Silent Cry (8 page)

But then it happened again — another loss. After just six
weeks of spending time
with Mrs. Nance, her husband, Wayne, received a job transfer that required a move
to Houston. I was devastated.

“Why, God?” I cried. The same sinking feeling I experienced when Miss Garlington
told me she was moving away came back. After I had allowed myself to trust Mrs. Nance
by sharing all the details of my childhood, the intimate details of my relationship
with Kenny, and my vulnerable feelings about the breakup, she was leaving. I had
just begun the process of healing and was beginning to hope I might bring closure
to these painful events and start anew when everything abruptly halted. Just as the
shame, fear, and feelings of unworthiness had started to melt away, they threatened
to return like a flood and drown me in their wake.

How could this happen to me — again? What was wrong with me?

The day the Nances left,
I was so overcome with emotion that I could not even go to send them off. I wept
bitterly, but there was no solace in my tears. Once again, a shoulder I trusted enough
to cry on had disappeared, and I was left to cry alone — silent tears.

I was certain I would never be able to trust again.

CHAPTER 8

Gunshot and Grace

Above all the grace and the gifts that Christ gives to his beloved is that of overcoming self.

Francis of Assisi

I
was the spring of 1983, and I was in my senior year of college. Things were looking
up!
It
had been a successful volleyball season, and even in the off-season I remained disciplined
in physical conditioning. I was strong and healthy and in the best shape of my life.
I was over Kenny and once again happy in my involvement in the campus ministry. I
was going to graduate that December with a degree in sociology and business. I was
proud of what I had achieved and excited about the future.

One April morning, I was sitting in my dorm room studying when I received an unexpected
call from my volleyball coach telling me she was on her way over.
Had something happened
at home? Had something bad happened to my mother? Why else would Coach be coming?

I began to pray earnestly, asking God for strength. I prayed that my mother was not
dead. I feared that my stepfather had beaten her to death, and I suddenly felt guilty
for being away from home. I told God I could handle anything but my mother being
dead.

It seemed as though hours passed before my coach finally arrived, though it had been
only a few minutes. When I answered the door, I saw she had brought several of my
teammates. My heart sank, and I felt my knees shake. Adrenaline jolted through my
body, and my thoughts spun out of control. Clearly this was bad news. I searched
the faces of my teammates looking for a clue — everyone was visibly upset.

“What is it?” I asked. “Please? Is it my mama?”

My coach came inside, and we sat on the edge of my bed. She held my hand and slowly
said, “Dot, your stepfather has been shot.” I stared at her in disbelief.

“He's in the hospital in critical condition,” she continued. I let out a sigh of
relief.

“Oh, Mama,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “Thank God . . .” I'm sure
my coach didn't understand my reaction — how could she? I had never told anyone
on the team how my stepfather treated my mother.

“I need to go to her,” I said as I stood up to pack. “Wait, I should call her —”
and I looked around the room confused, as if I couldn't remember how to use a telephone.

One of my teammates helped me call home, and I was still crying tears of relief that
my mother was not harmed when she answered. “Dorothy? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mama, it's me, Dorothy,” I said. I was so happy to hear her voice.

“Baby, listen to me. You need to focus on your schoolwork,” she said. “I'm alright.”
Ever practical, Keeby did not want my studies to suffer, even in the face of a crisis
as big as this one.

“But, Mama . . .” I interrupted.

“Listen to me, Dorothy Johnson,” she continued. “You couldn't get in to see him right
now even if you were here. He's in intensive care. Why don't you wait until the weekend?
You can come then without missing any of your classes. I'm fine. Really.”

“Who shot him?” I asked. “How did this happen? Where is he?” For a moment, I felt
panic rise and thought to myself,
O God — Mama, you didn't pull the trigger did you?
Was it self-defense? Did he hurt you?
I said none of this out loud, but she told
me enough details that I realized with relief she hadn't been the one who shot him.

Since none of my friends had any idea about my background,
I couldn't really share
any of the terrible things that were running through my mind. I was grateful for
their concern, and several of them stayed for a while to make sure I was okay. But
I was in turmoil, and part of me just wanted to be left alone.

I was deeply concerned for my mother. In spite of the horror he had put her through,
I knew she genuinely cared about this man. No matter how he treated her or what awful
things he said to her, she had continued to cook his meals, clean his trailer, wash
his clothes, and pay his bills. That night, I eventually fell into a fitful sleep,
praying that God would watch over my mother and help her through this new storm.

The next morning, my sister called, crying. “What is it?” I asked. “What's wrong?”
I asked again, this time a bit more forcefully.

“It's Mama,” she said, and the crying started again. “Dorothy, you've got to come
home. Now!” This was too much. I sat down hard, dazed. “She's sick,” my sister said
through more tears. “She's in intensive care.”

I stared at the receiver.
Did I hear her right? Mama!
The moment I hung up, fierce
energy poured through my body. When I heard about my stepfather, my feet had turned
to stone. Now, when I heard about my mother, it felt like fire was coursing through
my veins. I hastily threw some clothes into a bag and sped home. I didn't even think
about the consequences of missing class or practice. I didn't take time to notify
anyone; I just knew I had to get home.
Home
, I thought.
Mama
is
my home. Without
her there isn't any home.
The car couldn't go fast enough.

