Not Without My Sister (10 page)

Then, unexpectedly, Dad arrived at the School from the Philippines. "Dad!" I hugged him. "I've missed you so much." I expected sympathy from him, but for the first time in my life, he lost his temper. I didn't feel he had the right to scold me. He hadn't lived with me for years. Raising his voice, he launched in with an attack.
"I heard you've been sick for months. You've been disobedient! You haven't taken your Get Out time faithfully like Grandpa ordered!" A Mo Letter called "Get Out" had been written about my dad, when he got deathly sick with hepatitis at Loveville in Greece. Mo wrote, "We can't have a show depending on a sick man," and ordered a regime of daily exercise to make sure that he stayed healthy. Since that day, Dad had always been faithful with his daily exercise, jogging or doing yoga exercises.
I was shocked and the tears were brimming.
He must have received a bad report from the teen shepherds
, I thought. For me to be sick for so long reflected badly on him.
Facing this angry man, in an instant the image I had of my perfect father was shattered. I thought he loved me; he had never lost his temper before, he'd always been fair. But I did not recognize the man in front of me now
What had happened to him the years that we were apart? Was he really just like the rest of them, irrational and temperamental?
As he continued ranting, I shut down, blocking him out. Throughout my months of illness I'd hated feeling helpless; but I hated even more everyone's judgemental attitude towards me, like it was something I had done wrong. Now even my own dad had turned against me. I couldn't believe it.

Unfortunately, I became ill again. Two days later I came down with another temperature and broke out in hives. My body swelled up with bright red bumps all over and my lips and eyes puffed up to three times their normal size. I didn't recognize my own reflection in the mirror. On the third day, Dad came to see me at the Blue House. He told me he had been praying desperately about the reason why I had been afflicted for so long.
"The Lord showed me that you have been put under a curse," he said. "Your mother is a backslider. She has left the Family."
I struggled to take it in.
Mum had left the Family!
It was devastating and shocking news. For the past year, ever since that letter, I had hung on to the hope that I would be allowed to visit her. I didn't even know if she was still in England. I had no idea where she was, or what she was doing.
"Yes, she has gone back to the System, to the pit, to wallow in the mire," he said disdainfully. "She has asked for you and wants to take you out of the Family—"
My mouth dropped open with shock as wild thoughts and emotions surged through me. She had asked for me! She wanted me! But did she even remember me? It had been so long.
"The Lord showed me that you need to pray against her and rebuke her spirit. Grandpa wrote a Mo Letter about this, called, 'God's Curses.' You should read it."
A silent tear ran down my cheek. I still felt a bond of love and loyalty to my mother that no one had replaced.
Pray against her?
It was unthinkable.

Dad was on a roll. "She's not your mother any more. You need to renounce any thoughts of her and pray against her influence in your life. This is serious spiritual warfare!"
I was torn between my love for him, my need for his approval, and my instinctive repugnance over what he was asking me to do.
Had Mum really put a curse on me?
Dad knew how much I loved her. Now he had the leverage he needed to totally destroy my memory of her for good.
I felt a wave of black despair sweep over me. I was still sick, run down, and depressed. I felt beaten. I gave in. "Okay," I said, but I had no intention of praying against her myself.
Dad laid his hands on me and prayed fervently. "May the Lord destroy your mother and take her out of the way. She's better off dead then being a tool in the hands of the Devil." The prayer went on a while, and finally he concluded with, "May the Lord to cleanse your daughter, Celeste, completely from her rebellious spirit."
It almost destroyed me to hear my Dad pray to God to kill someone, backslider or not. Grandpa had often prayed such venomous prayers against his enemies,
but now my own mother?
That day I shut her away and made a conscious effort not to think about her anymore. It was too painful to go there.
The next morning I woke up and the swelling had gone down. By the end of the day the hives had disappeared completely. My "miraculous" recovery made me wonder if what Dad had said was true. He certainly took it as a sign that I had been delivered.
I was finally released from the sick house, and like any released prisoner I was ecstatic to be back in normal life. I started a Family apprenticeship program in photography, which I loved. It was also Christmas; I joined up with the singing team again and performed at the Christmas show that was held at a fancy hotel for all our Japanese friends, over a hundred and fifty people. It boosted my self-confidence and esteem and I started to feel better after so many months of illness and isolation.
