children are a blessing

Out of the Matrix ~ Part 1: The next day, a floral arrangement arrived …

Jul 152010

by CherylAnnHannah

My journey into and out of the Quiver Full movement is so intertwined with the abuse that my children and I experienced in my marriage that it is hard for me to tell the tale of being QF without mentioning the abuse as well.

I had grown up in a Christian home, but at the age of 18 fell in love with the man who would become my husband. As is typical of a lot of teens allowed to spend too much time alone, we had sex and I ended up pregnant before my graduation from high school. My boyfriend completely freaked out and insisted on an abortion. I couldn’t go to my parents because my mother had told me when I was 16 that if I ever ended up pregnant, I knew where the door was. When I found myself pregnant, and with no job, no support from my boyfriend, and afraid to face my parents, I chose to abort my first child at 12 weeks gestation in July of 1979.

I felt somewhat numbed by the whole experience. My boyfriend showed a complete disregard towards any angst I might have felt as a result of the abortion and instead he chose to assert his authority over me and humiliated me sexually after the abortion in ways I don’t like to contemplate to this day. In fact, I felt so debauched by the whole experience that I thought no decent man would want to have anything to do with me after that. Accordingly, I went ahead and married him, against my parents’ counsel and wishes.

Three weeks into the marriage, my new husband and I got into a disagreement and he ended the argument by choking me. We had left our hometown the day after we married on a round-the-world tour by bicycle and we were in the New England states at the time. I was shocked because I had never experienced such actions in my home. The same thing happened a month and a half later when we got into another argument. I was a fast learner and I realized that if I didn’t argue with my husband, I wouldn’t get choked.

We got as far as Mexico and then came north up the west coast of the US til we were back in Canada. We stopped in Vancouver and decided to work and save money for a year or so in order to continue our bike trip in Australia. However, I got pregnant with my “atonement” baby in November of 1981 and our eldest child, a girl, was born. Thirteen months later another baby girl followed. At the time we were living on the west coast of Canada, far from my parents, family, and friends, and living in motel suites as my husband’s job had us travelling all over the place. When our eldest daughter turned 18 months old, my husband was settled in the Lower Mainland of BC and we bought a repossessed condo that was in need of a lot of clean up and repair.

It was during this time I hit rock bottom as far as my ability to cope with life. In order to go through with the abortion, I had to turn my back on my upbringing in a vain attempt to avoid the guilt it brought. But like a beach ball I was trying to hold under water, it kept popping up out of the water at unexpected times. I remember going to a local Christian bookstore and the owner saw my bedraggled and hopeless despair and invited me to a woman’s Bible study at a local Baptist church. I began to attend there and began to find some community and some solace.

My husband, despite a profession of faith in Christ, never really showed any fruit of salvation. My attempts to go out in the evening for my Bible study were impeded by him. He refused to do anything with our children that would put him out in any way so I would have to have the children fed, bathed and in bed in order to be allowed to go anywhere. Additionally, he got involved with Herbert W. Armstrong’s World Wide Church of God and became a real legalist with regard to Christmas, Easter, observing OT holy days and not eating unclean meats. I remember at one point he was following me around the house with a book quoting stuff to me out of it til I finally couldn’t take it any more and I grabbed the book and pitched it out of the nearest window. His involvement with the WWCG meant that I was attending a “synagogue of Satan” and so he had his excuse ready made as to why he could never attend church with me.

Soon after I had begun my attendance at the Baptist church, I got involved in a class on the Doctrines of Grace and was introduced to Calvinism. I had been raised in the Plymouth Brethren Assemblies and Calvinism completely turned the way I read the Bible on its head. Quite a few things that hadn’t made sense began to make a great deal of sense. I also got involved in something called Christian Reconstruction and I became a regular reader of a magazine called, “The Chalcedon Report”.

I’ve been a bookaholic since I can remember. I had been married six years, was 25 years old, and already I was on my sixth pregnancy, but third child when Mary Pride’s book, The Way Home: Beyond Feminism, Back to Reality, fell into my hands. With my newfound Calvinism, much of what she said about the sovereignty of God in governing our families and the womb made sense. For reasons I will never understand, my husband decided no birth control was okay and he also decided that homeschooling was the way to go with our children. In retrospect, the only time I really slowed down in terms of my activities outside of the home was when I was pregnant or nursing a baby. Homeschooling also kept me home and occupied for most of the day, so I guess it was part of the strategy to isolate and otherwise tie up a woman that abusive men use.

