Made New: A Hippie Chick’S Journey of Forgiveness

By Judy C. Hope

Back in the early 70s, twelve-year-old Judys life was one of pure survival. Outside her own private cave of secrets, our Vietnam War vets were returning home amidst insults and accusations of being baby killers and rock-n-roll music was being blasted all over America. But the biggest news for Judy wasnt around the partying scene at Woodstockit was at the military base where she lived.

For the next thirty years, Judy struggled with feelings of insignificance and guilt, all from a lifetime of tainted choices. As she says, The Lord has constantly wooed my heart back to Him, and, Freedom meant grasping onto the only peace that truly laststhe peace that comes from surrendering and trusting in my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Judys heart was set free, and the unique, youthful, optimistic, hippie chick that had been hiding inside that cave all those years finally emerged when Judy became made new.

We live in an evil world. We all know that. Its been like that since the fall of man in the Garden of Eden. Yet despite the horrendously evil world we live in, do you...

...ever feel that everyone, including God, has forgotten about you, or question whether or not Hes immersed in your future?

... wonder at the possibility of a sexual abuse victim overcoming the memories and pain of her past?

...question why God longs for you to trust Him and his perfect love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490839189

Judy C. Hope

Judy C. Hope is dedicated to supporting a local pregnancy resource center, and national organization Voice Today, as well as Church4Chicks. A resident of Woodstock, Georgia, Judy is the author of Made New – A Hippie Chick’s Journey of Forgiveness, in which she confesses her passionate desire for God to use her eight frightening years of sexual abuse to impact many lives.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Wipe-Out—The End of a Relationship

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

~Jeremiah 29:11

Get out! And for God’s sake, get out of my life! I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was fed up and beaten down.

Four blocks away from my four-plex lay endless miles of pacific coastline—sandy beaches, roaring dune buggies, sunbathers, clam diggers, surfers, and warm California sunshine. But that February of 1993, a fierce storm was brewing inside my apartment. Cars and clankity trucks whizzed by a mere ten feet from my home and mid-afternoon cool ocean breezes blew there way east and into my open door. I ignored all the noise, bent only on hurling armfuls of Levi’s, jackets, shirts, and shoes—thrown with all my might—out onto the sidewalk and street. All because of the monster I had been living with.

Who would have guessed it would turn out this way? I slammed the door on him and thought of the past ten months . . .

In December of 1991, I had applied for a new job and after completing three hours of challenging tests and interviews with an insurance company in north Fresno, the human resources department called, offering me a position with an excellent benefits package. I was ecstatic about landing a stable, full-time job, since now I had to take on the role of primary provider for two children and myself. In January I would begin six weeks of paid training, learning medical terminology, law, and medical benefits that related to processing health and dental insurance claims. Upon graduating at the top of my class, I was shown to my own desk where I enjoyed a beautiful view of a variety of ferns and birds, all settled onto a cool blanket of moss that seemed to invite me to come and sit for a while. Sometimes it was hard for me to concentrate on my work.

I wanted to be responsible and do this right, so I asked my mother-in-law to help me make a budget. I knew I couldn’t only think about myself. I had the enormous responsibility of raising two teenagers, as a single parent, and I was terrified of failing. I agreed with her and the budget we set and that I should be able to make enough money to pay my bills and provide for the three of us for years to come. My husband and I separated four months prior to starting my new career, and now I believed that I was beginning to have some semblance of finally getting my life straightened out.

In my mind, I was financially stable. But emotionally and spiritually, I knew I was a total mess.

I think my ex-husband got a thrill out of playing games with his new lover and me. Ever since we originally separated, he bounced between we two women, living with one of us for a few days before returning to the other. This cycle continued far too long. How I gave in to his demands and sick arrangements dumbfounds me today. By February, and on my way to financial stability, I’d had enough of his games and made the decision to hire an attorney to file for divorce.

I kept weekly psychologist appointments and during one of my visits, my psychologist told me about a weekly group she formed for women dealing with codependency issues, abuse, and divorce, so I decided to make the commitment to become one of about ten in the group. Our group was composed of a variety of women, younger and older, married, single, and divorced.

Over the next few weeks, I became friends with one of the women, Katie. She and I were delighted that we had so many of the same interests in common, including being single.

In March of 1992, our group had the usual Tuesday evening meeting. Our emotions were raw, each one of us relating with one another’s experiences. We had heart-wrenching discussions, took on our challenges, and said our goodbyes until the next week.

Thinking I needed a little rest and relaxation time from the last three months of job training and family responsibilities, I approached Katie. I’ve been thinking about taking a weekend trip to Pismo Beach in two weeks. Do you want to go with me?

Oh, wow, Judy! That sounds like a great plan. I could really use a day away for myself too.

