Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus: A memoir of escape from the predator of spousal abuse in the name of God.

By Deborah Silva

Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus is a true-story journey through spousal abuse and discovering what the Bible really has to say about it. Set against a very unique backdrop, it is also a story of God's modern-day miracles and love.

In 1978, Deborah, a brand-new Christian, leaves her glamorous career in the fashion industry and plunges into a life with her new husband, Tom. Living in a remote one-room cabin with no electricity, she must learn new skills like splitting wood and shooting rattlesnakes for dinner. Along with the physical challenges of her new environment, she comes face to face with contradictions between Biblical truth and Tom's imposed interpretation of truth, enclosing her in a false prison of submission.

Tom grows to believe he is the only one who has true understanding from God. He sees his responsibility before God to shape his family into perfection, whatever that takes, including isolation and brute force. Trapped by narrow interpretations of scriptures, Deborah struggles to find freedom for herself and her three daughters, all of whom were born at home with no midwife and no government-registered birth certificates. Through the darkness, she is surprised by a living God who overwhelms with love and freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098346522

Book preview

Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus

Copyright © 2020 by Deborah Silva. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781098346522

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

Author’s note: Though more recent versions of the NIV may translate verses slightly differently, the intent remains the same. The version I have used for this book is the Bible I owned during the time of my struggles and is the book I turned to when seeking God.

Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus is a true story. Most of the names have been changed to protect those who unwittingly played a part in this story. Those who are named have given their permission, or are commonly known public figures, or are currently deceased.

Photographs are from the author’s own personal collections.

Cover design by Naomi Boachie-Ansah.

The Off Ramp Series by Deborah Silva:

God in the Gutter

A memoir of escape from the darkness of child sexual

abuse and self-abuse.

Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus

A memoir of escape from the predator of spousal abuse

in the name of God.

Off Ramp: God’s Exit from Abuse

A journey of hope and awakening to Biblical answers

about abuse.

This book is dedicated to my three precious daughters,

Anna, Sarah, and Naomi,

who shared so many of the struggles with me.

Though separated by distance, our hearts are forever bound together. Your love of God is my greatest joy.

This book is also dedicated to the many women and children who have been crushed by abuse.

There is hope and a life for you!

To my oldest daughter, Anna … though it is with tears that I acknowledge you are now in the arms of our loving savior,

I cannot help but be blessed by the time we shared and for the amazing woman of God you became in your

thirty-eight years among us.

The photograph on my desk of you smiling at me, has been my constant encouragement to finish these three books,

this one being the second.

My love for you lives on and I look forward to the time

we are all reunited in our Father’s mansion.

Contents

1 - To Dream the Impossible Dream

2 – Adjust or Self Destruct

3 – Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, Bruises, and Baby

4 – Idaho: A Paradox of Miracles and Dire Portent

5 – Little House on the Prairie … Disrupted

6 – A Caged Bird Can Sing

7 – A Crack in the Cage Door

8 – Whether Good Master or Bad Master

9 – Second Flight & Second Chances

10 – When Faith Is Challenged

11 – A Time to Run

12 – Escape

13 – Husbands, Love Your Wives

14 – The Battle is the Lord’s

15 – The Awakening

16 – The Unconditional and Unending Love of God

Have You Suffered Abuse?

There is nothing I can do to earn God’s love.

I certainly don’t deserve it.

Yet He continues to give Himself away … with an unconditional and unending love.

1 - To Dream the Impossible Dream

The day I met Tom, I knew I was going to marry him, which struck me as intensely odd since he didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. We met at the birthday party of a mutual friend over a salad he was constructing. I dared to interfere. He dared to stop me. One week later, he invited me for the weekend to his remote cabin on a mining claim somewhere south of the San Francisco Bay area in the California Coast Range.

His best friend Leo would be there, he told me. I knew Leo well. He had introduced us. Then, almost as a postscript to the weekend invitation, Tom asked me if I could please pick up a new employee on my way down. Against all logic and reasonable rationale, I grabbed hold of that first-day premonition, like grabbing the tail of a comet, and held on tight … wondering how this burning flame would slice my world.

You’re crazy! my roommate called out as I stashed a few things in an overnight bag.

I know, I called back, running down the hallway.

I settled into the tan leather seat of my little MG sportscar and breathed out a long breath before turning the key. I remembered his perfectly-constructed/hands-off salad we ate with smoky grilled steaks just a week earlier. I remembered the motorcycle ride after the steaks. He had offered the ride to somebody else, but then confused me with the other gal and handed me the helmet instead. We traveled on the breathtaking Junipero Serra Freeway; a gently flowing river of concrete that stole intentionally across the ridge that separated the peninsula cities from the Pacific Ocean. The abundant lush greenery of the mountainsides bordered the then quiet freeway on that still September evening. The sun was setting low in the sky, the stillness and beauty of the evening broken only by the intrusion of the Harley’s engine. The wind on my face felt delicious.

