Traci's Sentencing

The first victim impact statement I wrote was for Traci Irwin, the founding pastor's wife and current pastor's mother. She was represented in court by Frank Policelli and received a 2 yr sentence for her part in the crimes. Traci and her son, Daniel, were released from Oneida County Correctional Facility on March 24, 2017. 

(Pictures Credit: Sarah Condon/Observer-Dispatch via AP)

I am grateful to D.A. McNamara and Judge Dwyer for allowing me the opportunity to address the court during Traci's sentencing, which happened on Dec. 5, 2016.

I always cherished my position as the biggest big sister. My dad often called me “the Eldest.” Never once did I imagine that being the eldest would mean that I would have the responsibility of signing my brother’s death certificate.

After leaving the authoritarian group, known as Word of Life Christian Church, in July 2014, I clung to the hope that one day my family would also break free from it and our relationships would be restored.  Instead of the restoration I dreamed of, there was a nightmare explosion on October 12, 2015, which shattered hopes and dashed dreams. 

The majority of people do not understand how this tragedy could have occurred. I am repeatedly faced with the compelling urge to defend my family, to correct the mistaken beliefs and assumptions. Then I remember that there is no way for people to understand fully unless they too have survived being a member of a high-demand authoritarian group.

Luke was a tease. As we worked together on a Wednesday afternoon a couple years ago, like we had done a hundred times before, sweeping a hallway in the Word of Life building, Lukey felt the need to educate me on the topic of zombies. Noting my pained reaction, he eagerly continued his effort for several minutes. I finally interjected a query, “You do know how to make holy water, don’t you?” Lukey paused his banter, halted his broom, and gazed at me tentatively. Delighted by his reaction, I stated the answer matter-of-factly, “You boil the hell out of it.” He shook his head at me and snickered, surprised that this conversation he began about zombies concluded in such a manner. Far more amused than annoyed, he returned to his work.

When I was 19, I called Traci Irwin “Mama.” When my baby brother Lucas Benjamin was 19, Traci oversaw the actions that led to his death and Christopher’s brutal beating. Frankly, due to the nature of Word of Life Christian Church, it is difficult to point to the impacts of this crime without mentioning the impacts I incurred when I left. Because of the undue influence perpetuated by the leaders, I was shunned by remaining members, including my own family. I had fully expected this treatment, having been trained myself to do the same, as were all members, when anyone left the group. My own heart was broken knowing that my family believed me to be a horrible sinner for leaving, since that was the only explanation allowed, and were compelled to reckon me dead to them.  The letters I wrote to my father giving him my reasons for leaving went unanswered, because the Irwins forbade him to communicate with me. I was no longer invited to family celebrations, and invitations I extended were rejected. Ironically, I now have more communication with my dad while he is physically imprisoned by the state than I did while he was psychologically imprisoned by the Irwins, when attending Word of Life.

A little over a year after I left, I saw my dad and Luke when our visits to my grandmother in the nursing home for her birthday coincided. It was a brief but pleasant encounter, which ended with hugs. A few days later I received an early Sunday morning text from Luke using his mother’s phone. He was asking me about the service time of the church I had been attending since leaving Word of Life. I replied with the time and asked him if he wanted to know because he wanted to come. He answered, “Yes, I think I do.” I told him that if he could be ready in about a half hour, we would pick him up. My shock at his request to attend service with me was furthered when he asked another question. “Would it be ok if I stay with you for a few days after?” Astonished, I replied, “Of course! You are my Lukey. You are always welcome in my home!” Luke was well-loved during the few hours he spent with us at church. He experienced a healthy church, and he saw that my immediate family was fine after leaving Word of Life. I am sure he had been wondering if in fact all hell had broken loose in our lives after we left Word of Life, as that phobia was implanted in the minds of members to keep us from leaving. On the way home, I asked Luke what he’d like to do-- if he wanted to stay with us for a few days or go back home. He opted to go home, but I told him a few times that he would always be welcome in my home, and if he ever wanted to talk, he knew where to find me. That was August 9, 2015. And it turned out to be the last time I saw my Lukey. The last hug. The last wry grin. The last time I would look into the intelligent, brave, twinkling eyes of my baby brother. The hardest thing is the last goodbye, especially if you didn’t know it really was the very last one.

