One writer said, "There’s no trick to writing. Just sit down and open a vein." This is one of my "open vein" stories written mostly with tears in my eyes. This is an inspiring, true story of acceptance and love found quite by accident. It is also a story of God’s brightest light shining in my darkest night.

 

The Church
by: Tery Maine

Part I: The Challenge

 

As Cindy came in the door, she surveyed t he room. It was a mess. About like my life, she thought as she dropped her purse on the coffee table strewn with speech evaluation sheets, research materials, books, and the big red Rembrandt Family Bible placed in the middle of the table. Some papers had covered it as well. She took a moment to clear those papers away.

Cindy collapsed on the couch and felt the tear dams begin to crumble. This was going to be a rough one, she thought. Before she could break down, though, she had to make a call. She carefull y dialed a familiar San Francisco number and waited for the recording to end.

"Luanna, this is Cindy Main," Cindy paused a moment to recompose herself. "I think we’ d better meet this Saturday. The hard times all those good times were leading up to have arrived. Give me a call."

Hanging up the phone, the dam broke. Being read by strangers is rough. Being read by people you know and have grown to love is devastating.

The day had started out great. Sunday mornings were special. Up early, get dressed and out th e door to church. At church, she found a seat for Sunday school next to an older lady who always seemed to ask her to sit nearby.

The regular teacher was absent but the pastor did a credible job of covering the lesson. However, he really wasn’t a Bible te acher. Cindy missed teaching Bible studies. She thought maybe someday she might get a chance after she’d been at church a little longer.

That was a foolish idea, Cindy thought bitterly as she reviewed the events of the day. After church, she scurried aroun d from one person to another chatting with everyone. It was one of the resources she had discovered within herself as a woman that she never had as a man to be sociable. She had started to blossom in that manner.

A few children gathered around Cindy.

"Hi Cindy," one of them said, "I made this in Children’s Church."

A green construction paper book was clutched tightly in a little hand. Cindy took the book carefully and opened it a pressed flower on one page. A twig on another page, some leaves on the other pages and the words "God made everything good" on the cover. With the appropriate compliments Cindy returned the book to its owner/creator just as mother arrived profuse with apologies.

"Don’t worry," Cindy said, "Jackie and I were just talking about Children’s church." Actually, Cindy enjoyed talking to children albeit with a sense of poignancy knowing she could never have any of her own. But the kids of First Church were as friendly as their parents and actually sought out Cindy, as did some of the teens, which really surprised the 38-year-old. If you are going to have trouble passing, the teens are the worst.

That afternoon, Cindy bought a gift for the baby shower that was coming up after the women’s meeting on Monday night. Cindy had grown to look forwa rd to these meetings. Talking woman to woman in group settings was uniquely satisfying and the ladies were a great bunch anyway. She was a bit concerned going the first time. But she had been invited and after being there awhile it was obvious that everyone in the group accepted her.

At least that’s what I thought, Cindy muttered as she threw the baby gift across the room.

Evening service was fine. Good music. Good spirit. She chatted afterward with one of the ladies in the women’s group.

" You coming tomorrow night?" Nadine asked.

"Sure. Wouldn’t miss it." Cindy answered.

"Well, we sure like having you," Nadine said.

It made Cindy feel good to be accepted as part of everything. A couple of months ago, things seemed difficult because of a confrontation with Brother Parsons who came back and started witnessing to Cindy. She told him she was saved and filled with the spirit. She thought that had satisfied him. She tried to tell herself, he was just a harmless old gentleman who preached to everybody. It didn’t mean he had read her. She wasn’t Cindy convincing, but she decided to not run until necessary.

In the meantime, she became very attached to the people of the church. They seemed to like her too. She was referred to by everyone in the feminine gender. She m ade friends with the pastor and associate pastor’s wives.

As she talked to Nadine, the Pastor arrived. He shook hands, then said, "Cindy, I’d like to see you in my office after you finish here."

Nadine said, "That’s okay, I was just boring her with some old lady talk."

"You aren’t an old lady, and I’m not bored," Cindy responded as she got up on shaky legs. She had a pretty good idea what this was all about.

