Turning Lanes: His Truth & Her Testimony

By Amber Alissa

Have you ever felt God leading you in a direction, turning you so slowly that over time, He has begun to work in your life without you even realizing it? He has the power to shift you in order to take your story and inspire success; he can turn your tragedy into an inspirational testimony.

In Turning Lanes, author Amber Alissa recalls the overwhelming obstacles that at first seemed impossible for her to overcome. She faced hurdles that were placed into her life at a young age, due to the abusive actions of her father. Through her faith and the use of her words “But God is God and His ways are unlimited,” she recounts her remarkable journey of faith from trauma to healing. Her story is one of compassion, love, and forgiveness.

This personal narrative and testimony presents one woman’s life story, sharing her early experiences with abuse and her recovery through faith and the love of God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Apr 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781973657514

Amber Alissa

Amber Alissa is an author, motivational speaker, advocate, wife, and mother of three. As a committed advocate and a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, she is determined to bring awareness to sexual assault and domestic violence. She uses her companies, Turning Lanes, LLC and Turning Lanes Ministry, to inspire, discover, and encourage new Christian writers. She currently lives in Conroe, Texas.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Amber Alissa.

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.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover Image Credit: Ian Paul Terry Photography

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5750-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5749-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-5751-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019903381

WestBow Press rev. date: 04/12/2019

CONTENTS

Introduction

CHAPTER 1 Turning Lanes

CHAPTER 2 Empty Coat Hangers

CHAPTER 3 Mountainous Tears

CHAPTER 4 Misplaced Imagination

CHAPTER 5 Playing Possum

CHAPTER 6 The Stand

CHAPTER 7 Dark into Light

CHAPTER 8 Uncovered Secrets

CHAPTER 9 Taking Control

CHAPTER 10 Washed Up Flowerbeds

CHAPTER 11 The Rocking Chair

CHAPTER 12 A Lion’s Roar

CHAPTER 13 Life in Pictures

CHAPTER 14 My Letters to God

CHAPTER 15 Showered with Love

CHAPTER 16 Forgiving Michael

CHAPTER 17 In All of This

CHAPTER 18 After the Turn

To God, with all

my love and admiration, from a daughter to her Father.

In dedication of:

Clayton Moss for being a worthy example of how the value of a testimony can inspire the life of another.

Pastor Alan Clayton for sewing love into a broken heart through the steadfast love of a church.

In memory of:

Clayton McDonald for the reminder to give thanks for every breathe given to me by God.

INTRODUCTION

Growing up I was a delightful, adventurous, and spunky girl. I grew up in a small Texas town just north of Houston with my brothers, sisters, and parents. I developed in the same predictable pattern that most children do. By the time I reached elementary school, I had learned to solve most of my problems independently and began to develop new friendships with my classmates.

I reached my academic markers for my grade levels and began to express my own points of view. Of course, my opinions were ordinarily influenced by the factors in my environment, and most would consider my situation unique. The presidential election isn’t usually a memory that an average eight-year-old would tuck away in the back of their mind, as one of the most defining moments of their life. Yet, this is where I choose to begin sharing my testimony with you.

In November of 1988, our nation’s citizens would cast their vote for the presidential candidate of their choice. Although I was well below the years of voting age, my elementary school teacher awarded each student the right to vote in a mock classroom election. As students, we were warned that voting was a serious responsibility and would require thoughtful consideration.

The teacher gave the class brief instructions on how our environment could influence our belief system and the way we vote. In this lesson, I learned new words, such as Republican and Democrat. There were other words introduced like Caucasian, Hispanic, and African American. Each word accompanied a brief description of who would fit in what category - both in our beliefs and our ethnicity.

By the end of the short lesson, I was confident in my decision and was ready to make my selection. On the top of the small slip of paper I wrote in my childish handwriting my name, and below my name, I selected my ethnicity, and finally, I, selected my vote for President. The decision appeared simple.

The seriousness of my eight-year-old selection would be based solely on the name of the candidate, as his name was my father’s name - Michael. So, with a large and confident "X" based on no other facts than the familiarity of the name, I chose Democratic nominee Michael Dukakis over Republican George H.W. Bush.

The anticipation of the results was exciting to me, because unlike a challenging spelling quiz - voting had no wrong answers. Our teacher ensured us that it was unimportant if our selection was different from others because the importance came within exercising each person’s right to vote.

When the ballots were tallied, our classroom election resulted in the same results as the American vote, and the man that carried my father’s name would not become the next president. As the classroom exploded with anxious children who were eager to expose who they covertly voted for - I was asked that I come to the front of the classroom to discuss my selection.

I loved being called by my teacher, as I had always aimed to please her. On the morning of our election, I had brought her a balloon that was left over from my neighbor’s floral shop and had it tied to her cabinet behind her large wooden desk as a gift. I was curious as to why she had chosen me to discuss my ballot. Until, her slender, soft hand took the creased piece of paper from the unfolded stack and she plainly stated, Amber you are not Hispanic.

Surely, I thought she must be mistaken because by her description I was. I had felt confident that I had met all the elements of being Hispanic. This might sound odd, but as a pearl-blond haired young girl with pale skin, I had no clue that my dark haired - dark skinned father was any different than myself. In my generation there was no social media, eight-year-olds didn’t have iPhones or any other electronic device that would teach us the difference in ethnicities. My parents never mentioned it either.

I spent weekends and summers visiting my father’s family in Mexico. The Spanish that was spoken within his extended family, the shared heritage and the culture all assured me that my teacher was wrong. She had taught us there was no right or wrong answer. The simple statement she made bothered me so much that pleasing her was no longer relevant to me after that day. So, with my spunky and confident tiny hands, I untied the balloon that I had so generously brought to her earlier that morning and walked out of the classroom to catch the bus ride home.

My childhood home was so close to the school that I am sure I could have walked faster than the bus driver could have taken me. On this afternoon the bus ride home seemed unending because for the first time in my life I felt doubt. The uncertainty of who I was allowed fear to creep not just into my mind but into my heart. I felt I could count on one thing and that was knowing that my father would be waiting for me when the bus stopped. I knew when I arrived home, he would clear this all up and that pain I was feeling would go away.

I imagine most parents who raise children that were not born to them struggle with how and when to disclose the truth to their child, but I couldn’t wait for them to find the right time. I ripped through the garage past the barrel of his empty beer cans, through the side door of our home and demanded that to know why I wasn’t like him. I am not sure if my father had just avoided this conversation, but I didn’t like how doubt felt, and I knew he could tell it hurt me.

He took me into the backyard where he sat down on the old concrete picnic table and placed me on his lap. His answer was direct and honest - I had another father, and he wasn’t mine. When most kids were finding out that Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the tooth fairy weren’t real, I was finding out that my father wasn’t. I needed him like most daughters need their father. He was the very first man in my life, and he was the image that I was expected to look to as an example of courage, humor, and strength.

He was the one destined to set the course for my life, and my sole role was to be his princess. Like most young girls I adored my father, and I enjoyed following behind him. I learned to love all the same hobbies he loved. I always felt special, because he invited me along with him when he went camping, fishing, hunting, and golfing. He would even allow me to go to all the major sporting events with him.

When our professional baseball team played at home, he took me along and let me look through his binoculars so my young eyes could see the players on the field. During basketball season, when the games were televised, my father would sit in his chair with a glass of scotch, and I would always remove his shoes. The black socks he wore underneath not only smelt horrible, but they made me