Mohamed's wife
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Salam everyone
i found this story and it made me cry. Its a beautiful story about a woman who finally found peace with herself and with god. So sorry its long, hope everyone enjoys it. There are three parts of the story.
part one
Karen's story
How a devout American Catholic with nagging doubts came to Islam.
August 1, 1998
"Islam" is not only a religion, but also a way of life. It is so vast and all encompassing that I always feel inadequate trying to explain why I believe in it. Non-Muslims always ask me "why did you convert?" and Muslims always ask "how did you come to embrace Islam?" There is something very significant in those two ways of wording the same question. Those in the family of Islam know that it is truly like embracing something you love. It's more than just a strong belief that something is truth. It's a strong sense of love you get with the whole ...being...that Islam is. And who doesn't like the feeling of being in love, eh?
Here is the story of how I came to embrace with love the religion of Islam and take on the life of a Muslim. I ask the reader to forgive my ramblings that will take us back into my memories and forward again to the present, and I ask God to forgive my ignorance if I have fallen to that anywhere in this writing. This a long story in that I, like all of God's creations, was born a Muslim, but it took 35 years over the path that led me to Islam. (Believe it or not I have spared you most of the gory details!)
I often wondered if I was really ever to be here on this earth or, if I was, whether my destiny was simply to struggle through harsh circumstances my entire life. From inside my mother's womb, I was almost miscarried. Under appalling "medical" circumstances at the time of delivery, even the nurse tried to push me back inside my mother. But against all odds, on July 8, 1960 at 4:30 in the morning, I was born whole and healthy and began my journey.
I was second eldest of what would be seven siblings, which naturally placed me into a life of observation and responsibility, as I began to help my mother with the younger children. This did not stop me from being an ornery child, but to my benefit, God endowed me with a personality of insatiable curiosity.
My mother, who was herself very spiritual, had converted to the Roman Catholic religion after a miraculous experience early in her adult life, and my father had always been a devout catholic. The churches we attended (every Sunday) seemed always to have been unique and not quite the normal traditional teachings of the Catholic church so that I got a very "universal" teaching of the messages of Jesus with the emphasis being on God and His kingdom in heaven (not on Jesus as God). It was a requirement back in my early days for young girls and women to wear a scarf or some type of head covering when we attended church services. At Catholic School, we girls also were required to wear a specific type of head cover at all times.
I grew up "in the 60's", that time when political activism was high. My parents were among some of the groups that organized freedom marches and neighborhood meetings in an attempt to squelch racism and promote equal rights. Mostly, they exhibited their stance by example. I remember a story my mother told of her having organized one such gathering of neighbors who she hoped would join her in marching at the capitol. In the middle of her enthusiastic oration to the group, one particularly prejudiced neighbor lost her patience and confronted my mother with the ultimate question: "Audrey! What are you doing?! Honestly, how would you feel if your daughter came to you when she was 18 and said 'Mom, I want to marry a black man.'?" My mother's first reaction was to consider my already famous "feisty" attitude and retorted, "what black man would WANT to marry her??" She was kidding of course (right, Mom?), but it was indicative of the non-existent prejudice for race, color or social standing by which she lived.
Throughout my childhood and early adult life, I was taught by priests with liberal viewpoints who, so long as the seed of faith was at least sewn, considered it healthy and good to question faith and traditional teachings. In high school, as in college, it was incumbent upon me to learn about "World Religions". This was my very first introduction to Islam. I never met any Muslims or read much about them. In fact, the mention of Islam in my textbooks was always very brief. Basically, we learned these three facts: "Islam is one of the Great Religions of the world, it is a monotheistic religion, and this man named Mohammed was the religious leader." I'm not sure, but there's a possibility that one of the two classes also may have mentioned that a muslim prays five times a day. History class was another story. Of course, we learned all about the "Moslems" who "still live by the sword" and were atrocious monsters during the time of the Crusades. A Muslim, or the religion of Islam, was always a world away, or another time in history far removed from anything important of the day.