The pastor’s office was nice but not sumptuous. The pastor was an old time southern country Pentecos tal preacher transplanted to California. He murdered the Kings English and Cindy thought he delighted just a little too much in preaching about Hell, but he seemed to be a good man, a caring man, a good pastor, if not always a good preacher. The office ref lected this. A scattering of books. An afghan (probably crocheted by his wife over the back of his chair. Two simple chairs sat in front of a weathered and worn solid wood desk too old to be chic and too new to be antique. The youth pastor, joined them setting in the seat next to Cindy with the pastor behind the desk.

As he did, Cindy remembered two other confrontations in church. At one church, she had attended only a few weeks when a woman called and asked if they could sit together. Cindy figured it was some women’ s ministries get acquainted idea. So she did. After the service, the woman and a friend pulled Cindy aside at the back of the church to tell her what she was doing wrong. As Cindy left the church, the pastor caught up with her and told her he didn’t want her to come back to church there.

The other church hurt more. Cindy had been going about four months. After church, a lady caught up with her on the parking lot and said, "Are you male or female?" Cindy was a Christian in spite of the woman’s opinion and as a rule avoided lying so she responded, "I’m in transition." The woman then went on to talk about the health of the church and how allowing homosexuals to attend could hurt it, etc. Cindy decided to quietly disappear.

Coming to First Church was almost like coming home. The church was effusively friendly and she just seemed to fit. Which was odd because Cindy wasn’ t normally comfortable with the more emotional form of worship practiced. But somehow everything seemed right. Up until this moment in the Pastors office.

Cindy knew enough about communication to know when to keep silent. This was one of those times. Let him lead off the conversation. He led with an amazingly calm attitude.

"People often get nervous when they come to the pastor’s office," he said.

I should have worn a longer skirt then he wouldn’t see my knees knocking, Cindy thought.

"But I’m really not a bad person. I don’t bite or anything. Cindy, I think you’ve found First Church to be very friendly. I think maybe you’ve found a home with us. And I want you to know that I think the Lord has something in store for you here. We want to help you find that. And nothing we say here means that we want you to leave."

Cindy waited for the "but..."

"But, you will have to follow two guidelines. First, don’t use the ladies rest room."

No problem there she hadn’t used it anyway. She wasn’t really sure where it was.

" And secondly, the ladies meeting are for ladies. Some of them could be uncomfortable if you are there."

The second hit her like a fist in the stomach. She collapsed inside, being careful to keep the outside calm and placid. She smiled a submissive smile hoping to keep her lip from trembling.

Cindy nodded and said, "Alright, I agree."

"Now, I want you to know, that you don’t have to leave. Some people on the board wanted me to ask you to leave, but I defended you. It’ s a trick of the enemy. We can’t help you if you aren’t here. But these guidelines will keep down some problems."

Taking a deep breath, Cindy said, "I don’t wish to cause problems, if my continuing here is a problem, then I’ll....."

"Don’t even finish that statement," the Pastor said. "I don’t want to see you leave church."

"Pastor, let me tell you this," Cindy said gathering what little courage she had left, "In the words of the song ‘I’ve come too far to turn back now.’ I won’t turn my back on Christ, God, my salvation or church. I’ ll continue to go somewhere. I might make a better job of it next time."

The youth pastor who had been silent throughout spoke up, "Cindy, the pastor doesn’ t want you to leave. He did defend you. And I know Pastor Randy or myself want you to leave."

The pastor added, "And since we’re the leadership, you don’t have to leave."

"Well, I just don’t want to cause problems. This is one of those areas that are not covered in scripture. I’ m not a homosexual."

To Cindy’s surprise, the pastor didn’t argue the fact, "No, I don’t believe you are." " This definitely falls under the category of working out your own salvation. This isn’t the time to debate theology though. One thing though, I don’t wish to "offend my brethren with my meat." I will leave if my being here is an offense. I don’t believe this is a sin, but being an offense would be."

"No, we love you, Cindy, and we want you to stay. Yes, the theology is food for another session. Just follow those guidelines. The Lord has something for you."

