Flowers for the Frat

Radical forgiveness and perpetuating systemic wrongs

Photo by Vista Wei on Unsplash

Content warning: sexual assault, vomiting in disgust, and Calvinism.

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I really hate this story. Actually, I really, really hate the “healing” story that follows the original story.

Let’s just get on with it.

Welcome to the fall of 2001. Sometime after September 11th.

As a college freshman with no one back home caring about me since my parents just got divorced, I let my freedom lead me into the usual college party scene. Clad in an Abercrombie floral tube top, capris, and woven plastic straw-like sandals, my friend and I went to a party across from the football stadium. We were given a beer each.

And that was the party.

I didn’t finish that beer, but the rest of the evening is only remembered in random shots. Frat guys helping us back to their house. I’m in a bedroom with one guy while a stupid Girls Gone Wild promo was glowing from the TV. He’s on top of me. I’m in the bathroom. I have some spotting. I’m back at my dorm, and I feel pain and raw in between my legs.

The next afternoon and still in the safety of pajamas, I asked my friend if anything happened, “Did we have sex?”

“No, everything is fine. Everything is cool,” she, the sorority pledge, replied. “He said nothing happened.”

I didn’t want to “start” something, so I kept quiet and pretended I wasn’t bothered by the situation. I partied and in a twisted act of reclaiming my body autonomy, I slept with a guy and acted as if I didn’t care, planned my escape before he woke up, and told him “I have to get to class” when he did wake up and asked for my number.

I knew this flippant behavior was a self-inflicted ruse, denying that I was deeply affected from being drugged and raped earlier the semester, that in itself was tough to admit.

I went to our school’s counseling center because I believed that was the responsible thing to do. I filled out some intake papers and the receptionist rolled her eyes when I told her I believed I was drugged and raped.

This was not starting well.

I briefly talked to a counselor who suggested I attend a weekly group session. I obeyed, and the next week I listened to other students with stories about drug use and self-harm. I didn’t feel like I belonged there. It’s like they just lumped us together with little attention to our specific needs.

After the session, a frat guy—who heard my story about being raped at a frat house—asked if he could drive me back to my dorm. I was bombarded by his musings about his coke problem and depression on the short ride and was surprised when he asked for my number as I got out.

I never went back to group.

I continued with this balm of promiscuity and then tried to undo that mess which I write about in WYWH.

Wish You Were Here (Extended Version)

Thankfully, I reconnected with my ex-boyfriend from back home. I immersed myself in his world of youth ministry. We got engaged. I hurried through college and married him a week after my graduation at 21. Happy ending.

Fast forward to 2018. My husband and I moved across the country with our three kids to replant a dying church. Our small town has three colleges, one being one of the most liberal ones in the Pacific Northwest. We often drove through a common street that is lined with fraternity houses, including a chapter of the one I was raped at almost 20 years earlier.

Then I noticed something happening. When we passed by the house, I would turn away or look down. When I saw students around the house or crossing the street, I became bothered and could feel a tightening in my chest.

What if we accidentally ran one over?

What are you thinking?! You’re a pastor’s wife, Desiree! You are not over this. You haven’t given it to God.

I felt immense guilt over my ill-will for these fraternity brothers, though one of our church members, a city firefighter/EMT, said that they’ve been in those fraternity houses many times and have witnessed underage drinking and young women passed out.

Let’s keep a good thing going.

To cope, I told myself that I needed to focus on the evil and sin in my heart because we are all sinners before God (Romans 3:23). I am just like them. I fall short. I am selfish. I am self-seeking. I deserve hell just as much as anyone else.

But this angst wouldn’t go away, and I felt so guilty since I called myself a Christian.

I ruminated and prayed about this spiritual conundrum for some time.

And then an idea popped into my head. Valentine’s Day of 2019 was approaching, and I felt the Holy Spirit call me to do an act of kindness, a sweet gesture for this specific fraternity house.

Do you feel the acidity of vomit in your mouth yet?

