Blessing in the Betrayal

Every little girl grows up with the same picture in her head. A long white dress, glitter catching the light, a church aisle stretching out like a runway to forever. The wedding march we all know, and at the end of it stands a man who looks at you like you just turned his whole world on. He picked you. Out of everyone, he picked you. Then comes the house with the white fence, the babies, the happily ever after that Disney sold us before we were old enough to know better.

If that is how your story went, I mean it when I say I am happy for you. That is a rare and beautiful thing. But if you are reading this because your story went sideways, welcome. You are in good company, because mine did too. I did almost everything out of order. I was the girl doing karaoke at the local bar on a Friday night, the one who wanted to be a singer and settled for belting out Joan Jett in front of strangers instead. I was fun. I was loud. I was also, underneath all of it, pretty lost.

Here is the part people do not always expect: I loved church. My mom took my sister and me most Sundays, and some of my best childhood memories are wrapped up in Vacation Bible School and summer Bible camp. I remember the excitement of getting ready for camp almost more than the camp itself. We would head to Kmart, and I would pick out little travel-sized bottles of shampoo, toothpaste, and deodorant—the tiny versions that made me feel like a real grown woman packing for a trip. I know that dates me, but I would not trade that memory for anything. There was something about those small bottles that made the whole week feel like an adventure I had earned.

We would head out to the mountains and settle into our cabins with friends. It was a week of adventures and the innocent fun of swimming, chow halls and it just felt warm, inviting and stable.

Bible camp had campfire worship, late-night talks with friends, lessons about Jesus that actually stuck with me, and a taste of independence away from my parents. It was peaceful. It was safe. And that peace mattered more than I understood at the time, because home did not look anything like it.

My dad served in Vietnam, and he came home with PTSD, though nobody called it that out loud back then. He drank to keep the flashbacks quiet, and sometimes drugs too. My mom did her best to shield my sister and me from the worst of it, but you cannot fully hide chaos from kids living inside the same walls. It leaves a residue of confusion even when nobody explains a thing. So I did what a lot of kids in that situation do. I left. Not physically, not yet, but I found every excuse to be outside the house, with friends, away from whatever storm was rolling through that day. It felt normal because it was the only normal I knew.

Growing up in the 70s and 80s was a different kind of lifestyle. We did not have technology baby sitting us. We had the good old outdoors. We did not hang out inside, as a matter of fact, who was allowed to? Mom would tell us to go out and play, and be back when the street lights came on. All the neighborhood kids were outside hanging out until the sun went down.

The friends I chose were not exactly a good influence, and I was a people pleaser who loved being wherever the fun was happening. We ran the streets wild and free. I started out with the church daughter as my best friend. as I got older, I started leaning towards the spunkier crowd as they seemed like a lot of fun, and they were in a rebellious sort of way. God quietly slipped further and further from my mind. I did not reject him. I just stopped making room for him.

In the early 80s, I entered junior high school.  I was always sitting on the fence of good girl, bad girl. I played flute in the band, first chair, which is the best flutist. If you know band, it is the good kid bunch, or what people like to call nerds. I will let you in on a little secret. Those "nerdy band' kids were not so innocent. On my other side, I was a hesher. For those who don't know, that is what the group of heavy metalers were called, or we were called stoners even though I didn't even know what that meant at the time.

We thought we were so cool. Smokes hanging from the hand, concert T-shirts, spikes on the wrist, black eyeliner, zip-around jeans—yes, we sat on a zipper—and moccasins. My mom kept trying to get me to change, saying we were listening to devil music. Really mom? The guys in those bands wore more make-up than us girls did. But yes, for the era, they were hard core. I will never forget when we went school clothes shopping for ninth grade. I was going into high school, and she wanted me to start with this change. We entered the dressing room of Miller's Outpost, a popular clothing store back then, and she came in with me and handed me some Levi's 501 jeans in pastel colors to try on. Oh heck no. I was an all-black kind of girl. As she went to, ever so lovingly, shove them at me, I yelled, "Don't hit me!" Let's just say that it did not play out very well, being that all the moms were there with their kids.

