Tales From The Cult – Bethany Leger

ghosts and priests

I told my husband that if I were to die suddenly and unexpectedly, “these people are not allowed at my funeral”, and I proceeded to list names. This is not a cry for help, or some self-aggrandizing hypothetical. It’s an entirely reasonable form of posthumous self-care. If I can’t count on you when I’m alive, I won’t need you then.

Thanks to Zuckerberg and the digital overlords, the label “friend” is doled out far too quickly since the early aughts, and this elder millennial’s circle of trusted associates is getting tighter with each passing year. From a purely logistical standpoint, there’s only so much time in the day, so much bandwidth to nurture certain connections. When I talk about my Last Will and Shit List, I’m referring to a distinct observation: the first to express shock and condolences at my untimely demise will be the same who actively sought my emotional support, discretion, and never-ending cheerleading, only to pass me on the street like I’m not even there.

‘We’re more connected than ever, but lonely,’ they say. We’re hyper-accessible, but easily rendered invisible. Social media made it possible for us to collect “friends” like loose change, only for them to be dumped in the well of our car door. So, when a blossoming friendship in real life rapidly devolves into a toxic, one-way street, this abrupt switcheroo seems to reflect the convenience we’ve grown accustomed to: my need for you is as fleeting and satisfied as the need for the food I just had delivered to my doorstep.

At a bar one evening with good friends of ours, I went to refresh my glass when out of nowhere, a sexy moth fluttered in my ear. I could feel the cushion of her breast against my back as she coiled her arms around me. It was an old acquaintance, but I welcomed her embrace. Someone in her girlfriend-phalanx had been roofied, and having spot me through blind chance in the crowd, she came over in a panic. I obviously interrupted my existing conversation to go help her. But, why me? Why not ask one of the friends in her immediate orbit? What if I hadn’t been there?

Or, what about the friend who always has drama, but when you need their support, they can’t take your call? Or, the friend who requires incessant celebration, but when it’s your thing, your time to shine, they get quiet? Or most notably, if you need to whisper in private corners the blasphemy that leads coddled ideologues to cannibalize each other, then you’re probably in the wrong room. I appreciate that you trust me, that you feel safe from the fickle winds that might spell social ostracism. But, when I, in turn, become a ghost in the grocery aisle, maybe call someone else next time. If I’m the priest just waiting around to gather your confession, maybe you need God.

But, if I don’t like it, I also need to take responsibility.

With the new year approaching, I’ve been thinking a lot about the kind of friend I would want eating potato salad and sheet cake over my dead body. If you’re also excited to make new friends in 2026 and the great beyond, here are a few tips!

1. As a cult survivor, I know what people think a cult is, and what it actually is. Sometimes a cult is a pack of friends who share the same values—and they’re all afraid of each other. If something feels off, follow your gut.

2. Basic reciprocity in a friendship is common sense. If you’re always there for the other person, but they’re incapable of showing even minimal interest in your life, that’s not friendship—that’s free therapy.

3. Not all connections stick. I liked Sexy Moth—it just didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes you’ll be the one who feels abandoned, and other times you’ll be the one who doesn’t keep it going. It’s not a conspiracy, and it’s nobody’s “fault.” Learn from the experience and invest your energy elsewhere.

4. Haters are like murderers—it’s usually committed by someone we know. If your “friend” never pays you a compliment, or you get the vibe that she secretly hopes you choke, she probably has an ice pick and several burned friendships in her trunk.

5. I love this dress, but my thighs feel like two State Fair turkey legs smoked in bad polyester.

Huh. So, that’s what’s going to kill me.

I Forgot I Had a Sister-in-Law

This isn’t about my sister-in-law. It’s also not click-bait. Until a month ago, I literally forgot she existed.

The last time I saw her, she was wearing a wedding dress and exchanging vows with my brother. That was almost ten years ago. They settled on a small reception at a friend’s house. Guests drank champagne in a living room that looked like it was decorated by Laura Ashley herself, while I excused myself to sneak shots of tequila I had stashed in the fridge behind a fruit tray. They cut the cake (I didn’t eat it.) The majority of the time I hid in the kitchen, pacing in front of the fridge like I was guarding a moat. “Is something wrong with you?” my mother asked under her breath, not so much out of concern, but irritation. “I’m just tired.” Only, I had a sneaking suspicion this was the last time I would see any of them ever again.

