Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  Taken aback at her question, I drew in a deep breath and moved closer to her.

  Tears pooled in her eyes. She looked hopeful as she chewed on her bottom lip, anticipating my response.

  “I already have,” I whispered, looking directly into her eyes.

  Karen buried her face in her hands and wept while sweet tears of gratefulness for what the Lord had done in her heart rolled down my face.

  So many tears at one visit. Tears of sorrow and loss, of regret, and of forgiveness.

  “Thank you.” Karen nodded, receiving what she had waited to hear.

  We had both come a long way. How different our lives could have been. Where would we both be if I hadn’t surrendered to the Spirit challenging me to accept the call from Karen on the yellow phone all those years ago? What if I hadn’t been obedient to the Lord’s prompting to visit her? What if I hadn’t shared God’s love and hope with her, the promise of a new life in him? Who would she have become?

  Who would I have become? If I hadn’t chosen to surrender to God, what path might I have taken?

  I noticed the clock. Karen and I had been visiting for more than two hours. I needed to leave to get home before dark.

  “Before you go, I have something else I want to ask you.” Karen moved closer to me again, twisting her fingers as she always did when she was nervous.

  What possibly could be harder to ask me than what she had just asked?

  “I have a number of pictures of the kids that you have sent to me over the years, but I don’t have any pictures of Hannah. I can’t ask my parents. There isn’t anyone I could ask other than you. I know you have some pictures of her. I’m asking because I am beginning to forget what she looked like. I don’t want to forget her.” Karen appeared humble and sincere.

  I understood her need to see Hannah’s little face and remember the child whose life she had cut short. I folded my arms and leaned back against my chair, studying Karen’s eyes again. She looked at me, then looked down at her hands. I needed to ask God how to respond. I hadn’t expected her to ask me for forgiveness or to provide her with a picture of Hannah. It was a lot to process. With so many years of us not speaking about Hannah, this visit seemed to be opening a whole new level of communication.

  Neither of us spoke. A few minutes passed as Karen squirmed in her chair and I waited for God’s wisdom.

  Unfolding my arms, I felt ready to share my thoughts.

  I nodded and said, “Okay, this is the deal I will make with you. For the next few weeks, I want you to think and pray about receiving a picture of Hannah. Then, if you feel you still want me to send one, I want you to write me a letter and request it. I want you to write in your letter that you asked me for it and that you have prayed about it and feel you are ready to receive it. I don’t want you to get a picture of her, see it, then get overwhelmed with sorrow and have a breakdown. If you do, and you need to see a counselor or get medical help because of it, the first question those people are going to ask is, ‘Why would some cruel person send a picture of Hannah to you? What a mean thing to do.’ I want to make sure you have taken the time to prepare yourself. A letter would show me, and perhaps someone else who may need to know, that you thought it through and it was a request on your part.”

  Karen smiled and gave a little chuckle. Her stiff posture relaxed as I explained my reasoning. “I’ll write a letter. I understand why you would be concerned. I think I’m ready to have a picture of her. I don’t want to forget her. I want to be able to see her face.”

  Karen had grown to a place of not only natural maturity but spiritual maturity. Our level of communication and honesty exceeded my expectations. God truly had been with us during our visits through the years, and he was certainly with us this day.

  We ended our visit with prayer, as we usually did. This time, we prayed a special prayer for each one of our children. We prayed as two mothers with the heart of God for our children. We had moved far beyond foster mom and abuser mom. Forgiveness had been spoken. Forgiveness had been given and received. In that forgiveness, healing and hope filled our hearts.

  At various points over the past thirteen years, especially in the early ones, I had left my visits with Karen feeling a profound mixture of confusion, being overwhelmed, and questioning God. Why did he call me into her story? Could he possibly have a plan and a purpose for Karen after what she had done? Hurting a child was never acceptable. There was no argument. No legitimate excuse. No mother is perfect, but what redemption could there be for a woman who kicked her child to death? Initially, I stood in judgment. I know God says in Romans 3:23, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (italics added). But . . . this crime went beyond sin, in the eyes of most people. How could this sin be forgiven? And yet . . . it had been. By God, and by me.

  Freedom in prison sounds contradictory. Can one really be free in a secured facility with guards watching your every move? And this freedom . . . . what did that mean? Free from the consequences of a crime? No. Free from the eternal destructive consequences of sin? Yes. Free to reflect and demonstrate what freedom in Christ really means? Yes.

  Will everyone choose that freedom to respond to God’s invitation to surrender to him? Sadly, no.

  So Karen and I walk in freedom, where others may still walk in bondage, in prisons where the bars are invisible. Where unforgiveness, bitterness, and judgment restrict them.

  What, I wondered, did God have in store for Courtney? She hadn’t yet even learned her family’s story, but when she did, she, too, would suffer its consequences. I prayed for her journey through it and that she, too, would surrender to the lordship of Jesus Christ and one day walk in the freedom and power of forgiveness.

