Lulu: One Woman's Journey from Poverty and the Occult to Enduring Faith and True Riches

By Lulu Auger and Wendy Alec

Lulu Auger's life is what fairy tales are made of: a poor farm girl from rural Minnesota goes to Washington, D.C., to seek her fortune. On the way, she meets a dashing prince who sweeps her into marriage. Wealth and fame eventually follow as they open a successful restaurant visited regularly by the who's-who of the nation's capitol.

Yet any glamour in this fairy tale existence was short-lived. Her prince turned into a domineering and disloyal husband. Success didn't fulfill her and money couldn't buy her happiness. Desperate for acceptance, belonging, and love, Lulu sought comfort in the arms of the New Age occult--a decision she almost paid for with her life.

Heartening yet hopeful, the saga of Lulu's life, her search for fulfillment, and her ultimate decision to accept Christ will captivate readers and become a source of encouragement and hope for anyone walking through the dark valleys of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Oct 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781441204967

Book preview

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Prologue

I lay in bed, struggling to fall asleep that hot summer evening in 1970, but all manner of things were running through my mind. I got up, sat in the yoga position and tried meditating. But I couldn’t still my thoughts as I pondered how completely my life had changed in the year since I first met Jeane Dixon, the well-known astrologer who had befriended me. She had made disturbing predictions about my life, and they had come to pass. She had also made other predictions that I hoped would not come true, especially her statement that my husband would leave me.

I couldn’t help but relive a couple of distressing experiences, such as my visit to Brother Ike, a spiritualist who practiced in Annapolis, about an hour away. When I entered his office, he was sitting behind a carved desk and seemed extremely fatigued.

He motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite him. As I did so, he rested his head back and closed his eyes as if he were falling into a deep sleep. His head jerked several times from side to side, and he snorted a little. Then his head fell to one side, and I thought he would remain asleep for a long time. Then he muttered something and jerked his head the other way.

To my amazement I saw a spirit resting on top of his head, wearing large glasses. I could see that the spirit’s strange eyes, magnified by the glasses, were fixed on me. After staring for a brief moment, I grew afraid and looked away.

Then Brother Ike began to mutter and sputter. Suddenly he jerked his head upright, opened his eyes and began to speak in a low voice: Your husband is a well-known businessman and is very busy. He has a lot of plans, but they don’t include you. I was with you as you came in the car, and I know what you want to know. The answer is clear. Yes, he will leave you, and you are to prepare yourself.

Then Brother Ike’s expression changed, and he began to smile. You’re writing a book, aren’t you?

I had just begun to outline a book, tracing my experiences with Jeane and astrology. That’s true, I replied, but it’s mostly in my mind at the moment.

Write it! he snapped. It will be great! There is a businessman who is fond of you, and he will be the one to help you publish it.

Brother Ike was silent and fell asleep immediately. As I looked at him, I saw the spirit disappear. Our time was over and I was in a state of shock. I was astonished that he could read my mind. But as I paid the $150 to his assistant, I knew I never would return.

Climbing back in bed, I tossed and turned as I thought about Brother Ike. Jeane had introduced me to a different world. I felt as though I were on a shadowy path that I couldn’t get off.

God, please help me, I prayed silently. Suddenly I remembered a scene from my childhood, back on our small farm in Minnesota. I saw my father kneeling on the floor of our living room with his Bible open on the couch in front of him. Raising nine children during the Depression was not easy, and he always prayed before making any decisions. He said it brought him peace. Thinking of my father brought tears to my eyes, and I wondered if I would ever again know that peace that Papa had always talked about.

one

The Vision

Morning! I pulled back the faded pink curtain to peer through the window, scraping away the frost with my fingernail. It was still snowing heavily. Our old yard, which was filled with junk, had been transformed under a blanket of Minnesota snow. Now I could only glimpse the outline of the wagon wheels, my brother’s old Ford and the other ugly things that overnight had become beautiful and picturesque. My eight-year-old spirit soared at the sight.

I felt a sudden urge to put on my snowsuit and traipse out to the apple orchard. I wanted to be alone in my special place, lying on my favorite log, where I loved to think and dream. Dressed, I went through the kitchen and passed my mama, clad in her lavender housedress with her gray hair piled high as she prepared breakfast. With five of her ten children still in the house, she was always in motion. Her favorite Eight O’Clock coffee was perking away on our wood-burning stove, its distinctive aroma drifting through our ramshackle, four-roomed farmhouse.

