A Shattered Nightmare

By Camille Hage

This is a true story about the author's life who named herself Connie. The book is her life's journey with the Lord and His miraculous interventions throughout those years.

She made countless mistakes; however, the Lord, due to His infinite mercy and love, saved her children and her from the horrors of many of those mistakes over and over again. Her book is filled with supernatural experiences--one miracle after another. She believed the Lord wanted it written to increase faith in not only His saved children but also in His abused ones.

The Lord is no respecter of persons (Romans 2:11). The Lord loves us all the same. The Lord intervenes in one's life when one loves Him and has faith. Faith moves our Lord.

In the book, Connie endeavors to demonstrate this truth. Connie loved the Lord with all her heart, soul, mind, and strength. She met Him as a child, and He became to her a mother and a father. As an adult, because of distrustful relationships with those around her, fear caused decisions that warranted a way of escape. That means of escape would, many times, birth a miracle. In other words, many of her decisions would cause a nightmare to erupt in her life. But before the eruption, a miracle would cancel and shatter the nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685262785

Book preview

Table of Contents

Cover

Title

Copyright

Preface

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Part II: Laura

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

About the Author

cover.jpg

A Shattered Nightmare

Camille Hage

ISBN 978-1-68526-277-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68526-278-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2022 Camille Hage

All rights reserved

First Edition

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.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Preface

This book is a true story about my life's journey with the Lord and His miraculous interventions throughout those years.

I made countless mistakes; however, the Lord saved my children and I from the horrors of many of those mistakes over and over again.

This book is filled with supernatural experiences—one miracle after another. I love the Lord with all my heart, soul, and mind. Only because of that reason did the Lord use miracles to constantly help save my children and me. The purpose of this book is to let you know that the Lord loves you as much as he loves me, and He would do the same for you as He has done for me.

The Bible states, For there is no respect of persons with God (Romans 2:11). The Bible indicates that God loves each person the same whether saved or unsaved. Therefore, our precious Lord loves you as much as He loves me. The reasons for the writing of this book is to not only show you that the Lord loves us all the same but also to build your faith.

The many miracles the Lord used to help me destroy many nightmares in my life, He can do for you. When a person accepts Jesus, love for the Lord is then birthed in that person's heart. The gift of Jesus in that person's heart is that person's first great miracle.

I began loving God when I got saved, but I allowed, at times, fear to prevent me from trusting the Lord. Trust is faith. As a result, my faith would disappear, and no good would take its place. Nothing but bad happens when fear creeps in and faith runs away. Faith is the main ingredient that moves our Lord.

My prayer is that you will learn, as I finally did, to not allow fear to enter your nightmares—your worst life experiences. Instead, hang on to your faith. Fear may never diminish totally. However, allow faith to override your fear.

Many horrible and even criminal offenses were told in this book. Because this is a true story, I changed the names of persons and cities in the book in order to protect each person in the book from any problems that may be encountered by the writing of this book.

This is the verse I keep in my heart: Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all they ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths (Proverbs 3:5, 6).

Part i

Chapter 1

Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me, Daddy!

Screams intertwined with those words pierced my ears as I lay in bed in an adjacent room, helpless, not able to move my body, not able to do anything but to continually listen to my daughter's horrendous screams and pleadings. How I wanted to do something, anything, to help my Laura, but my body was extremely weak, my brain dizzy, and my sight cloudy with an extreme high blood pressure that reeked through my body—a numbness that kept me glued to the bed.

I appeased myself with the thought that my three daughters and I were finally leaving him in just two more days. We would have already been gone if not for this sudden extreme surge of blood pressure. The doctor had reassured me that it would only take three days on this new medication. But in the meantime, my children, especially my Laura, were suffering with an abusive man.

Garrett, forty years of age and no taller than five feet, eight inches, was my husband and the father of three little girls: Laura, Anne, and Becca, of which Laura was the oldest. Little Laura, age fourteen at present, was the size of a ten-year-old. Garrett was a man who would physically abuse by suddenly pulling our hair or hitting over truly unimportant incidences. For example, if I, Connie, did not wear a hat when he thought it necessary, I would endure extreme physical abuse. The problem lies in the fact that he never told me when to wear a hat. He basically seemed to expect me to read his mind. He must have been helping Laura with her homework. In his estimation, Laura must not have written her name perfectly. Even though Laura never wanted or needed help with her homework, her father always insisted. For Garrett, every letter had to be written correctly and absolutely no problems missed, or no grammar mistakes made, when he helped her with her homework. Actually, his homework assistance, which usually occurred in our combination kitchen / living room, only consisted of screaming, cussing, and threatening Laura.

During our sixteen years of marriage, Garrett was only home for few hours during the course of a day. Nonetheless, he was extremely abusive during those few hours he was home. Up until this past year, he would hit and verbally abuse the children when I was not present, and when the children were in another room or outside, his violence and verbal abuse were directed toward me. So I really thought he was only abusing me, not the children. However, at present, unlike prior years, his abusive behavior burst forth uncontrollably at any time for all to see.

