Author’s note: Bree’s Story is a collection of narrative pieces for a book I am writing.  The stories are true, but names and details have been changed to protect those directly or indirectly affected.  It is written in the first person because, as a writer, that is my modus operandi.  This post is the first of many pieces of Bree’s Story.

photo courtesy of http://dreamstime.com

My name is Bree and I’ve a story to tell.  It starts with a bath, a long soak in warm, silky, foamy, fragrant bath water.

I once read a book about a little girl who was taught cleanliness by little fairies who flitted around her like happy butterflies.  I wanted to be like her, pure and clean, with shining hair and breath sweet as apples.   I longed to wear pastel party dresses and have my hair tied up with ribbons to match, with white socks and patent Mary Janes.  A bath was the best place I knew to dream about being a beloved, pretty little girl.

Bath time was fantasy time. Soaking in comfortably hot bath water, washing my hair, and playing with the shampoo bubbles enabled a happy visit to my own little world of imagination. I liked submerging empty bottles and watching them spring up to the surface (we didn’t own bath toys, per se) and turning the water on and off with my toes.  I loved to soak in the tub until my skin shined and my fingers resembled  prunes. The smell of soap on my skin and the fragrance of newly washed hair created a cloud of cleanliness that had to be next to godliness.

There was only one bathroom in our house, so it was not uncommon for somebody to interrupt bath-time reverie with pleas for permission to come in and use the toilet. There was an old latch on the door that could be lifted with the judicious application of a butter knife and we were all used to it. In these cases, we just pulled the shower curtain closed and waited while he or she got in and out.  In a house of four rambunctious kids, nobody thought much about it.  I know I never did, that is, until the day everything changed.

It was evening and my turn in the tub.  He asked to come in and I pulled the curtain closed as usual.  Only this time, instead of going straight to the toilet, he stood by the tub and pulled back the curtain. And stood there staring.  I’ll never forget that look in his eyes, so strange and a little terrifying.  It was not like his eyes grew large or the whites of his eyes more visible.  He didn’t raise his brows.  He didn’t blink.  He just … looked.  I had no idea what it meant, but I felt acutely embarrassed and vulnerable.  I wanted to cover up, but there was nothing available.  The towel was out of reach. “Ma, he’s looking at me!” I tattled.  My mother’s harried voice came out of the kitchen nearby, where she was busy preparing supper.  “What are you doing?  Get out of there and leave her alone.”  Without a word, he left and I locked the door behind him.  The bliss of bath time was over.  I dried myself off and got dressed. That was the first and last time my mother intervened.  The next time I hollered out that he was looking at me in the tub, she replied, “I’m too busy.  Tell him yourself.”

Being the intelligent, bright-eyed child that I was, I clearly understood in that moment that was up to me to protect myself.  There wasn’t anyone on whom I could rely.  Mom was simply too busy to share in my concern and there wasn’t any other adult.  My father had traded us in for a better family that same year.  I was 8 or 9 years old when he left, another person not to be trusted.

From that point on, staying safe and sound was up to me.  Unfortunately, I soon proved a rookie in this matter.  He was older, stronger, faster, and far more devious than me.  My only real protection was safety in numbers, a difficult feat when you’re too young to hang around your sister, you prefer to play alone, you don’t share a room anymore, and your mother works during the day.   Deep down in my heart, hidden away even from me, grew a certainty that at some point some dirty part of me was responsible for his bad behavior.  I longed to be clean and pure and pretty.

The lessons learned in childhood are the lessons we never forget.  I learned to trust others only so far and to remain ever alert for the signs that things were about to go south. It could be as simple as the sudden quiet, a gesture, or a look, but mostly it was my own subconscious  hypervigilance that kept me out of harm’s reach.  These lessons served well in those days, helping me to avoid the long line of predatory men in my life, like the fathers and brothers of my friends, my sister’s two husbands, and a few boys in the neighborhood.  As far as I could see, the whole male world was queer, which is how I thought of it.

The abuse progressively worsened and went on and on until I grew strong enough at sixteen to put an end to it.   By this time my heart was so ashamed and fearful I simply wasn’t capable of receiving the kind of love for which I hungered with all the humor of a starving dog.  It’s fragrance surrounded me like the smell of fresh, baked bread, drawing me to its bakery window where I’d stand, mouth-watering and hungry beyond belief, nose was pressed against the glass, hands stuffed inside empty pockets, hoping against hope that this time, there’d might be a coin or two to trade for a slice.

In growing up, we are to put away childish things, but this pain, this fear, this habit of suffering through an awkward version of love-from-a-distance proved impossible to put away. I didn’t know how to fix it; I didn’t even know what was wrong.  All I knew was that I wanted love, but couldn’t find it.  Somewhere between my first Harlequin romance and the whispered secrets of girls at school, the longing for love became totally enmeshed with the notion of some nameless, faceless, dread champion riding in on his white horse to save me from myself.  I figured I could live off his splendor.  His love for me would prove beyond all doubt that I was pure and beautiful, kind, and wonderful, all the ideals I wished I were.  Nobody seemed to think these things were true of me, but if a handsome prince came along, they would have to believe.  They would have to acknowledge that I was worthy.

When I looked up and saw his eyes, when I tried to cover myself with bubbly bath water, when I called to my mom for help all those years ago so,  I didn’t know that trust had been fractured and would crash and burn my heart so that its wounds would seemingly bleed for a lifetime.  I also had no idea that God was right there with me, allowing in my life only what I was able to bear, and using that pain and longing to slowly bring me to Him, the Lord My Healer.  Most of all, I had no clue that the prince I longed for, the one to whom I could give my whole heart, who would love me beyond my wildest dreams and save me from myself, would be none other than the Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace.

This is my story and I’m still living it.  Day by day, God reveals tiny pieces of my heart that still cling to the old ways, still learning that perfect love drives out fear.  I’m not perfected yet, but day by day, more and more, my heart whispers, sings, and even shouts, “God is good.”  God is so good.

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