Chapter 12

12.  The Curve Ball
So this boy and I went to a movie and held hands.  We took a walk in the park and I gave him a kiss.  We spent the next year from fall 1995 to fall 1996 dating, fighting, breaking up, getting back together.  It was such an unhealthy relationship from the start.  I discovered that although he knew the Lord, he was not interested in living for the Lord.  I discovered that I didn’t care as long as I could do what I wanted.  If I thought my parents were against my first relationship with the pastor’s son, I was not stunned to find that they were, oh so much more, against this relationship.  And so was everyone else.  I lost every good friend I had due to my stubborn determination to live my life the way I wanted and ignore their sincere dislike of my boyfriend.

I was still only 19 so I couldn’t go out drinking and partying and I felt it would be too risky for my future plans to do something illegal.  I truly felt and acted like that.  So, we drove over to Canada where the legal drinking age is nineteen and you could get into clubs.  Actually, thank the Lord His hand was still on me even then because I tried drinking and partying and I hated it.  I don’t like feeling out of control even for a minute and it turns out that alcohol sets off panic attacks (praise God for that).  I loved to dance though and was the designated driver for my new set of friends.  I moved out of my parents’ house, got an apartment, had two part-time jobs, racked up credit card charges and took twenty credit hours at college in one semester in an effort to graduate in December 1996.

I was not so hypocritical that I did not realize the choices I was making seriously compromised my ability to minister.  So I quietly took myself off of the praise and worship team citing that I was much too busy with school and work.  I’m not sure anyone was fooled.  It was a small little church in a tiny village thirty minutes north of where I lived and everyone there knew everyone else.  Their disapproval of our relationship was quite obvious.  Truthfully though, I was very busy.  I planned an independent study course with my Japanese professor and went to live with a family in Shinshiro, Aichi-ken, Japan for the month of April.  My boyfriend stayed in my apartment while I was gone.  I found out later that he was having friends over (perhaps even other girls) and drinking, which was against my house-rules.  But then again, he wasn’t much for adhering to rules.  Anyway, my stay in Japan was amazing in every way and I even have a toilet story for that trip.

I arrived at the airport after traveling for nearly 24 hours and found my hostess waving a sign at me with my name written in Japanese and English.  We drove for about 45 minutes and finally pulled up at a really, truly wood-and-paper two story house.  Although my hostess and her immediate family could speak English very well, I wouldn’t be staying with them at their small city house.  I stayed instead with her parents-in-law at their home.  They spoke no English.  None at all.  After meeting them, establishing our sign-language communication routine and going through the polite preliminaries I asked her where I would find the restroom.  

Now, in Japan there is a toilet room and there is also a completely separate bath room where you could take a shower then get into a deep, steaming hot bathtub.  I definitely needed the toilet room by that point.  She sent me on my way and I found myself standing before, I kid you not, a veritable throne.  It had arm rests!  And buttons with pictures of different things it would do.  The seat was heated!  Well, I was fascinated but didn’t want my hosts to think weird things about me because I was taking forever in there.  So I finished my business and looked for the flushing handle.  I couldn’t find it anywhere!  I leaned in toward the buttons for a closer look.  Of course, everything was completely written in Japanese so there was no help for me.  But I noticed there were tiny little pictures too.  I pushed one that looked like it had something to do with water.

To my utter dismay I watched as a wand came down into the toilet bowl and began to spray water over my head, hitting the wall behind me.  Screeching just a little I grabbed the tiniest hand towel in the world and using it as a shield, walked toward the offending water wand.  I know it now as a bidet.  Pushing the same button turned it off and dripping wet, I sloshed through the hallway to humbly ask my hostess for help.  By now I was crying but I’m pretty sure she couldn’t tell tears from the water droplets.  She was so gracious and never said a word to me about it.  Just calmly went in and flushed my toilet with the handle which was perched ever so artfully hidden on the right side of the tank.  Nice.  I’m sure they had a laugh about that after I went to bed but I'm so grateful that they never mentioned it to me.

When I returned from my trip to Japan, I turned in my reports at school and received A’s on both of them.  By this time, I was already tired of late nights and of being a constant designated driver for people who made consistently bad decisions and was weary of my 7 months of rebellion.  I was ready for peace and quiet.  But my boyfriend disagreed, insisting he “could change” and “wanted to be together for the rest” of our lives.  Being that it was only the 8th time I’d tried to break up with him, I fell for his reasoning again.  It seemed to be much easier that way.  Besides, although he was emotionally abusive to me in many ways, I certainly was not a push-over.  I could dish it out just as much as he could and I never wanted to let him “win”.

It’s too bad that we wasted a year of our lives on each other like that.  We would have been so much happier and healthier had we not tried to control each other so much.  The crazier thing was that during our relationship I became anorexic.  Not because I thought I was fat.  I could see in the mirror that I wasn’t.  But I got so much attention from everyone by being so thin that I wanted to keep that coming.  I didn’t want to get fat.  And if I got angry or felt out of control about the relationship or school or my family, I would show them all and punish them by refusing to eat.  Yes indeed, those were my thoughts at the time.

