Dancing With Skeletons

It's Wild Ride Wednesday. When I'm gone, I'll be leaving behind a messy legacy...and I wouldn't change a thing! I'm gonna dance with all the skeletons in the closet!

My life is messy, and I like it that way.

Several years ago a friend of mine was lamenting about the different girls his son had dated. There was a huge difference, he noted, between the young ladies who came from intact families, and the ones who grew up in broken homes. The girls whose parents were still married were decidedly more stable, and my friend hoped that just such a young woman would end up being the mother of his grandchildren.

I was a bit offended by that generalization. I’m the product of a broken home AND I’m divorced, and I’m fabulous!

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pedigrees and family legacies. Like most kids, I wished and prayed for my parents to stay together. However, as I grew and matured I came to understand that mom and dad were healthier people apart from one another then they might have been if they’d stayed in a bad marriage.

People brag about their family legacies. I know people who come from a long line of doctors or teachers or artists. They wave the branches of their family trees with honor and pride.

Many of my friends are Christians. Christian legacies are very important. It’s not unusual to meet pastors whose parents and grandparents were pastors, or couples whose families haven’t seen a divorce since the turn of the last century.

I also know many people who are ashamed of some of the nuts growing on their family tree. They sweep the dirt of their kinfolk under the heirloom rug and bury ugly skeletons deep in the basement closet. They don’t talk about the uncle who once spent time in prison, the crazy cousin who’s been divorced three times, or the brother that doesn’t spend holidays with the folks.

My own father didn’t know his dad had been married to another woman before his mom until he was in his mid-twenties. That was a well-kept family secret.

I’ll be leaving a messy family legacy, and I wouldn’t have it any other way! My parent’s marriage wasn’t perfect, and I thank God. If it had been, I wouldn’t have a beautiful little sister named Megan. My husband’s mom and dad both said “I do” more than once. Although Tom was the only child born of his parent’s union, he now has eight brothers and sisters—all wonderful and incredible people. We’re so lucky.

I divorced my oldest son’s dad after he walked out more than 25 years ago, but we are blessed to have my ex’s family in our lives. My kids have made bad choices and they’ve taken us on a wild ride, but oh, the incredible people we’ve met along the way! I’m so grateful for the counselors, parole officers, wayward kids, and parents of prodigals who’ve inspired and loved us. My life is better because of each and every one of you.

Yep, my life is messy. Our family isn’t perfect. We’ve stumbled along the way and we’ve got skeletons in our closet. Unlike some of you, however, we bring our skeletons out to play. We dance and rejoice with them as we remember where we’ve been, appreciate where we are, and look forward to the good days yet to come.

My "Dangerous Path"

For today's Wild Ride Wednesday, I want to remind myself, and you, that it's okay to ask "why?"

“Randall used to say when you turn 50 you’re closer to the final curtain than the overture. But I think there’s still time to learn whatever it is I’m supposed to learn.” - Dinah Grayson, The Dixie Swim Club

Dinah Grayson is the character I’m playing in the upcoming Second Space production, The Dixie Swim Club. I myself am closer to 50 than to 40, and like Dinah, I believe there’s still time for me to learn. But first, I need to learn to BELIEVE the things I’ve already LEARNED! Why is that so hard to do?

It’s been several years now since a pastor told me I was on a “dangerous path”. One day Pastor H’s assistant, Pastor B, called me at home. He said, “Liz, you’re on a dangerous path, and I believe if you don’t get off you’ll end up in a bad place.” He and his wife were very dear friends and I had no reason to doubt he had my best interest at heart.

And what was this “dangerous path” I was on? Was I breaking a commandment—stealing, cheating, or lying? Nope, I had done something worse; I dared to ask “why?”

Pastor B told me (effectively) that I should never question pastors, as God Himself put the spiritual leaders in authority over me. Um…isn’t that exactly how priests justified abusing and taking advantage of kids?

You see, Pastor H fired me and then refused to tell me why. He removed me from the ministry I helped start and wouldn’t tell me what led to that decision. He kept saying, “I’m in charge, and you can’t put me in a box.” I’d poured my heart, talent, and time into building the ministry, and now I was arbitrarily being removed. Adding insult to injury, I was being reprimanded for asking “why?”

