In the Shadows of the Master: Silent messengers guided my life to its life purpose

By JK Feldmann-MyrtleJoyce

From an early age, I have received silent messages. Most were guiding or informational. Some relayed current or future events. However, the delivery of one, when I was at my most vulnerable, was as profound and as simple as the ocean is deep. Shortly thereafter, a spiritual revelation exposed my life purpose.
It has taken thirty years of determination, working around ADHD, while learning the art of grammar and how to write a cohesive sentence, along with oceans of frustrating and haunting tears to complete this assignment.
If the choice had been mine-alone, I would have kept everything related to my life and spiritual experiences within myself. It was not! My fervent hope is that sharing IN THE SHADOWS OF THE MASTER with you accomplishes the mission God intended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098341510

Book preview

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© JK FELDMANN-MyrtleJoyce.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-09834-150-3 (printed)

ISBN: 978-1-09834-151-0 (eBook)

Contents

Seeds

Three Weeks Later

Fall 1988

Late Fall 1961

11-15-1964

1974 Miami Beach

December, 1974

South Miami, Florida 1976

December 1988

1989- A Sunny Morning In Late March

April 1989

Illinois June 27th, 1989

Mark Filled in His Side of This Story

Late March 1964

The Locket

7-1-1989 Family Reunion

July 10th

Tuesday Morning- July 11th The Last Morning

Rockford Airport

Sunday, July 16th

July 17th

Funeral

Reception at Danny and Cindy’s

July 25th- Back Home After Funeral

Early Sunday Morning

The Balloon

Summary of Autopsy

Intervention

Conviction

Seeds

Anxious joy flushed through me as I closed the front door of our home. I pranced down the long driveway between the cherry trees laced with pink cotton candy-blossoms that lined each side of it, as if I were one of the excited ponies in the fields of the Potomac Horse Center near our home, At the bottom of it, I veered left past two houses, left again two blocks to Trisha’s house.

I first met Trisha three years ago when she knocked on my door. After introducing herself with a brief family history: she, her husband, Tony, and their three sons lived just around the corner. They had bought the same model house as ours.

Trisha is a devout Catholic, whose childhood was part of a close knit, loving Italian family. After graduating from high school, she married Tony-her childhood sweetheart. Soft spoken and apple sweet, Trisha is curious and steadfast. She is the ideal stay at home wife and mother of the 1950’s. She stands five feet-five inches tall with ash brown wavy hair cut in a bob that touches the pearl studs in her ears. Her matching outfits reflect her conservative nature. I took to Trisha’s down home character, high morals, integrity, and exemplary actions like a fish to water. With people I meet, I am a very social and friendly person who accepts people for whom they are without want or need to change them, at the same time I keep my private life at a safe distance. Over the years, three people whose actions had earned my trust to open my private shell and share some of the secret vulnerabilities within it, Trisha is one of them.

Trisha and I had been out of touch for the last three weeks. She and her family had been vacationing at their condo in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and David, my husband, and I in Los Angeles for a week attending the parties along with Beth’s wedding to Zane. Beth is the youngest daughter of my dearest friends-Ken and Emily Palmer. I met Ken and Emily at my wedding to Tom, my first husband, in 1969. Tom was a real estate agent and Ken was the attorney who handled the legal work for the real estate office where he worked.

After returning from our honeymoon in Las Vegas, the four of us began sharing time together, dinners at home or out, fish dinners at the VFW on Friday’s, weekends picnicking on the Rock River in Tom’s nineteen foot runabout or his parent’s twenty-five foot cabin cruiser.

I married Tom for several reasons; he acted like a gentleman, was close to his parents and sister, and after dating for months had not attempted to get into my pants. I should have questioned this and why on our honeymoon, he played blackjack in the casino until dawn, while I waited for him in the honeymoon suite. I eventually began to question this when after six months of marriage, Tom began staying out-most nights, until the wee hours of the morning. It took weeks for me to build up the nerve to question him about this. His simple reply was that he was visiting with Adam who had recently returned from Viet Nam. Wanting to keep our marriage and my new family intact, while Tom stayed out at night, I kept quiet.

Three months later, Ken called me at the Paradise Beauty Salon, where I was a hair dresser. Tom’s parent’s owned the salon and his sister managed it. He called to advise me that Tom was filing for a divorce. Two days later, I met Ken at Mr. Steak restaurant in Rockford. Sitting across from him in a booth, weeping like a newborn calf who had lost its’ mother, I signed the papers ending my life as Mrs. Tom Doran.

Tom owned a two-bedroom cottage on Rock River, a few houses down from his parent’s home. Because he had everything we needed to start our life as man and wife, prior to our wedding, naively, I agreed with Tom to sell or give away the few pieces of furniture and household items that I owned. I used that money to buy a wedding dress, veil and shoes. Now without warning, I was alone with only my clothes, thirty dollars in the bank and a twenty dollar bill that Tom had left for me on the kitchen counter. I had neither enough money to buy a car or to rent an apartment.