  Chapter 28The Revelation

  COURTNEY WAS THIRTEEN THAT pivotal day when I picked her up from the mall and saw the two youngest Bower children, Ally and Steven, with her. It was the summer of 2012, and while I didn’t feel personally ready to disclose the story behind her adoption, by the time we’d come home, changed into our pajamas, and crawled up on my bed with our pillows and tissues, I realized that God had known the timing of this moment all along. Courtney was ready, and God had prepared me as much as he needed to. I needed to surrender to God’s timing.

  We both sat cross-legged on the bed facing each other, hugging pillows to our chests. On the way home, I had decided I would invite Courtney to ask all the questions she had and I would answer them as honestly as possible.

  “I have always told you that when you are ready and you have questions, I will answer them truthfully. What is it you want to know?” I smiled and spoke softly, wanting her to feel comfortable.

  “How many biological sisters and brothers do I have?” she asked. “And what are their names?”

  “There are seven. Their names are DeAnn, Kyle, Kyra, Hannah, Andrew, Ally, and Steven.”

  “Where do they all live?”

  “Five of them live in Wyoming,” I answered.

  “And what about the other two?” she asked.

  “The other two are with the Lord.” I answered her question without changing my tone or expression.

  Pausing, Courtney looked at me as if waiting for more to the answer. When I shared nothing more, she continued her questioning. I could see that she was processing my answers, thinking about what they meant.

  “Why are two with the Lord? Which ones? What are their names? How did they die?” The questions fired from her lips.

  “Kyle died about a year ago in a motorcycle accident. He was twenty-one. Hannah died many years ago, when she was five.” I knew what was coming next. I braced myself and prayed.

  “How did Hannah die?” Courtney scooted closer to me on the bed and searched my face.

  “She was beaten to death.” The words were always hard for me to say. They were especially hard to say to Courtney. Taking in a deep breath, I looked directly into Courtney’s eyes, wanting to be prepared for her response. I had no idea how she might react. I prayed that God would
be with us as I knew what her next question would be.

  “Who beat her to death?” Courtney cried out.

  Pausing for a second, I whispered, “Her mother.”

  Stiffening, Courtney seemed to be holding her breath as she looked away and then back at me. I said nothing more. She needed to process the answer I had given to her. She sat up straight and then blurted out her conclusion. “Her mother is my birth mother, right?” She scrunched her face trying to connect the relationship.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Karen.”

  Silence. For the longest time, only silence.

  The only sound was the slight ticking of the clock on my bed stand. Frozen, we didn’t move. The chilling words that had come out of my mouth seemed surreal. Was this the right timing? I wondered. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  “Is she the person you have gone to visit all these years? The one you didn’t tell anyone you were going to see? Is that the Karen we have prayed for since I was little?” The puzzle pieces were starting to fall into place for her. The truth was hard.

  “Yes. She is the person.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s in Lusk, at the women’s prison.” I responded softly, though there was no way to soften the story.

  “What happened? How did Hannah die? What did Karen do to her?” The questions I had feared were coming at me so quickly. How do I answer? How far do I go with the details and truth? Her questions were the ones I had dreaded for so many years.

  “Courtney, Karen was a different person then. She used drugs and alcohol and was making wrong choices for her life. She was with bad people. She wasn’t a nice person to a few of her children. One night, she lost her temper. I don’t want to say any more. When you are older I may tell you more, but not now. Not tonight.”

  I didn’t want to have to tell Courtney about Hannah being placed in a garbage bag and stored in the garage for nine months until the police found her body. I only wanted to answer the questions she asked. But there was more she needed to know about Karen.

  “Karen has changed through the years. She has received Jesus and he has changed her. I go to see her and pray for her because God has called me to do so. As I have watched her change over the years, I have come to love her and forgive her.”

  I knew there was more truth to be shared even though Courtney didn’t know to ask. I wanted her to know her birth mother was now a follower of Christ and that over the years she had found forgiveness. I hoped hearing this would help to prepare Courtney’s own heart to forgive her mother one day. I had come to believe that was one of God’s main purposes in allowing me to be Courtney’s mother. He wanted me to teach her to live a life of surrender and to know the power of forgiveness. But this would take time. I’d have to be patient.

  “Does she know about me?” Courtney asked.

  I chuckled. “Of course, she knows about you. She gave birth to you.”

  We both let out a little laugh.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s true.”

  “I have written to her and sent pictures of you throughout the years. She knows all about you. She prays for you.”

  Breaking down in tears again, Courtney blurted out, “This means I was never planned or wanted.”

  “Yes, you were. Many children aren’t exactly planned by their parents. They come as a surprise when the mother finds out she’s pregnant. Not all of my other children were planned. They were wonderful surprise gifts from God. Only God can create, and he created you. You were planned by his will and for his purpose. Karen wanted you as well. Her circumstances wouldn’t allow her to keep you. Her gift to us was gracious. Her gift to us was you.”

  Tears flowed down our faces. She rocked forward and sobbed. What sad news for a young girl to learn. How does a teenager process such devastating information? I rubbed her back and let her cry. Handing her more tissues, I gave her a hug and boldly said, “I . . . love . . . you.”

