Unbroken: A Memoir Read online

  It was in Georgia that I discovered what my parents had known for months – I was going to have a sibling! My sister was born late in the spring, a beautiful baby with rosebud lips and big blue eyes. After enduring me as an infant, my parents braced themselves for the worst, but my pretty baby sister was temperate and manageable, fitting effortlessly into our lives. I loved her from the very start and anticipated the days when she could walk and talk. I would take her under my wing, of course, and turn her into a willing playmate who would never question my creative whims or usurp my authority as the oldest.

  I cherished our new life on land, but I also missed the gleaming white tanker ship. I lay awake at night and longed for the ocean air, the continuous jumble of foreign languages, and the rich blue of the sea. I missed the thrill of holding onto the smooth steel railings and seeing nothing but blue ocean stretching out to the white line of the horizon, and the sun, brilliant and everywhere, radiating a warmth that reached down into your bones. I dreamt of sailing through the deep on my ship, leaving white-capped waves behind as we parted the sea on the way to the next adventure.

  This dream was not meant to be. Not long after my sister was born, the ship was traveling in the South Pacific when it became trapped in a raging tropical storm. It ran aground, and though all were safely evacuated, the ship itself could not be recovered. It sits there now, mostly underwater, just miles off the Chilean coast, broken atop the rocks it ran aground on. The once-beautiful vessel is now a rusted carcass of its original form, red and jagged against the lush green of the coast. She sits as a monument to brokenness, raising her crumbling face to heaven, mocking the dreams of short-term missionaries everywhere and reminding all who view her that even on the surest course, storms come and we can find ourselves astray.

  Our life in Georgia came to an end when my father received another job opportunity, this time in the strange land of Canada. It was the nineties, and there was a new missionary dream, a more systematic approach. No longer were missionaries content to travel the world and deliver literature. This new organization wanted to gather educated, missions-minded individuals, those with careers and transferrable skills, and send them to countries with the highest population of Muslims. From Morocco to China, they would “plant” their missionaries, encouraging them to build lives, to have families, and to live among those they were ministering to, going undercover as school teachers and business owners while attempting to convert Muslims by leading shining examples of Christian lives. Never one to turn down the chance to move, my father accepted and we packed our considerably larger bags and made our way up the Eastern seaboard, eventually settling in Ontario.

  There, my parents welcomed another daughter, a delicate, fair-haired, blue-eyed baby with a delightfully pleasant disposition. Not overly creative with nicknames, I called her Baby, and the name stuck for several years, until she put her tiny little foot down and demanded to be called by her rightful name.

  Expert scheduling was the glue that kept our growing family together, and I learned to appreciate the word “Agenda”. On Wednesdays, my mother and I would bake cookies while my younger sisters napped, enjoying our homemade treats on bean bag chairs while watching The Cosby Show, the only daytime television my mother approved of. On Saturdays, my father would take me to the local diner for breakfast, and we could eat our pancakes at the counter, sitting between the bikers as they smoked their cigarettes while eating their bacon and eggs. During the week, I was homeschooled by my mother, who dedicated many hours of her life teaching me to paint, draw, and read.

  One of the drawbacks of our interesting lives as missionaries was that, as children, we didn’t have the time or ability to develop close friendships. It was my family with whom I had the most in common, our specific set of life experiences creating a bond that became increasingly important as we grew older. Whom could I identify with, other than my sisters? When our relationship became strained by things like tantrums and irritating personal habits, such as whining, I drew back in solitary retreat. To compensate for what was lacking in my life, I developed an imaginary friend, an invisible dairy cow, to whom I would feed pinecones as we sat and discussed current events in my family life.

  Just as my mother had finished unpacking from our move to Ontario, my father received another job offer. He was needed on the West coast to take the position of Director for the new head office of the missions organization, and once again, we started packing. My father drove our things in a U-haul truck across Canada, dreaming of Saddam Hussein’s great conversion to Christianity, while my mother got to make the trip out west on a plane, with an infant, a toddler, and myself.

  She prayed for all our souls while I hopped on and off the vacant seats, paging the stewardess for orange juice at each one. Just as my mother began to wonder if she could be forgiven for getting off the plane without me, I saw the EXIT sign. I plunked myself down into the empty seat next to it and read the words “Pull to Release”. And that is exactly what I did.

  I didn’t have enough strength to get the door open, but the alarm did sound and an angry stewardess returned me to my mother and buckled me into my seat for the duration of the flight. My mother looked like she wished the door had opened to swallow me whole, but despite her hopes and dreams, we arrived in Vancouver all together and my father arrived to take us to our new home.

  After our move to the West coast, my parents decided it was best if I was no longer home-schooled. I was sent to a Christian elementary school, where I experienced the thrill of falling in love for the first time. This lucky young man was the handsome son of a local television evangelist, but, sadly, he did not return my affections. My first boyfriend spent the entirety of our week-long relationship running from me while I tried to chase him down.

