“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb… How precious to me are our thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand” (Psalm 139:13, 17-18a, NIV).
In many ways, my life started out very normally—whatever that is. I did a lot of happy little kid things and had a lot of good people in my life. Being a Montana girl, I lived in a “safe” neighborhood where I had a lot of freedom to roam. My best pal, Janet, lived next door. We took full advantage of that freedom, curiously exploring the nooks and crannies of our neighborhood every chance we had. We did a lot of investigating, and when we couldn’t find anything good, we made stuff up.
Janet had big brown eyes; pale, perfect skin; full cheeks; and short, dark brown hair. She was adorable and painfully quiet, but the kind of kid you’d want to pick up and squeeze and tickle. I was her blonde sidekick; I had dimples and brown eyes and was the more outgoing of the two. We were each the youngest in our families, so we were used to either a lot of attention or none at all as everyone got busy doing the things older people do.
Some of the adults on our block seemed fascinated by the two of us and were instantly friendly. Some neighbors ignored us or shooed us out of their backyards, while others welcomed the curious explorers. We eventually gained quite the reputation for snooping and for carrying out our various antics.
We became friends with an older couple down the street, Mr. and Mrs. Doves, when we were preschoolers. We visited them often. Actually, we just thought their house was intriguing. We were curious to see inside. They also had a beautiful teenaged daughter whom we admired and likened to a modern-day princess. Their home was much different than each of ours, as they only had one child. It was quiet, immaculate, and each of them was very patient with us as we shared our stories and asked all sorts of questions about their home and family. They tolerated us well.
There were other areas we explored as well. It always seemed we had a vast expanse of territory to roam and concoct our imaginary world in. In actuality, however, we had only four blocks. We ruled our little kingdom, though. Our school, Bitterroot Elementary, was just around the corner from our houses, which enabled us to identify every square inch of that building from the outside. We knew every neighbor, their children, and most pets between us and our school. Walking to school each day, we passed two ferocious beastlike dogs who nearly always tried to attack us from behind their tall wooden fence. We never actually saw them, but we knew they were gigantic, slobbering monsters with huge fangs. We walked faster as we went by the white fence, hoping this would not be the day they actually broke through the old slats.
We also explored Pumpkin Creek, which ran past the end of our street. For a year, we had another friend, Mari, who lived right next to the creek. Mari was from Finland. She was very different from us. She had no television, her toys were different than our typical fare of dolls and small cars, and her house smelled different. She even ate different kinds of food. She also had a younger brother.
We were at a loss for several months as to how to communicate with her, as she did not speak much English. We, being from rural Montana, obviously did not speak Finnish. Gradually, however, we learned to communicate well enough and developed a relationship. Mari soon joined us in our adventures. The three of us often traveled up and down the creek bed, trying to catch water skippers and trying to stay in or out of the mud, depending on our moods.
One year the creek flooded. Our whole neighborhood had to work together to sandbag around houses and the street. It was a crisis that brought people out of their homes even more than usual. I was a quirky kid who liked the energy of the near disaster and the togetherness that resulted from all of the grown-ups united, working for a common cause. Mari’s family actually got to know a lot of people during that time.
We had to go past the creek to get to the public pool—the happening place during the summer months. At twenty-five cents a visit, we went often and swam until our feet looked like white raisins. When it was time to leave, I’d be so hungry my insides would ache. The three-block trek home seemed to take forever. Occasionally, one of our other friends might share a single pretzel from a bag she purchased at the vending machine. That nibble just made my hunger pangs worse. I remember resenting her as I watched her eat the rest of the bag herself.
All kinds of things happened at the public pool. On a pretty regular basis, the pool had to be emptied for the token brown substance found at the bottom of the shallow end. Sometimes it was a chocolate bar, and unfortunately, sometimes it wasn’t. Once I was held under by an older boy until I began to see stars. That had a lasting effect. After all my mom and dad spent on swimming lessons, I still cannot swim the crawl for fear of putting my face in the water. I remember when a girl slipped off the top of the high dive and landed on the pavement. Although I was there, I never really found out what happened to her. Rumor had it, she died. A lot of my life was lived out and defined at that pool, but I had other hangouts, too.
There was a giant weeping willow in Janet’s front yard. Its branches were so strong and flexible that we could stand on them, bouncing from the top of the tree to the ground. We played in it for hours at a time, transforming it with our imaginations into a giant ship or a house. Inside the branches of that tree we felt completely invisible, sheltered from the rest of the world—maybe even safe.
Janet and I investigated all items of interest in our territory, and we were sure that was exactly why the neighbors on our street kept their front yards clear of anything interesting. I suppose we really had no sense of personal boundaries in that regard. Anything was up for grabs. We were so thorough we even knew what was in nearly everybody’s backyard.
We knew the nice neighbors who didn’t mind our nosy behavior. We also knew the mean neighbors who’d kick us out of their front yard simply for opening up mysterious containers or tiny doors laid in their brickwork. We were very famous—infamous, really—for our behavior, especially with our parents. When we were really young, our moms had to keep a tight watch over us or we’d strip down to our birthday suits in the backyard and roam free. As we grew older, we were more likely to dare each other to eat dog food or pick the neighbors’ prized flowers.