Our uncles and aunt saw Luke just days before he was killed. My father and brothers had gone to the family farm for a visit to see our uncle and aunt from Kentucky while they were here visiting. Providentially, as they said their goodbyes, Luke gave our Aunt Mary a hug, started to walk away, then turned and came back to her for one last hug. This was our Lukey.

My brother Christopher Truman, after being brutally beaten, lost his best friend, had his family torn from him, and, along with each of the other children dragged into this horror, was thrust into utterly foreign situations surrounded by strangers. When I think about Christopher’s progress in healing and recovery, I am quickly reminded of his solid, resolute character; his quiet strength; his desire to pursue his talents.

As I reflect on the series of choices and actions that led to, comprised, and followed this devastating event, I liken it to an incredibly violent volcanic eruption, complete with what is known as a dirty thunderstorm or volcanic lightning—thunder and lightning occurring within the cloud above an eruption. This act of nature produces not only tremendous destructive force, but also incomparable, awesome beauty. In the case of Word of Life, the pressure had been intensifying beneath the surface for many years. Three families left the congregation in 2014, with countless others having left during the preceding decade. My hope after leaving was that this pressure would dissipate, as the few remaining families would also decide to move on from the control of Word of Life. Such was not to be… and hope deferred makes the heart sick. The pressure escalated to a point of no return, and the explosion was devastating. However, the damage is far from over. As with a volcano whose eruption can bury towns or level forests; trigger earthquakes, landslides, or tsunamis; so it is with this calamity at Word of Life. The ash cloud continues to travel far, negatively affecting all life shadowed by it; the lava continues to flow and will burn for a long time.

The landscape of my family is forever changed. Life will go on… for most of us. But the aftermath will continue to burn the life that remains, continue to singe even the new growth that dares to appear. Smoke and ash will discolor and contaminate the stages of grief as they run their course.

I have attempted on different occasions to list what I have been grieving this past year in a purposeful effort to ensure that I allow myself the opportunity to grieve. My lists are never complete. Some things are obvious. My baby brother is dead at the hands of the people I trusted most. My family is scattered, divided. As a mother, I grieve the loss of my children’s uncle Luke. My 8 year old daughter has confided to me that she regrets not having gotten to know Uncle Luke better. I grieve the separation of my children from their Uncle Chris and Aunt Grace. I grieve the loss of my children’s grandfather—there is so much that my father could patiently teach them, so much that he would introduce them to and inspire them to learn and love, so much of his kind, gentle nature which they need, but they will barely get to experience. I know what my children are missing even if they do not. As a sister, I grieve the loss of my brother. Lukey made me a card for my 35^th birthday. It is riddled with teasing. I LOVE IT! …And I would have loved to see what he would have done to me for my 40^th birthday. But that will have to be left to my own imagination. I grieve the pain that each of my siblings has been forced to endure. As a daughter, I grieve the loss of my dad and the pain and turmoil that has been laid on his back. I grieve the dreams and goals and accomplishments that have vanished… but are replaced by heavy, acrid smoke.

 Anger rises with a chokehold

clutching my trembling frame,

smothering my soul with thick, black smoke.

Caustic.

Sorrow rushes with murky raging floods,

a tsunami consuming me in anguish and confusion.

Destructive.

Questions churn violently in a cloud of ash overhead:

“How?” “Why?”

Abrasive. Toxic.

Desperate, my eyes search for a glimpse of beauty to rise from these ashes,

and once more, I see Lukey’s lightning bolt

in the midst of the volcanic storm.

I remember my promise to my baby brother, to my hero.

          “I will be your thunder.”