In the meantime, my director from the ministry with which I had spent the two previous summers and several of my friends who were traveling on the full time teams were in constant contact with me.  They never let up on me.  Especially my friend, Leigh*.  She loved me no matter what I said or did and truly showed me what Christ’s love is toward me.  Their team came through our town twice, once in July and once in October.  After seeing me in July, the director later told me that he prayed about my situation diligently.  And so did Leigh.  When they arrived again in October, he told me “you need to leave this place and come back on the road with us.”  I was stunned and told him there was no way.  They were in the middle of their two-year commitment and would be going to Asia for 4 months in January.  Each team member had to raise about $20,000 per year to go full-time with the ministry and he was basically asking me to do that in two and half months!

But since I was scheduled to graduate from college in December with my degree in East Asian Studies, it did seem like incredible timing.  After the team left, I really spent some time thinking about it and praying about it.  Even though I had been on my little rebellious track for about a year, I still prayed every single day and went to church every week.  Eventually, I talked it over with my boyfriend who had gone away to school by then.  But that night as we talked I could tell he was distracted.  I’d heard that he had been seen around town with another girl and confronted him about it then.  He denied it, of course, but then I heard a whisper very near to his end of the phone.  

I asked him who that was and then it dawned on me.  What I had heard was true and I just heard her whisper to him!  I admit I reacted very badly and lost my head just then.  It would be an understatement to say that we merely broke up that night. I screamed, I cried, I swore, I collapsed in a heap on my bedroom floor. That's a lot of reaction to losing an unhappy and possibly dangerous relationship with someone I pretty much hated.  It ended up being one of the very best decisions I had ever made.  My lease had ended on my apartment and I was already scheduled to move home to my parents’ house the next day.  I was finishing my college career, he was starting his.  We had an ungodly, unhealthy relationship that was never going to be good.  And so, we went our separate albeit bitter ways.  Again, it was certainly the best thing for both of us.

On the next day, November 1st, I went home to Mom and Dad’s.  I don’t remember apologizing to them but I do remember being repentant.  I got on my knees before the Lord and asked Him to help me.  If I could raise half of the money by January 1, 1997, I would go back for a full year tour with the ministry group.  And I did.

Chapter 11

[I originally wrote my entire memoir - which you're getting piece by piece - to enter it into a Women of Faith writing contest in 2010.  It did not win but made it into the top 100.  I am adding to these chapters as I see fit, now that I have time to do so and am not rushing toward a deadline.]

11.  Learning Curve
There are so many things I want to share, so many memories I’d like to relate but this story is really intended to show that Christians who fight fear and panic disorders are not failing in their faith but can really have victory bought by Jesus’ sacrifice and shed blood.  And those who aren’t Christians can have hope that they can find relief from these things too through a personal relationship with Jesus (John 3:16 starts you out).

It was very hard for me to admit that I had a panic disorder and that it would be okay for me take medication from time to time to help alleviate some of the symptoms.  But through much prayer and with help from my family, I have come to realize that if I needed to take some calming medicine once in a while to help my brain understand that I am not in a “fight or flight” situation, it is all right.  Whenever I take any medicine, I make sure that I pray as I take it.  I pray that God will use it to heal me, that I will not become dependent on anything but Him for ultimate relief and that I will remember His faithfulness to me most of all (Psa. 100:3).

After my first tour with the music group, it became clear to me that my boyfriend and I needed to be more clear about our future plans.  My parents were not at all happy that we were dating and were not convinced we should get married.  In an attempt to honor them, we broke up for a few weeks.  But I just couldn’t let him go that easily.  I loved to be loved and I loved love.  In my late teens, I certainly thought I knew what was best for me and surely he was the perfect one.  How could he not be?

My second year in college was as emotionally tumultuous as any other nineteen-year-old might experience.  But I did well in my classes and excelled at my jobs at the fruit market and my dad’s greenhouse.  I was still active in the church on the praise and worship team and in the choir.  I went to all the guys’ basketball and softball games and was the most obnoxious cheerleader they had.  My sister and I barely spoke in those days.  Our lives just coasted on parallel roads. She was dating another boy from our church childhood days and that was fine with me.  She and I fought quite a bit if we ever happened to be at home together but I still thought she was the most talented, beautiful girl in the whole wide world.  My parents and I fought a lot too. I guess I’m pretty stubborn and thought I should be in charge.  At the risk of repeating myself once too often again I say, “sorry Mom and Dad”.

For the summer of 1995, I went back for another three month tour with the ecumenical music ministry.  I asked to be put on the Central America team again because on my first trip to Nicaragua, El Salvador and Belize I became completely enamored with Latin cultures and the Hispanic people.   We had the same director and one or two of the same teammates but almost everyone else was new.  It was awesome to learn about other denominations, personality types, talents…okay, it wasn’t always awesome.  On a 30-foot bus, you can certainly spend a lot of time getting on each other’s nerves.  But you also learn how to interact with people, how to disagree without hurting each other, how to forgive and still effectively minister together the same night.  I learned so much as we traveled once again through the southern United States and then to El Salvador and Costa Rica.  On a cool side note, I also learned how to swing dance and how to salsa dance that tour!

