Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  “The Mrs. Wyoming pageant is coming up again,” Starla said casually.

  “That’s great, Starla. I know you have fun with that.”

  “There are some representatives for other parts of the state,” she said, “but I don’t have anyone for Casper.”

  Even with that lead-in, I didn’t see it coming.

  “Deb, would you consider representing Casper?”

  I laughed. “Starla, that is so not me. I’m in women’s ministry. I do things like crisis pregnancy, jail ministry, and foster parenting. I don’t know anything about pageants. Besides, I can’t walk across a room in heels, much less cross a stage in them.”

  But Starla wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Yes, Deb, it’s because of all the things you do that you’d be an ideal candidate.” She pushed an application into my hands. “Just think about it.”

  At the dinner table that night I said, “You guys will not believe what happened to me today.” When I told them about the pageant, we all started laughing at the idea. Suddenly, my kids shifted gears, all of them talking at once.

  “Mom! You should do it!”

  “Yeah, go for it.”

  “Do it, Mom.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I was taken aback. “You know this is not me.”

  Then Al chimed in, “I think you should do it! Everything you get involved with is heavy, serious stuff. You’re saying this pageant is fluff and frivolous. That’s exactly what you need. You need to lighten up and have fun.”

  “You guys are crazy. I don’t know how to glide across a stage. I’m no beauty queen!”

  Everyone talked at once. “You need to go have fun.” “You can do it.” “You’ve got all kinds of community involvement.” “At least give it a try and apply.”

  Reluctantly, I filled out the application, and the next day I handed it to Starla, barely believing I was following through with the crazy idea.

  “So . . . what’s next?” I asked Starla.

  “The deadline is tomorrow. Since you are the only Casper applicant, you will compete in May for the state title of Mrs. Wyoming. Liz, a former pageant contestant, can help you with hair, makeup, how to walk, what to wear, questions the judges may ask, everything.”

  Though filled with doubts about proceeding, I reassured myself that Starla knew what she was doing. I’d have to have confidence in her, even if I had little in myself.

  Starla kept me informed of each step I needed to take until she handed me over to Liz, who filled me in on all I’d need to do over the next few months to get ready for the competition. We had two foster children at the time, so my hands were full. Feeling stressed, I again questioned my participation. What will people think? How will other Christians see me? I felt unsure, insecure, and foolish. I’m no beauty, and I’m more comfortable in one-inch pumps, calf-length skirts, and entering and exiting through a side door unnoticed when I speak to a group of people.

  I wondered how I could get out of the contest. So I made an appointment with my pastor. Surely Pastor Bergie would counsel me not to do it.

  The next day, I climbed the steps of the old white stucco church. What will he think when I tell him what I’ve gotten myself into? I’m sure he’ll say I shouldn’t participate, and that will be my out.

  “I’m almost embarrassed to tell you what I have agreed to do,” I told him when I entered his office. “You know as a leader in a parachurch ministry and as a Sunday school teacher, I need to be very careful how I appear to people in our community and in our church.”

  “My goodness. Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.” Pastor Bergie focused on me, his hands folded, serious and ready for my confession.

  “I was approached to enter a Mrs. Wyoming International Pageant, and I agreed to do it.” I winced and braced for his response.

  He said nothing for a moment. “And . . . ?”

  “And I don’t think I should do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know if it’s something a Christian leader should do.”

  “I think it would be wonderful.”

  I was stunned. How could he say that? I’m sure my puzzled look prompted him to go on.

  “Years ago, my wife and I were asked to judge two pageants. We realized what a great platform pageants were for women to have a voice in the community. There isn’t anything wrong with it. You have been given an opportunity that can influence many people, to inspire other women to get involved in service. You should jump at the chance!”

  Really? I sighed.

  “Everything you have ever been involved in is pretty serious ministry. You need to lighten up. Have fun. God can use this new venture, and I am sure he will. You have my blessing.”

  That’s not what I’d come to hear, but it was the same message my family had delivered.

