personal

love trumps faith

~ GennaClaire ~ Leave a comment
Photo by tyler gebhart on Unsplash

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

1 Corinthians 13:13

Curious as it seems, the Bible tells us that love is more important than faith. The first and second greatest of all the commandments. And the cornerstone of the entire religion.

—

In the 2016 election, 81% of the white evangelical voters cast their ballots for Trump.

Still today, they’re as faithful to him as ever; their support of late at an all-time high. They claim Trump stands for Christian values, but his adulterous indiscretion with a porn star is “Between him and God.” They believe he represents the Christian family but ignore as he rips immigrant families apart. They applaud him for keeping his campaign promises, regardless of how those promises hurt others. They think he follows the Christian faith; they have forgotten about Christian love.

—

I liked going to church growing up. I liked the performance of it, the fellowship, the tradition. The candles and the stained glass. The robes and rituals. Above all else, I liked the hymns.

Our church had an organ. The choir led the way in song. The congregation followed. I read along in silence, baptized by each word. Poetry set to music, haunting and true.

 

—

Last week I ended up behind a Jeep Cherokee on my way in to work. It was polluted with bumper stickers that ranged from rainbow-infused “Love Wins” and “Proud Democrat” to messages of equality and hope and peace and kindness.

On the way home from work, I ended up behind a Ford F-150 with a single bumper sticker. It read, “Trump 2020: Make Liberals Cry Again.”

A cross hung from the rearview mirror.

—

“Here Is Love Vast as the Ocean” was one of my favorite hymns. It captured the might and relentlessness of God’s love. It summed up my belief system better than any Bible verse or parable or Sunday school lesson ever could. It all comes back to love.

At 22, I got those words inked into my rib cage, just beneath my heart.

—

Yesterday, the supreme court ruled in favor of a Christian baker who refused to make a cake for a gay couple. The baker insisted gay marriage went against his religion.

Even more than faith over love, now we’re talking about faith against love. It’s religion I can hardly recognize, much less call my own.

—

Outside of funerals and weddings, I don’t go to church much anymore. After watching evangelicals use Christianity to stand by Trump, I doubt I ever will.

But I still have a tattoo on my ribcage. And I still have a hymn in my heart.

So here is love, vast as the ocean. May it one day be the greatness of faith.

Thank You for Making Valentine’s Day Meaningless

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

Todd Shelnutt Sevier,

You should know that every time you hit snooze on your alarm so we can spoon for nine more precious minutes before getting up…Every time you sneak up behind me while I’m doing my makeup and kiss the back of my neck…Every time you send a text during the middle of my workday with a gif of two otters holding hands or a surprise greeting card from Curly Girl Designs…Every time you come home with a cheerful “Hey boo-boo!” and a generous hug…Every time we go out for a spontaneous date night and sit at the bar so we can be close…Every time you hold my hand as we walk back to the car from dinner…Every time you patiently tell me every last detail of your day because I won’t stop asking you to…You teach me how to celebrate love. Not just in grand gestures on holidays, but also in every little moment of every other day of the year.

So I just want to say thank you for making Valentine’s Day meaningless in the best kind of way. And, of course, I love you. Yesterday, today, forever.

<3 <3 <3

0Andrew-Cebulka-0326

 

 

 

Troo Love

~ GennaClaire ~ 2 Comments

I’m a dog person. I love a leg-slap by a happy tail. I love wiggly butts waiting for me at the door. I love joyful barks and big ol’ toothy grins and the uninhibited affection that only dogs can offer.

I’ve always been a dog person. And that’s exactly why I struggled with Roo, the Chihuahua-ish mix that Todd adopted right before we started dating.

At first glance, you’d probably say Roo was a dog. Although we all agreed, she looked more like the lovechild of Dobby from Harry Potter and Yoda. She had ears that stuck out from the sides of her head, oversized bulging eyes, a pink nose, and a tongue that seemed far too long for her mouth.

Despite her perplexing appearance, Roo was in fact a dog. A very, very peculiar dog.

She never barked. Or learned a single trick. She looked irritated and incredulous when scolded. She hated the cold. And the rain. And the outdoors. She didn’t care much for food. Or chew toys. Or other dogs.

What Roo did care for was sleep. She slept with us in bed—under the covers—every night. And she growled if you happened to nudge her while shifting your position.

While our two pit bulls pounced on our faces at 6:00 a.m., Roo preferred to stay tucked beneath the blankets, snoozing the day away. We’d have to pull the covers off her and coax her out of bed when it was time for us to go to work.