I pulled on my overshoes, threw a kiss at Mama and left with my dog at my side. Right away I noticed fresh tracks in the snow. Papa had recently pointed out similar ones to my little brother, Marlin, and I had overheard him say they were made by a snowshoe hare. Towser must have picked up its scent, because he shot off like a bullet. I clumped through the deep snow, which was seeping into my overshoes. Suddenly cold, I pulled up my hood, shivering in surprise as the snow trickled down my neck.

Right on cue—as though laughing at my reaction—a black-capped chickadee alighted on a low branch and started singing a melodic song. My older sister Maria had taught me the bird’s name, saying that chickadees didn’t fly away during the winter but kept warm by fluffing up their feathers and trapping air next to their bodies. I wished we humans could have built-in heat like that. So would my papa, who was always struggling to find enough wood to keep the house warm.

I knew we were living through something called the Depression. I remembered the day I first heard the word. We kids were playing when suddenly we heard a shrill whistle blow so loudly that it could be heard from miles away. We asked Mama what it was, and she said it was a signal that the banks were closed and that the country was in a Depression. The word must have had a terrible meaning, for it seemed to wipe away the smiles from everyone’s faces, all except for Mama’s. Her smile was built in.

In the orchard, I headed for my log—my safe place to sprawl and think and dream. And I had much to dream about—big dreams of the world I had yet to explore. Now that I could read, I devoured everything I could find, including Mama’s almanac and my brother’s cowboy magazines. I gazed longingly at the pictures of the Old West. I felt there was so much more to the world than just this farm, and for some reason, deep inside I believed that one day I would discover and embrace it.

As I lay in the falling snow, I looked up and watched the snowflakes dancing in the sky. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some movement, and I assumed it was a bald eagle circling over the river to look for food. Opening my mouth wide, I felt the big snowflakes tickle as they landed on my tongue. Although my young heart longed for adventure, at that moment I was content to be still in the clean and crisp air as I soaked in the peace of my surroundings.

I lay there for a long time, musing on the breathtaking scene around me. My heart was awake to things of beauty, and every time I saw Papa kneeling and praying for us, it somehow brought peace to my life. It was as if through his prayers I knew that the beauty out in the world would one day be mine.

Deep in these thoughts as I stared up at the sky, I suddenly saw something so real that I was forever changed by the sight. Right in the midst of the falling snowflakes, an open book appeared before me. It was parted in the center, and the pages fluttered as though blown by a soft breeze. I was awestruck, and although I didn’t hear a voice, in that moment I knew that it was in my future to write that book. What it would contain I didn’t yet know, but in the flash of the vision I gained a deep sense that God had adventures in mind for me far beyond the borders of my upbringing, perhaps even around the world. Surely I would be involved in something noteworthy enough to write about. These thoughts bore into my soul; they reverberated within me, gripping my very being. In a mere moment I felt as if my life had changed.

Quickly I slipped and slid home to tell Mama what had happened. She was trying to wring out Papa’s heavy, blue work shirt by hand when I burst in yelling, Mama, I’m going to be a writer!

She didn’t let go of the wet clothes, except to pat me on the head. She said nothing. Marlin was crunching corn flakes, and my sister Myrtle was eating a piece of Mama’s corn bread. Myrtle eyed me strangely, but besides that, everyone carried on with what they were doing. Nobody said a thing.

I was crestfallen at their reaction, but I told myself that it didn’t matter. I knew in my heart what I had seen, and deep down I sensed that God Himself had given me this vision. I brushed aside my hurt feelings and went upstairs to get started with my writing.

I began a story about the time we kids built a bonfire deep in the woods, near where Mr. Harrigan—a homeless person— lived underground. He had only newspapers for warmth. (I later learned that during the Depression, newspapers were called a Hoover blanket because many good men lost their homes due to the government’s policies and were forced to sleep under them.) In my story I wrote about how we decided to pay Mr. Harrigan a visit. He chased and frightened us, and we ran home as fast as we could. I tried to make the story as exciting and scary on paper as it had been in real life.

The words seemed to flow, and from that moment on I knew I needed to follow the vision to write the book, even if nobody else believed me. I hugged this knowledge close to my heart.

