Grace, Miracles, and Chocolate: Conceived by Gang Rape, Husband Murdered, Son Committed Suicide: Can God Really Work All Things out for Good?

Grace, Miracles,

and Chocolate

Conceived by Gang Rape, Husband Murdered, Son Committed Suicide:

Can God Really Work All Things Out for Good?

Marriott Cole

Copyright © 2012 Marriott Cole

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version. Copyright 1983 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.inspiringvoices.com

1-(866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0188-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0187-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012941395

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 08/08/2012

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Chapter 1       I Never Stopped Loving You

Chapter 2       My Childhood

Chapter 3       Hospitality

Chapter 4       Mommer and Lew

Chapter 5       Meeting John

Chapter 6       My First Teaching Job

Chapter 7       Air Force Life

Chapter 8       Miracles

Chapter 9       A Pillar of Salt

Chapter 10     WTLR; Miracle in the Kitchen

Chapter 11     Anna’s Ears

Chapter 12     John’s Vision

Chapter 13     Aunt Beth

Chapter 14     Dave and the Woodstove

Chapter 15      Joanna’s Warm Winter Pajamas

Chapter 16      Esther and My OB

Chapter 17      No More Toothpick!

Chapter 18      The Colonel’s Brain Tumor

Chapter 19      Grandma Wava’s Pancreatitis

Chapter 20      Stephen’s Eye

Chapter 21      A Bat, Bees and Trees

Chapter 22      Split Pea Soup

Chapter 23      Finding the Wheel

Chapter 24      The Facts of Life

Chapter 25      Philip’s Tumors

Chapter 26      Doughnuts

Chapter 27      Leave My Glass Alone, and Other Cures

Chapter 28      Aunt Rose’s Death Experience

Chapter 29      My Brother David

Chapter 30      Chocolate

Chapter 31      John’s Murder

Chapter 32      Paul’s Christmas Presents

Chapter 33      Grandma Odie

Chapter 34      God as Husband and Father

Chapter 35      The Letter That Saved Mom’s Life

Chapter 36      To Move or Not to Move

Chapter 37      Deliverance from Abuse

Chapter 38      Parenting Paul

Chapter 39      An Angel on Spencer’s Butte

Chapter 40      Eugene and the Gospel

Chapter 41      Aiden’s Stomach

Chapter 42      Esther Meets Landon

Chapter 43      My Biggest Failure

Chapter 44      The Bed Bug Miracle

Chapter 45      My Cholesteotoma

Chapter 46      Darrell

Chapter 47      Conclusion

Appendix I

Appendix 2

Resources

With much love and more thanks to my mom

than she could possibly imagine

Epigraph

"Only one life, ’twill soon be past,

Only what’s done for Christ will last."

by C.T. Studd

Foreword

"When we met more than eight years ago, I knew nothing about Marriott except that she was over fifty and legally single. I was instantly impressed with the twinkle in her eyes and easy burst of laughter. After getting to know her better, I became amazed with the twinkle in her eyes and easy burst of laughter in spite of the incomprehensible way she was widowed and left alone to face the challenges of raising seven children (enough for a handball team).

Through this book, I invite you to go with me into her warm home, sit at her huge dining room tabl`e, sip a cup of tea and listen to stories that are forever dear to her heart.

You may occasionally shed tears because some of her experiences will parallel heartaches in your own life, and you may chuckle at her unique problem solving strategies.

Most of all, may Grace, Miracles, and Chocolate challenge you to trust God completely in every situation. Who knows? Maybe someone will notice the twinkle in your eyes and the easy burst of laughter that comes from a deep and personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ."

Dot Burgin, Facilitator of Salt and Pepper, a friendship group for 50+ singles, Milwaukie, Oregon

Preface

How many times have I heard people say, You oughta write a book.? With the help of my husband, who so gallantly cooked meals and provided me with the time and space to write my true stories, Grace, Miracles, and Chocolate is finally finished. My hope is that you, dear reader, will experience the amazing power of our loving God, who has done so much for us already in the form of Jesus Christ. I pray that my stories will in some tangible way help you with your situation and in your walk with the Lord.

I wish to acknowledge my mom, my seven children and their spouses, my ten grandchildren, and my late husband John, for without them, none of these stories would have existed.

To my husband, Darrell Cole, and Lolly Grunska, thank you for your dedication to reading each chapter as it was birthed. Your constructive criticism helped mature this project.

I would also like to thank all the people who reviewed this book. It takes many hours to read a manuscript, and your sacrifice is recognized and very much appreciated. Each reviewer’s comments and notes brought this manuscript a little closer to its final, and more perfect, state.

My appreciation goes to Dr. Glen R. Stream for his input regarding medical issues.

Ruth, Karen, Carolyn, Jim, Leona, Dorothy, Randy, Heather, Austin, Aiden, Amy McGuire and Matt Patterson—thanks for your input on a great hook for the book. I owe thanks to the bunko group where Darrell and I substitute for helping me choose the best title. My sister and her husband clinched it.