I mentioned this to the members of my small group. They looked back at me with big eyes, astonished at my super Christian courage, and then falling into the stupor of living sacrifice-hood, they oooohed and aaaahed and told me how brave I was. (If you don't know, in many evangelical circles, believers like to push their boundaries into bold holiness. It starts with admiration for those who are willing to pray out loud and snowballs from there.)

My mission: I was going to knock on their door and give them a bouquet of flowers on Valentine’s Day.

Have you thrown up yet? Grab a bucket.

This, I believed, was what the Holy Spirit wanted me to do, to prove that I was no better than them. So much of my life was making myself more humble and lowly and less than, and with over 20 years of ministry experience, I got steam-rolled into unpaid service, forever sacrifice, “hate the sin, love the sinner" sentiment, while also pushing an “us vs. them” mentality that defined everyone else the as fallen while also reminding me how blessed I was to make it to the safe side… well, hopefully, because predestination, of course (see: Calvinism). Such a great way to stay humble.

No one forced me and no one stopped me. No one questioned why.

It was obedience, and no one would ever question that.

The day had come. I was nervous as I bought the flowers. I was nervous on the drive towards the house. I parked on a side road and let the cool winter air slip into my body and escape in heavy pockets.

I could hear my heartbeat, but I forced my pace to slow, proving I was trusting God to be with me. The walkway to the front door seemed to continue on like an endless travelator, like the ones at the airport.

The door was finally in front of me. Without giving myself any more consideration about the color of the door, the magnitude of this event, the crispness of the weather, and especially my agency (my role meant little), I knocked four undeniable times.

Nothing.

I knock four more times.

I hear commotion. I hold my breath.

Five seconds. Don’t move. Ten seconds. Should I knock again? Thirty seconds.

My body reboots. I blink. I shift. I leave the bouquet on the doorstep. I shuffle quickly down the path. I cross the street without really looking. I get in my car and just sit.

I failed.

Reader, I remember my transcript-like thought process in this moment of time, a blessing and curse:

It didn’t work! They didn’t open the door! I hate—don’t say “hate”—that they didn’t open the door! WHY COULDN’T THEY JUST OPEN THE DOOR?! (I’m crying.) I WAS OBEDIENT!!! I DIDN’T DO IT RIGHT! Calm down… this was a lesson for you, Desiree, not them. This IS for me to learn something, like radical forgiveness. God protected me. I didn’t have to explain my story or reason to confused faces. I proved I was obedient.

Obedience. Just like Abraham and Isaac. Just like Paul and his missionary journeys.¹

I drove home trying to muster satisfaction in my obedience but felt overwhelmingly inadequate.

Back in church land, everyone was kind and tried to hype me up, but no one knew what to really say or do. There was no depth or meaning from their words. I was dealing with cowards, people who found excuses in bringing up “hard” topics or opening conversations with family members over the most trivial bull shit.

But in these circles, you’re only someone if you’re broken. Which is why testimonies are the best.

A few months later, we were going to have a church service of testimonies, where people could talk about how crappy their lives were without God and how life got so much better after God, church, tithing, and pot lucks. I felt called to volunteer to share, but that’s also because most people were too scared to share about all the good their faith had brought them. (But they sure were eager talkers when discussing the evils of gay people and Democrats during small group.)

So there I was, giving the whole story you just read. Then literally from the bottom of my heart, I mentioned in my closing something to the effect:

“I know I'm not promised anything aside from everlasting life as a believer in Christ, but it would be a great gift if God could point out if this person who hurt me back in college² was also in heaven with me.”

Perfect timing to vomit in disgust.

And, of course, everyone told me how my testimony was brave and bold and beautiful. I didn’t do it for the kind words of the meek and complacent. From my little faith, I just wanted to show I could offer forgiveness that would bring inner peace, hoping it would influence others to do the same.

After the service, one woman suggested I work with the YWCA…

Ha, ha, just kidding. No one suggested that. Because this was 2019, and evangelicals were very scared of anything that pushed social justice and causes. We didn’t want to be accused of being woke.

