An Only Hope: A Search for the Goodness of God in the Land of the Living

By Katherine C. Cramer

Caution: An Only Hope could soften a hard heart or open a blind eye. Humor and pathos surely enough for one lifetime unfold in patterned fashion. Gods faithful hand on displayso obvious yet mysteriousencourages, protects, comforts and heals.

A lot of water shimmers under the bay bridge. A lot of aqua and blue streaked water teems with reds, speckled trout, sharks, sting rays, pelicans diving, and dolphins leaping.

The wind sometimes churns the sea an angry gray and occasionally threatens to blow my dreams away. Last fall it blew in the red tide with its stench of death, choking the lungs and making the eyes tear. That same wind changed on a whim and blew the algae out to sea, and easy waves covered all as if nothing had happened. And so the waters of the gulf mirror my life with all its beauty and challenge.

Katherines plane has repeatedly crashedin a childhood rape and a failed marriage, her sons heartbreaking choices, in her own illnesses of body and soul, as well as sore disappointments in church and work alike. Yet though often smashed, the fine aircraft of her life has never burned. She is indeed an exemplary survivor. Her story will encourage readers who want to look life squarely in the eye, and to be buoyed by her bedrock faith that (as a Tolkien character says) everything sad will become untrue.
Ralph C. Wood, professor of theology and literature, Baylor University, Waco, Texas

There are some people created by our heavenly Father who have courage along with faith, and this book captures the authors steadfast resolve to go through her memory bank of joy along with the agony of loss. I know it will be a blessing to all who read it. The sequel will be in heaven when all are reunited.
Barbara Creighton, friend, CEO, Sarati International, Bayview, Texas

A compelling, candid look at a life of faith.
Hamilton Musser, pastor, CornerStone Church by the Bay, Laguna Vista, Texas

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490825748

Katherine C. Cramer

A Midwesterner, bred and educated, K.C. taught school until her family moved to California. There, tested with every sort of sadness, she escaped to the long hot summers of Texas. In 1999 she graduated from Baylor University’s Truett Seminary with a Master of Divinity and taught Old Testament and World Religions at Navarro Community College. For seven years K.C. ministered to homeless women and their children until Hanna’s Ministry closed in 2007. At present she serves her church as an elder and as a Bible teacher, and occasionally preaches when the pastor is traveling. Now retired, she fishes and plays golf with her grandson. Today, most of her waking hours are spent at ArtSpace, elbow deep in clay, creating. She can’t help it. It’s in her spiritual genes! K.C. wrote An Only Hope to honor God and offer hope, for if she can wake each day expectant of the goodness of God, so can you.

Book preview

PRELUDE

I sat in the loft at my computer munching granola and sipping Columbian brew. How… why, was I writing this book?

Outside the cedars swirled as dark puffy clouds gathered over the lake. Just then the front door swung open. It does that when I don’t have it latched tightly. Before I could get downstairs to close it, a hummingbird whirled in and banged against the picture windows. I have a log chalet-style cabin with windows two stories high.

Trapped, the little bird panicked. It was helpless and so was I. Sammie the Cat wanted to help but couldn’t figure out how to scale the logged wall. I scurried down the spiral staircase and opened the French-style doors as wide as they would go but the little bird was sure the way out was through the windows.

He flailed against the glass, trying to force his way through it. He rested on the ledge for a few seconds and then pressed and pressed again. Forty minutes passed and there he sat, wings drooped on a ledge two stories up.

I sang to him, I pointed to the door, I yelled at him, I cursed. His focus was fixed and I just couldn’t convince him there was a way out—it just was not through the windows. I obviously do not speak hummingbird.

I sat in my loft and cried. I was sure the wee bird was close to death and I would be forced to watch his little carcass decay. Lord, could you do something, would you please help the little bird?

