For He Himself knows our frame; He is mindful that we are but dust. As for man, his days are like grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. When the wind has passed over it, it is no more, and its place acknowledges it no longer. But the lovingkindness of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear Him, and His righteousness to children’s children.
Psalm 103:14–17
When my father and my mother forsake me, then the LORD will take me up.
Psalm 27:10 KJV
The days labored their way through another year. No one knew what was happening in our house. We never talked about how much screaming, crying and arguing occurred week after week, or how unhappy we really were. I was afraid to tell anyone about the terrible whippings. I did not want the world to know that my parents had rejected me, so I kept it a secret. I hoped that if I never mentioned it, people might love me—or at least think well of me.
I was also afraid to tell anyone about the extraordinary experiences I had in the presence of Jesus. In the first place—and this was true about the whippings as well—I was sure that no one would believe me. People would say I was making it up.
Our Baptist church taught that all supernatural activity ended with the apostles. I mentioned that our congregation did not believe that Christians could be harassed by demons. Nor did it expect to be particularly blessed by God. There were no more healings, no more special giftings from the Holy Spirit and certainly no more visitations from Jesus. As far as our church was concerned, the book of Acts tells of special events that happened two thousand years ago—not today. My father believed this quite strongly. The supernatural, in his mind, simply did not exist.
Our pastor was deeply loved, a wonderful man with a kind heart. One Sunday morning as I was leaving church, he leaned down and put his hands around my face.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
My eyes filled with tears, and I nodded. That was the most I ever acknowledged to anybody during those long, painful years.
On Thursday afternoons after children’s choir practice, he would drive many of the children home in his car. He always asked me if I wanted to “make the long trip with him,” meaning he would take me home last, and I always said yes. He would tune in Bible stories on the radio for me to listen to as he drove me back to my house.
His compassion—and perhaps understanding—touched me. Still, week after week our congregation nodded its assent that the book of Acts was closed—and any supernatural manifestations with it. This unyielding teaching, and the fact that I was terrified of crossing my father, shrouded the light of understanding that was beginning to dawn in my heart. There was no one to talk to. Though I was naturally outgoing, I grew quiet. My voice got softer, out of fear of projecting myself.
There were rays of hope. I remember going to Washington School the first day after a new year began. Our teacher, Mrs. Norris, was a pretty young woman, cheerful and friendly, and we kids loved her.
The first day back after Christmas vacation, just before my eighth birthday, Mrs. Norris wrote 1950 on the blackboard in large figures. She began to talk about a new year ahead of us, as well as a new decade. That day stood out in my mind—the possibility of newness, and what that might look like.
My mother was working at Washington School, teaching the first grade. I could see her classroom on my way out to recess twice a day. Often she was standing at her door talking with her students as I passed by. She always smiled and said, “Hi, Nancy.” At school she talked to me just as she did the other children, maintaining a professional demeanor.
At home, I felt that she tried to value me. I remember asking her during bath times, “Mommy, why do I get birthmarks?” It never occurred to me that the black and blue marks that came and went on all parts of my body were from my father’s belt. No one ever mentioned the bruises, perhaps because I was so freckly all over. She never answered my question, but watched me as I washed myself in the tub. I remember, though, looking up into her face, and it was sad.
Mostly my mother expressed her sympathy for me through new clothes. “Nancy needs to have nice things,” she would tell my father. I was always, as the old folks used to say, dressed to the nines. I remember a beautiful blue tweed coat I wore to church. It was perfectly fitted and had a little collar with dark blue piping around the edge.
Nobody had clothes such as I had. Once I counted 57 dresses in my closet. Two or three of these dresses were part of our “mother/daughter” sets. Before I was born, Mother—who went by the nickname “Bunny”—had been a model for a department store in St. Joseph. Her hair had turned white when she was just in her twenties. With her young, attractive face and trim figure, she was quite striking.
I saw even then that the dresses were her way of trying to make things up to me. But material gifts could not relieve the emptiness. And spending money on me only fueled the fire of my father’s temper—money was being wasted on me that could help him reach his dream.
I lived my life with my friends. I longed for a brother or sister to play with me, but as the years went by I realized I would be an only child. Most weekends found me with my grandparents. We were very close through these years. They were a gift to me from God.
After school each day I walked the few blocks home, and prayed that the nights would be peaceful. They rarely were.
One school night, not long after the new decade had begun, my father began shouting about the extravagances of my clothes and hit me hard with his belt. I was finally released, and walked past him and my mother, crying quietly.
