A Spacious Place

By Carol Corwin

Carol Corwin writes about the reality of life struggles: alcoholism, death of a close family member and the loss of a treasured home. However, amid the dissapointment and grief, there is always hope and prayer. She and her husband, having been strengthened in their own trials, reach out to others who are caught in a web of despair.

They acquire a spacious place, the ranch, where they minister to adults in need and raise foster children along with their own family. The touching and humorous incidents that arise from this work are depicted in chapters which read like short stories.

In the heart of the book is an adventure for nine- a motorhome trip of five weeks across the country with their newly blended family. You will Laugh and cry as the family members come alive in this inspiring true story of changed and changing lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781449785987

Carol Corwin

Carol Corwin (Bekendam) writes about her experience in prison work, rehabilitation of substance abusers and fostering children of addicts in this inspiring memoir. Dr. Corwin Bekendam is also the author of “The Prophet and the Pharaoh,” a historical novel published in 2011. Her short story, “Senior Moments” was included in the recent book “Hot Chocolate for Seniors.” Corwin is a clinical psychologist with a private practice in Claremont, California. She resides with her husband, Pete, in the city of Upland.

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Copyright © 2013 Carol Corwin.

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Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com  The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

All Scripture marked GNT taken from the Good News Translation® (Today’s English Version, Second Edition) Copyright © 1992 American Bible Society. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8597-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8599-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-8598-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903275

WestBow Press rev. date: 2/28/2013

CONTENTS

Author’s Notes

Part One:

Conflict And Confusion

1. The Separation

2. Back Home

3. Bonnie

4. Second-Order Change

5. Joy And Despair

6. Doubts

7. The Struggle Intensifies

Part Two:

Created Anew

8. Breakthrough

9. The Chapel

10. The House By The Side Of The Road

11. Change Of Plans

12. Jerry

13. Rosepark Orphanage

14. Answered Prayer

15. Triangle-X Ranch In The Tetons

16. Survival And School

17. Breaking Into Prison

18. Kit

19. The Cross And The Switchblade

20. Bert And Benny

21. John And Henry

22. Family Reunited

23. Family Divided

24. Pj’s And Hot Chocolate

25. The Stakeout

26. A Blended Family

27. Over The Fence

28. Fun In The Snow

29. John’s Secret

30. Nancy’s Secret

31. John’s Struggle

Part Three:

Cross Country In A Condor

32. Adventure For Nine

33. A Family Good-Bye

34. The Christmas Gift

35. Show Him Your Faith

36. Nancy’s Release

37. On The Ranch

38. Nancy

39. Beth

40. Gary

41. First Christmas On The Ranch

42. Grandpa Jim

43. The Twelfth Of Never

44. The Necklace

45. Mother’s Day

46. Greta’s Visit

47. The Ring Bearer

48. The Moon Landing And The Manson Murders

49. Day Trips

50. Did You Forget Something?

51. Nancy’s Impossible Dream

52. Bunnies, Bees, And Bats

53. Jacki

54. Christmas Changes

55. New Year’s 1970

56. Church Conflict

57. Letters From Prison

58. Letters From Beth

59. Bingo

60. Penny

61. The Timothians

62. The Castle

63. Kim

64. Confrontation At Camp

65. The Fence

66. Keeping In Touch

67. Prayer In Palm Springs

68. New Year, New Church, New Job

69. Andre

70. Abroad

71. Summer Activities

72. The Shoebox

73. Penny’s Plans For Kim

74. Separation Anxiety

75. Shopping For School Clothes

76. The Banquet

77. Round-The-Table Carol Sings

78. The Miracle Baby

79. Sadie’s Baptism

80. Sermons, Sundaes, And Softball

81. Two Sensitive Situations

82. Jacki’s Release

83. Toni

84. Grandpa Jim’s Move

85. Greta’s Offer

86. Summer Fun

87. M-2 Offer

88. A Difficult October

89. Ciw Event

90. Christmas Joy

91. Education Postponed

Part Five:

Crisis

92. The Uplifting

93. A Fateful Day

94. The First Week

95. Aftermath

96. Holidays And Anniversaries

97. Changes

98. Family Grief

99. Shopping With Cheri

100. Memorials

101. Decision Time

102. Upheaval

103. The Quickening

104. Kim’s Braces

105. Christmas 1973

106. George

107. Andre’s Dream

108. M-2 Expansion

109. Concern For Ruth

110. Grandpa Jim

111. Wrapping Up

112. Crossroads

113. Back To School

114. Christmas Vacation

115. Winter Quarter

116. South Of The Border

117. The Magazines

118. Jacki Takes Andre

119. The Lift Class

120. Good-Bye, Grandpa Jim

121. Toni’s Release

122. Yosemite In The Snow

123. Mabel

124. Boy On Wheels

125. Andre Calls

126. Fall Quarter

127. Ben Returns

128. Psychodrama

129. Jacki Takes Andre Again

130. Summer Of Change

131. Temptation

132. Graduation

133. Andre Returns

134. The Aborted Grief Process

135. Graduate School

Part Six:

