Chapter One

“He’s a brick around your neck and you’re slowly drowning.”

I looked up from my crumpled posture on the stairs. I thought I was alone when my husband, Larry, left the house—shouting, as he slammed the door, but there was my youngest son, Daniel, standing above me on the landing. Though numb from the anguish overwhelming me, I still sensed the urgent plea in Daniel’s words.

“Don’t stay with Dad on my account.” He turned and walked briskly back to his bedroom, cranking up the volume of his rock music--as was his custom of late--to drown out, I suppose, the incessant bickering that had in recent days broken the icy silence of the tomb we called our home.

Daniel was right: I was on the brink of despair. Years with Larry had broken my spirit and had reduced me to painfully enduring a hopeless marriage union that had long since destroyed my dignity. Larry begrudged the care and nurturing required by a family and had selfishly forced senseless, domineering restrictions on us—resulting in a meager, subsistence lifestyle. Though we earned a better than average income, the smallest household expenditure, or the simplest request for bare necessities, drove Larry into a veritable rage. He was sneering and derisive in every comment he made to the children and me, making our family miserable because he loathed living.

For years I’d felt sorry for him--over the course of our twenty-five year marriage, my earnest desire had been to share the joy of family-life. I wanted Larry to celebrate the fact that we had five beautiful children, a charming 6 ½ acre farm outside Portland, Oregon with a full view of Mt. Hood out our front window, and we were surrounded by loved ones that cared about us deeply. Life had handed us much good fortune, but Larry viewed living as a bitter joke; blind to our blessings.

During those years, I don’t remember even the shortest length of time when I didn’t want to try my best to make our marriage work, but two and a half decades had resulted in no measurable change in my husband’s perverse disposition and I struggled to suppress a mounting spirit of bitterness. I was discouraged and irritable because my future promised nothing but the same cold and lonely bleakness of the past.

“Just leave him!” my mother said as we talked the next day about the marital problems I had faced for so long. “If you’re scared and don’t know what to do—I’ll do it for you!” I appreciated my mom’s willingness to come to bat for me; it felt strangely comforting to hear the aggravated tone in her voice. I knew if any of my children faced similar issues, I’d encourage them to leave--but for myself--I wasn’t sure what to do.

“I don’t know, Mom…divorce just doesn’t seem like the answer.”

“There’s a whole lot worse in life than divorce,” my step-dad piped-up. He and Mom had gotten married when I was 16 years-old—more than thirty years before. We all sat together on the porch swing in the backyard of their cozy home on their lovely, neighborhood golf course. The foliage of the trees that swayed peacefully around us, in contrast to the grassy green lawn, was turning orange-brown. I could smell the scent of smoldering leaves on a nearby neighbor’s burn pile; fall was in the air.

Looking at my mom with a smile, “Dad” reached over to pat her hand. “How do you know that your best days aren’t ahead with someone new?” he said to me. Mom smiled back at him; I loved the fact that my parents obviously adored each other.

“I just don’t feel like God wants me to get divorced…I’m waiting for Him to open a different door.” My parents looked at each other as my step-dad shook his graying head.

During long years of frustration as Larry’s wife, I remember someone saying once, “If you want to talk to God--pray; but if you want God to talk to you—read the scriptures.” Searching for answers to my troubled marriage when my children were little, while studying Proverbs one day, I felt inspired as I read: “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.” The moment I read that passage I knew God was aware of me and had something special in mind for my future. For years I clung to His promise that someday I would have a peaceful, contented life.

An avid journal writer, I often wrote about my anticipation of happier days as my “‘Tree of Life’ life”--the belief consoled me when times were especially tough with Larry. Because the teachings of my church discouraged the break-up of families, I rejected divorce as the solution to my troubles, waiting patiently for better times to take place some other way. I was sustained by my faith that happier days would come…someday.

A few weeks after talking with my folks on their porch swing, I knelt alone in my living room by the front door--it was my custom to pause and pray before leaving for work each day. That particular morning my heart was heavy, and my eyes filled with tears, after a bad run-in with Larry. I pleaded as I prayed, “Please, Father in Heaven…please…Tell me what to do…open a door for me!” Immediately behind me, the front door blew open.

Astonished, I raised my head and looked around, sensing the uncanny certainty that God was listening to me! This startling experience triggered the realization that the door was open to me, but I had to be the one to walk through…God expected me to act for myself.

Decades of daily heartbreak—that’s what marriage had been for me; and though I was willing to stay and live out my commitment, gratefully, over the ensuing days wisdom flooded my mind and unraveled the tapestry of reference I had woven for myself. A saner, more judicious truth began reorienting my inner compass as I came to understand that vital to growth and progression is fundamental happiness; and I was not only unhappy, but suffering. What was I teaching my children--and grandchildren--about love and honor by staying with a man who had treated us treacherously for so long? It was obvious Larry’s heart had hardened against us years before. Summoning all the courage I could muster, within a few days, I filed for divorce.