  “Hands to yourself!” my teacher admonished, and I took this to mean hands-free kissing. My first in-school time-out was for kissing a boy until he cried.

  These years were full of good memories and great friends, but it was the relationship with my father that meant the most. He woke me up in the early morning, made my breakfast and my lunch, drove me to school on his way to work, and picked me up on the way home. During the school year it was my father with whom I spent the most time, and we kept our Saturday morning routine of going out for breakfast, although by this time my younger sisters were also invited, and we’d given up breakfast diners in favor of McDonald’s. On Sunday, we attended church as a family.

  There was no life, no concept of life, outside our Christian community. We lived inside a safe bubble, a good Christian family, going to a good church and a good Christian school, with my mother managing Sunday school and my father working in missions.

  I was taught to pity the outside world, the non-Christians who lived miserable lives without a Lord and Savior. It was never the wrong time to quote scripture to a stranger, especially if they happened to be drinking or smoking or talking about evolution. The worst were the non-Christians who were happy. They were to be feared, because we never knew what sin was in their hearts. We didn’t talk to them. Those ones made the prayer list. It was us and them until the end of time, or until the rapture, if you went to our church.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Me And My Girlfriend

  There was a shift in our family dynamics when, eventually, I made friends at school. My parents had a firm no-sleepover rule, so after-school play dates became the pinnacle of my elementary school life.

  It was amazing to me when I discovered that my friends had different lives than mine. I was curious and inquisitive, eager to investigate the way they lived and enjoying the chance to be a part of someone else’s day in their own environment.

  A friendship was sparked between myself and another little girl in my class. We had been paired up several times for group assignments, so to me, with my limited experience of long-term relationships, it seemed like we had known each other for a very long time. She was lithe and energetic, with long red hair and a confidence that came from the familiar
ity of living all her life in one place. She was the antithesis of who I was, and it fascinated me.

  When I was first invited to her house after school, I was completely unprepared for what awaited me. Her house was the largest I’d ever been in, a massive structure with a completely white interior that shone as the sunlight came through all the many large, undressed windows. It was so beautiful. I was bewitched, and that was only the beginning. We were served potato chips and canned pop, two things my mother never let darken the door of her kitchen, and when her mother suggested that we take our snack to the living room and watch Saved By The Bell, I took my wide-eyed self and got comfortable on the big white couch, grinning from ear-to-ear at the television screen.

  I correctly presumed that my mother would never let me out of the house again if she knew that I’d spent hours watching forbidden television shows and eating especially forbidden foods. I wisely kept this to myself when she asked how my day had gone.

  “But what did you do?” asked my mother, after getting an unsatisfactory response.

  I shrugged and replied uncertainly, “We just...played?”

  When she looked at me like she wanted a more descriptive report, I patted my stomach and said “Wow, I’m hungry. I sure would like a piece of multi-grain toast!”

  And that was the end of the interrogation.

  I was happy to go back there, to that big house with the white marble floors, with the white staircase that curved around at the end and the plush white carpet that felt like a dream. It was such a different home than mine. We rented across town in a neighborhood that was older and more suburban, and at my house my little sisters were there, which ruined the magic as far as I was concerned.

  At the white house, there was not only space inside but outside as well, as it was situated in the middle of several acres of flat, green land, bordered by trees and a road not often used. When we wanted to play outside, it was possible to run and shout and scream and not see another person for hours, or until her mother called us in.

  It was on one of those days, a day spent outside in the warm, slow afternoon, that I experienced my first real kiss. Until then, the only kissing I’d done had been with the unfortunate boy at school, who ran from me every time I pursed my lips. It was memorable, definitely diary-worthy, but this time was different in every way.

  My friend and I had come upon a discarded wooden trailer, and we climbed up on it to lie down in the sun as we talked. It tilted so that it faced away from the house and balanced on the ground at the hitch, with the flat part facing the afternoon sun. When I leaned back I had to shut my eyes to avoid being blinded. We were laying there talking about the upcoming track and field event at school when suddenly the sun was no longer in my eyes, and when I opened them, there was her face, inches from mine, her long hair hanging like a curtain around my head.

  When her lips touched mine, it was like an electric shock ran through my body. I startled and she drew back slightly, but as I looked into her expectant face, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she hovered above me, something in me lit, and I drew closer to her and kissed her back.

  If questionable food and entertainment required secrecy, so much more did our esoteric friendship. I weighed my parents reaction in my mind and knew that it was best to hide, even if I didn’t know why. I only knew that I wanted to come back, to relive that moment over.

  And so it went, both of us intensely guarding our secret and our desire to be alone again, until things turned a corner that I did not see coming.

  We were in her bedroom that day, eating our after-school snack and playing with her dolls. I was holding a Barbie and a handful of cheezies when she suggested that we go outside.

  “We should go play in the barn today,” she said, shifting around restlessly on the floor. “There’s a secret place I need to show you!”

