Recovering Kippy
A wave of child noise broke across our living room the other day. There was a warning rumble of feet and a crash of complaining followed by giggling breakers. A small part of me was paying attention - about five percent, I reckon.
Having small children is like living on a reef. Tides of energy roll in and out of rooms. Noises swell and recede. Your mind sways in the current, like a sea plant, and then settles back.
That’s what I was doing on this day. Swaying with the waves and trying to stay anchored to my book. Hearing the noise, but not hearing it, if you know what I mean. I was doing a pretty good job of it too, until one word separated itself from the muted buzz, becoming louder and more clear. It definitely got my attention.
One of the kids had said, “Kippy”.
I experienced a jolt of emotion and was instantly on high alert. This word was familiar to me, but I couldn’t remember anything about it. I could sense that there was a powerful memory lurking nearby. I was sniffing at the edges of something important.
I kept saying the word over and over, trying to coax the memory to the surface. “Kippy, Kippy, Kippy.” I wanted this memory, but it was playing hard to get. The harder I concentrated, the more it eluded me.
Recovering a memory can be tricky. You have to sneak up on it. You have to give up, walk away, and see if it follows you. I slowed to a mental jog and was turning back to my book when a lovely image popped into my mind. I could see my oldest daughter, Sharon, twelve years ago when she was only two. She used to say “Kippy”. It was one of her little words.
Properly primed, the memory rose and overflowed its levee, flooding me with the silt of 1991. It all came back.
That was the year Christy showed up. My wife J and I were young, with only one child. Christy was a sad and lonely woman who somehow found her way to our little church. Sharon called her “Kippy”, and offered her the pure nectar of a child’s love. Kippy hadn’t had much love in her life, so she took a pull from that little mug and then stayed for seconds. She made herself a part of our family for a time.
Kippy, where are you now, I wonder?
Christy was a self-proclaimed victim of Satanic Ritual Abuse, a subject I learned a lot about during the time of our friendship. In the 1980s there was a flood of reported cases of ritualistic abuse by satanic cults. The “victims” of SRA, as it came to be called, reported thousands of rapes, ritual killings and other crimes.
Many of these accusations came from “recovered memories” that were unearthed in therapy sessions. The whole thing played right into the hands of some Christian groups who had a need to believe in a worldwide satanic conspiracy.
That my own memory of Kippy had to be recovered is, well, interesting.
Law enforcement officials never found any evidence of organized ritual abuse, and the hype eventually subsided. Satanic Ritual Abuse had a lot in common with witch-hunts, hysteria and urban legends. I’m not saying that no one was ever abused in a ritual setting. Anything and everything happens in isolated cases, but the the SRA craze clearly got out of hand.
Christy found us at the end of a whirlwind tour of churches in our area. Her pattern was to show up at a church and tell shocking stories of her ritual abuse at the hands of her own father. He was, according to her, the head of some secret satanic organization. She would hang around until her act wore thin and then move on.
Christy told me her stories, and I yawned. I heard her for a little while and then changed the subject. "Yeah, yeah, whaddya wanna do for lunch?" I don't have the energy it takes to talk about Satan. It bores me, and I have a very short attention span.
When I didn’t react or call an emergency prayer meeting, Christy stopped telling the stories. After a few weeks she got a job, and eventually joined our church. She fell in love with Sharon and started hanging out at our house. It was okay because we liked her. We really did. She spent Christmas with us in 1991. We were too poor to travel and she had nowhere to go.
After a while, J and I kinda forgot about the Satan stories. Christy seemed normal enough, and she became a close friend. We even let her baby-sit. I look back now and realize how crazy we were to take a chance like that. We were young and trying to be like Jesus, a dangerous combination.
I think we were all in denial.
The relationship lasted about nine months, as I recall, and then Christy left us. Our friendship came to an end in one shocking moment of relapse and betrayal.
Maybe she wanted to return to her world of demons and fear. Maybe she was getting bored playing Pictionary with us on Friday nights. Maybe she really believed what seemed to happen at our house that day.
I don't know what she thinks. I only know what happened.
Now that I think of it, being a pastor is also like living on a reef. You never know what the tide will bring. People come and go like waves, some carrying pain and some bringing nourishment. You bend and sway with the swells, but you must keep your roots firmly anchored. You can never let go of your rock. You live in the current, but not at its mercy.
You do not want to get washed out to sea.
Coming next: "Kippy’s Betrayal"
The Preacher
8:14:31 AM 
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