“More power to you!” said Roselyn, my second oldest, when I called to tell her. She was living in Utah attending school at the University of Utah. “My biggest fear in life has been, ‘What if I ever end up in a marriage like my mother’s?’ I know it takes a lot of guts to do this, Mom, but you’re doing the right thing.”

All my oldest kids weathered the news of the break-up well; over previous years each one had told me they held no allegiance to their father--his uncaring manner had alienated them year’s before. For them, the end of my marriage brought long overdue relief. Suzanne, my oldest child, was in Utah, too, living with her husband Richard and their three children—my adorable grandkids, Joshua, Aaron and Callie; and my oldest son, Garth, was in Kentucky on a two year mission for our church. Each of them applauded me for finding the strength to leave my soulless marriage.

Because my two youngest boys were still at home, my greatest concern was for them. Daniel, 15, and Brian, 17, witnessed the separation first-hand and had watched their parent’s agonizing interaction before their father finally left for good. For five weeks before leaving, Larry fluctuated between accusatory outbursts of anger and heart wrenching remorse, begging me to not make him leave; all the while begrudgingly packing his clothes and pieces of furniture into a beat up old trailer. Enduring the torment of his seething and wretched pejorative displays was torturous for my sons and me.

The day the boys and I woke to find Larry’s battered old truck gone, and the barnyard strewn with the remnants of years of foul accumulation he had picked through and left disheveled in the wake of his departure, we wandered around our farm examining the aftermath-- like victims emerging from a dismal vault following a damning hurricane. It was both a great and a terrible day.

“Does this mean we can turn the heat on in the house?” Brian asked jokingly. Once we realized Larry was finally gone for good, we did turned the heat on in the house—which he seldom had allowed--and for the first time my son’s ever remembered that winter our home was warm and comfortable; we finally gained the freedom and comfort we had been deprived for decades.

Though my divorce was a good move in the chess game of my life, after so many years of living with someone and longing to create something beautiful, to me the break-up felt like an amputation without anesthesia. During the following months, the raw grief I experienced was unbearable. At night, when the house was quiet and I thought the boys were asleep, I gave way to my devastation and moaned in physical and emotional pain; not tears of despair, but tears of heartfelt mourning. Divorce felt like a terrible death.

I wanted to exhibit strength and courage and get through the ordeal without upset, but the pain was beyond my power to manage. Gradually, the strain on all of us began to takes its toll. Within a few months, agonizing trauma started manifesting in the lives of my youngest sons. It began on a Saturday.

After struggling through a fitful night sleep, I got up earlier than I normally would that morning. My bare feet absorbed the shock of the icy linoleum as I walked into the kitchen. There I found Daniel sitting alone at the dining table eating cold cereal; his bare shoulders hunched over his bowl as milk dripped off his spoon. He didn’t greet me with a cheery response when I said ‘good morning’, but paused and then turned to look up at me. After a moment of staring with red-swollen eyes, he asked:

“Why do you do that?” His words were harsh and demanding, as though I had offended him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answered, puzzled.

“Why do you cry like that? You know….in the middle of the night?” His eyes started tearing, despite the anger on his face. “Life’s better now, Mom,” he cried, “So, why do you cry like that? I hate that sound…I hate the sound of you crying!”

I wrapped my arms around his bare shoulders and hugged him close to me. Patting his head, it was my first awareness of the damaging effect holding onto my grief was having on my sons—they needed to see me strong and confident, whether I felt that way or not.

“You’re right, Daniel. Life is better now…” I managed to say, though my soul filled with the burden of unfulfilled dreams and the anxiety of being the sole support for the family weighed heavy on my mind. Remembering the credit card I had tucked away for emergencies, I said, conjuring a cheerful voice, “Why don’t we go to lunch today? You and Brian pick the place!”

Brian was my fourth child--born with cerebral palsy which partially paralyzed the right side of his body. He had just graduated from high-school and was preparing to leave for college at the end of the summer. Though a typical teenager in most ways, Brian’s condition had required frequent physical therapy throughout most of his life; as well as special assistance when participating in track and swimming events at school—he was the only swim team member that required the help of others to lift him out of the pool after competition. He was very popular with those who knew him, so much so that even at practices they gave him standing ovations. Notwithstanding his physical challenges he possessed an engaging smile that brightened everyone’s life.

That gray-skied Saturday, Daniel and Brian chose a restaurant in the strip mall near our home, so at noon we headed out. Upon arriving, we sat down in a booth by a window and ordered our meal. The café was filled with families seemingly happy and care-free, the way I wanted our family to be. With Larry gone, the kids and I were just learning to participate in activities that seemed normal—even mundane—to other families, like eating out together. I wanted a semblance of normalcy for my children, but as a result of years of deprivation due to Larry’s prohibition to what he claimed was reckless spending, I felt ill-equipped. I didn’t know how to relax and have fun with my kids. Sitting together, tensely trying to find something pleasant to talk about, it was just as our waiter was serving our plates that something unexpected began happening.

“What are you doing, Brian?” I remember feeling annoyed as he started leaning slowly to his right, listing sideways into the isle. I thought, at now eighteen, he was too old to be goofing-off in public. But when he didn’t answer me, and started falling out of his seat, my ten year experience working in a special education classroom alerted me to the fact that something was terribly wrong.

