Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus (eBook)

A memoir of escape from the predator of spousal abuse in the name of God.

Deborah Silva (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2020 | 1. Auflage
218 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-0983-4652-2 (ISBN)

Infos

Billy Goats, Rattlesnakes, and Jesus is a true-story journey through spousal abuse and discovering what the Bible really has to say about it. Set against a very unique backdrop, it is also a story of God's modern-day miracles and love. In 1978, Deborah, a brand-new Christian, leaves her glamorous career in the fashion industry and plunges into a life with her new husband, Tom. Living in a remote one-room cabin with no electricity, she must learn new skills like splitting wood and shooting rattlesnakes for dinner. Along with the physical challenges of her new environment, she comes face to face with contradictions between Biblical truth and Tom's imposed interpretation of truth, enclosing her in a false prison of submission. Tom grows to believe he is the only one who has true understanding from God. He sees his responsibility before God to shape his family into perfection, whatever that takes, including isolation and brute force. Trapped by narrow interpretations of scriptures, Deborah struggles to find freedom for herself and her three daughters, all of whom were born at home with no midwife and no government-registered birth certificates. Through the darkness, she is surprised by a living God who overwhelms with love and freedom.

Textauszug

1 - To Dream the Impossible Dream

The day I met Tom, I knew I was going to marry him, which struck me as intensely odd since he didn’t appeal to me in the slightest. We met at the birthday party of a mutual friend over a salad he was constructing. I dared to interfere. He dared to stop me. One week later, he invited me for the weekend to his remote cabin on a mining claim somewhere south of the San Francisco Bay area in the California Coast Range.

His best friend Leo would be there, he told me. I knew Leo well. He had introduced us. Then, almost as a postscript to the weekend invitation, Tom asked me if I could please pick up a new employee on my way down. Against all logic and reasonable rationale, I grabbed hold of that first-day premonition, like grabbing the tail of a comet, and held on tight … wondering how this burning flame would slice my world.

“You’re crazy!” my roommate called out as I stashed a few things in an overnight bag.

“I know,” I called back, running down the hallway.

I settled into the tan leather seat of my little MG sportscar and breathed out a long breath before turning the key. I remembered his “perfectly-constructed”/hands-off salad we ate with smoky grilled steaks just a week earlier. I remembered the motorcycle ride after the steaks. He had offered the ride to somebody else, but then confused me with the other gal and handed me the helmet instead. We traveled on the breathtaking Junipero Serra Freeway; a gently flowing river of concrete that stole intentionally across the ridge that separated the peninsula cities from the Pacific Ocean. The abundant lush greenery of the mountainsides bordered the then quiet freeway on that still September evening. The sun was setting low in the sky, the stillness and beauty of the evening broken only by the intrusion of the Harley’s engine. The wind on my face felt delicious.

Then, that errant thought had whisked across my reverie: If this man asked me to marry him tonight, I would say yes. I shook my head, stunned at the words burrowing their way through my mind. Where did that come from? I glanced at the back of his helmet and studied his broad shoulders. I don’t even know you. I don’t even know where you live.

We returned to the party in time for Laura’s birthday cake, followed with only snippets of conversation here and there amidst the other partygoers. Other than that, I don’t believe my potential fiancé had any idea of our fairytale future, nor were there any overtures extended to see each other again.

“God, if this is you,” I prayed that week, “I’m going to keep my hands out of it.” I went so far as to look up his phone number in the telephone book for a town I had never even heard of. But I refused to call him. No, if this was God, then God would bring it about. I had learned that my choices only led me into disasters.

When the phone rang the next Saturday morning, just one week after that motorcycle ride, I groaned and turned my head on the pillow. I fumbled with the receiver and banged it against my ear.

“Yes?” Spit dribbled down my chin.

“I don’t know if you remember me …” he started.

I nearly choked and bolted upright in bed. I wiped the slobber from my face. It was Tom.

Now, I turned the key and the car’s engine rumbled to life. Anticipation, compulsion, and hope all melded together when I pulled out onto the street. Could this really be God?

 

 

Heat still emanated from the black asphalt ribbon of Interstate 5, though we were bearing down on the latter half of September. I glanced at Daniel, Tom’s new employee, in the passenger seat. His jaw-length brown hair whipped in the noisy wind that made conversation impossible. I didn’t have a whole lot to say to the young man anyway. I had only met him when I picked him up in San Jose a couple hours earlier.

The raw stench of manure permeated the hot summer air as we passed the Harris Ranch feed lots. Hundreds and hundreds of cows roasted in shadeless corrals for as far as we could see. Daniel returned my glance and wrinkled his nose while shaking his head. At that moment, I wished I had put up the black rag-top of my army-green MG so we could roll up the windows.

