Journey into Living Waters: A Memoir

By Maria Rodero

Maria longs for a life of comfort and influence like her parents enjoyed. Instead, after marrying the handsome, charismatic Marcelo, she finds herself drowning in financial ruin and despair.

With their children in tow, the beleaguered couple flee the country in a desperate measure to find peace and healing, which proves to be m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Illumify Media
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959099963

Maria Rodero

Maria is a Christian author with a deep faith in Jesus and sincere belief in His awesome salvation. The power of prayer in her life has been so uplifting and life changing, she hopes to help others recognize the amazing gift the Lord gives us all to connect with Him directly through prayer. Maria begins each day in prayer and thanksgiving to her Lord and savior Jesus. She is often found in her spiritual war room interceding for those who seek prayer, salvation, and rescue from the enemy's snare. She is also working on her next book that shares new challenges in ongoing spiritual battles and effective tools she uses in spiritual warfare. She has won numerous awards, including 1st Place PoetryWinner, Published Author Category, 2015 Colorado Christian Writer's Conference and WomensMemoirs.com 2016 Short Story Winner for "Payback," published in Tales of our Lives: Fork in the Road.

Book preview

Prologue

He reached down from heaven and rescued me; he drew me out of deep waters.

Psalm 18:16 (NLT)

I’m two-and-a-half years old and looking down at my palms that are filled with chocolate fudge frosting, which is everywhere: on my face, in my hair, between my toes, all over my clothes. I am standing between my mother and our housekeeper.

Take Maria and clean her up while I try to salvage this cake, my mother says with frustration.

I look up at her. She is clearly angry with her face all twisted. She never looks down at me or even touches me. Now she is asking how I got into my brothers’ chocolate birthday cake without anyone noticing and made a mess of everything including my party dress.

She turns away, and our housekeeper leads me by the wrist upstairs to change. I am sad, but I’m not crying. I am mad to be treated like such a problem. When no one is looking, I decide to walk down the hill, a two-year-old’s version of running away.

I make my way toward the private lake on our estate. A stuffed toy monkey is my companion. It is funny-faced with a plastic banana attached to its hand, and it dangles from my tiny grip and swings back and forth with every determined step I take. Monkey belongs to my sister, but as far as I am concerned, he is mine.

Halfway to the lake, I stop and look back at our house. I remember seeing white tablecloths flapping in the breeze and hearing chatter with lively activity as party guests, friends of my brothers, run around.

Making my way around the shoreline, I pass a grove of willows and some pine trees. When I reach the private beach which is out of sight from our house, it is deserted, and the weather is overcast.

And that’s all I remember.

Thirteen-year-old Cam Davis and one of his buddies were walking the perimeter of the lake when they saw what looked like a life size doll floating on the water’s surface. When it dawned on them they were looking at an actual child, they raced toward me and retrieved my limp body from the lake.

Cam told his friend to run back to the house to call for help. He then knelt beside me and began CPR. As fate would have it, he explained later to news reporters, I just completed a lifesaving course with his Boy Scout troop a few days ago.

As if that weren’t miracle enough, a nurse had decided to take an alternate route home on a whim that day. Never before had she turned her car down the dirt road that wound its way past our private beach. That day, however, she had a keen desire to do so.

As she drove toward the lake, she saw a boy kneeling over a toddler’s body and pressing entwined fingers, palms down, on her chest. Instantly, she sprang out of her car and into action.

She took over administering CPR and together they brought me back to shallow breathing on my own after expelling a large quantity of water from my lungs.

Meanwhile, my father had arrived home early from a business meeting to surprise his sons for their birthday. When neighbors showed up asking if a two-year-old girl wearing a blue dress lived there, the housekeeper nodded and one of them blurted in a panic, She just drowned at Chalmers Lake Beach!

My mother took off running toward the beach, yelling to my siblings and the housekeeping staff: Pray for Maria!

My father followed her. My brothers and sisters instantly formed a circle in the foyer, dropped to their knees, and began to pray. Hand in hand, they pleaded with the Lord to save my life.

