(This is a true story; a story about my mother's murder.)
December 4, 1974, I was hurt the day my mother left and filed for divorce giving sole custody of my brother and me to my father.
August 30, 1975, my mother was brutally raped and murdered.
August 31, 1975, I was in church when the detectives informed us of her death. I always expected good things to happen in church, not news that would crush the hopes and dreams of a ten year old child. My spirit began to break as my heart burned with sadness. I felt pain pierce and absorb every fiber of my body; I wanted to die.
September 1, 1975, I sat quietly as the detectives handcuffed my father and brother. They were to be interrogated and submit to polygraph tests for their part, if any, of my mother’s brutal death.
September 2, 1975, I was numb when the detectives informed father that her murdered had been caught. The man who murdered my mother had been in prison before for assault and rape; he had only been on the streets for several days before he murdered my mother. Father asked about the murder weapon and the detectives informed him that it was a tire iron and never recovered. I tried to stop the tears from streaming down my face but I couldn’t. I buried my head into a red and black pillow and laid on the couch in disbelief.
“Thank you,” father whispered and embraced the two detectives.
I felt a chill go through my spine as the detectives left and the door clicked shut. I waited for father to come and put his arms around me and tell me everything was going to be alright. I held my breath and dried my tears; I didn’t want my father to see me cry. Father walked slowly toward me, he gently knelt and pulled the hair from my face.
“Sis,” father’s voice was soft, “today they found…the man who hurt…and killed your mother…her face was…the bugs and heat…her casket will be closed…”
I covered my ears with my hands and tuned father’s voice out.
September 4, 1975, the day of mother’s funeral, is the day anger became a constant and familiar reminder of how cruel life could be.
It was an exceptionally hot and humid day in Michigan, air conditioning was still a luxury and this particular funeral home chose to be frugal. A man in a cheap polyester dark blue suit began to read the Bible. The funeral home gave me the creeps and I began to slouch in my chair. The longer this man talked the more agitated I became. My heart raced and I began to swing my white patented shoes back and forth defiantly against the chair in front of me causing a loud and annoying sound. Each time I hit the chair I became deliberately more aggressive and my posture grew straighter.
The man than addressed father and began to say what a caring mother and Godly wife my mother had been.
Father nodded and his shoulders sagged, I stole a quick look at father’s usual handsome face. “I hate her daddy for what she did to us,” I silently screamed in my heart. Even though my heart was on fire my lips were cold and mute.
The man asked father to come to the casket and say goodbye. My cheeks grew hot as father’s voice cracked as he said his goodbye. I could feel a dark ominous feeling consume my heart and then begin to penetrate my soul
The man motioned for me and my brother to accompany father; my brother grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to a standing position. I refused and the harder he tried the angrier I became. Even my brother’s sorrow filled yet now tainted sky blue eyes could not persuade me to say goodbye.
“Sis,” my father beckoned, “please come.”
I furiously shook my head and strands of hair fell wildly into my face. I increased the rhythm of my kicking and watched as my brother fought tears and bravely said goodbye. My mother said goodbye to me a cold afternoon in December, as far as I was concerned we had already said our goodbyes.
The next ten years anger became my constant companion; whenever my heart would fill with sadness, I reminded myself that a loving God would never have allowed me to become hurt. I knew anger and anger knew me; I was at war with myself and my God.
I can see why anger would become a constant, dependable companion in this little girl's life.
And where there are no answers to be found, there is only restoration left to recieve.
Even so ...
I am sorry you had to endure such pain. My mother was out of my life for 18 years so I can relate to your story a little. She left us with my father who was very abusive at the time. I hated her for a long time but as I got older I became just like her, sin sick. When I was sin sick (lost in sin) I needed God forgivesness and if I wanted God to forgive me for my many sins I had to forgive my mother and father. Forgiveness can win any war within. Thanks for sharing this story. May God bless, comfort and keep you.