Footsteps toward Grace

I remember that the bullying began as soon as I walked into the classroom with my glasses on. “Four eyes! Four eyes!” I did not know what to do other than cry. Even at such a young age, children can be so cruel without even knowing it. I remember telling my mom about it, and she called and spoke to my kindergarten teacher. The teacher tried very hard to keep close to me and to remind the other students that it was not nice to call names, but she could not be everywhere. 
My school career through the eighth grade was anything but pleasant, and it left some severe scarring. I was not a very good student and had a tremendous amount of difficulty staying on task. Learning was hard for me, and I often had to leave the classroom to go to the Title Room. This was a classroom where I went twice a day for fifteen minutes of extra help in math and reading. It is because of that Title Room teacher, Mrs. Wells, that I became a teacher myself. More about that later. 
I remember a time, while I was still five years old, that the bullying in school spilled out into the world and onto me quicker than I could imagine. I had been invited to spend the night at a friend’s house with another girl. We had built a house out of a box. I was one of the youngest in my class; the other girls had already turned six. I started to go into the house, but their response was, “You can’t come in and play with us. Only pretty six year olds are allowed.” Those words were hurtful, and they molded me into something I was not intended be. I had to endure the name-calling and the children who said they wouldn’t play with meboth in school and out. 
It was about September of 1975 when I was sexually molested for the first time. I had gone with one of my friends, her parents, and a few of the neighbors to the theme park in Des Moines, where we camped and spent the weekend. I slept with my friend and her brother in the topper of the truck. The adult that stayed with us in the topper was an adult male. In the seventies, that did not seem strange at all. I was awakened by the adult male in the middle of the night. I did not know what was happening, but I had been raised to believe that whatever an adult says goes. 
I had a very difficult time staying away from home after that. I would go and stay with my friends until dark and bedtime, and then I would go into a panic rage and need to go home. My parents always came and got me. I can remember staying with the same friend I went to Des Moines withand not being able to locate my mom and dad that night. I had to stay with my friend. I still remember the horror of that stay. I did not sleep and cried all night. I could not wait to get home. 
I began sleepwalking and having horrible nightmares. I became a very shy child everywhere except at home, where I became very unruly. I began to lash out at everyone. My older sister and I fought all the time. Usually it was just verbal, but sometimes it was physical. 
In 1977, when another neighbor started sexually molesting me, I became full of anger and hate toward everyone and everything. At school I did not speak or even look anyone in the face. I developed an ulcer at the age of twelve and began withdrawing to my room most of the time. 
Junior high was the worst time of my life. I had gone from a small elementary school, where I had fifteen to twenty students in my class, to the middle school, where all of the students in the county went. There were now one hundred and twenty-one students in my class. All of my “friends” fit right in immediately with the popular kids. 
I, however, did not. I was not wealthy and could not afford new clothes. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs. They were nice and clean but “not stylish,” I guess you could say. I had long hair, and it had begun to darken as it grew longer. It was no longer a pretty blonde color. I made sure to shower and wash my hair every day. Still, classmates who had known me since I was five years old made fun of me. The nickname they gave me that hurt the most and stayed with me throughout junior high was Grodi Jodi. I hated it, and even now it is hard to write it down. 
I am finding, as I tell my stories in this book, that I am still healing from these experiences in my life. 


Chapter 4 At home, we often had public health nurses come to give Robbie meds and shots. He had to wear a monitor at all times because he had apnea. Four weeks later, he had a very blue tint to him, and he refused to eat. I rushed him to the hospital, where they did a chest X-ray and found that he had pneumonia. They admitted him into the hospital, but as they began to put the IVs in, I couldn’t handle hearing him cry, so I stepped out of the room. The doctor came out and told me that Robbie was stabilized and that it was okay for me to take my other son, Eric, to his checkup. The doctor promised he would call me if he needed to. Joe and I lived in a very rural area during this time, and I drove the forty-five minutes back to my hometown for Eric’s appointment. 
I received a call from Robbie’s doctor at the Public Health Facility where Eric was getting his shots. It is a phone call I will never forget. A voice on the other end of the phone said to me, “Robbie is in congestive heart failure. The helicopter is on the way. Get here as quickly as you can.” I remember my heart sinking. I couldn’t move. 
There were no cell phones back then. I picked up Eric and ran down the street, looking for Joe. I found him at his mother’s house and explained everything. We drove as fast as we could back to the hospital. I look back now and wonder how it was that I did any of this without God. I didn’t even pray the whole way there. Instead, I blamed myself. Robbie was my child. I had carried him, and it was my job to protect him. I was angry, scared, hurt, frustrated, and confused. He had been fine when I’d left the hospital. They had told me so. What had happened? I just didn’t understand at all. 
When we arrived at the hospital, Robbie had a heart rate of over two hundred, and his breathing was over one hundred. I remember looking down at my son and asking God, why? Why him? Why not me? Of course, I have never gotten that answer, nor will I probably ever get it. 
Robbie was so pale and so little lying there. The helicopter arrived, and they prepped him for the ride. I begged them to let me go with them, but there just wasn't room. So I stood and watched, and as the helicopter began to take off, I dropped to the ground, not to pray but because I truly could not stand.