Daughter of the King: Finally Free
This month I wanted to give you, my followers, a sample of my book so I have included the first two chapters. I hope you enjoy them and will want to read the book in its entirety. At the bottom I have included the link to amazon and franspeake.com to make it easier if you would like to purchase. I would love to hear back from any of you after you have read it. I am looking forward to Christmas and just want to wish you all a safe and Merry Christmas filled with the peace of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Love,
Fran
CHAPTER 1
For our struggle is not against flesh and blood,
but against the rulers, against the authorities,
against the powers of this dark world
and against the spiritual forces of evil in the Heavenly realms
Ephesians 6:12
His body lay in the bed contorted and unmoving. His muscles were contracted, his knees hugging his chest in the fetal position. The plastic tube in his throat enabled him to breathe. His eyes were open but unable to follow any movements, saliva oozing out of the corner of his mouth. He wore a diaper because he was no longer able to manage his bodily functions. He lay there still, no longer identifiable as a young man, as if all the vibrancy of human life had been drained from his body.
Upon arriving to work that morning, I received my assignment for the day, my mind a little curious to see who this person with such a familiar last name was. I was a respiratory therapist in a smaller town in Texas where it isn’t uncommon for me to see patients I know through a few degrees of separation. Normally my patients are a little older, but the name I saw jogged a memory. “Carte” is uncommon. People sometimes think it’s “Carter” without the “r”, like their ancestors just dropped it. I continued on my day, but it stayed in my mind.
After some research of my own, digging through the medical record and reviewing the patient I was about to treat, I discovered he lived in the same small county as I did. My mind kept racing, curiosity stirring so many questions all at once, “Could it be?”, “No”, “Maybe”, “Oh my Lord, is it?” With all my years working in hospitals and critical care situations, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw in ICU 7 that day.
A middle-aged woman sat in the room with him. She exhibited the sort of anxiety typical of hospital visitors when they’re lost and don’t know what’s coming next. Her face was awash with familial worry. And yet, she put off a forced sort of optimism. As I calculated each step I was taking, I could see he was all of about twenty-three years old. I looked at the woman and smiled. She looked like she needed it.
She smiled weakly back and that is when I decided I would ask.
“He doesn’t happen to have a grandfather that’s a judge in Wharton County, does he?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “But his father is a judge there.”
“Oh,” I said. “I believe he resided over my divorce.”
I was struck numb. I couldn’t fathom the odds that would bring this boy into my care. I couldn’t imagine how probability and chance would allow this to happen. I stood there in shock and disbelief at how the man who callously took my children away would now be experiencing this horrific pain of his own, as I stared at his young son. And the odds-what were the odds that this boy would come into my care-particularly with this being my first day on the job. At that precise second, as I stood there stunned, I knew this was divine intervention.
The woman tilted her head slightly. “Oh. That’s my husband. I hope he was good to you.”
Something came over me. I’m not sure what. As a people pleaser, I never say anything off color or offensive to anyone. But something made me say the words that so candidly came out of my mouth.
“As a matter of fact, no, he wasn’t.” I looked at the woman as all the pain of the past few years washed over me.
The woman seemed to crumple from the inside. It appeared she could feel the things I went through over the past few years and all at once her head dropped, shoulders slumped, and her eyes slowly closed. Immediately and without being aware of it, we forged a bond that neither one of us would have ever desired.
That woman and I began a two-hour conversation. I explained what my divorce trial was like. I told her how I had lost my children, that my husband violated court orders and even though I was supposed to keep it throughout the process, I lost my insurance. My ex spent our frozen retirement account on his new girlfriend. I was forced to have supervised visits with my children and this continued in spite of the voluntary drug testing I was submitting as proof there were no chemicals in my system. And I had given solid evidence that my children were being neglected, living in filth with their father, no attention being paid to their personal hygiene and being left alone, sometimes for days. And her husband did nothing. With all this proof, he did nothing. It seemed the more I offered up, the more he ignored it. I let my hurt and angst spill out. I allowed her access to all the feelings that had been boiling up inside of me because of how her husband unfairly dealt with my case.
And she, too, spoke to me. She vented about her son’s condition. She told me the story of the accident, the Life Flight from Colorado, to Dallas, and eventually to my care. She told me that she never thought she would see her son like this. She told me she never imagined her son would die before her, but now she feared that the most. He was a newlywed and a youth pastor, and he had been hurt in a skiing accident.
In a strange way, I could identify with her. Though my children were still alive and healthy, they had been taken away from me in the divorce. We were two mothers commiserating together about the hand we had been dealt. We cried with one another as we recounted the pain we had each felt. In a peculiar way, we became like sisters, there in the room. We shared the pain we had experienced as well as hope for one another. It was emotionally raw.
