Glass House Ministries

Worth Every Tear, Chapter Six

2012-12-05T05:00:00.000-06:00

If you're joining us in the middle of this journey, you can find previous chapters here:

Chapter One - Disturbing Discoveries

Chapter Two - Date with Destiny

Chapter Three - Memory Lane

Chapter Four - Loss of Innocence

Chapter Five - New Beginnings

Behold, children are a heritage

From the LORD,

The fruit of the womb is a

Reward.

Psalm 127:3 NKJV

Chapter Six—A New Arrival

September 1986

“Question: Isn’t it true, comma, Mr. Vogarty, comma, that the Plaintiff’s vehicle did not have working brake lights at the time of the accident, interrog?”

“Answer: The Defendant told the police officers at the scene of the accident that the car he hit had no brake lights, comma, yes, period.”

I glanced yet again at the clock to my right. The hands were frozen in place. I sighed and returned to my dictation.

“Question: Do you have reason to believe that the bus driver was lying, interrog?”

“Answer: The rear of the Plaintiff’s vehicle was completely destroyed in the accident, comma, so I have no way to know, period.”

I laid the microphone to my dictation equipment on the table and stared at the mountain of steno notes before me. Like the clock, they mocked my anxious thoughts.

Will that doctor’s office ever call? And how many times has this attorney repeated this line of questioning? How many different ways can an expert witness say the exact same thing?

The only thing more tedious than dictating an expert’s testimony for my typist was sitting through it in the courtroom.

This year was no different than the previous one. Requests for appeals continued to flood my life. Sometimes I thought I might drown in them. To preserve what little sanity I had left, I often hired a substitute to sit in my courtroom, while I stayed at home to dictate for my typist. It was the only way to stay somewhat even with the demand. I would rather let someone else earn my courtroom salary, than find myself in contempt of court. I smiled ruefully, remembering Jim’s concern the day I’d come home and told him of my new job and the reason for its vacancy.

I’d been positive that Step Three – the land-an-awesome-job part of my plan for happiness and success in life – was the answer to my woes two years ago. However, my views on life had changed since then. Since I’d given my life to Christ a little over a year ago, I’d added a new step to my foolproof plan; Step Four: Have a baby. God promised that I would change little by little, and during the past year I had. I now attended the Bible study for working women, offered through our church, as often as my schedule would allow. Most of the women at the Bible study were older, their kids grown, but many of my new Christian friends were young moms with growing families. I no longer cared about being a career woman. I wanted to be a mom. I poured out my heart and my longings to the women in my Bible study. I asked them to pray for me to have the strength to endure my “dream job” until it was financially feasible for me to quit. We also prayed that Jim and I would conceive our first baby together. Jim was also ready to add to our little threesome.

He and I had recently returned from a short vacation to the Smoky Mountains. We’d arranged to take an extended weekend trip together, and then the plan was for me to work on my appellate records when we got back home. I had hired a substitute for my court for several weeks.

It was hard not to feel melancholy, imprisoned in my little loft office with my steno notes and my dictation machine. I was near the end of my hiatus, but a release from my self-imposed incarceration wasn’t the break I desired. I wanted to be back in the mountains. I longed to be freed from this burdensome job and to launch into the next phase of my life – a stay-at-home wife with children. Yes, we had Derek every other weekend, but it wasn’t the same as a full-time family, and I was often forced to work while he was with us, just to keep up with the appeals.

I went downstairs to get a drink of water. When I got back to my desk in the loft, I glanced at the clock and wondered again when the doctor’s office might get around to calling. I’d had my menstrual cycle while on vacation, but it had been different than usual. Now it was early September, and I’d missed a cycle. I’d seen the doctor yesterday and insisted on a blood test. I feared disappointment, so I wouldn’t let myself think about it. Could it be? I’d said nothing to Jim.

I forced my mind back to my dictation and finished with the Plaintiff’s presentation of the gruesome details of what was left of the passenger car after being hit by the bus. It was a miracle the driver had survived. I was soon immersed in the Defendant’s insurance expert’s laborious explanation of the Plaintiff’s vehicle’s brake lamp circuitry. The bus driver claimed that he had seen no brake lights to warn him of the vehicle’s slowing in front of him, though it was the Plaintiff’s claim that she had applied the brakes and that they had not failed.

The ringing of the phone brought deliverance, as I snatched up the handset beside me. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Sullivan?”

“Yes?” I held my breath when I heard Sophie from Dr. Edward’s office.

“You were right. The blood test was positive. We need to set up an appointment for your first pre-natal visit with Dr. Edward.”

I was afraid my ears had heard wrong, so I clarified. “Are you sure? I am pregnant?”

“Yes, you are. Congratulations, sweetie!”

The bus driver, the brake lamps, the poor injured Plaintiff . . . all were forgotten in the magic of that phone call and the news that it brought.

I hung up and sat in my little loft, talking to myself.

“I’m pregnant. I cannot believe it. I’m pregnant!”

I stood and danced around the room.

“Thank You, God! You have answered our prayers. We are going to have a baby.”

I stood swaying and praying for a few minutes. God, thank You so much. Thank You for entrusting this little life to me and Jim. We will do a good job with him or her, I promise. We’ll raise this baby right. This child will not make the same mistakes Jim and I made, because he or she will be raised as a Christian. The baby will know You from a young age. We’ll prove ourselves to You. You didn’t make a mistake when You saved us. We will make You proud.

I wrapped my arms around my middle, hugging the secret inside me. “I have to call Mom.”

Melissa answered, and we made small talk for a minute.

“I’ve got some exciting news.”

“You’re pregnant, right?”

Mel stole my thunder, but I was too happy to care. “How did you know?”

“I figured only that news would make you as happy as you sound.”

I made my rounds on the phone. When I hung up, the whole family was as excited as me. I couldn’t wait to tell Jim when he got home from work.

I returned to the tedium of dictation with a carefree heart. My days as a court reporter were numbered.

VVV

I launched myself at Jim the minute he got inside the door, wrapping my arms around his waist in a huge bear hug.

“Wow, what did I do to deserve this greeting? I want to make sure I do it more often.” He winked at me.

“I got some news today.” I tilted my head to look up at him.

Jim’s eyes twinkled. “Judge Mason fired you?”

I giggled at that. “No.”

“An appeal canceled?”

“I wish! No.”

“The courthouse burned down?”

“Will you please be serious?” I poked him.

“C’mon, just tell me. I don’t want to guess anymore.”

“I may have to quit my job,” I hinted.

He raised an eyebrow and stared at me. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying you’re gonna be a daddy again!”

He buried his face in my hair and bear-hugged me back.

Then his eyes locked on mine and he held me at arm’s length. “It all makes complete sense now.”

“What does?”

“So you weren’t just being a gordo.”

I felt my brow furrow. “Hmmm?”

“At the Log Cabin Pancake House in Tennessee, remember? You were stealing food off my plate . . . after you’d already eaten that huge breakfast.”

My cheeks warmed with the memory. I had eaten a Belgian waffle with bacon and eggs, and I still felt like I was starving. I began to spear hash browns from Jim’s plate, which he couldn’t believe, because it was usually the other way around. “You’re right,” I shrieked. “I was pregnant then, and we didn’t know it.”

We laughed for a few minutes, and then Jim sobered. “Aw, man.”

“What?”

“Now I’m gonna have to guard my food for nine months.”

I smacked him on the arm. “I can’t believe you said that.”

He wrapped me in his arms again. “You know I’m kidding. I am so happy, honey.”

VVV

Today was the day. I had my first visit with the obstetrician, so we knew our baby was due on April 15^th, 1987. We called both sets of grandparents with the date. Mom told Mel. I spoke with the Judge and resigned my position as Official Court Reporter. It was time to tell Pam. We were ready to tell Derek he was going to be a big brother, but we felt his mom should be told first. I could tell from Jim’s end of the conversation that she was less than thrilled about our news. I prayed while he talked with her.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Pam.” Jim’s words were clipped, and he threw the phone on the couch in frustration after he hung up. His mouth was set in a grim line.

“What did she say?” I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.

Jim spit out the words like the poison they were. “She said if we have this baby, we’ll never see Derek again. He’s not going to have brothers and sisters, according to her.”

I was stunned. I didn’t know what to say. I finally choked out, “Well, she can’t do that, can she?”

For the past three weeks, I had been floating on air, my heart wrapped in a bubble of joy. The world was full of hope and bright with promise. With that phone call, the bubble burst and joy disappeared. In its place was a crushing weight, a sorrow so heavy I could barely breathe.

Jim was lost in his own thoughts. I was confused. One second I was sad and the next I was livid. How dare Pam do this to us? She hadn’t wanted Jim or their marriage any longer, yet she was determined to steal our joy from us. She’d thrown her life with Jim away, yet she begrudged him happiness with me. What did I ever do to her, besides recognize a good man when I saw one?

Jim and I talked later that night. We cried together. Then we prayed together. The next day, Jim called Pam back. Again I listened to his end of the conversation.

“You do what you have to do, but I’m warning you now. If you try and stop us from seeing Derek, we will go to court and fight for custody. You can’t stop Debbie and I from having kids with threats. I am a good father, and I will not be kept from seeing my son, just because I’ve moved on with my life and decided to have more children.”

Pam backed down. The next weekend Derek came to spend with us, we told him he was going to be a big brother. He was excited enough, but my enthusiasm had been dampened.

VVV

“You are a real piece of work, Pam. You threw Jim away. You don’t want to be married to him, but you don’t want me to have him either.”

I paused in my monologue to squirt the mirror with Windex. My reflection’s eyes grew wide with surprise, as I imagined Pam’s might, if I actually confronted her in person the same way I spoke to my image in the mirror. It had been several months since we’d told Pam we were pregnant, and this wasn’t the first time I’d had an imaginary confrontation with her in the mirror. Her bitterness had robbed me of the innocent pleasure of having Jim’s baby, and I had no idea how to process the pain.

“Yeah, that’s right.” I sneered at myself. “Remember when Jim and I first got married, but you didn’t know it yet? You got all worked up . . . got in his business and told him he was never getting married again. Then when he finally lost his temper and told you he was already married, you came running to our apartment to dog me, but I wouldn’t answer the door.”

I scrubbed at the mirror, ignoring the conviction that tugged at my heart. I knew it wasn’t godly for me to entertain my hateful thoughts, but hurt drove me onward, like the jockey’s whip drives a racehorse.

The baby in my womb kicked. Did he or she share my agitation? Or was the Holy Spirit trying to get my attention? The kick, like a spur, goaded me further.

Is Pam really that selfish? How could she even consider using Derek as a bargaining tool against the life inside me? How dare she threaten us with separation from Derek if we have this child? She’s already had the pleasure of creating a child with the man she loves . . . loved . . . Whatever. It’s not my fault she didn’t appreciate it. Why try and take that away from me?

I glared at my reflection again. “How dare you threaten Jim like you did? He loves Derek, and you have the audacity to try and make him think he has to choose between a child here and one on the way.”

I finished with the mirror and tossed the paper towel into the trash. I wished the Windex could wash the grime from my heart and mind as easily as it washed the dirt from the mirror.

The bathroom clean, I joined Jim in the living room.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said, “do you want to go with me on my sales route next week?”

Jim’s position selling computer software had been short-lived. After several months, he applied for a job with a wholesale company in downtown Houston. They sold all sorts of things from sewing notions to baby goods. Jim had gone on the road for them as a sales rep.

“I guess that might be fun.” It had taken me about three months after I resigned to complete all the appellate requests that I had lined up. Now I had the remaining few months before the baby came to do as I pleased.

Jim grinned. “Great. It’ll be nice to have company. We’ll leave in the morning.”

My pregnancy was obvious, so as we traveled from store to store, Jim’s customers would ply us with questions about the baby. Did we know the sex? When was the baby due? How many children did we have? How many children did we want?

Answering their questions helped renew my excitement about having our first baby. I was deeply bonded with Derek, but I couldn’t deny the magic of the firstborn experience.

Jim and I stood at a sales counter in one of his customer’s stores, a fabric store. The grandmotherly woman looked at my swollen midsection and cooed, “Is this your first child?”

I grinned broadly and opened my mouth to say yes.

“Nope. Second,” Jim supplied the answer before I could.

The sweet old lady went on to ask all about Derek. Then she wanted to know if he was excited about becoming a big brother. Was this pregnancy different than the one for him? Did we know if it was a boy or a girl this time? Were we going to find out?

I stood mute, a wooden smile pasted on my face. I couldn’t answer the questions about Derek’s pregnancy. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know how to share the wonder and joy of carrying my first baby without exposing the turmoil I was feeling inside.

I almost rolled my eyes as Jim swapped amusing pregnancy stories with the woman. She told him how her son-in-law had been booted from the delivery room when her grandbaby was born, and Jim shared with her how he hoped to be allowed to stay in the delivery room this time around. Last time, he’d been tossed out on his ear, because Momma was so agitated with the pain that she couldn’t stop cursing at him.

I just stood there, a stupid smile on my face and a tempest brewing in my heart. Didn’t Jim realize this lady thought I was the cursing, pain-crazed wife he was talking about? Everyone but me seemed to be able to forget that Jim had been married once before.

How dare I forget that I’m the second wife? Every single time I try to enjoy a single facet of married life, I have to be reminded of my second-place status. Will we ever be on the same page?

I stood and watched as Jim worked his magic. He was good at sales. Soon he and the lady were on a first-name basis, and I learned that Grandma’s name was Myrna. They were talking business, but the conversation kept coming back around to our family and the baby-to-be.

As soon as I could politely do so, I feigned interest in a Disney print a few aisles over and edged away from the sales counter. I couldn’t listen to them anymore.

Myrna’s blessings hung in the air as we left the store. I also carried a couple yards of the fabric I’d pretended to admire, a gift from Myrna to make something special for the baby’s nursery.

In the car, Jim carried on about how sweet Myrna had been.

I couldn’t bite back the sarcasm. “Yeah, you two had a great conversation.”

Jim turned to look at me, but I wouldn’t meet his eyes. I knew I was being ugly.

“Debbie, what’s wrong?” Jim’s voice was strained. I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or frustrated. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to try to figure it out, because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to consider his mental state.

“Do you ever stop to think how it makes me feel when you don’t even bother to acknowledge that this is my . . . our first baby?” I blurted.

“Oh, Deb—”

“I’m the second wife. I’m having your second child. I’m sick and tired of being second.”

We rode to the next stop in chilly silence. I hated myself for how I’d acted. The words were out there now, and I couldn’t snatch them back. I had no idea what Jim was thinking or feeling.

The afternoon marched on and the question came again. “Oh, how cute you look. Is this your first baby?”

Jim didn’t comment, so I answered yes. I had my coveted first-baby status, but my heart was heavy and sad.

VVV

My body sank into the huge leather couch in our pastor’s office. He smiled at me.

“It’s good to see you, Debbie. What brings you to my office today?”

“Well, I’ve been struggling, and I need to talk about what’s bothering me with someone other than Jim.”

“Okay.” Pastor waited for me to continue.

Okay, Deb, it’s now or never.

The pent-up words tumbled from me. “Well, you know that Jim has been married before. He and his first wife, Pam, were married for seven years. She left him for another man.” I stole a glance at him, but his eyes gave no clue to his thoughts.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“When she found out we were pregnant, she threw a fit and threatened to keep us from ever seeing Derek again, if we had this baby.” I ran a protective hand over my swollen abdomen and wondered if I’d ever get my pregnant body out of the soft, cushy sofa. At the same time, I wished it would just swallow me whole. I was hesitant to tell the pastor what I was thinking.

I’ve come this far. I might as well go all the way.

I plunged on before I could lose my nerve. “Ever since that happened, I am so full of anger and hurt that I just wish she and Derek would fall off the face of the earth. I hate being a second wife.” There, I’d said it; let the lightning bolts fly.

The pastor was quiet for a few minutes, and my face grew hotter and hotter as I waited. I wondered if he was contemplating asking me to leave the church because I was such an awful person.

He cleared his throat and his blue eyes bored into the core of my being. “Every relationship has a honeymoon phase, a time where each person feels as if their partner has no flaws. It’s easy to think that things will always stay perfect. When the honeymoon is over, reality can be disenchanting.”

Tell me something I don’t already know.

I waited for him to continue, as he’d done for me earlier.

“Our walk with Christ is much the same way. When we first get saved, everything looks perfect, and we are tempted to believe all our struggles are over.”

I knew that to be true. I ventured a question. “So am I terrible for feeling the way I do?”

He gave me a kind look. “No, you’re not, you are just being honest. But I must also tell you it’s time to grow up. You married both Jim and Derek. They came as a package deal. When you committed to Jim, you committed to Derek too. The honeymoon is over, and the realities of broken marriages and blended families are becoming obvious. God allows divorce when there is adultery, but He knows that it’s never the easy way.”

I thanked the pastor for his time, wrestled my body from the depths of the couch, and headed home to think and pray about what he had told me.

No, life wasn’t a fairy tale. But did it have to feel like a nightmare?

VVV

The phone rang and I pulled myself from the chair to answer it.

“Deb, it’s Lynn. Do you have time to grab lunch? I’ve been praying about something and I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Sure, I’d love to go to lunch. Just pick a place with booths big enough for our bellies, okay?” Lynn was pregnant too, due just a month before me.

She laughed. “Will do. I’ll pick you up in an hour, so we can go in one car.”

A couple hours and a platter of fajitas later, Lynn and I each sat nibbling one final hot, homemade flour tortilla slathered with melted butter. I’d better eat a salad tonight. I know I’m eating for two, but too many meals like that will make me look like I’m having triplets.

“You said you wanted to talk with me about something you’ve been praying about. What is it?”

Lynn avoided my eyes and said, “It’s about Derek.”

“What about him?”

She hesitated for a second and then plunged on, “This is really hard to say, and it might make you mad . . . but hear me out, okay?”

God, help me to listen to what Lynn has to say. I know she wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. I nodded for Lynn to continue.

“I know you and Jim had some issues with Pam when you told her you were pregnant.” She rested her hand on her own baby-to-be. “That had to be tough, and I can’t imagine what it’s like to be someone’s second wife.” She reached out to touch my arm. “But I’ve seen a change in the way you act with Derek lately. You don’t hug him anymore. He’s a little boy, and he needs to know you love him. Do you think it’s possible that you’re venting your frustrations with his mother on him?”

As Lynn’s words seeped into my spirit, I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach, and my lunch became a rock in my abdomen. She was right. As much as I hated to admit it, I had been withholding affection from Derek, letting walls build between us, because I was angry at his mother. What kind of person mistreats a six-year-old because she’s mad at his mother? My eyes filled with tears.

Later that night I told Jim what Lynn had said to me. I also shared with him about my visit to the pastor and what his counsel had been. I told Jim I was sorry I hadn’t shared my deepest feelings with him, about how hard it was to be a second wife. We talked long into the night.

“Deb, you aren’t the only one struggling with the second-marriage syndrome,” Jim confided. “You have no idea what kinds of thoughts bombard me. Things like . . . Will Deb leave me like Pam did? Does she still find me sexually attractive? Then I wonder if I’ll be able to be a good dad to another child. Sometimes I worry that I’m not even a good dad to Derek.”

My heart broke when I heard the things Jim had been worried about. I reassured him of my love, and we reminded one another of God’s love for us. We thanked God for our pastor and for Christian friends who were brave enough to speak truth into our lives. We agreed that we would not let anything else keep us from talking to one another or rob us of our joy over the upcoming birth of our baby.

I also asked God to help me reach out to my stepson again. I’d opened my heart and accepted Derek as my own, without reservation, when I met Jim, and I wanted things to be that way between us again. I prayed and asked God to help me let go of any bitterness and unforgiveness I was holding towards Pam, so that my heart would be free of that hindrance in my relationship with Derek.

VVV

March 1987

We arrived home from our fourth Lamaze class around nine o’clock in the evening. We had two more classes left and we’d be finished, well in time for our baby’s birth in April. I was determined to have our baby without the use of an epidural.

