RELIVING THE PAIN

PAIN GO AWAY





 

          The hall was crowded the first day of school.  August had passed and September 1956 had arrived.  Familiar faces passed by in the Junior High hallway.  The school was alive with chatter, and hundreds of footsteps scurrying to class.  Nollie (who was in the seventh grade this year) was walking towards me with another girl.  She had spent the last month of summer in Texas, and I hadn’t seen her since her return.  Abruptly they turned into the girl’s bathroom.  That’s funny; I wonder why she didn’t speak.  Oh well, she probably didn’t see me.

          Julie stepped up beside me; her dark sensitive eyes were troubled and she spoke in a soft whispered tone,

“Gloria, I think you should know what Nollie told Jan and me this morning.”

“What?”

“She said you pushed Ray under the water.”

“What do you mean? I asked incredibly.

“I don’t know why she said it,” Julie answered sympathetically, “I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for class.  I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

“Okay,” I said numbly.  My steps dragged as I entered my eight-grade classroom.  Faces were a blur.  I had hoped with the beginning of school that the memory of Ray would lessen.  Ever since the drowning, no matter where I turned or what I did, suddenly, without warning, a sharp pain of remembrance would pierce me.  The first hour of the new school year, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach.

I saw Nollie a couple of times between classes, but it was obvious, she was avoiding me.  Every time she saw me coming, she darted off in the opposite direction.

“Mom, why would Nollie say that about me?” I asked, after I told her what Julie had said.

“I don’t know, but I’ll soon find out,” Mom said and walked out the back door, heading for the Smiths.  She returned a half-hour later.

“Nollie’s mother says there will be no more such talk!” Mom said reassuringly.

“But Mom, how could Nollie even think that of me?”

I thought long and hard about Nollie.  She had seen me trying to keep above the water by grabbing Ray’s shoulder.  Didn’t she see him dogpaddling after that?  No, she had gone for help.  I finally decided Nollie felt guilty because she had hesitated in getting help.  In order to ease her pain, she was blaming me for Ray’s death.

A few months passed, we moved to another house in Socorro.  The socializing with the Smiths had come to an end.  No one purposed it, but no longer could we enjoy fun and laughter together.  Instead there was a void, emptiness, sadness and a longing for a special, freckled faced, green-eyed boy, who had laughed and shared his pleasant disposition with all who had loved him.

Every time the memory of Ray would fade, something would bring him to mind.  I opened the school annual that year, and the Junior High section was dedicated to Marion Ray Smith.  I gazed at the picture of my tender eyed, freckled friend.  I had never known that his first name was “Marion”, the same as Daddy Slim.

(A few years later, Mrs. Smith gave birth to a baby boy.  Mom said God had given them another son.)

WHY DID I LIVE?

WHY NOT ME?

          It was a hot, dry summer day.  The Smiths and our family ventured for an outing.

          The smell of freshly mowed grass drifted in the air as we unloaded the two cars.  Boxes of food and a watermelon were placed on a redwood table in the picnic area.

          Ray sat across from me as we ate out lunch.  His plate was filled with potato salad, baked beans, and a hot dog.  I felt warmness toward my freckled chum, and I longed for us to be friends again.

          Nollie, Ray’s sister, sat next to me.  She resembled Ray; only she was tall and gangly.  Ray was thirteen, I was twelve, and Nollie was eleven.

          After lunch, the three of us played catch with a softball.  For the first time in months, Ray joked around with me.  We soon tired of playing catch and decided to go down by the river.  We told our parents we were going exploring.  The four of them were sitting around the table drinking coffee and enjoying the fellowship.  We could hear their voices and laughter in the distance as we left the picnic area.

          I could feel the tension between Ray and I melting away as we walked toward the river.  I never told him I was sorry for the way I had treated him, but I hoped he could tell that I wanted to be friends.  Nollie tagged along, listening to our chatter.  As we approached the Rio Grande River, the weeds were knee high.  Wild daisies swayed in the breeze while swallows sang from the treetops.  The water of the wide river was ruddy brown.  Pebbles and large rocks lined the banks.

          Ray picked up a pebble and threw it.  The water sparkled as the rock skipped across the river and sank near the other shore.

          “How did you do that?” I asked with laughter.