Until 1981, Islam was a sentence or two poked away in the recesses of my memory banks and "Muslim" was a word I often confused with a type of fabric (as in "muslin sheets"). After 1981 (and still today), however, what American could not have lived without seeing the constant barrage of terrorism displayed in the news and media? Indelibly etched in my mind is my 1981 college yearbook cover - a photograph of some students play-acting the American hostages in Iran, blindfolded, a violent, crazed and angry-faced Ayatollah Khomeni sketched in charcoal behind them. Above them, the words "Lest we forget..." made it impossible to do just that. We students feared anything or anyone from the Middle East.
I went to a Baptist affiliated college where studying the Bible was a requirement. Much to my surprise (and delight), however, "The Bible" was taught as an historical artifact , an archeological piece of literature. The class was taught by an ordained Methodist minister who also happened to be a very learned, and well-respected archaeologist. He taught us all about the many modifications and literary styles of the bible, how you could tell that the various books and sections of the Bible had actually been written at different periods over very long stretches of time, and how it has so many different versions now. He told us about how the monks used to edit the texts according to political requirements of the time (and that those original and edited versions have now been uncovered), or how often times words were simply mistakenly translated incorrectly, etc. Needless to say, the class material was a shocking, but enlightening experience. The best thing to come of it was that, from then on, I felt it was okay for me to focus on the MESSAGE within the Bible, the MESSAGE that Christ brought, and not the literal word or interpretation therein. I continued to question things intensely after that point. For instance, I thought, "What was the original meaning of the English translation of the words 'Christ' and 'Messiah'?" and "Why is it that when Jesus called himself the son of God he couldn't have meant that he, like all of us, are sons and daughters of God -- in the figurative, not literal sense?"
Despite my orneriness and curiosity, I grew up to be a very religious, very spiritual person, even if it was true that I questioned parts of my beloved church's teachings. One priest even dubbed that being "pregnant with faith" and assured me that it was a blessed state to be in. It was beautiful to grow up with a feeling of being connected to God and to constantly notice His miracles in my every day life. Still those questions nagged at me though. I could never fully accept, could not fully understand or feel that I believed, for example, why we should eat Christ's body and drink his blood. Yes we were doing it "in remembrance" of him, but why did he want us to remember him THAT way? But yes, to have blind faith was what I wanted, so I pushed the nagging questions back out of my mind for awhile. Again and again, they popped back out to the front though. "Why are there Three Gods in One? Why would God need to be three separate entities? Why did God have to 'rest' on the seventh day? How long is one of God's days? If Jesus is God, then why did he have a conversation with God when he was hanging on the cross? Isn't God the All-Knowing? If Jesus was God and God is All-Knowing, Jesus would never have had to ask God, "Father, why have you forsaken me?" God would not have needed the question, and Jesus would not have needed the answer. God, even as a man, would not be limited in their knowledge of each other."
Throughout my life, one of the biggest parts of my heart had been devoted to a particular entity for whom I felt much reverence and for whom I held an extreme fascination. This reverence was in large part connected to the growth of my spirituality. Perhaps it is not surprising that that entity who held most of my interest and admiration (aside from God Himself) was not my "brother", Jesus Christ, but his mother, the Virgin Mary. I can remember being most enthralled with the songs we sang about her. The "Hail Mary" prayer was one of my favorites whenever I felt especially ashamed of a sin I had committed. I hoped that Mary could regard me as an errant child, and would intercede on my behalf to the All Mighty Father. ("Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.). I secretly always wished I could dress like her, and I thought that she, at least in the depictions of her I had ever seen, was the most beautiful woman most likely ever to have walked the earth. I wanted to be a mother like her! I followed the various groups of "Maryology" fanatics, and had always been interested in those stories of people who have claimed to have had visions of Mary. My chosen religious name in the Catholic church, that is, my "confirmation name" (that name one takes when they have completed the sacrament of becoming an "adult" in the church) was "Burnadette", after Saint Burnadette, the French girl who saw visions of Mary at Lourdes, France. Over time, I came to identify the one recurring message in all the supposed visions and communications by Mary to the faithful visionaries and it is simply this: "Pray! Pray! Pray!" Coincidentally, though I knew next to nothing of Islam at the time, I noticed that her messages were to pray at many intervals during the day, but especially at the noontime.