Pastor B gave three examples of my disrespect for Godly authority. He credited me with saying something about a pastor that another member of my family had said. In fact, I reminded him, I had DEFENDED the pastor. “Oh yeah”, he said. “Well…” he went on. “You challenged the children’s pastor after he chastised Drew.”

What? How did he know that? Yes, Tom and I were very disturbed about an encounter between the children’s pastor and our second son Drew. We confronted the leader, but never ever spoke to anyone else about it. Two weeks after the incident, the pastor took time out of his family vacation to call us—he was crying. He told me he’d been going through a tough time and he took it out on our son. He asked Tom and I to forgive him—which we did—and the incident was over. Apparently, however, he had asked for Pastor B’s advice before he called us, but never told him about his contrite phone call. Now the encounter was being used against me! Unbelievable.

The third “proof” of my dangerous-path-traveling was my daring to question my firing. I was just supposed to be quiet and accept Pastor H’s decision regardless of how my life was being affected.

It would be many weeks before Tom and I were finally allowed to sit with Pastor H to hear him explain his decision. He accused me of saying things I didn’t say and thinking things I never thought. When I stood up for myself, he called me a liar.

It is ALWAYS okay to ask “why?” I learned that truth when I was a child, and I gave permission to my own kids to do the same. But I’m not sure I really believed it until now that I’m almost 50. It’s my life and it’s okay to ask why!

You are allowed, by the way, to answer a “why” question with, “because I said so”, or “because I’m in charge”. That answer might not sit well with me, but you have the right to say anything you want.

Accusing me of saying something I never said is not cool. I have no idea what motivated Pastor H and Pastor B to do what they did. What I DO know, is that I spent way too many years doubting myself and believing their lies about me. Shame on me!

I bought a license plate frame that says, “I’ve got an opinion, and I’m not afraid to use it.” I am a smart, talented, and good person. I’ve worked hard to build a reputation as a hard working, respectful person, and I have an opinion. I never asked anyone to agree with me.

When the decisions and choices of other people affect my life, I have the right to ask “why”. So do you! Lesson learned.

The Cries of a Strong Woman

For today’s Wild Ride Wednesday, I submit the most difficult and personal words I ever wrote. If you’ve never read my blog, I urge you to read it today.

Allow me to set the scene. Two of our kids were on drugs and I was fighting desperately for the lives they seemed determined to throw away. My extended family had said and done things that not only slowed, but also in some cases, reversed the work we had done to restore our children to wholeness.

Those same family members were making demands on my time and energies. I was, after all, the “strong one”.

We’d been asked to leave the church we loved—the place where our gifts and talents had been nurtured, where our children had been dedicated to the Lord, and where we’d been faithful members for thirteen years. I was accused of saying things I didn’t say and thinking things I didn’t think. It’s a shame when jealousy, selfishness, and pride ruin relationships—especially when it involves God’s kids.

My best friend told me “God closed the window of opportunity” to defend me and minister to my accuser.

Through it all I was working two jobs and I never missed a day. I was also singing in the choir at our new church and was helping the drama ministry.

I felt as if I was a failure as a mother, a friend, and a wife.

It was almost exactly six years ago to the day that I penned these thoughts. Here are the words just as I wrote them on September 10, 2004—raw and unedited.

*****

This is a page full of thoughts and words that I need to send out into the air and hope they come back less scrambled.

I feel so trapped. I want out, but to what? To where? To whom? Who do I want to be? To what end? I have been made promises that will never be fulfilled; I have been judged too harshly and not harshly enough; I have lied and have been lied to and the lies continue with the hope that if I repeat them enough they will become real and true. They are not bad lies, I tell myself, but rather kind lies. I say, "I love you", "Yes", and "That sounds great", but I don't mean it. I don't mean it. I hate myself more everyday for the "kind" lies I tell, the horrible truths that I hide, and the sadness I work so hard to disguise.

