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	Homecoming A Personal Journey by Wacui Makori I must have been about six or seven years old when I first realized that things at home were not okay. My parents had the habit of playing music at night when we went to sleep. Sometimes the music coming from their room would be calm and relaxing, but other times it would get pretty loud. I never thought much about this until one day I overheard my two aunties who were living with us. They were wondering about the loud music. One said it could be a cover up for something. The other agreed, saying that when the music was loud at night, my parents hardly spoke to each other in the morning. I soon realized my aunties were right. I still get a cold lump in my stomach when I remember the effect that this had on me as a child. It made me a nervous wreck trying to battle with my parents’ emotional rollercoaster. When I was about nine years old, we moved to a nicer neighborhood. It was especially good for us kids, because there was finally enough space to run around. We quickly made friends with the neighborhood children. But in spite of this good change in our life, things between my parents got worse. My elder sister, my six year old brother and I lay awake on countless nights listening to them argue and throwing things around. When I turned eleven, we witnessed their first physical fight. After that, everything just hit bottom. There were times my mother would run away in the night. I remember how we would cry, begging them to stop. It was a ridiculous mess and we made quite a raucous. Of course the neighbors all knew what was going on, and the other kids started to give us a bad time. At the age of thirteen I gave my life to Christ. At the time, I was ridiculed and laughed at, with bets being made on how long I’d stay "saved." Sometimes, and especially when things were not going my way, I was tempted to rethink my decision. With hindsight, I’m glad I did not. I now clearly believe that God sought me out and revealed Himself to me at that age to save not just my soul but my life. At our home in Kenya, we never went to Church. Sunday school was an alien concept, only heard of from friends and cousins. That is, until my sister came home one day from boarding school and told me excitedly that she had given her life to Christ. I had no idea what she was talking about, but because of the excitement on her face, I told her I would like to know more. So after much planning, we sneaked away for a Christian youth concert. In so many ways, my life had not yet begun, but to me it seemed as though it was already over. I was so young, so disillusioned and so lost, that often suicide seemed like a good idea to me. I was just an empty shell when I walked into that concert hall. I remember loud music and young people like me singing and dancing. I sat in the back next to my sister trying to figure out what the hype was all about. Eventually the pastor stood up to preach. Much of that sermon remains a blur, but he said some words that burnt themselves into my soul and left an indelible imprint. He read the verse that says “taste and see that the Lord is good.” He said that we are encouraged to taste-- not even eat, just taste-- and what we would find of the Lord is something that would give our lives hope. When he gave the alter call, I was among the first people who went in front. I was so hungry for something, anything that would give meaning and hope to my life! It was not yet time for the circumstances of my life to change, but I got the strength to live and the courage to hope. After my conversion, I experienced tremendous peace and joy that my soul had never known. I did very well in my exams and was accepted to the same school my sister was attending. I found a very vibrant Christian community in this school. My faith was nurtured and with my new found confidence, I resolved to pray for things to change at home. But even though my sister and I spent a lot of time praying, nothing changed. We went home for the holidays and found that things were still the same. I could not understand why God was not answering my prayers. After two years of my persistent praying, my mother gave her life to Christ. We were so excited! But her conversion did not bring the expected reprieve. In December of that year, they had an especially bad fight, and for the first time in his life, my father threw us all out into the night. We had not even had supper. To make matters worse, we’d had another addition to our family and listening to my three year old brother crying just broke my heart. I remember looking up to heaven on that cold, starry night and yelling “God, where are you? Where are you?” As if in response, one of our neighbors invited us to his home. They gave us food and a place to sleep. I sat up for hours with my sister and brother just talking. My brother was twelve then and all he could say was that he could hardly wait to become a man so that he’d smash my father’s face in. We tried to talk to him about forgiveness and God but he wouldn’t listen. He kept on asking us how we could believe in a God who had allowed us to be humiliated time and time again, a God who did not listen to us or answer our prayers. This incident still stands