We got home, she sent me to my room, and came in and cut up all my so-called devil worship clothes. It was definitely a battle of the wills. I actually won those fights, or so I thought, because this wild streak followed me right into high school. Still trying to hang onto band, I slipped from that too. I was way too cool for that now, and I gave it up. Oh, where I could have gone with that, as I was really good. I chose to stick with the heshers, although I started getting into the new wave group. Bang your head took a back seat and it became all about the neon, lace gloves and jelly shoes. At least I added color, so my mom got off my back.

  I was all about the party. Monday through Friday was just waiting for the weekend. I did not pay enough attention in school. I was not the studious type. I could not wait to see which house party, or bonfire we were going that weekend. I was not a bad kid, just liked the social scene over what college I was planning to attend. Oh if I could go back and tell the younger me, girl pull your head out of your butt.

I fell for a guy and dated him all through high school, off and on as it was a very feisty relationship. I was so involved outside of school that I came close to not graduating, but I did by the skin of my teeth. I was in the graduating class of 1990 and got to throw my tasseled hat in the air at grad night.  I didn't really know what I wanted to do in life though, so I worked and partied. That was my goal at the time. As I turned eighteen, something life-altering happened, although I did not know how life-altering it was until much later in life.

I got pregnant. I found out after my boyfriend and I had broken up, but again, that was not abnormal, as we went back and forth. I did not even think to keep it. I was young, I made a mistake, and I did not want to have a baby since I did not have the means to keep one and raise it. I was very much into self. I told my ex-boyfriend that this was what we needed to do, and he took me to have an abortion. The experience was very cold. I walked in, sat in a waiting room, got called back, and was greeted by a nurse and a metal table. I was put under anesthesia, and the next thing I knew, I was being awakened by a nurse with big yellow hoop earrings.

 I was led into a room to drink some orange juice and eat some crackers. I didn't realize it at the time, but something shifted in me then. Something changed, but I pushed this so far down and made it no big deal that I did not even recognize I was different. I believe now that the walls formed stronger at this point. I did not trust men, I did not trust doctors, and I did not trust myself. I did not realize at the time how much that would change me. I did not recognize that without God in my life, I did not see the sin in it. I know I felt guilty though, as I did not tell my parents, or family, or friends. It was my hush hush secret. 

One thing that stung was, after I did the damage, my cousin came out with the fact that she was pregnant and she was keeping the baby. I remember feeling like she was brave to do this and I chickened out and let my own selfishness win. Every time I saw the baby, every birthday, every milestone, I had the reminder of my guilt and shame of not following through with mine. That was a harsh reality.  

I got even wilder now. I was going out three to four nights a week to the karaoke bar, living La Vida Loca. I was the one who danced on the tables, and everyone loved being around me, which I thought that was where it was at. I worked and played, and that was about it. I knew I wanted more; I just did not know what, or how, or when I was going to figure that out. I was dating anyone. My type was whoever gave me attention at that point. I just did not have self-respect. I found out later, through a post-abortion class I took, that this had a lot to do with that, but we will get into that later.

That wild streak eventually landed me in single motherhood at twenty-five, with no career plan and no life plan to speak of. I was dating a guy for 3 months when I had gotten pregnant and chose to have my baby. I tried hanging in there with him, but only knowing someone for a short period of time, it just was not going to work out. I learned that we were not compatible. So I chose to wing motherhood alone. 

 I will not sugarcoat it: that abortion was one of the hardest and most horrible experiences of my life, and it was not a road I was willing to walk again. So when I found myself pregnant a second time, years later,I already knew what my answer would be. It was baby, or it was going to be jail or death, given the direction I was headed. I am so grateful it was my daughter. When I went into labor, my mom decided to call the biological father to tell him, and he decided it was a good idea to bring his pregnant girlfriend to see my baby. I sure knew how to pick them at the time. 

My daughter, Hailey, slowed me down in a way nothing else could have. I moved into my parents' guest house with her, and for a long stretch of time, my entire world was raising that little girl. Dating was not on my radar. After years of men treating me like an afterthought, walking away when things got hard, and the humiliation of Hailey’s father bringing his new pregnant girlfriend to the hospital, I had completely shut down. The hurt, betrayal, and quiet shame went too deep, leaving me convinced that letting a man close was just asking to get broken all over again.

