My family moved into a low-income housing community for a short time so my dad could save up for a down payment on a house. When my dad was working, I wasn’t permitted to stay inside, but I didn’t mind because I had made friends with a few girls my age. One day, a couple of older teenage boys invited my friends and me to hang out with them. They eventually led us to an abandoned house on the property with some leftover furniture. We ran around and played, but I sensed something was off and left. The next day, while playing alone, I discovered a lush garden behind the property. I spent the rest of the week enjoying that garden. However, when my mother learned about the older teenage boys luring the much younger girls into the abandoned house and abusing them, she questioned me. I felt ashamed and anxious as I considered how she might react. I told her about the garden I had been playing in, trying to pinpoint its location, but all that was left was an empty field. I remain uncertain about the events that took place while we lived in that housing complex, but I believe God shielded my mind from more than I could bear.
Our family made a down payment on a three-bedroom house in Haltom City. My dad, Jimmy, had started his own drywall company and was earning a good living, providing us with financial stability. My mother was a stay-at-home parent, and we even attended church occasionally. Although the frequency and severity of the physical abuse had significantly improved, my mother continued to engage in emotional and verbal abuse. I often contemplate which was more detrimental: the mental or physical abuse. My dad knew that my mother was abusive toward me and repeatedly warned her to stop. However, since he wasn’t my biological father, he had limited options other than to report her to the authorities. My mother’s mood often depended on her relationship with God, which was consistently inconsistent. Yet, when she tried to follow God, it seemed to bring out her best.
My dad, Jimmy, came from a middle-upper-class family that lived in a lovely brick home in Hurst, Texas. His father valued church attendance and outward appearances, emphasizing legalistic interpretations while neglecting the loving and merciful character of God. His treatment of my dad during his childhood was severe. Jimmy was known as the “wild child” of the family, infamous for his drug and alcohol use. He had recently overcome a heroin addiction when he met my mother. Although Jimmy’s mother loved her eldest son, she did not challenge her husband’s authority. Both of Jimmy’s parents and one of his sisters treated us with contempt, insulting my mother, sister, and me whenever they had the chance. I vividly remember being bathed before visiting them, only to be put back in the bath upon our arrival. Each time we saw them, they cruelly remarked, “Jimmy is not your real dad; you should be grateful he cares for you.” This comment deeply affected me, making it difficult for me to accept that Jimmy truly loved me. Ultimately, it also affected my ability to receive God’s love.
Our home seemed pleasant in appearance, but the adults inside were damaged. Patty took pride in her spirituality and enjoyed the attention it provided her, while Jimmy, aware of the larger picture, rejected it. This was when I first met Joyce, who introduced me to Jesus through her love and obvious compassion. Joyce had her painful past, and she tried to bridge the gap between me and my mother. Unfortunately, my mother twisted Joyce’s warning instead of taking the advice to heart, claiming, “Joyce says you are unclean, and I should not touch you.” I stopped trusting Joyce.
