Ronda's Story
Between life's first lusty cry and death's final labored breath the story of life is written. Each story unique; each filled with joy and sorrow, hello and goodbye, triumph and tragedy. It's true of my tale; no doubt, it's true of yours as well. Who I am today is a direct result of my life experiences, my choices in them and the grace of God. I've learned to laugh and I've learned to cry all within the safety of His embrace.
As young as five years of age I had heard the Gospel story many times. I knew the basics: that all people are separated from God because of sin, that the penalty for that separation is death, that God sent His son, Jesus Christ, to pay that penalty for me and that I - through a choice of my own - could accept His sacrifice on my behalf and find forgiveness for my sin.
At eight years of age, I sensed my personal need for this Savior. Afraid, and feeling very alone, I lay in a hospital bed in the neurological unit of Children's Hospital in Denver, Colorado. Partial paralysis from an inoperable, terminal brain stem glioma laid claim to my body. My prayer was simple, "Jesus, please forgive me for the things I've done wrong, and come into my heart." Even as a child I knew that I had done things contrary to God's wishes and I needed His forgiveness.
The prognosis for a recovery was dismal at best, "Take her home and love her," the doctor said to my sorrowing parents, "She'll be gone within a year." The news shattered my dad and mom's world. But being people of faith, they found the courage to believe for a miracle.
Though I did not know the seriousness of my illness, I did know that whatever was going on in my body was making me very, very sick. Sometimes the headaches were debilitating. Often on a Sunday morning, my dad or mom would take me by the hand during prayer time and together we would walk to the front of the church for prayer. The pastor would anoint me with oil (symbolic of the Holy Spirit) then he, along with the elders of the church, would pray for my healing.
Word spread about the little girl who was dying, and many joined in prayer for a restoration of my health. Much to the amazement of my doctors, I did not die. Instead of getting worse, I got better. The paralysis subsided and the tumor disappeared (confirmed by subsequent scans). God loved me, I was sure of it! My faith took root and grew beneath the sturdy conservatory of protective nurture and love.
A hothouse plant, though beautiful, is never as strong as one subjected to the elements of nature. The harder the rain, the greater the wind, the deeper the roots must go if it is to survive. I was a hothouse plant. In my early twenties, I was taken out of my cozy, warm greenhouse existence and set down in the midst of a ferocious storm. The testing was severe. Often I despaired as the winds of affliction ravaged me tossing me this way and that intent upon destruction.
Fortunately, the intended devastation was minimal. Instead, with each savage gust my roots sank deeper into the knowledge of who God really is. My faith became my own. I began to fall in love with a "Redeemer" God who creatively, one by one, set about to turn my losses into gain.
College presented a safe place to ease from adolescence into adulthood. And indeed, it would have been, had it not been for the peer pressure. Oddly the pressure was not toward doing wrong, but toward doing right. The prevailing sentiment on campus was that if one really loved God one would willingly give up their Friday and Saturday nights for Him. It never occurred to me that there were many ways to "give up" for God. Or, that He loved me intently whether I "gave up" for Him or not. So I bowed to the pressure and found myself, the queen of naiveté, joining a number of other students each weekend to board a van and make the drive north of Waxahachie, Texas to volunteer at the Teen Challenge Center in Dallas. Teen Challenge is a national organization providing care for people of all ages with life-controlling problems of which, at the time, I knew nothing. Nevertheless, I was a faithful volunteer rarely missing a weekend.
My introduction to the "real" world was daunting. I knew nothing of illicit drugs or depraved sexuality. Absolutely nothing. Though there were many aspects of the ministry, our team assignment was always the same. We were to engage folks on the street in conversation about their need for God. Because I was very shy, I hated that assignment with a passion but I did it anyway because I had an image to maintain as a woman sold out for God. The whole time we were on the streets, I prayed, Please don't let anyone talk to me, please God. Please!
While I hated street evangelism, I discovered a niche with my name written all over it. I loved working with the children. The summer after my freshman year I was invited to join the summer staff at Teen Challenge. Rather then returning to my home in Denver, I stayed on in Dallas joining a group of college students in conducting children's crusades in the low-income projects of north Dallas. Though hardly safe, I trusted that my God would protect me and would allow me the opportunity to make a small difference in the life of a child.