Mama and Papa had ten children, but one died and was buried in a little grave in the meadow. I was number nine, with Marlin a year younger than I and Myrtle a year older. Our oldest siblings—Joel, Hazel, Pearl and Chris—had all left the farm years before. And at the end of last summer, my next two older sisters, Bertha and Maria, had left home to become waitresses at the Saulpaugh Hotel in Mankato, the nearby city. I was bereft when they left; Maria in particular had been like a father and mother to me and loved me as no one else did. Mama and Papa were so busy raising us kids and trying to keep food on the table that they didn’t have much time to show us affection.

On the day my sisters left, I stood in their bedroom and watched as they finished dressing and packing. I remember feeling depressed and lonely. In an effort to hold back the tears, I tried to memorize every detail of how they looked, hardly believing that they wouldn’t live with us anymore. I noticed how messy the room was, how the plaster was coming off the ceiling and how the painted floor was chipped and worn. I longed for beauty, and I decided that it was wonderful to have big sisters around. They smelled good and reminded me that someday, in a few years’ time, I might be as beautiful as they were.

But as much as I tried, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I felt abandoned and knew nothing would ever be the same. Maria tried to comfort me, but all I wanted was for her to hold me and never let me go.

Soon we heard a horn honking outside. Their boyfriends had arrived, and Maria had to peel me off as I clung to her, crying. In a flurry of good-byes the girls left with hardly a backward glance.

Afterward Ma sat in her rocking chair, little tears running down her cheeks. Myrtle and Marlin cried too, and Pa put his hands behind his back and strolled out the kitchen door, talking to himself while heading for the barn. I hid behind the dusty draperies in the front room, cuddling my cat and sobbing myself to sleep.

The house always seemed empty after that, and I never stopped longing for the attention that Maria had shown me.

Shortly after my orchard epiphany, Myrtle, Marlin and I were sledding down the hill not far from the house. They had gone down before me, but I hit an icy patch and gained speed. To avoid running into them, I veered off toward the barn. As I stopped, an excruciating pain seared through my foot and I screamed Help! so loudly that everyone could hear me. I gasped as I looked down. I could see that the tine of a pitchfork had pierced the side of my foot. I was afraid to move, so I lay there moaning.

Marlin and Myrtle yelled for Papa. We knew that we wouldn’t be able to afford a doctor but that our resourceful Danish papa would take care of everything. Many years before, he had injured his back when a runaway horse ran over him. He was bent over as a result, but he always struggled to stand up straight. Now he was before me on his knees, perspiration dotting his forehead. He told Mama, Hold her as tight as you can. Don’t let her move!

Mama held my head in her lap, spreading her black coat around me. Papa held my leg steady and gently removed the pitchfork tine while yelling to Myrt and Marlin to get his bottle of Lysol and the peroxide, cotton and a stick. They scrambled to obey him, their eyes full of fear and pity as they looked at me.

We were all familiar with the word lockjaw, also known as tetanus. This bacteria was deadly in the days before immunization. It penetrated wounds and attacked the nervous system, and my family feared that I would contract it from such an injury. I could hear Marlin whisper, Mama, will she die?

Mama just replied, Shh!

They were whispering as Papa wrapped the cotton around the stick and poured peroxide on it. He stuck the stick into the Lysol and then into my wound. Later Mama told me that I nearly fainted from the pain, but Papa had to do what he knew was best. Gently he wound the stick around inside the wound, making sure that the medicine got to the bottom of the puncture.

Satisfied, Papa wrapped his handkerchief around my foot while Mama released her tight hold of me. Myrtle brought the sled and pulled me down the slight hill to the house. They helped me onto Papa’s couch, the same place where early in the morning he would kneel and pray for his family, his big leather Bible open before him.

All week Mama seemed worried about me. She applied peroxide and Lysol while changing the bandage regularly. The wound had closed, and she couldn’t see what was going on inside. For me the days were a fog. I was in a lot of pain and had trouble sleeping. But through the haziness I came to realize that my family loved me; I saw it in the way they nursed me and in their fleeting looks of fear as they glanced over at me. I prayed earnestly, asking God to let me live.

The following Saturday Papa took a good look at my injury. After feeling all around it, he announced that I would be all right. He said, God is a good God,