What had I done to deserve this? There was no good answer to that question. I never knew what triggered his wrath, except that I provided an outlet for his frustration. I think he also enjoyed upsetting my mother; in many ways she instigated his pain. She usually cried as she watched him.
I climbed the stairs slowly that night and fell to my knees by the side of my bed. After praying, telling God everything in my heart, I got undressed and crawled under the covers. I listened for my mother to come up and tuck me in and read a Bible story, as she did most every night, but I knew better: She did not come to my room any night that I was whipped.
I lay still, staring at nothing in particular.
Then I realized that someone was standing in the corner—opposite to the corner where I had seen Jesus before. I could not see Him, but I could feel His presence. I looked around.
“Who, honestly, are You?” I asked out loud. Deep, deep down in the warmth of my heart I knew that it was Jesus Christ. But how could Jesus be making Himself known to me? All the adults in my world denied that possibility.
Then I heard Jesus’ voice speak to me audibly. He said, I’m going to visit you all through your lifetime.
At first I was struck with the comfort of the Presence behind the voice. I absolutely knew that a Man who had lived forever was standing in the corner of my bedroom. When He spoke, however, He was closer to me. He had moved toward me. His presence was powerful. Something very solid, very strong, almost massive had come into the room. Just as powerful was the impact of beauty, peace, great love. I did not see Him with my physical eyes, but my heart thudded with wonder.
He was pouring out love, but my thoughts swirled down into confusion and anger. I was being tormented, chastised for things I had not done when my father whipped me and my mother seldom attended to me.
I wish I could say that I responded with faith and trust to His wonderful words, but the truth is I did not. I reacted without thinking. I directed my hurt toward Jesus, denying His words of promise that He would visit me throughout my life.
I said, “Oh, God would never do that for me.”
I could sense His presence for a full minute, maybe longer. But I turned off my light, rolled over and closed my eyes.
The atmosphere of my room changed as He left. I fell asleep almost instantly. I will never forget sleeping so soundly that night after hearing the voice of the Lord. And the next day and the next I wondered about that peaceful sleep after speaking those rebellious words.
Really, I knew that it was Jesus coming to me. Even though I felt insignificant and unimportant, I knew that God was always with me. I tended to see His light most clearly in the darkness of the lowest valley. His presence was in my bedroom that night, and in my pain He gave an amazing promise to me.
Why did I reject it? I have wished a hundred times afterward that I had accepted His word to me. But even though I rejected Him, He did not reject me! He loved me with the comfort of His presence even when I turned away.
God is so creative. Nothing is impossible with Him. When we hunger and thirst for Him, He will give us divine embraces—whatever form that might take. It does not mean that we will always see Him with our eyes or feel the warmth of His arms, though many people have seen Him visually down through the centuries—and some of those individuals painted pictures of Him as they saw Him.
Actually, I think that He appears differently to people. When He appeared to me in these early times, He was a little older than you might expect, fuller in the face—a more fatherly appearance. This was perhaps His way of helping me be comfortable with Him, since He was actually fathering me. Who knows? Who can outguess God?
There is nothing too hard for Him to accomplish. Even when we doubt and have fear, He can encourage and help us. The supernatural is a way that He works in this world—and the Holy Spirit stirs our hearts to believe it can happen.
Still, we often miss it. Or, as I did that night, we dismiss it. How many times has the Holy Spirit revealed to us the presence of Jesus, or gifted us so that we might grow in Him and help the world understand more about the Savior—and we reject Him? How many times has Jesus spoken to our hearts and we do not believe?
Probably many. But that is not the end: God works with us knowing where we are.
Because I did not agree with God that night, I think I missed an opportunity for Him to impart something to me. I believe He could have touched me and brought healing into my life. I was eight years old on this memorable night, and I did not believe Him—but He did not give up on me! He did not condemn me; He did not leave me. He found other ways to reach down and help me.
Even though I spurned His promise, I still clung to the truth that the only way out of my life was to keep on praying; so I continued to pray. I grew up keeping quiet through the years of whippings, but always crying out to Jesus by the side of my bed. I had no place to go other than the Person of Jesus Christ.
He knows how to help us through our mistakes. He can get us where He wants us to be. Ultimately, I think that you and I wind up right on schedule. He always loves us, always works toward our good. Scripture says that even “if we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself” (2 Timothy 2:13 NKJV). And look at these comforting words: “He knows our frame” (Psalm 103:14 NKJV).
One thought kept my feet trudging along the path that rose up and out of my dark valley: Without Jesus I will never make it. He guided me with the promise of hope.
Times of doubt and unbelief are not the end. We can let our hearts trust even when we cannot see. We can let Jesus help us. He will never stop trying.