Silent Cry (2 page)
My story began before anything on the subject popped up on Google. I lived in a secret
world where abuse by my former husband, a professional football player, left me feeling
helpless and isolated. I survived without benefit from any source of relief and,
in many instances, without protection. Allow me to say that my story is not meant
to attack anyone's character, but rather to record one woman's dependencies on a
sovereign God who sees, knows, and understands the depths of despair. It is also
the story of a God who desires to deliver and walk alongside each of us to a place
of wholeness and freedom.
I've tried to be as honest as is humanly possible about Nate, my circumstances, and
myself. I sincerely believe the truth does indeed set us free. I've worked to be
transparent about the nature of abuse patterns and the reality that their ugly legacies
pass from one generation to the next. I got the false impression in my childhood
that abuse and violence are to be considered normal in a family atmosphere. And I've
tried to understand how witnessing such events as a young girl opened the door for
my relationship with Nate.
The general purpose of gathering years of material to write
Silent Cry
was twofold.
First, I am endeavoring to encourage those who stand in the shadow of prominent figures
in our American culture to take the risk of reaching out for help. Second, I want
to bring hope, healing, and wholeness to those who are suffering in silence. I believe
there is a way out, and God will help you find it. He can hear your silent cry.
Dorothy J. Newton
To my mother, Ethel (Keeby) â
You are a strong woman of God and an evangelist, the oldest of thirteen children,
a mother, a friend, and a sister. You worked hard your entire life and never gave
up, even with limitations in education. You taught me perseverance even in the midst
of the storm. I am proud that you finally received your high school diploma in 2008.
To my siblings, Gary, Muriel, Helaine, John, and Leslie â
I ask for your understanding and forgiveness. By choosing to privately absorb all
the hurt and pain, I denied you the opportunity to lift me up and feel the satisfaction
of being there for me as you often were gracious enough to let me be there for you.
After all, we are blessed to be a blessing. You were only allowed to see the part
of me I wanted you to see. I thought I was protecting you by not burdening you with
problems. I was so wrong. In retrospect, your collective strengths surely would have
changed my course and perhaps yours too â bringing us even closer than we already
are. Please know how much I love each of you. I give you my word that I promise to
depend on
you for all the times that lie ahead â both good and bad. It's never too
late to lead an authentic and full life.
To my brother, Mike â
Though we didn't grow up together, we spent time talking on the phone in college.
I was privileged to attend a couple of your pro games and honored to be there when
you married your beautiful wife, Deidre. When Dad was diagnosed with cancer, you
took excellent care of him in your home, and I enjoyed visiting with you when I came
to see him. This was when I really got to know you, and it felt as if I had known
you my whole life. You are an amazing and intelligent man who always prioritized
God first, then family, and then being a professional athlete. Pro football was always
what you did, not who you were â and I admire this. I do not see you as a stepbrother;
you are my brother, and I love you.
In memory of â
My stepfather: Lester Hymes
February 28, 1943 â May 10, 1983
My stepsister: Mary Hymes
August 19, 1960 â July 30, 1983
My father: Horris Lee Johnson
June 25, 1940 â April 10, 2010
With gratitude to all who contributed in important ways to the journey that culminated
in
Silent Cry
â
I am forever grateful to Marcus and Joni Lamb at Daystar Television. Participating
in “Joni Table Talk” has contributed to my spiritual growth and has helped me greatly
to keep life in perspective. Joni, you are a treasure as a friend!
Life doesn't happen without prayer, and I owe deep and abiding gratitude to my prayer
partner and friend Freda Dents.
I would be remiss if I failed to offer heartfelt thanks to Wendy K. Walters, who
so graciously came alongside me and helped me put my words on paper and bring my
story to life. For her colabor in love, I will always be grateful.
Additional thanks goes to my fellow author Melanie Stiles for believing in my cause,
upholding me in prayer, and supporting my endeavors, and to Brenda Claborn, a tireless
advocate who believed from the beginning that my story needed to be told and who
pointed me to John Sloan at Zondervan to make this publication possible.
An abundance of thanks to my entire Zondervan team. Although they are numerous, I'd
like to single out Dirk Buursma, John Sloan, Alicia Kasen, and Curt Diepenhorst.
You've done an excellent and professional job, and I really appreciate it!
Finally and foremost, I thank God for opening this window of opportunity.
Living is strife and torment,
disappointment and love and sacrifice,
golden sunsets and black storms.
Laurence Olivier
S
eptember 1965. Tornado sirens wail their warning as ominous dark clouds gather
overhead.
Hurricane
Betsy is fast approaching, promising damage and destruction to everything in her
path.
I look around our small trailer. This is home to my mom, stepfather, me, and my brothers
and sisters. Every room is a bedroom, but only three tiny rooms hold the official
title. The place is crowded, and we take up every square inch of space. I sense my
mother's anxiety growing, but my four-year-old mind can't fully comprehend why. She
is packing at a feverish pace, shoving belongings into a few small suitcases. I glance
at the overhead compartments in the hallway. They hold precious new pencils, notebooks,
and art supplies we need for the new school year. Why isn't Mother packing these?
