Loved by Strangers

By Cecile Schooley

Loved by Strangers is an incredible true story of hurt, sin, brokenness, redemption, love, growth, life in Christ, and ministry. Cecile Schooley recounts her often painful journey through life, from childhood abuse, drug use, and glamour, to divorce, alcohol abuse, and the loss of everything. Then she shares how God's grace brought her to salvation, sobriety, love and remarriage, growth, the peaks and valleys of the Christian walk, and ministry to others. Her inspiring story offers hope that, no matter where your personal journey has brought you, you can regain joy and purpose through the mercy and power of Jesus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Risen Lord Press
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201714949

Book preview

Loved By Strangers

Cecile Schooley

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Risen Lord Press Logo

Risen Lord Press

Livonia, Michigan

Copyright © 2017-22 Cecile Maureen Schooley. All Rights Reserved.

Cover art and layout by David Schooley.

Note from the author:

All events in this book are true to the best of my recollection. My purpose in writing has been to share my own journey through brokenness to restoration. In order to do so, it has been necessary to share incidents that reflect negatively on other people as well as on myself. I have no wish to denigrate or defame any person; only to share my story as honestly as possible, in the hope that my journey will give hope to others. In many cases I have changed names or omitted details in order to protect the privacy of the people involved.

E-book edition.

Contents

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Mind Games

In the Beginning

Childhood

Girls Gone Wild

Who’s That Girl?

Adulthood

Things Fall Apart

Saved

Starting to Grow

Life as One

Ministry Up North

Ministry Out East

Home Again

Healing

Relationships

Introduction

Love is the most powerful thing we can ever encounter, because God is Love. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. Love never ends. It conquers all and covers a multitude of sin. Without love I am nothing.

I have loved and been loved by many strangers. This is the story of my life as I remember it. Some of it is shocking and horrific. Some of it is exciting, and sometimes hard to believe, but it is all true.

One of the most touching moments I have ever had was when I was visiting for the first time what would later become my church. During the greeting time a little older lady named Imogene Freer greeted me with a hug and said, God loves you and so do I. She held onto my arms and looked me in the eyes with all the intensity she could muster. I thought it was odd at the time. How can she love me when she doesn’t even know me? Yet I believed her. I’m not really sure why, but her greeting somehow seemed genuine. This was her gift: to love people whom she barely knew. That encounter got me thinking. All of my dearest friends were once strangers. Her words planted the seeds for this book.

Every person who helped me to find my way to Jesus was once a total stranger. Even though we were strangers they truly loved me. It still moves me to think that there are some people who love Jesus so much that they would reach out to someone they don’t know and change their life for the better, forever. The most wonderful part is that many of these people have become very dear friends. All of them are precious to me.

I thank God that I was loved by these strangers because through them I am now saved by God’s grace. I pray that God continues to bless them and make them fruitful for His kingdom. I too have had the honor of loving strangers to Christ. I also pray that He allows me to continue to be that stranger who loves people to Jesus, that they too may know His love and amazing grace.

Mind Games

I hated waiting for Henry.[1] I knew I wasn’t his only patient, but today, waiting was particularly hard. My eyes scanned the clock on the wall, the reception area, and the waiting room. There were others waiting to see their therapist too, but none as anxious as I was. Or at least that is how I felt. I tightened my grip on the brown paper bag I was holding. Do they know what is in my bag? If they did know, what would they think of me? Why did Henry ask me to bring it, anyway?

I shifted in my seat as my mind raced. Why did he want me to bring it here? Does he plan to shame me, or try to talk me out of it? No! I need money, real money. That’s the only way to fight Manny. Lawyers are expensive and Manny has a good one. My kids are everything to me and the only way I can beat Manny in court is to have a better one than he has.

My thoughts were interrupted by the cool breeze from the opening door. I could smell the faintest waft of Henry’s cologne. Then I saw the familiar sweater-clad figure in the doorway. A gentle, reassuring smile spread across his face as he greeted me and invited me in. It was Henry, and he had been nothing but kind and professional toward me. I had nothing to fear—but somehow my gut told me a different story.

