Truth,
Trust & Transformation
One
Ojibwe woman's story of Hope
by
Cindy Petkau
For
the first ten years of my life, I had many happy yet lonely
times. I was not sure as a kid who I wanted to be—like
I had a choice or I could pick. I saw no value in being
Indian. I was afraid of that side of me. So many questions
of my worth went unasked and unanswered.
When
I was three, my mom made the decision to end her marriage.
My mother, a conservative Mennonite, was married to an
Anishinabe, serving as a young minister at the church
on the reserve. I was too young to know what a divorce
was. All I knew is that I was with Mom.
For
the next seven years, I had many happy yet lonely times,
feeling so different from all the other church kids. They
all had two parents. Sometimes they would say, “Go
ask your parents,” and then suddenly remembering
that I didn't have two parents, they'd say, “Oh,
you don't have parents.”
One Sunday when I was about five or six, our Sunday school
teacher, a beautiful grey haired lady, asked if any of
us wanted to ask Jesus into our hearts. I did and I remember
her smile and hug after I prayed. It was meaningful for
me as a young child.
During
my tenth summer, Mom and Dad decided to reconcile. I don't
know all the dialogue that went on but suddenly we had
a dad and he was living with us again.
I
longed for a father's love and acceptance but almost from
the start, he began brainwashing me against my mom, eroding
my trust in her. He also began sexually abusing me. It
went from bad to worse, lasting about three years.
During that time, my dad attempted suicide. I remember
it vividly because
I was alone. Mom and my brother were gone to Minnesota
and I was left in charge of my sister.
So
desperate and full of hate, one night I kept a knife beside
my bed. I was going to do something drastic to my dad
or myself. Fortunately I did neither.
Mom surprised us picking us up early on the last day of
school before Christmas. When she got back in the car,
she told us that she had a restraining order against Dad;
we all breathed a sigh of relief.
During
those three years, there were many incidents of physical,
sexual, and emotional abuse but nobody knew. Nobody ever
asked and I was so angry at everyone and everything when
he left. All the injustices of my young life.
I
was a great liar and took great care in making many masks
to please whomever I was with. Years later, I asked my
mom why she made him leave. She said, “Something
in the pit of my stomach told me to get him out of the
house before something really bad happened.” That
was God looking out for me.
I
didn't tell Mom about the sexual abuse until I was 16.
This was the harsh, raw beginning of my inner healing.
Between
the age of 13 and 18, I was very promiscuous with lots
of boys in the youth group. What Dad told me about boys
kept ringing through my brainwashed mind.
One
day when I was 15, I missed supper because of my bad attitude
and I was so angry at mom, I grabbed my backpack and crawled
out my bedroom window, determined that Mom hated me. I
was running away to Winnipeg to become a prostitute since
that was all I was worth; Dad had trained me so well.
A
car full of drunken men from the Long Plain Reservation
came slowly driving by, going the wrong direction. They
asked if I needed a ride. I told them no and said I was
just walking to my babysitting job.
That
episode scared me to death. I know God spared my life
at that very moment. I went home and crawled back through
the window and cried.
None
of my friends ever knew about the abuse. It was my shameful
secret.
Throughout my troubled teen years, I was so confused and
really had no one to talk to openly about what had been
done to me. I wanted so bad to be good. So with my limited
understanding of Jesus, I got baptized at 16. I struggled
with being good and being tempted to do bad things.
One
of my first boyfriends guessed that I'd been abused because
he'd also been abused by his older brother. He was a very
special person on my journey. He later died tragically
and I grieved his death but not completely. My emotions
were so locked up even the healthy ones couldn't rise
to the top. I was an expert at corking up my emotions.
I wouldn't allow anything bad to surface or good for that
matter. Too scared to grieve all the injustices of my
young life, I had no idea who would be there to pick me
up when I crashed and burned. I was only 17.
What
my heart was truly longing for
In 1986, I met Mark, my future husband. Mark and I started
out for the first couple of months just as friends. He
treated me like no other boyfriend had. Mark didn't touch
me for three months—not even hold my hand! I thought
I must have had a sign on my forehead saying “Don't
Touch Me!” I was used to giving in to whatever my
boyfriends wanted, to make him happy, thinking that was
what my heart was truly longing for.