Counseling Ministry

136. The Unwelcome Passenger

137. Skip’s Mother

138. M-2 Visits

139. Internship

140. Grandparents At Christmas

141. Master’s Graduation

142. A Special Summer

143. Cutting The Apron Strings

144. Surprise At Christmas

145. Creative Counseling Center

146. Cheri’s Wedding

147. Gary’s Operation

148. An Accident

149. An Idyllic Vacation

150. Andre Comes Home

151. Jeff Leaves Home

152. Family Events

153. Hawaii At Last

154. Amanda’s Arrival

155. The Doctoral Program

156. Ccc Retreat

157. Bert And John

158. Pepé Le Pew

159. A Roller-Coaster Month

160. A Memorable Week

161. Alaska And Kianna

162. The School Year

163. Professional Conferences

Part Seven:

Changes

164. Ccc In Crisis

165. A Bright Spot

166. Private Practice

167. The Ranch In Crisis

168. A New Friend

169. Changes

170. Surprise For Andre

171. The Iranians And The Renaissance Man

172. Ccc Open House

173. Santa Rosa House

174. The Birthday Gift

175. The Transition

176. Looking To The Future

Acknowledgments

Illustration Credits

Also by Carol Corwin

The Prophet and the Pharaoh

To Michael

01.jpg

AUTHOR’S NOTES

For the most part, the people, places, and events depicted in this book are authentic. In a few cases, I have changed the name of the person involved in the narration. In most cases, I have used only firs/t names. In appreciation for their inspiration and encouragement, I have used the full names of pastors and other leaders.

PART ONE:

CONFLICT AND CONFUSION

In my distress I called to the Lord; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; My cry came before him, into his ears.

Psalm 18:6 (NIV)

He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of the deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy.

Psalm 18:16–17 (NIV)

1. THE SEPARATION

The telephone book lay open on the kitchen table in my apartment. The yellow pages were turned to private detectives. This is what I had to do in 1961 to gain my freedom from an alcoholic husband. If I could prove that he was unfaithful to me—never mind that he had left me for the bottle years ago—then I could get a divorce and avoid excommunication from my church.

As I lay on my bed in the quiet wee hours of the morning, after my three children were asleep, I thought back over the ten years of my marriage to Pete. We had been high school sweethearts, best friends. I had a few clues that he had a drinking problem then—several parties after which I heard that he had had too much to drink, being dubbed a member of the Brewery Boys. But at that time, I remembered a family I had stayed with when my parents went to California on a house-hunting trip as they were planning to move from the Midwest. I had been left with friends of the family. They had a nineteen-year-old son who came home drunk one night, waking the family with the racket of his stumbling around the house. In the morning his father explained to me that it was common for boys his age to sow some wild oats, and that it was just a phase he was going through. This was the extent of my knowledge about substance abuse, as we had none of that in my family. I thought that when Pete’s brother brought him home drunk early in our marriage, Pete was going through his own phase and that it would pass. But it didn’t. It got worse.

Six years into our marriage, the problem came to a head one evening. I was sitting at the dinner table with our two young sons, Randy (age five) and Michael (age two), when their father came in the back door, rushed past us without a word, and slammed the door of our bedroom so hard that it broke the full-length mirror on the bedroom side. Hearing the crash of glass, I told the boys to stay put and hurried to the bedroom. There I found a trail of blood, as my husband had crawled through the broken glass and was yelling from under the bed. In his semi-coherent state, he was babbling something about not being able to take it anymore—the guilt, the guilt—I just can’t take the guilt.

When I couldn’t persuade him to come out from under the bed, I called his family and his doctor. It took his father, his brother, and the doctor, all over six feet tall, to pull him out and get him on the bed so that the doctor could give him a sedative injection and dress his wounds.

As Pete was resting, after his father had left, I sat in the living room with Pete’s brother and the doctor. His brother explained that he’d tried to make a man out of Pete, but that he just couldn’t hold his liquor. After his brother left, the doctor stayed to talk to me. He asked how Pete and his brother got along as partners in the dairy business.

Not very well, I replied.

Well, said the doctor, I’m not surprised. You know, before becoming a doctor, I was their high school principal, and when I heard those two were in business together, I wondered how that would work. They are such different personalities. Maybe it would be better if they didn’t work together. Can you do something about that?

