What Were They Thinking?
19 Broken Trust
I DID MY BEST. God forgive my weakness.
I thought Brian Frost was a decent boy who just needed a little guidance to reach a decision for Christ. Though they were young, I wanted to be sure that any boy my daughter was remotely interested in would be worthy of her. And during that summer I was frankly impressed with him. He attended church with us every Sunday. He recited the Bible verses he’d memorized over the week as we rode in the car. He memorized the books of the Bible and was fastest in his Sunday School class at finding verses.
Yes, I saw an occasional touch of hands in the back seat of the car. It was never prolonged and I saw it as a normal part of communication, not anything that had to do with them being a boy and a girl. They were only twelve years old! Physically, they looked nearly the same.
It came as much a shock to me as it did to my daughter when he quit going to church with us. It broke my heart to see my daughter looking at the empty spot in the car with such sadness on Sunday morning. It was like I didn’t know who she was.
And suddenly, she was in junior high school.
I believe one of the most fearsome things a father must face is his daughter becoming a woman. It certainly was for me. Dealing with Cassandra as she reached her thirteenth birthday was a series of bubbling giggles and screaming rages. Bea dealt with the feminine issues but Cassandra seemed to be a rudderless craft on the high seas of hormones. It seemed she had only one friend—a little redhaired girl named Liz. I was a little uncomfortable with the relationship as her family were papists. But Bea convinced me that Cassandra needed a girlfriend and was going through a difficult time in her life.
I didn’t go spying on my daughter. Not intentionally. After a particularly turbulent confrontation near Valentine’s Day, Bea took Cassandra to the mall. I never quite understood the connection between shopping and women, but it was definitely a soothing activity to the two of them.
“What would you know? You’re just one of them!” she’d shouted at me. I’d been near to striking my daughter and Bea rushed her to the car. I sat for a long time in my office staring at charts of airfields within a hundred miles. I had slightly more range than that with the little Piper, but it was really a Sunday brunch plane. I flew just to be in the air. Perhaps, I could heal things with my daughter if I took her for a little ride Sunday. We’d cut church—something that was unheard of. But where?
I wandered to my daughter’s room, a place of mystery where I seldom entered. It was as neat and tidy as she had been raised to keep it. Her bed was made, her clothes were hung. The drawers of her bureau were closed. On her walls were a few pictures. A reproduction of Dürer’s Praying Hands with her nighttime prayer printed on it. ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’ A school pennant she’d received with her welcome packet to St. Joe Valley Junior High. Photos of the family, one I’d taken from the air of our home and airstrip, and one of the party she’d attended last spring.
There was something about that photo. Twenty or so children lined up in rows, almost like a school picture in its formality. I was quick to pick out Cassie and realize how much she had changed this year. Beside her stood Brian Frost. I picked up the picture to look more closely. They were holding hands!
This was, perhaps, more serious than I thought. The photo was in a cheap dime store frame and the back practically fell into my hands as I held it. I started to reassemble the photo when I saw the folded piece of paper and a small piece of fabric concealed behind the backing. I opened the paper.
‘Wednesday at 1:00. Memorize this map and then burn it!’ There were various landmarks and I could easily recognize that it was a map into the woods. That boy! Was this what had upset Cassandra so much last summer? She followed the map and he assaulted her? I was so furious, my hands shook. It would not do to confront her directly. She had been seduced. I carefully reassembled the frame and her treasures.
Trust.
It is easy to say that a child has broken her parent’s trust. But she is a child. How hard it is for that parent to admit he has broken his child’s trust.
I wondered for the thousandth time how my father had known I was getting in too deep with Emily Brown when I was sixteen. I never dared ask him. Had he simply assumed that because I was a teenager in the fifties, I had normal teenage drive and would seek to mate? Or had he discovered something. Found some sign in the garage. Followed me after school. Looked in on me in the youth fellowship. He had never accused me directly of doing anything inappropriate with Emily—only that in the future it would turn out badly.
