Good Grief: ( Yes It Does Exist )

By Teresa Masters

Teresa Masters is an ordinary mother who was faced with every mothers worst nightmare, not once, but twice. By placing her trust in God, she learned how to take one day at a time and reach peace of mind and is closer with God than she ever thought possible.

In her lifes story she shares how her agonizing cries to God for help and her complete dependence on Him gave her the courage she needed to do what was necessary to provide a safe and peaceful environment for her children. Then tragedy blindsided her twice, leaving her heart shattered for life and learning to live without her children.

Instead of giving in to despair, Teresa turned to songwriting and singing - achieving nationwide acclaim - and channeled her grief into a mission to help others find God in their darkest hour. She created a support group for mothers who, like herself, had lost children. Together they found a safe haven with each other and a bond that continues today.

Teresas burning desire is for God to use her story and the lessons shes learned to help others until the day He calls her home. In this book, she shares the steps she took to help her emerge from the depths of her grief to a life of peace and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512730326

Teresa Masters

Teresa Masters lives in Northeast Tennessee with her husband, three canine children, and one sassy cat. She and her husband Larry are active members of their church where Teresa enjoys serving God through the music ministry. She is a singer/songwriter with a passion for gospel music. One of her songs, “I Got Mercy,” was released in 2014 and has been played across the nation on Southern Gospel Radio.

Book preview

1

M y name is Teresa. I was born the third oldest of nine children to Bob and Carol Ayers in 1956. My father, originally from Erwin, Tennessee, was stationed in the U.S. Navy in Chincoteague, Virginia. My mother was born and raised in Chincoteague. My parents met on a blind date, and after a few months of dating, they were married. They were both young; Mom was 15 and Dad was 19. Right away, my parents began their family.

In the early ’60s, Dad took a job in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and moved our family there. My dad was lucky to land this job. He was a spreader and cutter for a coat company. It was a good thing this new job paid well because our family was beginning to grow. I heard Dad say many times that his main concern was taking care of his family. He was a hard worker and took pride in his work. Dad held the job at the coat company for several years and never missed a day’s work unless he was sick or on vacation.

After moving to New Jersey, it seemed like Mom had a baby every year. My mother was never able to work outside the home. My goodness, she had the hardest job of all. Going to work would have been a vacation next to taking care of nine children. I appreciate all the sacrifices my parents made for us. However, sometimes the choices they made caused our family great grief. Still, they were my parents, and even though they weren’t the best role models, I loved them.

My father began drinking very early in his life. I don’t remember ever seeing Dad without a can of beer in his hand. When he was drinking he could get mean. At night, Mom and Dad would have arguments and we could hear them through our bedroom doors. It didn’t sound good and always scared us. It wasn’t unusual for us to wake up the next morning and see Mom with a black eye, a busted lip, and bruises on her face. After a while, the abuse was no longer hidden behind closed doors. Over the years, I witnessed Dad hitting Mom many times. We children were always afraid when arguments broke out between them, for we knew what to expect.

I often wondered why Mom put up with this but where was she going to go with all those children? How would she live? Mom had no professional skills. She didn’t finish high school and never even took the time to learn how to drive a car. But my parents always seemed to work it out, unlike many couples in marriages today. These days, if it doesn’t work out people often call it quits rather than work at it. Through the years as I was growing up, my parents’ actions definitely made me think of how I wanted to live my life when I got older.

We children in no way were immune from our father’s drunken rages. He didn’t hesitate to pull off his belt and beat us black and blue. There were times when we misbehaved and deserved punishment. However, at least 50 percent of the time I know it wasn’t necessary. It was because his drinking changed him for the worse.

None of the houses we lived in had enough bedrooms so we children had to share. Most of the houses had only three bedrooms. Mom and Dad got their own room. My two older sisters, Sheila and Vonnie, shared a room. The last room was for me, my younger sister Bobbie, and our younger brothers. There would be at least three beds squeezed into the room for us to share with hardly any room left to walk around. I never complained about our lack of material things because I knew Dad worked hard for us.

Every night, Dad would sit down and watch television in the living room while drinking his beer. At night when we were put to bed it was meant for us to go to sleep. No talking, laughing, or noise of any kind. Almost always, some of us would be fighting or talking out loud. Dad would yell at us to shut up and go to sleep or he would come in with his belt. When you have several kids in one room, someone is going to screw up and make noise. Then, here would come Dad, no questions asked. He would jerk the covers off each one of us and let the belt fly. He didn’t care who was acting up; we all had to pay the price. His reason for whipping all of us was to make sure he got the right one causing the problem. This always terrified me because Dad hit hard, leaving my skin stinging for hours. I would get so mad at him for treating us this way. After that we would be good for a few days then forget all about it, act up, and get it again.

