Roots

  To truly tell my story and for you to truly know what God has done for me, you have to get to know my background a little.  You have to know my roots. My reluctance in writing this, is that it will disparage my mom and dad in some way, and that is not my intention at all.  They were two beautiful people that made mistakes, as we all do in this life. I love them both with all my heart, and know I will see them again one day in heaven.  But i believe we must learn from the good and bad of our history, lest we make the same mistakes. My mom gave me Jesus and her heart, and I hope my dad gave me a little bit of his humor and his heart as well.  These recollections may be a bit off too, my mom told me very little of her history or dad’s. I was only to find out much of these later in my life. Mom carried unnecessary shame and so her stories were told as she liked to tell them.  I will tell them as she told me, so just know the facts and dates may be slightly skewed. I must also warn you that this post has a pg rating. I believe for you to know the enormous grace God bestows on his children, you must also know the depravity of our sins.  I plan to be as open as I can, so you can see what a merciful, loving God we serve. The remaining post starts at the very beginning, and tells how it all began…...

     Everything felt right in the world on that brisk September morning of ’66.  The excitement was coursing through my body like the wind whipping through my sear sucker pajamas.  My dad was home, my hero. There he stood so tall and statuesque, brilliantly handsome in his neatly ironed uniform, with all its shiny medals and doodads.  I couldn’t be any happier. Mom was even happy. The house was super clean, and we had had a real lunch today, plates and all. We seemed like a family. There was real playtime and conversation, and best of all, laughter.  

   Usually, our house was dark, as mom pined away at the black and white soap operas on the tube, every once in a while stopping to give me a hug, or sit me in her lap.  The characters on the TV were her friends, their lives mattered to her, she deeply cared about what happened to them. Not that Mom didn’t love me too, she definitely did, she might have even loved me too much. I was her only companion, besides the older lady next door.  Mom depended on her heavily to take us places, as she had not obtained a driver’s license yet. Mom had had a hard life. Her own mom had died when she was just a young girl, and then her stepmother had become ill her junior year in high school, and mom had quit school to take care of her.  Mom’s name was Betty Grace Whitaker, born and raised on Sand Mountain. Sand Mountain needs its own explaining, if you are ever going to understand my mom and my raising.

Sand Mountain is a sandstone plateau in northeastern Alabama and northwestern Georgia.  It is the southern tip of the Appalachian Mountain Range. Back in those days it was mostly farmers, Baptists, snake handlers, and moonshiners.  Today, townspeople still boast of it being a dry county, even though it is home to some significant methamphetamine production. I am sure, especially today and even back then, Sand Mountain has some fine Godly people as its inhabitants, I can only speak of the mountain and its folklore that shaped my beautiful mom, Betty Grace Whitaker.  Betty Grace, as I said before, lost her mom at a very young age. I am assuming by their relationships, that her sister Cathy and her brother, Junior, did most of mom’s raising. My grandfather, Otis, was from my recollection a very large man, who until his dying day, I never saw in anything but bib overalls. He was also a very “godly” man, which knowing what I know now I am using the term loosely.  Raised in a very legalistic Baptist church, where men sat on one side, and women on the other, Betty was never allowed to date boys. Her family said that she was so shy she would have never talked to a boy anyway. She rarely ever talked. At first, they thought she might not be able to. I suspect it was from losing her own mom, and practically raising herself. From what mom tells me, she was raised picking cotton, going to church, and killing chickens.  She never left the farm until she was forced to around 18 years of age.  

     Grandpa Otis knew a boy that worked at the mill.  A young man he took a strong liking to, and the man took a strong liking to beautiful Betty Grace.  The young man went to my grandfather and asked if Betty could go on her first date with him. He promised to take good care of her and bring her home early.  His southern charm and wit won my stoic grandfather over easily, and mom was allowed to go on her first date, a date that would end in tragedy and scar my mom’s life forever.  The young gentleman was no gentleman at all. In fact, he was anything but a gentleman. This wolf in sheep’s clothing took my mom far into the woods and without even the pretense of a date, raped her.  Mom may have or may not have put up a fight. I suspect, knowing my mom, she was scared to death, and never uttered a word. She just lay there with his gross sweaty body and his disgusting grunting consuming her.  Her first date, became her first rape, and consequently, her first child. A child, my half brother, that I would not even know about until I was pregnant with my first child many, many years later. A secret, I believe my mom would have taken to her grave, if it wasn’t for my birth certificate showing that there was a preceding child to me, supposedly Betty Grace’s oldest daughter.  