Roo also differed from other dogs in the things she liked: going to the vet, bath time, and wearing cable-knit sweaters. If we could have heard her voice, Todd and I imagined Roo sounded something like an old, crotchety British professor.

She loved to play, but only in 15 second increments—and only on her terms. She loved our other two pups, as long as they were quiet, still, and keeping her warm. She loved being held, but of course, she hated being picked up.

It never failed that as I tried to sit down on the couch, Roo’d hop into my lap before I could even get settled. I’d be trapped awkwardly holding her 22-pound physique asking Todd to pass me my glass of wine so as not to disturb her.

Roo also had a funny way of greeting me when I’d get home each day. She would prance up to me, struggling to squeeze in among our two bigger pups. She’d curl her lips around her teeth in what most people would clearly call a snarl, but I knew it was just her strange, excited hello.

Weekend mornings were Roo’s time to shine. After we’d let the other pups out to play in the yard, Roo would crawl her way to the top of the bed, roll over on her back between Todd and me, and bask in belly rubs. Then she’d give the sweetest little kisses for as long as our faces were within her tongue’s impressive reach.

The people who met Roo either loved her instantly or didn’t get her at all. I hate to admit that for a long time, I was the latter. I was a dog person. And Roo didn’t act like a dog.

But my hesitation didn’t affect how she treated me. When Todd and I moved in together two years ago, she adopted me as her owner with full confidence. Todd hates to admit it, but she loved me the most—and without ever wanting anything in return.

It took me a while to figure out, but Roo’s unconditional love made her more of a dog than tail-chasing or squirrel-hunting ever could.

I’m a dog person. Roo was my dog. And last week, we had to say goodbye.

I’ve never had a pet that’s so completely irreplaceable, and I doubt I ever will. My little Roo-Bug was dearly loved and will be greatly missed.

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another silent night

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

four years is an eternity.

four years is an instant.

while most days are easy,

today is impossible.

and so i remember her—

always with love

and sometimes with peace.

Andrew-Cebulka-9463
“Our Lady of Guadalupe,” one of my mother’s paintings 

Honoring Mom

~ GennaClaire ~ 2 Comments

“Do you want to take a photo to honor your mother?”

That’s the question my thoughtful, compassionate photographer asked me on my wedding day.

The dress was on. Hair and makeup, done. Chandelier earrings dangling by my cheeks.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t say anything at all.

Todd had decided to take a portrait holding his mother’s cowboy hat across his chest. Perhaps I wanted to do something like that?

“Maybe in front of one of her paintings?” the photographer offered.

I stared at my hands. I tried to focus.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t put plenty of thought into how to honor my mom at my wedding. I’d considered empty chairs and photographs. Special songs and moments of silence.

None of it felt right. None of it felt like her. Or me. So, I’d let it go.

“That’s okay,” I replied. “I don’t think I need to do that.”

Now I look back at the pictures from that day, and I know I was right. In shot after shot after shot, my face shows nothing except unbridled joy.

And that’s how I honor her.

By being happy. By finding the best partner for me. By living life fully. And always, always, always overflowing with love.

 

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~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

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I choose you,

as my husband and partner,

my companion and friend,

my forever and always.

Because I love you just as you are today

and I’m excited to see who you become.

I promise to always support and snuggle you,

to challenge and cherish you,

And to be honest and adventurous,

so that our love will not grow old, even as we do.

The Love that Built This House

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

When I wear white,

there will be no church or chapel.

Just the sanctuary we created—

a simple plot of fertile ground

where a sacred love could grow.

At the end of the aisle, we’ll plant our feet.

Hearts beating like two hummingbirds,

captured in cages of bone.

There we’ll test the limits of human joy—

pledging words that no one else has said.

Because we wrote them.

Together.

As we invite others in to join

the unending celebration

that began when we first met,

my heart will be as full as the moon overhead.

Standing beneath oaks that have lasted for centuries

and hoping—always hoping—

for a love that lasts just as long.

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In Defense of My Right to Be Me

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

I am the granddaughter of two southern preachers. Named after both.

Spiritual but not religious. Young but not ignorant.

Thoughtful with much to learn.

I’m a Gemini. Earth sign. Born the Year of the Tiger.

5’6”. 150 pounds. Brown eyes. Red hair. (Most of the time.)

Three tattoos…Four if you count the cover up.

I pose for an occasional selfie. I’m bad at taking pictures.

My mom is dead. My dad is amazing. My sister is my best friend.

I’m high school valedictorian. UGA alumni. Charleston resident.

