Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  Once again, when Helen and I got into the car after this ten-minute visit, we agreed that something was not right. We both believed the children must have been instructed to be still and not talk to us. Karen acted as she always had—friendly, hospitable. It was as if she knew she had to act normal so we wouldn’t question anything. Still, it felt that we were being viewed suspiciously. Had Karen convinced her children that we were untrustworthy, even enemies? That was a heavy burden for any child to take on.

  I wondered if they behaved the same way when a caseworker came to their home. Their silence and forced smiles could be charming to an inexperienced DFS worker. Was a seasoned caseworker conducting the visits, one who could pick up on the manipulation and control going on in the home?

  The next morning, I made another pesky phone call to Ellen. “I was at the Bower house again, and everyone but Hannah was there. Karen said Hannah was visiting her daddy. I know you can’t tell me anything since they are not in my home anymore, but . . . can you tell me how often home visits are being done?”

  Ellen sighed, then said, “Since you and I have known each other for so long I will say that visits are happening, and all seems to be going fine. You have to stop stressing over Hannah, Deb. You have other foster children to be concentrating on.”

  She’s right, I told myself, yet my heart screamed that something was wrong.

  Summer activities were drawing to a close for our family and foster children. The three little girls were having overnight visits with their grandparents, and the plan was for the siblings to eventually go live with them. School would be starting within weeks, and shopping for clothes, shoes, backpacks, and supplies was, as always, a major event. Al watched the little ones while I took my teens to the mall. It allowed me to give my own kids the attention they needed and deserved. School got off to a good start for all.

  As we neared the end of September 1997, I remembered that Karen’s due date was quickly approaching. I had bought a baby gift for her and some small gifts for each of the other children to make them feel special. I called Karen but she didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me back. I didn’t hear from her. After a few more calls and recorded messages she contacted me.

  “Hi, Karen! I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you feeling?” We chatted for a few minutes about the last stage of pregnancy. Then I asked about bringing the gifts.

  She sounded hesitant at first. “Maybe next week. We are really busy with school and the kids’ activities.”

  “How about if I just drop them off? You don’t have to be there.” Even if I couldn’t see the kids, I wanted Karen to know we were thinking of her. I still hoped to build a supportive relationship, though my hopes were waning. Normally, I would not have brought gifts or food or stayed in touch with past foster children or birth parents, but since I had begun a relationship with Karen and had her children for so long, I felt the situation was different.

  “Sure. Uh . . . just leave it by the front door. Thanks!” Karen was softer spoken than usual. She had never hesitated to allow me to visit before. My mind ran the gamut. The kids starting school could add more stress. Especially with the baby due any day. Maybe she was involved with William again. Was he the father of the child she was carrying?

  Karen gave birth to Steven on September 26. The second weekend in October, I decided to take the gifts to Karen. Helen asked if she could go too.

  As I drove, a soft rain began to fall.

  “Are we going to leave the gifts at the door if it’s raining?” Helen asked.

  “We’ll see when we get there,” I said over the rhythm of the wipers.

  Once we reached the house, the sky was looking clearer. We felt only a few drops as we walked up to the front door, but the ground was wet. I knocked a few times and rang the bell, but there was no answer.

  “Should we leave them here, Mom?”

  “I don’t think so. It might rain again after we leave.” I looked for a dry place to tuck the gifts. I didn’t see any possibilities on the front step.

  As we turned to walk back to the car with the gifts, I noticed a side door to the garage. If the door was unlocked, we could set them inside. I tried the door and it opened. Helen and I started to go in, but an overpowering odor hit us like a tidal wave. It was so strong our eyes began to burn. I could hardly breathe as I set the gifts on the floor.

  The garage appeared half empty. A large rubber trash can on wheels sat next to the garage door.

  Helen and I quickly stepped outside, gasping for fresh air. “What is that horrible smell?” Helen asked, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. Her eyes were watering.

  “It smells like rotting meat,” I said. “Maybe Karen’s freezer went out. I have never smelled anything so horrific.” I followed Helen with my hand over my nose as I continued to talk to my daughter.

  “Let’s get to the car. I can’t breathe.” I shooed her to move quickly, and with my other hand I reached back to the side door of the garage and closed it tightly.

  Just before reaching the car, Helen and I both turned back to look at the garage as if we were expecting an explosion or something gross to emerge, explaining the smell. Nothing happened. We both turned and stared into each other’s eyes.

  “What are you thinking, Mom?” We looked at each other for a long moment.

  “Nothing. I’m not thinking anything,” I said, but we both knew that wasn’t true. For a split second, I let my imagination get away from me, thinking unthinkable things. I immediately dismissed the bizarre fears circling in my mind. My concern has driven me to crazy thinking, I rationalized. I will call Karen and ask her about the odor. I am sure she is aware of it and has a logical explanation.

  Helen and I discussed the foul odor all the way home. Maybe an animal had slipped into the garage and died. Or . . . the freezer theory. The smell so lingered that when we got home, we brushed our teeth trying to rid the taste of spoiled meat in our mouths. We put on lotion and sprayed ourselves with perfume.