out as one of the toughest tests of my faith. I kept on praying and the years kept passing with no change. My sister finished high school and gladly left for college. I also finished high school but couldn’t go to college for lack of fees. When my brother also left, I found myself at home at eighteen years of age with no hope. In spite of my tears and prayers, things were terrible. My father had become an alcoholic. He lost a lot of weight, and his skin became a pale grey. He looked like a walking sack of bones. On my twentieth birthday, I found myself hanging onto my faith by a thread. I had spent seven long years persistently praying for a man who seemed to just get worse. My own goals and dreams were flushed down the drain when I could not go to college, in spite of my good grades, because of his drinking problem. I was beginning to doubt everything, even my faith. To make matters worse, that year my mother left and went into hiding for almost three months. She took our last youngest brother, and I was left home alone with my father. I would sneak her clothes out of the house and we would meet in town. Often I went to bed on an empty stomach because I was saving up every penny so that I could start living on my own. When my mother eventually came home, they made a big show of reconciliation. I did not buy into the whole act and I was tired of living in a mad house! I moved out on my twenty first birthday, into a tiny room that could only fit a bed and a suitcase. But it was my own place and it was peaceful. Most of my friends at this time were getting out of college and into lucrative jobs. I was stuck in a dead-end job and a dead-end life. I cried aloud to God in my tiny room. "Why I was born, why is there so much suffering in my life? Am I some sort of cosmic joke to you? Is it okay that my heart is ripped apart? Where are you?” One day mother called me and said she would like to talk to my sister and me. When we met, she told us she had been getting counseling and had been encouraged to confront dad. We set up a day for that meeting and decided to fast and pray in preparation. It was agreed that our youngest brother would go for a sleep over. It was a disaster. In spite of our prayers and our fasting, my father snapped, my brother snapped, I snapped and my mother and sister vainly tried to keep the peace. I was like a mad woman! I lost all semblance of sanity; screaming, crying, pulling my hair and throwing things. For the first time in his life, my father hit me and spat on my face. In our culture, that action from a parent is worse than a curse. Before he stormed out, my father yelled that he did not like to be cornered. My mother said she’d had enough and was going to leave him for good. We all sat for hours coming up with an elaborate plan for her to do this. At the time, my father was involved in a business that required him to travel every two months. The plan was for the kids to come home the day after he left, pack up all of mum's things, and help her settle in another city. Everything was set. Then, two days before the move, my father came home in the wee hours of the night, woke my mother up, made an apology for everything he had put us through, and dropped the bomb! “I want to get saved.” My mother felt her heart stop. She thought he was drunk and told him to get some sleep. That night mum lay under the covers for a long time with her eyes wide open, staring up into the nothingness of the dark. She kept telling the Lord, “Just when I’m finally ready and able to leave, then this! I don’t believe him, maybe he senses I want to go, this is a bad joke! This man cannot change, I cannot take it anymore, and I cannot stay!” She finally went to sleep, and when she woke up my father was not in bed. After a few hours, she saw him coming home with the pastor. They came and sat down and in the pastor’s presence he repeated his desire to be saved. After the sinner’s prayer, my father went on his knees asking for my mother’s forgiveness. With the pastor’s influence and after much prayer, my parents were reconciled. After nine years of praying, after I had given up, and on the eve of D-day God came through. But back at my job, I knew nothing of all this. I was getting ready to take three days off to help move when mum called. When she gave me the news, I did not utter a word; I just hung up the phone, took my bag and went to my house. I was mad! Unbelievably, irrationally, I was angry with God. I felt betrayed by Him. I felt that He did not care about me or my feelings. I felt as though this was a big joke to Him. What should have been a glorious, joyous moment turned into a sad day as I turned and walked away from God. My insane reaction was fueled by a feeling of hopelessness and frustration over years of tears and prayers that went unanswered. I remember telling God to keep His salvation because He obviously cared more for drunken wife bashers than for we who had suffered. That was 1999; I stayed away from God for three years. During this time, my father would witness to me and I would laugh in his face. What irony, that I who had witnessed to him countless times was now the one being witnessed to by HIM! Even though I was now a backslider, my heart had a deep hunger for God. I could not ignore the fact