“He’s having a seizure!” I said to Daniel, who was sitting across from me in the booth. “Help me get him to the floor!”

Daniel, although younger than Brian, was larger and stronger. He had shown an affectionate protectiveness toward Brian since they had been little boys in elementary school; without hesitating, he jumped up to help his older brother. I remember feeling panicked and my heart pounding in my chest; Brian had never had a seizure before. A crowd of concerned restaurant staff quickly gathered. Their faces swarmed around us and the normal restaurant clatter seemed to exacerbate the chaos surrounding our table—the sounds rattled hollow in my head, echoing loudly in my ears.

Somewhere in the restaurant a child screeched in playful banter drawing me back to the perdition of a hellish, but more predictable day when my sons were little. The noise resonated in my heart as I peered over the seat at my Brian quivering on the floor.

Though it seemed like an eternity, within a moment or two the tremors subsided and, embarrassed, Brian stood up. Except for the white pallor of his face, he seemed perfectly fine.

“What’s all the fuss about? There’s nothing wrong with me!” Asking the curious bystanders to leave, he struggled back into his seat and insisted on finishing his hamburger. Horrified, I resisted the urge to force him into the car and off to the hospital emergency room. I was alarmed by the situation—but, at the same time, accustomed to managing students who had regular seizures--so I tried to be calm. After Brian finished eating, we drove to my parent’s home since they lived near the hospital and when we arrived at their house, I sent Brian to their guest room to lie down. Immediately, I called the health clinic.

Later that evening, in the doctor’s office, I stood with my arms folded tightly around my waist trying to refrain from falling apart while the doctor examined Brian’s eyes. Because Brian’s cerebral palsy was a result of a pre-birth brain hemorrhage, the doctor explained that--in cases such as this—sudden seizure activity wasn’t uncommon and was often triggered by stress.

“I’m fine, Mom…” Brian insisted after the examination. He was more interested in getting home to his favorite TV program than he was about the long-term medical ramifications. As his mother, I worried about his future--would he be able to leave for college in two months as he had planned?

“We’ll put Brian on Limictel and he’ll be as good as new. This med has the least negative effects of all seizure medications--it won’t slow him down a bit….you’ll see!” The doctor’s cavalier approach made it seem Brian’s seizure was no more serious than a sneeze.

“Well, in a sense that’s just what it is,” he explained, when I vocalized my concern. “Most of the time seizures are the way the body clears excess electricity from the brain. It’s as simple as that.”

“How long will Brian need to take the medication?” I asked.

Tearing off the first of many prescriptions I would be handed over the next few years, the doctor answered, “For the rest of his life.” My heart sank.

Chapter Three

“What you need is a chance to recoup some of that lost salary,” a student’s father suggested to me the last day of school that year, as I was bemoaning my financial situation to him in the school parking lot. Loading the back of his station wagon with his son’s school paraphernalia, he continued, “I could still use some help caring for Jack this summer...”

Several weeks before, Darren had asked me if I would be willing to provide respite care for his family by caring for his autistic son, Jack. Darren was going through his own difficult divorce and had custody of his five children; since Darren worked a graveyard shift at the local police station, I was aware Jack’s unruly behavior was creating a tremendous hardship for Darren’s older children at night.

“Gosh, you know how much I love your little guy…” I said hesitantly. Though Jack was elfin-adorable, and my favorite student in our schoolroom, I still had to weigh the pros and cons. Bringing an autistic child into my home several days and nights each week would prove a demanding undertaking—talk about bringing your work home with you! I knew it wouldn’t pay much money, “But I’m desperate for some income,” I thought to myself. I wanted to help Darren, but what he was asking of me was a daunting duty. Then the thought came to me, “I owe the Lord so much…” and before I knew it I heard myself saying, “Okay, sure…I’ll do it!”

“Wonderful!” Darren said. “You’re a sweetheart!” Though I knew it was the right thing to do, I could tell the extreme relief and excitement Darren felt was equal in degree to my feelings of trepidation!

Caring for Jack required that I adjust my lifestyle dramatically since the little guy was capable of destroying all semblance of order in any household. To accommodate his unruly behaviors, I stripped my walls and counter tops of everything he could throw or break. Taking down every picture from every wall and packing my table decorations and knick knack’s was a laborious task that took a couple of days. When I was finally finished I stood back to survey my efforts and realized, in dismay, that my home reflected the bleakness of the spirit I had struggled so hard to combat over the previous few years.

When Jack was with me I couldn’t visit my aging parents, or my friends, relax in front of my TV, grocery shop, or even take a shower – Jack required twenty-four hour vigilance! To deter him from slipping out of my home while I slept at night, I allowed Jack to fall asleep in my bed—which he demanded, anyway---choosing for myself the uncomfortable child’s mattress on the floor, bolting my bedroom door from within so he couldn’t escape. On the bright side, the discomfort of the floor was not as distressing as the jumping and giggling which could go on all night if he didn’t sleep…

Several weeks of limited rest and little relief from the strain of Jack’s behavior caused me tremendous fatigue and discomfort, but the money I earned paid the bills.