Being raised as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, I was very lonely. That’s not the case for everyone. Some come from large families. Even if they, too, are indoctrinated from birth, they still have siblings to play with. They have cousins in the neighborhood, and Grandma lives two blocks down. My father’s side of the family were “believers”, but may as well have not existed. They lived a few hours away in West Texas and made their one token visit in the eighties (frankly, I think it was an aberration.) My mother’s family were New Yorkers, none of them Jehovah’s Witnesses, and the ones who were lived on the other side of the Atlantic and talked shit about us in German at the dinner table.

What does this have to do with my sister-in-law? I had decades of practice detaching myself from people. As one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, I was taught to avoid my classmates, coworkers, and yes, even blood relatives who didn’t “serve Jehovah.” That left me with a small pool of forced associates at the Kingdom Hall, and an estranged brother whose neck I would hug for the last time on his wedding day. I don’t blame him. It couldn’t have been easy being a 16 year-old guy with a sister in kindergarten. The age gap didn’t help, but the Jehovah’s Witnesses managed to drive the final wedge between us, removing what little semblance of normalcy I had always longed for.

My hunch was correct. I never saw them again, because I flew back to North Carolina, realized I was in a cult, and left shortly after. This is not what I want. No one wants this. But these are the rules: you leave, you’re dead. My brother’s wedding day was the last time I saw my mother, eyes bloodshot from orchestrating the day’s festivities, but relieved the wet blanket was going. I said goodbye to my father, stomach rotund and content. And, I said my final goodbye to my sister-in-law, beaming and beautiful on her big day. I can’t save her now.

Painter, Pianist, Persona Non-Grata

My father is a pianist. He plucks each key with care and precision, and could tune a Steinway using only his sense of smell. I don’t play piano, but I’ve enjoyed painting for over fifteen years. I may not boast a sprawling loft in Soho, but as a fun hobby, it helps scratch the itch.

I inherited my father’s creative streak. Unfortunately, my father is also a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and the same proclivities that make him such a talented musician and craftsman are the same qualities the Organization has found a way to exploit. In the name of faith, my father has put the same sweat and toil he puts into his piano business into working for people who tell him he can’t speak to me.

My mother and I have a complicated relationship. It’s a mother-daughter thing. But my father was simple: he bought me the junk cereal I wasn’t supposed to eat, and when asked if I wanted to see Babe, a movie about a talking pig, or Clueless, he laughed his ass off watching a bunch of teenagers make stupid decisions. “How could you take her to see that?” My mother was not amused. As if!

My father has been an elder in the Jehovah’s Witnesses for over fifty years. These are the pastors or priests of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, church officials responsible for leading the congregation. Since the Organization doesn’t have paid clergy, my father has devoted decades of his life to this role without receiving a penny. My father has inspired people, and at times, been thrown under the bus by his own cohorts when he followed his conscience rather than the consensus. I can respect his hard work and ethical compass. But, I also wish I could just watch my dad play the piano.

My father made the “choice” to dedicate himself to the Organization at 10 years old. Before my father hit puberty, he committed himself to a religious ideology that would slowly strip him of his humanity, and drive a wedge between him and his only daughter. When I told my father I was revoking my membership from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he made it clear that he would “remain loyal to Jehovah and His earthly organization.” His response was immediate and rote, like turning on your blinker at a stoplight. And just like that, our relationship came to a screeching halt. No more Chopin. No more Rustle of Spring filling the house while my mother cooks. Well, maybe so. I just won’t be there to hear it.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to have my parents forever. Maybe my mother was supposed to feed me, clothe me, and give me a strong voice. Maybe my father passed down some artistic gene that would make me appreciate the visual arts, a skill that would help me get through strange and difficult times. Whatever the magical reason is for why this all happened, I no longer use art as a diversion; an escape from the brewing tension in my brain. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not just to make others comfortable. Now, I’m free to be the weird, gallery-reject, Michael’s-coupon-clipping motherfucker I always knew I could be. Thanks, Pop.

