Dollars to Donuts...: ...Betcha Jesus Had My 6!

By Sudie Gal

Everyone loves a captivating story, but seldom do we recognize God calling us to live one! Especially while wading through the floodwaters. The Gospels reveal the real cost of following Jesus. It cost the disciples dearly to follow Him--cost in terms of their families, jobs and livelihoods, their fortunes, securities in the familiar, even their lives...

When Sudie Gal was reborn in the Holy Spirit in July of 1977, she never could have imagined then the painful cost of following Jesus the rest of her days. He would eventually ask nearly everything of her as she found herself caregiving for her defiant, elderly mother in her dementia.

God may call you to one day leave all the people and things you love most. Perhaps He already has. If so, possibly He's guiding you to be the character that overcomes in the great story of your life! Just remember, you are never alone! He is with you always! Let Jesus be your Rock! He is available. Able. And amazingly, all that you need!

Here now in this testimony of joyously surviving by His Divine Guidance, Sudie shows us through her torturous trials, the tremendous cost of her faith walk--even carried by Jesus, on His great shoulders through the floodwaters to high ground. Rescued, released, redeemed!

"Godspeed!" ("Prosperous journey!") is this author's prayer for you! By our trials and scars we become most assuredly one of His Overcomers! Hallelujah!

"Dollars to donuts"--an old-world expression meaning a certainty, a pseudo-betting term. "I'll bet my dollars to your donuts (or buttons, cobwebs--whatever you have of no value) that I'm right!" was one of her mother's favorite sayings--as she was always "right," and everyone else could just go, well, they could just go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639033812

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Dollars to Donuts...

...Betcha Jesus Had My 6!

Sudie Gal

ISBN 978-1-63903-380-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63903-381-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Sudie Gal

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Preface

INTRODUCTION: in a new york minute

Chapter One: a little backstory

Chapter Two: a little about mom and dad

Chapter Three: a little about their lives together

Chapter Four: a little about me

Chapter Five: a little about family lineage

Chapter Six: a little about grandma flora's daughter

Chapter Seven: a little about the notorious sibs

Chapter Eight: a little side note

Chapter Nine: a little more about the good ol' days…

Chapter Ten: a little on my wicked health—then the flood!

Chapter Eleven: drowning in the flood

Chapter Twelve: a little later that same year

Chapter Thirteen: a memorial day weekend to remember

Chapter Fourteen: summer of '96—one big blur

Chapter Fifteen: 1997, a year of malevolent craziness

Chapter Sixteen: a little about moving on

Chapter Seventeen: a little about the biggest of blessings

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Sometimes our own stories are

the ones we can never tell.

But if a story is never told,

it becomes something else.

Forgotten.

When a story is told, it is not forgotten.

It becomes something else…

A memory of who we were,

the hope of what we can become.

—Julia in the 2010 movie Sarah's Key

Dedication

"To him

[or her]

who over-

comes I will

grant to sit

with Me on

My Throne,

as I also

overcame

and sat down

with My Father on His Throne."

Revelation 3:21, New King James Version

My story of enduring, and eventually—many years later—overcoming the storm of

crazy devastation inflicted by my family's inherent psychological deficits as well as

my mother's dementia, together with their lack of faith in our Savior, is dedicated to

you, kindred spirit, fellow believer, faithful sufferer...who have with Jesus, overcome!

To all the Children of God, all across our once-great nation: may this testimony

of my personal storm be the Lord's encouragement to each one of you.

I give you

my voice,

my prayers,

my affirmation,

my compassion,

my true solidarity,

my recognition,

my validation,

my kinship,

my heart.

Selah.

Preface

Everyone loves a captivating story, but how many of us thoughtfully consider that God has perhaps called us to actually live one?

