The Walk Home

The Walk Home From School

I hated it when the bell rang for school to get out. Most of my third grade classmates were overly anxious to go home. I was simply over-anxious. When the bell rang, all the boys and girls jumped out of their desks and scurried to the exits. Practically stampeding one another.
Most of them probably anticipating a cup of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows or cookies when they arrived home.

For me, the anguish arose from the pit of my stomach. The fear ran so deep, I felt as though I would collapse and die on the way home. When that feeling came over me, inside me I wished it would really happen. Death would be the best escape. As I walked those four blocks, I hoped things would be different when I got home. I learned at a very young age to take life one day at a time, never take a quiet day at home for granted, as they were few and far between.

We lived in a twelve-by-sixty-five mobile home in a park four blocks from our school. The trailer was crowded with three children and two adults.

The winters were cold in Chamberlain, South Dakota. The water and sewage pipes under our trailer, froze and burst frequently. My sister and I hated living in the trailer. When the wind blew, the trailer rocked, feeling as if it were going to blow over and topple down the hill. The cold winter chill pierced its way through the poorly insulated windowsills.

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Rinnnnnnng!!!!!!!

All the children began hustling and bustling when the bell rang. Quickly putting on their jackets, overshoes, warm hats and gloves. They laughed and talked about the snowmen they were going to build when they got home. By the time I gathered my books, put on my jacket, and said, "Good-bye" to Miss Layton, the other students were more than halfway home.

I dragged my feet as I walked. My shoulders slumped forward, kept my eyes to the ground, and trudged down the steps that led to the door of the school. How I dreaded school getting out.I was expected to arrive home within ten minutes after the bell rang. There were no allowances for play or talk, "You get straight home!" Mother would say.

I walked down the sidewalk to the first corner and crossed the street going left.
My stomach twisted and knotted, as I got closer to the trailer. I turned right at the stop sign and crossed the street again. At the end of the third block was the entrance to the trailer park. An Asian family owned the house on the corner. They were very nice. They always smiled and nodded their heads as I walked by. Their smiles were usually the last smiles I'd see until school the next morning when Miss Layton would greet the class with her cheery, "Good morning!"

I didn't notice the snow until it was blowing in my face. I hated walking in blizzards, but if the snow was just on the ground, I hardly noticed it. I had much more to think about than the snow and snowmen I wouldn't be building.

Once inside the park, the anxiety escalated with each step I took. As I approached the final block, I squinted my eyes, looking toward the trailer as if I could see a warning of some kind, and be prepared for anything.

With my ear pressed up against the aluminum door, I listened, for anything; a laugh would be good, but very unlikely. Normally I'd hear yelling. My mother could yell louder than anyone I'd ever heard in my entire life. Sometimes, even the silence wasn't a good sign. I assessed the situation on the other side of the door by what I heard from the outside. Even though I had no choice but to enter, at least I had some idea of what to expect and could brace myself. Cautiously I'd turn the knob, peer inside, and step into the living room and look around to see if the coast was clear. With any luck, Mom would be asleep on the couch, or better yet, gone to work.

My sister Lynn and I took care of the laundry, cooking, and cleaning. Lynn was ten and I was eight. We packed our school lunches, Lynn cooked, I washed and dried dishes, and we both folded clothes and ironed. Not only did we have the responsibility of all the housework, we took care of the infant that had recently arrived into the family. The baby's name was Tracie. She had a different father, but all three of us girls had the same mother.

Our mother had so much anger and bitterness inside her. She hated everyone who got in her way, especially her children. Many days, I walked through the door only to feel a hand slap me across the face or knock me to the floor. One time, Mom grabbed my long brown hair, dragged me to the tiny kitchen. With both of her huge hands she pushed on the back of my head, shoved my face into the corner of the floor and screamed at me, "See that dirt? Can you see it? Now don't tell me you swept this floor last night; if you do, you're a liar!" The only thing I could say is, "I'm sorry." If I had said much more than that, I'd get slapped again for 'being a smart mouth.'

Mom worked in a bar on the outskirts of town called "The Palomino Lounge." Sometimes she took me to work with her. I had to sit in the dirty, smoke-filled, bar all night with the drunks breathing their alcohol stained breath all over me. Sometimes my mother sang at the bar, and sometimes she served the drinks. I sort of liked the attention I got from the customers though; it was more attention than I ever got at home. They talked to me and smiled and were nice.

Once in awhile, a fight broke out. I'd feel that anxious feeling in my stomach that was so familiar to me on the walk home from school.

Tracie's dad wasn't home much. He was usually grumpy, dirty, and literally covered with cement dust from his construction job. As soon as he got home from work, he settled in on the couch, fell asleep in his filthy, smelly clothes until Lynn woke him up to eat dinner. He didn't talk to us much, and his idea of giving us attention was by thumping us on the head or giving us a 'Charlie-horse' on the arm. His name was Emmette, and we didn't like him.

By the time I was in eighth grade, a new baby brother had arrived, and we moved to Denver. The first time I went to the same school for a full year was ninth grade.

