Trustworthy: A Journey From American Christianity to Freedom: Trustworthy Memoir, #1

By Heather Wells

Royal Dragonfly Book Award 2022 Winner

"In God We Trust."

It was the motto of her country and her family, taught since birth. Stubbornly loyal, she held onto that trust through an abusive marriage to a Christian music minister, a subjugating cult environment and abject poverty. After pleading with "god" for relief for herself and her children she realized.... no one was answering. No "god" was listening. God would not be her refuge. She could not find safety in her husband. The church had stolen her autonomy and her dreams. Through a thoughtful journey of deconversion, she realized that the only one to be considered trustworthy was herself. She would start a career. She would support her children. She would move on to a new life.

 

A gripping true tale of subjugation and fear that powerfully transforms into hope and liberation. Superbly written and honestly expressed, Trustworthy is one woman's personal journey navigating poverty and motherhood within a stifling religion and hostile marriage. But it is much more than that, for the themes herein are broadly universal: survival within a patriarchal culture; emergent self-confidence amidst tragic conditions; reason successfully breaking through the confines of faith. May others find inspiration and courage in this harrowing and deeply human story. Personally, I couldn't put it down. Highly, fervently recommended.

- Phil Zuckerman, Ph.D. author of What It Means to be Moral and Living the Secular Life

 

It is never easy to write about your past, especially if there is deep regret. But Heather Wells has done it. Her "imprisonment" by a conservative religion and its manipulation of her husband and her life must be told. That she was able to survive, get a divorce, and teach something different to her kids is a testimony to her strength and resolve. It's time for women to know the truth about religion. It was designed for men.

- Karen L. Garst, PhD, author of Women Beyond Belief: Discovering Life without Religion and Women v. Religion: The Case Against Faith and for Freedom

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wild Herd Publishing
• Release date: Jan 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215377673

Heather Wells

Heather's award winning debut memoir reflects on her early marriage to a Christian man and the unnerving series of events following his commitment to a cult. From humble helpmeet to self-sufficient career woman, Heather hopes that her raw honesty will be an inspiration to others facing similar challenges.

Book preview

To my patient husband who encouraged me to write my story for my own solace and for the benefit of others who may face similar struggles. Thank you for your gentle support  and the use of your shoulder through the many tearful hours it required.

To my children who share this story along with me. Looking back there are decisions I wish I had made differently for all of us. From where we are now, I can see we have all come through these experiences learning something about ourselves and others.

May we all continue to grow and learn through life.

Heather Wells

TRUSTWORTHY

© 2023

Wild Herd Publishing LLC, Pasco, WA

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All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, stored in a database and / or published in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

CHAPTER 1: MATRIMONY

The Sunday School room in the basement of the church had been transformed into a dressing room. Loose items of clothing and the hangers and plastic covers that had recently transported them littered the tables. Bible verses decorated the walls as did posters of Noah’s Ark, Moses and the Ten Commandments, and a portrayal of a white male, smiling Jesus with dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin. Behind him a cross adorned with large flowers. I had carried my boxes and hangers full of clothing down the stairs and was relieved to set them down, my body’s heat amplifying the smell of my leather jacket. I suppose it was really his leather jacket.

The wedding dress was already here but the hangers held the veil and a flower girl’s dress. The boxes were full of accessories and beauty supplies. I would be transformed into a stunning bride. I had remembered everything except for the augmented petticoat my mother had worked on for hours. I had wanted a full petticoat under my dress. The dress and its train looked amazing with it, plumping the bell of the dress and widening the train. That petticoat was one of my favorite parts of my vision for the day. In all the chaos, I had left it at home. 

It was December on Long Island, New York and it was snowing. There were already complications with food spilling in the trunk of a car. My mother had cooked for hours to prepare special dishes for the reception, trying to save some money that would have otherwise been spent on a caterer. It had ended up costing about the same and now this. No one would be going back for the petticoat. I told myself that was ok, but I was disappointed.

The preacher had bet me that I would be at least 15 minutes late walking down the aisle. It was a friendly wager for a dinner. We had all laughed about it. I tend to value timeliness and he knew that, but in his experience no bride had ever walked down the aisle on time. Something always came up. For me, it was the fact that my grandmother’s flight had been delayed due to weather. She was flying in from Florida and we would wait until she arrived. I would definitely be late.

