The World Beneath the Sycamore

By Rita R. Trafford

In her first book, A Place Called Forever, Rita R. Trafford touched upon the troubled childhood of a six-year-old girl looking for answers to why her childhood wasnt one she could consider as being normal.

This book, being a sequel to that story, follows the life of that same child as an adult still dealing with the traumatic reoccurring memories of her childhood. Grace Curry, now a wife and mother of two sons, must find a way to deal with her negative past so she can move on and establish hope for a better future. Some would suggest that Grace is going through an identity crisis, but in all reality, she is merely trying to cope with two different worlds that seem to want to coexist. Grace realizes that she must give up one of those worlds in order to survive in the other. The problem lies in her self-perceived inability to separate the two.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490770529

Rita R. Trafford

Rita R. Trafford has dealt with children in one venue or another for most of her life. She is the mother of four adult sons, a grandmother, and a great-grandmother. She has taught Sunday school, been a Cub Scout den mother, an AmeriCorps mentor, a teacher, and a librarian. She is at one with nature, loves her dog, Diamond, a rescue dog having suffered extreme abuse by a previous owner, and has written two chapbooks, numerous journals of poetry, and spiritual writings, some of which have been published in different publications. She was a member of the Indiana Poet’s Society for a number of years and had initiated a poetry club in her home and at a local library. Her love of children and having shared their curiosity of the natural world inspired numerous children’s stories and plays with themes centered on education and the aptitude to acquire self-esteem in the adult world. At the age of seventy-eight, Rita has completed this, her second book, and hopes to continue to contribute whatever talent she has to the world she knows. Rita and her husband, Robert, live on a farm in Northwestern Indiana.

Book preview

THE WORLD

BENEATH

THE

SYCAMORE

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Rita R. Trafford

©

Copyright 2016 Rita R. Trafford.

Cover Artist: Terry L. Trafford

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7051-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7053-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7052-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016902959

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Trafford rev. 03/10/2016

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Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Children and Sand Castles

1 My Grandmother’s Roses

2 The Search for Grace

3 Closing the Gap

4 The Secret

5 A Sacred Place

6 A Silent Invitation

7 A Question Of Trust

8 Angels Unawares

9 Destination, Heaven

10 Seeking a Sanctuary

11 The Work of Angels

12 Through Seasons Of Change

13 Where Violets Are Allowed to Bloom

14 To Everything a Purpose …

15 The Exodus Table

16 The Gift of Faith

17 Making the Grade

18 That Place Where Yesterday’s

19 … and Tomorrow’s Dreams Begin

20 That Secret Place

21 Didn’t You Know __?

22 Going the Extra Mile

23 A Peace that Heals All Wounds

Foreword

T he immediate environment of a child can often create their view of the world, be it good or bad. This view can also predetermine how that child perceives the people around them, and can set up the fertile soil for the waiting seeds of discontent. Children observe and listen to the interactions of others in regards to what society considers to be right and acceptable, and what is wrong, and therefore, unacceptable.

Early on, the child will determine the essence of the world as they see it. This perspective can be carried into their adult life in ways they are not always aware of; but sooner or later, reality will challenge that perspective. The challenge might very well entail an emotional conflict requiring a whole new perspective, which might demand life changes one isn’t ready to make, or to accept.

So it was with Grace Curry. Beginning at age seven, her childhood had suddenly become a world filled with chaos and distortion that, in turn, brought about an abrupt separation of family. That disruption had soon spread the seeds of anxiety, horror and distrust in Grace’s tender heart. And yet, there would come a time when life would provide the opportunity for Grace to consider that there might possibly be love in the genuine sense; the kind of love that couldn’t be compromised by a single mistake, or dismissed by what one might consider a betrayal. If nothing else positive was to come out of those painful childhood years, there would be Grace’s cautious, but yet sincere, desire to love the unlovable, along with an almost desperate need to believe in the possible goodness of humankind.

Grace, as a child, had dealt with her traumatic family experiences in the only way she could at the time, by using her creative instincts, as well as her ever-evolving perceptions of her changing world. When all else had failed her, even her earlier concept of God presented to her by her grandmother, Grace still clung to the hope of a better tomorrow; a better way to get through tough times, and a deep desire to be understood and appreciated for who she was.

Now, as an adult in her mid-thirties, Grace finds herself at that place in life where the past decides to catch up with the future, placing some longstanding issues on the table; issues that have been locked up in the past, waiting for a more appropriate time to be addressed. Because of the insecurities of her childhood, Grace sometimes finds that she is still struggling with her image of self, her true value in relationships, as well as her personal views concerning an omniscient and loving God.

Despite the fact that there is little known as to why this confrontation with the past often happens about the time we think we have the future all figured out, it usually appears as an unexpected, but inevitable, crossroads most everyone comes to at one time or another in their life. Although, the past is the past ___it’s not always easy to forget. Some tend to deal with the problems of their past through psychoanalysis, others through a committed denial, or anger management. Others might prefer to seek the strength to cope with their past through a religious experience involving a more centered focus on the spiritual, or the positive perspective.

