I will tell you about one time in my life.
I was seventeen years old and in my second year in Uni.
I was in the church choir, searching for meaning and hoping to find something.
The choir had an all night rehearsal on a Friday and late that night, we slept at a member’s room.
Humans curled up in different sections of the room, boys and girls alike, without a care in the world.
We all had one thing in common, God. We had no worries about each other and no ill intentions.
The love of God hovered around the room as we slept, as I slept.
I slept and dreamt of touch. I dreamt of another human’s hands touching my neck, and then my face, my lips.
I dreamt that another lips pressed on to my lips very deeply while hands went under my blouse to my stomach.
The dream became too close when the hands pulled up my blouse and began to touch my nipples.
I woke up to a member of the choir, who with all of the God in him, had touched my body in my sleep and was proceeding to placing his mouth on my breasts when our eyes met.
I looked at him and my heart broke. How could God allow this member raise my blouse and do that to me?
I said nothing to him. I got up and went to a different corner of the room and lay.
There, I hated myself for thinking I had been dreaming. For not waking up earlier. For allowing that touch linger unconsciously.
Morning came and I reported this to the choir master. He laughed and said to me–
‘You are a fine girl, boys will have ideas in their heads. If you wouldn’t wear a thin handed blouse, maybe it won’t happen. I will talk to him.’
The choir master came back to me after speaking to the member and said– ‘He said he did not do anything. That he was helping you adjust your zipper. If he touched you, why didn’t you scream?’
This boy touched me in my sleep, in the presence of God and sleeping choristers. He said he didn’t do it and it was final.
God saw him touch me. That touch changed everything.