My Journey After Being Asked to Leave Church for My Pregnancy

My Mother Kicked Me Out of the Church for Getting Pregnant Out of Wedlock

I met Glenn last fall while I was a sophomore studying psychology at college. He was unique from the beginning, even though we were just study partners in our Intro to Research Methods course.

His grin and his soft explanations of difficult subjects made everything make sense. The entire lecture hall might be illuminated by it.

Every time he teased me during our study sessions, I would feel my cheeks burn crimson. “Faith, you’re starin’ again,” he would say.

“Can’t help it if you’re distracting,” We would both chuckle as if we had the greatest secret ever as I shot back.

After class, we used to get coffee together, but now we spend hours at the campus cafeteria. As we told each other our life tales, we would nibble on countless plates of waffle fries.

Glenn gave me some background information on his family and his childhood love of playing in the outdoors. In the meantime, I talked about how I lost my father when I was five years old. At that point, the friendship began to give way to something more.

“Your dad would be so proud of you,” Glenn said one evening as he squeezed my hand across the table. “Following your dreams, helping people through psychology…”

I think I saw stars as he kissed me for the first time on the porch swing outside my mom’s house. However, Mama simply pulled her lips together and muttered, “That’s nice, sugar,” when I informed her about Glenn. Remember that you have a big test coming up.

For you, that’s my mother, Claudia. She has dedicated herself to raising me and loving nature since Daddy left away.

never dated and didn’t appear to be looking for love again.

It hurts my feelings when I see her yearningly staring at Daddy’s picture on the mantel. We don’t have the kind of relationship where I can say that, but I wish she would allow herself to feel joy once more.

I attempted once to ask, “Mama, don’t you ever get lonely?”

“I’ve got you,” she said, putting her skirt down. “That’s all the company I need.”

Oh no. I pondered. The weariness, the nausea Is it a sign that I am expecting?

I had just become intimate with Glenn a few weeks prior, so it was the first thing that sprung to mind.

I was so terrified that I could hardly access the drawer where I had concealed the pregnancy tests due to my shaking hands.

“Please, please, please,” I muttered as I kept my eyes on that tiny window. “Please tell me I’m wrong!”

However, my world swung sideways, and two pink lines emerged as distinct as day.

My heart thumping in my chest, I collapsed onto my bathroom floor.

I mumbled, “This can’t be happening,” as I gazed at the test. “I’m just nineteen. I am unable to conceive. I’m unable to.”

After a few minutes, I started to pace the bedroom.

“How am I gonna hide this from Mama?” I questioned myself. “She will never comprehend. A baby? Unmarried? within our household?”

I believe I spent over an hour talking to myself as various scenarios ran through my head. My mother stopped talking to me as a result of each of them.

I had no doubt that she would never accept my child.

For the next few days, I stayed hidden in my room and made any excuse I could to keep from Mama.

“Honey, have faith! “Dinner is ready!” One evening, she yelled out.

I yelled back, “Sorry, Mama, got this huge psychology paper due tomorrow.” “I’ll grab something later!”

She knocked on my door the following morning. “Baby girl, I made your favorite pancakes.”

“Thank you, but I had a granola bar already. I lied because I had an early study group meeting, feeling bad about the mounting list of justifications.

She made another attempt that night. “Belief? Mrs. Jones arrived with her renowned casserole.

“Mama, you have finals coming up. You must concentrate. I yelled.

By Thursday, Mama was fed up with it. Standing in the entryway, she strode straight up to my room.

She fixed me with that steel-melting mom-stare and said, “Now hold on just a minute,” “You have been skipping my pancake breakfasts since when? Additionally, don’t assume that I haven’t seen you dash to the restroom each morning.”

I muttered, “Just stressed about exams,” trying not to look her in the eye.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, obviously not convinced. And I assume that the reason you haven’t touched your coffee in days is also stress. The same coffee you claim to be addicted to?”

“My study group suggested cutting back on caffeine.”

“My precious Faith,” Mama continued softly, “I have never witnessed you skip meals during finals in all the years you have attended school. We both know that something more than studying is going on with you.

But I snatched up my backpack before she could press any farther. I apologize for being late to the library, Mama. team effort!”

