We Don't Talk About These Things

By Laura M. Smith

TRAGEDY TO TRIUMPH

When a little girl witnessed things no one should see and her life took a dramatic turn, she relied on her faith in God to make it through. As she navigated down her path, she took many wrong turns. She followed each dark and winding road to its natural end, only to fail to reach the destinatio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887389356

Laura M. Smith

Laura describes herself as Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken vessels, inserting gold filling at the rejoining scars, rendering things more valuable than before being shattered. Born in Chattanooga, she now resides in Nashville. She is a Christ-follower, a mother, and a grandmother, who gratefully serves in church choir and band, as well as teaches on occasion. Reading stories of God's grace, playing praise music, speaking, and writing about God's redemption are her passions.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who traveled through time and space, made Himself like one of His creations, lived a perfect life, died in my place so that I would not face the wrath of Almighty God, and rose again so that I could someday rise to live with Him forever. I give Him all the glory and will love Him with all that I am for as long as I live and forever after that.

Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation.

2 Corinthians 5:18 (NASB)

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction so that we will be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

2 Corinthians 1:3–4 (NASB)

I am but a mound of clay, flesh as formed with life and breath.

Elements compound against me. Raindrops pelt and cold winds blow.

I anguish in my lonely heart; I feel so weak and afraid.

Lord, my life I give to you.

He hears and holds me close.

In my ear and to my soul He whispers,

Trust me, my child. I’m molding a warrior.

LMS, 1993

Acknowledgments

With deepest gratitude, I acknowledge my long-suffering and courageous content editor. I met Willa Greene when I was fourteen years old. Willa would wear her heart on her sleeve if only her sleeve could contain it. She loves with her entire being, and she is my angel. God used Willa to shape and encourage me, even when she did not realize it. I am forever grateful to God for her, and to her, for her loyal and lasting friendship. Her editorial contributions and her friendship have been and remain priceless to me.

My second content editor and dear friend, Renee Welborn, is a bold and mighty follower of Jesus Christ. I met Renee three years before writing this book. She is a pastor’s wife, but that is not all that defines her. Her prayers and intense desire to serve the Lord, as well as her heart for the hurting, have inspired me to live out loud. She is one that, when you ask for prayer, instead of smiling and promising to pray, she immediately grabs your hands and prays right then. And her prayers surely reach the holy throne room of the living God. I am so grateful to God for leading me to her. Her encouragement to me during this process has been incalculable.

I would also like to give a shout-out to my fellow author, Trish Taylor. Her book, Like No One’s Watching, is worth a read. Trish is filled with the Holy Spirit, and joy seeps out through her pores. Wherever she is, the breath of God is present. She was kind enough to function as a writing consultant for me. Her advice has been a driving force in keeping me on track and determined to finish. Thank you, sweet sister. You will never know on this side of eternity what your friendship and encouragement have meant to me.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Part One: The Calm Before the Storm

Justification

Daddy’s Girl

Frank

Part Two: The Great Storm

Christmas Night

Part Three: After the Storm

Life Lonely

High School and a Little Light

Religious Instruction and Christianity

Part Four: Statistic

Losing My Way

Part Five: Woman at the Well

Robert

Jason

Gavilan

Genero

Deago

Part Six: What Happened Next

Damien

Others

Part Seven: New Leaf

Something New

Questions

Part Eight: Forgiveness

Who Do I Need to Forgive?

Part Nine: A Few Latest Blessings

Part Ten: A Little More about My Children

Part Eleven: In Conclusion

Afterword

Resources

About the Author

References

Introduction

Have you ever heard someone question how a good God could allow terrible things to happen—even to children—especially to His own children? There are things that even Christians find hard to explain and even harder to accept. We would rather fold them up like discarded sweaters and shove them into an unused corner of a long-neglected attic. We hope they will grow yellow and fade as years of dust slowly cover them into amnesia or, better, that they are destroyed by moths and vermin.

This is a tale of brokenness from tragedies, errors, and abuses. The pages are stained with murder, neglect, depression, abuse, broken relationships, and other things we don’t like to talk about. They comprise fading childhood memories and more recent memories, many of which I am reluctant to relay.

