Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  When on opposing sides of a battle, should one speak with the enemy? I mentally chastised myself. They are not the enemy. They are all just doing their jobs. I am not their enemy either. Months ago, we would all have been sitting on the same bench.

  But for now, there was conflict, division, and mistrust. It was appropriate that we sit across from one another this morning. It was also sad to know that the relationship my family and I had had with DFS for sixteen years seemed to have evaporated overnight. Now, all of us had become victims.

  At 5:35 a.m. the delivery room doors swung open. Dr. Myers, draped in drab green scrubs, paper bonnet, and surgical mask, made his grand entrance into the hallway. He carried a bundle in a white hospital blanket. The cowboy doc was in true character, wearing western boots under his sterile paper booties. With a Clydesdale stride down the long hallway, I could see his eyes shift from the DFS entourage to Pammy and me.

  Like three birds perched on a wire, the caseworkers and officer came to attention.

  Shifting his glance sharply, he focused on me and his eyes brightened. I could see a smile under the rim of his mask as it rose up his cheeks.

  Dr. Myers was our beloved family pediatrician who had cared for our five children as well as the nearly 140 foster children we had had in our home. At my request, and with Karen’s approval, he had agreed to take care of this baby after its birth.

  I remained expressionless, not moving from the bench. Though my heart was racing, I didn’t want to appear to be challenging the three officials across from me. Pammy followed my lead.

  Marching up to me, Dr. Myers leaned forward and gently unwrapped the bundle, enough for a peek. He winked, then announced quietly, “It’s a girl.” Ignoring the other visitors, he covered the infant and continued with a clomp, clomp, clomp down the hall to the nursery with the bundle safe in his arms.

  Resting the palm of my hand on my chest to quiet my pounding heart, I bowed my head and whispered a prayer. “Thank you, Jesus, for this precious new life.”

  As morning darkness gave way to daylight, Pammy needed to get home to her own children. She gave me another hug before leaving. “Call me later,” she whispered.

  I sat alone, left with three bewildered faces staring at me. I felt an unwarranted responsibility to be the birth announcer. I crossed the invisible boundary in the middle of the hall and uncomfortably entered their territory.

  “It’s a girl,” I whispered, as if I was supposed to keep it a secret.

  We all smiled at each other, and for a moment it appeared as if we were all family members sharing in the joy of the new birth. Within seconds, the reality of who we really were darkened the moment, and we found ourselves soberly straight-faced once again.

  “Thank you,” Jill said, as the three got up and headed toward the elevator. That’s it? They’re leaving?

  I waited until they were out of sight, then quickly made my way to the nursery just as the hospital lights came on for the day.

  Through the nursery window, I could see a nurse bathing the new arrival. The unhappy infant bellowed and waved tiny closed fists, letting everyone know she was not happy. I smiled as tears rolled down my cheeks. Heavenly Father, you are amazing.

  Karen was still in recovery. I would come back later in the day. For now, five children at home were waking up for school. They would be hungry and needing Mom to give the morning instructions. Breakfast, bed making, teeth brushing, and school dressing would fill the next hour. I headed home. No sweet baby girl to tuck into an infant seat this time. I would have to go before a judge and wait to hear recommendations for the future of this little one.

  It was unnerving to still have guardianship unresolved. We expected that DFS would be at that hearing fighting us for guardianship. I found some comfort knowing that Karen’s and my attorney would guide us through that ordeal. More important, I knew God would be there at the courthouse. I would entrust the judge into God’s hands.

  As I headed down the highway to Goose Egg Road, Proverbs 3:5 came to mind. “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.” I recited the Scripture over in my head as I drove home to care for the children who awaited me.

  Chapter 17The Painted Stone

  AROUND NOON THAT DAY, I received a call from our adoption attorney telling me the hearing was scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning in the judge’s chambers. DFS would definitely be there trying to win guardianship. While I wasn’t looking forward to a court battle with my former allies, I was grateful to know that our wait was almost over.

  After a busy day of transporting children and working at the rescue mission, I brought pizza home for the kids for dinner so I could go see Karen. Helen and Charles were excited about the baby. Sadie was quiet and reserved. I called Al with the news. He said he wished he could be with me but would be praying about the hearing. With the kids settled in for the evening, I gave them a kiss, then left for the hospital.

  Hoping to get more than just a peek at the little girl I’d glimpsed in the early hours, I peered through the nursery window at the row of sleeping infants. Soft brown hair and a round pudgy little face were all I could see of the only girl newborn. The tag on her bassinet was labeled Bower. Her body was wrapped snugly, like a burrito, in a pale green nursery blanket. Her long eyelashes feathered under her closed eyelids, and her tiny lips pressed together as if she were nursing. I chuckled. Even in her sleep, she was dreaming of food.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I approached the nurses’ station. “Can you tell me what room Karen Bower is in?”

  The woman looked up from her desk at me, sliding her reading glasses to the end of her nose. “She is in a special room off the nursery. You will need to talk with the nurse on duty. Are you the chaplain from the jail? She said you might be coming by to see her.”

  Relieved that I was expected, I confirmed that I was.

