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A story of the heart

Glenise Hart

She holds the tiny heart in her hand. Most of its rhinestones now missing, it is just an inexpensive charm she won memorizing Bible verses in Sunday school. Most would say it is worthless, but she considers it as precious as any jewel, for in its centre is a tiny hole. When that hole is held to the light, tiny words can be read, words so powerful they seem to have many times saved her life. They are the words of John 3:16: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

So long ago now, so far away are the memories and the pain.

She was newly married, she awoke screaming, terrorized, her heart pounding. Gentle hands held her, strong arms protected her, and soothing words told her it was only a dream. Yet to her it seemed so real. She wanted to escape the horror of the dream repeating itself again and again.

Most people revere their mothers. I hated mine. When I was three years old, my mother severely cut my sister on the arm with a butcher knife because she burned the carrots for dinner. My brother also was cut for some reason, and excuses were made that he had fallen onto a knife while feeding the dog. My mother carelessly wrapped these deep wounds so that they left scars on the body, and even deeper scars on the brain.

When I was four or five years old, my brother attempted to molest me, but was stopped by his friend because I was too little. One day, my brother said to me, “If you don’t kiss this snake, I will tell Mom you did something real bad and she’ll beat you.” I was more terrified of my mother than that snake, so I kissed its little head. I now know that my brother did these things in an attempt to get even, because he felt he had taken many beatings for things I had done.

I continued to have recurring nightmares into my mid-20s about my mother tying my brother by his feet and hands to the bedposts and beating him. When an older sister told me I was blocking out the truth, that it was not just a nightmare but actual fact, the nightmares stopped.

When I was eight years old, we moved from Surrey, B.C. to Langley, B.C. At times, I would go to school with big holes in my shoes because my mother would not buy me shoes. My mother hid pastries under her bed so she would not have to share with the children.

When I was in grade eight, a friend asked me to go with her to the Brookswood (now South Langley) MB Church Sunday school and youth group. I knew my parents would not drive me, but there were a group of dedicated young adults who would go out into the community, pick up kids and drive them to church and home again. So I went.

I began to learn Bible verses, at the time more interested in the prizes than the achievement – until I received the tiny heart charm with John 3:16 printed inside. I had a difficult time memorizing and forgot most of the Bible verses, but for some reason I could always remember that one.

Many times, I would lie in bed next to my little sister, trembling, afraid in the middle of the night, listening even in my sleep for the gun that would kill us both. The threat was real, spoken out loud many times by my mother. Always at my most fearful moments, those precious words of John 3:16 would come into my head, and I would fall into a restful sleep.

One weekend, my Sunday school teacher, Esther Froese, had a sleepover at her house. I was so happy to be able to go to her place for the night. I can still recall the peace and joy in that home. I remember crying out in anguish, silently asking God to let me stay, to let Esther be my mother. But pride and fear would not let me tell anyone of the way I lived, so I returned to my home.

When I was 13, my friend accepted the Lord, and was pressuring me to do the same. My heart pounded wildly. I did not know this was God’s way of telling me He loved me. I was frightened by the unknown, and I ran away from God, the church, Esther and my friend. Many years later, I harboured guilt for not telling these good people that I was quitting Sunday school and why. I felt as though I had slapped them in the face and walked away. But God had not walked away from me. I did not know that He was still there, guiding my every step.

The rest of high school was very difficult, with continual harsh mental abuse. There were five children in my family, but by this time my younger sister and I were the only ones still living at home. My mother took in a young boarder. One day as I got up to go to school, I found them in bed together. I quickly dressed and ran from the house, too hurt for myself and my father to even lay blame. Weeks later, I told my father, but of course he already knew. He, too, was abused. When he was working in Vancouver, many times he would leave for work and not return home for weeks at a time. Yet my dad always came back eventually.

One day, my parents decided to have a serious talk about the adultery situation. They decided to drive to White Rock with us kids and talk it out. On the way home, anger showed its mighty force, and my mother kicked out the windshield of our little station wagon. My father stopped the car, got out and left us on the freeway with our angry mother. That night, my mother attempted suicide. After the years of suffering, thinking I too was going mad, watching each year as my mother threw over and wrecked the Christmas tree, running to the neighbours and begging to use the phone to call my father, begging my father to come home – inside, I regretted that my mother had not died.

In high school I met a young man. We fell in love, and we became engaged when I was 18 and he was 21. My mother caused many problems with our wedding plans. She kept telling me words I had heard so many times: “You are fat and ugly, and no one will ever love you. Your marriage will not last six months.” I left home before my wedding day and stayed with my future in-laws. The wedding plans were quickly rearranged. On our wedding day, I called my father and begged him to come, but he refused because he was too afraid of my mother.

After our marriage, life with our two children was good and simple. However, my mother continued to try to interfere with us, and we eventually cut our ties with her.

In 1976 we moved to a new home in Surrey. I did not know it, but God was again directing my path. I decided it was time for our children to go to Sunday school and enrolled them at Kennedy Heights MB Church. There our kids met the Wiebe family, and our girls became friends with the Wiebe kids. I would not go to church with my children. I still had a great fear of attending church and of accepting Christ.

In 1978, we sold our home in Surrey and moved back to Langley. Not coincidentally, the Wiebes also moved to Langley. I sought out an MB church to take our girls to, but it was a 10-minute drive, so it became easier just to stay at church and wait for them. We soon began to stay for service, and I found I was beginning to enjoy it. Christ was working in my life, but I did not yet realize it.

Pastor Paul Fast’s powerful sermons spoke to me of forgiveness, of sacrifice, of love, of peace. One Sunday, Pastor Paul asked those who did not know the Lord to come and speak to him, open their hearts and accept Christ. My heart was beating wildly, and this time I knew Christ was calling to me. He wanted me to be saved. I wanted peace. I wanted to love. I wanted to forgive, for only in forgiveness would I find peace. I went to Pastor Paul, and accepted Christ into my heart. I was baptized into God’s family. I did not have the courage to testify during my baptism about the events of my childhood.

My life did not become instantaneously easy or without problems. Life on our farm was good, but often hard and stressful. Yet now my life was different. I now knew that, no matter what, Christ would carry me through. I forgave my mother. I accepted my life as it had been. I began to heal.

I have not seen my mother since our children were very young. I know I have deprived them of a grandmother, but I felt I had to protect my own children from the abuse I had suffered. With Christ’s healing love in my life, I gave up the hate for my mother. I prayed for peace in her life, but I will never know if she found it, until heaven.

God has truly blessed me. I never became an abusive mother. God has doubly blessed me and my husband with a grandson and a granddaughter.

How can I repay Christ for all He has done for me? Only by remaining faithful, regardless of what life brings.

This article is based on a testimony Glenise Hart gave in South Langley MB Church Feb. 14, 1999.

She notes, “I did not know all those years ago that the tiny heart I won would not only save my life but would become my last name. God truly works His love in mysterious ways.” She and her husband Chris live in Bridge Lake, B.C. and celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary last September. To young people, she offers this advice: “God loves you. Give yourself a gift and let Christ into your life. If you know a friend who is being abused in any way, encourage your friend to seek help. No child should ever suffer from abuse. There are so many willing to help.”

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Last modified May 5, 2000.

© 2000 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
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