I still had health issues and since I didn’t know anything about the core issues at that time, I did the best I could with food choices, water availability and the resulting bathroom trips.  I wrote to my boyfriend regularly but was now beginning to wonder about our future together.  I agonized about it in my journals and I prayed about it with my teammates and my director.  But I just didn’t know what to do.  There were other fellows in the ministry that I had noticed and in general I thought that I might like to become better friends with the people outside my very exclusive circle back home in Michigan.

Eventually I felt that the Lord had told me that my boyfriend and I should move on in our lives.  In my mind and in my heart, I felt that we were clearly not meant to be together since I was traveling so much and he really kind of liked to stick around town more.  We were growing up and growing apart in so many ways.  Funny but I’m tearing up a little writing this.  He really was such a great guy and I hate to have ever caused him any hurt.  But, I came home that August 1995 and we agreed to officially break up.  No going back. No changing our minds.

Shortly afterward, I went down to a visit a friend in Ohio that I had met on tour.  He was nice and our parents got along well.  I was excited to discover what God might have planned for us.  But after spending non-ministry time together, having fun and enjoying our mutual interest in music, we both knew that was definitely not the route God had planned for us.  I became very angry at the Lord then because I honestly had thought if I gave up the love I had for the pastor’s son, surely God would reward me by bringing “the one" He had ordained for me immediately to my side.  I was wrong. And I was hurt. Hurt that the Ohio guy didn't want me, hurt that the pastor's son didn't fight to get me back. Actually, he seemed relieved and happy to get rid of me.

Unfortunately, I entered a very dark phase at that point.  Angry with the Lord for not jumping at my command, I told another young man I’d met at our church, who insisted that he was madly in love with me and always had been, that I would go on a date with him.  He had been bugging me for years, even though I had a boyfriend at the time.  Now that I was finally free, I gave in to his persistence. I honestly entertained this thought, "even though I know he's dated all the other girls in church too, he won't hurt me. I'll hurt him first before that ever happens." I became a scheming, manipulative 19-year-old that had a hardened heart toward God and His "plan" for me.

Chapter 10

10.  Shining His Light
I could spend hours telling stories about being on tour that summer but I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with a few highlights.  I'll begin by saying that a bus built in the early 1970’s might not last a whole three months of driving over 5 hours every single day.  In the summer.  Down South.  During a heat wave.  The air conditioning broke.  ......Of course it did.  The bus was about 30 feet long and there were approximately 20 of us on it for at least 5 hours each day. We would get on the bus early in the morning, travel through the day and debark in the afternoon at a church in a different city far from where we'd been the night before. We'd spend the day doing devotions, listening to music, sleeping (lots and lots of sleeping) and getting to know each other. Teammates had come from all over the United States, Canada and even one girl was there from France. We had different denominational backgrounds and I learned much about the beauty of tradition from some of my friends as they learned a lot more about the grace and freedom found in a personal relationship with Jesus.

Our mission was to bring encouragement and prayer support to churches throughout North America as we made our way to a coastal airport to depart for whatever foreign country in which we would perform concerts, bringing Jesus to a hurting world through music. We often prayed for the people for hours afterward as they lined up to receive a personal touch from the Lord. We saw many miracles both spiritual and physical.

Since our team was headed to Nicaragua, El Salvador and Belize for about 3-4 weeks from the end of July to the beginning of August, we started out in central California and made our way through the southern United States from the middle of June to the middle of July. When we were finished with the overseas portion, we'd fly back to Miami and make our way back to California, concert by concert each night for the final Homecoming concert at the end of August in Visalia, California. At that concert, all 7 teams would gather for a special "thank you" concert for the families and supporters of the ministry.

Each person on the team had a job to do and mine was to be the bus cleaner.  Another girl and I had to clean the bus after we arrived at the location every single day.  Every single day.  In the heat.  Without air conditioning (have I mentioned that?).  I remember being sweaty and dirty every single day before having to go inside a new church and be pretty & sweet for a bunch of people I'd never met before. I am a neat freak and hate being dirty at all, therefore while I was cleaning I know that I said words that perhaps were a tad bit colorful and certainly had to repent for later.  Oh well, I suppose you can always say that it "built character" in me.

I must mention here that we had the best director in the history of the ministry and he and I are still good friends today.  He was fun, intelligent, talented and had a true heart for God.  All the girls had crushes on him.  Except for me, of course.  Remember, I had my true love waiting for me at home.  Besides that tiny distraction, the girls on the team really developed strong bonds with each other and we made both hilarious and touching memories ministering, laughing, praying and crying together.  

I now call that tour “the spirit of Toilet Harrassment tour”.  This moniker sets it apart from later tours by being the only one during which a morning was not complete if one of the ladies didn’t get on the bus with a story about a toilet catastrophe at her host home, or the restaurant or at the church.  I remember that we were at a Burger King in El Salvador and one of the stalls had a toilet that wouldn’t flush.  So we agreed that anyone who “had to go number one” could use that one and anyone needing, um, more time should use the other stall.  