  Nothing could have been more tempting, more seductive, than a secret place. Since I’d started reading novels, my hunger for adventure and delicious secrets had grown with my imagination.

  Ever the optimist, I wondered if this secret place was a sunlit room full of interesting books and antique jewels, maybe a fur coat or two and a stash of bubble gum. She bolted out the door and down the stairs, and I ran behind her, licking the orange cheese residue from my fingers on the way.

  We entered the barn through a small door on the northern side, adjacent to the main doors. I followed her up a wooden staircase to an upper level where it looked like there was nothing but cubed bales of hay tied together. We got to the top and ventured through a narrow opening where the rows of hay didn’t go completely to the side of the building. I found myself in a clearing, the hay bales serving as a wall, obscuring vision and noise from downstairs and outside.

  It was darker than the rest of the barn, with almost no natural light. She turned on a light bulb that hung from an electrical cord that was tightly wrapped around a ceiling peg, and as my eyes adjusted I could see that the air was thick with dust. It was uneasy there. The feeling clung to me like a jacket that just didn’t fit, tight and uncomfortable in important places. I didn’t know if we should stay or if we should leave.

  As my friend began to kick some loose hay on the wood floor, she looked up at me and motioned me over with her arm.

  “What are we doing?” I whispered, unsure if I should be making any noise.

  She smiled, and before I could say anything more her mouth was on mine, and seconds later she had taken off my shirt in one expert maneuver. A few minutes later, all our clothes were on the floor.

  What I remember about that afternoon was the strange push-and-pull that occurred between us. It was as if every move I made interfered with what she was doing. If I tried to move left, she would steadily guide me to the right. There was no softness to her touch, and neither was there roughness, but a firm and guided caress that moved my hands here, my body there. She was surprisingly skillful, never pausing to discuss or question what would happen next.

  It made me anxious and insecure. I knew with everything in me that I was playing a part in a grander scheme that had been intentionally hidden from me, and that my dear friend had brought me here knowing, but not saying, what was going to transpire.

  Later on that night, when I was lying awake mulling over the events of the day, my body began to shake and grow cold. I wanted to figure out what had happened, I wanted to know everything, to think about it until it made sense, but my body was at war with my anxious mind. I felt nauseous and frozen. Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. It’s not real if I don’t remember it. I thought to myself. I decided that I would carry on as if this never happened, but in the future I planned to decline further invites to her house.

  This foresight was not necessary, as I was never invited back. The next week she had a new best friend, and I tried to follow her example and found new friends myself. But there was a widening gulf now, between myself and the other girls at the school, and though I desperately wanted friends I was never sure who was safe, and who was going to bring me into their confusing and secret world.

  When my mother noticed that the two of us were no longer as close as we had been, I told her with the utmost sincerity, “She is always drinking pop and watching teenage tv shows. I don’t know if I want to be her friend.”

  My mother nodded in agreement, and the conversation ended with both of us feeling like I had uncovered and absorbed a valuable life lesson.

  “…we long for our churches to be safe places to doubt, to ask questions, and to tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable...

  we want to bring our whole selves through the church doors, without leaving our hearts and minds behind”

  Rachel Held Evans, Searching For Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Blessings Come

  I was in grade four when my father inherited some money, and my parents agreed the time had come to buy their first house. They couldn’t afford to purchase a home in the city
where we were living, so they started looking in more rural areas, and I started packing to move. Like all our moves before, the change was not unwelcome. Yet this time, instead of another adventure, I saw our move as a chance to start fresh, the opportunity to rewrite the occasionally unpleasant experiences of my early elementary school years.

  My father found for our family a three-level townhome on a lot towards the back of a dead-end street. It was enclosed on three sides by a green belt and a gully, far from all traffic on the outskirts of our new home town. Unlike our old life in suburbia, surrounded by fences and roads and neatly carved bicycle paths, this area was wilder, more unencumbered. We had an open backyard with an uncharted forest full of rivers and underbrush, waiting for forts and secret platforms to be built, platforms from which my sisters and I could spy on our neighbors.

  In many ways this move was the new beginning I had been hoping for. My sisters and I began the next year in a new school, my parents joined a new church, and my father, while still working in missions, decided that he would like to start his own business. He enlisted the help of his friends and together with my father’s money and his friend’s craftsmanship, they started a roofing company. The business started successfully, and by wintertime my father had signed contracts and started shingling roofs.

  My sisters and I were waiting to be picked up from school on a particularly cold day when my mother arrived, so late that the gates to the school property had almost been locked up. I threw my backpack into the front seat and gave her my long list of complaints – I am starving! I had to wait outside! With my sisters!! – but before I got to the worst part, my mother burst into tears.

  She had just come from the hospital, she explained, where my father was in surgery. He had fallen off a roof after losing his footing on ice, plunging feet-first off the edge of the roof and landing on a cement plot. Miraculously, he survived, but he had shattered his ankle.