Gathering in a circle the three prayed. Two pastors, confused, confronted with a situation they didn’t understand or condone but trying to be helpful and one transsexua l wondering what this really meant for her world. Only a few words into the prayer all three began praying in the spirit not paying attention to the words.

As Cindy sat discouraged and feeling small remembering the confrontation, the decisions crowded aro und her. Should she take them at their word and continue at the church, knowing that a few people were talking about her, knowing that the pastors thought she was probably doing something wrong (although she thought they didn’ t question her salvation which was one thing in her favor) and would try to reform her. Well, if they can pray the prayer of faith to cure this, Cindy thought, Praise God. But Cindy couldn ’t help believing that God created her as a transsexual for a purpose. Looking over her life in the past six months or so she saw development in areas she didn’ t realize existed. She had learned a tolerance for anger. She had learned a compassion for others a caring for the needs of other people. She had learned to feel as well as to think. Could she have learned these as a man? Perhaps, but she hadn’t. Thinking about that prayer, Cindy remembered a peace descending encompassing her heart.

Sitting on the couch, Cindy simply closed her eyes and began to pray, "Lord, you made me this way. I don’t know wh y. But I trust that you have your reasons. But now I need wisdom. What do I do? Do I stay? Do I find another church? Does this cycle start over again? If I leave, how do I explain it to all those nice people who only know Cindy as a woman? But how do I sta y knowing that the pastoral staffs, the board, possibly their wives, know about my male side? And Lord, I guess I need a little comfort too. I need to know everything will be all right. Lord, there’ s pain here. A pain too deep to ignore. I need the Balm of Gilead. Give me something to hold on to."

Cindy knew God sometimes spoke in an audible voice, but her experience was usually something softer, something quieter, yet something just a real. But this time, her ears actually registered the sound, although, she could never remember the timbre, pitch or resonance of that voice afterwards.

The voice spoke just eight words. Words Cindy already knew. "Stand Still and see the glory of the Lord." As the last word sounded in her ears, her mind, her heart, strength began to fill her up. And even joy returned.

Drying her tears, she said "Alright, Lord, It’s time to stop running I guess. But, the pain will take time to heal."

In her heart, the Lord had the last word, "I never said it wouldn’t, but remember My wounds still bleed for you."

 

 

Part II: Victory

 

Cindy folded up the letter having read it through for the third time. A tear worked its way down her face cutting a track in the carefully applied makeup. Cindy recalled other tears just two weeks ago when she believed p art of her carefully ordered world began to crumble. An ironic smile brushed across her face as she thought about the bitter-sweet life she lived. Joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, love and hate, gain and loss all jumbled together to make Cindy ’s transition from male to female challenging.

The events of the past two weeks etched themselves into Cindy’ s memory like comic nightmare engravings that bring laughter at one moment and terror at another. Not a word was spoken that Sunday morning, but pain doesn’t need a verbal trigger. Cindy arrived a bit early that Sunday. She was greeted at the door by the smiling face of the Adult Bible Class teacher. Cindy knew that he knew her background. The board had discussed her case after an older gentleman had asked to have her removed from the church. Instead, the pastor and board simply asked her to not use the women’s rest room and not to attend women’ s ministries meetings. The last hurt, but she could live with it. That had been four months ago. Nothing else had been said. Her friendship with some of the church ladies had grown and it was obvious the discussion had been contained on the board. Two of the older ladies in the church (who had sort of adopted Cindy as their daughter) waved for her to come sit with them. They were sitting directly behind the older minister who had complained about Cindy. As luck had it, Cindy sat directly behind the man and his wife. Fresh tears pressed against Cindy ’s eyelids as she remembered what happened next. The man turned around, saw Cindy, whispered to his wife, got up and headed out the door. At the back of the auditorium, the Sunday School teacher stopped them. They talked. They looked at Cindy. They pointed at Cindy. Finally, they acquiesced and found seats on the opposite side of the church.

It didn’t require a master’s degree to know what happened. The pain cut deep. Cindy’ s first impulse was to grab her Bible and run out the door. But her pride overcame her impulsiveness. She stayed seated through Sunday School fighting the tears to retain her composure. She even used her debating skills to convince herself that they really weren’t talking about her. That there was some other explanation. She couldn’ t think of any, but there could be. There HAD to be.