Arriving at the beach, my mother pushed through the emergency crew and curious bystanders and maneuvered her way to my side. I’m her mother and a nurse. Initially, they tried to keep her away from me, but in that moment, she was nurse first, mother second, and so calm and clinical that they let her through.

I was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. Once there, they laid me, wet and uncovered, on a gurney in the emergency room under fluorescent lights. Mother stayed by my side. When the staff appeared to be frantic and uncertain what to do next, she couldn’t hold back any longer.

Warm blankets and antibiotics must be given to Maria immediately. You must start preventative treatment for pneumonia this minute.

She was right. It was later confirmed that pneumonia had set in.

I still had yet to open my eyes or speak a word.

After a time of observation, a team of doctors holding tightly onto clipboards walked into my hospital room to present their evaluation.

Madam, the lead doctor said, as a nurse you understand that under the circumstances there is a possibility of brain damage from oxygen deprivation. We need to conduct a brain scan and cognitive testing to evaluate her brain function.

My defiant and spirit-filled mother hardly looked up as she said, My daughter is fine! Then, looking at me earnestly, she clasped my shoulders and gently squeezed. Maria, I told you never to go into the water. What were you thinking?

I gave a little cry, then said, Mommy, Mommy, I went into the water and my head popped off!

She embraced me, sobbing with relief and joy. Then she grabbed a picture book she had found in the children’s ward, pointed at an illustration, and asked, What animal is this?

With my tiny, reclaimed voice, I answered her and could identify each animal and the sound they made without hesitation.

She looked up at the doctors, who were by then shaking their heads in disbelief.

1

Silver Spoon

But anyone who is not aware that he is doing wrong will be punished only lightly. Much is required from those to whom much is given, for their responsibility is greater.

Luke 12:48 (TLB)

The sound of commotion swirled its way up from the kitchen landing directly into the bedroom where I lay fast asleep. Startled, my eyes flashed open just as a crescendo of laughter and shouts came to a climax.

My dream world evaporated into the morning sunlight.

I was six years old and had woken up late once again and was missing out on moments of joy, laughter, and activity in my home. As the baby, the last of eight children, it was normal for me to be left undisturbed until someone felt compelled to include me. Sadly, including me at the last moment just made me feel mostly forgotten.

After yawning and a good stretch, I rolled down and off my sister’s big comfy bed and headed toward the stairway. I grabbed ahold of the banister to hoist myself up on it. I once overheard my parents boast that the banister was hand carved, made of some kind of exotic wood. That didn’t mean much to me. I simply enjoyed the fact it was sturdy enough to carry my weight as I slid down to the main floor.

I made my way through the foyer while looking up at the huge chandelier looming above me. Then I headed into the kitchen. Mary Francis, the housekeeper, was seated in her usual chair off to the side of the kitchen counter, humming some sweet southern tune softly to herself while snapping a heaping pile of green beans. She looked up.

Hello, li’l miss Maria. Do you want me to make you some lunch since breakfast is long past?

No, thank you. I am going to make my own breakfast. I took a frying pan out of the cupboard. And then, I will make my own lunch!

I still can’t get over that you’re just six years old and making your own meals, Francis marveled. You sure know how to take care of yourself, li’l miss.

I loved Francis. She was always there for me, saying kind things to me. That’s what I felt, but I replied to her in a slightly snarky tone. Since I missed all the morning fun, I’m not about to miss a tasty breakfast.

I thought, At least that is something I can control.

After eating, I ran back upstairs and splashed water on my face to get the sleepers out of my eyes. I changed out of my PJs and into play clothes, then headed outdoors.

It was a beautiful sunny day. With squinting eyes, matted reddish brown hair, and rumpled freckled nose, I surveyed my magical world.

