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They said that I was wrong—Bill would never hug a girl, and that I shouldn’t make claims that weren’t true. A short time after that meeting, I was walking home alone when a car pulled up beside me. He told me that what happened between us needed to stay between us.I was never to tell anyone else because it was our little secret—was that clear? Bill would have me accompany him in his car to the airport, and be there to pick him up when he got back from trips.I went home at the end of October for a week, and Bill called and talked to me daily.I told my mom about what was happening, and she told me I was lying.He wanted me around him as much as possible, wanted me to be with him as much as he could get me.I started meeting with him in his office in the morning, every morning.It all came to a head one night when I told one of my housemates about the long hugs Bill gave me.

This story, more so than others, has caused the RG team to examine our hearts, to ensure that our motives are pure as we humbly seek to balance justice with grace and mercy.I have been told I am alive because of Bill Gothard.My parents became involved in the seminars in the early 1970s, and at that time they were done with having kids.My father was so deep into Gothard’s teachings, and he preached them so much, that his church board had issues with it. He blamed this on the board not being willing to grow. My parents portrayed me to Bill as a sexual, rebellious teen who needed help—but I had only kissed a boy. Bill told them he would give me intensive counseling. I was a temptation to men; Bill Gothard told me that I had tempted my own father.I have my own theory of why he was forced out, though. He had been forced out of churches in California and New Jersey for taking indecent liberties with young girls. My father’s sexual abuse of me didn’t start until we moved to a pastorate in New Jersey, when I was seven years old and got my own room. Bill would call me into his office for “counseling and teaching.” I was open about my relationship with my boyfriend. I loved to be barefooted, and he would always comment on the shades of polish on my toes. He wanted all the details of my past sexual experiences. I craved Bill’s attention but felt guilty about the increasing touches he gave me.

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