Letter to Dad–Father’s Day, June 21, 2015

Dad,

I’m crying right now.  I’m sitting here in a small café writing this as tears are falling down my face.  I’m not embarrassed, though.  I’m just letting the tears come while I talk to you.  And the funny thing is I feel like you are right here listening, so I’ll let you know without anger or fear, you did hurt me, Daddy.  And you hurt Momma, too.  And though I have my angry days and I have my weepy days, I also have my good days, too.  And on those days, I try to understand you and I try to remind myself that you are a hurt, broken soul, too.  So why don’t we start working together?  Why don’t we start forgiving each other?  Even though we didn’t have a bond, we had a connection.

I remember the day I needed help with the tuition for my massage and alternative healing school.  I had to make the final tuition payment of $2500 or I was going to be thrown out of the school.  I didn’t know how I was going to pay the bill.  I didn’t know where I was going to get the money.  I tried to get a loan at a bank but I had absolutely no collateral and was considered a bad risk!  I tried to borrow money on my Discover credit card.  What a mess that was!  I decided to get a cash advance and I remember the teller at the bank looking at me skeptically as she charged my credit card and handed me the money.

I walked out of the bank but then panicked!  How was I ever going to pay the credit company back next month to avoid additional charges?  I was having so much anxiety I actually took the money back to the bank and paid off the bill.  I had the money for less than two hours and still got hit with a fee for borrowing the money in the first place!  What a mess!  I didn’t know what to do.  I just had one option left and I wasn’t really comfortable with it.  Since the day I moved away from Kansas, I hadn’t asked you or Mom for anything.  I felt guilty asking now.  However, I had few other choices.   I finally swallowed my pride and called you and Mom for the money.  When I asked Mom for the loan, I cringed when she told me that she wasn’t sure you guys could loan me $2500.  She said she would have to discuss it with you when you came home.  God, why couldn’t she have just said yes?  I was so afraid when she said you would make the final decision.  We hung up the phone and I had to wait for several hours until you got home from work.

That evening Mom called me back.  Yes, I could have the money, but I would have to pay it back. It was a loan, not a gift.  Mom said a check would be in the mail to me the next day.  Thankfully, the check arrived in time for me to pay off my massage school tuition. I was able to graduate from The New Mexico School of Natural Therapeutics in 1998. When you and Mom visited me a few months later, January of 1999, you told me an amazing story.

You told me that you had been standing in line at the bank.  You had to get money for a new roof for the house.  As you stood in line, you heard a voice whisper in your head to take out an additional $2500 from savings.  You told me that you had argued back with the voice.  Why would you need $2500 more?  But the thought wouldn’t leave your head.  You were told again to move $2500 from savings to checking so it could be withdrawn.  You continued to silently argue back, a conflict raging in your own mind, until you were standing in front of the teller.  After getting the money you needed for the roof, you asked the teller to move $2500 from savings to checking but you didn’t know why.  You had given in to the voice and just followed directions.  At the last minute, before you left the bank, you made the transfer.  That night when you arrived home, Mom told you I had called for the loan.  “How much does she need?” you had asked.

As you told me in January of 1999, “I was shocked when Momma answered $2500, the exact amount I had been instructed to transfer.  Now I knew why!”  I was thrilled to hear this story because I have always believed in angels and intuition.  I was happy that you had this experience.  I also had a little surprise of my own for you.

Since the moment, I had received the money from you, I wrote out a check every month to pay you back.  The checks ranged from $20 to $100 but every month, you would receive my check.  I worked really hard, Dad.  My massage work in clinics and spas was going well.  So, that January of 1999, I was excited to hear your story.  The money you were instructed to give me changed my life.

And the last evening before you and Mom left New Mexico to return to Kansas, I slipped the next payment check into your hands before hugging you good-bye.  I had folded the check over twice, squeezed it into your palm, and walked out of your hotel room before you could look at it.  The check I gave you that day was for $1700, the remainder of the loan.  Mom told me later that you were so surprised by the money, you talked about it all the way back to Kansas.  You told her you were proud of me.  You were pleased that I had been able to completely pay you back within a few months.