     Growing up in the house that my mother did, I can’t imagine the shame and guilt that she carried, a load way too heavy for a good Baptist girl.  When my grandfather found out about it, he told her she would have to have an abortion so as not to shame the family, adding to the enormous guilt my mom already felt.  But even though mom was backwardly shy, and could never say no a day in her life, she was love. She had already started to love this growing child within her. With all the courage she could muster, she refused her dad’s wishes, as he kept to his word and threw her out.  Mom went to live in a home for wayward mothers in downtown Chattanooga, with very little education, no driver’s license, and no money. Thankfully, her sister, Cathy, stood by her side, herself already married and moved out, and helped mom get a job. The baby was born, and mom reluctantly, gave him up for adoption, and never whispered his name again, until I forced her to in July of 1993!  The guilt remained with her until her dying day, she was never able to forgive herself. I think shame and guilt and loneliness slowly killed my momma. (In my grandfather's defense, this was the story my mom told. I always knew my grandfather to be a kind, loving man, but this is the story my mom told me and so I'm telling you her story)

       A little while after that tragic event, mom was adjusting to single life on her own, working at the local 5 &10 store in Red Bank, living with my Aunt Cathy and her first husband, and hanging out with her best friend Wilma.  Now there’s a character if there ever was one. Wilma was always decked out in her Sunday finest, with big Texas hair, lots of makeup, and lots of personality to pull it all together, a sort of Dolly Parton personality type, bubbly, full of life, and never without a story, a stark contrast to my momma.  I think Wilma was everything my momma wanted to be. Wilma would never let anyone run over her, she was very outspoken and extremely independent. Oh, she always liked men and would date, but never dependent on a man. She could definitely stand on her own two feet. Some of my favorite memories of momma were the ones that included Wilma.  Wilma brought out the sparkle in my mom. She taught her to have fun and to laugh. My mom was her strongest when she was around Wilma. Wilma was also from Sand Mountain, but it had not beaten her down like it did my momma. She had her own wacky superstitions, but they just made her more colorful, not fearful. For instance, every New Year’s Day, Wilma would, like a lot of people, cook beans and collards for good luck.  However, Wilma’s beans would always have a stick in them from the yard! Once, I asked Momma, “Why is there a stick in Wilma’s beans?” Wilma overheard me, and said, “Why, to beat the farts out of them, of course!”  

     So for a time, life was good.  Mom and Wilma, and sometimes Cathy would have all kinds of adventures.  Then Wilma met my dad’s best friend and fell in love. She wanted the same thing for her friend, Betty Grace, so she told her new beau to bring his buddy home while they were on leave, and that began my story. Wilma’s new boyfriend introduced tall, lanky handsome Ben David Snowden to my momma.  He was a 6’5”soldier from Georgetown, Texas, almost exactly 1,000 miles from Chattanooga. Betty was attracted to his fearlessness and his love of adventure and laughter, and Ben was attracted to Betty’s sweet gentleness and her worship of him. They were a sweet match, and thus began their short courtship.

     Ben David Snowden, my dad, was larger than life.  Buck wild, you might say. Even now at 54, I continue to hear new stories of his glory days and all the havoc and mischief he brought to the small town of Georgetown, Texas.  Dad had two brothers and two sisters, and a whole mess of steps. Ruby and John, my paternal grandparents definitely had their hands full. There was beautiful, reserved Norma Gene, always the calm in the midst of the storm.  Then there was John, the athletic one of the bunch. Then there was my dad, the wild one. Then, came Bill, the funny one, who also happened to be athletic. Then, last, but not least Carra Ann, the baby, who was also extremely beautiful and rambunctious.  All five children were extremely good looking, charismatic, full of adventure and laughter. Their childhood was filled with loads of fun on their Texas farm, a gathering place for lots of love and mischief. I imagine it was a very happy place, as it is now when those remaining get together.  

     My dad, like my mom, had also quit school.  Ben was very involved in the ag program at his high school, and had won over the love and admiration of his ag teacher.  So much so, that one day this ag teacher had asked Dad to take some cows to auction. Something happened on that trip, and Dad’s ag teacher got really mad at him, and so Dad got angry back and quit school.  The way my uncles tell it, that ag teacher never got over my dad quitting school. That event led to my dad trying to join the Marines with my Uncle John before he was of age. However, the Marine sergeant saw that my dad’s birthdate and Uncle John’s birthdate were too close to be possible, and told my dad to get the hell out of his office!  Another year later, Ben talked my grandmother into signing for him to enlist at the age of 17 in the army, which would become his passion until the day he died, 13 years later.  

       But today, my dad was home, which made everything perfect in the world, or at least that is how I think I felt when he was around.  I imagine I felt safe and loved and cared for. I felt all those things with mom too, except for the safe part. I don’t know why, but I always worried when it was just mom and I.  There was always this nervousness of what comes next and why is my mom so unhappy. I always worried about my mom’s happiness. Why has she never been able to overcome her past? Why did she never find peace and contentment?  I know no one has ever gone to church as much as my momma, or read the Bible as consistently as my momma, so what was it? What was the missing piece? That is a piece of this journey as well, to help moms that I know believe in Jesus, but still do not find contentment in Him this side of heaven. I promise to eventually get to that part, but first you must know the back story, and I must warn you, it gets much darker, before it gets light.