The Gospels reveal to us the real cost of following Jesus. It cost the disciples dearly to follow Him: cost in terms of their families, jobs, reputations, and livelihoods, not to mention their sense of security in the familiar… It even cost most of them their lives…

When I was reborn in the Holy Spirit in 1977 at the age of twenty-eight, I never could've imagined then the cost of following Jesus all my days. He would ask me to do all sorts of inconceivable things in my faith walk… Did I have what it would take to follow through?

I believe that as the Master Weaver, our LORD is interested in weaving His tapestry—the holy fabric of our very being. Particularly, perhaps, the fabric of those of us who deny ourselves as we try to take up our cross and follow Him, to give hands and feet to the Gospel—to carry His Living Word for us, in us—to the world.

I've learned that losing one's life while clinging desperately to Jesus Christ, in the end, equates to finding one's genuine, ordained, sanctified, justified, rescued, redeemed, forgiven, purified (often by fire or flood), and yes, even one's holy self at the foot of the Cross! One day, we will, each and every one of us, all come before His Throne, whether we have denied and rejected Him and walked in our own ways, or walked with Him. And we will each be invited to account for our words and deeds in this life. What will my account sound like? Truth or fiction? Some of both? Will I really try to fabricate events in His Presence? Or will I recognize my moment of reckoning and complete contrition as I attest to it all?

Close your eyes right now (I know! Not easy while you're trying to read this! But maybe just close one eye till you get to the end of the sentence…) and picture yourself in the midst of your passing from this life into everlasting life—and suddenly there you are! At the Throne of Jesus! At the Father's Right Hand! And He invites you to account for your words and deeds to tell your story. Perhaps it will be the story of how you overcame with His help…What will you tell Him, in all honesty? What will have been your uniquely and divinely crafted impact on this fallen world?

The book of Revelation mentions seven times, specifically in the Letters to the Seven Churches of Asia Minor, the very scripture referenced in my dedication, to him [or her] who overcomes. God may one day call you to leave all the things and people you love dearly. Maybe, He already has. If so, keep in mind that He just might be inviting you to become a character that overcomes in the Great Story of Your Life. And if so, please remember this: you are never alone! He is with you always!

I am a living, breathing, surviving—indeed, joyous (well, most of the time, anyway…)—testimony to His Eternal, Divine Presence and Merciful Guidance that is always available to all us overcomers! So, to you, gentle reader, I say, Godspeed! which means Prosperous Journey! That is my heartfelt bid to you! And if you don't know Jesus personally yet, you are hereby invited to open your heart and mind, open your door, and become one of His Overcomers! He stands at your door and knocks! (Rev. 3: 20–21). Invite Him in! Ask Him earnestly to enter in and take up residence in your heart. Seek His free forgiveness for all your sinful ways. Yes, we are born into a sin-stained world where Satan prowls, devouring all those he can! You and I are heirs of Adam and Eve's sinful natures—the original sin, whether or not we deny that fact. Claim His Holy Spirit as your new and forever Friend, Counselor, and Master, and do so in Jesus' Name. You will never regret it! After all, it's no accident that you're reading this right now, is it, dear reader? God is calling…

Introduction

INTRODUCTION: in a new york minute

T his came in the mail today, my dear husband stated bluntly.

I had just trudged through the back door of our 1940 farmhouse on Meadowview Lane in that little Buffalo, NY suburb on this particularly snowy November evening in 2002. David held out a small piece of paper, delivering the news like a poker player—no telegraphing as to origin or the emotional dynamite held within. No tell-tale expression of joy, humor, or sorrow. I took the paper while keeping my eyes locked on his…until he turned back around to tend dinner on the stove.

Well, that was not his usual loving greeting! I thought.

No kiss. No hug. No smile. No So how was your day, hon? None of this Glad you're home stuff or Geez, it's getting deep out there.