That was our last time together before you passed away three months later on April 13, 1999.

But we remain connected through God and the angels.  Thank you for helping me and I’m really happy I was able to pay you back before you passed.  So through all of the hurt and all the pain, our time together in this lifetime ended with grace, pride, respect, and dignity.

Thank you, Daddy, for all you have taught me.  Thank you for creating the woman I am.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Love,

Jamie

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Mother’s Day

“A queen is wise.  She has earned her serenity, not having had it bestowed on her but having passed her tests.  She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it.  She has proved she can hold her kingdom together.  She has become its vision.  She cares deeply about something bigger than herself.  She rules with authentic power.” –Marianne Williamson

My mother has always been my best friend.  Maybe because we saw the world in a way that other people around us didn’t understand.  Mom and I shared visions and predictions.  We would get into long conversations about spirits, reincarnation, out of body experiences, and angels.  My mother would grip my hands, stare into my eyes, and say, “I can’t talk to anyone else the way that I can talk to you.”

You see, my mother was a seer, a psychic, a sensitive, a traveler, a seeker…and, for her, it was a horrible burden.  She would continually be misunderstand, mocked, and criticized.  She would suffer through 40 years of domestic abuse that left her depressed, bitter, and broken.  She would only regain her spirit after my father passed and my mother suddenly found herself alone and free to be the woman she was meant to be.  She began to reclaim her life.  She would then tell me the most amazing stories about God and the universe and I was always so eager to hear and to understand.

I share my mother’s gift.  I carry the same burden.  It was a tremendous relief for me when my mother finally found the strength to reveal her true self, even though there were still days that it left her lonely and confused.  Her visions and intuition had caused her to be lonely and isolated.  Being a sensitive, my mother was always aware of the thoughts and feelings of the people around her.

One night, I was with my mother in a hotel room in Atlantic City.  We had just spent a long week traveling through the northeast together, exploring Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and Niagara Falls.  I don’t know if it was exhaustion or exhilaration from our 8-week wander through America, but my mother sat on the bed with her legs tucked up under her.  She started to talk about her life, her visions, and the suffering she endured.  She began to say to me, “I know people don’t like me.  I know most people laugh at me.  But I can only be who I am.  I can only be me.”  Though her voice was strong and her declaration clear, the tears running down her face were breaking my heart.  I sat down on the bed beside her and wrapped my arms around my mother and together we shared tears and strength and visions until mom became silent and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, mom was up early.  She was dressed, packed, and ready to continue our journey through America.  I was so happy that I was able to share this adventure with her.  I was so glad I got to live with her every day for the last nine months of her life.  Though my mother always doubted herself, she taught me to be strong; she taught me to be proud of my visions; she taught me to enjoy all of the wonders of the universe, both on earth and in heaven.  And this I can say with deep love in my heart and joy in my soul: My Mother was the greatest woman no one ever knew.

Happy Mother’s Day, Momma.  I love you.  I miss you every day.

And to all of the mother’s, all over the world, who love their children, who teach their children respect and kindness, who hold their children close to their breast and even closer to their hearts, who give their children strength to stand on their own two feet and yet pick them up when they fall…

To all the mothers who give of themselves without asking for anything in return; who stay in the shadows and allow their children to shine…

To all the mothers who are proud of their children even when sing off-key, miss a dance step, or strike out every time they are up at bat…

I know who you are…

I had a mother just like you…

And though it may not always be said, you are always loved and honored…if not by family, if not by neighbors, if not by friends…

You are held in the greatest admiration of God and the Blessed Virgin…

They see your suffering; they know your heart; they understand your deepest intentions and listen to your continuous prayers….