Horrified, I watched as another hummingbird flew in. Swell, now I’ll have two rotting little corpses. Just then my little warrior spotted the latest intruder. This one didn’t panic. He cruised around to the windows and then back to the door several times. My little warrior was so worn out he couldn’t fly, but did move close enough to the edge of the window ledge that he fluttered down to the first story. Fortunately, Sammie the Cat had wandered outside and missed her chance to help. I sprinted down the stairs again and approached carefully. The little bird just tilted his little head and looked up at me. Reaching down I carefully picked him up and took him outside. His heart was beating so fast I wondered if he would survive. I took him over to the feeder and stuck his beak into the nectar. He perked up and flew away.

Thank you, Lord. What a privilege to hold a hummingbird in my hands. I went back inside to see what I was going to do with the other hummer but he must have escaped too because he was nowhere in sight.

A light rain peppered the deck as thunder rolled in the distance. I returned to the loft and sat down at the computer, propped my feet up on the printer table and reflected on the morning’s happenings. Was this an object lesson? What was the Lord saying to me? Was he trying to show me why I was about to write the book he had burdened me with? Perhaps it wasn’t about me at all. Throughout my faith journey so many hummers in Christ, acquainted with grief opened their hearts and reached out their hands to help me through troubled times. Perhaps this work is about them and will in some way honor them. Or, perhaps it will be helpful to the lost, wounded, or broken… those wanting to get well but without the means or strength to hope. Perhaps Christian professionals will read it and devise a scheme of treatment for this kind of darkness that destroys families and gnaws at the soul… a scheme that recognizes every soul is unique, every treatment plan has similar benchmarks and common goals; but most important, a scheme that allows the Holy Spirit to guide the healing process. I can only hope my struggles will not be in vain.

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings

the tune without words, and never stops at all." Emily Dickinson

CHAPTER 1

1973 - You Get Out of Trouble Well

The pristine pine and stubborn oak frame a maple’s glory.

Solely she is standing to tell a season’s story.

Each leaf as a chapter drifts slowly down until there are no more:

Stark she stands unashamed, rooted in the promises of spring.

U nashamed… it had not always been that way. Life for my first twenty-eight years was shame-based and I didn’t know why. I did know something was wrong. I wasn’t so much wounded as I was broken. There is a difference.

"Oh well," I thought, won’t solve this now or tomorrow, so, I might as well enjoy the day… and today is golf day.

Crack. From the deep rough my ball curled around the edge of the sand trap and glanced off the pin oak ferociously guarding the fifth green. A small branch replete with leaves and acorns danced out of its way as my fourth shot settled in the fringe, fifteen feet from the pin. I love par fives, they are so forgiving.

Gayle shook her head. You get out of trouble well.

"I must drive Gayle crazy," I thought. Her first shot was a beautiful drive straight down the fairway. A three wood and two irons later she rested on the green twenty-five feet from the pin. Gayle is smooth. Me, I battle. A duff, two spectacular one irons and a lucky shot out of the rough, a chip and tap in and I matched her bogie.

Yet, Gayle is right. If I had been positioned in the middle of the fairway, my fourth shot would most likely be in the water hazard and I, diving deep, decked in my scuba gear, would squirt a miraculous shot from the muddy bottom onto the grassy green. Yes, life, like my golf game, was good. I had just turned twenty-eight and was coasting. I had a husband who loved me, in-laws who approved of me, two handsome, intelligent, spunky boys, and good friends.

I was a stay-at-home mom with tennis, golf, bridge, Little League, and community center obligations. So, what was the problem? I really didn’t know, but sometimes, especially on rainy days, I detected something sinister rising into my peripheral vision; then I’d whirl around to find nothing there. There was nothing there. I did have a vivid imagination——it was just my imagination. Still, I smoked two packs of cigarettes on a good day and on one occasion my nephew observed, Aunt K.C., sometimes you get so mad you glow.

With pride I wore my favorite mauve and green T-shirt with black letters: No Obvious Symptoms. And Gayle’s words haunted me. You get out of trouble well.