We chuckled about the “hot seat” as we got ready for bed around eleven. When we took our seat in class that evening, the couple in front of us turned around and told us we were sitting in the hot seat. It seemed the couple who’d sat there the week before had given birth early.

“I’m glad we have a few more weeks to prepare,” Jim said, as I climbed into bed.

“Me too.” I shifted restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. “Wow, it feels like this baby is standing on my bladder tonight.” The words had barely left my mouth when I felt a gush of water and bolted for the bathroom.

“What happened?” Jim called. “You were here . . . and then you were gone.”

“Honey?”

“Yeah?”

“I think my water broke.”

“Aw, man! And we were just laughing about the hot seat.”

VVV

We’d been at the hospital for a little over four hours. It was almost five in the morning. The nurses knew I was a first-time mom, so they had told me it would be a good while before it was time to deliver. I was still trying to comprehend the fact that I was indeed going to have my baby a month early. My water had broken. This was the day.

Jim had called our parents and my sister Mel when we first got to the hospital, so they were on their way. In fact, it was only a few hours’ drive for each of them to get to Houston, so we were sure they’d arrive before the baby came, as they were due any minute.

Suddenly, I felt an unbearable urge to bear down hard. It scared me at first, but I soon realized what it meant.

“Jim, get the nurse. Quick!”

“Are you okay?” He moved to my side, saw the look on my face, and headed for the door.

“Hello?” he called out tentatively.

No one answered.

He tried again. “Hello?”

“Get the nurse . . . Now!” I sounded like I was attempting to bench-press several hundred pounds.

They might not have heard Jim, but they heard me – people all over the hospital probably did. My nurse bustled in, examined me, and began to unhook monitors and wires, preparing to wheel me to the delivery room.

“Don’t push yet!” she ordered.

VVV

Grandma and Grandpa Whittaker and Aunt Mel arrived at the hospital around seven in the morning, an hour and a half after little Jacob was born. He apparently had not read the textbooks that said he should have taken many more hours to make his appearance in the world, especially being a first baby. Grandma and Grandpa Sullivan soon joined the welcoming committee, as well as big brother Derek. Jacob, at a month early, was only five pounds five ounces, but he was healthy and strong. He and I were both released to go home from the hospital the day following his birth.

VVV

I sat in the crook of Jim’s arm on the couch in our living room, holding our little boy. We both gazed at Jacob’s downy head. Life was good. Life was sweet. It didn’t get any sweeter. God had brought us together, a family of three, and added another son. Snuggled here in our arms was another future warrior for our Savior, Jesus Christ.

Worth Every Tear, Chapter Five

2012-11-28T05:00:00.000-06:00

I will greatly rejoice in the LORD,

My soul shall be joyful in my God;

For He has clothed me with the garments of salvation,

He has covered me with the robe of righteousness,

As a bridegroom decks himself with ornaments,

And as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.

Isaiah 61:10 NKJV

Chapter Five—New Beginnings

October 1983

“So do you want me to make your wedding dress, or will you be buying it?” Mom’s eyes twinkled. Never one to beat around the bush, she just tossed the question my way and let it hang there, kind of like my jaw.

“Who said anything about getting married?” I managed, when I finally found my voice again.

“Oh, c’mon, Deb. Everyone knows you two are getting married. Well . . . everyone but you, I guess.” She chuckled and turned her attention back to dinner preparations.

Jim and I had seen each other every weekend since we’d met at the end of August. It was now mid-October. Mom must have been psychic, because in November, Jim asked me to marry him. When I told him what Mom said, he confessed to having shared his nuptial plans with her a few weeks earlier. I happily said yes, and we set the date for the following November, one year away. That would give me plenty of time to complete court reporting school, pass my state certification exam, and plan the wedding.

I graduated from school the following February, and I passed the court reporter’s state certification exam on my first attempt. With that out of the way, Jim and I saw no reason to postpone the wedding until November. We met with the priest and scheduled the premarital counseling required by the church. A date was set: Saturday, May 26, 1984.

Mom and I made arrangements together, and Jim tagged along. He was content to let us handle details, giving his opinion when asked. We ordered invitations, thank-you’s, and napkins; picked out the perfect dress, veil, and shoes; chose a color scheme for the big event – Jim and I would wear white, while the bridesmaids would wear dusty rose, and the groomsmen would be in gray tuxedos. Mom was in her element. She had the opportunity to showcase all her talents in one place, and she was one incredibly talented lady. She made the wedding cake – the exact one I requested with a bubbling fountain between the tiers – and the food for the reception, right down to the little hand-made mints. She put together silk bouquets to be carried by the bridesmaids, and two bridal bouquets – one to keep and one to toss; she also made boutonnieres for Jim and his groomsmen.

Mom had actually been serious when she inquired about sewing my wedding dress, and I’d planned on having her make it, just like Barbie’s, until Jim and I short-circuited her schedule with our date change. I think she was disappointed, but she understood our impatience to begin our lives together. She settled instead for sewing the bridesmaids’ dresses. She and I studied pattern books to find the perfect style.

I’d asked my sister Melissa, Brenda, my best friend since seventh grade, and Candie, my personal matchmaker, to be my bridesmaids. Candie had to drop out at the last minute, which was a blessing in disguise, since Mom was still hemming her own dress two hours before the ceremony. Even that turned out okay, because the ceremony couldn’t begin until she and Jim’s mom walked up the aisle together, representing our two individual families, and lit the candles on either side of the unity candle. The day was beautiful with promise.

I stood before the mirror in the bride’s dressing room. I couldn’t believe it was really my day. I was actually getting married, to the most wonderful man in the world. What if something happens? What if she shows up? I had an absurd fear that Pam would show up in the middle of the ceremony and cause trouble. She knew Jim had plans to remarry, but he’d not made her privy to the date. Three-year-old Derek was our ring bearer, but it was unlikely he’d mentioned anything about the wedding to Pam. To him, it was just a big party he was attending on his weekend visit to see his daddy.

Dad knocked and peeked his head around the door. “All set?” In the moment of silence that followed his question, I sensed snapshots of years gone by played in his mind. I half expected him to call me Boo Boo, like he did when I was little. His eyes were shiny with unshed tears as he gazed at me in my wedding dress.

We stood in the foyer of the church, waiting for our cue to go down the aisle. Melissa walked down first, followed by Brenda, the maid of honor, who held Derek’s hand on one side, and her own daughter’s hand on the other. Brenda’s daughter was also three, and she was our flower girl. Both children were scared to walk down the aisle alone, so we decided at the rehearsal to send them down as a trio.

It was now my turn. Even at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I was suddenly as nervous as those two toddlers about that march down the aisle.

Daddy must have been able to tell, because he leaned toward me and broke the tension with a little humor. “I sure hope my hair doesn’t get in my eyes while we’re walking down the aisle.”

I gave him a grateful glance and stifled a giggle, since he was actually balding and had very little hair to worry about.

Jim locked eyes with me as Daddy and I neared the altar. I cannot believe this is really happening. No more ugly duckling.

VVV

The first month of our marriage was idyllic. I was Mrs. Jim Sullivan. I belonged to someone. Life couldn’t have been sweeter or more perfect. However, as the second month ticked by, our apartment paradise began to feel claustrophobic. The walls threatened to close in around me. I had lots of time to ponder my discontent while Jim was off at work.

I had dreamed my whole life of leaving my mark on the world, and I had developed a foolproof plan for doing just that: Debbie’s three-step plan for happiness and success in life. Step One: Get a good education. I’d learned during my formative years that if I couldn’t control the chaos around me, I could immerse myself in my studies to escape the confusion. Powering through the demands of academia was one thing I could effectively keep under control. As a student, I’d worked toward a goal – a degree, a job – and I believed the attainment of those goals would make me a person who would make a difference in this world.

Step Two: Find a great guy and get married. Growing up, my world had revolved around the assumption that marriage would make me complete, would give me purpose, and would finally assuage the emptiness I felt. In my estimation, I was worthless alone.

Step Three: Land an awesome job. I had the education and the man, but the landing-an-awesome-job part of my plan wasn’t coming together as well as I’d hoped. I hadn’t realized I needed to be a notary public to work as a court reporter. I was currently waiting for the state to process my paperwork so I could go to work, and while I waited, I berated myself for having overlooked this essential step in the process of making myself ready for the job market.

Eight weeks following our honeymoon, I found myself sitting in the living room of our shabby little apartment, unemployed, contributing little to life. Yes, I was Mrs. Jim Sullivan – and by virtue of that covenant, stepmother to Derek – but the novelty of that title was beginning to fade. The emptiness inside me had been only temporarily satisfied by becoming a wife and a graduate. I was sure that my new career as a court reporter would ease the ache and fill the void, once I was able to pursue it.

But for now, the highlight of my days was wondering if Pam would show up at our door again. The day she learned that Jim and I had married, she showed up in a huff. I huddled like a big chicken on our bed and listened to her bang on the door. No way was I going to tangle with her. As Wife Numero Uno, somehow she felt she should have been asked to give her stamp of approval to our marriage plans.

It wasn’t unusual for Jim to come home after a hard day’s work and find me antsy and unhappy. He did his best to understand, tried to make me feel better.

VVV

“What’s wrong, baby?” We had finished dinner and gone to the pool in our apartment complex. We were sitting on the steps, the water gently lapping around us.

The soothing water made me more agitated. “I don’t know. I feel useless. I need to contribute something to our life. I sit here at home and do nothing while you work.” To punctuate my thought, I slapped at the water, causing it to churn like my stomach.

“You’ll have a job soon, sweetie. Those papers will come through.”

I leaned my head against Jim’s strong shoulder. He was so sweet about my tantrum I knew I had to straighten up. “I know. I’m sorry.” I turned and gave him a wink and a playful smile. “Besides, I have you, don’t I? What more could a girl want?”

Jim chuckled. “A job?”

He ducked when I turned to splash him, then wrapped me in a bear hug and told me he loved me, tantrums and all. What did I do to deserve such a wonderful guy?

As he predicted, my papers came through a few days later. I secured a job almost immediately, making more money than I’d dreamed possible. It turned out that Houston was the second-highest paying city in the nation for court reporters. Who knew?

When Jim came home from work the day of my interview, I was delirious with the news that I’d been hired as the Official Court Reporter for Judge Mason of the 281^st Judicial District Court of Harris County, Texas. I began to babble the minute I heard the door open.

“Oh, my gosh . . . honey, I have incredible news. I went downtown today and interviewed for a position as an Official Court Reporter at the civil courthouse. Remember how I said I was too scared to take a freelance job, because I’d have to drive all over Houston? This city is so huge, compared to Austin, and I’m so afraid of getting lost somewhere and having no idea where I am. So I decided to inquire about a job at the—”

“Whoa, whoa . . . slow down. Let me get in the door.” Jim smiled at me and leaned down to kiss my cheek.

I thought I would burst in the five minutes it took him to get a drink and join me on the sofa. “Okay, now you have my undivided attention. You said you drove to the courthouse downtown?”

“Yes, and I asked some of the court reporters if there were any openings. They told me to go and talk to the Judge of the 281^st Judicial District Court. His regular court reporter was held in contempt of court and relieved from his post indefinitely, so—”

“Contempt of court? What does that mean?” Jim looked concerned.

I sighed. “They said something about him not being able to get his appeal records finished, or something like that. He has to report to the jail each day and work on them, until they are finished. It’s not important.”

He had the look.

“What?” I feigned innocence.

“Well, I think it’s kind of important,” he chided.

“Why?” I shrugged. “That’s not going to happen to me.” I said the words with the same certainty I’d had at sixteen when I told my mom to chill out about my driving – right before I rear-ended the Mercedes in front of us.

“How do you know?” Jim persisted.

“Why are you being so negative? Would you please let me finish?”

“Okay, okay – I guess I’ll come visit you in the jail if you do get held in contempt.” His eyes twinkled and he grinned as he teased me.

I slapped his arm playfully. “Will you be serious?”

“Ouch. Sheesh, Deb . . . I was just having a little fun, that’s all.” He rubbed his arm and pretended to pout.

I raised an eyebrow and teased back. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

“Oh, yeah . . . .” He forgot to pout and his eyes grew sultry, but he brought the conversation back to my news. “I assume you wouldn’t be this happy unless you landed the job, right?” He gently caressed my shoulder as he spoke; though he’d redirected the conversation, his mind was obviously still on my kiss-it-and-make-it-better comment.

“Right, and now for the best part—” I deliberately paused to make sure he was totally tuned in.

His hand stilled on my shoulder, as he cocked his head. “Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

I giggled. “Just wanted to be sure I had your full attention again.”

“Oh, you do . . . Trust me.” That was one of his favorite sayings.

I held his gaze with my own. “Little old me . . .” – I pointed both index fingers at myself – “Mrs. Debbie Sullivan will be making $45 an hour.” I nodded my head for extra emphasis.

“You mean $45 per day, right? You said per hour.”

“No, I said per hour, because I meant per hour.” I let the words and their meaning sink in.

Jim’s eyes widened. “Whoa.”

“You’re not kidding, ‘whoa.’ Can you believe it?”

We celebrated our good fortune – literally – by going out to eat at a fancy restaurant that we couldn’t afford. We used our credit card; after all, I’d be able to pay it off with my first paycheck.

I had worked for three months when our apartment lease came up for renewal. Why stay in this little dump of a place, when we can now afford a house of our own? We were married only six months when we moved into our first house. With the house came the dog I’d coaxed Jim for since we returned from our honeymoon. Jim and I both worked long hours, so we ate out frequently. We were also able to take vacations that most young couples could not afford. We’d been married less than a year, and we were already living the American dream. So why do I still have such an empty feeling inside?

VVV

An unexpected perk of married life was a closer relationship with Mom. Though we now lived hours apart, we were more in tune with one another than we’d been when I lived in the same house. The years lost to the decade of drinking were being restored in a sweet way. She could share certain things with her married daughter, things that would have been inappropriate to share with a teenager. Our newfound intimacy brought deeper levels of understanding than I’d ever had, and some of my anger from those years was resolved. We talked on the phone several times a week.

The phone rang one weekend. “Hey, Deb. It’s Mom.”

I perked up when I heard her voice on the line. “Hi, Mom. I’m so glad you called.”

“What’s wrong?” She was good at sensing when I was a bit too cheery.

I sighed. “Jim and I had a fight over something stupid.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sure. We took Derek shopping when he was over last weekend, and Jim wanted to buy me this sweater. I really don’t need a sweater, and I didn’t particularly like it, so I told him not to worry about it. He got his feelings hurt and said Pam would never have turned down clothing if he offered to buy it for her. That just ticked me off. I told him I’m not her, and he better never compare the two of us again.” I shook my head in disgust, as if Mom could see me.

“Is that all? Hon, I don’t think Jim meant to hurt you.”

I sighed again. “I know. I really do. It’s just a lot of little things like that. Sometimes it’s just hard to be the second wife.” I picked at the fabric on the arm of the sofa.

She chuckled. “It’s hard to be a wife, period. First, second, or otherwise.”

I thought in silence for a minute, and then decided to go ahead and ask. “Mom, what happened between you and Dad when you started drinking?”

It was Mom’s turn to be quiet. Finally, she answered. “Shortly after we moved to Texas, I went to a gynecologist for a problem I was having. It was a yeast infection, and the doctor gave me two prescriptions, one for Dad and one for me, so Dad wouldn’t pass the infection back to me. My doctor in New York had never done anything like that before, so I mistakenly assumed I had a sexually transmitted disease and accused your dad of having an affair.”

“Oh, Mom . . . I’m so sorry that happened to you two.” I hadn’t expected to hear something like that.

“Well, I know better now, of course. But at the time, there was no convincing me that I was wrong. Daddy tried. After months of arguing about it, he finally gave up. He got disgusted and told me to believe whatever I wanted to believe, because that’s what I was going to do anyhow.” I heard Mom sigh on the other end of the phone, and I could imagine her shaking her head at herself.

“So you thought he was cheating on you, and you started drinking.”

“Unfortunately, yes. I didn’t have any friends down here, hadn’t been here long enough to make any. When I thought he cheated on me, I just couldn’t take it. I started drinking, and we both know how that turned out.” Her voice was sad.

I doodled on a blank piece of paper, sorting out my thoughts. “Wow. Things sure can go crazy.”

“They sure can, honey.” I could hear the remorse in her voice. “If I could take those years back and do it differently, I would – in a heartbeat. I can’t stand the fact that I hurt you and Melissa, and your daddy.”

I was sure she’d rather have heard me say it was okay, but all I could manage was, “I know, Mom.” It still wasn’t okay, but I was glad to finally understand what happened. It helped me feel a little less angry about the lost years.

I had another question for her. “Mom?”

“What?”

“Melissa’s sixteen, and you and she are so close. Why is that? You and I were never that close when I was her age, not like we are now.”

“I ask myself that same question, Deb. You can’t know how much I wanted things between us to be different.” Her words faltered as she worked to squeeze them past the lump I could hear in her throat. She was no doubt holding back tears. “I tried to be close to you, but you wouldn’t let me. You put up a wall between us, and I could never get past it.”

The knowledge that she was exactly right kept me silent. I had refused to be hurt again, and I’d shut her out of my heart and out of my life back then. I remembered a couple times when she’d tried to slow the drinking, tried to resurrect our relationship, especially when we had just returned from that horrible trip to New York where my grandfather called me a slut. She’d tried, but I would have none of it.

I took a deep breath to gain control of my emotions. “Mom?”

She answered softly, “Yes?”

“I’m sorry I shut you out. I’m glad we are close now.”

"I am too, honey.”

VVV

Our first anniversary was on the horizon, and wedded bliss was more like wedded adversity. Jim’s job no longer fulfilled him, and the fact that I made over double his salary didn’t make things any easier for his male ego. Dealing with Pam could be a challenge, and that added more friction between Jim and me at times. I despaired one evening that things were not as easy as they used to be, and Jim had reached his breaking point.

“Debbie,” he barked, “in case you haven’t figured it out yet, marriage takes work. It’s not all fairy tales and romance. I know. I’ve been there before.”

I was stunned into silence.

He was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, babe. I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that you expect everything to be perfect all the time. You have on rose-colored glasses, and it’s time to take them off.”

A couple days later, I shared what he’d said with my mom.

“Honey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but Jim’s right.”

I knew they were both right, but it hurt to have Jim and our marriage knocked from the perfect pedestal I’d placed them on. All my previous relationships – failed relationships – lurked in my head, mocking me. Yup. You thought this time would be different. It’s not, is it?

I’d been helping God for as long as I could remember, way back to the Marks-A-Lot and the liquor bottles behind the bar at the Midway. I thought now might be a good time for Him to help me. God, if You’re listening, I am so afraid I’m going to botch things again. Please help me to be a good wife. Jim and I love each other. With a little help, I know we can make it through this rough patch.

VVV

“Hey, babe. How was your day?” I asked Jim, as I struggled through the door from the garage and dropped all my paraphernalia from the courtroom in the middle of the living room floor. My day had been long, and traffic from downtown had been a bear. I was exhausted. I could think of nothing better than an icy margarita, a good dinner, and a warm bed.

Jim muted the television and patted the sofa next to him. “You look beat.”

“I am.” I sat down next to him, and he massaged my stiff shoulders. I sagged against him as the tension drained away. “That feels incredible. Thanks.”

Feeling somewhat revived, I turned to face him. “You haven’t said how your day went.”

He furrowed his brow. “A strange thing happened today.”

My eyebrow rose with interest. “What happened?”

“Did I ever tell you about Kyle Thompson? He was a good friend of mine when Pam and I lived in Austin.”

“You said you guys used to party together.”

He chuckled softly at the memory. “Yeah, we sure did. We used to get high together. One time we put his hamster in its little exercise ball and blew smoke inside it. Then we watched the little guy roll all over the room, bumping into things like a crazy drunkard. It was funny.”

I gave a dry snort. “Sounds cruel to me.”

“You’re right, it was,” he admitted. “But we were stoned, so we thought it was funny.”

I’d heard enough. “So what does that have to do with your day? Did Kyle show up and force you to torture innocent hamsters for old times’ sake?”