  It didn’t help.

  I called Karen that evening to tell her where we left the gifts. I explained about the rain that brushed over Casper just long enough to get everything wet. Then I asked her about the smell in the garage.

  “Oh. Yeah. I had to throw out a bunch of food that was spoiling. I know. It’s bad, isn’t it?” Her voice sounded a little hesitant but calm. I dismissed my irrational thoughts and believed Karen’s explanation.

  The following weekend Charles and I stopped by the Bower home. I didn’t call first this time. I told Charles I wanted to pick up a dish I forgot. He wanted to go in and see the kids with me.

  I knocked on the door, and Kyra opened it slightly and peeked through. Her eyes widened when she saw us. She closed the door a few inches without saying a word. I could hear her talking to someone. A moment later she opened the door, pressing her head between it and the frame, and said, “Just a minute.” She then slowly shut the door until it latched. Standing on the cement step, we waited to see if we were going to be invited in.

  Suddenly the door opened wide and Karen waved us in. She led the way to the living room where Ally was playing on the floor and Andrew and Kyra stood, almost side by side, by a wooden cradle. Like little soldiers, they stood in formation, only no plastic smiles greeted us this time. Just serious faces.

  “I stopped by to pick up the casserole dish I forgot on my last trip and to see the new arrival. Charles wanted to say hi to the children.”

  Karen smiled warmly as she turned toward the kitchen. I caught her giving Kyra and Andrew a stern look as if to say, Don’t say anything while my back is turned. She quickly returned and handed the dish to me. Charles looked at the Bower children as seriously as they were looking at us.

  I moved toward the cradle that Kyra was rocking and peeked in. “He’s beautiful like your other children,” I said.

  I looked at Kyra. “What’s his name?” She didn’t answer.

  “Steven,” Karen said, returning from
the kitchen.

  “Where are Hannah and Kyle today?’ I asked.

  Andrew, stiff as he was, answered. “Kyle’s playing at a friend’s house, and Hannah was sent away.”

  Karen looked as if she were going to leap at Andrew. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as she fought to contain herself.

  “Ah . . . yeah . . . Hannah went to live with a friend of ours for a while. She couldn’t behave and was causing too many problems. Kyle is usually over at his friend’s house.” Karen chuckled. The room fell silent as Andrew glared angrily at his mother and clenched his little fist. Then a glaze came over his beautiful brown eyes and he looked as if was going to cry.

  My body tightened as I watched Andrew and Karen locked in a combative glare. Something was terribly wrong, not only between them, but with Hannah as well.

  I broke the silence. “Well, we have to get going.” We all seemed to exhale with relief. As Charles and I left, I feared what wrath might come down on Andrew. I decided I would call DFS on Monday.

  Monday morning, after dropping the children off at school and day care, I went straight to my office. Walking through the reception area, I prayed as I flicked on the lights, turned up the heat, and hung up my coat before reaching for my phone. I determined to be bolder when the caseworker answered. Something was very wrong, and someone with authority needed to do something.

  “Department of Family Services, how may I help you?”

  The familiar greeting frustrated me. That is the point for my call. I need someone to help. Will anyone listen?

  “I need to talk to a caseworker for the Bower children,” I replied.

  “I’ll transfer you.”

  “Hello, this is Kim. How may I help you?” I had spoken to Kim a few times. I knew she had been at DFS for many years. Maybe I can get somewhere with her.

  “Hi, Kim. This is Deb Moerke.”

  “Hi, Deb. How are you?”

  “Well, not so good. I am calling again about the Bower children. Mostly concerning Hannah. I have called a number of times, and each caseworker I speak to tells me everything is fine. I don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Why do you feel that way?” Kim asked.

  I explained Andrew’s comment about Hannah being sent away and how many times I had gone to the house and Hannah was never there. I told her about what I saw at Walmart and that there was not a good history between Hannah and her mother. I asked if home visits were being conducted by DFS and if someone had seen Hannah at those visits.

  “Yes. A new caseworker has gone to the home several times and seen all the children.” The information should have reassured me, but a thought came to my mind.

  “I know the mother. She is very manipulative and good at it. I wouldn’t doubt that she would use a friend’s child and say she was Hannah to satisfy the caseworker. I saw pictures of all the children when they first went back home, but I’ve noticed there are no pictures of the children in the house anymore. If the new caseworker didn’t know what Hannah looked like, she wouldn’t know the difference.” Words poured out of my mouth as the whole idea came to my mind. I realized it sounded crazy, but it was possible.

  “Deb, I don’t think that could have happened. The caseworker said she saw all the children during her visit. I will check with her and ask if she had any concerns. Thanks for calling.”

  I was put off again. Would Kim actually follow up?

  I’d made the call. I could do no more. My hands were tied, and I was becoming an annoyance to Karen and to DFS. Was it time to give it a rest and let God deal with it?

