Reckoning

Admitting what really happened and naming the cost.

28

It was late in the day, and I was prepping a Hubspot email to send out to all attenders at our church’s campus. My campus leader and team leader were chatting nearby about nothing in particular. I asked them to review the draft I’d just written. My campus leader read a few sentences, then pointed to a verse I had included.

“What verse is that?”

I assumed he was joking. I laughed and said, “Ephesians… three… something?”

He laughed and kept reading. Okay, he was joking. My team leader had started reading the draft too. The three of us stood at my desk and looked it over together. I stepped back for a second to look at something a teammate was trying to show me. It had only been a couple of weeks since my team leader had become my new boss. He was already having me own a lot of tasks and projects I wasn’t allowed to own with my previous leader. It was a busy season and the day was almost over. I wasn’t rushed but I did want to get the email scheduled so I wouldn’t be thinking about it that evening.

Then my campus leader pointed to a paragraph and said something quietly to my team leader. They both started laughing and gave me a hard time about how I’d worded a sentence. I re-read the paragraph out loud and explained why I wrote it that way. My leader said he’d just finish the email and make sure it got scheduled. Told me not to worry about it.

The moment was lighthearted, but it bothered me. I chose not to say anything. The thought of speaking up made me feel silly, like I was turning nothing into something. I wrapped up a few more things, gathered my stuff, and headed out. We closed the office. That was it.

Until later that night. It was late when my team leader texted.

“How’s it going?”

I didn’t know if he was checking in because of the email or just the day in general. I assumed it was the email.

By this point, it wasn’t at all unusual for my team leader to text me throughout the day or into the evening. Really whenever. Nothing seemed strange about it. It was almost always about work. If not, it was a dumb meme or GIF tied back to someone on the team or something we previously talked about. Sometimes I wouldn’t respond, and I learned fast that he treated me differently when I didn’t. He was always unfiltered. He encouraged me to be the same. That was the only way trust could really be built—by being real, honest, and vulnerable. By not being afraid to ask or say anything.

One thing I learned while working for the church is that there's a big difference between building trust and just oversharing. But when the boundaries are blurred, especially by a leader…those two things can start to feel the same. Oversharing can look like vulnerability, but it’s not. It’s exposure. It’s handing over pieces of yourself, hoping it will create closeness or trust. But when that exchange is one-sided—when it’s requested or rewarded by someone in power, it’s not safe. It’s manipulation. And I didn’t know that yet. I didn’t realize how often I was being invited to hand over pieces of myself without realizing it. Without being told what it would cost. What looked like camaraderie was actually a trap. And by the time I noticed, I’d already been sitting in it for a while.

And, it was all in the name of Jesus… Still guts me.

We went back and forth for a bit. I was short and a little cold. I just didn’t want to talk. I was still thinking about the email and trying to shove down how I felt about it. Eventually, he asked me about the email directly. At that moment, he wasn't just being my boss. And I appreciated that. It was comforting. It helped ease some of the shame and humiliation I felt from earlier. He encouraged me to be honest. Said I could trust him. He cared enough to check on me. He was being a pastor and he was being a friend.

So, I sent a longer text explaining how I felt. I told him it hurt to be made fun of and how I still didn’t really understand what I did wrong. I told him I felt like he and our campus leader were being jerks. That I spent a lot of time on that email template and if they had feedback, it could’ve been given in a much different way. A much more mature and professional way.

About an hour later, I noticed he never responded. Instead, I got a calendar invite for a one-on-one meeting. 9:00 AM. The next morning.

---

I got to the church a few minutes before 9:00 AM. I grabbed my backpack from the backseat, picked up my coffee mug, and shut the car door. I hit the lock button on my fob, shoved my keys into my back pocket, and took a few deep breaths as I walked the winding path to the office door.

My leader was at his computer. He looked up, gave a quick “Hey,” and went back to typing. He told me he needed to grab something off the printer but that we’d be meeting in our campus leader’s office. I set my things down at my desk before finding a seat in the corner of the room.