Eat Sh*t and Die: How My Mother Explained Christmas

The holidays were in full swing as my teacher strolled up and down each aisle complimenting a bunch of first graders on their crappy construction paper Christmas trees. As one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, I wasn’t allowed to celebrate Christmas, so I clumped a handful of cotton balls into the shape of a snowman. A borderline heretic, I then slipped my glue-encrusted fingers through a random pair of craft scissors and carved out the shape of an Evergreen. “Aren’t you going to decorate your tree?”, asked Ms. Ridinger, hovered over my desk. No, I responded, instantly riddled with guilt. I just want to admire its natural beauty.

If I ever see a child sitting in the mulch on a sunny day, and this child tells me they don’t want to swing on the swing, or slide down the slide, they ‘just want to admire the architecture’, I’m going to hunt his mother for meat. It’s not that I’m against a budding Frank Lloyd Wright, or even a future horticulturalist. But, a child’s instinct is to play and explore, and my teacher was entirely justified in the silent eye-roll I guarantee she did in her heart. Who the hell are this kid’s parents, and why don’t Jehovah’s Witnesses celebrate Christmas?

After bringing my bare, not-Christmas tree home, my mother sat me down to explain why we refrain from engaging in the festivities. She placed a glass of water in front of me. “Look at this clean glass of water,” she said. “Now, imagine I put a teensy, weensy drop of poop in it.” I waited for the inevitable punchline that was going to teach me why I can’t have a normal childhood. “Most of the water looks clean, but that one little drop contaminated the whole glass.” Christmas might look beautiful and harmless with its twinkle lights and presents, she reasoned, but its origins are tainted by pagan traditions.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses are technically not wrong about Christmas. The Romans co-opted Christ’s birth as an excuse to get wasted during the winter solstice, and today, we watch Will Ferrell on December 25^th while exchanging material goods we most likely don’t need. And, if our recent decade of marinating in extreme political correctness taught us anything, it’s that you’ll be put before a firing squad before you brazenly assume someone celebrates Christmas, as opposed to Hanukkah or Ramadan, or worships their garden gnome. But, there’s a problem with my mother’s logic. When I performed this same purity test to trace the origins of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I found my fair share of shit: thousands of cases of child sexual abuse that were never reported to law enforcement. Charles Taze Russell’s fascination with the occult. The Watchtower Organization’s ties to the United Nations. The fact that the Jehovah’s Witnesses celebrated Christmas even after claiming they were cleansed from pagan practices in 1919*. The math wasn’t mathing.

“Would you want to drink the water after you knew poop was in it? Eww,” she made a yucky face, satisfied with her argument but blind to her own hypocrisy. I could ask my mother the same question. Would you want to align yourself with a group that has sketchy roots and a history of systematically abusing the most innocent among you? “If we don’t stay faithful to Jehovah,” she warned, “we could lose our life.”

Drink up, Ma. I have a tree to decorate.

*For more info about Jehovah’s Witnesses celebrating Christmas, check out JWFacts.

This Will Hurt You More Than It Hurts Me

“She said you were doing great,” he sighed. “I was furious.”

My mother tells people I’m doing great because she knows that if she admits she shuns her only daughter, she’ll sound like a monster. My buddy, a family acquaintance and self-appointed covert agent, will occasionally send me updates from back home. Indignant, he recounts conversations with my parents whose voices I haven’t heard in years. Somewhere in the middle of our phone call, I assure him there’s no need to feel sorry for me. My mother isn’t a monster—she’s just a liar.

My mother needs to lie. Image is everything to Jehovah’s Witnesses, the little-known early pioneers of cancel culture and tea-spilling. For someone of my mother’s caliber and popularity, having an apostate child translates to having no child at all. My mother is a second-generation Jehovah’s Witness who strolled the Coney Island boardwalk as a young woman. She weathered sweaty summers at Yankee Stadium and saw a hooker murdered in Times Square. My mother rose from the swamp of East Coast derelicts to become a spiritual pillar in the South, the wife of a respected elder and mother to two God-fearing children, until one of those children went horribly astray. My mother needs to lie to others so everything appears copacetic. But, she also needs to lie to herself, because the truth would destroy her.

