A Year Later...

It’s amazing what a difference one year can make in a person’s life…

No one can ever prepare you for extremely tumultuous times that can encompass nearly every facet of your existence; because life, at times, has a way of transforming your usual ebb and flows into something completely and utterly indistinguishable.

Perhaps my fascination with extreme weather has something psychologically to do with the way life is transformed in an instant. On occasion, weather can be tracked for days as hurricanes are formed long before they become a threat to land. And other times, an F-5 tornado can suddenly appear and decimate a town within minutes and without warning.

I’ve had the ability to track a huge life storm for quite a while and prepare as best as I could. But I’ve also experienced more than a few F-5’s in an instant. Not surprisingly, the storm that I prepared for was less of a threat than the ones that caught me off guard.

I have a very exclusive, tight knit, ragtag group of people that I have shared my most intimate details of my life within the past year. As the storms continued to rage, the group became even further rationed and revered by me. I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, those elite people that I could trust with my life and those of my children.

I became hyper-focused on learning the techniques that I needed to apply to my life in order to stave off the brutal assaults that simply wouldn’t cease. Disaster fatigue set in long before I had expected as I was being told by many who were completely oblivious to stop dwelling on negative energy and enjoy life. The sheer nonsensical flippant remarks detonated within me a force I had long since suppressed.

When I lost the entire braking system of my vehicle in an intersection of a major highway, I was a bit unnerved. Grateful that my children weren’t with me; ecstatic that I wasn’t traveling at 65 miles per hour; and blessed I felt prompted to stop when I did.

When I was stalked until I was found, my house was broken into, police sent to harass me, frequent texts and phone calls made to frighten me among other things, I decided to stop running, I turned to face the tormentor and I pushed back.

The dross in my life fell away as I had awakened a new, fierce inner strength I never knew existed within me.

The more the sudden storms arose, the easier they were to overcome. However, my advocates were still learning that I tend to withdraw when encountering opposition. It’s a survival technique I’ve developed over the years. I have to be alone with my thoughts to sort things through. For whatever reason, I have to compartmentalize in order to make sense of the insanity.

Three weeks ago today, my sixteen year old daughter and I were traveling from one weekly appointment to another as we have done for the past several months.

We were in a great mood as we were anticipating sharing some well-deserved one on one time together eating, chatting, and just enjoying life that had been suggested by many well-meaning folks.

I pulled off 95 northbound onto the shoulder, in Christiana to make a phone call that lasted exactly two minutes. My daughter and I decided to reschedule the appointment we were already going to be twenty minutes late to in order to grab a bite to eat instead of waiting for two more hours.

As I was preparing to pull back into traffic, which was eerily light for the area and the time of day, our car was shot at twice in the back window.

Stunned, we ducked down in the front seat, I called 911 and my daughter noted the make, model and color of a vehicle that had slowed to a stop right in front of us before it sped off down the road.

And because she’s a teenager, she decided to take pictures of the window immediately. It’s second nature for teenagers to document everything about their lives, and I was more than a bit grateful for her obsession.

For one and a half hours, we sat there hunkered down in the car waiting for an officer to come to our aid. The window pieces kept blowing inward at us as every vehicle that flew by shook it bit by bit.

Finally at the request of a very good friend, we drove to a safer place away from danger. He had been telling me to move the car for over an hour, but the only thing I was certain I could do at that time was hurl. Driving wasn’t an option. It took all that I had in me to pull the car onto the roadway and drive to the nearby store to meet with the officer.

After I parked the car in a relatively safe place, I go out of it as fast as I could. My knees buckled and I dropped to the asphalt to put my head between them to keep from passing out. I didn’t have the luxury to totally losing my composure because I was the only parent available to comfort my child.

Three hours and forty minutes after the shooting, an officer finally arrived. By then I had recovered a portion of my sense of humor because my same friend who told me to leave 95 drove over an hour to us to make sure we were okay. He said no one should be alone after experiencing such a traumatic event. For the first time in my life, I agreed.