The writer of my story. Sometimes, even the protagonist.

 

I write what I feel.

I say what I think.

 

I’m a white person who believes #BlackLivesMatter.

A hardworking Millennial.

A feminist who can’t wait to get married.

A democrat who didn’t care about politics until 2016.

An American who can see the United States is flawed.

A patriot who kneels with Colin Kaepernick.

 

I write what I feel.

I say what I think.

 

I’m afraid of North Korea, fake news, and hate.

I’m against the death penalty. I’m pro having a conversation about that.

I’m for vaccines. And human rights. And equal pay for women and minorities.

I don’t care what bathroom anyone uses. I think all bathrooms should actually be rooms.

I think gay people should get married. I think gay people are just regular people.

I’m for women having the right to choose what happens to their own bodies.

I’m not afraid to admit that black people aren’t set up to succeed in this country.

I don’t mind that some of my paycheck goes to help those who need it more than me.

I do mind that some of those people never had the same chances I had.

I struggle to understand Trump supporters.

I understand that Trump supporters struggle with me.

I think it’s hard to be a Muslim right now.

I have a hard time being a Christian right now.

I think gun control would help with gun violence.

I’m sad I missed the Women’s March on Washington for a bridal shower.

I think I’ll never stop regretting not being there.

 

I write what I feel.

I say what I think.

 

I believe this country will get better.

I believe my generation can help.

I believe #LoveWins.

I believe change takes time. And determination. And strength.

I believe change happens when people stand up for what they believe.

 

I write what I feel.

I say what I think.

 

This is who I am.

 

And this…this right here…this is where I share, discuss, support, console, lament, and grieve.

If you do not like it, unfriend, unfollow, or uninvite yourself from this space. My space.

But do NOT tell me what I can and cannot say here.

Do NOT tell me who I can and cannot be here.

Not here in this space that I created and YOU have stepped into.

This is who I am.

And who do you think YOU are expecting me to be someone else?

 

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The Answer to the Question, “Are You Changing Your Name When You Get Married?”

~ GennaClaire ~ 1 Comment

My last name is Shelnutt—like nutshell, only backward. (And spelled funny.)

That’s the way I’ve explained it my entire life: when giving presentations in school, putting my name on a waitlist for a table at a restaurant, and introducing myself to Comcast agents on the phone.

Throughout my school years, I wore my last name like a strange badge. I enjoyed hearing new teachers hesitate when reading it during roll call on the first day. (Never mind the fact that my first name, Jenna, is spelled with G, further adding to the confusion.)

I appreciated how rare it was. If you know another Shelnutt—which you probably don’t—chances are I’m related to that awesome human.

—

My days of roll call are long gone, and now I’m getting married in the fall. My dad will walk me down the aisle, but I will not play the bridal march. My dress is white, but I will not wear a veil. I’ll say the vows, but I will not change my last name.

I’m a Shelnutt. I’ve always been a Shelnutt. I like being a Shelnutt. I like that my name comes with a little joke that warms people to me when we’re first introduced. I like how it sounds following my first name. I like the disheveled look of my signature.

From a young age, I found it unfair that women lose their names when they get married, and men do not. Even when those women have obviously cool last names like Shelnutt.

—

When my fiancé, Todd, and I first started dating, I confessed to him that I had no intentions of ever taking another man’s last name.

“Good for you,” he replied without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have expected anything different.”

And that was that.

—

When we got engaged, the conversation re-emerged. Todd assumed we would both keep our names as previously discussed. I’d stay a Shelnutt. He, a Sevier.

I wasn’t happy with that either. To me, that seemed like getting married and nothing changing.

But when you get married something is changing. You’re coming together in a legally recognized partnership. You’re committing to forever together. Marriage has lasting impacts on both parties, and I wanted a name reflecting that.

I offered plenty of alternatives to the non-name-change. Sevier-Shelnutt. Shelnutt-Sevier. Or my personal favorite: Shelvier. (How gorgeous does that sound? Much better than Sevnutt; let’s be honest.)  I even suggested we take Todd’s last name but change the pronunciation from severe to sev-vee-ā, like we’re an adorable French couple.

Todd didn’t buy it.

We discussed, debated, and buried the whole name-change concept in the ground. Then, I dug it up from the grave, and we discussed and debated some more.

—

One night over dinner—somewhere between chicken parmesan and tiramisu—Todd brain-birthed a new solution: we could both take each other’s last names as our middle names. He’d be Todd Shelnutt Sevier. I’d be Genna Sevier Shelnutt.

