by Hannah Parks
As I ponder that, though, another thought pops in my brain! God created the world in six days. Wow!! I can imagine Him, then, putting finishing touches here or there on a mansion, thinking of a particular son or daughter of His as He does so. It’s been a lot longer than six days, so can you imagine those mansions? He loves us that much!
Needless to say, I put my hammer down.
Reconciled
A tiny beam of pale light shown underneath the heavy wooden door. Sounds like static from a radio could be faintly heard as a starry night crept silently and slowly into the observer’s senses. What was lurking behind the strong door that seemed to bar the very existence of life from entering and disclosing a secret? The whole story actually started with a young girl a few years prior.
Adelle was only seven when she first became interested in the nightly sounds that could be heard from behind the door. She was tall for her age with very long and slender arms and legs. Her skin had always been smooth—much like her mother’s skin—and it was a creamy white. Her hair was long, brown, and straight, and bore natural red highlights as though she had been lightly kissed by the forces of darkness. Her small black eyes shone angrily at all mankind, and her wide mouth was very seldom an expression of cheerfulness.
Adelle’s character matched her hair and expressions. She was not a good girl at all, but rather a very naughty and wicked child. She found delight in the pain of others and occasionally inflicted pain upon herself as a type of offering to the forces that so pervasively controlled her entire being.
It was this awful corruption within her that sparked a desire to know what lurked behind the closed door. She was not of the curious sort, but her motive in discovering the secret was that she might use it to ruin the life of another.
Now, Adelle was 11 years old and more determined to open the massive door. This night, she stood facing the door with determination and a cold anger glinting in her eyes. As she advanced closer, the tiny beam of light fell upon her dainty feet. A happy girl of 11 may have found unending delight in the pale light that carefully blanketed her feet, but not Adelle. The cleansing light seemed to destroy her façade and display her corrupted and evil thoughts and feelings to the waiting world. Adelle reached up and turned the glistening brass knob. Straining every muscle, she carefully pushed open the massive door.
As the purging light danced upon her frame, it seemed to pierce and refine her contemptible heart. In that painful moment, Adelle fell to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably. Before her lay a tiny baby warmed by the fire blazing in a nearby fireplace. As she beheld the sleeping child, her mind’s eye recalled Sunday school stories of Jesus’ being the Light of the world. She remembered how He came to earth as a tiny babe. He came for Adelle.
As she knelt in repentance, the once-painful light filled her heart and soul with a blessed peace that passes all understanding. The angels rejoiced, and Satan shrieked as his “secret” was disclosed and another precious soul was rescued from his wretched grasp.
Lessons in the Night
“Good night, Sweetheart. Mommy loves you.” I crooned to my small son, Kennon. Little did I know as I laid him down to sleep that those words were the last I would say to him on this earth.
Several months after our wedding day, Jon and I received the news that our first little one was on his way here. “I can’t believe it, Honey. We’re going to have a baby!” I exclaimed.
“Laughingly, Jon replied, “No, no Dear. You are going to have him, but if you picked a good husband, he will help you with the work,” he finished with a wink.
Jon and I lived above the clouds through the following weeks and months. We playfully argued over names such as Chantel, Rocky, and Mildred as we discussed nursery colors and baby items. We just couldn’t pass the baby’s’ section without stopping for several moments.
As I finished my sixth month of pregnancy, problems began to develop. I no longer felt baby Kayla kicking her strong feet. Returning to the doctor’s office, we received the grim news that I had miscarried. Tears overflowed my eyes as Jon’s steady hand supported me. Tears streamed down his cheeks, as well, as he spoke, “It’s okay, Sweetheart. We will get through this. It’s okay.” He muttered those words over and over as though it was all he could say.
His words did little to comfort our aching hearts, but I knew that he meant well. We were both grieving for the little girl that we already loved so dearly. As we exited the doctor’s office, a faint rainbow could be seen above the treetops.
A year and a half later, my heart rejoiced again as I received news of my pregnancy, but my dreams withered just three days later. In despair, I cried, “God how could You? First, baby Kayla, and now this one!” I balled my fists in anger, “Why God?” The words of Psalms 30:5 rang in my ears “ . . . weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Again, I learned that God’s way is perfect, but it certainly was no overnight process for me. Days and months of grieving lay ahead.
As I learned of my third pregnancy, the sinking feeling of doom descended upon me. Jon and I pleaded with God in prayer. “Heavenly Father, we realize that our baby belongs to You. May Your will be done. We would love to hold this one in our arms. Amen.”
Our hearts rejoiced as our baby grew. Six months later, though, I was rushed to the hospital. The soft buzz of machines broke through the haze as the doctor spoke, “Katie, your baby is here. He is alive, but he is very tiny. I’m not sure he is going to make it.”