A year ago I know I would not have been able to handle the shooting as well as I did. It was because of the series of abysmal tribulations that led up to the shooting that made me able to withstand it. Sure, I was sick all day long the following the incident; the doctor said most likely post-traumatic stress. But two days later I was back in the saddle again, off for more of life’s little errands.

I don’t sanction the anguish that my children and I have been made to endure over the past year, but I wouldn’t trade the providential awakening that has occurred for anything in the world.

Not only have I closed the book after finishing the last chapter, I put it back on the shelf, turned off the lights, shut the door and walked away from the sordid library never to return.

My life is now my own again, to live it how I chose.

Why I Believe

“My Brother’s Advocate” is a work of fiction that is based upon true events that my brother, John, and I have endured while growing up. Though the story encompasses many other people and tragedies, the underlying theme is wickedness attempting to annihilate righteousness. Many wonder why God would allow such a thing to occur. If your God is so great, why couldn’t He stop the child abuse? If you believe in Him, why didn’t He protect your brother and yourself?

Having “…faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true.” Alma 32:21. At a very young age, I had faith enough to pray that I would be protected. I discovered through praying that something miraculous was happening. It gave me power over my circumstances; though it didn’t always take away some truly awful things that happened. Once I realized the power of prayer, I was able to avoid many, but not all things that may have harmed me.

My faith waxed and waned at times, according to the events in my life. Obviously some experiences can knock you down quicker and more violently than others. Nevertheless, I’ve always managed to get back up. I asked a wise Bishop if things I experienced would make me a better or bitter person and he simply said, “Yes.” A confused look because my mind was racing to wrap itself around this odd logic and not quite reaching the same conclusion, caused a smile to cross his lips. “That is for you to decide,” he said.

That indispensable wisdom was revealed to me nearly seventeen years ago, but I remember the incident as if it happened yesterday. In my mind’s eye, I clearly see the playful smile on his gentle, careworn face and the twinkle in his eyes; hoping that what he shared may inspire me to choose wisely. I can attest that I have never forgotten that moment; though he may not even recall it. To me, it was utterly profound and I’m still trying to wrestle with the outcome of whether I will become a better or bitter person because of my life events.

I have listened to significantly inspired counsel and to other counsel perhaps not so inspired. I tend to classify most as either edifying or crucifying. If I learn something from it, even if it happens to be constructive criticism, I consider myself having been edified. But if I walk away feeling worse for having the encounter, like something vital has been taken away from me, then it was crucifying. I try to avoid crucifying encounters at all costs. However, in order to appreciate the edifying moments, I have to experience the crucifying ones or else how would I ever distinguish the two?

“My Brother’s Advocate: a sister’s promise” is easy to read, but it isn’t an ebullient subject matter. Murder and child abuse rarely is. It’s also received a lackluster launch; indeed, I have purchased more copies of the book to distribute for marketing than have been bought by others. It may never become a best seller, or even break even with the publisher. Does this make it a failure? Does this mean God hasn’t answered my prayers? Does this mean it was all for nothing?

Looking back over the mountains of adversity I have traveled, it’s a miracle that I even wrote a book. Because I have refused to allow the abuse to continue for another generation, I have changed the course of my posterity. My children can reach further and higher than I ever could imagine, sleep without fear, and love without hesitation so all the pain and suffering wasn’t in vain. I fulfilled my mission that was entrusted in me by God. He knew I was strong enough with His help. He has heard my prayers, and has protected me throughout my life.

I believe in Him because He first believed in me.

My Brother’s Advocate: a sister’s promise ~ is this the book I had been waiting for?

On a bitter cold January afternoon, the eleventh to be more specific, in the year 2010 my son, Gunner came inside carrying a small, brown package. He called to me asking, “Is this the book you’ve been waiting for?”

I took the package that he handed me and checked for the return address. There wasn’t any. In fact, there wasn’t anything at all anywhere on the package to belie what it was or who had sent it.