Jim put his hand to his chest in mock offense. “I can’t believe you’d think that of me. No, we didn’t torture any small mammals, but Kyle did come by the store. We had lunch together.”

Though I hadn’t eaten yet, my bed called my name. I stifled a yawn and fought to keep my eyes open. “Did you have a good visit?”

“Yeah, pretty good.” He paused and gave me a puzzled look. “Man,” he shook his head, “he is really different.”

“You mean you asked him to go torture hamsters and he said no?” I teased.

He laughed and launched himself at me. He wrestled me from the couch to the floor and tickled me until I shrieked for mercy. “Okay, okay. I give up,” I gasped. I was awake now. “So how was Kyle different?”

We sat side by side on the floor and rested our backs against the couch. “Well, he was playing this weird Jesus music in his car, for one thing.”

I wrinkled my brow. “What in the world is Jesus music?”

“That’s what I call it. He called it contemporary Christian music.”

“Okay, what does that mean exactly?” I was still confused.

Jim searched for ways to explain. “The lyrics have lots of stuff about Jesus in them.”

“Hmmm . . . .”

“It’s not just the music, though. He’s not the same person he used to be.”

“You mean after all these years he was upset that you two used to torture his poor hamster?” I laughed at my own joke, until I saw the pensive expression on Jim’s face.

“I’m serious, Deb. He was different. He talked about how his life has changed.”

There was a longing in Jim’s voice that I’d never heard before.

“He invited us to go to a Bible study.”

I didn’t know what to say. The concept of a Bible study was foreign to me. I believed in God and had attended church off and on as I’d grown older; in fact, I’d been attending a Catholic church when Jim and I met. It was their blood drive that Jim and I went to on our first date. I’d learned how to pray in the catechism classes my Catholic classmates and I walked to, from school, each Wednesday afternoon. I liked going to church with Mom when I was little, and I had fond memories of Sundays in upstate New York, when she and I – and baby Melissa after she joined our family – sat in church and listened to the priest speak in Latin – the funny language. I’d never understood why she stopped taking us after we moved to Texas.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, one of the families I babysat for – the Davis family – offered to take me to church, and I went with them. Mrs. Davis even took me to confession when she went on Saturday afternoons. One particular time stood out in my memory. I’d confessed my sins to the priest, and he made it a point to tell me that one of the wonderful things about God was that He always forgives our sins. Then he assigned me my penance, and I slipped from the confessional and sat in the pew, praying two Our Father’s and three Hail Mary’s. The rote prayers were soon forgotten, but the priest’s declaration regarding God’s mercy stayed with me.

Another time I attended a Christian youth rally at a church near my aunt’s house. The kids were all warm and friendly, welcoming. They made me believe that I could actually fit in and belong someplace. My experience in high school was nothing like that. In junior high, I’d found my niche in academic excellence, but I soon realized that wasn’t enough in the large high school I attended. To be accepted, to be somebody in the hallowed halls of high school, a girl had to be more than smart, more than a member of the honor society. She had to be an athlete, date an athlete, be a cheerleader, or be a dancer on the drill team – all members of the beautiful elite. The less beautiful people settled for membership in the marching band, in the pep squad, or in the Future Farmers or the Future Homemakers of America, where being just an Average Joe – or Josephine – was okay. My shyness, sometimes mistaken for snobbery, also did little to help me win friends or influence people.

Branded by shame when Gramp pronounced me a slut, I had a desperate need to prove to myself, as well as the other kids, that I fit in, that I was a valuable human being. I tried out for the drill team; when the judges passed me over, I didn’t even attempt to try out for cheerleader. Instead, I played volleyball on the junior varsity one year, but didn’t have the athletic passion necessary to play varsity. I joined the pep squad, attended football games, and developed a mad crush on a varsity player, #85. He, however, had no idea I was even alive.

When I finally found the boyfriend I hoped would make me somebody, Kevin hailed from our rival high school, so it didn’t count. I finally gave up on breaking into the beautiful elite and stuck with academia. I studied hard, stayed on the honor roll – a fact I diligently hid from the druggies in my art class, who treated me as if I actually existed on the face of planet Earth – and joined my rightful place with the other high school misfits. Eventually I graduated in the top ten percent of my class and was accepted to the University of Texas at Austin.

My college experience wasn’t much more fun than my high school days. After Kevin broke off our three-year relationship, I dated a few college guys, but found them immature. No longer interested in fitting in or being popular, I worked full-time and carried a full load of courses. I lived off-campus and found little incentive to get involved in the rowdy college festivities. The realities of an alcoholic parent left me more serious about life than most college students. I was concerned with making it to graduation and possibly finding Mr. Right somewhere along the way. I thought a husband would finally make me feel good about myself. My search often took me to various country western bars around Austin, ironic in light of how I viewed both drinking and college men.

Several months before Candie set me up on my blind date with Jim, I had ventured back to church on my own. Part of me hoped it might prove a better place to meet a husband than the bars I frequented on the weekends. Another part of me had begun to consider that the absence of religion in my life might be why everything was so topsy turvy, so out of place. After I met Jim, however, the stars in my eyes eclipsed all else, and we darkened the church doors only when we went for premarital counseling and on the day of our wedding.

My early experiences with church helped me believe in the reality of God, but I couldn’t seem to connect with Him. However, I still turned to Him when times were tough. When his job ceased to satisfy, Jim and I began to attend church together. Contentment had ebbed and flowed over the past year, and we wanted more from life. We both sought a stability that we couldn’t define.

On our weekends with Derek, we took him to church with us. He hated going, because it was dull and dry. We figured our dutiful appearances must count for something with God, so we continued to attend. I prayed often, though I no longer prayed Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s. Instead, I just talked to God, told Him what I was thinking. I wasn’t sure if He heard those types of prayers. Yet here was Jim, invited out of the blue to a Bible study, by a friend he hadn’t seen in years. Even more interesting was the fact that he wanted to go. Maybe God had been listening.

We went to Kyle’s Bible study, and we had a pleasant evening. Not long after that, Jim bolstered the courage to search for a new job. With the extra financial cushion my income provided, it was a good time for him to look. Within a short time, he had taken a job selling computer software. He’d always wanted to be in sales and marketing and had hoped his job with the fabric store might one day result in a buying position for the company. He was tired of management. When he’d inquired about a buying position, they’d let him know that it was unlikely he would progress any farther with the company, so we decided together that he should test the waters elsewhere.

Interestingly enough, Jim’s new boss invited us to a Bible study at his home. That makes two Bible studies in two months. Hmmm? We went. After all, it was his new boss, and we couldn’t afford to offend him. This Bible study had a completely different flavor from the one at Kyle’s house, but we had just as pleasant an evening. While we were there, a lady handed me a little orange booklet that I stuffed into my purse, where it lay forgotten for several weeks.⁴

VVV

It was lunchtime, and I was crying in my office, as had become my routine. My dream job had turned nightmare. I now knew exactly how my predecessor ended up in contempt of court. Judge Mason was a workaholic who enjoyed seeing his name in print, so he lobbied for every big case that came around. For an Official Court Reporter, big cases had less glamorous results. A big case almost guaranteed an appeal, and an appeal meant that the reporter had to produce records of the court proceedings for the attorneys and for the appellate court – yesterday. The Judge also believed in holding court, rain or shine, appellate records due or no appellate records due; he didn’t even dismiss court when hurricanes were predicted to hit the Houston area.

Neither the attorneys, nor the court of appeals, had any interest in the fact that I had a life. As far as they were concerned, my life revolved around sitting in the courtroom all day and dictating court proceedings into a tape recorder for my typist all night . . . and all weekend. I did indeed make a six-figure salary for all this hard work, but I earned every single cent of it. I soon decided that all the money in the world wasn’t worth working a ninety-hour workweek. I was one miserable little gal.

I sniffled as I held the phone to my ear. The sound of Jim’s voice helped me feel better. Court would be in session again soon, so I told him I’d see him that evening and hung up. I dug around in my purse, in search of Kleenex, and pulled out the little orange booklet that I’d gotten at the Bible study weeks before. With only minutes until I was due in court, I had time for only a cursory glance, but I was intrigued and promised myself that I’d read it thoroughly when I got out of court later that evening.

The afternoon dragged and I was thankful to finally scoot down the hall to my office. The jury had delivered their verdict right at five, and I exited the courtroom while the attorney for the losing side was still discussing things with his client. I prayed he wouldn’t come knocking on my door to request a record for appeal. For a few minutes, I stood with my back against the closed door, every muscle tensed, as if I could ward off the inevitable. When no one came, I assumed I’d hear from Mr. Loser tomorrow.

I spied the orange booklet I’d left on my desk as I gathered my things for the trek home. I sank into my chair and picked it up. I read it again, slowly this time. Mr. Loser and the rest of the world drifted away, and I found myself in a conversation with God. For the first time in my life, there was a two-way component to my prayer. This time I wasn’t just talking at God, I was talking to Him, and I was hearing from Him. There were no audible voices, but the exchange was as real in my mind as if there had been. Every question my mind could conjure up was answered as I devoured the words on the pages of that booklet. What didn’t make sense in my head made perfect sense in my heart.

I mulled over the words I’d just read. God loves me and has a plan for my life.

I do.

Well, I certainly want to believe You love me.

What’s stopping you?

You say You have a plan for my life.

I do.

That’s good, because my own plans don’t seem to work so well. I thought a husband would make me happy. Then I thought a job would do it. Then a house, a dog, a car . . . .

Those are all good things, but they won’t fill the God-shaped hole in your heart.

This book says I’m separated from You because of my sin.

Yes, sin separates Me from those I love.

I believe that. When I was little, I sensed a connection to You. Then over the last ten years or so, when I reached out to You, I just couldn’t seem to connect anymore.

I’ve failed miserably trying to follow the rules, trying to be a good church-going girl. I can’t even follow my own rules.

Why would You want me, God? What could You want with a girl who has slept around? I was so stupid. Each time, I thought things would be different from the time before. I told myself that this time the guy would stick around. What could You want with a girl who drinks, who lies, who has experimented with drugs? What could You want with a girl who has ugly attitudes towards people? What could You possibly want with a girl like me?

You’re right, you can’t be good enough to please Me.

Tell me something I don’t already know. I tried lying to myself, tried to believe that You would understand. I just can’t be good all the time. I always mess things up.

You don’t have to be good. I’ve already taken care of it.

How? Why?

The ONLY sinless person who has ever walked the face of the earth is Jesus Christ, My Son. He’s the only person who is worthy of being in My presence. I can’t look upon sin.

But I created you. I love you. I love you so much that I want to make it possible for you to be sinless so I can be with you. I know it is absolutely impossible for you to do it on your own, so I let My Son die in your place.

He now sits at My right hand in Heaven. He will give you His own clothing to wear, so that when I look at you, I will see Him instead. When I get frustrated with you and your failures and want to squash you like a bug, My Son will intercede on your behalf, saying “Father, this one is Mine. You gave her to Me. Have mercy on her.” And I will.

What do I have to do to get this mercy?

Nothing. It’s a free gift.

Yeah, right . . . nothing’s free in this world. What do I have to do to get it?

Nothing. Just believe. Believe that I have done this for you because I love you.

Just believe?

Are you a sinner?

You know I am.

Yes, but do you know that you are?

Yes, I hate myself. I am ashamed of the things I have done.

Can you fix yourself?

No.

Do you want to keep living like this?

No.

Do you think you are wrong when you sin? Do you agree with Me that many of the things you do are wrong?

Yes, I do.

Do you believe that Jesus Christ is My Son?

Yes.

Will you accept His payment for your sin?

I’d love to, but why would He do that for me?

Because He loves you, just as I do. We are one.

So it all comes back to that?

Yes, it does. You cannot do anything to please Me or make your life right. I know this, and that’s why I sent My Son.

If you are willing to receive My Son’s sacrifice, willing to believe He loves you, He will take your sin on His own shoulders and give you His righteousness. He will come, through the power of the Holy Spirit, and reside in your life.

You will notice yourself changing. Little by little you will become more like Him, and you will grow more and more thankful for what He has done for you. Because you are thankful, you will also lead others to Him.

You will not know everything there is to know about Him, because you have eternity to grow in that knowledge, but you will be on a steady course towards Him. Just let go of the guilt, shame, pride, fear . . . let go and take His hand.

VVV

The music swelled around me, and I abandoned myself to it. I forgot about the rest of the congregation. My heart communed with my Lord and Savior, and I gave thanks. Jim stood beside me, lost in his own moment with the Lord.

Worship came to a close, and we sat, ready hear the pastor’s message. A smile tugged at my lips.

“What are you thinking about?” Jim asked.

“How good God is,” I whispered.

Only a few weeks had passed since my conversation with God in my office. I’d surrendered myself to God’s peace that day, but I had no idea of the magnitude of the change that had taken place in me. I went home, laid the little orange booklet on the kitchen counter, and enjoyed the evening with Jim.

Later that week, he’d come to me with the little booklet in hand.

“Did you leave this on the kitchen counter?”

“Yes.” I looked up from the dishes I was washing and gave him a curious glance.

“Well, I read it and prayed the prayer inside.”

I caught my breath. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I knew this was a momentous occasion. “Me too.”

Jim grinned. “I just feel better about life now.”

“So do I.” I wrapped my sudsy arms around his waist and gave him a happy hug.

Two days later, I could not stop thinking about the booklet. I picked it back up and examined it. On the back, there was a phone number . . . probably the number of the woman who’d given it to me during the Bible study at Jim’s employer’s house.

I dialed the phone, wondering what I’d say when she answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Debbie Sullivan. We met at the Bible study—”

“This is awesome. My husband and I have been praying for you and Jim. We’ve been expecting your call.”

Though I did not doubt that Jim and I had both encountered God, her remark still stunned me. She chuckled and invited Jim and I to come to the Bible study she and her husband held in their home.

We started attending weekly and began to understand the significance of the prayer we’d prayed from the little orange booklet. They encouraged us to find a church to attend on Sundays. Ironically, we found a church located right behind the Catholic one we’d attended a few times when we first began to struggle and hoped God could make things better. We had no idea, then, if He could . . . or would . . . but He’d definitely had a plan.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2012-11-21T05:00:00.000-06:00

Hi all!

We are taking time off this week to give thanks for all the blessings God has wrought in our lives. We pray that you will take this week to do the same, whether you are from the States or not. There are so many things to be thankful for, even when we are in the midst of suffering. We must choose to look for them. Our focus will guide our hearts.

We are so thankful for family, which includes each of you who choose to make time to come here and read our story. God has filled our hearts with the desire to share Him and how He has made a difference in our lives, and it is our hope that you will allow Him to make a difference in yours.

We'll be back next week with Chapter Five.

God bless you,
Cheri and Wayne

He Didn't Throw the Clay Away

2012-11-19T12:42:00.000-06:00

To use our pastor’s words from yesterday, all people were fashioned from the dust of the ground (Genesis 2:7), which effectively makes every single one of us dirt balls. J When put so eloquently, it becomes obvious that we all stand sorely in need of God’s grace and mercy, whether we have walked with God for decades or have yet to meet Him. Pastor went on to share this song with the congregation, which so touched my heart that I wanted to share it here:

Worth Every Tear, Chapter Four

2012-11-14T05:00:00.000-06:00

If you're joining us in the middle of this journey, you can find previous chapters here:

Chapter One - Disturbing Discoveries

Chapter Two - Date with Destiny

Chapter Three - Memory Lane

The heart knows its own bitterness,

And a stranger does not share its joy.

Proverbs 14:10 NKJV

Chapter Four—Loss of Innocence

The South

I walked home slowly. I had much on my twelve-year-old mind. Texas was very different from New York. Up north, I’d lived in the country and rode the bus to school. In our small community there, all twelve grades were at the same site, and many of the even smaller towns around ours sent their kids to our school. We had relatives in every surrounding town, and we got together with them often. The northern climate boasted four normal seasons – spring, summer, fall, and winter – and we actually needed a coat more than twice a year.

Down here in Texas, we lived in Austin, and there were more people in that city than in ten of our little northern towns combined. I had to walk to school. Lamar Junior High had only two grades and was one of many middle schools in Austin. We had one aunt who lived here in the South; we saw her quite often, but she had no children, so I had no cousins to play with. Texas also had four seasons, according to the locals: almost summer, summer, still summer, and Christmas.

Two years ago, when my parents told me about our move to Texas, I’d been excited. Thanks to television, I envisioned horses and cowboys, ranches and roundups. I played Gunsmoke on our front porch after they told me. I couldn’t think of a more glamorous place to live than Texas, and I bragged to all my lifelong friends of my good fortune. Naturally, then, the blue runway lights at the airport and the big city buildings seemed out of place to me when we arrived. The change from country to city life was more challenging for me than it might have been, had I not had my mind full of childish western fantasies.

I’d acclimated to our new life in due time, even made a few new friends at school, when it was time for the next hurdle – junior high school. Seventh grade proved to be much different than fifth or sixth. We had several different teachers and we switched classes, instead of being in the same room all day. Several elementary schools in the city funneled students to Lamar Junior High, so once again I faced a whole class of unfamiliar kids. In fact, changing from one room to another each hour made it feel more like facing an entire school of unknown kids. This was quite a change, as I was accustomed to moving from grade to grade with the same kids I’d known since kindergarten. I also found city kids to be much more sophisticated than their country counterparts.

My face grew hot from more than the triple-digit Texas heat, as the conversation from lunchtime replayed in my mind.

“So . . .” Yolanda eyed me like a bug under a microscope, “you a virgin?”

What’s a virgin? Before I could figure the best way to respond, a girlish clique surrounded me.

“Say yes, say yes.” Urgent whispers came from my right.

“You’d best say no, girl,” spoke another disembodied voice.

“She knows if she’s a virgin or not,” Yolanda retorted.

My face must have betrayed my confusion. I stared at the ground, wishing it would swallow me whole.

“Leave Debbie alone, Yolanda,” a girl whose name was Brenda spoke up with authority.

I smiled gratefully, though I remained silent. I met Brenda’s eyes with my own. Thank you.

She smiled and pulled me with her into the lunch line. “You can sit with me.”

Yolanda had the last word in the exchange, taunting me with a chant. “Debbie don’t know what a virgin is . . . Debbie don’t know what a virgin is. Stupid Yankee.”

She was right. I didn’t. Guess I am stupid.

I liked Brenda. She and I had a great visit over lunch. She was kind enough not to bring up the altercation with Yolanda, and I was too embarrassed to ask her if she knew what virgin meant.

I wished I could ask Mom. Dad got a good job with the Post Office when we moved, so she finally got her wish to stay at home with us kids, but she most likely would not be in any condition to answer questions at this time of day. In our household, questions needed to be asked early in the morning, if an answer was necessary.

I looked up, surprised to find I was home already. I’d been so consumed by my thoughts and the memory of lunchtime, that I hardly recalled the walk. I opened the door and took a tentative step across the threshold. I looked around. Where is she?

Melissa, now almost four, came around the corner from her bedroom. “Hi, Debbie. Will you pway wit’ me?”

“Sure, Mel.”

Mel’s chubby cheeks stretched into a huge grin, and her eyes shined at the prospect of a playmate. I ruffled her strawberry blonde hair and smiled back at her. “Where’s Mom?”

A shadow clouded her eyes. “Momma’s in the kitchen.”

“Is everything okay?” I swallowed past the lump that suddenly formed in my throat.

“Uh-huh.” Mel nodded. “Momma tol’ me, ‘Go pway in your woom ‘til Debbie get home fwom school.’”

I nodded. “Okay, hon. Go pick something for us to play.” I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and went into the kitchen to let Mom know I was home. I found her at the kitchen table, her head resting on her arm, a puddle of drool forming under her half-open mouth. The sight was familiar, but her stillness startled me nonetheless, and I stood over her to be sure she was breathing. There was an empty beer can near her elbow.

“Mom,” I said. I reached to give her shoulder a gentle shake. “Mom, I’m home.”