Much thanks goes to Lois Maselli who proofread the final manuscript before publication and gave many helpful suggestions.

Maggie Webb-Conard, thank you for answering myriads of questions, and for holding my hand during the publishing process.

Permission has been graciously given by Sharon Charles of Abundant Living Ministries for using some of her thoughts in the conclusion.

All scriptures are taken from the New King James Version of the Holy Bible.

Most of the names in this book have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

1

I Never Stopped Loving You

M arriott, I don’t know who your father is, my mother sobbed over the phone. I wanted to call you about this, not write.

It was the first time I had ever heard my birth mother’s voice. Months before her call, I had read a Dear Abby article that mentioned an organization matching people seeking relatives lost through adoption. Consequently, I had written a casual note to Adoptee’s Liberty Movement Association (ALMA). I mentioned my birth date and place and wondered if they could help me.

Meanwhile, my birth mother, Mom, had returned a detailed questionnaire to ALMA. Was this a possible match, ALMA queried? Since my information was sketchy, they suggested to Mom that she contact me directly to see if I was in fact her birth child. Trembling with disbelief, I skimmed her first letter and then read it in earnest.

Dear Marriott, she began. "This is, beyond a doubt, the most important letter I have ever written in my life—. So here I am, Marriott, hoping and praying that you are my birth child—. Hope to hear from you real soon, and if you are my birth child, I would like you to know I never stopped loving you, and praying that you were well and happy!"

I couldn’t believe it. Could this woman really be my birth mom? What was she like? Why did she give me up? Who was my father?

I replied immediately to her questionnaire and waited impatiently for her response. Two weeks passed—nothing. Was I harboring false hope? Were we a match? My heart leaped when her plump letter arrived. I knew instantly she had to be my birth mom. She began.

"You are so right! The Lord did want us to get together! You are my birth child, Marriott!!"

A myriad of questions, pictures, clippings, and a postmarked envelope that she had sent to the doctor who delivered me spilled from the envelope. Although that was proof enough for me, we later discovered there would be no mistaking our mother-daughter resemblance. When we first met, we both had the same hair color, the same hair style even down to the part, and the same smile.

I couldn’t respond fast enough with the long list of questions I had for her. The identity of my birth father was the first of many. Mom called me for the first time, sobbing as she prepared to answer my questions. This would be only the second time she would have shared her story—the first was just days before to her husband.

She had been seventeen, beautiful but tomboyish, a late bloomer and naive with men. At a Saturday school dance, her date was a basketball player from another high school whom she had met at a school game. He planted a kiss upon her and wanted more. She resisted. Several days later, determined to get what he wanted, he brought two fellow basketball players with him to her house. Having always felt secure with her physical strength, and being totally unaware of their intentions, she foolishly allowed them into her unchaperoned home. All three cruelly raped her.

Her mother had died when she was twelve and she was too ashamed and embarrassed to tell her father what had happened.

Months passed during which she had no menstrual periods. Mom didn’t realize this could be a sign of pregnancy but thought instead she might have an infection. A girlfriend suggested a public health clinic to have it checked out. Embarrassed and alone, she avoided the stares and hushed whispers between the nurses and doctor.

What were they so secretive about? she thought.

Then came the jolting news. She was four months pregnant! What would she do? She fled to her older sister, who in turn told her father. He knew a family doctor who would perform an illegal abortion.

Abortion! She was horrified at such a thought. She felt that to destroy her baby would be murder but keeping me was out of the question. My mom and her father were not on speaking terms, due to earlier physical and emotional abuse, and so she never told him about the rape. She listened in silence as he accused her of promiscuity.

Instead of aborting me, she registered with the Salvation Army maternity home program. This involved working as a live-in housekeeper in several different homes until a few weeks before her anticipated delivery. Then Mom stayed in the maternity home where I was born. She never saw me until several months later just before signing the final relinquishing papers.

It was the hardest thing I ever did, Mom later told me. I knew it would be best for you but the emptiness in my arms was unbearable. It was only after she and her husband had their first child six years later that the sight of other babies didn’t provoke a flood of tears.

While Mom was adjusting to her decision, my new parents were tremendously thrilled about adopting their first child and only daughter. They had tried unsuccessfully for eleven years to have a baby. Just two months after I was adopted, my new mother discovered that she was pregnant! I have mostly good memories of my childhood, growing up in that home. Although they weren’t Christians yet, God taught me many valuable lessons through them.

They made sure they dropped us off for Sunday school weekly until we were finished with sixth grade. I learned not to talk with my mouth full. I found that money can’t buy happiness. My parents were able to afford an expensive girl’s school for me, but I became aware that rich girls weren’t necessarily happy ones.

