was only much later that I noticed the pattern, that the dynamic he described had played itself out repeatedly during my time on Twitter—among many others, it happened with a friendly college student in Canada, a sassy start-up employee in Chicago, a hilarious Australian guy who tweeted political jokes, even an American soldier to whom I had sent a care package in Afghanistan. At the time I had been vaguely aware of the changes that communication on Twitter was working in me, but it was only in hindsight that its effects became clear. The 140-character limit caused me to drastically cut back on my use of insults, which Westboro members made a habit of stringing together in long, alliterative lists: “bombastic, blowhard, bigmouth, bimbo, bastard.” Not only was there no space for insults in tweets, there was also an almost immediate feedback loop: unlike with email, I could watch a Twitter conversation derail in real time whenever I included personally disparaging language. The exchange would swiftly devolve from a theological debate to a playground quarrel. It became clear to me that causing offense with needless ad hominem attacks did nothing to communicate our core message, and I learned to avoid it. Hostile tweeters became almost like a game to me, and I delighted in learning to use humor, pop culture, and self-deprecation to diffuse and disarm antagonism. To change the nature of the conversation and convey our message in a way that outsiders could better hear it. The tongue might be a fire, I was learning, but it didn’t always have to be.
“So, when do you drink the Kool-aid?” one guy tweeted at me.
“More of a Sunkist lemonade drinker, myself. =)” I told him.
By long forbearing is a prince persuaded, and a soft tongue breaketh the bone.
Somewhere along the line, my anonymous lawyer bragged about his Words With Friends prowess, and I impulsively responded with my username in a hashtag. Two days later, he started a match with me, and the game began in earnest.
* * *
I was about six when I first thought seriously about marriage. Gramps had spoken from the pulpit one Sunday morning about the foundation for proper marriage: serving the Lord together. Marrying an unbeliever was verboten, and for us, that meant only other Westboro members were permissible partners. Since the church was composed almost entirely of my immediate and extended family, it occurred to my child mind that if I were ever to marry, it would have to be someone from outside, someone who hadn’t grown up in this peculiar faith of ours. I’d been seeing outsiders on the picket line for about a year by then—angry, screeching, violent, wearers of neon muscle shirts and fanny packs—and I was afraid.
“What if I get married to someone who acts like a good person, but then it turns out they’re bad? Gramps says you can’t get divorced. What will happen to me, Mama?” I was clutching her hand as we walked down our street after school one sunny afternoon, my little tum churning with dread at the thought of being hoodwinked by one of Satan’s boys. I’d only just conjured this scenario, but my thoughts were already tumbling all over themselves, my tendency toward melodrama completely unhelpful. Instead of seeming like some far-off possibility, the danger felt real, immediate, pulsing from heart to limbs and back again.
“The Lord will keep you, little Meg.” My mama’s voice was gentle, reassuring. “He knows the hearts of all men. If you’re supposed to have a husband, the Lord knows how to make sure he’s a good one. He won’t let us be tricked.” Her quiet certainty was calming. She’s right, I thought. The Lord will take care of us. We have to trust Him. They were the words I always heard the adults repeating.
My tiny death grip on her palm must have given away how truly scared I was, because she shook her head, laughing indulgently, and went on: “And anyway, you won’t have to think about that for a long, long time.”
* * *
I can’t remember exactly when or how I learned what sex was, but I was still six when I discovered that it was how babies were made. My mom was pregnant with her seventh child, my baby sister Grace, and I gasped vociferously, with stark realization and something akin to horror. “So you have had sex with Dad!” I accused her. “Seven times!” I knew sex to be acceptable within the context of marriage, but only