Everyone was busy preparing for a pool party to be held that evening. Father was trimming the hedges that formed a Phoenician-style pathway around the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Brother JJ was astride a big red lawn mower, circling back toward the house, cutting another diagonal row of grass through the acreage beyond. My mother and oldest sister Jill were sprucing up the flower centerpieces sent from the florist to make them just right. Maids were setting tables with crisp white linen.

No one noticed me, focused as they were on the tasks at hand.

I wandered around the path to the side yard. From a distance, I could see my brother Craig in the garage tinkering on another lawn mower. His thick eyeglasses barely hung on the end of his nose as he loomed over the half-dismantled engine. He looked like a surgeon in the middle of an operation. I giggled. He scrunched his face to keep his glasses in place and looked up at me. I waved and smiled at him. He nodded, wiped his nose on his sleeve, then returned his attention to the engine. I knew he would get it fixed. He always found a way to fix things.

I continued to wander, smelling the lilac blossoms along my path, when I realized I hadn’t seen my other sister Laurie Beth. She wasn’t outside like everyone else. I knew she was either working on an extra credit project for school, preparing a surprise for that evening’s guests, or doing gymnastics in her room, like always.

My oldest brother, Scott, had already moved out and was married, living in a home of his own. My second oldest brother Marcus was on the other side of the house, giving a tennis lesson to someone on our tennis court. I could hear the distinct contact sound of racquet to ball, then his voice shouting instructions.

All the sounds of my outdoor world were drawn into the music pulsating from the speakers surrounding our home. Adding to the recorded beat, everyone’s activities resonated into a synchronized rhythm of life which was common to our home.

Suddenly, I heard a pssst sound coming from the branches of an old maple tree nearby. I looked up to see my brother Eric, eighteen months older than me, sitting on a tree trunk in cutoff jean shorts, aimlessly swinging his legs.

You wanna play? he whispered.

Like me, he was ready for another day of adventure.

Eric and I wandered past the apple and cherry orchards, vegetable gardens, and manmade waterfall as we plotted our next adventure. Home was our private Neverland. The possibilities seemed endless.

We affectionately called our home the Big House. As a child, could I truly comprehend how extraordinary my upbringing was there? I had nothing to compare it to. I had no clue that our home was, in fact, a mansion originally built for a wealthy car industrialist back in the era when Detroit was the car capital of the world. Thus, it was built with grandeur: a 12,000-square-foot estate home in the English Tudor style.

My father told us that in his youth he would make the twenty-mile bike ride from his modest Detroit home to stop at the lake and gaze upon this very house. As he looked upon the estate with awe and wonder, he would say to himself, Someday I am going to buy that house! Thirty-some years later, he did exactly that.

After that evening’s pool party, the entire family gathered in the kitchen, as was customary after one of our events.

The party was a complete success, my mother announced as she filled her champagne glass, then my father’s. The pâté was delicious. The duck was a touch cold, but the baked Alaska was out of this world! Now, tell me, what should we have done differently?

This question was the standard prompt after any event or undertaking we did. We were invited, as always, to dissect the event down to the smallest unacceptable detail. Our family motto was Always do better. Improvement is key.

There is no question that I lived a charmed life growing up. As the youngest daughter of a successful car dealer and businessman, I was given many opportunities. There was never a moment of lacking for anything. We were privileged. We enjoyed family ski vacations in our vacation home near Aspen, Colorado, then broke free from the lingering grip of winter with spring breaks at our penthouse condo in Siesta Key, Florida. My father owned speedboats, horses, and two private planes.

Our country club lifestyle was the result of the achievements of my parents and their do it yourself hard-working attitude. Our job as their children was simple. We were to follow in line, learn by their example. Looking back, however, I see how little I knew of normal, everyday worries and reality. I had no sense of proportion, budgeting, or limits.

My siblings and I grew up believing that all our dreams would be relatively easy to achieve if we simply worked hard enough. That message was reinforced daily by the productivity of our self-made parents. There was always a goal, always a project, and always a celebration at the end of a job well done.

My parents achieved the American dream and then some. I imagine they had exceeded their own personal goals of success. Yet their humble upbringing and attitude kept us all grounded.

