Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  Slowly but surely, over the years, all my emotions began shutting down and switching off, like a giant factory closing up until every machine is still and every light is out. My heart stood like an abandoned building. Empty and echoey. Uninhabited, unvisited, with doors and windows all boarded up. A monument to someone I used to be—or maybe could have been. I felt like a shell of a human being.

  My life seemed a monotonous drone of work with no one to come home to. I kept my friends and family at arm’s length, because my core identity was something they couldn’t know about, and most likely wouldn’t understand. I asked my music manager to book gigs on as many holidays and special occasions as possible, so I never had to be home alone—especially on my birthday, Valentine’s Day, and New Year’s Eve. Since I was always on the go, my undecorated apartment was simply the place I did laundry, repacked my suitcase, and left again.

  Weighed down by these thoughts, I stared out of the plane window as we descended into London’s Heathrow airport and taxied on the tarmac. Soon I was inside, lugging my equipment off the baggage carousel. I slung a heavy guitar case over my shoulder and wheeled a large suitcase behind me, heading toward a train bound for central London.

  Fifteen minutes later, the Heathrow Express train pulled in to Paddington station. One more quick journey on the Underground, and I’d meet the conference runner who would take me to the event. The idea of stepping into the busy, upbeat energy of a worship conference felt utterly overwhelming—I had cried all night; I could barely speak, let alone sing.

  On the Underground platform, the first train to arrive wasn’t going to my destination. It rushed in at breakneck speed, and I felt the whoosh of air as it sped toward me. People boarded, and then with a release of energy it sped away into the blackness of the tunnels.

  I dropped my luggage next to a bench and sat with my head in my hands. My mind kept returning to the same question: “What’s the point anymore?” This frightened me to the core. I was usually a stable, balanced person, but this inner struggle with my sexuality and the incessant cycle of brokenheartedness had brought me to the point of breakdown. Embarrassed to cry in public, I tried to brush the tears away as they fell down my cheeks, but no one was watching anyway. Busy, faceless commuters stared into space, lost in their own worlds as they rushed past.

  I was so incredibly tired. Every cell in my body, every fiber of my being was exhausted from carrying this emotional weight since my teens. Growing up, I hadn’t known a single gay person and had had no LGBTQ+ role models; social media didn’t exist back then in the early 1990s, so finding solace in YouTube’s coming-out advice videos—as young people do today—was a universe away from my teenage experience. I’d felt utterly isolated back then, and all these years later, I still felt the icy grip of loneliness; the passing of time only made it harder to bear.

  I stood up, rubbing my bloodshot eyes and my tear-stained cheeks, and walked to the edge of the platform. This could be it, I thought. I don’t have to do this anymore. I don’t have to live this cycle of heartbreak, shame, fear, and isolation over and over. I don’t have to do this anymore—it could be over so easily.

  I moved my feet forward inch by inch on the concrete floor, stepping past the line of yellow paint that marked the safety point. I looked down into the tunnel and saw distant lights. Tears were streaming down my face again. I knew if I moved another inch forward, at just the right second, I could step out onto the tracks as the train thundered into the station. It could all be over.

  The lights blinded me as the train approached. My feet moved another inch closer to the edge. But just before I stepped out, I thought: The last hands that touch me and carry my body will belong to total strangers. My whole life I’ve felt alone. If I die here, it’ll be with people who don’t even know my name.

  Dying that way, falling onto the hard steel of the train tracks, to be carried away by total strangers, seemed too lonely to go through with. In that split second, I’d found a thought more painful than carrying on with life, and it had distracted me long enough for the train to thunder into the station with my feet still firmly planted on the platform edge.

  I staggered backward, returning to the bench where I’d sat before. My heart was racing. I tried to slow my breathing and recover from the shock of what I’d almost done. No one noticed. Hundreds of pairs of feet continued to rush past, on their way to their next appointment. Surrounded by this chaos, I sat, and breathed, and cried as relief washed over me. I don’t know how long I stayed there; it could have been minutes or maybe hours. I just sat and sat, until my breathing relaxed and my heart rate finally slowed.

  Eventually, feeling as though I were moving in slow motion, I took a deep breath, grabbed my belongings, and boarded the next train. I had only minutes to pull myself together before I’d arrive at the worship conference and be plunged into a busy week of meetings and rehearsals. There would be no one safe there to confide in—any confession of being gay would be a one-way ticket to the end of a career. I just had to hide my pain and keep going.

  Desperate for change, my heart ached. I couldn’t seem to die, but I also couldn’t seem to live.

  Part I

  Beginnings

  2

  Baby photos are supposed to be treasured keepsakes, showing you at your very best: wide-eyed, angelic, and utterly adorable. Unfortunately, in my first baby photo I resemble a small, startled alien. My hair stands straight up in jet-black spikes as though I were auditioning for an infant rock band. I’m told that I’d been fast asleep when the hospital photographer arrived. In a hurry, he’d clapped his hands loudly to wake me up, and the moment I’d stirred, he’d snapped the shot. Thanks to him, the photo of the startled spikey-haired alien has been displayed on my parents’ living-room wall ever since.

