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  Through a Crucible to Spring

By Lindy Morelli
New Oxford Review
April 6, 2008

http://www.newoxfordreview.org/article.jsp?did=0408-morelli

Ed. Note: The following is the true story of a victim of clerical sexual abuse. It contains a depiction sexual depravity perpetrated by a member of the clergy. We are publishing this article because it is important to understand the wickedness of such acts and the human devastation that results therefrom.

In July 1988, I was a nave 23-year-old. Having been blind since birth, I was also extremely vulnerable. I'd been sent to a school for the blind at four years old and saw my family infrequently. The separation was very sorrowful. I longed for a true home.


As I grew, my need for human love was heartbreakingly unfulfilled. But God sent me treasured friends, in whom I found solace. Moreover, at an early age, I had a profound experience of God's love. One day, while praying in church as a young child, I felt a warmth emanating from the Tabernacle, and I was overwhelmed by the unmistakable presence of Jesus. From that moment, my life was never the same; faith became my bedrock and preserved me through many trials.

In 1987 I went on my first pilgrimage to Medjugorje in Bosnia. Being in that oasis made me radically hunger for God.

On a subsequent trip to Medjugorje in May 1988, I met Father X, an Irish priest. At that time, I was still in tremendous emotional pain from the loneliness of my childhood. Maybe Father will be a confidant, I hoped, maybe he'll be a safe person. After returning home, I began writing to him, pouring out all of my troubles.

Soon Father invited me to his prayer group in New York, because, he said, they needed my help as a musician. There he introduced me to his sister Kate (not her real name), and we became friends. I visited the group often, traveling from my home in Pennsylvania, and on one of those visits, the idea of the three of us going to Ireland came up. Father and Kate still had family living there, and we could stay with them. I was overjoyed at the idea. My ancestry is Irish and I had always longed to go to my homeland. It seemed like the chance of a lifetime.

On July 20, 1988, the big day arrived. How wonderful it would be out in the green lush countryside! I couldn't wait to hear some Irish music. Excitement filled me as I boarded the bus to go meet Kate at Kennedy Airport. But as I neared the airport, for no apparent reason dread overtook me. I have never felt such terror before or since. I suddenly didn't want to get on that plane, but I didn't know what else to do.

Despite my trepidation during what seemed like an endless flight, the sun was bright and cheerful as we neared our destination, and I was soothed. I never could have dreamed of what would happen in the days to come.

In a few hours, we reached the family home. Father's other sister Susan (not her real name) and his mother welcomed us warmly. But as soon as we sat down to a lovingly prepared traditional Irish breakfast, trouble began. Father and Susan started arguing with each other, making no effort to conceal their mutual contempt. Soon doors slammed amid venomous insults. No one in the family seemed happy or at peace. What kind of family am I trapped in? I wondered with panic. What was becoming of my cherished trip to Ireland? I still desperately wanted a friend in Father.

My first night in Ireland passed quickly due to jetlag. Then Father began his life-wrecking advances. Early the next morning, he came into my bedroom. The house was still. He was sinister, stealthy. "You're so beautiful," he whispered in a gentle, soothing tone. "You're my strength and salvation." Then he began touching my skin with his filthy fingers. Terror-stricken, I resisted with all my strength. But he became even more cunning when he saw that I wouldn't give in to him. "You can't be so nave if you want to be a nun," he said, knowing my heart's desire. "I care about you a lot. I know you've been hurt, but I'm only doing what's best, so you can be healed."

This happened morning after morning. He knew I trusted him implicitly. "I'm a priest! Don't insult me. I have holy hands," he said once, putting the crucifix up to my lips. I began to doubt myself. I was a prisoner in that house.

As the days dragged on, he dropped the pretense of being nice. The holy priest turned devil. "Just give me what I want," he demanded. "I don't care what happens to you!" But with all my strength I stood my ground.

When Father left for a few days to go on a little trip, I explained everything to Susan. "He's a sham, not to be trusted!" she said, aghast. Yet I was trapped, for I wanted to believe Father had integrity; I just couldn't accept that he would betray me.

When Father returned from his trip, he continued his hideous advances. Finally, after 12 horrific days, the trip came to an end. Father acted like a jilted lover as we boarded the flight home. "The trip was awful," he sulked. "You disappointed me."

But the flight was his last chance. After dinner, the cabin lights were turned low as a movie began to play. "You must be cold now," he said, spreading a blanket over me. Tenderly cajoling, he positioned me just so, intent on intercourse. "Did you ever have an orgasm?" he asked. Stunned, I didn't answer. Dogged in his purpose, he would have jumped right on top of me, except for the seat divider between us. Even so, hate consumed him as he forced himself upon me and viciously penetrated me with his finger. Time stopped dead. My entire being was screaming, but I couldn't defend myself. I was frozen, paralyzed with horror.

When the flight was finally over, Father left quickly. I traveled alone by train to Kate's house. (Kate had arrived home several days earlier.) As the train lurched from side to side, my insides tossed and turned. Nausea overwhelmed me.

Kate was waiting for me when I arrived. After I was settled, I tried to talk with her, but she just couldn't grasp it. "Don't worry, Lindy. He meant no harm," she said. Since I didn't go into detail, she couldn't understand.

Later in the evening, I took a bath. I felt poisoned in every pore. Though I scrubbed and scrubbed, I still felt his clawing fingers all over me. I couldn't seem to cleanse myself of the revulsion I felt.

The next morning, Kate made breakfast and brought it in on a tray. I was dumbfounded. Did she think I was sick? I knew she was trying to be thoughtful, but I couldn't believe her reaction. I had thought she could help me.

Over the next few months, Father's family, whom I thought had become friends, stopped answering my calls and letters.

