New Catholic Book Can Help Victims of Domestic Violence
Cheryl C. Malandrinos
April 17, 2008
When I first became a foster mother – to a sibling group of three under five years of age –it seemed like the only time the children really wanted me to do more than dispense Cheerios or push them on the swing was at night. Tucked away in their beds, alone and scared, Christopher especially cried out to be held close, to be comforted by "the Mommy." To his not-quite-three-year-old mind, "Mommy" was a function, not a person. The rocking chair. The refrigerator. The Mommy.
But at night it was different. He would wrap his little body around my torso and hold on for dear life. And I would wrap my arms around him and sing to him the only song that seemed to calm him down (thanks, Barry Manilow):
"You came along just like a song
And brightened my day;
Who´d have believed it?
It was part of a dream,
now it all seems light years away…
I just can´t smile without you!"
It was the longest year of my life, that first year. I was a brand-new parent … the kind God usually entrusts with brand-new infants who pretty much eat, sleep, and poop. My three did all those things, but seldom all at the same time, and hardly ever where they were SUPPOSED to be doing those things. I drew on resources I never knew I had … and still it didn´t seem like enough. That was when I called in reinforcements: "Mary, I know YOUR Son never flushed a sock down the drain, but mine just did and it´s the last straw! If something doesn´t change, and fast, I´m just going to lose it!"
And somehow, miraculously, things always seemed to get better.
Now, I´m not naïve enough to suppose all mothers have it this easy. Years after she escaped her abusive husband, my sister told me of the time when the animal threatened to kill her and her child … then proceeded to make good on the promise, throwing her on the floor and squeezing his hands around her throat. "Help me!" she cried out … but no one was there. No one she could see.
Then they both heard it. Footsteps, right outside their door. My sister kicked over a lamp, and the footsteps stopped. Silence. Outraged, her husband got off her and threw open the door to the hallway.
It was empty. No one was anywhere in the hallway. But somehow the spell was broken, and the man began to sob. He was sorry. He would never do it again … And he was right. She took her daughter and left him that same day. She knew she had been given one last chance to choose life for herself and her daughter. And she took it.
She ran out of the house in nothing but her pajamas, carrying her daughter. She didn´t even have time to grab her purse, but she knew she had a spare key hidden above the wheel in her car. The car made it as far as the parking lot where she worked … then stalled. Inside the store, her manager´s fiancé listened silently as my sister asked apologetically for her last check. Finally he spoke. "How will you get to your parents´ house?" They lived several states over, and her car wasn´t able to make the trip.
She shrugged.
"Here…" The stranger held out the keys to his brand-new BMW along with the several hundred dollars from his wallet. "If my sister were in trouble, I´d hope that someone would do this for her. Take it. Take the car, and don´t worry about how or when you get it back to me. That isn´t important right now."
Twelve years passed. Today my sister is married to a wonderful man and has two beautiful children. She is an advocate for battered women, and has spent her life trying to "pay forward" the generosity she was shown that day from an unexpected source.
Do you sometimes feel as though you need an unexpected brush of grace, a touch of kindness from an unseen hand? Pick up a copy of Behold Your Mother, and read about your biggest fan and strongest advocate … your mother in heaven who is waiting to dry your tears.
You can purchase Behold Your Mother at Amazon.com and at www.christianword.com.
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