Shunning kills. Without a support system, Jehovah’s Witnesses who are excommunicated and ignored by their family have literally jumped off bridges. “Remember that family with the bipolar daughter who got disfellowshipped?” My hometown pal pointed his index and middle fingers to his temple. “Pulled her car off the road, and pop.” If they don’t take their own life, they’re manipulated back into the fold through a humiliating judicial process just so they can speak to their family again. After their tax-exempt status was yanked by the Norwegian court in early 2024, the Jehovah’s Witnesses have attempted to backpedal on their inhumane shunning policy, allowing the faithful to extend a brief “hello” to family members who were previously considered subhuman. Some would call this a win. More often, shunning backfires.

Truthfully, I’d have more respect for my parents if they took a dump on my front porch and owned their position. Beth is apostate. We reject her. But, they know shunning is harmful, which is why they skirt the question. Their canned response to my whereabouts is the equivalent of shipping off your knocked-up-and-unwed daughter to a maternity home in 1950s America. When I revoked my membership from the Organization nearly eight years ago, I have no doubt my parents believed their radio silence would humble me back into submission. But, I’m not going back, and their shunning is hurting them more than it hurts me.

I wish my parents were free. I wish they weren’t under the influence of a vile cabal of pedophilic frauds. My parents know I’m alive and well, and this pains them, because it doesn’t confirm their bias. It pains them to navigate basic pleasantries like How’s Beth? because it’s a pesky reminder that I’m not just going away. My mother doesn’t shun me because she suspects I’m evil—she shuns me because she suspects I could be on to something. Once you survive a transit strike and spot a limb floating in the Hudson, you definitely weren’t born yesterday.

Best Life Ever: Single Jehovah’s Witnesses and Depression

She spent her days grinding away at a tedious desk job. Her mother was on disability and needed her help to support the family. In her spare time, she spearheaded a foreign language group that offered rudimentary Bible studies to a remote indigenous community. She was reliable and loved by many. Then, out of the blue, she texted me: “I think I’m depressed.”

There are books to read, places to travel, foods to explore. There are hobbies waiting to be dabbled in, questions to ponder. The world is full of opportunities to make a positive difference in the lives of others, as my friend proved every day. Don’t forget, others have it worse—at least you have a roof over your head. Most importantly, no matter what you must endure in this world for the sake of His name, you’re storing up spiritual treasures from your loving heavenly Father. And, sometimes, you just need to get laid.

Jehovah’s Witnesses have a loneliness epidemic. They are sexually repressed through guilt and shame, then gaslit into believing their gnawing, inherent craving for intimacy is a result of their own weakness. My overworked and undersexed friend tread lightly in her statements, as if the subtext belying her confession wasn’t glaringly obvious. “The single brothers here…. I’m not really attracted to any of them. I love Jehovah. I don’t know…I guess I’m just tired.” She was tired, alright. Tired of the bullshit.

Single Jehovah’s Witnesses are tired of having to routinely justify and dismiss their natural, biological needs. Tired of being told to distract themselves with more Bible reading, more preaching and prayer. It’s not their fault most of them reach peak maturation in a sexual wasteland. Since premarital sex is prohibited, those who want to do right by God enter ill-advised marriages by the time they graduate high school, and those who can’t find a compatible mate, or simply want to bone without signing papers, are SOL. Sure, my girlfriend could have been depressed for other reasons, but in the case of Jehovah’s Witnesses, not every SSRI prescription is traced to a chemical imbalance. She was thirty, single, and nowhere to mingle.

“He had cool socks,” she giggled. My friend climbed the steps of Machu Picchu. She went whitewater rafting and studied moose tracks in the snow-capped Canadian Rockies. After the Apocalypse, my friend would strangle zombies with her bare hands while Sock Boy shit his pants. She was a beautiful, daring, grown-ass woman reduced to an adolescent who doodles “Mrs. Socks” on her organizer, and for what? A lukewarm love connection who couldn’t make eye contact and was probably gay.

