Courtship, Part 16: General Assembly

May 28 & 29, 2014

Aug 29, 2025

Need to catch up? Part 15 is here, and you can find all the Courtship story archives here.

The drive to the campground where the Presbytery General Assembly was being held was over an hour long. We stopped at Chick-fil-a shortly after leaving the Creation Museum to get lunch–I got a salad and turned my cell phone back on. It had enough charge that I was able to power it on, but I was only getting a weak, sporadic signal–and as we drove, it continued to cut in and out. The last several days of texts from Dylan came through gradually, and I did my best to send a few outgoing texts as well: trying to let him know where I was, that I was okay, what the situation was.

Once we got to the campground, I found that I had no signal whatsoever in the lodging areas. Thankfully, my friend and I were staying in the Kayser’s cabin (which had electricity), and so I was able to plug in my iPod and hope that there would be some wi-fi available once it turned on. From there, I was kept rather busy with group activities and meals, and I hoped that at least a few of my texts to Dylan had gotten through before we reached the dead zone.

I finally found an area on the opposite side of the campground which had a half-decent cell signal late that evening, and so called Dylan. We finally had enough of a conversation for me to definitively explain that I was in Ohio– not Iowa–and why.

The relief at being able to talk was undercut by the fact that I was panicking about the document I’d signed, unsure if I was now obligated to follow the whims of yet more authority figures I didn’t trust. I hurriedly gave as many details as I could while keeping my voice hushed, uncertain as to how private my side of the call actually was.

Our conversation was cut short when Mr. Smith walked over and asked if he could speak to Dylan. Their conversation was brief, and Dylan was put on speaker so I was able to hear both sides of the call. Dylan acted the part of a respectful young man who was more than willing to follow and necessary guidelines that were set forth, and then ended the call with the excuse that his break was over and he had to get back to work.

In actuality, he and his sister were on the road, having started the drive to Iowa as soon as I’d gotten my phone back and had reached out to Dylan–and then re-routing towards Ohio as soon as that detail was clarified.

Afterwards, my own conversation with Mr. Smith was another letdown. He wasn’t going to make any hasty decisions, he said, but the best course of action right now seemed to be one where Dylan and I restarted our courtship from square one. Dylan would need to talk to him, and his pastor, and other church elders and get their approval to court me anew, and then we could begin again with a clean slate, a fresh start.

I felt sick at the prospect.

My opinion hadn’t even been requested, and now my engagement and wedding planning was effectively thrown out the window without acknowledgement. There was scarcely any deference being given to any of the things we’d gone through–if anything, they were acting as if the past had barely happened–nor was there any concession or acknowledgement given to the fact that I was an adult. Appealing my dad’s irrational actions hadn’t brought respite the way I’d hoped: instead, I was now expected to restart the entire process with people who also hadn’t earned my trust.

Pastor Phillip Kayser also touched base with me at some point. I’m not sure how much he knew of all that had happened, but it was obvious that he’d been apprised of some part of the situation and he told me he was looking forward to getting to know Dylan. I don’t recall what I said to him in reply, just that at this point, I was doing my best to say what was expected of me so that I didn’t make the situation even worse.

I knew I was meant to be encouraged by these conversations, that the intention behind them was that of giving me confidence and hope. But it was yet another jarring realization of how little recourse or autonomy I had in any of this. “Going to the elders” was meant to be the insurance against a husband or father abusing their authority. Our lack of a church home meant that this was my first opportunity to even try that recourse, but I was quickly seeing just how little input I would be allowed to give by any of them. Future discussions and in-depth conversations were still promised for the future, yet they were making decisions and judgements prior to any of that. It felt like my life and my future was now being authored by people who hadn’t even bothered to read the previous chapters.

The next morning, I was able to get a weak wi-fi connection and I finally continued my conversation with Dylan. I was still freaked out about the documents I’d signed. I didn’t know who I was supposed to submit to. I was still doing my best to be holding on to the resolve I’d found in February, but I felt that by signing those documents, I’d compelled myself to at least try to go along with yet another person in charge of my life. Hadn’t I given my word? Beyond that, being surrounded by dozens, if not hundreds, of people who were convinced that courtship was the correct method and that submission was vital was causing me to feel overwhelmed and so alone, and I questioned my own sanity and logic.

Eventually, Dylan managed to calm me down, pointing out that I was under no obligation to abide by the documents I’d signed under duress. He–and his sister–pointed out that all of this meant that I had essentially been kidnapped. That I couldn’t be forced to sign away my freedom, that that was coercion. I was an adult. Their actions weren’t okay.

