Grace & Gratitude

MY STORY 

Lately I’ve been thinking I need to tell my story. I remember second grade. First, I remember roping the dummy in the back yard of our duplex apartment with my Dad. I remember the new house on Auction Barn Road where I bottle fed the heifer calf that would be the start of the "herd" that would help put me through college.  And I remember sitting in a police station looking at a line up to point out the teenage boy that sexually assaulted me.

It was a teacher in-service day and I was at the elementary school “helping” my mother. Being cooped up in a school building on what was a day off was not ideal, but there was a playground and I remember spending part of the morning playing with some other kids, including an older boy. It seems like he was someone’s cousin or neighbor or something, but maybe not.  I was a little bit of a tom-boy back then and he climbed a big oak tree and I was impressed with his skill. There was not a lot of interaction and certainly no special attention was shown; no cause for alarm.

Later, in the afternoon, when we were getting ready to go home, my mother asked me to take something out to the pickup. I imagine I was ready to leave and probably starting to be a pain like a child who has completely lost interest in an activity. On the way back from the parking lot, I remember seeing the boy again at a distance across the way. I remember turning the corner and him suddenly being right behind me, his pants already unzipped exposing himself. He trapped me up against the warm brick wall of the elementary school.  Our height difference put my face almost level with his waist and he hissed at me to open my mouth. I pursed my lips and turned my head to the side. I had lived in the country my whole life. I had seen the male animal genitalia so the sight was not shocking. However, in my second grade mind, the thought of putting something like that in my mouth was so vile. Next, he unbuttoned my pants and put his hand down my underwear to touch me. He was out of breath and both begging and encouraging me to touch him.

After a little while, I guess he thought he heard someone coming and diverted his attention from me to peek around the corner. I took the opportunity to break free and take off running. I ran as fast as I could to my mother’s classroom door. Luckily, he did not chase me down. He could have easily caught up to me. I remember crying and telling my mother what had happened and I remember feeling guilty that earlier I had been enamored by this boy’s wit and tree climbing. Mother told me I had done nothing wrong and kept asking me if I was hurt. She looked upset and scared and mad. This is where the memories get fuzzy. I remember being home and my mother calling my dad at work and telling him to come home right away. I remember a hushed discussion between the two of them and I remember the three of us being in cluttered police station office, talking to a stranger about what had happened. Probably, the last time I actually told the whole story. I was instructed to not use words like “Tee-Tee” but instead to tell my story using penis and vagina, which, to me, was more embarrassing than using the familiar names. It was so awkward, but it was important for me for them to know what he had done.

A few days later, we returned to the police station for me to look at some pictures. The officer had a high school yearbook. He told me that he was about to turn the page and instructed me to look carefully at every picture and then point to the picture of the boy. As soon as the page turned, I saw him. He was on the bottom row of pictures, second from the right. The fear of his image clutched at my throat. I forced myself to look at each row of pictures as I had been told, and then pointed to the boy. Was I sure? Yes, that was him. I was sure.

That was the end of it. My parents told me I didn’t have to talk about it anymore. I honestly didn’t want to think about it. They mentioned that it might make my grandparents sad. I wonder sometimes if my grandparents ever knew. My dad told me one of the biggest truths I’ve ever learned. He said that the heart is very powerful. He said that time will fade bad memories and that good memories will take their place. He was right. This too shall pass. Through the years I have told maybe a dozen other people, until now.  I don’t think about any of it very often. I’ve been too blessed to dwell on the bad stuff. In comparison with the stories of other women, it was very minor. In truth, it is a great annoyance to me that the incident molded my life in any way.  But it did. And it is part of my story. It is part of who I am.

The next year, in third grad, I attended Children's Night at a Revival at our church. They served hot dogs and had a Christian magician. He talked about God's love and Jesus' sacrifice on the cross and peace. He illustrated the lessons with magic.  For the very last trick he said he was going to bake a cake. He asked for the kids to yell out the ingredients for the cake. He put in the flour, , and sugar, and milk, and eggs with the egg shells, and ketchup, and mustard. The whole time the audience was going crazy. NOOOO! Not the eggshells! Not Ketchup!! He put a lid on the disgusting mixture. Then he talked about the yucky-ness of sin, and how because of Jesus you can be forgiven and God can make something amazing. When he lifted the lid....There. Was. CAKE!
 
I wanted God to make something great of me and I went forward and prayed the Sinner's Prayer asking Jesus into my heart. This was the most important decision I've ever made. Has my life been perfect? Of course not. Am I perfect? Absolutely not!! He's not done with me yet. That's the beauty of God's grace and I am so very thankful.