I should probably mention that while we generally did one concert per day in the States, we usually did two or more per day when we were overseas. So often times we wore our "concert attire" all day long. That year we had two dresses, a one-piece blue-green A-line skirt with button-down top and a fuscia one-piece A-line belted made of fabric which wrinkled easily and breathed not well at all in the Central American heat.  The ladies all had matching earrings and necklaces, black patent leather high heeled shoes and black panty hose. No, don't worry, I didn't have heat stroke by the end of each day (sarcasm inserted here).

Well, my violinist friend was the last one in to the Number One stall and as we're washing our hands, chattering and giggling, suddenly we hear her chagrined voice, “oh noooooo!”  

“What’s the matter?” someone exclaimed.  

In a deeply saddened voice she told us through the stall door, “my concert necklace just fell off….Into the toilet.”  

Groaning as one, we turned to the attendant – foreign restrooms often have attendants in them – who promptly said, “no problemo”.  When our friend came out, the attendant went in and fished out the necklace with her bare hands (feel free to be nauseous) and proudly tried to hand it to our friend.  Smiling weakly, she took the necklace gingerly between her index finger and thumb and gritting her teeth, she dropped it into the sink.  Washing it thousands of times would never erase what we all knew to be true about that necklace.

Throughout this tour and the next three years of college and other mission trips, I struggled mightily with panic attacks and an irritable gastric system.  Traveling only made it worse.  But I was determined to let God’s light shine through me.  I remember one particular afternoon in El Salvador, we were all visiting someone's home in the mountains overlooking an incredibly large lake and I experienced the same shortness of breath, tunnel vision and clawed hands that I had back in high school during my senior year.

I needed to get out of there but had no where to go. It freaked us out and especially my director, who'd begun to look at me as his little sister (I was 18 at the time). He carried me outside where the breeze from the water refreshed me as the team prayed for me. I was so embarrassed but also was scared. I was questioning the Lord, my body, my mind. I didn't know anything about "triggers" and if I had, I don't know that I could have pinpointed anything specific about why my body had rebelled against me. Of course, now I know exactly what was happening but at the time, it was merely something I tried my best to strive to overcome it myself.

In Belize, I had an intestinal episode that kept me running to find bathrooms at the most inconvenient times and places. Yet I managed to perform at the concerts, praying over others, watching them receive miracles from God and still act like I wasn't becoming more and more terrified of my own body and mind.

Only after my mother went back to college, earning dual bachelor’s degrees in English and Psychology, did the Lord show us that my episodes were bona fide panic attacks and were probably kicking off an illness known as irritable bowel syndrome.  Later when we were armed with this new information, Mom and I went to the doctor.  After many tests and years of searching I finally understood that I had these issues, what triggered them and that would have to learn how God could make a new miracle through me.

Chapter 9

9.  The New Adventure
The ad touted an ecumenical music-missions group located in California that traveled around the United States and the world taking the message of Christ through song and prayer to those needing His light.  It had four full-time ministry teams and were looking for people to join three additional teams for summer tours.  Reading further, I felt that there was no way that I would ever be accepted for a group like that.  Though I’d played the piano since I was seven, the violin since fourth grade and had sung with our little family band locally since the age of nine, I was not nearly disciplined enough to make it into a professional music group.  But, shrugging my shoulders, I figured I would send in an audition tape (yes, that’s right an audio cassette tape) with my competition violin solo on it, plus a song for which I sang while I accompanied myself on the piano.  If they accepted me, then I would go.  If not, I still had my application ready to send out so that I could to go to Oxford University for summer classes – and yes, that’s the Oxford in England.

So, out went the tape and I said a little prayer as it went.  I showed my boyfriend the ad and told him my summer plans.  He was less than ecstatic about the thought of me being gone anywhere for three months but he was very sweet about it and told me that whatever God had planned was good enough for him. Or something like that anyway.

Mid-winter came and in Michigan, that can be quite a depressing and very cold time.  But I was happy, taking classes I liked, dating a nice guy, managing the illnesses and panic pretty well.  Soon a letter came in the mail and I discovered that I had been accepted to the ministry as a keyboardist.  “A keyboardist!!  What in the world does that mean?” I thought excitedly.  It appeared that the team would be made up of about ten vocalists, an orchestra of various instruments, a sound technician and a light technician.  The three summer teams would be going to Greenland, Central America and Bulgaria.  Soon I would be getting the recordings and the sheet music I needed to prepare for a ten-day rehearsal camp in the mountains of California.  I needed to be there by early June and we would be on the road performing ten days later.  What?!?!

My family and I were so very excited about this incredible opportunity. Needless to say, the rest of my second semester at college flew by easily and without my active participation.  Today when my parents and I talk about it, we laugh about how naïve we were.  Racing me off to the west coast to join a ministry we knew nothing about sounded a little like a cult actually.  But it all worked out for the best and I joined the Central America team.  When I discovered I would be playing not one, but two keyboards at the same time I cried for about 2 hours. But after that I did all right.  And soon we were on our way.