He came in, closed the door behind him, and sat down across from me. No computer—just two pieces of paper, both with a blue rectangular shape printed on them.

It was the text I sent him the night before.

He handed me one copy and kept the other for himself. I looked down at the paper, then back up at him.

“I’m confused.”

He sat up straight. Let the silence settle. Then he let me have it.

“You will never send a message like this again. To anyone. The next time you do, you will be written up. If I find out about you sending a message like this to anyone else in this office, I will write you up.”

He pointed at the paper.

“That crap is what your previous leader used to do. That is her poor behavior, and you will not act like her because you are nothing like her. You’re better than this. You can’t treat people like that. I understand, that’s how she treated you, and that’s what she instilled in you, but that ends today.”

I was speechless. I’m still speechless. I still feel it in my chest. I’m still there. Sitting in that office.

I was paralyzed. Completely overtaken by fear. Eventually, I buried my head in my hands and slightly turned away. Instantly, I was that little girl sitting in the dark. I was confused. Blindsided. But more than anything, I was afraid. I felt powerless. I felt misunderstood. I felt exactly how I did when I was six years old—and every year after. I was overwhelmed and completely helpless.

He kept going.

“Our campus leader wanted me to write you up. Without hesitation. I sent him your message and he said, ‘Write her up.’ I told him I wasn’t going to do that. I told him I wanted to first meet with you and talk about it. And I told him I’d make sure you understood this behavior won’t be tolerated. And if it continues, you won’t have a job here.”

I couldn’t lift my head. I was just… gone.

I started hyperventilating. I was having a full-on panic attack. He said my name a couple of times, but I was lost. Inconsolable. And writing this now? I feel all of it all over again. Because there wasn’t anyone there to help me. And that still makes me hate them. It makes me hate the church. I don’t, but sometimes…I think I do. I wish I didn’t.

He set the paper down and moved closer to me.

“Ashton. Breathe. Hey, it’s okay. Breathe.”

I pulled my head up and sat back in the chair. I put my hands over my head and tried to take deep breaths, but I couldn’t stop crying. The piece of paper had fallen to the floor. He picked it up, wadded it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.

I could hear him scooting his chair closer to me. We just sat there for a few minutes. He tried to help me catch my breath while reassuring me that I was okay.

“Ashton. What’s going on? Why are you this upset? What’s happening?”

Looking back, I think my emotions scared him. That’s the only thing I can gather. I think it caught him off guard that I was responding that way. He waited for me to speak. Within seconds, it was like I went from freeze to fight. I sobbed and watched as all my words shot across the room.

“You texted me! You asked if I was okay! You were being my friend—not my boss! You told me to be real and honest with you, so I was! Why would you send that message to our campus leader? Did you tell him that you texted me late at night to check in? Did you tell him I was responding to you? I wasn’t just being a jerk, I was doing what you told me to do! This is so messed up! How am I supposed to know when you’re being my boss and when you’re being my friend?!”

I felt bad for talking to him like that. I felt guilty about the message I sent. For a second, I felt stupid for trusting him with something so vulnerable. Looking back now, that’s the part I should’ve stayed focused on. That should’ve been a warning sign. But it wasn’t.

Silence filled the room again, and I could’ve sworn someone else walked in and sat down where he was sitting. A different voice spoke.

“Ash, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sent him that message. I sent it because…I don’t know, I thought it was kind of funny. I thought he would think it was funny.”

I cried harder. Then I cut him off.

“Why would you do that? How could you think that?”

He interrupted me.

“I know. It was immature. Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d have me write you up. Honestly, I thought it was kind of silly when he told me to. I told him I’d just meet with you and handle it.”

There’s a lot about that conversation I’ll never forget. But here’s what stands out to me the most:

That was the day I stopped trusting, not my team leader, but my campus leader.

That day marked the beginning of the next five months—where I stiff-armed him, refused to let him in, refused to believe he was for me. That day, sitting in his office, I knew he didn’t care about the truth. He didn’t care whether I survived in my role or not.