  My early years were carefree. In my favorite childhood photo, I’m six years old, wearing a bright-red t-shirt and yellow dungarees, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. My hair is cut in a bowl-shaped bob, and my green-gray eyes have a mischievous twinkle. Back then, my favorite hobby was reciting the latest joke I’d memorized from my collection of joke books. Making people laugh was one of my favorite things, and more often than not I had a big smile on my face.

  I grew up before the wonders of the internet. My family lived in the countryside, so instead of PlayStations or Xboxes, my days were filled with playing in tree houses, building forts, damming rivers, and running through fields. It gave me a love for wide open skies, the smell of forests after rainfall, and the rustle of wheat as you run your fingers over it like a golden, waist-high carpet. If I’d owned Mario Kart or Zelda back then, I probably never would have left the house.

  Perhaps everyone grew up more slowly before cyberspace came along. Today, kids’ minds can be exposed to wonderfully diverse ideas and perspectives at the click of a button. But back then, education and socialization happened organically, not digitally. I learned everything from the small radius of my everyday life, from teachers, schoolmates, family, and the other huge influence in my life: church.

  My family lived in a small village of four hundred people. The local school was tiny too, with only forty pupils, aged four to eleven. Always a tomboy, I saved my pocket money until I could afford my first skateboard. My sister, Jo, two and a half years younger than I, also loved skateboarding and riding bikes, so it was brilliant to have a comrade to play with.

  Along with my sister, my other childhood partner in crime was the boy who lived across the road. We spent our evenings and the gloriously long summers walking his dog in the nearby woods, practicing skate tricks, and sneaking into the local farmer’s hay barn and climbing all the way to the top of the bales, where we’d lie giggling and coughing in the clouds of straw and dust. Sometimes, if it was raining, I’d hide up in the hayloft on my own with a good book and read, listening to the raindrops drumming on the steel roof.

  Two threads wove through my earliest years: one was faith and the other was music. Our local church felt like a second home
to me, and I was taken to my first service within days of being born. My grandparents on my mother’s side, who had left their careers in England and moved to Africa as missionaries, were well known throughout our Pentecostal denomination. They came back from Africa once a year to visit us, often around Christmastime. They’d tell us stories of life in Harare, Zimbabwe, showing us photos of the Bible school they ran and of landmarks like Victoria Falls.

  While home in England, they’d gather spare clothes and shoes from everyone in our church and ship them back to Zimbabwe to distribute among those in need when they returned. Hearing their stories prompted my earliest dream: to be a missionary in some remote part of the world, preaching, teaching, and pastoring. I remember, around the age of six, when my teacher asked our class, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Most children replied, “A footballer,” or “A film star,” or “A doctor.” Not me. I answered resolutely, “I want to be a missionary.” My grandparents had become heroes to me, and I wanted to follow in their footsteps and make them proud.

  Christian faith felt as natural to me as breathing. It was not a rigid, cold, distant religion, but a genuine heartfelt relationship with God. Prayer never seemed formal either—for me it was just a conversation. At five years old, I walked around the schoolyard chatting with God about my day so far, sharing the highs and lows of my little life. God felt like a friend and a confidant. When I looked out my window at night and saw the moon and stars, my small mind spun with questions about where heaven was located, what angels looked like, and whether I’d ever see my recently deceased (and much-loved) hamster again someday.

  Our church, part of the Pentecostal tradition, was always relaxed and upbeat, with music played on guitars, drums, and keyboards and everyone wearing casual clothes. It was a world away from the choirs, pipe organs, incense, and people wearing their Sunday best, found in more formal places of worship.

  There were always new faces each Sunday, and everyone was made to feel at home. Refugees from other nations, students who’d moved away from their parents to study at Kent University, homeless men and women, elderly folks in need of a hug and a chat—all received a warm welcome. Our lunches buzzed with the energy of connection as lonely people found community and hungry people received a meal. It was church doing what church is meant to: loving people with grace and kindness.

  My mum led the musical part of the worship service every Sunday at church and at weekday prayer meetings. She was a prolific songwriter, penning something new every week without fail. After the sermon, there would be a time of reflection and she would play her latest song—it was her way of serving the church community, using her gift to help others.

  Mum worked on her new song during the week at home, in the snatched moments that any parent makes use of while raising kids. So while I was building with Lego blocks or arranging my stuffed animals in rows, she would grab ten minutes to craft her latest song. As soon as I could shake a tambourine or rattle a maraca, I joined in on Sundays, toddling up to the front to stand next to her and trying to keep time with the song.

  Our church taught that the Bible was literally true, word for word, so Adam and Eve were considered actual humans who historically existed. The talking snake in the book of Genesis was considered historical too, as was the speaking donkey in the book of Numbers. Everything had happened exactly as it was written.

  A few members of the church went out with presentations about Creationism in their spare time, trying to disprove the scientific evidence behind evolution. Medicine was suspect, as people believed in God’s healing power, and we heard stories of people like Kathryn Kuhlman, Smith Wigglesworth, Aimee Semple McPherson, and Benny Hinn, who (allegedly) healed thousands by the power of prayer.