Lying on the skimpy mattress in exhaustion one night, staring at the ceiling--Jack’s heavy breathing drifting from my comfortable queen-sized bed--I found myself imagining the perfect life. I envisioned freedom to do whatever I wanted and money to buy everything I needed without rummaging through my purse for every last penny. I thought about how great it would be to enjoy endless stretches of time to develop my piano and writing skills and opportunity to travel to exotic, far away places. And then, for just a moment, I allowed myself a fleeting glimpse of the sweetest dream of all: being loved and supported by a husband that cherished me. Could such a gift ever be mine? From my vantage point on the floor, lying on the lumpy mattress while a little pixie slept in my own comfortable bed, it seemed impossible.

Suddenly, my reverie was broken by Jack’s frenzied shrieking—he was awake again! When he jumped off the bed, landing with a heavy thud on the floor, I opened my arms and allowed him to snuggle in close to me. Was nurturing others--when I felt I had nothing to give--to be my lot for the rest of my life? With that thought lying heavy on my mind, I slowly drifted off to sleep.
***

“BBRINNNGGGG”

I awoke suddenly. Squinting at the red digital numbers of my alarm clock, which sat next to the telephone across the room on top of my highboy dresser—high enough to be out of Jack’s reach--I read: 2:15a.m. Though groggy, I rose as quickly as I could, so Jack wouldn’t wake up.

“Hello?” I whispered, sleepily.

“Honey, it’s Dad; he’s gone—he died! They just called from the hospital…They checked on him a few minutes ago—and he was dead!” My mother’s voice choked and cracked as she spoke those words for the first time.

The crowning blow: my dear step-father—a retired Air Force pilot who had served his country for thirty years— had passed away. My beloved “Dad” was gone. Even though he’d been diagnosed with congestive heart failure several months before, the doctor’s had given no indication his death was eminent; he was up and around everyday--doing things he’d always done. He’d gone to the hospital with a case of pneumonia that day and they had decided to keep him overnight, but it never occurred to us he wouldn’t come home again. He’d left The Oregonian open on the kitchen counter and he and Mom were looking forward to a dinner engagement with friends scheduled for the following day…

I was in shock.

Though I had always felt very close to my mother and step-dad, during my first years as a single mother we had became even closer and--until I started caring for Jack—had spent time with my parents daily. Always supportive and defensive of me, the day I filed for divorce, I collapsed in agony on my parents kitchen counter. Mom laid over me, holding me close, as I wailed in unspeakable grief and misery, and Dad said tenderly, in a voice trembling with emotion:

“Don’t waste your time in tears, Babe… I want you to move forward and not look back.” He reminded me that God had a plan for everybody’s life, “…and the closer you stay to that plan, the happier your life will be. I want you to get past this bump in the road so I can see you happier than you’ve ever been, Babe!”

I believed Dad when he said God had a plan for everyone’s life – which, after he passed away, to me meant not only my life, but my mother’s life as well. Mom and I would miss Dad terribly; shedding no tears after his death had proven impossible.

Over the following weeks, my mom, normally full of vivacious energy, couldn’t stop crying and it became obvious she was dwindling in grief. She lost weight, secluded herself in her home, cut off contact with many of her friends, and discontinued teaching the community college genealogical classes she had taught for several years. It was during this time that she developed a pigment change on her face--a darkened area on her cheek that resembled a tear track, flowing from her left eye; permanent evidence of her sorrowful loss.

I wanted to do something to help my mother, but given my own dreary circumstances, I felt feeble in my attempts to comfort her. Both of us needed a miracle.

For the rest of the summer after Dad died, in my grief, I wiled away the hours driving Jack around the countryside because his behavior was more manageable when we were on the road. The little guy enjoyed the scenery and my favorite Frank Sinatra CD’s which I routinely played as we drove along.

One day, having forgotten to take his sneakers off when I buckled him into his car seat, Jack capitalized on my oversight by beaming me in the head with one of his tennis shoes while I drove. Pulling my car to the side of the road I shouted: “Jack!” Wrapping my arms around the steering wheel, I took a few deep breaths to compose myself, rubbing my head to ease the smart.

A moment later, my bumped head still stinging, I reached for his other foot and whisked off his remaining shoe. Jack sat looking at me with his little impish grin, kicking his bare feet and giggling happily.

“That hurt me, Jack!” I yelled in exasperation, but though he smiled, I knew he couldn’t understand. How could he? I had no words myself—I wasn’t so dismayed by the blow of Jack’s shoe as I was simply worn out, wearied and frightened by the vicissitudes of my life; tired—-so tired--of one challenge after another and nothing ever going right. Dejected and frustrated, I realized that every time I made some headway toward stability and happiness, it was elusively thrust away.