* * *
Eventually we had another friend—a boy. Carter hung out with us and played lots of girl games. He never complained. There were no other boys around, so I figure he had the “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” attitude. Carter had an amazing imagination. When we girls ran out of ideas, he’d come up with a new one. He had an older sister, but she, like the rest of the older kids who lived on our block, usually ignored us. Carter, Janet, and I were the youngest, but we seemed to cause the most trouble. Mari was also included. We three girls dragged poor Carter around, forcing him to be the prince or the pirate in all of our games. Many times he found himself dressed up with all the girls—high heels included.
It was our team mission to spy on all the neighbors, and when necessary, our older siblings. We were not above crawling beneath cars to wait for teenagers to get in and make out. We played in everyone’s front yard, climbed all the trees that were accessible, determined both my house and Janet’s were haunted, and let our imaginations run wild. One summer, we made some older kids angry by tattling on them—our house ended up being flooded with a garden hose while my family was out of town. When nothing much was going on, we made up stories. And we had slumber parties.
Slumber parties were a mixture of fun, fear, love and hate, pillows and PJs, and lots of giggling. I dreaded the ghost stories Janet’s older sister told, but I loved feeling included. I hated being the first to fall asleep and the only one up at the crack of dawn.
Slumber parties happened frequently, although never at my house. We played games like Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board. Chanting those mystical words, we’d magically lift a person up into the air. Playing with the Magic 8 Ball or the Ouija board, all we really conjured up were our own giggles and screams. Once we got to sleep out in Janet’s camper, which led to a night of exploration all around the neighborhood and beyond in our nightgowns and bare feet. Our territory grew as we did. Thankfully, we all arrived back to the camper safely.
Although we weren’t completely without parental boundaries, the fact is, it was Montana in the seventies. There wasn’t much danger to be found. Our parents guided us but trusted our neighbors and the safe history of the community to help raise their children. We weren’t aware of many unsafe happenings in our wintry little cocoon. We just took care of each other. We were completely naïve.
We usually steered clear of the only known dangerous neighbors—the Rodneys. Their kids were the toughest on our street and in our schools. There were a lot of them, and frankly, you just never knew when something was going to happen at the Rodneys’. Janet and I had, of course, been over to their house and witnessed a terrible fight between the father, mother, and oldest son. It included physical blows, a lot of screaming, and eventually an ambulance and police officers. After that, we rarely visited, but we couldn’t help but be intrigued by the way the family seemed to implode, explode, inhale, repair, move along, and begin the cycle all over again with some new drama.
Sundays were always a trial for me—no cartoons on and no sisters or brothers young enough to play with, and Janet was unavailable. She went to a different church and had to hang out with her family all morning. So I’d play on my own, grudgingly, and wait until it was time to head off to church. I did a lot of waiting, actually. I was an early riser from the time I came out of the womb, apparently. I remember calling Janet’s house early one Saturday morning. I was up, and my parents were still sleeping. When Janet’s mom answered, I knew it was early—too early. Her mom informed me that Janet was still asleep and requested I “please wait to call until later in the morning.” I remember going back to our Lazy Boy recliner, curling up in my blanket, and waiting.
* * *
I really was pretty cute when I was little. As a toddler, I had curly, blonde, shiny hair; chubby legs; and a perfect little dimple. All the pictures I have of myself from when I was a toddler speak cute. Those cute days abruptly ended when my mom got a hold of the scissors, though. In a flash, I was transformed into what today looks like a boy in frilly, lacy dresses—although if I am completely honest, the haircut was my idea. I wanted my hair to look like Janet’s. It didn’t quite work for me like it did her.
Through the elementary school years, my school photos say it all. In one particular photo, I have a very nice mullet-style haircut. I say “nice” because I wore a big, goofy smile which makes me think I either didn’t care how I looked or thought I was lookin’ good. I lean toward the second option, but I don’t like to admit it. To complete the ensemble, I wore a giant turtleneck and homemade bell bottoms. I don’t blame my mother for my bad haircuts. I remember distinctly asking her to cut my hair—hence all the bad photos. I actually don’t remember being disenchanted with my hair until later in life when it took two hours to style. Those were the big hair days of the eighties. Still, what I see now, when I look at all those photos, is just a little girl. It’s funny how you can look at a person and think you understand her. You can even talk to her, listen to her, laugh with her, carry on a friendship with her for years, and actually never quite know her—especially if she is a person like me. But bad hair was probably the least of my troubles. By the time I started to care about that, I’d already begun to feel the real aches of this world. The veneer of my innocence had not only cracked, but also had nearly shattered.
I learned about death pretty young. One day after school, Carter came to my house and asked me to come with him to his house. He was confused; he couldn’t seem to wake up his mother. Janet joined us along the way, and when we got to Carter’s house, he led us to his mother’s bedside. There she was, not moving. I remember her distinctly having a grayish pallor about her, and I remember one of us reaching out and touching her. I remember Carter being very confused. We decided to get help, and when we did, we learned that she was dead. In fact, his mother had died in her sleep the night before, but no one knew it, because everyone had just gotten up and ready for work or school and left. Janet and I went back to our own mothers. Carter never could again. It was a sobering awakening to the harsh realities of this life. It’s funny how I never saw a change in Carter, though—other than not seeing him for a while. His life was dramatically altered forever, yet the rest of the neighborhood just went on, the same as usual.