I opened it up and there inside, rather unobtrusively, was the proof copy of my book. It was the only thing inside of it. No note accompanied the book on its journey to me. It arrived without fanfare, with notification, and without provocation. Yet, it came.

I had my son, Gunner pose with the copy for a few pictures and later posted them on my computer to share with some family and friends. I showed it to my other children who were home at the time and called/texted the ones who weren’t. I called my husband, my sisters, and my friends to share the news.

I was elated, surprised, grateful, and humbled to be holding the object that was the compilation of many year’s worth of memories, some good, others bad, and still more funny, poignant and spiritual. It was surreal. I couldn’t believe that so much of my life had been captured into such a small, neat parcel.

The book was passed between my children, each who lovingly turned it over in their hands, looking at the pictures and my name. So, this is what their mother had been doing? She really was working. This was the fruit of her labors. They were proud. They all congratulated me and hugged me as I kissed them. Many hours had I spent tucked up in my room away from their noises and demands, exchanging some of their childhood for what this book symbolized.

Truth be told, most of the time all they wanted to do was chill on the couch, eating while watching some movies together with their siblings who appreciate their taste in cinema. I’m not a huge fan of their movie genres. They have a vast collection of movies that I cannot or will not watch because I fear I will lose even more brain cells. Many already have left me after years of sitting through Barney and Friends and the like. I had to stop the deluge at some time, and that’s partly why they have many siblings. So they can play together, watch movies and hangout with one another. I’ve often said that the greatest thing that I can give to my children besides life is each other.

After the glorious celebration of my book was over, approximately seven minutes later, I quietly went upstairs to my room to pay homage to Him who had allowed me to write. I placed my book on the desk that I sat for years writing and knelt beside it. For a few minutes a wave of many emotions engulfed me. I gave thanks because I had been blessed. I felt relieved, that it was done and there was proof of my hard work. I had immense gratitude for being protected and guided during the process. This was a huge undertaking, and it was completed.

That night ended well, and we engaged in our normal bedtime routines by showering/bathing, sharing some time together and having our nightly prayer. Peace and joy were there, soothing me to sleep and it was a great feeling.

Over the course of the following week I had to proof it for mistakes. I’m reluctant to admit that I didn’t have many people available at my disposal that would/could help proof the book for mistakes that I may have overlooked. I read and carefully marked the booked with a blue pencil. Then I reread it again, and again.

It was after I stopped proofing the book and decided to read it for pleasure, allowing my mind’s eye to see what I had written that I was besieged with a completely different set of emotions. The sadness, despair, and terror that my characters were experiencing were very real to me. I cried, at times I even sobbed. I wondered what I had done. I had not planned on unleashing these strong emotions onto unsuspecting readers. Would they feel what I had? How would the readers react being pulled into a story and have their emotions tugged them in many different ways?

The east coast was buried under two blizzards within a week, giving me a lot more time to contemplate what was already done. But I couldn’t turn back, so I had to move forward and embrace the book that had to be written. Words cannot adequately express the depth of my despondency. In writing this book, I had bared my soul and then allowed, no I had sought out to have it published. I could no more stop the tide from changing than I could turn away from what I had written.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like the book. I think it’s really an easy read, quite uplifting at times, and maybe a bit scary. But I didn’t want to transfer the feelings that I had bottled up in me for so long onto another. I didn’t want them to experience the heartaches that I had, I just wanted to give them a glimpse into it.

Thankfully, the book wasn’t released until March 30, 2010; giving me time to adjust that people will be purchasing and reading the book. At times I wish I had narcissism, so that I could shout it from the rooftops proclaiming that my book has arrived and everyone should buy it. It’s a lot easier for me to write than it is for me to market my work. It’s definitely out of my element to speak to people about my work.

I catch myself saying to them, “Please be easy on me, I have a fragile ego” (smile). I know there will be many people who won’t like this novel and I’m prepared, I hope, for it. I just pray that anyone who reads it does so with the mindset that many events actually did occur and that sharing them was extremely painful to do so.

So, is this the book I’ve been waiting for?