I followed him down the softly lit hallway to his office, clutching my crumpled bag. I took my usual seat on the couch and he took his chair. I found it difficult to swallow—all the moisture in my mouth that I was never conscious of had evaporated. He got out his notebook like an ordinary session.

What’s in the bag? he asked.

My uniform, I said, as if it were no big deal.

Take it out, he said, calling my bluff.

I opened the bag and revealed a white lace bustier.

Put it on, he said.

His words sent shock waves through me. I had a sudden flashback to a family trip to Fire Island, off the southern coast of Long Island. I was about five or six and my dad and I were running hand in hand on the beach, into the giant waves. It was so exciting until a terrible great wave tore me from my dad’s hand. In my shock I opened my eyes to look for my dad. Everything was swirling green and the water stung my eyes. I didn’t know which way was up and thought I would drown. Finally my dad’s hand grabbed me and pulled me out of the water. We made our way toward shore. I was sputtering and coughing. The salt water burned my nose and throat. My dad was laughing at the sight of me. I feebly slapped at his leg and accused, You did that on purpose! He assured me he hadn’t. It didn’t matter. My dad’s humanity had been exposed. I could never again believe that he would always be able to protect me, no matter what.

Henry was now the wizard whose curtain had been pulled back. He can’t possibly mean that, I thought. Was it a trick? Did he want to embarrass me into backing down? Or was it just an excuse to see me in a sexy outfit?

I was torn between my desire to follow his lead as I always had and a deep overwhelming sadness that he was just another man. There had been so many men, and they all turned out to be the same. Part of me wanted to put the bustier on, just to prove he couldn’t intimidate me, just to prove I was tougher than he was. I felt so betrayed. How could he?

No! I finally answered.

Why not? he asked, in his controlled therapist tone.

Because I don’t want to. I was still angry. I hated that he had all the power. I had told him everything about me, and I knew next to nothing about him. It always seemed that he knew the right thing to do but never told me what he thought.

He just asked questions and hoped I would stumble across the right answer. I was sick and tired of stumbling around. I wanted my kids back and my life back, and I just wanted him, or someone, to point me in the right direction. Not to play games and show me how small I was.

It reminded me of Mr. Collins, my fifth grade teacher. Back then I had wanted to play football with the boys, and he told me it wasn’t for me. Julie Quick played football; I didn’t see why I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. I saw him walking down the sidewalk and decided to show him how tough I was so I ran into him with all my might. It was like charging into a brick wall. I tried again with the same result. Then he hit me back, and I went flying and fell to the ground. I protested through tears of frustration, I am just a little girl! He said, Exactly.

Now Henry was that brick wall, and he didn’t play fair.

If you can’t wear it for me how are you going to wear it at the bar for a crowd of strange men? Henry continued.

I knew he was trying to make a point, but the trust I once had in him had been vaporized. The doctor-patient bond was smashed beyond repair.

He asked me if I thought a strip club was a job I would feel comfortable bringing my kids to or if it was something that the judge would look at favorably.

I was so mad at Henry. I knew he was right, but I had no skills. What else am I supposed to do? I pleaded. I need money to get the kids back.

I don’t know. What else could you do?

I thought for a minute.

Well, some of my friends at the bar and grill offered me a two-week temporary job doing data entry, but that won’t be enough money to get the kids back.

It sounds like your friends don’t think working at a strip club is a good idea either.

No they don’t, but I don’t see how a two week job is going to help me get my kids back or make any difference in my life at all.

I didn’t tell Henry that day, but he had convinced me. I had decided not to work at the strip club. I hated that he was right; I would never bring my kids there and it would probably hurt me in court. I couldn’t see that this decision was good for me. I could only see what I wanted. I had no idea what God had in store for me and how this little two-week job would change my life forever.

In the Beginning

Family Life

Let’s start at the beginning. I was born in Forest Hills, New York, to immigrants from Newfoundland, Canada. In 1960 Newfoundland was about fifty years behind the United States in development, so coming to the States, especially to New York City, was definitely culture shock for my parents. For my mom, staying at home with small children was lonely and also scary.

Once my sister Ann took me for what she meant to be a one way ride in my stroller. She made it to the subway with the intention of selling me. A neighbor let my mom know what Ann was up to, which foiled her plan. My mom caught up with her right outside the entrance of the subway. By the time two years had gone by, my parents had decided that the big city was no place to raise a family.