Nature and despair played th e next hand for Cindy. By the end of the lesson, Cindy had to go to the bathroom, badly. Perhaps the tension played a part. Who knows? She carefully slipped out a side door without anyone noticing during the break.

Cindy lived just about a mile from the church. She could drive home quickly and make it back before the second song was finished. The question was: Did she want to make it back?

Being read on a street corner, in a store or at the mall by strangers is rough, particularly when someone is rude, yell s out a dirty name or laughs loudly. It hurts. Transsexuals who say otherwise will lie about other things too. But it’ s worse when you are read by people who matter, people you know, people who know you. Then the pain becomes personal, deep and lasting. Fo r the Christian transsexual, church is second only to family in the level of attachment. The pain is doubly intense when faith and derision are wed in an unholy union of "righteous" hatred.

This was the pain that tore through Cindy’s heart like a dirty swi tchblade. She felt she should stay home. Simply disappear. Walk away and never be seen again. But she couldn’ t leave without one last look around. She wanted to see and talk with the people she had grown to love one last time. Besides she had just enough p ride to not let him know how deeply he had hurt her. Besides, there was still that chance that it wasn’ t her at all. So, Cindy patted her eyes dry, dabbed on a bit of foundation to cover the smeared mascara, grabbed her purse and car keys and headed back to church.

The back side door creaked a bit as Cindy opened it. It seemed like every head in the church turned as she walked in. On reflection, Cindy knew it was just the people sitting on the last two pews who noticed.

Cindy sat on the back pew near the door. Just in case.... Well, she’d rather not think of that.

It probably would have seemed like a rather ordinary service a week ago. It was special though. It might be her last at this church. The choir sang several of her favorite songs. The pastor preach ed a sermon on the sin of discouraging others. Cindy thought that was rather appropriate. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered when the sermon title was announced.

After service Cindy was talking to an older lady whom she had befriended. As she finished up that conversation, the Sunday School teacher approached.

"I’m glad you came back, Cindy. I hope you weren’t hurt by what happened in class." Cindy briefly shut her eyes. That confirmed it. Her presence and their prejudice had driven a couple to leave service.

Cindy wanted to shout back, "No, of course, I wasn’t hurt. Transsexuals have hearts made of rubber and have ice water flowing in our veins. Nothing ever hurts us." But she couldn’t bring herself to add to the man’s obvious embarrassment by lashing out at him. So, she said demurely, " No, of course not. I just had to check something at home." My sanity, she added nonverbally.

Cindy sat still a moment in silent torment. She saw no way to continue at the church. The man had put it on a him or her basis. Cindy couldn’ t force that issue. She was no heroine, no warrior for the cause. She just wanted to blend in as another lady in the church. And if that was impossible, to just be left alone.

Rising slowly, Cindy added a smile to her face and began to greet peo ple. Behind the smiling face, a backwater of tears was forming. Cindy knew this could be the last chance to talk of some of the people here, but she had to be casual and bright, just as if nothing had happened.

In the parking lot, she sat in the car for five minutes composing herself so she could drive safely. She fought the tears all the way home. Once in the door, the dam broke and the waterworks began.

Cindy glanced at the letter she was about to post and remembered the two (well actually three) letters she wrote that Sunday afternoon. The first to the pastor, thanked him for his courtesy and told him that nonetheless she felt she should leave to prevent any further trouble. The second, in a less formal tone, was addressed to the Sunday School teacher tha nked him for his teaching and his kindness, but pointed out that trouble was not in the will of God and thus she was leaving. The third was never mailed. It was an apology to the man who walked away from her. No matter how hard she tried she could not make the apology sound sincere. Finally, she gave up. Lord, forgive me, she prayed, but it will take some time before I can love that man. Right now, I’ m going to have to work on not letting bitterness form."

With the last letter written, she cried again. She thanked God for her tears. For her last 12 years as a man she could not cry. She rediscovered tears with an old sad movie. She wasn ’t sure how she could have handled some of the crises of the past several months without the release of weeping.

Laying on the couch she kept sobbing quietly until she finally fell asleep from exhaustion.

