Hungry Heart: How One Woman Found Love

By Lorene Masters

Hungry Heart is filled with the honest searching of a girls coming of age and beyond, looking for love and acceptance. At times the journey to adulthood is seen through revealing journal entries and poetry; at other times it sounds the desperate inborn cry of the human heart from infancy to adulthoodthe need to be loved and cherished. Hungry Heart tells the story of the search for love through food, men, more food, more men, and finally finding the hunger quenched by the greatest love of all.

What I remember most about Lorene is that she always had a smile on her face no matter what the situation was. It was hard to tell if she was on top of the world or hurting terribly inside. She was never unkind to anyone, even those that didn't treat her well. I truly believe she has a spirit that cant be broken. I know there was a lot of pain in those days but she never let it totally defeat her. It is very evident now that she has raised above all that to become very successful and works tirelessly to inspire others.
Mark Perkins, Director of Bands and Technology, Scranton High School, Scranton, North Dakota.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781462409631

Lorene Masters

Lorene Masters is a wife, mother, actress, dramatist, radio personality, and poet. She is the author of and and the Hopeful and Chasing White Horses: Poetry for Women Who Love Too Much. Lorene holds a bachelor’s degree in speech/theater/broadcasting and loves to perform her more than twenty original dramatic monologues of women who are transformed by the touch of Jesus. She lives in South Dakota with her family and her cats. For more information please visit LoreneMasters.com or the Lorene Masters Facebook page.

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CHAPTER 1

Baby Beginnings

By you I have been upheld from birth;

You are he who took me out of my mother’s womb.

Psalms 71:6

I’m tired of you bringing those pop-eyed babies home from the hospital! No more, I tell you! No more!

My dad’s voice accelerated in anger as he tied my mother’s hands to an old oak tree with a dirty, white rope. Perspiration from the late fall sunshine matted Mom’s short, dark hair to her face in sweltering globs. The yellow, cotton housedress she put on that morning clung revealingly to her body, as her mind fought to block out the pain, cocooning itself around her unborn child. Every anguished cry gave voice to her attempt to shelter the baby from the blows to her belly my father used to unleash his fury at the swelling of yet another mouth to feed.

Please, please don’t hurt the baby! Babies gave Mom reason to get up in the morning. They gave her someone to love and someone to love her. The endless requirements of caring for a child took her mind off of everything she didn’t have.

I replayed this scene over and over again in my mind, imagining the lonely agony my mom must have felt that day as the new life inside of her was threatened. My emotions traced the fear in her heart, knowing that the announcement of another pregnancy would have quite a traumatic impact on her relationship with my dad.

It seemed to me that Mom thought babies gave my father a reason to drink and stay away from home. His absence seemed to indicate that babies were just too much for him, especially when they transformed overnight from squalling infants into energetic two-year-olds running underfoot. My dad remarked once that he only wanted one or two. Pity the child who was baby number seven. Pity every child who was unwanted.

The baby is small, and there are complications, the doctor told my mother in the maternity ward of St. Luke’s Hospital in Miles City, Montana, three months after that violent fall morning. She appears to have breathing difficulties, a type of asthma, and a thyroid malfunction. She’ll have to stay in the hospital for a few days so we can monitor her condition.

So Mom packed her bag and went home to Marmarth, North Dakota, without me. They called me Laura, a name that I later found out meant warrior and she who weeps. Both would be true in my life in equal amounts.

A few weeks later I was released from the hospital. Small, asthmatic, and hungry, I ate until I ballooned up to three times the size of a normal baby. Back to the doctor I went, where the diagnosis was hypothyroidism. Immediately, I was put on medication, which corrected my thyroid, but still the excessive eating continued for reasons unknown.

Mom loved each and every one of her babies. Since meeting Lewis in Port Orchard, Washington, and getting married, she had found a purpose like none she ever knew before. Her growing-up years in Canada had prepared her because she had cared for seven brothers. Her father was dead (or so she was told), so she and my grandmother had their hands full. Mom dreamed of getting out on her own and finding a handsome man to provide for her, so she could just focus on being a mother to her own children.

She did find a handsome husband, but he was not a provider. Mom said that she never really planned on having so many babies, but they just kept coming. Each time she got pregnant, it felt like springtime in her soul—to feel the little one move inside of her, to see her belly grow each month, and to know that soon this child would be born and need her for its very survival! What could be more wonderful?

My mom didn’t understand why Dad wasn’t as thrilled as she was about each new baby. She said she’d loved Dad in the beginning, but years of hardship took their toll, causing whatever feelings there might have been to grow dormant.

Mom hated to see me struggle for breath with each asthma attack, and a blanket or pillow too near my face caused me to wail in sheer terror. But she took heart in the fact that I was born alive and saw this as a sign from God that his hand was upon me. Still, her heart longed for me to be healed and whole, so when she heard of a faith healer in the area, her curiosity was piqued to find out more.