Our move across country from our beloved Oregon a few years prior had been in large part an effort to insulate ourselves from the inferno, the fiery hell that had become our lives under my mother's insane rule. It was also a new beginning kind of move that would allow us, together, to financially get on the plus side of life again after years in Christian ministry work and survival jobs on the North Oregon Coast, and get my mother more than totally paid off. Observing thirty years of marriage, we moved to New York to create a fresh start from the mother trauma-drama, and accumulate enough cash with the amazing, cushy job offer through a friend and previous Oregon Coast boss, and completely pay back the $13,000 loan we owed my mother—without her or my siblings' knowledge of our whereabouts. Seemed like a good idea at the time! And the Lord had clearly and profoundly blessed the move and made straight our path. He had led us here. However, the move was proving to be a season of surviving, another occasion of overcoming, as we were hit by all sorts of roadblocks and obstacles once we'd arrived in New York.

Bedraggled from a truly harrowing day of work as Corporate Recruiter for Sallie Mae—an hour's commute, each way—I plopped myself down in the nearest kitchen chair, paper in hand. My latest NY job was in a quintessentially antagonistic atmosphere being instituted by a new, frankly evil, boss, the new HR director who decided I needed to be replaced immediately since I didn't carry the S.H.R.M. designation behind my name, plus I was from Ory-gone. This most taxing job was by now two jobs down the road, and I mean down, from the dream job we'd moved across country for in 1999.

I soon realized that this which I'd been handed was not another summons in the seemingly never-ending series of lawsuits from my mother's parade of unscrupulous, money-grubbing, unethical leaches she hired as attorneys. The single-folded half sheet of paper with its quasi-watercolor artwork on the front was immediately recognizable as a funeral program. This one, though, was for my mother. I stared unemotionally at it.

I burned the vile letter Jan sent with it, David, my beloved husband, explained. Delivering the update, along with his welcome-home kiss, he turned his attention to our supper on the stove.

I opened the little program. And, true to form, my ungodly sister had gone to great lengths to try to stab me in the heart once again. Omitted was any mention of my husband, my children or me as surviving kin.

How petty. How adolescent. How sad. And how exceedingly evil and mean-spirited. I mean, who does that!? Only ungodly family, I guess… I pondered.

I felt nothing, however. No pain, no sorrow, no heartache, no regret, nor relief, nor anger. Nothing. Numb. How is one supposed to feel at a moment like this, anyhow? Finding out in this convoluted way that one's last surviving parent, the single-most demanding and all-consuming individual of my life, the one from whom I had been estranged the previous five years, the same possessed mother who had abused my husband and I, and consumed all my living breath for far too long, had now passed into eternity, was buried and memorialized some three thousand miles away unbeknownst to me at the time? Is there a way people feel in this kind of moment? While in the same fell swoop, I found myself declared virtually nonexistent in one of the most hateful, warped, and childish gestures I'd ever seen. On one hand, I was now finally free of the menace of a mad mother. On the other hand, I was simultaneously brought back into the crosshairs of an angry, mentally unstable sister, with likely collusion by her psychologically abused husband and son. I won't mention the irresponsible, maniacal brother…

Lord, what would you have me do or say with this? What would be Your response? If any…show me Your Way… I prayed.

The intentional omission was, after all, nothing more to me than a reaffirmation of the uncommonly juvenile, emotionally skewed, and utterly vindictive mindset embodied in my estranged sister. Quite likely, her little scheme of omission was conveyed to our dangerous, drunken, vengeful brother. His perfunctory approval would have been sought ever so subtly. Mind you, not even he had the temerity to challenge her when it came to her consensus gathering. It was always her way or the highway. On a positive note, at least, the two of them were perhaps united at last. After a lifetime of bickering, silent treatments, and word wars, a lifetime of ungodly behavior—a lifetime of familial animosity, judgment, and condemnation toward one another—they were at long last on the same side in their war against me! United now in their mission to destroy me and mine however they could devise! How heartening! Wielding—from the safety of substantial geographic distances in whatever State in the Union they sought refuge from their mother—their oddly collaborative, sick brand of misery upon me. This, then, was the attempted fatal dagger to the heart. Well, their hope was for fatal…So here it was, in my hand: thus far the sum total of their ridiculous animus, in my one hand. Stunning, this little piece of paper.