We were living a fairly comfortable life and I was beginning to develop something of a network through my local church when my husband decided it was time to move our family. I was five months pregnant with our fourth child at the time he announced this, and forgetting past lessons, I took exception to having to move away from all my friends and having to start all over in building a support network. He punched me out in front of my daughters who were three and four at the time. He threw me on the bed and sat on my pregnant belly and gave it to me. I had a severely split and swollen lip, a black eye, and bruises on my arms from that encounter. The next day a floral arrangement arrived on our doorstep as his way of saying sorry. My first desire was to pitch it as far and as hard as I could. But I didn’t, fearing that my lack of forgiveness would only bring more wrath and recriminations down on my head.

We finally ended up moving 500 miles north to the central interior of British Columbia a month after our fifth child was born. To my joy, my husband decided to attend church with us. I thought that this, perhaps, would be the beginnings of something good and that the promise of I Peter 3:1-3 was finally coming true. Instead it was a prelude to moving the entire family out of church altogether and into a home church with us as the only family attending it.

My husband had, in this time, gotten involved with a movement called Christian Identity. It was something of a match with the World Wide Church of God which taught a form of British Israelism. However, Christian Identity took it a step further and said that the white, Anglo-Saxon, Scandinavian, Germanic peoples were actually the 10 “lost” tribes of Israel. This meant that Jews were really not the people of God but rather imposters who were behind every evil conspiracy against the true people of God and who were the off-scourings of the earth.

I, on the other hand, had become drawn more and more into Christian Reconstruction, and from there into the Reformed Faith. I made contact with some local believers who were on the same journey but who were in different churches. Eventually, through the instrumentality of Still Waters Revival Books out of Edmonton we formed a local body who wanted to be part of a reformed covenanted church.

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Christian Culture Clash: Fundamentalist Patriarchy and My Father’s Church

Jul 092010

Part 1 ~ Our Church: Golgotha

by Ex-Adriel

Sundays were my favorite. Early in the morning, before the sun rose, Father knocked on my bedroom door. I dressed quickly in the pre-dawn dimness, and we drove to church together, just us two. A quick stop for the customary chocolate crème pie from a gas station, and then we would be at Golgotha*, pulling into the empty lot before anyone else arrived for church.

Father ran the bus ministry. In that morning stillness, I snuggled into an extra coat of his to protect my church dress, and ‘helped’ him check the fluids and tire pressure on the old school bus. When I was a young child, I rode with him off to the shelters to pick up all of the homeless who were willing to submit to a sermon for a chance at a hearty lunch and a shower. Later, after we met John and his wife Mary*, that would change and I would be left at the church alone in the morning stillness, usually ending up in the mysterious choir loft, suspended high above the sanctuary.

I loved Golgotha. I know now that it was unique – a charismatic Lutheran church. That never happens. But it did. As a child, I only knew that it was a wonderful church. We sang hymns and praise music. I was an altar-child and carried the taper lights and the cross up the center aisle at the beginning of the service, along with most of my age-mates. We wore long robes and sang in the choir, and took communion every Sunday. We kept to the yearly order of readings, but we also had regular altar calls and a praise dance troupe. I could have been happy there forever, and I think Father would have been as well, but Mother wanted more.

Mother always wanted more. She was very spiritual. I was her only child, and I was going to be spiritual also. So, as it turned out, I became two very different children in one body. With Mother, I was introspective and thoughtful, focused intently on the things of the spirit. We discussed allegory and C.S. Lewis, and the angels who walked among men in Tolkien’s mythos. We listened to scriptures on tape constantly. Everything had a spiritual meaning, from the lady bagging our groceries to the “God Bless” from the bank teller. We related our dreams to each other every morning, and interpreted them. I was especially adept at interpretation, keeping a close watch on what Mother approved of and what worried her.