          “Like this,” Ray replied as he showed me how to position a flat pebble and swing it through the air.  The rock skimmed the top of the river and plunged, leaving a circle of bubbles behind.

          “Let’s go wading,” Ray suggested.

          Tennis shoes were strung among the rocks along the bank, and we rolled up our blue jeans.

          “Burr...that’s cold!” Nollie exclaimed as she stepped into the water.  Ray and I walked into the river.  I felt shivers from the water’s cold temperature, and it took a few minutes before my body adjusted from the initial shock.

          “I’m going to learn to swim,” Nollie said as she laid back in the water and splashed vigorously, causing small white waves in the brown water.

          “I can already dog paddle!” Ray bragged.

          “I can swim, too,” I said, but in reality, I could only swim a few strokes.

          Ray and I continued to act like “big shots” in front of his younger sister, boasting what great swimmers we were.

          “We’ll show you how to swim Nollie,” Ray said.

          The river was up to our waists as we plunged in and began swimming.  I moved my arms through the water a number of strokes and ran out of breath.  I fully expected to feel the bottom under my feet when I quit swimming, but there was nothing but water, and I sank!  The water rose above my head and I panicked!  Ray was having the same problem.  He was close enough for me to reach and I grabbed his shoulder trying to keep myself afloat.

          “Nollie...gulp...get help!” Ray shouted.

          “Help...help!” I screamed.

          Nollie was laughing.  “Quit joking around...I know you guys can swim.”

          We had bragged so convincingly that she thought we were putting on an act for her benefit.

          The water swallowed me.  The liquid filled my mouth and nose.  I surfaced once more.  Nollie was gone.  I felt Ray move away.  My head bobbed again, and I saw him dogpaddling.  The water closed in around and above me.  I could see the light of day, shining through the yellow liquid as it swallowed and consumed me.

          In front of my eyes (or was it only in my mind) a moving picture played for me...I was a small child playing with other children...I was kept after school to finish my work, and I fought back tears because Mom was outside waiting for me...I sang a solo in the Philipsburg church...I stood by Mom at Dad’s funeral...one after another, the series of scenes drifted by. The last scenes were the only honors I had received in life: cheerleader and Homecoming Princess...

          The water parted and my head surfaced.  Ray’s father was on the bank.  He pulled off his Levi’s and jumped toward me.  Strong arms encircled and pulled me through the yellow water.  I was hung on the side of the rocky bank.

          “Ray...where is Ray?”  The voice tore through the air. I realized I was the one screaming for Ray.

          Ray’s parents swam through the water, and then they dove  ...searching...searching.  Neither Deryl or Mom could swim.  They stood helplessly on shore, their faces drawn into creases of concern.  I hung onto the bank, part of me still in the water, waiting anxiously; knowing that time was slipping away.

          Mr. Smith surfaced with Ray’s wet, limp body.  Deryl and Mom helped drag him over the rocks on the bank and onto dry, hard ground.  A man, who had been fishing down river, ran to call an ambulance.  Two more strangers appeared and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Deryl must have gone after the station wagon and parked it by the riverbank.  I don’t remember getting into the car, but there I sat, wrapped in a blanket, watching the terrifying scene before me.

          “Oh God, please don’t let Ray die!” I prayed over and over again.  I stared at the limp, unconscious body lying on the ground with Mr. Smith and the two strangers working furiously to restore Ray’s breathing.

          An eternity later, the white ambulance, with its flashing red lights screeched to a halt next to the river.

          Mr. Smith rode with Ray in the rescue vehicle.  Deryl drove the Smiths car. Mom drove our station wagon with Mrs. Smith, Nollie, Bronco, and me.  The rest of the world passed by our car windows unaware that we were involved in a life and death trauma.

          “Ray will be alright,” Mom assured Mrs. Smith, “He may have to stay in the hospital for a few days, but we’ll help with the hospital bills.”

          I felt a spark of hope, as I listened to Mom’s words.  But, Ray’s mother never uttered a sound; she sat tense and silent.

          Our station wagon pulled up behind the white ambulance parked at the hospital emergency entrance.  Ray’s Dad was standing on the sidewalk weeping.  The car door stood ajar as Mrs. Smith ran to her husband.  He shook his head negatively, and she fell into his arms sobbing.  Ray was dead.

