Through The Eyes Of A Lost Shepherd

By Nicole Cooper

Nicole Cooper earned her degree in Business Management and Accounting and is a licensed Phlebotomist, author, and mother. Her friendly and open personality, offers an inviting space for those in need of God's love, encouragement, and grace. Known for invoking the courage and faith in the heart of those whose lives she touches, Nicole's mini

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jabez Publishing House
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781736915516

Book preview

PROLOGUE

As a young child, I loved to write. It was the best way for me to be heard even if no one was listening but me. I felt that writing gave me the ability to say all I needed to without being criticized or interrupted. It allowed me to use language that perhaps, I’d never say out loud. It’s amazing how shocked you can be when you read your own hastily written, unedited thoughts. You learn that there are layers to yourself. You find what you are capable of. You find out how tame or wild you are. You find out what’s really in your heart. You learn how wise or foolish, smart or naïve, righteous or wicked, rational or delusional you are. You may not be able to be fully honest with anyone else, but you know yourself. You may be in denial about a lot of things when confronted, but you always know the truth. Your heart never lies to you, although you ignore it in favour of some fairy tale, or more believable story.

In high school, I joined the journalism club and was able to express my creativity through storytelling. At Bowie High School and Bladensburg Senior High School, I was a newspaper columnist. I liked the title. In 11th-grade, I became the editor of The Remnant, the school journal, and I published some of my poems. In 12th grade, I wrote a short story titled The Untold Truth, which chronicled, and helped me release the pain of having been molested. Isn’t it odd that you get older and find that what happened to you has a name? Words are powerful.

I used to write letters to my Mom. We bumped heads a lot. Supposedly, I always wanted more from her than she could give. Writing to her, in my mind, would help to resolve our differences. Writing afforded me a way to scream at her without actually raising my voice. Even though I was writing, the tone of the letters was still shouted off of the page. Only she could read between the lines. She knew me. She also knew herself and I was always there showing her a reflection of herself that she may not have wanted to see.

I’m the eldest of three children, and the only one who used writing as a sneaky method of communication with my Mom. At some point, I realized that writing was a gift. Maybe no one would read what I wrote, but at least the poison or passion, sincerity or sarcasm was out of my heart and mind, and not tormenting me every day. My words were out there. If I trusted someone, I’d share them even if they weren’t addressed to them. I needed to be understood. If one person wasn’t hearing me, it wasn’t difficult to find someone else. Maybe at times, I overshared; pulled too many people who really couldn’t help me into my personal life. Misery loves company and so does dysfunction. Community mattered even when it wasn’t safe. Family mattered even when it wasn’t supportive. When what you have is all that you know, it becomes normal, and you visit it onto everything and everyone else. It’s sad when peace, order, and harmony are unbearable and boring, while chaos, confusion, and noise offer sanctuary.

When I first began writing this memoir in April of 2009, I had no idea where to start, how long it was going to take, who to include, who to omit, or where this journey of writing about my life was going to lead. I just knew it was time for me to release past hurts that had been consuming my life. Just putting it out there as I remember it was my goal. Names matter. I considered how many times I called certain names. It let me know the people attached to them are still affecting me; still a part of me. Everyone who comes into your life, whether they’re an angel or a monster, a user or a helper, an encourager or a critic, helps shape you. Sometimes we say Thank you to the wrong people.

Although this has been a tearful and painful journey; I am glad that I continued writing. I genuinely believe that letting go of hurt, or at least attempting to, is helping me to become a happier, healthier, more honest individual. Memories never completely fade. That’s what makes forgiveness such an odd, unusual, seemingly impossible thing. I have given my life to Christ because I needed to. I need Him and I know it. His sacrifice for me was necessary because I admit, the messiness in my life demanded a great and capable, loving, forgiving God. There’s nothing like a relationship with God to get you straight and let you know you’re not as together and hip as you think you are. Although I am far from perfect, I am experiencing a path to wholeness and contentment that I have never known. This thing is ongoing, every day. I admit I don’t always get it right. Forgiveness, I’ve learned, has to be deliberate. If it’s not sincere; if you’re not quite there yet, don’t pretend. Feel the way you feel. Be truthful about it. Try to see every side of a thing. It can be one of the most healing things you can do. Have empathy. It doesn’t mean you have amnesia about the things that others have done. It doesn’t mean you’re inviting them to do it again. Forgiving just helps you develop a new understanding of yourself, the people who’ve hurt you, and what you can do with that pain to help others. None of our situations are unique. There’s always someone who has walked in your shoes. The problem is, we feel so isolated sometimes, so ashamed that we fail to reach out. Forgiving others helps you to see the necessity of looking at yourself—deeply—and confessing your faults. That takes a lot of time and keeps you from always pointing out the faults in others. God knows relationships would be so much more successful if we’d just allow others to be themselves and stop trying to make them into what works for us.

