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What goes around...

Elnor M. Barkley

Noon, and not a noise from her bedroom. Not too unusual, as she was a night person and never rose much before time for her favourite soap opera on any given morning. She had been out quite late last night, so I let her sleep a little while longer. Maybe I could get some more work done without her constant interruptions.



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A phone call or two. A cup of coffee while I read the morning mail. Another hour had gone by, and still there was no sound from her bedroom.

Thinking that 1:00 p.m. was a bit late to be sleeping, and longing to tell her that the day was passing by without her, I went to her door and knocked. No answer. The process was repeated. Still nothing. I timidly opened the door, expecting to hear a scream of “Why don’t you knock”?! There was nothing but silence.

The bed was made beautifully, which was an uncommon occurrence and should have been an instant clue. On the pillow was a small envelope. There was no 14-year-old child anywhere – just that threatening note on the pillow. The room was silent, but silent thunder filled my soul.

“Dear Mom. . .”

The next few days were sheer torment. I remember pacing the floors for hours at a time. Food was unnecessary. I just kept the coffee pot going.

The questions would not stop. What kind of mother had I been to her? What kind of mother had I not been to her? Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this? Did I give her too much? Did I not give her enough? On and on the questions rolled across my mind. No answers came, just more questions.

Sleepless nights. Where is she? Is she safe? Is she somewhere out of the inclement weather? How far away from home has she gone? What is she doing about food for herself?

Exhausted physically and mentally, sleep finally came to me in the small hours of the morning. But once the sun came through my window, I knew I had to get up and face another day – alone.

I made feeble attempts to pray, but I felt so far removed from God’s presence. Perhaps if I had gone to church more often and seen to it that she had also gone, this might not have happened. What right did I now have to ask God for help? My work schedule had caused me to all but abandon Him for months at a time. He probably would not even recognize my voice if I did call on Him for some kind of help.

It was about the fourth day before I got a grip on my emotions and could quietly talk to God about all of this. I had asked other people to pray for us, but now it was my turn to do the praying – asking, crying, whatever it took to re-establish contact.

A still small voice within me told me without a doubt where she had gone.

The subsequent days were tough. She didn’t want to come home. She wanted to go to her dad’s. First, he said he would take her, so she packed her bag. Then he called and said he wasn’t going to spend money for her airline ticket after all, because he had decided that he didn’t want a belligerent teenager messing up his life.

She came home. Doors slammed. Voices were raised and lowered and raised again. Finally we got a grip on the issue, slowly the situation began to heal, and we went on to the next phase of “teenager versus parent.”

At age 15, she informed me that she was expecting my first grandchild.

Sixteen years have passed. Happily married and holding down a good job, this former belligerent teenager is now the mother of a 15-year-old belligerent teenager who has let her mother know in no uncertain terms that she is unhappy with the way things are at home. This child has spent months with her dad a thousand miles away. She has lived with her grandmother for several months. She has spent time in behavioural programs and on medication, all the while putting forth the face of “world’s greatest teenager” to her friends at church. When you talk to them about her, they ask, “Are we speaking about the same girl? Surely you can’t mean. . .”

Last week, her mother came home from work to find a note on the dining room table. “Dear Mom. . .” it began.

As soon as I heard about it, I put prayer requests on every prayer line I could think of. I called the great-grandparents and asked them to pray.

It took her four days to call home. In the meantime, her mother was pacing the floor. Crying. Asking all of those questions again. Wondering where she had failed as a mother. An exact repetition of my emotions 16 years earlier.

They say that history often repeats itself. What will happen in another 16 years when this belligerent teenager finds a note that begins “Dear Mom. . .”?

Elnor M. Barkley lives in Yarnell, Ariz.

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Last modified October 15, 1999.

© 1999 Mennonite Brethren Herald.
Published by the Canadian Conference of MB Churches.
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