          I lay on the couch, my arm covering my eyes.  My head felt hot.  I wanted to hide and never open my eyes again!  Every time I thought of Ray, I winced.  My heart and mind hurt from the realization. Every part of me wanted to scream...”NO!!!”

          “Are you still running a fever?” Mom asked attentively.

          I moved my arm and she felt my head.  I had acquired an infection from ingesting the dirty river water.  We both knew I had come close to death.  Ray and I had swum into a river hole.  In eight feet of water, (I was told)  I had unconsciously, pushed myself up from the bottom of the river, over and over again.  Mom said it was a miracle I was alive.

          Knock knock

          Deryl opened the front door, and Mr. Smith entered the living room.  He was pale and gaunt.  Grief was written on his face.

          “How are you, Gloria?” he asked with concern.

          As he looked at me, with his kind eyes, I felt guilty.  Here was the man who had saved my life, but I had a hard time looking at him.  How could he care about me, when he was hurting himself?  How could he make the effort to see how I was, when he was suffering so much grief?  Why didn’t he hate me for living, when Ray was dead?  I should be dead, and he should have his son alive!  Somehow, I felt that I should comfort Mr. Smith and tell him how sorry I was that Ray had died, but instead my voice sounded cold and heartless...”I’m okay.”

          He talked with Deryl and Mom for a few minutes, told me goodbye and left.

          His concern for me brought hot tears and a choking tightness in my throat.  I fought the emotion and buried my face under my arm so Deryl and Mom wouldn’t see the tears.  I hid behind my barrier, trying hard to shut out the pain and grief.

          Questions that had been bombarding my bruised mind began again...”Why did Ray die?  Why was I alive?"  Ray was a much better person then me, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he was in heaven.  Would I have gone to heaven?  I pondered the question for a long time...no...I wasn’t sure I would have gone to heaven.

SOCORRO...THE SECOND TIME AROUND...NEW FRIENDS

We rented a two-bedroom house in Socorro.  Bronco and I would be sharing a room.  I dreaded returning to school, especially in the middle of the year.  This would be the second time in Socorro.  My first experience had been a flop, as far as I was concerned.  I tried to lift my lacking self-esteem.  I had been popular in Kirtland.  It if had happened there, surely it could be the same in Socorro.

          Instead of Elementary school, I would be attending the Socorro High School.  The Junior High classes were located in one wing by themselves. School assemblies and lunches were shared with the older classes.

          As I entered the school, I could feel myself shrinking, but I didn’t want to return to my shell.  I wanted to retain the confidence I had experienced in Kirtland.  Purposely, I determined to be more out going.  Consequently, I made friends.  Two of my best friends were Julia Montoya and Jill Hollinger.  Julie was one of the nicest girls in the seventh grade, and instinctively I knew I could trust her.  She did prove to be a loyal friend.  When Mom found out I had a Spanish friend, she wasn’t happy.

          “Gloria, if you run around with the Spanish, the white kids won’t have anything to do with you.” Mom said with concern.

          I brought Julie home.  After Mom met her, she never said I couldn’t be a friend with Julie.  I think she realized what a nice girl Julie was.  My friends had one problem; she was diabetic.  She told me, once a day, her mother had to give her insulin shots.  I cringed at the thought!  I had always hated needles.  I felt Julie was the most courageous person I knew.

          Jill was a year ahead of me in school.  She had shoulder length, dishwater blond hair, glasses over blue eyes, and a giggle that triggered my giggle.  She had a mad crush on Raymond Romero.  But, it was a social “No-No” to date a Spanish boy.  Jill’s mother, who was originally from an eastern state, thought the prejudice was unjustified. Jill's Mom allowed her to date Raymond despite public opinion.

          Another friend was Ray Smith.  He was the boy next door.  Ray was the picture of an All-American boy.  He had brown wavy hair highlighted with a touch of auburn.  His eyes were green with dark curly lashes, and his nose was small and pugged at the end.  Freckles generously sprinkled across his nose and rosy cheeks.  Ray was easy to talk to, and had a pleasant disposition.  Actually, we considered ourselves more then friends.  We had a crush on one another.  Our infatuation survived until I switched my affections to another boy.  Ray didn’t want our relationship to change, even though I told him we could still be friends.   One day, after school, I was talking to my new heartthrob as we stood in my yard.  Ray was hanging around and refused to leave.  I was getting irritated.