The cows and the odor disappeared behind us. The oasis of the Harris Ranch Restaurant loomed ahead. The Coalinga exit. The exit that led to the small town where Tom kept a post office box, and the town where his father lived with Tom’s stepmother who, incidentally, was only four years older than Tom.

She met us at the sidewalk before we finished climbing out of the car. Her short, curly blonde hair and round face reminded me of pictures of my mother in the fifties. Even her royal blue pedal-pushers and flowered cotton shirt hardly indicated a fashion statement in 1978. My own short dark hair, not curly, slim denim jeans, halter top, and wedge sandals put us in completely different generations despite our proximity in age.

“Well, my, my,” she drawled, “Aren’t you a pretty one?”

“You must be Georgia.” I extended my hand which she shook heartily. I couldn’t imagine what Tom might have told her about me. Her giddy anticipation bubbled over. I was anxious to get directions, get gas, and head up to Tom’s place: The Archer Mine, my possible future.

“Nonsense. You need to rest from that long hot drive. I’ve already poured the iced tea.” She hurried up the walkway, opened the screen door, and waited for us, her face beaming from ear to ear. Feigning a smile but sighing inside, I politely followed.

After an obligatory half hour, my tires screeched in my hurry to get to the mine. A quick stop at one of the two gas stations in town and we were ready to make the climb up a very winding Los Gatos Canyon Road.

Giant oak trees sprawled across the barren hills. Small twisted scrub oaks huddled in areas of dense foliage. Along the creeks, dry brown grasses and shrubs hinted at earlier lush spring growth. We wove our way up the canyon until tall, scraggly, digger pines made attempts at shade. Dry spears jutted from pale green yucca plants. The red bark of Manzanita trees painted contrasting colors on the late summer pallet of gold, brown, and faded green. The smells were fresh, yet pungent, even smelled hot, if hot can be interpreted as a smell. Lost in my enjoyment of the drive, I would have missed Tom’s old green Ford pick-up truck if Daniel hadn’t spotted it and called out before we drove too far past.

My heart leapt to my throat when I saw him. It melted back down to a puddle in my belly when he grasped my hands in greeting. For a brief moment, panic struck. There were no other houses. There were no cars driving by. We were in the middle of nowhere at the intersection of Tom’s life and mine. The winding asphalt of Los Gatos Canyon could take me back to my world; on the other side of the shiny silver gate lay a world from which I sensed there would be no turning back.

After a few moments of instructions, on which I tried very hard to concentrate, Tom opened the metal-pole gate. He stood and waited until we drove through, then locked it behind us and allowed us to take the lead so we wouldn’t have to “eat” his dust over the five miles of dirt road. My eyes lingered on the reflection in my rear-view mirror at the safety of the paved road … and at the man who held the keys to my future.

The landscape was much the same as the drive up the paved road, but there were no other dwellings out here. Cows grazed in open spaces and jackrabbits darted across the road in front of us. The five miles of dirt road traveled up and over hills and down through dry, rough, creek beds. My little MG bounced and bumped through hot summer dust over rocks that threatened to eat the rubber right off the tires. At last I noticed the “second road heading off to the right, just past the third creek crossing.” This was his “driveway.”

We bounced the final quarter mile alongside the parched creek bed until I reached the final gate. Billowing clouds of dry summer dust swirled and settled behind me. The barbed-wire gate connected to two tall weathered wood posts on either side of the road. A crudely made sign with the words “Archer Mine” scrawled across it, hung from a wire strung high between the posts. A few small structures nestled further up the narrow canyon. Behind them rose a tall brush-covered mountain with a dirt road steeply zigzagging its way towards the top.

Tom pulled up behind us and stepped down out of his truck. He clipped past without a word and struggled with the gate until it jerked free. He dragged the floppy barbed wire gate in an arc across the road. Then, standing sentry, he extended his arm in invitation for us to drive through.

He actually lives here. I gaped as I drove the last stretch of dirt road to the small white cabin. The structure was definitely small. It didn’t appear much bigger than a storage shed you might find behind a much larger house, only the larger house was missing. The white paint peeled; some boards remained unpainted. Perched atop concrete piers, the cabin rested upon various sizes of small wooden blocks and wedges, I presumed for leveling. Asphalt dribbles stippled and strayed over the sloping gray roof. Across the dirt road from the cabin stood a similar structure except it was black, from age, not paint. A faded red and green roof bore the same telltale signs of asphalt dribbles. A pile of lumber neatly stacked along the side gave the impression this building functioned as a storage shed. Its front entrance covered with crudely...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 10.11.2020
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-0983-4652-1 / 1098346521
• ISBN-13: 978-1-0983-4652-2 / 9781098346522