Many times we went to school with imprints from the belt buckle on our legs and arms. The stripes on our backs were covered by our clothes and not in clear view for anyone to see. Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s when I was in school, teachers looked the other way when seeing evidence of a child who had been beaten. In this day and time my dad would have been arrested for child abuse.

In spite of our constant punishments and fights my siblings and I were close. Of course, we fought with each other - that was expected. Let someone else bother one of us and they had all of us to deal with. I’m proud to say to this day we are still as close as we were back then. The older girls never got in trouble. They were good girls and didn’t rock the boat. I remember always looking up to them; they were pretty and popular, but still bossy. My sisters watched over and protected us, but they still reminded us they were in charge and we’d better do what we were told.

Each one of us made our own contribution to the family. Mine was to serve as the entertainer. I loved to sing and would always put on musical shows for my family and friends. If our school had a glee club, I was a member. At Christmastime, I would always talk Bobbie into going door to door in the neighborhood to sing Christmas carols. I loved this, and the icing on the cake was that we were always rewarded with coins. Sometimes we each would make as much as $2 a night. Yeah, candy money!

My father always told me I had a beautiful voice and he loved to hear me sing. That made me feel special. At least I did something he was proud of. I definitely wanted to be a singer when I grew up. After all, Dad said I could sing better than anyone. In spite of his drinking problem he was a good father.

I never hid the fact that I was a daddy’s girl. From the time I was nine years old until the time I left home, each night I packed my dad’s lunch for the next day. This helped Dad so he didn’t have to rush to get ready for work in the morning. I can’t remember how it started, but for several years this was my job. I’m not sure why Mom didn’t make his lunch, but I was happy to help. We were always fed, clothed, and had a roof over our heads. Looking back at all the physical corrections we got, I came to realize that even though we didn’t like the punishment it taught us respect. In no way would any of us sass Mom or Dad. We did what we were told the first time. Forget screaming at them or telling them how much we hated them. Oh, and dare any of us throw a temper tantrum - I promise we would not have been able to sit for a week. When we went to visit family or friends all of us would sit on the couch unless we were told we could get up. We kept our mouths shut and gave no reason to get our butts beaten after we arrived back home.

We moved a lot over the years. One day when I was nine years old, Dad told us that we were moving again. I believe Dad was a rolling stone. He never could stay in one place too long. I don’t think Mom cared where she lived, for she never said anything. She was busy taking care of us, so busy she could never take the time to sit down with us to play or just put us in her lap to read a storybook. My parents weren’t huggers and it was rare for one of them to tell us children they loved us. I guess they thought it wasn’t necessary. Actions spoke louder than words. They took care of us and they believed that was all we should expect.

2

F inally, we made the move across town and settled into the new house . The neighborhood was nice. All seemed good! In no time, my mother was pregnant again with my youngest brother, her ninth and last child. By then, we girls were growing older and helping Mom more around the house.

We had a park down the road from our house. My siblings and I played there most of the time. The park also had a pool that was really nice. I was outgoing and was able to make friends quickly with other children. One day while we at the park I ran home to get something we needed for a game. I can’t remember what it was or why it was needed. As I entered the house it was quiet, but this was not unusual. I knew Dad was at work, we kids were at the park, and Mom probably was visiting a neighbor, one of her friends. So I walked upstairs to my bedroom to find what I needed for our game.

As I got to the top landing of the steps I heard funny noises. I turned and looked toward the room where the noise was coming from and could see clearly into my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My mother and some man were in the bed together. They weren’t even under the covers. The two of them were lying there and I could see they both were naked. This scared me! Luckily they were busy with each other and didn’t hear me come in the house. I wasn’t sure what to do. I slowly turned around and, as quietly as possible, walked back down the stairs to the door I came in. I then walked out the door, turned around, and walked back in, this time slamming the door and making as much noise as I could. I stomped up the steps letting them know someone was in the house. By the time I got back upstairs I only saw my mother. She was in the bathroom running a bath. I got what I came for and ran out. I tried my best not to think about it the rest of the day.

My sister Vonnie had a babysitting job in the neighborhood and sometimes she would take me with her. She was babysitting that night and asked me if I wanted to go. As we walked that evening to her job, I told her all about what I had seen at the house that day. I begged her not to tell anyone. Of course, she said she wouldn’t.

A couple of days later Vonnie and I got into an argument. Mom came into the room where we were arguing and yelled at us to cut it out. At that time Vonnie blurted out, Teresa said she saw you in the bed with a man. Oh, my goodness! I could feel my heart fall to my feet. I knew I was as good as dead! Mom looked at me like she could kill me! Then she said at the top of her lungs, That is a lie! She then turned and walked out of the room. I was sure she would just forget about it, after all, she knew I