The saddest day of my father's life had been in July of 1984 when my sister, Pam, lost her battle with cancer at the age of 36. He learned to accept her death, but in some ways he never got over it. On the day of his death two of the people I had loved the most would now be together, but I had been left behind. Left to fight with a brother that had disowned me, a sister caught in the middle, and a mother unequipped to handle this family tragedy.
     This is the true story of my life. It is a story of emotional and physical abuse, loss and pain, the struggle to find myself, and to understand God. It is a story of survival and rebirth, and it is my hope that it will be an inspiration to those who are discouraged, desperate to find their way, or whose faith in God has grown weak.    

    As the baby, I just wanted to be like my brother and sisters. I wanted to do what they were doing and go where they were going. But as all babies in the family, I was usually told that I was too young. "Stop whining. stop picking your nose. go to your room. leave us   alone. you're too little." Tattling became what I could do to get back at them.
       As often as I could, I'd go out in my skiff. One day I drifted further and further away from home. That was the first time I remember feeling true fear. As darkness fell I approached the Outer Banks. There were no permanent residents at the time. The area was undeveloped with horses and boars running wild. With no way to call for help the only sound I heard was waves breaking and the occasional cry of a sea gull.
    The first day of school had finally arrived. I was wearing a clean dress; my hair was neatly braided, and I wondered what my teacher would be like. My older sister, Pam, walked with me to my class and made sure I was all right. I felt lost. I had only been living there a short time, and didn't see anyone that I knew.
    We had recess two times a day. It was outside on the playground that I first realized how different I was from the other students. When I tried to talk to them, they said they could not understand me. I would find myself repeating words or trying to communicate by using gestures. Some of the kids laughed, others teased me, but mostly they just kept their distance.                                                                                    

    As time went by, I was aware that my teachers thought I was different. They tried hard to make me be like my classmates. But I was not like everyone else. I was an outsider on a very small island where everyone knew everyone, and outsiders stuck out like overgrown nasty weeds in a beautiful rose garden. At that time, new residents were viewed with suspicion, and my father had generated much attention.
     My father quickly made a name for himself as the Bible toting, fanatical minister of the local Holiness church. Though the islanders were religious and conservative, they didn't always understand the strange things, like speaking in tongues and rolling in the floor that happened in the Holiness Church.
     My love of reading helped me to survive some of those difficult times. Reading took me to faraway places. Places where I could be myself and everyone liked me even if I was different.. The island  in many ways seemed magical to me. Because it had been isolated for so many years and had customs that were  unique, it was different from the town we had previously lived in. Only two or three families had a phone, and there were few televisions. We could not afford a phone, and my father thought televisions were a sin.
     Unlike many young girls that played house and dressed up in their mother's clothes awaiting the handsome prince, I played church. I remember standing on my little red chair and belting out a sermon for anyone that happened to pass by. On one occasion, when I was seven or eight years old, I felt the call to preach. It was a Sunday night, the church was packed with no empty seats and people were even standing outside looking through the windows.  

    Anxiously, I watched as the waves got bigger, and the water came closer to our house. Soon, the wind was beating against the window panes with such force that it felt as if the house would be blown away. Looking out the window, I saw the neighbor's dog house, dead horses from the outer banks, several small boats and all kinds of debris floating by. Thank goodness we had brought my skill inside. As darkness fell, I was fearful for my life, but my father comforted me with his words.
    Legend is that many years ago during terrible storms, the island people would actually tie themselves together by rope, so that no one would be lost. They lived together, worked together, played together, and went to school together. Because the island was so isolated at that time they were totally dependent upon each other and God. More importantly they survived together. Perhaps this is the true meaning of "it takes a village."   
    After four years of therapy, my speech had improved but not enough to quit the weekly sessions. I had picked up a little bit of the island accent, which complicated my problem. My new school was larger, so I did not stick out as much, and there were other new students just like me.
    Two years later, middle school brought more challenges for me, and I would again realize how different I was. I finally graduated from speech therapy, but by this time, my dad had made a name for himself in town. Though the charismatic movement was starting to gain momentum, the Pentecostal Holiness Church was still misunderstood by many.