A dense fog surrounded Cindy’s life for the next week. She taught her classes almost mechanically. Ate without tasting the food. Sleeping in two and three hour spurts, then waking and being unable to sleep again getting up and reading until almost time for school.

Wednesday night was difficult. Bible study night. It was an informal service where Cindy made many friends. To cope with staying home, she called a friend on the East Coast. She’ d met this friend over a computer bulletin board featuring a gender forum. The woman was already into her Real Life Test. A friendship grew up on line and finally led to several phone calls.

" Hi, this is Cindy. Can we talk?"

"You don’t sound so good. Is everything all right?"

"Not really. I’m sort of down."

"Listen, hon, talk to me."

So, Cindy talked and talked. Two and a half hours later she had talked out what she cried out a few days before. The problems hadn’t gone away, but someone listened and cared.

Cindy smiled remembering that conversation. Cindy was an only child. This woman was the closest thing to a sister that she had. Then a sadness passed through her heart as she realized that this was the type of thing she would have called her mother about. But the folks still didn’t know about Cindy. That was still in the troubled future.

Friday, the letter came. It was from the Sunday School teacher and signed by pastoral staff.

"Cindy," it read, "We do not want you to leave First Church. We b elieve that it would be hard for you to find another church which will accept you while holding you accountable to the word of God. While we do not condone your mode of dress since it is contrary to Scripture, it is your right to attend worship services and we will defend that right. If someone does or says something that causes you grief or pain, then that is their "problem." God demands that we love unconditionally. We definitely want you to stay."

Those tears that Cindy thought had been used up on Sunday came flooding back as she read the letter. Here were loving people who didn’ t understand (or even condone) her way of life and yet loved her enough to encourage her to stay.

But how could she stay? Was she going to chase another person out of the church s o she could go? Was she going to put the pastor and board in the middle of a potential conflict? And yet, would she let one person deprive her of friendship and fellowship? In spite of it all she felt she had to leave . The counseling session on Saturday marked a tragic first for Cindy. She broke down discussing this incident.

"Why should you leave?" asked Luanna.

"I guess more than anything else," Cindy answered, "I’m afraid if I stay, the talk will spread. If I leave now, then they will just say, ‘remember that nice lady, Cindy, who used to come here.’ But otherwise, I’m afraid they’ll end up saying ‘ remember that interesting freak.’"

Luanna straightened up at the use of the word freak. Her darkening eyes and regulated breathing spoke of a controlled ange r. Cindy only remembered this later. At the last word, Cindy began to cry uncontrollably and felt like a fool, because she had forgotten to bring Kleenex. Luanna was prepared though, with a box of tissue and a gently pat on the arm.

"Oh, I’ll find another church," said Cindy, as the tears subsided. "But I’ ll arrive a bit late and leave a bit early. That way, I won’t take any chances on being read. And, if I am, it won’t matter because I won’t be attached to anyone there."

"That’s very sad, especially since you so recently emerged from your shell. I wouldn’t want you to build it up again." "Well, shells are useful. They do keep you from getting hurt. At least until I can tell anyone that challenges me, ‘Strip search me if you wish.’ Until then, I ’ll have to slowly vanish."

With a wry smile, as the session finished up, Luanna said, "I don’t know. I think Cindy’s pretty irrepressible."

As Cindy shakily descended the steep steps to Luanna’s home office, she didn’t feel so irrepressible. But she had to get herself together. She was meeting with a Maybe transsexual for coffee. She knew he/she would have questions and concerns. Cindy had to keep up the image of a strong woman who could handle any trials that came her way. Sunday. Two church services at two different churches. People shaking hands when the pastor told them to. Ignoring visitors and each other the rest of the time. Mediocre music and less than exciting sermons. Cindy was reminded that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. That afternoon more tears.

Before the first church service though, Cindy dropped off a letter with the Sunday School Teacher at First Church. The letter explained why she felt she must leave, but it also explained simply what it meant to be transsexual and dealt with the scriptural objections pointing out that gender dysphoria simply is not covered in Scripture. That it isn’ t homosexuality or even transvestitism. She also added that she was celibate. The last line of the letter said in her one concession to bitterness, "I’m sure that you, the board, the pastoral staff and others will breathe a deep sigh of relief when I’ve left." The envelope could have been sealed with tears.

