t's over, Elizabeth. He's handing me the divorce papers next week." Her words were broken by quiet sobs. It had happened again--for the third time!

"Are you going to be OK?" Mama asked.

"Of course," I murmured. At that moment I felt anything but OK. I desperately wanted to see her; to be comforted by her loving embrace; to cry with her. But she was miles away, and I had to be satisfied with a phone call. We prayed together and then hung up.

My heart still aching, I ran into my heavenly Father's strong arms. He held me and let me pour out my angry feelings. The pain didn't dissipate, but as I cried a calm assurance steadily came over me, seeping through the walls erected during 16 years of chaos.

Storybook Beginnings
I've imagined many times what it must have been like: candles lighting the aisle and illuminating smiling faces; a large evergreen tree standing in the church foyer with little gingerbread men and white lights; a shy bride gliding down the runner on her father's arm to meet the radiant groom. I can almost hear the couple repeating the wedding vows-and the organist playing the first few notes of "Trumpet Voluntary" as the new husband and wife make their way back down the aisle. After opening a gigantic stack of gifts, they drive off, cans rattling behind their accelerating car.

The honeymoon was perfect-the trip of any lovers' dreams. They spent their first Christmas Eve together snuggled on the couch while a fire crackled in their hotel room. Snow fell softly outside, covering the tall mountains with a white blanket. A peal of bells from the town's chapel joined the voices of carolers as they trooped down the quaint streets. The holiday spirit was everywhere, and love-or so the happy couple thought-filled their hearts.

A little yellow house became their new home, and they filled it with laughter and music. Soon a third voice joined the duo; cries, gurgles, and hiccups bounced off the brick walls and out the windows. I was pampered and cuddled, kissed and petted, but not too spoiled. In two more years Luke came along to enliven our family with his darling dimples and gregarious ways. From the start I adored my little brother. When he slept, I'd sit and watch him breathe, his little chest rising and falling in a rhythmical pattern. And when he was awake, I was his best friend and entertainment.

As time went on, however, it became clear that our perfect family was not so perfect after all. I remember very little from those days. Perhaps my parents tried to hide their growing animosity toward each other, or my mind has blocked out those painful memories. A divorce followed quickly, and at 3 years old I found myself torn between two worlds of reality. In time I discovered that it was safest to live in my own world of make-believe. That's where I fled when things were not as I wished.

The Next Chapter
A gentle breeze carried the scent of lilacs and roses as the group gathered in the garden. I could hear the birds' cheery songs and feel Luke's pudgy hand in mine. Mama stepped down the stone path to where Daddy and the pastor were standing. I stood in a daze, only half aware of the proceedings. Then it was over. The vows had been said, and the bride and groom had left. My dream vanished abruptly. Sitting in Grandpa and Grandma's car after the wedding, I cried inconsolably, feeling abandoned and alone.

Another honeymoon, a blue house on Maple Street, and a reunited family created the setting for the next chapter of my life. I'm sure my parents tried to make it work for everyone's sake. I remained blissfully unaware of any tension until one morning when it all came to a head. It was Sunday, and Luke and I were playing in our room. I heard angry voices, muffled by the door so that I couldn't make out the words. My lower lip began to quiver as the pitch grew louder and louder. The argument raged for what seemed like hours. Finally I could bear it no longer. Looking helplessly at Luke sitting on the floor oblivious to the commotion, I cautiously turned the doorknob and slipped down the hall, still in my pink nighty. Mama and Daddy froze as I entered the living room. A moment later Daddy folded me into his lap.

"Can we eat?" I whined, hoping breakfast would bring an end to this horrible nightmare.

"Not now, pumpkin. Run along back to your room," Daddy said. He tousled my hair and gave me a playful shove as he put me down. I ran over to Mama, trying to make a connection between them. She planted a kiss on my ear. Her eyes were red and flooded with tears. I didn't want to leave. But nobody seemed to want me to stay.

After I was down the hall, curled on my bed with Rabber, my favorite stuffed animal, the voices were too far away to hear anymore, until Mama called.

"It's time for breakfast, chickadees." Her voice sounded the way it did every Sunday morning when it was time for our traditional Sunday pancakes. But the rest of the day was a blur. All I can remember is being belted securely into the back seat of the car late that afternoon, clutching Rabber and my blankey. We spent the night cuddled close to Mama, sleeping on the floor of someone else's house. Another promise shattered like a crystal glass dropped carelessly.

What followed was a cycle of rotation between parents' houses, between the two worlds of confusion and loneliness. I was searching for some stability and continuity in the midst of the awful reality. Why couldn't I have my family? That one thought became an obsession. I pretended it with my dolls and acted out what I thought a healthy family should look like. I drew pictures and read stories and wished and wished and wished.

The Fairy Tale Revived
One day when I was 10, that wish seemed to come true. A beautiful ivory gown. Black tuxedos. Flowers, candles, and delicate music. A ring. Maybe even love.