Two weeks later, I drove my little Geo Storm thirty minutes to north Fresno where Katie and I packed up and set off for the two-and-a-half hour drive to Pismo Beach. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the day was warm as we headed toward the coast. As we approached Cuesta Grade, and drove down the other side, the cool coastal breezes blew in, reminding me of how much I loved that area of California. We chatted about our plans for our one evening out together, feeling giddy and excited to the point of not being able to contain it. We hurried to our hotel, unpacked and found ourselves back in the car, cruising for miles around Arroyo Grande, Shell, Pismo and Grover Beaches. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but the aromas of the sea mixed with the delicious delights of fudge and salt water taffy and meat smoked on open pits is just one of a myriad of pleasures along the Pacific Coast of California. As we drove through Shell Beach, we spotted a club, The Cliffs at Shell Beach and Restaurant, and decided to return later that evening.

At K-mart, Katie and I shopped for the sexiest dresses we could find. We tried on dress after dress, evaluating each other’s choices, and after two hours, hurried back to our hotel again, laughing at ourselves and dreaming of a memorable and beautiful night along the cliffs at Shell Beach.

Showers were taken, legs shaved, two sexy dresses, pantyhose, and black pumps were donned, makeup and hair were perfected, and we were ready for whatever lay before us. My silky black dress was ordained with gold buttons that sparkled down the front towards my mid-thigh, hugging my curving figure. The sun had gone down and the western sky was being overtaken by a black starlit cover above a thick layer of oranges, purples, and gold as I drove two miles north and parked along the cliffs that dropped off into the Pacific Ocean. The air was cool and carried the scent of the salty ocean. The clear sky allowed the crescent moon and the stars to reflect off the gentle waves that slowly splashed on the rocks below us, creating a romantic view.

The cool temperature outside was so nice that we couldn’t decide whether to hang out on the open patio attached to the club, enjoying the gorgeous view of the surf, or to go inside where the DJ kept the songs going for a full dance floor. The music was so loud I could feel the walls and floor vibrating from around and inside of me, as my heart and ears beat in tune with rock n’ roll music and early ’90s hits by Michael Jackson, Madonna, and Richard Palmer.

Across the room, a man, younger than me, with sparkling green eyes caught mine. We smiled. I thought, he’s one of the cutest guys I’ve ever seen! He was young and buff, with short dark hair and a smile that melted my needy heart.

He wasted no time in strutting over to where Katie and I were standing against the end of the bar. Hi, beautiful woman. I’m Rodney.

I was swept off my feet. Hi, I’m Judy. I smiled again. And this is my friend, Katie. Katie and I nodded at one another in agreement.

The DJ played Thriller and Rodney held out his hand. Do you want to dance?

Of course.

I thought I was in love. Nope! Infatuation! Know the difference! But I refused to listen to that still, small voice.

Four hours hurried by as we flirted, smiling, talking, dancing, drinking, and finally, kissing each other goodbye. Katie and I made our way back down Highway 101, toward our hotel, alone. I fell into my bed, sore and tired, rubbing my eyes, feeling something odd or strange inside and sensing that my life was going to change into something that would soon become fun and exciting.

Almost instantly, I became emotionally attached to Rodney and wholeheartedly believed I had found a real catch and the man of my dreams. I returned to my job on Monday, and planned to meet with him the next weekend, halfway between Grover Beach and Clovis, in a small town named Chalome, the location of James Dean’s death.

The next weekend as we walked hand in hand back to my car, Rodney confessed, Judy, there’s something I need to tell you about me.

Um, okay.

Tears dripped down Rodney’s face.

Why are you so upset? I wrapped my arms around him.

Because once I tell you this, I don’t think you will want to continue seeing me, and I wouldn’t blame you.

Oh, Rodney. There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me stop seeing you. I’m already in love with you. Okay?

Are you sure?

Yes, I’m sure.

I still need to tell you. If that’s okay.

It’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m still going to love you. I felt the need to convince him of my utter devotion, though we had only known one another for a week.

Okay. You need to know that last weekend, when we met, I had just been released from four years in prison, the Thursday before that.

Wow! What were you in prison for?

I’m an ex-con and I’m on probation for the next eighteen months.

He talked a little more, but I didn’t even listen to the reason he’d been incarcerated. I could only focus on my feelings, on the warm and fuzzy, yet daring and provocative emotions that held me under their control. Rodney, it’s okay. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you. Okay? Do you believe me?

I continued marching forward on this destructive path and within three weeks made the stunning decision to continue the relationship, advancing so far that I crossed the moral boundary of deciding to leave my children, friends, new job, and my home. I decided to rent a duplex apartment in the Pismo Beach area and the new love of my life and I moved in together. My eleven-year-old son and fourteen-year-old daughter moved in with my in-laws, heartbroken and in fear of my life, and my closest friend, Linda, felt the same.

Within weeks, Rodney’s and my relationship rapidly declined to one of deception and abuse. One evening only a few months later, we stopped by a pharmacy and waited for the pharmacist to fill Rodney’s prescription, browsing and trying to choose a flavor of ice cream to enjoy later that night. We began arguing over what flavor of ice cream to buy—at twelve o’clock in the morning! The fact that I was arguing with him in a public place infuriated him, and the argument continued after we drove out of the parking lot.