We moved to Ypsilanti, Michigan, in 1962 when my dad got a job with GM. At that time Ann Marie was five, I was two, Paul was one, and Linda was a newborn. We lived there only a few months while our house was being built in the suburb of Wayne. Alan came along two years later. So you can see how my mom might have been somewhat overwhelmed.

My dad seemed bigger than life and was a very secure, self-assured man. He worked for General Motors Air Transport Section, where he worked his way up from dispatching to management. He was a hard-working, straightforward, committed family man. He loved to laugh, sang with great gusto, and was never wrong. When I was young I thought he knew everything—in fact, the first time I remember actively disagreeing with him I was 35 years old. He was kind of an alpha male.

Every day when he got home from work, even before he changed his clothes he played ball with his boys and all the neighbor boys. He played pickle or popped fly balls to each of the boys, giving each one a turn and yelling encouragement to each player like get under it or atta boy, good grab. I always wanted to play, just to hear him say good job to me, but I was afraid of the ball.

When he walked into the house, he would belt out a chorus of Hey Good Lookin’ What Ya Got Cookin’. Then he would hug my mom from behind and kiss the back of her neck while she was cooking. She always acted like he was bothering her, but it made her day. They adored each other, and now that he was home her day began.

At the dinner table my dad told of every important event and conversation of his day while my mom hung on every word and asked great questions to spur him on. The rest of the family just ate quietly and listened.

My mom was quieter than my dad and was very prim and proper. To her, certain things just weren’t discussed in polite conversation, like politics or religion. She never liked the drudgery of being a stay-at-home mom, and mothering was more of a duty than a joy. Most of her friends and contemporaries in the states were working outside the home, but she made the hard choice to stay home anyway. I didn’t know the half of it.

Shortly after we moved to Wayne, the lady who lived next door to us moved with her family to Ypsilanti. Mom read in the paper that she took her four small children with her into their car in the garage with the door closed, and with the car windows down, she ran the engine until they were all dead. I was a teen when my mom told me about the event, to let me know that she hadn’t taken the easy way out.

Once, when my mom was hanging laundry on the clothes line on a particularly hot summer day, I noticed how shiny her face was, and I asked her if she put Vaseline on her face. She laughed and said it was sweat. I thought Wow! My mom really works hard. I was kind of proud that she was my mom. I went back to making my grass and twig soup in the old pot she gave me.

When Mom was growing up, she went to an all girls’ Catholic school and was raised to be seen and not heard. We, her children, were noisy, busy, and made a huge mess. Mom also liked to retreat to her bedroom for solitude where she would read or play solitaire. When we were teens we used to say she was hiding from us. We were so disrespectful.

Mom was an exquisite pianist, classically trained for 12 years. Playing piano was her delight and her bliss. I used to love to sit and watch her play, sometimes just listening to the music and sometimes we would have a sing song. She played everything from Chopin and Tchaikovsky to pop tunes of the forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies.

She would play and we would stand next to her and sing as she coaxed us to sing out. Sometimes it was with the whole family, and sometimes just me. My favorite songs were from the forties, and I also liked Christmas carols. Every year for Christmas we all sang carols together. This was one of my favorite childhood memories.

Christmas meant the smell of special food, the sights of lights and décor, and the happy feeling of spending time together with the family. It also meant the sound of the piano and the laughter of family friends who came to visit, and the taste of whiskey sour we snuck from the blender. I used to love watching Dad put up the opaque multicolored lights on our house and cussing a blue streak when it didn’t go completely smoothly. (Which it never seemed to.) To this day these memories bring me comfort in stressful times.

Newfoundland

I was always under the impression that my mom came from money and my dad from more modest means, because of each of their demeanors, but looks can be deceiving. We went to Newfoundland when we were quite small and I had the pleasure of meeting, for the first time, my grandparents and extended family. Mom’s father and step-mother (Poppy and Nanny) lived in Corner Brook, a suburban area with white picket fences, green lawns and shops nearby. They lived in a three-story picture-perfect home. The large living room was exquisitely decorated with pristine, light beige carpeting and a white brick fireplace with glass and brass fixtures. That was why I thought they were rich.

