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by Fred Devries
A teenage runaway peers from the second floor bedroom window. She lives at the clubhouse of a biker gang. A pasture dressed with wild grass and stately evergreens stretches out before her view. Though she sees the restful beauty, she's not truly admiring it. She's lost in her memories of the last two years. The window has become a mirror to her life.Barb Lory thinks back to her childhood. Every few years, she packs her bags and moves with her family to another city. "Not many friends, not a lot of fun," she recalls. And she remembers her parents' strict curfew--"Don't be out beyond nine o'clock"--and their firm instructions for household chores--"Do it now and do it right." Often, her work doesn't pass the inspection of her father, a career military man. She fumes. "This isn't fair! I have to get out of here."
She does. At 17, Barb heads out to a party, and never comes back. The rebel in her takes hold. Bottles of booze and bags of drugs flow freely that night. She locks herself in the closet. She is too proud to admit her fear.
"This is freedom," she thinks. "Yup, I can be who I want to be, and no one's gonna judge me because these guys are my friends." She doesn't sound convincing, even to herself. Her life comes into sharper focus in the mirror, a window of pain.
She's on a high, out of this world. A rubber band tightens around her upper arm; her veins balloon. The syringe slides in and fills with black liquid, her blood colored by drugs. Barb "flags" the blood and speed back into her arm. She's in flight. Other times, her friends bang liquid speed into both her arms at the same time. She's living in "stereo," and passes out.
Barb sees herself in the window, a tough woman dressed in tight jeans, a black leather jacket, and boots. She rides on a rumbling Harley Davidson with the president of the most notorious biker gang on the East Coast. She is Locky's "old lady," his girlfriend. And she has power. "No one's gonna touch me because I belong to him," she believes. "I finally belong to somebody, and I don't have to worry." To be one of the gang, she pays her dues and mainlines more heroin than any other girl.
Her window gazing is broken by a biker buddy who comes to chat. They talk up a storm, laughing about their highs and lows, their trips and dives.
Their moment of frivolity is disrupted by drunken friends who return to the clubhouse. They're sloshed, loaded and fried; they stumble upstairs. Seeing Barb with a guy other than the gang president, her "old man," they're angry. They have an idea. "So you like to fool around, do ya?"
These men, about six bikers packing knives and guns, swarm Barb. She's pinned to the floor, arms and legs splayed. She screams, fights and cries, as they rip her clothes. They pound and punch her until she's bloodied and bruised. One after another, they do their business.
Lying there, she closes her eyes to block out the agony, and the memory of a previous rape. "I'm goin' to kill you guys," she yells. Her threat echoes in the hollow room, ignored by the perpetrators.
Barb escapes downstairs and out the back door, half-dressed and her shoes in hand. She runs, and keeps running through the field of wild grass, until she collapses. She pants and gasps for air.
"Find her!" shout her offenders. "If she goes to the cops, we'll kill her family." She cries; she shakes. Her wounded body shudders in fear. Her life cracks like a window.
Barb crawls through the grass to a stream, an oasis, where she sits for hours sobbing and thinking. "What's happened to me? What have I done to my family? They'll kill 'em for sure. What am I gonna do now? I can't go back. And I can't go to the cops. I gotta get outta here, gotta run away again."
She does. In a different city but in the same drug-filled life, Barb finds out she's pregnant from the rape. "I'm just no good. I might as well give up," she sighs to herself. "I've run away from home; I have no one; I've messed up big time. Who cares? Who really cares about me now?" She's trapped. There's no way out but to end it all. She plans her suicide. The most logical way--a drug overdose. The needles are readied, but she can't do it.
Alone, confused and desperate, the 19-year-old phones her parents. "I need your help," she says, whimpering with shame. Though angry, they arrange for an abortion in New York state. A few weeks later, in a sterile hospital room, Barb's problem is fixed.
She tries to pull herself together, running again, this time to the West Coast. Through a cocaine deal, she meets a gruff man. Within six weeks, she marries him. "This will straighten out my life," she believes. "We'll have kids and we'll live happily ever after."
The rocky marriage lasts 11 years. Once, in a violent, drunken rage, he assaults Barb. She's a victim again. Seething in anger, she gathers her children and runs out the door, down the cold, wet street to a neighbor. She lives in a women's shelter for a week, and then restlessly moves from place to place. Barb finds no rest, no peace with three children under three years old. But she's determined; she resolves to never allow another man into my life.
Barb doesn't quite hold to that promise. While living in welfare housing, where her kids can romp through a playground, a man comes to her door. "I'm here because I think God wants me to talk with you tonight," he says. "Who am I to argue with God?" she laughs.
In gentle words, this man shares good news with Barb--God loves her, He desires to forgive her, to heal her. These words, though satisfying, are bewildering to her heart. "Love? care? hope? another way?"
As mysterious as he arrived, the man leaves. Barb never sees or hears from him again.
Whoever he is, his message sinks deep into her heart. Barb, now 26, wants to know more. A friend takes her and her children to church the next Sunday. "The teaching...this is different," she says. "It's not like what I remember from my childhood. There's life, healing in this teaching." She is drawn to God, and falls to her knees. She weeps and cries, this time to God. "I don't know what to say, God..." She can't stop sobbing. Her tears begin to release a decade of pain, suffering, violence and abuse. She leaves it all with God.
Months go by. Barb is still addicted to drugs; she's fighting with God. "I don't want to give up control. I want to live my own life," she says. "I'll keep goin' to church, though. I like the people, they're different, they're real. And I seem to belong."
Barb makes it to church every week. And every time, she's captivated by God. "He's real and cares for me," she finds out. "Even though I've really done awful things, he forgives me and cleanses me. He frees me."
With God in control of her life, she cleans up her act. Over time, Barb kicks the drug habit, quits smoking, and works her way off welfare. She even lands a job with the local police department. She also discovers the joy of being a parent. "I don't have kids--I have children," she smiles, as only a mother can. She remarries, this time to a "gentle man" and together they're raising her three teenagers.
"Life is brighter, sunnier because I've found a new life with God," she says today. "Sure, I still have struggles. My past won't just go away; I can't pretend it didn't happen. But God's healing me and giving me the strength to face the truth of what's happened in my life."
It's been a battle, for which she's sought professional counselling. "I just keep praying to God and leaning on Him to pull me through," she adds. Because God's doing that, she knows her life is significant. "Letting go and letting God be in charge has given me a positive attitude. My whole life has meaning, and it doesn't come through a drug needle."
She shares this hope any time she can with ladies of the night, abused women and especially teenagers. "They don't think I understand," she laughs with irony, "until I tell my story."
Barb's life shines now. She chuckles, she cares and she cries with joy. There's only one reason for that.
"God really loves me," she says, with a gentle tear rolling down her cheek. "He really does. That's what I was searching for all my life." She pauses. "You know, I've been running for a lot of years--looking for a place to belong. All I had to do is walk to God."
She has. Today at 42, Barb's once shattered life is being remolded into a window of hope, a mirror of God's goodness. Reflecting on this truth, she says, "I've come home."