Then, that errant thought had whisked across my reverie: If this man asked me to marry him tonight, I would say yes. I shook my head, stunned at the words burrowing their way through my mind. Where did that come from? I glanced at the back of his helmet and studied his broad shoulders. I don’t even know you. I don’t even know where you live.

We returned to the party in time for Laura’s birthday cake, followed with only snippets of conversation here and there amidst the other partygoers. Other than that, I don’t believe my potential fiancé had any idea of our fairytale future, nor were there any overtures extended to see each other again.

God, if this is you, I prayed that week, I’m going to keep my hands out of it.  I went so far as to look up his phone number in the telephone book for a town I had never even heard of. But I refused to call him. No, if this was God, then God would bring it about. I had learned that my choices only led me into disasters.

When the phone rang the next Saturday morning, just one week after that motorcycle ride, I groaned and turned my head on the pillow. I fumbled with the receiver and banged it against my ear.

Yes? Spit dribbled down my chin.

I don’t know if you remember me … he started.

I nearly choked and bolted upright in bed. I wiped the slobber from my face. It was Tom.

Now, I turned the key and the car’s engine rumbled to life. Anticipation, compulsion, and hope all melded together when I pulled out onto the street. Could this really be God?

Heat still emanated from the black asphalt ribbon of Interstate 5, though we were bearing down on the latter half of September. I glanced at Daniel, Tom’s new employee, in the passenger seat. His jaw-length brown hair whipped in the noisy wind that made conversation impossible. I didn’t have a whole lot to say to the young man anyway. I had only met him when I picked him up in San Jose a couple hours earlier.

The raw stench of manure permeated the hot summer air as we passed the Harris Ranch feed lots. Hundreds and hundreds of cows roasted in shadeless corrals for as far as we could see. Daniel returned my glance and wrinkled his nose while shaking his head. At that moment, I wished I had put up the black rag-top of my army-green MG so we could roll up the windows.

The cows and the odor disappeared behind us. The oasis of the Harris Ranch Restaurant loomed ahead. The Coalinga exit. The exit that led to the small town where Tom kept a post office box, and the town where his father lived with Tom’s stepmother who, incidentally, was only four years older than Tom.

She met us at the sidewalk before we finished climbing out of the car. Her short, curly blonde hair and round face reminded me of pictures of my mother in the fifties. Even her royal blue pedal-pushers and flowered cotton shirt hardly indicated a fashion statement in 1978. My own short dark hair, not curly, slim denim jeans, halter top, and wedge sandals put us in completely different generations despite our proximity in age.

Well, my, my, she drawled, Aren’t you a pretty one?

You must be Georgia. I extended my hand which she shook heartily. I couldn’t imagine what Tom might have told her about me. Her giddy anticipation bubbled over. I was anxious to get directions, get gas, and head up to Tom’s place: The Archer Mine, my possible future.

Nonsense. You need to rest from that long hot drive. I’ve already poured the iced tea. She hurried up the walkway, opened the screen door, and waited for us, her face beaming from ear to ear. Feigning a smile but sighing inside, I politely followed.

After an obligatory half hour, my tires screeched in my hurry to get to the mine. A quick stop at one of the two gas stations in town and we were ready to make the climb up a very winding Los Gatos Canyon Road.

Giant oak trees sprawled across the barren hills. Small twisted scrub oaks huddled in areas of dense foliage. Along the creeks, dry brown grasses and shrubs hinted at earlier lush spring growth. We wove our way up the canyon until tall, scraggly, digger pines made attempts at shade. Dry spears jutted from pale green yucca plants. The red bark of Manzanita trees painted contrasting colors on the late summer pallet of gold, brown, and faded green. The smells were fresh, yet pungent, even smelled hot, if hot can be interpreted as a smell. Lost in my enjoyment of the drive, I would have missed Tom’s old green Ford pick-up truck if Daniel hadn’t spotted it and called out before we drove too far past.

My heart leapt to my throat when I saw him. It melted back down to a puddle in my belly when he grasped my hands in greeting. For a brief moment, panic struck. There were no other houses. There were no cars driving by. We were in the middle of nowhere at the intersection of Tom’s life and mine. The winding asphalt of Los Gatos Canyon could take me back to my world; on the other side of the shiny silver gate lay a world from which I sensed there would be no turning back.

After a few moments of instructions, on which I tried very hard to concentrate, Tom opened the metal-pole gate. He stood and waited until we drove through, then locked it behind us and allowed us to take the lead so we wouldn’t have to eat his dust over the five miles of dirt road. My eyes lingered on the reflection in my rear-view mirror at the safety of the paved road … and at the man who held the keys to my future.