But this is also a story of justification, sanctification, salvation, and victory. Interwoven in the dark tapestry of my life are His shining golden, glimmering silver, and snowy-white threads. The edges are garnished with diamonds and pearls. My hope is that you, Dear Reader, will view this woven mural as proof that God really does bring beauty from ashes and that all things truly work together for the good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose.

In my mind is a string of white Christmas lights. They illuminate one by one whenever I am able to face or work through some usually disturbing memory. Many new lights have lit in the process of writing this book. This is how the Lord heals me. May you, Dear Reader, find help and healing as well.

Please note: regardless of the things relayed in this book, I hold no resentment nor hatred toward any person mentioned. It is not my intention to disparage anyone or to hurt anyone. Five people in a family all experiencing the same incident will have five different perspectives. I am simply relaying my memories as I recall them—one little white Christmas light at a time.

I sincerely pray as I pour out my heart on the following pages that hope will be born where there was none and faith renewed where it has grown cold. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell you this particular story of God’s victorious love.

Mommy and Daddy on their wedding day

Daddy, mommy, and me

daddy reading to me

me with clackers in my hair

Part One:

The Calm Before the Storm

Justification

White-painted mason block South Daisy Baptist Church held services twice on Sundays and once every Wednesday evening. The four of us were present every time the doors were open. Daddy taught the young men’s Sunday school class and was a church deacon. It was the kind of place where no invitation was required to sing in the gospel choir during service. Sister Gloria may have been called on anytime to sing her heart-felt rendition of On the Wings of a Snow-White Dove or There’s Something About That Name, and there were never enough handkerchiefs to go around. Animated messages from the preacher about how Hell was real, but Jesus saved, bounced off the stained-glass windows and were peppered with a gruff amen! scattered throughout the captivated audience. Testimony night was a favorite among the regular members of the congregation.

Available during services was a small nursery for infants, but older children were expected to sit quietly with their parents. As a favored five-year-old, I was occasionally allowed to sit with the teenagers, one of whom called me Half-pint. I could be observed wearing my twin pigtails, sitting on the back pew of the church. I was often perched on a skirt-covered lap, intently scratching red, chipped nail polish off someone’s fingernails. Unfortunately, my fidgety three-year-old brother was not so lucky. He was frequently led by Daddy’s stern grip on his forearm out the back of the sanctuary to have his backside reacquainted with Daddy’s leather belt.

Our little foursome filled the bench seat of Daddy’s shiny Silverado pickup truck as we rambled home after a regular Sunday morning service on September 26, 1976. Sitting beside my father and looking up at him, I asked, Daddy, how do you get saved? Once we arrived home, Daddy’s black leather recliner, where he did his daily devotionals, welcomed us as we two sat together with Daddy’s Bible opened. He read aloud King James Bible words from the book of Romans, explaining how all had sinned and come short of the glory of God. Then he turned back to John 3:16 and read about how God loved the whole world so much that He gave us His Son, Jesus, who died to save us from our sins. Closing his Bible, Daddy asked me if I wanted to ask Jesus into my heart. As I squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head, Daddy knelt beside me. Led by Daddy, I prayed a simple prayer, telling Jesus that I knew I was a sinner and asking for His forgiveness. I was six years old when I asked Jesus to come live in my heart. Jesus was real; He was my king. I was His, and He was mine! I was baptized on October 3, 1976.

Daddy taught me to memorize John 3:16, Psalm 100, and Psalm 23.

Daddy’s Girl

Mommy was statuesque and slim, with flawless fair skin, dark hair, and a bright, inviting smile. She was also driven. I have little knowledge about her life before she met my father, but I do know that they married on December 26, 1969. I was a full-term baby born in July of 1970—Dear Reader, feel free to do the math. Mommy was twenty-one years old when I was born. My brother was born when Mommy was twenty-three. A note in the front of my daddy’s Bible states that he was saved on a Sunday night in May of 1971 at South Daisy Baptist Church.

