Restored: Unraveled-Rewoven Book 3: Unraveled-Rewoven, #3

By Sondra Umberger

A novel based on true events. CATHERINE—with well-guarded boundaries nailed into place is determined never to be mistreated or deceived again by any man. Separated and on her own, she keeps HUNTER, her husband at a distance, demanding that he faces his demons of addiction.

 

Christian counselor, MARION, encourages Catherine, also known as CATIE, to unlock the black box of her hidden childhood secrets, known as her 'lost years. Frightened and fragmented, only seeing pieces to the puzzle, she perseveres. Images appear. Secrets revealed. Questions are answered as the recollections unravel. Catherine experiences God's provision, protection, and exercises the unique gifts he gave her as a child.

 

A time—meant to be silenced.

• As darkness is uncloaked, a spiritual battle erupts. Is it all too much?
• Will they overcome the formidable odds stacked against them?
• Will Catherine trust an invisible God and a husband whose betrayal amplifies her brokenness? 

The unspoken—is exposed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sondra Umberger
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953202055

Sondra Umberger

Sondra Umberger, Christian counselor, an ordained minister, and President of Healing Hearts Ministry, Inc., Connecting to Christ, offers faith-based materials and counsel on how to prevail over the challenges and struggles of life. Sondra instructs on a variety of topics, including confronting and overcoming abuse. Sondra loves to laugh and enjoy outdoor activities and adventures with her husband in the vast playground of Colorado.  If you'd like to connect, find her at: www.connectingtochrist.com, on Facebook at: facebook.com/SondraUmbergerAuthor or via email at: [e-mail].

Book preview

Prologue

Marion January 1997

The early morning rays stream between my office blinds as I set my mug on the desk and shrug out of my coat. The golden beams are deceiving, for a cold snap has rendered everything frigid. I warm my hands on the mug and turn my back to the wintery landscape, settling into my desk chair.

EVALUATION. The word is written in large bold letters across the top of Catherine’s well-worn file. It is my reminder to make an assessment. I take a big gulp of coffee to fortify my writing. 

Catherine’s lengthy journey to unearth her childhood memories has been difficult—a daunting task. Following her mother’s unexpected death (perhaps murder), six-year-old Catherine, called Catie, experienced horrific abuse at the hands of her deceiving stepmother, Anna, and her family: Dean, Ivy, and Buck. All massively steeped in the satanic occult.

Catie battled to save herself and her baby brother, Charley. Although continuously overpowered, she fought against their evils. Believing their deadly threats to kill her father, Forest Williams, and three older sisters, Charlotte, Claudia, Carolyn, the young Catherine, aka Catie, suffered silently. She was convinced that they killed her mother and believed her silence was protecting her loved ones.

Catherine feels robbed of a mother and grieves her innocence ripped away. Nevertheless, her determination to find the truth about a time meant to be forgotten, referred to as her ‘lost years,’ has proven rewarding. At the same time, the struggle has strengthened her faith. 

I commemorate Catherine’s completion of her goal to become a Christian faith-based counselor. She has the tenacity to help those who are struggling. Her heart and mind are one of a survivor. Her dependence upon God gives her confidence and courage to wage spiritual warfare on behalf of her clients. She has prevailed in her chosen profession and has established a ministry and private practice.

Even with Catherine’s demanding schedule, she remains committed to receiving personal counseling. Consistent sessions have brought healing and a plethora of answers about her past, with memories surfacing regularly. 

Unfortunately, her present circumstances have collided with yet another heartbreak—her husband, Hunter’s deceptive secrets.

Sadly, the couple’s relationship is wavering. Nevertheless, I am pleased with how Catherine is implementing healthy boundaries and states she will not allow herself to be dishonored—any longer—by anyone. 

I sign and date the entry and set the chart to the side. 

Catherine January 1997

I bolt awake! Not the dream again!

I turn over to look at Hunter. Did I wake him?

The bed is empty. I’m alone. 

I glance at the clock before falling back against the damp sheets to catch my breath. Six a.m.! And it’s my day off. Unbelievable! I huff out a sigh of frustration.

My counseling appointment with Marion isn’t until 1 p.m. I dare not fall back to sleep. I don’t trust the nightmare not to return or my ability to shake myself free from its haunting grip. 