She’s an amazing lady, the hospital volunteer told my mom as she was showing her the books and magazines on her cart that were available to read. People in wheelchairs who came to see her speak went away walking! I saw this with my own eyes. I even personally know someone who was healed by her.

My dad didn’t want to go to no quack faith healer, but my mother was insistent and eventually wore my dad down.

Mom already had one boy, Richie, who was mentally disabled and another son who had had several operations on his ears and was possibly permanently deaf. Late at night Mom had entertained all sorts of fears of her new baby being deformed or crippled or having a water head, the term Mom used to call a baby who was born with hydrocephalus (water on the brain). I was showing signs of so many problems; already special shoes had been fitted to my tiny feet so they would develop properly. I guess Mom reasoned that with these odds against me, what harm could a little prayer from a faith healer do?

The day we went to see the healer was cold and snowy. My dad said that he would wait in the car and that Mom had better hurry, because he wanted to get back before the roads got bad. He dropped her off at the door of the rented theater. Mom hurried inside, holding me close to her body, protecting me from the frigid air.

The lady who had talked to my mother in the hospital was playing a piano in the corner of the theater. A few people were already seated, while some were being rolled to the front in wheelchairs. Mom took an aisle seat on the right side. Immediately she was greeted by a beautiful woman in a long, flowing, blue gauze dress. She said her name was Gracie and that she sensed that Mom must be in a hurry. Feeling out of place upon realizing who this lovely woman was, Mom mumbled a shy, Yes.

The faith healer looked gently at me sleeping quietly in a soft, pink blanket and began to weep. Then she started to speak in a slow, deep voice, proclaiming a word from God.

"This child shall know my love and my power in a way that few others will. This child shall bear my name. She shall reach out her hand to touch the sick, and they shall be healed. The dead in trespasses and sin shall rise to life all at the mention of my name. I have anointed this child for my service. Her life will be hard. Satan will try and destroy her many times. But my plan will succeed, and I shall come to her rescue. She has many rough waters to pass through. She shall have to overcome a great self-hatred that the enemy has put upon her. But she will overcome and glorify me with her mouth and with her body, which belongs to me; nothing can prevent my plan from being fulfilled in her life. No scheme of Satan can destroy what I have planned for this child. She shall live and not die. Many will be against her, but she will find comfort and healing in me alone. For this time she was born and for my purpose."

Mom kept these words in her heart, afraid to speak of them to anyone except the Good Lord who gave them. These words were revealed to my spirit at a time when, as an adult in the midst of trial and storms, I felt completely devoid of God’s love. Somehow they brought renewal into my life and hope that I would eventually be healed.

Three years later, baby number eight, the last of the litter, was born. From all I could gather, in the opinion of the world at large, she was the most beautiful baby who ever graced this earth. Surely greatness was in her future, so they appropriately named her Loretta Lynn, after the famous country singer.

I felt that my small advantage as being the youngest was now gone. As everyone was cooing over Loretta, I quietly slipped away to go outside and play. I spotted a friend of my dad’s that we called Unca’ Al by the garage. Quickly, I ran to greet him and trustingly took his hand, asking him if he wanted to play with me. He said Sure and gave me a big smile. But I was soon to find out that his game was not one any three-year-old should have to play.

Let’s go see what’s in the garage, he said to me.

I said Okay! thinking it would be fun to go into the dark garage with my big uncle.

Once inside the garage, things quickly changed. Unca’ Al told me to lie down. His voice sounded strange. I did as he asked, thinking that he’d soon sound like himself again. I remember the smell of hay near my face—fresh hay for the chickens. I remember the smell of snuff from that little round container that he carried in his pocket and that icky drink that my daddy also drank on his breath. Unca’ Al put his red bandanna over my mouth. It was moist with sweat and oil. I couldn’t breathe. My mind frantically screamed, Mommy! Where are you, Mommy? But she was in the trailer with baby Loretta.

All of a sudden he was on top of me, pushing me hard into the ground. I kicked and tried to get away, but he was too strong for me. I felt as though my body would break right in two. It was as though I was being buried alive. I couldn’t breathe. Inwardly I screamed for him to stop. I didn’t want to play this game.

That’s when I heard someone moving by the chicken coop. My daddy! My daddy would tell Unca’ Al that I couldn’t play anymore. Besides, I wasn’t allowed to be outside with no panties on. Unca’ Al heard him too, and just as quickly as he started the game, he stopped. Jumping up, he hastily pulled up his pants. Walking quickly while buckling his belt with the big brass horse buckle, he went to greet my daddy. I heard Unca’ Al say that he was playing a little game with Laura in the garage. They talked some more but I couldn’t hear what they said.

I did hear my daddy say Well, just don’t tell Maxine! and they both chuckled. I didn’t understand what they were laughing at. This didn’t seem like a laughing kind of game to me.

Frantically, I got up, and with tears running down my face, I ran to my daddy and cried, Unca’ Al hurt me!

