While Donny was still in the VA Hospital for alcohol abuse, a wonderful family of five frequently invited the children and me to their home. Susan and I knew each other from church. She had such a bubbly personality, and I was immediately drawn to her. Her husband Fred, born and raised in Germany—had a dry sense of humor but made me feel comfortable. After Donny completed treatment, they invited us over for dinner. Our husbands got to finally meet. We shared a delicious meal at the dinner table and the men engaged in small talk, while I marveled in silence, taking it all in.
My husband back then, the pursuer, continually sought after Fred’s company, offering his help with any home repairs and carpentry projects. Those two quickly hit it off and talked among themselves freely. They spent most weekends on Fred’s aluminum boat fishing or hanging out at his lake house. They knew the struggles of alcohol and often shared stories about the victories and failures during their alone time. They discussed work, God, and family matters. Sometimes they simply shared a comfortable silence. Their understanding and respect for each other grew.
Friendships blossomed.
Bonds strengthened.
We wives were pleased. Susan and I often shared laughter mingled with tears as we prayed for our husbands, our children, and our community. We shared a common goal: We wanted so much more unity in our home. We celebrated as our families shared meals, barbecues, beach outings, and church activities. Just like family.
Years later, Susan was there for me during abandonment and a painful but necessary divorce. Eventually, I picked up the pieces of my life and found renewed love with Mark, who soon became my faithful husband – my second chance at love and happiness. As time went on, some 30 years later, Susan became sick. Her family asked me to prepare a eulogy for her on their behalf, something I had NEVER done before then. Here is that story: https://maryaperez.com/2015/12/23/so-long-for-now/
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.
The day I located my friend Liz on FaceBook and contacted her, joy flooded my heart. She lives out of town and drove through after attending a conference; we reunited at a local diner. We played catch-up over a glass of iced tea. We talked about the present, and before long, reminisced about the past, some thirty-plus years ago. “I never expected anyone to come to my apartment to try to sell me some Avon, let alone talk about Jesus.” “Mary Ann, I had to come over,” Liz said, her eyes growing misty. “I used to hear you and Donny argue. Every time you two fought, I heard everything. I even used to hear him hit you … then to hear you crying.”
“I didn’t know that.” I glanced away and watched droplets of water slide silently down myglass, like my tears so long ago.
“Whenever I heard the fights,” Liz continued, “I would lay my hands on the walls and pray for you until my husband would tell me to get away from there and to mind my own business.” I studied my friend from long ago. “Well, I’m so glad you made me your business. When I needed a friend, you were there.”
“Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” Vicki Harrison
She was weak, frail, with no appetite. I prayed that Mama would make it to Mother’s Day and she did, leaving us at 3 pm on that very day! I believe she truly received the best gift possible: no more pain or discomfort left worrying about anything or anyone else.
I had told her that I would and I did. Three months had passed. With my immediate family, I took some of Mama’s remains to bury alongside her parents (my grandparents), and my baby sister who tragically was struck down by a hit-and-run driver at the tender age of two, some 55 years ago.
Everyone expresses life and death differently. What we did we felt was another way to honor Mama and her memory. I know that Mama is in heaven, and not in a shallow grave. You see, doing this was more about healing for us. We are at peace knowing we did something to honor her life. Through it all—and there were many bumps in the road—Mama was loved and she is now with her Savior. In the end: Love. Won!
"Let not your heart be troubled; you believe in God, believe also in Me.In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also. And where I go you know, and the way you know.”
John 14:1-4
He is the one for me. He is the man who has stuck by my side since day one as my loving confidant, helpmate, and best friend. He is the man who loves me, cherishes me, and tells me that I am beautiful. He loves me on my best days and he loves me on my worse days. He knows my past and has never belittled me or made me feel inadequate. He is faithful, a man true to his word. I can count on his constant love and remain secure in his arms. He praises me for my accomplishments and encourages me in my failures. When I’m happy, his warm laughter melts my heart. When I’m sad or fearful, his gentle touch wipes away my tears.
I love you, my husband. And I am proud to be your wife. I am truly grateful to the Lord for joining us together to share the remainder of our days. As we celebrate our twenty-eighth wedding anniversary, may our constant love nourish and sustain each other until the end of time.
I ADORED MY little sister growing so fast. To see her beaming face at the window highlighted my day after school. She always reached up to carry my books, no matter how heavy. After we shared a snack, then time for homework. Anna took naps or played alone, while I finished my studies. Then we’d go out for a walk.
She loved the outdoors. Our outings became adventures—it made me feel good to see her hopping and skipping alongside me. If something piqued her curiosity, we stopped, whether it was to find a fallen bird’s nest or to watch a worm squirm under a rock to hide. We’d listen to the mockingbirds while we gathered sprigs of white wildflowers, and the red hibiscus and puffy yellow marigolds in bloom, smelling their fragrance before taking some home for Mama.
Anna cheerfully greeted everyone we passed. “What a beautiful angel she is,” they’d say. Her enchanting smile and deep blue, watchful eyes mesmerized me. The warmth of her merry laughter penetrated hearts, including mine. “She’s my sister,” I’d proudly boast. Anna’s countenance radiated joy. I cherished her carefree spirit and relished her innocence.