Having my husband, Hunter, at home to shake me awake is not a valid enough reason to be reconciled. 

I replay the dream within my mind, flashing through each scene like flipping through index cards. Fragments of pictures appear—quickly, frame by frame. Nothing is detectable until it stops—my mind rests on the likeness of a large pair of hands on top of my hands. Always the same, like a transparency in an old anatomy book, placing one image over the other, both are visible. The strength of the man’s hands overpowers mine.

I gasp. It takes my breath.

I move to the next scene. My gaze falls upon a beautiful, pure, yellow satin. The crushing and kneading of the silky fabric begin—over and over. The bundling of the cloth becomes tighter and tighter. I shake my head in an attempt to erase the emotions that accompany these images.

With each gnashing of the fabric, dread and anxiety envelop me. Even now—while I’m wide-awake, the emotions persist; I am unnerved, raw, and edgy. 

When will this torment end? 

My mind moves through the dream—analyzing the rustling of the fabric, followed by a sharp pitch of it being torn. Ripped. It hurts. I grab at my stomach. My heart aches for the yellow fabric. Robbed, ripped, and plundered of its original beauty and splendor. Now, ugly, defiled, and disheveled. I can’t tolerate looking at the fabric any longer. 

I hate this dream. Lord, why won’t you show me the nightmare’s entire meaning? How much longer must I wait? 

I’m tired of crying. It doesn’t do any good; it only makes my eyes red and puffy. I force several determined blinks to fight back my tears. My mind returns to examining the dream.

The scene changes without warning. A box of wooden matches comes into focus. I stare at the sticks, stacked in order with red tips, relieved the satin has left my sight. There’s a rising urgency. Panic. There’s no time. I can’t catch my breath. If only I could get ahold of the box of matches—even one match, to hide it. Then, I might be able to stop what’s about to happen. I can’t—I can’t reach them. Pressure sits heavy, knowing I must! I must stop this! 

Stop what? What must I stop? What am I trying to prevent? 

I ask the same questions and always fail to resolve the mystery, but I continue to search for answers.

A horror approaches. It habitually draws near, encroaching, inching its way towards me. Too close. I must hide. Fight. Wickedness surrounds me. Pitch-black darkness swallows me in the same familiar paralyzing hold. I can’t move!

My heart pounds, and it races within my chest. It’s difficult to breathe. I can’t take any more probing or the rehashing of the dream. 

I bound out of bed. 

I need a shower. 

Yes, I need a shower to take my mind off the same old tormenting nightmare. I want to wash away the defilement and filth, if only for a moment. I sigh. 

I stand to walk into the bathroom. My knees weaken—slapped by the realization of a new nightmare with my husband, Hunter—his lies, deception, and betrayal!

Chapter One

Marion January 1997

Catherine arrives at the office early. I offer her a magazine to browse through while I finish scheduling an appointment for another client. I had planned to read the magazine myself over my upcoming 30-minute lunch break. My sack lunch consists of chopped raw vegetables: celery, cucumber, broccoli, and precisely one-half cup of low-fat cottage cheese. The menu is not very exciting, to say the least. Due to Catherine’s early arrival, I decide to postpone my feast of rabbit food to follow her appointment. 

Her golden-brown hair lies in soft long curls below her shoulder, and her makeup is flawless, as usual. Catherine’s typical attire is to dress fashionably, as it is today, but something is not right. She seems edgy as she perches on the love seat. Did something happen that caused her to come early? Before I have a chance to inquire, Catherine begins talking.

Marion, I’m sorry, I’m early. I’ve been a little stir-crazy and needed to get out of the house. I just need to blow off some steam. Catherine does not waste any time to do just that, ‘blow off some steam.’  

I detest having to be the one to expose my husband’s… She chokes on her words. Hunter’s betrayal. His hidden porn addiction makes me sick. And I’m saddened…no—angry, infuriated…. 

Catherine reaches for the list of emotions on the coffee table. She scans the page, searching for exact words to describe her feelings. 

"I’m humiliated. I am humiliated beyond words by Hunter’s lack of commitment. Commitment to make me and our marriage a priority." She sniffles. Her teal-colored eyes look even brighter next to her red-rimmed lids. 