Chapter 8

8.  The Real Battle Begins…
I still had 3 months left of my senior year in high school and in addition to sorting out my grief, I was in the running to be valedictorian of my class.  As I said earlier, I did not have a 4.0 grade point average but I was very, very close.    So I worked hard at my assignments, tests and extra credit projects.  Okay, I worked as hard as any senior girl with a crush on the pastor’s son and who had major senioritis could work.

I remember sitting in English class taught by one of my favorite teachers of all time.  We were writing in our journals and I began taking very quick, short breaths.  I became light-headed and thought, “what in the world is the matter with me?”  Then my fingers curled themselves into the palms of my hands and I started to cry.  Trying not to make a scene, I walked up to the teacher and asked if I could go to the bathroom.  Taking one look at me, she suggested quietly that I go to the school office and asked my good friend to go get my sister to send her with me.

By the time I arrived at the office, I was completely freaked out.  I was seventeen and my hands were clawed up like an arthritic old woman!  I couldn’t breathe, thought I was going to puke or pass out and my sister was just as flabbergasted as I.  The secretary calmly gave me a paper bag and I received my first lesson in managing hyperventilation.  Little did we know that it was my very first panic attack and this would become a regular routine for me.

Because my family was very strong in spiritual matters and very Godly in many things, it never occurred to me that I might need to ask for help.  I figured, “a child of God does not have to suffer like this!”  And I would struggle for understanding, for release and for healing.  While it is true, God doesn’t want His kids to suffer, I was far too invested in the steps I could take to gain His healing to see what He had easily given for me.  Instead I lived between episodes trying to handle the symptoms of panic attacks the best I could.  I would always ask Mom and Dad to pray, I would recite my “peace” Scriptures over and over.  The attacks came at random times and it was years before we thought to look for “trigger events” or anything like that.  At the same time, I was getting quite sick each month with female issues and began having intestinal problems.  Nothing was ever quite bad enough to be diagnosed with anything treatable and so I became quite good at managing the panic attacks, monthly issues and intestinal irritations.

As the months passed, graduation loomed ahead and I would indeed be giving the valedictory speech on graduation night.  I wrote my speech, helped plan the ceremony, cried with my best friends and made my plans for college.  To this day I appreciate my high school experience and all of the friendships I had while there.  Those friends walked with me through the darkest times of my life so far and I am so grateful God had appointed them to be there for that specific period.

Of course, I still found plenty of time for fun and was still dating the pastor’s son.  By the beginning of my first year in college, we had settled into our own ways and felt quite comfortable with each other.  Physical temptation was always rearing its head at us but I’m still proud to say that God protected us.  I had chosen a college within commuting distance and convinced him that he should transfer there too.  We were smart enough to only sign up for one class together and life moved along nicely.  Then during the holidays in 1993, Dad found an advertisement in a worship magazine that he showed to me saying, “wouldn’t that be great if you could do that?”  And so began another adventure.

Chapter 7

7. Senior Year
Time passed and my senior year of high school began in late August 1992.  I was signed up with 4 other classmates to take college courses at the Community College nearby for the morning hours and then return just before lunch to our high school campus.  During my junior year I had joined the Forensics Team, which competed in events for dramatic reading and acting.  I was still avoiding athletics whenever possible and had successfully managed to avoid it throughout high school.  I spent my 9th or 10th grade winter on the JV volleyball team and the coach still laughs when she remembers me begging her not to make me play but let me take team statistics instead.  She was kind and conceded but only because I'm sure she didn't want to be embarrassed by my clutziness either.  I joined the Pep Club one year and then a ballet class another year.  The people there politely asked if I played any instruments and suggested I may "want to just stick with that then".  At least, that's the way I remember it and I distinctly got the impression the other dancers wouldn't mind if I bowed out at any time.
 
I remained active in the music programs, however, playing in the orchestra for 3 years and then auditioning for the Elite Vocal team.  We had so much fun in that class, delivering Singing Telegrams to students during Valentine's Day, performing at local malls and schools.  I have to admit that, for a bunch of teenagers, our harmonies were pretty tight and we loved to worship the Lord together just as much as have fun.  We led praise and worship times during chapel sessions, put music to our skits, and performed musical theatre.  In the spring of 1992, the drama and vocal teachers put together our premier performance of "H.M.S. Pinafore" by Gilbert and Sullivan.  I snagged the part of Buttercup,  the rotund and comical seller of odd-bits-and-ends who visited the ships as they were docked at port, peddling food and wares they needed.  I had trouble reaching all the notes, so I transposed all of my songs to lower keys by hand for our accompanist.  A friend from the senior class showed me how to project my voice and breath properly.  I have been forever grateful to him for that!  My mother modified my costume to give me bumps and curves where I had none and the end result was great laughter when I first appeared on stage.  I accentuated my larger "behind" as I bounced around stage and loved every minute of that experience.  All of us still giggle about our memories from that play.
 