I'm afraid of the desperation that is closing in on me. I'm deeply disturbed by the thoughts I entertain, the world I escape to, and the joy I'm missing. I believe there is joy out there, even in here, but it feels so unattainable. It is sometimes just barely beyond my reach, but unattainable still. I think, "If I could just go there, I'd like it there". But I don't know where "there" is, and worse, I'm not entirely sure that "there" even exists.

The words I’ve written here are so jumbled and my thoughts are confused. Will they return to me in the form of answers and with clarity?

*****

These words are the cries of a strong woman. Look around. Chances are you are working with someone, living with someone, or sitting in a church pew next to someone whose heart is breaking and whose spirit is weak. Reach out.

Faith and the Thermometer

More from the wild ride that is our life. Today I’ll share another high—a time when our needs were met in unexpected ways.

It was around 1998. A little more than a year earlier Tom had been laid off from the well-loved job he’d had for nearly a decade. He’d dreamed of being an independent software developer and the unexpected and abrupt loss of employment put us on the fast track to self-employment.

It was a scary and exciting time.

An independent software developer doesn’t have a lot of over-head costs. We needed a computer. Check. A phone. Check. Talented software developer. Check. The most expensive part of the operation was the printing costs for the installation disks and product manual. We took a leap of faith and hired a local printer to do the job.

Now we owed $1,500 and the money was due in full in 30 days. I’m not gonna lie…I was worried. That was a huge amount of money and we had absolutely no idea where the funds for groceries were coming from, let alone the monies needed to fund a business.

I decided this would be a great opportunity to teach my kids something about prayer and God’s faithfulness. So, I drew a five-foot tall thermometer on a six-foot banner and hung it on our kitchen wall. We were going to pray, wait for the money to come in, and keep track of it with my elementary-school-inspired artwork.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret—this was a gigantic risk for me. I was not sure God could do this thing. We had gotten used to living on very little money. We needed every single penny for gas, food, rent, and utilities. I couldn’t imagine where an “extra” $1,500 would come from.

We prayed. We prayed some more.

We decided that any unexpected money would go towards moving the mercury up the thermometer. One day a card came in the mail and inside was a check for $25. The enclosed note said, “Hi Tom and Liz. Thought you might be able to use this. Have a great day.”

Wow! I used a fat red marker and filled in the rounded bottom of the gauge on the wall. The money started coming in. I had a birthday—money. Tom’s mom had a bit of a windfall and she shared it with us—money. We sold a record number of software packages that month—more money. Amazing.

I can’t recall here and now just exactly where every penny came from, but I can tell you that on the 30^th day, the last few pennies trickled in and the entire thermometer was completely bright red!

I’d put the crude drawing on the kitchen wall to teach my kids about God’s faithfulness in times of need, but it was I who needed to learn that lesson!

As our life got harder and harder and spun farther out of control, God’s faithfulness wasn’t always easy to see. But then I’d remember the thermometer and I knew that even when my faith was small, His faithfulness was never failing.

He always shows up in the nick of time. He still does.

Still a Mama bear!

It’s Wild Ride Wednesday. Today I’ll talk about forgiveness, hope, and a mama bear’s response to someone her child should be able to trust.

I’ve written stories about my ex-husband. I experienced physical abuse at the hand of the man with whom I shared my bed, and I witnessed frightening spiritual attacks.

A couple of years ago Dallas received a strange message on his MySpace page. A nurse from Missouri wrote, “Are you Dallas Wayne Stoeckel of Clovis, CA?” He showed the message to me. Who could this be? How does she know his middle name?

As soon as I looked at the message and the pictures posted on the sender’s page, I knew. She was somehow connected to my ex-husband—Dallas’s biological father.

“What should I do?” Dallas was 23, but still asked for Mom’s advice on occasion. “Write back. Tell her you are in fact Dallas Wayne and ask if you know her.” He did.

The woman wrote back to say that she was a friend of Dallas’s dad and that after 23 years of absence, he wanted to have contact with him. If you are a regular reader of my blog you know that my ex walked out of our apartment in the summer of 1985 and we never saw him again. Dallas agreed to have contact.