CHAPTER 2

Our First Home

I met Gayle the day after our family of five, counting Whiskers, our calico cat, moved to the country to a three bedroom fixer-upper my husband swore he would fix up. Skill wasn’t the issue. Bo could fix anything, but I doubted he really wanted to tackle such a massive project.

The house was cement block. The attached garage had a dirt floor and its northeast corner begged for attention as its roof-line sagged and walls bowed.

Bo beamed with pride as we all stepped out of the moving van. Whiskers escaped, scampered up an oak tree and stretched out on a limb as she surveyed her new hunting grounds.

I have to go pee. Danny, our four-year-old sprinted toward the house.

Bo, do you have a key? I tugged at the door.

The realtor said she’d be here at 10:00. It was 11:00. Danny sprinted around the house to hunt for a suitable bush as the realtor drove up the hill and parked. She removed the key-box, opened the door and handed Bo the keys.

Danny hopped inside. Where’s the bathroom?

There was one bathroom with no door——just an accordion-style plastic screen Bo had propped up in the opening. In his haste Danny tripped over it and both went down.

I’ll fix it. Bo found his tools and temporarily secured it to the door frame.

Got to go, have another appointment at 1:00.

Thank you so much. Bo shook the realtor’s hand and we high-fived each other as she drove away.

Where to start? Bo’s buddies pulled up, emptied several six-packs into a wash tub filled with ice and along with Bo’s dad moved the heavy items into the house. It didn’t take long because we didn’t have much. Pop-tops erupted and spewed sudsy brew down chins as Bo, his dad and friends sat on the picnic table quenching their thirst. Bo’s mom opened her cooler and distributed sandwiches and chips. Thirsts quenched and tummies full, Bo’s friends piled in Craig’s SUV and disappeared down the driveway. They reemerged, turned sharply right, then left then right again as they rambled down the rural road defining the southern boundary of our property.

The moving van was still half full of boxes. Can we help? Will, our five-year-old pulled his wagon down the ramp. Danny jumped in.

MOM! Will objected.

Get out of there Danny, Bo’s dad was not known for his patience.

See all those sticks under the willows and over there. See those rocks, Bo knelt as he gestured. Bring all of them over here. Bo pointed to the end of the driveway.

Bo’s mom supervised and I was certain that little chore would keep the boys busy for days. It was late afternoon and cool for September. The sun had dipped behind the mammoth oaks arched across the road and I knew we had better hurry if we were going to finish before dark. I did have the foresight to spray both the boys and myself with bug spray.

Let’s hang up the clothes first. I draped most of them across Bo’s outstretched arms and grabbed the rest. The small study/playroom across from our bedroom had a large cedar-lined closet. Bo decided this one would meet his needs. He hung up his clothes and then grabbed mine. He stooped awkwardly as he hung some of my summer clothes in the closet in our bedroom which was no more than a crawl space under a stair-well with a door!

Good thing I’m not closet-phobic. I was not impressed with his choices.

Bo rolled his eyes. We’ll put the rest upstairs. I have to leave every morning at 6:00. Do you want me banging around in the bedroom waking you up?

Had Bo actually thought this through? Was he actually being sensitive to my needs? Hmm… that was a possibility.

It’s stuffy in here. I tugged at the bedroom window, jugglers bulging.

Ouch, crap, I broke a nail. Blood oozed from the quick of my pointer-finger. Bo stretched a Band-Aid tight over my wounded nail. He jerked the other windows in our bedroom, playroom and living room. He sprinted upstairs and muscled the windows in the spare-unfinished bedroom across from the boys’ room. The results were the same. All were painted shut. Painted shut with a nauseous shade of moss green, I suppose to match the exterior paint… must have been a sale. The windows in the country kitchen slid open and they actually had screens and downstairs in the paneled family room the half-windows slid open too, so we were not completely devoid of circulation.

We have to replace all of the windows anyway. Bo’s voice trailed and he heaved a sigh. I think he finally realized the extensive nature of the repairs needed to make our new house livable. But we got it cheap, I always reminded myself.