Since Mama stayed in bed until the afternoons, Anna and I usually ate a bowl of cornflakes for breakfast. We’d watch Sesame Street on the black-and-white tube. Whenever Big Bird appeared, my sister squealed and clapped. Then when Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood came on, we sang along with him.
We ate our meals sitting on cushions on the floor. We didn’t have a scheduled time to eat. Chow time consisted of simple bologna sandwiches, a heated can of SpaghettiOs, or sometimes a can of tomato soup. On special occasions, we ate Swanson chicken TV dinners.
Mama expected me to care for my sister. In the evenings, when she and Jimmy went out, Anna and I stayed home by ourselves. We’d lay on the floor to color or play inside our blanket tent, having tea parties with our plastic cups. I sometimes read aloud, making up the words I didn’t know. We stayed up until we grew sleepy.
Whatever we did, doing it together was more fun than being alone.
One particular evening, as I gazed into my sister’s baby-blues, a sudden feeling of sorrow swept over me. Tears clouded my eyes. Something burned within my chest. I cried out, “Please God, don’t let nothing bad happen to her!”
Anna gazed at me with her gentle, trusting eyes.
“I’ll protect you,” I whispered to her. “For always.”
Before bedtime, we repeated a child’s prayer Grandma taught me, one that hung on the wall:
“. . . I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep . . .”
That night I clung to my sister and kept the strange premonition to myself.
He is the one for me. He is the man who has stuck by my side since day one as my loving confidant, helpmate, and best friend. He is the man who loves me, cherishes me, and tells me that I am beautiful. He loves me on my best days and he loves me on my worse days. He knows my past and has never belittled me or made me feel inadequate. He is faithful, a man true to his word. I can count on his constant love and remain secure in his arms. He praises me for my accomplishments and encourages me in my failures. When I’m happy, his warm laughter melts my heart. When I’m sad or fearful, his gentle touch wipes away my tears.
I love you, my husband. And I am proud to be your wife. I am truly grateful to the Lord for joining us together to share the remainder of our days. As we celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, may our constant love nourish and sustain each other until the end of time.
We visited my paternal grandparents. My grandpa was Don Angel (pronounced “Annhel”), and my grandma, Doña María. Upon our arrival, we politely greeted them the way Daddy had taught us to, by asking for their blessing in Spanish:
“¿Bedición?”
“¡Dios te bendiga!” they answered, opening their arms, smothering us with bear hugs and wet kisses.
Abuelo was born in 1908 and Abuela in 1907. Both were born in Utuado Puerto Rico and married in their early twenties, ultimately having ten children. Abuela stayed home attending to her brood while Abuelo supported his family as a farmer. (Rumor has it he made a little Moon Shine too). On twenty-five acres, he tended to bananas, tobacco, and coffee crops. He raised chickens and goats and even owned cows that he milked.
Daddy favored Abuelo; everyone said those two could be brothers.
Perez has written her story in a way which speaks to the reader. At the core of her story is the tone of refusing to be a victim and that there is hope, even after a traumatic period. Her inspiring words and lessons laced throughout…
In our tiny efficiency, as I lay in pitch darkness, my eyes remained open, growing accustomed to the dark. The yellow moon peeked through the window shade. Eerie shadows traveled across the walls and bounced off a tattered chair whenever headlights from cars passed by.
Mama and I shared a narrow bed then. Because my stepdad, Warren had “accidents” in bed at night, he slept on the opposite one from us. Like the sound of a freight train, his incessant snoring rattled my eardrums. Asleep in her underwear, Mama’s gentle snoring came in spurts. Those sounds became my lullaby in the evenings, lulling me to sleep.
But not tonight.
I was never afraid during the night, but with a sense of foreboding I couldn’t shake off, I got up and propped a chair under the doorknob. Time passed. Thump! The chair toppled over and my heart hammered against my chest. Then I heard the knob turn and the door creaked. The hair on my scalp pricked me.
In the dark, I turned ever so slowly, peering through half-closed lids.
The silhouette of Warren’s weird friend crawled, cat-like, on all fours. He inched his way closer. And closer. Warren snorted and rolled over. El Creepo froze. Then he continued his way toward Mama. His hand reached her leg and started feeling upward . . .
With sheer determination, I hopped up, screaming at the top of my lungs. Like a wild animal caught in blinding light, El Creepo jumped and made a beeline toward the door. He crashed into a chair, tripped over the box fan, and then collided with the dresser before hightailing out. Crying and shaken out of my wits, I turned the light switch and called out to my parents in zombie-land, to no avail. It took a long time before I shut my eyes.
The next morning, I gave a full report. With stupefied faces and mouths agape, they attempted to process my words.
“What?” Mama shrieked. “I didn’t hear anything!”
“Mama, he touched you!”
“How did he . . . ?” Warren stammered.
Mama gave him a dirty look. “The door doesn’t have a lock, you dope, remember?”
“Well, you just wait ‘till I see that jerk again,” Warren hinted, getting up to check the knob.
One may think that this frightening episode caused a rude awakening in my party-animal parents. It changed nothing. Sometimes, I think Mama didn’t know what to do with me. Some days she wanted me close. Other days she didn’t.
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Reflections From the Heart 