~FOREWORD~
My name is Rachel Walker. I’m still in my twenties, so I’m not really old enough for life to have taught me much. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned for sure, it’s this: there is no such thing as the foreseeable future. Take me, for example: about a year ago, I had a pretty bad run of luck. In an eight month span, I lost my husband, my daughter, and my job, not to mention my sanity and most of my self-esteem. It got so bad I actually tried to commit suicide. Fortunately it didn’t work. I took 62 sleeping pills and drank half a bottle of Chianti but before they took effect, I threw up.
Well, one thing led to another and instead of dying, I went to Confession instead. Which is where I met God. OK, when I say I met God, I’m not talking about a divine vision or dream or even a mystical image of the Almighty.
I actually met God. Face to face.
It was quite a shock at first, but it didn’t take long to get used to it. For one, he was so normal-looking. In fact, he was the spitting image of my Uncle Gordon.
Gordon owned a small funeral home in southern Georgia, and was my favorite uncle because he never treated me like a kid even though I was a kid. He treated me like a miniature adult.
God was the same way. He treated me like I was someone special and not like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
We talked for seven straight days, God and I. Not 24 hours at a time but somewhere around seven or eight hours each day. It was remarkable. And boy did things turn around after that. I won’t bore you with all the details, but if you’re interested in what we talked about, you can read all about it in a book I wrote entitled, “The Confession.”
That may sound like a ploy to get you to buy my book, but it’s not. Go the library and read it for free. A lot of libraries carry it now. This book is a sequel to that one. It’s not necessary to read the other one first, but it might help.
Anyway, the last day I was with God, he told me it was my destiny to help others who were going through the same rotten stuff I went through. In fact, he said he would return in forty days so we could get started. That was thirty days ago. I keep a little calendar with me at all times, and have carefully marked off the days.
God said he was going to help me do whatever it is I’m supposed to do so I’m pretty sure I’ll be successful, but if I’ve learned anything about how the Almighty works, it’s this: he seldom just hands you anything on a platter. He makes you work for it. But that’s OK, because it’s a lot easier to work for something when you know what might come from it in the end. It’s called Faith. Except in my case, it’s called insider information. God has already told me what my destiny is; what he hasn’t told me is how long it’s going to take and what to expect along the way.
As yet, I haven’t shared the fact that I met God with my parents, or anyone else for that matter. There’s just no easy way to tell someone you’ve encountered the Creator of the Universe without them looking at you funny. To be honest, if someone told me they’d met God, I wouldn’t have believed them. What I would have done was smile, tell them how interesting that was then turned and run like the wind. It’s just not in anyone’s nature to believe in miracles anymore. Actually we do seem to believe in miracles as long as they don’t involve apparitions. Seeing God in nature and seeing God in person are different things all together. It’s easy to believe God helps people out of jams, like when a car turns over on some kid and the mother lifts it without so much as a pulled muscle. That happens fairly often, and so it’s easy to chalk it up to divine intervention. But when people claim to have actually seen the Blessed Virgin at that place in France, well, we tend to be skeptics. Or at least I did. Of course that changed when I met God. First hand experience takes the guesswork out of believing.
At this moment, I’m sitting in a freshly-painted sun room in my Grandmother’s house in Savannah, Georgia. It’s been a bizarre yet exciting week. So much has happened that I thought I’d better stop and write it all down. Not that I was in danger of forgetting any of it; I just want to make sure I have my facts straight when telling this story.
The reason I’m at my grandmother’s house is because that’s where I live now. With her and my mom. My mom moved in right after her and dad divorced. I decided to move in with them for two reasons: one, I didn’t have a job. And two, something inside me told me to do it. I’m not sure if was God telling me or me telling me. Regardless, it’s what made sense at the moment. We’ll see how long the moment lasts now that I’m here.
Also, considering Mom and I never got along all that well when I was kid, it will be interesting to see if we can get along now as adults. A lot of what I’m about to tell you is about her, so I’ll let you decide for yourself is we’re going to be able to pull it off. Living together, I mean.
In case you’re wondering about my dad, he’s in the army, stationed someplace overseas. I hardly ever get to see him, which is sad. He and I get along great.
OK, now, I’m ready to start telling you what happened. I hope you enjoy my story. I hope you have fun as you read it. I also hope it turns out half as good as I think it will.
Oh, one last thing. I start each chapter with a little saying or verse from a journal I’ve kept since college. I do that because the words I chose say something about the entire chapter in a way that is outside the story. But then again, just because it says something to me doesn’t mean it’s going to say something to you. So if you find the quotes distracting or they don’t make sense, just skip them.
Well, that’s about it. There’s a lot more I could tell you, but you’ve probably got enough to go on for now.
Are you ready?
Good.
Let’s get started.
ONE
Entry #40
“The best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open."
Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
You never know how much junk you have until you move. I’d only lived in my little apartment for a couple years but it seemed like when I started loading stuff into boxes, I ran out of boxes long before I ran out of stuff. I kept finding things I didn’t even know I had anymore. Pictures of me when I was a kid, magazines from eight years ago, a sweater my Aunt Nina gave me which I never wore. (I like my Aunt Nina, just not the sweater.) I ended up tossing some really old stuff into the trash, only to go out later and retrieve it. I’m a hoarder, I guess. I can’t bear to part with anything.
My motto is “Better to have a lot of stuff you don’t need than regret having tossed the one thing you’d give anything to have back.” I know mottos are supposed to be short and concise and mine is long and convoluted, but there it is.
I thought about sticking it out in Chicago until God returned but as I said I was out of two things: employment, money, and insurance. OK, that’s three things but employment and money are kind of the same. Actually I had a little of Joe’s life insurance money left over but not a lot, as it was never a lot to begin with.
But the deal-breaker was no insurance. 90 days after I lost my job, I lost all my benefits, too. If I so much as stuck myself with a pin or had to go to the hospital for any reason, I was a goner. I simply couldn’t afford to get sick, cut or anything else that involved blood or vomiting.
Out of nowhere another school called and offered me a job. For more money, too. I was very flattered. Maybe I wasn’t the total failure I’d originally thought. I seriously considered taking it but finally said no. I told them I had to get home to take care of my mother. I’m not sure why I told them that, except it felt true. I felt I had to move back to Savannah full-time and not just visit. Something was waiting for me there, I just knew it.
My Grandma sent me enough money to tide me over until I could get home, but I was reluctant to take more. It’s bad enough to have to move back home after you’ve been married without being a mooch, too. The one thing I had going for me however was this: because my husband died in an automobile accident, his company paid for grief counseling. I think I got seven or eig
ht sessions. So far I had only been to six of them. Before I left for Savannah, I thought it might be a good idea to visit my therapist one last time. I had a final question for him. His name was Goldberg. Doctor Isaac Goldberg.
“Rachel,” Goldberg said as we shook hands. “So good to see you again.”
As always, Goldberg shook my one hand with both of his. It was a warm, comforting gesture, kind of like the way a priest or an undertaker might do it.
“It’s good to see you, too,” I said, and meant it.
He indicated a chair I could sit in. He sat in one opposite me.
Despite the fact that Goldberg once tried to talk me out of Christianity, he genuinely seemed to care for my well-being. He was a Jewish agnostic, so he probably couldn’t help himself about his issues with Jesus.
“I have to tell you, Rachel,” Goldberg said with a huge smile, “You look terrific. Really. Just terrific.”
“Oh, I’ve been on a little diet,” I said modestly. “Plus I changed my hair a little. I started putting a cream rinse on it to make it less frizzy.”
Goldberg smiled and nodded, as if he knew all about cream rinses.
“Well,” he said enthusiastically. “You look wonderful.”
Whenever someone tells me I look wonderful or terrific, but sound surprised by that fact, the compliment itself falls a little flat. What they’re really telling me is that I used to look like a wreck but now don’t. I understood his surprise, however. The last time Goldberg saw me I was a wreck.
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he said.
“Spending time with a good friend,” I replied. “We worked outdoors a lot.”
I held up my arm so he could see the tan I’d gotten.
Goldberg admired my coloring. “I’m so glad to hear that. It’s important to keep the mind and body occupied. Very therapeutic.”
I told him I couldn’t agree more.
What I didn’t tell him was that since we’d last seen each other, I’d attempted suicide, met both God and Satan, visited heaven, seen my husband, brother and daughter – all of whom were deceased – helped build a park that I once saw in a painting in this very office, and discovered my purpose in life. All in about seven days. Which probably accounted for the change in my appearance. I mean, if doing all those things in one week doesn’t change how somebody looks, nothing will.
“Now then,” Goldberg said. “What should we talk about today?”
Normally I’m not one to jump right into a conversation. I usually hem and a haw a little and try to build up to what I really want to say. This time I didn’t do that.
“I’m getting ready to move home to live with my mother,” I said.
Goldberg looked surprised but covered it up by taking a sip of water.
“Interesting,” he said. “So you and your mother are getting along better?”
“I think so,” I relied truthfully. “Of course, we won’t know for sure until I’m actually there for a few weeks, but I think we can make it work.”
“I’m sure that you can,” he said. “All that it takes is open communication and a willingness to adjust.”
I was willing to adjust. It was the communication part that worried me. God told me to talk to Mom openly, but didn’t provide a lot of detail on how to do talk to her openly. I figured Goldberg could help.
“So, tell me,” I said, “how do I go about getting my mother to discuss something she probably doesn’t want to discuss?”