There’s a lot of work here son. Bo’s dad shook his head.

The van was finally empty. We all slumped in lawn chairs eating weenies the boys roasted over their makeshift fire pit they and Bo’s mom constructed from the stones and branches they had gathered.

I surveyed our tree-covered acreage… it was majestic. A line of weeping willows like leafy mobiles dangled playfully in the breeze and stretched across our northern border, while black, post, pin and red oaks and sugar maples dotted the landscape. Violets, lily of the valley, lilac and wild blackberry bushes perfumed the air. The dense woods across the road were electric with fireflies.

Bath time… No two words I know scatter a group of young boys or dogs more.

Can we have bubbles? Danny pleaded. With the promise of lots of bubbles, Bo’s mom and the boys disappeared into the house. I watched her hands as she caressed Will’s sweaty brow. "I love that woman." I thought.

Soaked sparkling clean the boys sprinted around the corner and up the stairs to bed.

BO! I stared at the steep wooden staircase as Danny stretched his legs to navigate it.

Maybe he should sit and go up backwards. I suggested.

Danny, hold onto the railing, Bo barked, He’ll be fine.

The next morning the boys filled two plastic pails with blackberries and I promised to make cobbler. Will, berry-stained to his elbows, hugged my knees and beamed, We’re just like the Walton’s.

Well, not exactly, I mused. Outside the morning tranquility was interrupted now and then by the songs of wrens. A red-headed woodpecker peeked through the crooked arm of a giant oak. The air hung like a wet blanket while white puffy clouds clogged the sky. Bo waved as he and the Buick disappeared down the driveway on their way to Sears. He purchased a thick pad and a plush carpet runner for the staircase.

Our cat was in kitty heaven with acres to roam and critters to catch. In the kitchen that evening she curled up at the foot of Will’s chair as the boys and I ate leftovers.

Whiskers, we need to talk, I said. She flexed her haunches, ears periscoped. That morning I had discovered the tell-tale signs peppered around the fridge.

Whiskers, we have a mouse and you must pull your weight around here. It is your job as the family cat to catch the mouse, do you understand? Whiskers stretched, glanced at me and ambled into the living room.

I know you heard me, I said.

The boys giggled. Mom, Whiskers doesn’t speak English.

Bo had stripped the living room of the old moldy stained carpet down to the wood flooring and it was devoid of furniture. The next morning the deceased mouse was lying in the middle of the floor. Whiskers, sprawled on the kitchen table, preened her calico coat and licked her paws. The boys thought I was magic.

The first winter in our new home was memorable. The kitchen pipes froze, so I did the dishes in the bathtub for a month until they thawed out, and a raccoon ate Will’s rabbit. We had taken the bunnies out of their hutch and put them in a wire enclosure so the kids could play with them. I didn’t know raccoons were so aggressive or carnivorous.

Bo was visibly shaken, and one evening, with revenge on his mind, put a piece of fish on the garbage can lid, grabbed some liquid refreshment, loaded the shot gun and climbed into his car. With the shot gun peeking out of the triangular side window, he settled in patiently daring the evil raccoon to show his furry self. Hours passed.

KABOOM. I ran outside to clean up the carnage. Bo, obviously deaf, emerged from the car in pain, his hands covered his ears.

The garbage can had disappeared except for the lid that swirled down at my feet. The raccoon… ? He slipped into the shadows never to be seen again. Never to be seen because a month later a very large German shepherd crawled out of the woods, adopted our back stoop and wouldn’t go away. He was black and brown with three white paws. We called animal control but were told he had to bite someone before they would come out. Swell.

I liked the dog. He looked like a wolf and the boys and I needed protection since Bo traveled so much. Still, I didn’t feed him for two weeks. After the third week I relented and we had a dog. The boys called him Thunder because when he leaped high in the air to catch a Frisbee and landed, the ground shook. Thunder followed Will and Danny everywhere, was protective of me, while tolerating the cat and Bo. Bo was cautious of him, and with good reason. Thunder didn’t like men.