  “I love you too,” she said through her sobs.

  Moments passed. We sat silently again, both our eyes red and wet.

  “When do you go to the prison to see Karen again?” Courtney asked.

  “I had planned to go this coming Friday.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  I was taken aback. Really? She wanted to meet Karen? Wanting to meet her birth mother was one thing, but knowing what Karen had done to Hannah, I was surprised that she wanted to meet her. Perhaps she needed to see for herself who this woman was.

  “Yes. If I can arrange it, you can go with me.” I smiled and gave her another hug.

  “What do you think she will say if I go to see her?”

  “I think she will be so happy to meet you. Your visit would bring her great joy. She has suffered much for what she did. Being able to meet you will be an amazing gift of grace.” I pushed hair from Courtney’s wet face as I spoke.

  “I want to go,” she said.

  “Okay then,” I said. “I will call the prison to see what we need to do to get you a pass and write Karen to let her know. Are you sure you want to go?” I still wanted to protect Courtney from the whole story even though much of it had now been laid before her.

  “And I want to meet the rest of my biological sisters and brothers. Can I do that?” she asked hesitatingly.

  “Yes. And you have grandparents who would love to meet you as well. Do you want to meet them?” Was I offering too much too soon?

  “I want to meet all of them. Do you think that’s okay?”

  “If that’s what you want to do, I will contact them as well.” I didn’t know if I should make that decision or leave it up to Courtney. There had been many unanswered questions in her life. She seemed to want them all answered at once. I began retreating a little as I shifted on the bed, squeezing the pillow I held against my chest.

  Courtney looked at me, then scooted up next to me. “You are my mom,” she said. “I love you. You are my mom.”

  We both began to cry again.

  “I know. I’m concerned for you to take on so much so quickly.” I wiped away the tears that continued to roll down my cheeks.

  We held hands as I thanked God aloud for his grace. We thanked him for working in Karen’s life and in our own. We asked him to prepare the Bower children and the grandparents for my call.

  The next day, I let Al know all that had happened the night before. I called the prison regarding a pass for Courtney, then I wrote a letter to Karen sharing everything with her and telling her that Courtney planned to come with me on the next visit.

  Friday morning arrived. Courtney and I set off for Lusk. Music on the car radio helped to fill what would have been a silent two-hour drive. As the miles drew us closer to the prison, I became more and more aware of how desperately I wanted this to be a positive experience for Courtney and Karen. But I also knew this was beyond my control. I could not orchestrate the visit, and I had to surrender any desire to do so. My job was to bring Courtney to her birth mother, then step back and allow the two of them to find their own way of relating. As I drove, I prayed, entrusting their hearts and hopes to the Lord.

  Once we arrived, parked, and began our walk up to the prison, Courtney slowed her pace as she scanned the fences with their barbed wire and the exterior walls of the prison. “This is it? Wow. It’s big.”

  I announced our presence at the security gate speaker box. The lock clicked, I pushed the gate open, and Courtney experienced for the first time the checking-in process that I knew so well. I thought back to my own nervousness when I’d first visited Karen here. Surely, Courtney’s feelings must be just as intense or even more so than mine had been, I thought. I longed to make it easier for her but knew that was beyond my control.

  When we reached the visitation room, we stood off to one side, our gaze focused on the security door. One by one, female prisoners were searched and cleared to enter the room through a security door. We could see them through the large glass window. Each time
a woman approached the security door to come into the visitation room, Courtney asked, “Is that her?”

  After a handful of women entered the room, I could see Karen at the window.

  “There she is,” I whispered to Courtney.

  Karen appeared a little anxious, but I had never seen such a big smile. When she reached us, I said, “Karen, this is Courtney. Courtney, this is Karen.”

  They gave each other a tentative hug. I wrapped my arms around both of them. Although there was more healing to come, this one act allowed for healing to begin. Tears flowed as we moved to an area where we could all sit and talk. As I watched Karen and Courtney talk to each other, I couldn’t help thinking that Karen knew so much about Courtney, while Courtney actually knew nothing about Karen.

  I appreciated it when Karen said, “Your mom has told me so much about you.” It was kind and respectful.

  What could Karen share? She wouldn’t want to share her daily life in prison with the child she had only seen as a five-week-old infant. So small talk filled the hour visit. But that was okay. Deeper conversations might come in time. Courtney had met her birth mother. Many unanswered questions had been answered. This was only the beginning.

  Time was up. Karen and I hugged, then Karen hugged Courtney.

  “Thank you for coming,” Karen said. “I am so happy I could meet you. I hope you come again.”

  The drive home wasn’t as quiet as the drive to the prison. More questions flowed from Courtney. Our talk was less emotional than the one in the bedroom, though. Courtney’s first visit with Karen had satisfied her initial curiosity about her birth mother.

  There were other people in her family line to meet, so we talked about setting up a visit with DeAnn and the grandparents. Where should we meet with them that would be comfortable for everyone? Always thinking about food, Courtney said, “How about Dairy Queen?” Dairy Queen it was! Just enough time for an ice cream and a little chat.