Innocence

CW: Implicit sexual abuse of a minor

Innocence

I was 14 when my life began and 14 when it crashed into pieces. The same man was behind both life markers, though I don’t blame him. No, I blame God.

Church was like school on Sundays except that I had to wear a dress and the church van smelled nicer than the bus. When we complained about wanting to sleep in, Mom would, depending on her mood, lecture us on the importance of community, spiritual education, or a parent’s need for alone time. She and my dad never came along unless it was Christmas, Easter, or Grandma was visiting.

Not that church was all that bad. The Sunday School ladies fed us stale cookies and grape Kool-Aid. They smiled a lot and smelled like the peppermint candies they would hand out as we filed into the sanctuary. I believe they intended to keep our mouths full so we wouldn’t talk so much. Instead, they ended up enduring the crinkling of plastic for the next hour.

God and I weren’t acquainted during those early years. I knew of Him, thought some of the stories interesting, but what did a guy who lived thousands of years ago have to do with me? That all changed the summer of ’94 when Carterton Baptist hired a new youth minister. Scott was his name. He was fresh, right out of seminary, young enough to get away with wearing jeans to church, and knew just what to say to draw a crowd. Our measly youth group went from using the old ladies breakfast lounge to busting out of the basement fellowship hall, all in three months time.

Scott became a Carterton celebrity. Even Mom and Dad came on the Sunday he gave his ordination address. He preached on the Feeding of the 5000. I guess the message passed the test for positive spiritual training, because they sang his praises ever after. When Scott asked if it would be ok if I attended a special Bible study he was hosting for the girls in the group, they didn’t hesitate. They even volunteered to drive me if need be.

The envious looks and comments from my friends did wonders for my fragile ego. We had all been crushing on Scott for months. And I had been chosen, me and two other girls who were relatively new to the group. I didn’t stop to wonder why I was chosen. I still put a little blame on myself for that. I hoped I might be special, thought maybe someone else thought I could be somebody too.

The first “special” Bible study was, no contest, the pinnacle moment of my life. We were ushered into the fancy lounge area that was normally only reserved for church workers, with plush, unstained carpet and couches with flower - patterned upholstery. The lights were dimmed, and the VHS powered on. I don’t remember anything about where Scott was or the other girls; I was engrossed in the film. God spoke to me. I felt loved, and yes, very special. He died for me, and I could live forever with Him. When the speaker at the end offered a prayer to accept Christ into my heart and become a Christian, I didn’t hesitate. With heart pounding, I prayed my first authentic prayer. Joy filled my young heart and tears washed my face. I felt clean and new. The lights came on, and I told the others. I was baptized the next Sunday in my best dress with my parents smiling at me from the second row.

Over the next few weeks, our little group kept up the routine of movie watching and follow-up discussions. But two things began to strike me as not quite right. A girl, formally very vocal about her new faith, stopped coming. She not only stopped coming on Wednesdays but completely broke off all contact with her friends from youth. But another girl soon took her place, and I didn’t think much else about it. The second strange thing was that the movies became less religious. A few weeks in, and Scott was putting in a tape I’m sure had the Blockbuster sticker on the back. Most of them were movies I wasn’t typically allowed to watch. They had words not allowed in my vocabulary and some bedroom scenes that caused me to blush from the inside out. I remember thinking the tingling feeling must be something spiritual; I was at church after all. Scott started sitting next to me on the couch.

The next Wednesday, I was the only one who showed up for “Bible” study. Scott dimmed the lights, started the film, and I felt him join me on the couch, felt his arm wrap around my shoulders. The film went deeper than before, more graphic, displaying images I didn’t understand. Scott began to whisper to me the explanations, what the “actors” were doing. I didn’t flinch when he began stroking my leg. We became the actors. I won’t lie; it was exciting. Afterwards, he held me as I cried.

Guilt was waiting for me, lurking on the other side of the cross-covered church door. Shame and disgust crawled into bed with me that night. I tried to justify it. It was with a minister; it had to be ok. But inside I knew what I had done—knew that what we had done was wrong. You’d think I’d be mad at Scott, but no. Scott was still perfect, probably even more so. I longed for the next time, the next Wednesday study. But even that was to be stolen from me. There was another girl at the next study. Scott sat with her on the couch.

The rest of the year is a haze. I spiraled into a vortex of depression. My grades plummeted. My friends stopped calling. My mom became worried but chalked it up to budding female hormones. I went back to church a few Sundays, even a few more Wednesday nights, but it wasn’t until the Christmas pageant that I cracked. Hearing the story of the virgin birth, understanding for the first time what that meant, realizing that I could never be pure again, I started bawling during the angel chorus and left. I called my mom to come pick me up. I didn’t want to ride the bus home with carefree innocents. As I waited for my mom on the church steps, white snow began to drift down in light flurries, coating the dirty steps with a white dusting. A cold wind blew, drying my tears and chilling my heart. I felt a stirring in my soul, something or someone squeezing my heart. Verses I had so eagerly learned earlier scrolled through my mind on fast forward. Verses hopeful, so full of promises and platitudes. “No,” I whispered into the white wind. “You were there and didn’t help. If you loved me, why didn’t you keep it from happening?” The headlights of my mom’s station wagon cut through the snow flurries. I stood and looked back at the wooden cross on the door. I wouldn’t be back, ever.

Time is supposed to heal, but it doesn’t. Time just allows callouses to form over the worst of the bleeders. On the outside, my life returned to a calculated routine. My grades improved. I started hanging out with friends again, but not with the same friends, not church friends. I fended off countless invitations to attend youth functions through high school. A few years later, I heard that Scott moved on. He got a handsome offer as head pastor in another part of the state. I was glad to stop having to worry about running into him. When I left for college, my Bible was packed in a box with childhood memorabilia. I was content to leave God in a closet. I met my husband during my senior year and was married the summer after graduation. I even wore a white dress; no one knew but God, and I couldn’t care less what He thought. A few years went by while we were waiting for the perfect time to begin a family, and even a few more when we had trouble conceiving. We were both ecstatic when we found out a baby girl was on the way. My own beautiful, perfect, flawless one.

She came early, too early. I lay cold on the delivery table, shocked scared, when the nurses rushed the still, quiet bundle out the door. I told my husband to go with her; I was ok. But I wasn’t. I was terrified that I would lose my most precious one. A nurse stayed by my bed. She held my hand and asked if she could pray with me. Normally, I would have shunned the suggestion, but I was broken and desperate. The deep beckoned, and I followed. My heart called out to the very one I had vowed to never again approach.

My soul remembered the voice of God, yearned for the spark of joy I had forced myself to extinguish. But I snapped back, surprised that I would consider forgiving God. I cussed, cutting the nurse’s prayer short. She didn’t leave though, didn’t even let go of my hand, but she did stop praying out loud. I took her place, filling the sterile hospital room with my accusations. “Why did you let it happen? Where were you?” I thought this would get rid of Him, but it didn’t. I knew, somehow deep down knew, that He was crying with me. He had been crying all along.

How can you trust a God you can’t understand, who doesn’t or won’t answer your questions? Greater still, how can a soul that once joined with the divine ever be satisfied on its own? I needed Him, and this longing prodded me to accept what I could never control. It was the only path to peace, and at this moment, peace merited any sacrifice.

My daughter lives. I brought her home a few weeks later, wrapped in a silken, white blanket with pink rose trim. I kiss her toes and cradle her tiny fist in mine. She is my miracle, God’s precious gift that represents a beginning. As I breathe in her baby scent, I inhale the fragrance of God. I am loved, pure, and innocent once more.