Oh, no, I replied. They wouldn’t listen to me.

Well, then, at least let Pete take a break. Can you get away for a few weeks?

We were planning a road trip to Canada, but we weren’t going to leave for another week.

No, you shouldn’t wait. Can you get someone to take care of the children and leave tomorrow?

Pete’s mother has agreed to take them for the two weeks that we planned on being gone, but I could ask my mother to take care of them for a week first.

Good. Now I have some medication for Pete.

But you see, here’s the problem—Pete won’t go a week early.

It is important that you get him away tomorrow, so make your preparations, pack up the car, and don’t say anything to Pete. He will be out for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, when you are ready to go, take two of these pills and put them in his coffee. Then get in the car immediately and take off.

Thinking back, I mentally thanked the doctor. I would never have had the nerve to do that without his urging. It worked so well. I drove to St. George, Utah, where I had called ahead for reservations. We took our time, not driving too far each day so Pete could rest. He never questioned our leaving early on the vacation and never voiced any objections. In fact, he was a different person on that medication. He had been antsy, so much so that people would ask me what was the matter with him. But on this trip, he was calm enough to read a book. It was a surreal experience; the beauty of the Canadian Rockies, Banff, Lake Louise, and Jasper and the relaxed, agreeable man I was with made me want to pinch myself to see if this were all real or a dream.

However, we had to come home, and though I was delighted to see the children again, I was dismayed to see my hopes for a new life dashed as the drinking resumed with a vengeance. My husband blamed me for everything that went wrong and even berated me when things were going well. I didn’t understand his need for a scapegoat, and I didn’t know anything about codependence, but I read whatever I could get my hands on about alcoholism. What I learned was that the experts were divided as to whether alcoholism was a disease or a person’s responsibility (a sin). I wondered about that myself.

Without a reference, I began to believe the disparaging things my husband said about me. My parents suggested a meeting with Pete’s parents to discuss the problem. We all attended the same church, so the pastor, Reverend Holwerda, was asked to attend the meeting also. What a disaster that meeting was! We didn’t know what we were doing. We certainly didn’t know anything about substance abuse intervention. I could see the meeting was breaking down as my mother blamed Pete’s brother (who wasn’t even there) and his mother defended her son, blaming me instead. I left the room in tears. Back at home, the pastor asked Pete and me to cross the room and hug each other. We did, but we may as well have been robots. Nobody understands, I thought.

The next morning I awoke to find, to my horror, that the right side of my face was paralyzed. I called my doctor immediately. Because I had been given the new Salk polio vaccine, I thought that maybe I had had a reaction. As I got ready for the appointment, I looked in the mirror at my distorted visage. I couldn’t blink my right eye. I held the lid shut so my eyeball wouldn’t dry out. My mouth sagged on the right side. I had struggled to eat breakfast, and now I could not put on my lipstick. The doctor diagnosed my condition as Bell’s palsy. He gave me medication and told me to get a vibrator to use regularly on my face. Most cases are relieved in about three months, he said. It’s better if you don’t go out, as you may be upset by others’ reactions. (Many years later, as a trained psychologist, I would treat cases of conversion paralysis that were related to stress. Then I would reflect on my facial paralysis and suppose that stress was, at least, a contributing factor, as I had felt so helpless after that intervention fiasco.)

A year later we were going to move. At first I didn’t want to go, as we would be an hour away from friends and family. However, I told myself it might be good to get Pete away from his drinking buddies. Besides, Pete’s family had promised to build us a new house on the land they were planning to purchase for a dairy. The herd of cows would be split, but Pete’s brother would remain the business manager over both places. With a bigger house, we could plan for another child. Going over the builder’s plans and making decisions on tile and carpeting kept me busy. Then, just as the project was about to begin, there was a sudden change of plans. A dairy rental with a small house had become available in the same area. There would not be room for a baby. I felt as though I had been handed a gift only to have it snatched away.

As I lay on my bed, thinking about my disappointments but also about my hopes at that time, I remembered how I thought that if I went along with the move, it might help the relationship between Pete and me. But, of course, a move did not change Pete’s drinking behavior. I sought comfort in music and art. With the profits from the sale of our Bellflower house, I spruced up the rental house with new furniture, the most important piece being an Amfax stereo system with state-of-the-art components in a cherrywood cabinet. Stereophonic sound was new then, and everyone marveled at the surround sound. For me, the music I played was soothing to my soul. Another way I coped with Pete’s drinking was by painting. I enrolled in community college evening art classes. The paintings I did in an expressionistic style revealed the anguish and anger I was going through at the time. My clothing also reflected my state of my mind. An aunt commented on all the dark colors I wore when bright colors were in vogue. Another aunt, who visited from the Midwest and hadn’t seen Pete for some time, told me that he seemed like a different person, that they hadn’t known him as the blustering braggart he had become.

