1st Chapter of My New Book

I’m working on a new book based on my own life and the lessons I’ve learned along the way. This is an excerpt from the book… the first chapter.

I was the oldest of six kids in my family. Mother told me I was a very responsible child almost from the moment I emerged from her womb. I was always looking out for my younger siblings and striving to do what was right. Religion was a big part of my upbringing. My parents took us to church every week, we said a blessing on the food at each meal, and we were taught to fear God and keep His commandments.

I remember early on questioning the term “God-fearing.” If He was a loving Father, shouldn’t we love Him, not be afraid of Him? But then again, if He was anything like my earthly father, fear seemed appropriate. My dad had a significant presence. He was about 6 feet tall, with broad shoulders and a powerful voice. He also had a bad temper. I learned it was easier to stay out of his way than deal with any consequences.

Often times he would blow up if one of us kids got hurt. One day, when my parents were gone, I was chasing my sister around the house—she took something of mine, and I was determined to get it back. In the process, I ran my hand through a glass door. There was blood all over the place. I remember the babysitter’s parents coming over and getting things under control. As I laid on the couch with my hand and arm wrapped thick in bandages, my only thought was how mad Daddy was going to be at what I’d done.

Mom said he got angry because he was frightened and hated to see us hurt. To me, it just felt like I’d messed up. I hated that anxious feeling in my gut each time he started to yell. It made me want to cower in a corner. Was this why people feared God? Was He like my dad?

As a teenager, I was probably just like everyone else trying to find their place in the world, but I felt unique in my angst at the time. From my perspective, all my peers had advantages over me in looks, talent, and smarts. However, despite all my faults, I did have a “true” love when I was a sophomore. I swear the sun rose and set on the guy. When he broke up with me for another girl, he apologized and said he didn’t want to hurt me, but her light was just a bit brighter than mine. I was devastated AND convinced he was right. After all, that’s how I felt about myself. Would there ever be someone who would want to marry me? I was sure not.

That feeling hung over me until I started college. There I found hope in meeting young men who hadn’t known me as an ugly, awkward seventh-grader. Through a series of divinely guided events, I was introduced to Gordon, my future husband. Of course, at the time, it just felt like incredibly good luck. Words cannot express the excitement as my heart skipped a beat the night he walked into my house. He was everything I wanted in a husband—good looking and a returned missionary. He also had a fun sense of humor and was kind. The fact that he showed interest by asking me out was unbelievable. From that point on, my job was to prove to him that I was worthy of his attention.

We courted for a year, and then on a beautiful, bright, sunny day in November, we got married. I was sure it was an omen signifying our certain happily ever after—the one I feared I would never get. Unlike some of my friends, our first year together was idyllic. The honeymoon continued well into the fourth year when our first child brought additional joy to our relationship. I had the perfect marriage to the perfect man with the perfect daughter. How did I ever get so lucky?!

Over the next six years, two more girls and a boy came along. Taking care of four little ones under the age of seven was a challenge, but Gordon and I worked together like a fine-tuned machine. He never hesitated to get up in the middle of the night for a crying baby or to change a diaper. In the evenings, one of us would bathe the children while the other cleaned the kitchen.

We experienced the usual financial struggles of a young family, but I knew together we could handle it. Each time I balanced the checkbook, I reminded myself that Gordon was doing the best he could. My job was to gratefully stretch the money. My desire to remain a stay-at-home mom trumped any thoughts of getting a job. Eventually, I realized I needed to get creative and figure out a way to bring in additional income.

One year we made Pac-Man suckers to sell at a Christmas boutique. Our timing was perfect with the popularity of the video game character—they sold like crazy! Each night we made dozens, turning it into a real family affair. One of us worked at the stove, while the other supervised the children applying eyes and sticking suckers in the little bags. The next day, I ran the new supply to the store. I also made several nightshirts to sell. This was accomplished at the same time the kids came down with the chickenpox, one of them needing to be hospitalized. In the long run, all the craziness was worth it. We had a great Christmas, and I proved to myself I could do difficult things.  

A few months later, I discovered Tupperware. At this point in our life, we really needed a second car. I learned that if I became an independent Tupperware manager, they would provide me with a vehicle, a station wagon no less. As it was, we were cramming our family of six into a Toyota Corolla. (This was long before each child had to be in his own car seat.) How could I not take advantage of such an opportunity? The Tupperware lady I knew had nothing on me. If she could do it, I figured I could too, and it would allow me to remain at home with my kids during the day. It seemed perfect! Within a couple of months, I had that new car. What an achievement! Proof once again that I was a strong woman and could do hard things. I just had to put my mind to it. 

Tupperware worked for almost a year. I loved having the car but continuously felt guilty. When I took time for my kids, I couldn’t stop thinking about neglected managerial responsibilities. Five parties a week took away from our family time, and I hated that. I was stressed by the company’s expectations, and I started having difficulty getting excited about 5 ways to keep produce fresh.  So I quit, gave up the car, and got a part-time job instead. This strong woman who could do anything, even earn a car, became a quitter. I hated the feeling and looked for other ways to prove that wasn’t the case.

Eventually, the part-time job led to a full-time one. Our youngest child was now four years old. I justified that she’d had a good start with me at home, and it was the only way I could see to keep up with the needs of our family. The hardest part was that my husband didn’t seem to share my concern for the kids being alone for a time, nor did he appreciate how hard I worked to make do with what we had. Every once in a while, he made comments about my efforts being unnecessary or not making a difference, which cut me to the core. These uncharacteristic statements not only caught me totally off guard but started accumulating as a growing rock of resentment in my heart.

The new job proved beneficial to our bank balance; still, many additional adjustments came with it. We moved to a new house in a new town, where we all had to make new friends. I had to coordinate day-care and balance schedules for work and kids, and I had a demanding boss I was trying to please. My husband helped in the evenings, but the bulk of the responsibility laid squarely on my shoulders, probably by choice. I handled everything true to form—with a determined spirit that I could do hard things.

Then Gordon started having seizures.

I can count on one hand the number of times I ever saw my dad sick, and he never missed a day of work. I figured all men were like that. Having a husband with a scary health issue was something I wasn’t prepared to handle. Since the seizures only occurred at night, and Gordon was unconscious the whole time, it was easy for him to not be fazed by them. That meant I took on the responsibility of setting up doctor appointments and searching for answers to fix the problem.  

I was wearing down quickly. The medication Gordon took for his condition turned him into a zombie. Working and handling the needs of growing children became more demanding. Finances were still tight, so I took on an additional job without so much as a thank you from my husband. In his defense, he really didn’t see what I was going through, but at that time, all I knew was I desperately needed his support and acknowledgment. The resentment I felt continued to grow, and I blamed him for my life not being what I wanted it to be.

Everything was such a burden—my days were spent in tears, and I couldn’t see a way out. I felt this bottomless pit of darkness right in my core and had no motivation to do anything. It was awful! One day a friend of mine suggested I was suffering from depression. “Go to the doctor and have him prescribe you an anti-depressant. It’ll fix you right up!” she said.

She was so confident that I was willing to try anything to get rid of the pain I felt even though I wasn’t one to take pills. I called the doctor and set up an appointment for the next day. Little did I know the drastic turn my life was about to take.

To be notified when this book is available, please subscribe to my mailing list on this page.