Building bridges of light and hope

Word Among Us, Jun 2003 by Johnson, Cynthy

The parish church was a very important place for me when I was growing up. We lived just a few minutes away, and I remember walking there with my parents every Sunday morning. Even as a child, I enjoyed Mass immensely. Following along in my father's prayer book, I would try hard to be very quiet, kneel up straight, and never turn around, lest one of my brothers poke me in the back!

The latter was the hardest, as I was very curious about the sounds that resonated from the choir loft. The music from the church organ made me smile and giggle with delight. Noticing this, my parents arranged for me to talk with the organist one Sunday when I was six. Soon afterwards, they bought me a small spinet organ and arranged for me to take lessons.

I became very attentive to the music used at Mass and collected all the responsorial psalms, hymns, and songs. In time, I learned to play them and many other types of music. My favorites were the liturgical pieces by Bach and Handel, especially "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." When I played this hymn and let my soul soar, I was sometimes too swept away to keep a grip on correct rhythm and timing!

My first opportunity to play the church organ came when I was fifteen, when I was asked to accompany the soloist at a wedding ceremony. After that, I often substituted for the regular organist, playing at weddings, funerals, Sunday Mass, and as accompanist for the junior choir. It was my greatest joy to play the organ for my God!

A Betrayal and its Aftermath. Prior to a wedding or Mass, I always made time to practice on the church organ. I'd get the key from the receptionist at the rectory, practice, then return the key. One holiday weekend, when the receptionist was off, I made arrangements to obtain the key from one of the parish priests. Everything went as usual until I returned to the rectory to give back the key, The priest greeted me at the door, then invited me inside-to talk about some music, he said. I followed him into a side office. There he molested me.

Once outside in the fresh air, I ran down the path toward home until I had to stop and catch my breath. Crying, I asked God, "Why did this happen to me?" The church had always been such a safe place. Now things were different. I felt intensely betrayed. Not only had the sexual abuse hurt my body; it had robbed me of spiritual security and scarred my soul.

I kept the secret from my parents and everyone else and only mentioned it briefly to one of my girlfriends at that time. How could I explain this awful incident that I didn't understand and didn't even have the vocabulary to describe? How could I tattle on this revered priest who had threatened me not to tell anyone? Besides, who would ever believe me?

The experience took away all my trust and even my interest in church life. I withdrew from parish activities and went to Mass only when I had to, sitting in the very back. I did everything possible to avoid priests. I completely stopped playing the organ. Pushing the memory down, I buried it deep within myself It was only years later, when I attended Pre-Cana classes with my soon-to-be husband, that I told my husband because the priest that had molested me was conducting the classes. Later in our marriage, whenever my husband suggested that I accompany him to Mass, my suppressed emotions broke out in explosions of rage or in panic attacks. Finally, when I had been away from the church for nearly twelve years, my husband approached me again about trying to find a parish where I could be comfortable.

The Path of Healing. We decided to try a parish very near our home. Walking into the church that first Sunday morning, we were struck by its welcoming design and spirit of community and friendship. Then, as we took our seats, the church was filled with the sound of music from a beautiful pipe organ. It was "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring." I choked back the tears. For the first time in many years, I felt safe in a church again.

My husband and I became active members of the parish, but my real turning point came in April 1999, after a Cursillo weekend retreat. I felt God tugging at the deepest recesses of my soul and pleading for me to return home. The parable of the prodigal son suddenly came alive. I was the prodigal daughter returning home to the loving Father who had waited for me all those years.

After that weekend, I started experiencing the full impact of Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder, an anxiety disorder whose symptoms can take years to appear My symptoms included flashbacks, distressing dreams, intrusive thoughts, and an inability to resume playing the organ, piano, and guitar I was also diagnosed with a chronic condition characterized by fatigue, widespread pain, and sleep disturbances.

It took me awhile to understand what was going on. Stepping down from my role as a director of a large computer consulting company, I began working part-time so as to facilitate a long-overdue healing process.

By the grace of God, I finally shared all this with my husband. Later I was led to a good spiritual director and, soon after, to a good psychologist. All of this helped me to reestablish my relationship with God, work through my suppressed emotions, and understand the abuse I had experienced.