For Thine Especial Safety

A white curtain hung at the right of the stage. On it were written in large letters the words "For thine especial safety." The phrase remained a mystery until Roberta Nobleman appeared and began to tell her story.

She was born in England to a family with few financial resources. She fell in love with the theater as a child, and remembers sitting in the highest balcony with the others who could not afford seats closer to the stage.

The footlights generated a great deal of heat and occasionally caught fire. A fireproof curtain ringed the stage, ready in the event of an emergency. Written on the curtain were the words, "For thine especial safety."

That curtain came to symbolize Nobleman's feeling in the theater. Here was a place that was safe. She had hidden under tables during the bombing raids of World War II and walked through bomb-scarred neighborhoods. Those fearful memories fled as she lost herself in the theater's world of imagination.

But there was another reason the theater represented safety for her: Her home did not. She carried another fear, a more intimate one. Her soldier father had returned from the war when she was 7 years old. That was when the sexual abuse began. It continued until she was 13.

ROBERTA NOBLEMAN pursued her love of the theater as an adult, studying acting, eventually teaching creative drama. Sponsored by the Episcopal Diocese of Western North Carolina, she came to Black Mountain in January as "an actress, storyteller, teacher, and spiritual pilgrim" to share her experience and insight. She spoke to a packed house.

The day began with a one-woman drama called Masks and Mirrors. Through poetry, music, and masks, Nobleman invited her audience along on her compelling journey -- described as movement "from incest victim, to courageous survivor, to joyous celebrant." She linked her childhood experiences with those of British novelist Virginia Woolf, carrying us on a tide of emotion that spanned quiet tears and boisterous laughter.

In the afternoon, she invited each of us to connect with her props. She had a creative array -- including a chain of gloves signifying the generation-to-generation nature of sexual abuse; a mirror constructed with symbols of the stages of her remembering and healing; and the apron of "Cleopatra, Queen of Denial," representing the person who refuses to accept evidence of sexual abuse.

We formed ourselves into groups based on the props. Deep sharing and healing happened in those groups, as incest survivors, friends, and supporters shared some of the pain and the loneliness of the journey.

Each group was invited to share with the regathered audience. Songs were sung, and dramatic presentations were offered. Individuals gave testimony to the hope they had discovered in the day, or rose to confess their failure in relationship to a family member or friend.

In a gesture that was simple but profoundly moving, the group dealing with issues of trust formed a circle on the stage. One member of the group offered her hand to the woman next to her and said, "I am a survivor, and I offer you my hand." That woman took it, responding, "I am a survivor, and I take your hand." She then offered her other hand to the person next to her. The relaying of trust continued in turn around the circle, with each person declaring her or himself a survivor, spouse, or friend.

The audience was invited to form similar circles of trust, repeating the exercise among ourselves. As hands connected in circles all around the auditorium, the murmur of the declaration "I am a survivor" reached a rumble. It was a graced moment, electrified with empowerment.

As Roberta Nobleman packed her props and costumes into two huge suitcases, I thanked her for the day, and commented on the depth of what had been shared on the stage from the audience. She smiled and nodded toward the curtain at the right of the stage. "All it takes is a safe place," she said.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.