If my father had, indeed, spied on me or found some evidence, he had never told me. I realized that was the burden of trust. Was my daughter in immediate danger? I thought not. She’d had nothing to do with the boy since the beginning of the schoolyear. In fact, it was likely that she had defended herself, thus ending the problem. Something I should be proud of. I would talk to her, certainly. It was time that a father had a talk with his teenage daughter and explained the facts of life. Boys have but one goal. If she submitted to them, she would end up pregnant and unable to support herself. She must shore herself up and put on the whole armor of God. Her loins girt with truth and her breasts with righteousness. Her shoes, the gospel of peace. A shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit.
I went back to my office and the charts on my desk, praying all the while for my daughter’s protection and safety.
“Are we here to see another Bible College, Daddy?” Cassandra sighed. “I’ll just do Bethel when the time comes. There’s no need to cart me to other schools.”
“Honey, it’s too soon to be considering college,” I sighed. I had considered touring Grace Bible College while we were in Winona Lake, but I discarded that idea quickly. She hadn’t really wanted to fly today, but seemed to jump at the chance to skip church. I’d also noted the times for the spring revival but recognized the draw for my daughter was not going to a church service. “I was thinking Sunday brunch at the Winona Village Hotel. I hear it is a beautiful place with a view of the lake.”
“Okay.” It was a simple answer and we walked from the shuttle along the lakeshore and village street for a bit before we mounted the steps of the grand old hotel. I’d brought Bea here a year ago. The whole village grew up around the tent meetings and eventually the college. No alcohol was served in the city limits. It was generally a wholesome place. Even the various gift and craft stores that had grown up around the main street had a clean look.
“Oh, look at the animal prints,” I said, pointing in a shop window. It was a collection of wild baby animals in pastels. “Those would look nice on your wall.”
“Um… Maybe. I like things with brighter colors.” I thought about her frankly dull bedroom walls.
“Well, if you see something you like, there would be nothing wrong with adding a little color to your room.”
We were seated at a table by a window overlooking the veranda and on out to the lake.
“We hardly do anything together—as father and daughter. We should do this more often,” I tried again.
“We go to church.”
“As important as it is, there is more to life than church?”
“Is there?”
“Cassandra, what is the problem?” I tried not to sound irritated. Having a conversation with my daughter was taxing my patience.
“The problem? Other than I don’t have any friends? That I don’t go to any school events? That I don’t belong to any clubs? Even 4-H? That I’ll spend the entire summer learning to sew or recite Bible verses or something? Nothing. Nothing is a problem at all!” She stood up. “Excuse me, please. I need the restroom.” She ran in the direction of the ladies’ room. I bowed my head.
I freely admit that I know very little about teenagers. I was forty years old, trying to understand the mind of a thirteen-year-old girl. I supposed there was nothing wrong with her having friends outside our church. I’d simply never considered it to be necessary. At the same time, it was obvious that I’d somehow inadvertently cut her off from some part of growing up. By thirteen, I’d already had my first lessons in flight by participating in CAP. I’d found a passion for something that stayed with me through my life, though it had led me through perilous times.
I never mentioned having found her secret map. Perhaps I had been the problem that drove her to a secret meeting in the woods. And what had they done? Probably climbed a tree. Played pirates. Gossiped about their friends. Had a silly argument that drove a wedge between them. Maybe about church.
I tried to lighten up.
That was easier said than done. And during her freshman year in high school, she began to talk about dating. I understood the social pressure. It seemed to move downward every year. The pressure to grow up and become more mature than their years would allow. Bea and I had lived through the so-called sexual revolution. We had not survived unscathed. I remembered desperate nights craving a drink, companionship, a blissful unawareness. I just wanted my daughter to never have that experience.
I was firm. Sixteen. And I scowled at Bea when I told her I expected exemplary behavior.