One day at school, I put mascara on my eyelashes. I walked in the door when I got home. My mother yelled, "What's that crap on your eyes?"

"Mascara."

The next thing I knew, I fell to the floor. The right side of my face stung from the blow to my cheek. I felt a kick in my side and then a kick on my back. I was shoved down the hall toward my bedroom by my maniac mother. I ended up in the bottom of the shower in the master bedroom, defenseless. My mother glared down and screamed at me, calling me a "tramp." I grabbed the handle of the shower door and pulled it shut. My mother left the room screaming "I will help you pack if you want to run away, but just get out of my sight!!" My punishment was "to get the belt" everyday after school for eight days. This seemed like a strange punishment, but I knew she meant it with all her heart.

The next day, my mother was waiting inside the front door, with a belt in her hand. The next day the same, and by the third day . . .I realized that I had to get out of this abusive home. My boyfriend helped me run away. I would never feel the wrath of my mother's hand again.

However, the mental residue had a lingering effect for many years to come.

Twenty two years later....

At 35, I began living my life for one purpose only - to serve Christ. I became a member of the First Church of the Nazarene in Redding, California.

Dr. Larry Fine came to do a, "Spiritual Renewal Weekend." He spoke about fear of rejection and how past hurts hinder our ability to grow spiritually. And the most profound one for me, how “I never measured up.” "How did he know all this about me?" Amazing, he hit the bull’s eye on some painful issues in my life.

At the end of the sermon, he asked people to come to the altar with a tissue. The tissue represented whatever it is in their life that held them back. They were to leave the tissue at the altar, symbolizing, 'giving it to Jesus.'
As he invited the congregation to come, one by one, they filed to the altar. Many dropped to their knees crying. I felt tears stream down my cheeks and trickle onto my neck. I sat frozen in the memories of times that I hadn't measured up, times I didn't sweep the floor right, the times I folded the clothes wrong. I needed to forgive my mother for stealing my childhood. My failures played in front of me like a fast-forward video: high school dropout, two divorces, giving up custody of my son. I needed to go to the altar and leave all this 'baggage' there. I couldn't move. “If I went to the altar, they might laugh, people might not pray with me, people might see my pain.” I was still in denial.

Amazingly, I felt myself stand up and walk to the altar. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Memories flooded my mind. I searched for that one thing that I could leave behind in the tissue.

When Dr. Fine approached me from the opposite side of the altar, he asked, "What are you holding in your tissue?"

My emotions erupted. "There's just too much, just too much." Shaking my head as if to say, "Don't even try, you can't help me."

With compassion he said, "There's never too much for Jesus, tell me what it is that is too much?"
"There's just too much," I repeated several more times.

Dr. Fine asked questions to get me to open up. He was getting nowhere. “Renae, where does this pain start?”

I began describing the dreadful walk home from school in third grade. Dr. Fine asked me to visualize and tell him every step of the way.
When in my mind, I stepped inside the trailer, Dr. Fine asked, "What do you see?"

"My mother."
"What is she doing?"
My stomach tightened. "She’s screaming at me."
"What do you feel?"
"Afraid."
”Is it all in the tissue?"
"Yea, I think so."
"Release the tissue. Let it go. Now give it to Jesus. Are you ready Renae?”

I couldn’t drop the tissue. I’d lose part of myself if I let go of this baggage. I’d hung on to this stuff so long.

We repeated this several times. The last time, he said, "Step inside the trailer and see Jesus standing between you and your mother.” He described Christ telling my mother he forgave her.

He said, “Renae, let me be Jesus to you.” He told me how Jesus loved me the way I was and how I was not a failure to Him. He told me that I never had to measure up to her anymore.

“Can you forgive your mother?” He continued, “Jesus is telling you, 'Your mother will never hurt you again, I forgive you and I love you.'” “You walk over to Jesus and he puts his arms around you." The woman next to me pulled me closer. It felt like Jesus hugged me.

Dr. Fine then quoted the scripture, Matthew 18:18 where Jesus says, “I tell you the truth, whatever you bind on earth, will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.” (NIV) We talked about the freedom I’d have if I would let go of this pain.

Again, he asked. "Now, can you drop the tissue?"

I opened my hand; looked at the tissue. I curled my fingers over it, turned my hand over, and watched it fall to the floor.

I felt a strong hand on my back. I turned and saw my son with tears streaming down his cheeks. He had been there the whole time. The ladies who knelt beside me helped me up. Many people came out of the pews to hug me.

Later, I realized church had been dismissed 45 minutes earlier. All those people that were there when I walked back up the aisle, stayed because they loved me. They stayed to show me the love of Christ. I was so humbled and blessed.

It's been eleven years since that night I found forgiveness for my mother. I’ve experienced God's healing in many ways. Sometimes I struggle with wanting to still hang on to that stuff. But, I have learned that in my humanness, giving it to Jesus is not a one-time event; it is an everyday process; it is part of my faith, to give it to Him every day.