With a slight smile Daddy said calmly, Well, go tell your momma. So I ran around the garage and up the well-worn dirt path to the trailer. The lights in the window comforted me. Inside, Mom was busy cooking something on the stove. Loretta was lying on a blanket on the couch. My brother Leroy was playing with his cars on the floor and my sister Suzette was reading a book on the couch by Loretta. I tugged at Mom’s dress.

Momma! Momma! My pee-pee hurts! Unca’ Al—

Oh, it does not hurt! Now go wash your dirty hands. She turned and looked down at me. Why is there hay in your hair?

Unca’ Al—

That hay is for the chickens! I don’t want you playing in the hay! It’s time to eat! She turned to Suzette. Go find your dad and tell him that we’re gonna eat and if he’s not here we’ll eat without him! Finally she took time to really look at me. Oh, Laura, look at your dress! I am so sick and tired of you kids ruining your clothes, and if you think I’m gonna fix—

But, Mom, the chickens already got hay today! I know they did! Momma, I—

Enough, Laura! Go wash up or I’ll give you something to cry about!

We had macaroni and cheese and hot dogs for supper. I ate more than I ever remember eating, not even stopping when my little belly was full. And I had four peanut butter cookies instead of one. I went to bed with my pee-pee still hurting, my belly bloated, and no one who would listen when I tried to tell them about the game Unca’ Al and I played today in the garage.

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CHAPTER 2

Becoming Fat

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.

Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.

1 Corinthians 13:12

As Loretta grew, she continued to steal hearts with her charm and beauty. As I grew and grew, I continued to receive comments on how much I could eat and that I was turning into quite the chubby child. Loretta had lovely hair: long and blonde with a slight curl to the ends. Mine was boring: brown, chopped very short to keep it under control, and crooked because my mom couldn’t cut straight—and because the scissors were dull from being used to cut anything that needed cutting, inside and outside the trailer. Cutting with a bowl over my head would have been an improvement.

It was a Saturday afternoon and once again time to get my hair cut. I hated it. I complained with each snip of the scissors that Mom held firmly in her hand: Why can’t I have long hair like Loretta? Why doesn’t anyone say that I am pretty? Why won’t you put curlers in my hair so it will be nice for church tomorrow? No one had any answers for me except the exasperated remark that with my chubby face, short hair looked better.

And why was my belly so large and squishy like the bread dough that Mom punched down in the big bowl when she was making bread? I’d known for quite some time that I didn’t look the same as other kids. My uniqueness had forever become apparent the day I fell from the slide. I learned that fat kids deserve to fall and get hurt simply because they are fat.

On a beautiful spring day, the first, second and third graders of Timber Lake Public School had a picnic at Little Moreau Park. I’d been there several times before, picking chokecherries with Mom and my siblings. I recalled with delight how my clothes and face had become stained with purple from the chokecherries and how Mom, in good humor, commented that I was eating more than I was picking.

When the picnic lunch of bologna sandwiches, pickles, chips, and soda pop was over, it was time to play at the playground. Run, run, run to the big silver slide!

Everyone get in line, the teacher in charge directed. Impatiently, I waited my turn. Finally I was stepping up and preparing to sit my bottom down at the top of the slide when something went horribly wrong. My foot became tangled in the twisty bars and down I went, head first over the side of the slide! I landed on my back on the hard ground, my mind a whirl of confusion. The kid’s laughter, mingling with my tears, brought me back to reality.

Much to my surprise a beautiful little Indian girl was not afraid to assist the fat girl. She helped me to my feet, put her arms around me, and walked me to a teacher, yelling back to the kids, She has feelings too!

Yes, I do. Thank you, Terri. Please, could you tell that to the school nurse who treats me with distain whenever she examines me? Could you mention it to all the kids that call me obese and think that it shouldn’t hurt because, according to the second grade teacher, Mrs. Goodbill, it’s the proper way to address a fat person? Could you tell the world, Terri, that being fat feels like a disease that makes people hate you and that it hurts to feel hated? Please, Terri, speak for me because all I can do is cry and wonder why.

Why is my beautiful, little sister Loretta loved and I am not? I kept asking myself. Why is she lavished with gifts while I am laughed at because I’m fat? What is wrong with me? Am I retarded like my brother Richie? Is that why I have to go to the doctor all the time? Is that why Mom tricks me and says that we’re just going grocery shopping when too often we end up at the doctor’s office where he once again prods me, looking for something that is making me grow too much?

Why wasn’t I born beautiful like Loretta? Why does it feel like as though God doesn’t love me as much as others? If he loved me, wouldn’t I look different?

Even though Loretta was fast becoming a bother to me, she did come in handy as a playmate. In the summertime we caught lizards from our cellar. We’d throw the lizards into a big metal tub filled with water that Mom used to boil the feathers of chickens off in. I caught the lizards; Loretta did the screaming.

We made mud pies from dry dirt and water, stirring them with a stick and then letting them dry in the sun, pretending they were chocolate chip cookies like the ones Mom made. I convinced Loretta to take a bite. I got in big trouble for that.

I took Loretta’s dolls and chopped their hair off. I did