With Father, I was a tomboy. He had wanted a son, so very badly. It was even reflected in my name. “Mike!” he’d call, “Come help me with this engine!” I wore jeans and tucked my ponytail into the back of my shirt so it wouldn’t tangle in the machinery I sweated over. I got dirty and oily, and loved every minute of it. I wasn’t a son, but my Father loved me just as much, as long as I acted the part. And I truly wasn’t acting. It was much more fun to be outside puttering over a tractor than inside teasing meanings from a single verse of scripture with Mother.

Sundays were my favorite. I dressed the part of a perfect girl, in lacy long dresses and black stockings, and then buried myself in Father’s coat. The collar rose higher than my ears, and I always kept my hair tucked underneath. The coat fell long, it extended almost to my ankles! and far over my hands – he would have to roll and roll and roll the sleeves to see my tiny hands poking out the gaping ends. Thus protected, we inspected that bus minutely. I treasured our time together, alone in the dim morning, and I knew that Father did also.

But one morning, John was there. He walked over to us, shaking Father’s hand and introducing himself. I had seen him on previous Sundays, with his beautiful wife and their children. He looked just like Jesus, and much like my own Father, with his full dark beard and his twinkling eyes. It was his eyes which reminded me of Jesus – they were rich deep brown. Father’s eyes were like my own, a pale blue like sea ice.

That morning was the beginning of the end. Father and John stood talking for a while, and I leaned against him, not really listening until I heard my name. “So,” John said, “does your son work in the office during the service? I’ve never seen him before.”

“Son?” Father laughed. “Mike’s a girl, John,” he grinned. “And just as good as any boy could be,” he swung me up and I smiled at the man. “Introduce yourself to the man, Mike!”

Sure of myself, and my place in the world, I did so – “Hello Mister John, my name is Mike.”

But he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t even take the hand I stuck confidently out to shake. He shook his head instead. “Is that really your name?” he asked in a chiding voice. “What is your real name?”

“Mike!” I said, indignant that I wasn’t believed. “Short for Michal, from the Bible. But I really am Mike,” I insisted. “I was named after Father’s best friend.”

At that, John let up. He finally shook my hand, and forced a laugh. In a joking manner, he turned back to Father, “With a daughter so spirited, I can see why she’s out here!”

I decided then and there, as much as he looked like Jesus, I did not like Mister John. I think the feeling was mutual.

*Names of places and people (including my own) have been changed to keep the peace. My mother and brother, along with other friends of the family, remain in patriarchal churches and homeschooling organizations, and I wish to tell my story without forcing anyone else to face condemnation and shame in their church homes. The particulars regarding my name are also true, I have simply substituted another name.

Next time – Church-Hopping with Mother: The Truth Revealed

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Time Heals All Wounds ~ Part 7: A Godly, God-Fearing Man

Jul 032010

I said I am taking the holiday weekend off ~ but I’m waiting for John to finish mowing his lawn before we can go to the park ~ so decided to quick put up a 4th of July treat for NLQ readers.

All beautiful the march of days, as seasons come and go; The Hand that shaped the rose hath wrought the crystal of the snow

I was feeling inadequate as a wife and mother lately, but had no clue why. Maybe it was because Cecilia called her husband Sir, and was always hanging on his every word. This had been making me nervous for a while now.

I remember asking her about it one day and she only shared, that Sarah called Abraham “Lord.” It was a matter of respect.

I took a moment, trying to imagine myself, calling my husband Lord, or even Sir. I could not help but chuckle each time I said it to myself. Is this something that a Godly wife was suppose to do? Should I be asking my husband if he would prefer I call him Lord, or Sir?

I have always been a laid back sort of wife and mother. My husband never complained about anything. We were both genuinely happy, and so were our four children. I tried hard not to butt in, as our husbands continued speaking. Cecilia’s husband continued to share the details, of this so-called trip, with my husband.

I kept hearing Cecilia’s husband repeating himself that we “REALLY” needed to go to one of these week-long marriage and parenting conventions. That it would change our life. It kept sounding amplified in my ears… I knew my husband though, and knew he was already feeling red flags with this sudden rash conversation. I could feel it, and see it in his eyes.

I silently thought once more, while thinking about the details. What if my husband accepted this invitation, to this weeklong marriage and parenting convention down in Texas? Where would our four children go during this trip?

