#MeToo

I was 16 when I first realized that church deacons like 'em young. One night, I was an usher at a funeral for one of our deacons who had passed away. I went to the kitchen to take a breather for a moment. The church was packed with mourners, and having become close to the deacon and his family I was one of them but trying to comfort the others. It became a little too intense, and after reading the 23rd Psalm and almost breaking down, I thought I would hide for a moment until I regained composure.

There were several men in the kitchen, one of whom appeared to be in his late forties. He was wearing a black suit and had salt and pepper hair. In retrospect, I suppose he was handsome for an old guy. At least, I probably would have thought so if he hadn't been attempting to pick up women at the worst possible time. He stared at me in a way that made me really uncomfortable. He asked me something inappropriate...I cannot exactly remember what it was. In any case, he tried to give me his phone number even after I told him I was 16, but when I told him who my grandfather was he backed off.

Another time, I was at a church with my grandmother and the service was nice. The pastor was preaching his heart out, and everyone was shouting and clapping. Then suddenly he began to stutter and sweat. He seemed to become unsure of himself. He kept looking in the direction of the pew that my grandmother and I were sitting in, so I thought maybe he had a word from the Lord for one of us. My grandmother, however, followed his eyes and realized what he was really looking at. She took a large safety pin out of her purse and said, "Gal, close up your bosom." Then she pinned my blouse almost up to my neck. Problem solved.

I started wearing my robe to visit other churches when I had to sing or speak. That helped some, I didn't get approached as much. I briefly considered just not going to other churches, but my pastor needed the support.

I loved my pastor. He was there for most of the major events in my life, and I was determined to be there when he needed me. He christened me as a baby, he baptized me when I was 8. He let me teach Sunday School when I was 12, and take over the children's ministry when I was 14. When I told him I felt called to minister, he didn't question or doubt it. He even gave me money in addition to the scholarship I had received from the church to study Theology when I graduated high school.

He also began sexually assaulting me when I was 21. I didn't say anything because by then I considered myself damaged. I wasn't a child any more, not innocent and pure like I used to be. I had a child out of wedlock, so I supposed maybe I was fair game.

I always say that it started when I moved back to Louisiana but truthfully, it began during a visit. I came home for a while when my first daughter was a few months old to spend some time with my family. The church was family too, so of course that meant spending some time there making sure that the pastor's office was in order and things were being taken care of. I had done all of his secretarial work for several years and he never thought of getting someone else to do it so his papers would be all over the place every time I came to town.

He christened my daughter that day, just like he had christened me 21 years before. My family knew that I would be there a while talking to the pastor and making sure that everything was cleaned up after service so they left. Everyone left. Like they always did. I didn't feel any discomfort at the idea because this was our usual thing. We would talk for about two hours about my life in Atlanta, the church I attended there, what was happening in Franklin. Then I would go home and talk to anyone who didn't go to church that Sunday about the service.

He put his hand on my thigh. I figured it was just an unthinking gesture so I moved over a bit. He put his hand further up and that's when it occurred to me that something wrong was happening. I pushed his hand away but I didn't want to run away because I considered the idea undignified. Then he put his hand in my shirt and that's when I grabbed my baby and ran out of the church.

I reasoned that I shouldn't have been wearing a miniskirt to church, but my aunt had scheduled a session with a photographer for me and my daughter after service so I figured I would wear something cute. I loved that red outfit. I never wore it again after that. But it really was cute.

I look at the picture of myself and my daughter from that day. My smiling like nothing happened. Of course nothing happened. I never told my folks so I figured I could pretend that nothing happened and everything would be like it was.

There are many factors that keep women ensnared in ongoing sexually abusing situations. For me, preserving dignity was what kept me going back to that church Sunday after Sunday for as long as I was visiting. To not go would signal that something was wrong, and I didn't want to have to answer those questions. Then, when he announced that he was visiting Atlanta in August, of course my mother said he could stay with us. And I agreed, of course. Because why would I not? Nothing bad had happened when I visited Louisiana.

These nothings continued to happen periodically until I was 26 years old. By then, I had moved back to my home town and back to life and work at the church I grew up in. Nobody was supposed to know what was happening so I would try to behave as normally as possible. I had three children by then, and we went to church every Sunday. I thought I was being smarter by trying to leave when everyone else left after service, finding excuses to quickly head home, but somehow he found an excuse at least once a month to keep me longer afterwards and I would oblige because nothing was happening.

Nothing would have continued happening if my aunt hadn't walked in very angry one day and told my grandmother about the rumors floating around. Apparently, my pastor had a bragging contest with another older man in the neighborhood about their "young girlfriends" and I was the subject of his bragging.

I was humiliated and relieved at the same time. I let my grandmother and aunt know that what he said was not true, although I didn't actually tell them what was really going on because I'm afraid my aunt would have killed him. I figured I would just quietly leave the church and that would be the end of it. I called the wife of the associate pastor, who was also my cousin, and told her I would not be teaching Sunday school that Sunday and that I was considering joining another church. I thought that would be the end of it. But apparently, my leaving hurt the pastor's pride more than his bragging hurt mine because then he went all over town telling people awful things about me.

I left the church altogether after that. I took a job at Wal-Mart and worked every Sunday, even when they said I could take at least one off a month without negatively impacting my department. Then I started working over night at a women's shelter.

Eventually, though, I did go back to church. I joined the church that my father grew up in and attended services there until I moved to Florida. Then when I moved back to Louisiana, I joined the church that I currently attend. I am working with children again, and am now a licensed minister.

I am also very cautious about my daughters spending any time alone with a man in church. Old or young, married or single, I learned growing up that many men will use their positions in the church to abuse young women both spiritually and sexually, and I want to protect mine with both knowledge and a watchful eye. I have come to terms with what happened, and I have found peace within myself concerning both my decision to stay in the situation for as long as I did and with the circumstances that led to my leaving that church. I even forgave the pastor who attacked both my body and my name. But I learned and I teach my daughters that forgiveness does not mean that he is invited to our table. It doesn't mean opening a door for further attacks. It just means that I can move forward with my life without being stuck in the moment that I first felt unsafe in what was supposed to be my sanctuary.