reading

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

manner without written permission of the author.

ISBN 978-0-578-11491-0

Scripture quotations are taken from

the Holy Bible, New International Version.

Co-published by: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Wheaton, Illinois 60189, USA, Zondervan Publishing House,

Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530, USA

Cover Design/Interior Layout: Ambush Graphics

In Loving Memory

of my mother,

Verta Rogers Johnson,

for all she was and did,

for her wise common sense

which she practiced and shared,

for teaching me about God,

and how to be a survivor,

and encouraging me to write.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Part I A True Story

Chapter 1 Away From Home

Chapter 2 On Our Own

Chapter 3 A New Life

Chapter 4 Good Times. Bad Times.

Chapter 5 Agonizing Mystery

Chapter 6 Betrayal

Chapter 7 Craving Answers

Chapter 8 Resilient Survivors, Reflections

Part II Survivorship

Chapter 9 Moving Forward: Tips and Practical Suggestions for Survivors

Chapter 10 When a Friend Grieves

A Final Thought

About the Author

FOREWORD

Resilient Survivor gave me a clear view of what it’s like for women to face devastating situations. Each person has different forms of emotional trauma and heartbreak. Pain and suffering weaken us, harm our total health, and leave us feeling defeated.

The values we honor lay the foundation for the choices we make. Marlene’s faith is what carried her through a devastating situation. Reading her story strengthened my faith. When I finished the book, I realized I had a written guide, a handbook, to help me meet my own challenges and help others overcome their own difficulties.

We suffer. We pray. We grow. We are stronger.

Matthew 7:7 “Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” (NKJV)

Resilient Survivor occupies a special place in my personal library. In addition, I take every opportunity to share copies of this book, not only with women who are suffering, but also people who are in a position to help others.

Thank you, Marlene, for having the courage to write your story. You tell us clearly how to survive almost anything.

Kathryn Poleson, DMD

Mastership in Academy of General Dentistry

International Academy of Oral Medicine & Toxicology

Founding Member American Academy for Oral Systemic Health

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to express my love and gratitude to the following people:

Joel, Mark and Lynée, my children, for loving, believing and encouraging me.

Arrah Curry, MD, my husband and friend, who has faithfully and lovingly listened, encouraged, and critiqued me with this project.

Judi Moreo, my writing coach, to whom I extend a most heartfelt thanks. She is a woman of great passion and commitment. She gave wisdom, work and love into this book more than I can describe. I thank her for her expertise in the world of publishing. I could not have done this without her.

My seven Sugar Loves, my grandchildren, who were patient and proud that Grammy (Honey Precious) could write a book.

Linda Ehrlich, and Lynnette Streeter, my cousins and close friends, who believed and supported my commitment to write.

Kathryn Poleson, DMD, dear friend, for her dedication and belief that I could help others through the writing of this book.

Julia Tyson, DO, another dear friend, who has the best listening skills ever.

Aimee Livingston, my daughter-in-law, for giving me a beautiful journal and pen and the encouragement which started my writing journey. Her belief in me gave me the confidence to take the first steps.

My son-in-law, Ken Clay, for his technical support.

To my book club friends: Kathie Slaughter for her support and encouragement, Marian Haas, Donna Newsom, and all the members who patiently listened to me when I discussed my book writing.

Brian and Anne Menzel for their friendship and sharing dinners during my writing process.

Greg and Marilyn Loring, Vern and Cheryl Wight, and numerous other neighbors and friends, who provided outstanding support and grief relief efforts to my children and me. I learned from them the proper skills of how to treat grieving friends.

Nancy Berndt, my friend and prayer partner, for her unshakable faith.

David Johnson, MD, and his wife Cathy, who encouraged me.

Pastor Michael Rochelle for his years of teaching me “Lessons for Life,” which have been invaluable in my journey of healing and establishing a closer relationship with God. It is from him I learned that all decisions are “my choice.”

Robert Roth, MD, and his wife Anna, for listening to me through the writing course.

Anne Graham Lotz, who has touched my life in personal and spiritual ways. She helped awaken a desire in me and inspired me with the commitment to share Jesus Christ with others.

AUTHER’S NOTE

This is a story I never intended to tell. It is a somber, excruciating, painful story.

After surviving betrayal, deception, and the mysterious death of a loved one, I knew deep in my heart, I needed to write a book about how it is possible to rebuild a life. The incubation period began years ago after my family tragedy. When I looked for guidebooks to help me rebuild a new life infrastructure, I couldn’t find any with tips about moving on. I was uncertain how to proceed. As a young widow, I had to learn how to oversee and protect my family.

My hope is that others who have been through similar circumstances might be helped by my story so they can move forward with their lives in a positive way. I desire those who have been hurt to know that in spite of difficulties, they can make it. It can take time to find a new way. My experiences taught me many lessons about how to overcome adversity and what happens when ordinary people are compelled to take extraordinary measures in order to confront evil. My children and I were stunned at our circumstances. There was nothing we could do but try to salvage what was left. We became adept at leaving our situation behind us.

In triumphing over adversity, the most important quality we can possess is resiliency. It is the ability to be flexible and adaptable. It is a coping reaction rather than a victim mentality. With God’s help, we can bounce back after the most devastating of setbacks. I will never be able to completely erase the loss and pain from my memory, nor do I want to. What I want is to learn what I can from it and move forward. I want to encourage others to believe there is hope after loss and provide some insight into how they can get past the pain to find strength and happiness once again.