My father, a navy pilot in WWII, fought his way to the top from nothing. I recall him saying, God is my co-pilot on many occasions. In his way, he gave God credit and a rightful place alongside him in all he did.

My mother, also born of modest beginnings, found her path through faith, self-sacrifice, and sheer determination. She was working as a nurse at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit when she met my father. They had a whirlwind romance. My father knew from the minute he met my mother that she was the one. They married within months of knowing one another.

Children came quickly, one after the other. My mother rolled up her sleeves and managed our home like a five-star hotel. She was the heart of the home. She relied upon her faith to guide her and her high energy level to motor her through each day. There was always wonderful food cooking, music to work and sing along to, and guests to entertain for dinner. She was up before dawn and worked until late. Still to this day I truly don’t know how she managed to do it all.

My parents’ social image was exemplary. They were generous and helpful to many friends, people in the church, and our community. They made a positive impact on the world around them. They had everything they could ever want and felt they should be gracious to those in need.

Working with my mom for church fundraisers took up much of my teenage years. My parents believed God had allowed them prosperity for their faithfulness and dedication. And they worked hard to instill the moral values they prized so greatly: accountability, honesty, integrity, self-reliance, generosity, and on.

I speak so highly about my family because who we were, and what we stood for, gave me so much personal strength, pride, and confidence. I worked hard to emulate the valuable qualities that were so strong in my family. Their values became my own.

Yes, we were privileged, but we valued hard work too.

Still, sometimes I felt unworthy of all I was given. We had everything imaginable, yet I never felt deserving of any good thing. When I would receive a gift, I felt guilt. In those moments, my mom would tell me, Stop brooding in ingratitude about the life you were given and just say thank you! Although overwhelmed and grateful for the things I was given, oddly, those two words struggled to pass my lips.

So much of my upbringing was beautiful, magical, yet all was not golden, and I’ve often wondered if the unspeakable moments of my youth had anything to do with things going so awry in my own adult life.

The smell of sweet and savory wafted through the house. I froze in my tracks and inhaled deeply. I made my way to the kitchen with the hope that dinner was about ready. Food is love, my mom would say. This made our kitchen the heart and center point of our home. Some of my best decisions took place in that kitchen, as did some of my most memorable meals.

Old show tunes played on the stereo. My mother was defending her opinion in a heated political discussion with the new hired help. My sisters were across the room, preparing a side dish while whispering in their own made-up language.

Suddenly we heard a thundering crash. Leaving the simmering pots, we all raced up the back stairway. My brothers Marcus and Craig were at it again, this time with fists and blows to the face. My sisters and I instantaneously cried and trembled, clutching one another. My mother begged and pleaded for them to stop. Entwined, their bodies slammed against the wall as one. It felt like they were shaking the very foundation of our home. Anger and bitterness remained on their reddened strained faces, but the physical struggle slowed, presumably out of exhaustion.

Listen here, this cannot continue! my mother shouted a final desperate plea. You are brothers. Now stop it!

Neither one responded. They simply turned their backs. Like prizefighters hearing the bell, they worked their way to opposite corners, wandering to their bedrooms until the next clash.

My father’s domineering presence was nowhere to be found. He worked endlessly to maintain the home and the lifestyle that he had created for us. His absence, however, created a void that called for other male personalities to take over in the house. At times, it all felt very out of control. Whenever he was home, however, there was respect and order. We gauged his mood and adjusted our words and our actions. If he was happy, we could be happy, too. If not, we got busy and productive or found an excuse to disappear.

That night at dinner, we gathered as a happy family, and the hour was filled with laughter and jokes, as if the fight had never happened.

We all knew how to instantly adjust into good behavior as if on cue. We could be fighting and screaming altogether in the kitchen at one moment, and with the ring of the doorbell all find ourselves laughing and hugging amongst friends and acquaintances who had stopped by.