Good. That gave me some time to address this pit in my stomach. It was an awful feeling. I hadn’t been able to eat, and I felt warm, then cold, then warm. What was it? Panic? Worry? Fear? Maybe this is just what they call ‘cold feet’?

I was only eighteen years old and I had told my parents that I planned to get married just thirteen weeks ago. It had been a frenzy. The short timeline was not because I was pregnant.

He had finished an associate degree in Audio Recording Technology, and I had to withdraw from my college of choice because my parents were not able to afford to send me there any longer. I was resentful since my older brother and older sister had been able to complete a bachelor's at their school of choice, but I had only been able to complete one semester. I hated the Community College I had been attending as an alternative. I thought that if I got married, I would be considered independent and might qualify for financial aid. I was also tired of dating. The emotional roller coaster it produced was not my cup of tea. I don’t like drama. More honestly, I wanted to have sex and in the Christian world I lived in, the only way to do that was to get married.

I asked Donna, my best friend and Maid of Honor, if we could talk in private. We found an empty room, another Sunday School room meant for smaller children. Her tiny frame almost fit in the child sized chairs and her legs looked even better with her knees up by her chest. I had always been secretly jealous of her perfect figure. She had natural blonde hair and blue eyes and always knew exactly how to do her hair and make-up. She was also outgoing and therefore very popular.

I always felt I was just a little on the chunky side though Donna thought that I looked great. I had brown hair and blue eyes but was a tomboy. I did not wear makeup often and usually had my hair in a ponytail. Today was the first time I had ever worn fake nails, or long nails at all. I could talk to Donna about anything, but we hadn’t talked much lately, at least not about those deep personal things. We were both busy with work and school, when we talked it was about wedding planning.

Donna, something doesn’t feel right. I feel sick, I have a knot in my stomach, maybe I am not doing the right thing. Maybe Matt is not the one, I tried to put it all out there as succinctly as I could. In her kind and compassionate way, she encouraged me to move forward with the marriage.

Listen, you and Matt are both Christians and that is the most important thing. You guys have done some amazing Christian music together so you must work well together, right? And remember, your parents sent you guys to premarital counseling so any major issues would have come out then, right? I think you just have cold feet, she said.

Her words didn’t ease my discomfort at all. I responded, Well, the premarital counseling was weird. It only lasted like 30 minutes. I don’t think it was very thorough.

She tried again, You guys also went to that marriage conference last month. Nothing came up then?

No, not really. Only that he was afraid to go into the bookstore to buy a book about sex, but I wasn’t, we both giggled a bit.

She appealed to the people pleasing side of me, Besides all of these people are here. They have traveled so far and worked so hard to make this day special.

That was true. I had always been taught to put others first. ‘J-O-Y, J-O-Y, this is what it means. Jesus first, yourself last and others in between.’ That is how the song goes.

I still felt uneasy and wanted to ask to speak to the best man, Levi. I had dated him for three years before I had dated Matt. They were best friends. My relationship with Levi had been so much more intimate. It had felt right. We had chosen to go to the same college because everyone was sure we would get married. But I did something stupid and broke it off before college because I wanted to play the field.  It didn’t go well. Being a teenager is so bizarre.

Levi had moved on now, but I still wanted to talk to him. He and I had been able to talk on a deeper level than Matt and I ever had, but it seemed inappropriate to ask to speak to him.

Everything was here. Everything was ready. My grandmother had finally arrived from Florida. The show must go on.

Right now, I am a bride, and this is my role. I always played my role. Growing up, I played the role of the gentle and obedient daughter, each time my father sought to be an Elder at a local church. Elders were expected to have respectable and obedient children, their family life in perfect order. Since my father was first an Army man and then an Air Traffic Controller for the government, we moved every two years. I had that role mastered.

I played the role of good student and pure teenager. As a Christian, no sex was permitted until marriage and masturbation was a sin. I was playing the game by the rules I knew. Today was my wedding day. Tonight, I would get to have sex.

The ceremony was a blur. It seemed surreal. I know my father was less than happy about giving me away. I learned later that my mother had taken valium to stay calm. As for myself, I lived in my head. My interactions were not genuine, just the staged persona I had learned to portray. Southern hospitality. Church face. That was the face I wore to church, a plastered happy face regardless of how I really felt. Any narration to the contrary welcomed reminders from fellow parishioners that I had Jesus in my heart and I was saved so how could I not feel blessed. They meant for it to be encouraging. I played the role of blessed Christian.