I want everyone to know that I wrote this book to mend and understand myself-- not to hurt or shame anyone else. The tricky thing about all of our stories is that there are other people involved. Children learn what they have been living and grow to be adults who only know how to use what they’ve learned until they get new tools. Issues of wrong and right can be tricky when you just don’t know any better. Since we don’t get to choose our parents, it’s important to pay attention to how much we embrace or reject what we’ve been taught. I had a rough start in life. I know that my issues have been visited on my children. They now have memories that even I cannot erase. When they come to me about them, and they will, I have to be honest. They have to know that they are a priority. I can’t be so consumed with protecting myself that I leave them without tools. I cannot lead them in places I refuse to go. I cannot demand that they be anything I am not willing to demonstrate. I can’t demand that they rewrite their history to make me feel or look better. If I am an excuse maker, a procrastinator, dishonest, hypocritical, unforgiving, or selfish, what makes me think they won’t notice and think it’s acceptable for them? I am my children’s first teacher, so I am trying my best to teach them that a rocky start doesn’t mean a wonderful finish is impossible. 

I know it’s been said before, but life is what you make it. If I make it miserable, hopeless, and sad when the possibility for faithfulness, joy, and happiness exists, I have to know that I have made a choice. I want my children to know that if they want something then, go for it—legally and with integrity. I believe all things are possible, and that demands action. 

I want my Mom to know that I love her. I can see how deliberately I wanted to be near her; how desperately I wanted her company and approval. She is and always will be my hero. In my eyes, she too is a conqueror. Obstacles seemed to be nothing for her. She took a lot that perhaps she shouldn’t have. She was able, however, to turn so much negativity into positives, and saw a happy life as an attainable goal. I sincerely believe that she did the best she could do with the toolbox she was given to work with—and Lord did she work!

To all who read this book, it is a window into my life. Please use it as a guide. Pay attention to your children. Don’t leave them to their own devices. Don’t assume they don’t see. Listen to them. Let them know that their feelings, ideas, and experiences matter to you. Make time. Be wise about the company they keep, and most of all who you expose them to. Your friends are not their friends. If someone comes around—friend or family-- and your child’s behaviour changes, they retreat, seem afraid or anxious, pay attention. Whatever you are doing that causes you to neglect your children is too much. Sometimes we say we’re doing one thing or another for our children when they’d be happy to just be in our company. Whatever is taking you away from your children at critical times when they need to be covered by you, is one thing too many. Stay alert.

Believe that no matter what you have been through, or are going through, you don't have to let your circumstances define who you are. 

I thank God for giving me the gift of writing, as well as the opportunity and courage to share my story.

INTRODUCTION

We had been preparing for this drastic change in our lives for the past 72 hours and the time was finally here. It was 11:30 p.m. and pouring down raining on January 28th, 2008, Come on kids this way Eboni said as she guided her sons into the dark basement which has now become their new place of residence. Jason was still gathering some remnants of what was left of their lives as they knew it from the car. Mommy this is going to be our new home, Javon questioned with a sad look on his face. For now, Eboni replied, trying not to sound the way her face looked, which was pure disgust. Once all our belongings were inside the house we locked up for the night, gave the children blankets and pillows to lay on with their mattresses that were on the floor and kissed them goodnight. Jason Sr. came downstairs after shutting the door that led to the basement and sat down on the bed with a sad puppy-dog look on his face and said Eboni, I promise I am going to make this up to you. I did not even respond; I guess I had heard all the broken promises from him for so long that it did not even give me hope listening to those words come out his mouth. While I was sitting on our sectional sofa that we managed to salvage from our former home I sat back for a minute and then just laid down out of exhaustion from packing, working and moving all at the same time and thought to myself how in the fuck did I end up here "

CHAPTER 1: IN THE BEGINNING

On the 21st of October, 1979, I was born to Claudette M. Smith and James Jones at the Prince George’s Hospital, at exactly 11:04 P.M, weighing 5 lbs. I learned that I had a brother whose name was Stephon, but he died when he was a baby as a result of a choking incident. I often wonder how different my life would have been had he lived.

My parents were a couple for seven years. My father was into martial arts. He loved Karate and earned a black belt. He used to compete in tournaments, so I imagine he had impressive skills. My mother loved Karate as well, so she travelled with him, and like all devoted girlfriends, she cheered from the side-lines. They watched karate flicks in theatres and on TV. It would seem that karate was all-consuming and there wouldn’t be much time for anything else. It was such a wholesome, disciplined sport, and provided my parents with a common interest that should have kept them strong. My mother was happy and thought she knew who her man was. He was an athlete, but he was also a drug dealer. That required skill of another kind. He came in contact with a lot of shady, undisciplined people and that part of his life was one huge secret to my Mom. He didn’t want her to find out about his activities. That’s a strange kind of respect, isn’t it? He knew her well, and no part of her would have turned a blind eye to drug dealing. He knew their relationship would be over. It wasn’t his illegal activities that doomed them, though, it was his immoral ones. When she discovered he had been cheating on her and impregnated another woman at the same time she was pregnant with me, that was it. Mom was done, and unlike some women, who stand by their men no matter what, Mom