The summer passed in a blur of activity. Plans were underway at Dallas Teen Challenge to open a home for needy girls in the area. Willing workers were needed and at the invitation of the director, I stayed on rather then returning to school that fall. It was a decision I lived to regret.
Eddie Wyatt came to the men's program after a life-changing turn-around for the better while serving a sentence in the state penitentiary in Huntsville, Texas. Upon release, he applied for and was accepted into the program at Dallas Teen Challenge. He was a nice looking man with a dynamic personal testimony of faith. I respected him. I admired his gentle demeanor. He was a favorite when we visited local churches. His story was vibrant, giving hope to those whose lives had been ravaged by illegal activity and drugs.
Courting between staff and residents was steadfastly forbidden. That was fine with me. I had my eye on a fellow co-worker and once we began dating I gave my heart to him, completely. Much too prematurely, we began to speak of marriage. I was ready, but he was not. One night he ended our relationship and I experienced my first major heartbreak. I decided then that I never wanted to suffer that level of pain again. For the foreseeable future guys were out of the picture.
In time, Eddie completed the program at Teen Challenge. He was asked to join the staff and our relationship changed from resident/staff to that of co-workers. Bob and Angela, colleagues of ours, announced their engagement. A wedding date was set, and we were invited to attend, Eddie as a groomsman, and me as a friend-of-the-bride. Since we were friends and nothing more, I acquiesced when it was decided that we would make the drive from Dallas to Monroe, Louisiana together. There was no danger in my mind of being wooed and won by this handsome guy and as such I felt perfectly safe in his company. The trip was enjoyable. As the miles passed, we became better acquainted and I found myself feeling increasingly comfortable with him.
After a fairy-tale wedding, we loaded the car, said our goodbyes, and prepared for the return trip to Dallas. On the outskirts of Monroe, we found ourselves in the middle of an intense rainstorm. The defective windshield wipers made visibility nearly impossible. Eddie made a wrong turn onto the freeway and by the time we realized our mistake, we had crossed the state line headed for Vicksburg, Mississippi. Added miles, shared laughter . . . who knows all of the dynamics set in play by that simple error. By the time we returned to Dallas we were an item.
He was hard working, quiet, cute. My 21st birthday loomed on the horizon. In a day when many married right out of high school, I was convinced that if I didn't marry soon I'd be an old maid! When Eddie asked me to marry him, I quickly said yes. Perhaps it was that assent that made him feel invincible. Twice before I moved back to Denver to ready for the wedding, Eddie forced himself upon me sexually. The first time he invited me to his room, "C'mon up, I want to show you something." The second time was on a lonely stretch of highway between Dallas and Denver. Both times I said please don't. Both times my plea fell on deaf ears. Nevertheless, I denied that what had happened to me was rape. To acknowledge it for what it was presented a dilemma I was not ready to deal with. Instead I put a new spin on it - one that was more acceptable then rape. I blamed myself. I must have done something to cause this. I could deal with immorality much easier then sexual violation. I could not, would not tell anyone what had happened. If I did, what would they think of me? Would I be sent home in shame? I also convinced myself that since I was tarnished and no longer a virgin, no one would want to marry me. Based on that faulty belief, I decided to proceed with the marriage. I would forgive him, forgive myself and put it in the past. My secret proved a shaky foundation upon which to build a marriage.
Eddie and I married at Green Acres Church of the Nazarene in Denver, Colorado on Valentines Day, 1975. As part of the ceremony I sang a song to him that spoke of my commitment, "Until the twelfth of never, I'll still be loving you." I chose to love him and to commit myself to him for a lifetime.
The first year or two we were relatively happy. I cried when I wasn't pregnant the first month after our marriage. More than anything I wanted to be a mother. When I finally conceived, my joy knew no bounds. Our first-born son, Paul, was born nine days after our first wedding anniversary. Oh, how I loved him! He completed my life. Perhaps, in spite of a rocky start, we would still be able to realize a storybook life.