But just a month later, my tourist visa expired and I had to go to Korea for what was called a visa trip. This was common—members were often coming and going in such a way to renew their visas. It had never been a problem. I left the day before my fourteenth birthday with an adult partner, Sue, the cheerful, auburn-haired former club secretary of
Music with Meaning
back in the Loveville era. However, when we tried to re-enter Japan, immigration stopped Sue and we were both refused entry. After a night in detention we were put on a plane to Hong Kong. I was devastated and cried the entire flight.
"I can't believe this has happened," I sobbed. "I was going to out for dinner with Dad for my birthday when I got back." Sue was upset herself. She had left her lover and job in Tokyo and her future was just as uncertain. There was terrible turbulence on the flight, and this added to my anxiety. I thought for sure we were going to crash into the ocean.
At Hong Kong airport, we were greeted by Zadok and a World Services man named Isaac. Sue disappeared with the World Services leader to a Home in Hong Kong and Zadok told me I was headed to Macau.
I burst into tears again.
Not the farm!
I would have to start all over again, away from my dad and my friends. The unfairness of it made me angry. "Don't worry," Zadok tried to comfort me. "Hosea isn't there anymore. There're a lot of teens. It's different." But his words were not reassuring. For days I cried and cried. Zadok and the teen shepherds there became concerned about my emotional state and did their best to try and lift my spirits, but it was no good. I was a physical and emotional wreck.
Finally, I pulled myself together and started to make friends with the teen girls. The farm had been turned into a training center similar to ours in Japan—but part of it was like a prison camp for wayward teens. For the first time since she was twelve and had modeled for
Heaven's Girl
in the Philippines, I saw Mene. She had been sent away from the King's House to Macau in disgrace and was a Detention Teen now, kept apart from the main group. The number one crime that could land you in the Detention Teens was spreading doubts, showing a critical and analytical spirit, and questioning the words of the prophet, as Mene had done. She was the first DT placed under the charge of Crystal and her husband, Michael. They were brutally harsh.
I saw Mene with the other DTs carrying out heavy manual labor around tie farm—mostly meaningless work, such as digging ditches and then filling them up again, or painting and then repainting the old barn, first brown and then green, and then back to brown again. The aim was to exhaust them to break their spirits. My childhood friend looked pale and gaunt but we were forbidden to talk to her or even make eye contact. She was under permanent silence restriction. Sometimes she would disappear for weeks at a time. I learned from the teens that were with her in the DT program that she had been put in solitary confinement in a small attic room, beaten and tied naked spread-eagled to the bed, with a bucket for a toilet, and fed only bread and water.
The thought of being sent to Detention so terrified me I did everything possible to be seen as a yielded and dedicated disciple. I just wanted to get out of the farm as soon as possible.
After three months of hearing nothing, we received an urgent message from Japan. My father had gone to the British Embassy to sign a Power of Attorney. He did not expect to be interrogated by officials, but when the consul saw the papers he demanded to know where I was. The Embassy had been alerted to look for me by the British Home Office as I had become a ward of court in London, pending a custody case. My father refused to reveal my location and the consulate had no authority to hold him. He took the next flight out to the Philippines.
This was stunning news. I had one hour to pack my things. I was taken across the border to Canton, and put on a flight to Manila to join my dad and my sister Juliana at the Jumbo Training Center. I was so happy to see my sister again. I hugged them both, delighted to be reunited with them. I had come full circle back to the Jumbo I had left two years earlier. At times, I felt I had been to hell and back. I had fought illness, loneliness, fear, and rejection. But I was far from emotionally mature or confident.
The Jumbo was closing down and we were part of the team that was left to clean up the property before returning it to the owners. For the next five months, Dad, Juliana, and I were a family once again. In the evenings we would play basketball together, or Juliana would perform for us the hulahoop. I taught her to play badminton, and we listened to Dad telling us stories of his early days in the Family.
But I had spent so little time with Dad over the past few years that we didn't really know each other as father and daughter anymore. I was continually shocked by his behaviour and comments to me. One day I was discussing with someone in the dining hall my ambition to become a photographer, and my dad overheard our conversation. I can still remember the look of shock and disdain on his face.
"What? You're going to be a missionary!" And that was that. I did not expect his sharp response. I remained composed and kept my mouth shut, but I thought,
How dare he tell me what I'm going to do. There's no way I'm going to be a Family missionary
. It was a key moment.