Fighting tears of desperation, I drove to my favorite parking spot on a quiet country hilltop and once there, I maneuvered into the shade of a weeping willow tree and parked my car. I thought about Dad as I sat looking out across the expansive view of the valley we had shared for thirty years. I believed he still existed in a realm somewhere, but one I couldn’t see. I spoke to him as though he were with me, knowing that God knew my situation and could use my dad to guide me.

“Help me, Dad,” I said that day, “I don’t want to live this life anymore…” I was exhausted and discouraged, all roads seemed closed and I had nowhere to turn. Longing for the calming assurance that things would get better, I was willing to sit and wait as long as it took to receive inspired impressions. While Jack slept in his car seat, I leaned my head back and closed my own eyes. Tears rolled from under my eyelids into my ears--the tickling sensation distracted me for a moment, but gradually a quiet serenity settled over my soul.

After resting awhile, I opened my eyes and, looking up through my sunroof into the cloudless sky, I noticed a jet flying above me in the air. As I watched, I thought about my dad’s military career; how he had flown aircraft on military missions all around the world--there had even been a fly-by of fighter jets over the cemetery during his funeral. Since that time, whenever Mom and I saw an Air Force plane, we claimed we felt Dad near and knew he was watching over us.

Gazing into the bright, clear-blue heavens that day, I realized the jet was flying straight up into the air and appeared to be gaining altitude at an alarming rate.
Sensing the revelatory import of the moment, my mind was filled with the notion that I should not be dismayed—my Dad wanted me to know I was deeply loved and--because God had a plan for me--I could count on everything in my life turning out well. I felt him telling me that my future, like the jet flying straight up, would exceed my fondest expectations.

Immediately, I felt light like a feather! Something inside me changed--I just knew there was happiness for me right around the corner. A few minutes later, driving home that afternoon, one of my favorite Frank Sinatra songs played on my car stereo. As Frank crooned, “Out of the tree of life I just picked me a plum…” I felt something stir deep inside me, remembering the “Tree of Life” promise I had held in my heart for so many years. It could have been my dad singing, “The best is yet to come, Babe; won’t it be fine…” as no one but my Dad had ever called me “Babe.”
***

The final weeks of summer caring for Jack flew by and by some miracle his behaviors improved, making him much easier to handle. I signed a contract with the school district for the upcoming year, though intuition told me I wouldn’t be working there; nothing specific had happened to cause me to think otherwise--I just kept remembering Dad had promised something special. Happily, and confidently, I waited for it to happen.

One day, not long after my spiritual encounter on the hillside, I received a phone call from a former student’s mother. Katherine and I had been good friends since the time I first volunteered to tend her wheelchair bound son, Benjamin, in my home. Benjamin had many medical conditions that required constant attention and special training, so the year he was in kindergarten--when I over heard Katherine telling my co-worker that their family hadn’t taken a vacation since Benjamin had been born--I couldn’t restrain myself and asked if she’d let me take him. Now he was in the sixth grade, so the arrangement of me performing regular respite care for their family had worked nicely for a long time. Though I only tended him once or twice a year, I had developed a lasting friendship with the young family. On the telephone, this particular day, Katherine sounded despondent…

“Ross and I have worked so hard to get into a bigger house. Benjamin’s chair is bigger now that he’s older and it’s getting harder and harder for him to maneuver around our small trailer house. We finally found a farm house that will work perfectly for our family, but we’re $600 short and if we don’t find the money in a week, we’ll lose our chance to buy it.” It wasn’t like Katherine to share the private details of her family’s financial situation; I knew she must be pretty worried. Since finances were my biggest challenge, too, I could completely understand her frustration and my heart went out to her.

“Katherine, I’d give you the money myself, if I had it…” I spoke from my heart. Having a larger home would make a huge difference in the quality of their life. “Isn’t there anyone in your family you can go to for financial help?”

“Everyone’s already given us as much money as they can afford,” she said. “My parents, my brother and his wife…”

“Well, don’t worry, Katherine,” I felt prompted to say, “The Lord won’t let you miss out on something so important for your family. Somethin’s bound to open up for you... somehow.”

After hanging up the phone that day, a nagging feeling kept troubling me. It didn’t seem right to tell Katherine that God would make everything magically work out. I’d heard someone say once that God does hear our prayers, but it’s usually through another person that He meets our needs. I had just paid my bills for the month so I decided to look at my bank statements to see how much money I had in my two checking accounts. To my surprise I had exactly $600! It seemed more than a coincidence that the amount I had was exactly what Katherine and her family needed.

But though my spirit was willing, my flesh was weak. I hesitated; giving money away was hard… there were so many things I could use those dollars for myself…. Debating what to do, I knelt by my bed.

“This is so scary for me, Father! On one hand I want to be an instrument for Thy purposes, but on the other hand…what about the new tires I need...or what if I have some unexpected expense?” I paused to listen. The house was quiet and my knees rubbed sore on the bedroom carpeting as I waited for His response--petitioning the Lord could be work sometimes! I wanted to be charitable, but I didn’t want to be foolish, either.