I continued on my day, caring for the boy. As he lay there, staring at nothing in particular, a thought struck me several times. Over and over I kept hearing, Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I am not sure why I had that thought. I had no intention of hurting this boy. I am ever the consummate professional when it comes to taking care of my patients. Anyone who knows me knows I wouldn’t harm anyone, much less a patient. It was my job to make this boy as comfortable as possible while he underwent therapy and that is exactly what I did.
I was struck with how that day turned out. How was I put into that situation? On any given day in the state of Texas, there are approximately 12,373 respiratory therapists. What are the odds this boy would end up in my care, especially considering he was injured in Colorado, then flown to Dallas, and then to Houston to the biggest medical center in the world, and then into my care? And all that on my first day at a new job. God was trying to get my attention. It was as if the pain had come full circle. The judge had taken away my children, and his son, as he knew him, had been taken away from him.
I walked around in shock as I finished my day. I couldn’t believe what God was allowing me to witness and asking me to serve the man who had been so cruel to me. I could have changed assignments, but that never crossed my mind. I immediately sprang into action, knowing I would do everything in my power to give exceptional care to this boy who had absolutely nothing to do with my court case. It appeared to me that he was suffering from the sins of the father, and later, I would see controversial newspaper articles supporting this.
After taking care of this young man for about five weeks, I realized what I had to do. Through much prayer and meditation, I heard God telling me to put everything together. It was as if He had laid out all these puzzle pieces throughout my life, and by meeting with the wife of the judge, he was telling me they needed to be put together. God told me to do something, and I knew I had to do it.
I had to go through the events in my life, and I was going to write a book about them to make sense of everything, to reveal the power and healing love of God. I wouldn’t normally do that, as I’m not the type of person who wants to share deep secrets and dark pasts. I didn’t want to open myself up for judgment from others, but I knew this would be for the greater good. I had to do this so that others could learn from my past mistakes and possibly save themselves from going through the things I had to go through. I knew that my lifelong search for love had wasted many years and if I could help someone find the answer quicker, it was my duty and privilege to do so.
I believe God saved me to write this book, to give testimony to his awesome love and power. He made me strong enough to endure all the hardships so that I could put this all down into words and give my story to others in similar circumstances. I lived a broken life and was saved by God’s grace and mercy. Taking care of that judge’s son let me know that it was time to put it all together. It was as if everything I had been searching for my whole life had just been illuminated, and I was finally at a point in my life where I could see that.
I suppose, while I’m alive, I will never really understand all the reasons for the hardships in my life. I’ll never comprehend why each one occurred the way they did. But I suppose that’s the point. I’m not supposed to know. And the thing is, I don’t care that He allowed me to encounter those obstacles. What I do care about is that I overcame them. I became the woman I am today because I didn’t buckle. I became the woman I am today because I embraced the love of God and filled my life with it. And I am grateful that I didn’t have to journey alone, that He always has been and always will be with me.
CHAPTER 2
I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you
and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future
Jeremiah 29:11
My life began on November 21,1960 in Livingston, New Jersey. I was born to an Italian mother and Irish-mix father. We liked to call him a Heinz Fifty-seven. I had two older sisters, both with red hair, and then there I came, with a full head of dark hair. My mother finally felt she had an Italian looking baby. She suffered endless hours of labor and true to form, I was as stubborn back then as I am today and didn’t want to enter this cold cruel world. Aunt Gen, my great aunt, who happened to be a midwife, aided me in leaving the warmth, comfort and safety of the womb-a safety I spent years trying to recapture.
Now close your eyes and try to imagine the 1960’s. Dwight D. Eisenhower was president, the population in the country was one hundred eighty million people and life expectancy was 69.7 years. Dow Jones high was 685, low 566; federal spending was 92 billion with the federal debt being 290 billion. Inflation was 1.4% with unemployment at 5.5%. The cost of a new home was sixteen thousand dollars, a first-class stamp was four cents, a gallon of gas thirty-one cents, and a dozen eggs were fifty-seven cents. I was born at the tail end of the baby boomer years. The country’s economy was thriving.
This was also the year of the first satellites; Echo One, communication, and Tiros, weather, and they were launched into space. Berry Gordy borrowed eight hundred dollars and started Motown Records. Harper Lee won a Pulitzer Prize for To Kill a Mockingbird. The most popular TV show was Gunsmoke and wouldn’t you know it, the top movie of 1960, the year in which I was born, was Psycho.