She was standing there with the troubled expression I’d been trying so hard to avoid as I virtually rushed down the stairs.

Mama came to my room the next Sunday and said, “Faith, honey! We will be late for the service.

“Coming!” Fighting another wave of nausea, I called back. “Maybe I should skip today…”

“Avoid church? Do you feel ill? Mama showed up at my door.

I pretended to smile and said, “Just a little tired,” lying. “Been studying real hard.”

“You’ve been ‘tired’ all week,” she remarked, her eyes narrowing. “Something you want to tell me?”

“No ma’am,” I blurted out. Too soon. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

All of our neighbors were dressed in their Sunday best, and the church was crowded that morning.

Mr. Rodriguez was accompanied by his grandchildren, and Mrs. Jones was sporting her well-known pink bonnet. Up until the halfway point of the sermon, when I had the recognizable nausea, everything seemed good.

Mama must have grabbed my hand when I went green.

“Baby girl, what’s wrong?” Her eyes narrowed as she whispered. “Come to think of it, you’ve been actin’ strange all week…”

I couldn’t contain myself any longer; whether it was the pregnant hormones or the guilt.

I muttered back, “Mom, I have something to tell you,” as tears filled my eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

The ensuing quiet seemed to go on forever. In about three seconds, Mama’s expression changed from one feeling to another.

Her gasp was loud enough to turn heads. “What?” she asked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I managed to say, “No, I’m not joking,” with shaking voice. “I’m pregnant, and it’s Glenn’s.”

Mama went crazy at that point. She got up and began to shout at me.

“Leave the church immediately!” she yelled. “Go home, gather your belongings, and avoid returning to my place! How did you accomplish this? Did you even consider the opinions of our friends and family? Are you unaware of our customs and principles? Leave my sight!”

As my tears clouded my vision, I hastily got up and started to leave. Mrs. Jones was looking at me with wide eyes, and I could see it.

However, a recognizable voice yelled out before I could get to the door.

“Stop right there, young lady.”

It was Pastor James, and he had the severe look on his face that I had seen him wear during really impassioned sermons as he looked at my mother.

“Claudia,” he asked softly as he approached us along the aisle, “would you leave your daughter when she most needed you? Isn’t now the moment to be forgiving and loving?

“But she’s having a child out of wedlock!” Mama objected. “I never—”

“That shouldn’t be an issue, Claudia,” said Pastor James in a quiet interruption. “The greatest blessings can occasionally be found in unexpected places. Claudia, keep in mind that this group embraced you and Faith after your husband died. Now, shouldn’t we follow suit?”

Mama’s perspective was altered by those statements. After giving me a quick glance, she started crying.

The congregation pretended not to notice, but the next thing I knew, we were crying together and hugging in the center of the church.

She said, “I’m so sorry, baby girl,” into my hair. “I simply felt afraid for you. I am aware of how challenging it is to raise a child by yourself.

Saying, “I’m not alone, Mama,” “I have Glenn, and I have you… if you’ll still have me?”

However, this is not where the narrative ends.

Mama demanded to see Glenn and his family a few days later.

As if I were still a young child, she straightened my collar and remarked, “Time to do this properly,” “No more secrets.”

We were driven to Glenn’s house.

“You nervous?” As we arrived at Glenn’s place, I asked him.

“A little,” he said, putting his hand in mine. “But it’s time our families met.”

You’ll be shocked by what transpired next. Who opened the door when we arrived at this stunning home? James, the pastor.

His expression when Glenn referred to him as “Dad” was priceless.

“Faith?” “Looking between me and his son,” remarked Pastor James. “Glenn, son, is this your young lady?”

Glenn answered, “Yes sir,” and took my hand. “Surprised?”

“Well, I’ll be…” After shaking his head, Pastor James burst out laughing. “The Lord sure does work in mysterious ways.”

I can’t help but giggle at how everything turned out when I look back. occasionally the people you think you hardly know become your biggest supporters, and occasionally the sweetest blessings arrive in the most frightening packaging.

What about Mama? She’s already crocheting small booties and choosing baby names.

“You know, sugar, perhaps it’s time I started getting out more,” she commented yesterday. The brother of Mrs. Jones recently relocated to the area.