The fall of 1992 brought me freedom from my braces (thank you, Mom and Dad), senior pictures, mock elections and a near-win at the Homecoming queen crown.  Things sure had changed.  I felt more confident about my appearance, my friendships and my future.  After all, I'd already been through two huge, life changing experiences.  I filled out college applications, took the ACT exam (only once though I should have taken it again for a better score), cheered on my classmates at their basketball and volleyball games, socialized every chance I got and studied as much as necessary to maintain my grade point average.  I did not, I confess, have a 4.0 by then but I did have a strong 3.9.  It was enough to grant me valedictorian status by May 1993 and the goal I'd set for myself in kindergarten was achieved.
 
If you talk to any of our teachers from that time period, we are still remembered as the "family" class.  We had our own internal problems and no, everyone did not hang out together on weekends.  But overall, we were a close-knit group.  During high school, I had several "crushes" on the boys there and probably some of those feelings were even returned.  But since I wasn't allowed to date, I didn't have a "real" boyfriend until the autumn of my senior year.  And by "real", I mean someone who took me out on actual dates to the movies, dinner, mini-golfing, basketball games, youth group outings and concerts.  I knew my parents did not want me to date and I knew that they believed it was safer for me that way.  They taught me that it would be easier to maintain my physical and, therefore, spiritual purity if I just didn't put myself in a position where I'd need to make choices like that.  I caused a great deal of drama in our family by not heeding their advice but they were good enough not to disown me at the time.
 
I think it helped that the boy I developed real feelings for was the pastor's son at the church we'd been attending since my freshman year.  We had known his family since I was four years old and our parents were close friends, ministering together and fellowshipping with each other.  It felt natural to fall in love with him and we both agreed it would be "perfect" if we started dating.  He did not attend my school and was "an older man", already enrolled in college courses, about 2 1/2 years older than me.  He was cute, he could sing and, although he had odd tastes in clothing, he was a strong Christian.  I fell head-over-heels for him.
 
He and I respected each other and the boundaries we set as a couple helped us make good choices.  Sure, we struggled with physical temptations over the next 3 years but we never gave up our commitment to respect God and ourselves by remaining virgins.  He is now a very dear friend to my husband and me because of those boundaries we set so long ago.  I believe that God ordained our friendship and perhaps we should not have dated for so long but young love is stubborn.  I am not writing this memoir to expound on my personal romantic history so I only mention this particular relationship because he was there with me through events that formed who I am today.  My parents did allow him to take me on dates with specific parameters of time and location and looking back, I know even that was probably very difficult for them.  Especially since we were unable to tell time and I was almost always late for curfew.  Okay, always late.  I believe now would be another great opportunity to apologize to my parents.
 
The autumn of 1992 came and went without much to document other than my 17th birthday, the beginning of this new love and Christmas time.  The Christmas holidays began in my family on the day after Thanksgiving when we put up the Christmas tree after our family feast.  We did not spend Thanksgiving "with the in-laws" but always just the four of us together, perhaps visiting other family members later for the football game.  Our feast was, and still is, scheduled to begin just after noon and didn't really end until bedtime.  Because the greenhouse schedule was unrelenting, cut the roses twice-a-day every day, our meal times and holidays were planned around when Dad would be working next door and when he would be able to spend the greatest amount of time at home.  Mom's holiday meals are indescribable really.  She prepares the entire week ahead of time so that her homemade turkey dressing is just right, the turkey comes out on time, the pie crusts are just crumbly enough, the from-scratch applesauce is perfectly pink...I can almost smell the delicious aromas now.  Where was I?  Oh yes, the holidays.
 
I don't really know how to describe our home because as I've gotten older, the memories have been frosted with golden edges brightening the years past with a happy glow.  However, if you had asked me as a teenager, I would have answered, "It's not fair.  All my friends get to go places, date and do things that I can't do.  My parents don't understand what it's like now-a-days."  And I probably would have said even more with corresponding huffs, sighs, and foot stomps.  I fought with them a lot in those years determined that they were wrong and I was right, trying to force them to change their minds about what was good and what was not.  

One of my aunts asked me once, "looking back, what do you think your parents could have done better that would have helped you make better choices?"  I thought long and hard about it and I responded, "I don't think they could have changed anything at all.  They disciplined me when I needed it and when I hated it.  They were consistent and gave me Scriptures and tools to help me make boundaries for myself.  When that failed, they made boundaries for me.  I guess I just was determined to learn some things the hard way."  I know this last paragraph is full of cliches but it is exactly how I remember.  Of course, they were not perfect and I'm sure they should have "lightened up" on me in many ways but I don't fault them one bit because I certainly did not make it easy on them.
 
