Soon David shipped out to Okinawa, Japan, to begin active duty, and I was left in Lewisville trying to figure out how to obtain a US passport and a visa so I could join him overseas. I only had a Mexican birth certificate from Chihuahua, Mexico. I went to Congressman Dick Armey’s office in Denton, Texas, to ask for his help. I sat down with one of his assistants to recount an abbreviated version of my life story.
When I was done, the assistant asked, “Can you get in touch with your mother?”
“I don’t have any idea where she is,” I said.
“Okay, we’ll get this done another way.” We based my citizenship off of my mother, since that would be proof enough, and less complicated than my father. I spent the next few months sending off for my mom’s high school and college transcripts and the birth certificates of her first five children, all born in the United States. After two trips to the passport office in Houston, I was finally issued a passport.
“This is your only proof of citizenship,” the kind lady at the agency told me. “Be sure never to let your passport expire.” My passport is still my only proof that I am a citizen of the United States.
Finally, in April 1990, I bought a one-way ticket to Okinawa, Japan. I believed all my dreams were coming true.
We started our family in Japan with the birth of our son, David Joziah. After experiencing pregnancy-induced high blood pressure, among other scary symptoms, and then thirty-six hours of labor, I finally gave birth to him by C-section. Even after tending to all of those babies as a young girl, when the nurse came to discharge us from the hospital, I thought with a touch of alarm, What do I do if he cries? Not having family around to help left me feeling a bit vulnerable, especially in a foreign country.
I felt a strange dichotomy in Japan. Being away from Mark and Lillian’s children had its benefits, namely that I wasn’t reminded of their parents’ tragic deaths on a daily basis. But I missed being connected with my large family and knowing everything that went on in the lives of my siblings, nieces, and nephews. Though David and I enjoyed living abroad, as months passed, cracks in our marriage began to surface, much like cracks in the walls of a house when the foundation starts becoming compromised. I chose to ignore these marital cracks, thinking things would get better in time. I couldn’t wait to return to the United States, which we did in January 1992.
That same year, our son Caleb was welcomed into the world by Amy Grant’s new song, “Breath of Heaven,” which I had on repeat mode on my CD player. We brought him home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, the words of the song echoing in my heart forevermore.
Be forever near me, Breath of heaven.
Celia surprised me by buying my mom a plane ticket to come help me after Caleb was born. Celia joined us for part of the visit as well. Any bitterness I might have felt toward Mom began to lessen once I saw her interacting so tenderly with my children and caring for me. I was tandem-nursing the two boys, and my mom’s concern that Caleb wouldn’t get enough breast milk was so endearing to me. She had tried to breast-feed her children, but would “dry up after a few weeks,” she told me. The tension in our relationship eased a bit.
When my son Jacob was born in 1994, within months we realized he needed surgery on his skull because his soft spot had closed up too quickly. I asked Mom to come help me again. She told me she would pray about it. I fumed at the notion that she would have to pray before deciding whether to come help one of her children. My own mothering instincts couldn’t fathom such a response. She did end up coming after all, and I was thankful she was there.
In 1995, I headed for Dallas with my three sons to attend the wedding of Mark and Lillian’s oldest daughter, Emily. Suddenly the drought ended, and family surrounded me —Celia, Rena, and several of my brother Heber’s children I’d never met before. We greeted each other warmly, made introductions, and snapped pictures at a frenetic rate.
But the joyous event was a stark reminder of the losses we had endured. As Emily walked down the aisle with a surrogate for Mark, my efforts to choke back tears proved futile. Celia and I both cried through the entire wedding as we faced afresh the pain of losing Mark and Lillian. A photo of them on their wedding day positioned in a place of honor magnified their absence.
My decision to attend Emily’s wedding wasn’t motivated by obligation —I wanted to be there. In some respects, I felt as though my presence somehow represented Mark and Lillian and kept their spirits alive. For years I carried within me the self-imposed weight of being their representative at these milestone events. Nothing would have kept me away from the children during that time period. Embracing them and watching them grow brought me great joy. But sorrow always accompanied the joy, inseparable twins at every event. Tears of joy and sorrow welled up and spilled over because I had never properly grieved Mark’s and Lillian’s deaths. Back then, I didn’t know how. I only knew how to compartmentalize the ache in my heart as I numbed the pain of my grief.
With a husband and three little boys to care for, life never slowed down. Consequently, I allowed busyness to push aside my grief. But Emily’s wedding, and every other happy event that followed, like summer visits from the children and all of their graduations from high school and college, reopened my wounds, ushering in the worst heartache I’d ever known.
When we returned home from the wedding, I was exhausted. That night, I had a dream that I was standing at the sink washing dishes, watching birds through the window dodge and weave in an airborne game of tag. Suddenly, a brown van screeched to a halt in the driveway in front of the house. Out jumped members of the “bad side” of my family, including my brother Heber. Each of them carried guns and assault rifles. They stormed into our house before I could run to lock the front door.
Just as I entered the living room, they sprayed the entire area with bullets. Shot in the stomach, I fell to the floor, face first. The shots hadn’t killed me, and I felt thankful to be alive. Still, I knew that if I got up, they would simply shoot me again. But if I pretended I was dead, maybe they would leave me alone and I could go find my children and protect them from this evil.
I have to get to my boys. But if I move, it’s all over. I felt powerless to help my own children. Heber and my other family members could have already found my sons asleep in their rooms and killed them all.
Just as I started to push myself up off the floor, I woke up from the nightmare, drenched in sweat, my heart racing. I lay awake the rest of the night, covers tucked up to my chin, the horrible scenarios playing out in my mind.
A FEW DAYS LATER, I was with my friend Diana at the park. She had three young boys, too, and when we could, we arranged playdates with each other for our kids. As the boys played, we sat on a bench and I told her about the nightmare. She listened intently, her face registering an array of emotions. I valued her empathy and thanked God that she was kind enough to listen.