She jumped. “Debbie? Good. You’re home.” She shook her head groggily. “I . . . so tired. Mel . . . watch your sister?” Her words were slurred.

“Okay.” I turned to go.

“Thanks.”

I was almost out of the kitchen when I heard it, spoken so softly that I almost missed it. “I love you, Deb.”

Hope stirred in my heart. Maybe I can ask her about what happened today. I turned back toward her. “Mom?”

No answer.

What was I thinking? I sighed and went to join my little sister. She had her Barbie dolls all arranged for us to play. She had gotten into my stuff and pulled out the wedding clothes Mom made for me the Christmas I was seven. Though it was only a few years ago, it felt like an eternity to me.

“Can we pway weddin’?” Mel was a carefree little girl again. “I got out your Barbie cwothes,” she confessed. “Is that okay?”

“Sure, baby. It’s okay. Do you want to be Ken or Barbie?”

Mom’s in worse shape than usual. Must have been an extra tough day.

VVV

The move to Texas and Dad’s new job did help lessen the financial burdens of raising a family, but other challenges surfaced. Economic need no longer forced Mom to work, but she now had no close friends or family to fill her days either. Dad worked nights, so he slept in the daytime while I was at school. Melissa could provide only so much stimulation for an adult, so Mom found solace in the numbness of alcohol. I sensed something beyond isolation and loneliness troubled her, something deep inside that she wouldn’t talk about. Though we’d gone to church when we first arrived in Texas, we didn’t go anymore. At times Mom grew aggravated with me, and she would glare at me and tell me I was just like my father. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew from her tone that it wasn’t a good thing. I wanted to make her feel better, but I didn’t know how.

The situation worsened during my teen years. Melissa and I had food, clothing, and shelter, but we were starving emotionally. I knew Mom and Dad loved us. I knew they just had some problems they needed to work out. I told Melissa the stories I’d grown up hearing: about how they had been so happy to have me that they’d tried for years to have another baby; about how God had shown them about adoption; and about how the three of us had chosen her especially to join our family.

My only means of escape was through books. I loved to read, and I let the characters carry me away to happier places. I loved my family, but I was growing tired of feeling responsible for my sister’s well-being. I was also tired of worrying about Mom and Dad. What if Mom doesn’t stop drinking? What if my friends find out? Will Mom and Dad stay married?

During the summer of 1974, my mom, my sister, and I visited relatives in New York. Melissa was almost six. I was not quite fifteen. Mom was “old enough to know better” and drunk most of the time. We stayed with Gram and Gramp, Mom’s parents, who were both alcoholics. Mom had learned her coping skills from them.

Mom was an only child, so I had no maternal aunts or uncles of my own. To eliminate the confusion caused by trying to remember if they were great-aunts or great-great-uncles, I treated hers the same as mine. During our visit, Mom’s cousin – my first cousin once removed – and his family also came to visit from Alabama. Since he and Mom had been close as kids, they made sure to get together, which gave me the opportunity to meet his son Alan. The trouble started when Alan and I developed a case of puppy love. We were both fourteen, bored and restless, far from home, and flirting with rebellion and each other. The more the adults fussed, the more time we were determined to spend together. Our attraction was quite innocent, born largely of retaliation, designed to inflict the same frustration we felt at being dragged away from our southern friends and cooped up in that tiny little town in upstate New York. Some family members were amused, like Alan’s Aunt Sandy. Others were appalled. Apparently alcoholism was an acceptable vice, but the thought of kissing cousins – even though we were second cousins – was not.

No one wanted to discuss Mom’s drinking or how I felt about that, but there was no shortage of opinions about my relationship with Alan. No one minded talking about that. In fact, Gramp was quite vocal about his thoughts.

It was late, probably ten o’clock. The air felt frigid, even though it was the middle of summer. Alan and I had hung out together that day and time had gotten away from us. It was nice to have someone my own age to talk to, someone who I knew didn’t think badly of me, even though he knew the truth about Mom’s drinking. He felt misunderstood by his folks too, and he shared his family struggles with me. We were two confused adolescents who found acceptance in one another, when the entire rest of the world seemed to be against us.

We’d actually arrived back at my grandparents’ house over an hour earlier, but when I heard the commotion inside, I was afraid to go in. I could hear Gramp yelling. “Well, where in the h--- is she?” His voice was loud and ugly.

“Dad, she’s with Alan. They’ll be back soon.” Mom’s voice slurred as she tried to placate him. I figured she was more worried about helping Gram get him into bed and asleep, than about where I was or what I was doing. That had been the nightly routine since we’d arrived. His mean stage preceded total loss of motor control. If Gramp were to fall down, Mom and Gram weren’t strong enough to lift him, so they had to get him in bed before that happened.

I huddled under the bedroom window next to the big oak tree, so I’d know when it was safe to go inside. I didn’t want to go in until Gramp was asleep. I could handle Mom and Gram if they were mad at me.

I shivered with the cold and Alan wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “You ought to go inside, get out of this cold air.”

“Shh . . .” I held my finger to my lips. “I don’t want them to hear us. I can’t go in until he’s asleep. He scares me when he’s mean like this,” I whispered.

A loud crash came from the bedroom.

“Dad, let me get your other shoe off. You need to lie down,” Mom pleaded.

“I don’ wanna lie down. I wanna know where that little slut is.” I heard him slam something on the bedside table to emphasize his point.

I crept inside later. I was unaware of the time. For me, time had stopped when my grandfather called me a slut. I would never let Alan do that. We’re not getting married. How could Gramp even think that about me? The filthy word echoed in my head, and my heart was a rock in my chest. Hope died that night, and shame was born, along with its twin, defiance. I made a vow. If that’s what he thinks of me, I don’t need him. Gone were the days of Gramp and his li’l buddy. In fact, I don’t need any of them!

I turned fifteen shortly after Mom, Melissa, and I returned from our trip. Dad put a hopeful, tender-hearted girl on the plane to New York. The girl he picked up from the airport upon our return was guarded and cynical. I was resentful and worn out; tired of watching over Melissa; tired of waking to the sound of a pop-top in the kitchen, knowing Mom was at it again; and sick and tired of mothering my own mother.

VVV

The drive from the Bailey’s house to ours was a short one. I’d been babysitting for their family for three years. Mr. Bailey always picked me up and brought me home, since I didn’t have a ride. My stomach tensed when we reached our driveway and the car wasn’t there. Mr. Bailey handed me my check for babysitting, and I reached for the door handle.

“Thanks for being available on such short notice, Debbie. We’ll probably need you again next week, if you can.”

“No problem, Mr. Bailey. Same time?”

“I’m not sure. Mrs. Bailey will call and confirm.”

“Okay.” I tucked the check into my pocket.

“You must have quite a little nest egg built up from all the sitting you do.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll need it when I move out and go to college.” That can’t happen fast enough. My tone was light and I smiled, but my stomach was in a knot. Where is the car? What’s up?

It was almost midnight. Dad didn’t usually leave for work until two. He liked that particular night shift because he could sleep some in the afternoon, get up and spend some time with us kids before we went to bed, and then sleep for a few more hours before he had to go to work. Did the Post Office call him in early tonight?

The door was unlocked. It looked like every light in the house was on, and Melissa was asleep in her bed. The television was blaring.

“Mom?”

No answer.

“Mom!”

Still no answer.

I didn’t want to wake Melissa with my shouting, so I decided to check and see if Mom had just gone to bed without locking up and turning off the lights. That wouldn’t surprise me. I assumed Dad had gone to work early.

I opened the bedroom door without knocking, knowing she would be in too much of a drunken stupor at this time of night to hear me knock anyhow. It was really dark, so I just stood in the doorway for a few seconds, the blaze of lights from the living room behind me. Mom had blackout shades on the windows to keep the sunlight out, so Dad could sleep better in the daytime, and it made the room pitch black at night. My eyes began to adjust, so I didn’t flip on the overhead light. Instead, I shuffled my way to the side of the bed and reached out to give her shoulder a hard shake. I didn’t care if I scared her. If I left all the lights on and the door unlocked, she’d be all in my face about it. Why should I let her off easy?

“Mom,” I barked.

Dad sat bolt upright in bed. We both yelped in surprise.

“What’s wrong?” He shook his groggy head, trying to wake up. “Where’s your mother?”

“I have no idea. I thought you were her.” I rested an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “Sorry I scared you. I just got home from babysitting. The car isn’t in the driveway, so I assumed you’d gone to work early. The door was unlocked. The lights are all on. The television is on too.”

He looked up at me. “Did you look through the whole house?”

“Yes. She’s not anywhere. That’s why I thought she’d gone to bed, and I came in here to check.”

“Is Melissa here?” He spoke rapidly.

My aggravation turned to panic, as the fear I heard in his voice registered in my mind. “Yes, she’s sleeping in her room.”

“Thank God.”

“Daddy, where do you think she is?”

His eyes met mine. Neither of us missed my calling him Daddy. When I was scared, the childhood endearment came readily.

Before he could formulate an answer, there was a loud knock at the front door.

A voice of authority greeted my dad. “Good evening, sir. Is this the Whittaker residence?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Are you John Whittaker, husband of Nancy Whittaker?”

I was huddled behind Dad, so I couldn’t see the person speaking, but Dad’s response confirmed my suspicion. “Yes, sir. Is everything all right, Officer?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but there’s been an accident. Your wife was involved in a head-on collision. She is not hurt, but she has been charged with DWI and will be spending the night in the Williamson County Jail. You may arrange bond in the morning.”

And I thought things couldn’t get any worse.

VVV

We’d been in Texas for six years, and I was a junior in high school. Things at home remained the same, but I had changed. Books no longer provided an escape from the craziness. I traded babysitting for a job at Dairy Queen. One of my goals was to earn enough money to move out. The other one was to find a boyfriend. Trusting in the knowledge of being loved was no longer enough. I wasn’t getting what I needed from either of my parents. Dad was too busy working and wrestling with his own personal problems with Mom to know what to do with a blossoming young woman. Verbal affirmation hadn’t been his strong suit, even when Mom had coached him, and now Mom was a prisoner of her addiction. When she was aware of events in my life, she was full of unsolicited advice and drunken orders, often surly and sarcastic. She loved to share her pessimistic outlook on life. I was no longer inclined to listen. I knew there had to be something better out there.

I was right. I met Kevin shortly after I took the job at Dairy Queen. We dated through our last two years of high school and for the first year of college. His house became a refuge from my own. His parents treated me like a daughter, and he was my savior. He loved me and he told me so; I didn’t have to know it. His love revived my hope. We made plans for the future.

We were almost nineteen when he broke it off with me. I was crushed. I’d wasted my most precious possession on him – my virtue. Who will ever want me now? I vowed to take control. I will never give anyone the power to hurt and disappoint me like this again. Never.

My first official act as the person in charge of my life was to move out of my parents’ house into my own apartment. I’d been saving money since I started babysitting at twelve years old. I told my dad my intentions, and he gave me his blessing. My mother told me I couldn’t go. I packed my car in front of her and left. I’d already signed the lease.

I didn’t talk to my mother at all for the first year I lived away from home. I called my dad at work to check in or to arrange to pick up Melissa to come and spend the weekend with me. She came often.

VVV

Not long after I turned twenty, my dad called and asked me to come by the house one evening. When I got there, Mom was in her usual drunken state. Dad sat eleven-year-old Melissa down next to me and explained that he couldn’t go on the way things were. He planned to file for divorce and move back to New York with Melissa. He assumed I would choose to stay in Texas, since I was settled in my apartment and busy with college. Mom sat and took the whole scene in through bleary eyes, saying nothing. She gave no protest, offered no defense.

Melissa’s eyes filled with tears and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “Everything will be okay, baby,” I crooned.

Part of me understood, and part of me had grown so accustomed to the dysfunction of the Whittaker family that I resented the thought that Dad would consider quitting the game. I wasn’t sure I knew how to live any other way.

I returned to my apartment and moved through the next couple days in a welcome state of numbness. I didn’t want to feel anything.

Then Dad called again with more news. “Deb, your mom is in Holy Cross Hospital.”

My heart jumped into my throat. “What happened?”

“She insisted I call her doctor and tell him she was coming in to dry out,” Dad explained.

“What?”

He tried again. “I took Mom over to Holy Cross this morning. She insisted on going over there, but she refused to go without taking her last six-pack with her.” His voice sounded tired and dull in my ear. “Then she sat in the car, in the hospital parking lot, and drank the whole thing before she would let me take her inside.”

That was just like her. Mom was indeed a stubborn woman. “Do you think she means it?” I wanted desperately to believe it.

Dad sighed. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Deb.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to give me false hope.

Later that day I went by the hospital. I sat in Mom’s room and listened to her tell me she was through drinking. Does she think this erases the past ten years? It was mean, and I knew it, but I reminded her anyhow. “You realize Dad is divorcing you, right?”

She looked me square in the eye and said, “No.” She gave her head a determined shake. “No, he’s not. He won’t do it.” Her tone wasn’t one of denial; she made the statement with complete and total confidence.

VVV

I’d lived on my own for two years when my car decided to die on me. The repairs were estimated at more than the vehicle was worth, so I had a decision to make. I was almost twenty-one years old, attending college, and working full-time. I couldn’t afford to pay both a car note and apartment rent on my salary. If I didn’t want to wind up driving a junker, I’d have to move back in with my parents, so I could afford to pay the note on a newer vehicle.

Mom and I had buried the hatchet and were again on speaking terms. Gram had died, and my grandfather had moved in with my parents. Though my grandfather continued to drink like a fish, Mom had meant it a year ago, when she’d vowed to stop drinking. Dad’s plan to divorce her must have caused her to take stock and change course, and once she made up her mind, there was no stopping her. She had newfound confidence in herself and in God. I admired her tenacity; she quit cold turkey. She also knew Dad better than I did too, because he never did file for divorce. In fact, there was never another word mentioned about the subject.

My second official act as the person in charge of my life was to move back home. Mom and I now attended a joint Alcoholics Anonymous²/Al-Anon³ meeting together, and we were rebuilding our relationship. Her drinking had lasted a decade and the damage was extensive, but we were working together to move forward.

My parents had been through a great deal, but their marriage commitment had withstood the severe testing and survived; this renewed my faith in love and enabled me to believe I would one day have that kind of love. In fact, to me, my life would be incomplete until I had that special someone to share it with.

I was home again. Life was better, but still on hold. I was a woman waiting – waiting for my prince to come, waiting for my real life to start.

Worth Every Tear, Chapter Three

2012-11-07T22:23:00.000-06:00

If you're joining us in the middle of this journey, you can find previous chapters here:

Chapter One - Disturbing Discoveries

Chapter Two - Date with Destiny

There is a way that seems right to a man,

But its end is the way of death.

Proverbs 14:12 NKJV

Chapter Three—Memory Lane

Jim did come to Austin again for the second weekend in a row. Derek became a fast friend after I rescued him from Chucky E. Cheese, and he loved it when I started visiting his daddy in Houston. Jim and I took turns going back and forth, and a long-distance romance was born. We rarely missed a weekend together.

Candie never tired of reminding me how I met Jim. She teased me constantly. She said without her, I’d still be a lonely old maid. I was too happy to get angry with her. My Prince Charming didn’t ride a white charger or carry a lance. He actually drove a white ‘79 Honda Civic and came complete with his own little prince. Our relationship progressed nicely, and I began to let myself hope that Jim could be “the one.” I dreamed of the three of us becoming a perfect little family, like the ones I remembered from my childhood television days – Leave It To Beaver or Father Knows Best. In my plans for my future family, however, some things would be very different from my childhood memories.

VVV

The North

I lived the first decade of my life in upstate New York. My mom’s parents owned the Midway Casino, Bar & Grill, located on state highway 9N, in Clintonville, New York. Clintonville was a small village midway between Au Sable Forks, to the southwest, and Keeseville, to the northeast, giving rise to the name Midway Casino. With the logging industry being a mainstay of Clinton County, the folks who lived there worked hard and often partied harder. My grandfather made it his mission to be sure they didn’t get parched as they traveled the twelve miles between the two towns. Clintonville was an obscure little place, but to me, especially at five years old, it was the whole world.

Some of my earliest memories were made at the Midway. I recall spending many happy hours helping Gram and Aunt Margaret – Gram’s sister-in-law – cook up tasty meals for the hungry men that came in after work. Aunt Margaret even fried her own doughnuts. I loved doughnut day. After she cut the big rings from the dough, she would fry up the little leftover holes and let me eat them. When I wasn’t helping Gram, Gramp let me play behind the bar. I got to serve drinks to the customers who ordered Coca-Cola or 7-Up with their lunches. Gramp served the other stuff.

One day, Gram was sad. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me the doctor had given Gramp some stern warnings about his health. I saw the pain in her eyes, and I knew Gram was worried about Gramp. She didn’t mention his drinking, but instinctively I knew. She told me to pray for him. I did.

I knew God was busy running the whole world, so I decided I had to help him out with Gramp. I found a big black Marks-A-Lot and set to work. I chewed my tongue as I concentrated. I don’t want to miss one. I even had to stand on a couple empty beer cases to reach the bottles at the very top.

Gramp’s blue eyes twinkled in amusement as he watched me work on my project, but I didn’t find anything funny about it.

I placed my little hands on my hips and set him straight. “You might think this is funny, Gramp, but it’s not.” I used the same tone of voice Mommy used when she scolded me. “Gram’s worried about you, and I am too.” I took my right hand from my hip and stood with my finger pointed at him. “I drew a big black mark on every one of these bottles. If you drink, we’ll know it.” Finished, I glowered at him and pursed my lips, to emphasize how serious I was.

He winked and nodded. “You’re my li’l buddy.” That’s what he called me.

I surveyed the bottles one last time. I used to think the amber liquid was pretty. I knew Gramp’s words were slurry and he was clumsy when he drank the stuff. It had been funny to watch, but now I knew it was making him sick, and I was determined to make him stop.

Gramp wasn’t the only adult in my life I worried about. Mommy and Daddy argued sometimes. It made me sad when they did. I tried hard to be good, so they would stay happy and not fight. I tried not to remember the night when they yelled at each other and I heard the crash of something hit the wall in the next room. Mommy was crying later, and I saw her perfume bottle in pieces on the floor. There was another night I wanted to forget. Daddy promised Mommy he would take her to a banquet, and she got dressed up all pretty and waited for him to come home from work. He showed up late. Mommy said something about “drinking” under her breath, and when she yelled at him, he said he wasn’t going to “any stupid banquet.” Then she took off her pointy high-heeled shoe and chased him around with it. He ran to the stairwell and closed the door. She cursed and kicked the bottom of the door. When she finally got inside, he was curled up on the stairs, and she beat him on the head with the flat part of her shoe. He looked silly, and she was crying. I went to my room and stayed there.

Sometimes I thought about the year the whole family got together for Christmas at our house. There were people everywhere. The food smelled delicious. Everyone was laughing and talking. Finally, it was time to sit down and eat. I was starved. We had so many people that we had to set up several tables.

Grandma Whittaker, Daddy’s mom, sat with Daddy’s sister, Aunt Barb, and some of my cousins at the table in the kitchen, while Mommy, Daddy, and I sat at the big table in the dining room, with Gram, Gramp, and Daddy’s other sister, Aunt Frances. Extra tables were scattered around the open space between the two, in our big country kitchen. As we got ready to sit down, I heard Aunt Barb tell Grandma Whittaker to hush, and Mommy was looking at them both with her mean face. I didn’t know why, because Aunt Barb and Mommy were good friends. They always got together to drink coffee while my cousins and I played.

Before we began to pass all those plates of yummy food, Mommy jumped up from her place at the table and began to yell at Grandma Whittaker. “I don’t care what you think of me. Everyone knows that no one will ever be good enough to be married to any of your precious kids.” Mommy’s words sounded mad, but she was crying like she did when her perfume bottle got broken.

Daddy’s face got all red.