Their miserable plot to destroy me was aimed not just at me but at mine as well—my husband and our two children, who also had been found guilty by association of all the assumed and imagined wrongs allegedly committed against their suddenly revered mother (postmortem). We—my husband, children, and I—all had been tried, convicted, and sentenced in absentia into eternal exile in the High Court of Sibling Psychoses. Found guilty by the team of judge and jury, on every count of alleged or imagined crime. We had crossed them by supposedly crossing their now-martyred Queen Mother, the very mother they had both demonstrated their total indifference toward while she lived. For many long years prior to her passing, while I tended to the needs of our mother in Oregon, basically from 1983 until 1997, my sister was comfortably ensconced in Idaho, while my wayward, wandering brother was first in central California, then Puerto Penasco, Mexico, and eventually in Ft. Pierce, Florida, while we lived back east. (I've had to keep track of their whereabouts for reasons that will become clear later).

The sibs' strategy now? Pathetically, it was not even their own original evil-scheming: all their tactics were acquired lessons from none other than our mutual mother—the mother they had each systematically ostracized, criticized, and abandoned in her final years as being too difficult to manage, too manipulative, too needy, too senile. Her needs were always too inconvenient to be addressed by either of them in any responsible way, as evidenced by their total lack of caring for her or communication with her, each living hundreds of miles away. Their strategy, just as Mom's had always been, was to emotionally beat into submission those who take exception to their defiant rule; and if submission was not achievable, then ultimate and complete destruction would be the consequence.

Our 1940 farmhouse in Western New York. Winter, 1999–2000.

A cold, calculated, childish gesture—chillier than this black-skied New York night! Even more disquieting than disowning me and mine by omitting our names as surviving kin in a funeral program for our mother, these two siblings who had just shown their true colors obviously now knew our physical address! Our move from Oregon had been a God-given providence to distance myself from all three of them and their continued antagonism. I left them no forwarding address.

And now, tonight, it was evident that their agenda of continued hatred and threats toward me and mine had reared its ugly head once again. These sibs were Mom's unwitting pawns in her grand scheme of manipulation—casting me as the evil, greedy wrongdoer and herself as the classic victim/martyr. The exact opposite we had been to her during the sibs' irresponsible absence and dereliction of familial caregiving! Laughable, if it weren't so pathetic! This unbecoming device that I held in my hand was their meted punishment for my imagined high crimes against their mother—the same person they now portended to indignantly defend and protect. The same mother whose eldercare, living assistance, and support they had quite completely and irresponsibly dismissed for so many years prior to her passing. They had both just walked out, walked away passively from her and all her demanding neediness!

And their neglect had been chronic, dating back years before, to shortly after Dad's passing in January 1983. Not only did they move away physically and geographically, they moved out of her life emotionally and psychologically. Each sibling had secretly relegated her/his own mother's welfare and watch-care to their little sister and her family, due at least in part to their mother's penchant for making life difficult, and all about her. Ironically, I was good enough for the job at the time; but now, because of this same mother's unwillingness and inability to abide peaceably with me, and because of her inability to align with the truth if it was inconvenient for her self-image, I then became the one condemned to whatever hell these elder siblings could inflict. My mother's habit of being the victim-martyr would be manipulated by her against these two derelict adult children of hers to stir them into fighting her battle for her—against me and mine. There was a simmering rage within Mom that was borne out of defiant indignation, which came full-bloom when I was forced to ask her to move out of our home in 1997.