They spoke briefly on the phone. Sadly, Dallas was told untruths.

Despite the lies, I prayed there would be healing. My ex-husband was addicted to cocaine for 20+ years. I watched my children wage their own battles with drug addiction, and I know first hand that an addict is...well...crazy! I hoped and prayed, however, that clarity would come with sobriety and that some kind of relationship would develop. My ex-husband claims to be a strong Christian and he asked me to forgive him for “betraying the vows” of our marriage. I readily forgave him. The truth is, I’d forgiven him long ago. I had to if I was going to love and raise our son in a healthy and happy home.

Over the past two years I’ve had some friendly contact with Dallas’s bio-dad, but Dallas hasn’t been interested in hearing more lies. Besides, Dallas lovingly pointed out, “I already have a dad”. Precious words from a son to my husband Tom—the man who loved and raised Dallas since he was a year old.

About the time my ex-husband popped back into our world I started getting letters from Fresno County informing me that they were collecting back child support monies from the long-missing man. The money wasn’t coming to me, however, but rather it was going to the county to pay them back for the period of time Dallas and I were on welfare following the separation. A couple of months ago Fresno County sent me a letter telling me the debt was paid in full. I asked them how that could be, since I personally never received any court-ordered reimbursement.

My ex-husband sent me the most horrible letter the other day, telling me I’m a liar and that I poisoned Dallas against him. He says he’s hired an attorney to get to the bottom of the child support “truth” since he “can’t count on” me for that truth. It’s been 25 years since he packed his bags and drove out of our lives. Why do his words sting?

While I would love to write a rambling paragraph defending myself, I know that isn't necessary. I hoped that after all these years, this man might actually have an opportunity to meet his son and get to know the awesomeness that is Dallas. Instead, he continues to blame and to deflect the focus from his own irresponsibility and bad behavior.

The mama bear in me wants to rise up and say, “You hurt my kid, and you must be taken down!” No matter how old my children are, the urge to defend and fight for them never diminishes. I really believe that God feels that same frustration when we hurt one another—His kids!

I also know that God allows consequences. It must be hard to sit back and watch His kids suffer because of our own bad choices, but He knows we’ll learn and grow because of it.

Dallas is a strong young man. His life is full. He has loving friends and a supportive family. He’s getting healthier every day. My ex is living with the consequences of his choices, but I can’t help feel a twinge of sadness. He’s missing out.

Rise and be Whole

For today’s Wild Ride Wednesday I want to share the joy that has come by knowing a beautiful young woman named Jaimee Baker-Renfrow.

As I write this, Jaimee is lying in a hospital bed in southern California. A ventilator is helping her tired lungs do the job they did before the ravages of cystic fibrosis weakened them.

Jaimee is 23 years old. I remember the Sunday morning so many years ago when Tim and Pam Baker dedicated their baby daughter to the Lord. Tim’s dad is a pastor, and he lead the congregation in praying the blessing over Jaimee, and her family—which included older brother, Jason.

Less than a month later (it might even have been the next Sunday), our church's pastor asked the congregation to pray for baby Jaimee. The baby girl hadn’t been able to shake a chronic cough, and the doctors diagnosed the three-month-old with CF.

Modern medicine and the ever-growing body of science have kept Jaimee surprisingly healthy for the past two decades. On July 19, 2008 Miss Baker married Rony Renfrow. What a joyous day! I remember sitting at her bridal shower a few weeks before the wedding and marveling at the miracle sitting before me in the form of a blond-haired blue-eyed beauty. So many friends in one room—they’d shared the rollercoaster ride of Jaimee’s chronic illness with the entire Baker family and they came together to share the love.

It’s now been over a week since the doctors told Jaimee’s family that she would need new lungs within seven days because she was so ill. The doctors said she was too sick to last much longer without the new organs. The bad news is…no new lungs. The good news is…she’s still on the transplant waiting list. The spunky young woman barely stands five-feet-four-inches, but she is getting stronger. That’s huge!