          “Ray, go home and leave us alone,” I said angrily as I gave him a push in that direction.

          Ray’s face was a mixture of hurt, anger and embarrassment.  He turned on his heel and left.  I felt guilty, because I had hurt Ray’s feelings.  As I joked around with my new boyfriend, I soon forgot my old crush.

          The incident left a wedge between Ray and me.  When I passed him in the hall at school, he looked straight ahead, as if I didn’t exist.  When I was outside at home, he never came out.  The only time I was around him was when our families got together.  Little did I realize how Ray would affect my life.

JESUS...BE REAL

I WANT IT TO BE REAL

          The station wagon and moving truck, loaded to capacity, moved slowly through the busy Central Avenue traffic in Albuquerque.  Across the street from the New Mexico State Fairgrounds and next door to Ace Cafe was Ruby’s Novelties.  One customer was browsing though the magazine rack while the older woman stood behind the cash register.  The bell over the door jingled as we entered, and Grandma Underwood’s face lit up.

          “Well, look what the wind blew in!” she exclaimed as she came around the counter and hugged each of us. (I noticed, with some pride, that she was a few inches shorter then me.)

          “We thought we’d stop and see you on our way to Socorro,” Mom said.

The customer walked up to the counter and laid a magazine near the cash register.

          “Go on back, I’ll be there in a moment,” Grandma said to us.

          Her living quarters were connected to the store.  There was one large room, which consisted of kitchen, two chairs, and a television set.

Off the kitchen, through a door, was a small bedroom.

          Deryl and Mom sat at the kitchen table, poured two cups of coffee and lit their cigarettes.

          Bronco and I perched in front of the playing television.  A man with black hair, wearing a white shirt, was preaching. I reached to change the channel...

          “You will see sick people healed by the power of God!” the preacher said dynamically.

          I pulled my hand back and sat on the edge of the chair.

          On the screen, a man walked up and stood in front of the preacher.

          “What’s your problem, brother?” the evangelist asked.

          “Brother Roberts, I have a stomach ulcer.”

          The black haired evangelist placed the palm of his hand, with pressure, on the man’s head.

          “In the power and authority of Jesus Name, be healed!”

          The man he prayed for was excited!

          “I felt heat in the pit of my stomach...I’m healed!”

          “Praise the Lord brother,” the preacher exclaimed with a big smile.

          The next person was a woman whose neck was swelled grossly under her chin.

          “How long have you had this goiter?”

          “For years,” the woman answered.

          Placing his hand on the growth, the preacher closed his eyes and raised his head slightly upward.

          “In the powerful Name of Jesus Christ, I curse you goiter and command that you wither and disappear!”

          When he finished his prayer, the camera showed the woman’s neck and the growth was gone.

          I glanced up at Grandma, who had just walked into the room and was standing next to me watching the television.

          “Did you see that woman’s goiter disappear?” I asked in amazement.

          “It seemed that way, but I’m not convinced those healings are real,” the older woman replied skeptically, “I watch Oral Roberts every Sunday, but I’m not sure that it isn’t rigged somehow.”

          She crossed the room, poured a cup of coffee, and began visiting with Deryl and Mom.

          “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever,” the man preached, “He still saves and heals today!”

          After the program, I walked through the store and stared across at the fairgrounds.  My thoughts kept returning to the evangelist and the apparent healing.  Were they real?  Did Jesus still do miracles today?  I remembered the stories I had heard in Sunday school,.in Montana...Jesus had healed a man with leprosy; He had walked on top of the water towards a boat filled with frightened men; He had fed thousands with two fish and five loaves of bread.  It would have been wonderful to live then and to see Jesus.  Was it possible to know Jesus now?  The preacher said Jesus was the same today as He was then.  With all my heart I hoped that Jesus was real and that He was the same as He had been.  I hoped the power of God could really be experienced.

LEAVING KIRTLAND

          We were moving.  Deryl had another job in Socorro, working for the Bureau of Reclamation.  We had lived in Kirtland for more than half of my 7^th grade year and I hated to leave. I had made friends, experienced acceptance and  some measure of self-esteem. I had been a cheerleader and Homecoming princess in the small Kirtland Junior High.