These two unfortunate siblings could not be bothered with any facts in this matter of my no longer being able to live under the same roof with their mother. Total denial. Inherited traits from their mother, sadly! A rush to judgment was also a family-learned tactic. They had shown their hands long ago; they only needed less than a small excuse to hate anyway. So, they had chosen in unity, idiotically, to believe that I was guilty of all charges as accused by their demented, mean-spirited, and vengeful mother during her final years of care and support. Further, they both exhibited no need or even curiosity to seek the other side of the story from me. (I mean, hello? There are always two sides to a story, right…)!? These two pious siblings had removed themselves entirely from any responsibility of our mother's care! My brother and sister had abandoned any and all familial obligations concerning their own elderly and widowed mother! How does a grown woman or man of godly conscience even consider doing that!? How is it that these two could have any standing before a just God in taking up the persecution of their fellow surviving sibling based solely on their mother's pitiful and deluded tales of woe and victimhood?

And in a New York minute, considering the funeral program's lack of contents, considering the too-vile-to-read letter from Jan telling us to burn in hell, etc., etc., my life changed directions then and there.

Both these evil siblings, Jan and Frank, along with our mother, Ellen, had decreed the total responsibility for Ellen's daily living—without a word ever spoken, nor a question ever asked, by their own ill-informed plot—to me and my family alone…

Me. And my family. Alone. I sat there. Numb. Exhausted. Having an inner dialogue with myself. Then my thoughts turned to seeking my Lord…

And I heard the LORD whisper in His infinite watch-care of His child, and in His perfect, compassionate timing: "You are never alone. I am always with you."

As it is proclaimed in Matthew Chapter 28, verses 19 and 20, the Great Commission:

"Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen."

Footprints in the Sand

One night I dreamed I was walking on the beach with God. Many scenes from my life flashed before me.

In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand, sometimes two sets, other times only one.

This bothered me because during the lowest and saddest times in my life, there was only one set of footprints. So I asked God,

God you told me when I decided to follow you, that you would walk with me all the way. But I noticed during the most trying times there has only been one set of footprints. Why, when I needed you most, were you not there for me?

God whispered, My child, I would never ever leave you! During your times of trial and suffering when you saw only one set of footprints it was then that I carried you.

Chapter One

Chapter One: a little backstory

It will be helpful to you, gracious reader, to know some of the history—the setting, if you will—for what would evolve into the most gut-wrenching, mind-blowing, spiritually challenging trial: the deepest, darkest valley, the single most intensely stressful season, the fiercest storm of my entire life. And, dare I say it, this was a storm delivered by Evil Itself, through the demented mind and possessed soul of my mother and my two siblings, who somehow along the way gave themselves over to their mother's demons. What I must relate here, in my humble opinion, is a story so extraordinary, so pain-riddled, so tormented that it rivals any Child of God's survival story anywhere out there! A plot straight out of (scriptural) hell! And the plot came excruciatingly close to killing me.

Caring for an aging parent with clear signs of dementia has its own inherent pitfalls and snares, no question. But add to that the sibling rivalry and their off-the-chain mental deficits often acted out against each other, as well as against this sibling, this caregiver, who stood in the gap—a gap I'm convinced they intentionally created. Those additional sibling dimensions were more than enough to affect my own psychological trauma. Add to all this an aging mother who had been raised up and steeped in inherently hard-hearted and demented behavior, in a childhood home utterly lacking in a godly or scriptural foundation, and the stage is set for the complete destruction of an entire family unit to play out. And Satan at center stage!

*****

But God is Good! And He is greater than all this! And it is my hope that you will see, as we go along, gentle reader, how my Savior taught me to lean into His Mighty Sheltering Presence and to simply trust Him in the process, to simply breathe in His Peace and Gracious Loving-kindness. I would smile and laugh again someday. I would one day be freed by forgiveness. No more anger or bitterness. No vengefulness. No fear. Free in His Love. And eventually free from the unique insanity that was once my ancestral family. God is more than Good! He's Great! He is the Great…I Am.