I realize that sometimes I don’t phrase my questions properly, but Goldberg had spent enough time with me to decipher what I meant.
“That depends,” he replied. “Is the subject you’d like to discuss embarrassing or painful?”
I thought for a moment.
“Embarrassing, no,” I said. “Painful, yes.”
“But you’re certain it should be discussed?”
Again I told him yes.
Goldberg templed his fingers. He leaned back in his chair.
“Can you share with me the nature of the issue?” he asked.
I tried to come up with just enough information to convey the issue without giving it away entirely. It’s tough being honest and secretive at the same time.
“It’s a misunderstanding that occurred between Mom and I a long time ago,” I volunteered.
Goldberg remained silent. It was a technique he used to see if I was going to spill any more beans. After a few moments of mutual silence, he continued.
“Then the best thing to do is simply to ask her,” he said.
I was confused. “Ask her what?”
“If she’s open to the discussion.”
“That’s it? Just ask her?”
Goldberg nodded and templed his fingers some more.
“Rachel, one of the most common problems I encounter when dealing with communication issues is that typically both parties involved tend to make the dialog far more complicated than it should be. They approach it like they would a game of chess: I move my piece here, you move your piece there, I take your pawn, you take mine, neither party willing to just open up and say what’s on their mind for fear of losing the game.”
Which is pretty much how I approach everything – like a chess game. Come to think of it though, I don’t know how to play chess. I guess you could say my life is more like a game of checkers, which is kind of like chess, only easier.
“But the key to effective dialog is this:” Goldberg leaned forward. He rested both hands on his knees. He smiled. “Vertitas vincit omnia,” he said solemnly, as if the words contained magic.
I knew it was Latin, but that’s all I knew. I shrugged and shook my head.
“Truth conquers all,” he said with an air of satisfaction.
Before I could shrug again, he continued.
“Rachel, communication is a two-way street. If you want people to be honest with you, you must be honest with them first.”
But honesty wasn’t the problem. My mother’s reaction to the honesty was the problem. Her reaction might be a complete and total meltdown, which made me wonder what the Latin phrase was for truth may conquer all but it may also cause your mother to pop a blood vessel.
Then again, I couldn’t blame Goldberg for offering this advice. He was doing the best with what he had. Trouble was, he really didn’t have all that much. For instance, he had no idea how non-communicative my mother was. He probably thought of her as a typical middle-aged, once-divorced, emotionally-stunted woman with the inability to articulate her feelings. Lots of women her age have that problem. Lots of women of any age have that problem. Men too. Goldberg probably figured the only thing she needed to get her to open up was a frank discussion about whatever it was that made her close up to begin with. What Goldberg didn’t know was that the reason my mother closed up was because I accidentally pushed my brother Steve (aka her favorite child in the whole world) off a twenty-foot cliff when we were kids. He died in the fall. Also, what Goldberg didn’t know – couldn’t know – was the day my brother died, I died, too. From that moment forward – Poof! – I vanished from the face of the earth. – my mother’s earth. I became invisible. Deaf, dumb and mute. The child she never had.
“But what if she refuses to talk?” I said.
“Do you believe the relationship worth having?”
“Yes.”
“And is the relationship dependent on discussing this subject, regardless of how delicate it might seem?’
Again I told him yes.
“Then, don’t worry, you’ll find a way,” he tapped the side of his nose with one finger. “In fact, might I say that love will find a way.”
Which didn’t sound to me like therapeutic counseling; it sounded more like words to a song I used to know. Regardless I still had a problem: if love was the thing that was going to get me through this, I might be in trouble. I loved my mother. I just wasn’t sure yet that the feeling was mutual.
“Might there be another way?” I asked.
Goldberg shook his head
. “Trust your instincts, Rachel. Convey to your mother how important the subject is to you, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the results.”
But, I thought to myself, what if you have a rotten track record instinct-wise? It was my instinct that made me push my brother to his death. It was my instinct to confess to my mother what I’d done. It was my instinct that told me suicide was a way out of my misery. It was obvious to me my instincts were not to be trusted, but it was all I had at the moment, so I went with it.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll give love a try.”
“And as you do,” he said. “Remember all the things you’re mother taught you as a child. The lessons for living that you carry with you today.”
I thought about that for a moment: what were the lessons for living I learned from her?
Well, she taught me about religion when she said, “You better pray that comes out of the carpet.” She taught me about openness when she said, “Because I said so, that’s why.” And she taught me about logic when she said, “If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you’re not going to the store with me.”
I know that’s not being fair to my mother. I’m sure she taught me lots of important stuff, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with any. After a while I quit trying. I told Goldberg however what a great idea it was, just so he wouldn’t pursue it further.
A soft chime sounded from somewhere in the room, which indicated my fifty-minute hour was up. I glanced at my watch. Yep, 2:50 right on the dot.