           Kitty must have sensed we were moving. She left the shed in the back yard and never returned. Perhaps she didn’t want to leave the fields, farms, shade trees, and cordial community. I searched for her, but to no avail. Somehow the thought of her staying in Kirtland wasn’t so bad.  There were plenty of mice in the nearby fields, and there were many kind farmers who would welcome a yellow striped cat.

LEFT ALONE

IS IT ABANDONMENT…IS IT SAFE?

                         1955

         

          “Gloria, I want you to take care of Bronco this weekend.  Deryl has a truck run to Colorado, and I am going with him,” Mom announced one afternoon when I got home from school.

          My heart began to beat faster, “But...but.. Mom,” I stammered.

          “You don’t need to be afraid.  I have confidence in you.  You are a big girl now,” Mom persuaded.

           I thought back to the previous summer.  Mom, Bronco and I had driven to Colorado to meet Deryl between his truck deliveries.  We were staying in a motel that had an attached restaurant.

          “Gloria, I want to go with Deryl on his next run,” Mom had said, “You can take care of Bronco.  We already have the room in the motel.  I will leave you money for supper and breakfast, so you can eat at the restaurant.”

          “But Mom, we don’t know anyone in this town!” I argued, “I’m afraid for Bronco and I to stay overnight in the motel...alone.”

          Mom hadn’t insisted, even though I knew she was disappointed and unhappy with me. Now, I was faced with the same request and I felt just the same as I had then, even though we would be left at home and not a motel.

          “If it’ll make you feel any better, you can ask one of your friends to spend the night with you.  We’ll be gone Saturday and will be back late Sunday afternoon.”

          The following Saturday night, after Bronco was asleep, my friend and I laid in bed talking about school and the boys in our class.  My mind kept wandering.  I had an uneasy sadness. Part of me wanted to believe that my mother would never do anything to put her children at risk.  But my gut instincts told me that we were too young to be left alone.  I couldn’t understand how Mom could leave Bronco and me.  And, for some reason it bothered me more that she could leave my brother.

          Before Bronco was born, when I was only four, I could remember Mom telling me, “This baby will be your baby too!”  When my brother was born I was five years old.  I helped Mom change his diapers, and tried to help take care of him.  When he was a little older I would hold him while we traveled in the car.

          “Isn’t he too heavy for you Gloria,” Mom would say, as she smiled back at me from the front seat, “Don’t you want to put him down?”

          “No, I want to hold him,” I would answer.

          It was almost as if Bronco was “my baby too.” (Little did I know that over the following years Mom would increase my responsibility toward Bronco as our family became more and more dysfunctional.)

          On this Saturday night, when Bronco was seven and I was twelve, my feelings were ones of sadness and abandonment.  And this was only a foretaste of what we would experience in the coming years.     
 The responsibility would weigh me down.

.

SURPRISE

PACKAGE IT WITH LOVE

          “I’ll just order the cake and...” Mom’s voice halted as I walked into the kitchen where she and Deryl were eating breakfast.

          I smiled to myself and thought that Mom must be planning a party for my birthday.  On the twenty ninth of December, I would be twelve years old.

          Later in the day, we drove to Farmington.  It was Saturday and the business district was busy. Mom and I were walking down the sidewalk, between shops, when we met JoAnne, a girl from my class.

          “I need to ask you something, Jo Anne,” Mom said as she pulled the girl to one side, where I couldn’t hear.

          I stood in the middle of the sidewalk as pedestrians passed by.

Mom came back to my side.  Joanne waved and walked away.

          “Mom, are you planning a surprise party for me?” I asked with a big smile.

          Mom was livid!  “How can you ask me that?  Why do you think everything is for you?  You are always so selfish! I am having a New Years Eve party for Deryl!”

          The smile was gone.  Inside, I felt grieved, and emotionally another wall went up between Mom and I.  I shut down on her.  If the party was for Deryl then why wasn’t I involved in the planning?  Why would she involve my friends, and not me?

          On the day of my birthday, I walked into a house full of young people from my class.

          “Surprise!”

          Mom was all smiles and happy.  She had pulled off the perfect “surprise!”

          I enjoyed the party.  But I decided surprises should only come in packages of love!