In 1983 I graduated college and received a degree in Special Education. That means that I spent more than the usual amount of time in college and obtained a degree in Elementary Education, but have further endorsements that make me a "specialist" in teaching reading and teaching children with learning disabilities. Perhaps it is part of my nature or an attribute of my personality that was fostered through my college education (I think it is the former), but it is my way to take everything in life and break it down to it's smaller, more manageable components. I do this with a whole picture in mind of where we want to be headed in the end.
I spent 2 years teaching before I met my future husband, a seemingly pious, devout Catholic who was not only gentle, kind and giving, but highly intelligent and insightful. Everything seemed perfect, in fact, he seemed to have been "heaven sent". We met in the church where he had been assigned to work for the summer and we came to have many long philosophical conversations about life and family. The only trouble was, he had been assigned to work at the church because he was a Seminarian (one who is studying to become a Catholic priest). Since Catholic priests may not marry and must remain celibate, but because we felt that we had fallen in love with each other, I was at a loss over what to do. At any time I expected that the sky was going to open up, a loud thunder would crash and a bolt of lightening would come to strike me down for taking an interest in a "man of the cloth", for "taking him away from God" as some older ladies in the church put it. I prayed for a sign from God that I would recognize as a clear indication that I should NOT go further in the relationship with this man. The very next morning he came to me and told me he had decided to leave behind his course of becoming a Catholic priest. He asked if I would marry him, and thinking "what clearer sign could there be than a proposal of marriage?" I accepted on the spot. I would teach for a third year before we moved across the country where he decided to pursue a law degree. One might say that the competitive grind of law school alone is enough to put most marriages through a test that cannot be passed. We had more than the usual share of obstacles, traumatic events, and hardships in our first year of marriage. In fact, it is my recollection that our lives turned upside-down on the day after we said, "I do".
Eight months after we were married, In March of 1985, we lost one of my six brothers. He was murdered by a single gunshot bullet to the heart. After 6 hours of surgery and 30 units of blood, there was still one hole in his heart that the doctors could not find and so he bled to death. At first it looked hopeful that he would survive and an orderly had come out to tell us that the doctors were just finishing up. I said another "Our Father" ("The Lord's Prayer" -- that prayer that Jesus taught us: "Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen") Suddenly, two things happened simultaneously. One was that I envisioned my brother laid out in a casket. I saw his dead body and every detail of the church and the clothes he was laid to rest in. The second thing was an enormous feeling of being enveloped in something. I mean that *I* was enveloped suddenly, by something I can only describe as a peaceful energy source or field around me. In my mind, though it was not in any spoken language, I felt an understanding of the words, "everything is alright -- there is peace."
My brother's birthday would have been on Easter Sunday that year and he would have turned 22. It impressed me how large the number of people who showed up to his funeral. I think people who didn't even know us had come to share our sorrow. The entire church was full to "standing room only" and waves of people flowed through the doors at the front of the church and out onto the street. Our brother's death was very traumatic for me, and after he was gone, I longed to see him again, even if in a dream. At his burial, the priest brought tears to everyone's eyes when he pointed out that Easter Sunday, the day of victory when Jesus overcame death and was raised to heaven, alive, to remain forever with God, was the day that my brother was born. Was it not a wonderful message from God that my mother had given my brother the middle name "Victor"? On the day he was killed, he also was victorious over death and was forever with the "Father".