Grace felt that a positive perspective would be good as long as it didn’t hinge itself upon the gates of denial, which could swing both ways. She was aware that a person’s persistent denial of the past could eventually have devastating affects upon their ability to trust others. Her personal experiences had also proven that past hurts could still cause severe emotional pain and suffering when having been suppressed over long periods of time. On the other hand, one could be so positive about everything that they tend to see the world through rose-colored glasses, and wind up with a false sense of security overall, leaving them vulnerable to new hurts. As for Grace, the rose-colored glasses thing wasn’t working anymore.

Grace wasn’t relishing the thought of looking back into her troubled childhood, but she had come to realize that the emotional baggage of those years could possibly affect her in ways that would threaten the future of her family. There was way too much at stake. Any misgivings she might have regarding her ability to stay focused on priorities, any concerns about her relationship to her husband, or her two children, would have to be resolved. The irony was that, while Grace knew she still had certain trust issues, along with other problems related to her past, she was completely unaware that the wheels of progress had destined a time and place to address those issues. Now, as fate would have it, the time had come; her past would come knocking on the door of her heart, invite itself in, and the healing would begin.

Acknowledgments

I wish to extend my gratitude to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for the enabling of His Holy Spirit to see this story to its completion; and also, to my friends and family for their extended support to see it through, my love, forever.

But, to all of those children, wherever you are, who have ever had to endure a troubled childhood, my sincere gratitude for the inspiration I have received from having known you, and having heard your stories being so much like my own. To you, my hope and prayer is that somehow along the journey of life you have realized your value to the world, not given to you as a badge of courage for enduring, but as one who receives the highest merit for your sacrifice of the peace and joy that should have been yours during those early years.

Someone has once said that experience is a hard schoolmaster, and those lessons, we seldom, if ever, forget. But, the child who suffers the harm of an abusive childhood must find that balance that so many enjoy from the get-go of life. Some will come out with a coat of shining armor, while others will hold on to those painful memories, and sleep the dreadful sleep of alcohol or drugs, or worse yet, an inner pain beyond human understanding.

So, with this in mind, I dedicate this book to those who still hunger for the childhood they were meant to have, should they be children yet young, or wounded adults still wanting. And to you I offer this hope; you can be whatever you want to be, and achieve whatever you want to achieve, that part is up to you. As to what you do with the lessons you’ve learned, that too, is up to you. As for me, I’m still learning how to balance my life with joy and disappointments, tranquility and adversity. But most importantly, I know who I am, because of what I’ve experienced, and as odd as it might sound, I am thankful for those lessons. Those lessons have made me stronger and more determined to achieve my true potential. At least, I know what NOT to do.

May God richly bless you as a worthy survivor, and bring you peace.

Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven

KJV St. Matthew 19:13, 14

Children and Sand Castles

T  heirs are infinite minds, so like grains of sand appearing early on as having no life, but yet, holding the energies of ions tucked away within the particles of their imaginat ions.

Like sands spread out across the shores of eternity, they wait to be molded into intricate patterns of beauty, whose excellence will too often escape the human eye.

Tested by winds of change, moved by currents swift to places where they but rest for seasons. Such grains of sand are distinct in their creation; having not been carved by human hands.

But yet, being such as can reflect the wisdom of ages, the innocence of youth, and the pliable nature of humankind, they exist, though in minute proportions to drift, to settle, and drift again.

Some will perhaps, fall into obscurity to be scattered beneath the tides of currents too swift, where they will hide until, in time, they emerge again, as do the sands of time ___eternal.

These are voiceless, yet speaking, growing, but having little stature;

Being silent and small to only those who cannot see or hear their hearts beating, or see their significance to life.

Children, like sands that are molded, are shapes that are always changing, until touched again; many bearing the imprints of life, whose fingers seldom caress, and leave them void of understanding

How many drift beyond the shores of home, where current tossed by forces much stronger than they, they learn of secrets they might never tell? How many will lie restless in hidden coves of discontent?

Perhaps, they have been beaten into resilience by waves of anger, while some, on stately dunes, reside in comfort and blissful repose in nested harbors of parental love, to simply wait their time and destination.

And then again, how many shall appear as timid nothings, revealing not that life resides in microscopic dignity within their curious minds and inquisitive natures, to one day, become that work harboring greatness.

Such as these move free, in bondage only to the power that compels them from deep within; their inward desire to be brought to that purpose and design where each one realizes that they are, indeed, special in their own way.

And we, like builders of fine castles, for a fleeting moment, hold their destiny in our hands. We reach down into the sea of our experience and draw from it, pouring it out upon them, making them pliable to our touch.

We work a work with our hands and our minds, until the design gives birth to reality, as they begin to take shape. These are the sandcastles of our imagination; each one distinct, and holding special qualities that make it grand.

We work with respect of time, in fear of failure, and with earnest concern for the incoming tide that approaches; that destined force so soon to come that will pull them out into those seas, we know not.