Mark
had just returned from a Discipleship Training School
with Youth With A Mission (YWAM). On Valentine's Day,
he told me what his instructor Dean Sherman had said.
A man should never say “I love you”
to a woman if in the next breath he couldn't ask her to
marry him. There on my mom's couch, Mark told me that
he loved me.
I
was stunned and so scared that I would mess things up,
that I broke up with him shortly after. I pushed him away
but still loved him deeply. I thought I didn't deserve
him and that he was too good for me. I would prove to
him that he could do better.
After I broke up with Mark, I went out on a couple dates
with this non-Christian who was eight years older than
me. I couldn't be alone; I needed a man to want me. My
self-esteem was totally tied up in being wanted for how
I looked.
That
summer, I signed up with YWAM in Alberta for six weeks.
While there, I began the process of forgiving my dad.
One speaker that spoke to us talked about forgiveness
and the Father Heart of God. The last morning he said
that he was canceling the afternoon class so that we could
be alone with God. The speaker said that God had shown
him that someone in the room had now or in the past wanted
to murder their father. I knew he was talking about me.
That
afternoon, I wrote my dad a letter and mailed it. It was
a start.
Mark
came out to Alberta to pick me up and we had a nice one-day
drive home. I was so nervous. He was going to be leaving
to play hockey for the University of North Dakota and
I had one semester of high school left.
I came back with a new hope and excitement about living
for God. I just didn't know what direction my life would
take. But God did.
A
week after arriving home, I went to the man that I'd dated
before leaving for Alberta and told him it was over and
that I was going to live for God. But instead of walking
out of there and out of his life, I stayed. A couple hours
later, I walked out pregnant.
I
was devastated at my choice to do what came most naturally
to me—to give in. I got talked into something that
I didn't want. I hated myself so much.
I cried myself to sleep for three months before I told
anyone I was pregnant. I was so alone. I thought of suicide
but it went against everything I'd been taught about human
life being sacred.
Mark
kept writing me and telling me about his life at UND.
He was happy for the experience I had in Alberta and wanted
to support me in this spiritual part of my life. I couldn't
write him back. I was afraid he would see right through
me.
I told my sister first, then my mom, then my brother.
Last but not least, I told Mark before he came home for
Christmas break. He drove home the next day. When I saw
him, I started to cry, knowing that he knew the truth
about me.
My
mom invited him home for lunch. We stayed in my room all
afternoon and talked. I cried a lot. I was so thankful
that he didn't hate me and still wanted to talk to me.
But the clincher was when Mark took my hand and asked
if he could touch the baby. By this time I was already
four months. He knelt down and put his ear on my stomach
and listened and said, “Yup, it's for real.”
My beautiful gift from God
Mark quit UND and went to El Paso, Texas, and built houses
in Juarez, Mexico, for two months with YWAM. He prayed
and worked. He came home a month before my due date for
one day. Then off he went to tree plant in northern British
Columbia.
During
this whole time we wrote and built back up the trust we
once had.
I
finished my high school exams and would graduate in June.
Mark was going to come home for my graduation.
My
beautiful gift from God, Jonathan Paul, was born on May
7, 1988. Mark called me the day after he was born and
wished me a Happy Mother's Day.
Mark came home for my grad in June. I was at his mom's
as she was helping me sew my dress. We were waiting for
Mark to arrive. Jonathan was sleeping in the crook of
the couch all wrapped up in a receiving blanket.
Suddenly
I smelt him! Mark's Polo! I scanned the driveway. No car.
I began looking around the kitchen then came back to the
living room and saw him. He had snuck in the front door
and was standing and just staring at Jonathan. His mom
and I stood there watching. Mark walked over to Jonathan
and knelt down to have a closer look. He looked up at
me and asked if he could pick him up. He did so gently
and kissed him on the cheek. Jonathan stretched and yawned.
We all came together and hugged each other and just looked
at JP. I will never forget that moment. I saw a father's
heart for Jonathan the first time they met.
Mark
worked as a camp counselor for the rest of the summer.
He came home mid-August. I thought we were good friends
once again.