Carter’s dad hired a housekeeper to help with meals and cleaning. She looked like Flo from Mel’s Diner, and I remember being afraid of her. She was short, direct, and didn’t seem to like us hanging around. Eventually Carter, his sister, and his dad moved out of the neighborhood. A chapter in my childhood concluded, and another began.
* * *
I was very young when I met my first wolf. I am not talking about Little Red Riding Hood, although I think I dressed up as her for Halloween one year. I am talking about a real human being who acted like a wolf. My parents sent me out on my way, much like Little Red, into an environment that they trusted—Granny’s house (a trailer, really). Actually, I went there a lot to spend the night.
During the day, I remember walking around in the yard outside her trailer, catching grasshoppers as big as my hand. Without close siblings, I never had any playmates at family functions. I remember being very bored while I waited for all the adults to get finished talking and leave so that I could have some time with Granny.
I have two older sisters. I also have older cousins. One cousin began paying particular attention to me whenever I stayed with Granny. Through particular circumstances, he actually wound up living with her. My visits with her were fun during the day, but at night, she would go to bed, and I would sleep on the couch alone. My older cousin invariably wound up coming out to the couch to “watch TV.” It turned out to be more than watching re-runs of Godzilla. I was very young. It was very confusing for me—frightening, but exciting. He made me touch him, and he touched me. As a child, I didn’t understand that it was wrong to be playing games of this sort with my cousin until one night when another cousin walked in on us.
The cousin who caught us lived just across the street from Granny’s with his parents, my aunt and uncle. He yelled at my cousin to knock it off, but it felt like he was yelling at me. I realized for the first time that what we had been doing was wrong. Instantly I felt dirty. I felt guilty and responsible. Somehow I had allowed it to happen; it was somehow my fault. I owned it. At my very young age, I felt unworthy, damaged, and disconnected. I had no way of expressing it. The lies were planted and quickly became part of my identity. I not only felt dirty and damaged, but I also was dirty and damaged.
I tried to tell my parents what was happening, but in that day and age, parents just didn’t have the resources to handle it. My wolf went on to torment me, and in my mind, I became a very lost sheep, piecing together a web of coping strategies that would entangle me for many years to come.
I took a lot of baths when I was little. I loved bath time. What an escape: warm water, bath toys, bubbles, and the hope that I would be clean! I remember a time when my mom came in just at the end of my bath and, putting her hands on her hips, she stared at my legs, accusing me of not scrubbing my dirty knees. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t get them clean. That too seemed somehow fitting. The lies had grown—roots spreading wider and wider, entangling my heart—and no one knew. No one could help me chop them down and clean them out.
Soon after, the giant weeping willow that had cocooned Janet and I, as well as most of the other children on our block for so many years in our play and imagination had to be cut down. Our kingdom of safety came crashing down around our houses. For a day our two, front yards were nothing but a mass of tree parts, branches, and roots. We were buried in the mess of that tree that had been so dear to all of us. I was angry that no one had consulted us. Even after it was explained that the roots were invading the water system and causing damage to the sewer system on our block, I was resentful. After all of the branches were cleared, I remember the wide-open space—a grotesque vacancy. Yet somehow I could identify with the emptiness left behind. Sadly, it seemed fitting. Another chapter in my childhood had ended.
Dear Heavenly Lord your Holy Spirit makes intercession for the weak. Hear our cry, O Lord,
Why have you allowed this to happen? Why, when you say you love us, would you allow this thing to happen? Why her—and then, why not her? Someone else? Would we ask this of anyone? Won’t you set this child free—this child who cannot speak for herself? Protect her. Teach the ones who love her to protect her. Teach her that she is still yours. Teach her that she is still pure. Set her free from the pain and the memories—the memories that will follow her the rest of her life. How will she forgive if not for you? If she doesn’t, how will she live—in bitterness? In fear? Teach her that she is still worthwhile—still yours.
Teacher, free the wolf. Help him who is controlled by his desires. Help set the one free who is controlled by your enemy. This wolf is not the boy/man you made him to be. Set him free from his path. Help him to choose freedom. Amen.
Be comforted
“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express” (Romans 8:26, NIV).
Discussion Questions
1. What was your fondest memory growing up?
2. Did you always feel protected as a child?
3. Can you name the people you were closest to in your childhood? How did they define your upbringing?
4. Are you able to detect biblical truths or worldly lies that may have developed in your childhood? Take a look at what the Bible says about our worldview and our worth (Ephesians 2:10, 2 Corinthians 5:16-17, 1 Peter 2:9).
5. Can you write or discuss a time when you felt unprotected? Does this pertain to physical or sexual abuse? What feelings are unearthed when you bring up this part of your life? Are you able to label those emotions?