Several months later, I did have two dreams of my brother. In one, he showed me a piece of heaven. In the other, he was come to tell me in the face of a natural disaster that I could not save all of my remaining family members from their doom as I had been trying to do. He said that I had done what I could do and that the message had been given to them, it was their choice to ignore me, and that now it was time for me to seek my own safety. His appearance was that of a young boy and his face and being beamed with an expression of happiness, ecstatic pleasure in something, and phenomenal peace that is indescribable. I awoke wondering why I had dreamt of him at that age, and not at the young adult age of 21 which was my last remembrance of him.
Life went on, though never as before. After a third year of teaching and being the sole support of my new family, my husband decided he wanted to become a lawyer. His school of choice required that we move some 3,000 miles away from both our families to the state of California. Teachers in America though termed "professionals" do not get professional status really, and the pay really proves it. I could not support us on a teacher's salary. Plus, in California, in order to be able to teach anything (even if I have credentials everywhere else), one must take a test called the California Basic Educational Standardized Test (or CBEST for short). We moved to California in June of 1986 and the next CBEST exam was not to be given until August, so after two weeks of hitting the pavement (looking for a job) I took what seemed to be the only thing available, an interim job as a legal secretary trainee. I made more money doing this than I ever made as a teacher, and I didn't have to bring any work home with me. Not only that, but if I worked overtime, I got paid for it, too! Consequently, I never went back to teaching.
Once I was gainfully employed again, my husband quit his temporary job and again left it up to me to support us while he went to law school. In two year's time at my job, I was promoted to a supervisor. My home life on the other hand was not so positively progressive. I began to be treated as a battered and abused wife and almost never did we attend church except perhaps once or twice a year. In 1990 I became pregnant (finally). I was at high risk of losing the babies (I was carrying twins). Also, I had the kind of "morning sickness" that was constant -- 24 hours a day, for the entire pregnancy -- and so I had to quit work. By this time my husband had graduated from law school, a place which in my mind was the very opposite of good standing or law abiding citizenship. To my horror, his companions and friends spent most of their time indulging in drinking and using drugs. Even at the end of their exams, they could be seen walking from the room and being handed champagne and marijuana joints.
part two is coming
i found this story and it made me cry. Its a beautiful story about a woman who finally found peace with herself and with god. So sorry its long, hope everyone enjoys it. There are three parts of the story.
part one
Karen's story
How a devout American Catholic with nagging doubts came to Islam.
August 1, 1998
"Islam" is not only a religion, but also a way of life. It is so vast and all encompassing that I always feel inadequate trying to explain why I believe in it. Non-Muslims always ask me "why did you convert?" and Muslims always ask "how did you come to embrace Islam?" There is something very significant in those two ways of wording the same question. Those in the family of Islam know that it is truly like embracing something you love. It's more than just a strong belief that something is truth. It's a strong sense of love you get with the whole ...being...that Islam is. And who doesn't like the feeling of being in love, eh?
Here is the story of how I came to embrace with love the religion of Islam and take on the life of a Muslim. I ask the reader to forgive my ramblings that will take us back into my memories and forward again to the present, and I ask God to forgive my ignorance if I have fallen to that anywhere in this writing. This a long story in that I, like all of God's creations, was born a Muslim, but it took 35 years over the path that led me to Islam. (Believe it or not I have spared you most of the gory details!)
I often wondered if I was really ever to be here on this earth or, if I was, whether my destiny was simply to struggle through harsh circumstances my entire life. From inside my mother's womb, I was almost miscarried. Under appalling "medical" circumstances at the time of delivery, even the nurse tried to push me back inside my mother. But against all odds, on July 8, 1960 at 4:30 in the morning, I was born whole and healthy and began my journey.
I was second eldest of what would be seven siblings, which naturally placed me into a life of observation and responsibility, as I began to help my mother with the younger children. This did not stop me from being an ornery child, but to my benefit, God endowed me with a personality of insatiable curiosity.