Overall, however, our home was peaceful and all the good things most families only dream about.  Again, living next door to my grandparents was a huge blessing especially during Christmas time.  We had a tradition at that time with Dad's family.  On Christmas Eve our family, with my Dad's five siblings and their families, made our way to Grandma and Papa's house.  It would be after the second cutting of the roses but just before dinner time.  I don't remember who made what except that Grandma always had a big pot of her famous sloppy joes.  There were side dishes galore and desserts of all kinds, including unsweetened apple pie.  Papa would lift the top crust of his piece of pie, sprinkle a huge spoonful of sugar on it, close it up again and give a silly grin before he dug into it.  

After dinner and clean up we all gathered in the living room.  Every seat in the house would be brought in and us youngsters sat on the floor.  Not all of my aunts and uncles were married or had families in 1992 but there were plenty of us to make the room nice and toasty.  There wouldn't be a fire in the fireplace that night!  The family wasn't so big yet that we had to draw names for a gift exchange so we each bought or made gifts for everyone there.  One at a time we would open our presents as Papa, also known as "Santa Claus", passed them out.  We had family sayings like, "Good Shopping!" after someone got excited about their gift. "Just Add Water" for a small box that we'd tease had a big item inside. "Is that really what's inside?" for boxes that looked too good to be true, and the best "oooh, Santa paper - that's a good present" because the best gifts were always somehow wrapped in paper with Santa Claus on it.  

After the gift giving frenzy, we'd tidy up the paper and boxes and Grandma would bring out a tray with communion elements.  Papa would read the Christmas Story and offer some thoughts on the past year and would pray over the little bits of cracker and the little cups of grape juice.  He would also pray over the family.  We took communion together every year and even as I write this tears fill my eyes remembering that precious time.
 
I do not remember any specific gift from that Christmas in 1992 but I do remember one of the best presents I ever received.  Grandma was an avid knitter, making sweaters, hats and mittens.  They were good quality and beautiful, not made with gaudy colors or itchy yarn.  But best of all, Grandma knitted afghans.  Nearly every one of us has an afghan from her.  But I like to think that ours were more special because we were the first grandchildren.  When we were little, April and I received our first afghans knitted in our favorite colors (hers, pink and mine, purple) with a soft, fine yarn.  Those blankets were our princess gowns during playtime and our cozy warmers during movie time.  We wore those gifts out.  She also made matching little ones for our dolls and I still have that one.  When we grew into young ladies, she made new ones for us (same colors) and I still have that one too, although no one else is allowed to use it.  These afghans were special symbols to us of Grandma's love for us.  When she gave me my teenage one she said to me, "when you go off to college and you don't feel good or you're lonely, you wrap yourself up in this and I'll be right there holding you."  I will never ever forget that precious promise.
 
Papa and Grandma were tremendous examples of Godly love, looking past faults and unconditionally trying to serve the other.  They argued, yes, but they lived the truth of God's forgiveness and restoring power right in front of us.  They were not just Harold or Jean, they were Harold and Jean.  Not a matching set but a set nonetheless.  You automatically got one with the other.  They worked together, disciplined their children (and grandchildren) together, shopped together, vacationed together.  They were good friends to my parents and a terrific influence in my life too.
 
I will never forget February 9, 1993 as long as I live.  That Tuesday was cold and gray but not snowy.  I was in my afternoon English class and a page came over the intercom for me to come to the school office.  Curious, I went quickly down the hall meeting my sister half-way.  April was in the tenth grade and had been called down as well.  Reaching the office, we stepped up to the secretary's desk.  She nodded and said, "Angel, you'll both have to get your things together.  Your parents called and want you home right away."  Later I discovered that wasn't exactly what my mother had requested, she had asked them to tell us to come home right after school without any delays.  Oh well, they tried.  Heart thumping wildly, I told April to get her things and meet me at the car.  I rushed back to my English class, offered some sort of explanation to the teacher and my friends and went to my locker.  

I remember having the presence of mind to gather my homework items and pack everything just as if this was the end of any ordinary day.  Meanwhile, my thoughts were careening into one another.  I thought, "well someone has died or they wouldn't have called here.  They would have waited until we got home for anything else.  Even a hospital emergency.  It can't be Mom or Dad because the secretary said 'they called'..." and so on.  All the way home April and I prayed for everyone we could think of, our maternal grandparents, our great-grandparents, our entire family.  Then I remember thinking that maybe it was my boyfriend's grandmother since she had recently been ill.  But I quickly tossed that thought because I knew they wouldn't call us home for that.  That was a terribly long 30 minute drive, let me tell you.
 
Arriving in our driveway we saw that our parents' mini-van was gone.  "Well, that's not a good sign," I told my sister.  We went inside the house and no one was there.  Confused, we went next door to Papa and Grandma's.  No one was there either.  We went out to the greenhouse and found Bill (you remember, the friend who prayed over me) working there.  He saw us and we immediately noticed that he was crying.  We said, "Bill, what's wrong?!" and ran to give him hugs.  He hugged us back but shook his head.  "I think your parents need to talk to you.  They are at your great-grandma’s house but will be back soon.  Go back to your house and wait."  So, we did.  

