There were strange hands on me. Some were small and cold; others seemed large and rough and smelled of sawdust and cinnamon. It was my third time at the new church, but I’d seen nothing like this before. The hands belonged to male church elders, who were encircling me in front of the entire congregation. Some of the men prayed aloud while others stood silent, their heads bowed. Dan Derkin was leading them. I knew Dan because he had visited my house several times to pray with my dad. He was now squeezing my head and neck, sputtering nonsense words as I helplessly tried to make eye contact with my parents. I was eight years old.