A couple of weeks ago—just before being admitted to the hospital, Jaimee posted a note on her Facebook page called, “A prayer and praise written to my God in song lyrics”. She used lines from well-loved and well-worn hymns and worship tunes and she expressed her faith, strength, reliance on God, love for her family, and so much more. I believe she had a sense of what was coming, and she was girding herself for the journey.

My life has been a wild ride and because it’s what I know, it’s what I write. I do not, however, assume for one moment that I am better than, stronger than, braver than, or more spiritual than anyone else on the road of Life.

For the Baker/Renfrow family it’s been a wild ride. They’ve seen heartache, fear, joy, and miracles galore! Today they’re waitin’ on a brand new day and a brand new miracle.

Somewhere there’s a family who is facing the agonizing decision to let their loved one go so that his or her healthy lungs can breath life into a sick young woman in southern California. Their wild ride might just be beginning and I pray they will be surrounded by love and support as they make the choice to donate the organs of someone they love so much.

I love you Pam. I love you Miss Jaimee. Rise and be whole. Rise and be whole!

A Little Hollywood in Visalia, CA

On this Wild Ride Wednesday—a little taste of Hollywood.

In November 1992 my sister, Tina and I both got to be extras in the Touchstone movie, “The Son In-Law” starring comedian Pauly Shore. I’ve worked as an extra in several movies and television shows. It’s a fairly easy gig to get, actually.

Anyway, the silly movie was about a young girl who leaves the farm and goes away to California for college. Some of the scenes were shot at a ranch in Visalia, California—just a few miles from my home.

Tina and I showed up to the movie set at around 7:am. The set was a huge old barn that had been decorated for an old fashioned barn dance. There were about 75 extras all dressed in varying degrees of cowboy chic.

We had a blast during the two-day shoot. We had several lovely conversations with some of the stars. Tiffani Amber Thiessen and Dan Gauthier were smart, personable, and approachable. We especially loved hanging out with the musicians on the set. We had mutual friends and shared many laughs. You can even see Tina and me in the movie, and Tina got a close-up.

At the end of two long 14-hour days the shoot was finally wrapped. The actual scene in the movie is only about seven minutes long. Everyone was tired, but Tina and I were invited to hang out with some of the cast members at their hotel.

We sat down at the bar and chatted briefly with Pauly Shore and then with another actor (who will remain nameless). We’d been hanging out with him for two days and felt very comfortable. He offered me a drink. In fact, he offered me his drink.

After just a few sips of the white wine my head was spinning. How could so little wine have this effect on me? He invited Tina and I up to his room to get an autographed photo. Listen, this guy had been married for 25 years. We had no reason to suspect that he had nefarious plans for us.

We got in the elevator and the actor touched me in an inappropriate manner—with Tina standing right next to me! I grabbed his hand and said, “If you ever do that again, I will break your fingers!”

We got the autographed photo without ever going into the guy’s room. It took several hours for the effects of whatever I drank to wear off.

The next day Tina got a call from the handsy actor who invited her to spend the day in Sequoia with him. She said “no!”

I still love to watch “The Son-In-Law” whenever it shows up on TV. It’s fun to remember those two good days on the set of a silly movie with a group of really talented people—with the one exception of course.

You Have Another Sister!

I love roller coasters. I check and recheck the safety strap and shoulder harness as the car gets pulled higher and higher, moving slowly up to the top of the coaster mountain. Every once in a while the wheels on the under carriage catch and the car lurches slightly. Then you realize…what goes up, must come down! Aaaaahhhhh!

I’ve written about some of the deep dives and scary turns, but on this Wild Ride Wednesday I’ll tell about a surprising high in my life—a mountaintop high.

My phone rang. It was my dad’s voice on the other end of the line. I didn’t hear from my father very often – maybe a couple times a month – and a phone call usually meant he had something on his mind.

“I’d like you to come over to see me. Can you stop by the store some time tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

My dad was a checker at the Safeway grocery store. He’d had that job for as far back as I could remember.

