When I first heard about dear Lydia Schatz and her sister Zariah, I felt an eerie chill run up my back and a sick creaturely feeling in the pit of my abdomen, deeper and more cutting than just my stomach. The term “pit” could not be more fitting.
Not having managed to carry a pregnancy very far myself, most women at my old Gothard-influenced church held me at a distance. Two or three mothers who knew me well let me into their worlds, but I kept my own distance when they discussed some of the “methods” that they used with their kids. In the early nineties, one set of close friends followed the Ezzos meticulously, and I didn't ask much because I felt my own grief and insecurities when I did. I also learned that my honest questions about too many details were always followed with an equally defensive response from some of these moms asking, “Why do you want to know?” I learned to stick to matters that concerned cooking and gardening and the other topics featured in Gentle Spirit magazine.

