Gift of God: Finding Treasure in the Darkness

By T. Lerisa Simon

God Where are You? Pleasehelp.

If those words sound familiar to you, then you already know that sometimes life gets complicated. Unexpected challenges can test our faith and leave us searching for answersoften in the dark.

In this autobiography, T. Lerisa Simon uses her lifes challenges to explore love and loss, rebellion and redemption. Gift of God journals her babys fight to survive and her familys struggle with the turmoil that follows his birth. She also shares her own fight for faith, bringing every reader a message of hope by revealing the lessons shes learned.

This is a true story of resilience and discovery. It is an exploration of the dark places where miracles are born; where endurance leads to hope, and hope lights the way to faith

And to the gift thats waitingfor you.

So, if youve been hurt, confused and frustrated, wondering where God is in your dark place, this book offers the encouragementand enlightenmentyouve been looking for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512735918

T. Lerisa Simon

T. Lerisa Simon was born and raised on the Caribbean island of Antigua. After graduating from the University of the West Indies, she worked as a teacher in Antigua and St. Kitts. She loves the Lord, and strives never to forget that she is a daughter of the King. She lives in Antigua with her husband, Reid, and their son, Matthew (Hebrew: ‘Gift of God’).

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© 2016 .

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, Copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-3592-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3593-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3591-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016905007

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/14/2016

Contents

ONE…

TWO…

THREE…

FOUR…

FIVE.

SIX.

SEVEN…

A Prayer for you

AfterWord

About the author

Lord, this is for You.

Well—it was always Yours. But now we both know it.

I love You. Thank You.

For everything.

Reid,

I don’t know anyone who would have taken with me the steps of faith that you have. I thank God for you. I love you, BDC. Thank you… for loving me.

Thank you, Matthew, for teaching me to never give up. Daily.

To our family—I can’t imagine the mess we might have been without your support—thank you. And thanks, Sones, for believing when I wasn’t so sure, as always. Keep seeking, girl.

Dr. K., you are truly a treasure. Thank you for being extraordinary. And thanks to Nurse B., her kind NICU nurses, and to everyone who prayed with us and for us. We are especially grateful for the support of our parish families in DNECA, New York and beyond.

To Reverend Algernon Lewis: thank you for the message that changed the game. In season and out—keep saying what He tells you.

And, finally, thanks to everyone who shared with me, who let me in—and led me to begin this journey.

I have

No lonely castles in dark forests,

No rusty shield,

No empty promise.

But—

I leave

you a legacy in these words.

I hope

it is enough.

ONE…

…of the most complicated aspects of telling any story, I think, is figuring out where the beginning is. That’s exactly what I’m doing here: finding the place where it began.

This much I know: there’s something I have to share with you, and telling you this story is going to be a big part of that.

It’s the story of our son, Matthew; the story that changed everything, like the way I approach motherhood and life now.

On some level, I always imagined that I would be a mother—someday. But, for me, the concept of motherhood was vague and uncomplicated. Even in marriage, that vision was childlike: twin girls with perfect little braids or ponytails.

If I’d been told at any stage of my life that I would be the mother of a premature baby who wasn’t expected to live, it would have been hard to fit that into my preconceived ideas. But, hey, in living we learn.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though, and I want to do this right. I have to do it right, because this is bigger than plaits and ponytails. This is a story of resilience and discovery. It’s a journey into the dark places where endurance leads to hope, and hope lights the way to faith—and to the gift that’s waiting in the light.

More than anything, that gift is what I want to share with you.

But like most gifts, this one is kind of hard to get to without a little unwrapping. So, I think it makes sense to start at the beginning, but stay with me, okay?

I think the gift will be worth it.

"This house holds all my secrets:

failures, regrets, despair.

It holds my joys and triumphs, too.

My life is hidden here."

- Kess L. Simon, "Home"

My father named me Turkessa Lerisa Weste.

Now that’s a mouthful for a seven-pound baby, isn’t it?

Well, apparently my dad didn’t think so, although, to be fair, he shortened my first name to Kess, for everyday use around the house. But he and my mom always reverted back to the more formal Turkessa when we were in public—or whenever they were really mad at me.