Pete, however, seemed to be in complete denial about his drunken condition and personality change. When we were invited to join a bowling league, I felt it would help us get acquainted with our new community, but when Pete made a scene while drunk at the bowling alley, that spoiled it for me. On the next bowling night when he came in drunk, I called another couple to substitute for us, covering for Pete by saying he wasn’t feeling well. Pete was enraged that I had spoiled the evening. He stormed through the house, threatening to smash things I treasured. A more serious problem was that Pete did not recognize when he was too drunk to drive. When he wouldn’t relinquish the car keys, I refused to go with him. Many times I would take the babysitter home and pay her anyway rather than to go with my husband in his condition.

Our sons, eight-year-old Randy and five-year-old Mike, were starting to show signs of distress from living in such an environment. The boys and I would be eating dinner when Pete would come in and, with a sweep of his arm, knock all the food and dishes to the floor. This was in the absence of any quarrel or cross words having passed between us. It was confusing to the children. Why did Daddy do that? they would ask. From the bedroom at the other end of the house would come loud weeping and calling for me. When I would go to him he would complain that he didn’t count for anything. These crying jags would occur on the nights after his brother had come and taken him to task on something. I was torn between the bedroom and the kitchen, where I would return to comfort the boys. Your dad is sick, I would tell them.

He’s not sick, Randy said one day. You always say that. He’s not sick.

Randy was a sensitive boy, so beautiful with his blond curls and big blue eyes that people said he should have been a girl. As a small child he often sat listening to his collection of forty-five-inch records from his children’s record club. One of his favorites was The Carrot Seed. The story goes that a little boy planted a carrot seed and his parents doubted it would come up. His brother taunted, It won’t come up. It won’t come up. But the little boy believed and finally the carrot came up. Randy was a positive boy, but he was losing faith in his father’s promises. On his ninth birthday, he stood at the window, watching for his dad to bring home the bike he had promised Randy for his birthday present. When Pete came home empty-handed and drunk, Randy said, I knew he wouldn’t bring my bike. Randy’s asthma, a problem since his birth, was getting worse.

Michael, dark eyed with dark hair, was an active, exploring little boy. At the age of three he could scale any fence we built to enclose him. Before we moved to the dairy, our elderly neighbor lady would come over and warn us, He’s over the fence again. We thought the dairy might be better for him, giving him more space, but his curiosity kept getting him in trouble. He climbed up by the milk tank and licked the milk flowing over the dry-ice coils, and it took some time to free his stuck tongue. He had a favorite cat that truly did have nine lives. Mike gave it a shower under the stream of barn water that flowed into a trap beside the barn. When I went out to check if the rugs were dry, I felt the cat in the dryer. Warning Mike never to do that again was not enough. The next time he gave that cat a shower, he put it in the mailbox, startling the mailman when he came to deliver the mail and found a screeching cat. Michael would have been a handful under any circumstances, but he was acting out more lately.

There were good times together too—usually on vacation when Pete would not drink. We had taken Randy when he was three years old to Daven Haven Resort on Grand Lake in the Colorado Rockies. The resort had a children’s counselor who entertained the children with building sand castles, hobo hikes, doing crafts, etc., thereby giving the parents time to pursue their own activities. We had liked this arrangement so well that when Mike was three and Randy was six, we took both boys back to the same resort. We also stopped to explore the Native American ruins at Mesa Verde National Park, where we lost track of Michael as we focused on the guide’s talk. After a short time we found him at the bottom of an ancient silo. He had climbed down a ladder to get there. The guide was not amused and neither were we. We would have to warn the resort counselors to keep a careful eye on Mike.

In the fall our little Cheri was born. She was a happy, chubby baby, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll. Now that our landlord had completed a large, master bedroom add-on, Cheri had our old room, minus space for a hallway. I wallpapered her room in a Cinderella pattern and copied Cinderella’s coach on the end of her crib, painting other figures from the paper on her chest of drawers. I delighted in our new child. Her gurgling smiles and dancing eyes reflected her sunny nature. However, the gloomy cloud of Pete’s drinking continued to hover over our home. The new year brought so many disruptions that, in spite of my efforts to maintain stability, we were all on edge.