KIRTLAND, NEW MEXICO

A traveler passing through Kirtland might have mistaken the small village for heavier populated countryside.  Far spaced houses, large shade trees, one gas station with restaurant, and one church made up Kirtland.

Behind many of the houses were cornfields and farmland.  It was a warm, cordial community, and I made many friends before school ever began.

          The last of the summer, with companions, was enjoyable.  We waded in a nearby green-banked creek, splashing each other and catching tadpoles.  Hide and seek was played in the cornfields, as we wondered if we would ever find our way out again, and when we did emerge, we itched all over.  We ran freely in the town where no one was a stranger.

           When school began I had an incredible feeling...”I belonged!”  My personality blossomed with the acceptance I experienced.  I received two honors that boosted my lacking self-esteem, cheerleader and Homecoming Princess.  As far as I was concerned we could live here forever.

The school in Kirtland did not consist of only those from the

Community.  Buses transported children from the Indian reservation and from farms miles around.

           Bronco was in first grade.  The day of his seventh birthday, Mom told him he could invite a few friends after school for a birthday party.  Bronco invited “every one” of his classmates.  Mom panicked and cut the cake and ice cream into smaller servings.  After the party, with the station wagon packed full, she spent two hours delivering Indian children (who usually rode the bus) to their homes on the nearby reservation.

          Kirtland was predominately a Mormon settlement.  Many of my friends were Mormon.  Most of them came from large families, but Jenny, a pretty blond girl, topped them all.  She was her parent’s twenty- first child.  (There had been three sets of twins).  When I visited Jenny’s house, I marveled how her small, healthy mother ever survived.

          I attended a couple of church services with my friends, but I didn’t understand what the Elder was saying, and I was bored.   The entertainment of the community centered on the church.  On Wednesday nights, they showed a secular movie in the basement and everyone came.  It was a convenient time to sit next to a current boyfriend.  I learned to dance in the Mormon church hall at the weekend dances.  Mom let me attend them because there was no liquor allowed.

          Deryl and Mom also made friends who were Mormon, but they didn’t follow the convictions of their church when it came to alcohol.  The couples began attending dances in nightclubs and drinking.  They laughingly called these escapades, “honky-tonkin.”

          On mornings following the nights of “honky Tonkin”, Mom would get up late.

          “Be quiet kids, Deryl doesn’t feel good.  He has a headache.”

          I noticed Mom wasn’t too chipper herself!

          Drinking, and the companionship of others that did the same, was becoming a part of their social life.  To them it was only a lark, something they could give up at anytime.

          We would find out alcohol was our enemy.

PRAYING IN JESUS NAME

There was a stirring around our house.  Grandma’s business opportunity came to fruition and she moved to Albuquerque where she would open her own novelty store: "Ruby's Novelties."  Our service stations were unfruitful and Mom and Deryl were becoming restless.  A change was on the horizon.

     The following story is my first answer to prayer. I was eleven years old.

PRAYING IN JESUS NAME

          “Mom, we can’t leave Kitty behind,” I argued desperately.

          Deryl walked past carrying a heavy box.  The object of our discussion sauntered nonchalantly across the bare kitchen floor, unaware that I was pleading for her.       

The year was 1955.  Our family was moving to the northern part of New Mexico where Deryl would be driving for a new truck company.  We didn’t know where we would be living yet, but we were going anyway.  My only concern, as an eleven year old was my cat!

          “Gloria, that cat is going to have kittens any day.  We can’t take her with us.  I told you to give her to one of your friends,” Mom said impatiently.

          “I did try to find her a home, but no one can take her.”

          “Did you ask Claudia?”

          “Yes, but her mother said their dog is enough of a nuisance.  Besides, when I told Claudia’s mother if we didn’t find a home for Kitty, we might have to leave her here by herself, she said that she would turn us in to the Humane Society for Animals.”

          “She said that?” Mom’s eyes widened and her face flushed.

Whether it was the threat of the Humane Society, or a soft spot in her heart, Mom did allow Kitty to accompany us.  The striped cat lay uncomfortably on the seat between my brother and me, as Mom drove our heavily laden station wagon.  Deryl drove the U Haul truck.

          “Oh no!” Mom exclaimed, as she looked through the station wagon window.  We had stopped for lunch at a restaurant and had just returned to the car.  I peeked through the window.  There, on a pile of clothes, in the back of the station wagon, was Kitty and four newborn kittens.