We lived in a comfortable, one-bedroom, furnished apartment in Grand Prairie, Texas. Eddie worked at an area factory as a welder on pressure vessels, and I immersed myself in motherhood. I was quite content to play the role of homemaker, mother and wife.
A few weeks after Paul's birth, Eddie was involved in a terrible accident at work. The pressure vessel he was welding on shifted, shooting the wedge used to anchor it in place into the side of Eddie's face. An nth of a degree either way would have killed him instantly. His injuries were severe. The week following his accident was touch and go. I found myself on the road constantly driving to and from the hospital. I was torn between needing to be with him and wanting to be with Paul.
This was not how it was supposed to be. A couple at the church we attended offered to take care of Baby Paul until Eddie was released from the hospital. Many nights, after making the long drive from Dallas to Grand Prairie, I would drive by their home and sit outside in the car and cry. I wanted to be with my baby but I couldn't. Physically I was exhausted. After several days my body cried foul and I began hemorrhaging sending me to my own bed for a much needed rest and time of healing.
Once Eddie was stabilized, he was allowed to return home. Baby Paul soon followed and for a few weeks we bonded as a family. It was a happy, happy time. Eddie's accident was devastating financially, and he chose to file a lawsuit against the company. Needless to say, his return to work was without welcome and when at last the dust settled he was without a job. We did the only thing we could think of to do . . . we moved to Colorado to be near my family.
Eddie was restless moving from job to job. We moved several times that year, never settling for long in one place. One night he rattled my world when he came home to tell me that he had enlisted in the Navy. Because of his criminal record, his acceptance into the Navy required a series of concessions taking many weeks. When approval was finally given, Eddie was shipped off to boot camp and baby Paul and I moved in with my parents. I missed him dreadfully. After basic training was complete, Eddie was sent to San Diego for schooling, and then to Millington, Tennessee.
On one of Eddie's leaves from school in San Diego, I became pregnant with our second child. Once his schooling was finalized, Paul and I joined Eddie in Millington for several weeks. It was good to be back together. Morning sickness gave way to unmitigated excitement as my pregnancy progressed. In December we received orders to Eddie's first duty station in Norfolk, Virginia. Four months later a beautiful baby girl, Diana Lynn, joined our family. We were about as poor as one could be, but we were happy. We lived in low-income housing a skip-and-a-jump from a major freeway and regional airport. I adjusted to the constant sounds of traffic and airplanes just outside my window. We were befriended by an older couple who lived in the apartment beneath ours. They became my saving grace during Eddie's frequent times at sea. During the longest periods, I would pack our bags and Paul, Diana and I would fly home to Denver.
A subtle change took place in Eddie during those years. He was never abusive, never unkind. He became increasingly depressed. When he was home he was distant and aloof. He stopped going to church with the children and me. One night he told me, "I always lose the things I love the most." Most noticeable to me was the way he began to withdraw from intimacy. We were "roommates" - nothing more - during our final year in Norfolk.
His behavior was confusing at best. I suggested counseling and he said that no one would understand what he was going through. He alluded to grief over his father's death, a father who had abandoned him as a young boy. Near the end of his first four-year term he was arrested for window-peeping. He denied the charge, saying that he had gone for a walk and had gotten lost and had taken a short cut through a neighborhood. He was sentenced to a weekend in jail. I knew he was troubled, but criminal? No. There was no way that he would return to that lifestyle.
Eddie served his sentence, and shortly after he chose to re-enlist for another four years with the Navy. We were sent to Kingsville a small military/college/oil town in southwest Texas. I breathed a sigh of relief hoping that a new start would allow Eddie to overcome whatever personal demons he was battling. And, for a short while, it seemed to be just what he needed. We settled into a comfortable two-bedroom duplex. I found work at a medical clinic across town, we started attending a local church, and life smoothed into reasonable routine.
The major drawback to our life in Kingsville was that we rarely saw one another since Eddie worked nights and I worked days. Before long, Eddie's unrest returned. He refused to attend church with the children and me. He began drinking and smoking pot. Once again he became increasingly withdrawn. We'd been married almost seven years. I wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong, but something had. I began to wonder, maybe it's me? Why was the man I was married to so intent on holding me at arms length? What sense of worth I had evaporated like a cool morning mist on a blistering hot day.
