I don’t like to write long posts.  With the flavor of society today, very few will read if they see a lot of words.  But it can’t be helped.  What I’m about to write is worth a volume as thick as “War and Peace”.

My mother was born to a wealthy family in New England.  She met a young cavalry man when she was 11 or 12.  One night the ladder went up, and she was gone.  They had eloped without a word. 

She never told me what happened afterward.  Surely there was a phone call or a letter.  But she never spoke of it.

I remember hearing once that her father disowned her.  His heart was broken.  His dreams of family crushed.  No grand babies to laugh with and hold.  No more smiles regarding his beautiful daughter.  But she never spoke of this.

The couple moved from state to state, rarely staying in one place for more than 6 months or a year.  By the time I was 7 years old we had moved from Rochester New York to Salem Oregon, living in almost every state between.

The majority of those seven years was spent in the backseat of a car.  But she never told me why.  She never apologize for the childhood that did not come.  And I don’t know why.

Her gallant young cavalry man turned out to be a vicious incestual Lord.  Drunk as often as he could be, he squandered his life in brutality.   The three daughters he had, knew him as far more than daddy.

The oldest one moved away and became a prostitute.  (She is long dead now, so I don’t mind telling you.)  The other two daughters married Canadians and moved away from the house as quickly as possible.

Her oldest son disowned her, because she was not a Jehovah’s Witness.  The other two daughters followed suit.  As soon as I could, I joined the airforce at 17, just to get away from the stench of our life.  Only my youngest brother remained.

The brutal man who gave us birth, developed an affection for a woman in the congregation of Jehovah’s Witnesses.  When I was 12 my parents were divorced.

As a family, we lost it all.  And she never told me why.

I remember, in the days just after the divorce, a song came out regarding the dreams of an everyday housewife.  I remember her saying clearly, “I hate that song!”   But she never told me why.

She died in a nursing home, abandoned and alone.  The excitement of the ladder had turned to an entire life of horror.  And she never once told me why.

Had someone warned her of what was due to come she would not have believed them.  She would have laughed in their face with that little girl smile. 

Ripped from her family, by the lust of a girl, she encountered the beginnings of a horrible end.  But she never spoke of that moment.

By the time before she fell ill, she had married five other men.  I hated to call home, because I didn’t know who daddy might be.  And she never told me why.

Without knowing why, I mimicked her life.  Without planning, I followed her every step.  Women and drinking, drugs, willful abandon, and the life of poverty, belonged to me.  And she never told me why.

I do not write this to shame my mother.  All told, she was a good woman.  When I look back, and dismiss the difficult things,  what I find is an exemplary human being.  She did the very best she could with what she had.  But she never told me why we lacked so much.

I write this because I know there are so many out there who have done the same things.  Have you told your children why?

As I raised my family, sanity appeared.  One day I woke and vowed to break the chains.  I told my children of my own foolish ways.  I had found Christ Jesus, and truth began to flow.

What has happened as a result of my own foolish ways is yet to be told when I am dead.  I would tell you the result of my life of sin.  But I have caused enough suffering.  Why put it in writing and tear at the hearts more?

Have you told your children why? 

By His Grace