that God had seen us through so much! In spite of the madness and the lack of guidance from home, all of us had gotten safely through our teen years. None of us had dabbled in drugs, alcohol or even teenage sex. We made good grades and were able to support ourselves. God had fought for us and kept close watch over us during those volatile years. During my three year rebellion from God, I still sensed His presence and protection more than ever. My Good Shepherd refused to let me go. Once I decided to drink for the very first time and to get drunk. After a couple of bottles, I got violently ill. I never want to meet the poor person who had to clean up after me that night. Even now I cannot take even a glass of table wine without my body rejecting it. Another time, in a pit of despondency, I decided to go to a nightclub notorious for prostitution and drugs. I had no cash, so I left home with my ATM card and went to town to get some. When I got to the bank, I took out my card and it was cracked in two! It was night and the bank was closed, and the only money I had was enough for my fare back home. My final wake-up call was a story I read in our local paper. It was about a pastor who had just lost his daughter. This man who had prayed for countless other children and seen them healed could do nothing for his own child. No matter how hard he prayed, the child got worse every day until she finally died. After months of struggling with unanswered questions, he came to what he called a "crisis of belief." This is the point where you are faced with a decision to either reject God or to humbly accept that He is infinitely wise beyond our ability to understand, and that He will do things in His own way and in His own time. God is not our personal genie who will jump at our demands and do what we want, when we want, how we want it. He is sovereign. The decision to say yes, no or wait lies entirely in His hands. For that pastor it was no; for me it was wait. It was the biggest decision of my life. Did I think it was mean for Him not to answer the prayers of a thirteen year old girl immediately? Just because my life did not make sense to me, did that mean it did not make sense to Him? Did God owe me an explanation? Did He owe me anything? That story was like a slap on my face! I remembered the verse in the Bible that says: “My people perish for lack of knowledge.” It seemed to me that God was giving me a chance, a revelation of Himself so that I could make an informed decision on whether to leave or stay. He was not telling me that things will always be bright and shining. He was not saying that things would always go my way. He was showing me who He was in relation to me. He wanted me to know that He loves and treasures me but that He is not a God that you can package and put in a box to suit yourself. He is who He is – take it or leave it. What I love the most about our Lord is that He knows us so well! He allowed me three years to run around sulking and throwing tantrums because He knew I was not yet ready for the truth. But, when it was time and He entrusted me with it, everything in me responded. I fell down on my knees and asked God to deliver me from my own foolishness. I asked Him to draw me to Himself and to heal my badly damaged heart. This He continues to do every day in His own loving, gracious way. Today, my father is a much respected member of our Church, serving our congregation in many ways. When I go to church and watch my parents worship God together with lifted hands, I marvel at how God answers prayers. I see what God can do, what only He can do! When I visit my parents, I am a little girl again. At long last it is the loving, peaceful home I never had before. I lie awake now in my room at night, but instead of bickering, I hear laughter from my parents’ room and I know that it’s a miracle. Recently my parents celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and my once angry, bitter brother paid for a wonderful second honeymoon! The events of the past always leave a scar, and there are things that will never change. Sometimes I question why God allowed all that drama and heartbreak. Why the loving home now, when all except one are gone from it? Why did I have to miss out on college? Many questions, that will all go unanswered. I have come to accept that in this quest for God, nothing is crystal clear. It is a journey of faith, trust and grace. God is the weaver; He runs the loom and I stand on the other side, only seeing the dangling threads. When it’s time, He will show me the beautiful tapestry of my life, and all the bright moments and all the dull times will make sense because each had a role to play in the final wondrous design. We should be thankful that God is very much in control. It does not matter what you have been through or are going through right now. If you can learn to accept His sovereignty and His majesty, then you will know that no matter what life throws your way, God is looking out for you, and that’s all that matters! Return to Home Page To bookmark our site, just click the button... \| Blank Page \| Guest writers \| Secondary Links \| \| Return Home \| The Meaning of Life \| Is There a God? \| Prayer \| Teachings of Christ \| Our Catholic Faith \| Don Camillo \| Links \|