Eddie's behavior became increasingly unpredictable. Soon after school began, Paul fell on the playground equipment at school and broke his arm. I rushed to the school to pick Paul up and immediately took him to the medical clinic where I worked. X-rays were taken and it was determined that a specialist who could perform surgery was needed. The closest major hospital equipped to handle his injury was in Corpus Christi, an hours drive north/east of Kingsville. I stopped and picked up Eddie so he could go with us. I desperately needed his support. On the outskirts of Kingsville, Eddie instructed me to pull over and let him out. No explanation. He just changed his mind. It was later that evening before he made his way to the hospital to be with us.
Then there was the incident with the sexy nighty. On a lark the girls at work gave it to me as an early Christmas gift. Thinking it might be just the thing to spark my husband's interest, I donned it that evening and modeled it for him. He looked at me, simply said, "That's nice," then rolled over and went to sleep. Can you say, “demoralized”?
Near the end of November I found myself praying one morning on the way to work, "God, I don't know what's going on in my marriage, but something is. I can't fight an enemy I can't see. Please bring it to light even if it hurts to know."
The answer to that prayer took place a few weeks later, one late afternoon three days after Christmas. Though its been thirty-seven years ago, I can still remember that deadly blow with clarity.
After a busy day at work, I stopped by the daycare to pick up Paul and Diana and then made my way across town to our little bungalow. We'd worked out a system a few weeks earlier, dividing up the household chores since we were working opposite schedules. For the most part, Eddie helped which made it much easier for me in the evenings. This particular afternoon however I walked in the door to find the house exactly as I'd left it that morning. I was miffed knowing I'd have to pick up before I could start dinner for the kids and me. I sent Paul and Diana out to play, and rolled up my sleeves, ready for a quick house cleaning.
When the telephone rang, I answered and was shocked to hear the voice of Captain Gomez from the Kingsville Police Department. "We've picked up your husband and are questioning him the kidnap and rape of a young woman in town. We're finished for now. Would you like to come and get him or shall I arrange for someone to bring him home?"
My initial response was one of disbelief. Rape? You've got to be kidding. He hasn't touched me in a year. The truth was I knew nothing about rape. My only experience had been with my own violation at his hands. I did not know that rape is a crime of anger and not of unrestrained passion.
Not wanting Paul and Diana to know about what was happening I told the Captain to arrange a ride home for Eddie. I fed them supper, readied them for bed, and tucked them in for a good nights rest. It would be best if they were sleeping when their father came home.
All too soon, Eddie was walking through the door. A detective from the police force accompanied him. He did a cursory glance around the house, asked a question or two, and then he left.
The obvious first question out of my mouth was, "Eddie??? Did you do this?" He denied involvement; said it was a case of mistaken identity and it would work itself out. We dressed for bed and crawled in, side by side.
"Don't you think we should pray, honey?" I asked.
"You go ahead," he encouraged.
I countered, "No. No, I think you need to pray." He prayed something about God being with us in this difficult time, rolled over and went to sleep. That settled it in my mind. He can't possibly be guilty. If he were he'd be worried about what was sure to come instead of sleeping.
We hadn't been in bed long when there was a knock at the door. "Who's there?" I queried.
"Open up. We have a warrant for your husband's arrest."
It didn't take long for Eddie to join us in the living room. He was cuffed, read his rights, and walked from the house. The detective told me that if I tried to hide any evidence they would arrest me. I was told to stay put, not to go anywhere. He said they would be back in the morning to search the house. Then they were gone.
For a few minutes after Eddie's arrest I was alone in my living room. I randomly called an attorney and asked what I should and should not do. I called my folks in Denver. Then I called my minister. Pastor James, and his wife, Delores, assured me they were on their way. The children were asleep as I knelt beside my sofa, "Lord, if we have to go through this then please be glorified in my life." This is all a case of mistaken identity, I reasoned, nothing more than a terrible interruption in our lives. Little did I realize the events that were about to transpire.