Another disturbing experience was when one of my childhood abusers, Eman Artist, came from Japan for a visa trip. He asked to speak with me. Seeing him again made me break out into a sweat.
"I want to apologize," he started. "You know, for the past, if I was pushy. I didn't mean it." He smiled.
Well, this was good. He was apologizing.
Maybe he had changed and things were different now
. I was ready to forgive, after all that is what I been told to do.
"Sure," I replied.
Relieved, he began chatting to me, trying to be chummy. But as he talked, he furtively placed his hand on my thigh.
"You're beautiful," he half whispered as he bent towards me. "You've grown up... so sexy," he leered.
I saw the old lust in his eyes.
No! He has not changed at all
. I could hardly believe it after he had just apologized. I made some excuse of needing to be somewhere and walked off, deeply shaken. I did my best to stay out of sight for the next two days until he left. It came as no surprise when a few years later I heard that he had been officially excommunicated. Finally, the bastard had been dealt with. But why had it taken so long? Why had he been allowed to leave a trail of damaged girls wherever he went? His behaviour had been reported by myself and others for years. Surely the leaders bore responsibility for not doing something sooner. These questions lingered in the back of my mind.
One afternoon, Dad showed me an open letter he had written to my mother, entitled "In Defense of Our Daughter." I was appalled by the self-righteous and condescending tone he took when addressing her. He dismissed lightly any notion of sexual abuse in the Family. I knew this wasn't true, because I had experienced it myself—but of course I had been told all my life that it was "love," "God's love." Dad never even asked me if I had been sexually abused before stating so vehemently that I had received the best possible care.
How can he say that?
I thought.
He doesn't even know me.
Dad asked me to write a letter to Mum, which I did. I stated that I was happy serving God in the Family and that this is where I wanted to be. In reality, it was the only life I knew. I had not been allowed to read my mother's or Kristina's letters. I only had my dad's version of what was happening—"The Devil is using your Mum to attack the Family and try to stop us from carrying out our mission to `save souls for Jesus.' She'd better watch out because she's `touching the apple of God's eye'".

–I was alarmed. Dad seemed so angry and hateful towards her. Secretly, I wanted to know more: who my mother was, what she looked like and what made her decide to leave the Family? Was she really a crazed monster possessed by the Devil, or simply a mother wanting to protect her daughter, a daughter she hadn't seen for over ten years? I had to find out.

"Julie, time to rise and shine! Up you get!"
I was unable to move, frozen with fear. If I got up, they would find I had wet the bed. But there was nothing for it. I had to get up...and climb slowly down from my bunk bed.
"What's this?" I could hear the blood thumping through my head. Someone had taken my hand and was leading me ...not again...
I found myself before the Home shepherd, Uncle Dan, a large, frightening man who was my guardian at the time when I lived in Manila. I was three years old. "So, I hear you've wet your bed again, huh? That's four days in a row now. Do you remember what happens when you pee your bed?"
I nodded, trembling.
"I can't hear your brains rattle. What do you say?"
"Yes, sir," I breathed in a whisper, hoping against hope, he would let me off today. But I was hardly ever that lucky. "Bend over and pull down your panties."

I did so; sweating heavily as I always did before a spanking, which would turn my heat rash bright red.
"Put your hands on the chair."
I obeyed even as I sobbed, "I'm sorry, Uncle Dan!"
"If you were truly sorry you wouldn't keep doing it. Now if you scream, I'll have to give you more."
I squeezed my eyes shut as the wooden board the size of a small cricket bat struck my bare bottom.
Again and again.
The swats eventually stopped. Uncle Dan put the board down as I pulled up my panties.
"Now what do you say?" No prompting was necessary. I knew the routine well by now
"Th... thank you for correcting me!" I replied dutifully between sobs. "That's okay, sweetheart," he cooed, hugging me like a benign father. "We all make mistakes." I must have felt slippery as a slug, not to mention reeking of urine; the hugs never lasted long. I was happy to be let out of his grip though.
My story began on June 2, 1981 in the village of Rafina, Greece, where my six-year-old sister, Celeste, was living in Loveville with her father, Simon Peter. My father.
My parents had met less than a year before my birth, when my mother was asked to come and care for my dad when he was sick with hepatitis. It was love at first sight and though my parents never officially married, they started to live together as a couple.