And as the Southern Baptist sexual abuse scandal was coming into light, I noticed in evangelical circles that radical forgiveness was admired as a beautiful way to ignore systemic problems because, in many cases, this meant bringing down beloved institutions and societal norms, usually ones many Christians participated in, e.g., locker room talk, rape culture in Greek life, slavery,³ etc.)

Don't start anything. Just be brave it wasn't worse, and look, your testimony shows you got over it anyway. Love, The Church.

(BTW, thankful for progressive churches where social justice isn’t feared and your biggest duty isn’t “protecting the brand.” Some of you, readers, are sticking around in some good places.)

I did go to the YWCA to interview to be a volunteer after my ordeal-growth-bravery-embarrassment. Unfortunately, maybe because I sounded like a crazy Jesus fanatic, they didn’t call me back.

Failure.

And then our church dealt with COVID and our denomination trying to remedy itself via a voluntary “how to handle sexual abuse” training program⁴, and we were exhausted and done with ministry.

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And now today…

Some people ask why I have a need to explore and share my sensuality, embrace my sexuality, and post sexy pictures.

From the above story, it’s easy to see how so much was dictated to me, a faulty road paved for me to follow when I really needed:

Quality, empathetic therapy without being hit on.

Support as a bold, unashamed survivor.

Growth and healing here on earth that could help me help others rather than an emphasis on radical forgiveness showing I was a super Christian and that judgment will be satisfied in the afterlife.

Honestly, how could I not write about the freedom in owning my provocative nature and body after my flesh was violated? How could I not delight in sharing my exploration when I was fixated on obedience for so many years?

Rape culture, “getting over it,” radical forgiveness, “protecting the brand,” no one having the balls to say: “Maybe you should see a counselor about this act you feel called to?”

Most importantly, why talk about my sexual assault and the shitty way I tried to heal from it? Because it continues over and over today at college campuses around the country and specifically at the one here in my town where I tried to right someone else’s wrong. It’s so serious that our state’s attorney general is investigating the school “for allegedly misleading students about the state of sexual violence and sexual violence prevention on campus.”⁵

Even though I believe Greek life should be eliminated and sexual assault prevention efforts need significantly more attention, my biggest beef is with the church and their lame platitudes that encourage people to simmer down and save judgment and justice for our time after death.

Just focus on the spiritual war within rather than bringing attention to the wrongs of society.

I remember when we would go through prayer requests in small group and everyone would tick off unfortunate circumstances or situations. No lie, it was a bummer. So much so, that oftentimes someone would say, “God, just take us now. This world is a mess. I can’t take it.”

I don’t want to fear the mess. I want to make something life-changing from it, and that means more than flower delivery.

Now more than ever.⁶

1. I was always obsessed with Paul and the assumption he died a martyr’s death, especially since he was an early prosecutor of the church. Literal bad guy switches sides, writes about a quarter of the New Testament, goes on four missions, and the last record we’re left with is his imprisonment in Rome. Moral of the story: I didn’t deserve closure.

2. A nice way of saying “my rapist.”

3. I mean, I was Southern Baptist, so I couldn’t ignore that one. It’s the reason the denomination was formed. Extra footnote: The linked article captions a photo: “The Southern Baptist Convention voting to formally condemn the political movement known as the ‘alt-right’ in 2017.” Wow, we sure have moved backwards.

4. I hate going down this rabbit hole. It was my life 4-5 years ago. The SBC, along with many other denominations, have a long way to go in fixing their sexual abuse messes. In fact, the SBC is bleeding money due to legal expenses. Don’t even get me started on how ill-equipped most churches are in the areas of counseling and mental health. Please see a licensed mental health professional. When I say we were exhausted and done, that’s an understatement.

5. More here in Part 2 and another look at how we have moved backwards.

6. I will be volunteering for a special event later this year. To be honest, I feel intimidated, excited, and cautious. Still getting details worked out. Trying to do my little part in this messy world.