Jehovah’s Witnesses claim they have the “Best Life Ever”. This isn’t some grassroots motto, a genuine testimony circulated among insiders who have experienced the benefits of a set of specific religious tenets. It’s their trademark, like, “Just Do It” or “I’m Lovin’ It”, and this brand of spirituality is presented as indisputable fact. If my friend admitted to me—and herself—that a steady diet of cult rhetoric and busy work wasn’t enough to stave off her hunger for more, her desire for companionship and the freedom to find that companion elsewhere, our tagline wouldn’t have the same ring to it. Single or not, that’s a ring no one should settle for.

Am I the Only One? — The Dangers of Groupthink and Razor Burn in the Dallas ‘Burbs

Jehovah’s Witnesses believe that anyone who disagrees with them is the enemy. Their leaders, collectively known as the Governing Body, demand unquestioning loyalty and obedience, even though they have repeatedly failed, lied to, and exploited their parishioners. They are the self-proclaimed gatekeepers of truth and mouthpiece for God, when their track record doesn’t warrant the reverence they receive. Unfortunately, Jehovah’s Witnesses live in an echo chamber, leaving anyone with even a whiff of doubt to think: Am I the only one who feels this way?

In a cult, you can’t express your doubts without immediate repercussions. There is zero grey area, or room for nuance, without your character suddenly being called into question. Here’s where it gets even more sticky. Sometimes, the group is not entirely wrong. Jehovah’s Witnesses, as a group, want paradise on earth. They want to eradicate injustice and inequality. This is a beautiful sentiment. But, they also want to achieve this by the most divisive means possible—eradicating anyone who isn’t a Jehovah’s Witness. This paradoxical logic means they want to usher in an unprecedented era of world peace through a wholesale rejection of anyone who isn’t exactly like them.

At first, I tried to express my concerns in a way that was non-combative and reasonable. Why do we shun people who leave? If you want someone to change their mind and possibly return, insulting and isolating them isn’t exactly going to make them receptive to what you have to say. Or, when I vocalized my distrust of the Governing Body due to their mishandling of child sexual abuse cases, their eyes just glazed over. One Jehovah’s Witness put it this way: “Even if the accusations are true,” they said, “this is still the best place to be.”

One afternoon in my early twenties, a girlfriend invited me over to swim with her at her apartment complex. The cool, chlorinated waters would be the antidote to my hot Dallas depression. As I changed into my swimsuit, I noticed I was a bit scrappier than I’d like to be. “You got a razor?” My girlfriend, a disciple of the Brazilian wax, rummaged through her bathroom cabinet when she pulled out something cheap, pink, and plastic. I held out my hand.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she warned, laughing at the one-blade relic. But, I insisted.

“Better than nothing,” I said.

Next, as we dipped our toes in the chilly pool and congratulated each other on how cute we looked, we agreed to jump in at the same time. I surfaced with a gasp. Holy shit, that burns.

It’s okay to have doubts, to not be so certain that you leave zero margin for error. Unlike the Jehovah’s Witness who tried to convince me that their haven for pedos was still morally superior, I don’t believe that defaulting to the group out of misplaced loyalty is the answer. As they fall back on sweeping generalizations and pressure their members to conform, the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ rigidity will be their downfall. Is it possible that there are alternative viewpoints, or solutions, and why was I so confident that a rusty Bic was a smart move?

Sometimes, nothing is better.

But, They Had Turkey On Sale: When Jehovah’s Witnesses Covertly Celebrate Thanksgiving

Jehovah’s Witnesses are discouraged from engaging in extracurricular activities at school, associating with classmates or coworkers, even from attending college. This doesn’t include the hardline rules thou shalt not break: premarital sex, recreational drugs, and holidays, to name a few. That leaves two things to look forward to: booze and food.

This is the equivalent of feeding a toddler sugar and caffeine, then putting them down for a nap; Junior’s going to unleash unmitigated chaos in the nursery. Jehovah’s Witnesses have been denied so many pleasures that once they’re behind closed doors they secretly break the rules, or they gorge on whiskey and pumpkin pie (damn, that sounds good.) And, herein lies the irony—a Jehovah’s Witness can drink and drive, get lit and terrorize their spouse, but they can’t smoke a fatty, or enjoy a turkey leg once a year without keeping the blinds drawn.

