would be able to see him!  

This particular Sunday, oh joy he actually

took the seat across from me at the table!  

He was so close I could have touched his

foot under the table.  My heart was racing,

and I could barely choke down my food.  

I kept my eyes carefully on my plate and

didn’t say a word, remembering the injunction

to be “shamefaced” and not make eye contact.  

My mom was sitting next to me, and I was

on my best behavior.  The conversation

between the adults drifted to the subject

of cows, which I was interested in because

my crush was a farm boy.  I thought there

couldn’t be any harm in asking a cow

question, but did I dare?!  With bated breath

and my heart wanting to jump out of my

throat, I screwed my courage to the sticking

point, looked up at him in all his wonderful

adolescent handsomeness, and asked my

question.  He politely answered it, and

that was it.  That went very well, I thought,

hoping he’d noticed me.

Afterwards my mother took me aside.  

“That was wrong to speak to him,” she

informed me solemnly.  “If you are flirtatious

with the boys like that, no one will ever

want to marry you!”  I was crushed.  

Devastated.  I cried and cried, asking God

to forgive me for my awful indiscretion!

Like every girl since Adam and Eve’s

first daughter, I dreamed of how a man

would show interest in me.  I couldn’t wait

for someone to contact my Dad and ask for

my hand, as I had been taught was

proper!  The process was preached to me

from every direction, the only Godly way

for families to start. More than anything I

wanted a man to love and be my companion

and best friend, and I wanted babies of my

own to kiss and hold and raise with him!  

According to every book I read and cassette

tape I listened to, the event would proceed

in this wise:  first, some honorable young

man would spend months in prayer asking

God if I was “the one.”  Once God finally

revealed his will, the young man would go

and tell his own father about it, and ask his

opinion and advice.  If his father and mother

approved, then the young man and his father

would approach my Dad and ask his

permission to show interest in me.  Dad

would talk to Mom, pray about it for weeks,

and then if they decided it was God’s will, he

would approach me and inform me of the

young man’s interest and let me know to

pray about it and decide whether to say

Yes or No.  “The young lady is always

the last person to know!” was preached

earnestly by those I loved and trusted.   

Eventually a carefully supervised

courtship would proceed, with our parents

and siblings chaperoning every moment

we were allowed to see each other.  I

dreamed of how exciting it would be to

go through this process, and eventually

have a husband to call my own!  I watched

with great interest whoever made friends

or talked to my Dad, wondering if he was

“the one.”

I call this an Amish selfie.
Mom used an Amish bonnet pattern for us girls
She made the stiff part out of old hard plastic
vinegar bottles.

When I was sixteen and a half, a man

I admired and respected above all others

came to my Dad and had a long private talk

with him.  I was giddy with excitement,

because this man was father to the boy

I was crushing on the hardest at the time

(with the approval and encouragement of

my mother).  Could this be it?!  I wondered.  

I could hardly wait, and since my Dad and I

have always been best friends, I figured it

wouldn’t take too long for him to tell me

about it.  Sure enough, early the next

morning before leaving for work, he wanted

me to take a walk with him.   I remember it

was a bitterly cold early January morning,

but I was delirious with excitement and

hardly felt the winter nipping at my nose!

My dear father proceeded to inform me

that the men in our church were very

concerned about me, and this person I

trusted and admired above all others had

told him I was flirtatious to the last degree,

had been very inappropriate with the boys,

and needed to be reined in.  There was hope

for me, however, if I apologized and

repented my scandalous ways.  The tears ran

down my face and choked me, and I

to sink into the earth and be swallowed up

forever!  I can’t express the devastation I felt.  

I only know I wanted to die, and couldn’t

look a man or boy in the face for months

(I was informed through my mom by various

ladies in the church that they were so pleased

by my progress and how my “problem” had

improved!)  Many years later, Dad apologized

to me, and said he heartily regretted being

pushed around, and wished he had defended

me and told the men who complained about

me to go fly a kite.

Then life threw me a curveball in the shape

of The Greer Family.

Read Part 2 here