Prayers for the Vulnerable

So much on my mind today….horrified by events in Paris and elsewhere around the world. Continued prayers for my friends who are directly affected by these circumstances, and those I do not know. Yet, in observing the outpouring of outrage and support, I am reminded of how much we tolerate here at home. 

Women and children in America are far more likely to be hurt or killed by someone in the home. This will not change until there is ZERO tolerance for domestic violence. It is rare to find a household that has not been touched in some way. 

The walking wounded are all around us. We desperately need more and better mental health professionals and facilities. We see the evidence of that every day. And while I am 100% for taking out the terrorists who would kill us, I am also 100% for addressing, in a meaningful way, the violence that surrounds us on a daily basis across the nation. 

Prayers for the millions in that situation right now.

Murderer

He was humble, meek even, this man who murdered his wife. The sheriff was giving me a tour of the jail and introduced me to him through the bars. I had never knowingly met a murderer before, though I have known several since.

He looked normal.

This was the first murder trial I covered as a reporter. I was 20 years old, naive. Each day, the sheriff brought this tall, lanky, quiet man into the courtroom. He was facing the death penalty. He was polite, kind.

He blew his wife's head off with a shotgun at point-blank range in front of dozens of witnesses, including policemen. She had left him because he threatened to kill her. He waited for her to get off work, forced her behind the wheel of the car while he sat behind her in the back, the shotgun against her head.

She was screaming.

It was quitting time. Factory workers poured from the doors into the parking lot. They scrambled back to call police. Some just stood and stared. He kept telling her, "Drive on, just drive on."

He wanted her back. He loved her.

She was screaming.

The cops told him to drop the gun, drop the gun, drop the gun.

He fired, they fired.

They hit him in the shoulder and as they approached him, he begged, "Don't hurt me, Don't hurt me."

He sat meekly in the courtroom.

Before he killed her, he killed her husband. She was the only witness and it was ruled accidental something or other. They built a house with the insurance money and then he said he was going to kill her.

She was tiny, tiny. Short, very slim, long brown hair.

She lost a baby while they were together. I found the tombstones the other day.

He got life in prison, and he got paroled.

She got a beautiful tombstone.

What's Wrong

She does not make eye contact in the grocery store; perhaps she did not notice me. That's probably it; she did not see me. Behind her, with her grandson on his shoulders, is her boyfriend, the man who left her naked and beaten on her front porch. He is powerfully built, tall, broad-shouldered, rather handsome.

He is very good with her grandson, she had told our support group, and her grandson adores him. Yes, I had to admit, her grandson looked happy on this man's shoulders.

My stomach churned with anger and disgust. "You are what is wrong," I wanted to scream at her. "You are the reason the cops and judges don't pay attention! You! You! What's wrong with you???"

I say nothing.

I know what is wrong with her. I know, because I know. I know how desperate she is to be loved and desired, how undeserving she feels, how, if she only tries hard enough to please this man, he will love her. He will love her.

This is what's wrong.

Life After Death

I moved to the cemetery after my husband tried to kill me. My friends joked that if he succeeded, I would not have far to go, but they did not laugh.

This evening, the cemetery is like a scene from the Victoria Holt novels I read in high school. It is an early autumn day; chilly winds whip the flag at the soldier's monument and yellow leaves swirl in the mist. The heavy sky obscures the city and time slows.


The house was built in 1855. The second floor is an apartment now while the main floor is the business office.The place needs work. I tell folks I live in an historic ruin. Some days it feels more historic, some days, when another chunk of plaster lets go, more ruin. I am grateful to be the person who cares for this home for a while and part of my job is to bring resources to keep this place standing.

It is important to understand that this was a home before it was a graveyard. Dr. Franklin Crane came from Easton, Pennsylvania, with four mostly grown sons. He was a widower, and a spiritualist. He became a spiritualist when his wife died. He told me so in the basement of Constitution Hall on Kansas Avenue.

My friend, Beth, was going into the ghost tour and investigation business. She invited me, as the token historian, to join her and the new crew of ghost hunters. There I was in the dark, in the dirt, with Beth's teenage daughter and pharmacist-cum-ghost hunter. I addressed Dr. Crane, told him I had written a book about his cemetery, told him I admired him. Every now and again, the little gadget with lights would blink from red to green. When told that I admired his joining the Union Army even though he was old enough not to be drafted, it lit up. But when I asked if he had become a spiritualist when his wife died, the little gadget nearly exploded. Ah.....I thought......and I asked nothing else.

I do not know if he is here; I have not seen him. Little things happen, like the dial on the air conditioner being turned every night for weeks until I had a conversation with Dr. Crane. My daughter lives with me, and she is brave, but. . . . Each night she turned the dial so that the window unit would blow toward her face. In the middle of the night, she would awaken with the air blowing a different direction. After more than a week, she was scared. I sighed, took my divining rods and went to her room.

"Dr. Crane, I need to talk to you. . . . I know you are a good man. . . .you know we are trying to take care of this place. . . . you have to help us feel safe."

Neither of us has ever felt anything menacing from whatever spirits may or may not be here. My greatest fear has been that the man I loved and gave my heart to would be standing behind the door when I opened it.