Thanksgiving was created in the 1600s after a bunch of white people took shit that didn’t belong to them, then thanked God for their successful genocide of an indigenous people. Today, Thanksgiving is a Thursday off in November where we eat, spend time with family, maybe even volunteer. But, Jehovah’s Witnesses are forbidden from celebrating holidays, so they have to go underground. The whispers start, texts are exchanged, and before you can say “Butterball”, Jehovah’s Witnesses across America are ready to throw down in the kitchen.

In a moment of lucidity, I once asked my mother, “Isn’t this basically celebrating Thanksgiving?” Every year since I could remember, my mother invited at least a dozen people to the house for T-Day dinner with all the fixings, and we were not by any stretch the only ones. Whether you were hosting, or just bringing the yams, everyone in the congregation consumed bird that day. My mother, however, shrugged off our hypocrisy: “Sure, we could do this any time of the year,” she said. “But, they had turkey on sale.” The tastiest rationalization I’ve ever heard.

Let me be clear. I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving dinner with my Jehovah’s Witness family, because that’s exactly what it was. Saying a prayer to Jehovah to give thanks for the food and company, and adding several inches to our waistline with one meal. Of course, there will always be those few Jehovah’s Witnesses who you won’t see at the table—they’re camped outside Best Buy to get a head start.

Disfellowshipped: The First Time I Talked to a Dead Guy

He wore a tan suit that looked like it came off the clearance rack at JCPenney. When he didn’t respond, I poked him again in the shoulder. “Hey, it’s me!” I waved my magic marker-stained hand in front of his face. But, his gaze fell downward, blank. I backed away slowly and shuffled over to my mother who was seated on the opposite side of the room. “Mama,” I whispered. “I said hi to Jamal but he didn’t talk to me.” My mother, draped in her auburn scarves and garnet earrings, craned her neck around. I watched as her eyes tried to locate him in the crowd. Then, leaning in towards me, she lowered her voice. “He’s disfellowshipped.”

Let me break this bullshit down for you: Jamal* was 17 years old. When he was a child, he lost his father in a tragic accident. Then, his mother suffered a traumatic brain injury. Jamal was my brother’s buddy, and was one in a handful of young Jehovah’s Witness men in town. No one cared about Jamal. His mom was kooky, and his younger sister was obese. His family didn’t bring any clout—or money—to the congregation. Then, Jamal got into some trouble and was excommunicated. At 17, a fatherless boy was ostracized by the only people he knew, and left for dead.

No, Jamal was not dead, but he might as well have been. I wish this were an exaggeration, but no one would know Jamal’s whereabouts unless they smelled the body weeks later. Through the naïve eyes of a child, I couldn’t comprehend why a bunch of grown-ups would do something so cruel. Whatever Jamal did, he didn’t deserve to be ignored in a room full of people, people who were supposed to love him and have his back.

Then, it happened to my brother. Like Jamal, my brother was “dead” for two years. “How’s your brother?” they’d ask me, knowing damn well they exiled a young man. Their smirk was a knife to my seven-year-old heart, and they took me for stupid. But, the funny thing about seven-year-olds is they don’t stay seven. They get older, they remember, and sometimes, they become writers.

My parents are devout Jehovah’s Witnesses, and I’ve brought them shame for speaking out against the Organization. But if I don’t say something, I teach them that shunning is okay. The Jehovah’s Witnesses traumatized Jamal, my brother, and continue to traumatize thousands more with their inhumane shunning policy. Jamal and my brother may be grown men now, but their wounds will never heal. They were forced to hang up their skateboards, dreams, and their dignity, their memory forever ossified as Prodigal Sons who crawled their way back into God’s good graces.

By the way, I’m dead now, too. I revoked my membership from the Jehovah’s Witnesses on New Year’s Eve, 2017, because I could no longer align myself with an Organization that has ruined countless lives. However, I’m only dead to my parents and former friends. In all other respects, I’m alive and well. The sun still shines on the wicked!

If you’re reading this, and you’re currently dead, I want you to know it gets better. Yes, it’s shitty for a while, but it does get better. And, if you decide to go back, I understand. Your family has put you in an extremely difficult position. But. I hope you’re honest with yourself as to why you’re going back, because anyone who would do that to you sure as hell doesn’t love you.