My mother, who was herself very spiritual, had converted to the Roman Catholic religion after a miraculous experience early in her adult life, and my father had always been a devout catholic. The churches we attended (every Sunday) seemed always to have been unique and not quite the normal traditional teachings of the Catholic church so that I got a very "universal" teaching of the messages of Jesus with the emphasis being on God and His kingdom in heaven (not on Jesus as God). It was a requirement back in my early days for young girls and women to wear a scarf or some type of head covering when we attended church services. At Catholic School, we girls also were required to wear a specific type of head cover at all times.
I grew up "in the 60's", that time when political activism was high. My parents were among some of the groups that organized freedom marches and neighborhood meetings in an attempt to squelch racism and promote equal rights. Mostly, they exhibited their stance by example. I remember a story my mother told of her having organized one such gathering of neighbors who she hoped would join her in marching at the capitol. In the middle of her enthusiastic oration to the group, one particularly prejudiced neighbor lost her patience and confronted my mother with the ultimate question: "Audrey! What are you doing?! Honestly, how would you feel if your daughter came to you when she was 18 and said 'Mom, I want to marry a black man.'?" My mother's first reaction was to consider my already famous "feisty" attitude and retorted, "what black man would WANT to marry her??" She was kidding of course (right, Mom?), but it was indicative of the non-existent prejudice for race, color or social standing by which she lived.
Throughout my childhood and early adult life, I was taught by priests with liberal viewpoints who, so long as the seed of faith was at least sewn, considered it healthy and good to question faith and traditional teachings. In high school, as in college, it was incumbent upon me to learn about "World Religions". This was my very first introduction to Islam. I never met any Muslims or read much about them. In fact, the mention of Islam in my textbooks was always very brief. Basically, we learned these three facts: "Islam is one of the Great Religions of the world, it is a monotheistic religion, and this man named Mohammed was the religious leader." I'm not sure, but there's a possibility that one of the two classes also may have mentioned that a muslim prays five times a day. History class was another story. Of course, we learned all about the "Moslems" who "still live by the sword" and were atrocious monsters during the time of the Crusades. A Muslim, or the religion of Islam, was always a world away, or another time in history far removed from anything important of the day.
Until 1981, Islam was a sentence or two poked away in the recesses of my memory banks and "Muslim" was a word I often confused with a type of fabric (as in "muslin sheets"). After 1981 (and still today), however, what American could not have lived without seeing the constant barrage of terrorism displayed in the news and media? Indelibly etched in my mind is my 1981 college yearbook cover - a photograph of some students play-acting the American hostages in Iran, blindfolded, a violent, crazed and angry-faced Ayatollah Khomeni sketched in charcoal behind them. Above them, the words "Lest we forget..." made it impossible to do just that. We students feared anything or anyone from the Middle East.
I went to a Baptist affiliated college where studying the Bible was a requirement. Much to my surprise (and delight), however, "The Bible" was taught as an historical artifact , an archeological piece of literature. The class was taught by an ordained Methodist minister who also happened to be a very learned, and well-respected archaeologist. He taught us all about the many modifications and literary styles of the bible, how you could tell that the various books and sections of the Bible had actually been written at different periods over very long stretches of time, and how it has so many different versions now. He told us about how the monks used to edit the texts according to political requirements of the time (and that those original and edited versions have now been uncovered), or how often times words were simply mistakenly translated incorrectly, etc. Needless to say, the class material was a shocking, but enlightening experience. The best thing to come of it was that, from then on, I felt it was okay for me to focus on the MESSAGE within the Bible, the MESSAGE that Christ brought, and not the literal word or interpretation therein. I continued to question things intensely after that point. For instance, I thought, "What was the original meaning of the English translation of the words 'Christ' and 'Messiah'?" and "Why is it that when Jesus called himself the son of God he couldn't have meant that he, like all of us, are sons and daughters of God -- in the figurative, not literal sense?"
