Agatha (Part 1 of The Trilogy)
Dear Reader,
I hope you know what I mean when I say those moments,
the beginnings, the beautiful snippets of Jesus, shine and deliciously shatter
you When you look at what God has done and what He continues to do and you
stand in awe. “For my thoughts are not your thoughts and your ways aren’t my
ways” says the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways
higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” The King of the
universe looks at you and calls you Child. He SINGS over who and what you are,
regardless of the stumbles and struggles. He LOVES without limits and GIVES without
question. Those moments of glory when you can stand and nearly touch the
fragments of leaking sun that wash over you? Those moments are my favorite. I
look and see the bountiful amounts of awesome that he has done in the past
year. Not just in my own life but in the lives of those around me. Chains have
been broken--- prisoners have been set free. AMAZING GRACE has been inhaled and
savored. The gates of hell have been smashed open and God has been VICTORIOUS.
So let's keep going okay?
Carol:
As these stories have been told,
some older ladies decided to tell their stories, too! This is one.
Edith:
My name is Edith, well that’s not my name, but that can be my name for this purpose, okay? I am 78 years old and I have grown up my whole life in Abilene, Kansas. If you really wanted to know who I am, here's a hint. I make really good apple pie. Sneakiness makes a difference doesn't it? Every single old church lady in Abilene makes a killer apple pie. You have no hope of finding out my secret identity. Ha. Sorry, let me go ahead and start this. I was a prostitute in the 1960s to feed my family and I would like to tell you why.
The year was 1964 and I was 24 years old, my husband Hank was gone fighting in Vietnam and my kids were getting hungry. He sent money back every month, but there were times that it didn't come when it was supposed to. I wanted to get a part time job, but I was having trouble finding one. You see, Hank was African American and I am as white as buttermilk. And some of the people in our tiny Bible belt town, they weren't okay with that.
Finally, the grocer hired me for two days a week, but it wasn't enough to help cover things. Especially when my daughter Essie broke her arm. So the grocer took me out to dinner that night to try to cheer me up. And I can remember what he said as clear as day “Edith, this is me being honest. You are in a mess. And I want to help, but you don't have much to sell me. So Edith, I'm suggesting something, something I'm only suggesting that you do because it will help,” and he clumsily walked me through an explanation of the world’s oldest profession.
My clients were the farmers and the random few men left-over from the draft. These certainly weren't prime masculine specimens. My clients experienced a new found sense of manhood from bedding the “ni**er lover”. Did it hurt my heart a little bit every time they said that? Yes. Yes it did. Did I still do it? Yes. I didn't have any other way to feed my family.
Hank? He never came home. We got the slow walk up to the door. We got the folded up flag and the “sorry for your loss”. A nation was grieving the loss of so many young men, my loss seemed so tiny. My four children, Hank Jr, Thomas, Essie and Louis were sad; they missed their Papa. But the younger two barely knew who he was, having been toddlers when he left.
So I kept going on. The grocer would drive me to truck stops and bars. He would introduce me as his girlfriend. And collect the money afterwards. He never hurt me, Ed the grocer. He was kind and apologetic, almost accepting it as a necessary evil.
In the mid-70s, Hank Jr started knowing, as teenage boys do, that his Momma had some secrets, so I wanted out. By this time, most of the town knew that Edie (the ni**er’s wife) was really the town prostitute. And I was worried that it would affect how the kids were treated in school.
So, finally, I was able to get a job at the restaurant and I was able to stop doing everything else. I wanted to become the “good Mother”. I wanted to be there when they came home from school and make those cute cut up carrot sticks for their lunch sacks. It was this whole thing with me. The illusion of the “perfect family”.
I started taking my kids to church soon after, all in the name of appearances. But tiny bit by tiny bit, I started to actually grow and change. I gave my life to the Lord in the 1980s and I have been clumsily following Him ever since.
A couple of weeks ago, Heather, a young lady who I have known since she was born, came into church and started talking. She had been terribly traumatized by a wicked man that went to prison and she could no longer talk. But after over a year, she got her voice back! (The editors will be posting Heather’s story soon!) That was a miracle. I hadn't ever really seen a miracle before! She made me realize something I hadn’t thought of before. I have a voice. It’s time to use it.
To me this was mind blowing. She was proud. She was proud of who she was and she wasn't ashamed of what had happened. And I wanted that. I wanted to be proud. I had done a good job raising my babies, I had done a good job despite everything. It’s not like I needed anyone to notice, really. I just needed to acknowledge it for myself. Does that make sense?
Sometimes you need to know for you. And shout it out loud for you. It doesn't have to be fancy, no need for poise or for poetry. But a declaration: reminding yourself that you never have to go back. For me it was like the first time I brought home-made brownies to a bake sale. I was finally like the “other” moms. I was finally normal, I was finally free.
I had been raped; I had been abused. Some of it was my choice; some of it wasn't. I am now ready to help in whatever way necessary. Women shouldn't be afraid to speak up. They should know that in Jesus's eyes they are perfect no matter what. I am loved by the King of Kings and He calls me “clean”.