Delores stayed with the children while Pastor James and I drove to the sheriffs department. On the way there, the thought crossed my mind that while our world was crumbling at my feet, the rest of the world was going on as if nothing had happened. I was so thankful for pastor's presence in the car with me.
Eddie and I were given a scant few minutes, five maybe ten at best. Eddie reiterated that he was innocent. Then he made a very odd request, "Honey, there's a gun. It's behind the bed. Get rid of it, okay? I'm not supposed to have it." Why is he asking me to do that if he's not guilty?
The detective returned and informed me that Eddie would be transported to the Kleberg County Courthouse in downtown Kingsville. After taking Pastor James back to the house, I drove to the jail, parked, and walked to the courthouse. Once there, I descended the steps, walked through the entrance and in to the waiting room. After checking in with a woman sitting behind a desk, I settled onto a cold, hard chair and waited. I didn’t know if I would get to see Eddie again or not. A couple of officers walked by deep in conversation about the rapist that had just been arrested. "You know what I think they ought to do to him?" one said to the other. "I think they ought to take him out and shoot him."
A rush of emotion swept over me - shame, anger, searing pain. Someone said, "That's his wife sitting there." An awkward moment of silence followed. The officers glanced my way then made a hasty exit. My belief that Eddie was innocent began to wane. Eddie and I had a couple of minutes together interrupted once by an officer apologizing for the conversation I’d been privy too. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Mrs. Wyatt.” The only response I could think of was, “They can afford to be flippant, can’t they, when it’s not affecting them.”
After returning home, James and Delores left so she could get her nightclothes. She was determined to stay with me, and I was so grateful. Once they were out the door, I got the gun and put it in the attic. I wasn't getting rid of it as Eddie asked but, still wanting to believe he was innocent, I decided to make it less accessible. If the police were thorough in their search, they would find it but at least I'd made an effort on Eddie's behalf.
Twice I received obscene phone calls. Obviously news was traveling fast in the little town. The first caller asked, "Mrs. Wyatt? How does it feel to be married to a rapist?" The second, Delores intercepted. With each passing phone call, Kingsville grew more ominous.
In the morning, I readied the children for daycare. I did not want Paul and Diana to be there when the police came to search the house. They had been sleeping when their daddy was arrested and I hoped to spare them the news of his arrest for as long as possible. I was weary having slept little the night before.
As I finished last minute preparations Paul slipped into my room, "Mommy," he said, "Where's my daddy?"
"Daddy is downtown, Paul." The jail was there and it seemed enough to say at the moment. I was surprised when he countered with, "But I thought I heard you tell my uncle during the night last night that my daddy is in jail!"
My mother heart knew that Paul and Diana were going to need to know in the coming months that they could trust me. I made a decision at that moment that I would be as honest with them as I could be. The information I chose to share would be simple and appropriate for their ages. I reasoned that if they were old enough to ask, they needed to know. I pulled Paul onto my lap, wrapped him tightly in my arms and gently said, "Daddy is in jail, Paul."
Ever the precocious one, he probed for more information, "Why?"
"Because the police think daddy did some things he shouldn't have done, son."
"Did he?" he queried, looking into my eyes.
I hesitated a moment, then looking deeply into my son's big, brown eyes whispered honestly, "I don't, sweetheart. I don't know."
Returning from leaving the children at the daycare I found the police already in our home having entered through an open living room window. Pastor James met me on the walk in front of the house. Texas Rangers were posted on the front lawn, rifles in hand. I was told I could go in, but Pastor could not. In that moment I reached heavenward and took the hand of God. Together we went inside.
The police were going through everything; nothing was sacred. I felt as if I were standing naked in a room full of strangers. Our lives were laid bare as they systematically searched one room and then another. What little self-esteem I had was destroyed that day. I sat on the couch, read the search warrant and told myself, There is no way Eddie could have done these things.
A detective coming through the front door spoke and at the sound of his voice I lifted my head. "Don't say anything," he said," just nod your head." At his side stood a beautiful, blonde, teenaged girl. As they walked into the living room, I instinctively knew that she was the one accusing my husband of rape. I hated her. I wanted to demand an answer to my unasked question, "Why are you doing this to us?" Instead I hung my head in confusion and shame. She nodded her head in response to several items that were pointed out to her, then turned and left.
