“Yes, yes, of course,” I replied. “Sarah? Are you there?”

“Mommy…Mommy…Something terrible has happened!” Sarah responded.

I could barely understand her words; her voice was hoarse and muffled by tears. I heard words, phrases, but not sentences.

“Suzie’s mother yelled…” Her voice trailed off. “I…scared…fainted…” Sarah was crying.

“I can’t hear you well, sweetie. Tell me again, very slowly,” I said.

Sarah began again, and I finally understood that she was scared for her roommate, Suzie, who was anorexic. The child was so emaciated that she had fainted several times during the summer and was now lying on her bed, listless. The seriousness of the situation prompted camp counselors to call Suzie’s parents and insist that the child be taken home, or camp officials would take her to the hospital.

“When Suzie’s mother arrived, she screamed at me, Mommy. She didn’t even look at Suzie; she just yelled at me that it was my fault, that I was bad, that I lied when I reported Susie’s problem,” Sarah sobbed loudly. “It’s not true, Mommy! It’s not true! I feel so terrible…I feel so terrible.”

I tried consoling Sarah, pointing out that the mother, not she, was at fault, but then she blurted out the real problem.

“Mommy, I remembered something horrible when she was screaming at me.” She continued, “I remembered my secret of being sexually abused as a little girl.”

I could barely hear Sarah, and I thought I must have misunderstood.

“What was that, sweetie? I couldn’t hear you,” I replied.

“I was sexually abused when I was little, Mommy.” Sarah cried haltingly. “I feel so awful, so dirty. I just want to die.” Her voice trailed off as she wept.

A paralyzing shock wave of alarm darted through me. Faces, places, emotions fought for my attention as I tried to understand what Sarah had just said, and what I should say in return.

“Sarah, honey, you are beautiful. You are perfect. You have done nothing wrong. Tomorrow morning I’m driving up to get you, so don’t worry,” I said quickly.

Sarah had slipped away from her ballet group and gone up to the top floor of the dormitory, where she had found an isolated phone booth in which to hide and call me. No one knew she was there.

“I feel so alone, so ugly.” Sarah sobbed, her voice rising and falling.

“I know you do, sweetie, but I am with you. You are not alone. I need to call your counselor now so she can be with you. Can you promise me that you will stay by the phone while I call her?” I asked.

“Okay,” she muttered weakly as she cried.

~~~

Sarah was a victim of a child-pornography ring ensconced in the seminary. She described in terrorizing detail the threats she had endured. A knife was held to her ribs, and she was told that they would skin her alive if she talked. They warned her that they had already killed several other children who had spoken. They put large pornographic photographs of her on the table, warning that they would enlarge these photos and display them on the church altar if she said anything. Each time she moaned, they threatened to rape her mother, and they explicitly explained how they would do so. Then they claimed that they had already raped me because of her lack of cooperation, and added that my “cries could be heard for miles around.” They also described how they were going to kill her father if she talked. And they stated repeatedly that God hated her and was throwing her into the pits of hell. They added that Mary, the mother of Jesus, hated her as well.

Within the confines of a seminary, and just a few yards from the chapel, Sarah was repeatedly and ritualistically abused by those who had dedicated themselves to sharing the Gospel message. Over the span of a year, she was threatened with distorted images of the Divine and nearly killed.

~~~

Months passed, and the hard work of recovery was evident. Sarah laughed more, she hung out with friends at school, and she resumed her dance classes. On one quiet afternoon, I asked if she could stay with her brothers while I went to a special workshop on healing that was offered to counselors and social workers. My hope was that I might learn something that could help the entire family. Sarah was fourteen years old, and she didn’t mind staying with her younger brothers. I rented a children’s video for them to watch and made popcorn for them to share. I left thinking that all was well, but it wasn’t.

As the therapist led the group in a visualization meditation, I plainly heard these words: Call home! I might have ignored this message as just my usual anxiety, except for the fact that I heard it again, and more strongly this time: CALL HOME! I quickly got up and went over to the instructor’s desk, where she had a phone. Friends in the group watched me carefully as I dialed my home. They came to my side when they heard my distress. Johnny answered the phone, crying.

“What’s wrong, Johnny?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Mommy. Sarah just keeps screaming,” he replied.

“Let me talk with her, Johnny,” I said.

“She’s locked the door, Mommy; we can’t get in,” he cried.

“Let me talk with Andrew.” Andrew took the phone and was also crying.

“What is happening?” I asked him.

“Can’t you hear her, Mommy? She keeps yelling and won’t stop,” he explained.

“Go tell her she must come to the phone,” I replied.

“She only yells at us to go away. She’s locked in the bathroom,” he sobbed.

I told Andrew how to open the door and then explained that I was giving the phone to my friend, and asked him to talk with her until I got home. My friend quickly took the phone and began comforting Andrew. He was still on the phone with my friend when I arrived at home. Johnny was beside him, still crying.

I opened the bathroom door to find Sarah curled up in the fetal position in the bathtub. She kept moaning, “They hurt me so bad, they hurt me so bad…” and then she would scream. I pulled her out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her stiff little body, and held her tight. Within a few minutes, the workshop teacher and two social workers arrived. The teacher helped me with Sarah, and each social worker held one of the boys. We talked quietly and prayed, until finally Sarah fell asleep. Pale-faced, the boys were in shock. It was the birth of another memory.