I push a new box of tissue in her direction and gesture for her to continue.

I know I have value, and that porn is his issue, but I can’t tell you how much this triggers me. It takes me back—too far back. I see my husband as one those men lusting at… She shakes her head as if shaking the thoughts and images out of her mind. I keep telling myself that I am significant, accepted, and secure. I know the Lord loves and cherishes me, as well as my friends and family. I refuse to allow any lies to flood my mind, but it’s an ongoing battle.

She dabs at her nose. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what is true. Our relationship seems like it’s all lies. How long has Hunter been lying to me? His deception triggers my trust on so many levels. I feel so defiled, dirty, and now more than ever. I question everything. How could he do this to me, especially knowing my background? Didn’t our vows, his promises, mean anything to him? I am supposed to be the only woman in his life. He said he would always honor and protect me. That proves to be a lie. I feel so … She stops for a second as if at a loss of words. Without you, Marion, I wouldn’t have made it this far, which only reinforces having a good counselor. Thank you for being here for me. Her shoulders sag.

I offer a soft smile. Catherine, I am always here for you. Sexual betrayals are heartbreaking and all encompassing. They are very complicated on various levels. It is difficult for you because it involves your past, present, and your future. I am sure you understand that it is easier to recognize clients’ issues more clearly than your own.

Yes. Catherine releases a soft sigh. With clients’ issues, it’s easy to remain neutral. You know the professional distancing and all. She seems to be lost in thought as she twists the tissue in her hand. However, when it comes to my problems, I’m so emotionally charged. I can’t see the forest for the trees. 

I nod my head. I agree. I feel the same way about my personal struggles, and I appreciate your wisdom and encouragement—when I have asked, I say and wink to acknowledge that our relationship over the years has blossomed into a friendship.

She smiles and settles deeper into the love seat. 

Marion, how much more does Hunter expect me to take? I can’t handle any more of this heartbreak. Frustration laces her tone. I’m dealing with… she counts on her fingers, …the recurring nightmare that still haunts me, the resurfacing memories from my lost years, and all the abuse it entails. And not to forget my counseling ministry. 

She lets out a long huff. And now this—my husband and our marriage and PORN! 

I interject. Do not lose sight. You have done an excellent job of facing your past. You easily recognize the paradigms of false beliefs and replace the lies with the truth. You are working successfully through the forgiveness process and applying healthy resolutions. I am amazed at the strength with which God has gifted you. And my dear, as you depend on the Lord, he will guide you through these challenges as well. I tilt my head, gesturing for her agreement.  

Catherine’s shoulders soften. She acknowledges my words with a nod, and then begins to rifle through her book bag in search of something. She retrieves a silver tin of mints. 

Marion, my mouth is so dry. Must be the stress. She lifts the container and directs it toward me. Care for a mint? Sugar-free. 

Yes. Thank you. I savor the flavor because I am always hungry with this bland diet. The tiny sweet mint curbs my sugar cravings, or that is what I tell myself. 

Catherine, have you made any decisions? I ask to redirect her back on topic.

Yes, she declares. I’m taking a stand, regardless of my pain and the disappointments our choices have brought upon our marriage.

Are you breaking up or asking Hunter to leave—permanently? My words catch in my throat.

Yes. Most definitely. She tightens her lips. If…necessary.

I jot down the details of our conversation. Catherine reclines on the love seat and vents her exasperation and discontentment. She pours out profound feelings, deep-rooted within her soul. 

I can’t believe how bad it hurts. I feel so rejected. She places her hand on her chest. It feels like I’ve been shot through the heart. A slight smile curls at the side of her mouth. Oh my gosh, I sound like this great rock song… she breaks into song and sings the lyrics. Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame; you give love a bad name.

Catherine taps her toe to an invisible beat. She seems to find balance in her sadness by seeking enjoyable things. She continues to think aloud, a method used to sort through options and draw closer to a decision. I sit calmly and interject several open-ended questions to help her through the process. I check my watch, aware that our session is coming to an end.