I turned away from him, watching the rows of lampstands as their lights reflected on the blacktop beneath. I caught a glimpse of the stars twinkling over dimmed storefronts and apartment complexes as we drove down Grand Avenue. Our car door windows were rolled down and cool ocean breezes met us head on.

Something hard hit the right side of my face. I knew it was his fist. Pain reverberated through my head. I reeled from the blow.

I’m here. A small voice whispered in my head.

Help! God, are you there? I can’t believe what just happened to me! As I came to my senses, I began to fear for my life. The pain throbbed in my face and temple.

Since I was driving, my first thought was who do you think you are? I made a quick decision to push hard on the accelerator, in hopes of attracting a police officer.

Rodney’s fist came flying towards me again, not as surprising or as hard as the first blow. I flinched and attempted to block it.

Who do you think you are for doing something so stupid? His screams ripped into my ear. You could get me arrested again!

Uh, uh, I— I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise.

His control over me had become one of dominance and coercion. He began to dictate everywhere I went and demanded to know who I was talking to on the telephone.

It would be a few months before I realized that I reached a dark pit as deep as Hades. When that point came, I knew our sick relationship was beyond repair. The immoral lifestyle and choices I’d made living in that apartment during those months was enough to shock anyone with a God-given sense of right and wrong.

Yet more time passed before I could recognize God’s protection over my life. But, looking back now, I know without a shadow of a doubt that God was with me during every one of those evil days. My life had ended up in a deep pit of my own making, one that was worse than I could have ever imagined being in. In spite of my selfishness, God reached down in his tender mercy and grace. He wrapped me up in his loving and faithful arms and pulled me out of a pit of perdition.

To explain how I found myself trapped in the first place, I need to go back to a military base in Georgia, where a young girl’s private torment began.

CHAPTER 2

Georgia on My Mind—

School Years as a Military Brat

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made: your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

~Psalm 139:14

I was born on a military base in 1957, near Memphis, Tennessee. If you know what the term military brat means, then you probably know how hard it is for a small child or teenager to have their life uprooted every few years and physically move from one state to another. I always felt like just when I made new friends and seemed to be settling into a new school, it was time to move again: the movers came in, packed us up, and my entire family relocated to another city and state. I can definitely empathize with children, including three of my own grandchildren, who have a parent in the military, not to mention the enormous responsibility that is put on the parent left behind while their spouse is deployed halfway around the world.

My school years began in kindergarten in southern California, then first, second, and third grades in Iowa, fourth and fifth grades living in Oklahoma while my dad was in Vietnam, sixth, seventh, and part of eighth grade in Georgia, and my remaining school years in Clovis, California.

My older brother and I helped with our youngest siblings and by the time the two youngest, twin girls, were born, I was almost ten years old. At that young age, I was helping wash dishes, baby bottles, and helping Mom keep up with all the laundry.

All six of us were firmly expected to live up to our parents’ rules. One of the cardinal rules in my family was the saying, ‘If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t do it at all." This was ingrained into my thinking for as long as I can remember. I believed it came from Dad’s military training and serving over twenty years in the Marine Corps. Dad took great pride in accountability and he wanted to pass on a tremendous sense of personal responsibility to all of his children. Today, I respect the fact that my parents had enough moral conviction to teach us how to live a respectable life, something I believe is somewhat lacking in today’s society. But… along with the rules came a lot of fear of failing and causing any disappointment to our parents, and the ensuing punishment that always followed for not living up to those expectations.

Dad and Mom were married in 1955 in Oklahoma when he was eighteen and Mom was sixteen. Obviously, at that age, Mom was still living at home with her parents. Her family rented a small home next door to where Dad lived with his large family. I’ve been told the story of how they met.

One day, Dad was sitting next to the window, behind their porch, and happened to see Mom walking by. He shouted out the window, Hey, good lookin’! They began dating and were married six weeks later.

Dad was born and raised near Tulsa. He had already enlisted into the Marine Corps when he and Mom married. They began their life together; a life that would see its share of countless blessings and hardships, but which lasted more than fifty-three years.

Dad’s parents were considered middle-income with Grandpa working and retiring from Union Pacific railroad. Grandma spent her days farming in her enormous garden, cooking, canning, and her favorite hobby—crocheting. Her primary responsibility was taking care of her large family’s needs. Their home was modest, with wooden floors, a vast wooden dining room table and running water. When we visited them, I loved the way the floors creaked and the nights I spent sleeping on a twin-sized rollaway bed that was placed directly under the laundry room window, next to Grandma’s kitchen. I love the memories of snuggling in bed, watching the Red Sands Hotel sign across the highway blink on and off as I fell asleep.

I awoke several hours later to quiet conversations in the dining room and the sounds and smells of biscuits and gravy being prepared in Grandma’s kitchen. Everyone got up and gathered around the large table to enjoy a delicious home-cooked breakfast. New family pictures were taken of family members present and then Grandma or Aunt Margie played the upright