As mom used to scream at me, ‘You’re dummier than dirt’. She was right about that! But I had enough smarts to know that asking my parents or anyone in the family for emotional or financial support would be like trying to find water in a desert.

Like blessing angels, Ken and Emily came to my rescue. Ken purchased a ten by fifty foot partly furnished mobile home and rented it to me for ten dollars a week. Emily shopped yard sales- buying the household items needed to complete furnishing it, so I could begin my new life. Ken and Emily not only supported me financially at this time, they also included me in every aspect of their lives. They and their children became not just best friends but also the surrogate family, of which I was in dire need.

***

When David and I returned from California-a week ago, Trisha was still with her family in South Carolina. She had called last night, and invited me for coffee this morning. I was excited and nervous to talk with her about the high school yearbooks tucked under one arm, and also content with the thought of giving her the hydrangea bush en circled by my other arm. Before I rang her doorbell, I sat the pot next to the front door. After greetings and hugs, I trailed behind her through the foyer, past a powder room and into the kitchen, where she headed toward the stove. I plopped onto a chair at a large-round oak kitchen table. Curling one leg under the other, I laid the yearbooks on it.

JK, Trisha said, slipping on an oven mitt, pulling out a pan from the oven and putting it down on a pad on the counter, Why are you grinning like that? Did you meet some famous movie star while you were in California? Or did you sell a million dollar house?

Grinning? I thought I was just smiling.

Smile- grin. You look like one of those cartoon characters with a toothy ear-to-ear grin.

I didn’t see any movie stars or meet any famous people in California, but yesterday I listed a house on Ancient Oak. I said. But that’s not why I’m grinning, I added, but so softly I knew Trisha did not hear me. I wanted to shout why I was happy, but something held me back

Was your friend’s wedding in Hollywood as glamorous as you imagined?

Oh yes! I exclaimed. Ken and Emily pulled out all the stops to make sure Beth’s wedding was their little girl’s dream come true. The wedding and reception was held in the ballroom of the Hollywood Hilton. To put it simply, the whole setting looked like it had been staged for the Dynasty television show.

Was everyone dressed in fancy clothes?

"Oh yeah. Everyone was dressed-to the nines-like the movie stars walking the red carpet at the Oscars. Trisha, I swear there were more jewels and gold floating around that ballroom than in a window at Tiffany’s.

So...what did you wear?

A pale pink strapless waltz length dress made of silk linen in a rose waffle pattern and a capped sleeve lace gown over it

I’m sure you looked as beautiful as the bride.

Not even close. But David told me that I looked beautiful and that’s all that matters.

I take it you had a good time.

Oh yes! Ken and Emily are like family to me. Sharing time with them and their families is always special The setting was spectacular, the food was delicious, and the band rocked. I chuckled. Just this morning, my wonderful husband complained that I made him dance so much at the wedding that the blisters on his feet are still sore.

Speaking of food, Trisha said with giggle, I just made cinnamon buns."

If you don’t stop feeding me your homemade goodies every time I come over, I slapped a thigh and chuckled, I’m going to have to start walking ten miles five times a week, instead of six. The aroma of cinnamon made my taste buds jump in desire, and that shut down my will to deny Trisha’s delicious treats.

Okay, I’ll take half of one...but only half.

What’s are those? Trisha asked, eying the books sitting on the table in front of me as she placed a cup of steaming coffee and a plate with a cinnamon bun drenched in icing in front of me.

My son’s yearbooks, I answered, grinning so wide, my mouth felt like it had stretched to my scalp. I grabbed the top one and flipped it open to the page I had marked with a bookmark. I pointed to a picture at the top of the page, That’s my son, I exclaimed, Isn’t he handsome?

Trisha stared down at the page, looked at me, and then back to the photo of my son. Except for that huge dimple in his chin, your son looks like a male version of you. You didn’t tell me that you had your son’s yearbooks. She stepped back and looked at me with a puzzled expression. Don’t tell me that you met your son while you were in California. I thought he lived somewhere in Illinois.

He does. He lives with his adopted parents in Loves Park, Illinois or at least I think he does. Last week, I called Harlem High School and ordered yearbooks for the four years that I guessed my son had gone there. They came in the mail yesterday. I’m a little worried, because I’ve only found pictures of him in his sophomore and junior years.

Maybe his parents moved and he graduated.

I doubt that. I said with a heavy sigh, Paul Mark’s adopted dad, is a factory worker and Winnie, his foster mom, is a homemaker. Unless they won the lottery, I doubt that they could afford to move, let alone send Mark to a private school.

Trisha raised her eyebrows and said, I thought you told me your son’s name was David.