Large tears marked paths down my pale face as I prayed. “Father, please let him make it.” Physically spent, but too worried to sleep, I was awake when the doctor returned an hour later.
“Jon and Katie, as you know, your son was born very early. His lungs are not fully developed, and he isn’t breathing on his own. He seems to be a fighter, but I would suggest that you begin making funeral arrangements. I’m sorry.”
Funeral arrangements were made, but as the days passed, Kennon proved to be more of a fighter than the doctor realized. Doctors marveled as God answered our prayers. Days turned into weeks, and Kennon grew increasingly stronger.
We were finally able to hold Kennon for the first time when he was three months old! What a joy it was to feel his soft skin next to mine and finally have him in my arms! On his first day home, Kennon weighed a whopping five pounds, but his cheeks held a healthy pinkish glow that added to the cuteness of his expressive face. Thick, dark lashes outlined his bright blue eyes. We rejoiced in the words of Psalms 66:12: “You have caused men to ride over our heads; We went through fire and through water; But You brought us out into rich fulfillment.”
The following morning, I hurriedly went to arouse my beloved son for one of his numerous feedings. My heart lurched as I approached his crib. “Jon, Jon, come here. Something’s wrong!” I screamed.
Kennon’s face was ashen as one small fist lay nestled close to his cheek. On his face was a beautiful smile, for he had been carried Home on angel’s wings.
I awoke with a start. Breathing heavily, I walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The Shepherd’s Daughter
Speeding down the interstate, Kyle willed himself to be strong. Being a former Marine, he knew how to use stress to his advantage. He loved the rush of adrenaline coursing throughout his veins, but this time was different. Kyle’s thoughts were invaded by the sweet music of his daughter Kylie’s voice, “Daddy, are we almost there? When are we gonna see Mommy?”
Kyle choked back his tears. “We are almost there, baby girl.” Kyle attempted a brave smile as he glanced in the rearview mirror at his six-year-old little girl. She looked so much like her mother with big brown eyes and black hair that reminded him of the midnight sky.
At last, the hospital loomed ahead. In just a few minutes, Kyle parked the car and retrieved Kylie. He grasped Kylie’s small hand and practically dragged her through the double doors and to the closest nurses’ station. “I need to see my wife. Please, I need to see her right away!” exclaimed Kyle
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A nurse grabbed his arm. “Sir, I need you to calm down. You are scaring your little one. What is your wife’s name?”
“Sophie. Her name is Sophie Mendoza,” blurted Kyle. “I got a call at home to come down here immediately.” As he spoke, Kyle’s co-worker Amanda came running towards him. “Kyle, you go with the nurse. I will take Kylie to play in the waiting area.”
Kyle kissed his daughter and turned towards the nurse. “May I please see her now?” Nurse Clarice spoke in hushed tones as she guided Kyle down the hall. “She is very critical, Mr. Mendoza. She has been shot in the head.”
Tears coursed down Kyle’s cheeks as he closed the distance between himself and his wife. Sophie was very pale and still. If it weren’t for the bandages around her head and the tubes everywhere, Sophie almost looked like she was blissfully asleep.
As Kyle stood there holding his wife’s hand, Jarod, the sheriff of Clay County, approached him. “Mr. Mendoza, we need to ask you a few questions. Was anyone out to get your wife?”
Kyle’s eyes flashed with anger. “No one hated my wife enough to harm her!”
The sheriff looked at Kyle with sympathetic eyes. “Would there be a reason that she would want to harm herself?”
Kyle’s mind snapped back to the present. After being at the hospital for several hours, Kyle had returned home to feed and bath Kylie. His little girl was now sleeping in his and Sophie’s bed with her arms wrapped tightly around her favorite teddy bear. Kyle sat in the little alcove across the room. The sheriff’s words continued to eat at him. Why would anyone want to take Sophie’s life? She wouldn’t take her own life. She was happy—wasn’t she?
In Kyle’s lap was his wife’s journal. He took a deep breath and opened the leather-bound book. He flipped through several pages until something caught his attention. Sophie’s penmanship had gone from neat and small cursive writing to messy and large print as though she was angry! Kyle began to read.
March 22, 2004
“I feel like a failure to my mom, dad, husband, and daughter. I try so hard to smile and pretend that everything is ok, but my demons seem to get bigger and bigger. Right now it seems like my only escape is crank. It has had so much control over my life, but makes me feel invincible and on top of the world until the trip is over. I can’t stay clean. I feel so alone even when surrounded by my friends and family. I’m just not sure that I can go on.”
Kyle could not stop the torrent of tears. He put his head in his hands and began to sob as the journal fell to the floor. “How could my wife be on drugs without my knowledge of it? Was she really so unhappy and wounded enough that she would try to take her own life?”