And that was that.

—

When I explain our decision to those who ask, some are amazed, others perturbed. Some applaud our individuality. Others are made uncomfortable by it.

Maybe it’s annoyingly progressive. Maybe it’s progressively annoying. Maybe it’s audacious. Maybe it’s pretentious. Maybe it’s just plain stupid.

But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s us.

It’s reflective of our equal partnership. It’s reflective of our compromise. It’s reflective of us coming together. And it’s reflective of the change we’re both making together. It connects me to him and him to me without compromising our identities as individuals.

And best of all, it allows me to remain a Shelnutt—like nutshell, only backward. (And spelled funny.)

 

Genna &amp; Todd Take Miami

 

The Unexpected Perks (pun intended) of Having Tiny Tits

~ GennaClaire ~ 4 Comments

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When I was 17, about to turn 18, and finishing my senior year of high school, I asked my mom if she and my dad would buy me breast implants as a graduation gift.

Not surprisingly, she said no. Mom was all about loving your body. Not so much about altering it to appease society’s unrealistic expectations of how women should look.

What mom didn’t know was how I had longed for bigger breasts ever since my darling duo started to fill in and then came to a sudden halt at what struck me as far short of the finish line.

She also didn’t know that my then-boyfriend had an obsession with big boobs, a fact I stumbled upon when using his laptop. While typing a Google search that began with the letter “b,” the search engine offered me his recent searches as suggestions.

“Big boob asian porn” was my boyfriend’s most recent “b” search. I deleted the “b” and typed “a” instead. “Amateur girl on girl huge tits,” Google suggested. I tried “c” to the same effect. D? You better believe it. One by one, I checked each letter in the alphabet. Every last consonant and vowel had been summoned to hunt for porn involving one common theme: the giant boobs I didn’t have.

—

I like to half-jokingly describe my figure as chocolate-bar shaped. When people arch a confused eyebrow in response, I’ll explain, “You know, like a rectangle. Broad shoulders. Broad hips. Broad waist. Flat chest. Built like Kit Kat.”

In college, I gained the cliché “freshmen 15”…two years in a row. Much to my dismay, my boobs refused to put on a single pound. Instead, my figure shifted from boyish to full-on doughboy. The same boob-obsessed boyfriend told me he was no longer attracted to me. And that was how we ended.

Without his standards weighing in, I finally saw myself through my lens of beauty. I realized how I loved my pale skin, dotted with freckles along my shoulders. And I stopped trying to brown it in the sun.

I rediscovered my big brown eyes, which always reminded me of my mother’s. And I stopped wearing green-tinted contacts.

I embraced my fat bottom lip, which often appears crooked in photographs. And I began drawing attention to it with bright lipsticks.

I even found love for my boobs—their roundness, their perkiness, their density. And I threw out every last one of my push-up bras.

—

In 2015 at the age of 29, I found myself once again single for the first time in a long time. Online dating had become a thing, and I threw up a profile hoping to meet someone new.

An older, newly divorced banker chatted me up. We both liked University of Georgia, literature, and witty banter. It seemed like a good match. After getting to know him over text messages, we met in person for a drink. I wore a navy dress and dangling gold earrings, hot pink lipstick and high heels. I felt fabulous and flawless.

Within an hour of the encounter, his tone grew serious as he leaned in toward me and asked, “Have you ever thought about getting a boob job?”

When I returned home that night, I plucked off my jewelry and slipped out of the dress. In front of a full-length mirror in my bedroom, I removed my bra and underwear. I looked at my body and resisted the urge to scrutinize it.

Instead, I looked with love. I saw a woman who won’t settle for less than she deserves. I saw someone who worked hard to find herself and fights to be the most authentic version of that self every day. I saw strong arms and healthy legs and a well-fed stomach.

And sitting proudly on my chest, I saw the boobs—my boobs. The boobs that are exactly right for my body—even when I don’t realize it. The boobs I have loved and hated and loved again.

They may never win a wet t-shirt contest, but those boobs helped me narrow my dating pool by one shallow divorcee that night. And that’s more than good enough for me.

 

Personal note: This post is by no means suggesting that having small boobs is better or worse than having big boobs. It’s an account of the journey I took to love my body the way it is. It is also not suggesting that there’s something wrong with breast implants. Everyone’s journey is different As long as you have found or are moving toward a place where you love yourself, you’re doing it right.

 

Image (Abstract Nude Female Laying Down) is from Ceres Fine Art and available for purchase via Etsy.