Now, as I weighed the joys and sorrows of my life with Pete, my thoughts turned to the events that had precipitated the separation. It was over a year later—Mother’s Day. Pete was on his first weekend-long bender. My heart was sinking. Pete had always come home at night, no matter how late it was or how drunk he was. How could it get any worse? We were expected at my parents’ house for dinner after church. Would I be able to keep up a front for them, the way I was feeling? I decided to try.

First, I laid out the boys’ little suits and dressed eighteen-month-old Cheri in her frilly Sunday frock. Then I donned my silk tweed suit, stepped into matching olive heels, and drew on the customary cotton gloves. With my blond hair cut in the latest style, I looked as if I had stepped out of a fashion magazine, but my smart look hid an aching heart. All I could think of as I loaded the children into the car and drove to church was that the drinking was getting worse. Pete’s been gone two nights. I don’t want my parents to know. They can’t do anything anyway.

After getting the baby settled in the nursery, I ushered the boys into a pew to sit beside me. As we stood to sing the first hymn, What a Friend We Have in Jesus, my resolve for composure failed. The words what a privilege to carry everything to him in prayer touched my heart. I caught my breath, suppressing a sob. Leaning down, I said to the boys, Please stay here. Then I walked out of the church, managing to keep myself together until I reached my car. A little while later, a fellow church member came out to the car and, finding me in tears, persuaded me to come to the pastor’s study and wait for the pastor.

The man kindly assured me, I’ll take care of your boys.

After spending a few minutes with me, the pastor offered to call my parents and then referred me to a Christian marriage counselor in the nearby town of Claremont. He also called my doctor, who prescribed medication for me. My doctor suggested that I go home and wait for my parents to come.

By the time my parents arrived, Pete had come home. When they told Pete that our pastor had recommended marriage counseling, Pete said he would go. My mother told me in private, Don’t tell Pete, but we are going to pick up your prescription and come right back with it. We want to be sure he doesn’t change his mind about counseling. He seemed to agree too quickly. As soon as they left, Pete said, If you think I’m going to counseling, you are crazy. I don’t have a problem. You are the one who has a problem. When my parents came back and learned what Pete said, my mother said she had brought some things along and was prepared to stay until he went to the first session.

The counselor was a gentle, kind man who had been a pastor and was now in the relatively new field of marriage and family counseling. He saw us individually at first. I told him I’d been having a recurring dream in which I was on the roof of a skyscraper. In my dream I was aware that I couldn’t stay there, but I was afraid to go down the fire escape ladder on the side of the building. One night I dreamed that someone appeared at the top of the ladder and said, Come on. I’ll go down with you. But still I hesitated.

The counselor asked, Was the person someone you recognized?

I said, Not really, but she reminded me of my aunt Jess, who is tender-hearted. One time when I visited her in the Midwest, I told her it was hard to leave ten-month-old Randy behind. Her eyes filled with tears and I felt she understood.

What do you think the dream means? he asked.

I feel as though I’m in a dangerous place, but it’s scary to leave. I feel as if I’m holding up the ideal—that is, our family together—on a high pedestal, and I can’t do it anymore.

Before our fourth counseling session, Pete told me to go ahead and that he would come up after my session. I had a premonition he wouldn’t come, but I didn’t argue with him. After my session, the counselor walked out with me. As I suspected, Pete was not there. The counselor said, Let’s wait a few minutes. He may just be late. Half an hour later I left. When I got home, I discovered every door and window locked. Why? We had not had any disagreement. When I knocked, there was no response. Peeking in my baby’s window, I saw her in her crib with a bottle but no covers. The air was chilly. That upset me. I went to the office by the barn and called my uncle who lived on a nearby dairy. He came immediately and got me into the house. Pete was in a drunken slumber. If the children had needed him, he would not have been able to help them.

The next day I called our pastor, who came over to talk with us. He asked Pete how many beers he had in a day. Pete said he didn’t count them. I said that the problem was that he couldn’t stop drinking once he started. Pete insisted he didn’t have a problem—that I was the problem. The pastor said he didn’t know what more he could do. It seemed to come down to Pete’s word against mine.

Our tenth anniversary was in mid-June. We had reservations for two weeks in Hawaii, planning to spend three days in each of the four main islands. I had saved from the house budget and calf sales. Pete was looking forward to the trip. He had planned to take me to Hawaii for our honeymoon, but his mother had told him that for the price of one week in Hawaii, he could pay for three weeks touring the national parks of the West. So he had cancelled his Hawaii plans. This year we planned to leave for Hawaii after our anniversary. However, those plans would be cancelled too. Instead of sunning on a tropical beach, I would be scrubbing kitchen walls in a dingy apartment in Downey.