I walked up to the front door of the large market and the automatic double doors slid open. Dad was working the middle lane and was ringing up a costumer’s order when I walked up to the end of the counter. Dad gave the woman her change and told her to have a great day. He looked at me.

“You have another sister.”

My parents had been divorced for about 22 years, and Dad had had a girlfriend or two in the ensuing years. The fact that he might have fathered another child didn’t surprise me. I was, however, surprised by her age.

“How old is she?” I felt a wave of curiosity wash over me like a warm shower.

“She’s nine.”

Nine years old? Was he kidding? My oldest son was nine!

Later that afternoon I went to Dad’s house. He went to his closet and brought out a shoebox filled with neatly folded letters, holiday cards, and lots of photographs. He took out a picture and put it in my hand. The smiling little girl was my sister!

I immediately fell in the love with the blue-eyed girl with long dark blond curls. My mommy heart and my sister love came spilling out. She looked just like my kids and my siblings. She could have walked in the door at that moment and I would have known she was family. Her mom and dad had done a fabulous job of keeping my dad in the loop as his little girl grew over the years.

Megan always knew she was adopted and now that she was 9 ½ years old she was asking questions about her biological family. The adoption agency had contacted Dad and asked him for more info. He asked me to write a letter.

I wrote to Megan’s mom and told her all about the family. From my dad’s branch of the family tree, Megan had three older sisters and an older brother. She also had nieces and nephews that were just about the same age as her. It turned out, in fact, that Megan and my son Dallas had been due the same week in late 1984. Megan was born a few weeks earlier than she was expected, and therefore she was three weeks older than her oldest nephew.

Before long I was getting to know my sister’s adoptive mom over a lovely lunch at the Peppermill Restaurant in Fresno. On a beautiful summer day in 1994 Tina, Sheila, Robby, and I met our baby sister. We’ve had the privilege of being a part of her life ever since.

Each morning we wake up thinking it’s just going to be another day, but we never know what surprise might be around the next sharp turn of the wild ride that is life.

The Roach Motel

It's Wild Ride Wednesday. Our journey has taken me places I could never have imagined I would go. Here's the story of my first visit to one such place.

I turned left on G Street. Fresno residents would agree—this was a VERY undesirable part of town.

I'd been down there before. I’d had the opportunity to minister to homeless men at the Fresno Rescue Mission located on G just south of Ventura.

It wasn't the Mission, however, that drew me to the dark, filthy, drug infested neighborhood down on G Street—it was my son.

My oldest child was home from prison and was on parole. Well, he wasn’t actually at home since the great California Parole System—in their wisdom—decided he shouldn't live with us. I won't even discuss the rationale behind their decision, as it was in fact irrational, but it was our reality.

In order to deliver a few bags of groceries to my hungry son, I drove past the rescue mission, and past drunk and sick men and women pushing shopping carts filled with junk and trash. I continued past the little village known as "tent city"—shanties built from discarded camping tents, garbage bags, and building scraps.

I finally arrived at the small, roach infested motel that the state parole system had demanded my son call home.

The tiny room was even worse than I expected it would be.

I opened the paper-thin door and saw the bed to the left. My son pulled back a stained and shredded blanket to reveal holes in the bottom sheet—holes clearly created by repeated stabbings with a small knife. A worn, splintering cabinet stood precariously near the foot of the bed and cradled a barely working television set with a 15-inch screen.

Where was the hope?

A newly paroled young man who wanted to turn his life around was put in the darkest part of town, surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, hookers, and the mentally deranged. He was forced to spend a minimum of 14 hours a day in that hole. The prison system expected him to find a job and stay out of trouble.

They told Dallas to believe in himself and his future. That seemed like an impossible task in that dark and hopeless place.

More than three years have come and gone since that first sad visit to my newly paroled son. Dallas showed amazing strength and courage. He never stopped believing in himself and his future. He lives at home now—a totally free man.

Though G Street seems a million miles from here, its residents are in my heart and in my prayers.

The Blue Water

Here’s another story from the roller coaster that has been my life. I call it,

“Wild Ride Wednesday”.

