Diana’s story
The following account includes descriptions of physical and sexual abuse and may be triggering for some readers.
“Diana” alleges abuse at the hands of her parents, who were long-time CFC members. “Diana” asserts that this abusive behavior was preached from the pulpit by CFC pastors and taught in child-training sessions by the pastors’ wives.
When I was growing up at CFC, the church leadership assured parents that spanking their children would ensure that they grew up to love God. “We must restrict the path our children may follow,” an early 2000s CFC child training states. “We must not wait for them to choose their own way of life, but we place them on the path they are to follow.”
My parents were encouraged to start spanking their children when they were 6 months old. The same CFC training told parents: “The earlier, the better. Don’t wait until you can reason with children. By then, they’ll have you well trained.”
Parents, if you want your children to grow up to love you and love God, this is not the way to do it. We are not animals to be trained or property to be managed. We are humans made in God’s image and your mistreatment of us dishonors his work.
My name is Diana. This is my story.
It was sunny and bright in my parents’ bedroom with the brightness of a very cold winter day. The room was crowded and messy—the white bassinet shoved against the wall, the dressers piled high with clothes not put away, broken household objects propped against the wall unfixed, all covered with a thin layer of dust illuminated by the sunshine. I diligently ensured that the rest of the house was clean, but I didn’t bother or dare to clean my parents’ room. Why would I clean something the public didn’t see?
I don’t remember what I had done wrong that day, but at age thirteen the spankings were generally the result of some type of open defiance. I had learned at a very young age to perform obedience and I practiced reading my parents’ emotions so that I could avoid making them feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. Our church encouraged parents to spank their children if they felt insecure in their authority.
When I was smaller, Mom would make me bend over her knee so she could trap my legs between hers and restrain me during spanking sessions. That was the way she had broken multiple wooden spoons on me, she would joke to her CFC friends, as if breaking my will was some kind of game. At thirteen I had a woman’s body and towered over her, so Mom relied on fear to keep me motionless.
She commanded me to bend over the edge of the worn and faded green comforter on the bed. I was equal parts dread and humiliation; my body felt violated every time I was spanked. The sexual nature of the violation did not register in my adolescent consciousness at the time, but decades later the full weight of the abuse wrecked me.
At first, I maintained a stoic silence because it felt more humiliating to cry. Occasionally Mom was in a hurry and I could get away with it, but this time she was determined to break me. Whack whack whack. The wooden drumstick swished through the air, striking my butt cheeks with all the determination held in my mom’s petite arm.
I stayed silent and tense, thinking for a split second that I was glad I had managed to hide the thick rubber plumber’s hose under the couch cushions because it had a far more vicious bite than the drumstick. I returned to the present as Mom demanded, “Are you sorry?” I maintained my silence. “That obviously didn’t hurt enough,” she responded, forcing me to bend over the bed again.
She continued for several more rounds, the swats growing harder and faster as her need to crush my resistance intensified. Finally, the humiliation and rage broke my silence, and I cried angry tears. Even though I knew what would happen if I couldn’t stop myself from crying, I was flooded with rage and couldn’t control the explosion.
Mom’s response to my rage followed the predictable pattern. “You’re not allowed to have a temper tantrum,” she said. “I’m going to spank you again until you stop crying.” On that day I was angry and bold enough to challenge her with the truth. “This is child abuse!” I yelled in her face.
“No, it’s not,” she defended herself quickly. “This is what the Bible tells me to do. I have to spank you because I love you.” Her dismissal froze my tears on my cheeks, and I stopped crying. I retreated behind the safe and familiar stoicism, and Mom, seeing that I had regained control of myself, announced that I could go to my room.
I escaped to the bedroom before the spanking session could turn into a lecture about how I needed to learn submission. I knew that if I had to deal with her threats of “God is going to break your will,” I would explode again. The message was clear: submit to my parents or God would break me in a much more painful fashion later. I cursed her, and I cursed the God who gave my parents authority over me.
“This is what the Bible tells me to do. I have to spank you because I love you.”
My mother’s words cut my physically bruised body like a whip. Defying her wasn’t just defying a human. It was defying God.
Resistance seemed futile. God was a jealous God who would break my spirit and strip me of everything in order to gain my full submission. He was a sadistic, abusive being.
How was I supposed to love that kind of God? I could fear him, but I couldn’t love him. Love was neurologically linked to pain. Every time I dared to voice the truth, my parents had their trump card: “This is God’s calling. This is the word from the Lord.” How could I argue against that?
I was trapped. Trapped between my mother’s legs. Trapped in a house I never left except for church. Trapped in a cult-like church that groomed its children to welcome abuse. I was the crazy one. I was the one who was the problem.
So I gave in. I agreed with the lies. I convinced myself that God would approve of me if I just surrendered and stopped asking questions. I suppressed my doubts as the Toronto Blessing swept the church and people were slain in the spirit and barked like dogs. I let men who prayed for me at the altar press their hands against my forehead until I let my legs go limp and I fell to the ground. I watched in terror as my parents and their friends tried to exorcise demons from a screaming and writhing woman suffering from mental illness. I pretended that I wasn’t faking it when I spoke in tongues. I wrapped myself in submissive, emotionally frozen armor.
My submission allowed me to survive. The physical beatings stopped, but I lost my voice. My bodily autonomy. My right to emotions.
But worst of all, I lost a God who loves and protects, and I’m still trying to find him in the morass of trauma.