At home in Pacific Palisades, California, I also learned to make my bed daily, wash dishes, and cook recipes acquired from our weekly housekeeper to earn a few Girl Scout badges. Throwing rocks at passing cars, brushing the dog’s teeth when he was growling, and chopping down banana trees with a hammer were added to my mental list of no-no’s. I had grandparents who loved the stuffings out of me, and I was exposed to Jesus from the same.

Hearing my story, Mom felt gratitude to the Lord that my situation worked out so well. Even though the circumstances of her pregnancy were brutal, she said she saw me as a living testimony that God can bring good from any situation since I was placed in an adoptive family where I became the first believer in Jesus. Because I believed, my adopted mom accepted Christ; and my adopted father had the chance to receive Him. My brother accepted Him two weeks before he died at age thirty-six, and numerous cousins also accepted Christ.

Because my parents could afford to send me to college, I met my wonderful husband, John, at the University of Oregon. I was happily married for twenty-three years before the Lord welcomed my husband home (more on John later), and have had the joy of adding seven children to my family. Many people, who otherwise would have never heard, have come to God through our witness. What the rapists meant for evil, God turned into good.

I even attempted to contact one of the possible birth fathers by e-mail, since Mom had kept tabs on him. He was the first to attack her, and his career as a physician made him easy to track. Because God had forgiven me of my wrong doings, such as stealing, lying, not honoring my mother, and more, my softened heart forgave him for his callous disregard for Mom’s well-being. (His mother had contacted Mom when she was pregnant to get her to sign denial of paternity papers, so he was aware of her condition. Mom signed the papers because she was asked to do so. His mother proffered a green dress suit as a sort of peace offering.)

In my first e-mail, I asked if he was so and so from a certain high school. He responded quickly and revealed the nickname he had had when he was attending there. So I drafted a rather lengthy e-mail that went something like this:

Dear Mr. Showalter,

I wanted to write you to let you know that I may be your birth daughter, conceived as a result of the gang rape that you perpetrated on my mom, Louise Martin, in March, 1948. Since then, Mom has had a very hard time trusting men, and you have created life-long problems for her. However, I want you to know that I harbor no ill feelings toward you. If you hadn’t raped my mom, I wouldn’t be here, and I must admit that I’m glad that I’m alive.

Jesus forgave me for my sins, and I know He will forgive you for your sins too, if you believe that He is God in the flesh, and that He died on the cross to take the death punishment that you deserve upon Himself. As far as the east is from the west, so will He remove your transgressions from you. God forgave the Apostle Paul for even murdering Christians! If He can do that, He can forgive ANYTHING!

You have seven grandchildren, and one of them resembles you. [My mom had given me a picture of all three men from the high school yearbook.]

I am hoping that you will write back, and perhaps we could have a relationship of sorts.

Sincerely in Jesus,

Marriott Mitchell

He never wrote back. I imagine that he was quaking in his doctoral booties. He was probably quite frightened that I would show up on his door step and reveal the truth to his family. I chose not to pursue him unless he would want me to contact him. He’s a criminal after all, but hopefully a redeemed one by now.

The grace of God flowed through me, gave me a forgiving heart, and allowed me to find my birth mother so I would have a second chance at a family. Her husband welcomed me and my family, and I acquired GiGi, Cookie, and Fiddler as my newly found half-siblings. My adopted family has all passed away by now, including their natural child, David Rusty Caldwell, who was born eleven months after they adopted me!

I’m glad that I am alive; I’m glad that I have a second family, and I’m glad that both families have learned how God extends eternal life to all who believe in His Son, Jesus.

"My frame was not hidden from You,

When I was made in secret,

And skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.

Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.

And in Your book they all were written,

The days fashioned for me,

When as yet there were none of them." (Psalm 139:15-16, New King James Version)

Marriott’s birth mom, age six

Marriott Cole, age six

2

My Childhood

M arriott’s turning blue! my new doting adoptive grandmother, Mommer, exclaimed. My new parents, David and Dorothy Jeanne Caldwell, had brought me home a few hours earlier from the Children’s Home Society when I was four and a half months old. My maternal grandparents, Mommer and Lew, beamed, advised, and hovered over their very first grandchild. Not knowing that smoking caused breathing problems, my parents puffed away, and my grandparents acquiesced, until they had to rush me to the hospital. It turned out I had asthma off and on until I was twelve, requiring a tent of mist and oxygen above my crib for several years.

I dearly loved Mommer and Lew, who visited frequently. They always brought a little present or candy of some sort, causing me to ask when I was two, What are you got?

They drove me to the beach in Pacific Palisades where I delighted in trying to run away from them. I also thought I could defy gravity at their apartment in Santa Monica and, instead of bothering to walk down the steps to the sidewalk, chose instead to run straight ahead into the air. Bad idea!

On my father’s side, Grandmother Mabel may have regretted coming to visit us from Chicago.