On the day of our anniversary, I brought Pete’s lunch to him in his office. As I set the food down on his desk, I could see through the open door behind Pete that the veterinarian was heading toward the office with two six-packs of beer. I hurried outside and asked him not to bring in the beer as it was our anniversary and we were planning to drive to our favorite restaurant in Long Beach. The vet said, Oh, sure, I understand.

Just then, Pete came out and said, What’s going on? Bring that beer in here. Without another word I went to the house.

Several hours later, I was getting dressed for our evening out. As I sat on the end of our bed, putting on my nylon hose, I heard Pete come through the back porch yelling, No one is going to embarrass me like that! I was shocked to see him coming in the bedroom door, swinging an extension cord as he lurched toward me. Suddenly, six-year-old Michael made a flying tackle of Pete’s legs, throwing him off balance. Pete stumbled sideways into a double-globed glass lamp. When the glass broke, it snapped me into reality. I knew in that moment that I was leaving. To see my child throw himself at his drunken father to protect his mother was too much.

Pete left immediately, going through the house, yanking every phone line out of the wall. Then he went outside and let the air out of all the tires on the car and even the tires on all the bikes. Though I had said nothing of my intentions, he knew he had gone too far. Wasting no time, I grabbed my purse and a diaper bag. With my baby in my arms and my two boys at my side, I walked to the closest neighbor about a mile away.

Please, I said, I need to make an emergency call to my parents.

With the money I had saved for Hawaii, we managed for a while in the apartment, but I needed to ensure a regular income, so I contacted an attorney. I wanted a Christian attorney because I thought he would understand that I didn’t want to divorce my husband at that time, but I needed financial support. My father offered to drive me to the appointment. I thought that if I could stay calm and look classy, my story might have more credibility with the attorney, so I dressed in a navy sheath, matching pumps, pearls and the ubiquitous white gloves. My father’s compliment, You look really nice, was reassuring.

I took several deep breaths and told him, Okay, I’m ready.

The attorney listened attentively as I described the struggle I had gone through with my husband’s drinking. I told him that I was afraid I would get into trouble because I had abandoned my husband and taken the children. That’s what Pete had told me. The attorney said, No, you aren’t in trouble. He abandoned you for the alcohol. It was such a relief to hear him say that. The attorney counseled me to figure carefully what I would need each month. Then I should write my husband a letter asking for that amount of money and add that if he doesn’t pay regularly, I would be forced to file for legal separation. I followed the attorney’s advice, and Pete responded with regular payments.

My maternal grandmother, who lived nearby, was sympathetic and helpful in babysitting the children when I needed her. One Sunday I went to her church and to her house afterward for coffee. She had a guest, the pastor who would be giving the message that evening. As we visited and he learned that I was separated from my husband, he asked me if Pete had been unfaithful. He said, Well, you can be thankful it isn’t another woman. Then he asked, Do you still love him?

I said, Yes, but love is giving, and I’m doing all the giving.

That evening I went to hear his message. He said, During the day someone told me that love is giving. Then he added, But love is also forgiving. I left the church so confused. I felt that no one understood what alcoholism could do. The only thing they understood was infidelity.

I went to talk with my parents, telling them what the minister had said. Then I said that Pete had only come to visit us once in two months and then he had yelled and caused a scene at the apartment building. I told them that everywhere I saw couples enjoying time together. I cried at every church service, but this separation didn’t seem to bother Pete at all. Do you think he could be having an affair? I asked. My parents agreed it was possible.

I went back to my apartment and decided to hire a private detective. Though I was tired, I couldn’t sleep. Going back and forth in my mind, weighing the good and the bad in my marriage, kept me awake. Then I wondered, What will happen to Pete if I get a divorce? With a start, I realized I still cared for him. I prayed, thanking God for revealing that to me. Immediately the telephone rang. Who could that be calling this late? I wondered as I glanced at the bedside clock—1:30 a.m. I picked up the receiver. It was Pete. He never called me at the apartment. Now he sounded sober and calm. I don’t know what’s happening, he said, but I woke up, sitting here in my chair with beer cans all over the floor and patterns on the TV. I just realized that everything I care about is there in Downey. I’m going to get help—I need help.

Okay, I told him. You get help and I will come back. I had told him in my letter that I would come back only if he would get help. Pete’s call, coming as it did just as I was praying, seemed to be a sign from God.

2. BACK HOME

True to his promise, Pete sought the help of a psychiatrist, seeing him weekly. The biggest change that was apparent to me was that Pete was taking responsibility for his drinking behavior. It was a huge relief that he wasn’t blaming me anymore. However, he continued to drink. When he prayed at the family breakfast table, he would ask that he would not drink that day. He told me that he did that so he would feel guilty if he took a drink. If it was supposed to be a deterrent, it didn’t help.

