He was a respected preacher, admired by my pious mother for his religious leadership and by my atheist father for his scholarship. He had married my parents. We called him grandpa out of respect perhaps. But he was a Bad Preacher.
Once I was telling my story about the bad preacher and my listener said “Oh, everyone has some old lecherous uncle who sticks his tongue in your mouth when you’re a little girl.” Another one suggested that I was embroidering and confabulating because I wanted attention. At the opposite end of the spectrum are those who wish to get all emotional with you and offer condolences or sympathy as if you were telling them about a funeral rather than telling a story.
But maybe telling people you were molested as a child is similar to telling them about a funeral. When someone dies, the outsider feels like he has to say something, but he is not sure what could possibly be adequate or appropriate.
I’ve struggled more with the aftermath than with the actual events as they unfolded over a several year period from around age 4 to age 8. The events were not traumatic; I remember them as pretty fun…except for the yucky parts and the uncomfortable parts, usually times when I knew I wasn’t responding in the expected way, but had no idea what the right response could be. But even at that age, the real drama was the secrecy. I quite distinctly remember standing next to the table full of people at around age 6, thinking, “I know something no one else in this room knows. And I can’t tell anyone.” That thought scared me for reasons I could not understand
The preacher and his wife moved to California when I was around 7, so things sort of died down, apart from the visits grandpa made less and less frequently. He was always welcomed as an especially honored guest; sometimes I even had to give up my room. I got older. I got resentful. I found that I could not speak a word to him. He asked me questions and I literally could not say a word. Once I was given the special “privilege” of going all by myself with him to the church where he was to give the sermon and then have lunch with one of his former flock. In the car, he informed me that what I needed to do was “forgive and forget.” I could not say a word, but my mind was certainly racing along. I could understand the forgive part. Whether or not I wanted to forgive was a completely different question. I understood the concept. But forget? Just arbitrarily chop out part of your life? Was that even possible? That was the most bizarre request I had ever heard. I don’t remember the other crap he said during that car ride, but I could sense that he was running a bit scared.
Eventually, I did get my word in. We sent grandpa and grandma a Christmas card and I was supposed to sign it. It was the kind that is folded in four from a full sheet of paper. I took the card off to my room and unfolded it. In the teeniest, tiniest printing that was humanly possible, I wrote “I HATE YOU” in all capitals. Then I folded it back up and signed normally. When Christmas came, a customary family phone call occurred, the kind where everyone gets on and says “Merry Christmas.” I found out that, not only had the Bad Preacher found my secret message, but he was nervy enough to ask me what it meant. What did he think it meant? Rather than answering such a dumb question, I just pretended our conversation was ordinary, said “Merry Christmas” in an overly loud voice, and got off the phone.
Good for you for speaking up then and sharing it now. It is strange how some of the earliest parts of your life follow you from a time before words and learning to put words to them can heal. I wasn't molested but I was beat and bitten by an adult and learning that I don't have to hide it because I didn't do anything wrong was really liberating
I am appalled at the monstrous abuse of defenseless children. In Australia there is currently a royal commission into abuse of children by institutions - it will last for years as each person who wants to is given a voice. For this to happen in families is even worse, as home should be the safest place for chillden. I'm glad you feel you can now speak up.
This angers me in that he used God to feed his depraved behavior. I find when a story this jam-packed with emotion is shared people do respond in one of two ways. They say things they think will help but inadvertently show their ignorance of the experience, or they try to find the right thing to say and rely on platitudes- not meaning to sound insensitive, but that's how it sounds. So the advice to forgive and forget pretty much sums up the first scenario to me. But, forgive- tough to do when it's something this deep and hurtful by someone who should have been completely trustworthy. Forget- you are absolutely right- how?! And yes he was certainly bad, and bad is putting it mildly.