I am sorry for your disappointment and sadness. Please pray for confirmation before you come to any conclusions. As a counselor, you know this information; however, Catherine, as a reminder, do not make any emotional decisions. Those types of choices often lead to regret as well as remorse. The enemy is always tempting, deceiving, and accusing. The battle is for your mind. It is important to evaluate every thought for truth.

I tilt my head and raise my brows to gather her full attention. "I acknowledge Hunter has made mistakes, and pornography is a huge offense. I can visibly see that he has deeply hurt you. However, to bring some balance into this conversation, I would like to point out it does not negate the positive and supportive actions of love he has shown you over the last five years. It would be unwise to lose sight of those factors."

Catherine nods and gathers her belongings. I appreciate your support. I’m just so confused. I don’t know what to believe. I just need time to grieve and try to heal. She blinks back her tears and lets out a lingering moan. Grieve and heal; it sounds like the story of my life.

  As she stands to leave, I remind her of the truth. 

Remember to search for your comfort in the Lord. His presence and grace are far greater than the present painful disappointment you are facing.

She sniffles, and with her chin held high, she says, My hope is beyond the grave, beyond this life. The corners of her mouth turn up into a weak smile. Deep sadness shadows her eyes. 

Ironically, the horrific memories Catherine endured as a child when they called her Catie, has given her the courage to look death in the face. Death can take on numerous manifestations: the death of a friend or a foe, the death of a dream, the death of a relationship, and in this case, the possible death of a marriage.  

After compiling my notes from our session, I date my entries then close the worn, curled-cornered, manila file. I slide Catherine’s folder back into the filing cabinet. 

She has come such a long distance. Life has been a challenging climb, and with each summit of success, another mountain appears. Nevertheless, Catherine keeps trekking in her search for truth and freedom. 

Following my caseload of clients for the day, I feel rewarded by the results. I look around my office to make sure it is neat, tidy, and dust-free before making my way to the break room. After dining on my less-than-satisfying rabbit food, I stand, only to notice one clean cup on the countertop. 

Ah…a cup of hot tea with cream sounds wonderful as I contemplate a few minutes to relax and thumb through my recent home interior magazine. 

My overstuffed chair cushions my back as I ease back and elevate my legs onto a soft but firm ottoman. I slowly savor a sip of soothing tea and close my eyes. The magazine rests on my lap. 

My mind wanders off to thoughts of new anticipation after meeting Anthony through the personal ads. I smile, remembering Catherine’s encouraging words. She says I am destined to obtain the desires of my heart. My heart flutters with excitement. 

Suddenly uncertainty invades my mind. I am challenged to believe that destiny holds anything promising for myself, much less the desires of my heart. Why does it seem too good to be true? Why do I doubt love will ever find me? 

Life has a way of unraveling. However, even amid the loose threads, I remind myself that we all have choices. 

I doodle on the magazine cover while searching my mind for answers. What will I choose? 

What will Catherine choose? 

Will she, will I, run or hide to avoid our fears? Will we listen and wait upon the Lord? How far will we charge forward in obedience? Will we rise to the call for action, or will the temptation of doing nothing entangle us in idleness? All choices!

My thoughts wander to Catie and her choices….

Chapter Two

Catie Winter 1964

If I were given a choice of snow or no snow on Christmas, I’d always choose snow. I gaze out my bedroom window at the white flakes, the sparkly kind—my favorite. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without snow. I’d sure miss it, but never as much as I miss Mommy, which is every day, and especially at Christmas. I don’t understand why God needed to take her to heaven, but I’ve finally figured out that she’s never comin’ home. 

My tummy stirs, a strange rumblin’. Suddenly it feels icky. Too much candy yesterday? The potato salad? In a flash, I’m sweaty, hot, just not myself. My mouth waters like a runnin’ faucet, makin’ me swallow fast.

I toss my blanket off and sit on the side of my bed. My sister, Carolyn, and bratty stepsister, Melinda, are still sleepin’. I tiptoe into my older sisters’ bedroom; Charlotte’s the oldest, and Claudia is next. Claudia’s still sleepin’ with drool runnin’ out the side of her mouth. Charlotte’s propped up with pillows against the headboard. She looks as green as I feel. Her big beautiful Cleopatra eyes even look droopy.

Char? You not feelin’ good? 

