I had lived to support them. There was no worse anguish than causing them pain.
I will never know grief worse than seeing the pain I was causing. Hearing the hope in their words, and knowing that it was too late.
“We can’t let you go, honey.” Gran held me tight. “We’ll be so sorry if you go.” She paused. “Why?” Nonplussed.
I tried to explain. I had wanted to tell them openly for months. I had determined that if I couldn’t make my objections while I stayed, then I would explain them in detail when I left. Maybe then they would listen. Maybe then they would understand.
But I couldn’t say more than a few words at a time.
“She basically says that she feels hopeless,” my mother said. “She has a litany of … She thinks that the … Well, I don’t want to speak for her.” Even now, after more than eighteen months of mistreatment, on the verge of losing two of her three daughters, her “right hand,” she was too afraid of the elders even to relay my grievances about what they’d been up to.
“I’ve talked to Mom about this before…” I wept. I said a few words about the elders. About the way my mother had been treated, up until that very day.
“Well, this is not the way to treat your mom,” Gramps said gently.
It was quiet for a moment. I couldn’t speak.
He looked over at my mother. “Well. I thought we had a jewel this time, Shirl.” How quickly his voice had turned. Cutting. Disgusted. “Looks like we got it all wrong.”
Three elders walked in a moment later, including Sam and Steve.
I stood up. “I don’t … I can’t…” I was in no state to talk, and I would not be bullied. Not now. A conversation that was sure to go nowhere.
A singular urge to run. I turned—
“Megan!” My mom lowered her voice to an incredulous whisper, “Are you saying that your pride is more important than your soul?”
“No!” I whispered back. Of course not. I panicked. “I need to go—”
I ran out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the kitchen door, and smashed into Jael on her way in. Jonah was right outside. It was so cold. I hugged him and told him I loved him so much, forever. That I was sorry. To please keep my phone number and to call me if he ever wanted to. He hugged me back, but he was only fifteen. He looked confused, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
I sprinted the rest of the way home, back up to my bedroom.
Margie appeared a few minutes later, crying as hard as I was. “Please don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Please don’t go. You’ve seen and said too much. You know this is right. Please don’t go. I’ve never asked anyone not to go.”
We held each other and wept.
“I’m sorry, Margie. I love you so much.”
She let go after a long moment. She patted my back and walked away.
She walked away.
Jael came in a short while later, acting aloof and unmoved. She sat down on my bed, staring at her phone, typing away. She didn’t look at me. She wanted to know why we were leaving. Her coldness in the face of my chaos was painful, but it made it a little easier to speak. I kept packing and answered as best I could through tears and grief. I spoke of the elders and their abuse of authority. I spoke of the mistreatment of church members. I spoke of doctrinal error, of unscriptural temperaments and picket signs. I told her I didn’t think God was with Westboro anymore. She said little and stayed composed, but her voice broke when she thanked me for all the work I’d done on her wedding. How much time and energy I had spent to make it special.
“I only ever wanted to be good to you,” I tried to say. I had to say it twice before she could understand.
“But friendship is a two-way street,” she said, “and if I haven’t been doing it on my side, I’m sorry.” She was quiet for a long time, the only sound the clacking of the hangers as I pulled shirts off them one by one. Bekah and I had shared a wardrobe for years—“the community closet”—and I had to decide what to take and what to leave.
“Have you been praying for the Lord to help you?” Jael asked.