Goldberg gave me his two-fisted handshake, wished me luck and I left, wondering if I’d ever see him again. Although he had been dead wrong about the existence of God, he was right about lots of other things, including me. I was going to miss him.
Once outside, I walked a couple blocks to the parking garage, hopped behind the wheel of my little yellow Volkswagen Beetle and headed for home one last time. The moving van was arriving tomorrow. By Wednesday I would be Georgia-bound.
As I left downtown Chicago, instead of listening to music, I rolled down my window and listened to the city instead. For me there is always sadness in leaving. A sadness in the stomach, a tightness in the throat. A yearning for things remembered, a long and lonely good-by. I was going to miss Chicago. I was going to miss it a lot. But deep in my heart, where the truth sometimes is found, I knew that where I was going and what I was going to was bigger than Chicago. Somehow it was bigger and more wonderful than I dared imagine. I could feel it. I could feel it in my bones. And although my bones have been known to be wrong occasionally, this time I was certain they were right on the money.
And they were.
TWO
Entry #184
Our greatest fear should not be of failure, but of succeeding at something that doesn’t really matter.
D.L. Moody
The moving company finished loading all my stuff about ten o’clock the next morning. I checked my map. It was 961 miles to Savannah. According to my calculations, it would take about 15 hours to drive, which would really be closer to 20 when you factor in the number of times I would have to stop to get gas, buy a coke or go pee. I have a bladder the size of a walnut.
On the seat next to me were the three things I needed most for the trip: a roadmap, my phone and an old copy of Reader’s Digest. I had the Digest to help me improve my vocabulary on the way down. After spending a week with God, I kept running out of words to describe the experience, so I made a pact with myself to learn two new words each week and use them in conversation. There’s a section in each copy of the Digest called “Word Power” that teaches you all kinds of interesting and sometimes useful words.
Today’s word was quintessence, which means “the most important part.” That seemed like a word that might come in handy.
Quintessence.
It had sort of a French sound to it also, which I liked.
When learning new words, however, you have to be careful. One of the first words I picked was tripe which means “something poor, worthless or offensive.” Which I’ve used on several occasions. But it also means the “edible portion of a cud-chewing animal’s stomach.” Which I’ve hardly ever used.
Quintessence however seemed safe, so I began looking for an opportunity to use it without making it obvious it was a word I just learned. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to be more expressive.
Plus, I read somewhere that the average person knows twenty thousand words but only uses five hundred. Which made me wonder what happened to all the others? I figured they either had no use in casual conversation or the average person is just too lazy to use them. To me, that seemed like an enormous waste of memory-power, so I tried to choose words that were practical without sounding haughty.
Like quintessence.
“Knowing God on a personal basis is the very quintessence of life.”
I liked that. It was much more satisfying than saying knowing God on a personal basis is an awesome experience. Which it is, but awesome is such an over-used word that’s it hardly means anything any more. Even when you want it to mean a lot.
Quintessence.
It’s amazing how just one word can convey an entire plethora of feeling.
Oh, yeah, plethora is a new word I learned too. It means “numerous or varied.”
My goal of becoming more expressive must be working because I used plethora without thinking about it. Which means I now have five hundred and one words I use regularly.
Progress. I love it.
Anyway, the day was perfect for a long-distance drive: bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and the road stretched out seemingly forever. It reminded me of a family vacation we took when I was a kid. We drove from Savannah to Washington, DC, on what Dad called our “Historical Odyssey.” He called it that because we stopped at every Civil War battlefield for almost five hundred miles. It was great. Neither Mom nor Steve thought it was great, but I did. Dad was in the military, so anywhere somebody got shot at or killed in a war was important to him. Sacred almost.
Most of the time there was nothing to mark the battlefield we stopped at except a sign that said who did what on this date in 1864. Occasionally somebody placed a cannon with a stack of cannonballs along the side of the road. Dad would pull the station wagon over, get out his map and trace the advance of Union forces upon the Confederates soldiers. Sometimes he might walk out into an open field and just stand there, hands on his hips, staring. I’d stand alongside him, also staring, trying to imagine the sights and sounds of war.
“Rachel,” he said one time. “Brave men gave their lives here.” He waved his arm across the field. “They came from both sides in numbers too large to count. They came because they’d found a cause to die for.” His voice was soft, almost reverent, and I’ll never forget what he said next “The only thing greater than finding a cause to die for is to find one you’re willing to live for.”
I was only eight years old at the time, so I had no clue what Dad meant. Dying for something was out of the question. I mean, I was just a kid. But living for something? What could that possibly mean? At that age all I was living for were weekends, holidays and the occasional birthday party. My ambitions in life were somewhat limited. Now, however, my ambitions had grown. My sights now were set on living a life in service to others. How I was going to do that was a mystery, but that was OK. Sometimes mysteries produce the best results.
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