“Listen, I know I messed up. I’m sorry. I promise, I really do have your back. And I meant what I said. You are better than that kind of stuff. Sending a text like that can get you in a lot of trouble around here. I’m just looking out for you.”

---

8

When I was little, my family lived near Mt. Saint Helens for several years. I remember standing on an overlook, taking in the view of the sleeping volcano. We were high up, but still close enough to see the snow and trees covering the ground. The wind was so cold against my face, my eyes watered. I was maybe eight years old.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the first time I can remember experiencing awe. It was the first time I became aware of how small I was—but not in a belittling way. It made me still.

I recognized how delicate I was. How vulnerable. How helpless. But I also knew…there was something bigger than me out there. And whatever it was, it was awake. It was alive. And it was calling me. Whatever it was, it looked into me as I noticed it.

I was just a kid. I didn’t understand what was happening. But now I wonder… maybe God was showing me something He wanted me to remember. Maybe He was showing me that in all the splendor and grandeur of His creation, He saw me. He knew me. He treasured me. And out of everything He could fix His gaze upon, He fixed His gaze upon me. A child. A nobody.

A little girl who didn’t even know Him.

---

24

Walking through the doors of my church for the first time felt like entering a different world. Volunteers in bright red shirts lined the sidewalk, smiling and waving like they’d been waiting just for me. Someone always held the door open. Every time. Rain or shine, I was met with warmth that felt almost unreal. That meant so much to me. Especially on weekends when I had a kid in each hand, pulling me forward as I fought to hold it all together.

No one knew me. That alone was a relief. But what really caught me off guard was that it didn’t seem to matter. No one asked where I’d been or what I’d done. I didn’t have to hand over my long list of sins before I could come in. I was welcomed without anyone even knowing my name and I was accepted as if there was nothing broken to explain.

I belonged. And that hit me in a place I didn’t know was still hoping.

By the time I got to this church, I was worn thin. I was a single mom, sorting through the pieces of a divorce. But even that was just the top layer. Underneath, I was carrying wounds I couldn’t name out loud. Regret I hadn’t been able to make peace with. There were so many things I couldn’t accept or let go of but I was too afraid to reckon with any of it. Healing felt so far away. And I already felt behind. I was a black sheep who’d done life in the wrong order and for that, I couldn’t help but see myself as less-than. The guilt and disappointment were all-consuming. I had stuffed shame so far down, I wasn’t sure it had a bottom.

Some Sundays, I showed up with invisible suitcases so heavy I could barely lift my arms to worship. I was dragging years of unhealed pain behind me. I don’t know if anyone really knew how bad it was. I definitely didn’t. It’s not that I was trying to hide. I just believed I needed to be stronger than what I felt. That staying in the hard stuff too long would start to sound like whining. Like self-pity. So I kept quiet. Not because I was faking anything—but because I thought pushing through was what it meant to be responsible. To be an adult. Especially to be a good mom.

I wasn’t pretending. I was surviving. I had been in survival mode for so long, I didn’t know another way to live. I didn’t just wrestle with insecurity…I believed I was broken beyond repair. I didn’t care about personal growth or healing, because deep down, I knew that for me, none of it felt possible. It was too late. I didn’t want to get better. I wanted to get out. I wanted to rid myself of my own identity entirely and trade it in for something less of a screwup. I felt like a burden. And the only thing keeping me tethered to life and responsibility were my kids. That’s it. They were all that mattered to me. And even admitting that still feels shameful, but it’s the truth.

Really, it wasn’t just brokenness. It was a full-on identity collapse. I was so used up and disqualified in my own mind that the only solution I could imagine was starting over as someone else entirely. And that’s what I reckon with now. Not just the pain—but the fact that erasing myself felt like the only way forward.

---

I remember it all so vividly. It wasn’t just that the worship was good, it was that the whole experience felt carefully built. Everything ran so smoothly. It was logistically impressive. That alone shouted care and intentionality to me. This place really was set apart. I didn’t raise my hand the first time I attended, but I heard a pastor on stage say things like “Fully devoted,” “You belong here,” and “Your next step is to start serving.”

