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| 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
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| 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.”
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| 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.
