Behind The Scenes

          After deciding to dust off my out of print novel, polish it and offer it as an e-book, I remembered the intense impressions I had while writing it—that I needed to share my story; and because I have had so many friends ask which parts of the story really happened to me, and though it is so much easier to remain silent, I feel now is the time to share more than I did in the print edition.
     My parents divorced when I was two years-old. My mother married again when I was six, to a man that frightened me from the first time he made me sit on his lap. He was abusive to my mother and to me, and in ways that I chose not to dwell on in this story. I was resilient and very adept at compartmentalizing, thus blocking out the worst experiences in my life and carrying on.
     As far as I can remember my stepfather was the only non-member Mormon in the small Utah town we lived in for a short time, which I chose to call Walker (not its actual name.) Some people in that community were the kindest angels on the Lord’s good earth, and others were not so kind.
     All of the characters are fictional, made up of bits and pieces of people I have known. But there are a few real people that I will never forget, though I cannot remember their names or their faces. Someday, in the life to come, I hope to thank them. I’m certain they had no idea at the time how very much their kindnesses meant to me, and how much it changed my life!
     First are the stake missionaries, who really did come. I can’t remember most of the details of that visit, and so I did embellish the event. However, I will never forget actually sitting behind the wood stove, where I heard the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ for the first time! And, it was there that I received my unwavering testimony of its truthfulness. I knew from that moment, that the Book of Mormon was true, though it would be many years before I actually read it. And, I really was quite the little evangelist. I told EVERYONE who would listen about it!
     It has forever changed my life, and that of my children! We are blessed beyond measure because we have enjoyed the fellowship of the Saints! I will NEVER forget the missionaries’ flannel board presentation of the three degrees of glory. It will forever be imprinted, like a photograph, on my mind and heart. I can close my eyes now, and see it still.
     I did have the kindest teacher at school, though I cannot remember her name, face or personality. I wonder if she had any idea then, what a refuge she was for me from my troubled home life! I will never forget that she gave me a yellow, poufy, lacy slip, for Christmas! I wore it under every dress I owned (yes, back then we actually wore dresses to school) and I treasured it for years! I never forgot her kindness, especially because the children could be so brutal. I did have a sort of forbidden friend, whose name or face I cannot recall. Of course I embellished every incident, because that is the FUN of writing fiction, but my description of the two-room school was as accurate as fifty-years hence can make it.
     I will forever be grateful also, to the Bishop, who did buy lunches for me. I cannot even begin to tell you how delicious and appreciated they were to a very hungry little girl. Even to this day, sometimes after I bake bread, I make an open-faced peanut butter sandwich with the warm fresh bread and remember—and I thank that dear Bishop—each time in my heart!
     I vaguely remember a woman in town, whom I never really knew, who refurbished old dolls. I think she gave me one once. And, I did spend a week or two with people who tended me after I broke my leg! I remember their teenage daughter read Alice in Wonderland to me, and they just kept plying me with wonderful food. I don’t remember who they were, except that they were friends of my parents from another town, but I do remember I was scared to stay with them because they were strangers to me. And so, from those little seeds Mrs. Botti just showed up in my story one day!
     Though I was never hit by a car, I did break my leg, but it was at school playing dodge ball. Then, just after the cast came off, my stepfather’s big, scary dog “Rags” jumped on me, knocked me into a ditch and broke it again. It felt like I spent most of that school year in a cast! And I was competitive on the playground, showing that I could do anything anyone else could, even with a cast on! My kind teacher really did make up a part for me in the Christmas program. I was dressed up in someone’s pretty prom dress that covered my cast, I was fussed over, and I rang that bell as the Christmas Angel at the end! That is how I intended all along to end the book, and no one was more surprised that I was at how it turned out! That last chapter wrote itself, and I’ve pondered many times on the symbolism and message contained in it.
     I hated going to the store. Mr. Hansen is who I wished would have worked there. Poverty is so humiliating, and I was called names—plenty of degrading names! I did go to Primary with the other children, where I remember soaking up the stories like a thirsty sponge. I was called a Jack Mormon, though I was a baptized member, and the description of my baptism is as accurate as I can remember.
I have read that out of every kind of abuse children can experience, abandonment and neglect is the most devastating. I can attest to this fact. Even negative attention at least validates your existence, your place in the world; but to be invisible to those who should nurture and love you the most is devastating to a person’s sense of worth. After living in this small town for two school years, I was sent to live with my grandmother who raised me to adulthood. Mostly I felt as though I’d been dropped on her porch in a basket—she was a widow who had already raised her family, and I felt she resented every moment of my time with her. At the time, I felt invisible. Now I realize she did the best she could, and I will always be grateful to her for giving me a home.
     Some years I would receive a birthday card from my mother, but it was usually late. Other years I wouldn’t. I was pretty thoroughly convinced that something was terribly wrong with a girl whose own mother didn’t remember the day she was born. I often felt like my very existence was a big cosmic mistake! I never received letters, and never once had a phone call, but I always received a Christmas package each year, with a couple of things my mother must have guessed, I might want. Of course now I recognize that she was terribly depressed and was also doing the best she could.
     I am a staunch advocate for adoption, if birth mothers are not capable of caring for their babies! I think it is one of the highest forms of love, and I always think of the story of Solomon, who settled the dispute of two mothers claiming the same child, by suggesting the child be cut in half, giving each woman their portion. The woman who was willing to give the baby up, to preserve its life—the true mother, was the one who showed the greater love. While way too often, when girls keep their children, because they are not ready for the responsibility, it is their older parents who are left with the task of rearing them. And it is so unfair to put that burden on grandparents.
     I so admire the wonderful young women today, who after making a terrible mistake in bringing an unwanted child into the world, demonstrate that same courage and love—a heart-wrenching choice—to choose a better life for their child, and for themselves! I believe that unselfish act is one of the highest examples of “the pure love of Christ!” I truly wish my mother could have had that option, and I can only believe that her life would have turned out so much happier.
     A few summer visits, for a week at a time, was the only contact I had with the beautiful, kind mother I had adored, and I spent those hiding in fear behind my mother’s skirts whenever my stepfather was around. Marie’s devastation, at being left with Mrs. Botti, really did reflect my own pain at being abandoned, except that I cannot count how many nights I wet my pillow with tears longing at least for my grandmother’s comfort.
     I first published this little story sixteen years ago, in 1995. I had intended to make it a trilogy, but two open-heart surgeries, and the death of my son, which I have grieved for twelve years now, got in the way. I didn’t write more than email for eight of those years, until my daughter encouraged me to start a blog.
     As I’ve worked on this e-book, my heart has swelled again with feelings of gratitude—for my Heavenly Father’s watchful care, for the miracle of the gospel coming into my life, and for the blessings that I have now because of it! Today I am a happy grandmother living in Sandy, Utah. My dear husband and I are enjoying our “empty nest” because we find so much happiness just being together. But life in these latter-days has not always been easy, and like most families we have had our share of troubles; but I cannot imagine going through these challenges without having the knowledge that God lives, and without understanding His Plan of Salvation.
     Now the joy of our lives is spending time with and loving our most precious children and grandchildren! We are currently still serving in our ward and stake, and especially enjoy our time serving together in the temple! We look forward to many more years of service in the Lord’s kingdom, including hopefully, a full-time mission.
     And so again, I testify that my life has been transformed through my testimony of, and my association with, the congregation of the ‘Mormons’—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! I truly do know that JOY does outweigh the sorrow, if we keep the gospel as our guiding star. 

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