In truth, Poppy had been a clerk in a local department store and was retired when we visited. While we were there I helped Nanny pick some mustard greens from the tiny garden patch that they neatly kept in the small back yard. Meanwhile in the house, Linda had locked herself in the bathroom and was terrified. Dad tried to get her to turn the key, but in the end he had to get a ladder and go in through the window to unlock the door from the inside to get her out. It caused a huge commotion. It was obvious by the scowls on his face that Poppy was not used to such drama. Nanny took me into the kitchen to keep me from being underfoot. With Linda rescued and supper ready, we all sat down to eat. Ann complained that the potatoes were slimy and Dad ordered her to eat them anyway. Poppy said to Mom, Rene, your children are saucy brats. That is all I remember about Poppy and Nanny’s house, but every year without fail Nanny would hand knit each of her (twenty-plus) grandchildren a pair of wool mittens.

Dad’s parents (Grams and Gramps) lived in Port Aux Basque, an ocean front community that was hilly, rugged, and unfinished. It reminded me of the Old West, but on water. Their rustic house looked more like a large cabin than a house. It had wood walls and floors and old fashioned amenities, such as a wood-burning cooking stove, an ice box, and a water pump in the kitchen. They also had a fireplace, but it was red brick and there was not a shiny glass door. There were ashes still in it from the most recent fire. The bedrooms were on the second floor with the indoor bathroom, which was the only modern convenience that I could see. All the rooms were simple, with each bed clad in homemade quilts sewn by Grams. The house was built right on the ocean. Gramps owned the general store, which was right next to it. There was a wharf running between the two buildings for direct access by boat. Gramps also owned the local fishery, as well as half the town, my dad told me much later in life. Though both of my Grandparents’ homes were different than our home, I definitely felt more comfortable in Gram’s and Gramp’s than Poppy and Nanny’s house.

Uncle Roy and Aunt Hazel, who lived near Gram’s and Gramp’s, were there, and so was a girl named Sarah who worked at the store and helped around the house. She took us into the store and told us that, we could choose anything we wanted for a treat. We chose shaker maker pudding, something we had never had before. To make it you put the milk and mix in a container that was provided and shook it as hard and as long as you could. We loved it.

While they did have indoor plumbing, they did not have a sewer. Paul was playing outside in a rock ditch right behind the house, and inside the house Aunt Hazel and Sarah were laughing at him. When they told me he was playing where the toilet water ran down to the ocean when flushed, I was very angry. I told them, You are so mean! Paul is just a little boy. How should he know what that was? We don’t have that at our house. I stormed outside to rescue Paul. I told him what he was playing in, and we went into the house. Aunt Hazel gave him a bath and Grams gave him a Boy Scout quilt to take home. That quilt became his favorite possession.

I woke up early the next morning to find Uncle Roy asleep on the couch and his wooden leg next to a chair. When he woke up I asked him what happened to his leg. He told me he had lost it when it was crushed by hitting some rocks when he was a boy (fifteen years old). He was jumping off a bridge and crashed into some rocks below the surface of the water. He joked with me: You know the expression, if your friends jumped off a bridge, would you? The answer, he told me, is no. He explained that the leg became gangrenous and had to be amputated. They didn’t get all of the gangrene the first time so when he was eighteen they took it a second time.

This time he chose to remain conscious, using only whiskey for pain until he finally passed out from it. I thought he was so brave and strong. He became my favorite uncle, maybe because he talked to me like a person, not a child, or maybe because he openly shared such a painful event with me, but whatever the reason, I was awestruck. Only my dad was higher in my estimation than Uncle Roy.

For breakfast Sarah made griddle cakes right on the stove top. I watched her cook and she lifted one of the cast iron disks to show me the flames.

Later, we went with Uncle Roy to check his lobster traps with his dog Sergeant, and then we went to Aunt Hazel and Uncle Roy’s cabin, which was more like a farm house, smaller than Gram’s and Gramp’s house but more modern. It was located in a rural area on a prairie with split rail fences. They had a long curved driveway covered with loose gravel and shell which made everything look bright white.

Aunt Hazel was already there when we got there, and we stayed with her while Mom and Dad went somewhere with Uncle Roy. She fed us peanut butter sandwiches and told us we were as good as gold.

