Welcome to Songs of Salvation!
Join Christian authors as they share their "Songs of Salvation" to uplift and encourage believers and glorify God.
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And they have defeated him by the blood of the Lamb and by their testimony. And they did not love their lives so much that they were afraid to die.
Revelation 12:11 NLT
The first time I tried to kill myself I was 6 years old. I used a bow from my hair. I tried to choke myself. I went out of the home and hid behind some bushes to do it. I had been depressed since I was 4 years old. Or maybe earlier but that is what I remember. I hated to go to elementary school, and I was always in the back of the class trying to be invisible. I usually was looked down upon, felt low self-esteem, sadness and extremely loneliness. The first time, I could not go through with the suicide. The bow was not strong enough and when I started to gag, I was scared.
My mom brought me a box of books. I was just started elementary school and could not read yet but I self-taught myself in a week or two. Books were awesome. I could read, read, and read and forget my woes. Soon I was reading 5 books a day. Never did I read less than 12 books a week.
By the time I was 10 years I had tried to starve myself. When I couldn’t go through with that I start reading more! My mom had to go to the public library and speak with the librarian to get a special permission for me to borrow books from the grown-up section in the library. I had read all the children books by then.
My father was an alcoholic and could not take care of us. My mother was focusing on surviving and the drama around her life. I grew up with 3 more sisters. All of us were trying to survive.
I was probably seven and I had just arrived home from school. It was a humid, hot midweek afternoon when I slugged into the straight wooden chair on the table in Mai Sila’s, my grandma’s, humble dining room. I put my hands under my chin and leaned forward on the table. I must have sighed. My school finished at 12.30 but I arrived home at 3 o’clock. My backpack felt heavy and was loaded with books, miscellaneous toys, clothes and other small items. All of them too precious to leave behind and risk losing. I pushed the back pack deeper under the table and out of the way with my feet. Mai Sila looked up. “You tired, my pretty girl?” she asked.
It must have been the compassion in her voice because suddenly I felt more tired than ever. I nodded silently. I knew better than to complain. Things are as they are. I kept looking down as I knew was polite when speaking with an adult.
Her chair scraped over the wooden floor. She was attempting to stand up. Obviously, her swollen joints were painful. I knew she sat the whole morning behind her sewing machine to finish a dress she was making for a customer. That is how she made her living. Sewing and ironing for the fancy ladies in town. Steadying herself on the chair, the table and then the wall she shuffled into her tiny kitchen. She took a plate and a spoon and ladled some food in the plate. She shuffled back to me. I sat there and stared at her. Just stared.
It hit me for the first time in my life that someone loved me.
I thought. I looked at myself for the first time clearly that day. I wore a dirty crumbled white shirt and a blue pleated skirt. It was too short. I was growing so quickly, everybody kept telling me. I felt guilty for that. My long skinny legs were dusty from my walk to my grandma’s home. My half-broken sandals were brown from the mud I stepped in that morning. I tried to take good care of shoes because I knew that I would not get new shoes any time soon. But they had a life of their own. Soon I would need to find more green glue to paste them again. Otherwise I could not go to school. My hair was tangled. I think the last time it had been combed was last week when I spent the weekend with my grandma, Mai Sila. Yes, I did look like a child without a mother. Unkempt.
But the thing is that I had a mother. A pretty one too. She was very modern, she wore red lipstick and red nail polish. I loved to look at her as she dressed to go to a party. She would have a colorful dress on. With shiny pallets. Hundreds of them. Her hair would be curled with the hot iron. She would wear makeup and high heels. And she drove. I don’t think many women drove and had their own car when I was a child. But I could be mistaken. I don’t remember other women having their own car. But my mother did. She drove her car to her work, where she stayed the whole day. She did not cook, do laundry or house chores. “Why do you think I have 4 daughters? she would ask pointedly if my older sister dare to question her.