     I was getting taller but was very skinny and had started wearing glasses in the sixth grade. I had absolutely no shape at all. My waist, hips, and bust were all about the same measurement. Though our money situation was better now, I often wore the hand me downs of my two older sisters, and conservative was the name of the game. Slacks were not allowed and I don't think I even owned any at that time. I had one black winter coat that I hated with a passion. As soon as I got on the bus I would try to hide it. It was a reject from my grandmother, and my parents were not concerned with my fitting in.
     In September, a few weeks after school started, I approached a group in the hallway and heard someone say, "There's four eyed pole."  I started to approach a class mate that I thought looked friendly, and I heard someone in the group say, "Her dad's the minister at the Holiness church, you know the one where they do all those strange things." Here we go again I thought - no one is going to like me because I am different. Lunch breaks became the worst part of the day for me. Most of the students had been together for seven years and had their own friends. I did not fit in with anyone.
     Prayer and meditation were terms that I heard often, but never did anyone tell me as a child, that being a Christian could be fun. It seemed all the fun stuff was wrong. Sundays were the worst. That was God's day, a day for good deeds and rest. I could not watch TV or do anything pleasurable on Sunday. Many of those afternoons were spent visiting the sick or those less fortunate. If I was at home, I was in my bedroom reflecting on how I could be a better person.
     Four years later, when my father agreed to pastor another church, I was happy to be moving again. I was glad to be getting away from all the kids at school who had teased me so cruelly. The town we were  moving to was less than ten miles from  Wrightsville Beach, and I would be close to the water again.

     In August, I entered the ninth grade, and was starting to feel a little more comfortable with myself, though I was still very shy and very skinny. The school was just a few blocks from the parsonage, and I was able to walk to school most days. I made friends quickly. My best friend was Paula.
Paula's parents did not attend church, but they were almost as strict with her as mine were with me. We bonded immediately. Her father owned a gas station and he spoiled her to excess. As each season changed, she would go through her closet, and give me her hand me downs. Finally, I had a decent wardrobe.
     The new church was very different from Greenville and Harkers Island. All churches basically are different - sometimes I think they take on the personality of the minister. The members seemed to be more liberal and less spiritual. There were some very nice people there, but for some reason, it just didn't seem to be a good fit for my father. The church had a small youth group, and there were several people I really liked, one being Robert, whose father served on the church board.
     Robert was my first love, and though there have been many men in my life since then, most that I have forgotten; his memory remains alive in my heart. I sometimes find myself asking, "What if?" He reminded me of James Arness's character, Matt Dillon, from "Gunsmoke" in that he was tall, handsome, and strong. Robert was one year older than me, a grade ahead, and much smarter than anyone I had ever known.

    I was in love. The passionate, intense,
can't-live-without-you-kind-of-love that happens to us the first time. My second year in Wilmington, I entered the tenth grade, and high school exposed me to things that I had previously been sheltered from. There was talk of drugs, beer flowed freely, students smoked between classes, and everyone knew which girls gave it up easily. Robert had his license now, and the back of his mother's blue Chevrolet station wagon was no longer used to just haul her school supplies, but had become a hot bed of passion and desire.
    In his arms, I felt safe and loved, and my body was waking up, as if it had been asleep for a long, long time. But with this new awakening came feelings of guilt, the thought that I was sinning or at least behaving inappropriately for a Christian. These were feelings that a preacher's daughter should not be having.
  Though the nickname "Pole" did not follow me, I was still terribly concerned with being skinny. I wore a size three which was very difficult to find, and I often ended up buying my clothes from the children's department. Concerned over this, I was elated the day I saw an advertisement on TV for a product called Weight On.
   It was a liquid and guaranteed - money back if you did not get the desired results -  to help you gain weight. Finally, I had found a solution to my size three. Paula and I went searching for this magic potion and found it at a local Kerr Drug Store.  Instead of taking the Weight On to  the register and paying for it, I stuck it in my purse. I do not know why I did this.
   What I did not know was that one of my father's church members was standing outside the store, looking through  the window, and saw me place the product in my purse. I will always  remember her. She immediately called my father, and he was waiting for me when I got home.