It went well through the fall. I agreed that Cassandra could go to home football and basketball games. I even let her attend a Halloween party at the Frosts’. I cringed at the thought of her attending such a satanic event but rather than dressing in the ghoulish costumes the holiday was known for, she dressed as a fairy princess. She was fourteen years old and the only costume I’d seen her in was when she played Mary in the Church Christmas Pageant. She’d only been ten, but seeing her enter the manger with a pillow stuffed in her robe to mimic pregnancy made my skin crawl. The party was well-chaperoned and true to their promise, the Frosts ushered guests out to waiting parents at ten o’clock.
I was surprised but rather pleased when the family was invited to a New Year’s Eve party at the Methodist preacher’s house. The kids, of course, had their party in the basement while the adults were entertained upstairs. And it was fun. Reverend and Mrs. Gordon, who insisted we call them simply Saul and Evelyn, had games, food, and entertaining conversation right up until nearly midnight. He’d paused at that point and asked us all to bow for a moment of silence while each prayed in his own way for guidance and protection for our children in the New Year. The prayer was sufficiently before midnight that we all had time to fill glasses with a sparkling grape juice and toast the change from 1986 to 1987. I could not help but think that Pastor Clark would have preached for an hour and likely have missed the turning of the clock at midnight.
The kids had no difficulty ending their party and sleepily falling into their parents’ cars as we took them home. I could not help but appreciate the obvious care the various parents of kids partying in the basement had for their offspring. I thought about the number of parents in my church who struggled with problem children. And these parents were not even all Christians!
I was puzzled by a few of the comments. The parents seemed to refer to our children as a collective they called ‘the group.’ And all seemed to be as committed to protecting the others’ children as their own. I wished we had that spirit in my church. Pastor Clark was a dynamic preacher and had hit his stride. The church was gaining members, flocking to his message of redemption. But they didn’t seem… happy.
It was just after Cassandra’s fifteenth birthday that I discovered I’d been deceived. It had been no accident that we’d been invited to that party. The teens in the basement had signed a pact of some sort. Having been invited to that party meant that our daughter was a party of the agreement.
I would not have known about it had I not been called by Janet Anderson Thursday morning to arrange to take Cassandra to the basketball tournament on Friday.
“John, some of the parents of the dating group are putting together a picnic lunch for the ball team since five signers of the agreement are playing Friday. I wanted to know if you and Bea would like to join us. If not, I’m more than happy to swing by and pick up Cassie. I’m busing a few others.”
“Uh…” I was trained to respond to surprising information on the telephone. I was a bank vice president. At any moment, we could receive a phone call that announced a market crash, an audit, or even a sale of the privately held institution. I caught my breath and declined to respond with the first words that shouted in my mind. “Thank you for calling, Janet. Let me discuss it with Bea when she and Cassandra return from shopping. We’ll get back to you this evening.”
I hung up the phone. A dating group? Signers of an agreement? I ran to my daughter’s bedroom and went directly to the picture frame. It fell apart in my hands like the cheap piece of crap it was. Inside, I found the old map, still folded away. The scrap of fabric that had been there was gone. But a crisp new piece of paper was folded there. It had been computer printed—eight articles of agreement—the nineteenth of twenty signatures on the page was my daughter’s.
I read the articles and took the paper to my office, neglecting to put the frame back together. I stared at the page, blinded by rage. How could my innocent daughter ever agree to this?
“Cassandra! You will not be part of this abomination! What kind of child have I raised?” I ripped the paper in half and threw it at my daughter, cutting off her attempt to explain. She grabbed the pieces from the floor and ran out the door.
“That was a little harsh, John,” Bea said with a hand on my shoulder.
“There were twenty names on that list, Bea! Twenty people with free access to each other’s bodies. I can’t believe the other parents are consenting to this. Even the Gordons! They can’t possibly know what is there. Janet Anderson called today volunteering to drive Cassandra to the basketball game tomorrow with the group. And asked if you’d like to help with their picnic. How can they just sit by and let teens… She’s fifteen, Bea! She’s too young to be behaving like this!”
“How old was Emily Brown?” Bea asked softly.
“That was different. And my father reined me in with a few words.”
“Ah. That was when he forbade you to see her again.”