I want to be the kind of woman that helps. I want to speak into others’ lives, the way mine has been spoken into. Change doesn't occur in a vacuum. So I am ready to be loud; I can't stay silent anymore. I am a redeemed daughter of the Most High King. And I am transformed.
Nothing else matters. My name is Edith. And I am proud of my past because it brought me to the Lord.
No, the truth. My name is Agatha.
My name is Edith, well that’s not my name, but that can be my name for this purpose, okay? I am 78 years old and I have grown up my whole life in Abilene, Kansas. If you really wanted to know who I am, here's a hint. I make really good apple pie. Sneakiness makes a difference doesn't it? Every single old church lady in Abilene makes a killer apple pie. You have no hope of finding out my secret identity. Ha. Sorry, let me go ahead and start this. I was a prostitute in the 1960s to feed my family and I would like to tell you why.
The year was 1964 and I was 24 years old, my husband Hank was gone fighting in Vietnam and my kids were getting hungry. He sent money back every month, but there were times that it didn't come when it was supposed to. I wanted to get a part time job, but I was having trouble finding one. You see, Hank was African American and I am as white as buttermilk. And some of the people in our tiny Bible belt town, they weren't okay with that.
Finally, the grocer hired me for two days a week, but it wasn't enough to help cover things. Especially when my daughter Essie broke her arm. So the grocer took me out to dinner that night to try to cheer me up. And I can remember what he said as clear as day “Edith, this is me being honest. You are in a mess. And I want to help, but you don't have much to sell me. So Edith, I'm suggesting something, something I'm only suggesting that you do because it will help,” and he clumsily walked me through an explanation of the world’s oldest profession.
My clients were the farmers and the random few men left-over from the draft. These certainly weren't prime masculine specimens. My clients experienced a new found sense of manhood from bedding the “ni**er lover”. Did it hurt my heart a little bit every time they said that? Yes. Yes it did. Did I still do it? Yes. I didn't have any other way to feed my family.
Hank? He never came home. We got the slow walk up to the door. We got the folded up flag and the “sorry for your loss”. A nation was grieving the loss of so many young men, my loss seemed so tiny. My four children, Hank Jr, Thomas, Essie and Louis were sad; they missed their Papa. But the younger two barely knew who he was, having been toddlers when he left.
So I kept going on. The grocer would drive me to truck stops and bars. He would introduce me as his girlfriend. And collect the money afterwards. He never hurt me, Ed the grocer. He was kind and apologetic, almost accepting it as a necessary evil.
In the mid-70s, Hank Jr started knowing, as teenage boys do, that his Momma had some secrets, so I wanted out. By this time, most of the town knew that Edie (the ni**er’s wife) was really the town prostitute. And I was worried that it would affect how the kids were treated in school.
So, finally, I was able to get a job at the restaurant and I was able to stop doing everything else. I wanted to become the “good Mother”. I wanted to be there when they came home from school and make those cute cut up carrot sticks for their lunch sacks. It was this whole thing with me. The illusion of the “perfect family”.
I started taking my kids to church soon after, all in the name of appearances. But tiny bit by tiny bit, I started to actually grow and change. I gave my life to the Lord in the 1980s and I have been clumsily following Him ever since.
A couple of weeks ago, Heather, a young lady who I have known since she was born, came into church and started talking. She had been terribly traumatized by a wicked man that went to prison and she could no longer talk. But after over a year, she got her voice back! (The editors will be posting Heather’s story soon!) That was a miracle. I hadn't ever really seen a miracle before! She made me realize something I hadn’t thought of before. I have a voice. It’s time to use it.
To me this was mind blowing. She was proud. She was proud of who she was and she wasn't ashamed of what had happened. And I wanted that. I wanted to be proud. I had done a good job raising my babies, I had done a good job despite everything. It’s not like I needed anyone to notice, really. I just needed to acknowledge it for myself. Does that make sense?
Sometimes you need to know for you. And shout it out loud for you. It doesn't have to be fancy, no need for poise or for poetry. But a declaration: reminding yourself that you never have to go back. For me it was like the first time I brought home-made brownies to a bake sale. I was finally like the “other” moms. I was finally normal, I was finally free.
I had been raped; I had been abused. Some of it was my choice; some of it wasn't. I am now ready to help in whatever way necessary. Women shouldn't be afraid to speak up. They should know that in Jesus's eyes they are perfect no matter what. I am loved by the King of Kings and He calls me “clean”.
I want to be the kind of woman that helps. I want to speak into others’ lives, the way mine has been spoken into. Change doesn't occur in a vacuum. So I am ready to be loud; I can't stay silent anymore. I am a redeemed daughter of the Most High King. And I am transformed.
Nothing else matters. My name is Edith. And I am proud of my past because it brought me to the Lord.
No, the truth. My name is Agatha.
Comments
Post a Comment