Carmen Riot Smith

It took a long time before I had words for what I felt. It took even longer to be okay with the words I found. I grew up in the Apostolic Christian Church of America, a sect similar to Mennonites in appearance and beliefs. Men and women sat on opposite sides of the church, women wore skirts and head coverings, only men allowed to speak during the service or teach Sunday school past third grade. Dating wasn’t allowed. We viewed the body and all sexuality as primarily evil, following Paul’s sentiment that if you had to get married, God approved and blessed the man and wife who had a quiverfull of children, but the best Christians rarely desired sex and never talked about it. So I didn’t talk about it either. My main concern was being discovered as a sexual being, sexuality aside. I was so focused on trying to keep myself from masturbating that I didn’t realize the images in my mind matched my own body, and I thank God for that. If I had put the pieces of my sexuality together when I was twelve, with years ahead of me as a member of the church, I don’t know if I would’ve survived.

At 21, I fell in love with my best friend Elise. Neither of us could fully admit what was happening between us. We went on dates without realizing it. We spent all our free time together. We held hands and slept over at each others’ houses. The cognitive dissonance was strong. She wasn’t a part of the church, but she grew up in a similarly conservative environment, where the only way to truly please God as a woman was to marry a man, bear children, and become a stay-at-home mother, all personal ambition aside. Our messages about gay people were similar: Gay people weren’t Christians. Gay people weren’t really people at all. They went to parades and were flagrantly disrespectful. They didn’t listen to anyone, and if you listened to them then the devil might mask himself as an angel of light and convince you that they were people. And if you believed they were people, then there was no telling how far down the slippery slope of Satan’s deceit you’d slide. Best never to associate with or even name those who identified as anything other than straight because, according to God, there was no sexuality other than straight.

Given those beliefs, it took us a long time to acknowledge who we were to each other. We came out together, telling those around us that we were in a relationship, not using any labels because to identify ourselves as part of the LGBTQ+ community in our environment was equivalent to giving up our rights as humans. But we quickly discovered it didn’t matter what we said—people we had known our whole lives saw us as strangers the moment they heard about our love. Our beliefs changed. We knew we were human. We knew we were holy. We knew our love made us better people. All that had to catch up was that God loved us as much as we loved each other. But this was hard. So much of what we endured at the beginning of our relationship, not to mention our backgrounds in the Church, came from those who “spoke the truth in love” from the vantage point of “loving the sinner and hating the sin.” Their abuse was motivated solely by their belief in God, so it was hard not to pin God as the culprit. It still is. I think belief is a gradual unfolding, something like wings drying on a new butterfly or a bee saved from drowning—it takes longer than expected, it can’t be rushed. I am still in this unfolding. Yes, I’ve emerged from many of the beliefs I was given, but not all. The idea of God’s love is far from feeling like sunlight on my wings. That’s not to say it always will, but for now I’m letting myself catch my breath after so long submerged. I’m not rushing it.

If you’re in this in between too, it’s okay. That doesn’t mean we’ll be here forever, it just means we’re here now. And to be here now is pretty magnificent by itself. I’ve learned this from many who’ve walked along a similar path and wrestled with some of the same questions: Kevin Garcia, Matthias Roberts, Julien Baker, Vicky Beeching, John Corvino, Nadia Boltz-Weber, Brandi Carlile, and so many others. These thought leaders, authors, podcasters, musicians, pastors, and philosophers have educated, inspired, and comforted me when I most needed to hear voices acknowledging and speaking out against the religious abuse of queer people. I’ve taken comfort and strength from indirect sources as well because sometimes facing past beliefs head on is too triggering. Mostly this comes through music. I find so much sanctuary there because no one’s enforcing an interpretation. I alone get to determine what a song means to me and I can live in that song without outside judgment. In music, I find space to heal. I find that in between where my past learns from my present, and my present witnesses my past, and both become a bit more whole.

I am more at peace now than I ever thought possible. Elise and I have been together for eight years, married for three. She is the greatest gift I could ever imagine. She is an incredible wife. Together, we’ve built a tiny house, cycled across the United States, sailed the Sea of Cortez, climbed mountains, and started a book editing business. Elise is the podcast host of How To Disappoint Your Mom, and I’m writing my memoir, Before God and These Many Witnesses. All of this is more than a dream. It’s the beautiful reality we imagined but never knew could come true. But it has, and we’re here. And within the most protected part of me, I thank God. Because, I think, more than the river that almost drowned me, God is the hand that scooped me up and let me begin to dry my wings.