Observing him abusing the children openly both mentally and physically caused me to finally realize that we had to leave him as soon as possible. When he dared hit Laura, I would intervene, and it would cost me, unfortunately, many blows. His violence would no longer be directed toward our child but to me and would culminate in his leaving the house for a few hours. Nevertheless, the hours he was home were filled with violent screams that echoed through the street where we lived, disturbing many of the neighbors. By law, during the seventies and eighties, no one, not even the police, could interfere in domestic abuse even if severe violence was involved.

Yes, I did pacify myself with the thought that in two more days, the girls and I would be in an abuse center, and this bad dream would be over. Little did I know, at that time, that an even worse nightmare was waiting for me just around the corner.

Chapter 2

A few hours later, after night had fallen and everyone was in bed, suddenly, amid the silence, a low shrill scream aroused my attention. My eyes popped open as my ears strained to hear the next sound from my child's mouth. But there was no sound, nothing, coming forth out of the pitch darkness in the middle of the night. So I tried again to crawl out of that bed.

My thoughts were still cloudy as I pushed my body finally to a sitting position. A wave of dizziness was running through my brain. So for the longest time, I sat at the edge of the bed, still listening intently for my child's voice. Extreme quiet filled the house. Finally, as the dizziness lifted, I stood slowly to my feet. Waddling back and forth, my arms waving around in an endeavor not to fall as I finally headed for my children's bedroom, directly across the hall from my own.

Fortunately, very little furniture was in the house. None in the living room and in each bedroom was a bed. The three girls slept in a regular-sized bed together and also shared the only dresser in the house. Garrett did not want me to be in the same bedroom with him. So that's why I slept in a half-sized bed in the room across from the children.

As for Garrett, he chose to sleep in a half-sized bed in the only bedroom downstairs. The house was a split-level—the nicest house in which we had ever lived. I had begged Garrett to sign his name so we could start purchasing the house about a year ago. At that time, the bank would only loan me twenty thousand. As a school teacher, eight hundred dollars every two weeks was not enough to buy a forty thousand dollar house. In addition, Garrett was usually out of work more than in work. He would lose jobs quite easily, but the day he signed for the house he did have employment.

Peering into the children's bedroom, all three were sound asleep. My children were safe in their beds. Relieved, I slowly returned to my own bed. The school year was finished for Laura and me but not for Anne and Becca. They had still this week to go yet, and so, for them, tomorrow was school. Slowly, I crawled back into bed. Relieved that my violent husband was probably sound asleep downstairs, I rested in the potential to now sleep. There were many nights, over the years, I had slept with a pocket knife open under my pillow. I doubted I had the strength to use it, but knowing it was there caused me to fall asleep much faster.

Chapter 3

Time passes with such ease—melting each experience into a new experience and each event breeding a new event all day each day—until, one day, a person wakes to find themselves old.

My series of busy events began before the age of five years old. I was born the second child of seven children to a couple of hardworking parents of Lebanese origin. The three or so blocks on which our family lived were filled with other Mediterranean, Middle Eastern people. Surprisingly, very few Lebanese were as dark in complexion as I. Even my mother and father were fair-skinned with medium brown hair. I, however, was very short and thin with very long, dark, curly hair and brown eyes.

By my fifth birthday, since I was the oldest girl, unfortunately, you could find me usually standing on a chair in front of an old white sink scrubbing pots and pans much larger than myself. At six, I was dressing and tying my younger sister's shoes. At eight years old, my mother was rationing our food since times were not good financially. So mother was forced to work outside the home, and I was left to care for all my brothers and sisters.

Mother and Dad worked eighteen to twenty hours a day, so most of the time, the children and I never saw our parents until Saturday afternoon and/or Sunday. Yet my mother still seemed to find time to have babies. As a result, all my growing-up years were spent waking up for two o'clock feedings, changing cloth diapers, making baby bottles, cleaning, and, of course, cooking. My love and feelings of responsibility for my siblings created the only happy memories of my childhood. Even the many complaints about my cooking did not hinder that happiness that only comes from giving. Oh my! And how those kids did complain!

The children had guaranteed to everyone outside the home that rubber was the main ingredient in pancakes, and biscuits definitely had little pieces of brick in the dough. My older brother never let anyone forget how to bend a fork. Just stick it into one of Connie's potatoes. But you know, most of them turned out to be healthy grown-ups with good lives and fairly good marriages—all of them except me.

At times, my mother's presence created an atmosphere of uneasiness and fear. But before the age of six and a half, for me, this uneasiness and fear were intermingled with anger, pain, and hate. My mother was always very angry with me and seemed to expect so much from such a young girl. Never through those years did my mother express any love toward me. At that time, within my young mind, I concluded absolutely that my mother did not love me and only needed me to clean and babysit.

Little did I know, at the time, but my mother was overwhelmed with the burden of caring for so many children and depended upon me for so much help. Even though there is no excuse for taking