Not so good. Feel like I need to throw up. 

Me too. I groan. But don’t tell Daddy ’cuz I want to go to Grandpa and Granny Grunt’s tonight. I love to hear their stories about Mommy. I miss her so-o-o-o much. Do you? 

Charlotte makes a sad nod. I crawl up on the bed and snuggle next to her. Pullin’ the covers up to my neck, I gently push Claudia over. She moves but doesn’t wake. I lie there for a minute, till I start to feel warm again—then hot. 

Charlotte, you feel hot?

Yeah. She moans. Hope we’re not coming down with the flu. 

Me too. Not today. Maybe it’ll go away? I just have to go to Grandpa and Granny Grunt’s tonight. Christmas Eve is my favorite night of the whole entire year. Pray with me that we don’t get sick. 

I bow my head. Please, Lord, let us not be sick on this special day. Amen.  

We close our eyes, hopin’ to wake up all better. 

No such luck. 

Charlotte rockets out of bed, barely makin’ it to the toilet. I follow but don’t make it. Vomit spews all over the floor. 

Claudia, all sleepy-eyed, peeks her head around the corner of the bathroom door. Whatcha doin’? 

She jumps back, and her blonde ponytail sways. Yuck! It stinks to high heaven. You guys sick? She turns and yells toward the stairs. Dad, Charlotte and Catie are sick! They’re puking their guts out all over everything! 

Daddy’s shoes clank as he scrambles up the steps. He places his palm on our foreheads.  

Gosh! You girls are burning up!

He takes our temperatures. Neither of us hears the numbers, but Daddy’s face says it all. 

My baby brother, Charley, and younger stepsister, Shawnee, wave goodbye from the front door as Daddy and Anna put us in the back seat of the car. 

Carolyn must’ve just woken up, ’cuz she runs out of the house without a coat, hollerin’ at us. Catie, Charlotte, what’s wrong? Where are you going?

Anna yells, Get back in the house before you catch pneumonia. That’s all I need is three kids sick. She waves her hand at Carolyn to get out of the way before she slams the car door. 

Carolyn waves goodbye then wrinkles up her nose at Anna and walks back into the house, stiff-backed with her fist clenched as we pull out of the driveway. Carolyn hates Anna and calls her our step-monster behind her back. 

And I agree. 

The kind nurses wheel Charlotte and me into the emergency room. We’re weak as kittens, unable to walk. But we’re not throwin’ up anymore. I cover my eyes. The hospital lights hurt and are way too bright, more like the light on one of those giant locomotive trains.

After takin’ our temperatures—again—three doctors come into our room to talk to Daddy. They use big words like; confused, perplexed, and uncertain, a challenging diagnosis. 

I think they’re makin’ excuses ’bout not knowin’ why our temperatures spiked. They’re probably a’scared of lookin’ stupid. When I’m at school, if I don’t know the answer, I won’t raise my hand, ’cuz I don’t want to look like a big dumb-head either. 

The doctor with a big nose is the only one who talks. He speaks to Anna and Daddy. I will be the doctor who handles your children’s case. 

Mr. and Mrs. Williams, I believe it would be dangerous to allow the children to leave the hospital. I understand it’s Christmas Eve; however, it’s in their best health interest to stay a couple of days. We need to secure their temperatures and finish running tests. Your family doctor is Dr. Noir? Is that correct? 

Anna nods. 

The doctor writes on his big writin’ tablet.  

Dr. Noir will be notified of your children’s admission, and we will work with him on the issues at hand.

My eyes widen as I listen. NO, Daddy! It’s Christmas Eve! I’ll die if I can’t go to Grandpa’s and Granny Grunt’s. I promise I’ll be good. Can’t we just come back afterward? Please, please? 

I beg all three doctors, puttin’ both hands to my mouth as if I’m prayin’, which I am. Please, Jesus, make the doctors let Charlotte and me go. Please. I mean pretty please with a cherry on top.

The big-nosed doctor looks down at my chart. I’m sorry, Miss Catie, but you and your sister will be spending Christmas with us. I promise you can order all the Jell-O and ice cream that you want. 

He sends me a quick, straight-line smile. I’ve never seen a smile like that before. 