—Marlene Livingston Curry

PART I

A TRUE STORY

CHAPTER 1

Away From Home

Upper Columbia Academy is located in the rolling wheat fields of Spangle, Washington, 20 miles south of Spokane. The private Christian school campus was converted from an abandoned mental institution. The girls’ dormitory was unchanged from the original plan of the state asylum. It consisted of four floors of long corridors which had been used for psychiatric wards. Isolation cells remained in the basement. At the age of 15, and the beginning of my sophomore year of high school, my parents sent me to this boarding school. The building was a scary place to be left with unfamiliar new roommates. When the wind blew, the big doors, which divided the hallways, frightfully slammed and creaked. At night, the dorm lights were turned off from a central location until six a.m. This was known as “after lights.” When that happened, there was no choice but to go to sleep or study with a flashlight. I was happy to have a roommate so I wasn’t alone.

The campus consisted of a girls’ dormitory, a boys’ dormitory, the administration building which housed the class rooms and laboratories, music building, the cafeteria, and a gymnasium which doubled as a church. There was also a water tower, which carried a legend that if students climbed it, they would be expelled from school.

Boarding school was a common and ordinary agenda for teenagers from families of my parents’ religious faith, even if it was a financial strain. The concept was to keep the children busy and involved with people from the same religion. Although my upbringing was filled with strict religious rules, my family was liberal in many aspects compared to others of our faith. We ate meat, my dad drank coffee, and mom wore a little make-up. My father rarely attended church because he had been kicked out due to numerous scandalous affairs, but he did not object to his family belonging to the church. Later in life, he rejoined after asking for repentance from God, mother and the church.

The academy served a strict vegetarian diet. It was a lacto-ovo diet which included eating dairy products, eggs and vegetarian analogs. The analogs were canned or frozen imitation meat products. Uniforms were not part of the school regulations. However, there were many dress codes: no short dresses, pants, jewelry, or make-up for girls. The guys were required to wear slacks, no jeans or work pants.

Before going to the academy, my life was mingled. It existed of school, some years in private and some in public. Church attendance was a religious and social regularity. Mixed into my busy childhood were piano and saxophone lessons; family music sessions; holidays and outings with all the cousins; babysitting of nieces and nephews; and work… lots of physical work. My parents were public school teachers who moonlighted to make ends meet. I grew up working on a farm, raising both dairy and beef cattle, growing potatoes and helping with the family’s rental houses. A highlight of my life included sometimes owning a horse. Dad said a cow made money and a horse took money, that’s why owning a horse was only “sometimes.” A joyous time was the family music jam sessions held most Saturday nights after sundown because we celebrated Sabbath from Friday night sundown to Saturday night sundown. My dad and his brothers were excellent guitarists and pianists. The whole family “made music.” For the children, this was a happy time as we had music, popcorn and ice cream. Families took turns hosting this weekly event around the piano in the living room of their homes. The relatives all came with their guitars, banjos, and mandolins. Sometimes friends came and joined in with their trumpets, spoons (actual spoons that are clicked together for rhythm), harmonicas, and of course, there was singing. I was proud when I was able to play saxophone well enough to be invited to perform with the group. The children often set up table games in other rooms. We played a card game called Rook, which is similar to pinochle, because we were not allowed to play with real playing cards. We also enjoyed the board game of Carom which is played on a wooden game board and players flick a disc at smaller wooden discs (the Carom men) into corner net pockets.

I grew up working in potato fields and potato cellars. We grew and harvested dry land potatoes in the high plains of central Idaho. Dad studied the Farmer’s Almanac to be certain to plant the field’s seeds during the phase of the dark of the moon. The belief is the roots will grow deeper producing a healthier plant. Dry land crops are dependent on rain and not irrigation. However, there were years when we also raised potatoes in lower elevations where we irrigated the crops. I hated the chore of moving the huge sprinkler pipes. It was a dreadfully difficult job.

We drove about 50 miles one way to the fields, and about 25 miles another direction to the cellars. The cellars were large buildings with half dirt walls and dirt floors. A wooden roof and log walls met the dirt walls at the half way mark. It was a dark place, with enough electric lights to get the potato work done. It smelled like the earth from where the potatoes were dug. The aroma of fresh, dirty potatoes was very strong. Sometimes, if there were any rotten potatoes, it would reek of a horrible odor. It was cool, damp, dark, and a perfect environment to store potatoes. It was here we presorted the potatoes. In the early years, the sorting and washing took place in different barns making the work load tremendous. We sorted by hand into buckets and, in later years, bought a potato sorting and washing machine with a moving belt.

We worked in the cellar on Sundays and a few evenings a week during the winter. The workers included Mom and Dad, our cousin partners; Buford, his wife, Pearl and their son, Perry. Both Pearl and Perry, like my parents, were teachers. Pearl had been my fourth grade teacher and one of my very favorites, ever. Even though the working conditions were dusty, damp, and difficult, everyone involved had jovial personalities. After Pearl died, Buford’s new wife, Dorothy, joined the potato crew. Perry and I laughed a lot while we worked together. What else could we do? We laughed at how silly we looked in our dirty clothes and dusty faces, and how we vowed we would never grow potatoes as a profession. We ate potatoes at almost every meal and couldn’t believe we could still enjoy eating them at the end of a potato working day.

The potatoes were sorted by size and quality. The huge ones were delivered to restaurants to be used for French fries, the large ones for bakers, the medium size for grocery stores sales and the small ones for seed planting the next year. Part of my job was to deliver the potatoes to the businesses. My dad paid me, so I always had spending money, which I saved and used to buy clothes and get my hair cut and styled at the local beauty college.