I remember faces and expressions. I remember doting over the flower girls’ dresses. I remember greeting my grandmother warmly. I remember jokes being made over toasts. I wasn't truly present. I was somewhere else.

The car was decorated in shaving cream and cans. Someone had blown up condoms and put them in the car. I was finally away from the crowd. Now it was just me and Matt. And we were married. I still had that strange feeling, that pit in my stomach. Was it too late? Could I still back out? I still felt panicked. But this was legally binding. Ok.... I am married.

At the hotel, we opened a few cards. There was a lot of money. That was good. We would need it. We planned on moving to Texas where his brother-in-law and sister lived. They had a landscaping company he could work for while he looked for a job in Austin as an Audio Recording Engineer. My expertise was with horses. I wanted to find a job as a groom on the Hunter/Jumper circuit. I had never been able to afford my own horse. I always worked to ride. One instructor thought I was bound for the Olympics, but you can’t get very far in the Hunter/Jumper world without a lot of money... and your own horse. I had neither.

I was married. This was it. My wedding night. I would finally get to have sex!

It was over in about a minute.

We tried again the next morning. It was the same. Almost as soon as he was in, he was done. It was incredibly disappointing. I wish I had known on my wedding night that impotence was grounds for annulment.

My father had made it clear before we married that in this family there was no such thing as divorce. I guess this was my life now.

We drove to Texas with some clothes, the money from wedding gifts and my childhood dog, Dixie. My family had visited an animal rescue when I was about eight years old, shortly after we had moved to New York from Louisiana. I think they had hoped a pet would soften the blow of the cross-country move. I recall at that time I was writing in my diary phrases like I hate New York! Why did we have to leave Louisiana? Now I will never see my best friend again!  

When we visited the animal rescue, I remember seeing the tiny puppy, about the size of my mom’s shoe, shaking uncontrollably. I wasn’t sure if he was cold or scared or both. He was a mutt with color markings that resembled a Doberman Pinscher. He was solid black with little brown marks above his eyes resembling eyebrows. He had a brown patch on his chest and at least one paw, from what I could see as he lay down in his cage. His ears were pinned down against his head, looking sad. When I approached his cage and slowly started to bring my hand up for him to smell it, his ears popped straight up. They were defined triangles that stood straight up like Chihuahua ears. He timidly stood up and licked my hand as if grateful for the attention. I chose that dog. I named him Dixie, still fond of the Southern home I had just left.

We were supposed to be getting a family dog, but he quickly became my dog. I spent hours training him and walking him and he would follow me everywhere I went on my bicycle. I didn’t need a leash. If my parents were scolding me, he would rush to my defense, and they would have to lock him in my room to continue their disciplinary measures. 

The long drive from New York to Texas allowed me time to think. I had not had time to think in recent memory, since the wedding planning had begun. Staring out the window watching the world pass me by always helped me to reflect. I stroked Dixie, curled up on my lap.

My family had made similar trips about twice a year since we had moved to New York. We drove to Louisiana though, not Texas. My mother’s family lived there and when my father’s job took us to New York, she made him promise he would take her to visit her family twice a year. He kept that promise to her. My father always kept his promises. My parents, my older brother and sister and my younger sister would all pile into a car. I don’t recall ever having a van for the long journey. We drove with four kids crammed into the backseat of a sedan and my parents in the front.  

I was always an introverted child, spending most of my time reading books. I read through the novel ‘The Neverending Story’ three times in second grade. Two of those readings were on the biannual cross-country trips. When I wasn’t reading, I was staring out the window and either remembering or imagining. On this road trip to Texas, I was remembering. Retracing my life’s steps to this point in time. 

My father was a very hard working and very busy man. He often worked overnight and slept during the day. He would work additional jobs when needed to make sure the family’s needs were met. His usual go to was pizza delivery. He could make his own schedule and kind of turn it on and off as needed. I didn’t spend as much time with him as I would have liked to, but he worked very hard to take care of us. When he was able to, he would play catch with me or teach me how to ride a bike. He taught us all to work hard. My older brother, older sister, younger sister and I would all rake leaves together under my father’s instruction... or sand and stain wood floors, paint walls, clean garages... we learned to work. 