My German mother, Serena, was a talented violin player and came from a family of musicians and artists. She was a truth-seeking hippie wandering in India when she met the Children of God. She was completely lost one day, and turned to find members of the group behind her, their beaming smiles lighting her way to salvation and a place in God's Family. She took their appearance as a sign. The free love of her hippie generation meant she embraced the group's doctrine of Flirty Fishing wholeheartedly.
The women believed their leader, Mo, when he told them God would protect them from "sperms and germs," so no contraception was used. Inevitably, they started having babies. Mo said children born through Flirty Fishing were special gifts from God and he called them Jesus Babies. My sister Mariana was conceived with one of Mum's "fish" during a stay in Turkey, so she was a Jesus Baby. Dad adopted Mariana as his own and, together with Celeste, we became a family unit.
With all the sexual sharing that was going on, sexually transmitted diseases were not uncommon. Not only did the Family members catch sperms, they also caught germs. Herpes became a widespread problem within the group. At first, Mo said just to pray for healing, but as herpes began to spread rather than heal, afflicted members eventually sought out medical help. My parents both contracted a STD early into their relationship, and were warned by a doctor to abstain from sex until they had recovered fully. However, a month into their quarantine, they succumbed to temptation.
As a teenager I wanted evidence from my father that I was even his child. There was no DNA test to prove I was; I could have been from any number of men. So Dad told me the story of how I was conceived. He looked at me and smiled fondly when he said, "We were so in love, we couldn't restrain ourselves."
So I was born by accident through a venereal disease!" I took it to mean I had been the product of a filthy mistake and it heightened my feelings of worthlessness.
"No, honey." My dad hastened to reassure me. "You weren't a mistake. It shows how you were meant to be born, despite any obstacle."
Soon after my birth, Mum returned from a swim in the Aegean Sea, complaining of a sharp pain in her knees. Over the next few weeks the pain worsened and spread to other_ joints in her body. It was the first symptom of an incurable hereditary disease that makes all the joints swell with liquid so they balloon to nearly three times their normal size. All movement became extremely painful.
Poor Mum. She hobbled about and with two babies and Celeste to care for she was in constant pain. I was still a baby during the "great exodus" when we all left Greece for the Far East. After my brother, Victor, was born in the Philippines, Mum's condition deteriorated. Dad had been chosen for God's work—hand picked by the prophet himself to work for him in World Services. A sick wife and four kids did not fit into the equation. We had become a hindrance to God and His Family. After Victor's birth, the leadership split my mother and father and sent Mum away with my sister Mariana and I to another, smaller commune in Manila, where Dan and his wife, Tina, were the Home shepherds. "Uncle" Dan was a man who took pleasure in beating us.
I was three at the time. Dad and Celeste remained at the main Home and my baby brother Victor was fostered out to another couple. Dad would come to see us on Sundays and I always looked forward to his visits. Dad and Mum would lounge on the king-sized bed with yellow sheets that seemed to soak in the morning sun shining through the large windows. Mariana and I would play hide and seek in the closets while they took their time getting up, knowing later we'd all go to the zoo as a family, take boat rides on the lake and feed the ducks. It was on one of these visits that my sister, Lily, was conceived.
Mo wrote various Letters around this time on the topic of seriously ill members in the Family, in which he claimed that sickness was the result of sin. If you were sick, then you were either out of God's Will or had a spiritual malaise that manifested itself in the physical disease. Because of this some Family members did not receive proper medical treatment and died. One casualty was Peter Puppet, who produced a Tv puppet show called
The Luvvets
, that aired in the Philippines. He developed a tumour on his neck, which he decided not to treat after Mo told him the tumour would clear up as soon as his spiritual sins were cleared up. The tumour did not take long to kill Peter, but his death was seen as a graduation and he joined the growing ranks of Spirit Helpers, a distinction awarded to members who passed on.
When my mother's sickness began to affect her every movement, she too was accused of spiritual rebellion and murmuring, which, according to Mo, were some of the worst sins of all. Despite that, the shepherds decided that my baby brother Victor should be returned to us. He arrived with Celeste six months after I had last seen him. He did not remember his own mother and screamed for days for his familiar foster parents.

When Victor developed TB, Mum was quarantined with him for months. Her baby's sickness was seen as just another symptom of her spiritual sins, for the "sins of the parents shall be visited on the children." While Mum was quarantined with Victor, I stayed with a German couple, Joseph and Talitha. Their daughter Vera and I were the same age and we schooled together during the day. Mariana, Vera, and I all came down with the measles and were sick in bed for weeks. I wanted Mum, but she was not allowed to see me.