Giving birth was a blessed event and a blessing event…

You are honored…

I wish you all a very Happy Loving Mother’s Day….

Hummingbird

One night, I was leaving work around 10 pm.  Though I was exhausted, I didn’t want to go right home.  There was one place I wanted to go before I drove back to my apartment complex.  Though in my head, I knew that my plan wasn’t a great idea, my heart kept telling me that I needed to go.

I had been living in Antioch, Tennessee, a suburb of Nashville, for about two years.  I loved to listen to the radio every morning as I drove to work.  It was rather strange though to hear beautiful music mixed in with the horrible crimes that  were described in the morning news reports.  I was surprised by all the violent stories that were reported on the radio as I drove to work every morning.  Throughout the day, I would contemplate the stories I had heard.  Sometimes, I would have to fight back tears.  I just couldn’t understand how people could be so vicious to each other.  I cried when I heard about the young pregnant woman who was walking down the street and was almost run over by a truck.  The driver was afraid the young woman would report the incident so he shot her to death.  Another story focused on a young man who had moved to Nashville to pursue a music career.  While showing his visiting family around the city one day, he was shot to death in front of his mother and aunt when he had stopped to ask for directions.  Every morning, while driving to work, I would hear stories of more brutality and deaths.  I continually felt overwhelmed and distressed by the violence in an otherwise amazing city like Nashville, Tennessee.

One morning,  as I drove to work, I listened to the news reporter tell the story of a young 18-year-old girl who was raped and strangled to death in the bathroom of a local Laundromat.  The story sent chills through me for several different reasons.  It was so sad that the woman was so incredibly young and died so terribly.  However, I was also disturbed that the Laundromat was located just a block away from where I lived.  The Laundromat was just on the corner of my street.  I thought about the situation throughout the day.  Finally, I decided that on my way home from work that night I would stop by the Laundromat.  I didn’t mean to be morbid.  I didn’t want to go inside.  I didn’t want to see the actual setting of the young woman’s death.  I just wanted to sit for a moment in my car in the Laundromat parking lot and offer up a prayer, a blessing, to the young woman who had lost her life so tragically and so close to home.  I just didn’t want the young woman to feel so alone in her tragedy.

I left work that night and drove to the Laundromat in quiet contemplation.  I had been to this Laundromat before.  I knew it well.  The bathroom where the crime occurred was directly across from the entrance.  A wall of dryers lined both sides of the bathroom door.  Three rows of washers sat in the center of the large room.  Folding tables were along the front by the big plate glass windows.  Though the Laundromat was opened 24-hours, I didn’t expect anyone else to be around that night.

I turned off the highway and drove down the street to the Laundromat.  I took a deep breath and pulled into the parking lot.  I parked in a space up front…and caught my breath.

Oh, my gosh…I was surprised to see that there were a lot of people in the Laundromat.  They weren’t there to investigate or to morbidly view the crime scene.  The people were actually doing their laundry.  I sat in my car and watched through the large front window as three women chatted and laughed as they busily folded their underwear and linens at the front tables.  Two young men were in the back pulling clothes out of the dryers.  Several other people were leaning up against washing machines quietly sipping out of Starbuck’s cups.  The only evidence of the young girl’s passing was yellow crime scene tape that was plastered over the bathroom door in the back of the room.  I stared at the people and felt the urge to scream out at them.  “Don’t you know a young woman just lost her life here?”  I had to consider that maybe they didn’t know.  Maybe they didn’t listen to the news or pay attention to current events.  Maybe these people, who were busily folding their sheets and sipping their coffee, just didn’t care.  Maybe having clean underwear was more important than the death of a beautiful young girl.  Maybe…but I just didn’t understand how clean clothes could be so incredibly important at that moment.  Yeah, a young woman died…but life goes on…and we all need clean underwear.