What I didn’t know back then, but know now, is that I was enamored with this church. It swept me off my feet. I mattered there, and my past didn’t. I looked around and saw so much joy and wholeness, and I wanted that more than anything. Not just the experience, but the transformation that was promised. I believed, just from attending that one time, that I could have it all. That I could start over. That if I became fully devoted to God, I could be someone new. I could belong. Even if I didn’t yet understand or believe what it meant to follow Jesus. It felt like all I had to do was make this one big commitment, and I’d be set free. I could leave my old self behind.

But what I didn’t realize was that ‘fully devoted’ had a checklist. It meant attending services every week, volunteering consistently, giving financially, and joining a small group. It meant being available, reliable, present. Visible in all the ways that proved your commitment.

And while those things can absolutely be part of following Jesus, my relationship with God was never supposed to be built on them. My place in God’s family isn’t based on how often I show up to church, how much I serve, how generously or regularly I give, or whether or not I have a church small group sitting around my table each week “doing life with me.”

Especially when some of those relationships weren’t rooted in anything real. Especially when they were built out of requirement instead of connection. When they were filled with gossip, completely void of Scripture, and had more to do with being on staff than walking with Jesus. Some of those relationships didn’t bring life to my faith—they spiritually, mentally, and emotionally crippled it.

---

The deeper I got, the more I started to feel the disconnect. The message from stage was grace, but the culture was performance. The Gospel said Jesus paid it all; no earning, no striving. But the model said otherwise. And that contradiction started eating at me.

Jesus died on the cross so I could be close to God. So I could be with Him. Forever. That’s the whole thing. That’s the truth.

And we either believe that or we don’t.

I know it’s true, which means, I could go my whole life without checking off those spiritual boxes I listed above, and I would still be loved and wanted and seen no less by my Creator. Is that not one of the truths The Parable of the Vineyard Workers is trying to show us? Does that story not reveal the truth that God’s goodness, grace, and mercy aren’t poured out based on what His children do, but only because of who their Heavenly Father is?

“You can’t earn your place in God’s Kingdom. You can’t earn God’s grace. It’s a gift you already have simply through faith in Jesus.”

That’s what a pastor told me every weekend. Is that not true?

If that’s true, then why was I led to work for it? Why was I being conditioned to earn it?

---

I understand sometimes we don’t mean to do the things we do. But just because we don’t mean to do a thing doesn’t erase the fact that we are doing it…and that it’s still happening.

I learned early on as a volunteer that the church wasn’t focused on discipleship. I was taught that it’s what’s called a “seeker-friendly” church, and in that model, everyone is responsible for their own growth, both spiritually and personally.

I might’ve been worn thin and limping a bit, but my whole life I’d been praised for my work ethic and tenacity. I’ve been celebrated and rewarded for my resilience. For my drive. For being a go-getter. So when I sat down and heard that I could work my tail off for God and get a whole new life?

Oh, man. Just show me where to sign.

Not only was I new to understanding the Gospel. I was new to this church. And for the first time, I was learning what my role was within it.

I was in awe. I stood in reverence at how big and grand it all was. And these people wanted me. Me. They gave me a personality test, a spiritual gifts test, and a strengths assessment. All for free. I didn’t even know that kind of stuff existed.

I didn’t know who I was, but it didn’t matter, because they all told me.

I trusted these people. I relied on them spiritually. They cared about me, especially my growth and development. I didn’t just see it—I felt it. They were excited about my gifts, my personality. They loved how teachable I was, how quickly I could learn, and most of all…they believed I was called.

They told me I was special. Not only to them, but to Jesus. And that’s something else I have to reckon with, too.

I believed them because they were saying it.

Not because it was true.