No sooner had we recovered from the measles, than we came down with mumps. We never went to the doctor for treatment, nor did I ever receive a single immunization shot. The adults trusted God for our health. Instead of medicine, they spooned a daily mixture of cod liver oil, garlic, molasses, and honey down our throats. The only medicine we were allowed was worm medicine, as I remember being frequently plagued with bouts of worms. Soon after Mum was released from quarantine with Victor, she was told to return to Germany for treatment and to give birth to her new baby, as she would get free medical care. She begged to be allowed to stay where she could at least be near her husband, but she was strongly advised to leave if she did not wish to be out of God's Will, and risk His wrath.
There was a final condition. Mum was told she had to leave one of her children behind for my father. The last couple of weeks before they left were unbearable for my mother, who sat by my bedside through the long nights, staring at me and weeping. "I love you Julie," she would tell me as she stroked my hair and patted me to sleep. She suspected she would never see me again. I was their first child, her favourite, her baby.

I was not to be told anything. I was too young, they assumed, to understand what was happening. But my young brain chewed it around for some years until eventually it churned out its own conclusion: I was not wanted. I grew up with this thought deep in my psyche.
Celeste was put on distraction duty to play with me that I fateful day, so I would not notice them leaving. It worked, until the minute I heard the car start up in the driveway below the window. I was crazy about any and all automobiles and this particular car was a favourite with all of us kids. We nicknamed it the "avocado car" for its pale-green color. Hear- ing the engine start up, I ran to the window to watch it drive out. I did not expect to see my mother getting into the car with my brother and sister.
"They're leaving without me!" I cried out. "They've forgotten me!"
"No, Julie, they're going for a trip. You're staying with me," Celeste said, trying to hold me back.
But I wriggled free and ran down to the front door and threw it open—in time to see them reversing out of the driveway. My mother did not expect to see me standing there, but her final brave act was to smile and wave goodbye even as silent tears fell on to her cheeks. I always remembered her this way.
Celeste followed me down and tried to pull me upstairs again to play. "Come on Julie! Let's go play with Lego. I'll build a castle with you!"
"No, I don't want to! I want to go with Mum in the avocado car too!" I stomped upstairs, threw myself on the bed and sulked. No amount of cajoling could cheer me up and I was angry and out of sorts for the rest of the day. Oddly though, I never cried, or perhaps that was not so odd, since I did not realize the enormity of what had just happened. It was only after some time had passed and she did not return that I understood Mum was not coming back. The realization hit me as I woke up from a nap one day drenched in sweat. Instead of getting up, I lay comatose in the drowsy heat. The door to the room was open and I could see the rest of the kids watching a Family testimony video in the living room.
They that love God shall never meetfor the last time, This life isn't the end, we will meet again.

It surprised me to realize my pillow was wet with tears, not sweat. I had only ever cried during spankings, and this was the first time I experienced a very different kind of pain. The thought that I might not see my mum and dad again in this life hurt like a knife stabbing me in the heart and I could not stop crying.
Dad never came for me as my mother had been told he would. Instead, I was assigned the first of many foster parents. I became very insecure and started wetting my bed every night. Inevitably I was led by the hand to Uncle Dan's room for a beating.
Uncle Dan would beat his sons the worst. There was a Demerit chart on the wall in our classroom, and every time we did something wrong, a demerit point would go under our name. If we earned three demerits in one day, the consequence was a beating from the board. One day his son David was very sick, and he had received a number of demerits that day. That night he was taken for his spanking—there was no mercy, fever or not.
"I'll take David's spanking for him." His brother Timmy volunteered, even though he had demerits of his own. This meant a double beating for him.
I thought this was the bravest thing I had ever seen anyone do. Even Uncle Dan was impressed. "Isn't that real brotherly love children? He's taking David's punishment, just like Jesus took our punishment for us when he died on the cross."
I was sure that because of his noble sacrifice, Uncle Dan would go easy on Timmy and not really give him the full amount. I could not have been more wrong. Timmy's beating went on and on and on. I started crying as we heard him take his punishment in the next room. Timmy never cried out. By the time it was over, his bottom was bloody. I did not understand how Uncle Dan could be so cruel to his own sons.