  There was a firm belief that God still did miracles today, so when the pastor gave an altar call, people would come forward and stand at the front to be prayed for. Many spoke in tongues—something described in the New Testament as an unknown language given to believers by God. Sometimes, when prayed for at the altar, these people would fall down—“slain in the spirit”—when the Holy Spirit was thought to have powerfully touched them.

  When I was four years old, my first job at church was to carry a small basket of cloths. These were known as “modesty protectors.” If during the altar call a woman was “slain in the spirit” and fell down, I would carry my little basket of cloths to where she was lying. If her skirt or dress had accidentally found its way above her knees, I would lay one of the cloths over her legs to protect her “modesty.” I felt very adult and responsible as I trotted around and carried out this important task.

  For most of the service, we children had our own meeting in a different part of the building: kids’ church. It was a place for the under-twelves to go while the adults listened to the sermon, as the preaching often lasted for forty-five minutes. In kids’ church we had our own teachers, songs, and picture books; it was a lot of fun.

  One thing baffled me though. The picture-book Bible that was read to us had some very disturbing images and stories. The double-page illustration of Noah and the flood left me bewildered about why so many people were pictured in the throes of death, flailing in the foaming waters. The next page showed Sodom and Gomorrah burning to the ground with hundreds of people, charred and frightened, running to escape the flames.

  We were told Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because of the “sin of homosexuality.” When a bold child piped up, asking, “What is homosexuality?,” the only reply given was “We can’t talk about that until you’re older—just know that it’s something very bad.” In my tiny mind, this instilled the knowledge that whatever homosexuality is, it must be terrible indeed.

  The picture-book Bible also told the story of Moses and the Israelites fleeing captivity in Egypt. God had struck the Egyptians with various plagues when they refused to release the Israelites from slavery, culminating in the murder of every Egyptian firstborn boy. The artwork showed parents sobbing, holding their dead children in their arms, as Moses led his people out of captivity toward the promised land. It was a lot for a child to take in.

  Another page showed Abraham sacrificing his little son, Isaac, as God had asked him to. He’d tied the boy up with ropes and raised a knife over the child, ready to kill him. The story ended with God telling Abraham, at the very last moment before he stabbed the child to death, not to murder the boy after all; it had been a test of his faithfulness. This too seemed an extremely violent and frightening story.

  Even as a child, I had a hundred questions. What about all the people who drowned in Noah’s flood—did they really need to die? What about everyone who was burned in Sodom and Gomorrah? What about the Egyptian baby boys who were slaughtered—how could that be fair? How did Isaac ever recover from the trauma of being tied up by his dad and almost knifed to death? Why was all of this portrayed as okay? And how could these stories be the work of a loving God? My mind spun. It didn’t feel safe to ask any of these questions at kids’ church, and I felt bad for thinking them in the first place.

  Many of our worship songs were about love and forgiveness, but others contained military language and reminded me of the more violent Bible stories. Hymns had lyrics like: “Onward Christian soldiers, marching out to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before. Christ, the royal Master, leads against the foe; forward into battle see his banners go. Like a mighty army moves the Church of God.”

  More modern songs also reflected these themes: “The victory is the Lord’s; we’ve just begun to fight,” “The Lord is a warrior,” and “Our God is mighty in battle, our God is mighty in war.” I found the aggressive language of these songs a bit confusing and unsettling. Although I understood, as much as a child could, that they were based on the Bible, they still seemed at odds with the Jesus who was pictured in my kids’ Bible holding a baby lamb in his arms and smiling at a crowd of children in a field of flowers.

  If God really was as angry as those violent stories suggested, I didn’t want to b
e on the receiving end of his punishment, or on the wrong side of a church “marching out to war.” I never wanted to feel like the people drowning in the floodwaters as Noah sailed past. It was confusing. Was God the person standing with the lamb, the children, and the flowers, or was he an angry warrior destroying people?

  I brushed these thoughts away from my mind, as they were too much for me to figure out at that tender age. My simple childhood faith was one rooted in God’s love and kindness, so I tried to focus on the stories that emphasized those qualities. Besides, I had no reason to believe I’d ever be “out of the club.” After all, I was part of God’s army, not someone his people were fighting against. I was “inside the ark” and always would be—not someone left outside to drown. At least, that’s what I imagined back then.

  Another thing that stood out at church was that God was always described as male. Jesus was male too, of course, and our senior pastor and elders were all men. God was called Father, not Mother. It gradually dawned on me that girls and women were seriously underrepresented.

  When anyone preached about marriage, St. Paul’s teaching was quoted: “The husband is head of the wife just as Christ is the head of the church.” Boys and men were in charge at church, and men took the leading roles in the exciting Bible stories, whereas women were almost always the supporting characters. I wasn’t used to challenging “what the Bible clearly said” as a child, but something about it didn’t sit well with me. I guess I felt shortchanged for being female, and sad that maybe I couldn’t be part of the action.

  Back then, in the mid-1980s, most UK churches weren’t ready to give women the freedom to lead. Singing or teaching kids’ church was allowed, but being a senior pastor or priest-in-charge was not. It was a stained-glass ceiling, a layer of promotion through which women could not pass.