Wednesday, Cindy decided to drop in for Bible study. She came in late and sat in the back of the auditorium. Her problem person didn’ t come on Wednesday nights. She planned to leave without talking to anyone. No such luck. As the last "Amen" was said, she turned toward the door and almost knocked down the Sunday School teacher.

"Cindy," he said, "I’m glad you came. I’ ll be sending you a letter. I have to get another couple of signatures on it. But we really want you to stay with us."

Cindy fought back her tears, and said, "Thank you, but I---"

"Please, he said, "Wait until you get this letter."

"Sure," Cindy said politely managing a weak smile.

As he left, Cindy began her escape walking briskly toward the door. "Hold on, I’ve got to shake you up."

It was Sister Becky. The associate pastor’s wife. Cindy had become friendly with her before---. It was her little joke related to shaking someone’ s hand to shaking them up. It was one of those things that you find yourself missing about people even though the joke is fairly lame.

Shaking Cindy’s hand vigorously, she said confidentially, "Please, don’t go. We all love you."

That did it Cindy almost ran from the church racing the tears to her car.

Now Cindy sat holding the letter in her hand, tears pouring down her cheeks carrying a dark stream of mascara with them. The letter was signed by the Sunday School Teacher, the Pastor, youth pastor and associate pastor, and each member of the church board. It read:

" I hardly know where to begin. I have read and reread your letter many times, riveted each time to every though. Thank you for being willing to risk so much, so that I might understand your situation a bit better. I had a warm feeling inside knowing that you were comfortable enough to share so openly and vulnerably.

Let me offer an apology if I stated anything in my letter that was offensive as it related to your situation. I assure you, if stated, it was due to a basic lack of understanding on my part.

I wept as I read your letter and caught a glimpse of what you must be going through—the terrible injustices you suffer which are so cruel and unchristian.

I felt compell ed to share your letter with the pastoral staff and the rest of the board in a formal meeting. We are all agreed. You are officially welcome to attend worship services at First Church. The entire board and pastoral staff (as evidenced by signatures) are in total agreement. We want you at First Church worship services, and feel not only is it your right, but it is God’ s will for you to be there. Too much would be lost by you not returning. Please let us minister to you, and you in turn minister to us by help ing us gain insights and understandings that we perhaps would never attain otherwise.

Both the board and the pastoral staff wanted me to react to your statement that you were sure that I, the board, the pastoral staff and others would breathe a deep sigh o f relief when you go. The truth is, we feel it would be our loss if you decide to leave!

Once again, if your presence causes someone a "problem," it is, indeed, their problem, and it will be handled as appropriately and professionally as possible. Please take that risk with us. We believe, ultimately, the Glory of God shall revealed, and all can fellowship together.

Please make allowances for my rambling; yours was a most compelling and powerful letter, and my mind goes off in every direction.

I sincerely hope I have conveyed to you that we want you at First Church. Hoping to see you soon.

I Remain yours in Christ

The signatures at the bottom of the letter brought a fresh deluge as Cindy read the names of each pastoral staff member and every member of the church board.

One line in the letter kept haunting her thoughts: "Please let us minister to you, and you, in turn, minister to us...."

"Am I being selfish, Lord?" Cindy asked, "Am I looking for anonymous womanhood with such diligence, that I’m ignoring the p ossible positive benefits my transsexualism can bring? Was he just being nice or is there a ministry for me at First Church? Am I protecting the church or am I protecting myself by leaving? Do I want to live a life without risk, or am I willing to risk living a life of vulnerability?"

As she prayed, she heard the words of Christ speaking from the Gospel of John. "In the world you shall have tribulation, but I have overcome the world."

"I guess if you risked so much on Calvary, I can risk a little on East Hedges," Cindy sniffed as she put down the letter.

"Well," she said standing up. "The women’s ministries is having the Christmas Boutique and Bake Sale Saturday. They’ ll need some goodies to sell. I think I’ll bake brownies."

   

  

  

*********************************************
© 1991 by Tery Maine. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.