a story to tell | sock yarn and sacrements

I do not remember my earliest years at The First Church. I have spoken with my parents and a few others who have left the Cult Church, and have pieced together a very basic sense of how my family was involved.

My mother was working from home as a day-care provider for about three children, plus my older sister and I. She had recently been forced to quit her night job as a store security guard because of an injury she received on the job (a man had broken in and kicked her in the knee; my mother chased him, destroying her ACL). My father also held two jobs, and we lived in a subsidized apartment. Mom was waiting for the first of the kids to arrive for the day and had the TV on to help her stay awake.

Maybe Mom was waiting for childrens’ shows to begin. Maybe she just wasn’t paying attention. But, when “The 700 Club” began, she started listening to accounts of people involved in church. And, at naptime, she had found a local church that called itself family-friendly and positive. Soon, we were part of the church.

The first sign of manipulation happened early. The pastor insisted that tithing was crucial. As I mentioned, my dad worked two jobs; Mom began working a second job soon after they began attending The First Church. We lived in a subsidized apartment. There was no money to spare. But, the pastor said, tithing is way of obeying God, and he promised that our family would see rewards. So, Mom found a way to take the money out of the grocery budget.

Well, the pastor was right: before we were desperate for food, one of the ladies from church dropped by with bags of groceries. The groceries totaled to about the amount tithed, plus a bit more — usually five to ten dollars more. This was used regularly, for the first few years, to show my parents that trusting in God (i.e., tithing) would be rewarded (in this instance, by meeting physical needs). My sister and I also relied on hand-me-down clothing, only receiving school shoes and underwear new.

Soon, the leadership learned of my parents’ skills. Mom was a trained singer and musician, Dad had worked with entertainment-related technology. Before long, Mom was part of the worship team and Dad involved in the “sound team” — he was responsible for setting up the music system and taking it down each Sunday, and for making sure all parts of the worship team sounded balanced.

During this time, I was engaged in the preschool and early elementary Sunday School. While I do not remember much about the religious aspects, I do remember that Sunday School was usually fun. First Church met in a local high school, and the children’s activities were held in the lower level of the building. The most direct route from the cafeteria (where the service was held) was a set of stairs, but most took a longer route that included a long, inclined hallway. I recall a few Sundays in which, while Dad and a few other men set up the cafeteria for service, my sister and I would explore (we knew not to go *upstairs*, but we were allowed to go downstairs and into any area that was not locked or through any doors with an “exit” sign).

One Sunday, when I was six, my sister and I made it into the section of classrooms used for Sunday School when the nursery leader was setting up. She told us to help her by getting the sectioned walls (which were wheeled) and bringing them into the open area she used (she had her younger children with her). This morning, my sister (who was eleven) and I split up. I was in the next hallway when I was pushing a wall section (we had been told to pull them, but I thought pushing would go faster — and, remember, I was six years old). The wall folded and started to fall. One of the nursery leader’s children had wandered into that part of the hallway, and didn’t see the section falling — so I yelled at her to move and put my leg in front of the section to keep it from falling on her (again, remember, I was six years old). The section fell on my leg and it was stuck. I was scared, and called for my sister — but she didn’t hear me. I called for the adult — she didn’t hear me. The toddler who had wandered into the hall had run away. There was still an hour and a half left until church started.

I started to pull my leg out from under the wall section. The metal edge scraped skin off from my knee to my ankle. By the time my leg was free, I started to panic — my shoe was stuck. I would get in trouble if I lost my shoe. I wiggled this shoe loose and managed to get my footing. My leg hurt badly and had started bleeding. I started looking for the nursery leader, but realized quickly that she wasn’t there. My sister was somewhere else. I had the sense to go upstairs to the cafeteria rather than wander around.

By the time I made it to the cafeteria, my leg was visibly bloody. My sock was becoming damp with blood. I was nearly hysterical. Dad saw me first, and was angry and afraid. One of the elders had medical training, and cleaned up and bandaged my leg. Another couple from the church, who had five children at the time (now they have twelve, two of whom were adopted), had brought a bag of hand-me-downs for my sister and I — which included a clean pair of socks. I sat with Dad during church that day instead of going to Sunday School. The nursery leader was, as far as I know, only told that she needed to do these jobs herself, and that my sister and I (and any other “big kids”) were only allowed to help by playing with her kids while she set up.

That situation is a symptom of an overall problem in First Church (as well as the Cult Church): letting young children run free, without supervision. Any educator worth his or her training would not ask a six-year-old and an eleven-year-old do her job, much less a potentially dangerous aspect. More, any adult who is responsible for children (and the nursery leader meets this description) should make sure all children are accounted for or join her before she leaves an area. When the adult in question is a parent, this is a symptom of neglect. A teacher who neglects to supervise his or her students risks being fired for not fulfilling the job for which he or she was hired.

This has been one of my most memorable experiences from my childhood. Twenty years later, I remember how frightened I was — because I was in pain and all alone, and because I was afraid of getting in trouble. Most specifically, I remember the elder who bandaged my leg. He said that I didn’t do anything bad, but I should not tell my teacher at school what happened; I should say that I fell down. That it was an accident. That, if I said that the nursery leader had left me alone, she could get into lots of trouble. And, Susanna, we don’t want a grown-up getting in trouble because of an accident, do we?