“He didn’t…” Bea had caught me. “She’s a girl,” I concluded lamely.
“Don’t drive her away, John,” my wife said softly. “I’ll make you a cup of coffee while you rest here. Meditate. Pray.”
She was so calm. So tender. I blessed God for the day she came into my life. I’d been so near the point of no return. So near joining the mass of Vietnam vets who were on the street, unable to cope with life. Unable to see past the hundreds—maybe thousands—that we killed. Unable to see past the death that awaited us every time we took to the air.
“God, bring my feet safely to earth that I may serve you.”
I looked up and my daughter was standing before me, holding the hand of that boy.
“What’s the meaning of this? Cassandra, I told you no.”
“Mr. Clinton, I’d like to speak with you. I found Cassie crying in the woods while I was out riding and brought her home. Did you know she wasn’t in the house?” He caught me off guard with that and I glanced at Bea, standing in the doorway behind them. “Cassie is my girlfriend and you hurt her very much by tearing up our agreement. I’d like to know why.”
“According to that paper you have a dozen girlfriends, and boyfriends,” I snarled. Did he think I was unaware of what was going on?
“Fifteen girls and five boys,” he said. “But I think we’ll be adding another girl and another boy on Monday.”
“That’s un-Christian. The Bible says a man shall have one wife.”
“Actually, that’s a state law; it’s not in the Bible. And second, we aren’t married. We’re just a group of teens who want a safe way to date and have fun.”
“Have fun? By letting any boy in this group touch my daughter anyplace but skin-to-skin contact with her genitals? That kind of fun?”
“The agreement states how far a consenting couple can go, not how far they have to go. I can’t believe I have to explain that to everyone who reads the agreement. The agreement does not give permission for anyone to touch anyone. Only the people who are being touched can give permission. Do you really think Cassie would be giving five or six boys permission to touch her intimately? Or even to kiss her? I don’t think she’s even held hands with anyone until she asked me to hold her hand while we came to talk to you. Is that how low an opinion you have of your daughter, sir?”
I stared at him, willing him to die and shrivel to a husk as he stood in front of me. To no avail. He continued to hold my daughter’s hand.
“Cassie will have no boyfriend who doesn’t go to our church.”
“You made me go to your church for an entire summer just so I could see Cassie once a week. You know what I learned from that? That I really, really hated your church. And you know what else? I know most of the kids who go to your church and at least half of them really hate it. They aren’t even very nice people. It’s just something that’s forced on them. How many do you think will be back once their parents stop forcing them?”
I’d never thought I was forcing Cassandra to go to church. It was just what our family did on Sunday. Had always done. Together. It was the heart and core of our family beliefs. Children and youth were always a little uncomfortable when being taught the Bible and morality. But did they really hate it?
“Is that what you think, Cassandra?” I asked, finally. “Do you really hate our church?”
“No, Daddy,” she said softly. I could see tears still in her eyes. “I just really, really hate that you don’t think I learned anything there. You won’t let me see my… my boyfriends and girlfriends because I might not do what you taught me. I just want to have friends and go to parties and games and dances and not be scared someone will push me to do something I don’t want to do. Why do you think the boys in Sunday School all sit on one side of the classroom and the girls all sit on the other? It’s not because we’re being proper. It’s because the girls are all scared of the boys. I’m not scared of Brian or Geoff or Lionel or Carl or Doug. They’ve shown that I can trust them. I can’t trust the boys in Sunday School.”
Bea passed them to come to my side and put a hand on my shoulder. My eyes were a little blurry. Could I have misunderstood so completely? Had I broken my trust with my daughter beyond repair?
“Maybe we’ve been a little too harsh, John,” Mrs. Clinton said. “Is this agreement really so bad?” I patted her hand.
“I see you still have the agreement in your hand,” I rasped. “May I see it, please, Cassandra?” I smoothed the wrinkled page she had clutched so tightly in her hand and taped the page together as Bea held the pieces flat. “Perhaps the two of you would come here and read this and explain each of these eight rules of dating.”
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