---

25

Eventually, I was pretty open with staff members about my story. Maybe the leaders at that location noticed how much I needed to be ministered to. If they did notice, that was never the focus. I needed to serve and give, and to be all in for a season, to keep developing under a staff member for a little while. And because I showed potential as a good fit for staff, we eventually had a conversation about joining the team.

As a volunteer, I was led by two in-training pastors, both under the leadership of a team lead pastor. It wasn’t until I started the process of coming on staff that I had any direct interaction with that lead. That felt normal at the time. I didn't realize it would be a foreshadowing of some things until much later. I eventually learned that bringing people onto the team was rewarded. If you were gifted as a “developer” of people, you were an asset. I quickly caught on that the church loved empowering others. It was a big win, handing leadership to people who reflected the church’s values, even if they weren’t on staff.

I think my excitement over everything the church was doing made it hard to see clearly. I really believed it was all for God. That it was all about Him. So when I started to feel uneasy or unsure about something, I chalked it up to my bad eye taking over. You’re making nothing into something. Just like always. Get it together. I shut myself down because I wasn’t as far along in my faith journey. These leaders were hearing from God, and I was still trying to figure out who He even was.

Trust was currency. Integrity was everything here. These were pastors. If they’re saying it, it must be true. This is the church. C’mon. There wasn’t any reason to question their direction, but I had every reason to doubt myself.

Coming in off the street like a lost animal and being transformed by this place, then getting to join the staff was a really big deal. My story of life change, my passion, my work ethic—it was praised. It made me a great fit. Not just to attend, but to belong. To lead. You made it. You’re finally somebody.

I remember how surreal it felt to even get an interview. I was told, more than once, that hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people applied. But my name and story were chosen. Right out the gate, I went from a nobody to someone who mattered. You were chosen. That must mean God really is doing something with your life after all.

And the more I sit with it, the more I realize I’ve felt that way for as long as I can remember. Even as a kid, standing on that overlook. I felt awe, but also sadness. Because even then, deep down, I was sure of one thing… that whatever was out there, whatever was looking back at me—there’s no way it actually wanted me. Not really. Not after everything. Not after what had already happened to me.

And sadly, that’s what made me teachable. That kind of shame and self-doubt made me moldable. It made me eager to work hard, eager to prove myself. It made me shut down every internal warning and freely trust people I thought were more godly than me. This is how you become good. This is how you belong.

I’m an extrovert? Okay. Oh—I’m actually an introvert now? Sure. That makes sense. I have Imposter Syndrome…again? Got it. I’m over-apologizing? I didn’t even realize. I need more time to marinate? I guess I’m not ready. I shouldn’t be in worship because there’s not enough time to develop my voice? Okay. You’re probably right. God is opening a new door, and I’m a strong executor—so I should move into a more operational role. Whatever you think is best. I need to read about leadership and self-deception? Oh. I must be really messed up. I guess I’m deceiving myself now.

My head is still spinning.

---

32

I worked for that church for four years. And I’ll never say that every single moment was bad. I’ll never say every person there is bad. However, I’ve talked to enough trusted people, both inside and outside of it, to know the majority of my experience there wasn’t just painful. It was awful. Horrific and disgusting, I’ve heard some say. I used to carry so much shame over that. I thought it meant I wasn’t strong enough, or good enough to work there. You just couldn’t cut it. You didn’t have what it takes.

So many things had gone terribly wrong. Sometimes I wonder if God had been trying to lead me out the whole time. It just took me four years to finally go. I wish I could say I left because I was listening to Him—but I wasn’t. I was drowning in to-do lists, chasing metrics, mimicking the voice of a senior pastor, and pumping out new ideas around the clock… trying to pastor people right where they are, all while navigating custody litigation. All while trying to keep my family together. Trying to forget what had happened to me. Trying to trust people who weren’t trustworthy. Trying to believe God was still good all the time.

I was working at a church… and I didn’t even know who God really was. I mean, I thought I did. I believed in Him. But I didn’t trust Him. I lived in fear. I was living in shame. And I just don’t think anyone around me really knew. They thought I was in the wrong seat on the wrong bus. They thought I was just going through a rough season. They thought I just needed some counseling. They thought they knew me.