If you’re dead, welcome back to life.

*Not his real name.

Resources about disfellowshipping and shunning in the Jehovah’s Witnesses:

Jehovah’s Witnesses call disfellowshipping a “loving provision”:

https://www.jw.org/en/library/magazines/w20150415/disfellowshipping-a-loving-provision/

A shunned Jehovah’s Witness mother kills her family, then herself:

https://www.freep.com/story/news/2018/05/18/keego-harbor-murder-suicide-lauren-stuart/620709002

Jehovah’s Witnesses pressure families to not communicate with disfellowshipped family members or friends:

https://www.jw.org/en/library/magazines/w20130115/let-nothing-distance-you-from-jehovah/

Check out JWFacts for more information and updates about Jehovah’s Witnesses’ shunning practices.

I Hope You’re Choking in Heaven

The Bible says, “look after the widows.” (James 1:27) Gladys* was an 82-year-old veteran Jehovah’s Witness. In the span of forty years, she completed several holy tours, preaching throughout multiple states and countries. After retiring from missionary work, she smelled like cat food and watched soap operas from her recliner. Gladys was a widow, and I quietly wondered how many years I’d get if I pushed her down the stairs.

Gladys was an asshole. She spoke over you and had a condescending stare as if she were waiting for a punchline. She was more Estelle Getty than Jesus; which would be awesome if it were her job to make people laugh for a living. (Not the case, pussycat.) Instead, Gladys believed she belonged to a select few destined to live in heaven with Jesus after they die. The Jehovah’s Witnesses refer to this VIP group as the “144,000”, a number they plucked from the highly-symbolic book of Revelation to support their skewed interpretation of the End Times. If Jesus were President, the 144,000 would be his administration; executives who vow to help Jesus rule over the humans. Gladys longed for heaven, so she could literally look down on everyone else.

When it comes to cranky old people, I’m of two minds. First, I don’t know what they’ve had to endure, so I should show compassion. The other half of me says, if you’ve managed to isolate yourself from everyone with your Bible-beating and inflated sense of self-importance, well, karma’s a bitch. The Jehovah’s Witnesses, and other far-right evangelicals, are stocked with cranky old widows like Gladys, because this environment validates and reinforces their narcissism. Of course, there’s something to be said for making it that long, for having a sage perspective that comes with decades of life experience. The catch is, if you’re going to come full circle and insist on behaving like an entitled toddler, no one’s going to stick around to change your diapers.

Yes, I’m going to be a widow one day. I’ve tried to force my husband to sign a pact that says we die together, holding hands in conjoined hospital beds. But, being that he’s ten years older, he reminds me that the odds are not stacked in my favor. Maybe this prospect scares me and I, too, end up cranky and distressed. Maybe I end up needing a home health aide. Maybe I wind up on a park bench talking to pigeons. At the very least, I don’t harbor some delusion of cohabitating with Christ to boss around future generations.

Gladys used to eat a pudding cup in the afternoons. One day, her tired granddaughter, who I happened to adore and who had an appointment she couldn’t get out of, asked if I would watch her grandmother for a few hours. Once we were alone, Gladys demanded I drive clear across town in rush hour to pick up more of her favorite pudding cups at the one grocery store that still carried them. I said, no.

“You’re a real piece of work,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then, she turned her back to me and headed downstairs to the finished basement where she lived.

Later, I heard a commotion somewhere in the house. I followed the sound to the top of the staircase to hear Gladys choking. Oh shit, I thought. I hoofed it down the stairs and stepped through the door which was already partially open. “Are you okay?” Before responding to me, she regained her composure and placed her pudding cup by the phone. Someone was on speaker.

“Hey,” she yapped into the receiver. “Let me call you back.” The other person didn’t hear her.

“I’m with you Gladys—” said the voice on the other end, “—she’s an idiot.”

Gladys died a year later. I’ve met my share of pious curmudgeons over the years, but Gladys takes the cake (or, pudding). In honor of Gladys, I raise my spoon: I hope you choke on it.

Amen.

(*Her real name. That’s how much she sucks.)