Before I could give it another thought, Cecilia’s husband said, “And don’t worry about your children, our oldest will be more then happy to watch them all.” Oh, figures… I thought to myself. This guy has all the answers!

Cecilia’s husband continued to elaborate on the marriage course, and how encouraging the classes were and that they really touched up on leadership in the home. He then talked about the parenting courses, and how they mold children into quiet, obedient, God fearing children. This followed up on the teaching; do not speak, unless spoken too, and not sparing the Rod.

I really did not like any of this, and was waiting for Cecilia to speak up, on my behalf. She already knew how hard it was, each time I witnessed her husband take one of their little ones to our bathroom, or back yard for a spanking. It did not happen too often, but had happened on three occasions, that I could clearly recall. I did not want to be judgmental, but I had heard enough! I couldn’t control my silence any longer, so I blurted out, “Who teaches these courses?” Cecilia’s husband offered nothing more to my sudden outburst except, ”A really Godly, God-fearing Man”.

I then asked Cecilia’s husband how many children this really great Godly man had? Cecilia’s husband said that he had never been married, so therefore did not have any kids of his own. I then chuckled, as I replied, “So this guy who has never been married, nor has any children of his own, teaches other married couples, how to have perfect marriages and perfect children”?

I think Cecilia’s husband sensed my sarcasm, and was not entirely taken with it. He then looked me directly in the eyes, and said, “He is able to teach through the Lord’s revelations, like Paul of the New Testament.”

My husband remained quiet during this time, and I began thinking that maybe he was feeling intimidated too, by all this. Cecilia’s husband had a very strong personality. He then continued his conversation with my husband, as Cecilia remained quiet and submissive, hanging on his every word. It kind of felt like she was not there at all.

I am not sure why, but the topic changed to church related issues next. Cecilia’s husband was now asking my husband about his church background. I thought we had already been through all that before, but maybe not. My husband mentioned that he grew up in a very legalistic church. Cecilia’s husband asked, “How so?” I sensed my husband’s discomfort on being questioned about this. So, I butted in once more, with the details that my husband had shared with me in the past. I mentioned that the church in which my husband grew up would not allow any ladies in the door who had pants on, or wore jewelry, make up, etc. And that the men and boys had to all have suits on within the church doors. No television or radios were allowed in the homes either.

Cecilia’s husband looked at me, and said, “So, it was a biblical church then”? My husband then broke into the conversation, and said that the church made him fall very far away from the Lord in his teen years, and then my husband changed the topic. I was pleased with my husband’s answer!

Cecilia’s husband then brought the conversation back to the trip, this time mentioning the name of this Godly man who never married, or had any children. I made sure to take note, in fact I excused myself to the bathroom just so I could write the name down, so I wouldn’t forget. When I returned to the table, all was quiet, and they all got up to check out and go back to our house.

We arrived back home, and said our final good-byes. Cecilia hugged me, and promised to visit us real soon. She even mentioned for me to keep in touch, by phone, telling her how great it was down South. If I did, she said, then maybe they’d move down South in a couple years. I remember thinking how that was an odd thing to say. Perhaps she was just making small talk, or joking around though.

The next morning arrived and my family took off for a whole new life of unexpected possibilities. We moved down to the Bible Belt.

A few weeks passed by, and I picked up the phone to call Cecilia, but there was no answer. I left a message for her to call me back, but never received any call back. I decided to try again after a few more weeks passed. No answer that time either, so I left another message for her to call me back.

I never got any callbacks from her. This made me feel very sad and very much alone again. I tried to remain optimistic, and thought that perhaps, Cecilia was not getting my messages. Or was she? Maybe one of her children erased them, by accident of course.
I mentioned this to my husband, me trying to phone her, and having to leave messages, and getting no calls back from her. My husband told me, that I would not be hearing back from her, probably ever again. These words shook and disturbed me. I asked him to explain such a statement. My husband told me that it was just a feeling he had. One that he had been having ever since the night we left the North.

A couple months had passed by now, and I tried phoning her once more, this time Cecilia’s voice was on the other end. I was so excited, Finally! I asked her how they have been, then I mentioned about the two previous phone calls.