My mother had suffered a heart attack. I suppose the news of my stepfather was too
much for her to bear. Now they were both in intensive care, two lives hanging in
the balance. I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. No matter how deeply I
breathed, there just didn't seem to be enough air.

We received an outpouring of support from family, our church, and our friends. Everybody
knew Keeby, and everyone seemed to want to help in some way. All across Plaquemines
Parish, prayers were lifted on behalf of my mother and stepfather — earnest prayers
— and God heard.

Within a few days, my mother showed remarkable signs of improvement and was moved
out of the ICU into a regular room. We were a people who believed in miracles. We
had seen them many times and trusted God for one now. He did not fail. Two weeks
later, my stepfather was also moved out of intensive care and began his long road
to recovery. This was truly a miracle — not just that he was alive, but that this
experience finally brought him closer to Christ.

Police officers made several trips to the hospital, asking questions and investigating
the details of the assault on my stepfather. They eventually filed a report, but
they hadn't gotten to the bottom of the mystery of who had pulled the trigger. My
stepfather offered up what little he remembered. He had been drinking and gambling
at a nightclub he frequented. An argument broke out between him and another man.
Things got heated until they were completely out of hand. A shot was fired, and he
ended up with a bullet in his stomach. Rumors flew all around the county, and many
speculated, but no one was able to name a plausible suspect, so no arrest was ever
made. My stepfather had been too drunk to remember who he had the fight with.

My mother was just relieved he was alive and thanked God every day. It was amazing
to watch how gentle she was with him and how attentive she was to his every need.
Of course, we all were glad he was alive, but we were also partly glad he had tasted
the consequences of irrational violence. I wrestled with my thoughts, but in time
I chose to look at it as a chance
for him to redeem himself and live a better life.
God needed to shake him up to get his attention — and now he certainly had it.

People from the community came to visit my stepfather every day. Through acts of
kindness, they demonstrated God's love for a man who had done very little to deserve
such care. Some prayed with him or shared the gospel, giving him the opportunity
to make a decision for Christ. He was encouraged to trust God to heal his body, to
repent, and to turn his life around. God must have spared him for a reason and he
best find out what that reason was. Slowly but surely, their kindness cracked his
shell.

I visited him too. I knew it was the right thing to do. And I began to feel a burning
desire for him to know Jesus. During my time in campus ministry, I had seen many
students give their lives to Christ, and I wanted my stepfather to know him too.

When I was sitting with him one afternoon, a pleasant silence had filled the room.
He looked over at me, and I saw kindness in his eyes. For the first time I could
ever remember, he asked me about myself.

“How's school?” he asked. I was taken aback. He had never asked me a question like
that before. I answered him cautiously, and though it was awkward at first, the more
I talked, the easier it got.

“Tell me more about this campus ministry you're so involved in,” he probed. I looked
at him, searching for some sign of false concern on his face, but there was none.
Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. It just flowed out. I told him all about
my friends, the wonderful church I attended, and how families adopted students and
mentored them and helped them discover their destiny. I told him about leading others
to Christ and how God can change a life — any life, even his. I spoke of repentance
and forgiveness and hope and healing, and my
stepfather soaked up every word like
a sponge. We lapsed into silence again after a time, and I thought the conversation
was at an end. But it turned out there was more he wanted to know.

“Tell me,” he said, “Tell me about what you want to do with your life, Dorothy.”

I turned my head and looked at him in amazement.
Was this the same man who beat my
mother? Was this the man who came home drunk in the middle of the night, demanding
food and shouting obscenities?
I looked at his face and felt God's love surround
us both. God loved this man, and therefore so would I. In the weeks that followed,
I continued to come back and visit every weekend.

As I drove back and forth from school to the hospital, I was flooded with memories
of all the times my stepfather had driven me back to college after a visit at home.
We usually went back on a Saturday after he'd had a chance to sleep it off and sober
up. For the long, three-and-a-half-hour ride, it was just the two of us alone together.
He often used the time to talk about himself and offer excuses for his behavior toward
my mother. He always told me how sorry he was to have hurt her when he lost control.
My stepfather claimed he wanted to stop drinking, but he repeatedly denied the needs
of his family in favor of his desire to drink. I didn't hate him, even then. I felt
sorry for him. He was trapped in a losing cycle, unable and unwilling to break free.

Yet here he was now, surviving a bullet to the stomach shot at point-blank range.
Surely, God must have more for him. I was certain that if he gave his life to Christ,
he could be free forever from the grip of alcohol and gambling. He could live a new
and meaningful life. In fact, I could already see the signs that he was changing.
During one of our visits, he told me how proud he was that I was going to earn my
degree — and he wanted to be at my graduation! I was deeply moved.

To pass the time during our visits, we sometimes played a game to help strengthen
his lungs. The hospital had given him a cylindrical device filled with hollow plastic
balls, which had an attached tube with a mouthpiece. He was supposed to blow into
the tube to see how high he could lift the plastic balls. The exertion helped to
expand his lungs, preventing fluid from building up and causing additional health
concerns. We took turns blowing into the device. When it was his turn, his face would
contort so strangely that it made me laugh. Of course, the fact that he was competing
against an athlete in top condition meant it was no contest, but it was a good time
between us.