God knew what was about to happen to me. I think that’s why He brought my grandpa home. He knew that Grandpa Francon could be more helpful to me from the other side of the veil. Grandpa was one of my guardian angels. He was sent to comfort and inspire me in the very darkest hours, to help me find reasons for hope or encouragement when I felt the most despair. There were many occasions during the time that I was captured when I felt his spirit near.
During the darkest days that I was captive, it helped me to think that someone I loved, someone who loved me, someone who was a good man, was standing at my side. It helped me remember that God still cared for me, that He hadn’t forgotten or forsaken me, that He was doing everything He could to help to carry my pain. It brought me comfort to think that Grandpa was helping me too, giving me a little strength when I had nowhere else to turn, nothing else to hope for, nothing in my life but pain and fear.
Consider the sweet, tender children
Who must suffer on this earth
The pains of all of them he carried
From the day of his birth.
Yes, I believe that God helped to carry me. In fact, I know that He did.
Which is why, as I lay in the tent that morning, wounded and confused, my emotions as jumbled as a jigsaw puzzle, I found the strength to search for something that would help me to go on.
11.
Family
I thought back on my family. As I did, I remembered something that had happened to me just a few months before. I had come home from school really upset. My mom asked me what was wrong. I told her I’d been sitting at a table with my friends, and this popular girl came up and said, “I’m having a party this weekend and all of you are invited.” We were all excited. This was a pretty big deal. To be invited to a party with the popular crowd. That’s the top of the mountain to a junior-high girl.
But then she turned to me. “Except you,” she said. “You’re not invited to my party.”
My friends didn’t even seem to notice. I felt so bad. I was embarrassed and hurt.
After I told my mom what had happened, she tried to make me feel better. “It won’t be that bad spending another weekend at home,” she said.
That didn’t help much.
“You can spend some more time with your family.”
No help at all.
My mom kind of smiled. “You know that ‘popular’ is just another word for rude.”
Now, that I could agree with.
Then she asked me something that added to my hurt: “Do you really think those girls sitting at the table with you are your friends? Are they really friends if, at the first offer, they abandon you?”
I didn’t want to answer that question. I mean, what did it say about my social life? That it was nonexistent. What did it say about what I and every junior-high girl more or less aspired to—being one of the popular ones? Worst of all, what did it say about the girls I thought were my friends? Not one of them had stood up for me. None of them had said, “Don’t worry, Elizabeth, we’ll have our own party this weekend. We’ll hang out with you.”
My mom continued. “Elizabeth, you’re going to meet lots of people in this life. Some of them will like you. Some of them won’t. But of all the people you’ll have to deal with, there are only a few people that matter. God. And your dad and me. God will always love you. You are His daughter. He will never turn his back on you. The same thing is true for me. It doesn’t matter where you go, or what you do, or whatever else might happen, I will always love you. You will always be my daughter. Nothing can change that.”
As she spoke, I realized that she was right. How many times had she picked me up when I felt down? How many times had she talked to me when I needed her or helped me understand a problem or sat through my harp lessons (which weren’t always pleasant) or done a million other things that moms do? She had always been there for me.
Thinking back on this conversation, I realized that my mom would accept me back home again. The fear of rejection was still raw in my mind, but I knew that she wouldn’t reject me for what had happened. She still loved me. She would always love me.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my dad would accept me back as well. I mean, how many times had I crashed one of our snowmobiles into a snowbank? How many other things had I done that he could have gotten mad at me for? But he hadn’t. On the other hand, how many times had he tucked me into bed and told me stories or sang me songs at night? He had always loved me.
Yes … my parents would always love me. My siblings would love me too. They would still accept me, no matter what the man had done.
Which meant I had something still to live for.
I took a breath and held it, a shudder moving down my spine. In that moment, the world seemed to tip ever so slightly toward the normal. It was as if, in the midst of all the blackness, I saw a ray of light. My mind focused in on it, grasping toward it as a falling man might grasp for a rope.
The realization that my family would still love me proved to be the turning point. In fact, it proved to be the most important moment throughout my entire nine-month ordeal.