Ironically, the gap between our private family world and our public personas felt quite genuine and natural. We understood we were never to share our sorrows or ugly conflicts publicly, nor be an embarrassment to the family. With all we had been given, it was our job to make others feel good, not burden them with any negativity. Perhaps that was the added incentive for my mom to entertain constantly. We were all at our best when not left too long to our own.

It was true. My mother would attempt to counteract all our excessive, potentially explosive energy by giving us many projects and responsibilities in the home. We seemed to be always on task. She would also dole out advice as she did housework. She would speak about honorable deeds, right living, and proper behavior to anyone willing to listen while ceaselessly executing the tasks on her to do list. She had high standards on how we should behave, live, and think, and looked for every opportunity to teach us about her ideals and values in order to mold us into who she hoped we would become.

Whenever my mother spoke, I listened. I soaked it all in and agreed with every word of the value of high morals. Like my siblings, I tried to do everything I could to respond in obedience, wanting to please her and meet that expectation. I also carried her sadness with me when she fell apart emotionally from time to time.

Trying to adapt my mother’s ideals for me twisted into something unacceptable when I became a teenager. I refined the ugly skill of using my tongue as a blunt weapon, all in the name of moral justice. I fought back whenever I witnessed what I believed to be unjust and cruel behavior from others. I used bold words to defend kids from bullies at school, but mostly I would talk back to my brothers, telling them what I thought of their poor behavior and lack of courtesy to the rest of the family. The bullies at school always seemed to back off, but my comments rarely improved anything at home. I was easily ignored, but I stubbornly persevered, acting as if it were my new assignment to defend everyone in my corner of the world, including my mother.

There were times when my father was cruel to my mother. For example, he would come home following his company’s summer softball games after celebrating beyond the tipping point. My parents would argue, and he would lose control and say mean-spirited and hurtful things to her. She would cry and withdraw in her hurt and disappear somewhere inside the house.

It was then I would slide into his line of fire. I would argue with him. My intention was to redirect his anger toward me. I thought I was protecting my mother. If my father would leave after a fight, I would find my mother crying at the window, begging for his return.

For that, my older sisters reprimanded me. You’ve crossed the line of disrespect, they would tell me. You have no right to speak to our father that way. You should be ashamed of yourself! Our parents are to be revered and respected in all circumstances! How dare you!

But being a strong-willed, fierce redhead, full of conviction in my own right, I continued trying to shield my mother from the pain of my father’s piercing words and nasty behavior whenever it would flare up. Unfortunately, I did it with anger and in-your-face verbal jousting.

These conflicts didn’t last long. I lost confidence in them one hot summer night when I found myself on the couch in the family room with my father’s knee on my chest and his forceful grip fervently shoving my shoulders down into the cushions. His hot intoxicated breath washed over me, as did his outrage at my defiance of him.

Shut up, shut up, shut up! he screamed in my face before releasing me and zigzagging his way up to his bedroom.

Suspended in shock, I lay there, flattened out on the couch like roadkill, afraid to breathe. I was unsure how to move from that point forward. When I finally found a normal breath, I felt the black leather underneath me begin to peel away, releasing my sweating skin from its hold. The TV series Love, American Style played on the television, but I was no longer aware of the storyline. My focus was on the tingle of blood flow in my shoulders where my father’s grip had been.

I was surprised no one in my family was roused by all the commotion. His shouts must have scattered them out of fear, or they had all confined themselves to their rooms long before and were out of ear shot.

Regardless, all was quiet, except for the droning voices and laugh track coming from the television. I finally got myself up. I turned off the television, went up to my bed, and cried myself to sleep.

After that incident, I adapted my tactics somewhat. When my father behaved in this unbecoming manner, I began writing him notes. Since he claimed he never remembered his behavior, I wanted him to know the truth.

I would place the notes in sealed envelopes behind the mirror in his medicine cabinet. My hope was that in the morning, when he opened the cabinet to get his shaving cream, he would find my note, read it, and hopefully change his behavior.

I would write to him that what he had said or done the night before had made us all sad. I would write that I loved him and hoped he might think differently before drinking again.

