My Story (Part 3)

The time for me to enter the first grade rolled around, and I was so excited! That year was one that I still look back on as one of the best and most challenging years of my life. My teacher, Miss Audrey, was the absolute best teacher a kid could ask for! She made learning so much fun that it really did not seem like work anymore.

She taught us Writing Road to Reading (a phonics approach to learning to read and spell)…and we created bulletin boards for every class. She taught me to love self expression in any form–whether it be art, discussion, or just thinking and writing. We read The Courage of Sarah Noble and The Shining Sword and learned all about slavery in the US and the Underground Railroad. She taught me to love to read and through books, enter a whole new and unexplored world. I remember reading for hours, totally submerged in the story. (This allowed me to momentarily escape the realisty of domestic violence all around me.)

Miss Audrey also took an unpopular stand against child abuse. one day I came into class as a 1st grader with a bruise pattern on my face in the shape of a large hand. It completely covered the whole side of my face. She asked me what happened to cause that, and when I would not tell her, she took me to the principal’s office. The principal grilled me about it, but I would not tell him either, so they called the pastor couple to the office. In the end, I finally broke down in tears and told them that my dad had thought that I “looked at him wrong” and slapped me across the face. This had happened the night before, and by the next day my face was turning black and blue. I can still remember how angry Audrey was that nothing was ever done about this incident of child abuse.

Miss Audrey taught me in 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade, making each class memorable for me as a child. She brought nature in to her classroom with fish, gerbils, and lots of plants. She had a flair for the dramatic, and she always led our class in recessitations, readers theators, and plays for special church events. I remember what a stickler she was for perfect handwriting, and some days, I think that she would not entirely approve of my hurried handwriting at work. Every year her students would enter and win the statewide competition for manuscript and cursive handwriting. If she did not like your handwriting, she would tear up your paper and throw it in the trash. This only happened to me once before I learned that she expected things to be written right the first time.

One of the highlights of 3rd grade, was Miss Audrey’s History/Geography class. She created a “Desert Meal” for our class, made up of dates, pomegranates, goat cheese, etc. We all sat on the floor under a tent and pretended that we were in the desert as we ate. Of course, this coincided perfectly with learning about the Children of Israel wondering in the wilderness for 40 years.

That was the other highlight, Bible class each day with Miss Audrey. She taught us about Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. Many of the philosophies that she held as true, I have never agreed with, but I have always appreciated that she took all of our childish questions about God seriously. She patiently answered them after lengthy class discussions. It was from her that I got my love for discussing the meaning of the Word. She loved to make class lessons come a live with song, such as: “A noun is for naming a person like Paul, a place like Chicago, a thing like a wall. So remember the rule as you play the noun game, and say persons and places and things. Nouns name.” and “God said go down to Egypt land, and tell old Pharoah let my people go. Tell him I said let them go, let them go…”

She taught us so much through her example. That it is ok to just be yourself. That it is ok to love God with all your heart and not be popular because of it. That doing what is right and having ingegrity is the most important thing. That memorizing scripture and hiding it in our hearts would come in handy someday. That loving others and giving selflessly is what a fullfilling life is all about. (I am sorry to say that Miss Audrey passed away from liver cancer on 3.8.13, but she will live forever in my heart)

During 3rd grade I had 2 other teachers as well for some classes, but I prefer to leave them unmentioned, as they were both interested in nothing except getting me in trouble with my parents for silly things. One of them would routinely grab my by the shoulders and shake me hard. I remember being quite dizzy and my head hurting afterwards.

In the summer between my 1st and 2nd grade years of school, one of my older brothers, Mark, passed away. He drowned in the Tonsina River while on a hiking and hunting expedition with my dad, brother John and a few other men from the church. As a 7 year old, I became quite angry with God for this injustice, and I struggled for years to understand why a loving God would take my brother away from me. My mom almost had a break down over Mark’s death, and we were not allowed to look at any pictures of him or mention his name in the house. In the end, I could barely even remember what he looked like or remember how he was as a person.

As I continued to struggle with these life developments, there were very few who saw past my anger and blatant disregard of authority to the hurt little girl inside me. Among these few special people was Miss Audrey and a woman named Anne. Anne spent hours and hours with me doing activities that I enjoyed with me: gardening, scrapbooking, photography, making soap, taking walks, singing, and baking. She opened up to me one day and told me that she had lost her father as a little girl, and he mother as a teenager. That is when I realized that she understood what I was going through. She became like the mother that I should have had: protective, loving and understanding.

My Story (Part 2)

Our family moved to Alaska in October of 1992. Altogether, there were 7 of us kids and my parents that made the long trip from Canton, Ohio to Kenny Lake, Alaska. There were already 3 older sisters and 1 older brother living in Alaska, and this made the transition a little easier. We moved to a farm that was part of the “Move” cult, where there were about 80 people who ate, worked and went to “church” together.