At first we thought Thunder just didn’t like men on garbage trucks but when my best friend’s husband came driving up the hill to show us his new convertible, there were no doubts left. Thunder nearly devoured him. He was half way into the car, barking savagely when I caught up to him with the chain. It took nine years for us to fully understand. Thunder didn’t like evil men.

I never worried about the boys with Thunder around. One morning I watched from the kitchen window as the boys dumped all of the trash out of the garbage can and they, the dog, and the can disappeared into the woods. Fourteen long minutes passed and they were back, Will tugging and Danny pushing the can up the hill, with Thunder so excited I thought he was going to wag his tail off. I couldn’t wait to see what was in the can.

The biggest snapping turtle I had ever seen stared up at me indignantly. He didn’t move because he was so big and wedged in so tightly.

Can you make soup, Mom?

I checked for any missing fingers or toes. The ball was in my court and I had to think fast.

You know, that is a mommy turtle and I bet she has babies somewhere. The boys glanced at each other and heaved a disappointed sigh. Back down the hill they went. I followed at a respectable distance to make sure the deed was done. That evening I had a long talk with Thunder.

The second winter in our new home brought hope of a maintenance-free season but it was not to be. Late January the furnace quit. The temperature was 20 below… wind chill 42 below. Bo and his dad got it going again and from there rewired and replumbed the entire house. That took its toll on Bo. It would be six years before he really got serious about remodeling or fixing the other things that needed fixing. When the pipes froze, he took my hair dryer down to the well room off the basement and thawed them out. Country living in northern Illinois is not for the lazy or the faint of heart.

Still the boys and I thrived; country air, a cat and loyal dog, snowmen to build, and hills to sled down in the winter, Chicago Bears in the fall, and the Cubs in the summer. We ate Sunday dinner at Bo’s folks and watched the seasonal ball games on TV. The Bears had a real quarterback that year and we had a good chance to advance deep into the playoffs. The Cubs, well the Cubs are what they are—the Cubs. Anyone expecting more is delusional.

The second winter in our home was also the winter of ice hockey when Danny decided he wanted to join the local team. Early Saturday mornings or late at night were the only ice times available for Peewees; so, to the local chalet we went at 8:00 am on Saturday or 9:30 pm. on Tuesdays. Gayle’s son played too. We could hardly contain ourselves watching and were banished by the coach to the upstairs lounge on several occasions because he said he heard us laughing. Coach McGee was a passionate Scotsman, slight of frame and replete with a charming brogue.

Come on Danneee, come on Scotteee. The kids adored him.

Danny was the only boy who could skate. His problem was going too fast. The other boys tip-toed down the ice…

Glide laddies, glide…

Gayle’s son hugged the rail, seldom ventured out into the middle of the rink, shoulders hunched, knees in… knees out, knees in… knees out.

He looks like a spider, I observed.

Gayle shook with laughter. Come on, we’ve got to stop this. Coach will send us upstairs again if we keep this up.

Danny skated like the wind, but reminded me of a self-contained pin ball machine as he bounced off walls, goals, kids, coaches. The guys called him Butkus.

You’re not fat Danny! You’re husky and they are not making fun of your butt. Butkus, Dick Butkus, the famous Chicago Bears linebacker… the guys think you are awesome.

Danny beamed; relieved they weren’t making fun of him.

After face-off, sometimes that would be the last time the kids touched the puck. It was like an invisible force surrounded it as it floated unmolested down the ice, while arms and legs flailed and sticks flew through the air. After practice it took us half an hour to get all the gear off and kids dry enough for them to venture outside into the sub-zero air.

See you next Saturday.

We played three real games that year and after two games no one had scored a goal, on either side. Maybe this week, our hopes were high. I was also hoping Bo would make it to the last game.

The buzzer blast signaled the end of the second period of our last game of the season and no Bo. Our team, The Hawks, was undefeated, and so was everyone else.

Four minutes into the final