I Am Gateway – Charlene

Memories healed by Love
By Charlene Cuva

The clock on the dining room wall struck eleven, bong, bong, bong.
“Stay awake.” Bong, bong… “Ah, he’s done.” Bong, bong, bong. Quiet as a mouse, I crept into my father’s bedroom on hands and knees. Bong…cigarettes; bong…matches; bong…ashtray. “Got ’em,” I breathed, as I collected each, finishing my nightly vigil of watching my father smoke in the dark after Mom went to work. Each night, I sat under the kitchen table waiting, watching that little red glow floating back and forth until he finally put it out — sort of — in the ashtray.

Mom worked nights at the Leonard Hospital as a nurse’s aide. I hated her having to work nights. I hated being responsible for my little brother Jimmy. And I hated being scared all the time. Scared of my Dad burning us alive in our beds and then, when Mom kicked him out, of just being alone. She worked hard to make things easier for us, I guess, but things were always just so hard. Bad memories, too many bad memories.
In high school, my friend Cricket set me up on a blind date with a guy she didn’t even know, just so she could go out with his friend. I reluctantly agreed so she didn’t have to go alone.
My one and only blind date, Joe, stepped into my life, and it was like a light went on inside my soul. I guess he felt the same way because his mother often told the story: “Joey came running through the back door tearing off his shirt, and as he flew by me he called over his shoulder, ‘I just met the girl I’m going to marry!’” We were both only 18 but we were married, only five months later.

The next year brought a whole new revelation to my life, not that everything was easy. Two 18-year-old kids, an apartment, a job and responsibilities, along with our new little bundle, Darcey Ann, helped us to grow up fast, but we grew up together, and we were making new memories.
I think there’s a responsibility associated with memories, and in this I found a kindred spirit in my mother-in-law. I had never known anyone like Mary Cuva. She was the most fascinating woman I have ever met. There was always a certain air of peace that surrounded this quiet little lady, and everything she touched had a special “something” about it.
“What’s the secret ingredient you put into all your meals, Mom? Everything you make is so special.”
“Love,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s the secret ingredient to making everything in life special.”
Love, the secret ingredient; the secret weapon I’ve seen her wield and subdue an enemy.
“Just add love to sweeten any situation life brings you,” she confided.

These precious moments melted into days and months and years of Mary’s nourishing influence, a simple fruit born of the Spirit that abided within her. Silently mentoring by her consistent example, without lecture, Mary taught my soul to love.

Love is patient, love is kind, love always thinks the best of others – by example. Love never boasts or exalts itself, love puts others first and is selfless in serving those who are loved – by example. Love is gentle and never demands its own way – always by example!

It took a little while but I finally began to realize that the love she spoke of was no mere emotion, it was a Person. The Bible tells us that God is Love, and how my heart longed to know Him as Mary undeniably did. I hungered and thirsted for the abiding Spirit that would bear the fruit of love I saw minute by minute in her life.

I went to the little Pentecostal church she attended and came to know Jesus for myself. As I grew in relationship with Him, I slowly came to understand that children who live in alcoholic homes grow up with damaged memories. It’s the self-focused condition of childhood that makes the turbulent life situations overshadow the sacrifices that are made by the non-alcoholic members of the family. Somehow these loving Moms, Dads and siblings often get swept up into the blur of pain, fear and confusion of the child; even sometimes being credited with the blame by these children with damaged memories.

Memories are an important part of our lives. They aren’t just what we remember about what happened. Associated with these memories are also judgments that affect our whole lives. When we are looking at the world through the filter of our abused past, where our focal point is always us, we see everything colored by that abuse. People who grow up with damaged memories need the tender Love of the one who can heal those memories.

At Gateway, I experienced a level of council that brought me face to face with the judgments that ruled my life and gently brought me to a place of healing and freedom.
Now, looking through the crystal clear eyes of Love, I can see the things that were hidden; understand and forgive.

Looking back over my childhood, I can now see things I never saw before, and I can see other things differently than I saw them before; before Love came into my heart. So let me tell you a little more about my family.

Mom’s name was Eva and she was the funniest person I ever met. She was a real “Lucille Ball” and even looked like her some, but Mom couldn’t tell a joke if her life depended on it. She always started with the punch line, and we would laugh until our sides would just about split open. Laughing, that’s what I remember most when I think of my Mom. And then there was Dad, poor Daddy. He was a wonderful man when he wasn’t drinking. The problem was, he was just always drinking. Daddy was a sad man. I wish I had known him like my sister did, before. But what I do remember is his smell; sweat and beer and cigarettes. I always loved his smell.
Memories. So many precious, sweet memories.