He's in the Suitcase

By Kim Bauer Hill

My journey as explained throughout the book begins in the late summer of 1994, as I became an expectant mother. By the time I was writing the final chapter, the suitcase in my story became my strongest accountability partner. Knowing if I was going to write it, I had better be living it!

I feel so positive that all of you who read this book will absolutely, upon completion of reading, have a new appreciation for your life. It is my hope and humble prayer that my past, present and destination described while on this journey will indeed encourage you to take a much deeper look into your personal journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fideli Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781604144796

Kim Bauer Hill

One of the most precious contents I received from the sender of my suitcase was given to me so many years ago when my name was Kimberly Joann Bauer, daughter of Dave and Donna Bauer. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years growing up in Mooresville, Indiana and attending Monrovia elementary, junior/ senior high schools. I graduated in 1978. Approximately 20 years later, I realized I had a gift that was still brand new because it had never been used. So, here it is 2011 — I finally unwrapped the tissue paper and wrote this book as the sender intended for me to.

Book preview

He’s in the Suitcase

Kim Bauer Hill

Smashwords ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.

Copyright 2011, Kim Bauer Hill

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ISBN: 978-1-60414-479-6

Chapter 1

Diagnosis: Pregnant

Treatment: Carry suitcase daily along 1 straight and narrow path.

Some time ago, not certain of the exact date, I received a package with a ‘DO NOT RETURN TO SENDER’ sticker on the box. This, of course, caused me to immediately search for a return address on the wrapping. As I was unsuccessful in doing so, I proceeded to unwrap the gift and found a tag attached to a handle. This tag had in big, bold, bright red letters and numbers my name and date of birth stamped on it.

The gift was shaped exactly like the box it came in — my best description — it was a perfect-sized suitcase, having pockets, zippers, locks and a gold key for safe keeping and security. Though I was unable to acknowledge who the sender was, I could plainly see that this gift must have cost someone, somewhere — everything they had. Being certain this was a special gift for me, I carried it at all times.

I had met my husband, Mark, at work and we married in January of 1991. Mark still works there to this day. I had taken a new job at Kendrick Memorial Hospital working at the switchboard for Lynda Jaynes. Later, she earned the name of ‘best boss in the whole wide world’ because she hired me back to the admitting/ switchboard department at least 4 different times.

Mark and I had built a home and were living in it several years prior to the fall of 1994. Although the house was two years old, it still seemed very new to us, especially since we were still in the process of finding out neither of us knew much about anything when it came to homeownership. We attended a Christian church that we both enjoyed very much and later joined. I felt we were heading down the perfect road – the straight and narrow path — you know, the one God says to take.

In this September of 1994, though, I had felt really sick — and I mean really sick A LOT — to the point that I was becoming a person with a very bad attitude. There were many people saying to me, ‘You could be a little nicer, Kim,’ and ‘Have you and Mark been fighting?’ Then there were others who did not say anything. These people just did an ‘about-face’ when they saw me heading in their direction. Also, Mark was working as late as he possibly could. I’m certain it was to avoid coming home before I was asleep. He grabbed fast food often in the two weeks that followed.

I didn’t care as I snapped at him, ‘I hate to cook, anyway — so, don’t think you’re bothering me. Be sure though, if you’re going to grab fast food, bring me home a cheeseburger.’ How thoughtless could he be?

During the next several weeks, I skipped out of some work and missed a few Sunday attendances.

As I lay on my bed in self-pity, reminding myself that some people had even called me the ‘B’ word — the one some females are called when they are having their ‘time of month cycle.’ Suddenly, a bell rang in my head, ‘Hello, you have skipped your ‘time of month cycle.’