  “We understand that you can visit her. She is under security watch, as I’m sure you know.” The woman smiled, then went back to tapping away on her keyboard.

  I stepped into the nursery. The on-duty nurse was charting information on a clipboard. “May I help you?” she said.

  “I was told you could show me where Karen Bower is. I’m here for a visit.”

  “Are you the chaplain?”

  I nodded.

  With her hands full, she nodded toward the door next to me. “Push it open. She’s in there.”

  The room was not much bigger than the hospital bed Karen lay in. A small counter with a sink and emergency medical equipment attached to the wall made the room seem crowded and sterile. I closed the door quietly behind me and tiptoed to the right side of the bed. Karen lay asleep, with her left wrist handcuffed to the side rail.

  Really? Do they think she’ll run away after just having a C-section? I had to remind myself that she’d confessed to murder and the security was necessary. I watched her sleep for a few minutes. Before waking her, I remembered something I had read on a plaque at my children’s Christian school. “Sin will always take you further than you want to go . . . cost you more than you want to pay . . . and keep you longer than you want to stay.” Karen was living that out and would do so for the rest of her life. I could give her a few minutes of sleep and rest from her consequences.

  Suddenly, I realized I had no business wrestling with Karen’s sin. I had my own to deal with. Like Paul the apostle, I do what I don’t want to do and don’t do what I should. And yet, like me, Karen had the promise from God to forgive her and cleanse her from all unrighteousness. I had to remember that.

  Karen took in a deep breath and let out a waking sigh. Her eyelids fluttered slightly before she opened them and smiled weakly at me. She attempted to shift her body using her right hand, but she could barely brace herself with the little strength of her left handcuffed wrist.

  “Ouch!” She rolled to one side. “I forgot about the stitches.” She laughed faintly.

  “How are you doing?” I whispered.

&nb
sp; “I’m okay, I guess.” She leaned on her left elbow, trying to get more comfortable. “I’ve been sleeping most the day. Whatever they gave me pretty well knocked me out. What time is it?”

  I looked around the room for a clock. There was none. Thinking about what time I had left the house, I took a guess. “It’s almost 7:30 in the evening.”

  “Did you get to see her? I haven’t seen her. They won’t bring her to me because of my security status. They strapped both my hands down for the C-section and knocked me out. I wasn’t awake to see her. I just want to hold her for a minute. I don’t know when I will be transported back to the prison, but I don’t think they will keep me here long. I wish I could see her before I leave.”

  As a mother, my heart filled with sorrow for her. I couldn’t imagine not being able to see my baby and hold her. But there was protocol to be followed. Due to the circumstances, there was little pity for a mother who gave birth after taking the life of one of her other children.

  “Have you thought of a name?” I asked, focusing on something positive.

  “I like the name Courtney a lot. What do you think?” Karen’s face seemed to light up just saying the name.

  “It’s a cute name. What about a middle name?”

  “I thought I would leave that up to you. You should be able to have a say in the name. At least part of it.”

  “I like Grace or Faith or Hope,” I said. “Any of them would say what God has brought into our lives with her birth.”

  “I like Faith. Courtney Faith. It’s all about our faith in what God can and will do in our lives, don’t you think?”

  Was Karen already shifting her heart toward the Lord? It was the first time I had ever heard her speak about God or faith other than during our forgiveness discussion. I dared to believe at that moment that she was truly at the beginning of listening to God and responding to his voice.

  “Faith, it is!”

  Karen and I grinned. However big or small our faith was, it felt huge that evening. Courtney Faith had entered the world, and with her entrance, she brought life and joy.

  Though I didn’t want to interrupt the sweet moment, I needed to talk to Karen about the next day. “The court hearing is at ten o’clock. Can we pray together now—for God’s will and for the judge to decide what will be best for Courtney?” I reached out my hands, palms up, to take Karen’s. She reached across her still swollen stomach with her right hand and opened her left, cuffed hand to welcome mine.

  “Dear heavenly Father, we come before you with humble hearts. We ask that you forgive us for our sins and that you would hear our joint prayer for the future of Courtney Faith. We pray for the judge, that you prepare his heart and mind to hear truth. Give him wisdom to make the best decision for Courtney. Help us to accept that decision and to trust that you know what the future holds for this new life and only you know what will be best for her. Continue to work in Karen’s life and heart and help her to know you as her Lord and Savior and to trust you with her life, as well. Thank you, Father. Amen.”

  As we ended our prayer, the nurse entered the room to take Karen’s vital signs. It seemed like a good time for me to leave.

  “If I can, I will let you know how everything goes tomorrow. If I can’t, I’m sure our attorney will come to tell you.” I squeezed Karen’s hand. She nodded and gave a squeeze in return. I marveled at the tenderness I was feeling toward this woman—evidence that God was at work in my heart.

  The sky darkened as I drove home. Clouds full of forecasted snow hovered over Casper Mountain. A light rain had dampened the road while I visited Karen. The day had warmed up and the cool air that had moved down from the mountain brought a mist that floated across the highway. Fall, like spring in Wyoming, was unpredictable. Tomorrow there could be sunshine or snow showers. Either way, my black suit-dress and pumps would be the most appropriate to wear to court.