He was startled when the doorbell rang. Checking quickly to make certain that Kylie was sleeping, Kyle went to the door. He was relieved to see that his pastor had stopped by. “Come in,” said Kyle.
Pastor Tony was a giant of a man, very tall and big-boned. His heart, however, was full of love and compassion. Before he could say anything, Kyle ran into his arms, sobbing again. Kyle stepped back drawing his shirt sleeve across his eyes. “Please, sit down, Pastor Murphy.”
Pastor Murphy sat down and began to speak. “Kyle, did you know that the police are trying to figure out if this was an attempted murder or an attempted suicide?”
Kyle’s eyes filled with tears again. “Yeah, but you know her! Sophie has such a great personality. People love her the minute they meet her. I just don’t know how I couldn’t see what was going on.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pastor Murphy.
Kyle picked up his wife’s journal and began to read to the pastor the part that he had just read. The pastor sat for a few minutes in shock. “Kyle, has she ever mentioned to you that she was depressed or battling an addiction? Anything?”
Regaining his composure, Kyle hung his head. “First, I want to say that she is an amazing woman. She does not have a relationship with Jesus. Now that I think back, I can see several warning signs of drug use and depression. She has self-esteem issues, and she looks like she has aged very quickly. She would usually answer me in monosyllabic words, and she has lost a lot of weight. Sophie’s journal is full of notations about being a failure to everyone. She talks about feeling alone even when with a crowd of people around. She blames her addiction to methamphetamine. The last date in here is the day that she was admitted into the hospital.”
June 18, 2004
“Kyle, I love you and Kylie with my whole heart. You two are my heart and soul. I cannot overcome my demons. I fear that in the end I will fall victim to my demons. Don’t let meth ruin your life. I am so sorry.”
Pastor Murphy was the first to break the silence. “You need to get down to the police station. I will stay here with Kylie. God is with you.”
Kyle spoke softly, “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can,” said Pastor Murphy. “Your wife needs you.”
Kyle had been inside the police station for several hours already. The police had read a few parts of the journal and had taken Kyle’s statement. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mendoza. Your wife needs you to help her through this,” said Sheriff Jarod. “It’s obvious that she attempted to take her life.”
Nurses and doctors spoke in hushed tones as Pastor Murphy and Kyle walked into the ICU the following day. Kylie was spending the day with the neighbors next door. Kyle walked to the head of the bed that held his beloved wife. “I’m here, Baby. Can you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”
Kyle looked up as a nurse came into the room. If his memory served him right, her name was Clarice. Clarice patted Kyle on the hand and spoke, “She is still critical, Mr. Mendoza. We placed an intracranial bolt in her skull to monitor the pressure in her brain. She has a diffuse brain injury. It is difficult to tell at this point how much brain damage she has suffered. She has made it through the first 24 hours, though.”
Kyle’s eyes began to water. “Nurse, she does not know Jesus. She can’t die yet!” he said. The nurse placed her hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Mendoza, hold tight to your faith.”
During the next several weeks, Sophie’s days were like an emotional roller coaster. Some days she made small improvements, and some days she declined. The pressure in her brain had stabilized, and the intracranial bolt had been removed. She was still not able to breathe on her own, but she was alert and beginning to follow simple commands. The doctors were amazed at how quickly she was recovering. They were hopeful that she would recover quite well.
On August 1, 2004, Kyle walked into his wife’s room barely able to contain his excitement. As he bent to hiss her hand, Sophie’s eyes opened. They had recently removed the breathing tube since she was breathing on her own. “Hi, Kyle. I . . . I’m really sorry,” she said.
Kyle squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. We will get through this. I read parts of your journal, and I know all about the drug use and your fear of failure. I still love you, Baby. We will work through this together.”
Sophie blinked back tears. “Thank you so much. I love you, Kyle! They are coming to get me soon to put me in a regular room! Go get some coffee and come find me. You look exhausted.”
Two months later, Sophie was moved to a rehabilitation facility that would help her regain her physical strength and mobility and would also teach her coping mechanisms to stop the drug abuse. Her life had been spared due to the bullet only grazing her frontal lobe. She had undergone surgery and would possibly need more in the future. The scarring would forever remind her of how her life had changed.
“Good morning, Sophie!”
“Sophie opened her eyes, and a smile made her face shine. “Hi, Val. Is it morning already?”
Val smiled. “Yup. Another beautiful morning is here.”
Sophie had grown to care a lot for this particular nurse. Val was a sweet woman who was full of compassion and something that she could not quite figure out. Val’s voice brought her back from her thoughts. “You have a group session in a few hours. Don’t forget it. Does it seem to be h
elping you, Sophie?”