Toward the end of 1960 people were hopeful about the future as a young handsome senator from Massachusetts obtained the democratic nomination for president. John F. Kennedy was elected president that year running against Richard M. Nixon. His son John Jr. was born four days after me, seventeen days after the election on November 25, 1960. Always the dreamer, I grew up imagining I would be his wife one day.
My parents moved us to Houston, Texas, the place where they had met, in 1964. They bought a home in Alief, a new suburb, in 1967. I had what I like to think of as an idyllic upbringing, although I now know that was far from the truth. I did the usual things a child would do. I played kickball with the neighbor kids, built forts, swam all summer long and had camp outs in our backyards.
My sisters and I, along with the neighbor’s kids, even formed an all-girl singing and dancing act called the Sprights, combining our last two names, Speake and Wright. I was in love with Donny Osmond, so all of our routines were to the Osmond songs, and naturally I took on the role of Donny himself. My grandmother spent countless hours watching me perform Sweet and Innocent. Oh, if they had only known, Sweet and Innocent was far from the truth, but fit well in my early years.
At no point in my childhood do I remember any violence in the house. Every day seemed calm and happy, however looking back, I have no real memories of sitting down to eat dinner with the family as we talked warmly with one another or everyday activities in the house. I do remember though seeing my mother with black eyes every now and again, but I don’t remember asking about them.
The 1970’s brought about my teen years and what I refer to as “Big D”. My parents divorced when I was twelve years old. Up until that point I was a well-behaved, almost perfect child. After Big D, I became lost, angry, hurt, confused and unable to express my emotions. My parents must have been so caught up in their fighting that they weren’t even aware of the responsibility of teaching us how to identify, much less express, emotions.
There was no caressing, back rubs or expressions of affection. Neither parent ever hugged us. The only adult to ever touch me was a male adult friend of my parents when I was around seven and this was extremely inappropriate.
Neither parent ever told me they loved me, or that I was pretty and could do great things. Something happens to a child when they are not shown any kind of tenderness or simple love, and in my case, I just shut down. At an already difficult time of entering puberty, this lack of affection and attention threw a monkey wrench into the whole growing up process.
My mother, God bless her, was so wrapped up in her own problems that her girls got neglected prior to Big D. I realize now she did so much better than what she was raised with. Putting a roof over our head, food on the table and clothes on our backs was Parenting 101, and in that class, she earned an A+.
My father, who I loved so much was gone now. He was gone, and I missed him. I was the only one who missed him and that separated me further from my sisters and mother. This is the place where I became the black sheep of the family since the others were extremely happy and I was completely distraught. Not once did anyone sit me down and explain the situation or ask me how I was doing. Not once. And you can forget anyone ever having the birds and bees talk with me. The limited amount I knew, I learned from the other kids in the neighborhood. I was aching, I was alone and there was no one to ease my pain so I suffered silently. Feeling void of emotion, I wasn’t living; I was just existing and thus began my journey, looking and longing for love, accepting any attention I could find.
Marijuana and other illicit drugs were becoming very popular in the 70’s. Until Big D, I was extremely against drugs, however Big D changed all that. The first time I tried pot was in 1973 when my sister Janice, with whom I shared a room growing up, and I, ran away for the first time. We had been grounded earlier in the week and knowing we weren’t supposed to leave, we were restless and contemplated going out. I remember sitting in the front room right before my mom came home from work. We saw her car pull in the driveway. Our garage was in the back behind the house and Mom had to pull back there which left the front door accessible to run out without her seeing.
“It’s now or never, we have to go,” I said, my eyes darting back and forth from the back of the house to my sister, trying to follow my mom’s movements and searching for an answer from Janice.
Reluctantly, my sister took off running and I quickly followed, out the front door, down the street, over two more streets until we finally made it to the bayou, where we stopped to catch our breath. We made it to an apartment complex of a guy we went to school with, Carey, and he let us hang out with him. He was the one who turned us on and honestly, I do not remember feeling anything that first time, but it opened up an explosive Pandora’s box for me. Fear dissipated, and the drug world was now at my disposal.
On this first adventure, my sister and I were only gone about eight hours, however this began a pattern of running away which led to being “kicked out” whenever my mother got angry at me. A tone was being set that neither of us were aware of and I felt disposable at a time when I really wasn’t cognizant of any worth to my family in the first place.
Sadly, I couldn’t figure out where I belonged in this world. There were so many moments when I found myself running away, either literally or figuratively and this is where my own fight or flight syndrome began. Over the years, I perfected both sides to this coin and being kicked out by my mother only seemed to fuel my insecurity and feelings of abandonment. I guess running away was all part of a greater search in my life. If I wasn’t trying to get away, I was always looking for what was missing and if I couldn’t find it at home, I was going to search elsewhere.
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