(My mom, 3 sisters, Samuel and I flew up, but my dad and 3 older brothers attempted to drive up in an old school bus, painted blue and loaded with all of our belongings. They only made it to Wisconsin after many breakdowns and a engine fire, before they decided to sell most of our belongings, mail a few boxes to Alaska and catch the next available plane to Anchorage. I am unsure if exactly how long they took to join us in Alaska, but at the age of 4, to me it seemed an eternity!! I did not understand why my dad had to be away from me for so long, and I had nightmares almost every night about him getting hurt or dying. The stories relayed to me about the breakdowns and fire did not help this at all, I am sure.)

I remember being very facinated with the fact that we were really flying through the air, and delighted with the fact that I could chew as much gum as I wanted to. I remember not wanting to sleep a wink on the plane, much to my mom’s chagrine! I remember meeting my older brother and older sister in the airport in Anchorage, and them taking us to stay at a hospitality house that belonged to the “Move” cult in Alaska. I remember this 6 foot tall guy, named Terry (who I was quite sure must be related to Goliath because of his stature), picking me up and showing me this miniature outhouse. He encouraged me to open the door on it, and when I did I was shocked to find that there was a mouse trap inside that caused the whole thing to fall apart. He assured me that I had not broken it, and showed me how to put it back together again. I remember driving back to “The Farm” and being worried because the driver kept falling asleep. My brother kept singing church songs about being awake to try to keep the driver awake….”Awake, Zion Awake” and “Awaken My Heart” were among them.

The log home I grew up in at Sapa

Finally, after 5 hours of driving, we arrived at the farm, Sapa Christian Center. I felt like I was on exhibit in the zoo, as 80 people crowded around us, all wanting to welcome us and meet us at one time. The very first person I met was a little boy with a sqeaky voice, named Johnny, who would end up being one of my closest friends growing up. (As it turned out, my oldest sister married his uncle years later) We were escorted to “our” log home with 5 tiny bedrooms, a huge barrel wood stove and no running water or flush toilet. We were told to be thankful that there was a “honey bucket” and electricity. We all sat down on the ugly brown couch and cushions on the floor and no one said a word for several minutes. None of us thought that we would be coming to such a primative place and would have such a rough home. Honestly, an igloo would have felt more like home at that point. Finally, one of my sisters got up and started cleaning and trying to make the house look like “home”. For the first couple of years, I shared a small room with my older sister and nemesis.

 

I took to preschool like a fish to water. I loved the interaction that I got to have for the 1st time with other little boys and girls my own age. I did not particularly care for most of my preschool teachers, who were very strict and physically and verbally abusive, but I loved taking care of the 2 sheep, Amos and Abby, and our dove, LoveDoveCoo. Every morning in preschool began with singing songs like, “How Did Moses Cross the Red Sea”, “Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain”, and “What Did The Little Seed Say?”. We took lots of nature walks to the barn, sawmill, and my favorite, “The Big Rock” (a huge boulder near the sawmill). We would often climb The Big Rock and eat our snack (animal crackers or popcorn) on it while our teacher read a story to us.

Soon, I was in kindergarten! I loved learning, and I loved my kindergarten teacher, Rebekah. She made learning so much fun, and she would tell us stories about growing up in Colombia South America on a cult farm and the gorilla soldiers that would come with guns and threaten everyone there. (Not sure I would want my 5 year old hearing such stories, but they were fascinating and exciting at the time). And I could not wait to graduate into “Big School”.

The most memorable thing about being 5 years old is that is when I accepted Jesus as my personal savior. My sister had been telling me about Jesus and how He was her savior, so I asked my mom and dad to pray with me so that I could accept Him too. My dad told me that he was too busy trying to finish building a closet, and would pray with me later. Several days later, my parents prayed with me, and I became a much happier, less fearful little girl. I knew that I had someone with me no matter what happened. I still continued to doubt God’s love for me though, and would not fully trust that He loved me until I was in my 20s.

About the time that I was entering the 1st grade, my older brother, Matthew, moved from Sapa to Wisconsin and my older sister, Rachel, moved to another cult farm named Whitestone Farms (in Delta Junction, AK) to attend “college”. This made the house a little quieter, and soon I had my own room.

Throughout all these first 2 years in Alaska, the yelling and verbal and physical abuse continued in our home. Adults in the cult knew of this and did nothing to stop it. It was as if they agreed with the way that my parents treated us, or thought that if they pretended that it did not happen, then it would stop. In the end, this further escalated the abuse, and soon the cult leaders became too afraid of my dad’s temper to keep him in check.