I was stunned. Chaos erupted. Aunt Barb tried to hug Mommy. Grandma Whittaker muttered angrily to herself. Daddy looked confused, like he didn’t know what to do. Aunt Frances began to scream at her husband, Uncle Bill, and she threw her drink in his face. He just stood there, blinking the drink out of his eyes, while she told him she would pack his bags and leave them on the front porch when they got home. She said he didn’t even need to bother going inside.

I stared at the ceiling where Aunt Frances threw the drink and watched it drip onto my uncle’s head, while everyone around me went crazy. Aunt Frances and Uncle Bill’s kids were sobbing. So was I.

Gramp grabbed my arm, “C’mon, little buddy.” I found myself in tow behind his big frame. The next thing I knew, all my cousins and I were crying in my bedroom, while Gramp stood barring the door. The bedlam in the kitchen continued. When things quieted a bit, we asked to leave, but he only growled, “You don’t belong out there in that circus.”

Our lives in New York weren’t all bad; there were good memories too. One summer my daddy had a hernia operation and had to stay home from work while he recuperated. He took me swimming almost every day. The park we went to had a concession stand that sold candy necklaces – the elastic ones, with hard little candy O’s in different pastel colors, like tiny Life Savers candies, strung on them. Daddy bought me one each time we went, and I loved to sit on the beach, eating my necklace and waiting for my cousins to arrive. When Aunt Barb got there, she and Daddy would talk while we kids swam.

In the winter, he built snow forts with me in our front yard. When our fort was finished, he would be the kid and I would be the mom. He played outside, building a snowman, while I cleaned house inside the fort. I loved to yell for him to “get inside this house right this minute and clean your room!” When we finally went inside our real house, we drank hot chocolate together to get warm.

My favorite day of the week was Saturday, because Daddy would watch cartoons with me. We sat side by side in his recliner and watched The Wacky Races, with Dick Dastardly and his dog Muttley. Daddy could laugh just like Muttley. We also liked to watch Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner, Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Yogi Bear and his pal Boo Boo. Daddy’s nickname for me was Boo Boo, and he said it just like Yogi did.

Mommy and I also did special things together. We played Yahtzee before the school bus picked me up in the mornings, while Captain Kangaroo played in the background. I don’t know how she did it, but Mommy rolled a Yahtzee almost every single game, and she didn’t cheat. When Mommy felt like a treat, she got us each a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips and a Pepsi-Cola. We snacked together, and Mommy would giggle like we were doing something we shouldn’t. If she didn’t have to work on Sunday, Mommy always took me to church with her. The priest talked in a funny way I couldn’t understand; Mommy told me it was Latin. I liked to go because Mommy said it made God happy for us to go to His house.

Mommy always made sure Christmas was special. It was her favorite holiday of the entire year. One year, she stayed up all night to finish sewing my Barbie and Ken dolls a new wardrobe. They each had many new clothes to wear, but my favorites were the beautiful wedding gown for Barbie, with real lace, and Ken’s black tuxedo. His little pants had a real zipper, and Mommy told me how hard that zipper had been to sew into those pants. She must really love me.

I looked forward to the times Mommy and Aunt Barb got together and had coffee, because my cousins came over to play. They didn’t get to do this as often as they would have liked, because Mommy had to work “to help make ends meet.” I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but Mommy was usually too busy to play. If she wasn’t working at the Grand Union grocery store, she was working at home. She taught me about how to can food from our garden; she sewed many of my clothes; and she really liked to clean house. I heard her tell Aunt Barb once that she wished she didn’t have to work so she could stay at home with me, and sometimes when Mommy and Daddy argued, I heard her yell at him about his “dead-end job.”

In spite of the struggles my parents faced, I never questioned their love for me. I had heard the story of my miracle birth too many times to believe I wasn’t a desired addition to my family. I was the fourth of five pregnancies, and the only one to not end in a miscarriage. Born two months premature, I weighed only three pounds. I was tiny enough for my diapered rump to fit in the palm of my daddy’s hand, and I’d seen pictures of him holding me aloft on my perch there. Wonderment and joy showed in his eyes as he gazed upon his little princess. Mommy had spoken often of her own happiness at holding her long-awaited baby.

Mommy and Daddy wanted more children, but things worked out differently than they anticipated. Years passed without the arrival of siblings, and when I was nine years old, they told me of their desire to adopt another child. In the fall of 1968, when John and Nancy Whittaker arrived at the adoption agency to pick up their brand new daughter, Melissa, I was right by their side. This was my new little sister, and I was as excited as both my parents. Mommy had promised I could hold Melissa first, even before she did. Life was good.

In hopes of attaining better employment opportunities, our family moved from upstate New York to Texas when Melissa was almost eighteen months old. I was ten and halfway through the fifth grade. We left behind friends and family to travel two thousand miles into an uncertain future, and the stress proved too much for Mommy.

Worth Every Tear, Chapter Two

2012-10-31T05:30:00.000-05:00

If you're joining us in the middle of this journey, you can find previous chapters here:

Chapter One - Disturbing Discoveries

The mind of man plans his way,

But the LORD directs his steps.

Proverbs 16:9 NASB

Chapter Two—Date with Destiny

August 1983

The six-foot gray rodent with huge eyes sauntered from table to table in the Chuck E. Cheese’s pizza parlor. His interactions with the youngest diners made most of them squeal in delight. Our brave little patron, however, cowered under the table, hugging my knees. Though Derek had been a bit leery of me when his daddy introduced us earlier that evening, he definitely preferred me to Chuck. No amount of coaxing – not even promises to go play in the ball pit – would lure him from the safety of his hiding place.

Chuck stopped briefly by our table, probably pondering what brought two unaccompanied adults to eat at his restaurant. Surely, he knew the food wasn’t that good. He tapped the side of his head as if he had a sudden hunch, and he bent down to inspect the underside of our table. Eureka! We did have a reason to be there after all.

Old Chuck made quite a show of miming his pleas to the two-year-old to come out. Little Derek only cried and buried his face in my lap. Chuck mourned briefly and moved on to more friendly relations.

I fed Derek his pizza, bit by bit, under the table. He peeked his head out occasionally, to check on Chuck’s whereabouts and get a sip of his drink. Only when he was quite sure the giant rat had gone on break, did he venture from under the table to take my hand and lead me to the ball pit.

VVV

Later that night, Jim and I strolled on the sidewalk in front of John and Karen’s house for the second weekend in a row. When Jim’s friends learned he was traveling from Houston to Austin, to go on a second date, they graciously offered their spare bedroom again, as accommodations. And when Karen heard that this time Jim was bringing little Derek, she volunteered to watch him so Jim and I could spend some time alone. She and John were thrilled Jim and I had met one another. They’d been as shocked as Jim by his ex-wife Pam’s decision to divorce him.

I truly enjoyed spending time with little Derek and was more smitten by his daddy than I cared to admit. I didn’t dare hope Jim might feel the same way. That wasn’t how things worked in my world. Usually, when I liked a guy, he couldn’t get away fast enough.

“I think things went well tonight, don’t you?” I made small talk to hide my conflicted emotions. “In spite of old Chuckie.” I giggled at the memory. “Maybe we should have crawled under the table with Derek.”

Jim took my hand in his. “Nah, I think Derek liked hugging your legs.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, and I was glad it was dark outside.

Our fingers were entwined, and Jim caressed the back of my hand with his thumb. “And to answer your question,” he winked, “I’d say things are going very well.”

“Stop. You know I’m talking about Derek. I was afraid he wouldn’t like me.”

Jim’s eyes danced as he smiled the impish grin I’d already come to adore. He leaned over to brush a light kiss on my cheek. “How could he not like you?”

We finished our walk and then leaned against Jim’s car, still holding hands, each lost in our own thoughts. The silence was comfortable and I marveled that I had only known Jim for barely a week. It seemed as if we’d known each other forever.

I am so glad Candie can’t take no for an answer.

VVV

Candie was a good friend, and she was relentless. When she had an idea in her head, she wouldn’t let go; it was sort of like playing tug-of-war with a bulldog. Either you surrendered to Candie’s brilliance, or you played tug forever. I don’t know how many times she and I’d had this same conversation over the preceding six months.

“Debbie, I’m so serious. Jim is perfect for you. I really want you two to go out. He’s sweet. His ex-wife—”

“No,” I said in my sternest voice, so she’d know I meant business. “Candie, you know I hate blind dates. Remember that skinny guy with the ‘fro, the one who resembled a walking Q-tip? He was my last blind date, thank you.” I shuddered at the memory of that never-ending night.

“Oh, c’mon. Jim is dif—”

“I know. I know. Jim is different. He’s also divorced. That’s two strikes against him.”

“That’s not fair.” Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout.

I hated it when she tried to wheedle me, and I rolled my eyes. “Look, I promised myself I wouldn’t ever date another divorced man. They’re all confused. They have no idea what they want from life, except to prove to themselves that they’re still all that.”

Candie sighed. “I know you’ve had some bad experiences, but—”

That is an understatement. I have been burnt so many times, I still smell the smoke. Single . . . divorced . . . they all know how to rip my heart out. Why try again?

“Look, all I know is that I’m twenty-three years old, and I do not have the patience to deal with yet another guy on the rebound. In fact, I’m really ready to swear off all men. They’re all nuts.”

“Jim is different, Debbie. Be stubborn if you want, it’s your loss.”

“From what you told me, it hasn’t even been a year since he and his wife separated. How could he be over everything that quickly?”

“I’m telling you, Jim isn’t like the other guys you’ve been with. Why can’t you just trust me? He didn’t deserve to be treated the way his ex- treated him. He’s a really decent guy, and I am positive you two will hit it off.”

Out of pure exhaustion, I gave in. I mean it really wasn’t rocket science – Candie would drive me crazy until I did what she wanted, so I agreed to one date with Jim. He lived in Houston. I lived in Austin. There was little likelihood that we’d ever see one another again. And now Candie could stop hounding me.

She was ecstatic when I said yes. She couldn’t call Jim fast enough to make the arrangements. The plan was that he and I would double with her and her boyfriend. The date was set for the following Friday.

The day before the big event, Candie called me.

“Debbie?” she croaked into the phone.

“Yes?” I answered warily. I steeled myself for the announcement. Candie was very health conscious. She was working toward a science degree, and her studies in microbiology and chemistry kept her well informed – sometimes too well – about all the latest illnesses and diseases plaguing mankind. It was not unusual for her to develop symptoms that forced us to change our plans.

“I can’d make it tomorrow nighd. I just got back from the doctor’s, and I have strep throat. I’m rudding fever, I’m contagious, and I feel like I’m dying.” She cleared her throat and blew her nose into the phone for emphasis.

Wow, she really is sick. She sounded pitiful, puny and whiny; she even had a doctor’s note . . . But there was no way – absolutely no way – I was going on this blind date by myself.

“If you don’t die, I will kill you.” I sounded as menacing as I knew how. “Girl, you call Jim and cancel this date. I mean it. I didn’t want to go in the first place, I told you that.”

“You are so over-reacting. Id’s no big deal. You guys will have fun. Besides, if you don’d go now, we’ll have to reschedule. You know I won’t let you out of it, now that you finally said yes.”

That girl could be maddening sometimes.

But I could be just as stubborn as she could. “Nope. Not going alone. You just call and cancel. We’ll have to reschedule.”

And maybe she’ll forget.

Candie reluctantly agreed to call Jim.

I was studying for an upcoming test, trying not to think about it all, when she called back early Friday morning. She sounded no better than she had the day before.

“Debbie, I tried to call. I had to leave a message, but I don’d know if he got it or not,” she apologized.

I wonder if she really tried to call . . . I’m sure he’ll get her message. It will all work out.

“Peachy. Thanks.”

I think.

My stomach gave a nervous lurch when the phone rang late that afternoon. What if it’s him? What if he didn’t get Candie’s message? What if he thinks we are still going out tonight? If there was caller ID in 1983, my family surely didn’t have it.

“Hello?” I hoped my voice wasn’t shaking like my hand on the receiver.

“Hi, this is Jim. Is this Debbie?” His voice was warm and disarming.

“Oh . . . this is . . . I mean—” I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Yes, hi, this is Debbie.” I was certain he could see my fiery cheeks through the phone. “Did you get a message from Candie?”

He chuckled. “Yes, I got Candie’s message. It seems our date’s been canceled.”

I had no idea what to say.

“Anyhow,” he went on when I didn’t comment, “I haven’t seen John and Karen in a long time, so I decided to come anyways. I figured if you didn’t want to go out, I’d still at least see them. Then I thought, since I was already here, I’d go ahead and call . . . Get to know you a little bit . . . see what happens.”

“Oh . . . Who are John and Karen?” I stifled an urge to groan. I can’t believe this is happening. What do I say to a total stranger?

“The people I’m staying with. Pam and I used to—” Jim stopped himself. “I’m sorry. You don’t know all these people. Pam’s my ex-wife. We used to live next door to John and Karen, when we lived here in Austin,” he explained.

The possibility of our blind date made the exchange awkward initially, but in no time we chatted like old friends. When I glanced at the clock what seemed a short time later, four hours had passed.

“Oh, my goodness. I had no idea we’d been on the phone this long. I’m sorry to have kept you from your friends for such a long time. I should let you go and spend some time with them.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So, do you think you’d like to go out tomorrow?” For just a second, he sounded like a school boy making his first date.

“I’d like that.” I smiled sincerely into the phone.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Oh . . . wait. I forgot. I’m supposed to give blood at church tomorrow, at four. I have no idea how long it will take or how I’ll feel afterwards. I’ve never given blood before.” I bet he thinks I’m making this up.

“Wow. Most people just give money.”

Again, I didn’t know what to say. Is he making fun of me?

He chuckled into the silence. “Hey, you know I’m just kidding, right? That’s fine. How about lunch instead? I can pick you up at eleven-thirty, if that works for you.”

“That’ll be great.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you then.”

VVV

The doorbell rang. I ignored the snicker of my fourteen-year-old sister, Melissa, and went to answer it.

“Thought you weren’t going on any blind date,” she teased.

“Hush.” I waved my hand at her.

I opened the door to gaze into dancing amber eyes, contrasted by thick black, wavy hair. Only his mustache broke the smile between his eyes and his mouth. When he spoke, there was that warm voice I remembered from last night. Again, I was totally disarmed.

He was very tall, and I couldn’t help but think that his height made me feel safe and protected as we walked to his car.

I wasn’t prepared for these feelings. My plan was to get the whole ordeal over, and I reminded myself that I was only going through with this date to get Candie off my back. I wasn’t supposed to like Jim or to hope he liked me in return. This vulnerability caught me off guard and made me nervous.

“I thought we’d go to Bennigan’s. They have a good variety of food, so I figured it was a safe choice,” Jim said.

“Oh, that’s fine.” How does he do that? He seems so at ease.

“And it’s close to your house, so I will get you back in plenty of time to give blood.”

“Okay.”

The twenty-minute drive was endless as I searched for something to talk about. How on earth did we talk for four hours last night?

Jim held open the door for me as I stepped into the restaurant.

“Table for two?” The hostess consulted her chart, marked off a table, grabbed a couple menus, and led us to a small table.

Once seated, I buried my face in the menu. I hated choosing what to eat on a first date. Guess I really don’t have to worry about making a good impression. This is our first and last date. And that’s just how I planned it, so what is my problem?

Jim apparently already knew what he wanted, because he wasn’t even looking at his menu. Instead, he was studying me, which made me even more nervous.

Okay, let’s see . . . What do I want? I wanted to hide under the table. I could feel Jim’s eyes on me, and I squirmed in my seat. I wish he’d quit staring at me.

Food. Pay attention to the food. Choose something. The burgers and fries looked tempting. Nah, he’ll think I’m a big porker. Seafood . . . or pasta maybe? No, I’ll look like an even bigger pig, ordering a huge meal for lunch.

I didn’t want to order something too expensive. He’ll think I think he makes the big bucks.

“It’s hard to pick. What are you having?” That will narrow down a price range at least.

“I’m going to get the Monte Cristo sandwich. It has ham and turkey, with Swiss and American cheese. They batter it and fry it. There’s powdered sugar on top, and they serve it with this sauce you can dip it in. It’s really good. You should try it.” His eyes twinkled as he described the sandwich.

I grinned. “Sounds like you’ve had it before.”

“I have, and like I said, it’s good. Trust me.”

Life is so unfair. Guys can eat anything and not get fat.

“I think I’ll get a salad.” Jim continued his scrutiny of me while I reviewed the choices. Let’s see . . . the Kilkenny’s Country Chicken Salad looks good. Hand-breaded, crisp fried chicken generously sliced and placed over garden greens, diced eggs, shredded Colby, tomatoes, bacon and a Smoky Honey Dijon dressing. Why does everything have to be fried? Maybe the Grilled Chicken Caesar instead . . . Slices of grilled, mesquite-smoked chicken breast over romaine lettuce. Tossed in a classic Caesar dressing and topped with grated Parmesan cheese and croutons. But I’d really rather a garden salad than a Caesar. Oh, I can get the country chicken salad with grilled chicken. Good, less calories. No seeds or broccoli to get stuck in my teeth. We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen. The country chicken salad it is.

I finished my deliberations and glanced up to find both the waitress and Jim gazing at me. My face grew warm and perspiration beaded at my temples. “I’ll have the Kilkenny’s Country Chicken Salad with grilled chicken, please.”

“What would you like to drink with that?” the waitress asked.

“A diet Coke, please.”

“And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the Monte Cristo sandwich. Do you have sweet tea?”

“No, sir, it’s unsweetened. I can bring sugar.”

“That’s okay. Can you bring me lemonade instead? Make it half lemonade and half Sprite.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry we don’t have the sweet tea.”

“That’s okay. You need to tell your manager that y’all need to get brewed sweet tea, though. They have it in Mississippi and Alabama. We ought to have it in Texas, too.” Jim’s eyes twinkled as he kidded the waitress. She walked away with our orders and a smile. He had that effect on people.

“You’ve been to Mississippi and Alabama?” I asked.

“Pam and I lived in Mississippi when Derek was born. And my aunt – my dad’s sister – and her kids live in Alabama.”

“That’s right, we talked about that last night.”

The clatter of silverware against plates, the bustle of busy waiters and waitresses, and the quiet din of surrounding conversations faded into the background. My nervousness melted away, and we resumed our discourse from the night before.

“So you’re in court reporting school. What made you choose that?”

“Well, I like to eat.” I giggled. “See, I have a bachelor’s degree in Psychology from UT, but I didn’t want to go on for my masters.¹ The undergraduate degree by itself gives me a whopping earning potential of six dollars an hour. After paying rent – when I’m not living at home – I can pay my car note or buy groceries, but not both.”

“I see. You have a point. Eating is nice.”

The merriment in his eyes turned to a huge grin when I laughed and blurted, “I can tell you enjoy it.”

“Does court reporting pay well?”

“It’s supposed to.”

The waitress leaned between us, placing the Monte Cristo in front of Jim. Then she placed a mountain of salad in front of me.

My face colored. “Wow. That is huge.”

“It looks good . . . but not as good as my sandwich.” Jim winked.

I loved how he knew just what to say and when to say it, how he made me feel comfortable. Well, don’t get used to it. If it seems too good to be true, it is. I’ve learned that over the years. The good guys don’t hang around. I always manage to screw things up.

Jim wanted to know everything about me. “So, you said you have a couple jobs?”

Between bites, I told him about them.

“I work for the Brown Schools, at their transitional treatment center. That’s a fancy way to describe a halfway house that aids emotionally disturbed residents to make the transition from institutionalization to independent community life. I got into that job while I was getting my psychology degree. I thought it would look good on a resume.”

Jim drained his drink. The waitress was there, as if on cue. “Can I get you a refill, sir?”

“Okay. Remember, it’s half lemonade and half Sprite . . . because you don’t have sweet tea.” He teased her, but his eyes were on me.

“Yes, sir.” She giggled and wiggled off.

Jim focused fully on me again. “You also work for a court reporting firm. How does that work? You aren’t a court reporter yet, are you?”

I could get used to this treatment. “No, I’m still in school, but my work with the firm allows me to get experience that will help prepare me for my future job environment. I’m a go-fer. You know . . . ‘go for’ this and ‘go for’ that. I run errands, deliver transcripts, serve subpoenas, clean the bathrooms . . . In general, I do the work the reporters don’t want to do.”

