My Story

Women once whispered secret stories while wiping dishes—far away from ears that should not hear.

Across cultures, carefully cloaked stories in colorfully crafted fairytale words have been handed down for centuries because truths could not be openly spoken. Hence we remember hearing about a powerful brutal man with an indigo beard.

But here…here is a safe place to say what has been unspeakable. To say what could not have been told for fear of not being believed. The Hope of Survivors is safe because, here, those who write and those who read nod their heads in solidarity.

Here is My Story…

During those years of my childhood, our elementary school put on many programs for the small town in which I grew up.

One spring the theme was “America the Beautiful” and my class was to represent the MidWest. We practiced square dancing all winter and, by March, we do-si-doed and allemande-lefted perfectly in fringed vests and denim.

My older sister was to be a hula girl in a grass skirt and flowery lei swaying to luau music. But an early chinook blew in chicken pox and we four sisters shared it; one after another; like we shared everything.

The day before we were to perform in the looked forward to program, we still had pockmarks and we cried till our faces were as red as the remnant scabs.

Mrs. J who was everyone’s favorite first grade teacher and director of the “America the Beautiful” program came right over to our house, Cover Girl in hand. She covered those pockmarks carefully so that we could promenade and hula. We dried our tears so the makeup didn’t run while we danced, danced and danced on that school stage! Mrs. J was so caring to us and, even though Momma would not have been able to afford it, Mrs. J made sure we got the books she was selling—The Bible Story books by Arthur S. Maxwell.

Momma made us wash our hands before we could open the pages. And I had very clean hands because I read those books over and over. I was nine years old the first time I turned the page in volume seven to the beautiful earth-toned picture of Jesus talking to Nicodemus. In words even a child can comprehend, I read Jesus’ gentle answer to this man who had come to Him in the night. And I knelt by my bed and accepted Jesus as my Savior because my heart was touched by this Savior whose story was simple and compelling just for me.

The summer I turned 12, I attended Bible Camp. Rev. M, from my hometown, gave altar call after altar call to us kids. He took me aside one day and asked why I hadn’t come forward so I could be saved. I told him I had already done that. But he was stern and unconvinced and told me I had to come forward like the rest. I did what he said because that’s what children did in the 1960s and, besides, I knew I already had Jesus in my heart and twice couldn’t hurt.

Before a year had gone by, Rev. M insisted I be baptized by him and join the church, which I also did.

When I was 13, I was part of the youth group cleaning the church one spring day. Rev. M asked me to stay later than the other kids to clean his office, as there were some books I could then have. But, as soon as I was in that room and he closed the door, I felt a nudge of already perceived apprehension and already discerned protection.

He asked me (when he touched my back), “Why do all of you girls wear your bras so tight?”

Then he said, “Now, you tell me how far you want me to go”…And, “no one has to know about this.”

In three sentences Rev. M told me three important things:

1. Other girls had been in this situation with him too (“all you girls wear your bras so tight”) in a grooming effort to make it seem normal.
2. He transferred the wrong to me (“you tell me how far…”) copying the Master of deception.
3. He made it clear this was a secret (“now, no one has to know”)…making it what he hoped would be a bond of sorts and demanding silence.

I remember his big, close face, sagging jowls and hot breath and his hand lifting my lavender gingham skirt.

But more, far more, for this 13-year-old girl (who knew very little about sex), I felt a power I now believe must have been angels who excel in strength guiding me toward a door that I found unlocked and then my finding these words that must have confused his 60-something-year-old perverted mind, “I promised my Mom that I would clean the Venetian blinds for her” …setting my path as innocent and obedient and actually allusive to his.

He and his wife were leaving the next day, having accepted a position as house parents at a “home for wayward girls,” which he must have thought I was. He knew my parents were getting divorced—unheard of in that small town in 1962.

I didn’t tell anyone…except for R, the boy I rode my bike with. We often shared written arithmetic problems, brown sugar sandwiches and gum by the half stick.

I met R at the rusty old pump as usual, halfway between my house and his, where we got fresh cold water.

I washed my hands and my face in the cool clean water while he listened.

Years later, R told me that he (this 13-year-old boy) had ridden his bike to the parsonage that evening and had stood in the yard throwing rocks at the parsonage window and yelling at Rev. M—even though I made him promise he wouldn’t tell.

My story isn’t meant to be so much a part of the #MeToo movement, as it is a testimony of my heavenly Father’s care. He doesn’t protect us from being around the dark evil in the world but, when that evil presented itself as Rev. M did, He moved His angels by me. They came, knowing I would feel their presence and never forget.

Other lasting effects have been that:

• I never left my daughters alone with men.
• That I never go to a pastor for advice.
• That the hair stands up on the back of my neck when I easily note any predatory presumption.
• That fidelity to the Father and to Jesus, His Son, is ingrained in me because of meeting Him long ago on my knees by my bed and because He leads me out of uncertainty or maybe the certainty of others’ dark intentions.

And maybe because every girl needs a 13-year-old boy to stand up for her.

Rocks or no rocks.

Author: B.

If you are a survivor of clergy sexual abuse, we would love to hear your story and possibly make it available on this web site for others to read and renew their hope. You can use a pseudonym if you choose and rest assured that all personal information will be kept private and strictly confidential. Please contact us.

Please note: We do not necessarily agree with or endorse all the information contained in the survivor’s stories. We do, however, feel they have some valuable information that could be useful to you in your recovery. It helps to know you’re not alone, that others have shared your pain and have healed, by the grace of God, in their own time and way.