I’m too weak to put up a fuss but plead one more time. Mr. Doctor, I just have to go to my grandparents for Christmas Eve.  

He nods at the other doctors, and they walk out of the room. I don’t have the strength to cry, not even one tear. 

Daddy, who’ll get our new nightgowns and candy? I wear Granny Grunt’s nightgown every Christmas Eve. I’ve never missed a year in my whole entire life. Never! I just have to go! I whimper.

Peanut, I’ll bring your gowns tomorrow with some of your presents. It will be too late to bring them tonight. It will be after visiting hours. 

Daddy runs his fingers through the sides of his brown hair. Some of the hairs are turnin’ silver and sparkle like the tinsel on a Christmas tree. He kisses me on my forehead. His face is scrunched up with worry and sadness, makin’ me feel bad for complainin’.

"Thanks, Daddy. Give Granny and Grandpa hugs and kisses from me. Ask them if they can come to visit so that I can hear their stories about Mommy. Also, ask if I can have extra candy, since I’m—I mean, since we are in the hospital. And out of all the days, it has to be my favorite holiday, I moan, Christmas!" 

The nurses keep givin’ us shots. I’ve counted. Five whole times! Charlotte says only two were shots. The others were takin’ blood. 

That doesn’t matter. All those needles hurt, I whine and stick out my lower lip. Charlotte has an answer for everythin’. She thinks she knows the whole kit and caboodle since she just turned fifteen.

Catie, you’re an eight-year-old young lady now. You need to have more courage. 

I frown. I am brave, braver than you know, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck in this dumb hospital. I sure wish we could escape, but I don’t have the energy even to think up a plan. I rub my poundin’ temples. My head hurts. It throbs. And my eyes ache every time they flick on those blindin’ lights. I point to the ceilin’.

I cry, but without tears. I’m so sick, that somehow my eyes don’t leak anymore. 

I watch the door, lookin’, and hopin’ to see a nurse. Some ice cream or Jell-O would help me feel better. After our last shots, the nurse didn’t come back with our treats. That doctor lied about us bein’ able to have all the ice cream and Jell-O we want. I give up waitin’ and fall off to sleep.

Someone shakes my arm. I rub my eyes, then squint and look out into the room. Everythin’ is blurry at first but quickly comes into focus. I’m in the hospital. The sting of not goin’ to my real mommy’s parents on Christmas Eve sets in and hurts my heart. I let out a moan of disappointment.

Hospitals are supposed to be places where you rest to get better. Another lie. It seems like every few minutes, someone comes in and wakes me up, wreckin’ all my dreams. 

This time it’s our family doctor, Dr. Devil-Noir, and his icky evil nurse. 

Well, if it isn’t Miss Catie and Miss Charlotte. Merry Christmas, little ladies.

Right about then, jingle bells sound from the hallway. Behind the doctor, a fluffy white ball on a red cap bounces my way. Santa? The jolly round man squeezes his potbelly past the doctor to come over to my bed. 

Not feelin’ well, I muster up a small squeal of excitement and look at Charlotte, puzzled. She smiles and raises her eyebrows; knowin’ Melinda has already told me Santa isn’t real. We both keep quiet. 

Santa waddles over and hands me a paint-by-number gift set. He chuckles while he gives Charlotte a child’s blow-up plastic doll. All I want to do is sleep. I force a polite smile. 

Thank you, Mr. Santa Claus. Merry Christmas, I say as I fall back on my pillow.

Dr. Noir stands next to my bed. Don’t get too comfortable, Little Lady. I need to take you to run some tests. He says. His dark shadow shades my eyes from the bright mornin’ sun that shines in through the window.

Nurse, bring the wheelchair, Dr. Noir orders in a gruff voice.

More tests? Will I have to get more shots? I whine.

Only if you want to get better. He pulls back the covers and scoops me up in his arms. He carries me to the wheelchair. 

Will I need more tests too? Charlotte sweetly asks from her bed. 

We’ll see. I’ll know more after I do a few checks with Catie, he says, talkin’ over his shoulder as he walks out of the room. 

The nurse pushes my wheelchair and follows Dr. Noir. The hallway is busy, cluttered with people on gurneys. Miss