The following post is Part One {out of five} of what can best be described as my living testimony.
My story began on a cold Thanksgiving evening in Germany more than three decades ago. Born on foreign soil to very young American parents, I joined my almost three year old brother to make us a family of 4. But even my very earliest memories don’t include a mother and father living together and it struck me as I was writing this, that I honestly have no idea when they actually divorced.
What I do remember from those early days is a mother who struggled to keep us in food but who made sure we always had plenty of love. Those days, as I look back on them, were carefree and fun for my brother and I. I doubt, however, that my mother would describe them in the same way as she recalls raising three kids (another son joined the family just after I turned 3) with almost no money and very little support.
Fast forward a few years and many changes to what I consider to be the moment in my childhood that set the tone for the years ahead. My older brother, Bob, and I were walking home from where the bus had dropped us off in our quiet neighborhood. (Note: At this point, my dad had remarried and had another son and we were living with them.) We passed by the neighbor’s house noticing a police car in their driveway and teased each other that they were there looking for us. Crossing over to our own front porch, all teasing stopped when we realized something was dreadfully wrong.
Through the window we could see that the furniture from our house was gone. Literally, all of it was gone. That whole afternoon is a blur, but I do remember us sitting on the porch while I cried and Bob comforted me. We were sure they’d moved without us and we were devastated. Somehow I feel like the cop across the street must have come over to help us, but I honestly don’t remember anything beyond the tears. That day was only the tip of the iceberg of childhood stress and trauma that was just over the horizon.
It turned out the police were in the neighborhood questioning people who may have known my family. A short time later (or maybe it was that same day, I really don’t know) my Dad was arrested. Here’s the thing that is hard for some people to believe…I still really don’t know the why behind his arrest. I don’t fully know what he was accused of and I’ve never asked a lot of questions. I guess there is just a part of me that can’t handle knowing. I’ve always preferred to see the good and leave the bad behind. I’m not sure if that is a blessing or a curse, but it is who I am.
The years that make up the remainder of my childhood were fraught with struggle. A father who was in and out of prison. The loss of home, peace and security. And the constant reminder from classmates that my Dad was a “jailbird”. My defense was a smile. My goal was to pretend none of it mattered. I made sure I was the friendliest kid in school, going out of my way to befriend everyone I met so nobody could think ill of me. Not a bad approach, I guess, but it set the tone for the people-pleasing offensive that ultimately paralyzed me.
As I moved into high school, it became clear that whatever had gone down with my Dad was wide-spread and common knowledge even though we had moved multiple times since. There were certain parents who weren’t thrilled about their child being friends with me and that pain ran deep. I loved my Dad, in spite of whatever had happened, and it hurt that they not only disliked him but me by default. In eighth grade, I was asked out (in typical will you “go” with me? fashion) by a ninth grader who ended up filling the role as my boyfriend for the majority of my remaining school years. But as was the story of my life by now, his grandfather had somehow been affected by whatever my Dad was accused of and his parents were never too happy about the arrangement.
On the day of my senior prom, I had freshman orientation at Penn State University. My Dad and older brother dropped me off at the building where it was to take place but it was only Bob who returned for me. My father had once again been apprehended and taken into custody. We knew the drill by this point. You acted like everything was normal and pretended for all the world that you were just fine. The prom that night wasn’t much fun because while I may have gotten pretty efficient at putting forward that happy face, inside I was broken.
I didn’t know God and I had no reason to believe there was truly any good in me. I stood behind my loyalty to the father I loved, but there was always this part of me that wondered if I’d ever be able to outrun the shadow his life had thrown over us. And still, years later, I felt marked by it. Like somehow, somewhere I was infected with the poison that keeps you off the straight path.
High school had been good to me in many ways. I played second base for the Varsity softball team, was voted Homecoming Queen and never flunked a single class (though I came close a few times). But I’d also struggled with aneroxia, repressed emotions, a few years without contact with my mother, and the overwhelming need to be whoever it was that the people around me wanted me to be.
My journey had only just begun.
Part two will be the recounting of my formal introduction to God, the impact my mother had on me in ways I didn’t realize, and the beginning of my life as a wife and mother.