“Oh, I get it. Well, you’re a busy lady and a pretty little gopher.” He winked again.

My heart beat a little faster, and I wanted to fan my hot face. “Enough about me.” A subject change was in order. “Tell me about your job.”

Unlike many men I’d dated, Jim didn’t seem to need to focus attention on himself. “Not much to tell. I manage a Cloth World store in Houston. I started working for them as a stock boy in San Antonio, while I was still in high school. I worked my way into management. I was an assistant manager for several stores until I got my own store.”

“Did you ever go to college?”

“No. My dad hoped I’d go to the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, but I wasn’t into school. I did one semester at SAC after high school, and I hated it.”

“SAC?”

“San Antonio College.”

While we chatted, I kept an eye on the clock. I didn’t want to be late for the blood drive.

Jim had mentioned several places – Corpus Christi, San Antonio, Austin, and Houston. And he’d mentioned living in Mississippi when Derek was born.

“You’ve lived in several different places. Was that because of your work?”

“Yes. When you’re a new manager, they like to send you to open up new locations. I think that’s what Pam hated most, all the moving.”

Time flew quickly and we barely made it to the bloodmobile on time. Originally, I’d planned to make this a solo stop. Flushed from rushing, Jim and I both climbed the steps to the bus.

The chubby little nurse consulted her list and smiled at me. “You must be Debbie Whittaker. We’re all ready for you. Just fill out this card for me, if you will, please.”

She looked at Jim. “I’m sorry. Everyone donating in this time slot has arrived. What’s your name?”

“The name’s Jim . . . Jim Sullivan.” He looked pale. “I don’t do needles. I’m just here with Debbie.”

She nodded and smiled knowingly.

When I handed her my card, she instructed me to lie down on the table nearest her.

Turning to Jim, she said, “You can just come over here and let your little honey squeeze your hand while we take the donation. That’ll be much nicer for her than squeezing this old rubber ball.”

My face flamed with embarrassment. Oh my goodness! What in the world is Jim thinking?

He told me later that all he thought was how thankful he was to not be the one with the needle stuck in his arm.

VVV

My dreaded blind date turned into a marathon I didn’t want to end. After eating lunch, and giving blood, we went out to dinner, saw a movie, went dancing, and talked long into the wee hours of the morning. While watching the movie, Jim reached for my hand and held it again. Neither of us missed the chubby little nurse.

We never ran out of things to say. We were eager to know everything about each other.

In our wee-hours conversation, Jim turned to me and said, “Well, I guess I should tell you everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah, like what happened between Pam and me . . . about my son Derek . . . things like that.”

He told me how he and Pam had married right after high school. The marriage was only seven years old when one day Pam turned to him and said, “I don’t want to be married anymore.”

He asked her the obvious questions: “What happened? What’s wrong? What about Derek? He’s just a baby.”

“I just want my freedom, and I can take care of Derek myself.”

Jim suggested marriage counseling. Pam wasn’t interested. She just wanted out.

She had taken a job at a bank when they moved to Houston, met some other young people, and apparently now longed for the young single’s life she missed out on by getting married at the tender age of seventeen.

She hadn’t been ready for children when Derek came along. She loved him dearly and would never change things, but she didn’t want the rest of the package. Being a married woman living in middle-class suburbia, settled and driving a minivan, held no appeal for her. She wanted a different life.

Jim, on the other hand, enjoyed being married. His own parents, James, Sr. and Mary, had been happily married for thirty years. He was an only child, and he wanted a big family of his own. He knew marriage wasn’t always easy, but he also knew that anything worth having was also worth fighting for. His parents had taught him that in their years together. To him, marriage made life better.

As Jim shared, I reflected on my own ideas about marriage and relationships. I was disenchanted with the dating game. Years of disappointment and rejection had exacted a toll on my optimism. I dated my first serious boyfriend, Kevin, for over three years, and we discussed a future together many times. We even talked about how many kids we wanted. I had no qualms about losing my virginity to him when we were almost eighteen; after all, he was to be my future husband. When he told me later he wanted to break up because I “knew him too well,” I was confused. Wasn’t that the point? I wondered. I saw myself as damaged goods after that. I made more choices that caused me hurt and pain and eventually made trusting in relationships almost impossible. Still, I never let go of my belief that there was a knight in shining armor out there somewhere with my name on him.

My parents had weathered some tough times in their own marriage. Dad had been nineteen for only three months and Mom barely eighteen, when they married. Four miscarriages, financial struggles, and youthful immaturity conspired against them during their early years. They were fifteen years into their marriage when Mom began a decade-long battle with alcoholism which threatened to split them up. However, in the end, these circumstances served only to strengthen, rather than sour, their commitment to one another. Their example made me believe in marriage, in spite of my recent disillusionment with relationships. Not only did I have faith in the institution of marriage, I was of the firm belief that my life wouldn’t truly begin until I was in a marriage of my own. I fancied the idea that the love of a man would complete me and give me the security I’d been seeking.

VVV

At my front door, Jim gave me a tender kiss good night. Before leaving, he asked, “Would you like to meet Derek next weekend?”

“You really want to come all the way back to Austin next weekend?”

“Well, that’s where you’ll be, so unless you’re planning to be in Houston . . . .”

“Sorry . . . no plans for a trip to Houston on my horizon.” Unless you ask me.

Jim smiled. “Well, I guess I have to come to Austin then, if you’re going to meet him.”

Is he really interested enough to make that trip two weekends in a row?

Jim was waiting for an answer, so I took a deep breath and said, “I’d like to see you again, and I’d love to meet your son. It makes me sad, Jim, all you’ve been through.”

He looked directly in my eyes. “Well, it’s okay, because now I’ve met you.”

I stared back. Could he be the one I’ve been waiting for?

Worth Every Tear, Chapter One

2012-10-24T05:00:00.000-05:00

As promised, here is the first chapter of Worth Every Tear. This is our family's story. Our names were changed in the book. Please take a minute to jot your thoughts, comments, or questions when you finish reading. It is our hope to become a group of parents who can bless and support one another here on this blog, to know we are not alone in the boat.

If you want to read ahead, you can check out purchase options by clicking on the link above.

Before you begin reading, I'd like to leave you with this prayer: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit" (Romans 15:13).

God bless you,
Cheri

Prologue

May 1999

Derek lay on his bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling fan above his head. Its rotation held his glassy gaze captive, and he gave no indication that he realized Jim and I had entered the room.

“Derek?” Jim queried.

The boy grunted, his eyes never leaving the fan.

His dad continued. “Derek, Mom and I want to talk to you.”

“What?” The single word was laden with hurtful indifference.

“Why weren't you at youth group?” I tried.

“I went to the movies. What’s the big deal?”

The fight in me rose to the challenge in his voice. “The big deal,” I retorted sharply, “is that I locked my keys in the car and needed a house key. When I called the church to have you bring yours to me, you weren't where you were supposed to be.”

The accusation hung in the air between us, but Derek made no response.

Jim cleared his throat. “Why did you skip youth group to go to the movies?”

“I needed to think, all right?” His tone was clipped. He made no effort to disguise his irritation with us or to make eye contact.

This conversation was clearly headed where they all seemed to end up these days – nowhere.

When Derek turned eighteen, he had become a total stranger to his dad and me. He asked Jim to co-sign for a brand new pickup truck for his birthday, based on the fact that he had a reliable job. Jim said no, reminding him that he made only minimum wage. Derek had been unable to see the logic in Jim’s decision. Determined, he’d come up with an alternate plan: His girlfriend’s parents were willing to co-sign for the truck; would we mind? Yes, we minded. We already felt Derek and his girlfriend Sara were rushing things in their relationship, and we weren't about to add a financial component to the mix. Derek couldn't understand our logic in these thoughts either.

Once affable and easy-going, Derek had been angry and resentful for months. We’d failed to meet his expectations. He knew he was right, and that justified his judgment against us.

Suddenly bone-tired, I stepped out of the ring. I couldn't fight anymore. “What do you want from us, Derek?”

The silence was deafening, broken only by the whir of the fan. Jim and I studied our son, who hadn't moved a muscle during our exchange – the defiant set of his mouth, his glassy-eyed stare. I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

“Derek, are you doing drugs?”

“No! I can’t believe you would even ask me that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “With the way you’re acting, what else are we to think? What do we have to do to make things work between us? We cannot keep going the way we are now.”

“I don’t want any rules,” he mumbled.

“What exactly do you mean?” Jim asked.

“I don’t want any curfews, don’t want to have to call and check in. I’m eighteen years old.” Apparently he was insulted by the basic courtesies we required of him.

Jim was quiet for several minutes. “Well, those are still the rules, son. I am a grown man, and I have to follow rules. Everyone has rules. And there are three other children in our home, watching every move you make. Your younger brother and both your little sisters look up to you, Derek. They want to be like you. We must have rules in our home. And if you are going to live here, you will live by our rules.”

Jim reached over and grabbed my hand. “C'mon, Debbie.” We left the room to give Derek space to digest his dad’s words. Further debate would accomplish nothing.

A couple hours later, Jim was helping me learn how to use some new software on the computer when I thought I heard a car door. I cocked my head to listen, but heard nothing more, so I turned my attention back to Jim and the computer monitor.

Then our twelve-year-old thundered down the stairs and into the living room. We were accustomed to Jacob’s high-energy – he had walked for only about a week when he was a year old, and he had been running ever since. Barely looking away from the screen, I said, “Hi, Jacob.”

“Where’s Derek going?”

Just then, we heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

Jacob, Jim, and I ran to the front window and watched as Derek’s taillights receded down our country driveway. Instinctively, I knew this was no ordinary outing.

There was a short note on Derek’s bed. In it he told us that it was time for him to go. He thanked us for everything, like a visiting relative, and left no indication of where he was going or when we might hear from him again.

Jim’s final words in Derek’s room earlier that evening had been strong, intended to make Derek think, to jar him to his senses. Derek, however, had heard something else entirely: He had heard an ultimatum, a dismissal. He was no longer willing to live by our rules, so his only choice was to live elsewhere.

I stood holding the note, momentarily mute. How could this be happening? We did everything right. We taught the kids about Christ. We took them to church, Sunday school, youth group. What would people think? This was the kind of thing that happened to other parents . . . The kind of thing that had happened to my parents . . . not the kind of thing that would happen to me.

Ashamed of the mess I’d made of my own youth, when I’d come to Christ at the age of twenty-five, I’d vowed to do a better job with my future than I’d done with my past. God had given me a second chance, and He wasn't going to be sorry.

What on earth had happened? What was I supposed to do now? I felt my plan unraveling.

I finally found my voice. “Go after him,” I demanded of Jim. “You can’t let him go.”

“Thanks,” Jim said as hung up the phone. He’d been talking to our pastor.

He shook his head resolutely, sadly. “No, Debbie, I won’t chase him down. He’s eighteen. If he doesn't want to be here, we can’t force him. I called for prayer.”

“What?” I shrieked. “Are you out of your mind? Go after him. Stop him.” I was sobbing now. Pride, anger, shame – all else faded as sorrow claimed her territory.

Derek was gone.

For now we see in a mirror dimly,

But then face to face;

Now I know in part,

But then I will know fully

Just as I also have been fully known.

1 Corinthians 13:12 NASB

Chapter One—Disturbing Discoveries

June 2006

I stood in front of Jacob’s closed bedroom door, balancing the laundry basket on one hip. Slightly winded from having toted it up the stairs, I took a deep breath and savored the scent of the freshly folded clothes. I took a moment to pray outside the door. The ritual was familiar. I prayed often, asking God to fix things, though I wasn't sure exactly what needed fixing. My husband Jim and I had tried all sorts of ways to connect with Jacob, but he remained distant and self-absorbed, a typical teenager. Prayer helped keep discouragement at bay and gave me energy to implement each new tack Jim and I hatched up to bridge the gap between our son and us. Everything will be okay. The thought had become my mantra.

My hand on the doorknob, I hesitated. Why do I feel like an intruder in my own home? I usually left Jacob’s things at the base of the stairs for him to grab on his way up, but today I’d decided to do him a favor and put away his laundry. It was a peace offering of sorts. I drew another deep breath, and the sweet smell of the clothes brought renewed hope to my heart. Everything will be okay. I twisted the knob and the door obediently swung open. I froze just inside the doorway. The contrast between the smell of the freshly laundered clothes and the nasty odor inside Jacob’s room hit me hard. I was already sorry I’d stepped inside.

The fetid air was the kind of stench I would expect to find in a dilapidated basement, not in the second-story bedroom of my nineteen-year-old son. I grimaced, pondering the origin of the funk. Sheets badly in need of a visit to the washing machine, dust grown thick enough to write in, dirty socks – these were but a few of the ideas I conjured. I shook my head to stop the thoughts – some things were better left a mystery – and reminded myself that I’d surrendered this territory more than three years ago, having grown weary of the constant battle to try and force Jacob to keep the room clean. We had adopted a closed-door policy to preserve family peace. If he didn't mind living like a pig, and I didn't have to see it, problem solved. A mother must pick her battles. There were more important issues in Jacob’s life these days . . . questions in need of answers . . . answers in need of questions.

I steeled myself and moved into my son’s inner sanctum, stepping over an open spiral notebook on the floor by the door. I took a quick survey of the littered room. Glasses with brown, gooey residue in the bottom . . . So that’s where all my glasses are. That boy drinks too much Coke. Discarded paper plates, some with a few Totino’s Pizza Rolls remaining – one even still speared on the fork, as if Jacob had forgotten mid-bite what he was doing. Boy, those things are greasy. Hope the dog doesn't come up here. Candy wrappers, gum wrappers . . . Two half-eaten bags of chips, still open and now stale. Ugh. Refusing to argue over this mess may keep things more peaceful, but I sure hope the Health Department never drops by. Clothing – stacked on chairs, piled in the middle of the floor, and draped over doorknobs and stereo speakers – drew my attention from the dirty dishes and discarded food. So what does he keep inside his dresser, I wondered.

Jacob had requested to swap his queen-sized bed for a sleeper sofa a couple years earlier. He said he wanted his bedroom to be like a living room when his friends came over, a place they could congregate and play their music and video games without worrying about volume or parental squawking. I shook my head. I personally did not understand how this décor could be inviting. Why not just hang out at the local dump? I sighed and cautiously waded through couch cushions and debris to put away the clean clothes I’d brought upstairs.

My task finished, I turned to make my escape. Once again, I spied the open notebook on the floor. Curiosity gripped me. No, no, no . . . I will not violate his privacy.

To distract myself, I cleaned up some of the mess. I tossed trash into an empty Walmart bag I found on the floor and piled dirty dishes into a stack. I attempted to sort dirty clothes from clean ones, and then stuffed the whole menagerie into the now-empty laundry basket for transport downstairs. I glanced around the room again. That’s a little better. Who is this stranger living in my upstairs? Derek never let his room get like this. He was always so neat.

I stood in the middle of Jacob’s room and let my mind drift back to when his older brother, our oldest son Derek, now twenty-five, had lived at home. Like his dad Jim, he’d kept his room in order, a place for everything, everything in its place. Obviously, Jacob had not inherited his sloppy tendencies from my husband. As a mom, I appreciated Derek’s efforts, and his habits had always impressed me, since I myself was an individual who tended to be less orderly. I smiled, remembering how Jim had had to adjust to the cluttered chaos that defined my life when we first married. At least it was clean clutter, not like the contents of the laundry basket I now held.
Derek had also been quick to help his dad with the yard work. He didn't need to be asked. If the yard needed to be cut, he jumped on the lawn mower and got the job done. Not so with Jacob. The grass could be tall enough to tickle his backside when he waded through it, and he still didn't appear to notice. He had even been known to stop his dad in the middle of mowing to ask for money or for permission to do something, without so much as offering to lend his dad a hand with the yard work. I’d asked Jim once why he didn't force Jacob to help him. It was then I learned that Jim had adopted a philosophy similar to my own. Dads have to choose their battles, and there are more pressing issues than yard work. He’d gone on to remind me that while he toiled in the yard under the hot Louisiana sunshine, he thanked God that Jacob was still at home.

My heart twisted in my chest at the memory of that fateful night seven years earlier, when Derek had driven out of our lives. He was eighteen then and Jacob only twelve. Our family had been devastated. Jim and I promised each other that we would never let something like that happen again – ever. We gave our son to God in prayer.

In January 2005, God answered. Derek was twenty-four and Jacob two months shy of his eighteenth birthday, when Derek called and asked to come back home. The school of hard knocks had taught him some painful lessons in the six years he’d been away from home. He said he wanted to make things right with his family, and we rejoiced. He came and lived at home for a few weeks and then settled into his own place in a neighboring town, just minutes away. Shortly thereafter, in March, he and Sara were remarried – they had initially married the year after Derek left home, a marriage which ended in divorce after three and a half years. With their renewed union, restoration had truly come full circle.

VVV

The dog barked downstairs, and I was jarred back to the present. I’d better get a move on, if I want to get this house cleaned up. I moved for the second time that morning to step over the still-open spiral notebook and out the door. Again it caught my eye as it lay there in all its innocence, beckoning my curiosity.

What could it hurt to peek? Maybe I will understand Jacob better if I read it. Maybe it will give me a clue as to what he’s thinking.

I set aside the laundry basket and grabbed the notebook. I glanced around furtively, even though I knew I was alone. Two sentences later, I forgot to feel guilty and sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged, to read the confessions of my son’s heart. Page after page, I absorbed the words, as they swam in and out of focus through the tears that pooled in my eyes. My face heated, and my throat closed up. My heart pounded, I could hear it in my ears. I wanted to put the notebook down, but I couldn't.

That day I learned things no mom wants to know about her little boy. I’d given in to temptation, gone where I didn’t belong, and gotten exactly what I deserved. The truth I’d so diligently hidden from was now in front of me in black and white. I finally had answers, but they brought no comfort. In fact, those answers generated more questions. Jacob had succumbed to the temptations of drug use, among other things. Why? Could the choice have been prevented? How bad were things, really? Didn't all kids experiment with drugs?

I reminded myself that Jim and I had at least kept our promise to each other. Jacob, unlike his brother, had chosen to remain at home. Didn’t that prove we were good parents? And hadn't Derek returned, with a desire to make things right between us? We had both sons again.

Everything I read disturbed me, but one particular item hooked my heart. Hurricane Katrina struck the gulf coast in August 2005, the same year Derek returned home. Our entire family evacuated to Texas – Jim, the kids, and me, together with Derek and Sara, who had recently learned they were pregnant with twins. While Jim and I prayed for neighbors and friends we were unable to contact and worried about how our own home had weathered the storm, the little book revealed that Derek and Jacob had spent their time in Texas in search of weed. People’s lives had been torn asunder, and the main issue on the minds of those two overgrown brats was how to score some marijuana.

I couldn’t believe it. Had Jim and I really raised our boys to be that self-centered, uncaring, and irresponsible? Was Derek’s return home to make things right with us just an enormous lie?

Derek had indeed reestablished contact with us, and Jacob still lived at home, shared the same space and breathed the same air. Yet the truth of the matter was this: Somewhere along life’s highway, we’d lost both our sons. The emotional connection between them and us had somehow short-circuited. We were perfect strangers. Stunned, I wondered, How did this happen? How did this happen – twice?

My conscience chided me. I should never have read Jacob’s personal thoughts. Yes, and sons shouldn’t treat their parents like ours have treated us, I retorted. I felt sorry for myself. I was both the betrayer and the betrayed. How could I tell Jim? Would I tell Jim? Should I confront Jacob? What about Derek?

I slapped the notebook closed, desperate to shut off my mind and retreat into a cocoon of denial. I rose on unsteady legs, retrieved the laundry basket, and slunk from the room and down the stairs. My emotions anesthetized, I attacked the dirt in my home, as if I could create purity of circumstance from the outside in.