My weekly housekeeper had not come to clean the house the entire time I was gone. I wasn’t surprised, as my aunt had stopped in and called me afterward to inform me of the condition of the house. It’s dirty and crawling with ants, she had said. I remember thinking, Why should I care about my house when my life is a mess? Now it took both my housekeeper and myself to get the house back in order. If only I could have cleaned away the ravages of alcohol as easily. Emptying the bottles Pete had stacked in the bushes did not help either. There was always more where that came from.

Keeping busy with the children was helpful to me. I shopped for school clothes and school supplies. That brought back memories of a happy childhood, when a new pencil box could bring a smile to my face. Michael was excited to be starting first grade. I hoped he would have a firm but patient teacher. With both boys in school, I found that I had time to spare, so I enrolled in a class at church. The subject was friendship evangelism.

3. BONNIE

Is there any coffee left? Bill needs to talk, Pete told me as he came in the kitchen door, followed by our dairy foreman, a slightly built, wiry Portuguese man with black eyes that usually sparkled with good humor. Those eyes were dead-looking now as he greeted me and sat down at the kitchen table opposite Pete.

Bill’s wife has left him, Pete explained as I filled their coffee cups and set out a plate of cookies.

Bonnie is having an affair with Carlos, Bill said. And it isn’t her first affair, he added. It’s happened before and in the same way. She befriends a woman who is unhappy in her marriage. Then she helps her new friend by cleaning her house and cooking delicious meals. She adds homey touches like flowers, candles, and a fire in the fireplace. The wife is pleased, but it’s the husband who is really impressed with Bonnie, and that’s how it starts

Where is Bonnie now? I asked.

She’s at Carlos’s house, and his wife is there too. She knows about Carlos and Bonnie, but Bonnie is sick in bed. I know she can’t stay there, but I don’t want her home.

Who is taking care of the children? I questioned, knowing that Bill had four daughters and a son, all under ten years of age.

Bonnie’s mother, Belle, is on her way, Bill replied.

With Bill’s permission, and after discussing the situation with Pete, I decided to visit Bonnie with the idea of bringing her home with me. She obviously needed help, and I was intrigued by her compulsive behavior. Why would she keep sabotaging other marriages while risking her own? At that time I was not a trained professional, but my heart went out to this young mother. As I prayed for her, I received the confidence to reach out. I had been attending classes in evangelism at church and was inspired by the leader, Miner Tanis. I liked what he had to say, and I could tell he wasn’t just a do-gooder who was aiming for another notch in his belt. He really cared about people, wanting to respond to their needs. He cautioned against an intrusive or demanding approach, but instead counseled the use of sensitivity and humility toward others, earning the right to share faith in Christ through friendship.

When I arrived at the home of Carlos and identified myself, his wife led me to a back bedroom. Before this time I had only seen Bonnie in passing when she came to the dairy. Now I looked closely at the woman lying in the bed with the blanket pulled up to her chest. Even with most of her body covered, I could tell she was very thin. Her long, dark hair was spread out over the pillow, and her large, dark eyes stood out in her pale face. There was pain in those eyes—and confusion as she looked at me.

Carol! she exclaimed. You are the last person I expected to see.

Why is that, Bonnie? I asked.

You are the boss’s wife. Why would you bother with me? There was something about her humility and vulnerability that touched my heart.

Bonnie, I said as I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, you can’t stay here. Bill knows I’m here, but he is not ready to have you come home.

I know, she said, her eyes filling with tears, but what about my kids?

Your mother is coming, and you know the children are in good hands with her. We need to think about you now. You need to rest for a while. I took her hand in mine and presented my offer of a safe haven. Bonnie, please come home with me.

Did Bill tell you what I did? she asked.

Yes, Bonnie, that’s why you have to leave now.

And you still want me?

Yes, I do. We both do. I’ve discussed it with Pete. Now, do you feel well enough to get up and get your things together? You can rest just as soon as we get you settled at my house.

In reply, Bonnie threw the covers back and sat up as I stood beside the bed. I gave her a few moments, as she seemed a little dizzy. Then I helped her to the car as Carlos’s wife followed with Bonnie’s scant belongings. I’m sure the woman was relieved to have me take Bonnie away.

Before picking up Bonnie, I had moved two-year-old Cheri’s crib into the large master bedroom. Pete had helped me set up a bed in Cheri’s room. Therefore, when I arrived home with Bonnie, she had her own cheerful, cozy room ready for her. That evening, Belle brought over clean clothes and other things she thought her daughter would need. She thanked me profusely as she left. I would come to appreciate this flamboyant, effusive redhead. She was a take-charge kind of woman who wouldn’t take any nonsense from anyone. Now a widow, she looked and acted like someone who ran an old-time saloon. Belle was a colorful character, and she had a soft spot for her only daughter.