  Chapter 8The Pageant

  I STEPPED INTO 1998 knowing it would bring some major changes. First, I would stop visiting Karen’s home. Though my concerns for Hannah plagued me and I still felt guilty for not finding a way to be in touch with her, I realized I’d done all I could for now. Since she was, according to Karen, no longer living with her, I had to stop my attempts to see her and trust that DFS would do their job and follow up as needed. It was agonizing, but I did my best to surrender her to the Lord.

  Second, for the past year I’d felt that it was time to draw my leadership of the crisis pregnancy center to a close, not so much because I had tired of it, but more because I felt an inner nudge to do so. I’d invested ten years in The Caring Center and was confident it would be in good hands with the current team. So I passed on the baton with a profound sense that in God’s perfect timing, he’d lead me to my next area of ministry.

  I couldn’t help but be a little nostalgic about my early days at The Caring Center. I had been a believer for less than a year when I’d become director. All the counselors were more mature Christians than I, yet the board wanted me for the position.

  Soon after I began, I attended a seminar on discerning one’s spiritual gifts. The day after the class I excitedly told three of my counselors, “I know what my spiritual gifts are now!”

  “That’s great,” they said. “What are they?”

  “Well, there are two,” I said. “The first is the gift of prophecy. I am such a black-and-white thinker, so the bottom line for me is what God’s Word says is true. And the second is that I’m an extortionist!”

  The three women’s mouths dropped open. Then very graciously one of them said, “No, honey. It’s not extortionist. I think you mean exhorter. You have the gift of exhortation.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what it was.” To this day some of my close friends still tease me about my spiritual gift of “extortion.”

  When I first took the position, I’d thought all Christians were pro-life, but I quickly learned otherwise. To my dismay, when I would go to churches or Christian organizations to speak and raise support, I began to feel that more than a few in the audiences had rotten tomatoes ready to fling at me when I brought up the gut-wrenching topic of abortion. It was painful to realize how naive I was, and I hit a low point in my new faith.

  What am I doing in Christian ministry? I wondered. I may be a Christian, but who am I to think I can serve and lead? I wanted to crawl off into a cave and lick my wounds. One day after a particularly hurtful encounter, I was driving along, bitterly discouraged, and decided to pull off into a parking lot and go before the Lord right then.

  I wept as I spoke to him. “Lord, I don’t get it. What is my job? I’m obviously not doing it well right now.” I thought I must not be doing God’s will because I was uncomfortable, hurting, and suffering. Oh, how little I knew! I have since learned that sometimes we are totally on track when we’re suffering and hurting and miserable.

  I’m not one to claim supernatural visions on a regular basis, but right then I sensed God saying, “Okay. You want a good picture of your job? This is your job.”

  I pictured a vast underground sewer system in a city. I was there in the sewer pipe, standing ankle deep in raw sewage. I trudged through the filth in the dark, the only bit of light filtering down from the slits in the occasional manhole above. The vision was so vivid I could smell the stench.

  I came to a metal ladder that went up to a manhole. God said, “This is your job. Freedom and life in me are through that manhole. Your job is to stand here, and when someone comes by, you are to put them on this ladder. You are to do whatever it takes. Fold your fingers together and hoist them up by their foot. Kneel down in the sewage and let them climb up on your shoulders. You do whatever it takes to get them on that ladder, get that manhole cover moved, and get them into the light. That is your job.”

  Then God asked, “Are you willing?” It sounded like mission impossible. “Even though it can be a stinky job? Even when you are alone? Even when you are ankle deep in poop? Are you willing to man the manhole? Are you willing to serve me by serving others?”

  I knew I was making a major life decision right there on the spot. “Yes, Lord, I am willing. I will surrender to what you call me to do.”

  Ever since that day, when I fight depression or worthlessness, helplessness or hopelessness, and wonder why I’
m here on this earth, that vision comes to mind. My job is simply to man this manhole. It stinks sometimes. And it’s lonely at times. There are some people who pass by me who don’t want help. Sometimes they’ll even pick up some poop and throw it at me. But in spite of all that, God says, “I have called you to a special calling. It may not look pretty to anybody else, but you’ve answered the call.”

  My understanding of that vision became the common thread of my work at the crisis pregnancy center, the prison ministry, and as a foster parent. I understood my purpose, and I realized that there were many ways to man the manhole. It was time to seek God’s wisdom regarding the next place I was to serve in that capacity.

  Meanwhile, I continued my lay chaplaincy work at the local jail with leading biweekly Bible studies and serving as an on-call chaplain. My heart was still tender for prisoners, the time investment was manageable, and the work was extremely gratifying.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the next service opportunity that sprang up in February. In truth, it didn’t look like service at all from the outside looking in. It looked downright frivolous.

  I was at Starla’s to pick up one of my foster children. In addition to being a childcare provider, Starla was the state coordinator for the Mrs. International pageant. She was a real champion for this pageant because it showcased married women involved in community service who exemplified high moral values. Unlike the Miss America pageant, this one didn’t include a swimsuit or talent competition. Instead, contestants were judged on public speaking, leadership, poise, and the platform that each woman championed as her own.