This particular lady is our great-grandmother on Dad's side.  His mother's mother.  She lived about 30 minutes north of us.  We were very frightened, thinking she had gotten ill and that's where everyone was.  But we stayed put and prayed together.  Fairly soon, Mom and Dad came home and told us the news.  They said that it wasn't about our great-grandmother at all. Instead they told us that Papa and Grandma were in Florida that day going to see our other great-grandparents, Granny and Gramps.  They had stopped for a rest and that Grandma had suddenly and immediately passed away.  No sickness, no pain, just was here and then was gone.  Papa said later that the expression on her face was just like she had opened the front door and seen someone she hadn't seen in a very long time and was so happy to see again.
 
I felt a million things in that moment and felt nothing at the same time.  It was my first experience with grief.  I went upstairs to my room, got my Bible, sat on my bed and wrapped myself in my purple afghan.  I cried some and prayed a lot but never opened the Bible.  I just held it.  After a while I went back downstairs and discovered what my first instincts are in a tragedy.  Help the ones who are hurting more.  Daddy wouldn't let anyone call his siblings and the rest of his family but himself.  So that left Mom.  I believe we cleaned the entire first floor of the house that evening.  Mom and Grandma were very close, working together in the greenhouse daily for years.  

My parents united as a front and showed me how to grieve while pressing into God at the same time.  They were amazing.  Papa came home in the next days.  He and I have always had a special bond and it broke my heart to see him suffer.  I will not share my Papa and my thoughts about his experience with you but I will tell you that I learned a great deal from him over the next few years and I am very proud of him today.  I can tell you that losing my Grandma, who was like my second mother, so suddenly really hit me deeply but in ways I have only recently uncovered.

 
Needless to say, getting hit by a car, attacked by a dog and losing my Grandma so quickly in succession and in less than 3 years had a huge impact on me physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.  Now it seemed that fear had become.... fear and now had morphed into.... FEAR.  And it seemed it was here to stay.

Chapter 6

6.  Repercussions
Suffice it to say, I have never been much of a dog-lover since that wintery day in January 1992.   But the whole experience did serve to instill even more fear into my heart.  I would never walk in the front yard again unless I was with someone or had some sort of mighty weapon in my hands.  And that is the stark reality of it.  I didn't care who knew I was afraid at that point, I wasn't going out there for the mail or for any other reason.  Ever.  I would make all my arrangements so I could unlock my car quickly and jump in fast.  Even though the dog died later that year and he wasn't replaced by the owner, every time I heard the jingling of a chain or keys (which sound like a dog collar), my heart would race and I would freeze.  Every time something or someone came at me from my peripheral vision, I would freak out and jump.  I still have all of these responses today but am better able to control them.  Apparently this is some lower form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder but we didn't know anything about that then.  I just figured it would eventually fade and I'd be back to normal again in no time.
 
I'm very glad that for that season, God had placed me at the Christian high school.  During these traumatic events, it helped to be in a place where I was spiritually nurtured and protected.  Each year my entire high school went to Winter Camp somewhere in mid-Michigan for a weekend in late January.  It was a time to play but it could also be an incredible time for spiritual growth.  We learned about the Holy Spirit, about forgiveness, about God's redemption and grace, about unity and holiness.  I have very fond memories of each Winter Camp I attended.  At this particular camp, my circle of friends and I decided we wanted to memorize Hebrews 13:5, "For I will never leave you without support or forsake you, or let you down, My child.  I will not, I will not, I will not in any degree, leave you helpless or relax My hold on you, assuredly not" (NIV).  It was a Scripture that spoke peace and hope to each of our five little womanly hearts.  

So, we sat at this tinny, old, rickety piano in the common area and plunked out a song.  My friend and I began singing as I played some basic chord patterns and the Holy Spirit sparked our voices to sing the exact same tune!  The group sang it for the whole high school later at the evening chapel session and it is one of only two songs that I have written that I will actually play in public today.  We named it "Assuredly Not" and although the others may not even remember it, the little tune still ministers to me today.  It certainly has played a strong role in keeping me anchored with the Lord through many tough times.
 
Even today, however, I still have repercussions of both the car accident and dog attack.  These alone would have been enough to deal with spiritually and physically for anyone.  When I was learning how to drive, I was the only 15-year-old who drove under the speed limit.  Once I went to a local sports center and arcade to try out the go-karts with a youth group.  I was "lapped" by my buddies 2 times before I even tried to push the accelerator.  As of this moment, I am not quite such a 'fraidy-cat as that anymore but I still flinch whenever someone or something jumps at me, especially from my peripheral vision.  

A somewhat amusing example of this happened just a few months back at my great-grandmother's house.  My dad and I were walking up her driveway and my husband had already pulled in driving his pickup truck.  As Dad and I passed the truck I saw a dark figure move near the truck from the corner of my eye at the same time that I heard the jingling of a chain.  Since I thought Mario had already gone into the house, I assumed it was a dog.  I grabbed my father and shoved him in front of me while I ran behind him to the back door of the house.  Poor Daddy, being sacrificed like that!  Don't worry, it turned out to be Mario after all and we had a good little chuckle from it.  Still, I am pretty sure my dad will not be walking that close to me any more.