As the children, except for Cheri, were in school during the day, I had time to devote to Bonnie, letting her talk as she began to feel better physically. Bonnie was fidgety and anxious. She couldn’t sit still for long.

You seem quite nervous, I commented.

I’m afraid of going to hell, she blurted out.

I was surprised at her candor.

What makes you feel that? I asked.

Well, look what I’ve done. I know my Catholic catechism. What I’ve done is a mortal sin.

But doesn’t the catechism also tell about forgiveness through Christ’s sacrifice? I asked her. (Fortunately, I had studied the Catholic catechism, having had a Catholic boyfriend in high school.)

I don’t feel forgiven, ’cause I’ve done it before. But I don’t want to burn in hell, she said in a pleading voice. Obviously, Bonnie was tortured by her conscience. I was silent in the face of her mental agony.

Bonnie went on, When I was still a little girl—about six, I think—I stood in front of a space heater in my flimsy nightgown. It caught fire and I ran around the house screaming. Of course, that made it worse. Before someone could put out the fire, my back was badly burned. In the hospital, I was in such pain from the burns. I will never forget it. I know what it is like, Carol. Imagine having that kind of pain forever.

Bonnie, stop, I said. There is no statute of limitations on forgiveness. You are suffering emotional pain as severely as you suffered physical pain, but God can heal you, just as he healed your burns. It’s not too late for you to receive forgiveness.

I wish I could believe you, Bonnie said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t have to believe me. God said it and he doesn’t lie, so you can believe him, I assured her.

Trusting God was a foreign concept to her. Something was blocking her acceptance. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps she had been hurt in other, nonphysical ways. For now, we had talked enough. I took her hands in mine as we sat together on the sofa, and I prayed briefly for Bonnie that she would be able to trust God’s promises and have peace in her mind and spirit. Let me put Cheri down for her nap, I told Bonnie. Then I will prepare us some lunch and you can try to rest.

Bonnie had been with us several days. She was eating better and appeared somewhat calmer. Then, late one night, when the rest of the family was asleep, we were sitting at the kitchen table, talking, when Bonnie told me she had been molested by her now-deceased father.

I was only eleven when it started, she said. He told me not to tell my mother or anyone, and I never have. My father was gentle with me. He told me I was special and that he needed me. Why don’t I enjoy sex with Bill? It seems I can only get aroused with someone else’s husband. That seems so natural to me, even though I know it’s wrong.

How sheltered I’d been. Sexual abuse was just something I’d read about briefly. No one ever talked about it. Now I was face-to-face with the reality of it. This had actually happened to the person sitting in front of me. All I could manage to say was, Oh, Bonnie, I’m so very sorry.

She was crying now. I didn’t think I could ever tell anyone, she said.

It’s good you did. You needed to do that. Do you think you could sleep now? I asked. She nodded and went to bed.

But I could not sleep. Bonnie’s confession was deeply troubling to me. It was as if for the first time I realized the essence of sin—the full import of what had been done to a child. I was more keenly aware of my own sinful nature and more in wonder of what Christ had done. For this, too, you died, I thought as I lay in my bed. No wonder Bonnie can’t trust God the Father. She was conditioned by her own father to feel that wrong was right—forever in conflict in her own being. I prayed, Please, God, this is more than I bargained for. Help me to be a true friend to Bonnie. I don’t know how to do this. She needs so much help.

The next day I asked Bonnie if she would be willing to see Dr. Voorman, the psychiatrist my husband was seeing. She looked startled. Don’t be afraid. He is really nice. I don’t think you are crazy, Bonnie, I hastened to assure her, but what you told me last night is something so serious that you need more help than I can give you to work through it.

Will you go with me? she asked.

Yes, I will, I said, relieved that she would consider going.

As promised, I made an appointment and took Bonnie to Gary Voorman. Once I had introduced them, I asked Bonnie if she would tell him what she had told me, while I waited outside. She was very anxious, but agreed to do that if Dr. Voorman would leave his office door open. In a short while, he asked to see me alone. Bonnie waited for me as he shut the door of his office and told me that, in his opinion, Bonnie could experience a psychotic break at any time and should be hospitalized immediately. She needed medication for depression, but she also needed the security of a psychiatric unit until the medication started working. ‘There is a good psychiatric unit at Riverside Hospital. Would you like me to admit her there?"

"Yes, I would, but not until after I have a talk with her. She’s been cooperative so far, and I want to respect