I had been married to Terry for a year and a half and I finally had to admit that I had made a terrible mistake. I worked very, very hard on that marriage. I know people say that, but I really went above and beyond what Dr. Laura calls the “care and feeding of husbands”.

I could no longer suffer the abuse. I was tired. So, on April 1, 1984, I gave my apartment manager notice. I told her I’d be moving out at the end of the month and Terry would not be moving with me. I wanted my name taken off the lease as soon as possible so my credit wouldn’t be jeopardized.

Somewhere around the middle of the month I started to get nervous—not about ending my marriage—but about the calendar. I was late! I walked to the K-Mart on the corner of Kings Canyon and Chestnut and bought a pregnancy test. I took it home and carefully followed the instructions as spelled out on the neatly folded box insert.

The water turned blue! There was no “First Response” back in the day and blue water was the old school way I learned I was pregnant.

Terry shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, I guess we should stay together”. Romantic! The news actually did bring a respite from the pain and we were happy for another minute or two.

I believed the baby would change Terry’s drug abusing, womanizing, and selfish ways. Most women in abusive relationships stay way too long. And, FYI, a baby NEVER fixes a bad relationship.

I was sixteen weeks along when I woke up at 3:00 one morning and had to use the bathroom. I was bleeding! I was so scared. Although I knew I wasn’t bringing my child into an ideal situation, this was still my baby and I already loved it. We had even chosen a name!

Terry wasn’t home. He was rarely home. He was a cocaine addict who partied all night and slept all day. I supported us. I lay in bed and prayed and cried. “Please God”, I pleaded, “save my baby’s life.”

My husband stumbled up the stairs and into our apartment at about 6:am. I was still crying. I told him I was bleeding and I was afraid I might be having a miscarriage.

“Good!” He didn’t spend a millisecond comforting me. “You know this baby shouldn’t be born.” I cried, buried my head in my hands, and sobbed uncontrollably. “Listen,” he pulled my arm away from my face and squeezed my wrist, “I know how to hit you in such a way that the doctors will believe it was a miscarriage. If you don’t lose the baby now—I can make it happen.”

Terry twisted my arm behind my back, announced he was going to bed, and walked away. I showered, got dressed, and left for work.

On December 8, 1984, Dallas Wayne was born—full term and extremely healthy.

What's In Your Closet?

I couldn’t wait to get home from work on that beautiful spring day in 1985. P.F. Communications hired me to be a production assistant in September of 1984, when I was six months pregnant with Dallas. The company was a Christian-owned business and I was so lucky to spend each day with supportive and kind co-workers.

I started my maternity leave on December 4—just four days before Dallas was born, and went back to work six weeks later. My boss let me bring my new baby to the office several days a week. How lucky was I!

I liked and enjoyed my job, but I adored my new role as “Mama”. I relished the time I spent with my son—reading stories, taking long walks, feeding and bathing him, and listening to his happy baby laugh.

Dallas’s father had spent the majority of our 2½-year marriage addicted to cocaine, but he seemed truly committed to sobriety now that he was a daddy. On that gorgeous afternoon the sun was shining, the air was warm, and the trees in our neighborhood were covered with new green leaves and tiny white blossoms. I wanted to get home, put on my comfy shoes, and take my son for a long walk—maybe I’d introduce him to ice cream. He was, after all, five months old.

I walked into our tiny apartment on the corner of Maple and Shields in Fresno, California. My husband didn’t have a job. God “told” him to stay home and wait for directions. As soon as I entered the front room—with Dallas propped on my hip—my husband rushed in from the bedroom.

“I’ve been casting demons out of your closet all day”, he said. “Every article of clothing is dripping in evil.” The only bedroom in the small apartment had been transformed into a nursery, so the front room doubled as the master bedroom. I calmly laid my son on the queen-sized bed.

“What are you talking about?” I kept my voice quiet and low, as I didn’t want this to escalate in front of my baby.

“There are demons everywhere! God told me that you are possessed.” My husband came at me and before I knew it, he had me pinned to the wall. I hadn’t realized that my purse was still hanging from my shoulder until I felt it slip down my arm and heard the thump as it hit the floor.