As I stood on the steps in my pink satin dress, flower basket clutched in my hands, I fought back the tears that threatened to spill over. I didn't even turn to see the kiss, pulling my slender shoulders back and blinking hard. Later I cried in the restroom during the reception, and no one missed me. How could this new man be any different? He would only leave, as my daddy had. And he was taking my spot in my mom's heart. That was the saddest night of my life.

Hope revived, though, as I began to get to know this man who had so changed my life. Bradley was tall and big, as soft as a teddy bear. Luke and I would compete for the favorite spot on Saturday nights--his lap in the green recliner. There we felt impregnable against whatever foes might leap out at us from the television screen. It was warm and safe.

I began to listen for his hearty laugh and funny little sayings, such as "Want a little cheese along with your whine?" or "It was real and it was fun, but not real fun!" He called me Shorty and constantly teased me about something or other. My favorite times with him were changing the sprinklers or checking on the cows. I would sit behind him on the four-wheeler, short arms wrapped as far around his wide middle as they could reach. We'd fly over the bumps and rocks, yelps bursting from my lips, followed quickly by a laugh.

I remember his smell so distinctly. On the weekdays it was alfalfa and wood shavings. He spent his days in the field, taking care of heifers that were having trouble calving, baling hay, planing lumber. But on Sabbaths he wore Stetson Cologne and his black leather boots and matching vest. I thought he looked so handsome!

For a while Mama seemed happy too. She laughed and smiled, and everything was wonderful. I felt as though my dream had come to life. But fighting became more frequent. When they had one of their squabbles, I'd cover my ears and run to my attic bedroom, where I would disappear into the land of make-believe.

Finally I went away to boarding academy, and Luke went to live with our biological dad. Things seemed easier when I wasn't there to witness the ups and downs. My mom rode the roller coaster of her and Bradley's emotions, but I could distance myself from them, hoping and praying that things would eventually work out. Until I received the phone call that once again brought my castles crashing down from the clouds.

I watched my mom leave her heart behind and move on, yet hold on to a flame of hope for reconciliation. But I couldn't do that. The pain of loss was almost as strong as that of death, yet without the finality. There was no funeral or parting goodbye. We simply packed up our lives and left. But I missed him dreadfully. I longed for one of his giant bear hugs, the kind that always made me feel safe. With Bradley I had felt my dreams come alive. Broken promises left me groping frantically for something I had never had, that had been only an imaginary fantasy.

Some time later I went "home" for a couple weeks during the summer. Of course, it wasn't really home, because we were staying in a friend's house, not the farmhouse near the mountains that had been my world. Finally it came time to go back to school. As I drove past the town where I used to live, bittersweet memories of the past flitted through my mind, leaving a sadness and longing deep inside. I hadn't seen my step-dad for more than a year, or had a meaningful conversation with him in twice that long. My eye caught the movement of some cows as they ambled toward us. And then, as if coming back from the dead, Bradley appeared as alive and tangible as the four-wheeler he was driving. Immediately I cringed at the familiar searing anguish. I turned my head as something collapsed in my heart, trying to hide the face that was covered with tears. Inside I cried for what had been and what would never be again, wishing I could turn back time and be a little girl in his arms again.

The Keeper of Promises
The ensuing months were swallowed up in the deepest depression I had ever known. One night I felt especially hopeless. I wished there were some way I could destroy the fierce emotions stirring wildly in my heart. Of course I couldn't commit suicide--I was a good girl, and I didn't have the guts to end my life. But I longed to find death of sorts for my heart, a grave of rest for the pain and bitterness. Darkness covered me, its black hand gripping me. The cold wind whipped at the remaining shreds of warmth in my being. Lonely, frightened tears trickled down a face full of anxiety and despair.

"Elizabeth, can you hear Me?" The voice came through the silence like a whisper of light.

"Elizabeth, I love you." Louder this time, and more persistent, it seemed to be pulling back the shades of night.

"I am here, little girl. Do not be afraid. Come to Me." My arms stretched out toward the invisible voice.

"I love you, and I will never abandon you. You are Mine. I have adopted you into My perfect family. You are My daughter. I have written your name on My hands and feet. I took all your pain to the cross with Me. I carried it so that you don't have to. I was pierced, crushed, wounded, so that you may be healed. See, you are more precious to Me than life. Leave your scarred memories in the tomb, and allow the hope of My resurrection to fill you instead. Rest. My faithfulness is enough.

"I will keep My promises to you. They are trustworthy and eternal. They will not change. Hold on to that reality, and don't let go." Sunshine broke through the clouds, chasing away the blackness with its pure light. I saw a velvet green meadow dotted with daisies. I skipped under the blue sky, heart leaping. The hand of God continued to hold on tightly, and we began to dance and sing together.

"You have turned my wailing into dancing; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to you and not be silent. O Lord my God, I will give you thanks forever" (Ps. 30:11, 12, NIV).

*All names throughout the story are pseudonyms, including the author's.

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Elizabeth Murray, a sophomore in college, is majoring in elementary education and is looking forward to teaching children about their heavenly Father.