Despite my orneriness and curiosity, I grew up to be a very religious, very spiritual person, even if it was true that I questioned parts of my beloved church's teachings. One priest even dubbed that being "pregnant with faith" and assured me that it was a blessed state to be in. It was beautiful to grow up with a feeling of being connected to God and to constantly notice His miracles in my every day life. Still those questions nagged at me though. I could never fully accept, could not fully understand or feel that I believed, for example, why we should eat Christ's body and drink his blood. Yes we were doing it "in remembrance" of him, but why did he want us to remember him THAT way? But yes, to have blind faith was what I wanted, so I pushed the nagging questions back out of my mind for awhile. Again and again, they popped back out to the front though. "Why are there Three Gods in One? Why would God need to be three separate entities? Why did God have to 'rest' on the seventh day? How long is one of God's days? If Jesus is God, then why did he have a conversation with God when he was hanging on the cross? Isn't God the All-Knowing? If Jesus was God and God is All-Knowing, Jesus would never have had to ask God, "Father, why have you forsaken me?" God would not have needed the question, and Jesus would not have needed the answer. God, even as a man, would not be limited in their knowledge of each other."
Throughout my life, one of the biggest parts of my heart had been devoted to a particular entity for whom I felt much reverence and for whom I held an extreme fascination. This reverence was in large part connected to the growth of my spirituality. Perhaps it is not surprising that that entity who held most of my interest and admiration (aside from God Himself) was not my "brother", Jesus Christ, but his mother, the Virgin Mary. I can remember being most enthralled with the songs we sang about her. The "Hail Mary" prayer was one of my favorites whenever I felt especially ashamed of a sin I had committed. I hoped that Mary could regard me as an errant child, and would intercede on my behalf to the All Mighty Father. ("Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.). I secretly always wished I could dress like her, and I thought that she, at least in the depictions of her I had ever seen, was the most beautiful woman most likely ever to have walked the earth. I wanted to be a mother like her! I followed the various groups of "Maryology" fanatics, and had always been interested in those stories of people who have claimed to have had visions of Mary. My chosen religious name in the Catholic church, that is, my "confirmation name" (that name one takes when they have completed the sacrament of becoming an "adult" in the church) was "Burnadette", after Saint Burnadette, the French girl who saw visions of Mary at Lourdes, France. Over time, I came to identify the one recurring message in all the supposed visions and communications by Mary to the faithful visionaries and it is simply this: "Pray! Pray! Pray!" Coincidentally, though I knew next to nothing of Islam at the time, I noticed that her messages were to pray at many intervals during the day, but especially at the noontime.
In 1983 I graduated college and received a degree in Special Education. That means that I spent more than the usual amount of time in college and obtained a degree in Elementary Education, but have further endorsements that make me a "specialist" in teaching reading and teaching children with learning disabilities. Perhaps it is part of my nature or an attribute of my personality that was fostered through my college education (I think it is the former), but it is my way to take everything in life and break it down to it's smaller, more manageable components. I do this with a whole picture in mind of where we want to be headed in the end.
I spent 2 years teaching before I met my future husband, a seemingly pious, devout Catholic who was not only gentle, kind and giving, but highly intelligent and insightful. Everything seemed perfect, in fact, he seemed to have been "heaven sent". We met in the church where he had been assigned to work for the summer and we came to have many long philosophical conversations about life and family. The only trouble was, he had been assigned to work at the church because he was a Seminarian (one who is studying to become a Catholic priest). Since Catholic priests may not marry and must remain celibate, but because we felt that we had fallen in love with each other, I was at a loss over what to do. At any time I expected that the sky was going to open up, a loud thunder would crash and a bolt of lightening would come to strike me down for taking an interest in a "man of the cloth", for "taking him away from God" as some older ladies in the church put it. I prayed for a sign from God that I would recognize as a clear indication that I should NOT go further in the relationship with this man. The very next morning he came to me and told me he had decided to leave behind his course of becoming a Catholic priest. He asked if I would marry him, and thinking "what clearer sign could there be than a proposal of marriage?" I accepted on the spot. I would teach for a third year before we moved across the country where he decided to pursue a law degree. One might say that the competitive grind of law school alone is enough to put most marriages through a test that cannot be passed. We had more than the usual share of obstacles, traumatic events, and hardships in our first year of marriage. In fact, it is my recollection that our lives turned upside-down on the day after we said, "I do".