We didn’t speak to one another about the notes or about the night he became so enraged.

However, our relationship began to improve after that. As it got better, I started to feel guilty for being disrespectful to him. I began to feel I had no right to treat him that way. I began to accept that I got what I deserved. That is how I saw it. From then on, I decided to do everything in my power to give him a reason to be proud of me.

My parents were always on the go, whether it was because of travel, business, special events they were planning, or their own personal agendas. Therefore, the bulk of my upbringing fell to my sisters. In fact, Jill took me under her petite maternal wing. Nine years my senior and far more delicate than I, she cared for me as any good mother would, despite her age and stature. Laurie Beth was exemplary as well, an overachiever who I could only hope to emulate in a small portion.

All my siblings, in fact, took on the role of parent, watching over me, advising me, critiquing my every imperfect step and mostly to my great irritation. We did argue and fight a lot, but most times we ended disputes holding onto each other and caring when it really counted. At least, that is how I remember it.

All in all, the memories of my youth were that of love, noise, celebration, drama, isolation, excitement, anger, laughter—and another helping of love to soothe any lingering hurts. The memories are poignant.

As the years passed, we all perfected the art of avoidance and non-confrontation as the only escape from unpleasant encounters or heated exchanges.

Apparently, in that home, it was all or nothing.

2

To the Rescue

He will rescue them from oppression and violence, for precious is their blood in his sight.

Psalm 72:14 (NIV)

An odd noise was coming from the attic door when my father walked past it one morning. To him, it sounded like muffled snorts and broken cries right by the crack of the door. He stopped, did a quick about-face, then turned the knob to open the door. As he did, he had a sudden unsettling memory of the hostile family of raccoons that had once nested in the rafters.

Suddenly, out pounced a calico ball of fur with huge green eyes. My father looked down and regarded the young cat. The cat looked up and regarded him while tiptoeing on the tops of Dad’s light blue Italian leather dress loafers.

What the hell? Dad shouted, to which my rescued stowaway bounced off his shoes, ran in the direction of my bedroom, and disappeared under my bed. Argh, Maria, not again! he cried, adding a variety of distasteful expletives that echoed throughout the upper corridors of the mansion.

My parents were well aware of my gift of empathy. I befriended and cared for many a living thing. This was not cultivated but a natural response. It’s how I am wired. In my world, there is always someone or something in need of rescue. That’s why I ran away one time with a friend who needed saving from her estranged father.

Cindy was my best friend in seventh grade. Her parents had divorced, which was the first divorce in our community back in the day. Apparently, it was a bitter one, and Cindy was terrified of her father for reasons never fully explained to me. However, I understood that the imposed expectation to be a part of his life, at predetermined court-ordered times, was too much for her to bear.

I recall vividly how we escaped from him one wintry Friday night.

Cindy and I made plans for her to stay the weekend at my house. Apparently, she forgot that she was mandated by the court to spend that weekend with her father.

We were the only two in my house at the time her father came looking for her. Our laughter, chatter, and dramatic storytelling came to an abrupt end as soon as we heard a car rumbling up our long and winding private drive. We peered out the bedroom window to see who it was.

Oh, God, no! Cindy said, shifting into panic. Oh my God, oh my God, it’s him, it’s him. I can’t go with him. Please. . . I just can’t. Please don’t let him in.

I looked at her in shock. I had never seen her in a panic before. We stood there, momentarily frozen, staring at each other while gripping one another’s shoulders.

The doorbell rang, followed immediately by shouting.

Cindy, I know you’re in there. Come out at once. Let’s go! He began pounding on the solid mahogany door. Each pound of his fist seemed to penetrate the wood. The sound resounded from the foyer directly below us and seemed to pierce our bodies.

We both began to shudder. Cindy was now hysterical. I tried to calm her down, but his enraged voice and his persistent ringing and forceful pounding shattered any chance for her to regain composure or reason.

Action had to be taken. I wasn’t about to let her go in her