When the Rock Splits

By Lisa Pineo

How did I get here, and how do I make it stop?

If addiction is a coin, then the addict is heads, and the codependent is tails. Three marriages, three kids, four homes, and two dogs later, life is far from where it should be--the housewife of a successful, stable, godly man and the mother of four boys.

Growing up in a conservative minister's home, living by faith, and trying very hard shouldn't drive you into the hands of a drug addict. Or should it?

Maybe there truly is hope when your life keeps splitting apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685172435

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When the Rock Splits

A Snapshot of True Events

Lisa Pineo

ISBN 978-1-68517-242-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68517-243-5 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Lisa Pineo

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

1

Circa 1980

2

Pioneer Practice

3

Identity Crisis

4

Youth Group

5

Burn Out

6

Remembering Long Island

7

A New World View

8

If You Are

9

Joan

10

My Street Sweeper

11

Glimmer of Hope

12

That Green Sapling

13

Blessings and Drugs

14

Solid Rock

Special Thanks

About the Author

my God is my rock, in

Whom I take refuge,

my shield and the

horn of my salvation.

He is my stronghold, my

Refuge and my savior—

from violent people

you save me.

—2 Samuel 22:3

1

Circa 1980

My heart split into two perfect halves the day I learned my dad was actually a regular human being with struggles. He was my hero, my rock. My heartstrings were attached to him. I had reveled in adults' comments about how much I looked like him. My mom's special remark You're just like your father rang in my ears and swelled my heart.

Despite his claims to be only human and warnings to never worship the created, I wouldn't listen. I was stubborn. Worship only the Creator, not the created, my dad would say. The Creator is the only thing that has not been created by anything or anyone.

Our family of four attended the little white Baptist church down the street. My earliest memory is of my mom hoisting me in the air by the waistband of my itchy tights preparing me for church. Itchy tights and scratchy dresses, I thought I would die. I must have been three. Wrapping me in burlap with duct tape would have been more comfortable. In protest to the garb, I looked at my mom and said, God sees me naked.

Until I was five years old, my dad came home every night at about five o'clock. His jeans were caked with grease and dirt. I loved that. His face seemed to glow as he entered through the side door. Walking to the sink, he'd wash his blackened hands after a hard day's work as the head lineman for New England Telephone. I depended on hearing the sink water flow over my dad's strong hands as he lathered and rinsed thoroughly. Then he would sit down to my right. My little sister sat across from me in her blue booster seat. Mine was yellow. For some reason, my mom sat at the head of the table, which didn't reflect the traditional American 1970s gender roles that we held in our home. It wasn't until I was older that I realized Mom's position at the table was out of convenience, as it was the closest to the stove. Now that I think of it, she barely sat at all, getting up often to immediately meet our every need.

Faithfully, my mother has cooked homemade meals every night for her family, fulfilling her vow to never serve a frozen dinner. Our dinners were hearty and delicious. We come from a long line of farmers, which influenced our food culture. On both sides of my family, my ancestors can be traced to the Mayflower beginning their lives in New England as farmers. I once thought my father's side first landed in Canada from Europe as my grandparents were Canadian citizens, but my genealogist cousin Andy explained to me otherwise in his lifelong work of research.

I learned one of my first important life lessons at dinner. My mom made the best mashed potatoes and cooked steak on the stovetop. I didn't want to labor over my steak and chew it. I wanted easy food. So I attempted to solve my own problem. When my mom cleared the table after dinner to find a pile of partially chewed meat in front of me, I learned a life lesson: if you stuff your steak under your plate, it is still there.

Dinnertime was the constant commencement of my day. When Dad walked through the door at five o'clock, I knew exactly what would happen until I was tucked into bed listening to Mom read an Arch Books Bible story each evening. My life worked like clockwork. I had structure and stability.

Dad was my first love and that is why I gave him a pass when he started leaving a lot to save the world. Answering God's call to go into ministry, Dad left his career and enrolled in college for the first time. He was forty, and I was five. Four years later, he became a minister. He loved God and people loved him and I loved him and he led broken people to God and that was heroic. He was a magnet. Magical. Beautiful. But he didn't come home at five o'clock anymore.

2

Pioneer Practice

It is no one's fault that after my dad's career change, I resolved to raise myself. This feat started with basic planning, and at the crux of all my thoughts was the question, If I had to survive alone, what would I need to know? On one occasion, I had tested my survival skills by packing a small bag and running away. I made it to the backyard and hid against the house underneath my mom's kitchen window. She called for me. I smiled silently. She couldn't see me when she looked out, but I was right under her. I wouldn't dare disobey and leave the yard, so I just disappeared from her sight with my bag. We were separated. I did it! I was still alive. I won.

It's a good thing I practiced survival because my dad was busy and sometimes forgetful, like the Saturday he left me at church after a workday. Confused, I sat on the stone steps and watched him drive away. I weighed out two important options: walk the quarter mile home and get killed by my mother for walking in the street; stay still and starve to death. I seriously contemplated the next step. In the two minutes it