What about my pillow? Surely we can't leave without my Easy-Bake Oven! Where are
we going anyway? The sirens seem to be getting closer and closer, and I cover my
ears to shut them out.
I grab my mother's sleeve as she squeezes a suitcase together and then snaps it shut.
I ask her about my Easy-Bake Oven. She pauses mid-frenzy, attempting to focus calm
attention in my direction. She strokes my hair and cups her hand beneath my chin,
explaining that we can take only what we can carry. Tears well up in her eyes, and
she closes them for a brief moment, quickly wiping the tears away before they spill
down her cheeks. We don't have a car, so our only means of escape is public transportation.
We board a school bus heading for shelter at a navy base located in Belle Chase,
Louisiana. My mother leads the way. My stepfather is a pace behind, his leg in a
cast, and four small children under the age of five scramble to keep up with both
of them while carrying all that our little arms could hold.
We huddle closely to my mother, who instinctively herds us together for safety. I
am afraid. I don't understand the word
uncertainty
, but I feel the weight of it.
The storm takes the shape of a menacing villain â and it is out to get us.
Will it
follow us? When can we go home? Will my things still be there for me to play with?
My mother does her best to be calm, repeatedly telling us that everything will be
alright. But her eyes constantly sweep across the parking lot, searching the horizon
for something . . . only she knows what.
When the storm finally passed, our family was safe, but we had no home to return
to. All that remained of our possessions was contained in a few suitcases. We were
homeless. For a short season, we took up shelter with various relatives. School started
up again, but I was no longer excited about it. In fact, I was frightened to leave
my mother and cried every day, begging her to let me stay with her. She tried to
calm my fears and reassure me by accompanying me to Ms. Stivinson's class. Ms. Stivinson
would then place me on her lap, smile sweetly, and tell me in a soft, reassuring
voice how nicely I was dressed or how pretty I was. In time, her kindness melted
my fears, and my discomfort dissolved into trust.
Eventually, we did have our own place again, but there were still dark clouds on
the horizon. Hurricane Betsy wasn't the only storm I had to navigate early in life.
Another tempest was brewing, and the damage this one threatened was much more devastating
than loss of property. My stepfather drank. And whenever he drank too much, he became
violent. Every day, he
fought with my mother, hurling physical, verbal, and emotional
blows that bruised her body, mind, and soul. I did my best to shut out the abuse
by pretending it wasn't happening, but it sickened me. I had no idea how to escape,
but I began to dream we all would one day fly away from him and go somewhere where
we could live â happy and free.
In spite of the abuse, my mother was a strong woman, and she took very good care
of us. By 1970, we were a family with six children, and no matter how unhappy or
trapped she felt, she was determined to instill good values and morals into our fragile,
young minds.
On Sundays, she dressed us in our best outfits and sent us walking down a country
road to Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church. Other children fidgeted during service, drew
on church bulletins, and whispered their way through Sunday sermons â but not me.
For me, church was a haven. People there were kind, and I loved to go to church.
My Sunday school teacher, Ms. Pinkins, allowed me to read Scripture aloud for the
class and to record attendance. This made me feel special and important. By the time
I was eight, she taught me how to handle tithe envelopes, count money, and keep records
in the church book.
And then it happened again. A ferocious storm named Hurricane Camille hit Louisiana,
Mississippi, and the Gulf Coast in August 1969, threatening to uproot us once more.
However, this time, though our home and Pilgrim Rest Baptist Church were damaged,
all was not lost. The evacuation was shorter, and it wasn't long before things were
repaired and in some ways better than ever.
I continued to thrive and take on new responsibilities at church. By the age of ten,
I was the designated narrator for Christmas and Easter plays. One Sunday, I was asked
to give the welcome address for our minister, Reverend Hardy, before
he preached his sermon. This led to invitations from other churches to tell Bible
stories, read Scripture, and even to lead the choir in singing the classic hymn,
“In the Garden.” At times, I traveled with my sisters Muriel and Helaine as far as
sixty miles to New Orleans or across the river to Pointe à la Hache to be welcomed
as guests of other churches.
No matter how difficult things were at home, church filled me with joy. I was safe
and happy there. Scripture took on meaning and filtered through my adolescent mind
to influence my thoughts and choices. I understood the importance of prayer and
supplication and knew I could bring my requests to God daily. Of course, the one
thing I asked for most was for my parents to stop arguing and for my stepfather to
stop drinking. My relationship with God became the most important thing in my life.
His overwhelming love for me would sustain me through all the storms yet to come.
A parent's love is whole no matter how many times divided.
Robert Brault
M
y biological father was out of my life by the time I turned three. The only daddy I ever really knew was my stepfather, Lester. When he married my mother, she had three small children. In no time, more little ones came along, and three children became six. Gary was the oldest, then me, followed by Muriel, Helaine, John, and finally Leslie. Ten short years spanned the difference between the oldest and youngest child, so when we lined up in a row, we literally looked like little stair steps.