After
putting Jonathan down for the night, Mark and I sat on
my mom's front steps. He proposed to me there on August
18. I was so shocked, not expecting it at all.
During
the night as I nursed Jonathan, I looked at my engagement
ring by nightlight, cried and smiled. I never dreamed
I would be loved so much that someone would want me to
be his wife with an already made family. During pre-marriage
counseling, I realized I needed help dealing with my past.
Images haunted me.
One
afternoon, I put Jonathan in his stroller and went for
a walk. I asked God to help me. So afraid I would screw
up my marriage with Mark, I cried out to God to help me.
A high school friend happened to be at her mother's for
a visit. As I walked past, they invited me in for coffee.
Rhonda
asked what was wrong. She was a newly-wed herself. I told
her I needed help with what I was feeling about men and
sex. She told me about someone who helped women who'd
been abused. Three days later, I met with her. She became
a significant person on my journey because she wasn't
afraid to challenge me to more for my life. I could change
the past with the help of Jesus.
Jesus
wanted me to be a whole woman, not crippled by abuse.
She told me that I would always have the scar, but a scar
didn't mean I couldn't be more.
It was tough work slugging through the workbooks and books,
but I was being healed and released from shame and painful
memories.
It
wasn't until a week before our wedding that I told Mark
for the first time that I loved him. It was huge for me
to say that as I was still so afraid he would reject me.
Mark
and I were married on December 17, 1988, and it was the
happiest day of my life up to that point. I was only 19
but I felt ready.
Jonathan
was also a part of the wedding ceremony. After we lit
the candle and signed all the papers, my brother brought
Jonathan up and the pastor added another vow for Mark.
“You are not only becoming a husband today but also
a father. Do you promise to love and raise Jonathan as
your own? Mark said “I do.”
Mark, Jonathan and I walked out as a family. My dreams
had come true for both of us in a single morning.
While
away with YWAM in 1993, I got a call that my dad was still
abusing young girls. I was asked what I was going to do
about it.
I
prayed hard and God showed me Micah 6:8—“He
has shown you, oh man, what is good, and what does the
Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and
to walk humbly with your God.”
“This is too hard, God.”
This was so clear to me. I felt free of him and the baggage
of the abuse but I wondered why God wanted me to do this
now.
I
went to the RCMP and made a statement. Dad was arrested
shortly after on his anniversary of ten years sobriety.
When the police told me this, I just wept. “This
is too hard, God.”
After
a preliminary hearing, a trial date was set. My sister
was subpoenaed.
When it came time for me to take the witness stand, I
testified for two-and-a-half hours. The only time I cried
during the trial was when the defense attorney accused
me of being a very angry young woman wanting to see my
dad rot in jail for the rest of his natural life. I responded
that that is not what I wanted but that I wasn't an adult
in this situation. He was and I didn't have to feel shame
over this any more. The shame was for him to bear. He
is still my dad and I love him but felt sorry for him.
My
dad was found guilty of all that he'd done to me and my
sister and sentenced to three-and-a-half years in prison.
Four
years later, I was at a prayer gathering for Native Canadians
in Winnipeg. Looking over the crowd, I suddenly spotted
my grandma, aunt, and my father. I broke down. I was paralyzed
with fear of rejection and totally unsure about what to
do. After crying for 45 minutes, a friend from church
came and told me if I wanted to see my family, I had to
come now because they were leaving.
Racing
through the crowd, I reached my grandma and aunt. Dad
just said hello. He and I stood off to one side and I
fully expected his anger. But he took off his tinted glasses
and looked me in the eye. “Cindy,” he said,
“Stony [prison] was the best thing you could have
done for me.”
You could have blown me over! I cried and laughed the
whole way home.
A couple months later, my dad apologized for doing what
he did to me.
The scars are there and always will be but as Isaiah 43:19
says —“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it
springs up. Do you not perceive it? I am making a way
in the desert, and streams in the wasteland.”
God showed me my identity was not a big “oops.”
God didn't make a mistake making me Ojibwe. He made me
just to be as I am.
I
challenge you not to give up on what God has called you
to do. It might seem
insignificant but if God is telling you to do it, then
it's not unimportant. It has a purpose in your life.
It's
risky taking risks but take risks. It's always more fun
to go on a journey with a friend than alone. God has taught
me to trust Him; He means so much to me. He made a way
when there was none.
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