But as I humbly pondered, slowly the inspiration formed in my mind: everything I had really belonged to God, didn't it? And every time I had needed something, He had never ignored my plea. Remembering when I was newly divorced, neighbors and friends from church had given me money, furniture, and had helped me do many things I couldn’t do for myself. Once when my car died, someone had let me use their car for two whole months. Another time, someone had left over $300 in an enveloped on my porch under my mat. Contemplating all the times I had been taken care of by others, I couldn’t restrain my sense of gratitude and quickly wrote out a check to send to Katherine.

Six hundred dollars was a huge amount of money for me to give away, when I was barely making ends meet myself, but the compelling feeling that the Lord would make it up to me gave me the courage I needed to do it.
***

It wasn't long afterward that another dear friend--gorgeous and gregarious Ruth—dropped by to visit me one evening. Ruth was a lady I had admired for a long, long time. A year older than me, I had known Ruth for more than twenty years; and during most of that time she had been single, while raising four talented and beautiful children. Her kids were grown now, so Ruth usually spent her spare time volunteering in youth programs at church and taking Spanish classes.

The conversation, that night, turned to online dating and Ruth suggested that I subscribe. To me, getting online to meet men seemed outrageous, particularly when I’d never even ‘surfed’ the internet before.

“Why not? You could meet some great guys!” she argued. She had signed up and was having a terrific time; it was characteristic of Ruth to bravely explore the options that being single afforded, but I was appalled at the proposal.

“That’s the last thing you’ll see me do!” I balked. “It’s like advertising yourself in the classifieds, Ruth.” I stood up from the overstuffed chair I was in, as though to emphasis my point. “Besides, I don’t nurse the illusion a relationship will change my life for the better,” I lied.

Always coaching me to be more confident in my single marital state, Ruth persisted, “Look, you have nothing else going on: your daughter’s are in Utah, Brian’s at school, Garth and Michelle aren’t moving in until November, and Daniel is busy with work and friends. You’ll go crazy here all alone taking care of…this little guy!” She tilted her head in Jack’s direction. Then Ruth said something that struck like a bolt of lightning, “You know, if you keep doing what you’ve always done, Lady, you’ll keep gettin’ what you’ve always gotten.”

Something in her words rang true, so though the internet was a whole new concept for me--I decided to try it.

Chapter Two

Due to my depression and general state of feeling overwhelmed with life, I wasn’t in the frame of mind to dispute the doctor’s prognosis. The medication kept the seizures from reoccurring and Brian left for college a few weeks later. Though I went on with my own day-to-day grind, and life seemed to be back to normal, the memory of Brian’s seizure haunted me—it was obvious he had suffered his share of our family’s trauma. The awareness made me even sadder.

Unfortunately, another part of my life showing signs of turmoil, which cast a negative shadow on any hope I held for my future, was my job. I had worked as a special education teacher’s assistant in the public school system for a decade--a long time, especially since the physical nature of the work was beginning to tax my health. My muscles ached constantly and my intestinal tract was easily upset by my student’s stressful and noisy behaviors. I needed to frequent the restroom often, which highly annoyed my fresh-out-of-college supervisor, Nora. She treated all those assigned to her in a servile manner; reprimanding us—like naughty children—in front of our work associates, monitoring our work unnecessarily, and ignoring us when we asked her questions. Her supervisory methods dis-empowered us staff members and made working under her management extremely frustrating. Since the day she had been assigned to head our department, I had quickly become disenchanted with a job I formerly loved.

“What?! Are you taking another bathroom break?” Nora hollered across the classroom at me one day. She was in conference with the parent of one of our students, so it was especially embarrassing to be called on the carpet.

“I’m sorry, but I have time between students—I’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s barely noon and this is the third time you’ve left the room. If you expect to take potty breaks every time you get the urge—you’ll need to show me a note from your doctor!” she announced in front of students and staff, alike. My co-workers looked at me as though they wanted to wring her neck--we all felt the same exasperation at our boss’s insensitive manners. Though I held a deep affection for the special needs children I taught, and worked with them skillfully and patiently, because of the additional upheaval in my personal life, I was extremely stressed and discouraged.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said to Elizabeth, as we stood on the playground during recess one day at the end of the first semester that fall. It was a year and a half after my divorce. We watched the children scrambling to and fro on the jungle gym. Elizabeth was my best friend at work and had recently experienced her own painful divorce.

“I hear you, Friend—but what can we do? We applied for other positions this year, but nothing opened....” she said. I stooped, pausing momentarily in our conversation to tie the shoe of one of our students. When I stood up, Elizabeth wrapped her arm around me and whispered, “Don’t worry-- God has something in mind for us. He won’t leave us stranded here forever!” Noticing a few sprinkles from an approaching rain shower, we flipped our hoods over our heads just as the December cloudburst began drizzling down on us.
***

A few months later, early in the spring, I came up with an ingenious idea. As a way to improve my employability, I decided to apply at a local university to a graduate program in social work; the school district would fund a large portion of my tuition, I could attend at night in a longer, part-time program which would allow me to continue my regular job during the day and, once I graduated, I’d be in a position to find a better paying job. Since we were kindred spirits and were both looking for a way to advance ourselves, I convinced Elizabeth the plan could be the answer to our woes and encouraged her to apply with me.