They didn’t.

So they handed me resources. They encouraged me to keep showing up. Keep growing. Keep pushing. But no one would release me to go sit with the One who could actually help me heal.

That’s what haunts me now. That I was told over and over again to prioritize my relationship with God. That if that relationship wasn’t solid, everything else would fall apart. I was asked what God was teaching me. What He was saying. What word He gave me for the year. What big idea He was giving me during quiet time.

But underneath it all… the model didn’t actually support a staff centered on intimacy with God. It was built around growth. Around results. Around performance—in the name of God. Eventually, I had to reckon with the fact that if my family’s ability to eat was based on how well I performed in the house of God, then that’s where all my energy was going.

Which really meant that my devotion wasn’t to God anymore. It was to surviving in a system that praised my good performance.

Sometimes, I still wonder. Maybe I really was the only one who struggled with all of it.

---

17

In 2010 I drove out to Bethany, Oklahoma one afternoon. I was seventeen years old and I finally worked up the courage to go visit the family member who sexually abused me from the time I was 6 to 12 years old.

I rang the doorbell and walked in the house. Same as always. Everything was exactly the same. I had spent so many holidays and summers there. I walked out into the backyard and I was surprised to feel this faded glimpse of joy. I remembered ice cream sandwiches, Mrs. Doubtfire, and making forts out of blankets. Legos and powered donuts. I almost smiled.

I walked back inside and slowly made my way around the house. That stupid stuffed rattlesnake was sitting in the corner. All those years later, and I still couldn’t walk near it. It was up in a strike position. Whoever taxidermied it did an incredible job because it looked alive and well years later. I can’t help but cringe just thinking about it.

I made my way into the den. And there he was.

My grandfather.

“Hey grandpa.”

“Hey honey, how are ya?”

For a moment, it was like none of it ever happened. For a few seconds, I was just me, and he was just my grandpa. I think about that now, and that part of this memory somehow comforts me in a way. Maybe he was just two different people and couldn’t control or overcome the darkness. Maybe it really wasn’t my fault.

Only a few years had passed since his court case ended, but he looked like he'd aged about twenty. He’d taken a plea deal and spent most of his time at home now. To be honest, I didn’t have a reason for going. Maybe I just wanted to face him. I didn’t even know if he or my grandma would be home. I didn’t have a plan. I just…went.

There’s only two people in the world who know this, but my grandpa used to read Psalm 23 to me. It was the first and only chapter of the Bible I ever memorized. He taught me how to drive. How to hunt. How to bait my hook. He encouraged me to sing more than anyone ever had.

Which is ironic.

Because…he’s where I lost my voice.

I sat down across from him and watched him take a slow breath from his oxygen tank. He’d smoked for most of his life, so the tank didn’t surprise me. But the fragility did. I’d never seen him like that before.

We went back and forth for only a few minutes. I wish I remembered more of what we talked about. I wish I could say he asked how school was going, or if I was still singing. Maybe he did. I honestly can’t remember.

Because the only words I can remember him saying to me were:

“Honey…it’s not like I raped you.”

I didn’t say anything back. I just got up, and walked out the same door I came in. Drove away as fast as I could. He died a few years later. The funeral was quiet and full of tears. But all I could hear was him. All I could hear was the last thing he said to me.

I hadn’t thought about that day since that day. Not until just a few days ago. The more I think about it, the more I put pieces together that I couldn’t before. As I write all of it out, dots connect. There are parallels all throughout. Then and now.

It’s the silence. It’s still so loud.

Back then, it was the silence of family members. Today, it’s the silence of a church—God’s family members. My family members in Christ.

I still don’t have all the words to describe it yet…the violence of silence, for lack of a better term.

But I think it’s because I expected disregard and a lack of acknowledgement from a dying old man who abused me when I was a child.

I never expected it from my pastor and my church.

At least my grandfather looked at me. At least he said something.