My Dreams My Journey

I was almost eighteen, and up to this point, I had intended to conduct myself in a manner that would make my parents proud of me, no matter what. Perhaps I believed I was strong enough to put my hand into the devil’s grip and manage to pull it out again. But in my ignorance, like many before me, I was camping at a gate called ‘trouble’. My troubles were no longer around the corner, they had arrived: I was pregnant. That was the most shameful time of my life. I knew that what I did was wrong, but during that time I was ignorant of the consequences attached to such weakness of will. Now my dream was shattered for what was a momentary distraction. Suddenly, my back was up against the wall, facing a dead-end street. Home was hardly home anymore. The birds in our lovely countryside still sang, but I hardly heard them. The apple tree became a passing dream, and I felt as though my life had ended before it had begun. The doctors had told me when I was younger that I might not be able to carry a child, but they were obviously wrong. I wanted to reverse the clock but I couldn’t. I was locked in time in difficult circumstances. My childhood was cut short, and my real nightmares had begun. I felt somehow that I was in for a bumpy ride. Before my secret became public, I went with Papa to the house opening of a family friend - a Member of Parliament. I had eaten ice cream and was sick all the way home on my beautiful, pink ‘H-line’ dress. My beloved father was still ignorant of my shame. Oh how I suffered, watching his happy face, knowing that I would soon wipe his smile away! Things were about to change; I knew I would lose his respect, and I questioned whether he would still laugh with me in the same way. I felt that I could no longer talk with him the way I used to. Oh, what a price I would pay for my folly! I can’t remember how I told my parents, but when Papa heard, he was disappointed and hurt, and his remarks ... hurt deeply. Papa died when I was 54, and his comments upon finding out my secret were the only words that he ever spoke that deeply hurt me. Anyone who knew my family at the time would have fully understood his grief. I saw the pain in his face and wondered how I could have hurt him so. In the past Mama and Papa had tried to send me off to a missionary boarding school, but I refused - and now this! The whole experience was one I would not want to re-live for any reason on earth. There could be nothing worse than walking in darkness before God and hurting my father. He had given us so much, he deserved better. Although at the time I was not yet a committed Christian, our home was like a happy sanctuary where everyone was expected to become a Christian ... On Sunday mornings when my friends were passing on their way to church, I would hide in utter shame. Sometimes they would come to visit, but that would just rub salt into my wound. One Sunday, a large number of young people in the district got baptised, while I was walking around in despair. For the first time in my life, I felt lost and alone. I used to feel like an Esther, but now I was a fallen star. I felt as though the bottom of my world had dropped out. There was an emptiness; a weird vacuum inside of me. I can’t remember what I looked like with the passing of each trimester; I can only remember how I felt: the emotions, the pain, the darkness and the shame. A large part of my education was affected by ill-heath, and I thought that this latest experience would kill my dream, and that it had blighted my future. I had let myself down, and brought shame on my family and my church. My youth was gone forever because of a fleeting encounter. This was a bad start to what was anticipated to be a beautiful future. With a sense of bewilderment and uncertainty, my introduction to womanhood had begun. I knew my life would never be the same again. As I tried to process the thoughts churning around in my head, I was certain of one thing: I was never going to walk this road again! I wasn’t going to be a loser. I wasn’t going to be a failure. I was determined that failure would not be my portion. I don’t remember much about going into labour, but I do remember being taken by car for the six-mile journey from my home to the nearest maternity hospital. There I was, a delicate young woman, having to endure the most intense pain of childbirth. At the hospital, the medical staff stayed in a distant room, and seemed to take no notice of my cries. With a diagnosed heart problem, I could have died, but for the grace of God. I left the hospital after three days, in pain, praying for God’s forgiveness and help. My predicament did not drive me from God it pushed me to seek Him. I developed a hunger for God, and was no longer satisfied without Him.