Personal Growth, Christian Living, Spiritual Growth
Date Published: April 4, 2021
Publisher: Clay Bridges Press
From the outside world, the family was like any other. Within the walls of the home was a completely different story. Set in a common suburban neighborhood with extraordinary financial struggles and intense pressure between Mom and Dad’s marriage. Divorce was imminent. Mom exhausted herself to get her love from her husband until Dad’s desertion left the family in ruinous chaos. Mom lost all self-control. Her temper flared and the unwanted hatred for herself and Dad turned into rage, violence, and unending terror towards the children. Poverty overtook us, malnutrition was not uncommon, and unconditional love was an estranged enemy. Born into this tragedy, I was two months old upon Dad’s leaving.
I take you on a narrative journey through my childhood. The rage, devastation, and hatred are exposed to what really happened. However, intertwined with this constant chaos is a spiritual awakening that brings an amazing grace, freedom, and redemption. Nevertheless, every day was wrought with surviving until the next. Yet, a close friend that I come to know, The Peacemaker, the God who comes close to us and deeply entrenches Himself amid each storm of life, made Himself known through the perils of my upbringing.
From the jaws of death and fright comes a chilling, yet inspiring, story of a child that thought of himself to be hated, deserted, abandoned, assaulted, and worthless. A plan where Heavenly Father steps in, becomes my father and friend, calls me son, and makes certain that I know I am Wanted.
PROLOGUE
The Fierce Storm
|
I |
awakened
in that cold, leather recliner in the hospital room, next to Mom. The wind
rattled against the large window and seeped through the cracks of the
windowsill on this chilly February morning. I pulled the blanket a little
closer to my shoulders to cover my whole body. It had been a long night.
Mom had been brought to the
hospital early yesterday because she complained of leg pain. I had delayed
coming until around noon because I was annoyed by her list of complaints. When
I arrived at her new residence, where she had moved just five days earlier, I
was startled by what I found. Mom was on her queen-sized bed, apparently unable
to move her right leg. It was all she could do to try to lift it. I checked her
vital signs and asked her about pain. Everything seemed to be normal, except it
clearly was not.
As I walked through her
residence, I saw evidence of her long battle with Irritable Bowel Syndrome
(IBS). It had left its mark throughout the whole apartment, staining many of
the surfaces in her home. The stench in her apartment wreaked, and the place
where she had come to rest on her bed was unsightly.
Mom ached in what was obviously
a prolonged state of pain. Quivering, she spoke in a somber and low tone: “My
leg! Oh, my leg!” Yet, there was nothing definitively wrong. It baffled me
until I gave up trying to find an answer and resolved to call the ambulance.
Now, I got up from the vinyl
recliner and checked on Mom. I smiled at her. She smiled back and asked for me
to look up. I followed her request, turning my head, and looking at the tile
that spread across the ceiling of her hospital room. She seemed to be pointing
to a specific tile, where she was clearly seeing something that was not
visible.
“Look!” she said, “Furry, white
kittens. They are looking straight at me.” Her smile was contagious, but my
bewilderment caused my eyebrows to rise, and my eyes rolled as I tried to keep
my chuckle hidden. Mom has gone nutty, I thought to myself. The moment stayed
with me, though.
My wife and I had taken Mom in
two years earlier. Her throat cancer had spread throughout her whole body. At
the time, it looked as if her time was coming to an end quickly. The decision
to bring her into our home was the hardest thing I had to do. To expose my
children and wife to the narcissistic, self-absorbed, and controlling person
that Mom was, and still is, stressed me to no end.
As the weeks and months passed
with her living with us, her cancer stopped growing and the doctors went into a
“watch and wait” pattern. Mom took it to mean her cancer was gone completely.
This false narrative made her challenging to deal with when it came to facing
other medical issues. Her IBS, only diagnosed two months before this hospital
stay, was the cause of her constant diarrhea over the last couple of years.
Mom had always been a very
difficult woman to be around. My motives in taking her in were to give her a
home, a genuine family atmosphere, something she rarely experienced in her
life. My intention was also to take care of her every need, no matter what it
would cost us. Unfortunately, the cost was much more than I imagined, but not
financially. Rather, the weight of Mom’s presence in our home came to be a very
heavy burden.
When we moved Mom into her own
place five days ago, her exhausting, controlling nature within our home finally
had its end. We found this beautiful apartment that she could call her own. She
was happy, as was my family now that she had her own residence.
The doctors ran all kinds of
tests to determine Mom’s condition while she was in the emergency room. All the
tests were negative. However, two things caused the doctors to move her to a
room where she would stay overnight: Her chest x-ray came back, showing a dark
circle within her lungs, and her blood pressure and heart rate were quite low.
So, they kept her in the hospital to keep an eye on her. Otherwise, they would
have been ready to release her. With that assurance, the doctor had expressed
hope that she would be going home soon. His words brought me calm in this
uncertainty.
Sleeping in that recliner had
made my back sore. Yet I sat in it again now and reflected on Mom’s startling
choice from yesterday. While in the emergency room, I had stepped away to grab
a bite to eat. A record-keeping assistant had come in to gather information
from Mom, who had been fully cognizant and answered all his questions amiably.
He was gone by the time I got back to her room. She had summarized the visit
with these words, “He asked if I wanted to be resuscitated if my heart stopped.
I told him no!” She had spoken in a quiet, confident, almost eerie tone. Now
the words repeated themselves over and over in my head.
My daydreaming stopped. Looking
over at her, I saw that Mom had fallen back asleep. Her vital signs were still
well below normal. I was getting concerned, but took it all in stride, trusting
the doctors every step of the way.
My mind wandered again. I began
to reflect on the third reason that I had brought Mom to live with us. Many had
questioned my decision. Nevertheless, I knew it was what I was supposed to do.
I wanted her to experience the same spiritual awakening I had. I wanted the
same for all those I knew and met, especially for my family. My heart was
hurting for Mom, both for her frail state now and for her broken heart all those
years ago.
Yet, she was not the only one
who pained my heart. My story is just a story, I mused to myself, like any
other. Yet, I knew it was so much more. I had been wrestling with writing my
family’s narrative for six years now. Nevertheless, as Mom lay in that bed, the
need had become very apparent and even more urgent that I finish what I set out
to do.
The storms of life are vicious
and ferocious at times. I wanted my mother to have peace as I have come to
intimately know it. For that matter, I long for anyone who struggles with the
tortuous nature of this life, with the storms that seem to have no end, and who
does not know peace, to know there is freedom, a way out, and life on the other
side. It is why I must tell my story…
About the Author
It is with obedience and brokenness that I present my life’s journey. I owe much gratitude to my wife, children, siblings, friends, and many others as they helped in this project of love. The trauma and destruction of my broken world have compelled me to lead others out of darkness and into His Glorious light. You can learn more hayahbooks.com.
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