He also let me know that in the days since Saturday night, he’d been tirelessly calling in favors and reaching out to his own friends and contacts–and some of mine, too. There were many people who supported us, he told me: blogging friends who were willing to help him out, the family I’d nannied for, his reenacting friends, and many, many others he’d reached out to. But most crucially, his mom knew someone who had connections in federal law enforcement–since my parents had crossed state lines with me, they could claim jurisdiction. And if Dylan wasn’t able to get me out peacefully, we would be able to rely on federal authorities to step in if need be.

The doubts in my mind weren’t totally silenced, but hearing that helped, and gave me hope and peace to combat the fear.

As the morning hours passed by, it became obvious to others that I was not participating in the various activities, and was staying in just one part of the campground without engaging with others. Mr. Smith came to talk to me and tried to encourage me to try and enjoy myself; he told a personal story of a time when he’d struggled with grief as a child and how he still managed to find temporary solace. He encouraged me to try and participate in the fun, to avoid having the sad incidents of the past few days sully my enjoyment of Presbytery. But once again, it felt like someone who was making decisions for me was now criticizing me for having a normal reaction to those decisions. I nodded and tried to be receptive to the advice, but I just couldn’t make it make sense.

Mr. Smith left to go back to the elders’ meetings – or whatever meeting he was a part of–and I pulled out my iPod again to continue trying to get myself out of this situation.

The next challenge was trying to figure out where the heck in Ohio I was. Dylan and his sister were still heading in my general direction, but at some point they’d need to know exactly where Presbytery was. But I didn’t think it would be safe to simply ask anyone what the address of the campground was. A brochure on a bulletin board had given me enough information for me to conclude that the location was called King’s Domain, I wasn’t certain of much beyond that.

Unfortunately, that name wasn’t pulling up much information when Dylan or his family googled it or put it into a GPS. They weren’t able to find a conclusive address, and I didn’t know what my location was beyond it being an hour or so away from the Creation Museum.

After a few futile hours of trying to peruse other bulletin boards and find a location with a robust wi-fi connection, I finally discovered that the women's restroom (which was its own detached structure) had a strong enough signal for me to be able to get my iPod's map app to load and give me an address, as well as drop a pin and send the screenshots to Dylan.

From there, as the hours passed by, we slowly devised a plan: he and his sister would be arriving in a nondescript rental car. He’d stay out of sight in the backseat while his sister drove, and I’d head out to the restroom once they were about to arrive. The campground drive passed right next to it, and so when they pulled up I’d dart out and jump into the car as quickly as possible.

Once again, I didn’t dare try to grab any luggage, didn’t want to do anything to telegraph my plans to anyone there. I went through the little suitcase I had, trying to figure out if there was anything I needed. But nothing was actually important enough for me to take, not with the risk. I put my ID and iPod in a zippered skirt pocket so that I could drop my purse if needed. I stuffed my cash savings and extra contact lenses in my purse, hoping that I could take them along.

And then, I waited.

The next few hours were agonizing. I did my best to stay in frequent communication with Dylan as he drove closer and closer, but every time I needed to charge my iPod in the cabin I lost access to wi-fi. I was, thankfully, not pressured into attending the various Presbytery meetings or activities and was allowed to keep to myself for the most part. But it felt like everything could fall apart at any time.

As they got closer, Dylan started messaging me with updates on how far out they were. He assured me that no matter what, even if our plans fell apart, he wasn’t leaving without me this time.

An hour. Forty minutes. Twenty.

At five, I headed to the restroom as planned.

Four. Three. Two–each minute seemed longer than the last.

Then it was time, and they weren’t there. My heart was in my chest, texting him, counting the seconds.

Minus two minutes. Three. And then–

And then, finally, they arrived. Or at least, I hoped the nondescript gray car slowing was them.

I dashed over to the car and jumped in, as planned – and there was Dylan, finally. No one tried to stop us, no one even seemed to notice. I flattened myself down, hiding my face. And we drove out of the campground, past the other families, and made it out without issue or anyone trying to follow.

My heart was in my throat for hours, I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder. But before I knew it, we were at the airport, Dylan and I booking flights for Kansas City, his sister for her home state. We made it through security, rumpled and clutching our scarce belongings, without issue. Without anyone showing up to confront or collect me.

And eventually, thousands of feet in the air, I realized that we’d made it.

I was free.

Edited 9/1: the original date listed (May 27 & 28) has been corrected