I knew now, that it was not about me anymore, I had a new little person to think about. I struggled through single motherhood, but my parents were a big help so I was blessed to have them. Hailey had colic, which is gas pain, so she screamed and cried most of the time. I had to work all day and then do motherhood with my daughter who would not get comfortable. It was a huge challenge. I was exhausted, but also very protective of her. I was not going to bring men in and out of her life, so I just did not date. 

After about a year of me showing zero interest in dating, my mom asked me something that stuck. She asked if I had ever thought about praying for the right man. We used to keep prayer journals together when I was younger, and something about her question cracked open a door I had shut.

So I sat down one night with a notebook and started writing out a prayer, specific and unfiltered. I asked God for a man who was caring, responsible, and had a good sense of humor. I asked that he love children and love Hailey as if she were his own. I asked that he not have kids of his own already, because I was not interested in extra complications. I asked that he love us equally, as one family, not as an afterthought. And just for good measure, I added a little postscript. I asked God to make him Italian. I have always had a weakness for Italians, and I figured it never hurts to ask.

Six months later, my best friend Tina and I were at our usual karaoke bar when a group of guys at the bar caught our attention. One of them was loud and a little cocky, and I told Tina flat out that they seemed like jerks. A few weeks after that, she told me the cocky one had asked her out. She went. I told her they were welcome to sit with us at our table exactly never. Then, a couple of weeks later, there they were again, and Tina gave me the puppy dog eyes, and I caved. Okay, fine. They could sit with us.

Tina's guy, Matt, and I bantered back and forth all night, and somewhere in there my guard cracked just enough to see he was actually funny. Matt would eventually become like a brother to me. But it was another one of the guys, the one they all called Gio, who kept asking me to dance. I always say I wooed him with my rendition of "Killing Me Softly" by the Fugees. He always laughs when I tell people that, but I know I did. He had an accent I could not quite place yet, a quirky sense of humor, and something about him I could not shake. My wall was still standing tall, so he did not get an easy pass. But over time, he took that wall down piece by piece, the same way the walls of Jericho came down, fast and completely, once God decided it was time.

His full name was Giovanni Buccarelli. You cannot get more Italian than that. Born and raised. God had answered that prayer journal down to the postscript, and I did not even see it happening until it already had. What was interesting to me was that he was not my type. I usually went for the bad boys, the ones your mom warns you about. This was different. He was special, and I knew it right off the bat.

Gio could not have biological children, which was hard for both of us at times, but I know now it was part of God's design. He loved Hailey from the very beginning, and his family embraced her the same way, without hesitation. I remember one of our first dates was a trip to Six Flags, where he bought her a little outfit at the gift shop. Later, when I finally brought her to meet him at his place, he had already bought a coloring book and crayons and gotten down on the floor with her. I watched them color together, and that was the moment, I realized he was going to be a great dad. He was so interested in the role already. 

Gio and I started spending a lot of time together, with Hailey swinging from our arms. We were developing a family and it felt complete. It did not feel rushed, it just felt like a transition that was set up for us from the very first date. I had to get used to this, as I was so used to men disappointing me, that I think I was always embracing for the downfall. As time kept moving, I was able to ease into the fact that we was different than those I had dated before. 

One afternoon he picked us up from my parents' house, and Hailey had a dirty diaper. My mom reached for the diaper bag, and Gio told her not to worry about it, he had it handled. He changed that diaper without blinking. My mom looked at me afterward and said he was a keeper, that my own dad had never once done that. I already knew.

Gio supported me when I decided to go to beauty school, encouraging me every step of the way. He was steady where I was spontaneous, responsible where I was carefree, and somehow it worked. Two years later, we got married on a golf course in a non-denominational ceremony, glitter and all, a flower girl we proudly called our daughter standing beside us. It was beautiful. It felt like everything I had once stopped believing in.

But there was one piece missing that neither of us thought much about at the time. God was not part of that covenant. Gio had grown up in a Mormon household, while I had drifted in and out of church my whole life. We both figured being good people was enough. We did not think we needed religion to make a marriage work. We were wrong, and it would take years, and a betrayal neither of us saw coming, to understand exactly how wrong we were.