Eight months after we were married, In March of 1985, we lost one of my six brothers. He was murdered by a single gunshot bullet to the heart. After 6 hours of surgery and 30 units of blood, there was still one hole in his heart that the doctors could not find and so he bled to death. At first it looked hopeful that he would survive and an orderly had come out to tell us that the doctors were just finishing up. I said another "Our Father" ("The Lord's Prayer" -- that prayer that Jesus taught us: "Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen") Suddenly, two things happened simultaneously. One was that I envisioned my brother laid out in a casket. I saw his dead body and every detail of the church and the clothes he was laid to rest in. The second thing was an enormous feeling of being enveloped in something. I mean that *I* was enveloped suddenly, by something I can only describe as a peaceful energy source or field around me. In my mind, though it was not in any spoken language, I felt an understanding of the words, "everything is alright -- there is peace."
My brother's birthday would have been on Easter Sunday that year and he would have turned 22. It impressed me how large the number of people who showed up to his funeral. I think people who didn't even know us had come to share our sorrow. The entire church was full to "standing room only" and waves of people flowed through the doors at the front of the church and out onto the street. Our brother's death was very traumatic for me, and after he was gone, I longed to see him again, even if in a dream. At his burial, the priest brought tears to everyone's eyes when he pointed out that Easter Sunday, the day of victory when Jesus overcame death and was raised to heaven, alive, to remain forever with God, was the day that my brother was born. Was it not a wonderful message from God that my mother had given my brother the middle name "Victor"? On the day he was killed, he also was victorious over death and was forever with the "Father".
Several months later, I did have two dreams of my brother. In one, he showed me a piece of heaven. In the other, he was come to tell me in the face of a natural disaster that I could not save all of my remaining family members from their doom as I had been trying to do. He said that I had done what I could do and that the message had been given to them, it was their choice to ignore me, and that now it was time for me to seek my own safety. His appearance was that of a young boy and his face and being beamed with an expression of happiness, ecstatic pleasure in something, and phenomenal peace that is indescribable. I awoke wondering why I had dreamt of him at that age, and not at the young adult age of 21 which was my last remembrance of him.
Life went on, though never as before. After a third year of teaching and being the sole support of my new family, my husband decided he wanted to become a lawyer. His school of choice required that we move some 3,000 miles away from both our families to the state of California. Teachers in America though termed "professionals" do not get professional status really, and the pay really proves it. I could not support us on a teacher's salary. Plus, in California, in order to be able to teach anything (even if I have credentials everywhere else), one must take a test called the California Basic Educational Standardized Test (or CBEST for short). We moved to California in June of 1986 and the next CBEST exam was not to be given until August, so after two weeks of hitting the pavement (looking for a job) I took what seemed to be the only thing available, an interim job as a legal secretary trainee. I made more money doing this than I ever made as a teacher, and I didn't have to bring any work home with me. Not only that, but if I worked overtime, I got paid for it, too! Consequently, I never went back to teaching.
Once I was gainfully employed again, my husband quit his temporary job and again left it up to me to support us while he went to law school. In two year's time at my job, I was promoted to a supervisor. My home life on the other hand was not so positively progressive. I began to be treated as a battered and abused wife and almost never did we attend church except perhaps once or twice a year. In 1990 I became pregnant (finally). I was at high risk of losing the babies (I was carrying twins). Also, I had the kind of "morning sickness" that was constant -- 24 hours a day, for the entire pregnancy -- and so I had to quit work. By this time my husband had graduated from law school, a place which in my mind was the very opposite of good standing or law abiding citizenship. To my horror, his companions and friends spent most of their time indulging in drinking and using drugs. Even at the end of their exams, they could be seen walking from the room and being handed champagne and marijuana joints.
part two is coming