Who Am I? - Part 1

By the time one is nearly forty, married and has kids; you would think I’d be able to answer the question above. But, for some reason, that very question came to mind a couple of weeks ago. I can’t remember why. Likely it had something to do with something my kids were doing and, probably, started out more like, “How in the world did I get here in my life?!?!? Was it really my heart’s desire to be a wife and mother? Ethan, stop climbing that railing before you kill yourself!” Because that’s usually where this sort of thinking starts…

Truthfully, I don’t have a lot of time to do any deep thinking these days. Not when I’m trying to help Ethan survive the age of two or coaxing Emry to enjoy four versus jumping right to fourteen. But the question floated around in my head for days and was brought home by two things: 1) our new Sunday School topic being “Who Am I? My Identity in Christ”, and 2) the burning of the Dallas Training Center.

The latter was stunning, and not because the videos the fire were staggering. An entire 115-year-old, six-story stone structure went up in flames in a matter of hours. The fire was so destructive, what remained was immediately brought down by a wrecking ball. Ironically, it seemed like a fitting end to a building that was a prominent piece of my late teens.

Actually, I wish I had known more about its history when I spent so much time there now twenty-two years ago. I think that might have helped put what was meant to be an icon into a better perspective. But, of course, that was the point. An icon can only be an icon if it is painted in a particular light. And the fact that three presidents had passed through the doors of what had been therich-and-famous place to stay in Dallas at the turn of the last century or that the bricked up tunnel in the basement (which I had seen and heard whispers about) had not simply been a way to get to the stables across the street for the gorgeously dressed women but an escape route from a speakeasy was not the light ATI was aiming for. Instead they focused on the oldest operating elevator west of the Mississippi and left it at that. Because heaven forbid we ATI students should have any idea of the meaning of “speakeasy” or “politics”. Especially if we were girls. The very words might endanger our very souls and put us on a path to hell. And, therefore, ruin ATI.

Granted, all of that may be a bit harsh and extremely unforgiving, but watching that beautiful, historical building go up in flames brought back a rush of memories I realized I had brushed aside. Some of you may have no idea what I mean when I reference “ATI” but you may know the name Bill Gothard (it’s founder). Others of you have an idea of it. The rest of you, like me, who spent years in its culture are of two minds: 1) hate it with a passion and blame it for every bad thing that has ever happened to us, or 2) take the good and, hopefully, brush the rest aside. I try to be of the latter camp. For I met some great people in ATI, people who are still a part of my life and have been a huge blessing to me. But as for what ATI taught and attempted to indoctrinate into us…well, I try to leave that far behind.

The 115-year-old former Ambassador Hotel (just placed on the National Historic Registry) is the building that burned to the ground just a couple of weeks ago on May 28. It was, truly, a beautiful building both inside and out. I spent hours vacuuming its rich carpets, brasso-ing all the railings and doors, enjoying what few cool breezes Dallas can offer on the side porticos. Now in a bad part of town, the developer who will now have to start from scratch on his new “micro-apartments” was getting in on the forefront of the “revitalization” of that area. But just over twenty years ago, the Ambassador Hotel was owned by ATI and was a conference center for, mostly, mother’s retreats, the midwifery school and Excel (their several month long program for teenage girls to learn to be sew, arrange flowers, cook and whatever else it takes to be a proper wife and mother, all the while ATI discouraged both – one of many strange contradictions the program had). And I spent quite a bit of time there in 1997, at the tender age of 17.

My first introduction to the “training center” was two years previous when I stayed in Texas with my grandparents one summer in order to work a “Children’s Institute” during a conference. Without a lot of detail, these Children’s Institutes where I spent an exhausting week teaching eight to ten kids every night was one of the ATI programs I appreciate. I was to stay at the training center and my grandparents had the brilliant idea of taking me down there one Saturday to see it before I would actually be there for a week. To give you an idea of what this meant, the real purpose of the drive down to Dallas was to spend a hot, sticky August Texas day at the museums on the fairgrounds. So, naturally, I intended to wear shorts and a t-shirt. This was such a far cry from proper ATI attire (long skirts and modest, plain tops) that I might as well have been wearing a bikini. But there was no way to explain this to my grandparents so I spent the entire tour slinking around the halls of the training center, scared to death that I was now condemned to hell for wearing shorts and a t-shirt. No penance would ever suffice to save my wretched, sinful soul. 

Now, maybe, you understand a little bit of ATI.

Still, the following week as I was property attired, I truly enjoyed 95% of my time in Dallas and met some great people. And, secretly, felt if I could keep this part of my life up I might slip into Heaven. Providing God ignored other things. It’s safe to say that idea of a sovereign God who saves by grace alone apart from works was something not taught in ATI. So when I did think about such things, at that time of my life, I set them aside.

The following year we moved to Texas. And the year after that, my dad thought it would be a good idea for me “serve” a few weeks at the Dallas Training Center. I wasn’t given an option, really, and as I needed some “good deeds” on my side, I packed my bags and ended up there for a full six weeks. Where I met some great people. As well as some real high-and-mighty bullies. After one conference I washed so many dishes I looked like I had just taken a shower in my clothes. I cut teapots out of old wallpaper until my hands cramped. I learned to properly make beds with crisp, neat corners. I spent twelve hours on my feet in shoes that weren’t made for that and watched them swell to twice their size. I had a lecture on “putting things back where they belong” in the walk-in refrigerator. I learned not all ATI boys have fangs or wrong motives. And within the space of those six weeks, I went to the park maybe six times, saw a shopping mall only once and attended church only once. While we did spend some time studying the Bible and personal devotions were encouraged, discussions on those things usually entailed how we felt and not what the Bible actually said. We were there to serve. Anything outside of that was peripheral.

All of us have awkward teenage years. It doesn’t matter how we’re educated, where we are in the social spectrum or how “in” our wardrobe was. Sixteen is sixteen. Twenty years later, it’s hard to remember what was so vitally important then. And, yet, those years also play a huge part of who we become. So, when the question “Who am I?” came to mind a few weeks ago, things that happened in my teenage years came back to me. When I heard the Dallas Training Center had burned down, I not only thought about my time there, but I also asked myself, “Who was I twenty years ago? And am I still that person today?”

The truth is, looking back at pictures of that summer, I hardly recognize that 17-year-old girl. I don’t remember why I thought my eternal soul could be saved more if I just served more. I don’t know why I worried so much about what some of the other girls thought of my hair, or skirt, or lack of make-up even though they clearly disdained me for some reason.  I don’t know why I ran myself in circles trying to please “ATI”, an insatiable monster if there ever was one. But I do know this: at 17, I had no idea who I was. Because, at 17, I didn’t know who God was.

Yes, even with the good memories, my teenage years have given me baggage I still can’t seem to put down. That baggage feeds the inadequacies of my adulthood, adding doubts to my answer to the question, “Who am I?” But the baggage isn’t the problem. Nor are my inadequacies. The problem is the question. Because the question focuses on me. On how I feel. On how I see myself. A focus rooted in my sin natured and fed by my pride. The question is all wrong. Who cares who I am? The rightful question is: Who is God?