Mennonite children are often taught to be “seen and not heard,” to “honor thy father and mother,” and the merits of a “quiet and gentle spirit.” Family secrets run rampant, monsters riding piggy-back on the shoulders of children. Monsters love dark, secret places. Only in the telling, in exposition, can we be free of these monsters.
For nearly 60 years, my mother has carried a family secret. One secret, molestation, and much more family and community abuse. My brother and I urged her to tell her story, to shed some light in a dark place. I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for her and how difficult it was for so many of you, especially with the proverbs of this upbringing. I asked her to include this introduction because I am incredibly proud of her and all of you for sharing. My mother had no one to talk to growing up, and she desperately wants her readers to know what she’s taken years to learn; there is hope, a light in the darkness.
I am about to tell my story. It is both frightening and freeing. I am in my 60s and have carried this family secret for many years. I believed that not exposing it would be “honoring my father and mother.” I am very grateful for my son who found this website and for my daughter who helped me write. Healing my hurting heart began five years ago when a horrible car accident sent me into nine months of outpatient rehabilitation. While healing physical injuries, the psychologist on the team diagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). It developed long ago, and it has become chronic and sometimes severe. While writing, I had to revisit the most painful times in my life. I sobbed, my heart pounded fiercely, and at times I sweated profusely. In order to embrace the freeing feelings emerging, I had to squelch the guilt “of dishonoring my parents.” What happened to me has had power and control over my conscious and subconscious for too long. Writing has taken almost a year of self-talk: “I can, no I can’t, and now yes I will!” When reading this, my adult children said I am generous in what I have written.
If only I had known years ago what I am learning now. No one has power to control how I feel, what my memories are, critique my story, or pick my audience. This is my story and telling it is not retaliation. Surviving, thriving, and having healthy relationships are how I demonstrate that I am actively pursuing healing my heart. I am learning how to love and protect myself.
I am the oldest of 3 daughters, one 4 years younger and another 12 years younger. I lived a sheltered life in a Mennonite home where I ate homegrown food, lived in a very clean house, and wore meticulously sewn Mennonite dresses. What other Mennonites would think of us seemed to be important to my parents. I felt very vulnerable as a little girl. Things may have appeared normal, but behind closed doors, I often felt the heavy burden of age-inappropriate demands, and the responsibility for many family problems heaped on my small shoulders. No wonder I heard so many times “stand up straight.”
I also often heard “honor your father and mother” or you will “reap what you sow.” Any dishonoring behavior resulted in a “wait until your Father gets home.” I lived with intense fear, anxiety, and dread the rest of the day. When he walked in the door both of them would head for the bathroom and behind that closed door my mother would recite her list. We would sit on the floor outside the door, my heart pounding, my tummy in knots as I listened to her. Then my father decided who to punish. More often, I was the guilty one, making the degrading trip to the basement where my father would perform my punishment. He would sit on a chair, lay me face down over his knees, pull my dress up, exposing my vulnerable bottom, and then he would hit me with a ping-pong paddle. The shame and humiliation was worse than the physical pain. I felt so violated! I was not allowed to voice it, so I would run into the woods to cry. I do not understand why pacifist fathers in Mennonite communities were allowed to act violently to the most vulnerable – children and call it “training up a child”!
No part of the Bible is more widely abused then the fifth commandment – Honor your Father and Mother! Honor and respect are an outcome of consistent trusting choices and behaviors. Parents should have no problem with anyone knowing what they said or did. Honoring is speaking the truth. It may mean confronting offensive hurtful behavior. If there is no change or resolution, then honoring is allowing the parent to live the life they have chosen, and experience the natural consequences. Sowing and reaping is God’s Law of Natural Consequences.