I said my prayer for the safe passage of the young woman and then started my car.  I drove home in awkward silence even though I was the only one in the car.  My exhausted mind was twisting with confusion as I pulled into the lot, parked my vehicle, and went inside my apartment.  I walked into my living room and turned on the news.  A picture of a young woman suddenly appeared on the screen.  She has spiky red hair.  Green inky tattoos graced her bare arms.  I stared at her face as the reporter announced that the young woman who had died at the Laundromat had been identified.  I don’t remember her name.  I just remember her beautiful wide green eyes staring up at me from the television screen.  I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep.

That incident happened about 10 years ago, and yet I have been thinking a lot about it over the last few weeks for some reason.  I think, as I age another year, I become more aware of the preciousness of life and how fragile all of us are.  Life is too short…It goes too fast…and I don’t think I want to spend my final years worrying about doing laundry or chores or anything that doesn’t provide me with bliss and joy.  I’ve become selfish with my time.

Several months ago, I asked a friend if he wanted to go out to lunch with me.  He responded, “I can’t.  I have a lot of laundry to do.”  I told him the laundry would still be there when he got home.  He still, however, refused.  I took myself out to lunch.

I know that on my deathbed I will have lots of regrets.  But I guarantee, I will not be lying there thinking, “Damn, I should have done more laundry.”

Life does go on…we just need to determine how we are going to spend the precious time we are given.  We just have to determine when life itself becomes more important than our mundane existence.

I don’t have all the answers.  I struggle, too, with procrastination, indecision, anxiety…

But I do know this…as I am writing now about the death of this beautiful young woman I noticed something fluttering to the right side of my face.  I turned and glanced out my window…and looking right into my eyes was a tiny sweet humming bird.  It is the first one I have seen this season and I’m surprised that it came right up to my window.  The small bird stared at me for a while through the thick glass before doing a quick spin and then flying away….

Oh, yes, sweetheart, I got your message….you can rest in peace.

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.

Fast Food Lessons

I admit that I was a little aggravated last Friday as I stood in line to place my order at McDonald’s in Indio, California. I had stopped by the fast food restaurant on my way to Laughlin, Nevada, which is about a three-hour drive from my home in Palm Desert, California. I had a simple plan. I would leave my apartment at 8 am and be in Laughlin around 11:30. I decided to stop for breakfast along the way.

Instead of sitting in the long line at the drive-thru, I decided to go inside the restaurant. I was third in line behind a family of five and two elderly gentlemen. I didn’t think this would be a problem. It shouldn’t take me long to get my food and then I could be on my way. There were a few problems though. First, the three children in the family couldn’t decide what they wanted to eat. I tried to keep myself calm but I couldn’t help emitting a few dramatic sighs. My right foot began to tap in a steady loud beat upon the floor. After a few minutes of deliberation, the family finally came to an agreement and placed their order.

Finally, the two elderly men stepped up to the counter. The cashier, who looked to be about seventeen-years-old, took their order and then told the men the price of their meal. “That’s not right,” one of the men started screaming. “You’re over charging me. There’s no way in hell that can be more than 10 dollars.” When my rolling eyes finally settled back down into my face, I looked at the young clerk, and suddenly felt tears threatening to fall. I watched the young girl’s hands shake and heard her voice quiver as she went back over the order with the two men. It all became rather confusing as the two men continued to yell and berate the young woman as she tried to help them.

I suddenly saw myself so many years ago. My first job was at a McDonald’s in Kansas City, Kansas. I remember days when I went home in tears because of the vicious words and hateful attitudes of some of the customers. Now, my heart was breaking for this young woman who was just trying to do her job. I felt really ashamed of my own impatience then and took deep breaths to adjust my own attitude as I watched the young cashier bravely try to work with the two men. Finally, one of the managers came up to help and the situation was settled.

I walked up to the counter then and said hello before placing my order. Then as I paid for my food, I whispered to the cashier that she was doing a great job. She smiled at me for just a moment and then bit her lip as shook her head. I stepped away then and stood off to the side as I waited for my food to arrive.