It is. I mean it was. I named him David Christopher on his birth certificate, David after his father and Christopher after God. But before Paul and Winnie took him away from me, Paul told me there were going to change his name to Mark Kevin.

Absently I started circling a very-special bracelet of silver and gold on my arm.

Trisha, I’d never do anything that might hurt my son or his parents. But I’d give anything for the chance to tell my son why I had to leave him and that I’ve never stopped loving him. I want to see his face and hear his voice so bad it hurts just thinking about it. You don’t think that’s bad do you?

No. I don’t. But only God knows the answer to that, she replied patting my back, more a rub than a pat. Her gesture showed caring concern. Your son doesn’t look old enough to be in high school.

He must have inherited the young looking gene from me.

I traced a finger across my son’s photo and sighed. Trisha, I can’t believe it, today my son is twenty three-years, five months, and three days old. On November 15th, he’ll be twenty four.

Trisha’s eyes shot open, Geez! You know your son’s age to the day?

I chuckled, I can’t lie to you. This morning, I counted his age to the day.

Elbows on the table, I cupped my chin in my hands. Just think, if I hadn’t called Nancy or met her daughter Donna, I wouldn’t have sent away for these yearbooks or even dared to go beyond dreaming that I could ever meet my son.

Who are Nancy and Donna? she asked with an inquisitive expression.

I peeled off a piece of cinnamon bun and tossed it into my mouth. I let my taste buds savor the cinnamon and sugar for a few moments, before I chewed, swallowed, and answered. Nancy’s my first, cousin. Donna is her birth-daughter. I’ll tell you all about them in a minute. Right now, I need a cigarette. Do you still have an ashtray around anywhere? I asked, wiping my sticky hands on a napkin.

Trisha walked behind me, pulled out a drawer in a narrow side table against the wall, and handed me an ashtray.

With it in hand, I got up and started to walk toward the French doors at the back of the kitchen. You don’t have to go outside, Trisha said, to smoke.

I don’t want my cigarette smoke to ruin the cinnamon smell in the house. I said. Besides, I’d rather smoke where I can look at the park. Oh, I almost forgot, I said, putting the ashtray down on the table. I have a present for you.

A present, but my birthday’s not until October.

It’s October 4th to be exact, I said over my shoulder as I hurried toward the front door. I returned and handed the Hydrangea bush to Trisha.

You must have read my mind, she exclaimed. I was planning to go to the nursery to buy one this week. Are these seed packets?

Silly, I chuckled, I didn’t read your mind. You told me a while ago that you love hydrangeas and hollyhocks. So I bought them for you.

What did I do to deserve them?

For being you. And when they bloom, it’ll remind how much your friendship means to me.

JK, your friendship means a lot to me, too. You didn’t have to buy me anything.

Trisha, just say, ‘Thank You.’ I also bought a hydrangea bush and hollyhock seeds for me. I’ve already planted mine. Hand the pot to me, I said, stretching out my arms. Go collect your gardening tools, so we can dig a home for your flowering friends.

Over the years, only three people had shown me reasons to trust them with some of the traumas from my childhood. David and Trisha were the only ones that I had exposed the seeds, the roots, the thorns and the roses in my life. Fearing people would think I was insane and should be put into a nut house, I had yet to share with anyone that I received messages from silent messengers.

After putting the ashtray in the pot, I walked outside onto the deck. I placed the hydrangea near the steps leading down to the pool area and back yard. Ashtray in hand, I walked over to the deck railing, pulled a pack of Capri’s out of my pocket, and lit one. While drawing on the menthol, I stared in awe at the parade of spring in the meadow of Aberdeen Park beyond Trisha’s fenced yard.

From as far back as I can remember, watching leaves wave on trees, hearing a bird sing or seeing a butterfly float on a breeze brought a serene peace. As a child, I released my sorrows and wishes through poetry and whenever chance presented itself, I sang them to the moon and stars. God had created the birds, the bees, the breeze, and the trees. In the presence of any of nature’s creations, I felt honored and blessed.

Thank you God, for David and our children, for my friendship with Trisha, Ken and Emily. And for the love, grandma, and Aunt Ann gave to me. Most of all thank you for guiding me to Nancy and Donna. Without warning, my mind drifted back to memories I had shared with Nancy during our childhoods.

***

Dad is the middle son of my grandparent’s eight children-five boys and three girls. Most of dad’s siblings lived in other states, but once a year most of them and their families gathered at grandma and grandpa’s farm for a family picnic.

According to family tales, grandpa was a hard working farmer who was also a mean drunk. To ensure their children would be safe, if they needed a fast escape from his alcoholic anger and beatings, grandma had them put on night clothes over day clothes.

For some reason, Dad was his prime target. One time when Dad was in his early teens, grandpa cornered him in a barn and was beating him with a horse whip. When his younger brother, Uncle Henderson, heard dad’s cries, he ran in, jumped on grandpa’s back,