When I was ten years old, during fifth grade, a much older cousin (LLC) sexually molested me. LLC was my father’s favorite nephew, and my father even had a special nickname for him. My father was very involved in many Mennonite activities. He was self-employed, worked all day, and then he was gone many evenings. LLC often worked with my father. Because he was so much older, he was not part of the cousin group I normally played with. One evening we stayed at my aunt, his mother’s house while my parents were at a church function. He decided he wanted to play a game of hide and seek with my sister and other cousins. LLC, a teenager, asked me to hide in a closet with him. The closet had a curtain for a door. In the closet, he had me sit on his lap, and then he stuck his hand in my underwear and did horrible things disgusting things with his fingers. I was in shock. I didn’t know how to stop him. I wanted to die. I felt like a bad little girl. Often at home I was blamed, told things that happened were my fault, so I thought somehow this must be my fault too. I didn’t have words to explain such a despicable disgusting act. It was more than my little heart could bear, so I decided the only option was to avoid him and try to forget it ever happened. It buried deep in recesses of my heart but did not go dormant. I developed a sleep disorder, irrational fears, anxiety, panic attacks, hyper-vigilance, trust issues, and low self-esteem.
Physical changes occur in a traumatized child’s brain chemistry/structure. A sexually abused child does not process stress and fear the way a non-traumatized child does. Often this continues in adulthood. Child molestation is a family crisis, to work through together. I had to carry it alone.
LLC spent a lot of time with my father following my molestation. I avoided any contact with him. With my father’s financial help, he went to the local Mennonite College. When he married a girl from that college, my father offered them the house next door to ours. While living there, they had twins.
With PTSD, the real me retreats and my coping-self takes over. I have been my coping-self much of my life. My teens were difficult, lonely years; the buried pain manifested itself in low self-esteem, and periodic bouts of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). (Many with PTSD also have IBS.) My first IBS memory is when I was too weak to climb the stairs to bed without stopping to rest. When the psychologist asked me if there was anyone growing up who “had my back,” I sobbed, feeling that intense loneliness. I had no one I could trust, who had time to listen, or who would believe me. I was hurting, sad, angry, and lonely. I look at my pictures from those years, and I see such sadness and pleading in those eyes. When it all became too much to bear, I would run into the woods. There, I was free to feel and to cry. I was too traumatized then to see or hear Gentle Jesus, but now I know he was there waiting for me. Through the gentle breeze and the birds, he would comfort me, and through the sun, give me warm, lingering hugs.
I went to a Mennonite elementary school nearby, commuted to a Mennonite high school, and attended a Mennonite college. I did as I was told, did not rebel because I desperately wanted the approval of my parents. After graduating, I moved to Canada to teach. (While LLC still lived next door to my parents). Several years later, I married and moved to a small Midwestern town.
As sometimes happens to survivors, buried memories surface in adulthood at a safer time. My molestation memory emerged on a sunny day. I was watching the Phil Donahue Show and my 2-year-old son was playing nearby. The guest told her story of child sex abuse and how it affected her adult life. It sounded so familiar. Then it all came flooding back, those horrifying memories and feelings.
The next time we went back east to visit, my anxiety and panic intensified with each mile. I planned to tell them about my molestation. We were all adults, and I hoped they would believe me, be compassionate, supportive, and together we would work towards healing. I was shocked at what transpired that day! Soon after I started talking, I was told “be quiet the carpenter in the next room might hear.” It was the end of the discussion. As an adult, I felt abandoned again. A fracture in the family relationship widened that day. We made infrequent visits back east, and my parents made even fewer trips here.
During several of the visits we did have, I tried again to talk about my molestation, struggles, and pain. Each time I hoped for a different outcome. I could not carry this family burden alone. Instead, a pattern of victim-blaming developed. I was not allowed to complete my story before I would be interrupted; some minute detail was supposedly incorrect, followed by a barrage of explaining – I was wrong. One time my father accused me of trying to break up their marriage with that “sleep thing” (I was a little girl with a trauma-induced sleep disorder). Another time, they blamed me for trying to punish them by bringing up the molestation topic. I was told to forgive (forget) and that I was bitter. They didn’t act as if they believed me. I would cry most of the 24-hour trip home. I had no words just sobs, the rejection and abandonment overwhelming. My kids in the back of that station wagon would wonder, “why is mom sobbing?”