My Story (part 1)

After much thought, I have decided to go ahead and create this post. I am doing this for many reasons, not the least of which is to shed some light on the darkness of the way I and so many others were raised. I also happen to find writing about the past to be very therapeutic and a way to help me heal, and be able to move on a happier person.

I am sure that I cannot possibly say all that is in my heart to say in one post, so this will come in installments–stay tuned!

PART 1:

I was born in Canton, Ohio in April 1988 to Elsie and Lyle (Luke) Stiner. I am the 11th out of 12 children, and the youngest of 7 daughters. I have been told by many that I was born during a time when my dad was depressed, angry, and going through some type of midlife crisis. For this reason, I am told that he held me more and spent more time with me growing up than he did with any of my other siblings. (You will see the repercussions of this later in my story)

My mother and father with me–the day I was born

 

 Our family lived in Canton until I was four years old. We attended “church” in a cult there–a cult my parents had chosen to be a part of when they were in their late 20s and already had 4 children. This cult had just enough of the truth to fool many people…put on just enough of a good show to appear to be a legitimate “church”. (This cult is called “The Move of God”, and was founded by a man named Sam Fife in the 1960s in Miami. From there it spread, and there are now “Move” cult groups all over the US, Australia, Central America, South America, Europe, and Asia.)

 Because I was so young when we lived in Ohio, most would assume that I do not remember much about life there, but that assumption is wrong. I remember more about our life in Ohio than I wish I did. I remember the constant yelling every night after we were all sent to bed, about the finances and business decisions. My mom never seemed to agree with my dad about how to pay the bills and run his construction business. I remember my 17 year old brother being leaned against a tall file cabinet and belted for about 15 minutes. I remember my 8 year old sister being stood in front of a clock for hours while she struggled to tell my Dad what time it was, and I remember my dad laughing at her because she could not tell time well. I remember this same sister getting spanked every night for not getting her math problems right on her homework. (These spankings were administered with a large club or a leather belt and lasted for at least 10  minutes) This created a mental block in the area of math for her, that she would have until she graduated high school.

I remember the way that my parents would talk about an older brother of mine who left the “Move” cult and had joined the military. They tried to turn all of us against him, and told us many hurtful lies about him. He had left home when I was a baby, but I remember begging to be allowed to write him a “letter” (mostly scribblings, as I was only 3 years old) like I wrote my 2 sisters and brother who lived in Alaska. I remember being threatened with a spanking if I kept asking to do this.

I remember that there was never any normal conversation in our home–just yelling. I would retreat to my bedroom and play there, often under my bed, out of fear from all of the yelling and beatings that occurred daily.

I remember that for a period of a few months, there was another family sharing our house with us. This family had 4 children of their own and both parents worked. This meant that there were times when my mom would be in charge of these 4 children in addition to her own children. I remember that one day the 14 year old boy in the other family tried to run away because of all of the yelling and abuse that was ongoing in our home. His parents were both at work, and my mom beat him bad! His family moved out shortly afterwards, and I always wondered if it was because they were upset about this treatment of their son.

Fortunately, I also have a few good memories from this time in Ohio. Memories of walking outside in the rain and thunder storms with my dad holding my hand–looking up into the sky and wondering at the age of 3 if there really was a God up there who loved ME. I remember catching lightening bugs with my siblings outside at night, and playing hide and go seek outside in the dark with flashlights. And I remember my mom painting and wallpapering the upstairs walls for hours, and keeping me occupied with all kinds of story tapes that I loved. I remember my mom teaching me my alphabet song at the age of 3, and how proud my dad was when he came from work that night and I sang it to him.

Samuel and I with our mother

Best of all, I remember the day in November that my little brother, Samuel, was born. I was 3.5 years old, and, for the first time in my young life, I experienced the feelings of protectiveness. I remember my dad explaining to me that Samuel has Down’s Syndrome and that he is “different”. I can still remember how angry I was to discover that one of the nurses in the hospital had ripped his skin because she was so rough when taking out the IV from his hand. (He still has a bad scar from this) I remember holding him at 5 pounds, feeding him his bottle every night while my mom cooked dinner, getting my bubble gum stuck in his hair when he was a few months old, and taking the blame when he knocked over my mom’s favorite plant on the shelf.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

Just a few months before our family moved from Ohio, something happened that would affect my life forever: My mom worked for a lady named Mrs Stout (yes, that was her real name). Mrs Stout had her daughter and grandson, Timmy, living with her. I used to go to work with my mom and help her clean this lady’s house, and then Timmy and I would play with toys together. One day, Timmy sexually molested me, and my mom walked in on it happening. She quickly removed me from the room and finished her cleaning. On the way home she told me never to talk about it. She told me that I was a very bad girl and that I should be “ashamed of myself”. Yet she continued to take to take me to work with her. I remember how happy I was on the days that my dad let me go to work with him instead, because I knew that I did not have to see Timmy.