  Now how do I get out of it?

  For the next few weeks, I had appointments with Liz at her salon. While highlighting my hair, doing my nails, and waxing my eyebrows, she educated me on what I could expect. Attitude, poise, clothes—all were important. I would have three wardrobe changes: sportswear, casual dress, and a formal gown. She posed questions I might be asked: What do you like to do in your spare time? What are your greatest concerns about the world today? What are your favorite hobbies and why?

  In the midst of all my doubts, I began to believe that God actually wanted me to enter the pageant to prepare me for something to come. I couldn’t stop speculating as to what could relate to such an experience. Was it going to help me with speaking at women’s retreats? Addressing church congregations? Or just stretching me beyond my comfort? Maybe God was blessing me with busyness to take my mind and concerns off of Hannah and let DFS do their job without me bugging them.

  Not everyone was supportive of my involvement. A woman at church told me she thought it was inappropriate. A friend said she was shocked I’d even consider such a thing. A woman at the grocery store said she was surprised at me. A few others also expressed their disappointment.

  Still uncomfortable with my participation, I wondered again if I should bow out and try not to hurt Starla’s feelings. But the more I wanted out, the more I sensed God urging me forward—through my family, my pastor, and an inner voice that wouldn’t quit.

  I did what I thought was the reasonable thing to do and made an appointment with my good friend, Ron Kirkegaard, a Christian counselor. I knew I could trust him and his counsel.

  After our usual hug and a casual question about the family, Ron said, “So what are you here to talk to me about?”

  “I have an issue I don’t know how to handle, and I need your advice,” I blurted. I felt heat move up my face. I was actually embarrassed that I was embarrassed. Ron’s smile faded. He settled deeper into his chair, readying himself for the announcement I was about to make.

  “I have entered a pageant, but that just isn’t me, and I feel foolish and caught between my family and friends wanting me to do it and some Christian friends who disapprove. They say my decision to participate has led them to question their understanding of me.” Tears began to flow. “I know it must seem stupid to you, but I am really wrestling with it.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid. But why shouldn’t you be in a pageant? Are they asking you to do something against God? Or your faith? Or your morals? I think it’s great! I’ll be one of your best supporters. Look, Deb, you cannot please everyone, especially Christians. Do it and have fun. I think you’re just lacking confidence in yourself in this new and different realm.”

  I sighed. I hadn’t gotten what I wanted. Instead, I had the go-ahead from those I felt knew me best and were looking out for my best interest.

  It looked like I was in the Mrs. Wyoming pageant to stay. I needed to stop whining, accept it, and follow through, embracing the experience and keeping my eyes open for what God planned to do.

  March and April sped by. Following Starla’s and Liz’s leads, I exercised, watched my weight, practiced my walk, and even rehearsed quick dress cha
nges. It all felt so silly, but it sure was a change of pace after my year with the Bower children and my fears over Hannah.

  I also worked on the written statement I would submit and the topic I would address for my public speaking portion of the program. I chose Making a Difference as my platform and wrote about the difference I saw in the lives of foster children our family cared for. My encouragement was to not wait for government agencies to do the work of caring for people around us. We can be a part of changing lives by showing we care and demonstrating that with love and action.

  Pageant day arrived in mid-May. I was one of five women vying for Mrs. Wyoming. The event was being held at an old historical building on Wolcott Street in Casper. I would say it was charming, but it was just old.

  Wide-eyed and dazed, I caught Starla out of the corner of my eye, coming through the dressing room door. “You’re ready!” She wrapped her arms around me and swayed back and forth. “You’ve got this!” She was much more excited than I was.

  The crowded dressing room was full of dresses and gowns. An array of women’s shoes lined one wall. Makeshift dressing tables were spaced only feet from one another. One dusty overstuffed chair was tucked in a corner, and dated dark oak paneling surrounded us. The only full-length mirror hung on the back of a closet door. The dim lighting and few table lamps scattered around the room cast unattractive shadows, making it difficult to apply makeup, but we all made do with the room we had been given.

