There he was: “Kenny J.” I had met him before Thanksgiving. He was handsome! I gave him a flyer and invited him to Bible study, and he came! I introduced him to the campus minister, and before long, Kenny accepted Christ as his Savior. Kenny was a persuasive communicator, and when he shared his testimony about accepting Jesus with the group, my heart filled to the brim. By the end of that first semester, we were head over heels in love.
At spring break, I took Kenny home to meet my family, and they all fell in love with him too. He fit right in, and I found myself beginning to trust him. I shared things with him I had never told anyone else. I told him about how abusive our lives had been as I was growing up and how scared and alone I had felt. Kenny shared his own challenges with me, and this drew us even closer together.
The time I spent with Kenny was magical. He loved God with all his heart. We spent lots of time together — talking, praying, studying the Word, and just being close. Our feelings for each other intensified, and it was the best time in my life.
When we returned to school in the fall, Kenny was a senior and already looking ahead to his future. When he began to talk of marriage, I found myself suddenly shy. I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. I was still bruised from my past and from the betrayal I had experienced time and again. I wanted to give myself completely to Kenny, but part of me held back. I was deeply in love but not ready to commit.
“Seek first his kingdom” was etched on my heart. How can I seek God if I am so involved in a relationship? I thought to myself. I was starting my second year of college. I was back on a volleyball scholarship and had plans to play for the next three years. What about my family? I promised my mother I would finish school and be the first college graduate in the family. What about the ministry? People were coming to know Christ because of my involvement. If I marry Kenny, what will happen to those people? I fought with myself. One day, I could imagine leaving school to join Kenny in “happily ever after” wedded bliss. The next day, I was certain I had to focus on my goals or I would always be filled with regret that would ultimately spoil my marriage.
Up and down I went, riding on an emotional roller coaster. Beneath it all was the legacy of my troubled childhood. I was determined that what happened to my mother would never happen to me. I wanted to be able to survive on my own — to be independent, well educated, and strong. Although I wasn’t willing or able to acknowledge it, I was also afraid of yet another betrayal. This fear had built a self-protective fortress around my heart. No one could come in, and I couldn’t come out. Fear imprisoned the part of me that wanted to love and trust another human being. I didn’t realize it, but the prison was there as surely as if there were real iron bars and a lock encasing my heart.
During this time, my auntie Dee Dee wrote me letters, encouraging me to stay in school and finish my degree — there would be time for marriage later. Years ago, she had made plans to finish high school and then go to college, but instead she got married and moved away with her husband, Uncle Bubbie, who worked for the government. The responsibilities of being a wife and mother complicated things, and it was many years before she had the opportunity to return to school for her bachelor’s degree. She spoke from personal experience about the limitations I would experience without that cherished college degree. I clung to her words as a source of encouragement and guidance. I was thankful for her wisdom, and this helped me to realize God had a plan for my life. I was thoroughly convinced that scholarships were his provision for my education. Why would he have provided the money for me to go to school if I wasn’t supposed to finish? It would be wrong of me to waste this opportunity. I also thought about my siblings — I didn’t want to be a dropout they couldn’t look up to. Troubled by my past, absorbed in my present, and confused about my future, I pulled back from Kenny.
My relationship with Kenny had made me the envy of many girls in our campus fellowship. Kenny was a fine catch — handsome, well built, patient, well-spoken, kind, and sincerely good. Every young woman in our ministry wanted Kenny, but I was the lucky one he chose. Throughout our relationship, I was proud to be with him, and I felt special that he wanted to be with me.
But as Kenny’s senior year progressed and he became increasingly insistent about wanting deeper commitment and more of my time, I had less time to give. In addition to the campus ministry, I was focused on my studies and took my position with the volleyball team very seriously. I needed time to keep my grades up and perform well on the team. As a result, we spent much less time together, and our relationship grew shaky.
I truly wanted to be Kenny’s wife. I believed he was the man God had for me. I even dreamed about it, but I also firmly believed it had to be after college. Then and only then could I allow myself to become an adoring and wonderful wife. Looking back, I know that fear played a much larger role in my reluctance to commit than I realized at the time. I had known the harshness of anger and abuse. I had felt the sting of betrayal by people I loved and trusted — and I still suffered from that pain. I wasn’t willing to hand Kenny an opportunity to hurt me in that way. I pursued my goals and pushed him farther and farther away until one day, he stopped trying to get close.