Perhaps, God forbid, these same tides will push them onto shores less kind than ours has seemed. Our work is finished, and we watch as the first wave threatens the fragile structure, and we hope and pray that it will stand against the surge, until we have embedded its image into our minds, some detail or feature of its genius, never to be forgotten. We envision them upon other shores, standing tall, once again in their perfect form, while hoping that we have had some part in their making.

We have shown them the design, while holding them within the grasp of instruction; hopefully, we will have made them see that each castle can be special in its own way.

But they, like so many sand castles, have stood in the dominion of time, having to bridle their own greatness, that we might have claim to ours.

But in time, though they should rest on other shores, and the tides roll in, we pray that they build their castles all anew, both firm and strong.

For we will have shown them what sand castles ought to be, and will have proven that no work of creativity is ever wasted, for it is a labor of love

1

MY GRANDMOTHER’S ROSES

G race Curry stopped the car in front of the small abandoned house on Mulberry Street, and hesitated before she turned off the engine. There it was; the house where she and her grandmother had lived when Grace was a little girl. It had been the place Grace had called home for the first eight years of her life. Shortly after Grace had turned eleven, her grandmother had died, and she had to go live with her mother. There had been many houses after that, but none of them had been what one could really call home.

Why here __and why now? she thought, as she sat in the car and stared at the dilapidated structure perched precariously on the small overgrown lot. What can possibly be gained by another excursion into the past?

She sat there for a moment, then slowly opened the car door and stepped out. She trembled slightly, as she stood surveying the old house. Tall weeds had overtaken the yard and stretched upwards in their effort to hide the shambles, especially the windows, where folds of dirty lace peeped out beneath sun-bleached shades. Her gaze rose to the sagging roof threatening to collapse at any moment. On the north side of the house, the hint of a sidewalk leading to the back yard was barely visible through the tall brush. Her heart pounded as she made her way through the knee-high weeds and around to the back of the house.

This isn’t good, she thought, I just need to turn around ___get back in the car, and leave.

Grace’s heart grew heavy as she observed the house, which seemed to be bowing in subjugation to the many years having passed with no one to see to its maintenance. A portion of the roof extending over the small back porch had fallen down over the doorway, denying entrance to any visitor. A huge Sycamore in the back yard, evidently having been struck by lightening, had split right down the middle. The huge black scar left by the lightening only added to the property’s stage of demise. The aborted half of the tree had come to rest just a few yards from the back of the house, its withered leaves suggesting an after-life by their rustlings when gently stirred by a passing breeze.

I can’t do this! Grace thought.

Suddenly realizing that stopping by had been a mistake, she turned to head back to the car. As she moved through the brush sheltering the porch, something tugged at her stocking. She turned and bent down to release the grip of whatever it was that had caught her, and instantly stopped cold. The thorny stem of a hidden rosebush had brushed against her leg and snagged her hose. She carefully released the stem’s hold and pulled back the weeds enveloping the bush. Grace gasped as the weeds separated to reveal a beautiful pink rosebush snuggled up against a porch post. It was heavy with fresh blooms.

Oh, grandma, it’s your roses! They’re still blooming. she blurted out.

Grace quickly turned and ran back to the car where she retrieved a small pair of scissors from her sewing clutch. Once she had pulled up some of the weeds surrounding the bush, she was able to cut a fairly large bouquet of the roses. She held the roses up to her nose and inhaled their fragrance. A knot came up in her throat, and she felt the familiar pressure of tears welling up behind her eyes.

How in the world did you ever survive with no one here to take care of you? Grace whispered to the bouquet.

As Grace walked back around to the front of the house, she brushed away the wetness on her cheeks.

What is this thing with the tears, anymore? she thought.

But, as she grew near to the car, Grace suddenly stopped. Obeying a spontaneous impulse, she turned to look back once more at the timeworn house. Grace found herself moving towards the crumbling front steps. It was as if she was being drawn to the steps by some hidden magnetic force from within the house. Grace knew she wouldn’t be able to even think about trying to see inside.

Okay! I’m here ___ now what? she asked out loud.

Her feet moved, as if on their own volition. She walked up to the steps and sat down. She glanced up the street in the direction of the bus station, as if she might once again see a young soldier resembling her Uncle Abe approaching the house with his duffle bag thrown across his shoulder. The image she envisioned was one of many years gone by, being yet another fleeting moment from her past having a total disregard for the boundaries of time.

Grace turned her attention back to the bouquet of roses. Their sweet fragrance brought her back to the real world; a world that she knew existed in real time. She got up from the step and headed for the car without looking back. As she pulled away from the curb, Grace glanced into her rear-view mirror. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a man on a bicycle with a cart attached, heading up the street towards the bus station. She quickly turned and looked behind her. But, the street was empty.

On her way home, Grace’s thoughts merged in a sort of panorama of the day’s events. She hadn’t even planned on going into town. The notion had occurred right out of the blue; an impulse directing her to the cupboard that morning, and the search for what she didn’t have that she might need for the evening meal.

While on her way into town she had occupied her mind with a mental list of things to do while she was there. Nowhere on the list had it been noted that she was to drive by the house where she and her