Introduction

Mom cried. Dad listened stone-faced in silence, hands clenched, knuckles white, until he exploded. “That son of a—! Now everything makes sense!”

From where we sat at their kitchen table, I could see into the living room, darkened by nightfall yet glowing from colored lights on the tree. A spruce, probably sawed down by my dad a few weeks earlier in the woods outside Duluth. The festive dots decorating the walls and ceiling were far easier for me to look at than my parents’ faces. I’d spoiled their Christmas.

On the counter by the stove, the old coffee pot gurgled and steamed. The aroma of fresh-ground roasted beans lent an air of comfortable familiarity, as if life in our family would go on the same as before. But now nothing was the same.

I had just disclosed to my mom and dad the secret I kept buried in the shadow lands of shame for twenty-five years, the shame of what happened to me in boyhood by a minister they’d trusted. I didn’t realize back then he was abusing me. I figured it must have been my fault. But the last mental health therapist I’d seen, in a long line of therapists, had finally laid out the eye-opening truth for me: A child is not responsible for an adult’s actions.

That evening in 1990 a few days before Christmas, its bright lights and dark revelations burned forever into my memory, began for me and my parents a seven-year quest. To protect other kids from a practiced pedophile. To hold accountable a church that turned a blind eye. We couldn’t have known at the time how everything would get flipped on its head. How I, who’d spent my life hiding, would see my name splashed across the nation’s front pages. Or how I’d come to be regarded as a villain instead of a victim.

By the time my lawsuit against the church shambled to a long-overdue finale, people had forgotten why I’d come forward in the first place. Parishioners were almost as disgusted with me as I was with them. The media—from Minneapolis, Chicago, New York—seemed confused by the whole business. They didn’t know the real story.

Blindsided is the story behind the headlines. The story of a church bureaucracy and its unfettered legal team that together launched a counterattack to silence the truth. The story that puts a human face on Legal Abuse Syndrome (LAS), a psychological term increasingly used to explain why trauma survivors who become involved in prolonged legal proceedings cannot seem to find the hoped-for healing or closure.

At its heart, though, my memoir is a father and son story of love, grit, and dogged perseverance to change something in the social order that needed changing, even when it cost them everything.

This narrative is based on my memories, and memory is always subjective. Others may recall things differently. Extensive documentation for the book includes medical and counseling records, court files, news coverage, and a secret diary. Quotes from trial transcripts and legal and personal correspondence are word for word. Conversations have been reconstructed as best as I can recall as to content and intent.

More than thirty years have passed since the events in this story took place. The combination of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome from the abuse and LAS from the cumulative assaults of the justice system left my own belief system in shambles. The extended legal warfare silenced my voice for a longer period of time than the initial molestation did. Yet today my story is more relevant than ever, given the tsunami of abuse victims who take the brave step of holding their perpetrators accountable in the courts. They quickly find that dealing with attorneys, legal maneuverings, and a flood of paperwork can drown them in waves of despair and a sense of helplessness. And no one seems to understand their silent suffering. But I do.

I dedicate this memoir to my devoted parents, Joe and June Samarzia, and to the many others—family, friends, and strangers—who walked the twisted path with me. And because so many men and women out there still dwell in their own shadow lands, my book is especially for those whose young souls were mangled by an adult’s predatory actions: I encourage them to gather the power they need to break free from the stranglehold of shame, and the knowledge to protect themselves when they do.

Long into adulthood I hid behind sunglasses, behind walls. I carefully arranged every moment of every day to have as little contact with others as possible. Now I’ve written my life for anyone to read, and I’m not hiding anymore.

 Chapter 1 - The Child

“David, come here.”

For months I’d wished to be one of Pastor’s favored boys. Now here he was, choosing me in front of all the kids. I flew to his side. Draping his arm over my shoulders, he smiled down at me. “I understand you might like to be a pastor someday.”

I beamed and nodded.

“You know, being a pastor isn’t only about preaching on Sunday,” he said. “It’s about getting close to people, paying attention to their likes and dislikes, their families, their problems.”

“Yes, Pastor.”

“Sometimes you have to get involved in their private lives. For instance, last summer one of the church families needed a place to stay, so they stayed with me. Remember?”

“Yes, Pastor.”

Pastor Reeb wasn’t a big man, not nearly as tall as my dad. Even so, he stooped to look right into my face as if he thought I needed to hear him better. His arm felt heavy on the back of my neck, but I never let on. Maybe this would lead to a special outing, just me and Pastor.

“Sometimes you have to comfort someone in the middle of the night,” he continued. “Or rub the back of someone in pain. The job of a pastor is to shepherd his flock, whatever their needs. Do you understand?”

Not really, but I nodded again.

He asked me questions: What was I learning in Sunday school? What activities would kids my age enjoy having in the parish? Then he chuckled and squeezed my shoulder.

“All right, David, you may go. One of these days I’ll take you to the Depot for one of their famous pizza burgers.”

My pastor—my new, important friend! I couldn’t wait to spread the news.

                                                                                 ~

Our church wasn’t far from my house. Just a short walk under a green arch of elms, past the well-kept homes of neighbors and relatives, across wide Commonwealth Avenue. Another block of neat homes, flowers, and shade trees. And there on the corner sat our little church, Redeemer Lutheran.

In the summer of 1961, right before I turned eight, Daniel August Reeb drove into our working-class neighborhood of Gary-New Duluth (inside the boundaries of the port city of Duluth, Minnesota, and not to be confused with the other Gary in the northwest part of the state) to serve the congregation of Redeemer.

Even before he arrived, we’d had months of anticipation: “Did you hear we’re getting a new pastor?” “I’ve been told he’s quite young.” “Any day now, he’ll be here!” The women folk especially were enamored with the talk around town, as it generally fell to them to fill the pews with their unenthusiastic husbands and kids. A fresh-from-the-seminary minister could be a useful tool for bringing their families to God.

A new pastor typically brings renewed vigor to a church, and Daniel Reeb, who took up his duties with cheerful zeal, was no exception.

On a sunny afternoon a year or so after his arrival, as my buddies and I passed the church on our way to Little League practice, we spied a different vehicle parked in the pastor’s usual spot—a gleaming Chevelle Super Sport, the exact color of root beer. Long and sleek, it looked brand new. Maybe even driven right off the showroom floor. Furtive peeks in the windows showed a spotless black interior, shiny gauges of all kinds on the dashboard . . . and, thrown casually on the driver’s seat, Pastor Reeb’s jacket! If Pastor had driven home in a flaming chariot, it could not have caused as much commotion.

Those were the days when TV shows like Gilligan’s Island and Bonanza were regularly interrupted by commercials for blazing, testosterone-laden automobiles. Tire-smoking status symbols of what being a man was all about. For as long as I could remember, I’d loved fast cars.  It seemed our pastor did, too.

“Far OUT!” was our best stab at expressing our amazement. A “groovy” or two may have dropped from our open mouths as we ogled this defiance of religious convention. A preacher with a muscle car! We memorized its every feature to impress our friends, probably making up a few things in our excitement. But one thing we knew for sure: Pastor Reeb was pretty cool.

He took to sailing around town in that beautiful brown “boat,” revving his engine and throwing waves and goofy grins out the window to us kids. We’d laugh and wave back. This was our pastor, our church, our neighborhood. None of us could have imagined that Daniel Reeb would leave so many damaged lives in his wake, or how a miserable darkness would be smeared over the church and the community—a darkness that would never leave our memories.