May this effort somehow bring you, whose eyes and attention are right here right now, some level of comfort, encouragement, hope, and reassurance that you too, with His Help, can overcome whatever it is that feels like the worst time of your life. Keep the faith. Run to Him! And stick there! Even when you can't sense His Presence or feel His Comfort! When it feels like He isn't hearing you or has turned a deaf ear or His back to you…Trust in His Faithfulness and Character. Keep your eyes on Jesus! He is our Greatest Ally. Our Confidante! Our Helper and Deliverer! Our Refuge!

*****

But I gotta tell ya these stories before I can tell ya that one! Sudie Gal says, with a lighthearted curl of her lip, a twinkle in her eye…

The following account is only my story, my truth, as I know it, as the Lord has given to and inspired in me. And this is my first attempt at a memoir…or any published writing, for that matter. So bear with me, if you would, as I struggle to get it right, and as I write it across the sky—for God and all the world to see.

I am, despite rumors to the contrary, Ellen's youngest of three children. One cannot eternally deny the truth. I was the last of three children born to my mother, Ellen, and father, Pat. This is fact, despite my pathetic blood-sister's vengeful efforts to obliterate my name from all legal documents and ancestry records, so that I would appear to have never existed. (As if! As if she alone had the Almighty's Power and Sovereignty to obliterate my existence, like some evil fairy godmother with her nightstick wand! As if she was all that and a prized daughter)! I laugh now at her insane agenda. Because here I am! Filled—to overflowing at times—with God's Grace, Mercy, Forgiveness, Compassion, and Love! An undeserving but grateful recipient! But then, aren't we all?

So. About the pseudonym. I have grown through a few variations of my God-given name, Susan. But whether known as Susan, or…

Beanie as given me when I was about two years old by Dad's hired man, Frank Pikala, who loved me and spoiled me rotten. Rotten! Together, we drank Mom's homemade buttermilk at our kitchen table. I would sit on his lap, and even when I'd pick my two-year-old nose while sitting there, he would let me wipe the boogers on the front of his shirt—as a toddler, it just doesn't get any better than that! He bought me my first piggy bank, a big ol' Plaster of Paris (jump back, Jack!) bright green pig with black eyes and pink cheeks and inner ears. He would cash his paycheck and bring me the change plus a few silver dollars each payday to plunk into my piggy bank, which we'd do together. Eventually I used this savings to buy my first horse, Babe, when I was six, and paid for her with eighty-four silver dollars. The day Frank Pikala left us to move on down the road, I cried so hard and tried to run after him as he made his way across our living room's hardwood floor and out our front door that my mom and sister both had to hold me back as I fought and squirmed to get loose with all my might, so I could run to him and either go with him or stop him from leaving…

My cherished letter from Frank, the hired man, after moving on:

Hi Beanie, I know that you are learning very fast, But you ask your Mother to help you read this letter. Do you still remember the Rock-a-Bye Baby song that I put you to sleep with. Are you still Dad's and Mother's Little Angel and be the Good girl all the time. Many a time when I could hear your little feet going pat-pat along side of me while you were sound asleep many miles away. So you be the good Little Girl all the time and the whole world will Love You. As I move on down the road I will always remember you as the sweetest little Girl that lives. So Bye Bye & God Bless you.

Frank

And tell Sis Janiece I wish her all the happiness in the world.

Or the next nickname I was given, along the way:

Boejsche (I never saw it spelled, so just my best guess) was my brother-in-law's favorite nickname for me after he entered our lives circa 1955. I always imagined it being a foreign language for something and never disliked it!

Or the infamous and unwelcome:

Sue. A name that hung on me like an albatross. Thanks, world, for that uninvited, unauthorized moniker, which has stuck with me in some circles still today. Yeah. No offense to all the Sues of the world, but it just never, ever felt like a fit to me and even brought me down. And I still cringe at the sound of it in reference to me.

Then my own nickname for me:

Susie. The self-prescribed handle I gave myself at age thirty, as I