VVV

The temperature rose outside as the afternoon sun climbed in the sky. The temperature was rising inside too. As a sleeping limb wakens with painful prickles, small waves of emotion washed over me as my stupor wore off. There had been other lies, other indiscretions, things I’d chosen to ignore over the past eighteen months since Derek had made the effort to be part of our family again. Restoration was important, and I hadn’t wanted to hinder the process by refusing to let go of the past.

For me, cleaning was often therapeutic, but not today. The tidal wave hit as I scrubbed the bathroom. I drenched the mirror in Windex and stared into my own distorted, hate-filled eyes. Holding a wad of paper towels, I listened as a torrent of venomous words spewed forth from my own mouth, while other vicious thoughts ricocheted around in my head.

I hate that little b------, God. He has done nothing but cause us pain. He has hurt us so much, and now this . . . How dare that little snot encourage Jacob to use marijuana? How dare he?

“Yeah, that’s right,” I snarled at an invisible Derek. “You made a great big show of coming back home last year, after being gone for six years. ‘You don’t know what God has been showing me, how He told me that I need to get things right with my dad again.’” My reflection twisted into an ugly sneer. That boy had known exactly what to say to soften Jim and me.

I stifled a sob that threatened to break through the protective wall of anger around my broken heart. I will never let him hurt me again. I refused to give in to sorrow.

“Sure . . . you acted like you wanted to come home and make things right, to be restored to your family. We prayed for years for you to come home, so of course we believed your lies.”

I recalled a conversation I’d had a year earlier with my daughter-in-law Sara. I’d tucked it away, securely sandwiched between pages of better memories of Derek, as if I could hide it from my heart. Just as the pages of Jacob’s notebook had revealed things that tore my world apart, this page now bobbed on the surface of the tidal wave of emotion that carried me along in its wake.

The bathroom I stood in, along with my mirrored face, faded away as I relived our talk. I was back in our daughter Amanda’s room, where I’d secluded myself for privacy. I propped myself against the hope chest while Sara and I talked on the phone. She was concerned about Derek. They’d been married this time for three months, and as Father’s Day approached, tension between them had mounted.

“Derek is so irritable lately,” Sara confided. “I realize Father’s Day is very difficult for him.”

I assumed she referred to a desire in Derek to feel more connected to Jim after the six-year separation between father and son. “Derek and Jim will be okay, Sara,” I comforted. “Things like this just take time.”

She hesitated, finally saying, “You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?” The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

She spoke softly. “I assumed Derek would have told you.”

“Told me what?” My stomach knotted as I anticipated what she would say next.

She remained silent, and I encouraged her to talk to me. “It’s okay,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “Go ahead and spit it out, Sara. I’m sure the truth can’t be nearly as bad as my imagination.” I chewed on my bottom lip, waiting, afraid of what I might hear.

Finally, she cracked. “Derek lived with a girl named Liz after he and I got divorced.”

“We never met her, but Jim and I knew about Liz,” I confirmed.

When I said nothing more, Sara went on. “Liz got pregnant while she and Derek were together.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay . . . that I didn’t know.” I had to work at not clenching my teeth.

“Derek had been calling me, and Liz found out. She told him she knew we were talking, and then she accused him of still having feelings for me.”

Sara paused, and I figured she must be gathering courage to continue. I waited quietly, holding my breath.

“Derek admitted to Liz that he did still have feelings for me, and she was furious. She aborted their baby to spite him. Then she broke up with him and told him he could come crawling back to me, since it was me he really wanted anyhow.”

This last confession tumbled out, words falling over each other as if they’d been pent up for far too long.

My breath rushed from my lungs as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. It was my turn to be silent. Sara’s revelation stunned me and left me torn with ambivalence. I was anguished for Derek. He’d chosen to walk out from under the umbrella of our authority and protection as parents when he was eighteen, and there would be consequences, lifelong regret, over many of the choices he made while enjoying his freedom. I thought how he must feel terrible – guilty, afraid, alone. He obviously didn’t trust his relationship with Jim and me enough to be honest with us, which broke my heart, but I was glad he at least had the courage to be honest with Sara.

All compassion ended, however, when I considered that Derek hadn’t even told Jim and me about our future grandchild. No, we’d had to find that out through Sara. Why couldn’t he have told us himself? Because we’re just his parents, that’s why. He doesn’t tell us anything, I fumed in answer to my own question.

My bathroom tirade continued, fueled now by self-righteousness. More lies! This was not just Derek’s loss! He robbed us. That baby would have been our grandchild. Derek couldn’t know that Jim and I had even discussed the possibility of adoption. Kayla, our youngest, had been thirteen, and we’d wanted more children. Could we have been part of a solution for Derek’s dilemma? Well, we’ll never know, will we? Yet again, he’d shut us out of his life and out of his heart. Rejection smothered all sorrow – however momentary – I’d felt for Derek. Anger was easier.

The agonized eyes in the face – my face – which stared back at me from the mirror looked like something one might see in a fun house. Windex had run all down the glass, distorting the image therein. Then I noticed the paper towels, still wadded in my hand. As if I could erase the pain, I scrubbed the mirror with vengeance. More poisonous words poured from me, like puss from an infected wound.

“So Liz aborted your baby in a fit of anger, because she realized you were still in love with Sara. You neglected to tell us that little fact, didn’t you, Derek? Might’ve been nice to know.”

Finished with the mirror, I flung the soiled paper towels to the floor at my feet. “Just like you forgot to tell us that the real reason you wanted to come home was to try and get back together with Sara, that we were just a place to live, and then co-signers for an apartment, until you could make that happen. You used us and then returned the favor by doing drugs with your little brother. What a jerk.”

To punctuate my thoughts, I slapped my hand hard on the countertop. Physical pain registered immediately. My palm throbbed against the hard surface, and I shook my head in astonishment. Had it really been seven years since the first time Derek left home? It could have been yesterday. The pain was brand new again, blinding and raw, as if I’d had one of my limbs amputated without anesthesia; it pulsated through my head and my heart without mercy. I was drowning in feelings of betrayal, rejection, failure, and judgment – both towards myself and towards Derek.

I can’t believe I trusted him again. How could he have done this? How could he?

I stared into the now sparkling mirror and those hate-filled eyes again. Shame radiated through me, heating my face. My stomach twisted. My body slid downward, coming to rest in a heap beside the pile of soggy paper towels.

“Oh, God . . . What am I doing? I’m having a shouting match with someone who isn’t even here. And I hate how I feel right now. I am so sorry.”

Sorrow finally had its way. Racking sobs shook my body. I cried until I didn’t think I could cry another tear, and then I cried some more.

“What am I going to do?” My voice was now a whimper, no longer the ranting lunatic I’d been a short time before.

Finally, I was fully spent. I thought I must know how a wounded animal felt when cornered. I was ready to lash out at anyone who attempted to get close to me, including God. I desperately needed Him to give me direction, but I was still ashamed, still hurting, and still very fearful of what He must think of me.

VVV

The day’s earlier rage had subsided into a dull, empty ache of failure. I tossed and turned in the bed. Jim was peaceful beside me, snoring like a buzz saw, unaware of the events of my day. I had not been able to bring myself to tell him. Ugliness had flooded my clean and orderly world that day. I had to catch my breath. I had to think. I had to find a way to stop it. It felt as if there was a rock in my chest where my heart used to be. I couldn’t get a good breath of air. Sadness and guilt threatened to suffocate me. I finally gave up on sleep and crept from our bed to sit in the living room, where I tried to sort out the confusion. I knew only one thing: Jim and I could no longer ignore the difficulties and challenges between our sons and us, placing blame and/or hoping for some sort of magical fix. It was time to deal with reality – no matter what.

The intensity of my recent emotional meltdown scared me. I didn’t want to go down this path again. When Derek left home the first time, I nursed bitterness and walked in a spirit of unforgiveness for nine months. Those feelings, like a cancer, had systematically destroyed me from the inside out and poisoned those I loved. Anger was the only outlet for my pain, and anyone who expressed empathy towards Derek felt my icy reserve. Eventually, I allowed God to pierce my hard heart, and I prayed with a measure of mercy for my son, instead of demanding God make him pay for how he’d hurt us. I thought I’d finally surrendered the bondage of my hate to God.

God, what happened? Why am I back here in this wretched desert place? I don’t feel like me. I am that old hate-driven woman again.

Parenting could be incredibly painful. No one warned me that my precious baby – the happy toddler, the exuberant child who wrapped himself around my heart and wrapped me around his little finger – would one day be able to make me doubt myself at every turn.

I longed to find solace in the Bible, but it remained unopened in my lap as I pondered the past. I hadn’t been the mother to Derek that I could have been. I had allowed hurt feelings and fear of rejection to restrict my love. When Derek left home, it was to assert his independence, but it felt like he was running out on us, almost like he was divorcing us. After all those years of trying to make a home where he felt welcome, he didn’t want us.

I let my mind drift to happier times. It hadn’t always been this way between us.

A New Season ~ A New Look!

2012-10-19T20:16:00.000-05:00

When Glass House Ministries was conceived in 2008, it was in response to a season in my family's life that caused my husband and I to doubt ourselves at every turn. Of our four precious children, two had seemingly gone berserk, and we wondered why we couldn't cut it as parents.

Our oldest son had left home nine years prior, in 1999, angry over disagreements we'd had. Though we were back on speaking terms, our relationship was only a shell of what it once was; the estrangement seemed to be insurmountable.

Our second son had recently graduated from Teen Challenge, a faith-based drug rehab, and started college. We were excited about his future, but we still questioned ourselves as to what we might have done to cause him to turn to drugs in the first place.

We were healing slowly as a family, and God had placed a desire in our hearts to come alongside other families dealing with the trials, pains, and pleasures of raising kids when things didn't always turn out as anticipated.

God helped me put our family's journey into a book, where others could read about our triumphs and our tragedies, where they could see that God is forever faithful, even when things go differently than planned. He gave me the name of the book ~ Worth Every Tear ~ one quiet morning after I'd read Psalm 126:5:

Those who sow in tears

Shall reap in joy.

Glass House Ministries has grown into a prayer ministry that has been an incredible blessing to us as intercessors and to those who have come alongside us to pray with us.

The past four years have seen our oldest son return to the Lord and to us. He and his family have found a church home, and relationships are good between us all. Our second son has graduated college, started graduate school, and married a wonderful young woman he met in the church he attended while at Teen Challenge ... in fact, they both still attend and serve on the worship team, she as a lead singer and worship director, and he on the sound board.

One thing that the past decade has taught us is that even if we don't yet see a "happy ending," God is still faithful and working behind the scenes to bring about the good plans He has for us. Jeremiah 29:11 tells us:

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord,

thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.

He works because we pray. It is our prayers that release His power in the lives of those whom we pray for. Some of the recipients of our prayers are more stubborn than others, and it takes longer than we think it will. We prayed for over two decades before we saw certain loved ones come to faith in Christ, and we are still praying for certain others. But God's promises are true, and he tells us in Galatians 6:9:

And let us not grow weary while doing good,

for in due season we shall reap

if we do not lose heart.

Now, four years since the inception of Glass House Ministries, I find that I am in a whole new season of life. All four of our children are now married. The last two will graduate from college very soon. Our oldest son has three beautiful children, six-year-old twin boys and a four-year-old princess daughter; and our oldest daughter has a precious son, almost nine months old. No longer am I a homeschooling mom of teens; in fact, I'm back in the work force as an administrative assistant (a glorified title for a secretary/receptionist/gopher).

As I've sought God's heart in prayer over the past months, I've asked Him to show me What Now? Who am I now? Truth be told, I am no different than I was ... still me. I still struggle with understanding who I really am in Him. And in this season of transition from being a stay-at-home mom to a working woman facing ... dare I say it out loud? ... menopause, He has shown me that He has more adventures for me in the realm of my own species ... WOMEN! (Now, don't be offended, ladies. You know we are unique.)

God has inspired me to create a place where we can explore our uniqueness together. This place will be a cyber haven named: Transitions. It's FOR WOMEN ONLY. I hope to see all the lovely ladies I've met within the pages of the Glass House blog over there at Transitions, where we'll be doing A New Thing! Actually, God is doing the new thing, and we'll just be joining Him in it. :)

Meanwhile, back here at Glass House, we will continue to pray and encourage parents, and to praise God's faithfulness and share Him with those who happen upon us. (Oh, by the way, I gave the Glass House blog a face-lift today! Let me know if you like the new look.)

Also, God has laid it on my heart for probably the past year to use this blog as a place to share Worth Every Tear, chapter by chapter, posted once a week or every ten days or so. As the book unfolds, maybe discussions can take place among those who leave comments, a place where we can share our hearts and encourage one another along in the journey we call life.

God bless you all,

Cheri

So I Can't Forgive Myself ... Who am I Hurting?

2012-09-27T05:00:00.000-05:00

When God forgives you but you refuse to forgive yourself, you're spurning His grace and choosing to be miserable. When you do that: (1) Your loved ones are at risk. It's not just about you. When you wallow in guilt you tend to be more withdrawn and critical, and less open and affectionate. So your spouse, children, parents, coworkers, friends, and even your pets suffer along with you. (2) Your health is at risk. Your mind affects your body. Doctors say bitterness generates chemicals that affect your vital organs. They increase your heart rate, raise your blood pressure, disrupt your digestion, tense your muscles, dump cholesterol into your bloodstream, and reduce your ability to think clearly. Each time your rehearse the past, those bad feelings deliver more corrosive chemicals. Science is now confirming what God has said; namely, that those who don't forgive themselves, and others, are more prone to heart attacks, depression, hypertension and other serious illnesses. (3) Your future is at risk. The Bible says, "You will again have compassion on us ... you will ... hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea" (Micah 7:19 NIV). Stop dredging up what God has buried. Start looking ahead; otherwise you'll get mired in a bog of your own making. The Bible says, "He is so rich in kindness and grace that he purchased our freedom with the blood of his Son and forgave our sins. He has showered his kindness on us, along with all wisdom and understanding" (Ephesians 1:7-8 NLT). With God's forgiveness comes the wisdom and understanding to not only survive your past, but grow stronger as a result of it.

Taken from The Word for You Today.

Marty's Lessons on Life

2012-09-22T05:00:00.000-05:00

V. J. Smith writes: "I don't remember the date I met Marty. Like a lot of people ... the line I was in wasn't moving as quickly as I wanted and I glanced towards the cashier ... an affable-looking man in his seventies. I thought, 'Well, he's an old guy and it probably takes him longer' ... For the next few minutes I watched him. He greeted every customer with the usual 'How's it going?' Then he did something different--he actually listened. You don't give much thought to the question. I could say, 'I just found out I've six months to live,' and someone would reply, 'Have a great day!' The old cashier walked round to the customers, extended his hand, looked them in the eye and said, 'I want to thank you for shopping here today. Have a great day.' The looks on their faces were priceless. There were smiles and sheepish grins. All had been touched by this simple gesture ... Some walked away, paused ... and looked back ... they couldn't quite comprehend what had just happened ... I wanted to take him home and feed him cookies! ... I'd been in that store a hundred times and never walked away feeling like that."

A marriage counselor asked a couple to list each other's good qualities. The husband listed twelve. His wife couldn't think of any! The Bible says, "Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out" (1 Thessalonians 5:15 TM). That's hard to do when you're looking for perfection and focusing on the other person's shortcomings. The Bible says, "Love ... keeps no record of wrongs" (1 Corinthians 13:4-5 NIV). In other words, look for the best in them!

I don't know about you, but I want to be like Marty when I grow up!!!

Taken from The Word for You Today.

The Day my Doggy Played Dead

2012-09-17T05:00:00.000-05:00

Meet our Cinnamon. Little Elias, our grandson, enjoys watching her out the window of our glass front door.

It was a Monday morning. I'd gotten up with the roosters, as is my custom on work days ... not because I particularly like being up with the roosters, but because it takes me that long to get ready and get to the office on time. I don't like to be rushed.

I took our little inside pup out for her morning constitutional, expecting Cinnamon to join us in the backyard like usual. No Cinnamon.

When I got inside, I filled her bowl and went to the front door, where she is normally dancing from paw to paw, in anticipation of her breakfast. No Cinnamon.

I got a little worried when I called her name from both the front and the back ... several times ... loudly enough to annoy the neighbors. There was no response. (Since I was up with the roosters, it was still dark outside, so I couldn't see much.) I calmed my fears and figured she'd show up while I took some time with the Lord, before going to take my shower.

God, this isn't like her. Usually, as soon as I flip on the lights, she's pawing at the front door, begging for breakfast and a belly rub.

When I finished with my quiet time, there was still no sign of Cinnamon. By then I feared the worst. We'd been to the vet for her annual visit a couple weeks before, and she'd weighed in ten pounds lighter than the year before. The vet had been a bit concerned, but hadn't found anything noticeably wrong. She suggested a change in dog food, ran some tests, and told us to come back in six weeks for a weight check. Cinnamon came to our home, a stray, eleven years ago, so the days of her youth have long passed.

God, did she crawl off somewhere to die? Was the weight loss an indication of some hidden thing that has now taken her life?

Shaken, I headed to our bathroom to shower. I gently shook hubby's shoulder and told him that Cinnamon was a no-show this morning. I confided my fear. I prayed as I showered that she'd be waiting expectantly by the front door when I came out. No such luck. No Cinnamon.

By this time, the sun had joined the roosters and me. I poked my head out the back door and surveyed the backyard, hoping for a sign of her. I spied what looked like her backside half under our shed. When she's too hot or scared by a thunderstorm, she will often crawl under there. I guess the close quarters make her feel safe.

I went to hubby and told him I thought I'd found her, and I asked him to go check on her for me. I waited inside, fearing the worst. When Wayne came back inside, he just shook his head and held out his arms to me. I cried and cried.

Ever pragmatic, I finally sobbed, "Well, you have to pull her out from under there before she gets stiff."

As he trudged off to do his duty, I tried to figure out how we would bury her. Should I call my boss and tell them I'd be in a little late? Could one of our neighbors help? It takes a lot of effort to dig a hole that big! (We had to do it for our other big dog, Shadow, a few years ago.)

Next thing I know, I hear a tapping at the window. Hubby is grinning and pointing at his feet.

baffled, I crept close enough to peer out, and there at his feet is Cinnamon, wagging her tail and trying to shake hands.

Wow!! Praise Jesus! She's come back from the dead!

Actually, I scolded Wayne for not checking her a bit more closely on his first attempt to check on her for me.

"Well, I threw some gravel at her and called her name. She didn't budge." (I guess he didn't want to touch her before it was absolutely necessary.)

Anyhow... that's the story of the day our doggy played dead. Turns out she wasn't dead ... just deaf. :)

And when she finally heard (or felt someone pulling at her tail, rather!), she came to life.

Isn't that how it is with those we know who are deaf to God, dead in sin? When they finally hear, they come to life. It's a resurrection! It's a miracle!

Praying you see many miracles in the lives of those you love!

Cheri and Wayne

Autism ~ an Amazing Story!

2012-09-12T05:00:00.000-05:00

This video is amazing! If you know anyone who deals with autism in any capacity, you will want to take time to view this young girl's story:

http://www.godvine.com/Mute-Girl-Thought-to-Be-Mentally-Retarded-Finds-her-Voice-1815.html

Recall Notice

2012-09-06T05:00:00.000-05:00

In 2010, auto manufacturers recalled a staggering 20 million cars in the U.S. for various defects. The thought of such a large number of defective cars on the road is startling enough. But what is more disturbing is the apathy of some owners. In one instance, the executive director of the Center for Auto Safety warned owners, "It's a free repair. Get it done. It may save your life." Yet, despite the risk to their own lives, 30 percent never responded.

Likewise, many ignore God's "recall notice" to the entire human race. Unlike a defect found in automobiles, the moral defect of the human race is not the Maker's fault. He made everything "very good" (Genesis 1:31), but people's sin ruined it. God's offer to us is "repent ... that your sins may be blotted out" (Acts 3:19).

