I grew up in the church. And it wasn’t until I was 29 years old that I saw a woman preach for the first time. That woman was Ruth, author of the powerful new memoir, Ruined.
The central event of the memoir is unimaginable trauma. Robbed at gunpoint, held hostage for 4 hours, and raped, Ruth, who grew up in a solidly conservative, loving faith tradition, finds herself “ruined”—or so she thinks. Her memoir takes us unflinchingly through the crime, the trial, and the trauma’s aftermath. Her faith is torn apart and then rebuilt with more emotional and intellectual honesty than I have read in quite some time.
The memoir itself is incredibly brave; the writing is intense and brilliant. But my favorite part of the book is the epilogue, “A Letter to My Daughters,” in which Ruth pulls it all together, and the emotion lets loose. Because, well, DAUGHTERS. Here, she calls for the language and belief of “sexual purity”—and if you’re raised in the church, you know damn well what she’s talking about—to “be cast into the grave of extinct beliefs” (p. 306). Let’s all take a moment and stand up and clap for that one.
I pondered Ruth’s memoir after finishing it, because that’s the sort of book it is, while watching my two girls frolic and play on the beach. What could “ruin” these precious girls? Nothing. NOTHING. They are cherished, no matter what is done to them, or what they themselves do. They are cherished, cherished, cherished, by their mother, their father, their creator, and others—No. Matter. What. How terrifying that they could ever think otherwise. How heartbreaking that their faith could drag them there.
There are a thousand take-aways from Ruth’s book, and I strongly encourage everyone to read it and glean whatever wisdom speaks to them. But for me, as I type this review (probably a too personal review) with my girls—my perfect, cherished, never-to-be-ruined girls are hanging off of me and whining for a snack—it’s this shriek from the pages: “There’s more to living in a woman’s skin than staying a virgin” (p. 303). After all, “nothing is more washable than human skin” (p. 306).