After those trips, I would get letters with more abuse and rationalizations for their offensive behavior. I only asked for two things. I asked them to tell my father’s relatives (90% are repeat offenders) and to NEVER mention his name to me. Yet over the years in phone calls and letters tiny tidbits about LLC often surfaced, his divorce, his move out of state, and even last year about how he now lives a few miles away.
THEY KNEW ABOUT IT AND DID NOTHING! There are no words to describe that anguish in the deep recesses of my heart! They seemed concerned only about what people would think – of them. They chose to keep it a secret, and to socialize with him and my father’s relatives as if nothing happened. There was a huge disconnect between the words “we believe you” and their actions. That disconnect has made it extremely difficult to trust anything else they have said or done. They chose to protect the perpetrator! That choice did as much irreparable emotional damage as the molestation!
In my early fifties my father died. It was such a difficult journey back east to his funeral. The overwhelming anxiety, and panic at seeing LLC again. I knew he would be there. He was. The finality, the anguish, my father chose to protect him and not believe his own daughter. To be in the same room with the perpetrator was more than I could take. It will not happen again.
I am learning grief is very different when there has been trauma and abuse. When parents choose to protect their daughter’s molester, they give up the benefits of a normal relationship. I desperately wanted a normal relationship with them!
Several times, during my adult life, I suggested professional help, books, joint conference call therapy, or to find a therapist there to help them understand child sex abuse trauma and the impact on family relationships. Last year I offered again. Each time there were more excuses, and my offer was ignored. They continued to act like they did not believe me. This has made our relationship difficult for “the elephant is always in the room.” With each high profile child sex abuse story that makes the news, I am re-traumatized, the molestation, lack family support, and the lack of justice for the victim. God is a God of both grace and justice. I have to trust in God’s justice. It is hard! During the last five years of psychotherapy, I have worked through much of my anger. I have tried twice in recent years to talk with my family of origin about my molestation and what I am learning. Nothing has changed; the family operating system remains the same. Even last year, I heard again that I am bitter, that I haven’t forgiven, and the most painful, that I must not remember correctly due to my car accident.
Yes, I have forgiven. I am learning forgiveness is a process involving different degrees and levels, ranging from slight too complete and surface too deep. It is not granting pardon or leniency, does not excuse the abuse, nor is it a quick fix. It does not restore the situation nor reconcile the relationship. The “I’m sorrys” are selfish, disingenuous, damage control, or an attempt to end it. A broken and contrite heart recognizes the damage done, is teachable, and then takes action to stop the offensive behavior. Forgiveness and reconciliation are separate. Repeated consistent new behavior over time builds trust and moves towards reconciliation. This has not happened. I am choosing to move forward without family reconciliation. I am working on healing my heart. I treat them with respect, but I have established very clear boundaries and limits. I am honoring.
Life in that small Midwestern town was challenging. My husband was a minister and on call day and night. I did not fit the mold of a Mennonite minister’s wife nor did I feel it was my “calling.” I made this very clear before we married but was told it would not matter. I found out it did matter to him, his family, and to the church. He was gone many evenings. When he came home, he would unload stories of abuse in church families. It reminded me of my own painful past. He was very busy; I had no one to talk too. His position made friendships a challenge. I had to be so careful not to repeat anything because gossip was rampant. I often felt like I was raising our two children alone. I wanted to parent differently than I was raised, so I read every parenting book I could find. I treasured and enjoyed each phase with them. Although it was better, I know they still suffered the demands of the Mennonite church. Bedtime stories were often left unfinished, family games unwon, and movies paused.