“If we’re accepted, this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to us!” said Elizabeth, as we simultaneously stamped our sealed envelopes. We were sitting at my kitchen table where we’d spent a good portion of that Saturday morning filling out our applications together.

“I’ve dreamed of being a counselor since I was a teenager,” I said, leaning back in my chair, hands clasped behind my head. “Getting a master’s degree could make it happen—in just three years!”

“It’s such a great idea! With all our years in special education, a social work certificate seems like a practical next step…And doing it together will make it so much fun!” Elizabeth said. I agreed. Simply coming up with the idea had brightened my days considerably since I’d thought of it several weeks before; Elizabeth’s decision to apply with me seemed like frosting on the cake. We mailed our applications that day and began our restless wait.

Six weeks later we received the results we were anxiously awaiting: Elizabeth was accepted, but I was rejected. To further the bad news, the college would only accept Elizabeth if she attended full-time. The upshot? She’d be leaving our school district job to attend graduate school the following year; Elizabeth would be moving on and I’d be left to face the job alone. The door of opportunity slammed hard in my face.

“Well, congratulations, Elizabeth! I can’t imagine anyone more deserving of this honor than you,” Nora said speciously when she heard the news. Glancing at me, Elizabeth flushed. Stiffening, she offered Nora a pasted smile. “And how do you feel about Elizabeth’s good fortune?” Nora said snootily, turning to me. “Despicable” was Nora’s middle name.

“Elizabeth’s one of my dearest friends—I’m very happy for her.” Elizabeth and I turned and walked away. “Of course, I’m disappointed I can’t go,” I whispered, “but I am soooo happy you’ve got your ticket out of here!” We walked up the hall toward the lunch room as Elizabeth hooked my neck in the crook of her arm, pulling me toward her.

“I don’t want to leave without you, Sweetie.” She put her forehead on my shoulder and I felt the weight of her body shift onto mine; I sensed the sincerity of her words.

“Well, if I’d been accepted and you hadn’t…I’d still go.” I said, encouragingly. I wanted her to feel my full support for her decision to move ahead. Though it was a huge disappointment not to enter graduate school, I knew my prayer over previous weeks had been that if getting into the program wasn’t right for me, I wouldn’t be accepted. And I’d obviously received my answer.
***

A short time later, our school district announced they would be canceling the last four weeks of school that year--due to a shortage of funding--leaving us nearly a month short in wages. A week after that they informed us they were permanently cutting our salary. I was worried sick that I wouldn’t be able to cover the mortgage payments on my home; as a result, my battle with existential angst mushroomed again--life seemed to be getting harder and harder by the day. Weighed by the challenges of life, I plunged back into the depression I had struggled to manage for more than a year.

Then every parent’s nightmare happened.

“Mrs. Larsen! Mrs. Larsen!” Daniel’s friends stood pounding and shouting outside my front door early one day. Daniel had been vomiting that morning and, assuming it was the flu, I nursed him with cold washcloths, staying home from work to watch over him. When his friends showed up, my first thought was that they were there to give their buddy moral support. But the circumstances were not what I had supposed.

“Daniel took a whole bottle of prescription drugs at midnight last night…he tried to commit suicide! He called us a few minutes ago on his cell phone…we came over as soon as we knew what was happening!”

I don’t remember what happened next, I simply went into auto pilot, clambering into the car and racing Daniel to the hospital emergency room. When we arrived, they pumped his stomach and prepared me for the worst.

“The toxins in Daniel’s blood are rising. They’re already at an extremely high level…Mrs. Larsen…we don’t want to alarm you, but is there a friend or family member you could ask to come sit with you? We’re battling for Daniel’s life.”

My step-father was ill at the time so I couldn’t call on my mother. Knowing my girlfriends were all at work, I thought about my neighbor who I remembered was home from work that day. Telephoning Charles, he hurried to the hospital and stayed with me through the most critical hours. We waited anxiously, together, praying for Daniel.

“I wish I could say I know everything'll be all right…but I’m too stunned to feel anything…I don’t know what’s going to happen…” Terrified, and devastated by the horrifying turn of events, I started to weep. I had always taken comfort in intuitively knowing, during times of crisis, that things would turn out fine, but on this occasion the heavens seemed empty and closed. Shattered, I sat on a cold, hard chair in the chilly, pitiless waiting room experiencing a powerlessness I had never known. Charles served as the Lord’s encouraging hand during those dark hours, calmly reassuring me my son would live.

“Daniel still has an important mission to play in life …everything will be okay…you’ll see,” he promised. “These hours will pass…someday this will only be a bad memory,” he sat close to me, patting my hand and whispering low. Because of Charles’ compassion, and his ability to remind me of God’s love for me and my son, I was able to endure that frigid and forbidding January day.

Early the next morning, the doctor’s announced that Daniel would live. My baby had survived.