  I enjoyed each of the four women as we got to know a little about one another. I scanned the dressing room. Who would win? Surely it would be Mrs. Star Valley. She was poised, beautiful, had the perfect figure, and gave a smile that welcomed any stranger. Her gown and sports clothes complemented everything about her. Yep. She would take the state crown.

  As I slipped into my gown, I thought of my dearest friends, Lauree and Dale. A month earlier, they had flown from their homes in Texas, and we had met up in Denver on a mission to find the perfect pageant dress. We found it at Lord and Taylor’s at an affordable price. Lauree and Dale said that God had helped us find the dress he wanted me to wear, and they came up with the line, “The dress is from the Lord’s Tailor!” We laughed, but we all believed it was the dress. I love evening dresses from the twenties and thirties, and this one fit the image. Padded shoulders, an almost fitted but straight-line bodice, round collar at the neck; it was beautiful and modest. With each step, the brass beading that covered the entire dress glistened and danced across the black fabric.

  I had family and friends in the audience to support me, and I now believed God had placed me here for a purpose, though what it could be was still a mystery. I still couldn’t understand why he put me in a position that would cause division among some of my friends, but I decided to stand firm in the knowledge that there are times when God calls us to do something that others won’t like. My job was to please God, not others.

  The music began. The master of ceremonies welcomed the guests, and the pageant was underway. The judges asked us a number of questions, but one was especially memorable. “If there was a vehicle that described you, what would your husband say it would be and why?” I looked at Al, who was smiling.

  “A Rolls-Royce,” one contestant said. “A race car,” another answered. “An SUV,” said a third.

  When the emcee came to me I said, “A bus. I believe a bus fits me the best. Sometimes I’m wider than I want to be, but my husband loves me just the same. I am always loading up people who have needs, and I try to help them get to where they need to be, emotionally, physically, or spiritually. A bus has so many windows, and you can see right through it. That describes me as well. It was between a bus and a convertible. Sometimes I do go into a situation with my brain blowing in the wind. But I would have to say mostly, a bus.”

  Laughter filled the room. Al nodded and laughed along with the others. The judges laughed, too, and marked their papers.

  After the walking, talking, and judging took place, we were escorted backstage, where we laughed and shared what we believed were our weakest or most embarrassing moments in the pageant. Our chatter exposed our nervousness and anticipation. Then the signal came, and we were led out to the stage for the big announcement.

  “Before we see who will be crowned Mrs. Wyoming International this evening, we will present the individual recognitions,” the master of ceremonies said loudly into the microphone. “The women participating in the pageant have had the opportunity to vote for one another in the following categories: Mrs. Congeniality, Mrs. Photogenic, and Mrs. Community. And the winners are . . . Mrs. Casper for Mrs. Congeniality and Mrs. Community. The Mrs. Photogenic award goes to Mrs. Star Valley.” Applause broke out as Mrs. Star Valley and I stepped forward to receive our awards.

  I was shocked and touched that the other ladies had voted for me in two categories. I could have gone home happy at that point, but there was no escape. I laugh today when I picture Sandra Bullock in the hilarious movie Miss Congeniality, especially how the director of that pageant continually refers to it as a “scholarship program” and not a beauty pageant.

  I stepped back into the lineup. We all held hands as the presiding Mrs. Wyoming International 1997 came onstage with the winner’s envelope. I squeezed Mrs. Star Valley’s fingers and scooted closer, knowing she would be the winner. She squeezed back and nudged me with her hip.

  “And the new . . . Mrs. Wyoming International . . . for 1998 is . . . Mrs. Casper, Debra Moerke!” My smile slowly began to droop. Mrs. Star Valley and I looked at each other, both stunned. It couldn’t be.

  This is not what I do or who I am. What are they thinking?

  My family and friends jumped to their feet, clapping heartily with others in the crowd.

