no matter how often the elders made her profess otherwise. I was cautious at first, asking more questions about the details of the incidents that continued to occur almost daily, just interminable pettiness. I knew she was trying to hide her sorrow from me and my siblings, but she was no more successful than I was—especially since I was paying closer attention than ever. What did my mother really think?
As the weeks passed, I expanded the scope of these discussions to include the treatment of Justin and Lindsey, as well. And then Grace. Even the cousin who had been voted out a few months earlier. I started with my mother, and then continued with my Gran, both of whom were sympathetic. Neither of them disagreed with my analysis and both understood my despair—but whereas Gran would shake her head and agree that things looked very bad indeed, my mom would mostly listen. The rest of the church—including her own husband—presented a united front as to my mother’s grave sins. They made her believe that if she felt any offense or sense of unfairness with respect to their treatment of her, then it was completely a result of her pride, not because there was anything unjustified about their cruelty. They ascribed ill motives to many of her actions—even positive actions—and then they retaliated against her on that basis. And if my mother tried to dispute their analysis, there would be even more trouble. As I came to appreciate these dynamics, my outrage increased and I grew bolder. They were making her believe that she was literally insane. That is—as I would later learn—they were “gaslighting” her. I became the only person in her life willing to confirm, directly and unequivocally, that the accusations against her were unwarranted, off base, and often utterly deranged.
Although my mom avoided saying so directly, I eventually came to believe that she and I were on the same page about the unscriptural nature of so many of the actions and decisions implemented by the elders. We would talk, and then we would pray together that the Lord would fix everything. The only difference between us, I realized, was that she had no doubt that God was with Westboro. It never seemed to occur to my mother that all of this misconduct might be evidence that we were wrong—that there was something rotten at the core of our beliefs.
With my brother Sam, I presented my disputes as hypotheticals or general curiosities. I led with few specifics, lest he end the conversation and send me back to our dad—but he sensed there was more to my questions than I was letting on and pressed me to come out with it. Standing outside a Topeka church during our Sunday morning pickets, I nearly broke down in tears of desperate frustration as I spoke of the cousin who’d been kicked out. I made my case, citing verse after verse that showed how we had done her wrong. I tried and failed to be calm, and he erupted in response, justifying it all: the church had made a decision, and God was with us, and that was that. He was angry, but he also seemed genuinely perplexed that I had a problem with what had been done. I knew I was getting into dangerous territory and backed off again.
At first, I steered clear of mentioning anything to Bekah, because I was afraid of what she would do. With every good intention, she would surely have turned me over to the elders for what I now saw as “re-education,” putting me solidly on their radar as a troublemaker. But if Grace and I decided to leave, I knew that I would then regret it forever if I didn’t try to talk to Bekah about what was happening. Driving around Topeka with her, running errands after church, I poured my heart out. I was cautious at first, restrained, describing everything as clinically as possible, the whole litany of misconduct going all the way back to the Photoshopping—but the longer I spoke, the more desperate I became. As I parked the car in the Office Max parking lot, my words came faster and faster, rising to a fevered pitch until I was sobbing hysterically. She reached over to hug me as I finished my jeremiad. “… and I just don’t have any hope that it’ll ever be fixed!” She started crying then, too, and we stretched across the front seat in an awkward embrace. I