One summer when I was about eight, I cried at summer camp because I hadn’t seen my parents in six weeks between his work schedule and my summer schedule. My parents signed me up for every church camp they could find. There was the camp with the cabins and chapel up in the Catskill Mountains. I loved sitting on the ground and watching the water bubble over smooth rocks in the stream near my cabin. There was a trail to ‘The Big Rock’ where friends often gathered. There were rumors that the minister’s wife had once made out with Billy Joel there. That was my favorite camp. We would attend at least one ‘Christ In Youth’ camp each summer as well. They were held on college campuses and structured more like school with classes and group meetings. I wasn’t crazy about those. We always volunteered for Vacation Bible School during the summer, which filled at least two weeks. When I was in high school, I would tour with a youth choir from Kentucky Christian College. Summers were all about Jesus Christ. 

During the school year, we went to church every Sunday morning, every Sunday night and every Wednesday night. Sometimes there were additional youth events on Saturdays like car wash or bake sale fundraisers for summer activities. If the Christmas or Easter play was near, we had rehearsals on additional evenings and weekends. Occasionally, there were the church work days when we all cleaned up the church or worked on improvements. Year round, we spent a lot of time together as a family, but we really didn’t talk much about life. We had Jesus and that was all we needed. Any issues that came up had a simple, cookie cutter solution. See what the Bible says and then pray about. Done. 

Neither of my parents had really talked to me much about getting married. We never talked much about personal things. My mother never talked to me about menstrual cycles or sex. I learned those things from school, church and friends. The Christian marriage conference my parents had sent us to before we got married was my mother’s idea. My father’s input was to repeat the phrase, There is no such thing as divorce. 

They come from a southern background. In the southern culture, there are many things you just don’t talk about. Southern hospitality (from my perspective) means you go out of your way to make others comfortable and to avoid uncomfortable situations. Sex was an uncomfortable topic. Sex and marriage were both the church’s territory. 

I could always tell when my mother was uncomfortable, even when she used that fake southern hospitality smile. I could tell if she disagreed with or was uncomfortable with someone or something, despite the smile, by subtle clues on her face. I could also tell when she was sincere. I recalled as a small child when we still lived in Louisiana, watching everyone singing during the church services. I loved singing. I loved hearing the congregation sing. I loved being three and hearing my mother sing through her chest as she held me, my head resting there. I had a vivid memory of hearing and watching her sing ‘Trust and Obey’. It was one of her favorite hymns. She was sincere when she sang it. I could tell. Her face was relaxed, and a natural smile graced it.

Trust and obey

For there’s no other way

To be happy in Jesus,

Than to trust and obey. 

She really believed that.

When I started Kindergarten, my mother took a teaching job at the church’s private school so that we could attend tuition free. My then best friend Kaylee’s mother was my teacher. Kaylee and I would sit for hours to make flower crowns out of the clover flowers. We would venture to the darker side of the building where there was an alley sized grassy area and dig up wild onions. During recess I would hang from my knees on the monkey bars or play rhythmical hand clapping games with my friends. If recess was indoors, we would play Uno or Guess Who. Kaylee and I had planned to marry each other’s brothers. The thought made me chuckle. That plan had not worked out. 

The curriculum at the school was workbook based so that each child could work at their own pace. The workbooks were called PACES. Most students finished five PACES each week, one in each subject. I went through about three times as many PACES as the other students. My mother would comment in her kind Southern fashion that she and my father would run out of money since extra PACES were not included in the free tuition. But she was also proud.

You know when she was born, my mother would say in her southern drawl, "we were stationed in Germany and we barely made it to the hospital room before she came. Immediately after she was born, she opened her eyes wide. My mother would widen her eyes at this point to engage her listeners. The orderly said, ‘she’s going to be a genius!’ and I think he was right!" My parents had high expectations for me ever since.

The PACES covered the standard academic content and each workbook had a verse of Scripture that was to be memorized and recited to the teacher before the next PACE would be awarded. There were also little cartoons on every other page to reinforce Christian values. One showed a little girl in four different frames trying on different outfits. Her first two options were acceptable, but in her third she thought to herself, No, this skirt is much too short. It was knee length. In the final frame she had changed into a proper outfit with a full length skirt. She smiled and thought to herself, I must look right, always.

In a Social Studies assignment, I was instructed that a Daddy’s roles were protector, provider, leader and hero. A Daddy’s tools were screwdriver, hammer and Bible, but a Daddy needs his Bible most of all. A Mommy’s roles were helper, cook and housekeeper. A Mommy’s tools were mixing bowl, spoon and Bible, but a Mommy needs the Bible most of all. After learning these roles and tools, the concepts were reinforced with matching and classifying exercises.