When the weather was nice, my brother and I were always outside, playing with our neighbors. If none of our playmates were available, we would tromp through the vegetable garden as Daddy worked in it. Strawberries were a favorite staple for both my brother and me. Daddy patiently taught me how to recognize that the strawberries were ready only after they were fully red. Then, I could pick and eat them to my heart’s content. My brother decided to pull and eat them green. My attempts to explain to my brother the error of his ways fell on deaf ears, No! I exclaimed to him, You’re not supposed to eat those! This only seemed to spur him on to eat more! In a panic, I ran to tell Daddy, who was working a few feet away. Daddy, he’s eating the green strawberries! To my dismay, without even stopping or looking around at my brother, Daddy replied, Ah, it won’t hurt him. I was convinced that it actually would harm my brother, but all I could do was watch helplessly as my brother continued to stubbornly eat those unripe berries.

Summer evenings ended with Mommy’s voice singing through the open back screen door, LAU-ra, JER-emy, SUP-per! We heard that tune from several houses down the street! Frequently bare-footed, we bounded over each neighbor’s yard as quickly as our little legs could carry us home. I was always in the lead, but this time, I was stopped dead in my tracks when my bare foot crushed a bee that was feeding on a clover flower. Naturally, the stinger embedded deeply into the sole of my foot. I hobbled home, crying hysterically. Mommy managed to calm me and extracted the offending stinger. Then she put meat tenderizer on my wound, and all was better. When my brother tore the arm and hat from my Raggedy Andy doll, Mommy skillfully reattached them, good as new. I was Daddy’s girl, but when something was wrong, Mommy was my hero.

I was still five years old, and my brother was two years old when Mommy began working a job as a secretary away from home. Soon thereafter, we were all sitting in a Volkswagen dealership to purchase a new car for Mommy. Daddy sat in the chair across from the salesman’s desk, slumping down in his chair and tightly clasping his folded arms over his chest. He frowned ferociously and was generally as uncooperative as he could be. I did not understand why he was so irritated. But Mommy’s attitude was cheerful and unshakable. She drove away that day in her new, shiny, white Rabbit.

Within a few months of my Christian conversion experience at age six, Mommy left Daddy and moved with my brother and me to an apartment. My beautiful twenty-seven-year-old mommy had her new job, and she had her new car. And she had a new love: her boss, Frank. She fairly danced through her days. Her face was aglow as she proudly accessorized her ivory business pantsuit with the long brown wooden bead necklace Frank had given her. Where did you get that necklace? I asked her when I noticed it adorning her. Oh, you don’t know him, she said dismissively and smiled to herself as she turned her head away.

Although my parents were separated, we still visited the family house for Mommy to wash our laundry. On one such occasion, we rushed to Mommy’s car at the conclusion of her chores, with Daddy trailing closely behind us. His pleas for us to stay were rejected, so he turned his attention to my brother and me. Well, at least let the kids stay, he managed. Pausing beside her car, Mommy glanced at me. Do you want to go with me or stay with Daddy? Without hesitation, I happily announced, I want to stay with Daddy! When she turned to my little brother and asked him the same, he chirped, I wanna go with you! Mommy gestured with her hand for me to go to Daddy, then swiftly hopped into her car and drove away with my brother beside her. I felt no regrets as I ran to Daddy, and he knelt and pulled me onto his knee. His entire face was a smile as he wrapped me inside his arms, kissed my cheek, and said, You’re Daddy’s girl, ain’t you? I threw my arms around his neck and leaned into him as warmth and sunshine filled my heart. Yes, I was unquestionably Daddy’s girl.

Frank

I liked Frank. He sat on the floor with me, coloring with crayons, which was my absolute favorite thing to do. I paid close attention as he demonstrated how to outline pictures before coloring them in by using small circles so that everything blended well. He played with my brother and me and sang happy childhood songs like I Know an Old Lady and This Old Man. He also seemed to make Mommy very happy. Her demeanor was constantly light, and she floated around with joy and grace.