  I spent much of the evening formulating a plan for the following day. Sadie would drive the van to take our kids to school and pick them up. I’d drive the Skunk Truck. Though it was an eyesore and a challenge to shift at times, the old truck was reliable and available. It was the one vehicle that pulled all the others out of the snow and mud. The Skunk Truck always started, even in subzero temperatures.

  The next morning, I dressed in my court clothes and met Sadie at the front door with keys to the van. “I don’t know what will happen this morning,” I said, hugging her before she, Helen, and Charles loaded up in the van. “Get the kids to school and pick them up on time. I should know by late this morning if I will be bringing home the baby later today or not. I will call you from work and let you know if anything changes.”

  My midcalf black suit-dress with brass buttons up the front and black pumps gave me the confidence I needed to appear before the judge. Before climbing into the Skunk Truck, I strapped seat belts across our two foster children. One was only months old herself. Climbing into the front seat and strapping myself in, I followed the family van into town. By 8:30 a.m., all the children were at their intended destinations for the day.

  As silly as I felt for it, I didn’t want to be seen driving the Skunk Truck in town any more than my daughter would have wanted to drive it to her high school, so I wore my sunglasses and took the tree-lined side streets to the old stucco Wyoming Rescue Mission downtown.

  The truck bounced over the curb and rolled to a stop in the parking lot. As ladylike as I could in a fitted dress and pantyhose, I opened the door to the truck, turned my body, slid to the left, and swung my legs out of the truck. Looking to see if anyone was watching, I jumped down onto the blacktop. My dress rose a little and twisted. The center buttons were now on the side of my thigh instead of the front of my body, so I tugged and straightened my dress to look presentable. I felt awkward, as though I were climbing out of a Sherman tank all dressed up. How fitting for such an awkward day with a court battle before me.

  Entering the Little House (the nickname for the old building that had once been a small home), I made my way around the rectangular table where six men, gruff and worn from street life, leaned over paperback Bibles. One of the residents, just as scruffy as the others, led the study. A few of the men scooted their metal chairs so I could make my way to my office door.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” I said.

  “Morning, Miss Deb,” the men mumbled.

  “You sure look nice today,” one announced. They had not seen me so dressed up before. The usual dress for staff at the mission was much more casual, usually blue jeans.

  None of the men looked quite awake. Coffee was not offered at the mission. The director felt it was a stimulant the guests did not need. I sure needed it. I had to drink two cups before heading to work in the morning and usually could use a third, though I dared not bring a to-go cup of the wretched caffeine into the building.

  My office was toasty. I was sure it was Joe who had gone in early and turned the antique heater on for me. Files were stacked on the old, distressed wooden desk. Sad files. Files with stories of broken women who stayed at the mission needing help, love, and hope. Some of the women came fresh out of prison. Many had lost everything. Their home, husband, job, and sometimes, even children. Most had lost their dignity. I thought of Karen. She’d never need our services. She was never getting out. My job as chaplain was to give these women hope. I could use some hope myself this morning.

  The knock at my office door was a familiar sound for that time of the morning. Only Maureen came to my office first thing. Maureen’s home was the mission. She had been there so long she was almost considered an employee. Maureen would gather stones on her daily walks around town. She was quite selective. Bringing the stones back to the mission, she would wash them and then, using acrylic paints, paint little landscapes on one side and Scripture on the other—Maureen’s personalized gifts. Often she would come to my office in the mornings and share her most recent creations with me.

  She took a seat in the antique wood rocker next to my desk and began
to rock without saying a word.

  Staring at me for a moment, she blurted out, “Are you going to a funeral today?”

  “No. I’m going to court.”

  “Court?” Maureen would always probe, even though she bragged about never wanting to intrude. “So, you dress in black to go to court? Are you in trouble?”

  “No. It’s just something I need to take care of. It will be fine, really.”

  Maureen handed me a small white box tied with coral-colored ribbon. I held the little lightly stained box with both hands, handling it as if it were breakable glass.

  “Well . . . before you go, you might want to open your gift. Since I’m always showing you the stones I paint for other people, I asked God what I should paint for you. This is what he told me.” Maureen sat up taller, displaying pride and a little sass.

  Lifting the lid, I found Kleenex cradling the treasure inside. I carefully lifted out a stone and placed it in my open palm so I could read the painted words.

  BE NOT AFRAID . . . ONLY BELIEVE. MARK 5:36

  The shiny white paint sparkled against the smooth, smoky gray stone. Tears sprang to my eyes as I wrapped my fingers around the smooth stone, hugging it to my chest.

  “Are you okay?” Maureen asked. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “This is exactly what I needed this morning.” My throat tightened. I could hardly speak. I stood and took her face in my hands. Looking directly into her eyes I said, “You could never have known, but God did. He used you to remind me that he is with me. Thank you for listening to him.” I kissed her forehead and gave her a hug.

  “You are welcome,” Maureen announced with conviction. “Isn’t he great!”

  “Yes. He is, Maureen. I know he will be with me today in court.”

  “What time is court?” Maureen asked.

  Looking at my watch, I saw it was already after nine o’clock.