I moved from my sofa so pictures could be taken for the investigation. I was told that Eddie had brought this young woman to our home and had raped her repeatedly, near the Christmas tree, close to the picture of our young children. Using an old sermon tape and a cassette player, he recorded her violation. Later the police found the tape stuffed in an eggnog carton in a trash can in front of our home. Polaroid snapshots, taken while he violated her, were also found.
Slipping into the children's bedroom I sat on the edge of one of the beds and began to weep. I loved that sunny little room and the memories it held. God, what is going to happen to us? The police captain came into the room. Cold, professional, he spoke, "You know I've noticed that you have a number of religious books and tapes. Could it be that you expected too much of your husband? Maybe he couldn't live up to your expectations." Then he said, "You're the only one who knows what went on behind your bedroom door. Could it be that you made demands on your husband that he couldn't meet?" As he turned to leave, he said, "Remember if you are hiding any evidence we'll file charges against you too." In the space of two minutes he had questioned my faith, my integrity and my moral character. In his accusation I heard, You are responsible for what happened here.
With a few choice words, I was destroyed. Local newspapers for miles around carried the story of Eddie’s arrest, complete with our address and the fact that we had young children. Sensing that we were in danger I asked my parents to come from Colorado for Paul and Diana. It would be several weeks before I would be free to join them. The police were not convinced that I was not involved. Later I was told that in many rape cases, the wife (or girlfriend) is present at the time the victim is violated. Putting our things in storage, I moved in with Pastor James and Delores. They, and their comfortable home, became a refuge for me during the weeks that followed as I waited for clearance from the authorities. When it came, I went home to Colorado.
The first Sunday after Eddie's arrest, and the day after the children were gone I went back to the church I'd come to love. Slipping in after the service started, I fought the tears threatening to overflow. I didn't want people to notice my presence. With the final song, the congregation rose and began to sing, "Have doubt and fear come against your mind? Has your faith been sorely tried? Just lift your head, here cometh your help, it is Jesus for you He has died.
Rise and be healed in the name of Jesus. Let faith arise in your soul. Rise and be healed in the name of Jesus. He will cleanse and make you whole. He will cleanse and make you whole."
I slipped from my place in the center of the pew, and walked to the front of the church, tears streaming down my face. As I knelt at the altar, a host of fellow parishioners surrounded me, laid their hands gently on me, and they began to pray. I was so broken. I don't know what I prayed, even if I prayed. I simply wept.
At the close of the service, I hurried to leave fearful that someone might ask a question I couldn’t answer. Near the exit, a woman stopped me. She pressed a bottle of bath oil into my hand and said, "Here, honey. I want you to have this. I have a feeling you are going to need it in the days to come." I don't know her name, but I never forgot her kindness.
On Wednesday nights I routinely attended a home-fellowship group made up of folks from the church. In an intimate setting, we shared our lives and prayed for one another. James and Barbara Crowell made each member welcome in their lovely home. Eddie had gone with me a few times and had been warmly welcomed. I debated attending that first Wednesday after his arrest, but I desperately needed to be with friends who would support me.
The group had joined with another group that evening. I should have left, but I didn't. During prayer time a woman from the visiting group requested prayer for "that sailor who raped that young girl.” She went on to pontificate about his spiritual condition, “I’m sure he was used of the devil!" Rage filled my heart. How dare she presume to know anything about that sailor or his family? We knelt to pray and another visiting woman, slipped her arm around me and said, "Honey, do you know Jesus?" It was too much. Choking back a sob, I gathered my wits about me, rose from my knees and headed for the door.
Barbara intercepted me and I'm so glad she did. Drawing me into the shelter of her arms she whispered in my ear, "Honey, hold your head up high. You've done nothing to be ashamed of." Many times in the months that followed I pulled her words close in an attempt to maintain my dignity - what was left of it anyway.
In the weeks that followed his arrest, I learned that Eddie had led a sordid, secret life that stretched back almost to the beginning of our marriage. I also learned that he was in actuality a serial rapist who had been raping women for a number of months, possibly years. Eddie had expertly hidden his double life from us. We'd been married almost seven years . . . how long had his betrayal been going on? It was suspected that he was raping when we were stationed in Norfolk. No wonder he had pulled away from me and from Paul, then five and Diana, three.