While Frank was cooking in the kitchen with the vent fan buzzing one evening, Mommy was in the restroom staring in the mirror with her plastic cap on and gloves covered with hair dye from a self-coloring kit. Being thus occupied, neither Frank nor Mommy heard the knock on the door. My brother and I sprang from the floor where we had been reclining, watching cartoons. Skipping over to open the door, I jumped into Daddy’s waiting arms, my brother and I joyfully chorusing, Daddy! Daddy! He scooped me up and wrapped me in a hug, kissing my cheek as my brother clung to Daddy’s knee. But before he could step inside, I had an overwhelming urge to whisper in his ear, Daddy, Frank is here. I did not understand the implications; I just knew I had to tell him. My knees rattled when Daddy swiftly put me down flat on my feet and quickly returned to his truck, my brother and I trailing close behind him. Where are you going, Daddy? Daddy, where are you going? But he did not stop, he did not look back, and he did not answer. In disbelief and confusion, we stood on the sidewalk, watching his truck tires leave black smudges on the pavement as he sped down the road away from us.

For reasons unknown to me, we moved again, this time to a duplex. The furnishings were sparse, but I was happy because I knew that Mommy loved me. She seemed to enjoy the creativity she could express with my drawer full of playful hair ties and my long, wavy brown hair. Ponytails, pigtails, and buns were accented with double rubber bands with plastic beads laced through (I called these clackers) or long twisted yarn ribbons. She brushed and styled my hair every morning. Mommy did many things to take good care of us.

One Saturday morning, after I had turned six and my brother was three, Mommy asked us what we wanted for breakfast. Trying to think of the least troublesome meal, I answered first and said we would have eggs. To my great dismay, my brother demanded pancakes. I could hardly contain my irritation for my brother as Mommy patiently cooked both requests.

Every evening, Mommy would tuck us into bed, kiss us each on the cheek, and tell us, I love you. In fact, there was not much that Mommy did not do for us. I was a secure and happy little girl. Christmas was approaching. And Jesus was with me.

Last photo taken of mommy

Part Two:

The Great Storm

Christmas Night

The night of the 25th of December in the year 1976 was a silent and holy night until the following early morning hours. Mommy, Frank, my brother, and I had a quiet celebration in front of the Christmas tree in Mommy’s cozy living room. Among my gifts was a long, pale-yellow dress with a white flower in the neckline and a zip-up illustrated children’s Holy Bible. Inside the cover of the Bible was Mommy’s elegant handwriting inscribing, From Mom with a lot of love for my daughter. When it was bedtime, Frank left for the evening, and Mommy tucked us into our beds.

We snoozed contentedly in the comforting stillness. Without warning, Daddy’s voice broke through the silence like a thunderbolt from outside the home. Laura! Open the door, Laura! My covers clutched tightly underneath my chin; I lay wide-eyed and frozen in the darkness, unable to comprehend. I was not afraid because it was my daddy, and my daddy loved me; I believed this in my heart. But I could not move. The front doorknob rattled furiously as the thunder boomed again, Laura! Open this door! Mommy’s strained voice came from her bedroom across the hall, Laura, stay where you are! As the front door did not yield and I did not respond to his orders, Daddy changed strategies. He moved over and pried off the screen to Mommy’s bedroom window. Mommy’s panicked words filled the telephone receiver in her desperate call to the police, Someone’s breaking into my house! She let out a startled cry as Daddy blustered into Mommy’s room carrying a shotgun and a rifle in his arms. Before Mommy could say more, Daddy dashed over to her, yanked the telephone from her hand, and then stripped the white landline telephone cord out of the wall, rendering the telephone useless.

Mommy’s terrified voice tried to appeal to Daddy’s love for us, Dan, the kids are here! The kids are here, Dan! Dull-thumping noises that my six-year-old ears could not interpret filled the air. Daddy wielded his shotgun, but he did not fire a shot. The shotgun barrel began to bend underneath the force of repeated blows to Mommy’s body. As Mommy tried to deflect the attack, her arm was broken. Muffled, shuffling, struggling sounds came from her room as her nose broke, and finally, her neck succumbed to the bludgeoning.

And then, all was silent. Mommy lay on her back, motionless, on top of her mattress; her warm blood splattered across the bedroom walls and ceiling and pooled underneath her on the shag-carpeted bedroom floor.

The overhead light was on in Mommy’s room when Daddy called me in. Bend down and see if you hear anything! he instructed as he paced the floor at her feet. Not knowing what I was expected to hear, placing one hand on either side of her, I hovered over Mommy’s lifeless body, careful not to touch her, and heard nothing but did not comprehend. I don’t hear anything. In disbelief, Daddy