My Friend, My Sister ~ an Answered Prayer

Again, left alone, with no one to share my heart, I regret­ted that I never stayed in touch with old classmates or fin­ished school. It’s what he wanted. Although I had advanced to the tenth grade, I never went back, relying solely on Donny’s moral and finan­cial support. I regretted that, too.

I felt my prayers answered the day a neighbor knocked on our door. I recognized her immediately. At last, someone my own age to talk to.

Not much older than me, she was a friendly sort with deep-set, café con leche eyes, long espresso hair, and a tan com­plexion. She wore blue jeans and a T-shirt. The warmth of her smile cast away my shadows. Liz sold Avon. Even though I doubted I’d be able to buy any of her products, I welcomed her company.

With Donny engrossed in TV, she and I visited at the din­ing room table over coffee and slices of block cheddar cheese. We chatted about makeup and the latest perfume. After an hour, she dug deep when she peered into my eyes and asked, “Mary, do you know Jesus?”

“Well . . . I . . . I used to . . . as a kid,” I stuttered and hung my head.

She proceeded to remind me of God’s love, goodness, and grace.

Liz was my neighbor who soon became my sounding board and best friend. She made me laugh and forget my troubles. She made suggestions about hair and makeup. We went window-shopping at the malls, grocery shopping, and baked cakes together in her kitchen. Liz even introduced me to garage sale hunting on weekends. In the mornings, we started reading our Bibles over coffee at her place, after our husbands left for work and her older kids had trotted to school. Our pre-school girls were close in age and enjoyed playing with each other.

Donny never said too much around Liz. Fine by me. He once labeled her a “Jesus freak” and usually made himself scarce whenever she came around. Also fine by me.

Before long, I started sitting in on Bible studies Liz held with other couples in her apartment. When I attended her small church, I felt a sense of belonging and serenity I hadn’t known since living with my grandparents. As much as I longed to return to the God of my grandparents, I needed to overcome the stinking-thinking about myself. I never felt worthy enough; may as well have worn a sign over me that read: Deflated, Dejected and Discouraged.

After our devotions in the mornings, Liz led prayer. She prayed that I’d learn to “let go and let God.” I wasn’t sure how to “let go,” let alone move on. Then, before closing our devotions, she always asked what my prayer requests were.

“I can’t stand Jerry . . . he’s a moron,” I blurted one day. “When he’s around, Donny drinks more. Jerry and him go bar-hopping and get into fights with other drunken bozos.”

“What do you want God to do?” Liz asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe Jerry needs to take a long walk on a short pier or something.”

She smiled.

I felt foolish.

She then asked if I ever asked God to sever Donny and Jerry’s friendship. I never thought about praying that way. She said she believed we needed to be a family in the privacy of our home without negative interference from an outsider.

A woman of simple faith, Liz started praying for that specif­ically.

Weak in my faith, I hoped against hope.

One autumn day as the temperatures fell and the eve­nings grew chilly, Jerry wanted “female companionship.” He borrowed my Plymouth Duster, and drove more than a thousand miles, all the way from Houston to Denver, to get that companionship. Once there, he landed in jail and the po­lice impounded my car. Weeks later, Donny paid someone in Denver to get my vehicle out of impound to drive it back home.

Coincidentally—or by divine intervention—we never heard from Jerry again.

{Except from Running In Heels: A Memoir of Grit and Grace, Chapter 23}