One cold, blustery night not long after Eddie's arrest, I found myself sitting alone in front of the fireplace in my parent’s home where the children and I were staying in Lakewood, Colorado. I watched as the flames performed a waltz of death, leaping impatiently from one rough hewn log to another reducing what had once been a majestic tree into a smoldering mound of ash. A deep sadness blanketed my bruised heart and I felt smothered by the weight of a love gone wrong.
I could not escape the insidious darkness assaulting my emotions. My dreams lay shattered at my feet, and I knew that for me, life would never be the same. A tear, then two slipped silently down my cheek and trickled off the edge of my chin. "I'm just like that log, Lord.” I whispered, “I’ve been destroyed, and there's nothing left of my life."
I wept until there were no more tears to weep. It was then that the greatest of all counselors came and wrapped my wounded spirit gently in His arms. The Holy Spirit ministered to me, whispering the words of Isaiah 61:3 to my shattered heart, "To give them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He might be glorified."
I, in turn, whispered a prayer to Him, "Here, Lord. Ugly ashes, in an ugly bucket. That's all I have left. I haven't known what to do with them, so I tossed it about in my mind and decided to bring them to you. They're not very pretty. I'm sorry, so very, very sorry. I started out meaning so well, wanting so much for you to be proud. But look at the mess I've made. I wanted to bury them so no one would know what had happened, but I couldn't. So here they are. I've heard that for them you would give me beauty. If you will grant me your beauty for these dirty ashes, I'll give them back to you through my life. And this time, Lord, this time I'll be a planting for you that you might be glorified."
I battled depression, uncertainty, day-time terrors and insidious nightmares. One night I woke abruptly from a troubling dream to find my mother at my bedside. She knew, as perceptive mothers are prone to know, that her grown-up-daughter-child was afraid. She laid a reassuring hand on my arm and spoke a few words of comfort before returning to her own bed. I heard her talking to my father and a deep peace settled over me. I knew that they were praying for me.
As a result of a plea bargain, Eddie was given a sentence of thirty years in the State Penitentiary in Rosharon, Texas. I struggled with the idea of divorce and after a period of time proceeded with the necessary legalities to obtain one. I, who believed in the sanctity of marriage and lifetime commitment, found myself a broken, devastated single mother of two.
Laid bare and deeply wounded, I sought out a pastor for counsel. During my third or fourth session he said, "You know, Ronda, you're just like the prodigal son. You've sinned and now you've come back home." It was several years before I dared to speak with a pastor's wife at a church I was attending, "Ronda," she said, "You must never speak about these things. As you do, you relive them." The first accused me, the second said, in essence, "I don't want to hear it!"
It would be many years before the Holy Spirit would be freed to comfort in my life. I tried other counselors but found none who understood the depth of my pain. I desperately needed someone who would ask the difficult questions and draw my story out of me.
The recovery for me was long and hard. There were times when I wanted nothing more than to die . . . it seemed preferable to the dark days that stretched endlessly before me. Even in the darkness of those days I remembered my promise to Him, "I'll be a planting for You that You might be glorified." And, He has never forgotten His promise to me, "I'll give you beauty for your ashes."
I remembered, too, Barbara Crowell's admonition to hold my head up high. Her words became a gentle thumb in my back pushing me ever onward. The precious gift of bath oil was a reminder of the care of others and the importance of reaching out to others when they are hurting.
In time Rob Knuth came into my life. He was everything Eddie was not - honest, kind, committed. He loved me and my children as we struggled for wholeness. After our marriage, we were blessed with two sons, Andy and Ben. Our family was complete . . . and we lived happily after.
Not really!! The testing continued. Over a period of seven years we were to lose many in death. Of those, eleven were family. Of those eleven, two were flesh of our flesh. One baby we lost as the result of a miscarriage. The other, baby William, was stillborn.