It was complete futile to try to explain to her that I needed something. “If you can get it, you can have it”, was her typical reaction to me when I asked for something. She never quite explained how a 7 year old should go around “finding” cooked food, clean clothes or new shoes.
Until I visited Mai Sila of course. Then I understood that I could find it all with her. And the good thing was that I didn’t even had to ask. Mai Sila would wash my clothes, press them, wash my hair, and braid those long braids that could withstand weeks of wear and tear. The funny thing is that I never saw her doing all these things. When I woke up in the morning the hot porridge would be on my plate on the table. My clean uniform would be on the chair and I never had to ask for a lunch bag. Miraculously it was in my schoolbag. She really wanted me to go to school.
I didn’t like school in the beginning. I cried to go back to my Mai Sila. But the teacher made me stay and school was actually good for me. They taught me to read there. I picked up very quickly that I could put together the letters, sound them out and read a sentence. Shy as I was, I used this as a pastime and learned to read in the first 2 weeks that I was in school. I could have been a good experience until my mother found out that I could read. She realized that I was able to go to school with public transportation since I would be able to read the signs on the buses.
Every morning my 5 year old sister and I would walk for 45 minutes to the bus stop. Then I would carefully spell out the names until we found a bus that said: “Punda”. That was the one we needed. With my little sisters hand firm into mine I would step into the bus, giving the driver the exact change that my mother gave me. My sister usually slept in the bus. The walk made her very tired. I would read. I did not dare to sleep because I was terrified to miss the stop to go to school. Tired of the responsibility but satisfied, we made it on time before the school started at 7.30 am I would quietly take my place in the back chair in the class. That was the best place to sit so I could finish my assignments quickly so I would have time to read a book without the teacher knowing it. Another morning of peace and quiet, reading until the school finished at 12.30.
After school my mother would pick us up in her car. I had to be careful to look out for her. Sometimes she would sit in her car across the street outside the school, blaring her claxon, motioning with her hands for us to hurry. I held my sister’s hand firmly when I crossed the busy street full of cars going both ways. I would hurry as to not make her wait one second too long. We knew better than that. But sometimes I would be on the lookout until 1:00, 1.30, 2:00 and 2.30 before she would show up. All teachers were gone by that time. We were the last, sitting on the stairs, waiting for our mom. She would arrive smiling and leisurely. Not a word of explanation, not a word of concern. She should have noticed the tear-stricken face of my little sister. But she never mentioned it. I never did either. I knew better than that.
Sitting that day at Mai Sila’s table, I got it. Suddenly I understood what was missing in my life. The reason I felt so alone and scared most of the time. I missed a mother. One who would talk softly with me. One who would care for me. That is what Mai Sila just did. I knew it for the first time but it stuck to me for my whole life. Mai Sila loved me. Yes she did.
But nobody could protect me from my uncle. My father was drunk, my mother was busy, and Mai Sila had no clue. He would come in my room in the night, prey on me on all hours of the day and terrify me with what would happen if I ever told an adult.
I became a teenager with the loneliness and sadness ingrained in me.
Many sessions with the counselors didn’t help me. I was suicidal. I did not see the benefit from life.
But I did well in school. Very well. What else was there to do? Got all scholarships and soon found myself a good college with a free ride.
I was able to leave home behind.
But not the feelings.
It was not until I met Jesus that something turned on in my head. A light bulb went on. Suddenly I was able to see color, smell roses, feel and enjoy.
Sometimes I see people laughing with me or about me in church. I might sing a little too loudly and certainly off-key. But the joy of being A-L-I-V-E is so great! I can only rejoice in my savior.
I’m able to forgive. I’m able to forget, I’m able to move forward. I’m able to make my own history.
Because Jesus is alive in my heart.
No more sorrow.
Nowadays I write. Novels for women with the great love of Jesus showing in it. Children’s books full of colors and hope, devotionals for teens and for women. I travel a lot back to the Caribbean and I serve the Caribbean with books written in English, Spanish, and Papiamentu.