Kenny moved on.
CHAPTER 7
Home away from Home
It is not so much our friends’ help that helps us as the confidence of their help.
Epicurus
I knew Kenny was seeing someone else. We never officially broke up, but we drifted apart until I knew the relationship had died. I knew he would bring his new girl to a meeting one day, and I dreaded it. Even though I genuinely wished him the best and wanted him to be happy, the thought of seeing him happy with someone else was painful. Oh, if only he was willing to wait!
When my reluctance to commit became evident, one girl in the group who had never been fond of me (at least in my mind) quickly encouraged Kenny to move on. “Pursuing Dot is a waste of time,” she told him. She introduced him to a friend of hers and encouraged him to ask her out. Real or imagined, it seemed as though she celebrated my loss — perhaps I had gotten what I deserved. Each time I went to a meeting, I could feel her eyes on me and imagine what she whispered to others: “Good for him!” “It’s about time he moved on!” I wanted to escape.
The dreaded day finally came. He brought her to a meeting, and I was hurt. The old feelings of betrayal surfaced, and it was difficult to push them aside and focus on God and my goals. A wrestling match was taking place inside my soul. I argued with myself, gave myself pep talks, and sometimes cried out to God in desperation. I questioned if I had done the right thing in rejecting Kenny’s offer for a future together, and I struggled to keep my focus on my studies.
To further complicate matters, our campus ministry group naturally fostered deep relationships, and people began pairing off. Fifteen couples who met in our group ultimately went all the way to the altar. I was truly happy for each and every one of them, but something inside me felt empty and hollow. Will I ever know that kind of happiness? Will I ever trust someone enough to walk down the aisle? Will he treat me well? Will he hurt me? These thoughts tormented me in moments of quietness, and I turned them over to God, trusting him to bring me peace.
Kenny was very kind to me during this time, and he placed some distance between us before involving his new girlfriend in campus ministry. I appreciated his sensitivity, but just being in the same room with this girl was enough to drive me to distraction. The disappointment in my soul was intense. I felt neglected as I never had before and had to grapple with my emotions privately so I could find the strength and maturity to be gracious and kindhearted in social situations.
Unwilling to lose face or let anyone know how deeply hurt I was, I continued to study with the group and participate in all the activities. I even encouraged other members of the group to reach out to Kenny’s new girlfriend and love her. After all, that’s what Christ would have done, and I genuinely wanted to be a follower of Christ. I was quick to assure anyone who exp
ressed concern for me that I was fine. With a forced but convincing smile, I explained that the breakup with Kenny was not his fault — someone else was able to give him what he needed now, and I wasn’t that person. He deserved to be happy.
Many times I was tempted to go to Kenny, apologize, and tell him how I really felt — that I loved and needed him. When I imagined the scene in my mind, it always ended with him asking me to marry him (again), but this time I would look into his eyes and say, “Yes, Kenny!” Sometimes I even picked up the phone, but then I always put it back down again. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It would be a lie. I wasn’t ready to love like that — or to be loved like that.
Something on the inside of me was deeply wounded. I had never shared my traumatic childhood with anyone other than Kenny, so no one knew the depth of fear and inability to trust I experienced. I was simply not capable of accepting Kenny’s goodness, kindness, and genuine love for me. My emotional defenses were fortress strong, and I felt powerless to tear them down and let him inside.
The remainder of my sophomore and junior years was difficult and lonely. However, it was during this time that I met Wayne and Jane Nance through a “home away from home” program at our church. Mrs. Nance became my mentor, and oh, what divine providence it was that brought her into my life! She pointed out the good she saw in me and challenged me to reach for God’s best in every area of my life. She helped me see my failures as stepping-stones to success and use these for growth and development, not as anchors to weigh me down. She encouraged me to honor Christ with all my actions and to seek his guidance in every decision. I wanted to be like her, and in a very short time I had grown remarkably close to her.
Her wisdom and gentleness disarmed me. I soon found myself venting my closely guarded fears and feelings. My defenses fell away, and I felt safe enough to share my pain. Her calm demeanor and willingness to listen wrapped around me like a warm blanket. She gently navigated the storms in my soul and helped me chart a course into calm waters — a place where God’s love was all-encompassing. It was the first time I experienced inner healing, and I knew I was on my way to a new beginning.
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 consequ
ences 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.
Silent Cry Page 5