“In the name of Jesus,” my husband prayed, “I cast out the demons from this woman’s body.” The father of my child tightened his grip on my shoulders and used the force of his entire body to hold me firmly to the wall. He began speaking in tongues—his “prayer language”.

What should I do? I tried to think quickly. If I cried or screamed, surely he would believe he was right about me being possessed, and he would continue the attempted exorcism. If I did nothing, how long would he keep me pinned to the wall? Would he choke me? Would he kill me?

He clenched his teeth and touched his nose to mine. My young son was lying just four feet from me, but I couldn’t reach him. I heard him start to cry.

“Please.” I barely recognized my own voice. “Please don’t do this.” I felt his grip on my upper body relax and the tension lesson slightly in my legs. I was unable to control my own muscles as I felt myself slip down the wall. My husband grabbed me, pulled me towards him, and then slammed me hard against the wall. “You like living in her, don’t you Satan!”

He turned and walked away.

I ran to my baby and scooped him up off the bed. His frightened blue eyes were like giant saucers and they seemed full of questions—questions I wouldn’t answer for many, many years. I grabbed my purse and a couple of diapers, and ran downstairs.

After securing Dallas in the car seat, I drove away. Not having anyplace to go, however, I returned to that dark apartment less than an hour later.

Wild Ride Wednesdays

I’m starting a new feature today called, “Wild Ride Wednesdays”. Life’s journey is full of twists, turns, and topsy-turvy rides.

I’ve ridden the proverbial roller coaster of life up to the highest highs, and into the tunnels, crazy dips, and unexpected bends. Along the way I’ve also seen downright crazy stuff. So, I thought I’d tell you one whacky story every Wednesday. And the best part is—they’re all true. Enjoy the first installment of “Wild Ride Wednesdays”.


Cool Breeze of Peace

My little apartment was stuffy and the tiny cooling unit on the wall in the front room couldn’t cut through the oppressive heat. Summers in Fresno, California are ugly. If you don’t have a good air conditioner, you’d best get yourself to a mall, movie theatre, or swimming pool—and fast!

Dallas was six months old, and had been unhappy all day long. I felt sure it was the heat. I gave him a cool bath, filled a bottle with icy water, and put him to bed for the night. I walked past the second bedroom and I heard my then-husband mutter, “You’re in love with someone else”.

He wasn’t going to start something tonight, was he? Really? The heat was stifling both inside and outside the apartment. I just wanted to sit on the couch, watch a little television, and try to stay comfortable. He persisted. “I know you’re in love with someone else.”

I stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The man I’d been married to for 2 ½ years sat at a drawing desk—his back to me. We’d had happy times, and for a few months just after Dallas’s birth it seemed that my husband had been putting his demons behind him. He was waging a mostly losing battle with cocaine.

I’d been beaten down, sometimes physically, but the emotional abuse was the toughest to deal with.

“What are you talking about?” I asked the question, but I didn’t expect a rational answer.

A few months before, I would have been scared. But, becoming a mom had given me a newfound confidence and a burst of courage. “I’m not in love with anyone else”, I said. He wouldn’t turn and look at me, but he repeated the accusation—this time with more force. “You’re in love with someone else!”

“Fine”, I acquiesced, “I’m in love with somebody else. You tell me who.” I wanted this stupid conversation to be over. For the first time since he opened his mouth, he turned to look at me. My husband had beautiful blue eyes, but my heart leapt into my throat when I saw his face. His blue eyes were brown!

He opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t his voice. He spoke in a hushed, deep tone, and in slow, deliberate syllables. “I know who you love.”

I felt a calm wash over me like I’d never known before. I walked into my bedroom, lay down on the bed, and prayed. “God,” I said, “I wasn’t talking to a man in there. That was evil. I can’t fight whatever that was on my own. Please, take care of this for me.”

You see...I believe I was talking to an evil spirit, and the “someone else” I loved was God. A few short days later, my husband walked out of my apartment and I never saw him again.

God gives peace in times of storm. On that balmy summer night in 1985, God gave me a cool and comforting breeze.