God offers not just a free repair of the human heart but a replacement (Ezekiel 36:26; 2 Corinthians 5:17). Though it costs us nothing (Ephesians 2:8-9), it cost God the life of His only Son Jesus Christ. "[Jesus] bore our sins in His own body on the tree, that we, having died to sins, might live for righteousness ~ by whose stripes you were healed" (1 Peter 2:24).

Don't ignore the Lord's call. The free remedy offered by God for your spiritual defect will save your life! ~C. P. Hia

The heart of man is stained by sin,

From Adam's fall this has been true;

Yet God in Christ can make a change--

Through faith in Him we are made new. --Fitzhugh

This devotional taken from Our Daily Bread, a publication of RBC Ministries.

Doesn't God Care?

2012-09-01T05:00:00.000-05:00

The Bible says, "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths" (Proverbs 3:5-6 NKJV). But what if your path leads through pain, pressure and problems? John the Baptist's did. He didn't deserve imprisonment. After all, he was the forerunner of Christ and the voice of God in the community. Plus, he was Jesus' cousin. So he sent Jesus a message asking, "Are you really the Messiah, or should we keep looking?" Paraphrased: "Lord, if I'm in your will, how come I'm in this situation?" It's a question motivated by unfulfilled expectations. We think, "Lord, I've obeyed you, how come things aren't working out for me?" And it feels worse when you've faithfully served Him. Writing about her daughter's death, Meg Woodson says, "I'll never forget those shrill, piercing screams; that the God who could have helped, looked down on this young woman who was devoted to Him ... and decided to sit on His hands and let her death top the horror charts." Talk about unmet expectations! Jesus could have saved John, but He didn't. Instead He sent back word: "Don't worry, everything's on target, the kingdom is being built. You did your job well" (See Matthew 11:4-5). It probably wasn't the answer John hoped for. He was looking for solutions to temporal problems while Jesus was busy establishing an eternal kingdom. So next time God doesn't seem to meet your expectations, it's not that He doesn't care; it's that He sees the big picture and He's handling issues you can't even begin to comprehend. So trust Him!

Taken from The Word for You Today.

The Cure for Envy ...

2012-08-28T05:00:00.000-05:00

William Barclay said: "It's more difficult to congratulate another on his success if it involves disappointment to us, than to sympathize with his sorrow ... Only when self is dead can we take as much joy in the success of others as in our own." Karen Ehman's home had been for sale twenty months when a friend called to say hers sold in twenty days. Ehman says: "Although I was thrilled ... I was a tad jealous ... that 'poor me' mentality when God answers someone else's prayer and my answer seems to be 'no,' or 'not right now.' As a child I envied kids from two-parent homes ... in high school it was other girls' looks and cute clothes .. I was average looking, and although I was every guy's pal, I was nobody's gal. In college I envied girls whose prayers for a knight in shining armor were answered ... Once married, I struggled with miscarriage and dashed dreams of motherhood ... I slapped a smile on my face and attended yet another baby shower. The cure for envy isn't easy ... but when you call on God He will 'tell you ... things ... you could [never figure out on your own]' (Jeremiah 33:3 NIV). Instead of begging Him to sell my house, take away my pain, and fix my kids, I need to ask what He's trying to teach me that I won't learn if He rescues me; and what qualities He's trying to grow in me. God's willing and able to answer our prayers as He sees fit ... [His goal is] growing us to be more like His Son." Paul writes, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep" (Romans 12:15 NKJV). To be Christlike, you gotta be able to do both.

Taken from The Word for You Today.

This devotional hit close to home and is something I am still learning ... an area that I don't even always realize that I am struggling in, until God points it out to me. Death to self is something I tend to resist, but when I manage to let God have His way in me, I always feel better!

Finding the Black Box

2012-08-24T05:00:00.000-05:00

In May 1996, ValuJet flight 592 crashed into the Florida Everglades, killing 110 passengers. Navy experts tried using special technology to detect the plane's black box, without success. Holding a rope that kept them spaced three feet apart, searchers poked through every square foot of muck. After fourteen days they had found nothing. The physical conditions were unbearable. The sun beat down upon them and temperatures hovered in the nineties. Diesel fuel and caustic hydraulic fluid floated in the water, forcing searchers to wear several layers of protective rubber. Fourteen days of that had left them exhausted, but they had to find the black box. Sergeant Felix Jimenez of Metro-Dade Police was one of the searchers. For fourteen days he'd prayed for the bereaved families and the safety of his fellow workers. But on the fifteenth day as he took a break, suddenly he realized he'd failed to pray for one important thing: that God would help them find the black box. So he asked God for direction, resumed the search, and when he stuck his pole into the water he hit something metallic. He pulled the object out of the muck. It was the black box. Jimenez writes in Guideposts: "I thought of the many days we had spent searching for the recorder, how we must have tramped over it many times, and I wondered why its retrieval had taken so long. Amid the low rustle of sawgrass and the call of the wild heron, I seemed to hear the response: 'Why did it take you so long to ask?'"

Taken from The Word for You Today.

Who knew the "black box" in an aircraft is not black? I didn't.

But I do know that God will answer prayers if we take the time to pray them!

Be encouraged!
Cheri

Knee Mail

2012-08-20T05:00:00.000-05:00

Bill Gates was hooked up to the computer network we call the Internet. Using it, subscribers can send electronic mail (e-mail) to other users of the Internet. Originally, Gates had an e-mail address just like everyone else. But he got into trouble when The New Yorker magazine published it -- now anyone could send the computer genius an e-mail. In no time he was swamped with five thousand messages -- he simply couldn't handle it. So he armed his computer with software that filtered his e-mail, allowing important messages through and sending all the others to electronic oblivion. We are limited; we can handle only so much and do only so much. God, on the other hand, never tires of s-mail (spirit mail; or better put, knee-mail). His ear is always open to our prayers. And He has an unlimited capacity to help. You'll never hear Him say, "Due to an unusually high call volume I am unable to take your message at this time. Please call back or leave a message." No, the Bible says, "He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him and honor him" (Psalm 91:15 NKJV). "The desire of the righteous will be granted" (Proverbs 10:24 NKJV). "The prayer of the upright is His delight" (Proverbs 15:8 NKJV). "Call to me and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know" (Jeremiah 33:3 NKJV). "If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you" (John 15:7 NKJV).

Taken from The Word for You Today.

What We Can Learn from Rotting Potatoes

2012-08-13T05:00:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the only way to get over your hurt feelings is to seek reconciliation. And if you are willing, God will help you do it. George Eliot wrote: "Oh, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away."

A college professor who was teaching on the high cost of unforgiveness asked each of her students to bring a sack of potatoes to class. For each person they refused to forgive, they had to select a potato and write the date on it beside that person's name.

Then for a month, without fail, they had to carry that sack of potatoes with them everywhere they went. After lugging those sacks around for a while each student began to recognize how much weight they were carrying; the amount of energy it took to focus on their bag; and that they had to be careful not to leave it in the wrong place. Eventually, as the potatoes began to rot and stink, they realized that getting rid of them was the only smart thing to do.

Jesus said, "If you forgive someone's sins, they're gone for good. If you don't ... what are you going to do with them?" (John 20:23 TM). Good question! How would you like God to forgive you in the same way you forgive others? If that thought makes you uncomfortable, do something about it!

Taken from The Word for You today.

The rotten potato illustration is one of the best I've ever seen regarding what hanging on to offense can do to a person's heart and spirit. God has taken me to task more times than I care to admit, forcing me to deal with bitterness and unforgiveness in my heart. I can attest from my own experience that reconciliation is sweet.

I hope that this devotional is an encouragement to each of you who find your way to Glass House Ministries.

God bless you,
Cheri and Wayne

God Can Use Even our Mistakes

2012-08-09T05:00:00.000-05:00

W. A. Criswell noted that before a stone was laid in St. Paul's Cathedral, Sir Christopher Wren saw it in his mind. Before he struck a chisel against marble, Michelangelo saw the mighty Moses and purposed it in his heart. Why should it surprise us then that the designer and architect of the universe should have a plan and purpose for His creation?

The Psalmist said, "You wove me in my mother's womb" (Psalm 139:13 NASB). Before you were even conceived God considered everything that could affect your life, including "the course of world events" (Daniel 2:21 NLT), decisions of political leaders (See Proverbs 21:1), and how much hair you'd have (See Luke 12:7). Think about that when you're having a bad hair day!

Dr. Robert Jeffress says: "God's design not only includes circumstances beyond our control, but those ... you assume are under your control. You may think you're in charge of your time, the route you drive to work, the items you purchase at the supermarket ... but 'The Lord decides what a person will do' (Proverbs 20:24 NCV) ... all your choices, not just the good ones ... If your conception resulted form the premarital liaison of two hormonally-charged teens, an affair, or even a rape ... After reading Psalm 139 could you really say your birth was an accident? Somehow God was able to use the moral failure of others to accomplish His plan ... and if He can use other people's mistakes for good, why are we surprised that He can use our mistakes to achieve His purpose? It's a mind-boggling thought ... one that offers hope to anyone who has failed."

Taken from The Word for You Today.

DAB ~ Daily Audio Bible

2012-08-06T05:00:00.000-05:00

A year ago, Wayne and I discovered a wonderful resource for any Christian. The Daily Audio Bible website and phone application (i-Phone; Android) provides the community experience that many Christians cannot seem to find. People from all around the world are part of this community.

There are opportunities to leave prayer requests and to pray for others. There are Bible studies. There are missions opportunities. You can go through the Bible in a year with Brian. You can listen along as he reads it, or you can read it yourself. If you listen with Brian, he gives a wonderful devotional each day.

We can't say enough good about this site. If you are looking for something different, something cutting edge ... look no further. Daily Audio Bible has what you are looking for.

That Nice Older Couple...

2012-07-31T05:00:00.000-05:00

I've been doing a lot of thinking about the seasons of life these days. Just yesterday I was changing diapers. Today, I'm still changing diapers ... my grandson's! And he's my fourth grandchild. Sometimes, it boggles my mind, because I don't feel much different than I did all those years ago. Other times, I feel old and wonder how I got to where I am. Where did the time go?

Recently, we traveled to Texas to visit Wayne's parents, my sister, and our son and his family. We spent the night in a hotel along the way, to split up the drive. The next morning, in the dining room, enjoying our free continental breakfast, we watched a young family ~ four delightful little girls, probably ages three to ten, and their parents. Mom fixed plates and Dad policed table manners. The young family bowed their heads to give thanks for their food. It brought back fond memories of days past, trips we took with our four kids. Those were both fun and challenging times. Even when you're on vacation, you can't take a vacation from training your children; it's a big responsibility.

A few tables away sat a family of four ~ Mom, Dad, and two teens. They were mapping out their plans for the day, well past the rigors of plate-fixing and table manners lessons. Again, Wayne and I reminisced about years and trips past. Was it really only a decade ago that our own kids were all in that teen range, embroiling us in all the joys and trials that come along with that sometimes turbulent time in life?

Then there was the two of us, just Wayne and me ~ proud parents of four grown and married children ... four grandchildren. We'd chosen to leave our dog, who usually travels with us, with our daughter, wanting to travel without the encumbrance of making puppy "potty" stops. On our way out of the dining room, we made it a point to compliment the young family about how well-behaved their girls were, and to give them a quick word of encouragement.

As we pulled from the parking lot, we stopped to visit with another family who happened to be driving the same make and model vehicle as ours. Wayne pulled alongside to inquire whether or not they liked their RAV 4, and we struck up a conversation. This was another family traveling with teens, and we laughed with them as they shared anecdotes from their vacation; they were on their way home. Turns out, we were headed the same direction, both en route to Texas.

Finally, we were on our way. I sat thinking about our morning, and I couldn't help but laugh. Wayne wanted to know what was funny.

"Well," I suppressed my giggles, "I remember people stopping to talk with us when we were on vacation with all our kids, and how we would say, after they were gone, 'Weren't they a nice old couple?' Guess what? Now we are the older couple!"

Later on, nature knocked at the door, and I asked Wayne to find a place where I could use the restroom. He said there was a Bucc-ee's about thirty minutes down the road. I told him that would work, I thought I could wait that long.

Typical Wayne, he came back with, "If you can't, we can pull over on the side of the road." He looked at me, eyes twinkling.

"No, I think not. I can just see it now. That family we talked to at the hotel will come driving by, see us with the police ticketing us, and say, 'Wait! Isn't that the "nice old couple" we talked with at the hotel this morning?'"

We chuckled about it all the way to Bucc-ee's.

Who says growing old can't be fun?

(It helps a lot when you like the person you are growing old with!)

*wink*

God bless you,
Cheri and Wayne

Happy House

2012-07-26T05:00:00.000-05:00

Earlier this year, not many a weekend went by where our house wasn't overflowing with family. Our oldest daughter had a baby in January and stayed with us for the first few weeks, so I could help with the new little one. Our youngest daughter was still living at home, not yet married. Our son's family visited from Texas one weekend. And our other son and his wife visited from northern Louisiana a couple times. There were weekends when we ran out of bedrooms and had to resort to blowup air mattresses for those who had no beds.

Now, six months down the road, things are entirely different! Our daughter and her husband are fully absorbed in new jobs and raising their new little one, leaving little time for visiting. Our youngest daughter married in May, and she and her husband are busy setting up housekeeping. Our son in Texas is in high demand on his job, and the kids are busy in school; travel is out of the question. Our other son and his wife are busy with life and his finishing his graduate school degree. Busy, busy, busy.

So we went from feast to famine rather quickly. The months before our daughter's wedding found our house often bursting at the seams; whereas, in the weeks ... months ... following the marriage of our last daughter at home, our home has been ghostly silent. Our little pup, Sugar, often scampers up the stairs, looking for someone ... anyone. Where did they all go? And I must admit, hubby and I are feeling the emptiness too. It is a time of transition ... a new season in our lives.

A couple weeks ago, our daughter and her husband had a long weekend and came to visit with our new grandson. Our other daughter and her new husband came to visit that weekend also; they hadn't seen their nephew since the wedding. We were once again at full-house capacity!

That Saturday evening, given the privilege of rocking my sweet little guy to sleep, I went upstairs to put him in his crib. All the kids decided to retire for the evening while I was putting him down, and when I slipped from the room to head downstairs to join my hubby, I stood in the darkened upstairs hallway and gazed at the two bedroom doors. Light shined from behind each of the closed doors and warmth filled me. I skipped lightly down the stairs, heart full, and informed Wayne, "The house is happy tonight. Full of people and happy."

Sometimes, when we are busy raising our families, we can't see past the present to the seasons yet to come. In fact, we can get to feeling overwhelmed ... will we ever have any time to call our own? But one day, we will be beyond diapers ... beyond temper tantrums ... beyond high school and college. A couple will find themselves back at Square One ... him and her. And for all those times we wished for time to ourselves, we will be shocked at how much we miss our kids.

Cherish every season, every day. They fly by so fast!

God bless,

Cheri and Wayne

Tragedy in Aurora, Colorado

2012-07-20T11:17:00.001-05:00

As we got ready for work this morning, we received the following alert on our cell phones: WWL Radio News: Man opens fire at 'Batman' movie in Colorado, killing 14, wounding 50. Details ... (To read news of today's tragedy, click here.)

Stunned, all we could think about were the numerous times our own son attends various midnight showings of whichever latest block buster is being released at any given time. He's an incurable movie buff, and this news hit too close to home, even though we are several states away from the tragedy that took place at 12:30 this morning.

This is just one more reality that should be a wake up call to every human being that we need to live ready, ready to step out of this world and into the next. None of us are guaranteed our next breath, and we don't know when our time will be up. We could live to a ripe old age and die in our sleep, or we might battle cancer and die before what we presume to be our time; we may have many years left, or we could die in a horrific car crash two hours from now ... or we could be killed in a movie theater. We plan things, innocent and fun things, and not one of those people in that Aurora, Colorado movie theater went to that movie early this morning knowing that it would be the last thing they would do here on this earth. Were they ready? Did they know where they were going to spend the rest of their days ... the eternity that they stepped into when that bullet took their life? They didn't know that this was their last day; if they had, they would have skipped the movie, right?

Scripture tells us that God numbered our days when He created us (Psalm 139:13-16). He doesn't will for any man to be gunned down, but He does give man free will, and some men misuse the free will He gives. He didn't plan for innocent people to die by gunshot in a movie theater, but He did know that today was their last day. Yet they didn't know. We do not know when we wake up in the morning if today might be our last. I'm not suggesting, however, that we should live in fear; rather, we should live ready. Then there is no need for fear.

How do we live ready? Well, we put a great deal of thought into many things in our lives. We make choices everyday ... what we eat, what we wear, how we fill our leisure time. Modern man is obsessed with how to keep their physical appearance youthful. We are fanatical about our diets and how we can avoid high cholesterol, too much fat, too much sugar... We spend hours in they gym trying to ward off the effects of what we eat or just the ravages of time. We don't want to grow old.

We love to play. We think nothing of the billions of dollars paid to celebrities and atheletes. We spend inordinate amounts of money on our personal hobbies. We will research vacation destinations and make elaborate plans for our get-aways. Nothing seems over the top these days.

Are these things bad? Not necessarily. But how much time do we give to planning the get-away that every single one of us must take, the one we will not be able to avoid in the end. And this one will last more than a week or two ... we are talking eternity here. Life is forever; we simply change locations. We'll all spend eternity somewhere, either in the presence of God or in the presence of the enemy, Heaven or Hell. They are real places, real destinations for our eternal souls, and we get to choose. Shouldn't we give as much thought to that choice as we do to where we'll take our next annual vacation? Especially since we don't know when our final departure date might be?

The "planning" is not as complex as it may seem. The truth of the matter is that man is born into sin with no way to change that fact, save one: Jesus Christ died on the cross to pay for the sin of man. If we will but acknowledge the truth that we are hopeless sinners in need of a Savior, and receive the free gift of salvation that He died to give us, we will then have our ticket for that eternal trip. (Romans 5:8; John 3:16). We will have the luxury of a lifetime, however many days ... months ... years are planned for us here on this earth, to spend loving Him, learning how to love Him more, and introducing as many people to Him as He gives us grace to reach. Then we have the privilege of taking our final trip, to the home He has graciously prepared for us (John 14:1-3). Amazing, isn't it?

The choice is yours. Make it today. You may not have tomorrow.

Attitude is Everything!

2012-07-14T05:00:00.000-05:00

It's okay to confront somebody you believe is in the wrong, but not with a self-righteous attitude. When church leaders insisted a woman "caught in the act of adultery" be stoned, Jesus replied, "Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone" (See John 8:4-7 NLT). Ouch! One Christian author writes: "Are we aware of other people's mistakes because they confided in us, or have we appointed ourselves the 'moral police' to justify examining the blemishes in everyone else's behavior? Is your goal to restore prodigals ... or do you have a hidden agenda to elevate yourself by condemning those around you? I've been confronted twice by other Christians. One ... a red-faced stranger who was furious with me for wearing knee-high leather boots with a short skirt to her church. She called me a 'Jezebel." The second was ... a good friend who tenderly pointed out my pride in a specific situation. The name-calling left a bruise on my soul ... the compassionate rebuke turned me toward the forgiving arms of our heavenly Father ... God alone has the perfect combination of holiness and mercy to stand in judgment of the human heart. The Bible says, "If another believer is overcome by some sin, you who are godly should gently and humbly help that person back onto the right path. And be careful not to fall into the same temptation yourself." The only One who was worthy to condemn us, chose instead to pardon us .. .and in light of our own sinner-saved-by-grace [status] -- when the Holy Spirit impresses you to confront someone who's messed up, do it with honesty, compassion and humility."

I borrowed this devotional message from The Word for You Today. Just like the author above, who claims to have been corrected in two different ways, I myself have experienced correction from a believer with an arrogance that left me feeling 'less than.' Conversely, I have also experienced correction from a humble believer who prayed for me before, during, and after her gentle rebuke; in the end, her love drew me to God and to the place of repentance that ended in forgiveness and restored relationships with the family member I was estranged from. The old adage "you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar" will always ring true when it comes to relationships.

We hope this devotional encouraged you as it did us,
Cheri and Wayne