The Culture of Seventh-day Adventism Is Ingrained In My Bones
As a kid, I understood the hurt both of my parents and all of my family had connected to Adventism, and got an odd amount of residual Christianity. I prayed every night, wore a cross, and when my grandmother fully realized I was being raised atheist, received an annotated bible every year for my birthday.
I didn't ever pray because I truly believed, I prayed because the people I loved that were not immediate family saw worth in faith. The more faith I had, the more worth I had.
I haven't prayed in years, the cross I wear is a Celtic cross (a symbol of my roots and pagans my grandfathers would hate), and the pile of bibles in the corner of my room is growing dusty.
But I keep finding myself and my parents falling back into the same patterns. I have a hard time with self identity, because I was told by my grandmother that women were simply an extension of men, altered to carry children and burdens no one else wants to deal with.
Me and my mother will chide our own clothes for being too sinful, showing too much skin. The culture of Seventh-day Adventism is ingrained in my bones. My mom has often voiced the fear that I will never be free of the religion that warped our perceptions of self image, even though she left the church before I was born.
My great uncle passed last year. At the funeral, I did the hardest thing I've ever done, and told my grandfather that I hadn't prayed in years but that I had prayed for my uncle before he passed.
Faith is odd. It warps over time. I never once thought that I would be helping my uncle by praying, but the need to do something for someone I love, who did have unwavering faith, won over logic.
My story is warning to all ex-Adventists who want to start their own families: no matter how much work you do, no matter how much you deconstruct your faith, raising a child is always going to be a struggle. Be there for them the way my family was there for me. Guide your kids through their residual trauma and learn together.