Other times though, Uncle Dan could be very nice. Once after my spanking he had a surprise for me. "Look what I've fixed for you! "He pulled an object out of the drawer next to him.
It was my little yellow wind-up car that I had received the last Christmas Mum had been with me. It was my favourite toy.
"Thank you Uncle Dan." I wiped away my tears, taking the car from his hand. It had been two long months since my mother left. I asked Auntie Talitha if I could write her a letter. This letter had no words, even though I usually loved writing; only a single picture, yet that picture shouted a thousand words that I could not adequately express. It was a drawing of a little girl crying, colored all in black. It was the first and last letter my mother ever received from me and she cried when she got it. None of hers ever reached me. When I was moved a few months later to yet more foster parents, she was not informed of my whereabouts. The only evidence that I ever had a mother lay in my passport. My father never gave me his name, as if not giving it would negate his responsibility for me as a parent. I had become a true child of the Family, as my father would boast in the years to come. The maternal bond had been broken.
Celeste took me under her wing as a mother hen her chick. She was a constant presence throughout my early life, identifying with my misfortunes, though usually unable to protect me from them.
Almost a year passed before Dad returned for Celeste and me. I was nearly five, and the months that followed were some of the happiest of my childhood. We traveled together, passing through Hong Kong and China, before arriving in the Portuguese colony of Macau. We might have been the remnant of a family, but we were a happy one.
We arrived at Hosea's farm in Hac Sa, Macau. At the farm, my sister settled into the teen group, while I spent my days with the younger children. In the evenings, Dad, Celeste, and I all met for dinner, and the three of us shared a room at night.
On a visit to China, Dad took us to a shopping mall and allowed me to choose between two dolls. One was a cute little Chinese doll in a traditional outfit, and long black braids; the other was part of a small set that came in a bag complete with clothes and a bottle, surrounding a sleeping doll. I chose the latter because the doll looked so peaceful. In Macau, a. family visited from another Home during an Area Fellow-. ship—their youngest daughter was around three years old. She became attached to my little dolly. I let her play with it, as we "shared all things, and had all things common," in keeping with the example set by the Apostles. But when it came time for them to leave, and she walked away with my dolly, I discovered that my sharing had its limits.
"She's taking my dolly! I want my dolly back! Please, can I have my dolly?" I hollered frantically, grabbing the doll from the little girl, who bellowed back angrily. The racket drew the attention of the adults. Dad took me sternly by the hand and led me away, one of the rare times he was angry with me. He took me to our room for a lecture.
"Now Julie, you don't even play with your dolly very much. The little girl needs it more than you do. Why don't you give it to her?"
"But I want it. I'll play with it, I promise!"
"Now honey, how do you think Jesus feels right now knowing you're not willing to share?"
"But it's my dolly." I sobbed certain Jesus would understand that.
"You're a big girl now You don't need dollies."
Despite the fact that I was only five and in the prime of dolly-hood, that was not the issue, but I could not explain to my father that the only reason I loved the doll was because he had given it to me. That made it a treasure in my eyes. Nor could I understand why he would want me to give away his gift to me. But I gave it anyway, because Daddy and Jesus asked it of me, crying as I watched the visitors drive away, the little girl happily clutching my doll to her chest. I learned that it was not true sharing unless it hurt.
I lost many precious possessions that way, some more valuable than others, but always in the name of sharing—the silver heart locket and chain, for instance, that my Dad left with me and which had once belonged to Mo's adopted daughter, Techi. Later, there was the ring Dad sent for my tenth birthday containing a red jewelled heart surrounded by ten glittering white stones. I wore it proudly, and took it off at night, stashing it safely under my mattress. When I awoke one morning, the ring was gone, and no amount of questioning the other children made it turn up. It was a lesson well learned; people or things, nothing lasts.
A family, which I longed for most, lasted least of all.
We spent only a few months together in Macau before Dad was recalled for the Lord's service, this time to live in Mo's own home—known as the King's Household. So Dad left us behind once more. It was not that he was entirely irresponsible, or did not care. He honestly believed he would be rewarded for sacrificing us, and all the rest of his kids for God, like Abraham in the Bible offering up his only son, Isaac, on the altar. Only, unlike Isaac, we never had a sacrificial ram to save the day. I was consistently told throughout my childhood that I would be blessed for giving up my parents for God's Work. Only I hadn't given them up at all. They had been taken from me.