The Divine Direction of Challenging Circumstances
How a family murder led to multidimensional forgiveness…as well as my own spiritual awakening.
This is a story of the family murder that happened forty-four years ago when my brother killed my mother.
When I first began to write, I knew it was what I needed to heal. Not able to say nor write the above statement for twenty years, still feeling on a deeper level that I was somehow responsible, that it was my fault, that I could have been or done something more to have prevented it from happening.
I began writing when I turned fifty, the same age as my mother when she died; my only son, seventeen – the same age as my brother when it happened.
This was significant to my younger mother-self to sense the karmic pattern being played out with my nuclear family.
Loss can leave in its wake a knot in the heart, a deep sharp cavern of grief only acceptance, understanding and time can resolve. Writing has been part of that process for me.
First Sunday in December 1981, my teaching buddies from McMillan Junior High, and I play our last volleyball game earlier this afternoon in the oldest park in Omaha that runs along the banks of the mighty Missouri River. Late Nebraskan Indian autumn shimmers like a halo around our heads and slips into winter.
Too chilly to rock for long, my hands crunch an icy coating over the quilt nested on my porch swing. The last rays of amber light outline pine trees surrounding the ninth hole of the golf course across the street, and I notice cricket chirps have ceased. A few moments of sweet contentment in the calm equipoise of dusk.
The phone on the kitchen counter rings, I hesitate to rise from the swing, relishing the assurance of the cool tranquil air. On the second ring, I hurry inside and stack the papers loosely on the coffee table before I pick up the receiver of my pink princess phone.
“Nancy, Elise here, your stepmother.”
It’s annoying how she insists on claiming her place in the family by reminding me who she is. After all, she’s been married to Dad for nine years. Her stern tone reminds me how judged I felt by her when she and Dad cleaned up my kitchen when I was in the hospital, on the psych floor for ten days in July.
Elise doesn’t stop for small talk.
“Your dad is flying into Omaha tomorrow. He needs you to pick him up at the airport.”
“Why?” My mind fills with concern for my brother.
“Something terrible has happened.”
Elise’s voice feels coarse, candid compared to my mother’s refined Libran finesse.
“What happened?” My chest tightens.
“It’s pretty bad.”
Is my brother gone? Why didn’t he call me if he was in trouble?
“You can’t tell me this much and not tell me the rest.”
“Your dad says he needs to be the one to tell you.”
“Is he there? Put him on the phone.”
“No, he’s tending to things. All I can tell you is it involves your brother Danny and your Mom.”
“Danny? Mom?” Tears stream down my face.
“Your father thinks it is best he tells you in person.”
My shoulders tense and tremble as words cluster in my throat. I want to press Elise for more, but something in her tone warns me this dreadful news could irrevocably change my life.
Must have said something about school without hearing the words come out of my mouth because Elise says, “Tell your school you need an indefinite amount of time off.”
My stepmother’s blunt, tight words hit me hard.
“How can I do that without knowing what happened?”
Nausea, shame floods in when Elise muffles the speaker of the phone to talk to my father.
“Your dad and I aren’t certain how you will take it. He will be there tomorrow by one.”
Elise hangs up. Attempting to relate to members of my family feels emotionally unsafe, it’s more like maneuvering through an enemy camp.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some of the essays near the sliding door to the porch have blown off the coffee table. Glancing at the disheveled pile of papers, I rush to the fridge and pour a tumbler sized drink from the chardonnay box. The wine cools my throat as I chug it down in several swallows. My heart is pounding and I can’t stop worrying. Mother and Danny?
Last time I visited Mother, Danny was gone the entire weekend. When I asked how they were doing together, she’d sounded bitter and disappointed in Danny’s behavior. Mother confessed they rarely saw each other. Their communication had soured to the point of avoiding each other when Danny wasn’t in school or working.
I dial my mother’s number, it rings and rings.
Why couldn’t they just tell me? What would I say to the principal? My thoughts begin to race and I consider taking the medication the psychiatrist gave me when I left the hospital last July. Dad and Elise didn’t say directly to me the words, “nervous breakdown”, but I could tell that is what they were thinking.
I look in the bathroom for the old prescription but decide to call Granny, my father’s mother.
“Hi Gram, this is Nancy. Can you tell me anything?”
“No, I can’t.” Her stubborn Slavic nature comes across loud and clear.
“I am going crazy not knowing anything. Can’t you tell me something?”
“No need to get your drawers all in a pinch.” Gram’s typical stance and tone.
“Can’t you just tell me?”
Nothing but silence then slurping sounds of Granny adjusting her slipping dentures. I could hear the Lawrence Welk show on TV in the background.
“I don’t know what to tell the principal.”
Granny clears her throat. “You best wait for your Dad to tell you tomorrow.”
“Just tell me, is it Danny? Did something happen to Danny?”
“Your dad wants to be the one to tell you.”
Slamming the phone down, I grab the old antipsychotic meds and shake a couple into my palm. Knowing I can’t sleep through the night on these stupid pills, I chuck them into the waste bin.
Perplexed, I sigh, turning toward the bathtub to run a hot bubble bath. I sprinkle some lavender oil ceremoniously into the rippling water.
Soaking in the hot water steams my face, relaxes my body and warms my frigid fingers and toes.
Despite the bath, that night, I didn't sleep much.
The next day at the airport, it’s a cold and crisp Nebraska winter morning. My Dad is one of the first people off the plane.
I hug him when I see him. “What happened?”
He hesitates as we hold each other.
“Just tell me, Dad. I couldn’t sleep all night.”
He pulls away and looks down at his bags.
“Did something happen to Danny?” My voice fills with fear. “Did he kill himself?”
I look up to see Dad’s face.
“No, it’s worse than that.”
I can’t imagine anything worse.
His eyes well up with tears.
“They killed each other?”
“Close.” My father hangs his head low.
“It’s your mom. She died. Ginny Mae is dead,” his voice quakes with tears.
I squeeze his arm closest to me.
“Danny killed her.”
My body tightens and pulls away.
“Where is Tina?”
“She’s already in St. John. We need to get there as soon as we can. Ginny has already been dead for a few days.”
I can’t emotionally manage any more questions.
It is a three-hour drive from Nebraska to Missouri. We barely talk all the way from Omaha to St John.
The highway follows the Missouri River. It is winter and a few flecks of snow were hitting the windshield. The ground and bare trees are frozen solid.
Mother and I were growing closer, hitting a bucket of balls early August before I returned home. The last time we talked, I called to tell her I wouldn’t be down for Thanksgiving because I was recovering from having my wisdom teeth removed.
The last words she spoke to me were, “Get better and I’ll see you at Christmas time.”
I think of the call I made to Danny just before I was hospitalized the previous July.
“How’s Mom?” he’d asked me after we had talked for a while.
“Lonely.” I paused and then said, “She loves you.”
He hesitated, “Tell her I love her too.”
Danny had come with Dad and Elise to visit me in the Hospital. At the end of the visit, he had run into Mother in the hallway. A month later, he’d moved back to live with her for his senior year of high school.
If I’d never called him and said that, Mom might still be alive. I had brought them back together.
My chest grows tight from holding back tears of grief and regret, a flood of feelings freezing like the snow crystals collecting on my windshield.
Incredible story, told with such clarity and depth. It’s absolutely heartbreaking to know the tragedy you and your family have endured. Your willingness to speak about your experience now shows great courage and a willingness to be vulnerable and transcend the pain while honoring everyone involved. I hope the telling of your truth brings you peace.💜