People always ask about my first name because it’s so unusual. As you can imagine, I caught a lot of flak for it, too. I still do, every now and then. It never really bothered me, though, because the truth is that I’ve always liked my first name. It’s different. It’s distinctive. And, somehow, it fits. It’s right for me.

But Lerisa, that was the name that irked me. For years, I refused to even acknowledge (or tell the truth about) what the L in my name represented. It’s not even that it’s an ugly name or anything. But for me, it always seemed so, I don’t know, unsuitable—until two years ago, at Christmas. But that’s a story best saved for later, and I promise I’ll get to it.

There’s so much I need to tell you first, so let’s get this story started.

I’m the first-born child of my parents, who are both from humble backgrounds, meaning they knew the value of hard work. Like most parents of their generation, they did their best with what they had: the knowledge, information, and experiences they shared.

My dad is a long-suffering, quiet kind of guy, probably because he was on the tail end of nine brothers and sisters. I think patience and endurance are just part of the package when you get to the party that late.

My mother’s family was equally big. But unlike my dad, she came in pretty early, which probably shaped her authoritative personality. The difference in perspectives meant that their view of parenting—and discipline—often differed, too.

My parents had four children; I have two younger sisters and a little brother. While we all share the same merged features (his straight nose and her big eyes), we are various blends of his dark coffee and her ripe mango. Our personalities are also diverse combinations of theirs, but growing up, we got along fairly well. Okay, that probably depends on your definition of got along. In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say that I was something of a bully.

Okay, correction: I was a bully.

And I’ll be straight with you: If there’s anything extraordinary about my childhood, it’s the salvaging of my relationship with my siblings. I think it might have been our shared resentments that facilitated this most over the years. It took me a while, but gradually, I began to see that our issues weren’t so different. Like most children, we felt that it was often us against our parents. That concept of us vs. them was the bond that superseded any lingering rivalry and eventually made us friends.

But as I prepared to enter my teenage years, there was a steady increase in me-vs.-them-type conflicts. Quite often, if my parents and I were battling, I’d just refuse to participate in anything they were doing. The battle was usually over whatever minor disagreement I had magnified to some ridiculous proportion (like those tiresome typing classes my mother forced my sister and me to take). And with my honed affinity for drama, it didn’t take very much to set me off.

My mother was generally quick and decisive in dealing with me. And as long-suffering as my dad was, there were days during my adolescence that I tested even him.

In fact, my decision to become a Christian was a direct result of one of those days:

That particular evening, he and I were in the dining room, disagreeing about something. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember how that dispute began. But the end is a different matter: I can recall those details with stunning clarity.

At thirteen, I wasn’t the most vocal of his children. That spot was proudly held by my sister, Sonja. My opinions were mostly registered in the language I spoke best: sarcasm.

My dad isn’t a big fan of sarcasm, but that alone doesn’t explain the avalanche that interrupted our talk. It might have had something to do with school. But, knowing him, it probably also had something to do with a boy. That unholy partnership—school and boys—would have been the perfect storm to set him off like that.

I understood that my dad was nervous about those two topics for a couple of reasons.

When my body began maturing early in fifth grade, I gathered (from my eavesdropping) that he feared I’d attract the wrong kind of attention. We all understood that, for my dad, wrong meant any male. Personally, I couldn’t have cared less. But I accepted that this was just the way he was. He’d made that very clear.

He was also anxious because the year before, they had enrolled me in public secondary school. I’d been in the relative protection of private school all my life, and he wasn’t so sure I was equipped to handle the public version. I got that, too.

I wasn’t necessarily sympathetic though. I figured enough time had passed for him to get over it.

But ultimately, the root of that argument probably doesn’t matter much. Life has taught me that the details don’t necessarily change the outcome. My dad may have more patience than most, but let me tell you, when it’s gone, it’s gone. Whatever I said, my father…

Hit. The. Roof.

His eyes aflame, he launched himself out of the dining room—where I was still standing against the wall—and stomped into the kitchen.

His voice was thundering in my ears.

"…and make sure you clean up your room before you sit down to eat anything, ma’am. Think you’re so smart? You like to give