Spiritual Non-Fiction posted April 15, 2012

This work has reached the exceptional level
Ghost written for Jennifer Shewmake

Rescued From the Pits of Despair

by Janie King

I entered the church feeling trapped, figuring that nothing would ever be any different in my life. I accepted the fact I would probably be a pot smoker and drug addict the rest of my life. It helped me with my emotional problems, plus it helped decrease the Fibromyalgia and Rheumatoid Arthritis pain. Having no insurance and I used whatever I could get my hands on.

Pastor Ronald Childress ministered to us in music and from the Word of God. I felt like a sponge. The Word of God was like water, and I was soaking up every drop of what he ministered. I had a truly repentant heart and knew God's forgiveness of my sins that night. Free for the first time in my life, I quit drinking, flushed the drugs, and smashed my pipe as soon as I got home.

It felt good to be headed to Chicago for a visit. James, my five year old, was happy in the back seat. I happily jammed away to the music I was listening to. All of sudden I felt this overwhelming feeling of emotions and heard, " I didn't bring you through everything you have been through for nothing. I did it so you could share it." Hearing God's voice instead of Satan's was like a breath of fresh air. All the things Satan had sent my way was meant to destroy me. But, God told me it was now time to turn the tables on the enemy of my soul.

This isn't a pretty story. The fact it is non-fictional makes it more horrific than any horror movie one might go to see.

It was a very hot summer day. The windows were all open with a hope that a small
breeze might blow through and bring some relief. We lived in a rundown house with no air-conditioner. The driveway was cluttered with junky cars. My stepfather was a mechanic. Mom worked at K-Mart while I stayed at home with him all day. Every day was its own Hell. I was trapped with no way out. He spent Mom's meager wages on alcohol and drugs. He decided who we could be friends with and even the clothes we wore.

This particular day I was huddled in my room playing with my Barbie dolls. Mom had gotten home from work and was busy trying to fix supper. It was late evening as I noted the streets lights came on.

All too soon the yelling started. I could hear him telling Mom how worthless she was even though she had worked hard all day long. Hearing her sobbing grieved my heart, but there was little I could do. From the sound of her footsteps I knew she had walked into the bathroom. It was her way of trying to get away from him and his abusive words. My heart began to race. He followed her into the bathroom. Within seconds I heard the thud followed by her scream. He had slugged her again. I started to shake all over. The neighbors had
long ago turned a deafening ear to the screams. They were as afraid of him as we were. The one neighbor would be sure to give me a little gift tomorrow. I knew it was a gift given out of guilt because she did nothing to help stop the situation.

I jumped to my feet preparing to go to her defense. I needed to see if she was okay. I needed to protect her. I couldn't remember a time in my life when I hadn't taken care of her. I cooked, cleaned house, and wiped away the tears and blood that he always left behind after one of their fights. I knew in my heart this night wasn't going to be any different.

I ran into the kitchen and found Mom huddled in a corner. Blood was splattered on the blue walls. The sight of the blood gushing from her nose made me angry. I grabbed a wash cloth out of the cabinet and wrapped her nose in it. I hurriedly tried to wipe the puddles of blood from the floor. I had learned in school that if something bad happened I could call 911. At that moment I felt brave enough to scream at my stepfather, "I'm going to call the police and you're going to jail!"

I had no more than grabbed the white phone from its receiver when I felt his hands wrap around my throat. He body slammed me against the wall. Even though I was nine, I was as small as many six year olds. He was literally choking me to death. My eyes began to bulge as the tears rolled down my face. I glanced down and saw the white phone, with my little bloody hand prints, dangling from the cord. He continued to hold me suspended in mid-air as he choked me. Where was my mom, ran through my mind. Surely she could see I was in serious trouble. Why wasn't she trying to protect me from this monster? Sadly, she was buried in her own pain, my pain never penetrated into her world of grief and sorrow.

As quickly as the fight started it was over. She gathered enough strength to run out of the house into the night. Where she was going I didn't have a clue. But, I couldn't deny she had left me, her own flesh and blood, in the grips of this mad man.

As Mom ran out the door he released his grip and let me fall to the floor in a heap, gasping for air. He immediately reached down and jerked me to a standing position and dragged me to the door. My eyes caught sight of the knife he reached down to take from the strap he kept around his leg. He pointed the knife at me and yelled, "Get into the car!" At this point something in me shut down and I moved as if in a trance. My actions became robotic-like. I did whatever I was told. I was no match for him, and my mom left me to fend for myself.

He yanked open the car door, shoved me in and started driving in the direction Mom had gone. By the time we had found her he had told me that if I didn't get
her to get into the car he would slit her throat from ear to ear. Then, he promised to gut me next. I had no doubt he would carry out his threat.

After much pleading and begging, she finally got into the car. Every part of me was drained. The argument had started again by the time we reached home. In between, she managed to clean the blood off her nose, face and hands. The argument ended as it always did with, "I'm sorry. I promise I'll never let it happen again." We both knew it was a lie. It happened again and again and again; sometimes worse than others.

They marched off to their room, oblivious of my feelings or state of mind. I would go to my room and cry, "Where was God? Why did He let this happen? What had I done so bad that I had to live in this kind of Hell? How could God sit and let this kind of thing happen?

I have come to understand that even in those horrific times God was there protecting me, kind of like he did Job. He placed a hedge around me, preventing my death many times by setting a boundary for Satan. The poem "Footprints in the Sand" is one of my favorites. Yes, when I look at the happening of my life, there are often one set of footprints. It was then that Jesus was carrying me. I couldn't have survived the living nightmares of so many years on my own. I wasn't taught how to have a relationship, my own personal relationship with God. He ordered my footsteps and led me to where I could find the answers I was searching for. Now, I am free, free to be the woman God intended me to be. It's my turn to put some hurt on Satan by sharing my story so others that are hurting will know they can be free too.


Jenny is a beautiful young woman. She is the mother of an adorable five year old little boy that she adores and has her full attention. She has a servants heart and is the first in the church to offer to help those in need. She sings on the Praise Team. She is truly a changed person. There is freedom, through Christ, in these situations. God bless.
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