“Hello. . . Yes, this is ‘Mrs. Turner ’. . . Yes, Officer, he’s my husband. . . . You suspect him of what?” 

With that phone call, Teri crossed the continental divide of her soul. She was numb. As she hung up the phone, life as she knew it ended. She would never be the same. Never! 

Twelve years prior, the Turners accepted their first ministry position together. At first, Teri was a volunteer, but then with time, she joined her husband ’s staff as a worship leader.Being a ministry family was tough. Living in a fishbowl isn’t easy for anyone, but compound it with the high expectations and isolation that accompany a church that places the pastor’s family on a pedestal, and it becomes unbearable. Teri and her husband dealt with the pressure differently. She poured her energy into her children and hobbies. He wandered deeper into his secret life —his sexual fixation with children. 

One Sunday, Teri slipped into the service late and sat on the back row. She was enjoying the freedom of a day off and relished the thought of worshiping God without people evaluating the way she was dressed and how well she performed. She was doing fine, until about halfway through her husband’s sermon entitled, “The Church as a Trauma Center.” Quietly, she wept. Not because the sermon was moving or profound, but because in her life the church and its pastor were creating trauma instead of treating it. 

In 1994, she left her ministry position. Her husband resigned a year and a half later. They were unemployed, negotiating the purchase of an insurance agency when the phone rang that afternoon. With a plea bargain, he got probation and they worked at putting their lives back together and shielding the children from the fallout. Teri searched for a church home but she couldn’t find one. She didn’t lose her faith or the consciousness that God was with her, but she couldn’t feel His presence anymore. The atmosphere of the churches she attended was “mandated happiness.” By having services that were predominately celebration, the churches were saying in effect, “It is not OK to be hurting. ”Teri didn’t feel like singing and clapping, and the churches weren’t providing an atmosphere for reflection or confession. “It was as if to go into those places, you had to have your act together, ”Teri said, “or be dishonest enough to fake it. ” 

It was easier just to stay busy, or to stay home. In 1997, Teri found what she was searching for when she visited a new church started near her home. “The whole time I was at this service, I could tell right away there were a lot of people who didn’t have a nice suburban life, ”Teri says. “The songs spoke to me; they weren’t all in major keys. They were real and included the angst of everyday life. I went as a skeptic and came back as a participant. ”At this church there is time for silence. They have corporate confessions and readings that include the reality of pain and depravity. Teri emerged from the depths, breaking through despair that was suffocating her soul. When she reached the surface, she took a deep cleansing breath. For the first time in years, she worshiped. 

Just when it looked like things were getting better, her husband violated probation. This time, there would be no leniency. He was going to jail. Teri sat helplessly in the gallery as the District Attorney put her children on the stand and grilled them. There was nothing she could do to protect them. But she wasn’t alone. This time she had a church that stood with her —a church that is a trauma center, where it is OK to express brokenness and to find hope.