The conflict in my life has been vicious. The battles not imaginary, but real. Satan's desire for the believer is to destroy him. He will use whatever means necessary to accomplish his purpose. In my life he tried a variety of things: depression, financial difficulties, excruciating physical pain, rejection, religious legalism and compounded loss. He even allowed me to identify very closely with the Prodigal's mother as I fought against unbelievable odds to reclaim my eldest son from the edge of Hell. Scarcely would I have time to catch my breath before another test would come. I found myself stuffing the hurt just to survive; there simply wasn't time to grieve each loss, or so I thought.
Then, through a series of events, I found myself at the breaking point, desperate before God for a complete healing. I doubted His presence in my life. I felt so alone and at one point despaired of living. Wanting to present the image of a strong, Christian woman I stuffed the closet of my heart with package after package of pain. I took great care to wrap my "uglies" in colorful paper complete with pretty ribbons and bows. It was important to me that no one know what was really inside those packages.
One day I went to put another package in the closet and discovered, to my dismay that it was full. I opened the door and everything came tumbling out. I quickly tired to slam it close, but the door wouldn't shut. It was time to do some housecleaning. With great emotion, I began rummaging through, sorting and tossing and making order out of my life once more. Through it all, as difficult as it has been, God has begun to do a work in my life. My inner strength has grown, along with my character, compassion and faith. God, who was the beloved of my childhood, has become Lord of my life.
God's reputation is not at risk because of my brokenness. In fact, as I am able to become increasingly honest and vulnerable, God's redeeming work in me becomes more obvious . . . to me and hopefully to others. The emphasis has moved from me having it all together, to God having it all together. Though God did not protect me from pain, He has been faithful to enter into it with me and to touch me at my deepest pain.
God has used the brokenness in my life in a number of ways. A book was written several years ago detailing my experiences with my ex-husband. Written by Rocky Mountain News Reporter, Kevin Flynn, it is entitled, "The Unmasking: Married to a Rapist." (used copies can still be obtained through Amazon.com) The author was fair, and truthful. The process was more painful then I anticipated but became a crucial part of my healing. The book is very graphic in parts and that transparency has been difficult for me. Nevertheless, I have seen it used repeatedly to speak to women who have experienced abuse, rape etc. In recent years, through writing and speaking, I have shared the "rest of the story" - the story of God’s restoration and redemption. God has given back to me far more than was taken.
Many opportunities have come my way to share: Phil Donahue, Sally Jesse Raphael, the 700 Club, Inside Edition and a number of radio programs. The Rocky Mountain News (Denver, Colorado) ran excerpts from the book in their Life Style section over a period of several days. I’ve spoken at area retreats, luncheons, high schools, and MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) groups in the Rocky Mountain region. Everywhere I go I meet those who are encouraged by my sharing. A fellow guest on the Sally Jesse Raphael show wrote, "While in New York, I planned to take my life. After meeting you and your daughter I knew if you could make it, I could make it, too.”
Perhaps, most fulfilling of all has been the completion of a website sharing my story and the lessons I've learned with those who are in a life storm of their own. In addition, I have compiled an extensive (and ever-growing) resource page with the intent of placing tools into the hands of those who suffer. The site Ronda's Resting Place can be found at http://rondasrestingplace.net.
God has been faithful, and out of the testing of my life has come a love for Him and an intense desire to come alongside others who are sorrowing. I have learned to glean joy from the difficult seasons of life. My heart’s desire is to pour into others what God has poured into me. What an honor that He has called me His own.
Should you find yourself in a situation similar to mine may I encourage you to:
1.) Hold your head up high. You've done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of.
2.) Find a safe person to talk to. Don't stuff the pain and shame. I gave up before finding that person and am convinced that had I persevered, I would have benefited from wise counsel.
3.) Be kind to yourself.
4.) Run into the safety of Christ's embrace and let Him hold you. Indeed, on those days when you have no strength to walk, let Him carry you.
You are not alone. God is Sovereign. Even in this dark night, He is mindful of you. There is life on the other side. Life will never be "normal" again, but God will give you a "new normal" filled with opportunity and hope. Don't give up!
Ronda Knuth
June, 2009
"Endurance is not just the ability to bear a hard thing, but to turn it into glory."
William Barclay