Draw a line from Mommy to each of her tools. Circle the most important tool, it read. Below that was a reading section on the father’s role as the head of the household and his duty to make decisions for the household. If a mother chose not to do what the father decided, it would be wrong. This was God’s design for the home.

A cartoon reinforced this concept. The same little girl that had been demonstrating proper outfits, witnessed her mother and father disagreeing on an issue. In the end, the mother conceded to the father and then approached the little girl, smiling. She told her daughter, Obedience always makes us happy.

Trust and Obey. That was what my mother sincerely believed. That was what I had been taught, by word and by example. My parents seemed to have happy and successful lives following that model. I shouldn’t worry too much about the pit that was still in my stomach and the disappointing sex. I should trust God, trust Jesus. Everything would be fine. It had been fine for my parents.

CHAPTER 2: FLOWERS

Thinking about that school brought back a disturbing memory and a sickness in my stomach rather than a knot. I had never quite figured out what to do with this experience. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time.

One humid day, I was waiting for my mother to finish her after school duties. I chose to wait on the swing set because the breeze it created felt good on a hot Louisiana day. A boy approached me and was holding a flower. It was Luke from the fifth grade. We had played Guess Who together during indoor recess. He handed me the flower, a daisy I recall, and kindly asked if I would accompany him to the chapel. Innocently, I agreed and followed. The playground was between the main building and the chapel, which was always open for restroom access, though most activity happened in the main building. We only went to chapel during Vespers, a short mid-day church service for all students. We entered the chapel lobby which was dark and empty, aside from a couple of plants. The doors to the restrooms were on either side of the lobby, one for boys and one for girls. He wanted both of us to go into the girl’s room. I was only five, but I knew the rules.

Boys aren’t supposed to go in the girl’s bathroom, I said.

Well, I didn’t think you would want to go in the boy’s bathroom. I just want to show you something. It will only take a minute. I had no reason not to trust him, so we went inside. 

In the bathroom he asked me to pull down my underwear and sit on the counter. He said he had heard about this thing that grown-ups do and he wanted to know what it felt like. The counter was lower than most to accommodate for children to wash their hands without the use of a stool. It was about the right height so that he could insert his penis into my vagina. Or at least he tried. It was floppy. I knew it wasn’t right. But it also wasn’t violent. He was right that it only took a minute.

Luke helped me off the counter and I was silent. Don’t tell your mom, ok? he said. I didn’t nod, I just looked down. Now I knew for sure it was wrong. I felt ashamed. I did not tell my mother. I didn’t tell anyone.

As an adult looking back, I never felt as though I could classify the experience as rape.  Could I still consider myself a virgin? I was not a defiled woman, was I? 

It bothered me every time I thought of it. To this day I am skeptical of anyone who brings me cut flowers as a gift. Is it a manipulation? Why have you cut short the plant’s life as a gift to me? A potted plant was fine, but I do not like to be given cut flowers. I had used them in my wedding bouquet because that was just how it was done. Donna had shot down the idea of having no bouquet. And she felt the flowers had to be real.

I shook the memory from my mind and decided to focus on more recent years. How had I ended up here? With Matt? What was the path that led to this man in particular? It probably all started when I had decided to go to a different church than my parents did. That was the extent of my teenage rebellion. 

When I lived in New York and was in high school, this time a public school, the Pastor’s wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was also the children’s and youth choir director, so I had spent a significant amount of time with her from the time we moved there. I looked up to her. 

Despite her chemotherapy treatments, she led the choirs, her bald head covered with colorful scarves. Whenever she was physically able, she served in some way. Over the span of two years, the congregation held multiple prayer gatherings to ask for her full recovery. I had never seen this - or any - community pray so fervently.

The prayer gatherings failed. She passed away. I was heartbroken.

Why had the prayers not worked, I wondered? She was a faithful servant of God and so many good, Christian people prayed for her. I asked church members on a few occasions.

Why didn’t she recover? Why would God want her to die? I asked my youth leader’s wife, Jen.

I don’t know, but I do know that His ways are higher than ours. One day we will understand. God works in mysterious ways, was her response.

I was not satisfied with her answer, but it seemed to be enough for all the church members to continue their journey of faith after tragedy. I tried to soldier on, following their example. 

After she passed, our edgy youth group leader thought it would be a good idea to spend a summer exploring