 After everyone (especially Mom) calmed down, we continued our journey. We arrived in Farmington, New Mexico, and stayed in a motel.  The following days were miserable as we searched for a house to rent.  Kitty’s newborns were sick.

          “They would be better off if we left them at a farm.  Kitty can take care of herself and the kittens.  Besides, farmers love cats,” Mom said convincingly.

          My eyes were blurry as I stared out the back window.  Kitty sat gazing at the parting station wagon.  Her litter was near her by the side of the road.  A driveway of a farmhouse was nearby.

          Two days later we unloaded ourselves and our belongings into a bungalow

 in Kirtland, a small community near Farmington.  As I explored the area, I made a discovery!  Our rented house was in proximity to the farm where we had left the cats.  I wasted no time in finding the farmhouse.  Much to my sorrow, there by the side of the road, where we had left them, were four dead kittens.  I began to cry.

          “What’s wrong, little girl,” the farmer asked, as he walked down the driveway.

          Between sobs, I showed him the kittens and poured out my story.  When I finished, I asked hopefully:

          “Have you seen Kitty?”

          “Well, there has been a new cat hanging around.  She’s yellow striped,” he answered.

          “That’s her!” I exclaimed, swallowing my tears.

          “The last time I saw her, she was in the barn.  I’ll tell you what, you get her and take her home with you.”

I sure did want Kitty, but I remembered Mom.  She had said she’d had enough of cats.

          “I have to ask my mother first,” I replied, as I turned to leave.

          When I got home I told Mom about Kitty, and asked if I could bring her home.

          “The only way you can have Kitty is if she comes here by herself,” Mom said.  I knew she thought it was impossible, because Kitty didn’t even know where we lived.

          I sat on the warm cement step of the bungalow, my chin cupped in my hands as I pondered my dilemma. The only One I knew who could help me with something as big as this was God. I closed my eyes.

          “Oh God, please send Kitty home to me.”  Then I remembered what Mom had told me a long time ago...every prayer should be prayed in Jesus’ name. “In Jesus’ Name.  Amen, and thank You.”

          “Hey Gloria, what ya doing?”

          The voice startled me, and I opened my eyes to see Sally walking up the sidewalk.  She lived two houses away and we had met shortly after I moved in.

          “Would you like to stay over at my house tonight?” Sally asked. “My mother said it’s okay with her.”

          I asked Mom, and she agreed that I could.  As we walked to Sally’s, I told her about Kitty and my prayer.

          “Kitty will be coming, Sally, so we’ll have to watch for her.”

          The summer evening was warm and pleasant as we played in my friend’s front yard.  My eyes kept returning to our rented cottage.  My family was gone for the evening, and the windows were dark.  In my heart I had an expectation.

          “Sally look!” I shouted as I motioned toward a low shadow sleeking across the street and up our driveway.

          Sally and I ran to the shadow, and the yellow striped cat stared up at me as if to say, “I don’t know what this is about, but here I am.”

          “Kitty, oh Kitty!” I squealed as I picked her up.

          After I had just about hugged off all of Kitty’s fur, Sally and I put her into a shed behind our house.  I shut the door.  I knew God had brought her to me, but I felt it was my responsibility to keep her.

          The next morning, bright and early, I ran home from Sally’s.

          “Mom, come here.  I have something to show you,” I said, as I took her hand and pulled her out the back door to the shed.

          Kitty stretched and sauntered into the sunlight when I opened the shed door.  Mom stared at Kitty and then at me, and then at Kitty again.

          “See, Mom, Kitty came home all by herself!”

          “Are you sure she came all by herself?” Mom asked, suppressing a smile.

          “Yes, she did.” I said honestly.

          “Well then, I guess you can keep her.”  Mom walked back into the house smiling to herself.

          “Mom probably thinks I  brought you home,” I said to the furry animal purring in my arms, “But God, you, and I know better, don’t we Kitty?”

          Her big eyes were full of confirmation.

          “Thank you, God,” I said out loud.  I looked up at the blue sky, to the invisible God, who had answered the prayer I had prayed in “Jesus’Name.”

          I left the shed door open and watched Kitty to see if she would stay.  She settled right in and eventually, much to Mom’s chagrin had another litter of kittens