Later that morning, in the hospital, the news that Daniel needed to be checked into a psychiatric hospital took me by surprise; I’d never experienced a suicide attempt before and was naive in thinking that they would let me take him home with me. The dark reality of Daniel’s state crashed over me like a violent wave. Guilt and self-reproach consumed me--I had been completely unaware he was struggling so desperately. I was his mother, how could I have been so unconscious of his pain? Guilt ridden and frantic, I was determined to stay by his side to help him through this terrible ordeal. Assuming they would let me come with him to the psychiatric hospital, I was dreadfully upset, a second time, when the doctor’s told me I wouldn’t be allowed to come there.

“But how can I leave him alone in a place like that?” I cried in tears, as the doctors prepared me for Daniel’s transfer. I stood at the window, wringing my hands.

“For his best interest, Daniel needs to be away from his family and friends so we can get to the heart of what is troubling him, Mrs. Larsen.” They spoke calloused to the suffering their words injected, as though it was a customary part of their daily routine; all the while my head was reeling and my mother’s heart was bleeding.
***

“Help me, Heavenly Father…” Daniel’s week in the hospital had dragged by, but the day had finally arrived when he was returning home. The attending psychologist had instructed me to gather up, and remove from the house, anything he might use to make a second attempt at suicide. As I numbly wandered through my home placing kitchen knives and matches, medicine and electrical cords into a large black plastic garbage bag, I suddenly dropped to my knees in despair. The process was morbid and sickening and my soul quailed at my sense of incompetence at knowing what to do to keep Daniel safe; it terrified me to think he might try to take his life again. Facing this horror by myself was more than I could bear.

“Please… take this nightmare away...” Writhing on the floor in the hallway I faced the torment alone. The flood gates of my emotions exploded--discharging a torrent of anguish, fear and suffering that I had born over the previous years. As I rolled in crushing agony, I sobbed until I was drained of every last groan.

After awhile, curled in a ball as I lay in silence, I heard the ticking of the clock behind me mocking, in syncopated pulsing, the beating of my heart. Exhausted and tear-less, my throat throbbed in raw pain. Lying on my side with my fingers intertwined in front of my eyes, I knew no peace existed for me in the world. Instinctively, I retreated to the inner wealth of faith I had long relied on. And God did not fail me. I sensed His tender, reassuring presence; I felt Him near, as near as the fingers in front of my face. His sweet spirit whispered that I was not alone in this challenge; He was close and would carry Daniel and me to a safer, happier place. Lying in the hall, that somber morning, I felt wrapped in the warmth of His arms.

Though horrifying, Daniel’s suicide attempt was a turning point for me. Previously incapable of permanently pulling myself out of the reoccurring depression I had suffered since my divorce--I realized, for my children’s sake--I couldn’t afford the self-indulgent luxury of wallowing in my suffering, nor allowing our challenges to overshadow the many blessings in our life.

For the reality was: we had a warm and lovely home, we had each other, and we knew that God loved us. The Spirit whispered to me that if Heavenly Father truly had sanctioned my decision to divorce, He surely must know a way for me to find the strength to handle the resultant challenges. The words of a wise man came into my mind: “Live your life in such a manner that when there is a pressing need you will qualify for the immediate assistance you desire.” I knew in my heart I had always tried to do everything I knew to do to live a moral and upright life. I felt the spirit of God tell me I did qualify for the blessing of Mark’s return to health and that I should be confident that God would hear and answer the desire of his mother's heart.

What I did during the uncertain weeks that followed was simply cast my burdens on the Lord. I told Daniel how much I loved him, took confidence in the strength I demonstrated by living an honest and moral way of life, and got on my knees each day, with Daniel, in fervent gratitude. These simple acts, along with periodic counseling sessions, made it possible for us to ride out the following months as my son healed emotionally.

As the year progressed, Daniel’s cheerful, easy-going disposition slowly began to return and when his oldest brother, Garth, came home from his mission several months later, things were better than they’d ever been. We were delighted when Garth married his fiancée, Michelle, a few months after his return; Daniel needed a nest of siblings and that’s just what Garth and Michelle’s support provided. Though the newlyweds arranged for an apartment for the first few months of married life, Garth and Michelle made tentative plans to move in with Daniel and me later that year, which would allow them to save money to attend school. Our family life began to feel fun, secure and comfortable.

I remember driving across the Fremont Bridge after running errands in Portland one day, shortly after Garth and Michelle’s wedding. My kids were in a great place and Daniel was happy, so the world seemed wonderful. I savored the warmth of the sun shining down through my windshield, caressing my face; the sensation awakened all the joy of my tense and frightened heart. Music on the radio wafted gently through my head; the melodious strains—though familiar--sounded more beautiful than any song I ever remember hearing. Life stood still as I gazed across the sunlit skyline of the beautiful city I had loved for more than three decades. Seeing Mt. Hood, rising sentinel-like above the bustling metropolis, I enjoyed a singular moment of perfect peace and understood the implicit wisdom of “plucking the joy from each moment of strife.”

Though I continued to struggle financially, and I knew my challenges weren’t over, I embraced the commitment to treasure life more, having gained a renewed sense of how precious it was.