Living a Bigger Life

By Tammy L. Wark

Would you like to live a bigger life? This real-life story will do the following:

Explore adoption, homeschooling, teen life, and the challenges so many face in the world today.

Define the meaning of a highly sensitive person and how they feel, think, and live each day around others and with the spiritual world.

Show the reality of spirit guides in all of our lives and how they guide and assist us as we journey through life.

Teach the powerful prayer of Jabez when searching for God's direction and blessing in your life.

Challenge to find the meaning and purpose of your life and to use it to help others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638440079

Book preview

The St. Christopher Medal

It was a very cold morning, colder than usual. I shared a bedroom with my older sister, Shelly. It was 7 a.m. and time for us to get up and get ready for school. We woke up and looked at each other. There was a lot of noise and commotion going on in the house. What was wrong? My mother opened the bedroom door and nervously announced that we were to get our school uniforms and get dressed in the kitchen, in front of the oven. Our heater had been turned off again, and the oven was our only heat for now. I hated getting dressed in the cold. It was the middle of a cold winter, and I was a skinny little kid, not much to me. I was a very picky eater, and usually I did not like to eat. It was always meat and potatoes…every night. That was what my father liked to have, so that is what we had.

I got my navy-blue school uniform that I wore every day, my blouse, and my knee socks, and went to the kitchen. I tried to dress quickly. It was so cold and I could only feel a little heat from the oven. My two sisters and two brothers were all crowding around, fighting for a good spot to stand.

I was starting to feel scared and nervous again like I did every morning before school. My Catholic school was extremely strict. I was afraid of the nuns. I always felt if I made any little mistake I would be yelled at and punished in front of everyone. I learned quickly to keep quiet, that way I was sure not to get into any trouble. I always thought nuns were supposed to be kind and loving. I was wrong.

My mother would make hot chocolate for me every morning. I did not like drinking milk, so this was her way to get me to drink it. She would always tell me to eat something, usually a donut, which I would always hide somewhere around the house when she wasn’t looking. I often wondered how long it took her to find all those donuts. She never mentioned them.

Our family had one car and my father went off to work early, which meant the five of us had to walk to school every morning. We had to cross a busy highway and railroad tracks and walk through a poor, run-down neighborhood to get to school. My mother seemed to always worry about me. I don’t know if she worried about the others as much as she did me. She often pointed to the St. Christopher medal and said, This will keep you safe and protect you. Then she pinned it on me. I didn’t understand. Was I in danger? What was going to happen to me? Why did I have to be kept safe? The medal didn’t make me feel safe. It only made me more afraid and worried. I was frightened by the world and people. Maybe that’s why she worried so. Sometimes, I looked into my mother’s worried face and I felt sad for her. I didn’t want her to feel sad, so I just said, Okay, Mommy, as she put the pin on me. It was now time to go to school.

School Days

All of the other children were laughing and having fun on the playground when we arrived. I was too shy to talk or play with most of the other kids, but I did have one or two friends with whom I felt comfortable. I was extremely sensitive to my surroundings. I did not like a lot of noise. I could feel the tense, not-very-kind atmosphere of the class. I could sense and feel the thoughts and emotions of others. This made some of my days difficult. Not only did I have my own feelings to deal with, I also carried the layered feelings of others with me. The daily grind could be overwhelming. I only wished I could stay home. I thought the world and its people were unkind. My tendency was to befriend the person who didn’t have a friend. If I saw someone in sorrow or pain of any kind, in my heart, I shared their emotional burden, and all I wanted was to help them in some way. I knew what they were going through. I was also sensitive to what others might do or say to me. I could be so easily hurt that the unkindness and insensitivities of daily childhood interactions often left me crushed. I thought this ongoing personal trial meant that I must be weak, and it is perhaps understandable that I grew up not liking myself or others very much.

In school, we were told to always line up in single file. We knew there was absolutely no talking allowed. We were to walk into the school quickly and silently, put away our things, and sit down. Our morning always began with a prayer. We would kneel on the cold, hard floor, and say the Our Father out loud. How my knees hurt! I couldn’t wait for the prayer to be over so that I could stand up again.

My day at school was filled with lessons, the reciting of prayers, and being taught the stories in the Bible. Occasionally, we were ushered to the church next door to learn about communion, confession, and the structure and meaning of the Catholic Mass. My favorite time of day was listening to Bible stories, especially when we were told that Jesus loved little children, and that he loved me simply because I was a child. I did not have to be good, quiet, or do everything right. I just had to be me. I was told that Jesus was our friend and that he always was with us. I longed for him to be my friend, and I wanted to know him better.

My Imaginary Friend

My parents married young. They were eighteen and wed right out of high school. Neither had enough money to go to college, so they got married and started a family. They soon ran into the challenges of a young couple with five children to raise.

My mother is a strong Catholic woman. Like me, she attended Catholic schools. She kept a perfectly neat and clean house at all times. Once the beds were made, there was no sitting on them or messing them up. We played on the floor, even when friends came over. Our friends would ask why we couldn’t sit on the bed to play, and all I could say was that I didn’t know, but we couldn’t. It was something we just had to get used to.

I loved to walk into my parents’ bedroom and feast my eyes on all the wonderful things my mother kept there. A large picture of Jesus hung on the wall. Many small statues decorated her dresser, along with holy pictures, prayers, and a rosary. We were not allowed in her room. She always wanted it neat, but every now and then, I snuck in to explore.

My father was handsome, and most people who knew or met him found him very likeable. Without any training or college degree, he migrated from job to job, usually working as a shoe salesman, struggling to earn enough money to support his family. We rented our home, were content with an old used car, and never enjoyed extras during the year. Gifts came only on birthdays and Christmas, which made those days extra special. I knew that my father loved our mother because he kissed her often and called her Peppermint Patty. (Her real name is Patsy.)

My father often returned home in the evening in a bad mood. With five kids in the