The landscape was much the same as the drive up the paved road, but there were no other dwellings out here. Cows grazed in open spaces and jackrabbits darted across the road in front of us. The five miles of dirt road traveled up and over hills and down through dry, rough, creek beds. My little MG bounced and bumped through hot summer dust over rocks that threatened to eat the rubber right off the tires. At last I noticed the second road heading off to the right, just past the third creek crossing. This was his driveway.

We bounced the final quarter mile alongside the parched creek bed until I reached the final gate. Billowing clouds of dry summer dust swirled and settled behind me. The barbed-wire gate connected to two tall weathered wood posts on either side of the road. A crudely made sign with the words Archer Mine scrawled across it, hung from a wire strung high between the posts. A few small structures nestled further up the narrow canyon. Behind them rose a tall brush-covered mountain with a dirt road steeply zigzagging its way towards the top.

Tom pulled up behind us and stepped down out of his truck. He clipped past without a word and struggled with the gate until it jerked free. He dragged the floppy barbed wire gate in an arc across the road. Then, standing sentry, he extended his arm in invitation for us to drive through.

He actually lives here. I gaped as I drove the last stretch of dirt road to the small white cabin. The structure was definitely small. It didn’t appear much bigger than a storage shed you might find behind a much larger house, only the larger house was missing. The white paint peeled; some boards remained unpainted. Perched atop concrete piers, the cabin rested upon various sizes of small wooden blocks and wedges, I presumed for leveling. Asphalt dribbles stippled and strayed over the sloping gray roof. Across the dirt road from the cabin stood a similar structure except it was black, from age, not paint. A faded red and green roof bore the same telltale signs of asphalt dribbles. A pile of lumber neatly stacked along the side gave the impression this building functioned as a storage shed. Its front entrance covered with crudely wired-together corrugated tin formed a resemblance of a carport.

As I got out of my car, Leo bounded out the screen door of the cabin. He was dressed in his usual greasy jeans, a grungy t-shirt with plenty of holes, and his motorcycle boots. Leo was certainly no Prince Charming, but he was the man who led me to the inescapable truths of Jesus Christ barely six months earlier. Though he was only a few years older than me, he affectionately referred to me as his daughter in Christ.

Sweetheart, he exclaimed as he wrapped his sweaty arms around me. I get to spend the weekend with my two-favorite people.

Daniel unfolded himself from the passenger side of the little sports car. Leo added, Make that my three-favorite people.

The barbed-wire gate entrance to the Archer Mine.

Tom’s cabin at the Archer Mine – 400 square feet of living space.

Daniel was barely twenty-one, but taller than any of us. Lanky, and soft-spoken, he reached out to shake Leo’s hand. His long brown hair fell over his heavy-lidded eyes. Leo grabbed his hand and pulled him into a crushing bear hug.

Time for some grub, Tom interrupted.

You bet, Leo responded and gestured me towards the door. Sweetheart, after you.

Tom jogged onto the weathered wood porch ahead of me and opened the screen door, allowing me to walk in ahead of him.

I stood in the middle of a single unfinished room, not much larger than the playhouse my stepfather built in my childhood. Sunlight poured through the west-facing window without argument from any shades, fan, or air conditioner. Portions of the wall were covered with unpainted sheetrock, the rest left bare exposing framing and insulation. Furniture was an endangered species.

So, this is it, huh? I teased.

Honey, I got a big outdoors. Tom was in no way apologetic for the nature of his home. This was originally built as a lab for the mining operation. The floor is nearly two inches thick. I wasn’t sure why the floor being two inches thick was important, but he gleamed with pride as he spoke about it.

His nearest neighbors, other than the coyotes and rattlesnakes, he told us lived at least eight miles away; the last house we had passed on Los Gatos Canyon Road. The cabin had no electricity. Three kerosene lamps with crystal clear glass chimneys were set about the room, just like in an old western movie. I noticed, with relief, a telephone on an old wooden desk in a corner by another window.

So, I see faucets. Would there happen to be a bathroom nearby? I worried I might have to find an outhouse.

Tom pointed towards the freestanding closet on the other side of the small room. I rounded the corner—no door, no curtain—pretty much open exposure depending on where you stood, though much more preferable than an outhouse. The bathroom, such as it was, boasted an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub, oddly painted on the outside, like the wall behind it, in bright varied-sized rectangles of blue, yellow, and red; like a copy of a Piet Mondrian painting. The toilet itself hid behind a tall, narrow, white, wooden divider, devoid of Piet Mondrian influence. I slowly, silently unzipped my jeans and carefully lowered myself onto the genuine porcelain flushing commode. Though I was grateful for the indoor plumbing, I could still hear the conversations of the three men loud and clear. Embarrassment wrapped its prickly arms around me. There just isn’t any muffling the activities that