I had begun writing letters to Church officials about what Father had done to me. I longed for vindication, comfort, and compassion. Also, I wanted to protect the well-being of others and make sure that Father found help. But most of my letters went unanswered; others were dismissed with a brush-off. One official responded by telling me just to keep up with my studies (I was studying for an M.A. in counseling), since my "concerns" had already been resolved. Another Church official said, "I heard you are going to sue. You'd better not, or you will have big problems." I felt totally rejected. Did they think I was their enemy? Did they think I made the whole thing up? Why were they making me out to be the one to blame?

During that awful time, I was in utter darkness. I longed for healing, but hope was failing me. I was living alone, volunteering as a counselor at prisons and nursing homes. I was trying to comfort others, but I was despondent. I simply had no one to turn to. I felt abandoned by God.

Yet miracles happened during that horrible time. I met Father Slavko from Medjugorje, a wonderful priest who was my only support from the Church. He believed that something had happened to me. His encouragement kept me from losing my faith. He told me, "You have encountered great evil, but you must not give up. God has a good plan. You must trust!" He helped me realize that my faith was in God, not in a human institution. The institution had failed me greatly, but God had not forsaken me.

I began to find healing in the most unexpected place: the county prison. At first, I just went to help with music for Mass, but soon the prisoners became like a family to me, and I went to work there nearly every day. We understood each other, since we all felt betrayed and alone. In trying to comfort them, I found comfort.

In 1993 my efforts toward resolution began to bear fruit. After my attempts to contact Church officials had been rebuffed, I asked a lawyer to send a letter on his firm's official letterhead to my local bishop. The lawyer indicated that Father X had committed aggravated indecent assault, a violent crime that could lead to up to 15 years in prison. That got their attention! As a result, the bishop organized a hearing with Church officials and arranged for Father X to testify. I also testified, and a panel of arbitrators reviewed the findings. After several months, they ruled in my favor. Recommendations were made to Father's Irish superior that he receive an evaluation and counseling.

Two years passed, however, and I still hadn't received word regarding the matter. Did Father X receive evaluation and counseling? Church officials would not respond to my inquiries. I went back to my bishop in 1995 and pleaded for an answer, but more time passed and still no response came.

In the agony of those waiting years, miracles of grace attended to me. I visited the sick and worked at the local soup kitchen serving meals. In nearby housing projects, I met all kinds of people while coordinating different outreach programs. Being with those in trouble brought healing to my life. I found beauty in them, and great fulfillment. I was coming alive again.

Around that time, I began going to 12-step meetings. A friend from prison told me how much they had helped him, and though I'm not an addict, I decided to try them. The people there were warm and welcoming, and, despite all they had lost, had great hope. I learned from them that no matter what happens in life, we still have the power to choose our path. I was astounded at how they had managed to rebuild their lives. My life seemed an unjust crucible, but through their wondrous example, I learned to let go of anger.

At one 12-step retreat, I met Curtis (not his real name), a thoughtful and compassionate person, who soon became the close friend for whom I had longed for so many years. During the course of our friendship, I slowly poured out my anguish. Piece by piece, pain upon pain, I revealed my life story.

Curtis introduced me to a wise professor who became my mentor. With noble patience, this kind man spent hours with me, unraveling my painful thoughts and feelings. I discovered certain negative attitudes and beliefs about myself that I could change so that I would not be a victim again. I steadily gained confidence in myself.

In 2002, when the scandals in the Church were made public, it came to my attention that people were actually getting results in their cases. Oh, what a pivotal crisis! A massive purification of the Church! I, however, had heard nothing about my case and didn't know what to do. My first thought was to re-contact Father X's Irish superior. At first, he was hesitant, but he was a compassionate and conscientious man and got me part of the information I was looking for.

In accordance with the panel's recommendations, Father X had received a psychiatric evaluation and counseling. But because he was to retire in two years, he was still in ministry. I wished to know the results of Father's psychiatric evaluation and treatment, but was told that that information was confidential. I was terribly frustrated, because I felt justified in wanting to know the results — I wanted to know what caused Father's actions. I also wanted him to be removed from ministry immediately. But I contented myself with the information given to me and tried to act lovingly toward all parties.

Above all this was my pressing need for closure and reconciliation. Heartbroken and sick regarding how my specific situation and the scandals at large were affecting the Church, I longed for healing. Fortunately, by that time a new Irish superior had been appointed, who wrote me many kind and responsive letters. He was genuinely caring and open-hearted. Since I wanted an opportunity for healing and reconciliation with Father X and his family, the superior did all he could to address my concerns. When I asked for a special Mass to be held in Ireland, he was generous beyond measure in fulfilling my request. On behalf of the Church at large, he bore a heavy burden. In the bearing of such a burden, he showed me the love of God.

We met in Ireland in March 2003, where the superior had scheduled a Mass of healing. While there, I stayed with some wonderful sisters. Sister Kathryn was appointed to care for my needs, and the warmth and welcome she offered put me at ease.

Susan was present at the special Mass, but when I tried to talk with her, she simply glossed things over. She couldn't even admit the assault had occurred. I felt hurt and betrayed. Nonetheless, during the Mass, she was in tears and very upset, so even though she couldn't openly admit or talk about the assault, I knew that she realized that a tragedy had occurred. I came to accept her reticence in time.

The Mass was held on a lovely spring day, in a beautiful Carmelite chapel. In that peaceful setting, the superior prayed for restoration. He prayed for all concerned, for the healing of everyone's wounds. He prayed for a new beginning in my life. I had lived through an ordeal, but God had accompanied me, and even though I did not always sense His loving presence, He upheld me by sheer grace. Through the kindness of those around me, my hope and strength were renewed. Because the superior, in the name of the entire Church, acknowledged my suffering, I was free to move on.

 
 

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