Every 3 years, we faced the uncertainty of the vote and the drama that often goes with Mennonite church politics. After investing 16 years, without reasonable explanation, it was decided that it was time for us to leave town. We were exposed to anonymous harassing phone calls, vicious rumors (many about me), and a gossip frenzy to try to get us to leave. After much prayer, we decided that my husband’s gifts were not in leading a Mennonite congregation. He took a more regular 8 to 5 job in a neighboring town, and we focused on our family and our children. That Mennonite church experience left scars on all four of us. After fifty years living in Mennonite communities, we moved to a city where my husband and I now live a very different life. We are part of a healthy church family where I am learning the verses my parents used to control and manipulate have an entirely different meaning. My son and daughter are awesome adults. Both chose amazing spouses, and we have seven wonderful grandchildren. Best of all, everyone lives close by. We do life together.
Healing takes time. I live with ongoing physical pain from the car accident, but it pales in comparison to 60 years of religious, physical, and emotional abuse. I now have words for my feelings and knowledge about what I experienced. Information is empowering. I will always have deep scars. In the Invisible Scar, Jarski says, “A vague sorrow follows adult survivors who have not come to grip with the reality of their childhood abuse. The dark heavy feeling has been with them all their life.”
I struggled with nightmares and bizarre dreams most of my life. They escalated after my car accident. Soon after I began writing this, I had the most amazing dream! In my dream, I told my mother about the molestation and she believed me. She was so comforting and supportive. Then she did something! We drove to that house and confronted him and his family. There, she protected me, said it was true when they denied it, then with heads held high we defiantly walked out of that house of horror. I woke up and my first thought was “oh thank you Gentle Jesus – that dream was your intent,” what I should have experienced. I have not had nightmares since. What an amazing gift!
For the first time, I am learning the true meaning of “loving your neighbor as yourself”. Loving me is knowing how I want to be treated, protecting me. Then and only then, can I love my neighbor. I am discovering and loving the real me – the one God created is emerging! I now know he created a positive, tenacious me with very strong survival skills. He made me empathetic, compassionate, and merciful. He gave me a love for ideas, connections, and creative solutions. Although I live with deep scars, struggle with PTSD, IBS, Celiac Disease, and physical pain, I am getting closer each day to contentment and acceptance of this life I now live – with its physical and emotional challenges.
I am so thankful for my therapist, my “now” family, and my church family. Since the car accident, I am home, but never alone as Jesus and I spend our days in ongoing conversation. My “now” family believes me and supports me. They accept my challenges and treat me with tremendous grace. We are all learning and growing. By working through these difficult issues, we are disrupting Mennonite generational patterns. I get to experience healthy multi-generational family life! I treasure it. We celebrate milestones large and small. I look around that table of thirteen and see God’s redeeming love for me! During the last five years of healing, I found encouragement and strength in words written by modern hymn writers: Thrive – Casting Crowns, The Light Will Come – Phil Wickham, Dear Younger Me – Mercy Me, Every Giant Will Fall and Finally Free– Rend Collective.
I just unloaded a huge burden. The secret is out! The Mennonite code of silence and shame shattered!
- If you were sexually molested as a child, my heart hurts for you. It was a life-altering experience affecting many areas of your life. Find a trained therapist. Take all the time you need to heal.
- If someone in your life was sexually abused, believe him or her! Show it through your words and actions. Be safe, confidential, and trustworthy. Offer to walk beside him/her and to help carry the burden now. Listen, give plenty of time to respond, hear the pain, or just sit silently together. Maybe feelings of anger, violation, and loss will begin to emerge. Validate each and every feeling.
- Please, never interrupt or change the subject. Do not one up. Do not minimalize in any way.
- When a high profile incident makes the national news, ask him/her about its impact. It may be re-traumatizing.
If any part of my story resonates with you, surfaced a painful memory, you feel validated, or you finally found words to describe what you experienced, I would love to hear from you. Maybe now you have the courage to walk beside a sexually abused family member or friend. You may contact me publicly through the Comment section below or you may email me privately through OurStoriesUntold at hjs.osu@gmail.com. Your confidential message will be forwarded to me.