  The acting Mrs. Wyoming took my hand and led me to the front of the stage to retrieve a huge crown atop a satin pillow. She lifted the purple and white satin Mrs. Casper sash over my head and replaced it with a rhinestone-trimmed purple and white sash that read “Mrs. Wyoming International.” Then she pinned the crown to my head above my French roll, while someone else laid a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in my arms.

  “Take your walk,” Mrs. Wyoming 1997 instructed with a huge smile. She kissed my cheek and nudged me forward. I was in shock. And then it dawned on me. Now that I’d won, I’d have to compete in the national Mrs. International Pageant in Tyler, Texas, in August. What could God possibly be doing with all of this?

  Later that month I got a call from the director of the Central Wyoming Rescue Mission in Casper. Carl and I had crossed paths many times over the years. He’d been part of the spiritual support team for The Caring Center, and he and I both served on the local ministerial organization. I had tremendous respect for him and the work of the rescue mission, which provided much-needed housing and meals for those in need.

  “Debra, as you know, over the years the rescue mission has served mostly men. However, we’ve had more women and children to serve this past year. We’ve never had a female in a leadership role here to focus on the women and children. We’d like you to consider joining us as the chaplain of women’s and children’s ministries. Will you give it some thought?”

  My heart leapt. I knew immediately that was right where God wanted me. By June, I was serving in my role three days a week.

  I still wasn’t sure why God had filled my time between The Caring Center and the rescue mission with the pageant, but it certainly had distracted me from my concern over Hannah. Now I felt refreshed and ready for this new assignment.

  I’d always loved to tackle fresh challenges and be stretched in new directions, so I looked forward to pioneering the women’s and children’s ministry at the mission, helping them through crises in their lives. But I never could have imagined that while I was serving in this new ministry, God would allow a devastating crisis of my own, touching nearly every aspect of my life. I was about to be stretched not only far beyond my comfort zone, but to the very edges of my capacity, beyond what I’d ever dreamed I cou
ld endure.

  Chapter 9The Yellow Phone

  THE LARGE YELLOW ROTARY phone mounted on our kitchen wall was as essential a fixture as the sink, and many days it seemed to get as much use. Maybe more. Its best feature was the four-foot-long cord that could reach every corner of the kitchen, plus a good portion of the dining room. Its ring was loud enough to be heard in every corner of the house. It fit our home perfectly—dated but comfy.

  On this day in late June 1998, I heard its ring from the downstairs bathroom where I was scouring the tub. I peeled off my rubber gloves on my way to answer the phone.

  “Hi, Deb, this is Jill from DFS.”

  It had been a good while since I’d received a call from Jill. She was a young, fairly new caseworker whom I had worked with not too long before. I felt a kindred connection between us. We were comfortable sharing our mutual faith in Jesus, and I always enjoyed running into her at the DFS office.

  “I received a file today for some children who I learned had been in your care in the past—the children of Karen Bower.” This took me by surprise—DFS calling me about Karen. For so long it had been the other way around. It had been fourteen months since I’d been forced to return the Bower children to their mother.

  “Their mother was recently arrested for grand larceny and has just been sentenced to two years at the women’s prison in Lusk,” Jill continued. “We are trying to gather up her children to place them in foster care. We have located most of them but are missing two. I thought maybe you could give me an idea of where they might be.” Her voice was calm and professional.

  “Their mom is in prison?” I was taken aback by the information. “I haven’t seen Karen in quite a while. Which children are missing?”

  “Andrew and Hannah.”

  My pulse quickened.

  “Andrew might be with one of the mom’s friends who lives in Denver,” I said. “When Karen ran out of patience with him, she would send him there for a while. I don’t know anything about the friend or where they live. As far as Hannah, I have called DFS many times over the past year asking if they have had a visual on her. I was worried because whenever I would go to visit the family, Hannah was never there. Her mother always had an excuse—she was at a birthday party, visiting her daddy or grandma, or off playing with a friend. I thought it was strange because I saw all the other children at home, but never Hannah.