Ages of Brutality

Hi  to everyone who visits this site and welcome to day four of My Precious Life blog.  A reminder to scroll down to day one to access my opening blog and then scroll up to read the preceding chapters. And now to continue the story.

Chapter Three – Ages of Brutality

I witnessed brutality at a very early age.  I was three years old when I watched, wide-eyed and terrified, as blood oozed from my mother’s mouth.  My dad had backhanded her in a drunken rage.  I remember tugging at his leg, screaming, “No, Daddy, no!”  He seemed completely unaware of me.  My sobbing mother shouted at me to take my sister and hide.  I pushed Mary’s diapered bottom under our parents’ sagging bed at the back of the tiny house, and wiggled in after her as our mother shrieked, “Jack, stop hitting me!”  But he didn’t……….

Be kind and compassionate to one another…(Ephesians 4:32)

This chapter describes the brutality I witnessed in the early years of my life and into my teens. Thankfully, the memories did not damage my psyche and are now material for my book.  I should mention that each chapter contains a lesson from my life and tomorrow’s chapter is a lesson in identity–how I got my name.