Cecilia said that she had just been busy, and she was actually too busy at the moment to talk with me. I was a bit disappointed, but said all right, offering her our new phone number. Cecilia told me that she had it on the caller ID, and that she would call me back, later that evening. I said OK, and hung up.

Evening came but the phone never rang. I really wanted to reconnect with her, so I called her back. This time, one of her polite children answered the phone. I was always amazed at how they would answer the phone, and often tried to teach my own children to answer phone calls, in like manner.

Cecilia’s children always answered the phone like this:

“Hello, this is Jennie speaking; whom may you wish to correspond with”? I had never met a group of kids that had better manners than this. However, when I would call, I would try to make small chat with whichever child answered the phone, but would never get anywhere.

These were not Cecilia’s younger children either. They were her teens. Often times, I would say, “Hey Jennie, how are you doing? This is Shelly. Is your mom there?” I would get nothing more then a “HOLD PLEASE” never a personal answer, or a, “Hi Shelly!” I always thought that was odd. Why were all the children so robotic? Where were each of their personalities?

Cecilia did end up coming to the phone that evening. I also heard Cecilia’s husband in the background asking, who it was. I did not hear what Cecilia answered though. Cecilia came to the phone, and asked me how I had been. Well, I was excited, and began to tell Cecilia how great it was down South, sharing all the details. Cecilia sounded surprised, which added more confusion to my plate.

I mentioned that my husband had just got a rifle the other day, and wanted to speak to Cecilia’s husband about it, since he collected rifles. Cecilia paused, and said that her husband was not home. I thought that was odd, given that I heard his voice when I first called her. I kept that to myself though, and told Cecilia to have her husband call mine, when he had some free time. She then told me rather firmly, her husband was a very busy man, and comes home tired, and did not have time to chitchat on the telephone. I felt like she smacked me across the face with that comment, and tone of voice. Why was she so abrupt with me? Did I do, or say something wrong?

I remained quiet, and she told me that they would drive down to visit us real soon.
Before hanging up with me, she brought up the convention in Texas. She asked me if we had given any more thought to whether or not we wanted to attend the trip with them. I told her that it was up to my husband. Her husband would have to contact my husband about it. I certainly did not want to get into this over the phone with her. I began wondering if her coldness had anything to do with us not being tickled pink to attend this convention with them. I guess only time would tell.

In ending our conversation, she mentioned that all we would need to attend the convention, is about four hundred dollars. I thought she was joking, and laughed. She then told me that she needed to go, and we would chat soon.

When I got off the phone, my husband asked me why Cecilia’s husband did not come to the phone to talk with him. I explained to my husband how our conversation went, and began to cry, wondering what I had done to obviously offend Cecilia in some way. My husband comforted me, and asked me to not call Cecilia anymore, just wait, and let her call me from now on.

Months passed by, and Christmas arrived. One day while checking my mail, I pulled out a small envelope post marked with Cecilia’s address on it. I could not believe it! It didn’t say much, but it did have a picture enclosed of their new baby. I had not even known that Cecilia was pregnant again. This prompted me to call her later that evening. I wanted to congratulate them, on yet, another blessing.

No one picked up the phone, as usual, so I just left another message. Then I hung up and went into my bedroom to cry! Afterward, I dried up my tears and prayed. I asked the Lord why I was being treated this way?

My oldest daughters did not understand either, and were asking me questions. Evidently, Cecilia’s daughters, the ones that were my daughters’ ages, said they were going to keep in touch with them, and phone them. My daughters never heard from them since we left, and they were feeling hurt too!

I decided to take action. I dug through a bunch of old papers in my bedroom closet, trying to find the name of the guy who was giving those yearly conventions down in Texas. I thought maybe, if I Googled the man’s name, something would come up, and it might help me understand Cecilia and her family a little better.

After just a few minutes of digging, I found it! Rather wrinkly, I uncrumpled the small piece of paper that I had scribbled on that last night we were all together. I looked down at my handwriting, and read the name to myself, “Bill Gothard” I knew it was Bill something, but had forgotten the last name. I was so scatter brained still.

I took the piece of paper over to my computer and decided that it was time to do some Googling…

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