She took us for a walk to see the salt fish drying in the sun. They were large fillets of cod fish, stiff as boards and lined up against the fence on planks. On the other side of the fence there were goats. Ann went inside the fence only to be chased out by a ram, which butted his horns against the fence as a warning to her not to trespass again.

That night we had a feed of lobster and mussels caught fresh that day, as much as we could eat. I had never had lobster before but I loved it. I ate like a full-grown man.

Then we had a sing song with harmonicas, an accordion, and a piano that Mom played. We all sang Newfie songs like Iys the Bye and Jack the Sailor. The adults were drinking and banging the table. We all sang loudly and danced all around. It was a grand time. This was one of my favorite memories from that trip.

The next day the girls went to the beach with Aunt Hazel and had a picnic. Dad and the boys went on Uncle Roy’s boat to go fishing and shoot guns. I wanted to go on the boat to be with Dad and Uncle Roy and shoot a gun, but I was a girl. Girls went to picnic and boys went fishing, I thought that was very unfair at the time and said so. As fond as I was of my Uncle Roy, I never saw him again. He died when I was in my thirties.

Aunt Eileen was Dad’s oldest sister and one of his favorite people in the world. She was beautiful and elegant, and to me, she looked like a spy in her trench coat. Her eyes seemed to smile and sparkled when she looked at my dad and his family. Aunt Eileen was thirteen years older than my dad and raised him after his youngest brother died, because their mom had a nervous breakdown and never really recovered. Really, she was more like a mother than a sister to my dad. I think that was why she loved us so much, even though she was just meeting us and we were all strangers.

She lived in Gander by the airport where my parents met. She was a nurse, and her husband, my uncle Chess, was a pilot. Her house was very modern and beautifully decorated, and I loved her pretty china cabinet filled with fine china and crystal. We never lived in such splendor when we were young: mom waited until we were older to get nice things like that. Aunt Eileen’s children were already grown. She later became widowed. She was in fact widowed three times and took care of each of her husbands until they died. Her third husband had suffered a stroke on a cruise ship while they were on their honeymoon.

I have had occasion to see Aunt Eileen several times over the years, and she has always looked much younger than her age. She was the picture of health and loveliness. She is the one person I would have most liked to have been like. At age 90 her health started to fade, and she moved into in a retirement apartment. At age 94, she lived in a nursing home, and after spending a lifetime of taking care of others, she was now being cared for. She died on March 8, 2017, at the age of 94. These are the people I come from: hardy, generous people with a zest for life and a deep love for their families.

Childhood

Growing Up

We were a typical Catholic family. My parents were very devout, but that was private to them; we didn’t talk about God. We went to Mass every Sunday and Catechism every Wednesday night, said grace at meals and prayers at bedtime, and that was the extent of our religious upbringing.

There was one exception: when we were teens, and my parents tried having family devotions at home. We all knelt around my parents’ bed to say the rosary. It was a disaster! My brother Paul, who was a bit of a clown and never spoke very clearly back then, would rattle off military style, Hail Mury fu grace da lor is wit de bessed ar dow amunix womin an bessed da fruit dye womb Jesus! Not one of us could keep from laughing, not even my parents. It wasn’t just a little giggle, but we were all rolling to the point of tears and could not stop. There was absolutely no reverence at all, so my parents put a stop to it. They had tried.

Mom was raised Catholic but Dad converted to Catholicism from Anglicanism and became very devout. Unfortunately, I did not find Jesus in the Catholic Church. We did attend church weekly and went to catechism all through school until our confirmation. So far as I can remember we never missed church.

We grew up in a middle-class suburb of Detroit. We were relatively happy and healthy. Most of the kids in our neighborhood who were around our ages were boys at that time, so my sister Linda and I played with boys. My best friend was Doug Ingle, and Linda’s was Mike Eligh, who was always inviting us to church for Vacation Bible School.

In those days, kids played outside: kick ball in the street, cartwheels on the lawn, and putting on shows on the front lawn. Doug was always choreographer, director, and star. He was very good at dance. His babysitters taught him all the latest dance steps, which he quickly picked up and taught to all of us. Doug’s parents were always gone. When it rained we