The two elderly men’s order was ready first. I watched as they stepped back up to the counter and then yelled at the young clerk because the order wasn’t correct. The two men laughed to each other and whispered loudly words like “idiot” and “stupid.”

As one of the men walked by me, he stated, “Stupid people here don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Well, you could have a better attitude!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I had shocked myself by answering back to him.

“What did you say?” the man suddenly leaned towards me menacingly. “What did you say to me?”

And I said it again. “You could have a better attitude!”

He stared at me for just a moment before shouting, “You try standing in line for 15 minutes and see how you feel.”

He turned to walk away from me as I stated, “I just did. I was standing behind you! I heard every mean word you said. You didn’t have to be so hateful!”

I don’t know if he had heard me because he was already walking to a table as I stepped up to the counter to get my order. I grabbed the bag, said thank you to the clerk, and walked away. I had to pass by the table where the two elderly men were sitting to get to the door. As I walked by I heard one of them muttering, “Damn stupid woman telling me I should have a better attitude.”

I didn’t say anything then, but I walked out of the restaurant with my head held high. A strange sort of energy suddenly filled me. In the past, I never would have said anything to anyone who was so abusive. I would have kept my head down. I would have run for cover. But, now…I am happy that I am beginning to find my own voice…not just for myself but for other people.

Journey From Abuse

It was a hot Kansas summer morning. My family was walking towards the door of the church on our way to Sunday service. My father was in the lead, walking in long stride—long for his short legs—to get into mass on time. I quietly strolled along with my siblings. I kept my head down and walked as far away from my father as I possibly could. My mother was in her usual place. She was walking in between all of us, a tender buffer between my father and his children. Mom was talking to Dad, but I couldn’t hear her words. I just knew from her movements that there was some problem. Mom was taking small birdlike steps. She skittishly flapped around my father like a tiny hummingbird. She would hop forward, say a few words to Dad, and then hop back out of striking distance. I couldn’t hear what Mom was saying. She usually talked in a timid voice to my father. I don’t know if it was her words or her movements that irritated him. But suddenly, predictably, Dad stopped in his steps, turned to my mother, and I heard him scream, “Stop nagging at me! Or I will kill you, goddamn it, I will kill you!” With that outburst, my father walked into the church, blessed himself with holy water, and knelt down to pray.

My siblings trailed in after my father as I stood with my mother outside the church. “He said he would kill me,” she whispered, her eyes wide and terrified. “He just said he would kill me.” I stared into my mother’s eyes for a moment before we both walked into the church and took our seats in the back pew. My mother knelt down beside my father and forced a smile. Walking into the church had transformed us into a happy Christian family for the other parishioners to see. But I couldn’t concentrate on my prayers. The incident that had just occurred kept spinning around my head. I don’t know what upset me the most: my father threatening my mother or my mother having reason to believe him.

I didn’t know what to do. I was just a child trapped in the middle of a familial war. I was young, but not innocent. I had been a witness to my father’s anger from a very young age. I was also fighting my own battles. Due to a speech impediment, my first grade teacher labeled me as “retarded.” The teacher would hit me for every word I mispronounced and lock me in closets for the afternoon. My mother and I never spoke about the abuse but we both knew. We became silent comrades, a bond forged from grief, anger, pain, and depression. We found solace in each other. There was no other safe place. We were, in a sense, “emotionally homeless.”

In 2002, Mom and I set out on a quest. We began our journey across America. Our plan was to drive through all 50 states in search of a home. However, instead, we found ourselves journeying through never-ending lessons in relationships, insight, and compassion. The journey became an exploration of love, death, and endless self-discovery.

Did we ever find a home? Unfortunately, Mom passed away from complications of colon cancer in 2010 when we had just four states left to explore. Her memory gives me strength though to continue the journey. I haven’t found a home yet, but I am discovering the dimensions of my own heart, which is proving to be the safest place to be.